Collected Stories Of Arthur C. Clarke

by C. , Clarke, Arthur

  Many days passed before Trevindor left the building again. Nothing had been overlooked: even his beloved thought records were there. He could continue to study the nature of reality and to construct philosophies until the end of the Universe, barren though that occupation would be if his were the only mind left on Earth. There was little danger, he thought wryly, that his speculations concerning the purpose of human existence would once again bring him into conflict with society.

  Not until he had investigated the building thoroughly did Trevindor turn his attention once more to the outer world. The supreme problem was that of contacting civilisation, should such still exist. He had been provided with a powerful receiver, and for hours he wandered up and down the spectrum in the hope of discovering a station. The far-off crackle of static came from the instrument and once there was a burst of what might have been speech in a tongue that was certainly not human. But nothing else rewarded his search. The ether, which had been man’s faithful servant for so many ages, was silent at last.

  The little automatic flyer was Trevindor’s sole remaining hope. He had what was left of eternity before him, and Earth was a small planet. In a few years, at the most, he could have explored it all.

  So the months passed while the exile began his methodical exploration of the world, returning ever and again to his home in the desert of red sandstone. Everywhere he found the same picture of desolation and ruin. How long ago the seas had vanished he could not even guess, but in their dying they had left endless wastes of salt, encrusting both plains and mountains with a blanket of dirty grey. Trevindor felt glad that he had not been born on Earth and so had never known it in the glory of its youth. Stranger though he was, the loneliness and desolation of the world chilled his heart; had he lived here before, its sadness would have been unbearable.

  Thousands of square miles of desert passed beneath Trevindor’s fleeting ship as he searched the world from pole to pole. Only once did he find any sign that Earth had ever known civilisation. In a deep valley near the equator he discovered the ruins of a small city of strange white stone and stranger architecture. The buildings were perfectly preserved though half-buried by the drifting sand, and for a moment Trevindor felt a surge of sombre joy at the knowledge that man had, after all, left some traces of his handiwork on the world that had been his first home.

  The emotion was short-lived. The buildings were stranger than Trevindor had realised, for no man could ever have entered them. Their only openings were wide, horizontal slots close to the ground; there were no windows of any kind. Trevindor’s mind reeled as he tried to imagine the creatures that must have occupied them. In spite of his growing loneliness, he felt glad that the dwellers in this inhuman city had passed away so long before his time. He did not linger here, for the bitter night was almost upon him and the valley filled him with an oppression that was not entirely rational.

  And once, he actually discovered life. He was cruising over the bed of one of the lost oceans when a flash of colour caught his eye. Upon a knoll which the drifting sand had not yet buried was a thin, wiry covering of grass. That was all, but the sight brought tears to his eyes. He grounded the machine and stepped out, treading warily lest he destroy even one of the struggling blades. Tenderly he ran his hands over the threadbare carpet which was all the life that Earth now knew. Before he left, he sprinkled the spot with as much water as he could spare. It was a futile gesture, but one which he felt happier at having made.

  The search was now nearly completed. Trevindor had long ago given up all hope, but his indomitable spirit still drove him on across the face of the world. He could not rest until he had proved what as yet he only feared. And so it was that he came at last to the Master’s tomb as it lay gleaming dully in the sunlight from which it had been banished for so long.

  The Master’s mind awoke before his body. As he lay powerless, unable to lift his eyelids, memory came flooding back. The hundred years were safely behind him. His gamble, the most desperate that any man had ever made, had succeeded! An immense weariness came over him and for a while consciousness faded once more.

  Presently the mists cleared again and he felt stronger, though still too weak to move. He lay in the darkness gathering his strength together. What sort of a world, he wondered, would he find when he stepped forth from the mountainside into the light of day? Would he be able to put his plans into—? What was that? A spasm of sheer terror shook the very foundations of his mind. Something was moving beside him, here in the tomb where nothing should be stirring but himself.

  Then, calm and clear, a thought rang serenely through his mind and quelled in an instant the fears that had threatened to overturn it.

  ‘Do not be alarmed. I have come to help you. You are safe, and everything will be well.’

  The Master was too stunned to make any reply, but his subconscious must have formulated some sort of answer, for the thought came again.

  ‘That is good. I am Trevindor, like yourself an exile in this world. Do not move, but tell me how you came here and what is your race, for I have seen none like it.’

  And now fear and caution were creeping back into the Master’s mind. What manner of creature was this that could read his thoughts, and what was it doing in his secret sphere? Again that clear, cold thought echoed through his brain like the tolling of a bell.

  ‘Once more I tell you that you have nothing to fear. Why are you alarmed because I can see into your mind? Surely there is nothing strange about that.’

  ‘Nothing strange!’ cried the Master. ‘What are you, for God’s sake?’

  ‘A man like yourself. But your race must be primitive indeed if the reading of thoughts is strange to you.’

  A terrible suspicion began to dawn in the Master’s brain. The answer came even before he consciously framed the question.

  ‘You have slept infinitely longer than a hundred years. The world you knew has ceased to be for longer than you can imagine.’

  The Master heard no more. Once again the darkness swept over him and he sank down into blissful unconsciousness.

  In silence Trevindor stood beside the couch on which the Master lay. He was filled with an elation which for the moment outweighed any disappointment he might feel. At least, he would no longer have to face the future alone. All the terror of the Earth’s loneliness, that was weighing so heavily upon his soul, had vanished in a moment. No longer alone … no longer alone! Dominating all else, the thought hammered through his brain.

  The Master was beginning to stir once more, and into Trevindor’s mind crept broken fragments of thought. Pictures of the world the Master had known began to form in the watcher’s brain. At first Trevindor could make nothing of them then, suddenly, the jumbled shards fell into place and all was clear. A wave of horror swept over him at the appalling vista of nation battling against nation, of cities flaming to destruction and men dying in agony. What kind of world was this? Could man have sunk so low from the peaceful age Trevindor had known? There had been legends, from times incredibly remote, of such things in the early dawn of Earth’s history, but man had left them with his childhood. Surely they could never have returned!

  The broken thoughts were more vivid now, and even more horrible. It was truly a nightmare age from which this other exile had come – no wonder that he had fled from it!

  Suddenly the truth began to dawn in the mind of Trevindor as, sick at heart, he watched the ghastly patterns passing through the Master’s brain. This was no exile seeking refuge from an age of horror. This was the very creator of that age, who had embarked on the river of time with one purpose alone – to spread contagion down to later years.

  Passions that Trevindor had never imagined began to parade themselves before his eyes: ambition, the lust for power, cruelty, intolerance, hatred. He tried to close his mind, but found he had lost the power to do so. Unchecked, the evil stream flowed on, polluting every level of consciousness. With a cry of anguish, Trevindor rushed out into the desert and broke the chains bin
ding him to that evil mind.

  It was night, and very still, for the Earth was now too weary even for winds to blow. The darkness hid everything, but Trevindor knew that it could not hide the thoughts of that other mind with which he must now share the world. Once he had been alone, and he had imagined nothing more dreadful. But now he knew that there were things more fearful even than solitude.

  The stillness of the night, and the glory of the stars that had once been his friends, brought calm to the soul of Trevindor. Slowly he turned and retraced his footsteps, walking heavily, for he was about to perform a deed that no man of his kind had ever done before.

  The Master was standing when Trevindor re-entered the sphere. Perhaps some hint of the other’s purpose must have dawned upon his mind, for he was very pale and trembled with a weakness that was more than physical. Steadfastly, Trevindor forced himself to look once more into the Master’s brain. His mind recoiled at the chaos of conflicting emotions, now shot through with the sickening flashes of fear. Out of the maelstrom one coherent thought came quavering.

  ‘What are you going to do? Why do you look at me like that?’

  Trevindor made no reply, holding his mind aloof from contamination while he marshalled his resolution and his strength.

  The tumult in the Master’s mind was rising to a crescendo. For a moment his mounting terror brought something akin to pity to the gentle spirit of Trevindor, and his will faltered. But then there came again the picture of those ruined and burning cities, and his indecision vanished. With all the power of his superhuman intellect backed by thousands of centuries of mental evolution he struck at the man before him. Into the Master’s mind, obliterating all else, flooded the single thought of – death.

  For a moment the Master stood motionless, his eyes staring wildly before him. His breath froze as his lungs ceased their work; in his veins the pulsing blood, which had been stilled for so long, now congealed for ever. Without a sound, the Master toppled and lay still.

  Very slowly Trevindor turned and walked out into the night. Like a shroud the silence and loneliness of the world descended upon him. The sand, thwarted so long, began to drift through the open portals of the Master’s tomb.

  Guardian Angel

  First published in Famous Fantastic Mysteries, April 1950

  Collected in The Sentinel

  ‘Guardian Angel’ was originally written in 1946, and rejected by John W. Campbell, editor of Astounding. After several more rejections my agent, Scott Meredith, asked James Blish to rewrite the story, which he did, adding a new ending, after which the story was sold to Famous Fantastic Mysteries. I thought it was rather good; but I didn’t even know about it for a long time; this was rather naughty of Scott. Later, in 1952, ‘Guardian Angel’ was expanded, to become Part 1, ‘Earth and the Overlords’, of Childhood’s End.

  Pieter van Ryberg shivered, as he always did, when he came into Stormgren’s room. He looked at the thermostat and shrugged his shoulders in mock resignation.

  ‘You know, Chief,’ he said, ‘although we’ll be sorry to lose you, it’s nice to feel that the pneumonia death-rate will soon be falling.’

  ‘How do you know?’ smiled Stormgren. ‘The next Secretary-General may be an Eskimo. The fuss some people make over a few degrees centigrade!’

  Van Ryberg laughed and walked over to the curving double window. He stood in silence for a moment, staring along the avenue of great white buildings, still only partly finished.

  ‘Well,’ he said, with a sudden change of tone, ‘are you going to see them?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. It usually saves trouble in the long run.’

  Van Ryberg suddenly stiffened and pressed his face against the glass.

  ‘Here they are!’ he said. ‘They’re coming up Wilson Avenue. Not as many as I expected, though – about two thousand, I’d say.’

  Stormgren walked over to the Assistant-Secretary’s side. Half a mile away, a small but determined crowd carried banners along the avenue towards Headquarters Building. Presently he could hear, even through the insulation, the ominous sound of chanting voices. He felt a sudden wave of disgust sweep over him. Surely the world had had enough of marching mobs and angry slogans!

  The crowd had now come abreast of the building: it must know that he was watching, for here and there fists were being shaken in the air. They were not defying him, though the gesture was meant for him to see. As pygmies may threaten a giant, those angry fists were directed against the sky some fifty miles above his head.

  And as likely as not, thought Stormgren, Karellen was looking down at the whole thing and enjoying himself hugely.

  This was the first time that Stormgren had ever met the head of the Freedom League. He still wondered if the action was wise: in the final analysis he had only taken it because the League would employ any refusal as ammunition against him. He knew that the gulf was far too wide for any agreement to come from this meeting.

  Alexander Wainwright was a tall but slightly stooping man in the late fifties. He seemed inclined to apologise for his more boisterous followers, and Stormgren was rather taken aback by his obvious sincerity and also by his considerable personal charm.

  ‘I suppose,’ Stormgren began, ‘the chief object of your visit is to register a formal protest against the Federation Scheme. Am I correct?’

  ‘That is my main purpose, Mr Secretary. As you know, for the last five years we have tried to awaken the human race to the danger that confronts it. I must admit that, from our point of view, the response has been disappointing. The great majority of people seem content to let the Overlords run the world as they please. But this European Federation is as intolerable as it will be unworkable. Even Karellen can’t wipe out two thousand years of the world’s history at the stroke of a pen.’

  ‘Then do you consider,’ interjected Stormgren, ‘that Europe, and the whole world, must continue indefinitely to be divided into scores of sovereign states, each with its own currency, armed forces, customs, frontiers, and all the rest of that – that medieval paraphernalia?’

  ‘I don’t quarrel with Federation as an ultimate objective, though some of my supporters might not agree. My point is that it must come from within, not be superimposed from without. We must work out our own destiny – we have a right to independence. There must be no more interference in human affairs!’

  Stormgren sighed. All this he had heard a hundred times before, and he knew that he could only give the old answers that the Freedom League had refused to accept. He had faith in Karellen, and they had not. That was the fundamental difference, and there was nothing he could do about it. Luckily, there was nothing that the Freedom League could do either.

  ‘Let me ask you a few questions,’ he said. ‘Can you deny that the Overlords have brought security, peace and prosperity to the world?’

  ‘That is true. But they have taken our freedom. Man does not live—’

  ‘By bread alone. Yes, I know – but this is the first age in which every man was sure of getting even that. In any case, what freedom have we lost compared with that which the Overlords have given us for the first time in human history?’

  ‘Freedom to control our own lives, under God’s guidance.’

  Stormgren shook his head.

  ‘Last month, five hundred bishops, cardinals and rabbis signed a joint declaration pledging support for the Supervisor’s policy. The world’s religions are against you.’

  ‘Because so few people realise the danger. When they do, it may be too late. Humanity will have lost its initiative and will have become a subject race.’

  Stormgren did not seem to hear. He was watching the crowd below, milling aimlessly, now that it had lost its leader. How long, he wondered, would it be before men ceased to abandon their reason and identity when more than a few of them were gathered together? Wainwright might be a sincere and honest man, but the same could not be said of many of his followers.

  Stormgren turned back to his visitor.

  ‘In
three days I shall be meeting the Supervisor again. I shall explain your objections to him, since it is my duty to represent the views of the world. But it will alter nothing.’

  Rather slowly, Wainwright began again.

  ‘That brings me to another point. One of our main objections to the Overlords, as you know, is their secretiveness. You are the only human being who has ever spoken with Karellen – and even you have never seen him. Is it surprising that many of us are suspicious of his motives?’

  ‘You have heard his speeches. Aren’t they convincing enough?’

  ‘Frankly, words are not sufficient. I do not know which we resent more – Karellen’s omnipotence, or his secrecy.’

  Stormgren was silent. There was nothing he could say to this – nothing at any rate, that would convince the other. He sometimes wondered if he had really convinced himself.

  It was, of course, only a very small operation from their point of view, but to Earth it was the biggest thing that had ever happened. There had been no warning, but a sudden shadow had fallen across a score of the world’s greatest cities. Looking up from their work, a million men saw in that heart-freezing instant that the human race was no longer alone.

  The twenty great ships were unmistakable symbols of a science Man could not hope to match for centuries. For seven days they floated motionless above his cities, giving no hint that they knew of his existence. But none was needed – not by chance alone could those mighty ships have come to rest so precisely over New York, London, Moscow, Canberra, Rome, Capetown, Tokyo …

  Even before the ending of those unforgettable days, some men had guessed the truth. This was not a first tentative contact by a race which knew nothing of Man. Within those silent, unmoving ships, master psychologists were studying humanity’s reactions. When the curve of tension had reached its peak, they would reveal themselves.

  And on the eighth day, Karellen, Supervisor for Earth, made himself known to the world; in perfect English. But the content of the speech was more staggering even than its delivery. By any standards, it was a work of superlative genius, showing a complete and absolute mastery of human affairs.