Collected Stories Of Arthur C. Clarke

by C. , Clarke, Arthur

  Many visiting Americans pass through the ‘White Hart’ in the course of the year. Like the residents, they are usually scientists or literary men, and some distinguished names have been recorded in the visitors’ book that Drew keeps behind the bar. Sometimes the newcomers arrive under their own power, diffidently introducing themselves as soon as they have the opportunity. (There was the time when a shy Nobel Prize winner sat unrecognised in a corner for an hour before he plucked up enough courage to say who he was.) Others arrive with letters of introduction, and not a few are escorted in by regular customers and then thrown to the wolves.

  Professor Hinckleberg glided up one night in a vast fishtailed Cadillac he’d borrowed from the fleet in Grosvenor Square. Heavens only knows how he had managed to insinuate it through the side streets that lead to the ‘White Hart’, but amazingly enough all the fenders seemed intact. He was a large lean man, with that Henry Ford–Wilbur Wright kind of face that usually goes with the slow, taciturn speech of the sun-tanned pioneer. It didn’t in Professor Hinckleberg’s case. He could talk like an LP record on a seventy-eight turntable. In about ten seconds we’d discovered that he was a zoologist on leave of absence from a North Virginia college, that he was attached to the Office of Naval Research on some project to do with plankton, that he was tickled pink with London and even liked English beer, that he’d heard about us through a letter in Science but couldn’t believe we were true, that Stevenson was OK but if the Democrats wanted to get back they’d better import Winston, that he’d like to know what the heck was wrong with all our telephone call boxes and could he retrieve the small fortune in coppers of which they had mulcted him, that there seemed to be a lot of empty glasses around and how about filling them up, boys?

  On the whole the Professor’s shock tactics were well received, but when he made a momentary pause for breath I thought to myself, ‘Harry’d better look out. This guy can talk rings round him.’ I glanced at Purvis, who was only a few feet away from me, and saw that his lips were pursed into a slight frown. I sat back luxuriously and awaited results.

  As it was a fairly busy evening, it was quite some time before Professor Hinckleberg had been introduced to everybody. Harry, usually so forward at meeting celebrities, seemed to be keeping out of the way. But eventually he was concerned by Arthur Vincent, who acts as informal club secretary and makes sure that everyone signs the visitors’ book.

  ‘I’m sure you and Harry will have a lot to talk about,’ said Arthur, in a burst of innocent enthusiasm. ‘You’re both scientists, aren’t you? And Harry’s had some most extraordinary things happen to him. Tell the Professor about the time you found that U235 in your letter box….’

  ‘I don’t think,’ said Harry, a trifle too hastily, ‘that Professor – ah – Hinckleberg wants to listen to my little adventure. I’m sure he must have a lot to tell us.’

  I’ve puzzled my head about that reply a good deal since then. It wasn’t in character. Usually, with an opening like this, Purvis was up and away. Perhaps he was sizing up the enemy, waiting for the Professor to make the first mistake, and then swooping in to the kill. If that was the explanation, he’d misjudged his man. He never had a chance, for Professor Hinckleberg made a jet-assisted take-off and was immediately in full flight.

  ‘Odd you should mention that,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been dealing with a most remarkable case. It’s one of these things that can’t be written up as a proper scientific paper, and this seems a good time to get it off my chest. I can’t often do that, because of this darned security – but so far no one’s gotten round to classifying Dr Grinnell’s experiments, so I’ll talk about them while I can.’

  Grinnell, it seemed, was one of the many scientists trying to interpret the behaviour of the nervous system in terms of electrical circuits. He had started, as Grey Walter, Shannon and others had done, by making models that could reproduce the simpler actions of living creatures. His greatest success in this direction had been a mechanical cat that could chase mice and could land on its feet when dropped from a height. Very quickly, however, he had branched off in another direction owing to his discovery of what he called ‘neural induction’. This was, to simplify it greatly, nothing less than a method of actually controlling the behaviour of animals.

  It had been known for many years that all the processes that take place in the mind are accompanied by the production of minute electric currents, and for a long time it has been possible to record these complex fluctuations – though their exact interpretation is still unknown. Grinnell had not attempted the intricate task of analysis; what he had done was a good deal simpler, though its achievement was still complicated enough. He had attached his recording device to various animals, and thus been able to build up a small library, if one could call it that, of electrical impulses associated with their behaviour. One pattern of voltage might correspond to a movement to the right, another with travelling in a circle, another with complete stillness, and so on. That was an interesting enough achievement, but Grinnell had not stopped there. By ‘playing back’ the impulses he had recorded, he could compel his subject to repeat their previous actions – whether they wanted to or not.

  That such a thing might be possible in theory almost any neurologist would admit, but few would have believed that it could be done in practice owing to the enormous complexity of the nervous system. And it was true that Grinnell’s first experiments were carried out on very low forms of life, with relatively simple responses.

  ‘I saw only one of his experiments,’ said Hinckleberg. ‘There was a large slug crawling on a horizontal piece of glass, and half a dozen tiny wires led from it to a control panel which Grinnell was operating. There were two dials – that was all – and by suitable adjustments he could make the slug move in any direction. To a layman, it would have seemed a trivial experiment, but I realised that it might have tremendous implications. I remember telling Grinnell that I hoped his device could never be applied to human beings. I’d been reading Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four and I could just imagine what Big Brother would do with a gadget like this.

  ‘Then, being a busy man, I forgot all about the matter for a year. By the end of that time, it seems, Grinnell had improved his apparatus considerably and had worked up to more complicated organisms, though for technical reasons he had restricted himself to invertebrates. He had now built up a substantial store of “orders” which he could then play back to his subjects. You might think it surprising that such diverse creatures as worms, snails, insects, crustaceans and so on would be able to respond to the same electrical commands, but apparently that was the case.

  ‘If it had not been for Dr Jackson, Grinnell would probably have stayed working away in the lab for the rest of his life, moving steadily up the animal kingdom. Jackson was a very remarkable man – I’m sure you must have seen some of his films. In many circles he was regarded as a publicity-hunter rather than a real scientist, and academic circles were suspicious of him because he had far too many interests. He’d led expeditions into the Gobi Desert, up the Amazon, and had even made one raid on the Antarctic. From each of these trips he had returned with a best-selling book and a few miles of Kodachrome. And despite reports to the contrary, I believe he had obtained some valuable scientific results, even if they were slightly incidental.

  ‘I don’t know how Jackson got to hear of Grinnell’s work, or how he talked the other man into co-operating. He could be very persuasive, and probably dangled vast appropriations before Grinnell’s eyes – for he was the sort of man who could get the ear of the trustees. Whatever happened, from that moment Grinnell became mysteriously secretive. All we knew was that he was building a much larger version of his apparatus, incorporating all the latest refinements. When challenged, he would squirm nervously and say, “We’re going big game hunting.”

  ‘The preparations took another year, and I expect that Jackson – who was always a hustler – must have been mighty impatient by the end of that time. But at last everything
was ready. Grinnell and all his mysterious boxes vanished in the general direction of Africa.

  ‘That was Jackson’s work. I suppose he didn’t want any premature publicity, which was understandable enough when you consider the somewhat fantastic nature of the expedition. According to the hints with which he had – as we later discovered – carefully misled us all, he hoped to get some really remarkable pictures of animals in their wild state, using Grinnell’s apparatus. I found this rather hard to swallow, unless Grinnell had somehow succeeded in linking his device to a radio-transmitter. It didn’t seem likely that he’d be able to attach his wires and electrodes to a charging elephant….

  ‘They’d thought of that, of course, and the answer seems obvious now. Sea water is a good conductor. They weren’t going to Africa at all, but were heading out into the Atlantic. But they hadn’t lied to us. They were after big game, all right. The biggest game there is …

  ‘We’d never had known what happened if their radio operator hadn’t been chattering to an amateur friend over in the States. From his commentary it’s possible to guess the sequence of events. Jackson’s ship – it was only a small yacht, bought up cheaply and converted for the expedition – was lying not far from the Equator off the west coast of Africa, and over the deepest part of the Atlantic. Grinnell was angling: his electrodes had been lowered into the abyss, while Jackson waited impatiently with his camera.

  ‘They waited a week before they had a catch. By that time, tempers must have been rather frayed. Then, one afternoon on a perfectly calm day, Grinnell’s meters started to jump. Something was caught in the sphere of influence of the electrodes.

  ‘Slowly, they drew up the cable. Until now, the rest of the crew must have thought them mad, but everyone must have shared their excitement as the catch rose up through all those thousands of feet of darkness until it broke surface. Who can blame the radio operator if, despite Jackson’s orders, he felt an urgent need to talk things over with a friend back on the safety of dry land?

  ‘I won’t attempt to describe what they saw, because a master has done it before me. Soon after the report came in, I turned up my copy of Moby Dick and reread the passage; I can still quote it from memory and don’t suppose I’ll ever forget it. This is how it goes, more or less:

  ‘“A vast pulpy mass, furlongs in length, of a glancing cream-colour, lay floating on the water, innumerable long arms radiating from its centre, curling and twisting like a nest of anacondas, as if blindly to catch at any hapless object within reach.”

  ‘Yes: Grinnell and Jackson had been after the largest and most mysterious of all living creatures – the giant squid. Largest? Almost certainly: Bathyteuthis may grow up to a hundred feet long. He’s not as heavy as the sperm whales who dine upon him, but he’s a match for them in length.

  ‘So here they were, with this monstrous beast that no human being had ever before seen under such ideal conditions. It seems that Grinnell was calmly putting it through its paces while Jackson ecstatically shot off yards of film. There was no danger, though it was twice the size of their boat. To Grinnell, it was just another mollusc that he could control like a puppet by means of his knobs and dials. When he had finished, he would let it return to its normal depths and it could swim away again, though it would probably have a bit of a hangover.

  ‘What one wouldn’t give to get hold of that film! Altogether apart from its scientific interest, it would be worth a fortune in Hollywood. You must admit that Jackson knew what he was doing: he’d seen the limitations of Grinnell’s apparatus and put it to its most effective use. What happened next was not his fault.’

  Professor Hinckleberg sighed and took a deep draught of beer, as if to gather strength for the finale of his tale.

  ‘No, if anyone is to blame it’s Grinnell. Or, I should say, it was Grinnell, poor chap. Perhaps he was so excited that he overlooked a precaution he would undoubtedly have taken in the lab. How otherwise can you account for the fact that he didn’t have a spare fuse handy when the one in the power supply blew out?

  ‘And you can’t really blame Bathyteuthis, either. Wouldn’t you have been a little annoyed to be pushed about like this? And when the orders suddenly ceased and you were your own master again, you’d take steps to see it remained that way. I sometimes wonder, though, if Jackson stayed filming to the very end….’

  Patent Pending

  First published in Argosy, November 1954, as ‘The Invention’

  Collected in Tales from the White Hart

  A light-hearted tale from Harry Purvis at the White Hart, yet with serious undertones, and also a nod towards Virtual Reality, fifty years before it came into being.

  There are no subjects that have not been discussed, at some time or other, in the saloon bar of the ‘White Hart’ – and whether or not there are ladies present makes no difference whatsoever. After all, they came in at their own risk. Three of them, now I come to think of it, have eventually gone out again with husbands. So perhaps the risk isn’t on their side at all….

  I mention this because I would not like you to think that all our conversations are highly erudite and scientific, and our activities purely cerebral. Though chess is rampant, darts and shove-ha’penny also flourish. The Times Literary Supplement, the Saturday Review, the New Statesman and the Atlantic Monthly may be brought in by some of the customers, but the same people are quite likely to leave with the latest issue of Staggering Stories of Pseudoscience.

  A great deal of business also goes on in the obscurer corners of the pub. Copies of antique books and magazines frequently change hands at astronomical prices, and on almost any Wednesday at least three well-known dealers may be seen smoking large cigars as they lean over the bar, swapping stories with Drew. From time to time a vast guffaw announces the denouement of some anecdote and provokes a flood of anxious enquiries from patrons who are afraid they may have missed something. But, alas, delicacy forbids that I should repeat any of these interesting tales here. Unlike most things in this island, they are not for export….

  Luckily, no such restrictions apply to the tales of Mr Harry Purvis, B.Sc. (at least), Ph.D. (probably), F.R.S. (personally I don’t think so, though it has been rumoured). None of them would bring a blush to the cheeks of the most delicately nurtured maiden aunts, should any still survive in these days.

  I must apologise. This is too sweeping a statement. There was one story which might, in some circles, be regarded as a little daring. Yet I do not hesitate to repeat it, for I know that you, dear reader, will be sufficiently broadminded to take no offence.

  It started in this fashion. A celebrated Fleet Street reviewer had been pinned into a corner by a persuasive publisher, who was about to bring out a book of which he had high hopes. It was one of the riper productions of the deep and decadent South – a prime example of the ‘and-then-the-house-gave-another-lurch-as-the-termites-finished-the-east-wing’ school of fiction. Eire had already banned it, but that is an honour which few books escape nowadays, and certainly could not be considered a distinction. However, if a leading British newspaper could be induced to make a stern call for its suppression, it would become a best seller overnight….

  Such was the logic of its publisher, and he was using all his wiles to induce co-operation. I heard him remark, apparently to allay any scruples his reviewer friend might have, ‘Of course not! If they can understand it, they can’t be corrupted any further!’ And then Harry Purvis, who has an uncanny knack of following half a dozen conversations simultaneously, so that he can insert himself in the right one at the right time, said in his peculiarly penetrating and non-interruptable voice: ‘Censorship does raise some very difficult problems, doesn’t it? I’ve always argued that there’s an inverse correlation between a country’s degree of civilisation and the restraints it puts on its press.’

  A New England voice from the back of the room cut in: ‘On that argument, Paris is a more civilised place than Boston.’

  ‘Precisely,’ answered Purvis. For once
, he waited for a reply.

  ‘OK,’ said the New England voice mildly. ‘I’m not arguing. I just wanted to check.’

  ‘To continue,’ said Purvis, wasting no more time in doing so, ‘I’m reminded of a matter which has not yet concerned the censor, but which will certainly do so before long. It began in France, and so far has remained there. When it does come out into the open, it may have a greater impact on our civilisation than the atom bomb.

  ‘Like the atom bomb, it arose out of equally academic research. Never, gentlemen, underestimate science. I doubt if there is a single field of study so theoretical, so remote from what is laughingly called everyday life, that it may not one day produce something that will shake the world.

  ‘You will appreciate that the story I am telling you is, for once in a while, secondhand. I got it from a colleague at the Sorbonne last year while I was over there at a scientific conference. So the names are all fictitious: I was told them at the time, but I can’t remember them now.

  ‘Professor – ah – Julian was an experimental physiologist at one of the smaller, but less impecunious, French universities. Some of you may remember that rather unlikely tale we heard here the other week from that fellow Hinckleberg, about his colleague who’d learned how to control the behaviour of animals through feeding the correct currents into their nervous systems. Well, if there was any truth in that story – and frankly I doubt it – the whole project was probably inspired by Julian’s papers in Comptes Rendus.

  ‘Professor Julian, however, never published his most remarkable results. When you stumble on something which is really terrific, you don’t rush into print. You wait until you have overwhelming evidence – unless you’re afraid that someone else is hot on the track. Then you may issue an ambiguous report that will establish your priority at a later date, without giving too much away at the moment – like the famous cryptogram that Huygens put out when he detected the rings of Saturn.