Childhood's End, p.1Arthur C. Clarke
ARTHUR C. CLARKE
Science Fiction Masterworks Volume 77
I. EARTH AND THE OVERLORDS
II. THE GOLDEN AGE
III. THE LAST GENERATION
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
“In Childhood’s End Arthur C. Clarke joins Olaf Stapledon, C. S. Lewis, and probably one should add H. G. Wells, in the very small group of writers who have used science fiction as the vehicle of philosophical ideas. Having said that, one must add that it is as readable a book, from the point of view of pure narrative, as you are likely to find among today’s straight novels”
— New York Times Book Review
“A first-rate tour de force!”
— The New York Times
“A frighteningly logical, believable, and grimly prophetic tale… Clarke is a Master.”
— Los Angeles Times
“There has been nothing like it for years; partly for the actual invention, but partly because here we meet a modern author who understands that there may be things that have a higher claim on humanity that its own ‘survival.’”
—C. S. Lewis
“In Clarke’s fiction he thinks at once like a poet and like an engineer — and writes, at his best, like an angel.”
—H. H. Holmes
THE OPINIONS EXPRESSED
IN THIS BOOK ARE NOT
THOSE OF THE AUTHOR.
I. EARTH AND THE OVERLORDS
The volcano that had reared Taratua up from the Pacific depths had been sleeping now for half a million years. Yet in a little while, thought Reinhold, the island would be bathed with fires fiercer than any that had attended its birth. He glanced towards the launching site, and his gaze climbed the pyramid of scaffolding that still surrounded the “Columbus”. Two hundred feet above the ground, the ship’s prow was catching the last rays of the descending sun. This was one of the last nights it would ever know; soon it would be floating in the eternal sunshine of space.
It was quiet here beneath the palms, high up on the rocky spine of the island. The only sound from the Project was the occasional yammering of an air compressor or the faint shout of a workman. Reinhold had grown fond of these clustered palms; almost every evening he had come here to survey his little empire. It saddened him to think that they would be blasted to atoms when the “Columbus” rose in flame and fury to the stars.
A mile beyond the reef, the “James Forrestal” had switched on her searchlights and was sweeping the dark waters. The sun had now vanished completely, and the swift tropical night was racing in from the east. Reinhold wondered, a little sardonically, if the carrier expected to find Russian submarines so close to shore.
The thought of Russia turned his mind, as it always did, to Konrad, and that morning in the cataclysmic spring of 1945. More than thirty years had passed, but the memory of those last days when the Reich was crumbling beneath the waves from the East and from the West had never faded. He could still see Konrad’s tired blue eyes, and the golden stubble on his chin, as they shook hands and parted in that ruined Prussian village, while the refugees streamed endlessly past. It was a parting that symbolised everything that had since happened to the world — the cleavage between East and West. For Konrad chose the road to Moscow. Reinhold had thought him a fool, but now he was not so sure.
For thirty years he had assumed that Konrad was dead. It was only a week ago that Colonel Sandmeyer, of Technical Intelligence, had given him the news. He didn’t like Sandmeyer, and he was sure the feeling was mutual. But neither let that interfere with business.
“Mr Hoffmann,” the Colonel had begun, in his best official manner, “I’ve just had some alarming information from Washington. It’s top secret, of course, but we’ve decided to break it to the engineering staff so that they’ll realise the necessity for speed.” He paused for effect, but the gesture was wasted on Reinhold. Somehow, he already knew what was coming.
“The Russians are nearly level with us. They’ve got some kind of atomic drive — it may even be more efficient than ours, and they’re building a ship on the shores of Lake Baikal. We don’t know how far they’ve got, but Intelligence believes it may be launched this year. You know what that means.”
Yes, thought Reinhold, I know. The race is on — and we may not win it.
“Do you know who’s running their team?” he had asked, not really expecting an answer. To his surprise, Colonel Sandmeyer had pushed across a typewritten sheet and there at its head was the name: Konrad Schneider.
“You knew a lot of these men at Peenemünde, didn’t you?” said the Colonel. “That may give us some insight into their methods. I’d like you to let me have notes on as many of them as you can — their specialities, the bright ideas they had, and so on. I know it’s asking a lot after all this time — but see what you can do.”
“Konrad Schneider is the only one who matters,” Reinhold had answered. “He was brilliant — the others are just competent engineers. Heaven only knows what he’s done in thirty years. Remember — he’s probably seen all our results and we haven’t seen any of his. That gives him a decided advantage.”
He hadn’t meant this as a criticism of Intelligence, but for a moment it seemed as if Sandmeyer was going to be offended. Then the Colonel shrugged his shoulders.
“It works both ways — you’ve told me that yourself. Our free exchange of information means swifter progress, even if we do give away a few secrets. The Russian research departments probably don’t know what their own people are doing half the time. We’ll show them that Democracy can get to the moon first.”
Democracy — Nuts! thought Reinhold, but knew better than to say it. One Konrad Schneider was worth a million names on an electoral roll. And what had Konrad done by this time, with all the resources of the U.S.S.R. behind him? Perhaps, even now, his ship was already outward bound from Earth…
* * *
The sun which had deserted Taratua was still high above Lake Baikal when Konrad Schneider and the Assistant Commissar for Nuclear Science walked slowly back from the motor test rig. Their ears were still throbbing painfully, though the last thunderous echoes had died out across the lake ten minutes before.
“Why the long face?” asked Grigorievitch suddenly. “You should be happy now. In another month we’ll be on our way, and the Yankees will be choking themselves with rage.”
“You’re an optimist, as usual,” said Schneider. “Even though the motor works, it’s not as easy as that. True, I can’t see any serious obstacles now — but I’m worried about the reports from Taratua. I’ve told you how good Hoffmann is, and he’s got billions of dollars behind him. These photographs of his ship aren’t very clear, but it looks as if it’s not far from completion. And we know he tested his motor five weeks ago.”
“Don’t worry,” laughed Grigorievitch. “They’re the ones who are going to have the big surprise. Remember — they don’t know a thing about us.”
Schneider wondered if that was true, but decided it was
The guard saluted as he re-entered the administration building. There were nearly as many soldiers here, he thought grimly, as technicians. But that was how the Russians did things, and as long as they kept out of his way he had no complaints. On the whole — with exasperating exceptions — events had turned out very much as he had hoped. Only the future could tell if he or Reinhold had made the better choice.
He was already at work on his final report when the sound of shouting voices disturbed him. For a moment he sat motionless at his desk, wondering what conceivable event could have disturbed the rigid discipline of the camp. Then he walked to the window — and for the first time in his life he knew despair.
* * *
The stars were all around him as Reinhold descended the little hill. Out at sea, the “Forrestal” was still sweeping the water with her fingers of light, while further along the beach the scaffolding round the “Columbus” had transformed itself into an illuminated Christmas tree. Only the projecting prow of the ship lay like a dark shadow across the stars.
A radio was blaring dance music from the living quarters, and unconsciously Reinhold’s feet accelerated to the rhythm.
He had almost reached the narrow road along the edge of the sands when some premonition, some half-glimpsed movement, made him stop. Puzzled, he glanced from land to sea and back again; it was some little time before he thought of looking at the sky.
Then Reinhold Hoffmann knew, as did Konrad Schneider at this same moment, that he had lost his race. And he knew that he had lost it, not by the few weeks or months that he had feared, but by millennia. The huge and silent shadows driving across the stars, more miles above his head than he dared to guess, were as far beyond his little “Columbus” as it surpassed the log canoes of palaeolithic man. For a moment that seemed to last forever, Reinhold watched, as all the world was watching, while the great ships descended in their overwhelming majesty — until at last he could hear the faint scream of their passage through the thin air of the stratosphere.
He felt no regrets as the work of a lifetime was swept away. He had laboured to take men to the stars, and in the moment of success the stars — the aloof, indifferent stars — had come to him. This was the moment when history held its breath, and the present sheared asunder from the past as an iceberg splits from its frozen parent cliffs and goes sailing out to sea in lonely pride. All that the past ages had achieved was as nothing now; only one thought echoed and re-echoed through Reinhold’s brain:
The human race was no longer alone.
The Secretary-General of the United Nations stood motionless by the great window, staring down at the crawling traffic on 43rd Street. He sometimes wondered if it was a good thing for any man to work at such an altitude above his fellow humans. Detachment was all very well, but it could change so easily to indifference. Or was he merely trying to rationalise his dislike of skyscrapers, still unabated after twenty years in New York?
He heard the door open behind him, but did not turn his head as Pieter Van Ryberg came into the room. There was the inevitable pause as Pieter looked disapprovingly at the thermostat, for it was a standing joke that the Secretary-General liked living in an icebox. Stormgren waited until his assistant joined him at the window, then tore his gaze away from the familiar yet always fascinating panorama below.
“They’re late,” he said. “Wainwright should have been here five minutes ago.”
“I’ve just heard from the police. He’s got quite a procession with him, and it’s snarled up the traffic. He should be here any moment now.”
Van Ryberg paused, then added abruptly, “Are you still sure it’s a good idea to see him?”
“I’m afraid it’s a little late to back out of it now. After all, I’ve agreed — though as you know it was never my idea in the first place.”
Stormgren had walked to his desk and was fidgeting with his famous uranium paperweight. He was not nervous — merely undecided. He was also glad that Wainwright was late, for that would give him a slight moral advantage when the interview opened. Such trivialities played a greater part in human affairs than anyone who set much store on logic and reason might wish.
“Here they are!” said Van Ryberg suddenly, pressing his face against the window. “They’re coming along the Avenue — a good three thousand, I’d say.”
Stormgren picked up his notebook and rejoined his assistant. Half a mile away, a small but determined crowd was moving slowly towards the Secretariat Building. It carried banners that were indecipherable at this distance, but Stormgren knew their message well enough. Presently he could hear, rising above the sound of the traffic, the ominous rhythm 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, rather self-consciously, in the air. They were not defying him, though the gesture was doubtless meant for Stormgren to see. As pygmies may threaten a giant, so those angry fists were directed against the sky fifty kilometres above his head — against the gleaming silver cloud that was the flagship of the Overlord fleet.
And very probably, thought Stormgren, Karellen was watching the whole thing and enjoying himself hugely, for this meeting would never have taken place except at the Supervisor’s instigation.
This was the first time that Stormgren had ever met the head of the Freedom League. He had ceased to wonder if the action was wise, for Karellen’s plans were often too subtle for merely human understanding. At the worst, Stormgren did not see that any positive harm could be done. If he had refused to see Wainwright, the League would have used the fact as ammunition against him.
Alexander Wainwright was a tall, handsome man in his late forties. He was, Stormgren knew, completely honest, and therefore doubly dangerous. Yet his obvious sincerity made it hard to dislike him, whatever views one might have about the cause for which he stood — and about some of the followers he had attracted.
Stormgren wasted no time after Van Ryberg’s brief and somewhat strained introductions.
“I suppose,” he began, “the chief object of your visit is to register a formal protest against the Federation Scheme. Am I correct?”
Wainwright nodded gravely.
“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. The task has been a difficult one, for the majority of people seem content to let the Overlords run the world as they please. Nevertheless, more than five million patriots, in every country, have signed our petition.”
“That is not a very impressive figure out of two and a half billion.”
“It is a figure that cannot be ignored. And for every person who has signed, there are many who feel grave doubts about the wisdom, not to mention the rightness of this Federation plan. Even Supervisor Karellen, for all his powers, cannot wipe out a thousand years of history at the stroke of a pen.”
“What does anyone know of Karellen’s powers?” retorted Stormgren. “When I was a boy, the Federation of Europe was a dream — but when I grew to manhood it had become reality. And that was before the arrival of the Overlords. Karellen is merely finishing the work we had begun.”
“Europe was a cultural and geographic entity. The world is not — that is the difference.”
“To the Overlords,” replied Stormgren sarcastically, “the Earth is probably a great deal smaller than Europe seemed to our fathers — and their outlook, I submit, is more mature than ours.”
“I do not necessarily quarrel with Federation as an ultimate objective — though many of my supporters might not agree. But it must come from within — not be superimposed from without. We must work out
Stormgren sighed. All this he had heard a hundred times before, and he knew that he could only give the old answer 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 liberty. 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.” At last, thought Stormgren, we’ve got to the point. Basically, the conflict is a religious one, however much it may be disguised. Wainwright never let you forget he was a clergyman. Though he no longer wore a clerical collar, somehow one always got the impression it was still there.
“Last month,” pointed out Stormgren, “a hundred bishops, cardinals and rabbis signed a joint declaration pledging their support for the Supervisor’s policy. The world’s religions are against you.”
Wainwright shook his head in angry denial.
“Many of the leaders are blind; they have been corrupted by the Overlords. When they realise the danger, it may be too late. Humanity will have lost its initiative and become a subject race.”
Childhood's End by Arthur C. Clarke / Science Fiction / History & Fiction have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes