The Collected Stories of Arthur C. Clarke (38 page)

‘Oh, yes—the business of wines! I can see you’re thinking about that. Well, that’s one thing I
don’t
regret. I said I’ve always tried to act like a civilised man—and a civilised man should always know when to get drunk. But perhaps you wouldn’t understand.’

Oddly enough, that was just what Grant was beginning to do. He had caught his first real glimpse of McNeil’s intricate and tortuous personality and realised how utterly he had misjudged him. No—misjudged was not the right word. In many ways his judgement had been correct. But it had only touched the surface—he had never suspected the depths that lay beneath.

In a moment of insight that had never come before, and from the nature of things could never come again, Grant understood the reasons behind McNeil’s action. This was nothing so simple as a coward trying to reinstate himself in the eyes of the world, for no one need ever know what happened aboard the
Star Queen
.

In any case, McNeil probably cared nothing for the world’s opinion, thanks to the sleek self-sufficiency that had so often annoyed Grant. But that very self-sufficiency meant that at all costs he must preserve his own good opinion of himself. Without it life would not be worth living—and McNeil had never accepted life save on his own terms.

The engineer was watching him intently and must have guessed that Grant was coming near the truth, for he suddenly changed his tone as though he was sorry he had revealed so much of his character.

‘Don’t think I get a quixotic pleasure from turning the other cheek,’ he said. ‘Just consider it from the point of view of pure logic. After all, we’ve got to come to
some
agreement.

‘Has it occurred to you that if only one of us survives without a covering message from the other, he’ll have a very uncomfortable time explaining just what happened?’

In his blind fury, Grant had completely forgotten this. But he did not believe it bulked at all important in McNeil’s own thoughts.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose you’re right.’

He felt far better now. All the hate drained out of him and he was at peace. The truth was known and he had accepted it. That it was so different from what he had imagined did not seem to matter now.

‘Well, let’s get it over,’ he said unemotionally. ‘There’s a new pack of cards lying around somewhere.’

‘I think we’d better speak to Venus first—both of us,’ replied McNeil, with peculiar emphasis. ‘We want a complete agreement on record in case anyone asks awkward questions later.’

Grant nodded absently. He did not mind very much now one way or the other. He even smiled, ten minutes later, as he drew his card from the pack and laid it, face upwards, beside McNeil’s.

‘So that’s the whole story, is it?’ said the first mate, wondering how soon he could decently get to the transmitter.

‘Yes,’ said McNeil evenly, ‘that’s all there was to it.’

The mate bit his pencil, trying to frame the next question. ‘And I suppose Grant took it all quite calmly?’

The captain gave him a glare, which he avoided, and McNeil looked at him coldly as if he could see through the sensation-mongering headlines ranged behind. He got to his feet and moved over to the observation port.

‘You heard his broadcast, didn’t you? Wasn’t that calm enough?’

The mate sighed. It still seemed hard to believe that in such circumstances two men could have behaved in so reasonable, so unemotional a manner. He could have pictured all sorts of dramatic possibilities—sudden outbursts of insanity, even attempts at murder. Yet according to McNeil nothing at all had happened. It was too bad.

McNeil was speaking again, as if to himself. ‘Yes, Grant behaved very well—very well indeed. It was a great pity—’

Then he seemed to lose himself in the ever-fresh, incomparable glory of the approaching planet. Not far beneath, and coming closer by kilometres every second, the snow-white crescent arms of Venus spanned more than half the sky. Down there were life and warmth and civilisation—and air.

The future, which not long ago had seemed contracted to a point, had opened out again into all its unknown possibilities and wonders. But behind him McNeil could sense the eyes of his rescuers, probing, questioning—yes, and condemning too.

All his life he would hear whispers. Voices would be saying behind his back, ‘Isn’t that the man who—?’

He did not care. For once in his life at least, he had done something of which he could feel unashamed. Perhaps one day his own pitiless self-analysis would strip bare the motives behind his actions, would whisper in his ear. ‘Altruism? Don’t be a fool! You did it to bolster up your own good opinion of yourself—so much more important than anyone else’s!’

But the perverse maddening voices, which all his life had made nothing seem worth while, were silent for the moment and he felt content. He had reached the calm at the centre of the hurricane. While it lasted he would enjoy it to the full.

Nemesis

First published in
Super Science Stories
, March 1950, as ‘Exile of the Eons’

Collected in
Expedition to Earth

Already the mountains were trembling with the thunder that only man can make. But here the war seemed very far away, for the full moon hung over the ageless Himalayas and the furies of the battle were still hidden below the edge of the world. Not for long would they so remain. The Master knew that the last remnants of his fleet were being hurled from the sky as the circle of death closed in upon his stronghold.

In a few hours at the most, the Master and his dreams of empire would have vanished into the maelstrom of the past. Nations would still curse his name, but they would no longer fear it. Later, even the hatred would be gone and he would mean no more to the world than Hitler or Napoleon or Genghis Khan. Like them he would be a blurred figure far down the infinite corridor of time, dwindling towards oblivion. For a little while his name would dwell in the uncertain land between history and fable; then the world would think of him no more. He would be one with the nameless legions who had died to work his will.

Far to the south, a mountain suddenly edged with violet flame. Ages later, the balcony on which the Master stood shuddered beneath the impact of the ground-wave racing through the rocks below. Later still, the air brought the echo of a mammoth concussion. Surely they could not be so close already! The Master hoped it was no more than a stray torpedo that had swept through the contracting battle line. If it were not, time was even shorter than he feared.

The Chief of Staff walked out from the shadows and joined him by the rail. The Marshal’s hard face—the second most hated in all the world—was lined and beaded with sweat. He had not slept for days and his once gaudy uniform hung limply upon him. Yet his eyes, though unutterably weary, were still resolute even in defeat. He stood in silence, awaiting his last orders. Nothing else was left for him to do.

Thirty miles away, the eternal snow-plume of Everest flamed a lurid red, reflecting the glare of some colossal fire below the horizon. Still the Master neither moved nor gave any sign. Not until a salvo of torpedoes passed high overhead with a demon wail did he at last turn and, with one backward glance at the world he would see no more, descend into the depths.

The lift dropped a thousand feet and the sound of battle died away. As he stepped out of the shaft, the Master paused for a moment to press a hidden switch. The Marshal even smiled when he heard the crash of falling rock far above, and knew that both pursuit and escape were equally impossible.

As of old, the handful of generals sprang to their feet when the Master entered the room. He ran his eyes round the table. They were all there; even at the last there had been no traitors. He walked to his accustomed place in silence, steeling himself for the last and the hardest speech he would ever have to make. Burning into his soul he could feel the eyes of the men he had led to ruin. Behind and beyond them he could see the squadrons, the divisions, the armies whose blood was on his hands. And more terrible still were the silent spectres of the nations that now could never be born.

At last he began to speak. The hypnosis of his voice was as powerful as ever, and after a few words he became once more the perfect, implacable machine whose destiny was destruction.

‘This, gentlemen, is the last of all our meetings. There are no more plans to make, no more maps to study. Somewhere above our heads the fleet we built with such pride and care is fighting to the end. In a few minutes, not one of all those thousands of machines will be left in the sky.

‘I know that for all of us here surrender is unthinkable, even if it were possible, so in this room you will shortly have to die. You have served our cause well and deserved better, but it was not to be. Yet I do not wish you to think that we have wholly failed. In the past, as you saw many times, my plans were always ready for anything that might arise, no matter how improbable. You should not, therefore, be surprised to learn that I was prepared even for defeat.’

Still the same superb orator, he paused for effect, noting with satisfaction the ripple of interest, the sudden alertness on the tired faces of his listeners.

‘My secret is safe enough with you,’ he continued, ‘for the enemy will never find this place. The entrance is already blocked by hundreds of feet of rock.’

Still there was no movement. Only the Director of Propaganda turned suddenly white, and swiftly recovered—but not swiftly enough to escape the Master’s eye. The Master smiled inwardly at this belated confirmation of an old doubt. It mattered little now; true and false, they would all die together. All but one.

‘Two years ago,’ he went on, ‘when we lost the battle of Antarctica, I knew that we could no longer be certain of victory. So I made my preparations for this day. The enemy has already sworn to kill me. I could not remain in hiding anywhere on the earth, still less hope to rebuild our fortunes. But there is another way, though a desperate one.

‘Five years ago, one of our scientists perfected the technique of suspended animation. He found that by relatively simple means all life processes could be arrested for an indefinite period. I am going to use this discovery to escape from the present into a future which will have forgotten me. There I can begin the struggle again, not without the help of certain devices that might yet have won this war had we been granted more time.

‘Goodbye, gentlemen. And once again, my thanks for your help and my regrets at your ill fortune.’

He saluted, turned on his heels, and was gone. The metal door thudded decisively behind him. There was a frozen silence; then the Director of Propaganda rushed to the exit, only to recoil with a startled cry. The steel door was already too hot to touch. It had been welded immovably into the wall.

The Minister for War was the first to draw his automatic.

The Master was in no great hurry, now. On leaving the council room he had thrown the secret switch of the welding circuit. The same action had opened a panel in the wall of the corridor, revealing a small circular passage sloping steadily upwards. He began to walk slowly along it.

Every few hundred feet the tunnel angled sharply, though still continuing the upward climb. At each turning the Master stopped to throw a switch, and there was the thunder of falling rock as a section of corridor collapsed.

Five times the passageway changed its course before it ended in a spherical, metal-walled room. Multiple doors closed softly on rubber seatings, and the last section of tunnel crashed behind. The Master would not be disturbed by his enemies, nor by his friends.

He looked swiftly round the room to satisfy himself that all was ready. Then he walked to a simple control-board and threw, one after another, a set of peculiarly massive switches. They had to carry little current—but they had been built to last. So had everything in that strange room. Even the walls were made of metals far less ephemeral than steel.

Pumps started to whine, drawing the air from the chamber and replacing it with sterile nitrogen. Moving more swiftly now, the Master went to the padded couch and lay down. He thought he could feel himself bathed by the bacteria-destroying rays from the lamps above his head, but that of course was fancy. From a recess beneath the couch he drew a hypodermic and injected a milky fluid into his arm. Then he relaxed and waited.

It was already very cold. Soon the refrigerators would bring the temperature down far below freezing, and would hold it there for many hours. Then it would rise to normal, but by that time the process would be completed, all bacteria would be dead and the Master could sleep, unchanged, for ever.

He had planned to wait a hundred years. More than that he dared not delay, for when he awoke he would have to master all the changes in science and society that the passing years had wrought. Even a century might have altered the face of civilisation beyond his understanding, but that was a risk he would have to take. Less than a century would not be safe, for the world would still be full of bitter memories.

Sealed in a vacuum beneath the couch were three electronic counters operated by thermocouples hundreds of feet above on the eastern face of the mountain where no snow could ever cling. Every day the rising sun would operate them and the counters would add one unit to their store. So the coming of dawn would be noted in the darkness where the Master slept.

When any one of the counters reached the total of thirty-six thousand, a switch would close and oxygen would flow back into the chamber. The temperature would rise, and the automatic hypodermic strapped to the Master’s arm would inject the calculated amount of fluid. He would awaken, and only the counters would tell him that the century had really passed. Then all he need do would be to press the button which would blast away the mountainside and give him free passage to the outer world.

Everything had been considered. There could be no failure. All the machinery had been triplicated and was as perfect as science could contrive.

The Master’s last thought as consciousness ebbed was not of his past life, nor of the mother whose hopes he had betrayed. Unbidden and unwelcome, there came into his mind the words of an ancient poet: