Childhood's End by Arthur C. Clarke
Profounder things had also passed. It was a completely secular age. Of the faiths that had existed before the coming of the Overlords, only a form of purified Buddhism — perhaps the most austere of all religions — still survived. The creeds that had been based upon miracles and revelations had collapsed utterly. With the rise of education, they had already been slowly dissolving, but for a while the Overlords had taken no sides in the matter. Though Karellen was often asked to express his views on religion, all that he would say was that a man’s beliefs were his own affair, so long as they did not interfere with the liberty of others.
Perhaps the old faiths would have lingered for generations yet, had it not been for human curiosity. It was known that the Overlords had access to the past, and more than once historians had appealed to Karellen to settle some ancient controversy. It may have been that he had grown tired of such questions, but it is more likely that he knew perfectly well what the outcome of his generosity would be…
The instrument he handed over on permanent loan to the World History Foundation was nothing more than a television receiver with an elaborate set of controls for determining coordinates in time and space. It must have been linked somehow to a far more complex machine, operating on principles that no one could imagine, aboard Karellen’s ship. One had merely to adjust the controls, and a window into the past was opened up. Almost the whole of human history for the past five thousand years became accessible in an instant. Earlier than that the machine would not go, and there were baffling blanks all down the ages. They might have had some natural cause, or they might be due to deliberate censorship by the Overlords.
Though it had always been obvious to any rational mind that all the world’s religious writings could not be true, the shock was nevertheless profound. Here was a revelation which no one could doubt or deny; here, seen by some unknown magic of Overlord science, were the true beginnings of all the world’s great faiths. Most of them were noble and inspiring — but that was not enough. Within a few days, all mankind’s multitudinous messiahs had lost their divinity. Beneath the fierce and passionless light of truth, faiths that had sustained millions for twice a thousand years vanished like morning dew. All the good and all the evil they had wrought were swept suddenly into the past, and could touch the minds of men no more.
Humanity had lost its ancient gods; now it was old enough to have no need for new ones.
Though few realised it as yet, the fall of religion had been paralleled by a decline in science. There were plenty of technologists, but few original workers extending the frontiers of human knowledge. Curiosity remained, and the leisure to indulge in it, but the heart had been taken out of fundamental scientific research. It seemed futile to spend a lifetime searching for secrets that the Overlords had probably uncovered ages before.
This decline had been partly disguised by an enormous efflorescence of the descriptive sciences such as zoology, botany and observational astronomy. There had never been so many amateur scientists gathering facts for their own amusement — but there were few theoreticians correlating these facts.
The end of strife and conflict of all kinds had also meant the virtual end of creative art. There were myriads of performers, amateur and professional, yet there had been no really outstanding new works of literature, music, painting or sculpture for a generation. The world was still living on the glories of a past that could never return.
No one worried except a few philosophers. The race was too intent upon savouring its new-found freedom to look beyond the pleasures of the present. Utopia was here at last; its novelty had not yet been assailed by the supreme enemy of all Utopias — boredom.
Perhaps the Overlords had the answer to that, as they had to all other problems. No one knew — any more than they knew, a lifetime after their arrival — what their ultimate purpose might be. Mankind had grown to trust them, and to accept without question the superhuman altruism that had kept Karellen and his companions so long exiled from their homes.
If, indeed, it was altruism. For there were still some who wondered if the policies of the Overlords would always coincide with the true welfare of humanity.
Chapter 7
When Rupert Boyce sent out the invitations for his party, the total mileage involved was impressive. To list only the first dozen guests, there were the Fosters from Adelaide, the Shoenbergers from Haiti, the Farrans from Stalingrad, the Moravias from Cincinnati, the Ivankos from Paris, and the Sullivans from the general vicinity of Easter Island, but approximately four kilometres down on the ocean bed. It was a considerable compliment to Rupert that although thirty guests had been invited, over forty turned up. Only the Krauses let him down, and that was simply because they forgot about the International Date Line and arrived twenty-four hours late.
By noon an imposing collection of flyers had accumulated in the park, and the later arrivals would have quite a distance to walk once they had found somewhere to land. The assembled vehicles ranged from one-man Flitterbugs to family Cadillacs which were more like air-borne palaces than sensible flying machines. In this age, however, nothing could be deduced concerning the social status of the guests from their modes of transport.
“It’s a very ugly house,” said Jean Morrel as the Meteor spiralled down. “It looks rather like a box that somebody’s stepped on.”
George Greggson, who had an old-fashioned dislike of automatic landings, readjusted the rate-of-descent control before answering.
“It’s hardly fair to judge the place from this angle,” he replied, sensibly enough. “From ground level it may look quite different.”
George selected a landing place and they floated to rest between another Meteor and something that neither of them could identify. It looked very fast and, Jean thought, very uncomfortable. One of Rupert’s technical friends, she decided, had probably built it himself. She had an idea that there was a law against that sort of thing.
The heat hit them like a blast from a blow-torch as they stepped out of the flyer. It seemed to suck the moisture from their bodies, and George almost imagined that he could feel his skin cracking. It was partly their own fault, of course.
They had left Alaska three hours before, and should have remembered to adjust the cabin temperature accordingly.
“What a place to live!” gasped Jean. “I thought this climate was supposed to be controlled.”
“So it is,” replied George. “This was all a desert once — and look at it now. Come on — it’ll be all right indoors!”
Rupert’s voice, slightly larger than life, boomed cheerfully in their ears. Their host was standing beside the flyer, a glass in each hand, looking down at them with a roguish expression.
He looked down at them for the simple reason that he was about twelve feet tall; he was also semi-transparent. One could see right through him without much difficulty.
“This is a fine trick to play on your guests!” protested George. He grabbed at the drinks, which he could just reach.
His hand, of course, went right through them. “I hope you’ve got something more substantial for us when we reach the house!”
“Don’t worry!” laughed Rupert. “Just give your order now, and it’ll be ready by the time you arrive.”
“Two large beers, cooled in liquid air,” said George promptly. “We’ll be right there.”
Rupert nodded, put down one of his glasses on an invisible table, adjusted an equally invisible control, and promptly vanished from sight.
“Well!” said Jean. “That’s the first time I’ve seen one of those gadgets in action. How did Rupert get a hold of it? I thought only the Overlords had them.”
“Have you ever known Rupert not to get anything he wanted?” replied George. “That’s just the toy for him. He can sit comfortably in his studio and go wandering round half of Africa. No heat, no bugs, no exertion — and the icebox always in reach. I wonder what Stanley and Livingstone would have thought?”
The sun put an end to further conversation un
The current Mrs Boyce greeted them in the delicious coolness of the hall. She was, if the truth be known, the main reason for the good turnout of guests. Perhaps half of them would have come in any case to see Rupert’s new house; the waverers had been decided by the reports of Rupert’s new wife.
There was only one adjective that adequately described her. She was distracting. Even in a world where beauty was almost commonplace, men would turn their heads when she entered the room. She was, George guessed, about one quarter Negro; her features were practically Grecian and her hair was long and lustrous. Only the dark, rich texture of her skin — the overworked word “chocolate” was the only one that described it — revealed her mixed ancestry.
“You’re Jean and George, aren’t you?” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Rupert is doing something complicated with the drinks — come along and meet everybody.”
Her voice was a rich contralto that sent little shivers running up and down George’s back, as if someone was playing on his spine like a flute. He looked nervously at Jean, who had managed to force a somewhat artificial smile, and finally recovered his voice.
“It’s — it’s very nice to meet you,” he said lamely. “We’ve been looking forward to this party.”
“Rupert always gives such nice parties,” put in Jean. By the way she accented the “always”, one knew perfectly well she was thinking “Every time he gets married”. George flushed slightly and gave Jean a glance of reproof, but there was no sign that their hostess noticed the barb. She was friendliness itself as she ushered them into the main lounge, already half packed with a representative collection of Rupert’s numerous friends. Rupert himself was sitting at the console of what seemed to be a television engineer’s control unit; it was, George assumed, the device that had projected his image out to meet them. He was busily demonstrating it by surprising two more arrivals as they descended into the parking place, but paused just long enough to greet Jean and George and to apologise for having given their drinks to somebody else.
“You’ll find plenty more over there,” he said, waving one hand vaguely behind him while he adjusted controls with the other. “Just make yourselves at home. You know most of the people here — Maia will introduce you to the rest. Good of you to come.”
“Good of you to invite us,” said Jean, without much conviction. George had already departed towards the bar and she made her way after him, occasionally exchanging greetings with someone she recognised. About three-quarters of those present were perfect strangers, which was the normal state of affairs at one of Rupert’s parties.
“Let’s explore,” she said to George when they had refreshed themselves and waved to everyone they knew. “I want to look at the house.”
George, with a barely concealed backward look at Maia Boyce, followed after her. There was a faraway look in his eyes that Jean didn’t like in the least. It was such a nuisance that men were fundamentally polygamous. On the other hand, if they weren’t… Yes, perhaps it was better this way, after all.
George quickly came back to normal as they investigated the wonders of Rupert’s new abode. The house seemed very large for two people, but this was just as well in view of the frequent Overloads it would have to handle. There were two stories, the upper considerably larger so that it overhung and provided shade around the ground floor. The degree of mechanisation was considerable, and the kitchen closely resembled the cockpit of an airliner.
“Poor Ruby!” said Jean. “She would have loved this place.”
“From what I’ve heard,” replied George, who had no great sympathy for the last Mrs Boyce, “she’s perfectly happy with her Australian boyfriend.”
This was such common knowledge that Jean could hardly contradict it, so she changed the subject.
“She’s awfully pretty, isn’t she?”
George was sufficiently alert to avoid the trap.
“Oh, I suppose so,” he replied indifferently. “That is, of course, if one likes brunettes.”
“Which you don’t, I take it,” said Jean sweetly.
“Don’t be jealous, dear,” chuckled George, stroking her platinum hair. “Let’s go look at the library. What floor do you think that will be on?”
“It must be up here; there’s no more room down below. Besides, that fits in with the general design. All the living, eating, sleeping and so on is relegated to the ground floor. This is the fun and games department — though I still think it’s a crazy idea having a swimming pool upstairs.”
“I guess there’s some reason for it,” said George, opening a door experimentally. “Rupert must have had skilled advice when he built this place. I’m sure he couldn’t have done it himself.”
“You’re probably right. If he had, there’d have been rooms without doors, and stairways leading nowhere. In fact, I’d be afraid to step inside a house that Rupert had designed all by himself.”
“Here we are,” said George, with the pride of a navigator making landfall, “the fabulous Boyce collection in its new home. I wonder just how many of them Rupert has really read.”
The library ran the whole width of the house, but was virtually divided into half a dozen small rooms by the great bookcases extending across it. These held, if George remembered correctly, some fifteen thousand volumes — almost everything of importance that had ever been published on the nebulous subjects of magic, psychic research, divining, telepathy, and the whole range of elusive phenomena lumped in the category of paraphysics. It was a very peculiar hobby for anyone to have in this age of reason. Presumably it was simply Rupert’s particular form of escapism.
George noticed the smell the moment he entered the room. It was faint but penetrating, not so much unpleasant as puzzling. Jean had observed it too; her forehead was wrinkled in the effort of identification. Acetic acid, thought George — that’s the nearest thing to it. But it’s got something else as well…
The library terminated in a small open space just large enough for a table, two chairs and some cushions. This, presumably, was where Rupert did most of his reading. Someone was reading there now, in an unnaturally dim light.
Jean gave a little gasp and clutched at George’s hand. Her reaction was, perhaps excusable. It was one thing to watch a television picture, quite another to meet the reality. George, who was seldom surprised by anything, rose to the occasion at once.
“I hope we haven’t disturbed you, sir,” he said politely. “We’d no idea that there was anyone here. Rupert never told us…”
The Overlord put down the book, looked at them closely, then commenced reading again. There was nothing impolite about the action, coming as it did from a being who could read, talk, and probably do several other things at the same time. Nevertheless, to human observers the spectacle was disturbingly schizophrenic.
“My name is Rashaverak,” said the Overlord amiably. “I’m afraid I’m not being very sociable, but Rupert’s library is a difficult place from which to escape.”
Jean managed to suppress a nervous giggle. Their unexpected fellow guest was, she noticed, reading at the rate of a page every two seconds. She did not doubt that he was assimilating every word, and she wondered if he could manage to read a book with each eye. “And then, of course,” she thought to herself, “he could go on to learn Braille so he could use his fingers…” The resulting mental picture was too comic to be comfortable, so she tried to suppress it by entering into the conversation. After all, it was not every day that one had a chance of talking to one of the masters of Earth.
George let her chatter on, after he had made the introductions, hoping that she wouldn’t say anything tactless. Like Jean, he had never seen an Overlord in the flesh. Though
Since the chairs were too small for him, Rashaverak was sitting on the floor, apparently quite at ease since he had ignored the cushions only a metre away. As a result his head was a mere two metres from the ground, and George had a unique chance of studying extra-terrestrial biology. Unfortunately, as he knew little about terrestrial biology, he was not able to learn much that he did not already know. Only the peculiar, and by no means unpleasant, acid odour was new to him. He wondered how humans smelt to the Overlords, and hoped for the best.
There was nothing really anthropomorphic about Rashaverak. George could understand the way in which, if seen from a distance by ignorant, terrified savages, the Overlords could be mistaken for winged men, and so could have given rise, to the conventional portrait of the Devil. From as close as this, however, some of the illusion vanished. The little horns (what function did they serve? wondered George) were as per specification, but the body was neither like that of a man nor of any animal Earth had ever known. Coming from a totally alien evolutionary tree, the Overlords were neither mammals, insects, nor reptiles. It was not even certain that they were vertebrates; their hard, external armour might well be their only supporting framework.
Rashaverak’s wings were folded so that George could not see them clearly, but his tail, looking like a piece of armoured hose-pipe, lay neatly curled under him. The famous barb was not so much an arrowhead as a large, flat diamond. Its purpose, it was now generally accepted, was to give stability in flight, like the tail-feathers of a bird. From scanty facts and suppositions such as these, scientists had concluded that the Overlords came from a world of low gravity and very dense atmosphere.