Tales from Planet Earth
Published: 1990
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Contents
About the Author
Preface
Preface Addendum
The Road to the Sea
Hate
Publicity Campaign
The Other Tiger
The Deep Range
“If I Forget Thee, Oh Earth . . .”
The Cruel Sky
The Parasite
The Next Tenants
Saturn Rising
The Man Who Ploughed the Sea
The Wall of Darkness
Death and the Senator
Maelstrom II
Second Dawn
On Golden Seas
TALES FROM PLANET EARTH
Arthur C Clarke is one of the central figures of science fiction. Born in Somerset, England, his first fiction appeared in the forties, and in 1945 he published an article predicting the development of communication satellites. Since then he has also written widely on such topics as spaceflight, scientific forecasting and undersea exploration. He achieved widespread popularity with the release of 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY, for which he wrote the novel and co-authored the screenplay. He is now resident in Sri Lanka.
Preface
by Isaac Asimov
Arthur Charles Clarke (b. 1917) is, of all science fiction writers, the one who is most like me.
He would, of course, deny this hotly. He would point out – quite correctly – that he is more than two years older than I am, that he is much balder than I am, and that he is much less handsome than I am. But what of that? It is no disgrace to be ancient, bald and ugly.
Where the similarity comes in is that Arthur has had (like myself) a thoroughgoing scientific education, and he makes use of it to write what is called ‘hard science fiction.’ His style is something like mine, and we are often confused – at least our books are.
The first science fiction book that my dear wife, Janet, ever read was Arthur’s Childhood’s End; the second was my Foundation and Empire. Unable to remember which was which in very clear fashion, she ended up marrying me when I think she was after Arthur.
Here, however, is a collection of Arthur’s science fiction stories, science fiction dealing with science, extrapolated intelligently. How you will enjoy it!
I must tell you something about Arthur. We have known each other for some forty years and in all that time we have never stopped heaving loving insults at each other. (This is also true of Harlan Ellison and myself, and of Lester del Rey and myself.) It’s a form of male bonding. Women, I’m afraid, don’t understand this.
When two gentlemen of the lower–class persuasion meet each other (two cowboys, two truckdrivers) one is liable to hit the other a thwack on the shoulder and say, ‘How are you, you consarned varmint, you double–dealing son of a bitch.’ That is roughly the equivalent of saying, ‘Greetings, my friend, and how are you getting along?’
Well, Arthur and I do the same but, of course, in formal English to which we endeavor to introduce a soupçon of wit. Thus, last year a plane crashed in Iowa and roughly half the passengers were killed while half survived. It turned out that one of the survivors had kept calm during the perilous attempts to land by reading an Arthur C. Clarke novel and this was reported in a news article.
Arthur, as is his wont, promptly Xeroxed five million copies of the article and sent one to everyone he knew or ever heard of. I got one of them and at the bottom of the copy he sent to me, he wrote in his handwriting, ‘What a pity he didn’t read one of your novels. He would have slept through the whole wretched ordeal.’
It was the work of a moment to send Arthur a letter which said, ‘On the contrary, the reason he was reading your novel was that if the plane did crash, death would come as a blessed release.’
I recited this exchange of loving commentary at the World Science Fiction Convention held in Boston over the Labor Day weekend in 1989. One woman who reported on the convention heard the tale with shocked disapproval. I don’t know her, but I imagine her to be chemically free of any sense of humor and to know nothing of any form of male bonding – any form. In any case, my remark knocked her right out of her bloomers, and she spoke very disapprovingly of it in Locus.
Of course, I wouldn’t dream of allowing any ridiculous woman to get in the way of any loving exchanges Arthur and I might have, so I’ll end with another one. This time I’ll start it.
I am writing this introduction without charge out of sheer love for Arthur. He, of course, would never dream of returning the favor because he is a penny–pincher and doesn’t have my loving ability to place artistry and benevolence above sheer pelf.
There! I await, with a certain dread, Arthur’s answer.
Preface Addendum
by Arthur C. Clarke
I was delighted to read Isaac’s introduction to Tales From Planet Earth. As he says, I’m the writer who most resembles him. To repeat a remark I made before, we’re both almost as good as we think we are.
One minor correction: I didn’t send out five million copies of the Time article Isaac refers to. I sent only one – to Isaac himself, knowing full well that he would pass on the news to the rest of the world.
Finally, here’s my reply to his closing challenge in the way that will give him the greatest apprehension.
I hereby volunteer to write the preface for his next book.
TALES FROM PLANET EARTH
The Road to the Sea
Introduction
Checking my records, I find that “The Road to the Sea” was completed exactly forty years ago this month (June 1989). There is little that I need to say about it, except that it anticipates or encapsulates all the themes that I developed in more detail in later works, especially The City and the Stars and The Songs of Distant Earth.
One minor point: I’m amused to see that I predicted not only the invention of ultra-portable music players, but also the fact that they would quickly become such a public menace they would have to be banned. The second part of this prophecy, alas, has not yet been fulfilled.
The first leaves of autumn were falling when Durven met his brother on the headland beside the Golden Sphinx. Leaving his flyer among the shrubs by the roadside, he walked to the brow of the hill and looked down upon the sea. A bitter wind was toiling across the moors, bearing the threat of early frost, but down in the valley Shastar the Beautiful was still warm and sheltered in its crescent of hills. Its empty quays lay dreaming in the pale, declining sunlight, the deep blue of the sea washing gently against their marble flanks. As he looked down once more into the hauntingly familiar streets and gardens of his youth, Durven felt his resolution failing. He was glad he was meeting Hannar here, a mile from the city, and not among the sights and sounds that would bring his childhood crowding back upon him.
Hannar was a small dot far down the slope, climbing in his old unhurried, leisurely fashion. Durven could have met him in a moment with the flyer, but he knew he would receive little thanks if he did. So he waited in the lee of the great Sphinx, sometimes walking briskly to and fro to keep warm. Once or twice he went to the head of the monster and stared up at the still face brooding upon the city and the sea. He remembered how as a child in the gardens of Shastar he had seen the crouching shape upon the sky line, and had wondered if it was alive.
Hannar looked no older than he had seemed at their last meeting, twenty years before. His hair was still dark and thick, and his face unwrinkled, for few things ever disturbed the tranquil life of Shastar and its people. It seemed bitterly unfair, and Durven, gray with the years of unrelenting toil, felt a quick spasm of envy stab through his brain.
Their greetings were brief, but not without warmth. The
n Hannar walked over to the ship, lying in its bed of heather and crumpled gorse bushes. He rapped his stick upon the curving metal and turned to Durven.
“It’s very small. Did it bring you all the way?”
“No: only from the Moon. I came back from the Project in a liner a hundred times the size of this.”
“And where is the Project—or don’t you want us to know?”
“There’s no secret about it. We’re building the ships out in space beyond Saturn, where the sun’s gravitational gradient is almost flat and it needs little thrust to send them right out of the solar system.”
Hannar waved his stick toward the blue waters beneath them, the colored marble of the little towers and the wide streets with their slowly moving traffic.
“Away from all this, out into the darkness and loneliness—in search of what?”
Durven’s lips tightened into a thin, determined line.
“Remember,” he said quietly, “I have already spent a lifetime away from Earth.”
“And has it brought you happiness?” continued Hannar remorselessly.
Durven was silent for a while.
“It has brought me more than that,” he replied at last. “I have used my powers to the utmost, and have tasted triumphs that you can never imagine. The day when the First Expedition returned to the solar system was worth a lifetime in Shastar.”
“Do you think,” asked Hannar, “that you will build fairer cities than this beneath those strange suns, when you have left our world forever?”
“If we feel that impulse, yes. If not, we will build other things. But build we must; and what have your people created in the last hundred years?”
“Because we have made no machines, because we have turned our backs upon the stars and are content with our own world, don’t think we have been completely idle. Here in Shastar we have evolved a way of life that I do not think has ever been surpassed. We have studied the art of living; ours is the first aristocracy in which there are no slaves. That is our achievement, by which history will judge us.”
“I grant you this,” replied Durven, “but never forget that your paradise was built by scientists who had to fight as we have done to make their dreams come true.”
“They have not always succeeded. The planets defeated them once; why should the worlds of other suns be more hospitable?”
It was a fair question. After five hundred years, the memory of the first failure was still bitter. With what hopes and dreams had Man set out for the planets, in the closing years of the twentieth century—only to find them not merely barren and lifeless, but fiercely hostile! From the sullen fires of the Mercurian lava seas to Pluto’s creeping glaciers of solid nitrogen, there was nowhere that he could live unprotected beyond his own world; and to his own world, after a century of fruitless struggle, he had returned.
Yet the vision had not wholly died; when the planets had been abandoned, there were still some who dared to dream of the stars. Out of that dream had come at last the Transcendental Drive, the First Expedition—and now the heady wine of long-delayed success.
“There are fifty solar-type stars within ten years’ flight of Earth,” Durven replied, “and almost all of them have planets. We believe now that the possession of planets is almost as much a characteristic of a G-type star as its spectrum, though we don’t know why. So the search for worlds like Earth was bound to be successful in time; I don’t think that we were particularly lucky to find Eden so soon.”
“Eden? Is that what you’ve called your new world?”
“Yes: it seemed appropriate.”
“What incurable romantics you scientists are! Perhaps the name’s too well chosen; all the life in that first Eden wasn’t friendly to Man, if you remember.”
Durven gave a bleak smile.
“That, again, depends on one’s viewpoint,” he replied. He pointed toward Shastar, where the first lights had begun to glimmer. “Unless our ancestors had eaten deeply from the Tree of Knowledge, you would never have had this.”
“And what do you suppose will happen to it now?” asked Hannar bitterly. “When you have opened the road to the stars, all the strength and vigor of the race will ebb away from Earth as from an open wound.”
“I do not deny it. It has happened before, and it will happen again. Shastar will go the way of Babylon and Carthage and New York. The future is built on the rubble of the past; wisdom lies in facing that fact, not in fighting against it. I have loved Shastar as much as you have done—so much so that now, though I shall never see it again, I dare not go down once more into its streets. You ask me what will become of it, and I will tell you. What we are doing will merely hasten the end. Even twenty years ago, when I was last here, I felt my will being sapped by the aimless ritual of your lives. Soon it will be the same in all the cities of Earth, for every one of them apes Shastar. I think the Drive has come none too soon; perhaps even you would believe me if you had spoken to the men who have come back from the stars, and felt the blood stirring in your veins once more after all these centuries of sleep. For your world is dying, Hannar; what you have now you may hold for ages yet, but in the end it will slip from your fingers. The future belongs to us; we will leave you to your dreams. We also have dreamed, and now we go to make our dreams come true.”
The last light was catching the brow of the Sphinx as the sun sank into the sea and left Shastar to night but not to darkness. The wide streets were luminous rivers carrying a myriad of moving specks; the towers and pinnacles were jeweled with colored lights, and there came a faint sound of wind-borne music as a pleasure boat put slowly out to sea. Smiling a little, Durven watched it draw away from the curving quay. It had been five hundred years or more since the last merchant ship had unloaded its cargo, but while the sea remained, men would still sail upon it.
There was little more to say; and presently Hannar stood alone upon the hill, his head tilted up towards the stars. He would never see his brother again; the sun, which for a few hours had gone from his sight, would soon have vanished from Durven’s forever as it shrank into the abyss of space.
Unheeding, Shastar lay glittering in the darkness along the edge of the sea. To Hannar, heavy with foreboding, its doom seemed already almost upon it. There was truth in Durven’s words; the exodus was about to begin.
Ten thousand years ago other explorers had set out from the first cities of mankind to discover new lands. They had found them, and had never returned, and Time had swallowed their deserted homes. So must it be with Shastar the Beautiful.
Leaning heavily on his stick, Hannar walked slowly down the hillside toward the lights of the city. The Sphinx watched him dispassionately as his figure vanished into the distance and the darkness.
It was still watching, five thousand years later.
Brant was not quite twenty when his people were expelled from their homes and driven westward across two continents and an ocean, filling the ether with piteous cries of injured innocence. They received scant sympathy from the rest of the world, for they had only themselves to blame, and could scarcely pretend that the Supreme Council had acted harshly. It had sent them a dozen preliminary warnings and no fewer than four positively final ultimatums before reluctantly taking action. Then one day a small ship with a very large acoustic radiator had suddenly arrived a thousand feet above the village and started to emit several kilowatts of raw noise. After a few hours of this, the rebels had capitulated and begun to pack their belongings. The transport fleet had called a week later and carried them, still protesting shrilly, to their new homes on the other side of the world.
And so the Law had been enforced, the Law which ruled that no community could remain on the same spot for more than three lifetimes. Obedience meant change, the destruction of traditions, and the uprooting of ancient and well-loved homes. That had been the very purpose of the Law when it was framed, four thousand years ago; but the stagnation it had sought to prevent could not be warded off much longer. One day there would be no centr
al organization to enforce it, and the scattered villages would remain where they were until Time engulfed them as it had the earlier civilizations of which they were the heirs.
It had taken the people of Chaldis the whole of three months to build new homes, remove a square mile of forest, plant some unnecessary crops of exotic and luxurious fruits, re-lay a river, and demolish a hill which offended their aesthetic sensibilities. It was quite an impressive performance, and all was forgiven when the local Supervisor made a tour of inspection a little later. Then Chaldis watched with great satisfaction as the transports, the digging machines, and all the paraphernalia of a mobile and mechanized civilization climbed away into the sky. The sound of their departure had scarcely faded when, as one man, the village relaxed once more into the sloth that it sincerely hoped nothing would disturb for another century at least.
Brant had quite enjoyed the whole adventure. He was sorry, of course, to lose the home that had shaped his childhood; and now he would never climb the proud, lonely mountain that had looked down upon the village of his birth. There were no mountains in this land—only low, rolling hills and fertile valleys in which forests had run rampant for millennia, since agriculture had come to an end. It was warmer, too, than in the old country, for they were nearer the equator and had left behind them the fierce winters of the North. In almost every respect the change was for the good; but for a year or two the people of Chaldis would feel a comfortable glow of martyrdom.
These political matters did not worry Brant in the least. The entire sweep of human history from the dark ages into the unknown future was considerably less important at the moment than the question of Yradne and her feelings towards him. He wondered what Yradne was doing now, and tried to think of an excuse for going to see her. But that would mean meeting her parents, who would embarrass him by their hearty pretense that his call was simply a social one.