The Collected Stories of Arthur C. Clarke (41 page)

Alexander Wainwright was a tall but slightly stooping man in the late fifties. He seemed inclined to apologise for his more boisterous followers, and Stormgren was rather taken aback by his obvious sincerity and also by his considerable personal charm.

‘I suppose,’ Stormgren began, ‘the chief object of your visit is to register a formal protest against the Federation Scheme. Am I correct?’

‘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. I must admit that, from our point of view, the response has been disappointing. The great majority of people seem content to let the Overlords run the world as they please. But this European Federation is as intolerable as it will be unworkable. Even Karellen can’t wipe out two thousand years of the world’s history at the stroke of a pen.’

‘Then do you consider,’ interjected Stormgren, ‘that Europe, and the whole world, must continue indefinitely to be divided into scores of sovereign states, each with its own currency, armed forces, customs, frontiers, and all the rest of that—that medieval paraphernalia?’

‘I don’t quarrel with Federation as an
ultimate
objective, though some of my supporters might not agree. My point is that it must come from within, not be superimposed from without. We must work out our own destiny—we have a right to independence. There must be no more interference in human affairs!’

Stormgren sighed. All this he had heard a hundred times before, and he knew that he could only give the old answers 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 Ovelords have brought security, peace and prosperity to the world?’

‘That is true. But they have taken our freedom. 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.’

Stormgren shook his head.

‘Last month, five hundred bishops, cardinals and rabbis signed a joint declaration pledging support for the Supervisor’s policy. The world’s religions are against you.’

‘Because so few people realise the danger. When they do, it may be too late. Humanity will have lost its initiative and will have become a subject race.’

Stormgren did not seem to hear. He was watching the crowd below, milling aimlessly, now that it had lost its leader. How long, he wondered, would it be before men ceased to abandon their reason and identity when more than a few of them were gathered together? Wainwright might be a sincere and honest man, but the same could not be said of many of his followers.

Stormgren turned back to his visitor.

‘In three days I shall be meeting the Supervisor again. I shall explain your objections to him, since it is my duty to represent the views of the world. But it will alter nothing.’

Rather slowly, Wainwright began again.

‘That brings me to another point. One of our main objections to the Overlords, as you know, is their secretiveness. You are the only human being who has ever spoken with Karellen—and even you have never seen him. Is it surprising that many of us are suspicious of his motives?’

‘You have heard his speeches. Aren’t they convincing enough?’

‘Frankly, words are not sufficient. I do not know which we resent more—Karellen’s omnipotence, or his secrecy.’

Stormgren was silent. There was nothing he could say to this—nothing at any rate, that would convince the other. He sometimes wondered if he had really convinced himself.

It was, of course, only a very small operation from their point of view, but to Earth it was the biggest thing that had ever happened. There had been no warning, but a sudden shadow had fallen across a score of the world’s greatest cities. Looking up from their work, a million men saw in that heart-freezing instant that the human race was no longer alone.

The twenty great ships were unmistakable symbols of a science Man could not hope to match for centuries. For seven days they floated motionless above his cities, giving no hint that they knew of his existence. But none was needed—not by chance alone could those mighty ships have come to rest so precisely over New York, London, Moscow, Canberra, Rome, Capetown, Tokyo…

Even before the ending of those unforgettable days, some men had guessed the truth. This was not a first tentative contact by a race which knew nothing of Man. Within those silent, unmoving ships, master psychologists were studying humanity’s reactions. When the curve of tension had reached its peak, they would reveal themselves.

And on the eighth day, Karellen, Supervisor for Earth, made himself known to the world; in perfect English. But the content of the speech was more staggering even than its delivery. By any standards, it was a work of superlative genius, showing a complete and absolute mastery of human affairs.

There was little doubt but that its scholarship and virtuosity, its tantalising glimpses of knowledge still untapped, were deliberately designed to convince Mankind that it was in the presence of overwhelming intellectual power. When Karellen had finished, the nations of Earth knew that their days of precarious sovereignty were ending. Local, internal governments would still retain their powers, but in the wider field of international affairs the supreme decisions had passed out of human hands. Arguments, protests—all were futile. No weapon could touch those brooding giants, and even if it could, their downfall would utterly destroy the cities beneath. Overnight, Earth had become a protectorate in some shadowy, star-strewn empire beyond the knowledge of Man.

In a little while the tumult had subsided, and the world went about its business again. The only change a suddenly awakened Rip Van Winkle would have noticed was a hushed expectancy, a mental glancing-over-the-shoulder, as Mankind waited for the Overlords to show themselves and to step down from their gleaming ships.

Five years later, it was still waiting.

The room was small and, save for the single chair and the table beneath the vision-screen, unfurnished. As was intended, it told nothing of the creatures who had built it. There was only the one entrance, and that led directly to the airlock in the curving flank of the great ship. Through that lock only Stormgren, alone of living men, had ever come to meet Karellen, Supervisor for Earth.

The vision screen was empty now, as it had always been. Behind that rectangle of darkness lay utter mystery—but there too lay affection and an immense and tolerant understanding of mankind. An understanding which, Stormgren knew, could only have been acquired through centuries of study.

From the hidden grille came that calm, never-hurried voice with its undercurrent of humour—the voice which Stormgren knew so well though the world had heard it only thrice in history.

‘Yes, Rikki, I was listening. What did you make of Mr Wainwright?’

‘He’s an honest man, whatever his supporters may be. What are we going to do about him? The League itself isn’t dangerous, but some of its more extreme supporters are openly advocating violence. I’ve been wondering for some time if I should put a guard on my house. But I hope it isn’t necessary.’

Karellen evaded the point in the annoying way he sometimes had.

‘The details of the European Federation have been out for a month now. Has there been a substantial increase in the seven per cent who disapprove of me, or the nine per cent who Don’t Know?’

‘Not yet, despite the press reactions. What I’m worried about is a general feeling, even among your supporters, that it’s time this secrecy came to an end.’

Karellen’s sigh was technically perfect, yet somehow lacked conviction.

‘That’s your feeling, too, isn’t it?’

The question was so rhetorical that Stormgren didn’t bother to answer it.

‘Do you really appreciate,’ he continued earnestly, ‘how difficult this state of affairs makes my job?’

‘It doesn’t exactly help mine,’ replied Karellen with some spirit. ‘I wish people would stop thinking of me as a world dictator and remember that I’m only a civil servant trying to administer a somewhat idealistic colonial policy.’

‘Then can’t you at least give us some reason for your concealment? Because we don’t understand it; it annoys us and gives rise to all sorts of rumours.’

Karellen gave that deep, rich laugh of his, just too musical to be altogether human.

‘What am I supposed to be now? Does the robot theory still hold the field? I’d rather be a mass of cogwheels than crawl around the floor like a centipede, as some of the tabloids seem to imagine.’

Stormgren let out a Finnish oath he was fairly sure Karellen wouldn’t know—though one could never be quite certain in these matters.

‘Can’t you ever be serious?’

‘My dear Rikki,’ said Karellen, ‘it’s only by not taking the human race seriously that I retain those fragments of my once considerable mental powers that I still possess.’

Despite himself, Stormgren smiled.

‘That doesn’t help me a great deal, does it? I have to go down there and convince my fellow men that although you won’t show yourself, you’ve got nothing to hide. It’s not an easy job. Curiosity is one of the most dominant human characteristics. You can’t defy it forever.’

‘Of all the problems that faced us when we came to Earth, this was the most difficult,’ admitted Karellen. ‘You have trusted our wisdom in other things—surely you can trust us in this!’

‘
I
trust you,’ said Stormgren, ‘but Wainwright doesn’t, nor do his supporters. Can you really blame them if they put a bad interpretation upon your unwillingness to show yourself?’

‘Listen, Rikki,’ Karellen answered at length. ‘These matters are beyond my control. Believe me, I regret the need for this concealment, but the reasons are—sufficient. However, I will try to get a statement from my superior which may satisfy you and perhaps placate the Freedom League. Now, please, can we return to the agenda and start recording again? We’ve only reached Item 23, and I want to make a better job of settling the middle question than my predecessors for the last few thousand years….’

‘Any luck, Chief?’ asked van Ryberg anxiously.

‘I don’t know,’ Stormgren replied wearily as he threw the files down on his desk and collapsed into the seat. ‘Karellen’s consulting his superior now, whoever or whatever he may be. He won’t make any promises.’

‘Listen,’ said Pieter abruptly. ‘I’ve just thought of something. What reason have we for believing that there
is
anyone beyond Karellen? The Overlords may be a myth—you know how he hates the word.’

Tired though he was, Stormgren sat up with a start.

‘It’s an ingenious theory. But it clashes with what little I do know about Karellen’s background.’

‘And how much is that?’

‘Well, he was a professor of astropolitics on a world he calls Skyrondel, and he put up a terrific fight before they made him take this job. He pretends to hate it, but he’s really enjoying himself.’

Stormgren paused for a moment, and a smile of amusement softened his rugged features.

‘At any rate, he once remarked that running a private zoo is rather good fun.’

‘H’m-m—a somewhat dubious compliment. He’s immortal, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, after a fashion, though there’s something thousands of years ahead of him which he seems to fear: I can’t imagine what it is. And that’s really all I know.’

‘He could easily have made it up. My theory is that his little fleet’s lost in space and looking for a new home. He doesn’t want us to know how few he and his comrades are. Perhaps all those other ships are automatic, and there’s no one in any of them. They’re just an imposing facade.’

‘You,’ said Stormgren with great severity, ‘have been reading science fiction in office hours.’

Van Ryberg grinned.

‘“The Invasion from Space” didn’t turn out quite as expected, did it? My theory would certainly explain why Karellen never shows himself. He doesn’t want us to learn that there are no Overlords.’

Stormgren shook his head in amused disagreement.

‘Your explanation, as usual, is much too ingenious to be true. Though we can only infer its existence, there must be a great civilisation behind the Supervisor—and one that’s known about Man for a very long time. Karellen himself must have been studying us for centuries. Look at his command of English, for example. He taught me how to speak it idiomatically!’

‘I sometimes think he went a little too far,’ laughed van Ryberg. ‘Have you ever discovered anything he
doesn’t
know?’

‘Oh, yes, quite often—but only on trivial points. Yet, taken one at a time, I don’t think his mental gifts are quite outside the range of human achievement. But no man could possible do all the things he does.’

‘That’s more or less what I’d decided already.’ agreed van Ryberg. ‘We can argue around Karellen forever, but in the end we always come back to the same question—why the devil won’t he show himself? Until he does, I’ll go on theorising and the Freedom League will go on fulminating.’

He cocked a rebellious eye at the ceiling.

‘One dark night, Mr Supervisor, I’m going to take a rocket up to your ship and climb in through the back door with my camera. What a scoop
that
would be!’

If Karellen was listening, he gave no sign of it. But, of course, he never did give any sign.

It was completely dark when Stormgren awoke. How strange that was, he was for a moment too sleepy to realise. Then, as full consciousness dawned, he sat up with a start and felt for the light-switch beside his bed.

In the darkness his hand encountered a bare stone wall, cold to the touch. He froze instantly, mind and body paralysed by the impact of the unexpected. Then, scarcely believing his senses, he kneeled on the bed and began to explore with his finger tips that shockingly unfamiliar wall.