Collected Stories Of Arthur C. Clarke (112 page)

Oh, I know the official story; I ought to, for I helped to concoct it. It is true as far as it goes, but it scarcely goes far enough.

On all counts, the joint expedition had been a triumphant success. There had been only one casualty, and in the manner of his death Vladimir Surov had made himself immortal. We had gathered knowledge that would keep the scientists of Earth busy for generations, and that would revolutionise almost all our ideas concerning the nature of the universe around us. Yes, our five months on the moon had been well spent, and we could go home to such welcomes as few heroes had ever had before.

However, there was still a good deal of tidying up to be done. The instruments that had been scattered all over the lunar landscape were still busily recording, and much of the information they gathered could not be automatically radioed back to Earth. There was no point in all three of the expedition staying on the moon to the last minute; the personnel of one would be sufficient to finish the job. But who would volunteer to be caretaker while the others went back to gain the glory? It was a difficult problem, but one that would have to be solved very soon.

As far as supplies were concerned, we had little to worry about. The automatic freight rockets could keep us provided with air, food, and water for as long as we wished to stay on the moon. We were all in good health, though a little tired. None of the anticipated psychological troubles had cropped up, perhaps because we had all been so busy on tasks of absorbing interest that we had had no time to worry about going crazy. But, of course, we all looked forward to getting back to Earth, and seeing our families again.

The first change of plan was forced upon us by the
Ziolkovski
being put out of commission when the ground beneath one of her landing legs suddenly gave way. The ship managed to stay upright, but the hull was badly twisted and the pressure cabin sprang dozens of leaks. There was much debate about on-the-spot repairs, but it was decided that it would be far too risky for her to take off in this condition. The Russians had no alternative but to thumb lifts back in the
Goddard
and the
Endeavour
; by using the
Ziolkovski
’s unwanted fuel, our ships would be able to manage the extra load. However, the return flight would be extremely cramped and uncomfortable for all concerned because everyone would have to eat and sleep in shifts.

Either the American or the British ship, therefore, would be the first back to Earth. During those final weeks, as the work of the expedition was brought to its close, relations between Commander Vandenburg and myself were somewhat strained. I even wondered if we ought to settle the matter by tossing for it….

Another problem was also engaging my attention – that of crew discipline. Perhaps this is too strong a phrase; I would not like it to be thought that a mutiny ever seemed probable. But all my men were now a little abstracted and liable to be found, if off duty, scribbling furiously in corners. I knew exactly what was going on, for I was involved in it myself. There wasn’t a human being on the moon who had not sold exclusive rights to some newspaper or magazine, and we were all haunted by approaching deadlines. The radio-teletype to Earth was in continuous operation, sending tens of thousands of words a day, while ever larger slabs of deathless prose were being dictated over the speech circuits.

It was Professor Williams, our very practical-minded astronomer, who came to me one day with the answer to my main problem.

‘Skipper,’ he said, balancing himself precariously on the all-too-collapsible table I used as my working desk inside the igloo, ‘there’s no technical reason, is there, why we should get back to Earth first?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘merely a matter of fame, fortune, and seeing our families again. But I admit those aren’t technical reasons. We could stay here another year if Earth kept sending supplies. If you want to suggest that, however, I shall take great pleasure in strangling you.’

‘It’s not as bad as that. Once the main body has gone back, whichever party is left can follow in two or three weeks at the latest. They’ll get a lot of credit, in fact, for self-sacrifice, modesty, and similar virtues.’

‘Which will be very poor compensation for being second home.’

‘Right – we need something else to make it worthwhile. Some more material reward.’

‘Agreed. What do you suggest?’

Williams pointed to the calendar hanging on the wall in front of me, between the two pin-ups we had stolen from the
Goddard
. The length of our stay was indicated by the days that had been crossed off in red ink; a big question mark in two weeks’ time showed when the first ship would be heading back to Earth.

‘There’s your answer,’ he said. ‘If we go back then, do you realise what will happen? I’ll tell you.’

He did, and I kicked myself for not having thought of it first.

The next day, I explained my decision to Vandenburg and Krasnin.

‘We’ll stay behind and do the mopping up,’ I said. ‘It’s a matter of common sense. The
Goddard
’s a much bigger ship than ours and can carry an extra four people, while we can only manage two more, and even then it will be a squeeze. If you go first, Van, it will save a lot of people from eating their hearts out here for longer than necessary.’

‘That’s very big of you,’ replied Vandenburg. ‘I won’t hide the fact that we’ll be happy to get home. And it’s logical, I admit, now that the
Ziolkovski
’s out of action. Still, it means quite a sacrifice on your part, and I don’t really like to take advantage of it.’

I gave an expansive wave.

‘Think nothing of it,’ I answered. ‘As long as you boys don’t grab all the credit, we’ll take our turn. After all, we’ll have the show here to ourselves when you’ve gone back to Earth.’

Krasnin was looking at me with a rather calculating expression, and I found it singularly difficult to return his gaze.

‘I hate to sound cynical,’ he said, ‘but I’ve learned to be a little suspicious when people start doing big favours without very good reasons. And frankly, I don’t think the reason you’ve given is good enough. You wouldn’t have anything else up your sleeve, would you?’

‘Oh, very well,’ I sighed. ‘I’d hoped to get a
little
credit, but I see it’s no use trying to convince anyone of the purity of my motives. I’ve got a reason, and you might as well know it. But please don’t spread it around; I’d hate the folks back on Earth to be disillusioned. They still think of us as noble and heroic seekers after knowledge; let’s keep it that way, for all our sakes.’

Then I pulled out the calendar, and explained to Vandenburg and Krasnin what Williams had already explained to me. They listened with scepticism, then with growing sympathy.

‘I had no idea it was
that
bad,’ said Vandenburg at last.

‘Americans never have,’ I said sadly. ‘Anyway, that’s the way it’s been for half a century, and it doesn’t seem to get any better. So you agree with my suggestion?’

‘Of course. It suits us fine, anyhow. Until the next expedition’s ready, the moon’s all yours.’

I remembered that phrase, two weeks later, as I watched the
Goddard
blast up into the sky toward the distant, beckoning Earth. It was lonely, then, when the Americans and all but two of the Russians had gone. We envied them the reception they got, and watched jealously on the TV screens their triumphant processions through Moscow and New York. Then we went back to work, and bided our time. Whenever we felt depressed, we would do little sums on bits of paper and would be instantly restored to cheerfulness.

The red crosses marched across the calendar as the short terrestrial days went by – days that seemed to have very little connection with the slow cycle of lunar time. At last we were ready; all the instrument readings were taken, all the specimens and samples safely packed away aboard the ship. The motors roared into life, giving us for a moment the weight we would feel again when we were back in Earth’s gravity. Below us the rugged lunar landscape, which we had grown to know so well, fell swiftly away; within seconds we could see no sign at all of the buildings and instruments we had so laboriously erected and which future explorers would one day use.

The homeward voyage had begun. We returned to Earth in uneventful discomfort, joined the already half-dismantled
Goddard
beside Space Station Three, and were quickly ferried down to the world we had left seven months before.

Seven months
: that, as Williams had pointed out, was the all-important figure. We had been on the moon for more than half a financial year – and for all of us, it had been the most profitable year of our lives.

Sooner or later, I suppose, this interplanetary loop-hole will be plugged; the Department of Inland Revenue is still fighting a gallant rear-guard action, but we seem neatly covered under Section 57, paragraph 8 of the Capital Gains Act of 1972. We wrote our books and articles on the moon – and until there’s a lunar government to impose income tax, we’re hanging on to every penny.

And if the ruling finally goes against us – well, there’s always Mars….

The Pacifist

First published in
Fantastic Universe
, October 1956

Collected in
Tales from the White Hart

John Christopher and John Wyndham flit briefly across the stage as Harry Purvis spins another yarn at the White Hart, this time telling the story of a very early, ingenious computer virus …

I got to the ‘White Hart’ late that evening, and when I arrived everyone was crowded into the corner under the dartboard. All except Drew, that is: he had not deserted his post, but was sitting behind the bar reading the collected T. S. Eliot. He broke off from
The Confidential Clerk
long enough to hand me a beer and to tell me what was going on.

‘Eric’s brought in some kind of games machine – it’s beaten everybody so far. Sam’s trying his luck with it now.’

At that moment, a roar of laughter announced that Sam had been no luckier than the rest, and I pushed my way through the crowd to see what was happening.

On the table lay a flat metal box the size of a checkerboard, and divided into squares in a similar way. At the corner of each square was a two-way switch and a little neon lamp: the whole affair was plugged into the light socket (thus plunging the dartboard into darkness) and Eric Rodgers was looking round for a new victim.

‘What does the thing do?’ I asked.

‘It’s a modification of noughts and crosses – what the Americans call ticktacktoe. Shannon showed it to me when I was over at Bell Labs. What you have to do is to complete a path from one side of the board to the other – call it north to south – by turning these switches. Imagine the thing forms a grid of streets, if you like, and these neons are the traffic lights. You and the machine take turns making moves. The machine tries to block your path by building one of its own in the east–west direction – the little neons light up to tell you which way it wants to make a move. Neither track need be a straight line: you can zigzag as much as you like. All that matters is that the path must be continuous, and the one to get across the board first wins.’

‘Meaning the machine, I suppose?’

‘Well, it’s never been beaten yet.’

‘Can’t you force a draw, by blocking the machine’s path, so that at least you don’t lose?’

‘That’s what we’re trying: like to have a go?’

Two minutes later I joined the other unsuccessful contestants. The machine had dodged all my barriers and established its own track from east to west. I wasn’t convinced that it was unbeatable, but the game was clearly a good deal more complicated than it looked.

Eric glanced round his audience when I had retired. No one else seemed in a hurry to move forward.

‘Ha!’ he said. ‘The very man. What about you, Purvis? You’ve not had a shot yet.’

Harry Purvis was standing at the back of the crowd, with a faraway look in his eye. He jolted back to earth as Eric addressed him, but didn’t answer the question directly.

‘Fascinating things, these electronic computers,’ he mused. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t tell you this, but your gadget reminds me of what happened to Project Clausewitz. A curious story, and one very expensive to the American taxpayer.’

‘Look,’ said John Wyndham anxiously. ‘Before you start, be a good sport and let us get our glasses filled. Drew!’

This important matter having been attended to, we gathered round Harry. Only Charlie Willis still remained with the machine, hopefully trying his luck.

‘As you all know,’ began Harry, ‘Science with a capital S is a big thing in the military world these days. The weapons side – rockets, atom bombs and so on – is only part of it, though that’s all the public knows about. Much more fascinating, in my opinion, is the operational-research angle. You might say that’s concerned with brains rather than brute force. I once heard it defined as how to win wars without actually fighting, and that’s not a bad description.