Collected Stories Of Arthur C. Clarke (143 page)

‘Oh, I’m keeping my eyes open. But this is really amazing, I read your
Exploration of Space
when it came out back in, Ah—’

‘Nineteen fifty-two; the Book-of-the-Month Club’s never been quite the same since.’

All this time I had been sizing him up, and though there was something about him I didn’t like, I was unable to pin it down. In any case, I was prepared to make substantial allowances for someone who had read my books and was also in TV; Mike and I are always on the lookout for markets for our under-water movies. But that, to put it mildly, was not Hartford’s line of business.

‘Look,’ he said eagerly, ‘I’ve a big network deal cooking that will interest you – in fact,
you
helped to give me the idea.’

This sounded promising, and my coefficient of cupidity jumped several points.

‘I’m glad to hear it. What’s the general theme?’

‘I can’t talk about it here, but could we meet at my hotel, around three tomorrow?’

‘Let me check my diary; yes, that’s OK.’

There are only two hotels in Colombo patronised by Americans, and I guessed right the first time. He was at the Mount Lavinia, and though you may not know it, you’ve seen the place where we had our private chat. Around the middle of
Bridge on the River Kwai
, there’s a brief scene at a military hospital, where Jack Hawkins meets a nurse and asks her where he can find Bill Holden. We have a soft spot for this episode, because Mike was one of the convalescent naval officers in the background. If you look smartly you’ll see him on the extreme right, beard in full profile, signing Sam Spiegel’s name to his sixth round of bar chits. As the picture turned out, Sam could afford it.

It was here, on this diminutive plateau high above the miles of palm-fringed beach, that Gene Hartford started to unload – and my simple hopes of financial advantage started to evaporate. What his exact motives were, if indeed he knew them himself, I’m still uncertain. Surprise at meeting me, and a twisted feeling of gratitude (which I would gladly have done without) undoubtedly played a part, and for all his air of confidence he must have been a bitter, lonely man who desperately needed approval and friendship.

He got neither from me. I have always had a sneaking sympathy for Benedict Arnold, as must anyone who knows the full facts of the case. But Arnold merely betrayed his country; no one before Hartford ever tried to seduce it.

What dissolved my dream of dollars was the news that Hartford’s connection with American TV had been severed, somewhat violently, in the early fifties. It was clear that he’d been bounced out of Madison Avenue for Party-lining, and it was equally clear that his was one case where no grave injustice had been done. Though he talked with a certain controlled fury of his fight against asinine censorship, and wept for a brilliant – but unnamed – cultural series he’d started before being kicked off the air, by this time I was beginning to smell so many rats that my replies were distinctly guarded. Yet as my pecuniary interest in Mr Hartford diminished, so my personal curiosity increased. Who
was
behind him? Surely not the BBC …

He got round to it at last, when he’d worked the self-pity out of his system.

‘I’ve some news that will make you sit up,’ he said smugly. ‘The American networks are soon going to have some real competition. And it will be done just the way you predicted; the people who sent a TV transmitter to the Moon can put a much bigger one in orbit round the Earth.’

‘Good for them,’ I said cautiously. ‘I’m all in favour of healthy competition. When’s the launching date?’

‘Any moment now. The first transmitter will be parked due south of New Orleans – on the equator, of course. That puts it way out in the open Pacific; it won’t be over anyone’s territory, so there’ll be no political complications on that score. Yet it will be sitting up there in the sky in full view of everybody from Seattle to Key West. Think of it – the only TV station the whole United States can tune in to! Yes, even Hawaii! There won’t be any way of jamming it; for the first time, there’ll be a clear channel into every American home. And J. Edgar’s Boy Scouts can’t do a thing to block it.’

So that’s your little racket, I thought; at least you’re being frank. Long ago I learned not to argue with Marxists and Flat-Earthers, but if Hartford was telling the truth, I wanted to pump him for all he was worth.

‘Before you get too enthusiastic,’ I said, ‘there are a few points you may have overlooked.’

‘Such as?’

‘This will work both ways. Everyone knows that the Air Force, NASA, Bell Labs, IT&T, Hughes, and a few dozen other agencies are working on the same project. Whatever Russia does to the States in the propaganda line, she’ll get back with compound interest.’

Hartford grinned mirthlessly.

‘Really, Clarke!’ he said. (I was glad he hadn’t first-named me.) ‘I’m a little disappointed. Surely you know that the United States is years behind in pay-load capacity! And do you imagine that the old T3 is Russia’s last word?’

It was at this moment that I began to take him very seriously. He was perfectly right. The T3 could inject at least five times the pay load of any American missile into that critical twenty-two-thousand-mile orbit – the only one that would allow a satellite to remain fixed above the Earth. And by the time the US could match that performance, heaven knows where the Russians would be. Yes, heaven certainly
would
know …

‘All right,’ I conceded. ‘But why should fifty million American homes start switching channels just as soon as they can tune in to Moscow? I admire the Russians, but their entertainment is worse than their politics. After the Bolshoi, what have you? And for me, a little ballet goes a long, long way.’

Once again I was treated to that peculiarly humourless smile. Hartford had been saving up his Sunday punch, and now he let me have it.

‘You were the one who brought in the Russians,’ he said. ‘They’re involved, sure – but only as contractors. The independent agency I’m working for is hiring their services.’

‘That,’ I remarked dryly, ‘must be some agency.’

‘It is; just about the biggest. Even though the United States tries to pretend it doesn’t exist.’

‘Oh,’ I said, rather stupidly. ‘So
that’s
your sponsor.’

I’d heard those rumours that the USSR was going to launch satellites for the Chinese; now it began to look as if the rumours fell far short of the truth. But how far short, I’d still no conception

‘You are so right,’ continued Hartford, obviously enjoying himself, ‘about Russian entertainment. After the initial novelty, the Nielson rating would drop to zero. But not with the programme
I’m
planning. My job is to find material that will put everyone else out of business when it goes on the air. You think it can’t be done? Finish that drink and come up to my room. I’ve a highbrow movie about ecclesiastical art that I’d like to show you.’

Well, he wasn’t crazy, though for a few minutes I wondered. I could think of few titles more carefully calculated to make the viewer reach for the channel switch than the one that flashed on the screen: ASPECTS OF THIRTEENTH-CENTURY TANTRIC SCULPTURE.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Hartford chuckled, above the whirr of the projector. ‘That title saves me having trouble with inquisitive Customs inspectors. It’s perfectly accurate, but we’ll change it to something with a bigger box-office appeal when the time comes.’

A couple of hundred feet later, after some innocuous architectural long shots, I saw what he meant.

You may know that there are certain temples in India covered with superbly executed carvings of a kind that we in the West scarcely associate with religion. To say that they are frank is a laughable understatement; they leave nothing to the imagination –
any
imagination. Yet at the same time they are genuine works of art. And so was Hartford’s movie.

It had been shot, in case you’re interested, at the Temple of the Sun, Konarak. I’ve since looked it up; it’s on the Orissa coast, about twenty-five miles northeast of Puri. The reference books are pretty mealymouthed; some apologise for the ‘obvious’ impossibility of providing illustrations, but Percy Brown’s
Indian Architecture
minces no words. The carvings, it says primly, are of ‘a shamelessly erotic character that have no parallel in any known building’. A sweeping claim, but I can believe it after seeing that movie.

Camera work and editing were brilliant, the ancient stones coming to life beneath the roving lens. There were breath-taking time-lapse shots as the rising sun chased the shadows from bodies intertwined in ecstasy; sudden startling close-ups of scenes which at first the mind refused to recognise; soft-focus studies of stone shaped by a master’s hand in all the fantasies and aberrations of love; restless zooms and pans whose meaning eluded the eye until they froze into patterns of timeless desire, eternal fulfilment. The music – mostly percussion, with a thin, high thread of sound from some stringed instrument that I could not identify – perfectly fitted the tempo of the cutting. At one moment it would be languorously slow, like the opening bars of Debussy’s ‘L’Après-midi’; then the drums would swiftly work themselves up to a frenzied, almost unendurable climax. The art of the ancient sculptors and the skill of the modern cameraman had combined across the centuries to create a poem of rapture, an orgasm on celluloid which I would defy any man to watch unmoved.

There was a long silence when the screen flooded with light and the lascivious music ebbed into exhaustion.

‘My God!’ I said, when I had recovered some of my composure. ‘Are you going to telecast
that
?’

Hartford laughed.

‘Believe me,’ he answered, ‘that’s nothing; it just happens to be the only reel I can carry around safely. We’re prepared to defend it any day on grounds of genuine art, historic interest, religious tolerance – oh, we’ve thought of all the angles. But it doesn’t really matter; no one can stop us. For the first time in history, any form of censorship’s become utterly impossible. There’s simply no way of enforcing it; the customer can get what he wants, right in his own home. Lock the door, switch on the TV set – friends and family will never know.’

‘Very clever,’ I said, ‘but don’t you think such a diet will soon pall?’

‘Of course; variety is the spice of life. We’ll have plenty of conventional entertainment; let
me
worry about that. And every so often we’ll have information programmes – I hate that word “propaganda” – to tell the cloistered American public what’s really happening in the world. Our special features will just be the bait.’

‘Mind if I have some fresh air?’ I said. ‘It’s getting stuffy in here.’

Hartford drew the curtains and let daylight back into the room. Below us lay that long curve of beach, with the outrigger fishing boats drawn up beneath the palms, and the little waves falling in foam at the end of their weary march from Africa. One of the loveliest sights in the world, but I couldn’t focus on it now. I was still seeing those writhing stone limbs, those faces frozen with passions which the centuries could not slake.

That lickerish voice continued behind my back.

‘You’d be astonished if you knew just how much material there is. Remember, we’ve absolutely no taboos. If you can film it, we can telecast it.’

He walked over to his bureau and picked up a heavy, dog-eared volume.

‘This has been my Bible,’ he said, ‘or my Sears, Roebuck, if you prefer. Without it, I’d never have sold the series to my sponsors. They’re great believers in science, and they swallowed the whole thing, down to the last decimal point. Recognise it?’

I nodded; whenever I enter a room, I always monitor my host’s literary tastes.

‘Dr Kinsey, I presume.’

‘I guess I’m the only man who’s read it from cover to cover, and not just looked up his own vital statistics. You see, it’s the only piece of market research in its field. Until something better comes along, we’re making the most of it. It tells us what the customer wants, and we’re going to supply it.’

‘
All
of it?’

‘If the audience is big enough, yes. We won’t bother about feeble-minded farm boys who get too attached to the stock. But the four main sexes will get the full treatment. That’s the beauty of the movie you just saw – it appeals to them all.’

‘You can say that again,’ I muttered.

‘We’ve had a lot of fun planning the feature I’ve christened “Queer Corner”. Don’t laugh – no go-ahead agency can afford to ignore
that
audience. At least ten million, if you count the ladies – bless their clogs and tweeds. If you think I’m exaggerating, look at all the male art mags on the newsstands. It was no trick, blackmailing some of the daintier musclemen to perform for us.’

He saw that I was beginning to get bored; there are some kinds of single-mindedness that I find depressing. But I had done Hartford an injustice, as he hastened to prove.

‘Please don’t think,’ he said anxiously, ‘that sex is our only weapon. Sensation is almost as good. Ever see the job Ed Murrow did on the late sainted Joe McCarthy? That was milk and water compared with the profiles we’re planning in “Washington Confidential”.