Collected Stories Of Arthur C. Clarke (42 page)

For a moment the Master stood motionless, his eyes staring wildly before him. His breath froze as his lungs ceased their work; in his veins the pulsing blood, which had been stilled for so long, now congealed for ever. Without a sound, the Master toppled and lay still.

Very slowly Trevindor turned and walked out into the night. Like a shroud the silence and loneliness of the world descended upon him. The sand, thwarted so long, began to drift through the open portals of the Master’s tomb.

Guardian Angel

First published in
Famous Fantastic Mysteries
, April 1950

Collected in
The Sentinel

‘Guardian Angel’ was originally written in 1946, and rejected by John W. Campbell, editor of
Astounding
. After several more rejections my agent, Scott Meredith, asked James Blish to rewrite the story, which he did, adding a new ending, after which the story was sold to
Famous Fantastic Mysteries
. I thought it was rather good; but I didn’t even know about it for a long time; this was rather naughty of Scott. Later, in 1952, ‘Guardian Angel’ was expanded, to become Part 1, ‘Earth and the Overlords’, of
Childhood’s End
.

Pieter van Ryberg shivered, as he always did, when he came into Stormgren’s room. He looked at the thermostat and shrugged his shoulders in mock resignation.

‘You know, Chief,’ he said, ‘although we’ll be sorry to lose you, it’s nice to feel that the pneumonia death-rate will soon be falling.’

‘How do you know?’ smiled Stormgren. ‘The next Secretary-General may be an Eskimo. The fuss some people make over a few degrees centigrade!’

Van Ryberg laughed and walked over to the curving double window. He stood in silence for a moment, staring along the avenue of great white buildings, still only partly finished.

‘Well,’ he said, with a sudden change of tone, ‘are you going to see them?’

‘Yes, I think so. It usually saves trouble in the long run.’

Van Ryberg suddenly stiffened and pressed his face against the glass.

‘Here they are!’ he said. ‘They’re coming up Wilson Avenue. Not as many as I expected, though – about two thousand, I’d say.’

Stormgren walked over to the Assistant-Secretary’s side. Half a mile away, a small but determined crowd carried banners along the avenue towards Headquarters Building. Presently he could hear, even through the insulation, the ominous sound of chanting voices. He felt a sudden wave of disgust sweep over him. Surely the world had had enough of marching mobs and angry slogans!

The crowd had now come abreast of the building: it must know that he was watching, for here and there fists were being shaken in the air. They were not defying him, though the gesture was meant for him to see. As pygmies may threaten a giant, those angry fists were directed against the sky some fifty miles above his head.

And as likely as not, thought Stormgren, Karellen was looking down at the whole thing and enjoying himself hugely.

This was the first time that Stormgren had ever met the head of the Freedom League. He still wondered if the action was wise: in the final analysis he had only taken it because the League would employ any refusal as ammunition against him. He knew that the gulf was far too wide for any agreement to come from this meeting.

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 Overlords 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?’