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

‘Slowly, they drew up the cable. Until now, the rest of the crew must have thought them mad, but everyone must have shared their excitement as the catch rose up through all those thousands of feet of darkness until it broke surface. Who can blame the radio operator if, despite Jackson’s orders, he felt an urgent need to talk things over with a friend back on the safety of dry land?

‘I won’t attempt to describe what they saw, because a master has done it before me. Soon after the report came in, I turned up my copy of
Moby Dick
and reread the passage; I can still quote it from memory and don’t suppose I’ll ever forget it. This is how it goes, more or less:

‘“A vast pulpy mass, furlongs in length, of a glancing cream-colour, lay floating on the water, innumerable long arms radiating from its centre, curling and twisting like a nest of anacondas, as if blindly to catch at any hapless object within reach.”

‘Yes: Grinnell and Jackson had been after the largest and most mysterious of all living creatures—the giant squid. Largest? Almost certainly:
Bathyteuthis
may grow up to a hundred feet long. He’s not as heavy as the sperm whales who dine upon him, but he’s a match for them in length.

‘So here they were, with this monstrous beast that no human being had ever before seen under such ideal conditions. It seems that Grinnell was calmly putting it through its paces while Jackson ecstatically shot off yards of film. There was no danger, though it was twice the size of their boat. To Grinnell, it was just another mollusc that he could control like a puppet by means of his knobs and dials. When he had finished, he would let it return to its normal depths and it could swim away again, though it would probably have a bit of a hangover.

‘What one wouldn’t give to get hold of that film! Altogether apart from its scientific interest, it would be worth a fortune in Hollywood. You must admit that Jackson knew what he was doing: he’d seen the limitations of Grinnell’s apparatus and put it to its most effective use. What happened next was not his fault.’

Professor Hinckleberg sighed and took a deep draught of beer, as if to gather strength for the finale of his tale.

‘No, if anyone is to blame it’s Grinnell. Or, I should say, it
was
Grinnell, poor chap. Perhaps he was so excited that he overlooked a precaution he would undoubtedly have taken in the lab. How otherwise can you account for the fact that he didn’t have a spare fuse handy when the one in the power supply blew out?

‘And you can’t really blame
Bathyteuthis
, either. Wouldn’t
you
have been a little annoyed to be pushed about like this? And when the orders suddenly ceased and you were your own master again, you’d take steps to see it remained that way. I sometimes wonder, though, if Jackson stayed filming to the very end….’

Patent Pending

First published in
Adventure
, November 1954, as ‘The Invention’

Collected in
Tales from the White Hart

A light-hearted tale from Harry Purvis at the White Hart, yet with serious undertones, and also a nod towards Virtual Reality, fifty years before it came into being.

There are no subjects that have not been discussed, at some time or other, in the saloon bar of the ‘White Hart’—and whether or not there are ladies present makes no difference whatsoever. After all, they came in at their own risk. Three of them, now I come to think of it, have eventually gone out again with husbands. So perhaps the risk isn’t on their side at all….

I mention this because I would not like you to think that all our conversations are highly erudite and scientific, and our activities purely cerebral. Though chess is rampant, darts and shove-ha’penny also flourish. The
Times Literary Supplement
, the
Saturday Review
, the
New Statesman
and the
Atlantic Monthly
may be brought in by some of the customers, but the same people are quite likely to leave with the latest issue of
Staggering Stories of Pseudoscience
.

A great deal of business also goes on in the obscurer corners of the pub. Copies of antique books and magazines frequently change hands at astronomical prices, and on almost any Wednesday at least three well-known dealers may be seen smoking large cigars as they lean over the bar, swapping stories with Drew. From time to time a vast guffaw announces the denouement of some anecdote and provokes a flood of anxious enquiries from patrons who are afraid they may have missed something. But, alas, delicacy forbids that I should repeat any of these interesting tales here. Unlike most things in this island, they are not for export….

Luckily, no such restrictions apply to the tales of Mr Harry Purvis, B.Sc. (at least), Ph. D. (probably), F.R.S. (personally I don’t think so, though it
has
been rumoured). None of them would bring a blush to the cheeks of the most delicately nurtured maiden aunts, should any still survive in these days.

I must apologise. This is too sweeping a statement. There was one story which might, in some circles, be regarded as a little daring. Yet I do not hesitate to repeat it, for I know that you, dear reader, will be sufficiently broadminded to take no offence.

It started in this fashion. A celebrated Fleet Street reviewer had been pinned into a corner by a persuasive publisher, who was about to bring out a book of which he had high hopes. It was one of the riper productions of the deep and decadent South—a prime example of the ‘and-then-the-house-gave-another-lurch-as-the-termites-finished-the-east-wing’ school of fiction. Eire had already banned it, but that is an honour which few books escape nowadays, and certainly could not be considered a distinction. However, if a leading British newspaper could be induced to make a stern call for its suppression, it would become a best seller overnight….

Such was the logic of its publisher, and he was using all his wiles to induce co-operation. I heard him remark, apparently to allay any scruples his reviewer friend might have, ‘Of course not! If they can understand it, they
can’t
be corrupted any further!’ And then Harry Purvis, who has an uncanny knack of following half a dozen conversations simultaneously, so that he can insert himself in the right one at the right time, said in his peculiarly penetrating and non-interruptible voice: ‘Censorship does raise some very difficult problems, doesn’t it? I’ve always argued that there’s an inverse correlation between a country’s degree of civilisation and the restraints it puts on its press.’

A New England voice from the back of the room cut in: ‘On
that
argument, Paris is a more civilised place than Boston.’

‘Precisely,’ answered Purvis. For once, he waited for a reply.

‘OK,’ said the New England voice mildly. ‘I’m not arguing. I just wanted to check.’

‘To continue,’ said Purvis, wasting no more time in doing so, ‘I’m reminded of a matter which has not yet concerned the censor, but which will certainly do so before long. It began in France, and so far has remained there. When it
does
come out into the open, it may have a greater impact on our civilisation than the atom bomb.

‘Like the atom bomb, it arose out of equally academic research.
Never
, gentlemen, underestimate science. I doubt if there is a single field of study so theoretical, so remote from what is laughingly called everyday life, that it may not one day produce something that will shake the world.

‘You will appreciate that the story I am telling you is, for once in a while, secondhand. I got it from a colleague at the Sorbonne last year while I was over there at a scientific conference. So the names are all fictitious: I was told them at the time, but I can’t remember them now.

‘Professor—ah—Julian was an experimental physiologist at one of the smaller, but less impecunious, French universities. Some of you may remember that rather unlikely tale we heard here the other week from that fellow Hinckleberg, about his colleague who’d learned how to control the behaviour of animals through feeding the correct currents into their nervous systems. Well, if there
was
any truth in that story—and frankly I doubt it—the whole project was probably inspired by Julian’s papers in
Comptes Rendus
.

‘Professor Julian, however, never published his most remarkable results. When you stumble on something which is really terrific, you don’t rush into print. You wait until you have overwhelming evidence—unless you’re afraid that someone else is hot on the track. Then you may issue an ambiguous report that will establish your priority at a later date, without giving too much away at the moment—like the famous cryptogram that Huygens put out when he detected the rings of Saturn.

‘You may well wonder what Julian’s discovery was, so I won’t keep you in suspense. It was simply the natural extension of what man has been doing for the last hundred years. First the camera gave us the power to capture scenes. Then Edison invented the phonograph, and sound was mastered. Today, in the talking film, we have a kind of mechanical memory which would be inconceivable to our forefathers. But surely the matter cannot rest there. Eventually science must be able to catch and store thoughts and sensations themselves, and feed them back into the mind so that, whenever it wishes, it can repeat any experience in life, down to its minutest detail.’

‘That’s an old idea!’ snorted someone. ‘See the “feelies” in
Brave New World
.’

‘All good ideas have been thought of by somebody before they are realised,’ said Purvis severely. ‘The point is that what Huxley and others had talked about, Julian actually did. My goodness, there’s a pun there! Aldous—Julian—oh, let it pass!

‘It was done electronically, of course. You all know how the encephalograph can record the minute electrical impulses in the living brain—the so-called “brain waves”, as the popular press calls them. Julian’s device was a much subtler elaboration of this well-known instrument. And, having recorded cerebral impulses, he could play them back again. It sounds simple, doesn’t it? So was the phonograph, but it took the genius of Edison to think of it.

‘And now, enter the villain. Well, perhaps that’s too strong a word, for Professor Julian’s assistant Georges—Georges Dupin—is really quite a sympathetic character. It was just that, being a Frenchman of a more practical turn of mind than the Professor, he saw at once that there were some milliards of francs involved in this laboratory toy.

‘The first thing was to get it out of the laboratory. The French have an undoubted flair for elegant engineering, and after some weeks of work—with the full co-operation of the Professor—Georges had managed to pack the “playback” side of the apparatus into a cabinet no larger than a television set, and containing not very many more parts.

‘Then Georges was ready to make his first experiment. It would involve considerable expense, but, as someone so rightly remarked, you cannot make omelettes without breaking eggs. And the analogy is, if I may say so, an exceedingly apt one.

‘For Georges went to see the most famous gourmet in France, and made an interesting proposition. It was one that the great man could not refuse, because it was so unique a tribute to his eminence. Georges explained patiently that he had invented a device for registering (he said nothing about storing) sensations. In the cause of science, and for the honour of the French cuisine, could he be privileged to analyse the emotions, the subtle nuances of gustatory discrimination, that took place in Monsieur Ie Baron’s mind when he employed his unsurpassed talents? Monsieur could name the restaurant, the chef and the menu—everything would be arranged for his convenience. Of course, if he was too busy, no doubt that well-known epicure Le Compte de—

‘The Baron, who was in some respects a surprisingly coarse man, uttered a word not to be found in most French dictionaries. “
That
cretin!” he exploded. “He would be happy on English cooking! No, I shall do it.” And forthwith he sat down to compose the menu, while Georges anxiously estimated the cost of the items and wondered if his bank balance would stand the strain….

‘It would be interesting to know what the chef and the waiters thought about the whole business. There was the Baron, seated at his favourite table and doing full justice to his favourite dishes, not in the least inconvenienced by the tangle of wires that trailed from his head to that diabolical-looking machine in the corner. The restaurant was empty of all other occupants, for the last thing Georges wanted was premature publicity. This had added very considerably to the already distressing cost of the experiment. He could only hope that the results would be worth it.