by Jerry
Full formed, they were almost like gods. And training these things into them, I trained their own traits out. One point I found we had in common. They were activated by logic, logic carried to heights of which I had never dreamed. Yet my poor and halting logic found point of contact.
They realized at last that if they let their own life force and motivation remain active they would carry the aura of strangeness to defeat their purpose. I worried, when they accepted this. I felt perhaps they were laying a trap for me, as I did for them. Then I realized that I had not taught them deceit.
And it was logical, to them, that they follow my training completely. Reversing the position, placing myself upon their planet, trying to become like them, I must of necessity follow my instructor without question. What else could they do?
At first they saw no strangeness that I should assist them to destroy my race. In their logic the Arcturan was most fit to survive, therefore he should survive. The human was less fit, therefore he should perish.
I taught them the emotion of compassion. And when they began to mature their human thought and emotion, and their intellect was blended and shaded by such emotion, at last they understood my dilemma.
There was irony in that. From my own kind I could expect no understanding. From the invaders I received sympathy and compassion. They understand at last my traitorous action to buy a few more years for Man.
Yet their Arcturan logic still prevailed. They wept with me, but there could be no change of plan. The plan was fixed, they were merely instruments by which it was to be carried out.
Yet, through their compassion, I did get the plan modified.
This was the conversation which revealed that modification. Einar Johnson, who as the most fully developed had been my constant companion, said to me one day, “To all intents and purposes we have become human beings.” He looked at me and smiled with fondness, “You have said it is so, and it must be so. For we begin to realize what a great and glorious thing a human is.”
The light of nobility shone from him like an aura as he told me this, “Without human bodies, and without the emotion-intelligence equation which you call soul, our home planet cannot begin to grasp the growth we have achieved. We know now that we will never return to our own form, for by doing that we would lose what we have gained.
“Our people are logical, and they must of necessity accept our recommendation, as long as it does not abandon the plan entirely. We have reported what we have learned, and it is conceived that both our races can inhabit the Universe side by side.
“There will be no more migration from our planet to yours. We will remain, and we will multiply, and we will live in honor, such as you have taught us, among you. In time perhaps we may achieve the greatness which all humans now have.
“And we will assist the human kind to find their destiny among the stars as we have done.”
I bowed my head and wept. For I knew that I had won.
Four months had gone. I returned to my own neighborhood. On the comer Hallahan left the traffic to shift for itself while he came over to me with the question, “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been sick,” I said.
“You look it,” he said frankly. “Take care of yourself, man. Hey—Lookit that fool messing up traffic.” He was gone, blowing his whistle in a temper.
I climbed the stairs. They still needed repainting as much as ever. From time to time I had been able to mail money to Margie, and she had kept the rent and telephone paid. The sign w-as still on my door. My key opened the lock.
The waiting room had that musty, they’ve-gone-away look about it. The janitor had kept the window’s tightly closed and there was no freshness in the air. I half hoped to see Margie sitting at her desk, but I knew there was no purpose to it. When a girl is being paid for her time and has nothing to do, the beach is a nice place to spend it.
There was dust on my chair, and I sank down into it without bothering about the seat of my pants. I buried my head in my arms and I looked into the human soul.
Now the whole thing hinged on that skill. I know human beings. I know them as well as anyone in the world, and far better than most.
I looked into the past and I saw a review of the great and fine and noble and divine tom and burned and crucified by man.
Yet my only hope of saving my race was to build these qualities, the fine, the noble, the splendid, into these thirty beings. To create the illusion that all men were likewise great. No less power could have gained the boom of equality for man with them.
I look into the future. I see them, one by one, destroyed. I gave them no defense. They are totally unprepared to meet man as he genuinely is—and they are incapable of understanding.
For these things which man purports to admire the most—the noble, the brilliant, the splendid—these are the very things he cannot tolerate when he finds them.
Defenseless, because they cannot comprehend, these thirty will go down beneath the ravening fury of rending and destroying man always displays whenever he meets his ideal face to face.
I bury my head in my hands.
What have I done?
ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD
Arthur C. Clarke
Robert Ashton faced the most agonizing choice in the history of man—a choice in which he could only lose!
WHEN THE knock came on the door, Robert Ashton surveyed the room in one swift, automatic movement. Its dull respectability satisfied him and should reassure any visitor. Not that he had any reason to expect the police, but there was no point in taking chances.
“Come in,” he said, pausing only to grab Plato’s Dialogues from the shelf beside him. Perhaps this gesture was a little too ostentatious, but it always impressed his clients.
The door opened slowly. At first, Ashton continued his intent reading, not bothering to glance up. There was the slightest acceleration of his heart, a mild and even exhilarating constriction of the chest. Of course, it couldn’t possibly be a flatfoot: someone would have tipped him off. Still, any unheralded visitor was unusual and thus potentially dangerous.
Ashton laid down the book, glanced toward the door and remarked in a noncommittal voice: “What can I do for you?” He did not get up; such courtesies belonged to a past he had buried long ago. Besides, it was a woman. In the circles he now frequented, women were accustomed to receive jewels and clothes and money—but never respect.
Yet there was something about this visitor that drew him slowly to his feet. It was not merely that she was beautiful, but she had a poised and effortless authority that moved her into a different world from the flamboyant doxies he met in the normal course of business. There was a brain and a purpose behind those calm, appraising eyes—a brain, Ashton suspected, the equal of his own.
He did not know how grossly he had underestimated her.
“Mr. Ashton,” she began, “let us not waste time. I know who you are and I have work for you. Here are my credentials.”
She opened a large, stylish handbag and extracted a thick bundle of notes.
“You may regard this,” she said, “as a sample.”
Ashton caught the bundle as she tossed it carelessly toward him. It was the largest sum of money he had ever held in his life—at least a hundred fivers, all new and serially numbered. He felt them between his fingers. If they were not genuine, they were so good that the difference was of no practical importance.
He ran his thumb to and fro along the edge of the wad as if feeling a pack for a marked card, and said thoughtfully, “I’d like to know where you got these. If they aren’t forgeries, they must be hot and will take some passing.”
“They are genuine. A very short time ago they were in the Bank of England. But if they are of no use to you throw them in the fire. I merely let you have them to show that I mean business.”
“Go on.” He gestured to the only seat and balanced himself on the edge of the table.
She drew a sheaf of papers from the capacious handbag and hand
ed it across to him.
“I am prepared to pay you any sum you wish if you will secure these items and bring them to me, at a time and place to be arranged. What is more, I will guarantee that you can make the thefts with no personal danger.”
ASHTON looked at the list, and sighed. The woman was mad. Still, she had better be humoured. There might be more money where this came from.
“I notice,” he said mildly, “that all these items are in the British Museum, and that most of them are, quite literally, priceless. By that I mean that you could neither buy nor sell them.”
“I do not wish to sell them. I am a collector.”
“So it seems. What are you prepared to pay for these acquisitions?”
“Name a figure.”
There was a short silence. Ashton weighed the possibilities. He took a certain professional pride in his work, but there were some things that no amount of money could accomplish. Still, it would be amusing to see how high the bidding would go.
“I think a round million would be a very reasonable figure for this lot,” he said ironically.
“I fear you are not taking me very seriously. With your contacts, you should be able to dispose of these.”
There was a flash of light and something sparkled through the air. Ashton caught the necklace before it hit the ground, and despite himself was unable to suppress a gasp of amazement. A fortune glittered through his fingers. The central diamond was the largest he had ever seen—it must be one of the world’s most famous jewels.
His visitor seemed completely indifferent as he slipped the necklace into his pocket. Ashton was badly shaken; he knew she was not acting. To her, that fabulous gem was of no more value than a lump of sugar. This was madness on an unimaginable scale.
“Assuming that you can deliver the money,” he said, “how do you imagine that it’s physically possible to do what you ask? One might steal a single item from this list, but within a few hours the Museum would be solid with police.”
With a fortune already in his pocket, he could afford to be frank. Besides, he was curious to learn more about his fantastic visitor.
She smiled, rather sadly, as if humouring a backward child.
“If I show you the way,” she said softly, “will you do it?”
“Yes—for a million.”
“Have you noticed anything strange since I came in? Is it not—very quiet?”
Ashton listened. My God, she was right! This room was never completely silent, even at night. There had been a wind blowing over the roof tops; where had it gone now? The distant rumble of traffic had ceased; five minutes ago he had been cursing the engines shunting in the marshalling yard at the end of the road. What had happened to them?
“Go to the window.”
He obeyed the order and drew aside the grimy lace curtains with fingers that shook slightly despite all attempt at control. Then he relaxed. The street was quite empty, as it often was at this time in the midmorning. There was no traffic, and hence no reason for sound. Then he glanced down the row of dingy houses towards the shunting yard.
His visitor smiled as he stiffened with the shock.
“Tell me what you see, Mr. Ashton.”
He turned slowly, face pale and throat muscles working.
“What are you?” he gasped. “A witch?”
“Don’t be foolish. There is a simple explanation. It is not the world that has changed—but you.”
Ashton stared again at that unbelievable shunting engine, the plume of steam frozen motionless above it as if made from cotton wool. He realised now that the clouds were equally immobile; they should have been scudding across the sky. All around him was the unnatural stillness of the high-speed photograph, the vivid unreality of a scene glimpsed in a flash of lightning.
“You are intelligent enough to realise what is happening, even if you cannot understand how it is done. Your time scale has been altered: a minute in the outer world would be a year in this room.”
Again she opened the handbag, and this time brought forth what appeared to be a bracelet of some silvery metal, with a series of dials and switches moulded into it.
“You can call this a personal generator,” she said. “With it strapped about your arm, you are invincible. You can come and go without hindrance—you can steal everything on that list and bring it to me before one of the guards in the Museum has blinked an eyelid. When you have finished, you can be miles away before you switch off the field and step back into the normal world.
“Now listen carefully, and do exactly what I say. The field has a radius of about seven feet, so you must keep at least that distance from any other person. Secondly, you must not switch it off again until you have completed your task and I have given you your payment. This is most important. Now, the plan I have worked out is this . . .”
NO CRIMINAL in the history of the world had ever possessed such power. It was intoxicating—yet Ashton wondered if he would ever get used to it. He had ceased to worry about explanations, at least until the job was done and he had collected his reward. Then, perhaps, he would get away from England and enjoy a well-earned retirement.
His visitor had left a few minutes ahead of him, but when he stepped out onto the street the scene was completely unchanged. Though he had prepared for it, the sensation was still unnerving. Ashton felt an impulse to hurry, as if this condition couldn’t possibly last and he had to get the job done before the gadget ran out of juice. But that, he had been assured, was impossible.
In the High Street he slowed down to look at the frozen traffic, the paralysed pedestrians. He was careful, as he had been warned, not to approach so close to anyone that they came within his field. How ridiculous people looked when one saw them like this, robbed of such grace as movement could give, their mouths half open in foolish grimaces!
Having to seek assistance went against the grain, but some parts of the job were too big for him to handle by himself. Besides, he could pay liberally and never notice it. The main difficulty, Ashton realised, would be to find someone who was intelligent enough not to be scared—or so stupid that he would take everything for granted. He decided to try the first possibility.
Tony Marchetti’s place was down a side street so close to the police station that one felt it was really carrying camouflage too far. As he walked past the entrance, Ashton caught a glimpse of the duty sergeant at his desk and resisted a temptation to go inside to combine a little pleasure with business. But that sort of thing could wait until later.
The door of Tony’s opened in his face as he approached. It was such a natural occurrence in a world where nothing was normal that it was a moment before Ashton realised its implications. Had his generator failed? He glanced hastily down the street and was reassured by the frozen tableau behind him.
“Well, if it isn’t Bob Ashton!” said a familiar voice. “Fancy meeting you as early in the morning as this. That’s an odd bracelet you’re wearing. I thought I had the only one.”
“Hello, Aram,” replied Ashton. “It looks as if there’s a lot going on that neither of us knows about. Have you signed up Tony, or is he still free?”
“Sorry. We’ve a little job which will keep him busy for a while.”
“Don’t tell me. It’s at the National Gallery or the Tate.”
Aram Albenkian fingered his neat goatee. “Who told you that?” he asked.
“No one. But, after all, you are the crookedest art dealer in the trade, and I’m beginning to guess what’s going on. Did a tall, very good-looking brunette give you that bracelet and a shopping list?”
“I don’t see why I should tell you, but the answer’s no. It was a man.”
Ashton felt a momentary surprise. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “I might have guessed that there would be more than one of them. I’d like to know who’s behind it.”
“Have you any theories?” said Albenkian guardedly.
Ashton decided that it would be worth risking some loss of information to test the other’
s reactions. “It’s obvious they’re not interested in money—they have all they want and can get more with this gadget. The woman who saw me said she was a collector. I took it as a joke, but I see now that she meant it seriously.”
“Why do we come into the picture? What’s to stop them doing the whole job themselves?” Albenkian asked.
“Maybe they’re frightened. Or perhaps they want our—er—specialised knowledge. Some of the items on my list are rather well cased in. My theory is that they’re agents for a mad millionaire.”
It didn’t hold water, and Ashton knew it. But he wanted to see which leaks Albenkian would try to plug.
“My dear Ashton,” said the other impatiently, holding up his wrist. “How do you explain this little thing? I know nothing about science, but even I can tell that it’s beyond the wildest dreams of our technologies. There’s only one conclusion to be drawn from that.”
“Go on.”
“These people are from—somewhere else. Our world is being systematically looted of its treasures. You know all this stuff you read about rockets and spaceships? Well, someone else has done it first.”
Ashton didn’t laugh. The theory was no more fantastic than the facts.
“Whoever they are,” he said, “they seem to know their way around pretty well. I wonder how many teams they’ve got? Perhaps the Louvre and the Prado are being reconnoitred at this very minute. The world is going to have a shock before the day’s out.”
They parted amicably enough, neither confiding any details of real importance about his business. For a fleeting moment Ashton thought of trying to buy over Tony, but there was no point in antagonising Albenkian. Steve Regan would have to do. That meant walking about a mile, since of course any form of transport was impossible. He would die of old age before a bus completed the journey. Ashton was not clear what would happen if he attempted to drive a car when the field was operating, and he had been warned not to try any experiments.
IT ASTONISHED Ashton that even such a nearly certified moron as Steve could take the accelerator so calmly; there was something to be said, after all, for the comic strips which were probably his only reading. After a few words of grossly simplified explanation, Steve buckled on the spare wristlet which, rather to Ashton’s surprise, his visitor had handed over without comment. Then they set out on their long walk to the Museum.
