The Ninth Science Fiction Megapack

by Arthur C. Clarke

  He shook his head sadly and wandered back toward the library. I could see that in his secret thoughts, he was wishing we’d left him safely in the vault. Maybe it would have been just as well.

  “Cheer up,” I told Rena. “Carmody’s an old man—too old to think in terms of direct action, even when it’s necessary. Defoe doesn’t own the world yet!”

  But later, when I located the books I wanted in the library and went out into the vine-covered bower in the formal garden, I wasn’t as confident as I’d pretended.

  Thinking wasn’t a pleasant job, after all the years when I’d let others do my thinking for me. But now I had to do it for myself. Otherwise, the only alternative was to plan some means of quick death for us all before the radiation got too intense. And I couldn’t accept that.

  Rena had managed something Marianna couldn’t have conceived—she’d quietly relinquished her fate into my hands, gambling on me with everything she had. Whether I wanted to or not, I’d taken the responsibility. Carmody was an old man; one who hadn’t been able to keep Defoe from taking over in the first place. And Zorchi—well, he was Zorchi.

  That night, the radiation detector suddenly took a sharp lift, its needle crossing over into the red. It was probably only a local rise. But it didn’t make my thinking any more comfortable.

  * * * *

  It was at breakfast that next morning when I finally took it up with Carmody. “Just what will the situation be at the clinic after they close down? How many will be kept awake? And what about their defenses?”

  He frowned, trying to see my idea. Then he shrugged. “Too many, Tom. We had plotted out a course for such things as this a number of times in Planning. And our mob psychologists warned that there’d inevitably be a few who for one reason or another wouldn’t come in in time, but who would then grow desperate and try to break in. Outlaws, looters, procrastinators, fanatics. That sort. So for some time, there should be at least twenty guards kept alert. And that’s enough to defend a clinic. Atomic cannon at every entrance, of course, and the clinics are bombproof.”

  “Twenty, eh? And how about Defoe and Lawton? Will they sleep?” It seemed logical that they couldn’t stay out of suspension for the whole fifty years or so. There’d be no profit to gaining a world after they were too old to use it.

  “Not at first. There’s a great deal of final administrative work to be done. There’s a chamber equipped to keep a hundred or so men awake with radiation washed from the air, and containing adequate supplies, in cable contact with other clinics. They’ll be there. Later, they’ll take shifts, with only a couple of men awake at a time, I suppose. They may age a little that way, but not much.”

  He frowned again, and then slowly nodded. “It could be done, if we had some way to wait safely for six months. Getting back in is no problem for me.”

  “It’s going to be done,” I told him. “And a lot sooner. Are you willing to take the chance?”

  “Have I any choice?” He shrugged again. “Do you think I haven’t been sick at the idea of a man like Defoe in command of the Company for as long as he lives? Tom, my family started the Company. I’ve got an obligation to restore it to its right course. If there’s any chance of keeping Defoe from being emperor of the world, I’ve got to take it. If you can put me in a position where I can get the honest Underwriters together again, where we can set up the Company as it was—”

  “Why? So this will happen all over again?”

  He looked shocked at Rena’s question. “I don’t blame you for being bitter, Miss dell’Angela. But with Defoe gone—”

  “The Company made Defoe possible. In fact, it made him and Slovetski inevitable,” I told him flatly. “That’s its one great crime. Whenever you take power completely out of the hands of the many, it winds up in fewer and fewer hands. Those histories I was reading last night prove that. Carmody, what do you know about your own Company? Or the world? Leave the consolidation of power in Company hands out of it, and what has happened to progress?”

  He frowned. “Well, we’ve leveled off a bit. We had to. We couldn’t risk—”

  “Exactly. You couldn’t risk research that would lead to increased longevity—too many pensioners. You couldn’t risk going to Mars—unpredictable dangers. You had to make the world fit actuarial charts. I remember seeing one of the first suspendees awakened. He expected things we could have done fifty years ago—and never will do. How many men today work their way out of their class? And why have classes so rigidly stratified? I’ve been reading your own speeches of nearly fifty years ago. I’ve got them here, together with some tables. Like to see them?”

  He took the papers silently and began going through them, his shock giving way to a grudging realization. Maybe without the jolt of his awakening, he’d have laughed them off, but nothing was easy to dismiss with the hell brewing outside. At last he looked up.

  “Tom, I’ll admit the many times when I’ve been worried. I’ve considered starting research again countless times. I’ve been aware that dependence was growing too heavy on the Company. But we can’t just toss it aside. It did bring an end to major war, when such a war would have ruined the Earth completely. It showed that nobody had to starve—that hardly anyone had to lack for any necessity, or die for lack of care. You can’t throw that away.”

  “You can throw away its unrelated power.” I knew I didn’t have the answers. All this had been growing slowly in my mind since I’d first found Benedetto a political prisoner, but a lifetime wasn’t enough to think it out, even with the books I’d found.

  But I had to try. “In the middle ages, they had morality and politics tied into one bundle, Carmody. The church ruled. It wasn’t good and they finally had to divorce church and state. Maybe the same applies to administrative politics and economics. The Company has shown what can be done economically. The church has survived as a great moral force outside material power. Now let’s see if we can’t put things in perspective.

  “There’s a precedent. The United States—the old government—was set up on the idea of balance of power: an elected Congress for the people to handle legislative tasks, a selected President to handle executive affairs, and a Judiciary mostly independent. On a world scale, as it can be done today—since the Company has really made it one world—the same can be done, with something like the Company to insure economics.”

  “I suppose every man who had any idealism has thought the same,” Carmody said slowly. He sighed softly. “I remember trying to preach it to my father when I was just out of college. You’re right. But can you set up such a perfect government? Can I? Tell me how, Tom, and I’ll give you your chance, if I can.”

  Zorchi laughed cynically, but that was what I’d hoped Carmody might say.

  “All right,” I told him. “We can’t do it. No one man is fit to rule, ever, or to establish rule. Oh, I had wish-dreams, a few days ago, I suppose, about what I’d do, if! But men have set out to establish new systems before, and done good jobs of it. Read the Constitution—a system put together artificially by expert political thinkers, and good for two hundred years, at least! And they didn’t have our opportunities. For the first time, the world has to wait. Get the best minds you can, Carmody. Give them twenty-five years to work it out. They can come up with an answer. And then, when the world is awakened, you can start with it, fresh, without upsetting any old order. Is that your answer?”

  “Most of it.” There was a sudden light in his old eyes. “Yes, the sleep does make the chance possible. But how are you going to get the experts and assemble them?”

  I pointed to Zorchi. “Hermes, the messenger of the gods. He’s a jet pilot who can get all over the world. And he can move outside, without needing to worry about radiation.”

  “So?” Zorchi snorted again. “So, I am now your messenger, Weels! Do you think I would trouble myself so much for all of you, Weels?”

  I grinned at him. “You defiantly speak of being a man. That makes you part of the human race. I’m simply taking
you at your word.”

  “So?” he repeated, his face wooden. “Such a messenger would have much power, Weels. Suppose I choose to be Zorchi the ruler?”

  “Not while Zorchi the man is also Zorchi the freak,” I said with deliberate cruelty. “Go look at yourself.”

  And suddenly he smiled, his lips drawing back from his teeth. “Weels, for the first time you are honest. And for that as well as that I am a man, I will be Zorchi the messenger. But first, should we not decide on a plan of action? Or do we first rule and then conquer?”

  “We wait first,” I told him.

  On the wall, the radiation indicator clicked steadily, its needle moving further into the red.

  CHAPTER XIX

  The second day, the television went off the air with the final curt announcement that anyone not inside the clinics at noon would be left outside permanently. Then the set went dead, leaving only the clucking and beeping of our own radiation indicator. I’d thrown it out twice and brought it back both times.

  Civilization had ended on the third day, though all the conveniences in the villa went on smoothly, except for the meter reading that told us nothing could be smooth. It was higher than the predictions I had heard, though I still hoped that was only a sporadic local phenomenon that would level out later. In the face of that, it was hard to believe that even a few men would remain outside the clinics, though I was counting on it.

  We waited another twenty-four hours, forcing ourselves to sit in the villa, discussing plans, when our nerves were yelling for action. We had only an estimate to go on. If we got there too soon, there would be more awake than we could handle. Too late and we’d be radiation cases, good for nothing but the vaults.

  It was a relief to leave at last, taking our weapons in the truck. We were wearing the radiation suits, hoping they’d protect us, and Zorchi spent the last two days devising pads and straps to cushion and strengthen his developing legs.

  The world was dead. Cars had been abandoned in the middle of the road, making driving difficult.

  The towns and villas were deserted, boarded up or simply abandoned. We might have been the last men on Earth, and we felt that we were as we headed for Anzio. This wasn’t just a road, or Naples—or all of Italy. It was the world.

  Then Rena pointed. Ahead, a boy was walking beside a dog, the animal’s left rear leg bound and splintered as if it had been broken. I started to slow, then forced myself to drive on. As we passed, I saw that the boy was about fourteen, and his face was dirty and tear-streaked. He shook one fist at us, and came trudging on.

  “If we win, we’ll have the door open when he gets there,” Rena said. “For him and his dog! If not, it won’t matter how long it takes him. You couldn’t stop, Tom.”

  It didn’t make me feel any better. But now dusk was falling, and we slowed, waiting until it was dark to park quietly near the garage. In front of the entrance, I could see a small ring of fires, and by their light a few figures moving about. They were madmen, of course—and yet, probably less mad than others who must be prowling through the towns, looting for things they could never use.

  It seemed incredible that anyone could be outside, but the psychologists had apparently been right. These were determined men, willing to wait for the forlorn chance that some miracle might give them a futile, even more forlorn chance to try battering down the great doors. Maybe somewhere in the world, such a group might succeed. But not here. As I watched, there was a crackle of automatic gunfire from the entrance. The guards were awake, all right, and not taking chances on any poor devil getting too close.

  * * * *

  There were no guards in the vault garage. We were prepared in case someone might be stationed inside the private entrance, as much prepared as we could be; since Carmody had been listed as still living, an ordinary guard who recognized him would probably let us in first and then try to report—giving us time to handle him. But we were lucky. The door opened to Carmody’s top-secret combination.

  “We designed such combinations into a few doors in case of internal revolution locally while no Underwriters were around. We never considered having an Underwriter lead a revolution from outside,” he whispered to us.

  The underground passage was deserted, and this time Carmody led through another corridor, to a stairs that seemed to wind up forever. Zorchi groaned, then caught himself.

  “It leads to the main reception room,” Carmody said.

  With the men outside, most of the guards who still remained awake might be there. But we had to chance it. We stopped when we reached the top, catching our breath while Zorchi sank to the floor, writhing silently.

  Then Rena threw back the door, Zorchi’s rifle poked through, and I was leaping for the main door controls, hoping the memory I had was accurate. I was nearly to them when the two guards standing beside them turned.

  They yelled, just as my rifle spat. At that range, I couldn’t miss. And behind, I heard Zorchi’s gun spit. The second guard slumped sickly to the floor, holding his stomach. I grabbed for the controls, while other yells sounded, and feet began pounding toward me.

  There was no time to look back. The doors were slowly moving apart and Carmody was beside me, smashing a maul from the storeroom onto the electronic controls of the atomic cannon. I twisted between the opening doors.

  “We’ve seized the vaults,” I shouted. “We need help. Any man who joins us will be saved!”

  I couldn’t wait to watch, but I heard a hoarse, answering shout, and the sound of feet.

  Carmody’s maul had ruined the door controls. But the other guards were nearly on us. I saw two more sprawled on the floor. Zorchi hadn’t missed. Then Carmody’s fingers had found another of the private doors that looked like simple panels here. Rena and Carmody were through, and I yanked Zorchi after me, just as a bullet whined over his head. Behind us, I heard uncontrolled yelling as men from outside began pouring in.

  It was our only hope. They had to take care of the guards, who were still probably shocked at finding us inside. We headed for the private quarters where Defoe would be, praying that there would be only a few there.

  * * * *

  This passage was useless to us, though. It led from office to office for the doctors who superintended here. We came out into an office, watching our chance for the hall we had to take. I could see the men who had been outside in action now. A few had guns of some kind, but the clubs in the hands of the others were just as deadly in such a desperation attack; men who had seen themselves already dead weren’t afraid of chances. About a score of the expediter guards were trying to hold off at least twice their number.

  Then the hall seemed clear and we leaped into it. Suddenly gongs began ringing everywhere. Some guard had finally reached or remembered the alarm system. Carmody cursed, and tried to move faster.

  The small private vault for the executives lay through the administration quarters and down several levels, before it was entered through a short passageway. Carmody had mapped it for me often enough. But he knew it by physical memory, which was better than my training. He’d also taught me the combination, but I left the door to his practiced fingers when we came to it.

  The elevator wasn’t up. We couldn’t wait. We raced down the stairs that circled it. Here Carmody’s age told against him, and he fell behind. Rena and I were going down neck and neck with Zorchi throwing himself along with us. He had dropped his rifle and picked up a submachine gun from one of the fallen guards, and he clung to it now, using only one hand on the rail.

  It was a reflection on a gun-barrel that saved us. The picked expediters were hidden in the dark mouth of the passageway, waiting for us to turn the stairs. But I caught a gleam of metal, and threw up my gun. Instantly, Zorchi was beside me, the submachine splitting as quickly as I could fire the first shot. “Aim for the wall. Ricochet!”

  The ambushers had counted too much on surprise. They weren’t ready to have the tables turned, nor for the trick Zorchi had suggested. Here we couldn’t fire
directly, but the bouncing shots worked almost as well. There were screams of men being hit, and the crazed pandemonium of others suddenly afraid.

  Shots came toward us, but the wall that protected them—or was supposed to—ruined their shooting.

  Zorchi abruptly dropped, landing with a thud on his side. I grunted sickly, thinking he was hit.

  Then I saw the submachine gun point squarely into the passageway. It began spitting out death. By the time we could reach him, the expediters were dead or dying. There had been seven of them.

  Zorchi staggered into the passage, through the bodies, crying something. I jumped after him, blinking my eyes to make out what he had seen. Then I caught sight of a door at the back being silently closed. It was a thick, massive slab, like the door to a bank vault.

  Zorchi made a final leap that brought a sob of anguish as he landed on his weak legs, but his gun barrel slapped into the slit of opening. The door ground against it, strained and stopped. Zorchi pulled the trigger briefly.

  For a second, then, there was silence. A second later, Defoe’s voice came out through the thin slit. “You win. Dr. Lawton and I are alone and unarmed. We’re coming out.”

  The door began opening again, somewhat jerkily this time. I watched it, expecting a trick, but there was none.

  Inside the vault, the first room was obviously for guards and for the control of the equipment needed to wash all contamination out of the air and to provide the place with security for a century, even if all the rest of the Earth turned into a radioactive hell.

  Lawton was slumped beside the controls, his head cradled in his arms. But at the sight of us, he stood up groggily, his mouth open, and shock on his face.

  Defoe’s eyes widened a trifle, but he stood quietly, and the bleak smile never faltered. “Congratulations, Thomas,” he said. “My one fault again—I underrated the opposition. I wasn’t expecting miracles. Hello, Millen. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Search the place,” I ordered.

  Carmody went past the two without looking at them, with Rena close behind. A minute later, I heard a triumphant shout. They came back with a cringing man who seemed totally unlike the genial Sam Gogarty who had first introduced me to fine food and to Rena. His eyes were on Carmody, and his skin was gray white. He started to babble incoherently.