The Ghost From the Grand Banks and the Deep Range

by Arthur C. Clarke

  First they looked like baby elephants, waving tiny trunks. Then the trunks became tentacles. Then the tentacles sprouted eyes. Then, as the image continued to expand, the eyes opened up into black whirlpools of infinite depth. . . .

  “The magnification’s up in the millions now,” Edith whispered. “The picture we started with is already bigger than Europe.”

  They swept past the whirlpools, skirting mysterious islands guarded by reefs of coral. Flotillas of seahorses sailed by in stately procession. At the screen’s exact center, a tiny black dot appeared, expanded, began to show a haunting familiarity—and seconds later revealed itself as an exact replica of the original set.

  This, Bradley thought, is where we came in. Or is it? He could not be quite sure; there seemed to be minor differences, but the family resemblance was unmistakable.

  “Now,” continued Ada, “our original picture is as wide as the orbit of Mars—so this mini-set’s really far smaller than an atom. But there’s just as much detail all around it. And so on forever.”

  The zooming stopped; for a moment it seemed that a sample of lacework, full of intricate loops and whorls that teased the eye, hung frozen in space. Then, as if a paintbox had been spilled over it, the monochrome image burst into colors so unexpected, and so dazzlingly beautiful, that Bradley gave a gasp of astonishment.

  The zooming restarted, but in the reverse direction, and in a micro-universe now transformed by color. No one said a word until they were back at the original complete M-Set, now an ominous black fringed with a narrow border of golden fire, and shooting off jagged lightnings of blues and purples.

  “And where,” asked Bradley when he had recovered his breath, “did all those colors come from? We didn’t see them on the way in.”

  Ada laughed. “No—they’re not really part of the set—but aren’t they gorgeous? I can tell the computer to make them anything I like.”

  “Even though the actual colors are quite arbitrary,” Edith explained, “they’re full of meaning. You know the way map makers put shades of blue and green between contour lines, to emphasize differences in level?”

  “Of course; we do just the same thing in oceanography. The deeper the blue, the deeper the water.”

  “Right. In this case, the colors tell us how many times the computer’s had to go around the loop before it decides whether a number definitely belongs to the M-Set—or not. In borderline cases, it may have to do the squaring and adding routine thousands of times.”

  “And often for hundred-digit numbers,” said Donald. “Now you understand why the set wasn’t discovered earlier.”

  “Mighty good reason.”

  “Now watch this,” said Ada.

  The image came to life as waves of color flowed outward. It seemed that the borders of the set itself were continually expanding—yet staying in the same place. Then Bradley realized that nothing was really moving; only the colors were cycling around the spectrum, to produce this completely convincing illusion of movement.

  I begin to understand, Bradley thought, how someone could get lost in this thing—even make it a way of life.

  “I’m almost certain,” he said, “that I’ve seen this program listed in my computer’s software library—with a couple of thousand others. How lucky I’ve never run it. I can see how addictive it could get.”

  He noticed that Donald Craig glanced sharply at Edith, and realized that he had made a somewhat tactless remark. However, she still seemed engrossed by the flow of colors, even though she must have seen this particular display countless times.

  “Ada,” she said dreamily, “give Mr. Jason our favorite quotation from Einstein.”

  That’s asking a lot from a ten-year-old, thought Bradley—even one like this; but the girl never hesitated, and there was no trace of mechanical repetition in her voice. She understood the words, and spoke from the heart:

  “ ‘The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand wrapt in awe, is as good as dead.’ ”

  I’ll go along with that, thought Bradley. He remembered calm nights in the Pacific, with a sky full of stars and a glimmering trail of bioluminescence behind the ship; he recalled his first glimpse of the teeming life-forms—as alien as any from another planet—gathered around the scalding cornucopia of a Galápagos mid-ocean vent, where the continents were slowly tearing apart; and he hoped that before long he would feel awe and wonder again, when the tremendous knife edge of Titanic’s prow came looming up out of the abyss.

  The dance of colors ceased: the M-Set faded out. Although nothing had ever been really there, he could somehow sense that the virtual screen of the holograph projector had switched off.

  “So now,” said Donald, “you know more about the Mandelbrot Set than you want to.” He glanced momentarily at Edith, and once again Bradley felt that twinge of sympathy toward him.

  It was not at all the feeling he had expected, when he came to Conroy Castle; “envy” would have been a better word. Here was a man with great wealth, a beautiful home, and a talented and attractive family—all the ingredients which were supposed to guarantee happiness. Yet something had obviously gone wrong. I wonder, Bradley thought, how long it is since they went to bed together. It could be as simple as that—though that, of course, was seldom simple. . . .

  Once again he glanced at his watch; they must think he was deliberately avoiding the issue—and they were perfectly right. Hurry up, Mr. Director-General! he pleaded silently.

  As if on cue, he felt the familiar tingling in his wrist.

  “Excuse me,” he said to his hosts. “I’ve a very important call coming through. It will only take a minute.”

  “Of course. We’ll leave you to it.”

  How many million times a day this ritual was now carried out! Strict etiquette dictated that everyone else offer to leave the room when a personal call was coming through; politeness demanded that only the recipient leave, with apologies to all. There were countless variations according to circumstances and nationalities. In Japan, so Kato was fond of complaining, the formalities often lasted so long that the caller hung up in disgust.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” Bradley said as he came back in through the French windows. “That was about our business—I couldn’t give you a decision until I’d received it.”

  “I hope it’s a favorable one,” said Donald. “We need you.”

  “And I would like to work with you—but—”

  “Parky’s made you a better offer,” said Edith, with scarcely veiled contempt.

  Bradley looked at her calmly, and answered without rancor.

  “No, Mrs. Craig. Please keep these figures confidential. The Parkinson group’s offer was generous—but it was only half of yours. And the offer which I’ve just received is much less than one tenth of that. Nevertheless, I’m considering it very seriously.”

  There was a resounding silence, broken at last by an uncharacteristic giggle from Ada.

  “You must be crazy,” said Edith. Donald merely grinned.

  “You may be right. But I’ve reached the stage when I don’t need the money, though it’s always good to have some around.” He paused, and chuckled softly.

  “Enough is enough. I don’t know if you ever heard the wisecrack that Titanic’s most famous casualty, J. J. Astor, once made: “A man who has a million dollars is as well off as one who is rich.” Well, I’ve made a few million during my career, and some of it’s still in the bank. I don’t really need any more; and if I do, I can always go down and tickle another octopus.

  “I didn’t plan this—it was a bolt from the blue—two days ago I’d already decided to accept your offer.”

  Edith now seemed more perplexed than hostile.

  “Can you tell us who’s . . . underbid Nippon-Turner?”

  Bradley shook his head. “Give me a couple of days; there are still a few problems, and I
don’t want to fall between three stools.”

  “I think I understand,” said Donald. “There’s only one reason to work for peanuts. Every man owes something to his profession.”

  “That sounds like a quotation.”

  “It is: Dr. Johnson.”

  “I like it; I may be using it a lot, in the next few weeks. Meanwhile, before I make a final decision, I want a little time to think matters over. Again, many thanks for your hospitality—not to mention your offer. I may yet accept it—but if not, I hope we can still be friends.”

  As he lifted away from the castle, the downwash of the helicopter ruffled the waters of Lake Mandelbrot, shattering the reflections of the cypresses. He was contemplating the biggest break in his career; before he made his decision, he needed to relax completely.

  And he knew exactly how to do that.

  21

  A HOUSE OF GOOD REPUTE

  Even the coming of hypersonic transportation had not done much to change the status of New Zealand; to most people it was merely the last stop before the South Pole. The great majority of New Zealanders were quite content to keep it that way.

  Evelyn Merrick was one of the exceptions, and had defected at the (in her case, very) ripe age of seventeen to find her destiny elsewhere. After three marriages which had left her emotionally scarred but financially secure, she had discovered her role in life, and was as happy as anyone could reasonably expect to be.

  The Villa, as it was known to her wide-ranging clientele, was on a beautiful estate in one of the still unspoiled parts of Kent, conveniently close to Gatwick Airport. Its previous owner had been a celebrated media tycoon, who had placed his bet on the wrong system when high-definition TV swept all before it at the end of the twentieth century. Later attempts to restore his fortune had misfired, and he was now a guest of His Majesty’s government for the next five years (assuming time off for good behavior).

  Being a man of high moral standards, he was quite indignant about the use which Dame Eva had now made of his property, and had even attempted to dislodge her. However, Eva’s lawyers were just as good as his; perhaps better, since she was still at liberty, and had every intention of remaining so.

  The Villa was run with meticulous propriety, the girls’ passports, tax returns, health and pension contributions, medical records, and so forth being instantly available to any government inspector—of whom, Dame Eva sometimes remarked sourly, there always seemed to be a copious supply. If any ever came in the hope of personal gratification, they were sadly disappointed.

  On the whole, it was a rewarding career, full of emotional and intellectual stimulus. She certainly had no ethical problems, having long ago decided that anything enjoyed by adults of voting age was perfectly acceptable, as long as it was not dangerous, unhygienic, or fattening. Her main cause of complaint was that involvement with clients caused a high rate of staff turnover, with resulting heavy expenditure on wedding presents. She had also observed that Villa-inspired marriages appeared to last longer than those with more conventional origins, and intended to publish a statistical survey when she was quite sure of her data; at the moment the correlation coefficient was still below the level of significance.

  As might be expected in her profession, Evelyn Merrick was a woman of many secrets, mostly other peoples’; but she also had one of her own which she guarded with special care. Though nothing could have been more respectable, if it came out it might be bad for trade. For the last two years, she had been employing her extensive—perhaps unique—knowledge of paraphilia to complete her doctor’s degree in psychology at the University of Auckland.

  She had never met Professor Hinton, except over video circuits—and even that very rarely, since both preferred the digital impersonality of computer file exchanges. One day—perhaps a decade after she had retired—her thesis would be published, though not under her own name, and with all the case histories disguised beyond identification. Not even Professor Hinton knew the individuals involved, though he had made some shrewd guesses at a few.

  “Subject O.G.,” Eva typed. “Age fifty. Successful engineer.”

  She considered the screen carefully. The initials, of course, had been changed according to her simple code, and the age had been rounded down to the nearest decade. But the last entry was reasonably accurate: his profession reflected a man’s personality, and should not be disguised unless it was absolutely necessary to avoid identification. Even then, it had to be done with sensitivity, so that the displacement was not too violent. In the case of a world-famous musician, Eva had altered “pianist” to “violinist,” and she had converted an equally celebrated sculptor into a painter. She had even turned a politician into a statesman.

  “. . . As a small boy, O.G. was teased and occasionally captured by the pupils of a neighboring girl’s school, who used him as a (fairly willing) subject for lessons in nursing and male anatomy. They frequently bandaged him from head to foot, and though he now asserts that there was no erotic element involved, this is rather hard to believe. When challenged, he shrugs his shoulders and says, ‘I just don’t remember.’

  “Later, as a young man, O.G. witnessed the aftermath of a major accident which caused many deaths. Though not injured himself, the experience also appears to have affected his sexual fantasies. He enjoys various forms of bondage (see List A) and he had developed a mild case of the Saint Sebastian Complex, most famously demonstrated by Yukio Mishima. Unlike Mishima, however, O.G. is completely heterosexual, scoring only 2.5 +/– 0.1 on the Standard Mapplethorpe Phototest.

  “What makes O.G.’s behavior pattern so interesting, and perhaps unusual, is that he is an active and indeed somewhat aggressive personality, as befits the manager of an organization in a demanding and competitive business. It is hard to imagine him playing a passive role in any sphere of life, yet he likes my personnel to wrap him up in bandages like an Egyptian mummy, until he is completely helpless. Only in this way, after considerable stimulation, can he achieve a satisfactory orgasm.

  “When I suggested that he was acting out a death wish, he laughed but did not attempt to deny it. His work often involves physical danger, which may be the very reason why he was attracted to it in the first place. However, he gave an alternative explanation which, I am sure, contains a good deal of truth.

  “ ‘When you have responsibilities involving millions of dollars and affecting many men’s lives, you can’t imagine how delightful it is to be completely helpless for a while—unable to control what’s happening around you. Of course, I know it’s all play-acting, but I manage to pretend it isn’t. I sometimes wonder how I’d enjoy the situation if it was for real.’

  “ ‘You wouldn’t,’ I told him, and he agreed.”

  Eva scrolled the entry, checking it for any clues that might reveal O.G.’s identity. The Villa specialized in celebrities, so it was better to be excessively cautious than the reverse.

  That caution extended to the celebrities themselves. The Villa’s only house rule was “No blood on the carpets,” and she recalled, with a grimace of disgust, a third world country’s chief-of-staff whose frenzies had injured one of her girls. Eva had accepted his apologies, and his check, with cold disdain, then made a quick call to the Foreign Office. The general would have been most surprised—and mortified—to know exactly why the British ambassador now found so many reasons for postponing his next visit to the United Kingdom.

  Eva sometimes wondered what dear Sister Margarita would have thought of her star pupil’s present vocation; the last time she had wept was when the notice of her old friend’s death had reached her from the Mother Superior. And she remembered, with wistful amusement, the question she had once been tempted to ask her tutor: exactly why should a vow of perpetual chastity be considered any nobler—any holier—than a vow of perpetual constipation?

  It was a perfectly serious query, not in the least intended to scandalize the old nun or shake the sure foundations of her faith. But on the whole, perhaps it was just as well l
eft unasked.

  Sister Margarita already knew that little Eva Merrick was not meant for the church; but Eva still sent a generous donation to St. Jude’s every Christmas.

  22

  BUREAUCRAT

  Article 156

  Establishment of the Authority

  1. There is hereby established the International Seabed Authority, which shall function in accordance with this Part.

  2. All States Parties are ipso facto members of the Authority.

  . . . . .

  4. The seat of the Authority shall be in Jamaica.

  Article 158

  Organs of the Authority

  2. There is hereby established the Enterprise, the organ through which the Authority shall carry out the functions referred to in article 170, paragraph 1.

  (United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, signed at Montego Bay, Jamaica, on 10 December 1982.)

  Sorry about the emoluments,” said Director-General Wilbur Jantz apologetically, “but they’re fixed by U.N. regulations.”

  “I quite understand. As you know, I’m not here for the money.”

  “And there are very considerable fringe benefits. First, you’ll have the rank of ambassador . . .”

  “Will I have to dress like one? I hope not—I don’t even have a tux, let alone the rest of that damned nonsense.”

  Jantz laughed.

  “Don’t worry—we’ll take care of details like that. And you’ll be VIPed everywhere, of course—that can be quite pleasant.”

  It’s a long time, thought Jason Bradley, since I’ve not been VIPed, but it would be rather tactless to say so. Despite all his experience, he was a new boy in this environment; maybe he shouldn’t have made that crack about ambassadors. . . .

  The D.G. was scanning the readout scrolling on his desk display, giving an occasional PAUSE command so that he could examine some item in detail. Bradley would have returned a substantial slice of his income to his new employers for the privilege of reading that file. I wonder if they know, he thought, about the time that Ted and I “salted” that wreck off Delos with fake amphorae? Not that I’ve got a guilty conscience: it caused a lot of trouble to people who thoroughly deserved it.