The Songs of Distant Earth

by Arthur C. Clarke

  “What, may I ask?”

  “From us, if you will accept it, the final centuries of human art and science. But I should warn you – consider what such a gift may do to your own culture. It might not be wise to accept everything we can offer.”

  “I appreciate your honesty – and your understanding. You must have treasures beyond price. What can we possibly offer in exchange?”

  Kaldor gave his resonant laugh.

  “Luckily, that’s no problem. You wouldn’t even notice, if we took it without asking.”

  “All we want from Thalassa is a hundred thousand tons of water. Or, to be more specific, ice.”

  11. Delegation

  The President of Thalassa had been in office for only two months and was still unreconciled to his misfortune. But there was nothing he could do about it, except to make the best of a bad job for the three years it would last. Certainly it was no use demanding a recount; the selection program, which involved the generation and interleaving of thousand-digit random numbers, was the nearest thing to pure chance that human ingenuity could devise.

  There were exactly five ways to avoid the danger of being dragged into the Presidential Palace (twenty rooms, one large enough to hold almost a hundred guests). You could be under thirty or over seventy; you could be incurably ill; you could be mentally defective; or you could have committed a grave crime. The only option really open to President Edgar Farradine was the last, and he had given it serious thought.

  Yet he had to admit that, despite the personal inconvenience it had caused him, this was probably the best form of government that mankind had ever devised. The mother planet had taken some ten thousand years to perfect it, by trial and often hideous error.

  As soon as the entire adult population had been educated to the limits of its intellectual ability (and sometimes, alas, beyond) genuine democracy became possible. The final step required the development of instantaneous personal communications, linked with central computers. According to the historians, the first true democracy on Earth was established in the (Terran) year 2011, in a country called New Zealand.

  Thereafter, selecting a head of state was relatively unimportant. Once it was universally accepted that anyone who deliberately aimed at the job should automatically be disqualified, almost any system would serve equally well, and a lottery was the simplest procedure.

  “Mr. President,” the secretary to the cabinet said, “the visitors are waiting in the library.”

  “Thank you, Lisa. And without their bubble suits?”

  “Yes – all the medical people agree that it’s perfectly safe. But I’d better warn you, sir. They – ah – smell a little odd.”

  “Krakan!In what way?”

  The secretary smiled.

  “Oh, it’s not unpleasant – at least, I don’t think so. It must be something to do with their food; after a thousand years, our biochemistries may have diverged. “Aromatic” is probably the best word to describe it.”

  The president was not quite sure what that meant and was debating whether to ask when a disturbing thought occurred to him.

  “And how,” he said, “do you suppose we smell to them?

  To his relief, his five guests showed no obvious signs of olfactory distress when they were introduced, one at a time. But Secretary Elisabeth Ishihara was certainly wise to have warned him; now he knew exactly what the word “aromatic” implied. She was also correct in saying that it was not unpleasant; indeed, he was reminded of the spices his wife used when it was her turn to do the cooking in the palace.

  As he sat down at the curve of the horseshoe-shaped conference table, the President of Thalassa found himself musing wryly about Chance and Fate – subjects that had never much concerned him in the past. But Chance, in its purest form, had put him in his present position. Now it – or its sibling, Fate – had struck again. How odd that he, an unambitious manufacturer of sporting equipment, had been chosen to preside at this historic meeting! Still, somebody had to do it; and he had to admit that he was beginning to enjoy himself. At the very least, no one could stop him from making his speech of welcome …

  … It was, in fact, quite a good speech, though perhaps a little longer than necessary even for such an occasion as this. Towards the end he became aware that his listeners’ politely attentive expressions were becoming a trifle glazed, so he cut out some of the productivity statistics and the whole section about the new power grid on South Island. When he sat down, he felt confident that he had painted a picture of a vigorous, progressive society with a high level of technical skills. Any superficial impressions to the contrary notwithstanding, Thalassa was neither backward nor decadent, and still sustained the finest traditions of its great ancestors. Et cetera.

  “Thank you very much, Mr. President,” Captain Bey said in the appreciative pause that followed. “It was indeed a welcome surprise when we discovered that Thalassa was not only inhabited, but flourishing. It will make our stay here all the more pleasant, and we hope to leave again with nothing but goodwill on both sides.”

  “Pardon me for being so blunt – it may even seem rude to raise the question just as soon as guests arrive – but how long do you expect to be here? We’d like to know as soon as possible, so that we can make any necessary arrangements.”

  “I quite understand, Mr. President. We can’t be specific at this stage, because it depends partly on the amount of assistance you can give us. My guess is at least one of your years – more probably two.”

  Edgar Farradine, like most Lassans, was not good at concealing his emotions, and Captain Bey was alarmed by the sudden gleeful – one might even say crafty – expression that spread across the chief executive’s countenance.

  “I hope, Your Excellency, that won’t create any problems?” he asked anxiously.

  “On the contrary,” the president said, practically rubbing his hands. “You may not have heard, but our 200th Olympic Games are due in two years.” He coughed modestly. “I got a bronze in the 1000 metres when I was a young man, so they’ve put me in charge of the arrangements. We could do with some competition from outside.”

  “Mr. President,” the secretary to the cabinet said, “I’m not sure that the rules –”

  “Which I make,” continued the president firmly. “Captain, please consider this an invitation. Or a challenge, if you prefer.”

  The commander of the starship Magellan was a man accustomed to making swift decisions, but for once he was taken completely aback. Before he could think of a suitable reply, his chief medical officer stepped into the breach.

  “That’s extremely kind of you, Mr. President,” Surgeon-Commander Mary Newton said. “But as a medperson, may I point out that all of us are over thirty, we’re completely out of training – and Thalassa’s gravity is six per cent stronger than Earth’s, which would put us at a severe disadvantage. So unless your Olympics includes chess or card games…”

  The president looked disappointed, but quickly recovered.

  “Oh, well – at least, Captain Bey, I’d like you to present some of the prizes.”

  “I’d be delighted,” the slightly dazed commander said. He felt that the meeting was getting out of hand and determined to return to the agenda.

  “May I explain what we hope to do here, Mr. President?”

  “Of course,” was the somewhat uninterested reply. His Excellency’s thoughts still seemed elsewhere. Perhaps he was still reliving the triumphs of his youth. Then, with an obvious effort, he focused his attention upon the present. “We were flattered, but rather puzzled, by your visit. There seems very little that our world can offer you. I’m told there was some talk of ice; surely that was a joke.”

  “No, Mr. President – we’re absolutely serious. That’s all we need of Thalassa, though now we’ve sampled some of your food products – I’m thinking especially of the cheese and wine we had at lunch – we may increase our demands considerably. But ice is the essential; let me explain. First image, please.”


  The starship Magellan, two metres long, floated in front of the president. It looked so real that he wanted to reach out and touch it, and would certainly have done so had there been no spectators to observe such naive behaviour.

  “You’ll see that the ship is roughly cylindrical – length four kilometres, diameter one. Because our propulsion system taps the energies of space itself, there’s no theoretical limit to speed, up to the velocity of light. But in practice, we run into trouble at about a fifth of that speed, owing to interstellar dust and gas. Tenuous though that is, an object moving through it at sixty thousand kilometres a second or more hits a surprising amount of material – and at that velocity even a single hydrogen atom can do appreciable damage.”

  “So Magellan, just like the first primitive spaceships, carries an ablation shield ahead of it. Almost any material would do, as long as we use enough of it. And at the near-zero temperature between the stars, it’s hard to find anything better than ice. Cheap, easily worked, and surprisingly strong! This blunt cone is what our little iceberg looked like when we left the solar system, two hundred years ago. And this is what it’s like now.”

  The image flickered, then reappeared. The ship was unchanged, but the cone floating ahead of it had shrunk to a thin disc.

  “That’s the result of drilling a hole fifty light-years long, through this rather dusty sector of the galaxy. I’m pleased to say the rate of ablation is within five per cent of estimate, so we were never in any danger – though of course there was always the remote possibility that we might hit something really big. No shield could protect us against that – whether it was made of ice, or the best armour-plate steel.”

  “We’re still good for another ten light-years, but that’s not enough. Our final destination is the planet Sagan 2 – seventy-five lights to go.”

  “So now you understand, Mr. President, why we stopped at Thalassa. We would like to borrow – well, beg, since we can hardly promise to return it – a hundred or so thousand tons of water from you. We must build another iceberg, up there in orbit, to sweep the path ahead of us when we go on to the stars.”

  “How can we possibly help you to do that? Technically, you must be centuries ahead of us.”

  “I doubt it – except for the quantum drive. Perhaps Deputy Captain Malina can outline our plans – subject to your approval, of course.”

  “Please go ahead.”

  “First we have to locate a site for the freezing plant. There are many possibilities – it could be on any isolated stretch of coastline. It will cause absolutely no ecological disturbance, but if you wish, we’ll put it on East Island – and hope that Krakan won’t blow before we’ve finished!

  “The plant design is virtually complete, needing only minor modifications to match whatever site we finally choose. Most of the main components can go into production right away. They’re all very straightforward – pumps, refrigerating systems, heat exchangers, cranes – good old-fashioned Second Millennium technology!

  “If everything goes smoothly, we should have our first ice in ninety days. We plan to make standard-sized blocks, each weighing six hundred tons – flat, hexagonal plates – someone’s christened them snowflakes, and the name seems to have stuck.

  “When production’s started, we’ll lift one snowflake every day. They’ll be assembled in orbit and keyed together to build up the shield. From first lift to final structural test should take two hundred and fifty days. Then we’ll be ready to leave.”

  When the deputy captain had finished, President Farradine sat in silence for a moment, a faraway look in his eye. Then he said, almost reverently. “Ice – I’ve never seen any, except at the bottom of a drink …”

  As he shook hands with the departing visitors, President Farradine became aware of something strange. Their aromatic odour was now barely perceptible.

  Had he grown accustomed to it already – or was he losing his sense of smell?

  Although both answers were correct, around midnight he would have accepted only the second. He woke up with his eyes watering, and his nose so clogged that it was difficult to breathe.

  “What’s the matter, dear?” Mrs President said anxiously.

  “Call the – atischoo! – doctor,” the chief executive answered. “Ours – and the one up in the ship. I don’t believe there’s a damn thing they can do, but I want to give them – atischoo – a piece of my mind. And I hope you haven’t caught it as well.”

  The president’s lady started to reassure him, but was interrupted by a sneeze.

  They both sat up in bed and looked at each other unhappily.

  “I believe it took seven days to get over it,” sniffed the president. “But perhaps medical science has advanced in the last few centuries.”

  His hope was fulfilled, though barely. By heroic efforts, and with no loss of life, the epidemic was stamped out – in six miserable days.

  It was not an auspicious beginning for the first contact between star-sundered cousins in almost a thousand years.

  12. Heritage

  We’ve been here two weeks, Evelyn – though it doesn’t seem like it as that’s only eleven of Thalassa’s days. Sooner or later we’ll have to abandon the old calendar, but my heart will always beat to the ancient rhythms of Earth.

  It’s been a busy time, and on the whole a pleasant one. The only real problem was medical; despite all precautions, we broke quarantine too soon, and about twenty per cent of the Lassans caught some kind of virus. To make us feel even guiltier, none of us developed any symptoms whatsoever. Luckily no one died, though I’m afraid we can’t give the local doctors too much credit for that. Medical science is definitely backward here; they’ve grown to rely on automated systems so much that they can’t handle anything out of the ordinary.

  But we’ve been forgiven; the Lassans are very good-natured, easygoing people. They have been incredibly lucky – perhaps too lucky! – with their planet; it makes the contrast with Sagan 2 even bleaker.

  Their only real handicap is lack of land, and they’ve been wise enough to hold the population well below the sustainable maximum. If they’re ever tempted to exceed it, they have the records of Earth’s city-slums as a terrible warning.

  Because they’re such beautiful and charming people, it’s a great temptation to help them instead of letting them develop their own culture in their own way. In a sense, they’re our children – and all parents find it hard to accept that, sooner or later, they must cease to interfere.

  To some extent, of course, we can’t help interfering; our very presence does that. We’re unexpected – though luckily not unwelcome – guests on their planet. And they can never forget that Magellan is orbiting just above the atmosphere, the last emissary from the world of their own ancestors.

  I’ve revisited First Landing – their birthplace – and gone on the tour that every Lassan makes at least once in his life. It’s a combination of museum and shrine, the only place on the whole planet to which the word “sacred” is remotely applicable. Nothing has changed in seven hundred years. The seedship, though it is now an empty husk, looks as if it has only just landed. All around it are the silent machines – the excavators and constructors and chemical processing plants with their robot attendants. And, of course, the nurseries and schools of Generation One.

  There are almost no records of those first decades – perhaps deliberately. Despite all the skills and precautions of the planners, there must have been biological accidents, ruthlessly eliminated by the overriding program. And the time when those who had no organic parents gave way to those who did, must have been full of psychological traumas.

  But the tragedy and sadness of the Genesis Decades is now centuries in the past. Like the graves of all pioneers, it has been forgotten by the builders of the new society.

  I would be happy to spend the rest of my life here; there’s material on Thalassa for a whole army of anthropologists and psychologists and social scientists. Above all, how I wish I could meet some of my
long-dead colleagues and let them know how many of our endless arguments have been finally resolved!

  It is possible to build a rational and humane culture completely free from the threat of supernatural restraints. Though in principle I don’t approve of censorship, it seems that those who prepared the archives for the Thalassan colony succeeded in an almost-impossible task. They purged the history and literature of ten thousand years, and the result has justified their efforts. We must be very cautious before replacing anything that was lost – however beautiful, however moving a work of art.

  The Thalassans were never poisoned by the decay products of dead religions, and in seven hundred years no prophet has arisen here to preach a new faith. The very word “God” has almost vanished from their language, and they’re quite surprised – or amused – when we happen to use it.

  My scientist friends are fond of saying that one sample makes very poor statistics, so I wonder if the total lack of religion in this society really proves anything. We know that the Thalassans were also very carefully selected genetically to eliminate as many undesirable social traits as possible. Yes, yes – I know that only about fifteen per cent of human behaviour is determined by the genes – but that fraction is very important! The Lassans certainly seem remarkably free from such unpleasant traits as envy, intolerance, jealousy, anger. Is this entirely the result of cultural conditioning?

  How I would love to know what happened to the seedships that were sent out by those religious groups in the twenty-sixth century! The Mormons’ Ark of the Covenant, the Sword of the Prophet – there were half a dozen of them. I wonder if any of them succeeded, and if so what part religion played in their success or their failure. Perhaps one day, when the local communications grid is established, we’ll find what happened to those early pioneers.

  One result of Thalassa’s total atheism is a serious shortage of expletives. When a Lassan drops something on his toe, he’s at a loss for words. Even the usual references to bodily functions aren’t much help because they’re all taken for granted. About the only general-purpose exclamation is “Krakan!” and that’s badly overworked. But it does show what an impression Mount Krakan made when it erupted four hundred years ago; I hope I’ll have a chance of visiting it before we leave.