Edmund Cooper - The Overman Culture

But the library was not entirely deserted.

When Michael stepped inside he saw that someone was standing in the center of the room, an open book in his hand, reading aloud.

It was Mr. Shakespeare.

As the rest of the fragiles filed into the library, they heard Mr. Shakespeare’s quiet voice:

“In some way the material universe appears to be passing away like a tale that is told, dissolving into nothingness like a vision. The human race, whose intelligence dates back only a single tick of the astronomical clock, could hardly hope to understand so soon what it all means. Someday perhaps we shall know: at present we can only wonder.”

When Michael had first encountered Mr. Shakespeare as the head of high school, he had not been able to decide whether he was a fragile or a drybone. With his white hair and wrinkled face, Mr. Shakespeare looked very old—and very human. Even now, Michael was not entirely sure.

Mr. Shakespeare closed the book and put it down. “The Stars in their Courses,” he said. “Sir James Jeans. A most interesting book. You must read it some time…. Well, Michael, I expected you sooner. But I expect there was some discussion.”

“Yes,” said Michael, “there was some discussion… I hope you are not here to obstruct us.”

Mr. Shakespeare smiled benignly, and shook his head. “Improbable as it may seem, I am here to inform and assist. I do not expect you to trust me. I shall be content if you accept my services.”

“Are you—” began Michael. He stopped, confused.

“No, Michael, I cannot bleed, I am a drybone, like the others.”

“Then why are you offering to help us?” asked Ernest.

Mr. Shakespeare laughed. “Ernest, you have always demonstrated exceptional intelligence. Can you not think of a reason?”

Ernest was silent for a moment or two. Then he said: “So Michael was right. Now that the guinea pigs have rebelled, the experiment is really over.”

“Hardly. In a sense, the experiment is about to begin. But I will not confuse you anymore. The time for confusion is past. The time for understanding—for total understanding—begins.”

“We came here to explore two passageways,” said Michael. “I has just occurred to me that you may be trying to divert us until other drybones get here.”

Mr. Shakespeare sighed. It seemed a very human kind of sigh. “You are right to be suspicious, Michael. You have conditioned yourself to suspect the motives of drybones for a long time. If you wish to carry out your explorations immediately, do so. I will do nothing at all to hinder you. But I think you would be more psychologically prepared if you were to listen first to what I have to say.”

Michael considered for a moment or two. “We will give you a little time,” he said at last. “But if your information is the kind of information we have been given in the past, we will destroy you.”

“I can guarantee that it is not. The time for prevarication is ended.”

“Then give us facts that mean something.”

“Certainly. But there is a lot to be assimilated, Michael. And it must be taken slowly. First, the city of London and we drybones were created entirely to serve you—and to test you.”

“Why to test us?”

“Because it was necessary to know what human beings are like—what levels of intelligence they can attain, how they react in adversity, how they can be intellectually frustrated or stimulated, what motivates them and so on.”

“If it was necessary to find out what human beings are like,” said Ernest, “then this project cannot have been mounted by human beings.”

“It was not.”

Michael took a deep breath. “Then we are not on the planet Earth.”

“Yes, Michael, you are on the planet Earth. You are on an island—quite a pleasant island from the human point of view—that was once called Tasmania. You are the only human beings on the entire planet, and you were especially developed for this project. You are the Overman culture.”

Michael’s throat was dry. His heart was pounding in his chest. Emily’s hand lay cold in his. He dared not look at her.

“Who—or what—developed us?” Michael’s voice was suddenly hoarse.

“A vast machine complex,” said Mr. Shakespeare. “So vast that it will take you a longtime even to begin to understand part of its functions. A few moments ago, you talked of destroying me, Michael. This is something you cannot do. Because all drybones are merely extensions of the same thing. For example, every one of us knew when Horatio Nelson destroyed the Huxley component. Everyone of us knew what happened when Ellen Terry followed you, as a child, to make you lose your temper. All of us knew exactly what Arthur Wellesley said on Hampstead Heath. All the time, we have all known simultaneously and instantaneously what each of us was experiencing or recording. Because I and every other drybone are one….

“Listen to the Churchill function.” Mr. Shakespeare’s benevolent expression remained the same, but his voice changed radically. “Boy, you should be home in bed. All children should be home in bed!”

The fragiles in the library gasped in amazement. The voice was exactly that of Sir Winston Churchill; and Michael knew that the words were exactly as they had been spoken on a frosty autumn evening long ago.

“Now the Victoria function: You want too much, child. You want far too much.”

The Queen’s voice was unmistakable.

“Now, the Ellen Terry function: Poor Michael. I was only teasing.”

Michael vividly recalled the Ellen Terry’s laughter as he tried to bite her throat.

Again Mr. Shakespeare spoke in his normal voice. “So you see, we are only extensions of the machine that has brought you, the Overman culture, to maturity.”

Michael’s own voice was unsteady. “You have not yet told us what kind of machine it is.”

“Our identity is defined as Intercon Comcom Zero Nine—Intercontinental Computer Complex Nine—the last and greatest computer system in the world.”

There was a brief silence. No one moved. It was as if the awesome revelations had temporarily paralyzed the fragiles. Michael gazed at Mr. Shakespeare. Late sunlight slanting through the library window lent a subtle radiance to his white hair and wrinkled face. A subtle illusion of humanity rested on this component of Intercontinental Computer Complex Nine.

Michael tried to think of Mr. Shakespeare as an instrument being used by a distant machine, and thought the effort would probably cost him his sanity.

His mouth was dry. His tongue felt like parchment. Michael licked his lips and spoke with difficulty. “You called us the Overman culture. Tell us why—and tell us clearly. Above all, we have to know what we are.”

“You explored only one passage, Michael. Eventually, you would have explored the other. You would have discovered for yourselves all that you need to know. But perhaps it is as well that I am here to lead the way. Come, then, and see your origins.”

Mr. Shakespeare turned towards the door at the far end of the library.

“This is mankind!” The words seemed to come from nowhere. They echoed and reverberated between the dark-green glassy walls, the black shiny floor and the illuminated ceiling of the vast chamber.

The journey down the underground passage had not been long—nowhere near as long as down the passage that led outside London—and now the fragiles were confronted by a scene that was both terrible and wonderful.

“This is mankind!” said the voice once more. “You are now in the Overman Suspension Vault. I am Cryogenics Control, Station One. I have you on my screens. Greetings and welcome. You are standing in the preservation chamber that was constructed for Julius Overman in the twenty-first century of the Christian Era. Here lie the last three natural-born human beings on Earth.”