Edmund Cooper: The Overman Culture

The bicycles had been specially polished; and when they were rolling smoothly down Buckingham Palace Road, with Michael strapped safely on his seat behind Mother, he felt that this was the first really exciting event in his life.

There were more bicycles outside the Odeon, Leicester Square, than Michael had ever seen. A large space had been staked out for Queen Victoria’s hovercar. Michael and Mother and Father joined the crowds waiting for the Queen’s arrival. They did not have to wait long, and when she came, everyone began to cheer and some people were waving flags, and some were singing the national anthem.

Sir Winston Churchill was waiting to receive the Queen and to introduce her to Mr. Spencer Tracy and Master Freddie Bartholomew. Then they went inside the Odeon cinema, and everyone else followed. It took quite a long time for everyone to get inside. The foyer was jammed with people and their children. Michael saw lots of children that he did not know, but he also caught a glimpse of Horatio Nelson. He, too, was wearing a sailor suit and looking unnaturally clean. Horatio grinned and waved, then disappeared with his mother and father in the crowd.

There were pictures of famous film stars in the foyer. Michael looked at them and asked Mother to tell him their names. Some of the names were strange and some were pretty. Greta Garbo was a pretty name, but Dustin Hoffman sounded very odd. There were also pictures of Charles Chaplin and Jane Fonda, George Arliss and Brigitte Bardot, Norma Shearer and Rudolph Valentino.

Even though the film was only in black and white, the big screen made it far more exciting than color television. Michael thought that every child in the cinema—including himself—was crying when, near the end of the film, Spencer Tracy, as Manuel the fisherman, was dying in the sea while old Lionel Barrymore had to stand and watch helplessly and Freddie Bartholomew was saying good-bye to his friend forever.

After the film, there was a news feature showing the Germans bombing sad little villages in Vietnam, and there were also some pictures of Russian scientists and spacemen helping to build the missile bases on the moon.

At the end of the show, the lights went on and Queen Victoria stood in the royal box. Then the orchestra played “God Save the Queen,” and everyone stood very still.

Michael was tired. Tremendously excited and tremendously tired. He almost fell asleep on the bicycle on the way home. His head ached with excitement. But later, when he was trying to sleep, his head ached for a different reason. He felt that, during the course of the evening, he had discovered something important. But he didn’t know what it was.

It was Miss Shelley, not Miss Nightingale who told the children about the Overman legend. Miss Shelley was just as pretty as Miss Nightingale, but she had yellow hair. Michael liked her because she had taught him to count to one hundred. He had asked her several times to teach him. At first she said that he was not ready to learn. Perhaps, in the end, she just got tired of saying no. Counting was quite easy when you got the hang of it. As far as Michael knew, none of the other children could count. Perhaps they had not pestered Miss Shelley long enough.

She told the children about the Overman legend toward the end of the afternoon session of play school, when they were tired out after games and needed to rest a little before being collected by their mothers.

“Once upon a time,” said Miss Shelley, “there was no one at all in the wide world but Overman. And he was very bored, so he said to himself: ‘I must make something interesting happen.’ So he thought very hard, and finally he decided that he would make a man. Because he thought a man would be interesting. So he worked very hard, and at last he made a man.

“And the man was very grateful for being made and for feeling alive. But presently, he, too, got bored. And he said to himself: ‘I must make something interesting happen.’ So he thought very hard, and finally he decided that he would make a machine. So he worked very hard, and at last he made a machine.

“It was a very good machine, a very complicated machine, and the man was very proud of it.

“He said to Overman: ‘You created me, and I, too, can create. Look, I have created a machine.’

“Overman was amused. He laughed. He said: The machine is very good, but you are more complicated. You can do things the machine cannot do. So mine is the better creation.’

“The man was a bit disappointed at this. And he went away, determined to do better. Then he had a very ingenious idea. He decided to build a machine that could build a machine. This was a very hard task, and it took him a very long time. But eventually he succeeded. It was a very wonderful machine, very complicated indeed. The man was extremely proud of it.

“He said to Overman: ‘You created me, but I think I have done something better. Look, I have created a machine that can build another machine.’

“Again Overman was amused. He laughed. And then suddenly he created a woman. Then he said: ‘See, I have created a woman. With the woman, you will be able to make children. And they in turn will grow up into men and women and make more children. So mine is still the greater creation.’

“‘We shall see,’ said the man. ‘My machine will build more machines which will build yet more machines. We shall see whose is the greater creation.’

“Then Overman laughed once more. He said: ‘Farewell, my son in whom I am well pleased. You have amused me greatly. And now I will leave you to discover the end of the joke.’

“‘What are you talking about?’ asked the man, perplexed.

“‘You challenged my powers, my son,’ said Overman, ‘and that is good. But you have created more than you think. You have created a problem. And the problem is this: Shall men control machines, or shall machines control men?’

“Then Overman yawned. He said: ‘I am tired. I think I shall go to sleep for ten thousand years. But, if either men or machines discover the answer to the problem, wake me.’ “

Miss Shelley looked at the circle of children. Some were gazing at her intently, some were whispering and giggling among themselves, some were fidgeting, and one or two were dozing.

Michael had listened to the story, enthralled. He said: “Is it true, Miss Shelley, the story of Overman?”

Miss Shelley smiled. “It is just a story, Michael, a legend. But perhaps there is a little bit of truth in it somewhere.”

“Is Overman God?” said Horatio Nelson suddenly.

Michael looked at him with respect. It was a good question.

“I don’t think so,” said Miss Shelley. “Now, don’t worry about the story, children. I told it just to pass the time. Now that we have all rested, I think the mothers will be arriving to take their children home.”

That evening, Michael was unusually quiet. He was thinking. He was thinking about the story. Somehow, he knew that it was important.

After he had drunk his hot milk, and just before he was tucked up for sleep, Father came into his bedroom and said: “What did you think of the Overman legend, Michael?”

Michael felt very skepy. “It was interesting,” he said, “but it was just a story. And, anyway, it didn’t have a proper end.”

But when Father had gone, Michael suddenly became very wide awake. He had said nothing at all about the Overman legend. So how could Father know Miss Shelley had told it that afternoon?

The children had been allowed to go off by themselves on an adventure walk in Hyde Park. They were to collect leaves. When the bell rang, they were to return to play school and there would be a prize for whoever had collected the largest number of different leaves.