Arthur Clarke - The Last Theorem

“That will be fine,” Myra told him. “He likes to play 3-D chess against the machine.”

“Good, then. Did Nigel straighten out your problems with the draft?”

“I think so. Hope so, anyway,” Ranjit said.

“Then let’s get down to business. Old Orion Bledsoe is giving us a lot of trouble. Let’s start, please, with hearing what he’s doing with you.”

Nigel De Saram answered that one, quickly and concisely. Gamini bobbed his head and addressed the Subramanians. “Did you happen to notice where his message came from?”

Myra shook her head. Ranjit frowned. “Actually, I did notice something. It wasn’t from Washington. Wasn’t from his California office, either. I think it might’ve been someplace in Europe.”

Gamini glanced at his father, who nodded soberly. “It was Brussels,” the president said. “Because of American pressure, the World Bank has ordered the Egyptians to refuse the gold offer, and it was Colonel Bledsoe who applied the pressure.”

Gamini Bandara spoke up. “That whole thing is my fault,” he said. “Bledsoe looked like the man I could use to get you the clearance you needed to join us at Pax per Fidem. That whole clearance thing was the American government’s doing, of course: They didn’t want anybody involved with Silent Thunder who didn’t have maximum security clearance, and Bledsoe looked like somebody who could get it for you.” He shook his head gloomily. “Bad decision. I should’ve gone a different way. He’s been trouble ever since.”

His father said, “There’s no point talking about blame. The thing is, what can be done? Egypt really needs money.”

Myra was frowning. “Why do they have to listen to the World Bank? Why not just accept the space people’s offer?”

“Ah, my dear Myra,” the president said ruefully, “if only they could. The bank would have to retaliate—canceling funds it has the power to cancel, withholding grants it can withhold, and just slowing down everything else.” He shook his head. “Sadly, the Americans are not wrong about the effects of such an infusion of new capital; it would cause terrible problems in the international markets. It would bankrupt us here.”

He looked down. Seated cross-legged on the floor next to him, Natasha Subramanian was giving signs of distress. “Did you want to say something, my dear?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” she confessed. “I mean, why is Egypt poor? I thought the high dam at Aswân made them rich.”

The president smiled, sadly. “A good many people thought that. Aswân can produce a great deal of electric power, but it can’t do two things at once. When it’s maxing the power production, it is cutting power from agriculture, and they need food even more.” He shook his head. “The money could do wonders for Egypt. Build hundreds of new power plants, for instance.”

“Why can’t they do that anyway?” Natasha asked.

The president gave her a tolerant look. “They’d love to,” he said. “They can’t. They don’t have the money. They haven’t had it for a long time. So the only way they’ve been able to build new plants is what they call the BOOT scheme—build, own, operate, transfer. Private industry pays for building the plants, and it owns them, collecting all the profits, for a period of years before transferring them to the state. But by then they’re pretty elderly plants and maybe not quite as safe as they should be.” He shook his head again. “All this,” he added, “is what my old friend Hameed told me in confidence. It would be unpleasant for him if the Americans found out he told me about it.”

Natasha sighed. “So, what can we do, then?”

She got an answer from an unexpected source. Robert looked up from his work screen. “’Olden ’Ule,” he said reprovingly.

Nigel De Saram gave him an affectionate look. “You could be right about that, Robert,” he said.

Gamini Bandara frowned. “What’s he right about?”

“Why, the Golden Rule. You know, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ That’s the simplest description of a benevolent world I know, and if everybody did it—us, the Americans, the space aliens, everyone—I’m sure a good many problems would simply vanish.”

Gamini looked doubtfully at his father’s old friend. “No disrespect, sir, but do you really think these One Point Fives are going to be moved by an ancient saying from some primitive people’s supersti—some people’s religion, I mean?”

“Oh, but I do,” the lawyer said firmly. “That Golden Rule is not just a religious notion. Others have said the same thing in other words, without invoking supernatural authority. There was Immanuel Kant, the pure reason man, for example. What he said was—” De Saram closed his eyes for a moment, then repeated the well-learned sentences: “‘Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law.’ Isn’t that Robert’s Golden Rule, exactly? What Kant called it was his ‘categorical imperative.’ By that he meant that it was what every human being—and, I guess, every space alien, too, if Kant had ever let himself imagine such things—should establish as his basic rule of behavior, with no exceptions.” He tousled Robert’s hair affectionately. “Now, Robert,” he said, “all you have to do is get your father to prove that particular theorem and the world will become a better place.” He glanced across the room to where Ranjit had placed himself before the screen that displayed the One Point Fives’ multitudinous activities. “Care to try it, Ranjit?” he called.

When Ranjit looked up at last, the expression on his face was seraphic, but he wasn’t looking at Nigel De Saram. “Gamini,” he said, “do you remember when, years and years ago, you and I were discussing something from a lecture I’d wandered into? About an idea the Israelis had—they called it a hydro-solar project—for generating power at the Dead Sea?”

Gamini took no more than half a second to search his ancient memories. “No,” he said. “What are you talking about?”

“I finally figured out why the One Point Fives might be digging that tunnel!” Ranjit said triumphantly. “Perhaps they’re building a power plant! All right, the Americans won’t let the aliens give the Egyptians all that money, but the Americans can’t object to the aliens’ sharing some of the electrical power the Egyptians really need!”

Since important decisions were to be made, some eighteen or twenty of the visitors from space were crowded together—Nine-Limbeds and One Point Fives alike, even including a couple of the Machine-Stored who were the armada’s pilots. The place they were in had once been the equivalent of an admiral’s bridge for the One Point Fives’ invading armada. Now it was the approximate equivalent of a Kremlin or an Oval Office. The crowding was distasteful to the One Point Fives, since most of them were wearing only the minimal protective garb and thus were more exposed than ever before to the sounds, sights, and smells of all these others.

Of all the One Point Fives, the one least happy with all those unwanted sensory inputs was the one charged with keeping them out of trouble. Her official title was “Identifier of Undesirable Outcomes,” but she was usually called just “Worrier.” Actually, what Worrier disliked most of all was being compelled to sit through a lecture on antique human technology as delivered by the chief arbitrator of the Nine-Limbeds. When you came right down to it, Worrier didn’t really care for Nine-Limbeds in any relationship, especially one that might involve touching their nasty little ninth limbs. But sometimes she had no choice.

The bit of human gadget-building they were now being taught was quite important to the humans. Actually, it was not uningenious, Worrier admitted to herself. Water would come from the sea, drop to the floor of Qattara, and there turn turbines to generate electricity. “And this electricity,” Worrier said to the speaker for the Nine-Limbeds, “is what these creatures want?”