Arthur Clarke: Childhood’s End

“He’s immortal isn’t he?”

“Yes, by our standards, though there’s something in the future he seems to fear: I can’t imagine what it is. And that’s really all I know about him.”

“It isn’t very conclusive. My theory is that his little fleet’s lost in space and is looking for a new home. He doesn’t want us to know how few he and his comrades are. Perhaps all those other ships are automatic, and there’s no one in any of them. They’re just an imposing facade.”

“You,” said Stormgren, “have been reading too much science-fiction.” Van Ryberg grinned, a little sheepishly.

“The Invasion From Space’ didn’t turn out quite as expected, did it? My theory would certainly explain why Karellen never shows himself. He doesn’t want us to learn that there aren’t any more Overlords.”

Stormgren shook his head in amused disagreement.

“Your explanation, as usual, is much too ingenious to be true. Though we can only infer its existence, there must be a great civilization behind the Supervisor — and one that’s known about man for a very long time. Karellen himself must have been studying us for centuries. Look at his command of English, for example. He taught me how to speak it idiomatically!”

“Have you ever discovered anything he doesn’t know?”

“Oh yes, quite often — but only on trivial points. I think he has an absolutely perfect memory, but there are some things he hasn’t bothered to learn. For instance, English is the only language he understands completely, though in the last two years he’s picked up a good deal of Finnish just to tease me. And one doesn’t learn Finnish in a hurry! He can quote great slabs of the Kalevala, whereas I’m ashamed to say I know only a few lines. He also knows the biographies of all living statesmen, and sometimes I can identify the references he’s used. His knowledge of history and science seems complete — you know how much we’ve already learned from him. Yet, taken one at a time, I don’t think his mental gifts are quite outside the range of human achievement. But no man could possibly do all the things he does.”

“That’s more or less what I’ve decided already,” agreed van Ryberg. “We can argue round Karellen forever, but in the end we always come back to the same question: Why the devil won’t he show himself? Until he does, I’ll go on theorizing and the Freedom League will go on fulminating.” He cocked a rebellious eye at the ceiling.

“One dark night, Mr. Supervisor, I hope some reporter takes a rocket up to your ship and climbs in through the back-door with a camera. What a scoop that would be!”

If Karellen was listening, be gave no sign. But, of course, he never did. In the first year of their coming, the advent of the Overlords had made less difference to the pattern of human life than might have been expected. Their shadow was everywhere, but it was an unobtrusive shadow. Though there were few great cities on Earth where men could not see one of the silver ships glittering against the zenith, after a little while they were taken as much for granted as the sun, moon or clouds. Most men were probably only dimly aware that their steadily rising standards of living were due to the Overlords. When they stopped to think of it — which was seldom — they realized that those silent ships had brought peace to all the world for the first time in history, and were duly grateful.

But these were negative and unspectacular benefits, accepted and soon forgotten. The Overlords remained aloof, hiding their faces from mankind. Karellen could command respect and admiration; he could win nothing deeper so long as he pursued his present policy. It was hard not to feel resentment against these Olympians who spoke to man only over the radio-teleprinter circuits at United Nations Headquarters. What took place between Karellen and Stormgren was never publicly revealed, and sometimes Stormgren himself wondered why the Supervisor found these interviews necessary. Perhaps he felt the need of direct contact with one human being at least; perhaps he realized that Stormgren needed this form of personal support If this was the explanation, the Secretary-General appreciated it; he did not mind if the Freedom League referred to him contemptuously as “Karellen’s office-boy”.

The Overlords had never had any dealings with individual states and governments. They had taken the United Nations Organization as they found it, given instructions for installing the necessary radio equipment, and issued their orders through the mouth of the Secretary-General. The Soviet delegate had quite correctly pointed out, at considerable length and upon innumerable occasions, that this was not in accordance with the Charter. Karellen did not seem to worry.

It was amazing that so many abuses, follies and evils could be dispelled by those messages from the sky. With the arrival of the Overlords, nations knew that they need no longer fear each other, and they guessed — even before the experiment was made — that their existing weapons were certainly impotent against a civilization that could bridge the stars. So at once the greatest single obstacle to the happiness of mankind had been removed.

The Overlords seemed largely indifferent to forms of government, provided that they were not oppressive or corrupt. Earth still possessed democracies, monarchies, benevolent dictatorships, communism and capitalism. This was a source of great surprise to many simple souls who were quite convinced that theirs was the only possible way of life. Others believed that Karellen was merely waiting to introduce a system that would sweep away all existing forms of society, and so had not bothered with minor political reforms. But this, like all other speculations concerning the Overlords, was pure guesswork. No one knew their motives; and no one knew towards what future they were shepherding mankind.

Stormgren was sleeping badly these nights, which was strange, since soon he would be putting aside the cares of office forever. He had served mankind for forty years, and its masters for five, and few men could look back upon a life that had seen so many of its ambitions achieved. Perhaps that was the trouble: in the years of retirement, however many they might be, he would have no further goals to give any zest to life. Since Martha had died and the children had established their own families, his ties with the world seemed to have weakened. It might be, too, that he was beginning to identify himself with the Overlords, and thus become detached from humanity.

This was another of those restless nights when his brain went on turning like a machine whose governor had failed. He knew better than to woo sleep any further, and reluctantly climbed out of bed. Throwing on his dressing-gown, he strolled out on to the roof garden of his modest flat. There was not one of his direct subordinates who did not possess much more luxurious quarters, but this place was ample for Stormgren’s needs. He had reached the position where neither personal possessions nor official ceremony could add anything to his stature. The night was warm, almost oppressive, but the sky was clear and a brilliant moon hung low in the south-west. Ten kilometres away, the lights of New York glowed on the skyline like a dawn frozen in the act of breaking.

Stormgren raised his eyes above the sleeping city, climbing again the heights that he alone of living men had scaled. Far away though it was, he could see the hull of Karellen’s ship glinting in the moonlight. He wondered what the Supervisor was doing, for he did not believe that the Overlords ever slept. High above, a meteor thrust its shining spear through the dome of the sky. The luminous trail glowed faintly for a while; then it died away, leaving only the stars. The reminder was brutal: in a hundred years, Karellen would still be leading mankind towards the goal that he alone could see, but four months from now another man would be Secretary-General. That in itself Stormgren was far from minding — but it meant that little time was left if he ever hoped to learn what lay behind that thickened screen.