Arthur Clarke: The Songs of Distant Earth

“It’s beautiful,” Mirissa said reverently. “I can understand why gold was so prized on Earth.”

“The gold is the least important part,” Kaldor answered, as he slid the gleaming bell out of its velvet-lined box. “Can you guess what this is?”

“It’s obviously a work of art. But it must be something much more for you to have carried it across fifty light-years.”

“You’re right, of course. It’s an exact model of a great temple, more than a hundred metres tall. Originally, there were seven of these caskets, all identical in shape, nesting one inside the other — this was the innermost, holding the Relic itself. It was given to me by some old and dear friends on my very last night on Earth. “All things are impermanent,” they reminded me. “But we have guarded this for more than four thousand years. Take it with you to the stars, with our blessings.”

“Even though I did not share their faith, how could I refuse so priceless an offering? And now I will leave it here, where men first came to this planet — another gift from Earth — perhaps the last.”

“Don’t say that,” Mirissa said. “You have left so many gifts — we will never be able to count them all.”

Kaldor smiled wistfully and did not answer for a moment as he let his eyes linger on the familiar view from the library window. He had been happy here, tracing the history of Thalassa and learning much that might be of priceless value when the new colony was started on Sagan 2.

Farewell, old Mother Ship, he thought. You did your work well. We still have far to go; may Magellan serve us as faithfully as you served the people we have grown to love.

“I’m sure my friends would have approved — I’ve done my duty. The Relic will be safer here, in the Museum of Earth, than aboard the ship. After all, we may never reach Sagan 2.”

“Of course you will. But you haven’t told me what’s inside this seventh casket.”

“It’s all that’s left of one of the greatest men who ever lived; he founded the only faith that never became stained with blood. I’m sure he would have been most amused to know that, forty centuries after his death, one of his teeth would be carried to the stars.”

Now was the time of transition, of farewells — of partings as deep as death. Yet for all the tears that were shed — on Thalassa as well as the ship — there was also a feeling of relief. Though things would never be quite the same again, life could now return to normal. The visitors were like guests who had slightly overstayed their welcome; it was time to go.

Even President Farradine now accepted this and had abandoned his dream of an interstellar Olympics. He had ample consolation; the freezing units at Mangrove Bay were being transferred to North Island, and the first skating rink on Thalassa would be ready in time for the Games. Whether any competitors would also be ready was another question, but many young Lassans were spending hours staring incredulously at some of the great performers of the past.

Meanwhile, everyone agreed that some farewell ceremony should be arranged to mark Magellan’s departure. Unfortunately, few could agree what form it should take. There were innumerable private parties — which put a considerable mental and physical strain on all concerned — but no official, public one.

Mayor Waldron, claiming priority on behalf of Tarna, felt that the ceremony should take place at First Landing. Edgar Farradine argued that the President’s Palace, despite its modest size, was more appropriate. Some wit suggested Krakan as a compromise, pointing out that its famous vineyards would be an appropriate place for the farewell toasts. The matter was still unresolved when the Thalassan Broadcasting Corporation — one of the planet’s more enterprising bureaucracies — quietly preempted the entire project.

The farewell concert was to be remembered, and replayed, for generations to come. There was no video to distract the senses — only music and the briefest of narration. The heritage of two thousand years was ransacked to recall the past and to give hope for the future. It was not only a Requiem but also a Berceuse.

It still seemed a miracle that after their art had reached technological perfection, composers of music could find anything new to say. For two thousand years, electronics had given them complete command over every sound audible to the human ear, and it might have been thought that all the possibilities of the medium had been long exhausted.

There had, indeed, been about a century of beepings and twitterings and electro-eructations before composers had mastered their now infinite powers and had once again successfully married technology and art. No one had ever surpassed Beethoven or Bach; but some had approached them.

To the legions of listeners, the concert was a reminder of things they had never known — things that belonged to Earth alone. The slow beat of mighty bells, climbing like invisible smoke from old cathedral spires; the chant of patient boatmen, in tongues now lost forever, rowing home against the tide in the last light of day; the songs of armies marching into battles that Time had robbed of all their pain and evil; the merged murmur of ten million voices as man’s greatest cities woke to meet the dawn; the cold dance of the aurora over endless seas of ice; the roar of mighty engines climbing upward on the highway to the stars. All these the listeners heard in the music that came out of the night — the songs of distant Earth, carried across the light-years…

For the concluding item, the producers had selected the last great work in the symphonic tradition. Written in the years when Thalassa had lost touch with Earth, it was totally new to the audience. Yet its oceanic theme made it peculiarly appropriate to this occasion — and its impact upon the listeners was everything the long-dead composer could have wished.

“… When I wrote “Lamentation for Atlantis”, almost thirty years ago, I had no specific images in mind; I was concerned only with emotional reactions, not explicit scenes; I wanted the music to convey a sense of mystery, of sadness — of overwhelming loss. I was not trying to paint a sound-portrait of ruined cities full of fish. But now something strange happens, whenever I hear the Lento lugubre — as I am doing in my mind at this very moment…

“It begins at Bar 136, when the series of chords descending to the organ’s lowest register first meets the soprano’s wordless aria, rising higher and higher out of the depths… You know, of course, that I based that theme on the songs of the great whales, those mighty minstrels of the sea with whom we made peace too late, too late… I wrote it for Olga Kondrashin, and no one else could ever sing those passages without electronic backing…

“When the vocal line begins, it’s as if I’m seeing something that really exists. I’m standing in a great city square almost as large as St Mark’s or St Peter’s. All around are half-ruined buildings, like Greek temples, and overturned statues draped with seaweeds, green fronds waving slowly back and forth. Everything is partly covered by a thick layer of silt.

“The square seems empty at first; then I notice something — disturbing. Don’t ask me why it’s always a surprise, why I’m always seeing it for the first time…

“There’s a low mound in the centre of the square, with a pattern of lines radiating from it. I wonder if they are ruined walls, partly buried in the silt. But the arrangement makes no sense; and then I see that the mound is — pulsing.

“And a moment later I notice two huge, unblinking eyes staring out at me.