Arthur C. Clarke - Childhoods end

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The opinions expressed in this book are not those of the author

Pirst published 1954 by Sidgwick & Jackson Ltd

This edition published 1956 by Pan Books Ltd,

Cavaye Place, London swio 9P0

23th printing 1979

ISBN 0 330 10573 6

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press) LW, Bungay, Suffolk

Thisbookis sold subiect to the condition that it shailnot, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,

re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of

binding or cover other than that in which It Is published and without s similar conditionincluding

this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchsser

EARTH AND THE OVERLORDS

THE volcano that had reared Taratua up from the Pacific depths had been sleeping now for half a

million years. Yet in a little while, thought Reinhold, the island would be bathed with fires

fiercer than any that had attended its birth. He glanced towards the launching site, and his gaze

dimbed the pyramid of scaffolding that still surrounded the Columbus. Two hundred feet above the

ground, the ship's prow was catching the last rays of the descending sun. This was one of the last

nights it would ever know: soon it would be floating in the eternal sunahine of space.

It was quiet here beneath the palms, high up on the rocky spine of the island. The only sound from

the Project was the occasional yammering of an air compressor or the faint shout of a workman.

Reinhold had grown fond of these clustered palms; almost every evening he had come here to survey

his little empire. It saddened him to think that they would be blasted to atoms when the Columbus

rose in flame and fury to the stars.

A mile beyond the reef, the James Forrestal had switched on her searchlights and was sweeping the

dark waters. The sun had now vanished completely, and the swift tropical night was racing In from

the east. Reinhold wondered, a little sardonically, if the carrier expected to find Russian

submarines so close to shore.

The thought of Russia turned his mind, as it always did, to Konrad, and that morning in the

cataclysmic spring of 1945. More than thirty years had passed, but the memory of those last days

when the Reich was crumbling beneath the waves from the East and from the West had never faded. He

could still see Konrad's tired blue eyes, and the golden stubble on his chin, as they shook hands

and parted in that ruined Prussian village, while the refugees streamed endlessly past. It was

a parting that symbolized everything that had since happened to the world-the cleavage between

East and West. For Konrad chose the road to Moscow. Reinhold had thought him a fool, but now he

was not so sure.

For thirty years he had assumed that Konrad was dead. It was only a week ago that Colonel

Sandmeyer, of Technical Intelligence, had given him the news. He didn't like Sand-meyer, and he

was sure the feeling was mutual. But neither let that interfere with business.

"Mr. Hoffmann," the Colonel had begun, in his best official manner, "I've just had some alarming

information from Washington. It's top secret, of course, but we've decided to break it to the

engineering staff so that they'll realize the necessity fbr speed." He paused for effect, but the

gesture was wasted on Reinhold. Somehow, he already knew what was coming.

"The Russians are nearly level with us. They've got some kind of atomic drive-it may even be more

efficient than ours, and they're building a ship on the shores of Lake Baikal. We don't know how

far they've got, but Intelligence believe it may be launched this year. You know what that means."

Yes, thought Reinhold, I know. The race is on-and we may not win it.

"Do you know who's running their team?" he had asked, not really expecting an answer. To his

surprise, Colonel Sand-meyer had pushed across a typewritten sheet-and there at its head was the

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name: Konrad Schneider.

"You knew a lot of these men at PeenemOnde, didn't you?" said the Colonel. "That may give us some

insight into their methods. I'd like you to let me have notes on as many of them as you can-their

specialities, the bright ideas they had, and so on. I know it's asking a lot after all this time-

but see what you can do."

"Konrad Schneider is the only one who matters," Reinhold had answered. "He was brilliant-the

others are just competent engineers. Heaven only knows what he's done in thirty years. Remember-

he's probably seen all our results and we haven't any of his. That gives him a decided advantage."

He hadn't meant this as a criticism of Intelligence, but for a moment is seemed as if Sandmeyer

was going to be offended. Then the Colonel shrugged his shoulders.

"It works both ways-you've told me that yourself. Our free exchange of information means swifter

progress, even if

we do give away a few secrets. The Russian research departments probably don't know what their own

people are doing half the time. We'll show them that Democracy can get to the moon first."

Democracy-Nuts! thought Reinhold, but knew better than to say it. One Konrad Schneider was worth a

million names on an electoral roll. And what had Konrad done by this time, with all the resources

of the U.S.S.R. behind him? Perhaps, even now, his ship was already outward bound from Earth....

The sun which had deserted Taratua was still high above Lake Baikal when Konrad Schneider and the

Assistant Commissar for Nuclear Science walked slowly back from the motor test rig. Their ears

were still throbbing painfully, though the last thunderous echoes had died out across the lake ten

minutes before.

"Why the long face?" asked Grigorievitch suddenly. "You should be happy now. In another month

we'll be on our way, and the Yankees will be choking themselves with rage."

"You're an optimist, as usual," said Schneider. "Even though the motor works, it's not as easy as

that. True, I can't see any serious obstacles now-but I'm worried about the reports from Taratua.

I've told you how good Hoffmann is, and he's got billions of dollars behind him. Those photographs

of his ship aren't very clear, but it looks as if it's not far from completion. And we know he

tested his motor five weeks ago."

"Don't worry," laughed Grigorievitch. "They're the ones who are going to have the big surprise.

Remember-they don't know a thing about us."

Schneider wondered if that was true, but decided it was much safer to express no doubts. That

might start Grigorievitch's mind exploring far too many tortuous channels, and if there had been a

leak, he would find it hard enough to clear hiinself

The guard saluted as he reentered the administration buildmg. There were nearly as many soldiers

here, he thought grimly, as technicians. But that was how the Russians did things, and as long as

they kept out of his way he had no complaints. On the whole-with exasperating exceptions-events

bad turned out very much as he had hoped. Only the future could tell if he or Reinhold had made

the better choice.

He was already at work on his final report when the sound of shouting voices disturbed hint. For a

moment he sat motionless at his desk, wondering what conceivable event could have disturbed the

rigid discipline of the camp. Then he walked to the window-and for the first time in his life he

knew despair.

The stars were all around him as Reinhold descended the little hill. Out at sea, the Forrestal was

still sweeping the water with her fingers of light, while further along the beach the scaffolding

round the Columbus had transformed itself into an illuminated Christmas tree. Only the projecting

prow of the ship lay like a dark shadow across the stars.

A radio was blaring dance-music from the living quarters, and unconsciously Reinhold's feet

accelerated to the rhythm.

He had almost reached the narrow road along the edge of the sands when some premonition, some half-

glimpsed movement, made him stop. Puzzled, he glanced from land to sea and back again: it was some

little time before he thought of looking at the sky.

Then Reinhold Hoffmann knew, as did Konrad Schneider at this same moment, that he had lost his

race. And he knew that he had lost it, not by the few weeks or months that he had feared, but by

millennia. The huge and silent shadows driving across the stars, more miles above his head than he

dared to guess, were as far beyond his little Columbus as it surpassed the log canoes of

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paleolithic man. For a moment that seemed to last forever, Reinhold watched, as all the world was

watching, while the great ships descended in their overwhelming majesty-until at last he could

hear the faint scream of their passage through the thin air of the 8tratosphere.

He felt no regrets as the work of a lifetime was swept away. He had laboured to take men to the

stars, and in the moment of success the stars-the aloof, indifferent stars-had come to him. This

was the moment when history held its breath, and the present sheared asunder from the past as an

iceberg splits from its frozen, parent cliffs, and goes sailing out to sea in lonely pride. All

that the past ages had achieved was as nothbig now: only one thought echoed and re-echoed through

Reinhold's brain:

The human race was no longer alone.

Tii~ Secretary-General of the United Nations stood motionless by the great window, staring down at

the crawling traffic on 43rd Street. He sometimes wondered if it was a good thing for any man to

work at such an altitude above his fellow humans. Detachment was all very well, but it could

change so easily to indifference. Or was he merely trying to rationalize his dislike of

skyscrapers, still unabated after twenty years in New York?

He heard the door open behind him, but did not turn his head as Pieter van Ryberg came into the

room. There was the inevitable pause as Pieter looked disapprovingly at the thermostat, for it was

a standing joke that the Secretary-General liked living in an icebox. Stormgren waited until his

assistant joined hint at the window, then tore his gaze away from the familiar yet always

fascinating panorama below.

"They're late," he said. 'Wainwright should have been here five minutes ago."

"I've just heard from the police. He's got quite a procession with him, and it's snarled up the

traffic. He should be here any moment now."

Van Ryberg paused, then added abruptly, "Are you still sure it's a good idea to see him?"

"I'm afraid it's a little late to back out of it now. After all, I've agreed-though as you know it

was never my idea in the first place."

Stormgren had walked to his desk and was fidgeting with his famous uranium paperweight. He was not

nervous- merely undecided. He was also glad that Wainwright was late, for that would give him a

slight moral advantage when the interview opened. Such trivialities played a greater part in human

affairs than anyone who set much store on logic and reason might wish.

"Here they are!" said van Ryberg suddenly, pressing his face against the window. "They're coming

along the Avenue

-a good three thousand, I'd say."

Stormgren picked up his notebook and rejoined his assistant. Half a'mile away, a small but

determined crowd was moving slowly towards the Secretariat Building. It carried banners that were

indecipherable at this distance, but Stormgren knew

their message well enough. ~Presently he could hear, rising above the sound of the traffic, the

ominous rhythm of chanting voices. He felt a sudden wave of disgust sweep over him. Surely the

world had had enough of marching mobs and angry slogans!

The crowd had now come abreast of the building: it must know that he was watching, for here and

there fists were being shaken, rather self-consciously, in the air. They were not defying him,

though the gesture was doubtless meant for Stormgren to see. As pygmies may threaten a giant, so

those angry fists were directed against the sky fifty kilometres above his head-against the

gleaming silver cloud that was the flagship of the Overlord fleet.

And very probably, thought Stormgren, Karellen was watching the whole thing and enjoying himself

hugely, for this meeting would never have taken place except at the Supervisor's instigation.

This was the first time that Stormgren had ever met the head of the Freedom League. He had ceased

to wonder if the action was wise, for Kareilen's plans were often too subtle for merely human

understanding. At the worst, Stormgren did not see that any positive harm could be done. If he had

refused to see Wainwright, the L~ague would have used the fact as ammunition against him.

Alexander Wainwright was a tall, handsome man in the late forties. He was, Stormgren knew,

completely honest, and therefore doubly dangerous. Yet his obvious sincerity made it hard to

dislike him, whatever views one might have about the cause for which he stood-and some of the

followers he had attracted.

Stormgren wasted no time after van Ryberg's brief and somewhat strained introductions.

"I suppose," he began, "the chief object of your visit is to register a formal protest against the

Federation Scheme. Am I correct?"

Wainwright nodded gravely.

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"That is my main protest, Mr. Secretary. As you know, for the last five years we have tried to

awaken the human race to the danger that confronts it. The task has been a difficult one, for the

majority of people seem content to let the Overlords run the world as they please. Nevertheless,

more than five million patriots, in every country, have signed our petition."

"That is not a very impressive figure out of two and a half billion."

"It is a figure that cannot be ignored. And for every person who has signed, there are many who

feel grave doubts about the wisdom, not to mention the rightness of this Federation plan. Even

Supervisor Karellen, for all his powers, cannot wipe out a thousand years of history at the stroke

of a pen."

"What does anyone know of Karellen's powers?" retorted Stormgren. "When I was a boy, the

Federation of Europe was a dream-but when I grew to manhood it had become reality. And that was

before the arrival of the Overlords. Kardlen is merely finishing the work we had begun."

"Europe was a cultural and geographical entity. The world is not-that is the difference."

"To the Overlords," replied Stormgren sarcastically, "the Earth is probably a great deal smaller

than Europe seemed to our fathers-and their outlook, I submit, is more mature than ours."

"I do not necessarily quarrel with Federation as an ulti mate objective-though many of my

supporters might not agree. But it must come from within-not be superimposed from without. We must

work out our own destiny. There must be no more interference in human affairs!"

Stormgren sighed. All this he had heard a hundred times before, and he knew that he could only

give the old answer that the Freedom League had refused to accept. He had faith in Karellen, and

they had not. That was the fundamental difference, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Luckily, there was nothing that the Freedom League could do, either.

"Let me ask you a few questions," he said. "Can you deny that the Overlords have brought security,

peace and prosperity to the world?"

"That is true. But they have taken our liberty. Man does not live-"

"-by bread alone. Yes, I know-but this is the first age in which every man was sure of getting

even that. In any case, what freedom have we lost compared with that which the Overlords have

given us for the first time in human history?"

"Freedom to control our own lives, under God's guidance." At last, thought Stormgren, we've got to

the point. Basically, the conflict is a religious one, however much it may be

disguised. Wainwright never let you forget he was a dergyman. Though he no longer wore a derical

collar, somehow one always got the impression it was still there.

"Last month," pointed out Stormgren, "a hundred bishops, cardinals and rabbis signed a joint

declaration pledging their support for the Supervisor's policy. The world'sreigions are against

you."

Wainwright shook his head in angry deniaL

"Many of the leaders are blind: they have been corrupted by the Overlords. When they realize the

danger, it may be too late. Hinmrnity will have lost its initiative and become a subject race."

There was silence for a moment. Then Stormgren replied:

"In three days I will be meeting the Supervisor again. I will explain your objections to him,

since it is my duty to represent the views of the world. But it will alter nothing-I can assure

you of that."

"There is one other point," said Wainwright slowly. "We have many objections to the Overlords-but

above all we detest their secretiveness. You are the only human being who has ever spoken with

Karellen, and even you have never seen him! Is it surprising that we doubt his motives?"

"Despite all that he has done for humanity?"

"Yes-despite that. I do not know which we resent more- Karellen's omnipotence, or his secrecy. If

he has nothing to hide, why will he never reveal himself? Next time you speak with the Supervisor,

Mr. Stormgren, ask him that!"

Stormgren was silent. There was nothing he could say to this-nothing, at any rate, that would

convince the other. He sometimes wondered if he had really convinced himself.

It was, of course, only a very small operation from their point of view, but to Earth it was the

biggest thing that had ever happened. There had been no warning when the great ships came pouring

out of the unknown depths of space.

Countless times this day had been described in fiction, but no-one had really believed that it

would ever come. Now it had dawned at last: the gleaming, silent shapes hanging over every land

were the symbol of a science Man could not hope to match for centuries. For six days they floated

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motionless above his cities, giving no hint they knew of his existence.

But none was needed: not by chance alone could those mighty

ships have come to rest so precisely over New York, London, Paris, Moscow, Rome, Cape Town, Tokyo,

Canberra....

Even before the ending of those heart-freezing days, some men had guessed the truth. This was not

the first tentative contact by a race which knew nothing of man. Within those silent, unmoving

ships, master psychologists were studying humanity's reactions. When the curve of tension had

reached its peak, they would act.

A.nd on the sixth day Karellen, Supervisor for Earth, made himself known to the world in a

broadcast that blanketed every radio frequency. He spoke in English so perfect that the

controversy it began was to rage across the Atlantic for a generation. But the context of the

speech was more staggering even than its delivery. By any standards, it was a work of superlative

genius, showing a complete and absolute mastery of human affairs. There could be no doubt that its

scholarship and virtuosity, its tantali7ing glimpses of knowledge still untapped were deliberately

designed to convince mankind that it was in the presence of overwhelming intellectual power. When

Karellen had finished, the nations of Earth knew that their days of precarious sovereignty had

ended. Local, internal governments would still retain their powers, but in the wider field of

international affairs the supreme decisions had passed from human hands. Arguments-protests-all

were futile.

It was hardly to be expected that all the nations of the world would submit tamely to such a

limitation of their powers. Yet active resistance presented baffling difficulties, for the

destruction of the Overlords' ships, even if it could be achieved, would annihilate the cities

beneath them. Nevertheless, one major power had made the attempt. Perhaps those responsible hoped

to kill two birds with one atomic missile, for their target was floating above the capital of an

adjoining and unfriendly nation.

As the great ship's image had expanded on the television screen in the secret control room, the

little group of officers and technicians must have been torn by many emotions. If they succeeded-

what action would the remaining ships take?

Could they also be destroyed, leaving humanity to go its own way once more? Or would Kardllen

wreak some frightful vengeance upon those who had attacked him?

The screen became suddenly blank as the missile destroyed

itself on impact, and the picture switched immediately to an airborne camera many miles away. In

the fraction of a second that had elapsed, the fireball should already have formed and should be

filling the sky with its solar flame.

Yet nothing whatsoever had happened. The great ship floated unharmed, bathed in the raw sunlight

at the edge of space. Not only had the bomb failed to touch it, but no-one could ever decide what

had happened to the missile. Moreover, Karellen took no action against those responsible, or~ even

indicated that he had known of the attack. He ignored them contemptuously, leaving them to worry

over a vengeance that never came. It was a more effective, and more demoralizing, treatment than

any punitive action could have been. The government responsible collapsed completely in mutual

recrimination a few weeks later.

There had also been some passive resistance to the policy of the Overlords. Usually, Karellen had

been able to deal with it by letting those concerned have their own way, until they had discovered

that they were only hurting themselves by their refusal to co-operate. Only once had he taken any

direct action against a recalcitrant government.

For more than a hundred years, the Republic of South Africa had been the centre of social strife.

Men of good will on both sides had tried to build a bridge, but in vain-fears and prejudices were

too deeply ingrained to permit any cooperation. Successive governments had differed only by the

degree of their intolerance; the land was poisoned with hate and the aftermath of civil war.

When it became clear that no attempt would be made to end discrimination, K.arellen gave his

warning. It merely named a date and time-no more. There was apprehension, but little fear or

panic, for no-one believed that the Overlords would take any violent or destructive action which

would involve innocent and guilty alike.

Nor did they. All that happened was that as the sun passed the meridian at Cape Town-it went out.

There remained visible merely a pale, purple ghost, giving no heat or light. Somehow, out in

space, the light of the sun had been polarized by two crossed fields so that no radiation could

pass. The area affected was five hundred kilometres across, and perfectly circular.

The demonstration lasted thirty minutes. It was sufficient:

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the next day the Government of South Africa announced that full civil rights would be restored to

the white minority.

Apart from such isolated incidents, the human race had accepted the Overlords as part of the

natural order of things. In a surprisingly short time, the initial shock had worn off, and the

world went about its business again. The greatest change a suddenly awakened Rip Van Winkle would

have noticed was a hushed expectancy, a mental glancing-over-the-shoulder, as mankind waited for

the Overlords to show themselves and to step down from their gleaming ships.

Five years later, it was still waiting. That, thought Stormgren, was the cause of all the trouble.

There was the usual circle of sightseers, cameras at the ready, as Stormgren's car drove on to the

launching-field. The Secretary-General exchanged a few final words with his assistant, collected

his brief-case, and walked through the ring of spectators.

Karellen never kept him waiting for long. There was a sudden "Oh!" from the crowd, and a silver

bubble expanded with breathtaking speed in the sky above. A gust of air tore at Stormgren's

clothes as the tiny ship came to rest fifty metres away, floating delicately a few centimetres

above the ground, as if it feared contamination with Earth. As he walked slowly forward, Stormgren

saw that familiar puckering of the seamless metallic hull, and in a moment the opening that had so

baffled the world's best scientists appeared before him. He stepped through it into the ship's

single, softly-lit room. The entrance sealed itself as if it had never been, shutting out all

sound and sight.

It opened again five minutes later. There had been no sensation of movement, but Stormgren knew

that he was now fifty kilometres above the Earth, deep in the heart of Karellen's ship. Be was in

the world of the Overlords: all around him, they were going about their mysterious business. He

had come nearer to them than had any other man: yet he knew no more of their physical nature than

did any of the millions on the world below.

The little conference room at the end of the short connecting corridor was unfurnished apart from

the single chair and the table beneath the vision screen. As was intended, it told

absolutely nothing of the creatures who had built it. The vision screen was empty now, as it had

always been. Sometimes in his dreams Stormgren had imagined that it had suddenly flashed into

life, revealing the secret that tormented all the world. But the dream had never come true: behind

that rectangle of darkness lay utter mystery. Yet there also lay power and wisdom, an immense and

tolerant understanding of mankind-and, most unexpected of all, a humorous affection fbr the little

creatures crawling on the planet beneath.

From the hidden grille came that calm, never-hurried voice that Stormgren knew so well though the

world had heard it only once in history. Its depth and resonance gave the single clue that existed

in Karellen's physical nature, fbr it left an overwhelming impression of sheer size. Karellen was

large- perhaps much larger than a man. It was true that some scientists, after analyzing the

record of his only speech, had suggested that the voice was that of a machine~ This was something

that Stormgren could never believe.

"Yes, Rikki, I was listening to your little interview. What did you make of Mr. Wainwright?"

"He's an honest man, even if many of his supporters aren't. What are we going to do about him? The

League itself isn't dangerous-but some of its extremists are openly advocating violence. I've been

wondering if I should put a guard on my house. But I hope it isn't necessary."

Kardlien evaded the point in the annoying way he sometimes had.

"The details of the World Federation have been out for a month now. Has there been a substantial

increase in the seven per cent who don't approve of me-or the twelve per cent who Don't Know?"

"Not yet. But that's of no importance: what does worry me is a general feeling, even among your

supporters, that it's time this secrecy came to an end."

Karellen's sigh was technically perfect, yet somehow lacked conviction.

"That's your feeling too, isn't it?"

The question was so rhetorical that Stormgren did not bother to answer it.

"I wonder if you really appreciate," he continued earnestly, "how difficult this state of affairs

makes my job?"

"It doesn't exactly help mine," replied Karellen with some

spirit. "I wish people would stop thinking of me as a dictator, and remember I'm only a civil

servant trying to administer a colonial policy in whose shaping I had no hand."

That, thought Stormgren, was quite an engaging description. He wondered just how much truth it

held.

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"Can't you at least give us some reason for your concealment? Because we don't understand it, it

annoys us and gives rise to endless rumours."

Karellen gave that rich, deep laugh of his, just too resonant, to be altogether human.

"What am I supposed to be now? Does the robot theory still hold the field? I'd rather be a mass of

electron tubes than a thing like a centipede-oh yes, I've seen that cartoon in yesterday's Chicago

Times! I'm thinking of requesting the original."

Stormgren pursed his lips primly. There were times, he thought, when Karellen took his duties too

lightly.

"This is serious," he said reprovingly.

"My dear Rikki," Karellen retorted, "it's only by not taking the human race seriously that I

retain what fragments of my once considerable mental powers I still possess!"

Despite himself Stormgren smiled.

"That doesn't help me a great deal, does it? I have to go down there and convince my fellow men

that although you won't show yourself, you've got nothing to hide. It's not an easy job. Curiosity

is one of the most dominant of human characteristics. You can't defy it forever."

"Of all the problems that faced us when we came to Earth, this was the most difficult," admitted

Karellen. "You have trusted our wisdom in other matters-surely you can trust us in this!"

"I trust you," said Stormgren, "but Wainwright doesn't, nor do his supporters. Can you really

blame them if they put a bad interpretation on your unwillingness to show yourselves?"

There was silence for a moment. Then Stormgren heard that faint sound (was it a crackling?) that

might have been caused by the Supervisor moving his body slightly.

"You know why Wainwright and his type fear me, don't you?" asked Karellen. His voice was sombre

now, like a great organ rolling its notes from a high cathedral nave. "You will find men like him

in all the world's religions. They know that we represent reason and science, and however

confident they may

be in their beliefS, they fear that we will overthrow their gods.

Not necessarily through any deliberate act, but in a subtler fashion. Science can destroy religion

by ignoring it as well as by disproving its tenets. No-one ever demonstrated, so far as I am

aware, the non-existence of Zeus or Thor-but they have few followers now. The Wainwrights fear,

too, that we know the truth about the origins of their faiths. How long, they wonder, have we been

observing humanity? Have we watched Mohammed begin the Hegira, or Moses giving the Jews their

laws? Do we know all that is false in the stories they believe?"

"And do you?" whispered Stormgren, half to himselL

"That, Rikki, is the fear that torments them, even though they will never admit it openly. Believe

me, it gives us no pleasure to destroy men's faiths, but all the world's religions cannot be right-

and they know it. Sooner or later man has to learn the truth: but that time is not yet. As for our

secrecy, which you are correct in saying aggravates our problems- that is a matter beyond our

control. I regret the need for this concealment as much as you do, but the reasons are sufficient.

However, I will try and get a statement from my-superiors- which may satisfy you and perhaps

placate the Freedom League. Now, please, can we return to the agenda and start recording again?"

"Well?" asked van Ryberg anxiously. "Did you have any luck?"

"I don't know," Stormgren replied wearily as he threw the files down on his desk and collapsed

into the seat. "Karellen's consulting his superiors now, whoever or whatever they may be. He won't

make any promises."

"Listen," said Pieter abruptly, "I've just thought of something. What reason have we for believing

that there is anyone beyond Karellen? Suppose all the Overlords, as we've christened them, are

right here on Earth in these ships of theirs?

They may have nowhere else to go, but they're hiding the fact

from us."

"It's an ingenious theory," grinned Stormgren. "But It clashes with what little I know-or think I

know-about Karellen's background."

"And how much Is that?"

"Well, he often refers to his position here as something

temporary, hindering him from getting on with his real work, which I think is some form of

mathematics. Once I mentioned Acton's quotation about power corrupting, and absolute power

corrupting absolutely. I wanted to see how he'd react to that. He gave that cavernous laugh of

his, and said: 'There's no danger of that happening to me. In the first case, the sooner I finish

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my work here, the sooner I can get back to where I belong, a good many light-years from here. And

secondly, I don't have absolute power, by any means. I'm just-Supervisor.' Of course, he may have

been misleading me. I can never be sure of that."

"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 façade."

"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 ot 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 bad taken the United Nations Organization as they found it, given

instructions for installing the necessary radio equipment, and issued their orders through the

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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 befbre 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.

STORMOREN was sleeping badly these nights, which was strange, since soon he would be putting aside

the cares of ofilce 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 manyof 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.

Only in the last few days had he dared to admit that the Overlords' secretiveness was beginning to

obsess him. Until recently, his faith in Karellen had kept him free from doubts; but now, he

thought a little wryly, the protests of the Freedom League were beginning to have their effect

upon him. It was true that the propaganda about Man's enslavement was no

more than propaganda. Few people seriously believed it, or really wished for a return to the old

days. Men had grown accustomed to Karellen's imperceptible rule-but they were becoming impatient

to know who ruled them. And how could they be blamed?

Though it was much the largest, the Freedom League was only one of the organizations that opposed

Karellen-and, consequently, the humans who co-operated with the Overlords. The objçctions and

policies of these groups varied enormously:

some took the religious viewpoint, while others were merely expressing a sense of inferiority.

They felt, with good reason, much as a cultured Indian of the nineteenth century must have done as

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he contemplated the British Raj. The invaders had brought peace and prosperity to Earth-but who

knew what the cost might be? History was not reassuring: even the most peaceable of contacts

between races at very different cultural levels had often resulted in the obliteration of the more

backward society. Nations, as well as individuals, could lose their spirit when confronted by a

challenge which they could not meet. And the civilization of the Overlords, veiled in mystery

though it might be, was the greatest challenge Man had ever faced.

There was a faint click from the facsimile machine in the adjoining room as it ejected the hourly,

summary sent out by Central News. Stormgren wandered indoors and ruffled halfheartedly through the

sheets. On the other side of the world, the Freedom League had inspired a not-very-original

headline.

"IS MAN RULED BY MONSTERS?" asked the paper, and went on to quote: "Addressing a meeting in Madras

today, Dr. C. V.

Krishnan, President of the Eastern Division of the Freedom League, said: 'The explanation of the

Overlords' behaviour Is quiet simple: Their physical form is so alien and repulsive that they dare

not show themselves to humanity. I challenge the Supervisor to deny this."

Stormgren threw down the sheet in disgust. Even if the charge were true, did it really matter? The

idea was an old one, but it had never worried him. He did not believe that there was my biological

form, however strange, which he could not accept Lii time and, perhaps, even find beautiful. The

mind, not the body, was all that mattered. If only he could convince Karellen of this, the

Overlords might change their policy. It was certain that they could not be half as hideous as the

imaginative drawings that had filled the papers soon after their coming to Earth!

Yet it was not, Stormgren knew, entirely consideration for his successor that made him anxious to

see the end of this state of affairs. He was honest enough to admit that, in the final analysis,

his, main motive was simple human curiosity. He bad grown to know Karellen as a person, and he

would never be satisfied until he had also discovered what kind of creature he might be.

When Stormgren fIiiled to arrive at his usual time next morning, Pieter van Ryberg was surprised

and a little annoyed. Though the Secretary General often made a number of calls before reaching

his own office, he invariably left word that he was doing so. This morning, to make matters worse,

there had been several urgent messages for Stormgren. Van Ryberg rang haIfa dozen departments to

try and locate him, then gave it up in disgust.

By noon he had become alarmed and sent a car to Stormgren's house. Ten minutes later he was

startled by the scream of a siren, and a police patrol came racing up Roosevelt Drive. The news

agencies must have had friends in that vehicle, for even as van Ryberg watched it approach, the

radio was telling the world that he was no longer merely Assistant-but Acting-Secretary-General of

the United Nations.

Had van Ryberg fewer troubles on his hands, he would have found it entertaining to study the Press

reactions to Stormgren's disappearance. For the past month, the world's papers had divided

themselves into two sharply defined groups. The Western press, on the whole, approved of

Kar~llen's plan to 'make all men citizens of the world. The Eastern countries, on the other hand,

were undergoing violent but largely synthetic spasms of national pride. Some of them had been

independent for little more than a generation, and felt that they bad been cheated out of their

gains. Criticism of the Overlords was widespread and energetic: after an initial period of extreme

caution, the Press had quickly found that it could be as rude to Karellen as it liked and nothing

would happen.

Now it was excelling itself.

Most of these attacks, though very vocal, were not representative of the great mass of the people.

Along the frontiers that would soon be gone forever the guards had been doubled

-but the soldiers eyed each other with a still inarticulate friendliness. The politicians and the

generals might storm and rave, but the silently waiting millions felt that, none too soon, a long

and bloody chapter of history was coming to an end.

And now Stormgren had gone, no-one knew where. The tumult suddenly subsided as the world realized

that it had lost the only man through whom the Overlords, for their own strange reasons, would

speak to Earth. A paralysis seemed to descend upon the press and radio commentators: but in the

silence could be heard the voice of the Freedom League, anxiously protesting its innocence.

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file:///F|/rah/Arthur%20C.%20Clarke/Childhoods%20End.txtTheopinionsexpressedinthisbookarenotthoseoftheauthorPirstpublished1954bySidgwick&JacksonLtdThiseditionpublished1956byPanBooksLtd,CavayePlace,Londonswio9P023thprinting1979AllrightsreservedISBN0330105736PrintedandboundinGreatBritainbyRichardClay(...

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