Childhood's End - Arthur C. Clarke [61]
***
"The stars are not for Man." Yes, it would annoy them to have the celestial portals slammed in their faces. But they must learn to face the truth-or as much of the truth as could mercifully be given to them.
From the lonely heights of the stratosphere, Karellen looked lown upon the world and the people that had been given into his reluctant keeping. He thought of all that lay ahead, and what this world would be only a dozen years from now.
They would never know how lucky they had been. For a lifetime mankind had achieved as much happiness as any race can ever know. It had been the Golden Age. But gold was also the colour of sunset, of autumn; and only Karellen's ears could catch the first wailings of the winter storms.
And only Karellen knew with what inexorable swiftness the Golden Age was rushing to its close.
III
THE LAST GENERATION
Chapter 15
"Look at this!" exploded George Greggson, hurling the paper across at Jean. It came to rest, despite her efforts to intercept it, spread listlessly across the breakfast table. Jean patiently scraped away the jam and read the offending passage, doing her best to register disapproval. She was not very good at this, because all too often she agreed with the critics. Usually she kept these heretical opinions to herself; and not merely for the sake of peace and quiet. George was perfectly prepared to accept praise from her (or anyone else), but if she ventured any criticism of his work she would receive a crushing lecture on her artistic ignorance.
She read the review twice, then gave up. It appeared quite favourable, and she said so.
"He seemed to like the performance. What are you grumbling about?"
"This," snarled George, stubbing his finger at the middle of the column. "Just read it again."
" 'Particularly restful on the eyes were the delicate pastel greens of the background to the ballet sequence.' Well?"
"They weren't greens! I spent a lot of time getting that exact shade of blue! And what happens? Either some blasted engineer in the control room upsets the colour balance, or that idiot of a reviewer's got a cock-eyed set. Hey, what colour did it look on our receiver?"
"Er-I can't remember," confessed Jean. "The Poppet started squealing about then and I had to go and find what was wrong with her."
"Oh," said George, relapsing into a gently simmering quiescence. Jean knew that another eruption could be expected at any moment. When it came, however, it was fairly mild.
"I've invented a new definition for TV," he muttered gloomily. "I've decided it's a device for hindering communication between artist and audience."
"What do you want to do about it?" retorted Jean. "Go back to the live theatre?"
"And why not?" asked George. "That's exactly what I have been thinking about. You know that letter I received from the New Athens people? They've written to me again. This time I'm going to answer."
"Indeed?" said Jean, faintly alarmed. "I think they're a lot of cranks."
"Well, there's only one way to find out. I intend to go and see them in the next fortnight. I must say that the literature they put out looks perfectly sane. And they've got some very good men there."
"If you expect me to start cooking over a wood fire, or learning to dress in skins, you'll have-"
"Oh, don't be silly! Those stories are just nonsense. The colony's got everything that's really needed for civilized life. They don't believe in unnecessary frills, that's all. Anyway, it's a couple of years since I visited the Pacific, it will make a trip for us both."
"I agree with you there," said Jean. "But I don't intend Junior and the Poppet to grow up into a couple of Polynesian savages."
"They won't," said George. "I can promise you that."
He was right, though not in the way he had intended.
"As you noticed when you flew in," said the little man on the other side of the veranda, "the colony consists of two islands, linked by a causeway. This is Athens, the other we've christened Sparta.