The Sentinel - Arthur C. Clarke [18]
Rugon laughed at his captain’s little joke.
Twenty years afterward, the remark didn’t seem funny.
GUARDIAN
ANGEL
“Guardian Angel” was written in July 1946, and when I submitted it to Astounding it was promptly rejected by John W. Campbell, Jr.—with, I am sure, a fascinating and sympathetic letter, which I hope may one day be located in the lower Cambrian strata of my correspondence files. (All previous searches have failed, so it’s a race against petrification.) I would like to find that letter, because I wonder if John asked whether I had borrowed my aliens from his own story, “The Mightiest Machine.” (In a word, Yes . . . )
The next year I rewrote it, and submitted it to my new agent—Scott Meredith, then at the beginning of his career. At that time, James Blish was working with Scott—and he did a major rewrite, tacking on a new ending. That version duly appeared in Famous Fantastic Mysteries for April 1950, where it might have remained to this day had I not decided to develop it further.
“Guardian Angel,” a couple of years later, began to metamorphose into Childhood’s End, and became the first part of that novel (“Earth and the Overlords”). But that, to coin a phrase, is another story . . .
I
PIETER VAN RYBERG SHIVERED, as he always did, when he came into Stormgren’s room. He looked at the thermostat and shrugged his shoulders in mock resignation. “You know, Chief,” he said, “although we’ll be sorry to lose you, it’s nice to feel that the pneumonia death-rate will soon be falling.”
“How do you know?” smiled Stormgren. “The next Secretary-General may be an Eskimo. The fuss some people make over a few degrees centigrade!”
Van Ryberg laughed and walked over to the curving double window. He stood in silence for a moment, staring along the avenue of great white buildings, still only partly finished.
“Well,” he said, with a sudden change of tone. “Are you going to see them?”
Behind him he heard Stormgren fidgeting nervously with his famous uranium paperweight.
“Yes, I think so. It usually saves trouble in the long run.”
Van Ryberg suddenly stiffened and pressed his face against the glass.
“Here they are!” he said. “They’re coming up Wilson Avenue. Not as many as I expected, though—about two thousand, I’d say.”
Stormgren walked over to the Assistant-Secretary’s side. Half a mile away, a small but determined crowd was moving along the avenue towards Headquarters Building. It carried banners which Stormgren could not read at this distance, but he knew their message well enough. Presently he could hear, even through the insulation, the ominous sound 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 in the air. They were not defying him, though the gesture was meant for him to see. As pygmies may threaten a giant, those angry fists were directed against the sky fifty miles above his head.
And as likely as not, thought Stormgren, Karellen was watching the whole thing and enjoying himself hugely.
This was the first time that Stormgren had ever met the head of the Freedom League. He still wondered if the action was wise: in the final analysis he had only taken it because the League would employ any refusal as ammunition against him. He knew that the gulf was far too wide for any agreement to come from this meeting.
Alexander Wainwright was a tall but slightly stooping man in the late fifties. He seemed inclined to apologize for his more boisterous followers, and Stormgren was rather taken aback by his obvious sincerity and considerable personal charm. It would be rather hard to dislike him, whatever one’s views of the cause for which he stood.
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