The Sentinel - Arthur C. Clarke [3]
Today’s readers are indeed fortunate; this really is the Golden Age of science fiction. There are dozens of authors at work today who can match all but the giants of the past. (And probably one who can do even that, despite the handicap of being translated from Polish . . . ) Yet I do not really envy the young men and women who first encounter science fiction as the days shorten towards 1984, for we old-timers were able to accomplish something that was unique.
Ours was the last generation that was able to read everything. No one will ever do that again.
Of course, it may well be argued that no one should want to do so, in deference to Theodore Sturgeon’s much-quoted Law: “Ninety percent of everything is crud.” It is—to say the least—a sobering thought that this might apply even to my writing.
I can only hope that everything that follows comes from the other ten percent.
Colombo, Sri Lanka
16 December 1982
RESCUE PARTY
“Rescue Party,” written in March 1945, while I was still in the Royal Air Force, was the first story I sold to the legendary John W. Campbell, Jr., editor of Astounding Science-Fiction. It was not, however, the first of my stories he published; “Loophole” (April 1946) beat it by a month.
I don’t believe I’ve reread it since its original appearance, and I refuse to do so now—for fear of discovering how little I have improved in almost four decades. Those who claim that it’s their favorite story get a cooler and cooler reception over the passing years.
However, I cannot resist tantalizing any readers who may be new to this tale with a quotation from a recent paper by Gregory Benford, “Aliens and Knowability: A Scientist’s Perspective”:
“Aliens as a mirror for our own experiences abound in sf. Arthur Clarke’s “Rescue Party” has humans as the true focus, though the action follows aliens who are a dumber version of ourselves. The final lines give us a human-chauvinist thrill, telling us more about ourselves than we may nowadays wish to know.”
I must admit that I’d never thought of it that way; but Dr. Benford may be right. You have been warned.
WHO WAS TO BLAME? For three days Alveron’s thoughts had come back to that question, and still he had found no answer. A creature of a less civilized or a less sensitive race would never have let it torture his mind, and would have satisfied himself with the assurance that no one could be responsible for the working of fate. But Alveron and his kind had been lords of the Universe since the dawn of history, since that far distant age when the Time Barrier had been folded round the cosmos by the unknown powers that lay beyond the Beginning. To them had been given all knowledge—and with infinite knowledge went infinite responsibility. If there were mistakes and errors in the administration of the galaxy, the fault lay on the heads of Alveron and his people. And this was no mere mistake: it was one of the greatest tragedies in history.
The crew still knew nothing. Even Rugon, his closest friend and the ship’s deputy captain, had been told only part of the truth. But now the doomed worlds lay less than a billion miles ahead. In a few hours, they would be landing on the third planet.
Once again Alveron read the message from Base; then, with a flick of a tentacle that no human eye could have followed, he pressed the “General Attention” button. Throughout the mile-long cylinder that was the Galactic Survey Ship S9000, creatures of many races laid down their work to listen to the words of their captain.
“I know you have all been wondering,” began Alveron, “why we were ordered to abandon our survey and to proceed at such an acceleration to this region of space. Some of you may realize what this acceleration means. Our ship is on its last voyage: the generators have already been running for sixty hours at Ultimate Overload. We will be very lucky if we return