Clarke, Arthur C - SSC 04 Read Free

were silhouetted against the afterglow of the sunset:
here and there, lights gleamed like portholes in the side of an ocean liner.
Electric lights, of course, sharing the same circuit as the Mark V. How much
longer would they share it? wondered George. Would the monks smash up the
computer in their rage and disappointment? Or would they just sit down quietly
and begin their calculations all over again?
    He knew exactly what was happening up on the mountain at this very moment.
The high lama and his assistants would be sitting in their silk robes,
inspecting the sheets as the junior monks carried them away from the
typewriters and pasted them into the great volumes. No one would be saying
anything. The only sound would be the incessant patter, the never-ending
rainstorm of the keys hitting the paper, for the Mark V itself was utterly
silent as it flashed through its thousands of calculations a second. Three
months of this, thought George, was enough to start anyone climbing up the
wall.
    "There she is!' called Chuck, pointing down into the valley. 'Ain't she
beautiful!'
    She certainly was, thought George. The battered old DC3 lay at the end of
the runway like a tiny silver cross. In two hours she would be bearing them
away to freedom and sanity. It was a thought worth savouring like a fine
liqueur. George let it roll round his mind as the pony trudged patiently down
the slope.
    The swift night of the high Himalayas was now almost
upon them. Fortunately, the road was very good, as roads went hi that region,
and they were both carrying torches. There was not the slightest danger, only a
certain discomfort from the bitter cold. The sky overhead was perfectly clear,
and ablaze with the familiar, friendly stars. At least there would be no risk,
thought George, of the pilot being unable to take off because of weather
conditions. That had been his only remaining worry.
    He began to sing, but gave it up after a while. This vast arena of
mountains, gleaming like whitely hooded ghosts on every side, did not encourage
such ebullience. Presently George glanced at his watch.
    'Should be there hi an hour,' he called back over his shoulder to Chuck.
Then he added, in an afterthought: 'Wonder if the computer's finished its run.
It was due about now.'
    Chuck didn't reply, so George swung round in his saddle. He could just see
Chuck's face, a white oval turned towards the sky.
    'Look,' whispered Chuck, and George lifted his eyes to heaven. (There is
always a last tune for everything.)
    Overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out.
                  
     
     
Refugee
     
    First published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction ,
July 1955, as ‘?’Collected in The Other
Side of the Sky ‘Refugee’ was originally published by Anthony Boucher as ‘?’
because he didn’t like the title, after which he ran a competition to find a
better one, choosing ‘This Earth of Majesty’. Meanwhile, in New Worlds Ted Carnell called it ‘Royal
Prerogative’, adding to the confusion. I cannot pretend that no resemblance was
intended to any living character. Indeed, I have since met the prototype of
‘Prince Henry’ and we had a conversation uncannily appropriate to this meeting.             ‘When he comes aboard,’ said Captain
Saunders, as he waited for the landing ramp to extrude itself, ‘what the devil
shall I call him?’
     
                There was a thoughtful silence while
the navigation officer and the assistant pilot considered this problem in
etiquette. Then Mitchell locked the main control panel, and the ship’s
multitudinous mechanisms lapsed into unconsciousness as power was withdrawn
from them.
     
                ‘The correct address,’ he drawled
slowly, ‘is “Your Royal Highness”.’
     
                ‘Huh!’ snorted the captain. ‘I’ll be
damned if I’ll call anyone that !’
     
                ‘In these progressive days,’ put in
Chambers