“I’ll take that chance,” Pearson replied, beginning to walk down the hill. Connolly followed him without argument. “Meanwhile, just what do you propose to do yourself?”
“Relax. Avoid emotion. Above all, keep away from women—Ruth, Maude, and the rest of them. That’s been the hardest job. It isn’t easy to break the habits of a lifetime.”
“I can well believe that,” replied Pearson, a little dryly. “How successful have you been so far?”
“Completely. You see, his own eagerness defeats his purpose, by filling me with a kind of nausea and self-loathing whenever I think of sex. Lord, to think that I’ve laughed at the prudes all my life, yet now I’ve become one myself!”
There, thought Pearson in a sudden flash of insight, was the answer. He would never have believed it, but Connolly’s past had finally caught up with him. Omega was nothing more than a symbol of conscience, a personification of guilt. When Connolly realized this, he would cease to be haunted. As for the remarkably detailed nature of the hallucination, that was yet another example of the tricks the human mind can play in its efforts to deceive itself. There must be some reason why the obsession had taken this form, but that was of minor importance.
Pearson explained this to Connolly at some length as they approached the village. The other listened so patiently that Pearson had an uncomfortable feeling that he was the one who was being humored, but he continued grimly to the end. When he had finished, Connolly gave a short, mirthless laugh.
“Your story’s as logical as mine, but neither of us can convince the other. If you’re right, then in time I may return to ‘normal.’ I can’t disprove the possibility; I simply don’t believe it. You can’t imagine how real Omega is to me. He’s more real than you are: if I close my eyes you’re gone, but he’s still there. I wish I knew what he was waiting for! I’ve left my old life behind; he knows I won’t go back to it while he’s there. So what’s he got to gain by hanging on?” He turned to Pearson with a feverish eagerness. “That’s what really frightens me, Jack. He must know what my future is—all my life must be like a book he can dip into where he pleases. So there must still be some experience ahead of me that he’s waiting to savor. Sometimes — sometimes I wonder if it’s my death.”
They were now among the houses at the outskirts of the village, and ahead of them the nightlife of Syrene was getting into its stride. Now that they were no longer alone, there came a subtle change in Connolly’s attitude. On the hilltop he had been, if not his normal self, at least friendly and prepared to talk. But now the sight of the happy, carefree crowds ahead seemed to make him withdraw into himself. He lagged behind as Pearson advanced and presently refused to come any further.
“What’s the matter?” asked Pearson. “Surely you’ll come down to the hotel and have dinner with me?”
Connolly shook his head.
“I can’t,” he said. “I’d meet too many people.”
It was an astonishing remark from a man who had always delighted in crowds and parties. It showed, as nothing else had done, how much Connolly had changed. Before Pearson could think of a suitable reply, the other had turned on his heels and made off up a side-street. Hurt and annoyed, Pearson started to pursue him, then decided that it was useless.
That night he sent a long telegram to Ruth, giving what reassurance he could. Then, tired out, he went to bed.
Yet for an hour he was unable to sleep. His body was exhausted, but his brain was still active. He lay watching the patch of moonlight move across the pattern on the wall, marking the passage of time as inexorably as it must still do in the distant age that Connolly had glimpsed. Of course, that was pure fantasy—yet against his will Pearson was growing to accept Omega as a real and living threat. And in a sense Omega was real—as real as those other mental abstractions, the Ego and the Subconscious Mind.
Pearson wondered if Connolly had been wise to come back to Syrene. In times of emotional crisis—there had been others, though none so important as this—Connolly’s reaction was always the same. He would return again to the lovely island where his charming, feckless parents had borne him and where he had spent his youth. He was seeking now, Pearson knew well enough, the contentment he had known only for one period of his life, and which he had sought so vainly in the arms of Ruth and all those others who had been unable to resist him.
Pearson was not attempting to criticize his unhappy friend. He never passed judgements; he merely observed with a bright-eyed, sympathetic interest that was hardly tolerance, since tolerance implied the relaxation of standards which he had never possessed . . .
After a restless night, Pearson finally dropped into a sleep so sound that he awoke an hour later than usual. He had breakfast in his room, then went down to the reception desk to see if there was any reply from Ruth. Someone else had arrived in the night: two traveling cases, obviously English, were stacked in a corner of the hall, waiting for the porter to move them. Idly curious, Pearson glanced at the labels to see who his compatriot might be. Then he stiffened, looked hastily around, and hurried across to the receptionist.
“This Englishwoman,” he said anxiously. “When did she arrive?”
“An hour ago, Signor, on the morning boat.”
“Is she in now?”
The receptionist looked a little undecided, then capitulated gracefully.
“No, Signor. She was in a great hurry, and asked me where she could find Mr. Connolly. So I told her. I hope it was all right.”
Pearson cursed under his breath. It was an incredible stroke of bad luck, something he would never have dreamed of guarding against. Maude White was a woman of even greater determination than Connolly had hinted. Somehow she had discovered where he had fled, and pride or desire or both had driven her to follow. That she had come to this hotel was not surprising; it was an almost inevitable choice for English visitors to Syrene.
As he climbed the road to the villa, Pearson fought against an increasing sense of futility and uselessness. He had no idea what he should do when he met Connolly and Maude. He merely felt a vague yet urgent impulse to be helpful. If he could catch Maude before she reached the villa, he might be able to convince her that Connolly was a sick man and that her intervention could only do harm. Yet was this true? It was perfectly possible that a touching reconciliation had already taken place, and that neither party had the least desire to see him.
They were talking together on the beautifully laid out lawn in front of the villa when Pearson turned through the gates and paused for breath. Connolly was resting on a wrought-iron seat beneath a palm tree, while Maude was pacing up and down a few yards away. She was speaking swiftly; Pearson could not hear her words, but from the intonation of her voice she was obviously pleading with Connolly. It was an embarrassing situation. While Pearson was still wondering whether to go forward, Connolly looked up and caught sight of him. His face was a completely expressionless mask; it showed neither welcome nor resentment.
At the interruption, Maude spun round to see who the intruder was, and for the first time Pearson glimpsed her face. She was a beautiful woman, but despair and anger had so twisted her features that she looked like a figure from some Greek tragedy. She was suffering not only the bitterness of being scorned, but the agony of not knowing why.
Pearson’s arrival must have acted as a trigger to her pent-up emotions. She suddenly whirled away from him and turned toward Connolly, who continued to watch her with lacklustre eyes. For a moment Pearson could not see what she was doing; then he cried in horror: “Look out, Roy!”
Connolly moved with surprising speed, as if he had suddenly emerged from a trance. He caught Maude’s wrist, there was a brief struggle, and then he was backing away from her, looking with fascination at something in the palm of his hand. The woman stood motionless, paralyzed with fear and shame, knuckles pressed against her mouth.
Connolly gripped the pistol with his right hand and stroked it lovingly with his left. There was a low moan from Maude.
> “I only meant to frighten you, Roy! I swear it!”
“That’s all right, my dear,” said Connolly softly. “I believe you. There’s nothing to worry about.” His voice was perfectly natural. He turned toward Pearson, and gave him his old, boyish smile.
“So this is what he was waiting for, Jack,” he said. “I’m not going to disappoint him.”
“No!” gasped Pearson, white with terror. “Don’t, Roy, for God’s sake!”
But Connolly was beyond the reach of his friend’s entreaties as he turned the pistol to his head. In that same moment Pearson knew at last, with an awful clarity, that Omega was real and that Omega would now be seeking for a new abode.
He never saw the flash of the gun or heard the feeble but adequate explosion. The world he knew had faded from his sight, and around him now were the fixed yet crawling mists of the blue room. Staring from its center—as they had stared down the ages at how many others?—were two vast and lidless eyes. They were satiated for the moment, but for the moment only.
The Next Tenants
Introduction
This was written in 1954, as part of the series intended to complete Tales from the White Hart. I was living in Coral Gables, Miami, at the time, and had just seen the first H-Bomb test on T.V. Doubtless that provided considerable inspiration for the story . . .
I also recall that one of the very first pieces of science fiction I ever attempted, “Retreat from Earth” (Amateur Science Fiction Stories, March 1938; reprinted in The Best of Arthur C. Clarke: 1937–1955, Sphere Books, 1976) involved termites:-
. . . And in the long echoing centuries before the birth of man, the aliens had not been idle but had covered half the planet with their cities, filled with blind, fantastic slaves, and although man knew these cities, for they had often caused him infinite trouble, he never suspected that all around him in the tropics an older civilization than his was planning busily for the day when it would once again venture forth upon the seas of space to regain its lost inheritance. . . .
And going back even further than this half-century-old effort, I suspect that my interest in these amazing creatures was triggered by Paul Ernst’s “The Raid on the Termites” in Astounding Stories (June 1932). For much more about this, see Chapter Eleven, “Beyond the Vanishing Point” in Astounding Days: A Science Fictional Autobiography.
“The number of mad scientists who wish to conquer the world,” said Harry Purvis, looking thoughtfully at his beer, “has been grossly exaggerated. In fact, I can remember encountering only a single one.”
“Then there couldn’t have been many others,” commented Bill Temple, a little acidly. “It’s not the sort of thing one would be likely to forget.”
“I suppose not,” replied Harry, with that air of irrefragible innocence which is so disconcerting to his critics, “And, as a matter of fact, this scientist wasn’t really mad. There was no doubt, though, that he was out to conquer the world. Or if you want to be really precise—to let the world be conquered.”
“And by whom?” asked George Whitley. “The Martians? Or the well-known little green men from Venus?”
“Neither of them. He was collaborating with someone a lot nearer home. You’ll realize who I mean when I tell you he was a myrmecologist.”
“A which-what?” asked George.
“Let him get on with the story,” said Drew, from the other side of the bar. “It’s past ten, and if I can’t get you all out by closing time this week, I’ll lose my license.”
“Thank you,” said Harry with dignity, handing over his glass for a refill. “This all happened about two years ago when I was on a mission in the Pacific. It was rather hush-hush, but in view of what’s happened since there’s no harm in talking about it. Three of us scientists were landed on a certain Pacific atoll not a thousand miles from Bikini, and given a week to set up some detection equipment. It was intended, of course, to keep an eye on our good friends and allies when they started playing with thermo-nuclear reactions—to pick some crumbs from the A.E.C.’s table, as it were. The Russians, naturally, were doing the same thing, and occasionally we ran into each other and then both sides would pretend that there was nobody here but us chickens.
“This atoll was supposed to be uninhabited, but this was a considerable error. It actually had a population of several hundred millions—’
“What!” gasped everybody.
“—several hundred millions,” continued Purvis calmly, “of which number, one was human. I came across him when I went inland one day to have a look at the scenery.”
“Inland?” asked George Whitley. “I thought you said it was an atoll. How can a ring of coral—”
“It was a very plump atoll,” said Harry firmly. “Any way, who’s telling this story?” He waited defiantly for a moment until he had the right of way again.
“Here I was, then, walking up a charming little rivercourse underneath the coconut palms, when to my great surprise I came across a waterwheel—a very modern-looking one, driving a dynamo. If I’d been sensible, I suppose I’d have gone back and told my companions, but I couldn’t resist the challenge and decided to do some reconnoitering on my own. I remembered that there were still supposed to be Japanese troops around who didn’t know that the war was over, but that explanation seemed a bit unlikely.
“I followed the power-line up a hill, and there on the other side was a low, whitewashed building set in a large clearing. All over this clearing were tall, irregular mounds of earth, linked together with a network of wires. It was one of the most baffling sights I have ever seen, and I stood and stared for a good ten minutes, trying to decide what was going on. The longer I looked, the less sense it seemed to make.
“I was debating what to do when a tall, white-haired man came out of the building and walked over to one of the mounds. He was carrying some kind of apparatus and had a pair of earphones slung around his neck, so I guessed that he was using a Geiger counter. It was just about then that I realized what those tall mounds were. They were termitaries . . . the skyscrapers, in comparison to their makers, far taller than the Empire State Building, in which the so-called white ants live.
“I watched with great interest, but complete bafflement, while the elderly scientist inserted his apparatus into the base of the termitary, listened intently for a moment, and then walked back towards the building. By this time I was so curious that I decided to make my presence known. Whatever research was going on here obviously had nothing to do with international politics, so I was the only one who’d have anything to hide. You’ll appreciate later just what a miscalculation that was.
“I yelled for attention and walked down the hill, waving my arms. The stranger halted and watched me approaching: he didn’t look particularly surprised. As I came closer I saw that he had a straggling moustache that gave him a faintly Oriental appearance. He was about sixty years old, and carried himself very erect. Though he was wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, he looked so dignified that I felt rather ashamed of my noisy approach.
“ ‘Good morning,’ I said apologetically. ‘I didn’t know that there was anyone else on this island. I’m with an—er—scientific survey party over on the other side.’
“At this, the stranger’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah,’ he said, in almost perfect English, ‘a fellow scientist! I’m very pleased to meet you. Come into the house.’
“I followed gladly enough—I was pretty hot after my scramble—and I found that the building was simply one large lab. In a corner was a bed and a couple of chairs, together with a stove and one of those folding wash-basins that campers use. That seemed to sum up the living arrangements. But everything was very neat and tidy: my unknown friend seemed to be a recluse, but he believed in keeping up appearances.
“I introduced myself first, and as I’d hoped he promptly responded. He was one Professor Takato, a biologist from a leading Japanese university. He didn’t look particularly Japanese apart from the moustache I’ve mentioned. With his erect, dignifi
ed bearing he reminded me more of an old Kentucky colonel I once knew.
“After he’d given me some unfamiliar but refreshing wine, we sat and talked for a couple of hours. Like most scientists he seemed happy to meet someone who would appreciate his work. It was true that my interests lay in physics and chemistry rather than on the biological side, but I found Professor Takato’s research quite fascinating.
“I don’t suppose you know much about termites, so I’ll remind you of the salient facts. They’re among the most highly evolved of the social insects, and live in vast colonies throughout the tropics. They can’t stand cold weather, nor, oddly enough, can they endure direct sunlight. When they have to get from one place to another, they construct little covered roadways. They seem to have some unknown and almost instantaneous means of communication, and though the individual termites are pretty helpless and dumb, a whole colony behaves like an intelligent animal. Some writers have drawn comparisons between a termitary and a human body, which is also composed of individual living cells making up an entity much higher than the basic units. The termites are often called ‘white ants’, but that’s a completely incorrect name as they aren’t ants at all but quite a different species of insect. Or should I say ‘genus’? I’m pretty vague about this sort of thing . . .
“Excuse this little lecture, but after I’d listened to Takato for a while I began to get quite enthusiastic about termites myself. Did you know, for example, that they not only cultivate gardens but also keep cows—insect cows, of course—and milk them? Yes, they’re sophisticated little devils, even though they do it all by instinct.
“But I’d better tell you something about the Professor. Although he was alone at the moment, and had lived on the island for several years, he had a number of assistants who brought equipment from Japan and helped him in his work. His first great achievement was to do for the termites what von Frische had done with bees—he’d learned their language. It was much more complex than the system of communication that bees use, which as you probably know, is based on dancing. I understood that the network of wires linking the termitaries to the lab not only enabled Professor Takato to listen to the termites talking among each other, but also permitted him to speak to them. That’s not really as fantastic as it sounds, if you use the word “speak” in its widest sense. We speak to a good many animals—not always with our voices, by any means. When you throw a stick for your dog and expect him to run and fetch it, that’s a form of speech—sign language. The Professor, I gathered, had worked out some kind of code which the termites understood though how efficient it was at communicating ideas I didn’t know.