very hard  to believe. The Monolith is a
fantastically  powerful machine -- look what it did to  Jupiter! -- but it's
no more  than that.  It's running on automatic -- it has no consciousness. I
remember  once thinking that I might have to kick the Great  Wall  and shout
'Is there anyone there?'  And the correct answer would have to be -- no one,
except Dave and Hal...
     Worse still,  some of its systems may  have started to  fail; Dave even
suggests that, in a  fundamental way, it's become stupid!  Perhaps it's been
left on its own for too long -- it's time for a service check.
     And  he believes  the Monolith has  made  at  least  one  misjudgement.
Perhaps that's not the right word -- it may have  been deliberate, carefully
considered...
     In  any  event,  it's -- well,  truly  awesome,  and terrifying  in its
implications. Luckily,  I  can show  it  to  you,  so  you  can  decide  for
yourselves. Yes, even  though it  happened a thousand years ago, when Leonov
flew  the second mission to Jupiter!  And all this  time, no  one  has  ever
guessed...
     I'm certainly glad you got  me fitted with the Braincap. Of course it's
been invaluable --  I can't imagine life without it -- but  now it's doing a
job it was never designed for. And doing it remarkably well.
     It took Halman about  ten minutes to find  how it worked, and to set up
an interface. Now we have mind-to-mind contact -- which is quite a strain on
me,  I  can  tell  you.  I  have to keep asking them  to slow down, and  use
baby-talk. Or should I say baby-think...
     I'm  not sure how well this will come through. It's a thousand-year-old
recording  of  Dave's  own  experience,  somehow  stored  in the  Monolith's
enormous  memory,  then  retrieved  by Dave and injected into my Braincap --
don't  ask me exactly  how -- and finally transferred and beamed  to  you by
Ganymede Central. Phew. Hope you don't get a headache downloading it.
     Over to Dave Bowman at Jupiter, early twenty-first century...

     30 Foamscape

     The  million-kilometre-long  tendrils  of magnetic  force,  the  sudden
explosion of radio waves, the geysers of  electrified plasma  wider than the
planet Earth --  they were as  real and clearly visible to him as the clouds
banding  the  planet in  multi-hued glory.  He could  understand the complex
pattern  of their  interactions, and  realized  that Jupiter  was much  more
wonderful than anyone had ever guessed.
     Even as  he fell through the roaring heart of the Great Red  Spot, with
the lightning of its continent-wide thunderstorms detonating  under him,  he
knew why it had persisted for centuries though it was made of gases far less
substantial  than those that formed the hurricanes of Earth. The thin scream
of  hydrogen wind faded as he sank into the  calmer  depths,  and a sheet of
waxen snowflakes -- some already coalescing  into barely  palpable mountains
of hydrocarbon foam -- descended from the heights above. It was already warm
enough  for liquid  water  to exist, but there were  no oceans  there;  this
purely gaseous environment was too tenuous to support them.
     He descended through  layer  after layer of cloud, until  he entered  a
region of such  clarity that  even human vision could  have scanned an  area
more than a  thousand kilometres across. It  was only  a  minor eddy  in the
vaster  gyre of the Great  Red Spot;  and it held a secret that men had long
guessed,  but  never proved. Skirting  the  foothills  of the drifting  foam
mountains  were myriad of small,  sharply defined clouds, all about the same
size and patterned with similar red and brown mottling. They were small only
as  compared with the  inhuman  scale of their surroundings; the very  least
would have covered a fair-sized city.
     They were  clearly alive, for they  were moving with slow  deliberation
along the flanks of  the aerial  mountains,  browsing off their slopes  like
colossal sheep. And they were calling to each other in the metre band, their
radio  voices  faint  but clear  against the  cracklings  and concussions of
Jupiter itself.
     Nothing  less  than  living  gasbags,  they floated in the narrow  zone
between  freezing heights and  scorching depths. Narrow, yes -- but a domain
far larger than all the biosphere of Earth.
     They were not  alone. Moving swiftly among them were other creatures so
small  that they  could  easily have been overlooked. Some of  them bore  an
almost uncanny resemblance to terrestrial aircraft, and  were of  about  the
same  size. But they too were alive -- perhaps predators, perhaps parasites,
perhaps even herdsmen.
     A  whole  new  chapter  of evolution, as  alien as  that  which he  had
glimpsed  on  Europa,  was  opening before  him.  There  were  jet-propelled
torpedoes like the squids of the terrestrial  oceans,  hunting and devouring
the  huge gas-bags.  But  the balloons  were not defenceless;  some of  them
fought  back  with  electric  thunderbolts  and with  clawed  tentacles like
kilometre-long chainsaws.
     There were even stranger shapes, exploiting almost every possibility of
geometry  -- bizarre,  translucent kites,  tetrahedra,  spheres,  polyhedra,
tangles  of   twisted  ribbons...   The  gigantic  plankton  of  the  Jovian
atmosphere,  they  were  designed  to float  like gossamer  in  the uprising
currents, until they had lived long  enough to reproduce; then they would be
swept  down  into  the  depths  to  be carbonized  and  recycled  in  a  new
generation.
     He  was searching a world more than a hundred times the area  of Earth,
and  though he saw many wonders, nothing  there hinted of intelligence.  The
radio voices of the great balloons  carried only simple messages  of warning
or of fear. Even the hunters, who might have been expected to develop higher
degrees of organization,  were like the sharks in Earth's oceans -- mindless
automata.
     And for all its breathtaking size and novelty, the biosphere of Jupiter
was a fragile  world, a place  of mists and foam, of delicate silken threads
and paper-thin  tissues  spun from the continual  snowfall of petrochemicals
formed by lightning in the upper atmosphere. Few of its constructs were more
substantial than soap bubbles;  its most  awesome predators could be torn to
shreds by even the feeblest of terrestrial carnivores.
     Like Europa, but on a vastly grander scale, Jupiter was an evolutionary
cul-de-sac. Intelligence would never emerge  here; even if it did,  it would
be doomed to a stunted existence. A purely aerial culture might develop, but
in an environment where fire was impossible, and solids scarcely existed, it
could never even reach the Stone Age.

     31 Nursery

        MISS PRINGLE RECORD
     Well, Indra -- Dim -- I hope that came through in good shape -- I still
find  it hard to believe. All those fantastic creatures  -- surely we should
have  detected their radio  voices, even if we  couldn't understand them! --
wiped out in a moment, so that Jupiter could be made into a sun.
     And now we can understand why. It was to give the Europs  their chance.
What pitiless logic: is intelligence the  only thing that matters? I can see
some long arguments with  Ted  Khan over  this -- The next question is: will
the Europs  make the grade --  or will  they  remain  forever  stuck in  the
kindergarten -- not even that -- the nursery?  Though a thousand years is  a
very short  time, one  would  have expected  some progress, but according to
Dave they're exactly the same now as when they left the sea.  Perhaps that's
the trouble; they still have one foot -- or one twig! -- in the water.
     And here's another thing we  got completely wrong. We thought they went
back into the water to  sleep. It's just the other way round -- they go back
to eat, and  sleep when they come  on land!  As we might  have  guessed from
their structure -- that network of branches -- they're plankton feeders...
     I   asked  Dave  about  the  igloos  they've  built.   Aren't   they  a
technological advance? And  he said:  not really -- they're only adaptations
of structures  they make on the sea-bed, to protect  themselves from various
predators -- especially something like a flying carpet, as big as a football
field...
     There's  one area, though,  where they have  shown initiative  --  even
creativity.  They're  fascinated by metals,  presumably because  they  don't
exist in pure form in the ocean. That's why  Tsien was stripped -- the  same
thing's happened to the  occasional  probes  that have come  down  in  their
territory. What do they  do with the copper and beryllium and titanium  they
collect? Nothing useful, I'm afraid. They pile it all together in one place,
in a fantastic heap that they keep reassembling. They could be developing an
aesthetic  sense -- I've seen worse  in  the Museum of Modem Art... But I've
got another theory -- did you ever hear of cargo cults? During the twentieth
century, some of the  few primitive tribes that still existed made imitation
aeroplanes out of bamboo, in the hope of attracting the big birds in the sky
that occasionally brought them wonderful  gifts. Perhaps the Europs have the
same idea.
     Now that question you keep asking me... What is Dave? And how did he --
and Hal -- become whatever it is they are now?
     The  quick  answer,  of  course,  is  that  they're both emulations  --
simulations -- in the Monolith's gigantic memory.  Most of the  time they're
inactivated; when I asked  Dave about this, he said he'd been 'awake' -- his
actual word --for only fifty years altogether, in the thousand since  his --
er -- metamorphosis.
     When  I  asked if  he resented this takeover of his life, he said, 'Why
should  I  resent  it? I  am performing  my functions perfectly.' Yes,  that
sounds  exactly  like  Hal!  But  I believe  it was Dave  -- if there's  any
distinction now.
     Remember that Swiss Army  knife  analogy?  Halman is one of this cosmic
knife's myriad of components.
     But he's not a completely passive tool -- when he's  awake, he has some
autonomy,  some  independence  --  presumably  within   limits  set  by  the
Monolith's overriding control. During the  centuries,  he's  been used as  a
kind  of intelligent probe to examine, Jupiter -- as  you've just seen -- as
well  as  Ganymede  and the Earth. That confirms those mysterious  events in
Florida, reported  by Dave's  old girl-friend, and the nurse who was looking
after his mother, just moments before her death... as well as the encounters
in Anubis City.
     And it also explains another mystery. I asked  Dave directly: why was I
allowed  to  land  on Europa, when everyone else  has been  turned away  for
centuries? I fully expected to be!
     The answer's ridiculously  simple. The Monolith uses Dave -- Halman  --
from time to time, to keep an eye on us.
     Dave knew  all about my rescue -- even saw some of the media interviews
I made, on Earth and on Ganymede. I must say I'm still a little hurt he made
no attempt to contact me! But at least he put out the Welcome mat when I did
arrive...
     Dim -- I  still have forty-eight hours before Falcon leaves  -- with or
without me! I don't think I'll need them, now I've made contact with Halman;
we can keep in touch just as easily from Anubis... if he wants to do so.
     And I'm anxious to  get back to the Grannymede as  quickly as possible.
Falcon's  a  fine little spacecraft,  but her plumbing could be  improved --
it's beginning to smell in here, and I'm itching for a shower.
     Look forward to seeing you -- and especially Ted Khan.
     We have much to talk about, before I return to Earth.
        TRANSMIT
        STORE

        V TERMINATION
     The toil of all that be
     Heals not the primal fault;
     It rains into the sea,
     And still the sea is salt.
     -- A. E. Housman, More Poems

     32 A Gentleman of Leisure

     On  the whole,  it  had  been an  interesting  but uneventful  decades,
punctuated by the joys and sorrows which Time and Fate bring to all mankind.
The greatest  of those had  been  wholly unexpected; in fact, before he left
for Ganymede, Poole would have dismissed the very idea as preposterous.
     There is much  truth in the saying  that  absence  makes the heart grow
fonder.  When  he and Indra Wallace met again, they discovered that, despite
their bantering and occasional disagreements, they were closer than they had
imagined. One  thing  led to  another including,  to their mutual joy,  Dawn
Wallace and Martin Poole.
     It was rather late in life to start a family  -- quite apart  from that
little matter of a thousand years -- and Professor Anderson  had warned them
that it might be impossible. Or even worse...
     'You  were  lucky  in  more ways  than you  realize,'  he  told  Poole.
'Radiation damage  was  surprisingly  low,  and we  were able  to  make  all
essential repairs  from your intact DNA. But until we do some more  tests, I
can't promise genetic integrity. So  enjoy  yourselves -- but don't  start a
family until I give the OK.'
     The tests had been time-consuming, and as Anderson had feared,  further
repairs were necessary. There was one major set-back -- something that could
never have lived, even  if it  had been  allowed to go beyond the  first few
weeks after conception  -- but Martin and  Dawn were perfect, with  just the
right  number  of  heads,  arms  and  legs.  They  were  also  handsome  and
intelligent, and barely managed to  escape  being  spoiled  by  their doting
parents  -- who  continued to be  the  best of friends when,  after  fifteen
years,  each   opted  for  independence  again.   Because  of  their  Social
Achievement Rating,  they would have been permitted -- indeed, encouraged --
to have another child,  but  they decided not to put any more of a burden on
their astonishingly good luck.
     One tragedy  had  shadowed Poole's personal life during  this period --
and indeed  had shocked the whole Solar  community. Captain Chandler and his
entire  crew  had  been   lost  when  the  nucleus  of  a  comet  they  were
reconnoitring exploded suddenly,  destroying Goliath so completely that only
a  few  fragments were ever located. Such explosions -- caused  by reactions
among  unstable  molecules which existed at very  low temperatures -- were a
well-known danger to comet-collectors, and Chandler had  encountered several
during  his  career.  No  one would ever know the exact  circumstances which
caused so experienced a spaceman to be taken by surprise.
     Poole missed  Chandler very  badly: he had played a unique role in  his
life,  and there was no  one  to  replace him -- no one, except Dave Bowman,
with whom he had shared so momentous an adventure. He and Chandler had often
made plans to go into space together  again, perhaps all  the way out to the
Oort  Cloud with  its unknown  mysteries  and  its remote  but inexhaustible
wealth of ice. Yet some conflict of schedules had always upset  their plans,
so this was a wished-for future that would never exist.
     Another  long-desired  goal  Poole had  managed  to  achieve -- despite
doctor's orders. He had been down to Earth: and once was quite enough.
     The  vehicle  in which he had travelled looked almost identical to  the
wheelchairs used  by  the  luckier  paraplegics of  his  own  time.  It  was
motorized,  and  had balloon tyres which allowed  it to roll over reasonably
smooth surfaces.  However, it  could  also  fly  --  at an altitude of about
twenty centimetres -- on an aircushion  produced by a set of  small but very
powerful fans. Poole was surprised that so primitive a technology was  still
in use,  but inertia-control devices  were  too  bulky for  such small-scale
applications.
     Seated comfortably in his hoverchair, he was scarcely conscious  of his
increasing weight as  he descended  into the heart of Africa; though  he did
notice some difficulty in breathing, he had experienced far worse during his
astronaut  training.  What  he  was  not  prepared  for  was  the  blast  of
furnace-heat that smote him as he rolled out  of  the gigantic, sky-piercing
cylinder that formed the base of the  Tower.  Yet it was still morning: what
would it be like at noon?
     He  had barely accustomed himself to  the  heat when his sense of smell
was assailed. A  myriad odours  --  none  unpleasant, but all unfamiliar  --
clamoured for  his  attention. He closed  his eyes for a few minutes,  in an
attempt to avoid overloading his input circuits.
     Before he had decided to  open  them  again, he felt  some large, moist
object palpating the back of his neck.
     'Say hello to Elizabeth,' said his guide, a burly young  man dressed in
traditional Great White Hunter garb,  much  too smart to have seen  any real
use: 'she's our official greeter.'
     Poole twisted round in  his chair,  and  found himself looking into the
soulful eyes of a baby elephant.
     'Hello, Elizabeth,'  he answered, rather  feebly. Elizabeth  lifted her
trunk in salute, and emitted a sound not  usually heard in  polite  society,
though Poole felt sure it was well-intentioned.
     Altogether, he spent less  than an  hour on Planet Earth,  skirting the
edge of  a jungle whose stunted  trees compared unfavourably with Skyland's,
and encountering much of the local fauna.  His  guides  apologized  for  the
friendliness  of  the  lions, who had been  spoilt  by  tourists -- but  the
malevolent  expressions  of the crocodiles more than  compensated; here  was
Nature raw and unchanged.
     Before he returned  to the Tower, Poole risked taking a few  steps away
from  his hoverchair. He  realized  that  this  would  be the  equivalent of
carrying  his  own weight on his back, but that did not seem  an  impossible
feat, and he would never forgive himself unless he attempted it.
     It was not a good  idea; perhaps he should  have tried it in  a  cooler
climate. After no more than a dozen steps, he was glad to sink back into the
luxurious clutches of the chair.
     'That's enough,' he said wearily. 'Let's go back to the Tower.'
     As he rolled into the  elevator  lobby,  he noticed a sign which he had
somehow overlooked during the excitement of his arrival. It read:

        WELCOME TO AFRICA!
     'In wildness is the preservation of the world.'
        HENRY DAVID THOREAU
     (1817-1862)

     Observing Poole's interest, the guide asked 'Did you know him?'
     It was  the sort of question  Poole heard  all  too  often, and  at the
moment he did not feel equipped to deal with it.
     'I  don't  think so,'  he answered  wearily,  as the great doors closed
behind  them,  shutting  out  the  sights, scents and  sounds  of  Mankind's
earliest home.
     His vertical safari had  satisfied his need to visit Earth,  and he did
his  best  to ignore  the various aches  and pains  acquired  there when  he
returned to his apartment at Level 10,000 -- a prestigious location, even in
this  democratic  society.   Indra,  however,  was  mildly  shocked  by  his
appearance, and ordered him straight to bed.
     'Just like  Antaeus -- but in  reverse!'  she  muttered darkly.  'Who?'
asked  Poole:  there  were  times when his  wife's  erudition  was  a little
overwhelming, but he had determined never to  let it give him an inferiority
complex.
     'Son  of the  Earth Goddess, Gaea.  Hercules  wrestled with  him -- but
every time he was thrown to the ground, Antaeus renewed his strength.'
     'Who won?'
     'Hercules, of  course -- by holding Antaeus in  the air, so Ma couldn't
recharge his batteries.'
     'Well,  I'm  sure it won't  take  me long  to  recharge mine. And  I've
learned one lesson. If  I don't get more exercise, I may have to  move up to
Lunar Gravity level.'
     Poole's good resolution lasted a full month: every morning he went  for
a brisk five-kilometre walk,  choosing a different level of the Africa Tower
each day. Some floors were still vast, echoing deserts of  metal which would
probably  never be occupied, but  others had  been  landscaped and developed
over  the centuries  in a bewildering  variety of architectural styles. Many
were borrowings from past ages and cultures; others hinted at  futures which
Poole would not care to visit. At least  there was no danger of boredom, and
on many of his walks  he was accompanied, at a respectful distance, by small
groups of friendly children. They were  seldom  able to keep up with him for
long.
     One day, as Poole was  striding down  a  convincing -- though  sparsely
populated  --  imitation of  the Champs  Elyse´es,  he  suddenly  spotted  a
familiar face.
     'Danil!' he called.
     The other  man took  not  the slightest notice,  even when Poole called
again, more loudly.
     'Don't you remember me?'
     Danil -- and now that he had caught up with him, Poole did not have the
slightest doubt of his identity -- looked genuinely baffled.
     'I'm sorry,' he said. 'You're Commander Poole, of course. But  I'm sure
we've never met before.'
     Now it was Poole's turn to be embarrassed.
     'Stupid of  me,' he  apologized.  'Must have mistaken  you  for someone
else. Have a good day.'
     He was glad of the encounter, and was  pleased  to know that Danil  was
back  in normal  society. Whether his original crime had been axe-murders or
overdue library  books  should  no  longer be  the concern of  his  one-time
employer; the  account had  been settled, the  books  closed. Although Poole
sometimes missed the  cops-and-robbers  dramas  he had often enjoyed in  his
youth,  he had grown  to accept  the  current wisdom:  excessive interest in
pathological behaviour was itself pathological.
     With the  help of Miss Pringle, Mk III, Poole had been able to schedule
his life  so that there  were  even  occasional blank moments when he  could
relax and set his Braincap on Random Search, scanning his areas of interest.
Outside his immediate family, his chief concerns were  still among the moons
of  Jupiter/Lucifer,  not  least because  he  was recognized as  the leading
expert on the subject, and a permanent member of the Europa Committee.
     This had been set up almost  a thousand years ago, to consider what, if
anything,  could and should be done about the mysterious satellite. Over the
centuries, it  had accumulated a vast amount of information,  going  all the
way back to the Voyager flybys of 1979  and the  first detailed surveys from
the orbiting Galileo spacecraft of 1996.
     Like most  long-lived  organizations,  the Europa Committee had  become
slowly fossilized, and now met only  when there was some new development. It
had  woken up  with a  start after  Halman's reappearance, and appointed  an
energetic new chairperson whose first act had been to co-opt Poole.
     Though there  was  little that he could contribute that was not already
recorded, Poole was very happy to be on the Committee. It was  obviously his
duty to make himself available, and it also gave him an official position he
would otherwise have  lacked. Previously his  status was what  had once been
called  a 'national treasure', which he found faintly embarrassing. Although
he was  glad to be  supported  in luxury  by  a world wealthier than all the
dreams  of war-ravaged earlier ages could have imagined, he felt the need to
justify his existence.
     He also felt another need, which he seldom articulated even to himself.
Halman  had  spoken to him, if  only briefly, at their strange encounter two
decades ago. Poole was certain that, if he wished, Halman could easily do so
again. Were all human contacts  no longer of interest to  him? He hoped that
was not the case; yet that might be one explanation of his silence.
     He was frequently in touch with  Theodore Khan -- as active and acerbic
as ever,  and now the Europa  Committee's representative  on Ganymede.  Ever
since  Poole  had returned  to Earth, Ted had been trying in  vain to open a
channel of communication with Bowman. He could not understand why long lists
of  important  questions  on subjects  of  vital philosophical and  historic
interest received not even brief acknowledgements.
     'Does the Monolith keep your friend Halman so busy that  he  can't talk
to me?' he complained to Poole. 'What does he do with his time, anyway?'
     It  was  a  very  reasonable question;  and  the  answer  came,  like a
thunderbolt out of a  cloudless sky, from  Bowman himself --  as a perfectly
commonplace vidphone call.

     33 Contact

     'Hello, Frank. This is Dave. I have a very important message for you. I
assume that you are now in your suite  in  Africa Tower.  If  you are there,
please  identify yourself by  giving the name of  our instructor in  orbital
mechanics. I will wait for sixty seconds,  and if there is no reply will try
again in exactly one hour.'
     That minute was hardly long enough for Poole to recover from the shock.
He  felt  a brief surge of delight, as  well as astonishment, before another
emotion took over. Glad though he was to hear from Bowman again, that phrase
'a very important message' sounded distinctly ominous.
     At least it was fortunate, Poole told himself, that  he's asked for one
of the few names I can remember. Yet  who could forget a Scot with a Glasgow
accent so  thick it had taken them  a week to  master it? But  he had been a
brilliant lecturer -- once you understood what he was saying.
     'Dr Gregory McVitty.'
     'Accepted.  Now please switch  on your Braincap  receiver. It will take
three minutes to  download this  message.  Do not attempt to  monitor:  I am
using ten-to-one compression. I will wait two minutes before starting.'
     How is he managing  to do this? Poole wondered. Jupiter/Lucifer was now
over fifty light-minutes away, so this message must have left almost an hour
ago.  It  must  have been  sent  with  an  intelligent  agent  in a properly
addressed package on the Ganymede-Earth beam -- but that would  have been  a
trivial feat to Halman, with the resources he had  apparently  been able  to
tap inside the Monolith.
     The indicator  light on the  Brainbox was flickering.  The  message was
coming through.
     At the compression  Halman was using,  it would take  half an  hour for
Poole to  absorb the message in real-time. But he needed only ten minutes to
know that his peaceful life-style had come to an abrupt end

     34 Judgement

     In a world of  universal and instantaneous communication, it  was  very
difficult to keep secrets. This was a matter, Poole decided immediately, for
face-to-face discussion.
     The Europa Committee had grumbled, but all its members had assembled in
his  apartment.  There  were seven of  them  --  the lucky number, doubtless
suggested by the phases of the Moon, that had always fascinated Mankind.  It
was the first time Poole had met three of the Committee's members, though by
now he knew them  all more thoroughly than he could possibly have done  in a
pre-Braincapped lifetime.
     'Chairperson Oconnor, members of the Committee -- I'd like to say a few
words -- only a  few,  I  promise! -- before you  download the message  I've
received from Europa. And this is something I prefer to do  verbally; that's
more natural  for me -- I'm afraid I'll never be quite at  ease  with direct
mental transfer.'
     'As you all know, Dave Bowman and Hal have been stored as emulations in
the Monolith on  Europa.  Apparently it never  discards a tool it once found
useful, and from time to time it activates Halman, to monitor our affairs --
when  they begin to concern it.  As I suspect  my  arrival may have done  --
though perhaps I flatter myself.'
     'But Halman isn't just a passive tool. The Dave component still retains
something of its human origins -- even emotions. And because we were trained
together  -- shared almost everything  for years --  he  apparently finds it
much  easier to communicate with me than with anyone else. I  would like  to
think he enjoys doing it, but perhaps that's too strong a word.'
     'He's also curious -- inquisitive -- and perhaps a little resentful  of
the  way  he's been collected,  like  a specimen  of wildlife. Though that's
probably  what we are, from the  viewpoint  of the intelligence that created
the Monolith.'
     'And  where  is that  intelligence  now?  Halman  apparently  knows the
answer, and it's a chilling one.'
     'As we always  suspected, the Monolith is part of a galactic network of
some  kind. And the nearest node  -- the Monolith's controller, or immediate
superior -- is 450 light-years away.'
     'Much too close for comfort! This  means that the report  on us and our
affairs that was transmitted early in the twenty-first  century was received
half a millennium ago. If the Monolith's -- let's say Supervisor --  replied
at once, any further instructions should be arriving just about now.'
     'And that's exactly what  seems to  be happening. During  the  last few
days, the Monolith  has been receiving a continuous  string of messages, and
has been setting up new programs, presumably in accordance with these.'
     'Unfortunately, Halman can only make  guesses about the nature of those
instructions.  As you'll  gather when you've downloaded  this tablet, he has
some limited access to many of the Monolith's circuits and memory banks, and
can even carry on a kind  of dialogue with it. If  that's  the right word --
since you need two people for that! I still can't really grasp the idea that
the  Monolith, for all its powers, doesn't possess consciousness --  doesn't
even know that it exists!'
     'Halman's been brooding over the problem for a thousand years -- on and
off -- and  has  come to the same answer that most of us have done. But  his
conclusion  must  surely  carry  far  more  weight, because  of  his  inside
knowledge.'
     'Sorry!  I wasn't intending to make a joke --  but what else  could you
call it?'
     'Whatever went to the trouble of creating us -- or at  least  tinkering
with  our ancestors' minds  and genes  --  is deciding what  to do next. And
Halman is  pessimistic. No --  that's an exaggeration. Let's say  he doesn't
think  much of our chances, but is now too detached an observer to be unduly
worried. The future -- the survival! -- of the  human  race  isn't much more
than an interesting problem to him, but he's willing to help.'
     Poole suddenly stopped talking, to the surprise of his intent audience.
     'That's  strange.  I've  just had an amazing flashback...  I'm  sure it
explains what's happening. Please bear with me.'
     'Dave and I were walking together one day, along the beach at the Cape,
a few weeks before launch, when we noticed a large beetle lying on the sand.
As often  happens, it had fallen  on its back and was waving its legs in the
air, struggling to get right-way-up.'
     'I  ignored  it  --  we  were  engaged  in  some complicated  technical
discussion -- but not Dave. He stepped aside, and carefully flipped  it over
with  his shoe. As it  flew away I commented, "Are you sure that was  a good
idea? Now it will go off and chomp somebody's prize  chrysanthemums." And he
answered, "Maybe you're right. But  I'd  like to give it  the benefit of the
doubt."
     'My apologies -- I'd  promised to say only  a few  words! But I'm  very
glad I  remembered that incident:  I really believe it puts Halman's message
in the  right perspective.  He's  giving the human  race  the benefit of the
doubt...'
     'Now please  check  your Braincaps. This is a high-density recording --
top of the u.v. band, Channel 110. Make yourselves  comfortable, but be sure
you're free line of sight. Here we go...'

     35 Council of War

     No one asked for a replay. Once was sufficient.
     There  was a brief silence when the playback finished; then Chairperson
Dr  Oconnor removed  her  Braincap,  massaged her  shining  scalp, and  said
slowly:
     'You taught me a  phrase from your period  that  seems very appropriate
now. This is a can of worms.'
     'But only Bowman -- Halman -- has opened it,' said one of the Committee
members. 'Does he really understand the operation of something as complex as
the Monolith? Or is this whole scenario a figment of his imagination?'
     'I don't think  he  has  much imagination,' Dr Oconnor  answered.  'And
everything checks  perfectly. Especially the  reference to  Nova Scorpio. We
assumed that was an accident; apparently it was a -- judgement.'
     'First  Jupiter --  now Scorpio,' said Dr Kraussman, the  distinguished
physicist who  was popularly regarded  as a reincarnation  of  the legendary
Einstein. A  little plastic surgery, it was rumoured, had  also helped. 'Who
will be next in line?'
     'We always  guessed,'  said the  Chair, 'that the TMAs were  monitoring
us.'  She  paused  for  a moment,  then added ruefully: 'What  bad  --  what
incredibly bad! -- luck that the fmal report went off, just  after  the very
worst period in human history!'
     There was another silence. Everyone knew that the twentieth century had
often been branded 'The Century of Torture'
     Poole listened without interrupting, while he waited for some consensus
to emerge. Not for  the first time, he was impressed by  the quality  of the
Committee No one was trying to prove a pet theory, score debating points, or
inflate an  ego:  he could  not  help  drawing  a  contrast with  the  often
bad-tempered arguments  he  had heard  in  own  time,  between  Space Agency
engineers   and   administrators,  Congressional  staffs,   and   industrial
executives.
     Yes, the human race had undoubtedly improved. The Braincap had not only
helped to weed out  misfits, but  had enormously increased the efficiency of
education.  Yet there  had also  been a loss; there  were very few memorable
characters  in  this society. Offhand he could think of  only four -- Indra,
Captain Chandler, Dr Khan and the Dragon Lady of wistful memory.
     The Chairperson let the discussion flow  smoothly back and  forth until
everyone had had a say, then began her summing up.
     'The obvious first question -- how seriously should we take this threat
--  isn't  worth  wasting  time  on.  Even  if  it's  a  false alarm,  or  a
misunderstanding, it's potentially  so grave that we must assume  it's real,
until we have absolute proof to the contrary. Agreed?'
     'Good. And we don't know how much time we have. So  we must assume that
the danger  is immediate. Perhaps Halman may be able to give us some further
warning, but by then it may be too late.'
     'So the only thing we have to decide is: how  can we protect ourselves,
against  something  as  powerful  as  the Monolith?  Look what  happened  to
Jupiter! And, apparently, Nova Scorpio...'
     'I'm sure  that brute  force would be useless, though perhaps we should
explore  that option.  Dr Kraussman  --  how long would it  take to  build a
super-bomb?'
     'Assuming  that  the  designs  still  exist,  so  that  no  research is
necessary -- oh, perhaps two weeks. Thermonuclear weapons are rather simple,
and use common  materials --  after  all, they made them back in  the Second
Millennium! But if  you wanted something sophisticated --  say an antimatter
bomb, or a mini-black-hole -- well, that might take a few months.'
     'Thank you: could you start looking into it? But as  I've said, I don't
believe  it would work; surely  something that can  handle such powers  must
also be able to protect itself against them. So -- any other suggestions?'
     'Can we negotiate?' one councillor asked, not very hopefully.
     'With what... or  whom?' Kraussman answered. 'As we've discovered,  the
Monolith  is  essentially  a  pure mechanism,  doing  just  what  it's  been
programmed  to  do.  Perhaps that  program  is  flexible enough to  allow of
changes, but  there's no  way we can tell. And we certainly can't  appeal to
Head Office -- that's half a thousand light-years away!'
     Poole  listened  without  interrupting;  there  was  nothing  he  could
contribute to the discussion,  and indeed much of it was completely over his
head. He began  to feel an insidious sense of depression, would it have been
better,  he wondered, not  to pass on this  information? Then, if  it was  a
false alarm,  no  one  would be any the worse.  And if  it was not --  well,
humanity would still have peace  of mind, before whatever  inescapable  doom
awaited it.
     He was still mulling  over  these gloomy thoughts when he was  suddenly
alerted by a familiar phrase.
     A  quiet  little  member  of  the Committee, with a name  so  long  and
difficult that Poole had never been able  to remember,  still less pronounce
it, had abruptly dropped just two words into the discussion.
     'Trojan Horse!'
     There was one of those silences generally described as 'pregnant', then
a  chorus  of 'Why didn't I think  of that!' 'Of  course!' 'Very good idea!'
until the Chairperson, for the first time in  the session,  had  to call for
order.
     'Thank  you,  Professor Thirugnanasampanthamoorthy,'  said Dr  Oconnor,
without missing a beat. 'Would you like to be more specific?'
     'Certainly.  If  the  Monolith  is indeed, as everyone seems  to think,
essentially  a machine  without consciousness -- and hence with only limited
self-monitoring ability  -- we may  already have the weapons that can defeat
it. Locked up in the Vault.'
     'And a delivery system -- Halman!'
     'Precisely.'
     'Just a minute, Dr  T.  We know nothing -- absolutely nothing --  about
the Monolith's architecture. How can we be sure that anything our  primitive
species ever designed would be effective against it?'
     'We  can't  -- but  remember  this. However  sophisticated it  is,  the
Monolith has to obey exactly the same universal laws of logic that Aristotle
and Boole formulated, centuries ago. That's why it may -- no, should!  -- be
vulnerable to the things locked up in the Vault. We have to assemble them in
such a way that at least one of them will work. It's our only hope -- unless
anybody can suggest a better alternative.'
     'Excuse me,' said Poole, finally losing patience.  'Will someone kindly
tell me -- what and where is this famous Vault you're talking about?'

     36 Chamber of Horrors

     History is full of nightmares, some natural, some manmade.
     By the end of  the  twenty-first century, most of  the natural ones  --
smallpox, the Black Death, AIDS, the hideous viruses lurking  in the African
jungle  --  had been eliminated, or at least  brought under control,  by the
advance  of medicine.  However, it  was  never  wise  to  underestimate  the
ingenuity of Mother Nature,  and no one doubted that  the future would still
have unpleasant biological surprises in store for Mankind.
     It seemed a  sensible precaution, therefore, to keep a few specimens of
all these horrors for scientific  study  -- carefully guarded, of course, so
that there was no possibility of them  escaping and again wreaking  havoc on
the human  race.  But  how  could  one be absolutely sure that  there was no
danger of this happening?
     There had  been --  understandably  --  quite  an  outcry  in the  late
twentieth  century  when it  was  proposed to keep  the last known  smallpox
viruses at Disease Control  Centres in the United States and Russia. However
unlikely it  might be, there  was a finite possibility  that  they might  be
released  by such accidents  as earthquakes,  equipment failures -- or  even
deliberate sabotage by terrorist groups.
     A solution  that satisfied everyone  (except a few 'Preserve  the lunar
wilderness!' extremists) was to ship them to the Moon, and to keep them in a
laboratory at  the end of  a  kilometre-long shaft drilled into the isolated
mountain Pico, one of the most prominent features of the  Mare  Imbrium. And
here,  over  the years, they  were joined  by some  of the most  outstanding
examples of misplaced human ingenuity -- indeed, insanity.
     There were gases and mists that, even in microscopic doses, caused slow
or  instant death. Some had been created  by religious  cultists who, though
mentally deranged, had managed to acquire considerable scientific knowledge.
Many  of  them believed  that the end  of  the world  was at  hand (when, of
course, only their followers would be saved). In case  God was absent-minded
enough not to perform as scheduled, they wanted to make sure that they could
rectify His unfortunate oversight.
     The  first  assaults  of  these  lethal  cultists  were  made  on  such
vulnerable targets as  crowded subways, World  Fairs, sports  stadiums,  pop
concerts... tens of thousands were killed, and many  more injured before the
madness  was brought under  control in  the  early twenty-first  century. As
often happens, some good  came out  of evil, because it forced  the  world's
law