l***a
发帖数: 5114 | 1 最近翻出阿西莫夫作品全集来重看，真挺有意思的，不仅囊括了他最早期那些名不见经
传的短篇，还有自己写的“创作感想”。看到TRENDS那一篇，居然发现他在1938年（当
时他还在读大学）成功预测成两件事：1）1940年第二次世界大战，2）1970年，人类登
月。
两件事都只差1年而已！
我一直觉得那个SF黄金时期的创作高峰,后来者很难翻越……
下面附TRENDS 的原文。
TRENDS
John Harman was sitting at his desk, brooding, when I entered the office
that day.
It had become a common sight, by then, to see him staring out at the Hudson,
head in
hand, a scowl contorting his face—all too common. It seemed unfair for the
little bantam
to be eating his heart out like that day after day, when by rights he should
have been
receiving the praise and adulation of the world.
I flopped down into a chair. "Did you see the editorial in today’s Clarion,
boss?"
He turned weary, bloodshot eyes to me. "No, I haven’t.
What do they say? Are they calling the vengeance of God down upon me again?"
His voice dripped with bitter sarcasm.
"They’re going a little farther now, boss," I answered.
"Listen to this: " 'Tomorrow is the day of John Harman’s attempt at
profaning the
heavens. Tomorrow, in defiance of world opinion and world conscience, this
man will defy
God.
" This is not given to man to go wheresoever ambition and desire lead him.
There
are things forever denied him, and aspiring to the stars is one of these.
Like Eve, John
Harman wishes to eat of the forbidden fruit, and like Eve he will suffer due
punishment
therefor.
" 'But it is not enough, this mere talk. If we allow him thus to brook the
vengeance
of God, the trespass is mankind’s and not Harman’s alone. In allowing him
to carry out his
evil designs, we make ourselves accessory to the crime, and Divine vengeance
will fall on
all alike.
" 'It is, therefore, essential that immediate steps be taken to prevent
Harman from
taking off in his so-called rocketship tomorrow. The government in refusing
to take such
steps may force violent action. If it will make no move to confiscate the
rocketship, or to
imprison Harman, our enraged citizenry may have to take matters into their
own hands—
'"
Harman sprang from his seat in a rage and, snatching the paper from my hands,
threw it into the comer furiously. "It’s an open call to a lynching," he
raved. "Look at
this!"
He cast five or six envelopes in my direction. One glance sufficed to tell
what they
were.
"More death threats?" I 'asked.
"Yes, exactly that. I’ve had to arrange for another increase in the police
patrol
outside the building and for motorcycle police escort when I cross the river
to the testing
ground tomorrow."
He marched up and down the room with agitated stride. "I don’t know what to
do,
Clifford. I’ve worked on the Prometheus almost ten years. I’ve slaved,
spent a fortune of
money, given up all that makes life worth while—and for what? So that a
bunch of fool
revivalists can whip up public sentiment against me until my very life isn’
t safe."
"You’re in advance of the times, boss," I shrugged my shoulders in a
resigned
gesture which made him whirl upon me in a fury.
"What do you mean 'in advance of the times'? This is 1973.
The world has been ready for space travel for half a century now. Fifty
years ago,
people were talking, dreaming of the day when man could free himself of
Earth and
plumb the depths of space. For fifty years, science has inched toward, this
goal, and now .
. . now I finally have it, and behold! you say the world is not ready for me
."
"The '20s and '30s were years of anarchy, decadence, and misrule, if you
remember your history," I reminded him gently. "You cannot accept them as
criteria."
"I know, I know. You’re going to tell me of the First War of 1914, and the
Second
of 1940. It’s an old story to me; my father fought in the Second and my
grandfather in the
First.
Nevertheless, those were the days when science flourished.
Men were not afraid then; somehow they dreamed and dared.
There was no such thing as conservatism when it came to matters mechanical
and
scientific. No theory was too radical to advance, no discovery too
revolutionary to publish.
Today, dry rot has seized the world when a great vision, such as space
travel, is hailed as
'defiance of God.' "
His head sank slowly down, and he turned away to hide his trembling lips and
the
tears in his eyes. Then he suddenly straightened again, eyes blazing: "But I
’ll show them.
I’m going through with it, in spite of Hell, Heaven and Earth. I’ve put
too much into it to
quit now."
"Take it easy, boss," I advised. "This isn’t going to do you any good
tomorrow,
when you get into that ship. Your chances of coming out alive aren’t too
good now, so
what will they be if you start out worn to pieces with excitement and worry?"
"You’re right. Let’s not think of it any more. Where’s Shelton?"
"Over at the Institute arranging for the special photographic plates to be
sent us."
"He’s been gone a long time, hasn’t he?"
"Not especially; but listen, boss, there’s something wrong with him. I don
’t like
him."
"Poppycock! He’s been with me two years, and I have no complaints."
"All right." I spread my hands in resignation. "If you won’t listen to me,
you won’t.
Just the same I caught him reading one of those infernal pamphlets Otis
Eldredge puts
out. You know the kind: 'Beware, 0 mankind, for judgment draws near.
Punishment for
your sins is at hand. Repent and be saved.' And all the rest of the time-
honoured junk."
Harman snorted in disgust. "Cheap tub-thumping revivalist! I suppose the
world
will never outgrow his type—not while sufficient morons exist. Still you
can’t condemn
Shelton just because he reads it. I’ve read them myself on occasion."
"He says he picked it up on the sidewalk and read it in 'idle curiosity,'
but I’m
pretty sure that I saw him take it out of his wallet. Besides, he goes to
church every
Sunday."
"Is that a crime? Everyone does, nowadays!"
"Yes, but not to the Twentieth Century Evangelical Society. That’s Eldredge
’s."
That jolted Harman. Evidently, it was the first he had heard of it. "Say,
that is
something, isn’t it? We’ll have to keep an eye on him, then."
But after that, things started to happen, and we forgot all about Shelton—
until it
was too late.
There was nothing much left to do that last day before the test, and I
wandered
into the next room, where I went over Harman’s final report to the
Institute. It was my job
to correct any errors or mistakes that crept in, but I’m afraid I wasn’t
very thorough. To tell
the truth, I couldn’t concentrate. Every few minutes, I’d fall into a
brown study.
It seemed queer, all this fuss over a space travel. When Harman had first
announced the approaching perfection of the Prometheus, some six months
before,
scientific circles had been jubilant. Of course, they were cautious in their
statements and
qualified everything they said, but there was real enthusiasm.
However, the masses didn’t take it that way. It seems strange, perhaps, to
you of
the twenty-first century, but perhaps we should have expected it in those
days of '73.
People weren’t very progressive then. For years there had been a swing
toward religion,
and when the churches came out unanimously against Harman’s rocket—well,
there you
were.
At first, the opposition confined itself to the churches and we thought it
might play
itself out. But it didn’t The papers got hold of it, and literally spread
the gospel. Poor
Harman became an anathema to the world in a remarkably short time, and then
his
troubles began.
He received death threats, and warnings of divine vengeance every day. He
couldn’t walk the streets in safety. Dozens of sects, to none of which he
belonged—he
was one of the very rare free-thinkers of the day, which was another count
against him—
excommunicated him and placed him under special interdict. And, worst of all
, Otis
Eldredge and his Evangelical Society began stirring up the populace.
Eldredge was a queer character—one of those geniuses, in their way, that
arise
every so often. Gifted with a golden tongue and a sulphurous vocabulary, he
could fairly
hypnotize a crowd. Twenty thousand people were so much putty in his hands,
could he
only bring them within earshot And for four months, he thundered against
Harman; for
four months, a pouring stream of denunciation rolled forth in oratorical
frenzy. And for
four months, the temper of the world rose.
But Harman was not to be daunted. In his tiny, flve-foot two body, he had
enough
spirit for five six-footers. The more the wolves howled, the firmer he held
his ground. With
almost divine—his enemies said, diabolical—obstinacy, he refused to yield
an inch. Yet
his outward firmness was to me, who knew him, but an imperfect concealment
of the
great sorrow and bitter disappointment within.
The ring of the doorbell interrupted my thoughts at that point and brought
me to
my feet in surprise. Visitors were very few those days.
I looked out the window and saw a tall, portly figure talking with Police
Sergeant
Cassidy. I recognized him at once as Howard Winstead, head of the Institute.
Harman was
hurrying out to greet him, and after a short exchange of phrases, the two
entered the
office. I followed them in, being rather curious as to what could have
brought Winstead,
who was more politician than scientist, here.
Winstead didn’t seem very comfortable, at first; not his usual suave self.
He
avoided Harman’s eyes in an embarrassed manner and mumbled a few
conventionalities
concerning the weather. Then he came to the point with direct, undiplomatic
bluntness.
"John," he said, "how about postponing the trial for a time?"
"You really mean abandoning it altogether, don’t you? Well, I won’t, and
that’s
final."
Winstead lifted his hand. "Wait now, John, don’t get excited. Let me state
my
case. I know the Institute agreed to give you a free hand, and I know that
you paid at
least half the expenses out of your own pocket, but—you can’t go through
with it."
"Oh, can’t I, though?" Herman snorted derisively.
"Now listen, John, you know your science, but you don’t know your human
nature,
and I do. This is not the world of the 'Mad Decades,' whether you realize it
or not. There
have been profound changes since 1940." He swung into what was evidently a
carefully
prepared speech.
"After the First World War, you know, the world as a whole swung away from
religion and toward freedom from convention. People were disgusted and
disillusioned,
cynical and sophisticated. Eldredge calls them 'wicked and sinful.' In spite
of that, science
flourished—some say it always fares best in such an unconventional period.
From its
standpoint it was a 'Golden Age.' "However, you know the political and
economic history
of the period. It was a time of political chaos and international anarchy; a
suicidal,
brainless, insane period—and it culminated in the Second World War. And
just as the First
War led to a period of sophistication, so the Second initiated a return to
religion.
"People were disgusted with the 'Mad Decades." They had had enough of it,
and
feared, beyond all else, a return to it To remove that possibility, they put
the ways of
those decades behind them. Their motives, you see, were understandable and
laudable.
All the freedom, all the sophistication, all the lack of convention were
gone—swept away
clean. We are living now in a second Victorian age; and naturally so,
because human
history goes by swings of the pendulum and this is the swing toward religion
and
convention.
"One thing only is left over since those days of half a century ago. That
one thing is
the respect of humanity for science. We have prohibition; smoking for women
is
outlawed; cosmetics are forbidden; low dresses and short skirts are unheard
of; divorce is
frowned upon. But science has not been confined—as yet.
"It behoves science, then, to be circumspect, to refrain from arousing the
people.
It will be very easy to make them believe—and Otis Eldredge has come
perilously close
to doing it in some of his speeches—that it was science that brought about
the horrors of
the Second World War. Science outstripped culture, they will say, technology
outstripped
sociology, and it was that unbalance that came so near to destroying the
world.
Somehow, I am inclined to believe they are not so far wrong, at that.
"But do you know what would happen, if it ever did come to that? Scientific
research may be forbidden; or, if they don’t go that far, it will certainly
be so strictly
regulated as to stifle in its own decay. It will be a calamity from which
humanity would not
recover for a millennium.
"And it is your trial flight that may precipitate all this. You are arousing
the public
to a stage where it will be difficult to calm them. I warn you, John. The
consequences will
be on your head."
There was absolute silence for a moment and then Harman forced a smile. "
Come,
Howard, you’re letting yourself be frightened by shadows on the wall. Are
you trying to
tell me that it is your serious belief that the world as a whole is ready to
plunge into a
second Dark Ages? After all, the intelligent men are on the side of science,
aren’t they?"
"If they are, there aren’t many of them left from what I see." Winstead
drew a pipe
from his pocket and filled it slowly with tobacco as he continued: "Eldredge
formed a
League of the Righteous two months ago—they call it the L. R.—and it has
grown
unbelievably. Twenty million is its membership in the United States alone.
Eldredge
boasts that after the next election Congress will be his; and there seems to
be more truth
than bluff in that. Already there has been strenuous lobbying in favour of a
bill outlawing
rocket experiments, and laws of that type have been enacted in Poland,
Portugal and
Rumania. Yes, John, we are perilously close to open persecution of science."
He was
smoking now in rapid, nervous puffs.
"But if I succeed, Howard, if I succeed! What then?"
"Bah! You know the chances for that. Your own estimate gives you only one
chance
in ten of coming out alive."
"What does that signify? The next experimenter will learn by my mistakes,
and the
odds will improve. That’s the scientific method."
"The mob doesn’t know anything about the scientific method; and they don’t
want
to know. Well, what do you say? Will you call it off?"
Harman sprang to his feet, his chair tumbling over with a crash. "Do you
know what
you ask? Do you want me to give up my life’s work, my dream, just like that
? Do you think
I’m going to sit back and wait for your dear public to become benevolent?
Do you think
they’ll change in my lifetime? "Here’s my answer: I have an inalienable
right to pursue
knowledge. Science has an inalienable right to progress and develop without
interference. The world, in interfering with me, is wrong; I am right. And
it shall go hard;
but I -will not abandon my rights."
Winstead shook his head sorrowfully. "You’re wrong, John, when you speak of
'inalienable' rights. What you call a 'right' is merely a privilege,
generally agreed upon.
What society accepts, is right; what it does not, is wrong."
"Would your friend, Eldredge, agree to such a definition of his '
righteousness'?"
questioned Harman bitterly.
"No, he would not, but that’s irrelevant. Take the case of those African
tribes who
used to be cannibals. They were brought up as cannibals, have the long
tradition of
cannibalism, and their society accepts the practice. To them, cannibalism is
right, and why
shouldn’t it be? So you see how relative the whole notion is, and how inane
your
conception of 'inalienable' rights to perform experiments is."
"You know, Howard, you missed your calling when you didn’t become a lawyer."
Harman was really growing angry.
"You’ve been bringing out every moth-eaten argument you can think of. For
God’s
sake, man, are you trying to pretend that it is a crime to refuse to run
with the crowd? Do
you stand for absolute uniformity, ordinariness, orthodoxy, commonplaceness?
Science
would die far sooner under the programme you outline than under governmental
prohibition."
Harman stood up and pointed an accusing finger at the other. "You’re
betraying
science and the tradition of those glorious rebels: Galileo, Darwin,
Einstein and their kind.
My rocket leaves tomorrow on schedule in spite of you and every other
stuffed shirt in the
United States. That’s that, and I refuse to listen to you any longer. So
you can just get
out."
The head of the Institute, red in the face, turned to me.
"You’re my witness, young man, that I warned this obstinate nitwit, this .
. . this
hare-brained fanatic." He spluttered a bit, and then strode out, the picture
of fiery
indignation.
Harman turned to me when he had" gone: "Well, what do you think? I suppose
you agree with him."
There was only one possible answer and I made it: "You’re not paying me to
do
anything else but follow orders, boss. I’m sticking with you."
Just then Shelton came in and Harman packed us both off to go over the
calculations of the orbit of flight for the umpteenth time, while he himself
went off to bed.
The next day, July 15th, dawned in matchless splendour, and Harman, Shelton,
and myself were in an almost gay mood as we crossed the Hudson to where the
Prometheus—surrounded by an adequate police guard—lay in gleaming grandeur.
Around it, roped off at an apparently safe distance, rolled a crowd of
gigantic
proportions. Most of them were hostile, raucously so. In fact, for one
fleeting moment, as
our motorcycle police escort parted the crowds for us, the shouts and
imprecations that
reached our ears almost convinced me that we should have listened to
Winstead.
But Harman paid no attention to them at all, after one supercilious sneer at
a shout
of: "There goes John Harman, son of Belial." Calmly, he directed us about
our task of
inspection. I tested the foot-thick outer walls and the air locks for leaks,
then made sure
the air purifier worked. Shelton checked up on the repellent screen and the
fuel tanks.
Finally, Hal-man tried on the clumsy spacesuit, found it suitable, and
announced himself
ready.
The crowd stirred. Upon a hastily erected platform of wooden planks piled in
confusion by some in the mob, there rose up a striking figure. Tall and lean
; with thin,
ascetic countenance; deep-set, burning eyes, peering and half closed; a
thick, white mane
crowning all—it was Otis Eldredge. The crowd recognized him at once and
many
cheered. Enthusiasm waxed and soon the entire turbulent mass of people
shouted
themselves hoarse over him.
He raised a hand for silence, turned to Harman, who regarded him with
surprise
and distaste, and pointed a long, bony finger at him: "John, Harman, son of
the devil,
spawn of Satan, you are here for an evil purpose. You are about to set out
upon a
blasphemous attempt to pierce the veil beyond which man is forbidden to go.
You are
tasting of the forbidden fruit of Eden and beware that you taste not of the
fruits of sin."
The crowd cheered him to the echo and he continued: "The finger of God is
upon
you, John Harman. He shall not allow His works to be defiled. You die today,
John
Harman." His voice rose in intensity and his last words were uttered in
truly prophet-like
fervour.
Harman turned away in disdain. In a loud, clear voice, he addressed the
police
sergeant: "Is there any way, officer, of removing these spectators. The
trial flight may be
attended by some destruction because of the rocket blasts, and they’re
crowding too
close."
The policeman answered in a crisp, unfriendly tone: "If you’re afraid of
being
mobbed, say so, Mr. Harman. You don’t have to worry, though, we’ll hold
them back. And
as for danger—from that contraption—" He sniffed loudly in the direction
of the
Prometheus, evoking a torrent of jeers and yells.
Harman said nothing further, but climbed into the ship in silence. And when
he did
so, a queer sort of stillness fell over the mob; a palpable tension. There
was no attempt at
rushing the ship, an attempt I had thought inevitable. On the contrary, Otis
Eldredge
himself shouted to everyone to move back.
"Leave the sinner to his sins," he shouted. " 'Vengeance is mine,' saith the
Lord."
As the moment approached, Shelton nudged me. "Let’s get out of here," he
whispered in a strained voice. "Those rocket blasts are poison." Saying this
, he broke into
a run, beckoning anxiously for me to follow.
We had not yet reached the fringes of the crowd when there was a terrific
roar
behind me. A wave of heated air swept over me. There was the frightening
hiss of some
speeding object past my ear, and I was thrown violently to the ground. For a
few
moments I lay dazed, my ears ringing and my head reeling.
When I staggered drunkenly to my feet again, it was to view a dreadful sight.
Evidently, the entire fuel supply of the Prometheus had exploded at once,
and where it
had lain a moment ago there was now only a yawning hole. The ground was
strewn with
wreckage. The cries of the hurt were heartrending, and the mangled bodies—
but I won’t
try to describe those.
A weak groan at my feet attracted my attention. One look, and I gasped in
horror,
for it was Shelton, the back of his head a bloody mass.
"I did it." His voice was hoarse and triumphant but withal so low that I
could
scarcely hear it. "I did it. I broke open the liquid-oxygen compartments and
when the
spark went through the acetylide mixture the whole cursed thing exploded."
He gasped a
bit and tried to move but failed. "A piece of wreckage must have hit me, but
I don’t care.
I’ll die knowing that—"
His voice was nothing more than a rasping rattle, and on his face was the
ecstatic
look of martyr. He died then, and I could not find it in my heart to condemn
him.
It was then I first thought of Harman. Ambulances from Manhattan and from
Jersey
City were on the scene, and one had sped to a wooden patch some five hundred
yards
distant, where, caught in the treetops, lay a splintered fragment of the
Prometheus'
forward compartment. I limped there as fast as I could, but they had dragged
out Harman
and clanged away long before I could reach them.
After that, I didn’t stay. The disorganized crowd had no thought but for
the dead
and wounded now, but when they recovered, and bent their thoughts to revenge
, my life
would not be worth a straw. I followed the dictates of the better part of
valour and quietly
disappeared.
The next week was a hectic one for me. During that time, I lay in hiding at
the
home of a friend, for it would have been more than my life was worth to
allow myself to
be seen and recognized. Harman, himself, lay in a Jersey City hospital, with
nothing more
than superficial cuts and bruises—thanks to the backward force of the
explosion and the
saving clump of trees which cushioned the fall of the Prometheus. It was on
him that the
brunt of the world’s wrath fell.
New York, and the rest of the world also, just about went crazy. Every last
paper in
the city came out with gigantic headlines, "28 Killed, 73 Wounded—the Price
of Sin,"
printed in blood-red letters. The editorials howled for Harman’s life,
demanding he be
arrested and tried for first-degree murder.
The dreaded cry of "Lynch him!" was raised throughout the five boroughs, and
milling thousands crossed the river and converged on Jersey City. At their
head was Otis
Eldredge, both legs in splints, addressing the crowd from an open automobile
as they
marched. It was a veritable army.
Mayor Carson of Jersey City called out every available policeman and phoned
frantically to Trenton for the State militia. New York clamped down on every
bridge and
tunnel leaving the city—but not till after many thousands had left.
There were pitched battles on the Jersey coast that sixteenth of July. The
vastly
outnumbered police clubbed indiscriminately but were gradually pushed back
and back.
Mounties rode down upon the mob relentlessly but were swallowed up and
pulled down
by sheer force of numbers. Not until tear gas was used, did the crowd halt—
and even
then they did not retreat.
The next day, martial law was declared, and the State militia entered Jersey
City.
That was the end for the lynchers.
Eldredge was called to confer with the mayor, and after the conferences
ordered
his followers to disperse.
In a statement to the newspapers. Mayor Carson said; "John Harman must needs
suffer for his crime, but it is essential that he do so legally. Justice
must take its course,
and the State of New Jersey will take all necessary measures."
By the end of the week, normality of a sort had returned and Harman slipped
out
of the public spotlight. Two more weeks and there was scarcely a word about
him in the
newspapers, excepting such casual references to him in the discussion of the
new Zittman
antirocketry bill that had just passed both houses of Congress by unanimous
votes.
Yet he remained in the hospital still. No legal action had been taken
against him,
but it began to appear that a sort of indefinite imprisonment "for his own
protection"
might be his eventual fate. Therefore, I bestirred myself to action.
Temple Hospital is situated in a lonely and outlying district of Jersey City
, and on a
dark, moonless night I experienced no difficulty at all in invading the
grounds
unobserved. With a facility that surprised me, I sneaked in through a
basement window,
slugged a sleepy interne into insensibility and proceeded to Room 15E, which
was listed
in the books as Harman’s.
"Who’s there?" Harman’s surprised shout was music in my ears.
"Sh! Quiet! It’s I, Cliff McKenny."
"You! What are you doing here?"
"Trying to get you out. If I don’t, you’re liable to stay here the rest of
your life.
Come on, let’s go."
I was hustling him into his clothes while we were speaking, and in no time
at all we
were sneaking down the corridor.
We were out safely and into my waiting car before Harman collected his
scattered
wits sufficiently to begin asking questions.
"What’s happened since that day?" was the first question.
"I don’t remember a thing after starting the rocket blasts until I woke up
in the
hospital."
"Didn’t they tell you anything?"
"Not a damn thing," he swore. "I asked until I was hoarse."
So I told him the whole story from the explosion on. His eyes were wide with
shocked surprise when I told of the dead and wounded, and filled with wild
rage when he
heard of Shelton’s treachery. The story of the riots and attempted lynching
evoked a
muffled curse from between set lips.
"Of course, the papers howled 'murder,' " I concluded, "but they couldn’t
pin that
on you. They tried manslaughter, but there were too many eye-witnesses that
had heard
your request for the removal of the crowd and the police sergeant’s
absolute refusal to do
so. That, of course, absolved you from all blame.
The police sergeant himself died in the explosion, and they couldn’t make
him the
goat.
"Still, with Eldredge yelling for your hide, you’re never safe. It would be
best to
leave while able."
Harman nodded his head in agreement "Eldredge survived the explosion, did he
?"
"Yes, worse luck. He broke both legs, but it takes more than that to shut
his
mouth."
Another week had passed before I reached our future haven—my uncle’s farm
in
Minnesota. There, in a lonely and out-of-the-way rural community, we stayed
while the
hullabaloo over Harman’s disappearance gradually died down and the
perfunctory search
for us faded away. The search, by the way, was short indeed, for the
authorities seemed
more relieved than concerned over the disappearance.
Peace and quiet did wonders with Harman. In six months he seemed a new man—
quite ready to consider a second attempt at space travel. Not all the
misfortunes in the
world could stop him, it seemed, once he had his heart set on something.
"My mistake the first time," he told me one winter’s day, "lay in
announcing the
experiment. I should have taken the temper of the people into account, as
Winstead said.
This time, however"—he rubbed his hands and gazed thoughtfully into the
distance—"I’ll
steal a march on them. The experiment will he performed in secrecy—absolute
secrecy."
I laughed grimly, "It would have to be. Do you know that all future
experiment in
rocketry, even entirely theoretical research is a crime punishable by death?"
"Are you afraid, then?"
"Of course not, boss. I’m merely stating a fact. And here’s another plain
fact. We
two can’t build a ship all by ourselves, you know."
"I’ve thought of that and figured a way out, Cliff. What’s more, I can
take care of
the money angle, too. You’ll have to do some traveling, though.
"First, you’ll have to go to Chicago and look up the firm of Roberts &
Scranton and
withdraw everything that’s left of my father’s inheritance, which," he
added in a rueful
aside, "is more than half gone on the first ship. Then, locate as many of
the old crowd as
you can: Harry Jenkins, Joe O'Brien, Neil Stanton—all of them. And get back
as quickly as
you can. I am tired of delay."
Two days later, I left for Chicago. Obtaining my uncle’s consent to the
entire
business was a simple affair. "Might as well be strung up for a herd of
sheep as for a
lamb," he grunted, "so go ahead. I’m in enough of a mess now and can afford
a bit more,
I guess."
It took quite a bit of travelling and even more smooth talk and persuasion
before I
managed to get four men to come: the three mentioned by Harman and one other
, a
Saul Simonoff. With that skeleton force and with the half million’ still
left Harman out of
the reputed millions left him by his father, we began work.
The building of the New Prometheus is a story in itself—a long story of
five years of
discouragement and insecurity.
Little by little, buying girders in Chicago, beryl-steel plates m New York,
a
vanadium cell in San Francisco, miscellaneous items in scattered comers of
the nation, we
constructed the sister ship to the ill-fated Prometheus.
The difficulties in the way were all but insuperable. To prevent drawing
suspicion
down upon us, we had to spread our purchases over periods of time, and to
see to it, as
well, that the orders were made out to various places. For this we required
the cooperation
of various friends, who, to be sure, did not know at the time for exactly
what
purpose the purchases were being used.
We had to synthesize our own fuel, ten tons of it, and that was perhaps the
hardest
job of all; certainly it took the most time. And finally, as Harman’s money
dwindled, we
came up against our biggest problem—the necessity of economizing.
From the beginning we had known that we could never make the New Prometheus
as large or as elaborate as the first ship had been, but it soon developed
that we would
have to reduce its equipment to a point perilously close to the danger line.
The repulsion screen was barely satisfactory and all attempts at radio
communication were perforce abandoned.
And as we labored through the years, there in the backwoods of northern
Minnesota, the world moved on, and Winstead’s prophecies proved to have hit
amazingly
near the mark.
The events of those five years—from 1973 to 1978—are well known to the
schoolboys of today, the period being the climax of what we now call the "
Neo-Victorian
Age." The happenings of those years seem well-nigh unbelievable as we look
back upon
them now.
The outlawing of all research on space travel came in the very beginning,
but was a
bare start compared to the antiscientific measures taken in the ensuing
years. The next
congressional elections, those of 1974, resulted in a Congress in which
Eldredge
controlled the House and held the balance of power in the Senate.
Hence, no time was lost. At the first session of the ninety-third Congress,
the
famous Stonely-Carter bill was passed. It established the Federal Scientific
Research
Investigatory Bureau—the FSRIB—which was given full power to pass on the
legality of all
research in the country. Every laboratory, industrial or scholastic, was
required to file
information, in advance, on all projected research before this new bureau,
which could,
and did, ban absolutely all such as it disapproved of.
The inevitable appeal to the supreme court came on November 9, 1974, in the
case of Westly vs. Simmons, in which Joseph Westly of Stanford upheld his
right to
continue his investigations on atomic power on the grounds that the Stonely-
Carter act
was unconstitutional.
How we five, isolated amid the snowdrifts of the Middle West, followed that
case!
We had all the Minneapolis and St.
Paul papers sent to us—always reaching us two days late— and devoured
every
word of print concerning it. For the two months of suspense work ceased
entirely on the
New Prometheus.
It was rumoured at first that the court would declare the act
unconstitutional, and
monster parades were held in every large town against this eventuality. The
League of the
Righteous brought its powerful influence to bear—and even the supreme court
submitted. It was five to four for constitutionality. Science strangled by
the vote of one
man.
And it was strangled beyond a doubt. The members of the bureau were Eldredge
men, heart and soul, and nothing that would not have immediate industrial
use was
passed.
"Science has gone too far," said Eldredge in a famous speech at about that
time.
"We must halt it indefinitely, and allow the world to catch up. Only through
that and trust
in God may we hope to achieve universal and permanent prosperity."
But this was one of Eldridge’s last statements. He had never fully
recovered from
the broken legs he received that fateful day in July of '73, and his
strenuous life since then
had strained his constitution past the breaking point. On February 2, 1976,
he passed
away amid a burst of mourning unequalled since Lincoln’s assassination.
His death had no immediate effect on the course of events.
The rules of the FSRIB grew, in fact, in stringency as the years passed. So
starved
and choked did science become, that once more colleges found themselves
forced to
reinstate philosophy and the classics as the chief studies—and at that the
student body
fell to the lowest point since the beginning of the twentieth century.
These conditions prevailed more or less throughout the civilized world,
reaching
even lower depths in England, and perhaps least depressing in Germany, which
was the
last to fall under the "Neo-Victorian" influence.
The nadir of science came in the spring of 1978, a bare month before the
completion of the New Prometheus, with the passing of the "Easter Edict"—it
was issued
the day before Easter. By it, all independent research or experimentation
was absolutely
forbidden. The FSRIB thereafter reserved the right to allow only such
research as it
specifically requested.
John Harman and I stood before the gleaming metal of the New Prometheus that
Easter Sunday; I in the deepest gloom, and he in an almost jovial mood.
"Well, Clifford, my boy," said he, "the last ton of fuel, a few polishing
touches, and
I am ready for my second attempt.
This time there will be no Sheltons among us." He hummed a hymn. That was
all
the radio played those days, and even we rebels sang them from sheer
frequency of
repetition.
I grunted sourly: "It’s no use, boss. Ten to one, you end up somewhere in
space,
and even if you come back, you’ll most likely be hung by the neck. We can’
t win." My
head shook dolefully from side to side.
"Bah! This state of affairs can’t last, Cliff."
"I think it will. Winstead was right that time. The pendulum swings, and
since 1945
it’s been swinging against us. We’re ahead of the times—or behind them."
"Don’t speak of that fool, Winstead. You’re making the same mistake he did.
Trends are things of centuries and millenniums, not years or decades. For
five hundred
years we have been moving toward science. You can’t reverse that in thirty
years."
"Then what are we doing?" I asked sarcastically.
"We’re going through a momentary reaction following a period of too-rapid
advance in the Mad Decades. Just such a reaction took place in the Romantic
Age—the
first Victorian Period—following the too-rapid advance of the eighteenth
century Age of
Reason."
"Do you really think so?" I was shaken by his evident self-assurance.
"Of course. This period has a perfect analogy in the spasmodic 'revivals'
that used
to hit the small towns in America’s Bible Belt a century or so ago. For a
week, perhaps
everyone would get religion, and virtue would reign triumphant. Then, one by
one, they
would backslide and the Devil would resume his sway.
"In fact, there are symptoms of backsliding even now. The L. R. has indulged
in
one squabble after another since Eldredge’s death. There have been half a
dozen schisms
already. The very extremities to which those in power are going are helping
us, for the
country is rapidly tiring of it."
And that ended the argument—I in total defeat, as usual.
A month later, the New Prometheus was complete. It was nowhere near as
glittering and as beautiful as the original, and bore many a trace of
makeshift
workmanship, but we were proud of it—proud and triumphant.
"I’m going to try again, men"—Harman’s voice was husky, and his little
frame
vibrant with happiness—"and I may not make it, but for that I don’t care."
His eyes shone
in anticipation. "I’ll be shooting through the void at last, and the dream
of mankind will
come true. Out around the Moon and back; the first to see the other side. It
’s worth the
chance,"
"You won’t have fuel enough to land on the Moon, boss, which is a pity," I
said.
At that a pessimistic whisper ran through the little group surrounding him,
to which
he paid no attention.
"Good-bye," he said. "I’ll be seeing you." And with a cheerful grin he
climbed into
the ship.
Fifteen minutes later, the five of us sat about the living room table,
frowning, lost in
thought, eyes gazing out of the building at the spot where a burned section
of soil
marked the spot where a few minutes earlier the New Prometheus had lain.
Simonoff voiced the thought that was in the mind of each one of us: "Maybe
it
would be better for him not to come back. He won’t be treated very well if
he does, I
think." And we all nodded in gloomy assent.
How foolish that prediction seems to me now from the hindsight of three
decades.
The rest of the story is really not mine, for I did not see Harman again
until a month
after his eventful trip ended in a safe landing.
It was almost thirty-six hours after the take-off that a screaming
projectile shot its
way over Washington and buried itself in the mud just across the Potomac.
Investigators were at the scene of the landing within fifteen minutes, and
in
another fifteen minutes the police were there, for it was found that the
projectile was a
rocketship. They stared in involuntary awe at the tired, dishevelled man who
staggered
out in near-collapse.
There was utter silence while he shook his fist at the staring spectators
and
shouted: "Go ahead, hang me, fools. But I’ve reached the Moon, and you can
’t hang that.
Get the FSRIB.
Maybe they’ll declare the flight illegal and, therefore, nonexistent." He
laughed
weakly and suddenly collapsed.
Someone shouted: "Take him to a hospital. He’s sick." In stiff
unconsciousness
Harman was bundled into a police car and carried away, while the police
formed a guard
about the rocketship.
Government officials arrived and investigated the ship, read the log,
inspected the
drawings and photographs he had taken of the Moon, and finally departed in
silence. The
crowd grew and the word spread that a man had reached the Moon.
Curiously enough, there was little resentment of the fact.
Men were impressed and awed; the crowd whispered and cast inquisitive
glances
at the dim crescent of Luna, scarcely seen in the bright sunlight. Over all,
an uneasy pall
of silence, the silence of indecision, lay.
Then, at the hospital, Harman revealed his identity, and the fickle world
went wild.
Even Harman himself was stunned in surprise at the rapid change in the world
’s temper. It
seemed almost incredible, and yet it was true. Secret discontent, combined
with a heroic
tale of man against overwhelming odds— the sort of tale that had stirred
man’s soul since
the beginning of time—served to sweep everyone into an ever-swelling
current of anti-
Victorianism. And Eldredge was dead—no other could replace him.
I saw Harman at the hospital shortly after that. He was propped up and still
half
buried with papers, telegrams and letters. He grinned at me and nodded. "
Well, Cliff," he
whispered, "the pendulum swung back again." | un
发帖数: 1311 | 2 哈哈哈哈，这个大预言太牛了。。。
【在 l***a 的大作中提到】
: 最近翻出阿西莫夫作品全集来重看，真挺有意思的，不仅囊括了他最早期那些名不见经
: 传的短篇，还有自己写的“创作感想”。看到TRENDS那一篇，居然发现他在1938年（当
: 时他还在读大学）成功预测成两件事：1）1940年第二次世界大战，2）1970年，人类登
: 月。
: 两件事都只差1年而已！
: 我一直觉得那个SF黄金时期的创作高峰,后来者很难翻越……
: 下面附TRENDS 的原文。
: TRENDS
: John Harman was sitting at his desk, brooding, when I entered the office
: that day.
| b*s
发帖数: 82482 | 3 还有那个Arthur C. Clarke，也挺能算卦的。 | h*****a
发帖数: 1295 | 4 再早点就是科幻之父凡尔纳咯~~~
大赞海底两万里的潜水艇啊 | S***p
发帖数: 19902 | | J*****a
发帖数: 4262 | | z*y
发帖数: 1311 | 7 最喜欢《最后的答案》
最后那一句话，真是神来之笔
相形之下，3T3显得冗长乏味 | k*****e
发帖数: 22013 | 8 你说的是最后的问题吧。
【在 z*y 的大作中提到】
: 最喜欢《最后的答案》
: 最后那一句话，真是神来之笔
: 相形之下，3T3显得冗长乏味
| i***h
发帖数: 12655 | 9 3T3是啥?
【在 z*y 的大作中提到】
: 最喜欢《最后的答案》
: 最后那一句话，真是神来之笔
: 相形之下，3T3显得冗长乏味
| w*********e
发帖数: 6093 | |
|
