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The Nine Billion names of GodBy: Arthur C. Clarke
GPU - a Gnutella Processing Unit computing Dr. Wagner's task with this delphi algorithm"Exactly -- though we use a special alphabet of our own. Modifying the electromatic typewriters to deal with this is, of course, trivial. A rather more interesting problem is that of devising suitable circuits to eliminate ridiculous combinations. For example, no letter must occur more than three times in succession."
"Three? Surely you mean two."
"Three is correct. I am afraid it would take too long to explain why, even if you understood our language."
"Iím sure it would," said Wagner hastily. "Go on."
"Luckily it will be a simple matter to adapt your automatic sequence computer for this work, since once it has been programmed properly it will permute each letter in turn and print the result. What would have taken us fifteen thousand years it will be able to do in a thousand days."
Dr. Wagner was scarcely conscious of the faint sounds from the Manhattan streets far below. He was in a different world, a world of natural, not man-made, mountains. High up in their remote aeries these monks had been patiently at work, generation after generation, compiling their lists of meaningless words. Was there any limit to the follies of mankind? Still, he must give no hint of his inner thoughts. The customer was always right . . .
"Thereís no doubt," replied the doctor, "that we can modify the Mark V to print lists of this nature. Iím much more worried about the problem of installation and maintenance. Getting out to Tibet, in these days, is not going to be easy."
"We can arrange that. The components are small enough to travel by air -- that is one reason why we chose your machine. If you can get them to India, we will provide transport from there."
"And you want to hire two of our engineers?"
"Yes, for the three months which the project should occupy."
"Iíve no doubt that Personnel can manage that." Dr. Wagner scribbled a note on his desk pad. "There are just two other points--" Before he could finish the sentence, the lama had produced a small slip of paper.
"This is my certified credit balance at the Asiatic Bank."
"Thank you. It appears to be--ah--adequate. The second matter is so trivial that I hesitate to mention it -- but itís surprising how often the obvious gets overlooked. What source of electrical energy have you?"
"A diesel generator providing 50 kilowatts at 110 volts. It was installed about five years ago and is quite reliable. Itís made life at the lamasery much more comfortable, but of course it was really installed to provide power for the motors driving the prayer wheels."
"Of course," echoed Dr. Wagner. "I should have thought of that."
The view from the parapet was vertiginous, but in time one gets used to anything. After three months George Hanley was not impressed by the two-thousand-foot swoop into the abyss or the remote checkerboard of fields in the valley below. He was leaning against the wind-smoothed stones and staring morosely at the distant mountains whose names he had never bothered to discover.
This, thought George, was the craziest thing that had ever happened to him. "Project Shangri-La," some wit at the labs had christened it. For weeks now, Mark V had been churning out acres of sheets covered with gibberish. Patiently, inexorably, the computer had been rearranging letters in all their possible combinations, exhausting each class before going on to the next. As the sheets had emerged from the electromatic typewriters, the monks had carefully cut them up and pasted them into enormous books. In another week, heaven be praised, they would have finished. Just what obscure calculations had convinced the monks that they neednít bother to go on to words of ten, twenty, or a hundred letters, George didnít know. One of his recurring nightmares was that there would be some change of plan and that the High Lama (whom theyíd naturally called Sam Jaffe, though he didnít look a bit like him) would suddenly announce that the project would be extended to approximately 2060 A.D. They were quite capable of it.
George heard the heavy wooden door slam in the wind as Chuck came out onto the parapet beside him. As usual, Chuck was smoking one of the cigars that made him so popular with the monks -- who, it seemed, were quite willing to embrace all the minor and most of the major pleasures of life. That was one thing in their favor: they might be crazy, but they werenít bluenoses. Those frequent trips they took down to the village, for instance . . ."
"Listen, George," said Chuck urgently. "Iíve learned something that means trouble."
"Whatís wrong? Isnít the machine behaving?" That was the worst contingency George could imagine. It might delay his return, than which nothing could be more horrible. The way he felt now, even the sight of a TV commercial would seem like manna from heaven. At least it would be some link from home.
"No -- itís nothing like that." Chuck settled himself on the parapet, which was unusual, because normally he was scared of the drop.
"Iíve just found out what all this is about."
"What díya mean -- I thought we knew."
"Sure -- we know what the monks are trying to do. But we didnít know why. Itís the craziest thing --"
"Tell me something new," growled George.
" . . . but old Samís just come clean with me. You know the way he drops in every afternoon to watch the sheets roll out. Well, this time he seemed rather excited, or at least as near as heíll ever get to it. When I told him we were on the last cycle he asked me, in that cute English accent of his, if Iíd ever wondered what they were trying to do. I said, ĎSureí -- and he told me."
"Go on, Iíll buy it."
"Well, they believe that when they have listed all His names -- and they reckon that there are about nine billion of them -- Godís purpose will have been achieved. The human race will have finished what it was created to do, and there wonít be any point in carrying on. Indeed, the very idea is something like blasphemy."
"Then what do they expect us to do? Commit suicide?"
"Thereís no need for that. When the listís completed, God steps in and simply winds things up . . . bingo!"
"Oh, I get it. When we finish our job, it will be the end of the world."
Chuck gave a nervous little laugh.
"Thatís just what I said to Sam. And do you know what happened? He looked at me in a very queer way, like Iíd been stupid in class, and said, ĎItís nothing as trivial as thatí."
George thought this over for a moment.
"Thatís what I call taking the Wide View," he said presently. "But what díya suppose we should do about it? I donít see that it makes the slightest difference to us. After all, we already knew that they were crazy."
"Yes -- but donít you see what may happen? When the listís complete and the Last Trump doesnít blow -- or whatever it is that they expect -- we may get the blame. Itís our machine theyíve been using. I donít like the situation one little bit."
"I see," said George slowly. "Youíve got a point there. But this sort of thingís happened here before, you know. When I was a kid down in Louisiana we had a crackpot preacher who said the world was going to end next Sunday. Hundreds of people believed him-- even sold their homes. Yet nothing happened; they didnít turn nasty as youíd expect. They just decided that heíd made a mistake in his calculations and went right on believing. I guess some of them still do."
"Well, this isnít Louisiana, in case you hadnít noticed. There are just two of us and hundreds of these monks. I like them, and Iíll be sorry for old Sam when his lifework backfires on him. But all the same, I wish I was somewhere else."
"Iíve been wishing that for weeks. But thereís nothing we can do until the contractís finished and the transport arrives to fly us out."
"Of course," said Chuck thoughtfully, "we could always try a bit of sabotage."
"Like hell we could! That would make things worse."
"Not the way I meant. Look at it like this. The machine will finish its run four days from now, on the present twenty-hours-a-day basis. The transport calls in a week. O.K., then all we need to do is to find something that wants replacing during one of the overhaul periods -- something that will hold up the works for a couple of days. Weíll fix it, of course, but not too quickly. If we time matters properly, we can be down at the airfield when the last name pops out of the register. They wonít be able to catch us then."
"I donít like it," said George. "It will be the first time I ever walked out on a job. Besides, it would make them suspicious. No, Iíll sit tight and take what comes."
"I still donít like it," he said seven days later, as the tough little mountain ponies carried them down the winding road. "And donít you think Iím running away because Iím afraid. Iím just sorry for those poor old guys up there, and I donít want to be around when they find what suckers theyíve been. Wonder how Sam will take it?"
"Itís funny," replied Chuck, "but when I said goodbye I got the idea he knew we were walking out on him -- and that he didnít care because he knew the machine was running smoothly and that the job would soon be finished. After that -- well, of course, for him there just isnít any After That . . ."
George turned in his saddle and stared back up the mountain road. This was the last place from which one could get a clear view of the lamasery. The squat, angular buildings were silhouetted against the afterglow of the sunset; here and there lights gleamed like portholes in the sides of an ocean liner. Electric lights, of course, sharing the same circuit as the Mark V. How much longer would they share it? wondered George. Would the monks smash up the computer in their rage and disappointment? Or would they just sit down quietly and begin their calculations all over again? He knew exactly what was happening up on the mountain at this very moment. The High Lama and his assistants would be sitting in their silk robes, inspecting the sheets as the junior monks carried them away from the typewriters and pasted them into the great volumes. No one would be saying anything. The only sound would be the incessant patter, the never-ending rainstorm, of the keys hitting the paper, for the Mark V itself was utterly silent as it flashed through its thousands of calculations a second. Three months of this, thought George, was enough to start anyone climbing up the wall.
"There she is!" called Chuck, pointing down into the valley. "Ainít she beautiful!"
She certainly was, thought George. The battered old DC-3 lay at the end of the runway like a tiny silver cross. In two hours she would be bearing them away to freedom and sanity. It was a thought worth savoring like a fine liqueur. George let it roll around in his mind as the pony trudged patiently down the slope.
The swift night of the high Himalayas was now almost upon them. Fortunately the road was very good, as roads went in this region, and they were both carrying torches. There was not the slightest danger, only a certain discomfort from the bitter cold. The sky overhead was perfectly clear and ablaze with the familiar, friendly stars. At least there would be no risk, thought George, of the pilot being unable to take off because of weather conditions. That had been his only remaining worry.
He began to sing but gave it up after a while. This vast arena of mountains, gleaming like whitely hooded ghosts on every side, did not encourage such ebullience. Presently George glanced at his watch.
"Should be there in an hour," he called back over his shoulder to Chuck. Then he added, in an afterthought, "Wonder if the computerís finished its run? It was due about now."
Chuck didnít reply, so George swung round in his saddle. He could just see Chuckís face, a white oval turned toward the sky.
"Look," whispered Chuck, and George lifted his eyes to heaven. (There is always a last time for everything.)
Overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out.
ó Arthur C. Clarke
The novel is taken from this book:
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