must be the first time that anyone has been asked to send an Automatic Sequence Computer to a
monastery in Tibet. I don't wish to seem impolite, but I do wonder what use your − er − organization has
for a machine like this. Could you explain just what you plan to do with it?“
“Gladly,“ replied the lama, carefully putting away his little notebook. “Your Mark 5 Computer can
do all kinds of routine mathematical work which involves up to ten figures. However, for our work we
are interested in letters, not numbers. For this reason we wish you to change the machine so that it prints
out lists of words, not figures.“
“I don't quite understand. . .“
“We have been doing this work for the last three centuries − since the monastery first began, in
fact. It is a little foreign to your way of thought, so I hope you will listen with an open mind while I
explain it.“
“Naturally.“
“It is really quite simple. We have been making a list which will contain all the possible names of
God.“
Dr Wagner's eyes opened very wide.
“We have reason to believe,“ continued the lama calmly, “that all these names can be written with
not more than nine letters in an alphabet we have invented.“
“And you have been doing this for three centuries?“
“Yes. We expected it would take us about fifteen thousand years to finish the list.“
“Oh,“ Dr Wagner said slowly. “Yes, I can see why you want one of our machines. But what
exactly is your purpose in making this list?“
The lama hesitated for a second, and Dr Wagner wondered if the question had annoyed him. But
the reply came with the same calm politeness as before.
“It is a very important part of what we believe. All the many names of the Great Being − God,
Allah, Jehovah, and so on − are just names invented by humans. There are certain problems in these
ideas which I do not wish to discuss here. But we believe that somewhere among all the possible arrangements of letters are what we can call the real names of God. By going through every possible
arrangement of letters, we have been trying to list them all.“
“I see. You've been starting at AAAAAAA. . . and working through to ZZZZZZZ. . .“
“Exactly − though we use a special alphabet of our own. I'm afraid it would take too long to
explain all the details, as you don't understand our language.“
“I'm sure it would,“ said Dr Wagner hurriedly.
“Luckily, it will be quite easy to make the necessary changes to your Automatic Sequence
Computer so that it will do this work for us and print out the names. Instead of fifteen thousand years,
we shall be able to finish the list in a hundred days.“
Dr Wagner could hear the sounds of the New York streets far below his office, but he felt that he
was in a different world. High up in their distant, lonely mountains these lamas had been patiently at
work, year after year, making their lists of meaningless words. Was there no end to the foolishness of
human beings? But he must not show what he was thinking. The customer was always right. . .
“There's no doubt,“ Dr Wagner said, “that we can change the Mark 5 to print lists of this kind. I'm
much more worried about the problems of making sure your computer is in good working condition
when it arrives. And getting things out to Tibet, in these days, is not easy.“
“We can arrange that. The various parts of the computer are small enough to travel by air. If you
can get them to India, we will collect them from there.“
“And you want to hire two of our engineers?“
“Yes, for the three months that the work should take.“
“There's no problem about that.“ Dr Wagner wrote a note to remind himself. “There are two more
things. . .“
Before he could finish, the lama had passed him a piece of paper. “This is from our bank and is
signed, as you will see, by the manager.“
“Thank you,“ Dr Wagner said, looking at the figures. “That seems to be − er − adequate. The
second question may seem a little strange, but sometimes these simple things get forgotten. There is
electricity available. . .?“
“Yes, we brought in machinery for making electricity about five years ago and it works very well.
It's made life at the monastery much more comfortable, but the main reason for bringing it in, of course,
was to have motors to drive the prayer wheels.“
“Of course,' echoed Dr Wagner. “Why didn't I think of that?“
*********
The view from the monastery took one's breath away at first, but in time one gets used to anything.
After three months, George Hanley didn't really notice the seven− hundred−metre drop, straight down
into the valley below. He was standing by the wind−smoothed stones of the low wall that ran round the
outside of the main building, and staring miserably at the distant mountains. He had never been
interested enough to learn their names.
This job, thought George, was the craziest thing that had ever happened to him. For weeks now the
Mark 5 had been pushing out paper covered with meaningless rubbish. Patiently, endlessly, the
computer had been rearranging letters in every possible way. As the sheets of paper had come out of the
printers, the lamas had carefully cut them up and put them into great books. One more week, thank God,
and it would be finished. George didn't know why the lamas had decided it wasn't necessary to go on to
words of ten letters, or even more. His worst fear was that there would be a change of plan, and that the
high lama (whom they called Sam, because it was easier than his real name) would suddenly say that the
work had to go on until AD 2060.
George heard the heavy wooden door bang in the wind as Chuck came out to join him by the wall.
As usual, Chuck was smoking one of the cigars that made him so popular with the lamas − who were quite willing to enjoy most of the good things in life. That was something to be thankful for, anyway.
They were certainly crazy, but at least they were prepared to enjoy themselves as well.
“Listen, George,“ said Chuck seriously. “I've learned something that means trouble.“
“What's wrong? Isn't the computer behaving?“ That was the worst thing that George could
imagine. It might delay his return, and nothing could he more terrible than that. He wished desperately
that he could be at home again.
“No, it's nothing like that.“ Chuck sat on the low wall, which was unusual because normally he
was frightened of the steep drop down to the valley. “I've just learned what all this is about.“
“What d'you mean? I thought we knew.“
“Sure. We know what the lamas are trying to do. But we didn't know why. It's the craziest thing –“
“Tell me something new,“ said George crossly.
“ − but old Sam's just told me the reason. He's getting a bit excited now that we're getting close to
the end of the list. You see, they believe that when they have listed all His names − and they think that
there are about nine billion of them − God's purpose in making the world will be finished. There will be
nothing more for human beings to do, and indeed, no further reason for humans to go on living.“
“Then what do they expect us to do?“ said George. “All go away and kill ourselves?“
“There's no need for that. When the list's completed, God steps in and simply closes everything
down. . . bang!“
“Oh, I get it. When we finish our job, it will be the end of the world.“
Chuck gave a nervous little laugh. “That's just what I said to Sam. And do you know what
happened? He looked at me in a very strange way, and said, "It's nothing as small and unimportant as
that".“
George thought about this for a moment. “That's what I call taking the Wide View,“ he said at last.
“But what do you suppose we should do about it? I don't see that it makes any difference to us. After all,
we already knew that they were crazy.“
“Yes − but don't you see what may happen? When the list's complete and God doesn't ring the final
bell − or whatever it is they expect − we may be in trouble. It's our machine they've been using. I don't
like the situation one little bit.“
“Yeah,“ said George slowly, “I see what you mean. But this kind of thing's happened before, you
know. When I was a child down in Louisiana, we had a crazy churchman who once said the world was
going to end next Sunday. Hundreds of people believed him − even sold their homes. But when nothing
happened, they didn't get angry, as you'd expect. They just decided that he'd made a mistake in his
timing, and went on believing. I guess some of them still do.“
“Well, this isn't Louisiana, in case you hadn't noticed. There are just two of us and hundreds of
these lamas. I like them, and I'll be sorry for old Sam when his life's work comes to nothing. But I still
wish I was somewhere else.“ “I've been wishing that for weeks. But there's nothing we can do until the
job's finished and the plane arrives to fly us out.“
“Of course,“ said Chuck thoughtfully, “we could always arrange for the computer to break down.“
“Not on your life! That would make things worse.“
“No, I mean like this. The machine will finish the job four days from now, and the plane calls in a
week. OK− all we have to do is to find a little problem during one of our routine checks. We'll fix it, of
course, but not too quickly. If we get the timing right, we can be down at the airfield when the last name
comes out of the printers. They won't be able to catch us then.“
“I don't like it,“ said George. “It will be the first time I ever walked out on a job. Anyway, they
might start to suspect something. No, I'll hold on and take what comes.“
“I still don't like it,“ he said, seven days later, as the tough little mountain horses carried them down the steep road. “And don't think I'm running away because I'm afraid. I'm just sorry for those poor
old men up there, and I don't want to be around when they find out how stupid they've been. I wonder
how Sam will feel about it.“
“When I said goodbye to him,“ said Chuck, “I got the idea he knew we were walking out on him −
and that he didn't care because he knew the computer was running smoothly and that the job would soon
be finished. After that − well, of course, for him there just isn't any After That. . .“
George turned and stared back up the mountain road. This was the last place from which one could
get a clear view of the monastery. The low, square buildings were dark against the evening sky; here
and there, lights shone out from the narrow windows. What would happen, George wondered, when the
list was finished? Would the lamas destroy the computer in their anger and disappointment? Or would
they just sit down quietly and think out the problem all over again?
He knew exactly what was happening up on the mountain at this very moment. The high lama and
his assistants were sitting quietly, looking carefully at the long sheets of paper as the younger lamas
carried them away from the printers and put them into the great books. Nobody was speaking. The only
sound was the endless noise of the printers as the computer did its work in complete silence. Three
months of this, George thought, was enough to drive anyone mad.
“There it is!“ called Chuck, looking down into the valley. “Isn't that a beautiful sight!“
It certainly was, thought George. The small plane lay at the end of the airfield like a little silver
cross. In two hours it would carry them away, back to the real, sensible world. It was a very comfortable
thought.
Night falls quickly in the high Himalayas and darkness was already closing round them.
Fortunately, the road was good and there was nothing dangerous about their journey at all. It was just
very, very cold. The sky overhead was perfectly clear, and bright with the usual friendly stars. There
would be no problem, thought George, about the pilot not being able to take off because of bad weather.
That had been his only remaining worry.
He began to sing, but stopped after a while. His voice sounded rather small and lost among these
great, silent mountains, shining like white ghosts on every side. They rode quietly on, and then George
looked at his watch.
“We'll be there in an hour,“ he called back over his shoulder to Chuck. Then he added, suddenly
remembering, “Wonder if the computer's finished the list. It should be just about now.“
Chuck didn't reply, so George turned his head to look back at him. He could just see Chuck's face,
a white shape turned towards the sky.
“Look,“ whispered Chuck, and George lifted his eyes to the sky. (There is always a last time for
everything.)
Overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out.
(by Arthur C. Clark)
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