Salomon’s task would have been impossible had he not been able to convince a handful of the world’s most famous artists that his plan was sound. They had sympathized because it appealed to their egos, not because it was important for the
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race. But, once convinced, the world had listened to them and given both moral and material support. Behind this spectacular fa�ade of temperamental talent the real architects of the Colony had laid their plans.
A society consists of human beings whose behaviour as individuals is unpredictable. But if one takes enough of the basic units, then certain laws begin to appearas was discovered long ago by life-insurance companies. No-one can tell what individuals will die in a given time-yet the total number of deaths can be predicted with considerable accuracy.
There are other, subtler laws, first glimpsed in the early twentieth century by mathematicians such as Weiner and Rashavesky. They had argued that such events as economic depressions, the results of armament races, the stability of social groups, political elections, and so on could be analysed by the correct mathematical techniques. The great difficulty was the enormous number of variables, many of them hard to define in numerical terms. One could not draw a set of curves and state definitely: “When this line is reached, it will mean war.” And one could never wholly allow for such utterly unpredictable events as the assassination of a key figure or the effects of some new scientific discovery-still less such natural catastrophes as earthquakes or floods, which might haves profound effect on large numbers of people and the social groups in which they lived.
Yet one could do much, t1~ianks to the knowledge patiently accumulated during the past hundred years. The task would have been impossible without the aid of the giant computing machines that could perform the work of a thousand human calculators in a matter of seconds. Such aids had been used to the utmost when the Colony was planned.
Even so, the founders’ of New Athens could only provide the soil and the climate in which the plant they wished to cherish might-or might not-come to flower. As Salomon himself had remarked: “We can be sure of talent: we can only pray for genius.” But it was a reasonable hope that in such a concentrated solution some int~resting reactions would take place. Few artists thrive in solitude, and nothing is more stimulating than the conflict of minds with similar interests.
So far, the conflict had produced worthwhile results in sculpture, music, literary criticism and film-making. It was still too early to see if the group working on historical research
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would fulfil the hopes of its instigators, who were frankly aiming at restoring mankind’s pride in its own achievements. Painting still languished, which supported the view of those who considered that static, two-dimensional forms of art had no further possibilities.
It was noticeable-though a satisfactory explanation fbr this had not yet been produced-that time played an essential part in the .Colony’s most successful artistic achievements. Even its sculpture was seldom immobile. Andrew Carson’s intriguing volumes and curves changed slowly as one watched, according to complex p~tterns that the mind could appreciate, even if it could not fully comprehend them. Indeed, Carson claimed, with some truth, to have taken the “mobiles” of a century before to their ultimate conclusion, and thus to have wedded sculpture and ballet.
Much of the Colony’s musical experimenting was, quite consciously, concerned with what might be called “time span”. What was the briefest note that the mind could grasp-or the longest that it could tolerate without boredom? Could the result be varied by conditioning or by the use of appropriate orchestration? Such problems were discussed endlessly, and the arguments were not purely academic. They had resulted in some extremely interesting compositions.
But it was in the art of the cartoon film, with its limitless possibilities, that New Athens had made its most successful experiments. The hundred years since the time of Disney had still left much undone in this most flexible of all mediums. On the purely realistic side, results could be produced indistinguishable from actual photography-much to the contempt of those who were developing the cartoon along abstract lines.
The group of artists and scientists that had so far done least was the one that had attracted the greatest interest-and the greatest alarm. This was the team working on “total identification”. The history of the cinema gave the clue to their actions. First, sound, then colour, then stereoscopy, then Cinerama, had made the old ‘moving pictures” more and more like reaiity itself. Where was the end of the story? Surely, the final stage would be reached when the audience forgot it was an audience, and became part of the action. To achieve this would involve stimulation ~f all the Senses, and perhaps h
nosis as wcll, but many beheved it to be practical. When
goal was attained, there would be an enormous enrichment of
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human experience. A man could become-for a while, at least-any other person, and could take part in any conceivable adventure, real or imaginary. He could even be plant or animal, if it proved possible to capture and record the sense impressions of other living creatures. And when the “programme” was over, he would have acquired a memory as vivid as any experience in his actual life-indeed, indistinguishable from reality itself.
The prospect was dazzling. Many also found it terrifying, and hoped that the enterprise would fail. But they knew in their hearts that once science had declared a thing possible, there was no escape from its eventual realization….
This, then, was New Athens and some of its dreams. It hoped to become what the old Athens might have been had it possessed machines instead of slaves, science instead of superstition. But it was much too early yet to tell if the experiment would succeed.
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Jm’i~lu~Y Gi~GsoN was one islander who, as yet, had no interest in esthetics or science, the two main preoccupations of his elders. But he heartily approved of the Colony, for purely personal reasons. The sea, never more than a few kilometres away in any direction, fascinated hini. Most of his short life bad been spent far inland, and he was not yet accustomed to the novelty of being surrounded by water. He was a good swimmer, and would often cycle off with other young friends, carrying his fins and mask, to go exploring the shallower water of the lagoon. At first Jean was not very happy about this, but after she had made a few dives herself; she lost her fear of the sea and its strange creatures and let Jeffrey enjoy himself as he pleased-on condition that he never swam alone.
The other member of the Greggson household who approved of the change was Fey, the beautiful golden retriever who nominally belonged to George, but could seldom be detached from Jeffrey. The two were inseparable, both by day and-if Jean had not put her foot down-by night. Only when Jeffrey went off on his bicycle did Fey remain at home, lying listlessly in front of the door and staring down the road
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with moist, mournful eyes, her muzzle resting on her paws.
This was rather mortifying to George, who had paid a stiff price for Fey and her pedigree. It looked as if he would have to wait for the next generation-due in three months-before he could have a dog of his own. Jean had other views on the subject. She liked Fey, but felt that one hound per house was quite sufficient.
Only Jennifer Anne had not yet decided whether she liked the Colony. That, however, was hardly surprising, for she had so far seen nothing of the world beyond the plastic panels of her cot, and had, as yet, very little suspicion that such a place existed.
George Greggson did not often think about the past: he was too busy with plans for the future, too much occupied by his work and his children. It was rare indeed that his mind went back across the years to that evening in Africa, and he never talked about it with Jean. By mutual consent, the subject was avoided, and since that day they had never visited the Boyces again, despite repeated invitations. They called Rupert with fresh excuses several times a year, and lately he bad ceased to bother them. His marriage to Maia, rather to everyone’s surprise, still seemed to be flourishing.
One result of that evening was that Jean had lost all desire to dabble with mysteries at the borders of known science. The naive and uncritical wonder that had drawn her to Rupert and his experiments bad completely vanished. Perhaps she had been convinced and wanted no more proof: George preferred not to ask her. It was just as likely that the cares of maternity had banished such interests from her mind.
There was no point, George knew, in worrying about a mystery that could never be solved, yet sometimes in the stillness of the night he would wake and wonder. He remembered his meeting with Jan Rodericks on the roof of Rupert’s house, and the few words that were all he had spoken with the only human being successfully to defy the Overlords’ ban. Nothing in the realm of the supernatural, thought George, could be more eerie than the plain scientific fact that though almost ten years had passed since he had spoken to Jan, that now-far-distant voyager would have aged by only a few days.