He had to admit that the selection was well done, by someone (Indra?) familiar with the early twentyfirst century. There was nothing disturbing – no wars or violence, and very little contemporary business or politics, all of which would now be utterly irrelevant. There were some light comedies, sporting events (how did they know that he had been a keen tennis fan?), classical and pop music, and wildlife documentaries.
And whoever had put this collection together had a sense of humour, or they would not have included episodes from each Star Trek series. As a very small boy, Poole had met both Patrick Stewart and Leonard Nimoy: he wondered what they would have thought if they could have known the destiny of the child who had shyly asked for their autographs.
A depressing thought occurred to him, soon after he had started exploring – much of the time in fast-forward – these relics of the past. He had read somewhere that by the turn of the century – his century! – there were approximately fifty thousand television stations broadcasting simultaneously. If that figure had been maintained and it might well have increased – by now millions of millions of hours of TV programming must have gone on the air. So even the most hardened cynic would admit that there were probably at least a billion hours of worthwhile viewing… and millions that would pass the highest standards of excellence. How to find these few – well, few million – needles in so gigantic a haystack?
The thought was so overwhelming – indeed, so demoralizing – that after a week of increasingly aimless channel-surfing Poole asked for the set to be removed.
Perhaps fortunately, he had less and less time to himself during his waking hours, which were steadily growing longer as his strength came back.
There was no risk of boredom, thanks to the continual parade not only of serious researchers but also inquisitive – and presumably influential – citizens who had managed to filter past the palace guard established by Matron and Professor Anderson. Nevertheless, he was glad when, one day, the television set reappeared, he was beginning to suffer from withdrawal symptoms – and this time, he resolved to be more selective in his viewing.
The venerable antique was accompanied by Indra Wallace, smiling broadly.
‘We’ve found something you must see, Frank. We think it will help you to adjust – anyway, we’re sure you’ll enjoy it.’
Poole had always found that remark a recipe for guaranteed boredom, and prepared for the worst. But the opening had him instantly hooked, taking him back to his old life as few other things could have done. At once he recognized one of the most famous voices of his age, and remembered that he had seen this very programme before. Could it have been at its first transmission? No, he was only five then: must have been a repeat…
‘Atlanta, 2000 December 31.’
‘This is CNN International, five minutes from the dawn of the New Millennium, with all its unknown perils and promise…’
‘But before we try to explore the future, let’s look back a thousand years, and ask ourselves: could any persons living in Ad. 1000 even remotely imagine our world, or understand it, if they were magically transported across the centuries?’
‘Almost the whole of the technology we take for granted was invented near the very end of our Millennium – the steam engine, electricity, telephones, radio, television, cinema, aviation, electronics. And, during a single lifetime, nuclear energy and space travel – what would the greatest minds of the past have made of these? How long could an Archimedes or a Leonardo have retained his sanity, if suddenly dumped into our world?’
‘It’s tempting to think that we would do better, if we were transported a thousand years hence. Surely the fundamental scientific discoveries have already been made, though there will be major improvements in technology, will there be any devices, anything as magical and incomprehensible to us as a pocket calculator or a video camera would have been to Isaac Newton?’
‘Perhaps our age is indeed sundered from all those that have gone before. Telecommunications, the ability to record images and sounds once irrevocably lost, the conquest of the air and space – all these have created a civilization beyond the wildest fantasies of the past. And equally important, Copernicus, Newton, Darwin and Einstein have so changed our mode of thinking and our outlook on the universe that we might seem almost a new species to the most brilliant of our predecessors.’
‘And will our successors, a thousand years from now, look back on us with the same pity with which we regard our ignorant, superstitious, disease-ridden, short-lived ancestors? We believe that we know the answers to questions that they could not even ask: but what surprises does the Third Millennium hold for us?’
‘Well, here it comes -‘
A great bell began to toll the strokes of midnight. The last vibration throbbed into silence…
‘And that’s the way it was – good-bye, wonderful and terrible twentieth century…’
Then the picture broke into a myriad fragments, and a new commentator took over, speaking with the accent which Poole could now easily understand, and which immediately brought him up to the present.
‘Now, in the first minutes of the year three thousand and one, we can answer that question from the past…’
‘Certainly, the people of 2001 who you were just watching would not feel as utterly overwhelmed in our age as someone from 1001 would have felt in theirs. Many of our technological achievements they would have anticipated; indeed, they would have expected satellite cities, and colonies on the Moon and planets. They might even have been disappointed, because we are not yet immortal, and have sent probes only to the nearest stars…’
Abruptly, Indra switched off the recording.
‘See the rest later, Frank: you’re getting tired. But I hope it will help you to adjust.’
‘Thank you, Indra. I’ll have to sleep on it. But it’s certainly proved one point.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I should be grateful I’m not a thousand-and-oner, dropped into 2001. That would be too much of a quantum jump: I don’t believe anyone could adjust to it. At least I know about electricity, and won’t die of fright if a picture starts talking at me.’
I hope, Poole told himself, that confidence is justified. Someone once said that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Will I meet magic in this new world – and be able to handle it?
6
Braincap
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make an agonizing decision,’ said Professor Anderson, with a smile that neutralized the exaggerated gravity of his words.
‘I can take it, Doctor. Just give it to me straight.’
‘Before you can be fitted with your Braincap, you have to be completely bald. So here’s your choice. At the rate your hair grows, you’d have to be shaved at least once a month. Or you could have a permanent.’
‘How’s that done?’
‘Laser scalp treatment. Kills the follicles at the root.’
‘Hmm… is it reversible?’
‘Yes, but that’s messy and painful, and takes weeks.’
‘Then I’ll see how I like being hairless, before committing myself. I can’t forget what happened to Samson.’
‘Who?’
‘Character in a famous old book. His girl-friend cut off his hair while he was sleeping. When he woke up, all his strength had gone.’
‘Now I remember – pretty obvious medical symbolism!’
‘Still, I wouldn’t mind losing my beard. I’d be happy to stop shaving, once and for all.’
‘I’ll make the arrangements. And what kind of wig would you like?’
Poole laughed.
‘I’m not particularly vain – think it would be a nuisance, and probably won’t bother. Something else I can decide later.’
That everyone in this era was artificially bald was a surprising fact that Poole had been quite slow to discover; his first revelation had come when both his nurses removed their luxuriant tresses, without the slightest sign of embarrassment, just before several equally bald specialists arrived to give him a series of micro-biological checks. He had never been surrounded by so many hairless people, and his initial guess was that this was the latest step in the medical profession’s endless war against germs.
Like many of his guesses, it was completely wrong, and when he discovered the true reason he amused himself by seeing how often he would have been sure, had he not known in advance, that his visitors’ hair was not their own. The answer was: seldom with men, never with women; this was obviously the great age of the wig-maker.
Professor Anderson wasted no time: that afternoon the nurses smeared some evil-smelling cream over Poole’s head, and when he looked into the mirror an hour later he did not recognize himself. Well, he thought, perhaps a wig would be a good idea, after all…
The Braincap fitting took somewhat longer. First a mould had to be made, which required him to sit motionless for a few minutes until the plaster set. He fully expected to be told that his head was the wrong shape when his nurses – giggling most unprofessionally – had a hard time extricating him. ‘Ouch that hurt!’ he complained.