voice, booming and boisterous even from behind the closed door. "Sit down. Sit
down," insists Arthur C. Clarke, godfather of the modern science fiction genre.
In the dim light of his suite at the Galle Face Hotel, its difficult to see the
crusty writer, but I can hear him snickering as his fingers fly at break-neck speed across
the laptop keyboard. "Just a moment," he grunts, in that dazed voice of a great
writers distraction, seemingly from a galaxy away. As the sea laps against the rocks
just outside the window, Im lulled to sleep. Then, Im startled awake when he
shouts: "Thats it! Finished!"
Just like that, the man who expanded not only the horizons for science fiction writing,
but, in many ways, the actual daydreams of the mankind, has completed "3001, The
Clarke, who has lived in Sri Lanka for four decades now, is clearly on his last legs.
He walks unsteadily with the help of a cane, but increasingly depends on a wheelchair.
Simply talking for any length of time is a painful chore. Still, that doesnt stop
him from telling some of the dirtiest jokes Ive heard in years.
And, when I wonder aloud whether this will be his final odyssey book, he quickly snaps:
"Gawd, I hope so!" Then he repeats the same dirty joke about a gorilla and some
nuns that he told two days ago when we first met.
He talks a mile a minute during a series of short talks - "I dont give
interviews anymore," he grumbled at our first meeting. "Ive done over
1,000 of them. Im all done." Then the pain pulls him down again. His mood
fluctuates from a kind of frenzied friendliness - like an elderly loner on the porch of an
old folks home - to a distant dreaminess, as if his consciousness keeps launching
into space, leaving his tired body behind. He admits to being especially jittery today.
But its not because of the book, although he concedes a certain joy about
"sleeping with 3001. That will be nice. Ill be up at 3 a.m. with
some idea. I dont really work on it," he notes. "But Ill have ideas.
If theyre any good, Ill remember them in the morning."
Right now, though, he has more interesting matters on his mind. While the world awaits
news about the latest installment in the fascinating series that helped define the 1960s -
the film of "2001: A Space Odyssey was released in April 1968 - Clarke is consumed
with his own personal anxiety. Soon, the first pictures from Ganymeade will come from the
space probe, Galileo. The moon of Jupiter is the setting for his Odyssey books.
"I cant wait," he admits, then explains his expectation. "It will
probably look like Greenland, with glaciers and ice. Im anxious to see if Im
right. Of course, Im there over 1,000 years from now in the new book."
Not that he should worry about his prognostication skills. Clarke invented the concept
of satellites in the 1940s - the Clarke Belt, where they orbit, is named for him. The fax
and e-mail are other innovations he described long before reality caught up the
explorations of his far-reaching mind.
That mind is still in space, taking bold leaps. "Id really like to see proof
of extra-terrestrial life in some form or another," he says of his remaining goals.
Yet time may be running out for this space pioneer. His physical deterioration is due to
post-polio syndrome. "Not much is known about it," he says, grimacing with
recurring pain. "Thats because hardly anyone has lived long enough to get
But in his moments of lucidity, when the pain fades, he exhibits dazzling
insightfulness. And the curiosity and excitement of a child. One minute he is talking
about the need to develop better propulsion systems to make space travel affordable, and
the next, hes showing off new software that will add voice recognition to his
computer system. In between, he shares a fax that just came from Steven Spielberg. The
director has taken an option on "Hammer of God," Clarkes last book, his
80th, he thinks. "Ive lost count." He also loses interest in discussion of
the deal, more intent on showing off the cartoon that Spielberg faxed him.
This is how creativity works, this meteor storm of ideas and the race to take each to
the limit. A self-professed "info-maniac" Clarke found a strange home for his
science fiction books. He first came to Sri Lanka in 1952, fell in love with the island
and returned for good two years later. His house is filled with televisions, video
machines and computers, but hes hidden away here at the Galle Face Hotel to write
what may be his final book. And its a fitting setting. The 132-year-old grand dame
of South Asias hotels is in a magnificently advanced state of decay and grandeur. As
we sit together, the ocean licking our toes, I thinks its a great treat to be with
two of the legends of Sri Lanka, watching to see which crumbles first into the sea. But
theres no time for idle daydreams. Clarke is chattering again.
"Hey, did you hear the one about the three nuns who went to see the gorillas at