The Nine Billion Names of God is a 1953 short story by Arthur C. Clarke (16 December 1917 \u00e2\u20ac\u201c 19 March 2008); the phrase also appears in the title of a collection of Clarke’s short stories, The Nine Billion Names of God: The Best Short Stories of Arthur C. Clarke (1967).<\/p>\n
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It was the winner (in 2004) of the retrospective Hugo Award for Best Short Story for the year 1954.<\/p>\n
On a related note, Arthur C. Clarke requested in his final will that “Absolutely no religious rites of any kind, relating to any religious faith, should be associated with my funeral.”<\/p>\n
Sir Arthur C. Clark – Overview\u00c2\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n Sir Arthur was a polymath, an avowed skeptic, a rationalist, and the visionary science fiction writer who wrote “2001: A Space Odyssey” and won worldwide acclaim with more than 100 books on space, science and the future, both factual and fiction. He\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d been battling an increasingly debilitating post-polio syndrome for years, though the actual nature of his ailment was only determined late in his life.<\/p>\n The 1968 story “2001: A Space Odyssey” was written simultaneously as a novel and screenplay with the participation of famed film director Stanley Kubrick. It was a scary tale of Artificial Intelligence run amok. Shortly after the film debut, Sir Arthur appeared on TV accompanied by Walter Cronkite anchoring television coverage of the Apollo mission to the Moon. Clarke was even more famous in the annals of technology for originating the concept of communications satellites. In 1945, decades before they became a reality, he wrote about geosynchronous orbits, in which satellites would be placed in fixed positions relative to the ground \u00e2\u20ac\u201c these are now called Clarke orbits, in which a satellite orbits the Earth once every 24 hours, giving it a view that always shows the same face to the Earth. This is where we place most of the weather and communication satellites today.<\/p>\n The Nine Billion Names of God<\/strong> “This is a slightly unusual request,” said Dr. Wagner, with what he hoped was commendable restraint. “As far as I know, it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the first time anyone\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s been asked to supply a Tibetan monastery with an automatic sequence computer. I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t wish to be inquisitive, but I should hardly thought that your –ah– establishment had much use for such a machine. Could you explain just what you intend to do with it?”<\/p>\n “Gladly,” replied the lama, readjusting his silk robe and carefully putting away the slide rule he had been using for currency conversions. “Your Mark V computer can carry out any routine mathematical operation involving up to ten digits. However, for our work we are interested in letters, not numbers. As we wish you to modify the output circuits, the machine will be printing words, not columns of figures.”<\/p>\n “I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t understand . . .”<\/p>\n “This is a project on which we have been working for the last three centuries — since the lamasery was founded, in fact. It is somewhat alien to your way of thought, so I hope you will listen with an open mind while I explain it.”<\/p>\n “Naturally.”<\/p>\n “It is really quite simple. We have been compiling a list which shall contain all the possible names of God.”<\/p>\n “I beg your pardon?”<\/p>\n “We have reason to believe,” continued the lama imperturbably, “that all such names can be written with not more than nine letters in an alphabet we have devised.”<\/p>\n “And you have been doing this for three centuries?”<\/p>\n “Yes. We expected it would take us about fifteen thousand years to complete the task.”<\/p>\n “Oh.” Dr. Wagner looked a little dazed. “Now I see why you wanted to hire one of our machines. But exactly what is the purpose of this project?”<\/p>\n The lama hesitated for a fraction of a second, and Wagner wondered if he had offended him. If so, there was no trace of annoyance in the reply.<\/p>\n “Call it ritual, if you like, but it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s a fundamental part of our belief. All the many names of the Supreme Being — God, Jehovah, Allah, and so on — they are only man-made labels. There is a philosophical problem of some difficulty here, which I do not propose to discuss, but somewhere among all the possible combinations of letters, which can occur, are what one may call the real names of God. By systematic permutation of letters, we have been trying to list them all.”<\/p>\n “I see. You\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve been starting at AAAAAAAAA . . . and working up to ZZZZZZZZZ . . .”<\/p>\n “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.”<\/p>\n “Three? Surely you mean two.”<\/p>\n “Three is correct. I am afraid it would take too long to explain why, even if you understood our language.”<\/p>\n “I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m sure it would,” said Wagner hastily. “Go on.”<\/p>\n “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.”<\/p>\n 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 . . .<\/p>\n “There\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s no doubt,” replied the doctor, “that we can modify the Mark V to print lists of this nature. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m much more worried about the problem of installation and maintenance. Getting out to Tibet, in these days, is not going to be easy.”<\/p>\n “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.”<\/p>\n “And you want to hire two of our engineers?”<\/p>\n “Yes, for the three months which the project should occupy.”<\/p>\n “I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve no doubt that Personnel can manage that.” Dr. Wagner scribbled a note on his desk pad. “There are just two other points–”<\/p>\n Before he could finish the sentence, the lama had produced a small slip of paper.<\/p>\n “This is my certified credit balance at the Asiatic Bank.”<\/p>\n “Thank you. It appears to be–ah–adequate. The second matter is so trivial that I hesitate to mention it — but it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s surprising how often the obvious gets overlooked. What source of electrical energy have you?”<\/p>\n “A diesel generator providing 50 kilowatts at 110 volts. It was installed about five years ago and is quite reliable. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s 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.”<\/p>\n “Of course,” echoed Dr. Wagner. “I should have thought of that.”<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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 needn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t bother to go on to words of ten, twenty, or a hundred letters, George didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know. One of his recurring nightmares was that there would be some change of plan and that the High Lama (whom they\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d naturally called Sam Jaffe, though he didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t 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.<\/p>\n 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 weren\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t bluenoses. Those frequent trips they took down to the village, for instance . . .” “Listen, George,” said Chuck urgently. “I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve learned something that means trouble.”<\/p>\n “What\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s wrong? Isn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t 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.<\/p>\n “No — it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s nothing like that.” Chuck settled himself on the parapet, which was unusual, because normally he was scared of the drop.<\/p>\n “I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve just found out what all this is about.”<\/p>\n “What d\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ya mean — I thought we knew.”<\/p>\n “Sure — we know what the monks are trying to do. But we didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know why. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the craziest thing –”<\/p>\n “Tell me something new,” growled George.<\/p>\n ” . . . but old Sam\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s 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 he\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll 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 I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d ever wondered what they were trying to do. I said, \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcSure\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 — and he told me.”<\/p>\n “Go on, I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll buy it.”<\/p>\n “Well, they believe that when they have listed all His names — and they reckon that there are about nine billion of them — God\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s purpose will have been achieved. The human race will have finished what it was created to do, and there won\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t be any point in carrying on. Indeed, the very idea is something like blasphemy.”<\/p>\n “Then what do they expect us to do? Commit suicide?”<\/p>\n “There\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s no need for that. When the list\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s completed, God steps in and simply winds things up . . . bingo!”<\/p>\n “Oh, I get it. When we finish our job, it will be the end of the world.”<\/p>\n Chuck gave a nervous little laugh.<\/p>\n “That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s just what I said to Sam. And do you know what happened? He looked at me in a very queer way, like I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d been stupid in class, and said, \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcIt\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s nothing as trivial as that\u00e2\u20ac\u2122.”<\/p>\n George thought this over for a moment.<\/p>\n “That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s what I call taking the Wide View,” he said presently.<\/p>\n “But what d\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ya suppose we should do about it? I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t see that it makes the slightest difference to us. After all, we already knew that they were crazy.”<\/p>\n “Yes — but don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t you see what may happen? When the list\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s complete and the Last Trump doesn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t blow — or whatever it is that they expect — we may get the blame. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s our machine they\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve been using. I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t like the situation one little bit.”<\/p>\n “I see,” said George slowly. “You\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve got a point there. But this sort of thing\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s 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 didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t turn nasty, as you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d expect. They just decided that he\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d made a mistake in his calculations and went right on believing. I guess some of them still do.”<\/p>\n “Well, this isn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t Louisiana, in case you hadn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t noticed. There are just two of us and hundreds of these monks. I like them, and I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll be sorry for old Sam when his lifework backfires on him. But all the same, I wish I was somewhere else.”<\/p>\n “I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve been wishing that for weeks. But there\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s nothing we can do until the contract\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s finished and the transport arrives to fly us out.”<\/p>\n “Of course,” said Chuck thoughtfully, “we could always try a bit of sabotage.”<\/p>\n “Like hell we could! That would make things worse.”<\/p>\n “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. We\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll 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 won\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t be able to catch us then.”<\/p>\n “I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t like it,” said George. “It will be the first time I ever walked out on a job. Besides, it would make them suspicious. No, I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll sit tight and take what comes.”<\/p>\n “I still don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t like it,” he said seven days later, as the tough little mountain ponies carried them down the winding road. “And don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t you think I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m running away because I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m afraid. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m just sorry for those poor old guys up there, and I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t want to be around when they find what suckers they\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve been. Wonder how Sam will take<\/p>\n it?”<\/p>\n “It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s funny,” replied Chuck, “but when I said goodbye I got the idea he knew we were walking out on him — and that he didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t 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 isn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t any After That . . .”<\/p>\n 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?<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n “There she is!” called Chuck, pointing down into the valley. “Ain\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t she beautiful!”<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n “Should be there in an hour,” he called back over his shoulder to Chuck. Then he added, in an afterthought, “Wonder if the computer\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s finished its run? It was due about now.”<\/p>\n Chuck didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t reply, so George swung round in his saddle. He could just see Chuck\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s face, a white oval turned toward the sky.<\/p>\n “Look,” whispered Chuck, and George lifted his eyes to heaven. (There is always a last time for everything.)<\/p>\n Overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The Nine Billion Names of God is a 1953 short story by Arthur C. Clarke (16 December 1917 \u00e2\u20ac\u201c 19 March 2008); the phrase also appears in the title of a collection of Clarke’s short stories, The Nine Billion Names of God: The Best Short Stories of Arthur C. 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\nBy Arthur Clarke<\/strong><\/p>\n