LAST THEOREM, THE（ISBN=9780345470232）pdf/txt下载_在线阅读全文

内容简介

　　When Ranjit Subramanian, a Sri Lankan with a special gift for numbers, writes a three-page proof of the coveted "Last Theorem," which French mathematician Pierre de Fermat claimed to have discovered (but never recorded) in 1637, Ranjit's achievement is hailed as a work of genius, bringing him fame and fortune. But it also brings him to the attention of the National Security Agency and a shadowy United Nations outfit called Pax per Fidem-or Peace Through Transparency-whose secretive workings belie its name. Suddenly Ranjit-along with his family-finds himself swept up in world-shaking events, his genius for abstract mathematical thought put to uses that are both concrete and potentially deadly.

作者简介

　　Arthur C. Clarke is considered to be the greatest science fiction writer of all time. He is an international treasure in many other ways: An article written by him in 1945 led to the invention of satellite technology. Books by Mr. Clarke—both fiction and nonfiction—have more than one hundred million copies in print worldwide. Mr. Clarke passed away March 19th, 2008.
　　Frederik Pohl is the author of many novels, including The Boy Who Would Live Forever; Gateway, part of his acclaimed Heechee saga; and Jem, for which he won the National Book Award. With Isaac Asimov, he was a founding member of the New York-based science fiction group known as the Futurians. In the sixties, Pohl edited Galaxy magazine and its sister magazine, if, which won the Hugo Award three years in a row. In 1993, he became a Science Fiction Writers of America Grand Master. He lives in Palatine, Illinois.

媒体评论

　　From the Inside Flap
　　The final work from the author of 2001: A Space Odyssey and themost brilliant mind in science fiction.
　　Collaboratively written with fellow grandmaster Frederik Pohl,The Last Theorem sets a new benchmark in contemporary prescientscience fiction.
　　A MYSTERIOUS THEOREM
　　In Sri Lanka, a young astronomy student, Ranjit Subramanian,becomes obsessed with a three-hundred-year-old theorem thatpromises to unlock the secrets of the universe.
　　INVASION

From the Inside Flap 
　　The final work from the author of 2001: A Space Odyssey and the
most brilliant mind in science fiction. 
　　Collaboratively written with fellow grandmaster Frederik Pohl,
The Last Theorem sets a new benchmark in contemporary prescient
science fiction. 
　　A MYSTERIOUS THEOREM 
　　In Sri Lanka, a young astronomy student, Ranjit Subramanian,
becomes obsessed with a three-hundred-year-old theorem that
promises to unlock the secrets of the universe. 
　　INVASION 
　　Thirty light years away, invisible to human eyes, the Grand
Galactics scan the universe for intelligent life. Their mission: to
eradicate any advanced species whose technology could threaten
their dominance of the universe. Having detected the first nuclear
weapons strike on a distant small blue planet, a vast fleet of
races subservient to the Galactics is despatched with orders to
destroy the warlike aliens. 
　　SILENT THUNDER 
　　Recruited against his better judgement, Ranjit begins working for
the secret international organisation called Pax Per Fidem. Led by
the warmongering Colonel Bledsoe, it has developed a deadly
electromagnetic weapon codenamed 'Silent Thunder', capable of
destroying every elecrtonic object in any country of its choosing.
Soon the three superpowers of China, America and Europe are locked
in a battle for world supremacy, despite their best efforts for
peace. Meanwhile the completion of a giant space elevator is
celebrated with the first Olympic games on the Moon. But when the
first alien craft is accidentally encountered, Ranjit is forced to
question his own actions, in a bid to save the lives of not just
his own family but of all humankind. 
　　Review 
　　'Clarke is one of the greatest imaginative writers of hard
science fiction' New Scientist 'Arthur Clarke is one of the true
geniuses of our time' Ray Bradbury 'Arthur C. Clarke is the prophet
of the space age' The Times 'A one-man literary Big Bang, Clarke
has originated his own vast and teeming futurist universe' Sunday
Times 'Arthur C. Clarke is blessed with one of the most astounding
imaginations ever encountered in print' New York Times 'One of the
truly prophetic figures of the space age! the colossus of science
fiction' New Yorker 'The most consistently able writer science
fiction has yet produced' Kingsley Amis on Frederik Pohl 'In his
grasp of scientific and technological possibilities, Pohl ranks
with Asimov and Clarke, but he has greater originality than either'
Sunday Times 'I want to be remembered most as a writer - one who
entertained readers, and, hopefully, stretched their imagination as
well' Arthur C Clarke 'The universe is full of wonder... and we
reach out for such wonder... But none, surely, have succeeded so
well as Arthur C Clarke' Stephen Baxter 'Clarke was a pioneer in so
many areas, but one of his most interesting achievements was making
scientific humility a unique core of "scientific" mysticism.' Greg
Bear 'Clarke was one of the all time greats, and his books will be
remembered for as long as people still read science fiction.'
George R R Martin 'His impact, you might say, was indistinguishable
from magic.' Scientific American 'No one has done more than Clarke
in the way of enlightened prediction.' Isaac Asimov 
　　Sunday Times 
　　`A one-man literary Big Bang, Clarke has originated his own vast
and teeming futurist universe' --This text refers to the Hardcover
edition. 
　　New York Times 
　　`Arthur C. Clarke is blessed with one of the most astounding
imaginations ever encountered in print' --This text refers to the
Hardcover edition. 
　　Sunday Times 
　　`In his grasp of scientific and technological possibilities, Pohl
ranks with Asimov and Clarke, but he has greater originality than
either' --This text refers to the Hardcover edition. 
　　Kingsley Amis on Frederik Pohl 
　　`The most consistently able writer science fiction has yet
produced'

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在线试读部分章节

　　Chapter One
　　ON SWAMI ROCK
　　And so now, at last, we meet this Ranjit Subramanian, the onewhose long and remarkable life this book is all about.
　　At this time Ranjit was sixteen years old, a freshman at SriLanka’s principal university, in the city of Colombo, and more fullof himself than even your average sixteen- year- old. He wasn’t atthe university now, though. At his father’s bidding he had made thelong trip from Colombo slantwise across the island of Sri Lanka tothe district of Trincomalee, where his father had the distinctionof being chief priest at the Hindu temple called Tiru Koneswaram.Ranjit actually loved his father very much.
　　He was almost always glad to see him. This time, however, he wasa bit less so, because this time Ranjit had a pretty good idea ofwhat the revered Ganesh Subramanian wanted to talk to himabout.
　　Ranjit was an intelligent boy, in fact one who was quite close tobeing as smart as he thought he was. He was a good- looking one,too. He wasn’t terribly tall, but most Sri Lankans aren’t.Ethnically he was a Tamil, and his skin color was the rich darkbrown of a spoonful of cocoa powder, just before it went into thehot milk. The skin color wasn’t because he was a Tamil, though. SriLankans have a rich palette of complexions from near- Scandinavianwhite to a black so dark it seems almost purple. Ranjit’s bestfriend, Gamini Bandara, was pure Sinhalese for as many generationsback as anyone had bothered to count, but the boys were the same inskin hue. The boys had been friends for a long time—since thatscary night when Gamini’s school had burned to the ground, probablyput to the torch by a couple of upperclassmen smoking forbiddencigarettes in a storage room.

Chapter One 
　　ON SWAMI ROCK 
　　And so now, at last, we meet this Ranjit Subramanian, the one
whose long and remarkable life this book is all about. 
　　At this time Ranjit was sixteen years old, a freshman at Sri
Lanka’s principal university, in the city of Colombo, and more full
of himself than even your average sixteen- year- old. He wasn’t at
the university now, though. At his father’s bidding he had made the
long trip from Colombo slantwise across the island of Sri Lanka to
the district of Trincomalee, where his father had the distinction
of being chief priest at the Hindu temple called Tiru Koneswaram.
Ranjit actually loved his father very much. 
　　He was almost always glad to see him. This time, however, he was
a bit less so, because this time Ranjit had a pretty good idea of
what the revered Ganesh Subramanian wanted to talk to him
about. 
　　Ranjit was an intelligent boy, in fact one who was quite close to
being as smart as he thought he was. He was a good- looking one,
too. He wasn’t terribly tall, but most Sri Lankans aren’t.
Ethnically he was a Tamil, and his skin color was the rich dark
brown of a spoonful of cocoa powder, just before it went into the
hot milk. The skin color wasn’t because he was a Tamil, though. Sri
Lankans have a rich palette of complexions from near- Scandinavian
white to a black so dark it seems almost purple. Ranjit’s best
friend, Gamini Bandara, was pure Sinhalese for as many generations
back as anyone had bothered to count, but the boys were the same in
skin hue. The boys had been friends for a long time—since that
scary night when Gamini’s school had burned to the ground, probably
put to the torch by a couple of upperclassmen smoking forbidden
cigarettes in a storage room. 
　　Like every other nearby human being capable of picking up a
splintered piece of plywood and throwing it on the back of a truck,
Ranjit had been drafted for emergency relief work. So had all the
rest of the student body of his own school. It had been a dirty
job, a lot harder than a youngster’s developing muscles were used
to, not to mention the splinters and the scrapes and the endless
cuts from the broken glass that was everywhere. Those were the bad
parts, and there were plenty of them. But there were good parts,
too. Like the time when Ranjit and some other boy around his own
age finally got down to the source of some plaintive sounds that
were coming from a debris pile, and released the headmaster’s
terrified, but intact, elderly Siamese cat. 
　　When a teacher had carried the cat off to its owner, the two boys
had stood grinning at each other. Ranjit had stuck his hand out,
English fashion. “I’m Ranjit Subramanian,” he’d said. 
　　“And I’m Gamini Bandara,” the other boy had said, pumping his
hand gleefully, “and, hey, we did a pretty good job here, didn’t
we?” 
　　They agreed that they had. When at last they had been allowed to
quit work for the day, they had lined up together for the sort of
porridge that was their evening meal, and plopped their sleeping
bags next to each other that night, and they had been best friends
ever since. Helped out, to be sure, by the fact that Gamini’s
school had been made uninhabitable by the fire and so its students
had to double up at Ranjit’s. Gamini turned out to be pretty much
everything a best friend could be, including the fact that the one
great obsession in Ranjit’s life, the one for which there was no
room for another person to share, didn’t interest Gamini at
all. 
　　And, of course, there was one other thing that Gamini was. That
was the part of Ranjit’s impending talk with his father that Ranjit
least wanted to have. 
　　Ranjit grimaced to himself. As instructed, Ranjit went straight
to one of the temple’s side doors, but it wasn’t his father who met
him there. It was an elderly monk named Surash who told
Ranjit—rather officiously, Ranjit thought—only that he would have
to wait a bit. So Ranjit waited, for what he considered quite a
long time, with nothing to do but listen to the bustle that came
from within his father’s temple, about which Ranjit had mixed
emotions. 
　　The temple had given his father purpose, position, and a
rewarding career, all of which was good. However, it had also
encouraged the old man in the vain hope that his son would follow
in his footsteps. That was not going to happen. Even as a boy,
Ranjit had not been able to believe in the complex Hindu pantheon
of gods and goddesses, some with their various animal heads and
unusual number of arms, whose sculptured figures encrusted the
temple walls. Ranjit had been able to name every one of them, and
to list its special powers and principal fast days as well, by the
time he was six. It hadn’t been out of religious fervor. It had
been simply because he had wanted to please the father he
loved. 
　　Ranjit remembered waking early in the morning when he was a small
child, still living at home, and his father getting up at sunrise
to bathe in the temple pool. He would see his father, naked to the
waist as he faced the rising sun, and hear his long, reverberating
Om. When he was a little older, Ranjit himself learned to say the
mantra, and the location of the six parts of the body that he
touched, and to offer water to the statues in the puja room. But
then he went away to school. His religious observances were not
required, and therefore ended. By the time he was ten, he knew he
would never follow in his father’s faith. 
　　Not that his father’s was not a fine profession. True, Ganesh
Subramanian’s temple was neither as ancient nor as vast as the one
it had attempted to replace. Although it had been bravely given the
same name as the original—Tiru Koneswaram—even its chief priest
rarely called it anything but “the new temple.” It hadn’t been
completed until 1983, and in size it was not a patch on the
original Tiru Koneswaram, the famous “temple with a thousand
columns,” whose beginnings had been shrouded by two thousand years
of history. 
　　And then, when at last Ranjit was met, it was not by his father
but by old Surash. He was apologetic. “It is these pilgrims,” he
said. “So many of them! More than one hundred, and your father, the
chief priest, is determined to greet each one. Go, Ranjit. Sit on
Swami Rock and watch the sea. In an hour, perhaps, your father will
join you there, but just now—” He sighed, and shook his head, and
turned away to the task of helping his boss cope with the flood of
pilgrims. Leaving Ranjit to his own resources. Which, as a matter
of fact, was just fine, because for Ranjit an hour or so to himself
on Swami Rock was a welcome gift. 
　　An hour or so earlier Swami Rock would have been crowded with
couples and whole families picnicking, sightseeing, or simply
enjoying the cooling breeze that came off the Bay of Bengal. Now,
with the sun lowering behind the hills to the west, it was almost
deserted. 
　　That was the way Ranjit preferred it. He loved Swami Rock. Had
loved it all his life, in fact—or no, he amended the thought, at
six or seven he hadn’t actually loved the rock itself nearly as
much as he had the surrounding lagoons and beaches, where you could
catch little star tortoises and make them race against one
another. 
　　But that was then. Now, at sixteen, he considered himself a fully
adult man, and he had more important things to think about. 
　　Ranjit found an unoccupied stone bench and leaned back, enjoying
both the warmth of the setting sun at his back and the sea breeze
on his face, as he prepared to think about the two subjects that
were on his mind. The first, actually, took little thinking. Ranjit
wasn’t really disappointed at his father’s absence. Ganesh had not
told his sixteen- year- old son just what it was that he wanted to
discuss. Ranjit, however, was depressingly confident that he knew
what it was. 
　　What it was was an embarrassment, and the worst part of it was
that it was a wholly unnecessary one. It could have been avoided
entirely if he had only remembered to lock his bedroom door so that
the porter at his university lodgings would not have been able to
blunder in on the two of them that afternoon. But Ranjit hadn’t
locked his door. The porter had indeed walked in on them, and
Ranjit knew that Ganesh Subramanian had long since interviewed the
man. He had talked to the porter only for the purpose, Ganesh would
have said, of making sure that Ranjit lacked nothing he needed. But
it did carry the collateral benefit of ensuring that Ganesh was
kept well informed of what was going on in his son’s life. Ranjit
sighed. He would have wished to avoid the coming discussion. But he
couldn’t, and so he turned his attention to the second subject on
his mind—the important one—the one that was nearly always at the
top of his thoughts. 
　　From his perch atop Swami Rock, a hundred meters above the
restless waters of the Bay of Bengal, he looked eastward. On the
surface, at twilight, there was nothing to see but water—in fact
nothing at all for more than a thousand kilometers, apart from a
few scattered islands, until you reached the coast of Thailand.
Tonight there had been a lull in the northea...

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