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Dominic Sansoni for TIME. Sir Arthur C. Clarke on the balcony of his home in Colombo, Sri Lanka.

Millennium Man
Arthur C. Clarke reflects on his life and times
By MICHAEL FATHERS

December 28, 2000
Web posted at 5:15 p.m. Hong Kong time, 4:15 a.m. EDT

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Q&A: Greeting the future with Arthur C. Clarke

At times he calls it his trophy room. Other times it's his ego room. Wherever you turn there are plaques recording all the momentous events in man's brief exploration of space, autographed photographs of him with all the leading space and scientific players, not to mention Presidents, Prime Ministers and film stars. There's even a photograph taken with the Pope (although he says he hates religion and despises Christianity).

There are brightly colored satellite and space probe photographs of the planets, and a molded relief map of the section of the moon where man's first landing took place. And on one wall -- from floor to ceiling -- is a bookshelf with all his published works.

At one end of the room is an enormous flat screen TV set where he gets his regular fix of world news. At the other end is Sir Arthur C. Clarke, self-entitled Science Fact and Fiction Writer, futurologist, stargazer, impish questioner of established scientific wisdom and probably the world's best known space addict.

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The celebrated coauthor of Hollywood's famous and influential 1968 sci-fi movie -- 2001: A Space Odyssey -- sits in a wheelchair, dressed in a sarong and a brightly patterned cotton shirt covered with whales. Close to his chest under the folds of his shirt rests his pet, a guinea pig- sized Chihuahua called Pepsi, surprisingly calm amid the surrounding disturbance.

Clarke is agitated, rustling through papers on his desk, looking for copies of letters and e-mails, articles he has written, and calling with frustration for one of his absent secretaries. He wheezes and stops to breath deeply, blowing out hard to try to keep calm. He puts his difficulties down to Post-Polio Syndrome, the disease that has left him crippled in the legs since the 1980s.

He is cantankerous and apologizes for being inhospitable. For the past month Clarke has been giving interview after interview to the world's media. They have come to his home in central Colombo, Sri Lanka, to find the future -- or at least a hint of it -- from the one human being whose name is synonymous with the year 2001 and the Third Millennium. He also happens to believe that the millennium begins on January 1, 2001 -- and not January 1, 2000 as the rest of the world did when it sat goggle-eyed through 24 hours of global countdown a year ago. "The idea of the millennium at 2000 is one of the most stupid things I've ever heard," he says. "The western calendar starts with Year One and not Year Zero. We had only 99 years of this century by Jan. 1, 2000; we have to wait until Dec. 31 for the full hundred."

As you ask your questions Clarke snaps back: "I've dealt with them all over the past two weeks and I'm not answering them again. I'll get my secretary to give you the answers." Thank you, Sir Arthur, you feel like saying and walking out the door for a bit of fresh air never to set eyes on him again. But then an alarm goes off in the room. "Ah!" he sparkles, "I must get my news fix." He rolls out from behind his desk to watch the big screen and the morning's BBC World Service news.

Clarke is a man of moods. Once he is into his routine -- his news fix, the morning cup of tea, a secretary at hand, attentive listeners with him in his tropical garden (populated with a concrete dinosaur and couple of prehistoric cement lizards) -- he opens up. He might get fed up having to answer the same questions, but he thrives on publicity and attention. He even hands you a detailed list of everything he is working on. At the top under "Completed" is: Future Technology (White House memo requested for the President). Amid the 17 "Action Needed" items is: Arthur C. Clarke Day (Smithsonian, Feb 7) and a webcast in March with actor Leonardo di Caprio to raise money for a fund to save the gorilla.

Darting like a child in a toy shop, Clarke races from topic to topic, names, places, incidents and ideas tumbling from him in a stream of consciousness that would leave James Joyce and probably HAL, the talking computer he invented to fly the spaceship Discovery in 2001, gasping.

Clarke has a mischievous sense of humor and you are not sure whether he is pulling your leg. He said to me that one of the most spectacular developments of the new millennium would be dehydrated water. It would open up all the world's arid regions to cultivation and ensure no one ever died of thirst. His "executive secretary" said he did not know whether Sir Arthur was serious or making a joke. It seemed a contradiction. Clarke has said all along that there is no difference between magic and science. With such intellectual and imaginative missiles being fired at visitors and his e-mail recipients daily, it is difficult to believe this icon of science fiction, who believes the human race has only a 51% chance of surviving, turned 83 on Dec. 16. After a moment's thought to my question, he says all he wants for a birthday present is a chocolate cake.

He is not a person to look back, but there is a hint of bitterness that he was unable to benefit financially from his most important and memorable invention -- the concept of the geostationary communications satellite. He formulated its principles and published them in 1945 at the age of 28. That satellite band, 42,000km above the earth is called the Clarke Orbit. Whenever he meets Ted Turner, the founder of CNN, he asks for his 10%. He says he asks the same from Rupert Murdoch.

When you ask him if he is a rich man -- he has some 600 printed works, 50 million devoted readers, two movies and a virtual Arthur C. Clarke industry on his PC screen -- he says he doesn't know. "As you can gather my expenses are rather considerable."

When the future of the world comes up, he makes a point of saying he never predicts. "I am an extrapolator not a predictor. Many of the things I describe I sincerely hope wont happen. And by describing them, I hope I can prevent them happening. I don't try to describe the future I try to prevent it," he says.

And of his own future? "I will go when the candle stops burning." He has not considered leaving his body or his bodily organs for scientific research. Too much of a hassle, is the reply. He has lost four hairs from his near-bald head to a rich well-wisher who wants to send this DNA sample into outer space with hair from other prominent humans.

He's not bothered by God. Describing himself as "violently antireligious," he says religion is the greatest curse ever inflicted on mankind and will cease to exist in the new millennium.

Already he's been listed over two pages in a new humanists and freethinkers directory: Who's Who in Hell. There must be something you will regret? I ask him. "There is. I've left it too late to learn the piano."