On March 18th, just before 1 pm PST, my dear friend Arthur C. Clarke died of respiratory failure in a Sri Lanka hospital. It was an event that his family and  close friends had dreaded for years, though it was of course inevitable. Aside from his advanced age — Arthur turned 90 in December — the futurist and science fiction grandmaster suffered from Post Polio Syndrome, which had confined his lanky, once tireless frame to a wheelchair.

Many of you are aware of the strong bond Arthur and I shared, ever since he generously consented to meet me, a babbling 16-year-old fan, at his writing retreat at New York’s Chelsea Hotel in 1970. Over the past 38 years, I’ve written many stories about our encounters, which usually took place at his home in Sri Lanka (and often included my utter humiliation at table tennis). A story about our last meeting currently appears on the online version of Wired, under the title Sundown with Arthur.

Words can’t adequately express my fondness for this man, or how profoundly his writing, humanism, humor, warmth, and vision — and what a vision — influenced my life. As a tribute, I hope to practice the advice Arthur himself offered me after the death of my brother Jordan, in 1990. "Don’t mourn that you lost him," Arthur wrote. "Rejoice that you knew him."

All of humanity should rejoice and honor the long tenure of this kind, brilliant man, who maintained a crazy confidence in the redemtion—and  transcendence—of the human race. He left us with scores of wonderful books, food for thought to nourish generations to come, and the most useful tool ever placed into human hands: the communications satellite. Farewell, my friend. What we owe you is beyond evaluation.