Yet meeting him takes you into an even stranger world. Picture the scene as a Hollywood pitch: you are standing in a quiet residential street in Cinnamon Gardens, the most exclusive district of Colombo, capital of Sri Lanka. Palm trees sway in the 90degree heat haze. A vast cloud of bats flies overhead on its daily vigil toward the sunset. Suddenly a 10ft metallic grille slides open and you're walking into the private residence of one of the most reclusive figures on the planet. Yet it's all true. As you go up the stairs of his palatial HQ you start to realise you've entered a one-man orchestrated nerve-centre.
This is a far cry from the days when Clarke owned the first televsion set in Sri Lanka. Banks of computers whirr efficiently; fax machines buzz with communications from all corners of the globe (the telecommunications bills rarely drop below $1,000 a month). Signed photos of everyone from Neil Armstrong to Elizabeth Taylor to the Pope line the walls, amid vast NASA pictures of the Moon. A vast floor-to-ceiling bookcase is filled entirely with hardback first editions of Clarke's novels.
The overall effect is like entering the private inner sanctum of a benign Bond villain. Prodigious isn't the word for Clarke. He claims to have at least 102 projects on the go at any one time, and against the constant whirr of faxes being screened by a host of assistants, it's hard to disbelieve him.
On top of all this, a wall-sized TV screen is beaming footage of Clarke appearing as a hologram at the Playboy mansion last year. Standing on a dais addressing an invited crowd of NASA dignitaries, octogenarian swingers and luminiscent blank-eyed Playboy bunnies, he delivers a speech as a shimmering, golden light projection. the effect is much like Kirk and Spock mid-dematerialisation on the USS Enterprise. Except Clarke really is going where no man has gone before.
Understandably, he's pleased with it. "You are watching history!" he declares by way of introduction. Wheelchair-bound due to the debilitating effects of post-polio syndrome, he wheels himself forward wrapped in a batik sarong. "That," he says, pointing at the screen with undisguised pride, "is the final proof that you can be in two places at the same time!"
As if this wasn't surreal enough, Clarke fast-forwards to a musical segment where the craggy-looking Stray Cats run through a medley of their hits ("and on drums, Slim Jim Phantom!").
But Clarke is already losing interest. The mood changes. "Don't be intimidated," he continues... but he's not talking about the bizarre situation, gesturing instead toward his tiny pet chihuahua Pepsi. The puzzles continue. As sunlight floods the room, making it hard to see anything other than wall-to-wall Clarke ephemera, he points toward one of the hundreds of framed photos lining the walls.
"I presume you know who that is," he booms. In an environment where it feels like knowing the star-signs of each and every one of the Apollo astronauts is mandatory it's quite a question. Yet closer inspection proves he's pointing at a picture of Dave Prowse - otherwise known as Darth Vader - smiling in his civvies from a far-off golf course with a written, gushing tribute "to ACC" added for good measure.
Clarke, like any self-respecting sci-fi aficionado, is a huge fan. Hurdle negotiated, the mood lightens. "So what can I tell you?" he enquires, a playful smile on his lips.
Well, where do you begin? After all, this is the man who, at the age of 28, wrote the first technical paper laying down the lines of satellite communication, wrote the outline for his masterpiece 2001 four years before the Space Race even started (predicting everything from the laptop to email to videophones in the process) and is probably the only man alive to have been nominated for both an Oscar (for 2001, jointly with Stanley Kubrick) and the Nobel Prize (for his groundbreaking satellite research). Perhaps his greatest prediction - Hal, the sentient computer from 2001 - remains elusive to us even as we enter a new century.
Does he feel disappointed that the world still hasn't quite caught up with him yet? "Oh no, not at all. On the contrary, I never could have imagined all the things that have already happened in my lifetime. I never thought we would see manned space travel. That we'd land on the moon and then give up on the idea five years later..."
He's talked before about the 'Brainman', a sort of cerebral walkman which could tune into your synapses and become the ultimate in mind games. "Well, I wouldn't be surprised if they were already in production," he says, happy now to talk. "Basically, it would involve the wearer shaving their head and having some sort of electrodes placed on their skull through which they could experience games or music as if it was actually going through them. I'm sure there would be plenty of people willing to suffer that minor inconvenience..."
Talk moves on to the events of 11 September. Clearly keen to let the world in on his latest revelation, within seconds he's reached over to the bookcase, found one of his old novels (Rama, first published in the early 1960s) and is opening it at a specific page. "Read that," he declares, pointing to a paragraph which starts, "On September 11th 2077..." and goes on to describe the devastation which will be wreaked on the planet by a fireball of unknown origin. Seventy-six years out, but that never stopped Nostradamus.
At 84, age is finally catching up with this lifelong time traveller. His eyes are weak, his legs have gone and his lungs clearly seem to be in rebellion. Yet Clarke boasts of still playing a mean game of table-tennis when it suits him and displays a dazzling lucidity at times far beyond the reach of most of us. But then this is a man who thought up silicon jungles, even in the post-war austerity of 1940s Britain, and has expounded brilliantly on organised religion with a sage-like wisdom and knowledge that's pretty much unparalleled.
A confirmed agnostic, Clarke bemoans the fact that basic morality has eternally been hijacked by various religions for their own ends. His thoughts on the existence of alien life are similarly well documented. "Put it this way," he smiles,"I'm still waiting for signs of intelligent life in Washington." As for the future of the planet, he's already written six different versions. "They can't all be right!" he exclaims.
A distraction. An email has arrived in the inbox of one of the two computers he monitors every ten seconds. He's delighted. "Somebody's sent me a story about a production of 2001 on ice. What a splendid idea! I think it's only an April Fool's joke, but what a great notion..."
Nothing, it seems, can faze Sir Arthur Clarke (he was knighted, finally, in 1998). Far removed from the world at large, he's an exile from life who plugs into the mainframe and becomes an overseer of the madness below him. In constant contact, reputedly, with Rupert Murdoch - who clearly owes him one for his satellite discoveries) you almost get the impression Arthur C Clarke casts an imperious eye over the planet from his tropical island hideaway. The secrets of the universe are clearly safe with him. One last question: Does he ever wish he could escape for real, and head into the stars like recent space tourist Dennis Tito? He fixes you with an unforgettable rapier stare.
"Oh no," he smiles. "I've been far further than any astronaut's ever been." Would you disagree with him?
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