Imperial Earth

by Arthur C. Clarke

  Duncan allowed himself a few moments of wistful daydreaming, imagining what he could do with twenty or thirty thousand solars. Then he put the seductive vision firmly aside and concentrated all his mind upon the problem. While Karl's involvement had been only a vague suspicion, he had been reluctant to waste time on a detailed analysis of how, when, and — above all — why. But now that speculation had congealed into certainty, he could no longer evade the issue.

  What a pity that the obvious line of approach was out of the question! He could hardly call up the First Bank of Aristarchus and ask for a print-out of Account 65842. Not even the World Government could do that, unless fraud or crime had already been proved beyond a shadow of a doubt. Even the most discreet inquiry would trigger an explosion; someone would certainly be fired, and Colin might be faced with most embarrassing questions.

  The only real problem in life, an ancient philosopher had once said, is what to do next. There was still no link with Calindy — or anyone else. Duncan did not relish playing a role in some sleazy, old-time spy or detective melodrama, and was not even sure how one got started on such an enterprise. Colin would have been much better at it; of the three Makenzies, he was the only one with any flair for subterfuge, indirection, and secrecy. He was probably enjoying himself — especially since he had never liked Karl, being one of the few people on Titan immune to his charms.

  But Colin, though he was doing a remarkable job, was more than a billion kilometers away, at the end of an expensive three-hour time-lag. There was no one on Earth in whom Duncan could confide. This was a private Titanian matter, and might yet turn out to be a storm in a teacup. However, if it was serious, the fewer people who knew about it, the better.

  Duncan considered, and dismissed, the idea of talking to Ambassador Farrell. He might have to enter the picture later, but not now. Duncan had not been too impressed with Bob Farrell's discretion — and, of course, he was a Terran. Moreover, if the Embassy discovered that there was a large amount of masterless money floating around Earth, that would undoubtedly precipitate a tug-of-war. It was true that the rent on Wyoming Avenue had to be paid, but Titan's demands were even more urgent.

  And yet perhaps there was one Terran he could trust — the man who had raised the matter in the first place, and who was equally interested in finding the answer. Duncan tapped out the name on his Comsole, wondering if it would accept that ridiculous apostrophe. (He had managed to misplace the dealer's card, which would have placed the call automatically.)

  "Mr. Mandel'stahm?" he said, when the screen lit up. "Duncan Makenzie. I have some news for you. where can we meet for a private conversation?"

  * * * * *

  "Are you absolutely certain," said Duncan anxiously, "that no one can overhear us?"

  "You've been seeing too many historical films, Mr. Makenzie," Ivor Mandel'stahm replied. "This isn't the twentieth century, and it would take a singularly determined police state to bug every autojitney in Washington. I always do my confidential business cruising round and round the Mall. There's absolutely nothing to worry about."

  "Very well. It's imperative that this doesn't go any further. I am fairly sure that I know the source of the titanite. What's more, I have a very good idea of the Terran agent — who has apparently already made some substantial sales."

  "I've discovered that," said Mandel'stahm, a little glumly. "Do you know how substantial?"

  "Several tens of thousands of solars."

  To Duncan's surprise, Mandel'stahm brightened appreciably.

  "Oh, is that all?" he exclaimed. "I'm quite relieved. And can you give me the name of the prime agent? I've been operating through a very close-mouthed intermediary."

  Duncan hesitated. "I believe you implied that no Terran laws were being broken."

  "Correct. There's no import duty on extraterrestrial gems. Everything at this end is perfectly legal — unless, of course, the titanite is stolen, and the Terran agent is an accomplice."

  "I'm sure that isn't the case. You see — and it's not really as big a coincidence as you might think — the agent is a friend of mine."

  A knowing smile creased Mandel'stahm's face.

  "I appreciate your problem."

  No, you don't, Duncan told himself. It was an excruciatingly complicated situation. He was quite sure now why Calindy had been avoiding him. Karl would have warned her that he was coming to Earth and would have advised her to keep out of his way. Yes, Karl must have been very worried, up there on little Mnemosyne, lest Duncan stumble upon his activities.

  It was essential to keep completely out of the picture; Calindy must never guess that he knew. There was no way in which she could possibly link him with Mandel'stahm, with whom she was already dealing through her own exceedingly discreet intermediary.

  Yet still Duncan hesitated, like a chess master over a crucial move. He was analyzing his own motives, and his own conscience, for his personal and official interests were now almost inextricably entangled.

  He was anxious to find out what Karl was doing, and if necessary frustrate him. He wanted to make Calindy ashamed of her deceit, and possibly turn her embarrassment to his emotional advantage. (This was a rather forlorn hope; Calindy did not embarrass easily, if at all...) And he wanted to help Titan, and thereby the Makenzies. All these objectives were not likely to be compatible. Duncan began to wish that titanite had never been discovered. Yet, undoubtedly, there was a brilliant opportunity here, if only he had the wit to make his moves correctly.

  Their autojitney was now gliding, at the breathless speed of some twenty klicks, between the Capitol and the Library of Congress. The sight reminded Duncan of his other responsibility; already it was the last week in June, yet his speech still consisted of no more than a few sheets of notes. Overpreparation was one of the Makenzie failings; the “all right on the night” attitude was wholly alien to their natures. But even allowing for this often valuable fault, of which he was well aware, Duncan was beginning to feel a mild sense of panic.

  The problem was a very simple one, yet its diagnosis had not suggested a remedy. Try as he could, Duncan had still been unable to decide on a basic theme, or any message from Titan more inspiring than the usual zero-content official greetings.

  Mandel'stahm was still waiting patiently when they passed the Rayburn Building — now encrusted with a vast banyan tree brought all the way from Angkor What; it was hoped that within the next fifty years, this would do the job of demolition at virtually no public expense. There were times when aesthetics took precedence over history, and it was generally agreed that — unlike the old Smithsonian — the Rayburn Building was not quite hideous enough to be worth preservation. (But what would that vegetable octopus do next, the professional alarmists had worried, when it had finished this task? Would the monster crawl across Independence Avenue and attack the hallowed dome?)

  Now the jitney was cruising past the prone hundred meters of the Saturn V replica lying on what had once been the site of NASA Headquarters. They could not spend all day orbiting central Washington; very well, Duncan told himself with a sigh...

  "I have your promise that my name won't come out, under any circumstances?"

  "Yes."

  "And there's no risk that — my friend — may get into trouble?"

  "I can't guarantee that he won't lose any money. But there will be no legal problems — at any rate, under Terran jurisdiction."

  "It's not a ‘he.’ I leave the details to you, but you might make some tactful inquiries about the vice-president of Enigma Associates, Catherine Linden Ellerman."

  34

  Star Day

  Though he tried to convince himself that he had done the right thing — even the only thing — Duncan was still slightly ashamed. Deep in his heart, he felt that he had been guilty of betraying an old friendship. He was glad that some impulse had kept him from mentioning Karl, and with part of his mind he still hoped that the whole investigation would collapse.

  Meanwhile, there was so much t
o be done, and so much to see, that for long periods of time Duncan could forget his twinges of conscience. It seemed ridiculous to have come all the way to Earth — and then to sit for hours of every day (in beautiful weather!) in a hotel room talking into a Comsole.

  But every time Duncan thought he had completed one of the innumerable chores they had given him before he left home, there would be a back-up message reopening the subject, or adding fresh complications. His official duties were time-consuming enough; what made matters worse were all the private requests from relatives, friends, and even complete strangers, who assumed that he had nothing else to do except contact lost acquaintances, obtain photos of ancestral homes, hunt for rare books, research Terran genealogies, locate obscure works of art, act as agent for hopeful Titanian authors and artists, conjure up scholarships and free passages to Earth — and say "Thank you" for Star Day cards received ten years ago and never acknowledged.

  Which reminded Duncan that he had not sent off his own cards for this quadrennial occasion. Since '76 was a leap year, Star Day was therefore looming up in the near future — to be precise, between June 30 and July 1. Duncan was glad of the extra day, but it also meant that there would shortly be three days in five where no business could be done. For July 1, being at the beginning of a new quarter, was of course a Sunday; and the Sunday before that was only June 28. It was bad enough, in an ordinary year, to have two Sundays at the end of every 91-day quarter, with only a Monday and Tuesday between them — but now to have another holiday as well made it even worse.

  There was still time to mail cards to all his Terran friends — Ambassador Farrell, the Washingtons, Calindy, Bernie Patras, and half a dozen others. As for Titan, there was really no hurry. Even if they took six months to get there, the cards, with there beautiful gold-leaf Centennial stamps (five solars each, for heaven's sake, even by second-class space mail!), would still be appreciated.

  Despite these problems, Duncan had found some opportunities to relax. He had been on personal teletours of London, Rome, and Athens, which was the next best thing to being there in the flesh. Seated in a tiny, darkened cubicle with 360 degrees of high-quality sound and vision, he could easily believe that he was actually walking through the streets of the ancient cities. He could ask questions of the invisible guide who was his alter ego, talk to any passers-by, change the route to look more closely at something that took his interest. Only the sense of smell and touch remained immobile — and even these could be tele-extended for anyone willing to foot the bill. Duncan could not afford such marginal luxury, and did not really miss it.

  He also attended several concerts, two ballets, and one play — all arranged for the benefit of visitors in this Centennial year, and all unavoidable without the exercise of more diplomatic illness, or sheer bad manners, than Duncan felt able to muster. The music, though doubtless magnificent, bored him; his tastes were old-fashioned, and he enjoyed little written after the twenty-first century. The ballet was also a disappointment; to anyone who had spent all his life at a fifth of a gravity, the most remarkable of Terran grands jetés was unimpressive — and also nerve-racking, for Duncan could never quite get over the fear that the dancers would injure themselves. He watched them with envy, but he had no wish to imitate them. It was enough that he could now walk and stand without conscious effort. This achievement was a matter of modest pride, for there had been a time when he would not have believed it possible.

  But the play delighted him. He had heard vaguely of George Bernard Shaw, now undergoing one of his periodic revivals, and The Devil's Disciple was perfect for the occasion. Though George Washington muttered from time to time in Duncan's ear such comments as "General Burgoyne wasn't the least like that," he felt that he at least understood the American Revolution in human terms. It was no longer a shadowy affair of two-dimensional puppets, five hundred years in the past, but a life-and-death struggle involving real people, whose hopes and fears and loves he could share.

  Though love, with a capital L, was not a complication that Duncan would welcome during his stay on Earth. He could not imagine anyone ever replacing Marissa, and to have a really serious affair with a Terran would be the stuff of tragedy, since separation would be inevitable when he returned to Titan. He wanted no part of that; he had been through it once before, with Calindy.

  Or so it had seemed at the time. Now he realized that the calf love of a sixteen-year-old boy, though it had once dominated all his waking hours, was indeed shallow and transient. Yet its aftereffects still lingered, shaping all his later passions and desires. Although he was annoyed and disappointed with Calindy, that was unchanged; her deliberate avoidance had, if anything, added fuel to his emotions and contributed to some notably fevered dreams.

  Bernie Patras, of course, was happy to relieve his symptoms, and had arranged several enjoyable encounters. One cuddlesome and talented young lady, he swore, was his own girl friend, "who only does this with people she really wants to meet." She did, indeed, show a genuine interest in Titan and its problems; but when Bernie, as an interested party, wanted to join in the festivities, Duncan selfishly threw him out.

  That was shortly before Ivor Mandel'stahm — this time in the Penn-Mass autojitney — totally demolished his peace of mind. They had just left the Dupont Circle Interchange when he told Duncan: "I've some interesting news for you, but I don't know what it means. You may be able to explain it."

  "I'll do my best."

  "I think I can claim, without much exaggeration or conceit, that I can get to anyone on Earth in one jump. But sometimes discretion suggests doing it in two, and that's how I proceeded with Miss Ellerman. I've never had any dealings with her personally — or so I thought, until you advised me otherwise — but we have mutual friends. So I got one, whom I can trust without question, to give her a call... Tell me, have you tried to contact her recently?"

  "Not for — oh, at least a week. I thought it better to keep out of the way." Duncan did not add, to this perfectly good excuse, the fact that he had felt ashamed to face Calindy.

  "She answered my friend's call, but there's something very odd. She wouldn't switch on her viddy."

  That certainly was peculiar; as a matter of common good manners, one never overrode the vision circuit unless there was a very good excuse indeed. Of course, this could sometimes cause acute embarrassment — a fact exploited to the utmost in countless comedies. But whatever the real reason, social protocol demanded some explanation. To say that the viddy was out of order was to invite total disbelief, even on those rare occasions when it was true.

  "What was her excuse?" asked Duncan.

  "A plausible one. She explained that she had a bad fall, and apologized for not showing her face."

  "I hope she wasn't badly hurt."

  "Apparently not, though she sounded rather unhappy. Anyway, my friend had a brief conversation with her and raised the subject of Titan — quite legitimately, and in a way that couldn't possibly arouse suspicion. He knew that she'd been there, and asked if she could put him in touch with any Titanians she happened to know on Earth. Actually, he said he had an export order in mind."

  "Not a very good story. All business is handled through the Embassy Trade Division, and he could have contacted them."

  "If I may say so, Mr. Makenzie, you still have a lot to learn. I can think of half a dozen reasons for not going to the Embassy — at least for the first approach. My friend knows that, and you can be sure that Miss Ellerman does."

  "If you say so — I don't doubt that you're right. What was her reaction?"

  "I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed. She said that she did have a good Titanian friend who might be able to help, that he'd just arrived for the celebrations, and he was in Washington..."

  Duncan began to laugh; the anticlimax was so ridiculous...

  "So your friend wasted his time. We're right back to where we started."

  "Along this line, yes. I thought you'd be amused. But there's rather more to come."

/>   "Go on," said Duncan, his confidence in Mandel'stahm now somewhat diminished by this debacle.

  "I tried several other lines of inquiry, but they all came to nothing. I even thought of calling Miss Ellerman myself and saying outright that I knew she was the principal behind the titanite negotiations — without accusing her of anything, of course."

  "I'm glad you didn't."

  "Oh, it would have been a perfectly reasonable thing to do — she wouldn't have been surprised if I found out sooner or later. But as it happened, I had a better idea — one I should have tried in the first place. I checked on her visitors for the last month."

  "How," Duncan asked in astonishment, "could you do that?"

  "It's the oldest trick in the world. Have you never seen one of those twentieth-century French detective films? No, I suppose not. I simply asked the concierge."

  "The what?"

  "You don't have them on Titan?"

  "I don't even know what they are."

  "Perhaps you're lucky. On Earth, they're an indispensable nuisance. Miss Ellerman, as I assume you know, lives in a very luxurious Deep Ten just south of Mount Rockefeller. In fact, she has the basement penthouse — a hankering I've never understood; the farther down I go, the more claustrophobic I get. Well, any large complex has a doorkeeper at the entrance to tell visitors who's in and who's out, take messages, accept deliveries — and authorize the right people to go to the right apartments. That's the concierge."