Imperial Earth

by Arthur C. Clarke

  This was, of course, a shot in the dark, but he appeared to have landed on some target. For the first time, Karl looked angry.

  "You don't know what you're talking about," he snapped back. "One day Titan..."

  CYCLOPS gently but firmly interrupted him. They had quite forgotten the slow tracking of the great antennas on every side, and were no longer even aware of the faint whirr of the hundreds of drive motors. Until a few seconds ago, the upper platform of 005 had been shielded by the inverted umbrella of the next bowl, but now its shadow was no longer falling upon them. The artificial eclipse was over, and they were blasted by the tropical sun.

  Duncan closed his eyes until his dark glasses had adjusted to the glare. When he opened them again, he was standing in a world divided sharply into night and day. Everything on one side was clearly visible, while in the shadow only a few centimeters away he could see absolutely nothing. The contrast between light and darkness, exaggerated by his glasses, was so great that Duncan could almost imagine he was on the airless Moon.

  It was also uncomfortably hot, especially for Titanians.

  "If you don't mind," said Duncan, still determined to be polite, "we'll move around to the shadow side." It would be just like Karl to refuse, either out of sheer stubbornness or to demonstrate his superiority. He was not even wearing dark glasses, though he was holding the notebook to shield his eyes.

  Rather to Duncan's surprise, Karl followed him meekly enough around the catwalk, into the welcome shade on the northern face of the tower. The utter banality of the interruption seemed to have put him off his stride.

  "I was saying," continued Duncan, when they had settled down again, "that I'm merely trying to avoid any unpleasantness that will embarrass both Earth and Titan. There's nothing personal in this, and I wish that someone else were doing it — believe me."

  Karl did not answer at once, but bent down and carefully placed his notebook on the most rust-free section of the catwalk he could find. The action reminded Duncan so vividly of old times that he was absurdly moved. Karl had never been able to express his emotions properly unless his hands were free, and that notebook was obviously a major hindrance.

  "Listen carefully, Duncan," Karl began. "Whatever Calindy told you—"

  "She told me nothing."

  "She must have helped you find me."

  "Not even that. She doesn't even know I'm here."

  "I don't believe you."

  Duncan shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. His strategy seemed to be working. By hinting that he knew much more than he did — which was indeed little enough — he hoped to undercut Karl's confidence and gain further admissions from him. But what he would do then, he still had no idea; he could only rely on Colin's maxim of the masterful administration of the unforeseen.

  Karl had now begun to pace back and forth in such an agitated manner that, for the fist time, Duncan felt distinctly nervous. He remembered Calindy's warning; and once again, he reminded himself uneasily that this was not at all a good place for a confrontation with an adversary who might be slightly unbalanced.

  Suddenly, Karl seemed to come to a decision. He stopped his uncertain weaving along the narrow catwalk and turned on his heel so abruptly that Duncan drew back involuntarily. Then he realized, with both surprise and relief, that Karl's hands were outstretched in a gesture of pleading, not of menace.

  "Duncan," he began, in a voice that was now completely changed. "You can help me. What I'm trying to do—"

  It was as if the sun had exploded. Duncan threw his hands before his eyes and clenched them tightly against the intolerable glare. He heard a cry from Karl, and a moment later the other bumped into him violently, rebounding at once.

  The actinic detonation had lasted only a fraction of a second. Could it have been lightning? But if so, where was the thunder? It should have come almost instantaneously, for a flash as brilliant as this.

  Duncan dared to open his eyes, and found he could see again, through a veil of pinkish mist. But Karl, it was obvious, could not see at all; he was blundering around blindly, with his hands cupped tightly over his eyes. And still the expected thunder never came...

  If Duncan had not been half-paralyzed by shock, he might yet have acted in time. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, as in a dream. He could not believe that it was real.

  He saw Karl's foot hit the precious notebook, so that it went spinning off into space, fluttering downward like some strange, white bird. Blinded though he was, Karl must have realized what he had done. Totally disoriented, he made one futile grab at the empty air, then crashed into the guardrail. Duncan tried to reach him, but it was too late.

  Even then, it might not have mattered; but the years and the rust had done their work. As the treacherous metal parted, it seemed to Duncan that Karl cried out his name, in the last second of his life.

  But of that he would never be sure.

  38

  The Listeners

  "You're under no legal compulsion," Ambassador Farrell had explained. "If you wish, I could claim diplomatic immunity for you. But it would be unwise, and might lead to various — ah — difficulties. In any case, this inquiry is in the mutual interest of all concerned. We want to find out what's happened, just as much as they do."

  "And who are they? "

  "Even if I knew, I couldn't tell you. Let's say Terran Security."

  "You still have that kind of nonsense here? I thought spies and secret agents went out a couple of hundred years ago."

  "Bureaucracies are self-perpetuating — you should know that. But civilization will always have its discontents, to use a phrase I came across somewhere. Though the police handle most matters, as they do on Titan, there are cases which require — special treatment. By the way, I've been asked to make it clear that anything you care to say will be privileged and won't be published without your consent. And if you wish, I will come along with you for moral support and guidance."

  Even now, Duncan was not quite sure who the Ambassador was representing, but the offer was a reasonable one and he had accepted it. He could see no harm in such a private meeting; some kind of judicial inquiry was obviously needed, but the less publicity, the better.

  He had half expected to be taken in a blacked-out car on a long, tortuous drive to some vast underground complex in the depths of Virginia or Maryland. It was a little disappointing to end up in a small room at the old State Department Building, talking to an Assistant Under Secretary with the improbable name of John Smith; later checking on Duncan's part disclosed that this actually was his name. However, it soon became clear that there was much more to this room than the plain desk and three comfortable chairs that met the eye.

  Duncan's suspicions about the large mirror that covered most of one wall were quickly confirmed. His host — or interrogator, if one wanted to be melodramatic — saw the direction of his glance and gave him a candid smile.

  "With your permission, Mr. Makenzie, we'd like to record this meeting. And there are several other participants watching; they may join in from time to time. If you don't mind, I'll refrain from introducing them."

  Duncan nodded politely toward the mirror.

  "I've no objection to recording," he said. "Do you mind if I also use my Minisec?"

  There was a painful silence, broken only by an ambassadorial chuckle. Then Mr. Smith answered: "We would prefer to supply you with a transcript. I can promise that it will be quite accurate."

  Duncan did not press the point. Presumably, it might cause embarrassment if some of the voices involved were recognized by outsiders. In any case, a transcript would be perfectly acceptable; he could trust his memory to spot errors or deletions.

  "Well, that's fine," said Mr. Smith, obviously relieved. "Let's get started."

  Simultaneously, something odd happened to the room. Its acoustics changed abruptly; it was as if it had suddenly become much larger. There was not the slightest visible alteration, but Duncan had the uncanny feeling of unseen pre
sences all around him. He would never know if they were actually in Washington, or on the far side of the Earth, and it gave him an uncomfortable, naked sensation to be surrounded by invisible listeners — and watchers.

  A moment later, a voice spoke quietly from the air immediately in front of him.

  "Good morning, Mr. Makenzie. It's good of you to spare us your time, and please excuse our reticence. If you think this is some kind of twentieth-century spy melodrama, our apologies. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, these precautions are totally unnecessary. But we can never tell which occasion will be the hundredth."

  It was a friendly, powerful voice, very deep and resonant, yet there was something slightly unnatural about it. A computer? Duncan asked himself. That was too easy an assumption; in any case, there was no way of distinguishing between computer vocalization and human speech — especially now that a realistic number of ‘ers’ ‘wells’, incomplete sentences, and downright grammatical errors could be incorporated to make the nonelectronic participants in a conversation feel at ease. He guessed that he was listening to a man talking through a speech-disguising circuit.

  While Duncan was still trying to decide if any answer was necessary, another speaker took over. This time, the voice emerged about half a meter from his left ear.

  "It's only fair to reassure you on one point, Mr. Makenzie. As far as we can ascertain, no Terran laws have been broken. We are not here to investigate a crime — only to solve a mystery, to explain a tragedy. If any Titanian regulations are involved, that is your problem — not ours. I hope you understand."

  "Yes," Duncan replied. "I assumed that was the case, but I'm glad to have your confirmation."

  This was indeed a relief, but he knew better than to relax. Perhaps this statement was exactly what it seemed to be — a friendly plea for co-operation. But it might also be a trap.

  Now a woman's voice came from immediately behind him, and he had to resist the impulse to swing around and look at the speaker. Was this quite unnecessary shifting of sound focus a deliberate attempt to disorient him? How naïve did they take him to be?

  "To save us all time, let me explain that we have a complete summary of Mr. Helmer's background." And mine, thought Duncan. "Your government has been most helpful, but you may have information which is unknown to us, since you were one of his closest friends."

  Duncan nodded, without bothering to speak. They would know all about that friendship, and its ending.

  As if responding to some hidden signal, Mr. Smith opened his briefcase and carefully laid a small object on the table.

  "You'll recognize this, of course," the female voice continued. "The Helmer family has asked that it be handed over to you for safe custody, with the other property of the deceased."

  The sight of Karl's Minisec — virtually the same model as his own — was in itself such a shock that at first the remainder of the message failed to get through. Then Duncan reacted with a start and said: "Would you please repeat that?"

  There was such a surprisingly long delay that he wondered if the speaker was on the Moon; during the course of the session, Duncan became almost certain of it. With all the other interrogators, there was a quick give-and-take, but with the lone woman there was always this invariable time-lag.

  "The Helmers have asked that you be custodian of their son's effects, until disposition is settled."

  It was a gesture of peace, across the grave of all their hopes, and Duncan felt his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He looked a the handful of microelectronics on the table and felt a deep reluctance to touch it. There were all of Karl's secrets. Would the Helmers have asked him to accept this if they had anything to hide? But there was a great deal, Duncan was certain, that Karl had concealed from his own family; there would be much in the Minisec that only he had ever known. True, it would be guarded by carefully chosen code words, some of them possibly linked with ERASE circuits to prevent unauthorized intrusion.

  "Naturally," continued the voice from the Moon (if it was from the Moon), "we are interested in what may be in this Minisec. In particular, we would like any list of contacts on Earth — addresses or personal numbers."

  Yes, thought Duncan, I can understand that. I'm sure you must have been tempted to do some interrogation already, but are scared of possible ERASE circuits and want to explore other possibilities first...

  He stared thoughtfully a that little box on the table, with its multitudinous studs and its now darkened read-out panel. There lay a device of a complexity beyond all the dreams of earlier ages — a virtual microsimulacrum of a human brain. Within it were billions of bits of information, stored in endless atomic arrays, awaiting to be recalled by the right signal — or obliterated by the wrong one. At the moment it was lifeless, inert, like a consciousness itself in the profoundest depths of sleep. No — not quite inert; the clock and calendar would still be operating, ticking off the seconds and minutes and days that now were no concern of Karl's.

  Another voice broke in, this time from the right.

  "We have asked Mr. Armand Helmer if his son left any code words with him, as is usual in such cases. You may be hearing more on the matter shortly. Meanwhile, no attempt will be made to obtain any read-outs. With your permission, we would like to retain the Minisec for the present."

  Duncan was getting a little tired of having decisions made for him — and the Helmers had apparently stated that he was to take possession of Karl's effects. But there was no point in objecting; and if he did, some legal formality would undoubtedly materialize out of the same thin air as these mysterious voices.

  Mr. Smith was digging into his case again.

  "Now there is a second matter — I'm sure you also recognize this."

  "Yes. Karl usually carried a sketchbook. Is this the one he had with him when—"

  "It is. Would you like to go through it, and see if there is anything that strikes you as unusual — noteworthy — of any possible value to this investigation? Even if it seems utterly trivial or irrelevant, please don't hesitate to speak."

  What a technological gulf, thought Duncan, between these two objects! The Minisec was a triumph of the Neoelectronic Age; the sketchbook had existed virtually unchanged for at least a thousand years — and so had the pencil tucked into it. It was very true, as some philosopher of history had once said, that mankind never completely abandons any of its ancient tools. Yet Karl's sketchbooks had always been something of an affectation; he could make competent engineering drawings, but had never shown any genuine sign of artistic talent.

  As Duncan slowly turned the leaves, he was acutely conscious of the hidden eyes all around him. Without the slightest doubt, every page here had been carefully recorded, using all the techniques that could bring out invisible marks and erasures. It was hard to believe that he could add much to in the investigations that had already been made.

  Karl apparently used his sketchbooks to make notes of anything that interested him, to conduct a sort of dialogue with himself, and to express his emotions. There were cryptic words and numbers in small, precise handwriting, fragments of calculations and equations, mathematical sketches...

  And there were spacescapes, obviously rough drawings of scenes on the outer moons, with the formalized circle-and-ellipse of Saturn hanging in the sky...

  ... circuit diagrams, with more calculations full of lambdas and omegas, and vector notations that Duncan could recognize, but could not understand... and then suddenly, bursting out of the pages of impersonal notes and rather inept sketches, something that breathed life, something that might have been the work of a real artist — a portrait of Calindy, drawn with obvious, loving care.

  It should have been instantly recognizable; yet strangely enough, for a fraction of a second, Duncan stared at it blankly. This was not the Calindy he now knew, for the real woman was already obliterating the image from the past. Here was Calindy as they had both remembered her — the girl frozen forever in the bubble stereo, beyond the reach of Time.


  Duncan looked at this picture for long minutes before turning the page. It was really excellent — quite unlike all the other sketches. But then, how many times had Karl drawn it, over and over again, during the intervening years?

  No one spoke from the air around him or interrupted his thoughts. And presently he moved on.

  ... more calculations... patterns of hexagons, dwindling away into the distance — why, of course!

  "That's the titanite lattice — but the number written against it means nothing to me. It looks like a Terran viddy coding."

  "You are correct. It happens to be the number of a gem expert here in Washington. Not Ivor Mandel'stahm, in case you're wondering. The person concerned assures us that Mr. Helmer never contacted him, and we believe him. It's probably a number he acquired somehow, jotted down, but never used."

  ... more calculations, now with lots of frequencies and phase angles. Doubtless communications stuff — part of Karl's regular work...

  ... geometrical doodles, many of them based on the hexagon motive...

  ...Calindy again — only an outline sketch this time, showing none of the living care of the earlier drawing...

  ... a honeycomb pattern of little circles, seen in plan and elevation. Only a few were drawn in detail, but it was obvious that there must be hundreds. The interpretation was equally obvious...

  "The CYCLOPS array — yes, he's written in the number of elements and over-all dimensions."

  "Why do you think he was so interested?"

  "That's quite natural —it's the biggest and most famous radio telescope on Earth. He often discussed it with me."

  "Did he ever speak of visiting it?"

  "Very likely — but I don't remember. After all, this was some years ago."

  The drawings on the next few pages, though very rough and diagrammatic, were clearly details of CYCLOPS — antenna feeds, tracking mechanisms, obscure bits of circuitry, interspersed with yet more calculations. One sketch had been started and never finished. Duncan looked at it sadly, then turned the page. As he had expected, the next sheet was blank.