The boilers were shapeless, crumpled masses, but the engines themselves were in surprisingly good condition. Duncan looked with awe at the giant connecting rods and crankshafts, the huge reduction gears. (But why on earth did the designers use piston engines and turbines?) Then his admiration was abruptly tempered when Commander Innes gave his some statistics: this mountain of metal developed a ludicrous forty thousand kilowatts! He remembered the figure that Chief Engineer Mackenzie had given for Sirius' main drive; a trillion kilowatts. Mankind had indeed gone a long way, in every sense of the phrase, during the last three centuries.
He was exhausted when he had climbed back up the alphabet from G to A deck (one day, Commander Innes promised, the elevators would be running again) and was more than thankful when they settled down for lunch in the First Class Smoking Room.
Then he looked at the Menu, and blinked:
R.M.S. “TITANIC”
April 14, 1912
LUNCHEON
Consommé Fermier Cockie Leekie
Fillets of Brill
Egg À l'Argenteuil
Chicken À la Maryland
Corned Beef, Vegetables, Dumplings
FROM THE GRILL
Grilled Mutton Chops
Mashed, Fried and Baked Jacket Potatoes
Custard Pudding
Apple Meringue Pastry
BUFFET
Salmon Mayonnaise Potted Shrimps
Norwegian Anchovies Soused Herrings
Plain & Smoked Sardines
Roast Beef
Round of Spiced Beef
Veal & Ham Pie
Virginia & Cumberland Ham
Bologna Sausage Brawn
Galatine of Chicken
Corned Ox Tongue
Lettuce Beetroot Tomatoes
CHEESE
Cheshire, Stilton, Gorgonzola, Edam
Camembert, Roquefort, St. Ivel,
Cheddar
Iced draught Munich Lager Beer – 3d. & 6d. a Tankard
"I'm sorry to disappoint you," said Calindy. "We've done our best, within the limits of the synthesizers, but we don't even know what half of these items were. The secret of Cockie Leekie went down with the ship, and perhaps it's just as well. But we do have a substitute for the Munich Beer."
Duncan would never have given this ordinary, unlabeled bottle a second thought had he not noticed the extreme care with which it was carried. He looked questioningly at his hostess.
"Vintage '05, according to the wine steward's records — 1905, that is. Tell me what you think of it."
With one bottle to forty guests, there was just enough to get a good taste. It was port, and to Duncan seemed just like any other port; but he was too polite to say so. He made vague mumblings of appreciation, saw that Calindy was laughing at him, and added, "I'm afraid we don't have much chance of studying wines on Titan."
"Titan," said Commander Innes thoughtfully. "How very appropriate."
"But hardly a coincidence. You can thank Cal — Miss Ellerman."
"You've no seas on Titan, have you?"
"Only small temporary ones. Of liquid ammonia."
"I couldn't live on a world like that. I can't bear to be away from the sea more than a few weeks. You must go to the Caribbean and vie on one of our reefs. If you've never seen a coral reef, you can't imagine it."
Duncan had no intention of following the Commander's advice. He could understand the fascination with the sea, but it terrified him. Nothing, he was sure, would ever induce him to enter that alien universe of strange beasts, full of known dangers that were bad enough, and unknown ones that must be even worse. (As if one could possibly imagine anything worse than the man-eating shark or the giant squid...) People like Commander Innes must indeed be mad. They made life interesting, but there was no need to follow their example.
And at the moment, Duncan was too busy trying to follow Calindy — without much success. He could appreciate the fact that, having some fifty people to deal with, she could give him only two percent of her time; but when he tried to pin her down to a meeting under less hectic circumstances, she was curiously evasive. It was not that she was unfriendly, for she seemed genuinely pleased to see him. But something was worrying her — she was holding him at arm's length. It was almost as if she had been warned that he was bringing deadly Titanian germs to Earth. All that he could extract from her before they parted was a vague promise that she would contact him “just as soon as the season is over” — whatever that might mean.
Enigma Associates had not disappointed him, but their vice-president had left him puzzled and saddened. Duncan worried at the problem throughout the thirty-minute ride in the vacuum subway back to Washington. "Thank God the van Hyatts were staying in New York — he would not appreciate their company in his present mood.)
He realized that there was nothing he could do; if, like some lovesick suitor, he persisted in bothering Calindy, it would merely make matters worse. Some problems could be solved only by time, if indeed they could be solved at all.
He had plenty to do. He would forget about Calindy...
With any luck, for as much as an hour at a time.
28
Akhenaton and Cleopatra
Sir Mortimer Keynes sat in his armchair in Harley Street and looked with clinical interest at Duncan Makenzie, on the other side of the Atlantic.
"So you're the latest of the famous Makenzies. And you want to make sure you're not the last."
This was a statement, not a question. Duncan made no attempt to answer, but continued to study the man who, in an almost literal sense, was his creator.
Mortimer Keynes was well into his eighties, and looked like a rather shaggy and decrepit lion. There was an air of authority about him — but also of resignation and detachment. After half a century as Earth's leading genetic surgeon, he no longer expected life to provide him with any surprises; but he had not yet lost all interest in the human comedy.
"Tell me," he continued, "why did you come yourself, all the way from Titan? Why not just send the necessary biotype samples?"
"I have business here," Duncan answered. "As well as an invitation to the Centennial. It was too good an opportunity to miss."
"You could still have sent the sample on ahead. Now you'll have to wait nine months — that is, if you want to take your son back with you."
"This visit was arranged very unexpectedly, at short notice. Anyway, I can use the time. This is my only chance to see Earth; in another ten years, I won't be able to face its gravity."
"Why is it so important to produce another guaranteed one-hundred-percent Makenzie?"
Presumably Colin had gone through all this with Keynes — but, of course, that was thirty years ago, and heaven knows how many thousands of clonings the surgeon had performed since then. He could not possibly remember; on the other hand, he would certainly have detailed records, and was probably checking them at this very moment on that display panel on his desk.
"To answer that question," Duncan began slowly, "I'd have to give you the history of Titan for the last seventy years."
"I don't think that will be necessary," interrupted the surgeon, his eyes scanning his hidden display. "It's an old story; only the details very from age to age. Have you ever heard of Akhenaton?"
"Who?"
"Cleopatra?"
"Oh yes — she was an Egyptian queen, wasn't she?"
"Queen of Egypt, but not Egyptian. Mistress of Anthony and Caesar. The last and greatest of the Ptolemies."
What on Earth, Duncan thought in bemusement, has this to do with me? Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, he felt overwhelmed by the sheer detail and complexity of terrestrial history. Colin, with his interest in the past, would probably know what Keynes was driving at, but Duncan was completely lost.
"I'm referring to the problem of succession. How do you make sure your dynasty continues after your death, on the lines you want? There's no way of guaranteeing it, of course, but you can improve the
odds if you can leave a carbon copy of yourself..."
"The Egyptian Pharaohs made a heroic attempt at this — the best that could be done without modern science. Because they claimed to be gods, they could not marry mortals, so they mated brother and sister. The result was sometimes genius, but also deformity — in the case of Akhenaton, both. Yet they continued the tradition for more than a thousand years, until it ended with Cleopatra."
"If the Pharaohs had been able to clone themselves, they would certainly have done so. It would have been the perfect answer, avoiding the problems of inbreeding. But it introduces other problems. Because the genes are no longer shuffled, it stops the evolutionary clock. It means the end of all biological progress."
What's he driving at? Duncan asked himself impatiently. The interview was not going at all in the way he had planned. It had seemed a simple enough matter to set up the arrangements, just as Colin and Malcolm had done, three and seven decades ago, respectively. Now it appeared that the man who had made more clonings than anyone on Earth was trying to talk him out of it. He felt confused and disoriented, and also a little angry.
"I've no objection," the surgeon continued, "to cloning if it's combined with genetic repair — which is not possible in your case, as you certainly know. When you were cloned from Colin, that was merely an attempt to perpetuate the dynasty. Healing was not involved — only politics and personal vanity. Oh, I'm sure that both your precursors are convinced that it was all for the good of Titan, and they may well be absolutely right. But I'm afraid I've given up playing God. I'm sorry, Mr. Makenzie. Now, if you will excuse me — I hope you have an enjoyable visit. Good-bye to you."
Duncan was left staring, slack-jawed, at a blank screen. He did not even have time to return the farewell — still less give Colin's greetings, as he had intended, to the man who had created both of them.
He was surprised, disappointed — and hurt. No doubt he cold make other arrangements, but it had never occurred to him to go anywhere than to his own point of origin. He felt like a son who had just been repudiated by his own father.
There was a mystery here; and suddenly, in a flash of insight, Duncan thought he had guessed the solution. Sir Mortimer had cloned himself — and it had turned out badly.
The theory was ingenious, and not without a certain poetic truth. It merely happened to be wrong.
29
Party Games
It was well for Duncan that he was now becoming less awed by conspicuous displays of culture. Impressed, by all means; overwhelmed, no. Too strong a colonial inferiority complex would certainly have spoiled his enjoyment of this reception.
He had been to other parties since his arrival, but this was by far the largest. It was sponsored by the National Geographic Society — no, that was tomorrow — by the Congressional Foundation, whatever that might be, and there were at least a thousand guests circulating through the marble halls.
"If the roof fell in on us now," he overheard someone remark, rather smugly, "Earth would start running around like a headless chicken."
There seemed no reason to fear such a disaster; the National Gallery of Art had stood for almost four hundred years. Many of its treasures, of course, were far older: no one could possibly put a value on the paintings and sculpture displayed in its halls. Leonardo's Ginevra de’ Benci, Michelangelo's miraculously recovered bronze David, Picasso's Willie Maugham, Esq., Levinski's Martian Dawn, were merely the most famous of the wonders it had gathered through the centuries. Every one of them, Duncan knew, he could study through holograms in closer detail than he was doing now — but it was not the same thing. Though the copies might be technically perfect, these were the originals, forever unique; the ghosts of the long-dead artists still lingered here. When he returned to Titan, he would be able to boast to his friends: "Yes — I've stood within a meter of a genuine Leonardo."
It also amused Duncan to realize that never on his own world could he move in such a crowd — and be completely unrecognized. He doubted there were ten people here who knew him by sight; most of them would be ladies he had addressed on that memorable evening with the Daughters of the Revolutions. He was, as George Washington had neatly put it, still of Earth's leading unknown celebrities. Barring untoward events, his status would remain that way until he spoke to the World on July Fourth. And perhaps even after that...
However, his identity could be discovered easily enough, except by the most short-sighted individuals; he was wearing a badge that bore in prominent letters the words DUNCAN MACKENZIE, TITAN. He had thought it impolite to make a fuss about the spelling. Like Malcolm, he had given up that argument years ago.
On Titan, such labels would have been completely unnecessary; here they were essential. The advance of microelectronics had relegated to history two problems that until the late twentieth century, had been virtually insoluble: At a really big party, how do you find who's there — and how do you locate any given person? When Duncan checked in at the foyer, he found himself confronting a large board bearing hundreds of names. That at once established the guest list, or, to be more accurate, the list of guests who wished to make their presence known. He spent several minutes studying it, and picked out half a dozen possible targets. George, of course, was there; and so was Ambassador Farrell. No point in hunting up them; he saw them every day.
Against each name was a button, and a tiny lamp. When the button was pushed, the guest's badge would emit a buzz just loud enough for him to hear, and his light would start flashing. He then had two alternatives. He could apologize to the group he was with, and start drifting toward a central rendezvous area. By the time he arrived — which could be anything from a minute to half an hour after the signal, according to the number of encounters en route — the caller might still be there; or he might have gotten fed up and moved away.
The other alternative was to press a button on the badge itself, which would cut off the signal. The light on the board would then shine with a steady glow, informing the world that the callee did not wish to be disturbed. Only the most persistent or bad-mannered inquirer would ignore this hint.
Although some hostesses thought the system too coldly mechanical, and refused to use it at any price, it was in fact deliberately imperfect. Anyone who wished to opt out could neglect to pick up his badge, and it would then be assumed that he had not put in an appearance. To aid this deception, an ample supply of false badges was available, and the protocol that went with them was well understood. If you saw a familiar face above an innocuous JOHN DOE or MARY SMITH, you investigated no further. But a JESUS CHRIST or a JULIUS CAESAR was fair game.
Duncan saw no need for anonymity. He was quite happy to meet anyone who wished to meet him, so he left his badge in the operating mode while he raided the lavish buffet, then beat a retreat to one of the smaller tables. Although he could now function in Earth's gravity better than he would once have believed possible, he still took every opportunity of sitting down. And in this case it was essential even for Terrans, except those skillful enough to manipulate three plates and one glass with two hands.
He had been one of the early arrivals — this was a folly he never succeeded in curing during his whole stay on Earth — and by the time he had finished nibbling at unknown delicacies, the hall was comfortably full. He decided to start circulating among the other guests, lest he be identified for what he was — a lost and lonely outsider.
He did not deliberately eavesdrop; but Makenzies had unusually good hearing, and Terrans — at least party-going Terrans — seemed anxious to spread information as widely as possible. Like a free electron wandering through a semiconductor, Duncan drifted from one group to another, occasionally exchanging a few words of greeting, but never getting involved for more than a couple of minutes. He was quite content to be a passive observer, and ninety percent of the conversations he overheard were meaningless or boring. But not all...
I loathe parties like this, don't you?
It's supposed to be the only set of gen
uine antique inflatable furniture in the world. Of course, they won't let you sit on it.
I'm so sorry. But it will wash out easily.
—buying at one fifty and selling at one eighty. Would you believe that grown men once spent their entire lives doing that sort of thing?
—no music worth listening to since the late twentieth century... Make it early twenty-first.
Sorry — I don't know who's throwing this party, either.
Did El Greco come before Modigliani? I just can't believe it.
Bill's ambition is to be shot dead a the age of two hundred by a jealous wife.
How the Revolution going? If you need any more money from the Ways and Means Committee, let me know.
Food should come in pills, the way God intended.
Anyone in the room she's not slept with?
Well, maybe that statue of Zeus.
French is not a dead language. At least five million people still speak it — or at least read it.
I'm getting up a petition to save the Lunar wilderness areas.
I thought it was the Van Allen Belt.
Oh, that was last year.
At one point, Duncan's badge started to hum gently. For a moment he was taken by surprise; he had quite forgotten that it was part of a paging system. He looked around for the rendezvous point, which he had not even bothered to check. Eventually he spotted a discreet little banner bearing the notice L-S HERE, PLEASE. Needless to say it was on the far side of the room, and it took him a good five minutes to plow through the crowd.