Imperial Earth

  Half a dozen complete strangers were waiting hopefully under the banner. He scanned their faces in vain, looking for some sign of recognition. But when he got within name-reading range, one of the group broke away and approached him with outstretched hands.

  "Mr. Makenzie — how good of you to come! I'll take only a few minutes of your time."

  From bitter experience, Duncan had learned that this was one of Terra's great understatements. He looked cautiously at the speaker to sum him up and to guess his business. What he saw was reasonably reassuring: a very neat, goateed little man wearing a traditional Chinese/Indian shervani, tightly buttoned up at the neck. He did not look like a bore or a fanatic; but they seldom did.

  "That's all right, Mr. — er — Mandel'stahm. What can I do for you?"

  "I'd intended to contact you — it was pure luck, seeing your name on the list — I knew there could be only one Makenzie — what does the D stand for — Donald, Douglas, David—"

  "Duncan."

  "Ah, yes. Let's move over to that seat — it'll be quieter — besides, I love Winslow Homer's Fair Wind, even though the technique is so crude — you can almost smell the fish sliding around in the boat — why, what a coincidence — it's exactly four hundred years old ! Don't you think coincidences are fascinating? I've been collecting them all my life."

  "I've never thought about it," replied Duncan, already feeling a little breathless. He was afraid that if he listened much longer to Mr. Mandel'stahm, he too would start to talk in jerks. What did the man want? For that matter, was there any way of discovering the intentions of a person whose flow of speech seemed to be triggered by random impulses?

  Luckily, as soon as they were seated, Mr. Mandel'stahm became much more coherent. He gave a conspiratorial glance to check that there was nobody in earshot except Winslow Homer's fisherboys, then resumed his conversation in a completely different tone of voice.

  "I promised I'd take only a few minutes. Here's my card — you can use it to key my number. Yes, I call myself an antique dealer, but that covers a multitude of sins. My main interest is gems —I have one of the largest private collections in the world. So you've probably guessed why I was anxious to meet you."

  "Go on."

  "Titanite, Mr. Makenzie. There are not more than a dozen fragments on Earth — five of them in museums. Even the Smithsonian doesn't have a specimen, and its curator of gems — that tall man over there — is most unhappy. I suppose you know that titanite is one of the few materials that can't be replicated?"

  "So I believe," answered Duncan, now very cautious. Mr. Mandel'stahm had certainly made his interests clear, though not his intentions.

  "You'll understand, therefore, that if a swarthy, cornuted gentleman suddenly appeared in a puff of smoke with a contract for several grams of titanite in exchange for my signature in blood, I wouldn't bother to read the small print."

  Duncan was not quite sure what ‘cornute’ meant, but he got the general picture quickly enough, and gave a noncommittal nod.

  "Well, something like this has been happening over the last three months — not quite so dramatically, of course. I've been approached, in great confidence, by a dealer who claims to have titanite for sale, in lots of up to ten grams. What would you say to that?"

  "I'd be extremely suspicious. It's probably fake."

  "You can't fake titanite."

  "Well — synthetic?"

  "I'd thought of that too — it's an interesting idea, but it would mean so many scientific breakthroughs somewhere that it couldn't possibly be hushed up. It certainly wouldn't be a simple job, like diamond manufacture. No one has any idea how titanite is produced. There are at least four theories proving that it can't exist."

  "Have you ever seen it?"

  "Of course — the fragment in the American Museum of Natural History, and the very fine specimen in the Geological Museum, South Kensington."

  Duncan refrained from adding that there was an even finer specimen in the Centennial Hotel, not ten kilometers from here. Until this mystery was cleared up, and he knew more about Mr. Mandel'stahm, this information was best kept to himself. He did not believe that burglarious visitors were likely, but it was foolish to take unnecessary chances.

  "I don't quite see how I can help you. If you're sure that the titanite is genuine, and hasn't been acquired illegally, what's your problem?"

  "Simply this. Not everything rare is valuable — but everything valuable is rare. If someone's discovered a few kilograms of titanite, it would be just another common gemstone, like opal or sapphire or ruby. Naturally, I don't want to make a big investment if there's any danger that the price might suddenly nose-dive."

  He saw Duncan's quizzical expression and added hastily, "Of course, now that the profit motive's extinct, I do this for amusement. I'm more concerned with my reputation."

  "I understand. But if there had been such a find, I'm sure I would have heard of it. It would have been reported to my government."

  Mr. Mandel'stahm's eyebrows gained altitude perceptibly.

  "Perhaps. But perhaps not. Especially if it were found — off-planet. I'm referring, of course, to the theories suggesting that it's not indigenous to Titan."

  You're certainly well informed, Duncan told himself — in fact, I'm sure you know far more about titanite than I do...

  "I suppose you mean the theory that there may be bigger lodes on the other moons?"

  "Yes. In fact, traces have been detected on Iapetus."

  "That's news to me, but I wouldn't have heard unless there had been a major find. Which, I gather, is what you suspect."

  "Among other things."

  For a few seconds, Duncan processed this information in silence. If it was true — and he could think of no reason why Mandel'stahm should be lying —it was his duty as an officer of the Titanian administration to look into it. But the very last thing he wanted now was extra work, especially if it was likely to lead to messy complications. If some clever operator was actually smuggling titanite, Duncan would prefer to remain in blissful ignorance. He had more important things to worry about.

  Perhaps Mandel'stahm understood the reason for his hesitation, for he added quietly: "The sum involved may be quite large. I'm not interested in that, of course — but most governments are rather grateful to anyone who detects a loss of revenue. If I can help you earn that gratitude, I should be delighted."

  I understand you perfectly, said Duncan to himself, and this makes the proposition much more attractive. He did not know the Titan law on these matters, and even if a reward was involved, it would be tactless for the Special Assistant to the Chief Administrator to claim it. But his task would certainly not be much easier if — as he gloomily expected — he were compelled to apply for more Terran solars before the end of his stay.

  "I'll tell you what I'll do," he said to Mandel'stahm. "Tomorrow, I'll send a message to Titan, and initiate inquiries — very discreetly, of course. If I learn something, I'll let you know. But don't expect too much — or, for that matter, anything at all."

  Mandel'stahm seemed quite happy with this arrangement, and departed with rather fulsome protestations of gratitude. Duncan decided that it was also high time he left the party. He had been on his feet for over two hours, and all his vertebrae were now starting to protest in unison. As he made his way toward the exit, he kept a lookout for George Washington, and managed to find him — despite his short stature — without falling back on the paging system.

  "Everything going well?" asked George.

  "Yes — I've had a very interesting time. And I've run into a curious character — he calls himself a gem expert—"

  "Ivor Mandel'stahm. What did the old fox want from you?"

  "Oh — information. I was polite, but not very helpful. Should I take him seriously, and can he be trusted?"

  "Ivor is merely the world's greatest expert on gems. And in that business, one can't afford even the hint of a suspicion. You can trust him absolutely."

&n
bsp; "Thanks — that's all I wanted to know."

  Half an hour later, back at the hotel, Duncan unlocked his case and laid out the set of pentominoes that Grandma had given him; he had not even touched it since arriving on Earth. Carefully, he lifted out the titanite cross and held it up to the light...

  The first time he had seen the gem was at Grandma Ellen's, and he could date the event very accurately. Calindy had been with him, so he must have been sixteen years old. He could not remember how it had been arranged. In view of Grandma's dislike of strangers (and even of relatives) the visit must have been a major diplomatic feat. He did recall that Calindy had been very anxious to meet the famous old lady, and had wanted to bring along her friends; that, however, had been firmly vetoed.

  It was one of those days when Ellen Makenzie's co-ordinate system coincided with the external world's, and she treated Calindy as if she were actually there. Doubtless the fact that she had a fascinating new novelty to display had much to do with her unusual friendliness.

  This was not the first specimen of titanite that had been discovered, but the second or third — and the largest up to that time, with a mass of almost fifteen grams. It was irregularly shaped, and Duncan realized that the cross he was now holding must have been cut from it. In those days, no one thought of titanite as having any great value; it was merely a curiosity.

  Grandma had polished a section a few millimeters on a side, and the specimen now lay on the stage of a binocular microscope, with a beam of pseudowhite light from a trichromatic laser shining into it. Most of the room illumination had been switched off, but refracted and reflected spots, many of them completely dispersed into their three component colors, glowed steadily from unexpected places on walls and ceiling. There room might have been some magician's or alchemist's cell — as, indeed, in a way it was. In earlier ages, Ellen Makenzie would probably have been regarded as a witch.

  Calindy stared through the microscope for a long time, while Duncan waited more or less patiently. Then, with a whispered "It's beautiful —I've never seen anything like it!" she had reluctantly stepped aside...

  ...A hexagonal corridor of light, dwindling away to infinity, outlined by millions of sparkling points in a geometrically perfect array. By changing focus, Duncan could hurtle down that corridor, without ever coming to an end. How incredible that such a universe lay inside a piece of rock only a millimeter thick!

  The slightest change of position, and the glittering hexagon vanished; it depended critically on the angle of illumination, as well as the orientation of the crystal. Once it was lost, even Grandma's skilled hands took minutes to find it again.

  "Quite unique," she had said happily (Duncan had never seen her so cheerful), "and I've no explanations — merely a half a dozen theories. I'm not even sure if we're seeing a real structure — or some kind of moiré pattern in three dimensions, if that's possible..."

  That had been fifteen years ago — and in that time, hundreds of theories had been proposed and demolished. It was widely agreed, however, that titanite's extraordinarily perfect lattice structure must have been produced by a combination of extremely low temperatures and total absence of gravity. If this theory was correct, it could not have originated on any planet, or much nearer to the Sun than the orbit of Neptune. Some scientists had even built a whole theory of "interstellar crystallography" on this assumption.

  There had been even wilder suggestions. Something as odd as titanite had, naturally, appealed to Karl's speculative urges.

  "I don't believe it's natural," he had once told Duncan. "A material like that couldn't happen. It's an artifact of a superior civilization — like — oh — one of our crystal memories."

  Duncan had been impressed. It was one of those theories that sounded just crazy enough to be true, and every few years someone ‘rediscovered’ it. But as the debate raged on inconclusively, the public soon lost interest; only the geologists and gemologists still found titanite a source of endless fascination — as Mandel'stahm had now demonstrated.

  Makenzies always kept their promises, even in the most trifling matters. Duncan would send a message off to Colin the first thing in the morning. There was no hurry; and that, he expected and half hoped, would be the last he would hear of it.

  Very gently, he replaced the titanite cross in its setting between the F,N,U, and V pentominoes. One day, he really must make a sketch of the configuration.

  If the pieces ever fell out of the box, it might take him hours to get them back again.

  30

  The Rivals

  After the encounter with Mortimer Keynes, Duncan licked his wounds in silence for several days. He did not feel like discussing the matter with his usual confidants, General George and Ambassador Farrell. And though he did not doubt that Calindy would have all the answers — or could find them quickly — he also hesitated to call her. Instinct, rather than logic, told him that it might not be a good idea. When he looked into his heart, Duncan had to admit ruefully that though he certainly desired Calindy, and perhaps even loved her, he did not trust her.

  The Classified Section of the Comsole was not much use. When he asked for information on cloning services, he got several dozen names, none of which meant anything to him. He was not surprised to see that the list no longer included Keynes; when he checked the surgeon's personal entry, it printed out "Retired." He might have saved himself some embarrassment if he had discovered this earlier, but who could have guessed?

  Like many such problems, this one solved itself unexpectedly. He was groaning beneath Bernie Patras's ministrations when he suddenly realized that the person who could help was right here, pulverizing him with merciless skill.

  Whether or not a man has any secrets from his valet, he certainly has none from his masseur. With Bernie, Duncan had established a cheerful, bantering relationship, without detracting from the serious professionalism of the other's therapy — thanks to which he was not merely mobile, but still steadily gaining strength.

  Bernie was an inveterate gossip, full of scandalous stories, but Duncan had noticed that he never revealed names and was as careful to protect his sources as any media reporter. For all his chattering, he could be trusted; and he also had any entrée he wished to the medical profession. He was just the man for the job.

  "Bernie, there's something I'd like you to do for me."

  "Delighted. Just tell me whether it's boys or girls, and how many of each, with approximate shapes and sizes. I'll fill in the details."

  "This is serious. You know I'm a clone, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  Duncan had assumed as much; it was not one of the Solar System's best-kept secrets.

  "Ouch —have you ever heard of Mortimer Keynes?"

  "The genetic surgeon? Of course."

  "Good. He was the man who cloned me. Well, the other day I called him, just to — ah — say hello. And he behaved in a very strange way. In fact, he was almost rude."

  "You didn't call him ‘doctor’? Surgeons often hate that."

  "No — at least, I don't think so. It wasn't really anything on a personal level. He just tried to tell me that cloning was a bad idea, and he was against it. I felt I should apologize for existing."

  "I can understand your feelings. What do you want me to do? My rates for assassination are quite high, but easy terms can be arranged."

  "Before we get that far, you might make some inquiries among your medical friends. I'd very much like to discover why Sir Mortimer changed his mind — that is, if anyone knows the reason."

  "I'll find out, don't worry — though it may take a few days." Bernie was obviously delighted at the challenge; he was also unduly pessimistic in his estimate, for he called Duncan the very next morning.

  "No problem," he said triumphantly. "Everyone knows the story — I should have remembered it myself. Are you ready to record? A few kilobits of the World Times coming over..."

  The tragicomedy had reverberated around the Terran news services for several months, more
than fifteen years ago, and echoes of it were still heard from time to time. It was an old tale — as old as human history, in some form or other. Duncan had read only a few paragraphs before he was able to imagine the rest.

  There had been the brilliant but aging surgeon and his equally brilliant young assistant, who in the natural course of events would have been his successor. They had known triumphs and disasters together, and had been so closely linked that the world had thought of them almost as one person.

  Then there had been a quarrel, over a new technique which the younger man had developed. There was no need, he claimed, to wait for the immemorial nine months between conception and birth, now that the entire process was under control. If certain precautions were taken to safeguard the health of the human foster mother who carried the fertilized egg, there was no reason why pregnancy should last more than two or three months.

  Needless to say, this claim excited wide attention. There was even facetious talk of "instant clones." Mortimer Keynes had not disputed his colleague's techniques, but he deplored any attempt to put them into practice. With a conservatism that some thought curiously inappropriate, he argued that nature had chosen that nine months for very good reasons, and that the human race should stick to it.

  Considering the violence that cloning did to the normal process of reproduction, this seemed a rather strange attitude, as many critics hastened to point out. This only made Sir Mortimer even more stubborn, and reading between the lines Duncan felt fairly certain that the surgeon's expressed objections were not the real ones. For some unknown and probably unknowable reason, he had experienced a crisis of conscience; what he was now opposing was not merely the shortening of the gestation period, but the entire process of cloning itself.

  The younger man, of course, disagreed completely. The debate had become more and more bitter — also more and more public, as it was inflamed by sensation-seeking hangers-on who wanted to see a good fight. After one abortive attempt at reconciliation, the partnership split up, and the two men had never spoken to each other again. A major problem at medical congresses for the last decade had been to ensure that they were not present simultaneously at any meeting.