Imperial Earth

"I hope all those other cars are on automatic," he said anxiously.

Washington looked a little shocked. "Of course," he said. "It's been a criminal offense for — oh — at least a hundred years to drive manually on a public highway. Though we still have occasional psychopaths who kill themselves and other people."

That was an interesting admission; Earth had not solved allits problems. One of the greatest dangers to the Technological Society was the unpredictable madman who tried to express his frustrations — consciously or otherwise — by sabotage. There had been hideous instances of this in the past. The destruction of the Gondwana reactor in the early twenty-first century was perhaps the best-known example. Since Titan was even more vulnerable than Earth in this respect, Duncan would have liked to discuss the matter further; but to do so within an hour of his arrival would hardly be tactful.

He was quite sure that if he did commit such a faux pas, his host would neatly divert the conversation without causing him the slightest embarrassment. During the short time they had been acquainted, Duncan had decided that George Washington was a very polished diplomat, with the self-assurance that comes only with a family tree whose roots are several hundred years deep. Yet it would have been hard to imagine anyone less like his distinguished namesake, for thisGeorge Washington was a short, bald, and rather plump brown man, very elegantly dressed and bejeweled. The baldness and plumpness were both rather surprising, since they could be so easily corrected. On the other hand, they did provide a mark of distinction, and perhaps that was the idea. But this was another sensitive subject that Duncan would be well advised to avoid — at least until he knew his host much better. And perhaps not even then.

The car was now passing over a slender bridge spanning a wide and rather dirty river. The spectacle of so much genuine water was impressive, but it looked very cold and dismal on this dreary night.

"The Potomac," said Washington. "But wait until you see it on a sunny day, after that silt's gone downstream. Then it's blue and sparkling, and you'd never guess it took two hundred years of hard work to get it that way. And that's Watergate — not the original, of course; thatwas pulled down around 2000, though the Democrats wanted to make it a national monument. And the Kennedy Center — that isthe original, more or less. Every fifty years some architect tries to salvage it, but now it's been given up as a bad job."

So this was Washington, still basking (though not very effectively, on a night like this) in its former glories. Duncan had read that the physical appearance of the city had changed very little in three hundred years, and he could well believe it. Most of the old government and public buildings had been carefully preserved. The result, said the critics, was the largest inhabited museum in the world.

A little later, the car turned into a driveway which led through beautifully kept lawns. There was a gentle beeping from the control panel, and a sign flashed beneath the steering handle: SWITCH TO MANUAL. George Washington took over, and proceeded at a cautious twenty klicks between flower beds and sculptured bushes, coming to a halt under the portico of an obviously very old building. It seemed much too large for a private house, but rather too small for a hotel, despite the fact that it bore the sign, in lettering so elaborate that it was almost impossible to read: CENTENNIAL HOTEL.

Professor Washington seemed to have an extraordinary knack of anticipating questions before they could be asked.

"It was built by a railroad baron, in the late nineteenth century. He wanted to have somewhere to entertain Congress, and the investment paid him several thousand percent. We've taken it over for the occasion, and most of the official guests will be staying here."

To Duncan's astonishment — and embarrassment, since personal service was unknown on Titan — his scanty baggage was seized by two black gentlemen wearing gorgeous liveries. One of them addressed him in a soft, musical language of which he could not comprehend a single word.

"You're overdoing it, Henry," George Washington remonstrated mildly. "That may be genuine slave patter, but what's the point if only you linguistic historians can understand it? And where didyou get that make-up? I may need some myself."

Despite this appeal, Duncan still found the reply unintelligible. On their way up in a gilded birdcage of a tiny elevator, Washington commented: "I'm afraid Professor Murchison is entering too thoroughly into the Spirit of '76. Still, it shows we've made some progress. A couple of centuries ago, if you'd suggested to him that he play one of his humbler ancestors, even in a pageant, he'd have knocked your head off. Now he's having a perfectly wonderful time, and we not be able to get him back to his classes at Georgetown."

Washington looked at his plump, brown hand and sighed.

"It's getting more and more difficult to find a genuineblack skin. I'm no race snob," he added hastily, "but it will be a pity when we're all the same shade of off-white. Meanwhile, I suppose you dohave a slightly unfair advantage."

Duncan looked at him for a moment with puzzled incomprehension. He had never given any more thought to his skin color than to that of his hair; indeed, if suddenly challenged, he would have been hard pressed to describe either. Certainly he had never thought of himself as black; but now he realized, with understandable satisfaction, that he was several shades darker than George Washington, descendant of African kings.

When the door of the hotel suite closed behind him, and it was no longer necessary to keep up appearances, Duncan collapsed thankfully into one of the heavily padded chairs. It tilted backward so voluptuously that he guessed it had been especially designed for visitors from low-gravity worlds. George Washington was certainly an admirable hose and seemed to have thought of everything. Nevertheless, Duncan knew that it would be a long time before he felt really at ease.

Quite apart from the drag of gravity, there were dozens of subtler reminders that he was not on his home world. One was the very sizeof the room; by Titanian standards, it was enormous. And it was furnished in such luxury as he had never seen in real life, but only in historical plays. Yet that, of course, was completely appropriate; he was living in the middle of history. This mansion had been built before the first man had ventured beyond the atmosphere, and he guessed that most of its fittings were contemporary. The cabinets full of delicate glassware, the oil paintings, the quaint old photographs of stiffly posed and long-forgotten eminences (perhaps the original Washington — no, cameras hadn't been invented then), the heavy drapes — none of these could have been matched on Titan, and Duncan doubted if their holographic patterns were even stored in the Central Library.

The very communications console looked as if it dated back to the last century. Although all the elements were familiar — the blank gray screen, the alphanumeric keyboard, the cameral lens and speaker grille — something about the design gave it an old-fashioned appearance. When he felt that he could again walk a few yards without danger of collapse, Duncan made his way cautiously to the console and parked himself heavily on the chair in front of it.

The type and serial numbers were in the usual place, tucked away at the side of the screen. Yes, there was a date — 2183. It was almost a hundred years old.

Yet apart from a slight fuzziness of the "e" and "a" on the contact pads, there was practically no sign of wear. And why should there be, in a piece of equipment that did not contain a single moving part?

This was another sharp reminder that Earth was an old world, and had learned to conserve the past. Novelty for its own sake was an unlamented relic of centuries of waste. If a piece of equipment functioned satisfactorily, it was not replaced merely because of changes in style, but only if it broke down, or there was some fundamental improvement in performance. The home communications console — or Comsole — had reached its technological plateau in the early twenty-first century, and Duncan was prepared to bet that there were units on Earth that had given continuous service for over two hundred years.

And that was not even one tenth of the history of this world. For the first time in his life, Duncan felt an almost overwhelming sense of inferiority. He had not really believed that the Terrans would regard him as a barbarian from the outer darkness, but now he was not so sure.

18

Embassy

Duncan's Minisec had been a parting gift from Colin, and he was not completely familiar with its controls. There had been nothing really wrong with his old unit, and he had left it behind with some regret; but the casing had become stained and battle-scarred, and he had to agree that it was not elegant enough for Earth.

The ‘Sec was the standard size of all such units, determined by what could fit comfortably in the normal human hand. At a quick glance, it did not differ greatly from one of the small electronic calculators that had started coming into general use in the late twentieth century. It was, however, infinitely more versatile, and Duncan could not imagine how life would be possible without it.

Because of the finite size of clumsy human fingers, it had not more controls than its ancestors of three centuries earlier. There were fifty neat little studs; each, however, had a virtually unlimited number of functions, according to the mode of operation — for the character visible on each stud changed according to the mode. Thus on ALPHANUMERIC, twenty-six of the studs bore the letters of the alphabet, while ten showed the digits zero to nine. On MATH, the letters disappeared from the alphabetical studs and were replaced by x, +, ч, -, =, and all the standard mathematical functions.

Another mode was DICTIONARY. The ‘Sec stored over a hundred thousand words, whose three-line definitions could be displayed on the bright little screen, steadily rolling over page by page if desired. CLOCK and CALENDAR also used the screen for display, but for dealing with vast amounts of information it was desirable to link the ‘Sec to the much larger screen of a standard Comsole. This could be done through the unit's optical interface — a tiny Transit-Receive bull's-eye operating in the near ultra-violet. As long as this lens was in visual range of the corresponding sensor on a Comsole, the two units could happily exchange information at the rate of megabits per second. Thus when the ’Sec's own internal memory was saturated, its contents could be dumped into a larger store for permanent keeping; or, conversely, it could be loaded up through the optical link with any special data required for a particular job.

Duncan was now employing it for its simplest possible use — merely as a speech recorder, which was almost an insult to a machine of such power. But first there was an important matter to settle — the question of security.

An easily remembered word, preferably one that would never be employed in this context, would be the simplest key. Better still, a word that did no even exist — then it could never accidentally trigger the ‘Sec's memory.

Suddenly, he had it. There was one name he would never forget; and if he deliberately misspelled it...

He carefully pecked out KALINDY, followed by the sequence of instructions that would set up the memory. Then he unplugged the tiny radiomike, pinned it on his shirt, spoke a test message, and checked that the machine would play it back only after it had been given the correct order.

Duncan had never kept a diary, but he had decided to do so as soon as he arrived on Earth. In a few weeks he would meet more people and visit more places than in the whole of his preceding life, and would certainly have experiences that could never be repeated when he returned to Titan. He was determined to miss nothing that could be helped, for the memories he was storing now would be of inestimable value in the years ahead. How many times in his old age, he wondered, would he play back those words of his youth...?

“2276 June 12. I'm still adapting to Earth gravity, and don't think I'll ever get really used to it. But I can stand for an hour at a time now, without developing too many aches and pains. Yesterday I saw a man actually jumping. I could hardly believe my eyes...”

“George, who thinks of everything, has arranged a masseur for me. I don't know if that's helped at all, but it's certainly an interesting experience.”

Duncan stopped recording and contemplated this slight understatement. Such luxuries were rare on Titan, and he had never before had a massage in his life. Bernie Patras, the amiable and uninhibited young man who had visited him, had shown a remarkable (indeed, startling) knowledge of physiology, and had also given Duncan much useful advice. He was a specialist in treating off-worlders, and recommended one sovereign cure for gravitational complaints. "Spend an hour a day floating in a bath — at least for the first month. Don't let your schedule squeeze this out, no matter how busy you are. If you haveto, you can do a lot of work in a tub — reading, dictating, and so forth. Why, the Lunar Ambassador used to hold briefings with just his nose and mouth above water. Said he could think better that way..."

That would certainly be an undiplomatic spectacle, Duncan told himself — unique even in this city, which had probably seen everything.

"I've been here three days now and this is there first time I've had the energy — and the inclination — andthe opportunity — to put my thoughts in order. But from now on, I swear, I'll do this every day...

"The first morning after my arrival, General George — that's what everyone calls him — took me to the Embassy, which is only a few hundred meters from the hotel. Ambassador Robert Farrell apologized because he couldn't come to the spaceport. He said, ‘I knew you'd be in good hands with George — he's the world's greatest organizer.’ Then the General left us, and we had a long private talk.

“I met Bob Farrell on his last visit to Titan, three years ago, and he remembers me well — at least, he gave that impression, which I suppose is an art all diplomats have to acquire. He was very helpful and friendly, but I got the feeling that he was sounding me out, and not telling me everything he knew. I realize that he's in an ambiguous position, being a Terran yet having to represent our interests. One day this may cause difficulties, but I don't know what we can do about it, since no native-born Titanian can ever live on Earth...”

“Luckily there are no urgent problems, as the Hydrogen Agreement isn't due for renegotiation until ‘80. But there were dozens of little items on my shopping list, and I left him with plenty to think about. Such as: why can't we get quicker deliveries of equipment, can anything be done to improve shipping schedules, what went wrong with the new student exchange? — and similar Galaxy-shaking questions. He promised to set up appointments for me with all the people who could straighten these things out, but I tried to hint that I wanted to spend some time looking at Earth. And after all, he's not only our man in Washington but also our representative on Terra...”

“He seemed quite surprised when I told him that I expected to stay on Earth for almost a year, but at this stage I thought it best not to give him the main reason. I'm sure he'll guess it quickly enough. When he tactfully asked about my budget, I explained that the Centennial Committee had been a great help, and there was still some Makenzie money in the World Bank which I was determined to use. ‘I understand,’ he said, ‘Old Malcolm's over a hundred and twenty now, isn't he? Even on Earth, leaving as little as possible for the Community Fund to grab is a popular pastime.’ Then he added, not very hopefully, that any personal balances could be legally bequeathed to the Embassy for its running expenses. I said that was a very interesting point and I'd bear it in mind...”

“He volunteered to give me any assistance on my speech, which was kind of him. When I said I was still working on it, he reminded me that it was essential to have a final draft by the end of June so that all of the important commentators could study it in advance. Otherwise, it would be drowned in the flood of verbiage on July Fourth. That was a very good point, which I hadn't thought of; but then I said, ‘Won't the other speakers do exactly the same?’ And he answered, ‘Of course, but I've got good friends in all the media, and there's a great interest in Titan. You're still intrepid explorers in the wilderness. There may not be many volunteer carvers around here, but we like to hear about such things.’ By that time I felt we'd got to understand each other, and so I risked teasing him ‘You mean it's true — Earth isgetting decadent?’ And he looked at me with a grin and answered quickly: ‘Oh, no — wearen't decadent.’ Then he paused, and added: ‘But the nextgeneration will be.’ I wonder how far he was joking...”

“Then we talked for ten minutes about mutual friends like the Helmers and the Wongs and the Morgans and the Lees — oh, he seems to know everyone important on Titan. And finally he asked about Grandma Ellen, and I told him that she was just the same as ever, which he understood perfectly. And then George came back and took me to his farm. It was the first chance I had of seeing the open countryside, in full daylight. I'm still trying to get over it...”

19

Mount Vernon

"Don't take this program too seriously," said General George Washington. "It's still being changed every day. But your main appointments — I've marked them — aren't going to be altered. Especially on July Fourth."

Duncan leafed through the small brochure that the other had handed to him when they entered President Bernstein's limousine. It was a daunting document — stuffed full of Addresses and Receptions and Balls and Processions and Concerts. Nobody in the capital was going to get much sleep during the first few days in July, and Duncan felt sorry for poor President Claire Hansen.

As a gesture of courtesy, in this Centennial year she was President not only of the United States, but also of Earth. And, of course, she had not asked for either job; if she haddone so — or even if she had been suspected of such a faux pas — she would have been automatically eliminated. For the last century, almost all top political appointments on Terra had been made by random computer selection from the pool of individuals who had the necessary qualifications. It had taken the human race several thousand years to realize that there were some jobs that should never be given to the people who volunteer for them, especially if they showed too much enthusiasm. As one shrewd political commentator had remarked: “We want a President who has to be carried screaming and kicking into the White House — but will then do the best job he possibly can, so that he'll get time off for good behavior.”

Duncan put the program away; there would be plenty of opportunity to study it later. Now he had eyes only for his first real look at Planet Earth, on a bright sunny day.

And thatwas the first problem. Never before in his life had he been exposed to such a glare. Though he had been warned, he was still taken aback by the sheer blazing ferocity of a sun almost one hundred times brighter than the star that shone gently on his own world. As the car whispered automatically through the outskirts of Washington, he kept readjusting the transmission of his dark glasses to find a comfortable level. It was appalling to think that there were places on Earth where the sun was even more brilliant than this, and he remembered another warning that had now suddenly become very real. Where the light fell on his exposed skin, he could actually feelthe heat. On Titan, the very concept of ‘sunburn’ was ludicrous; now, it was all too easy to imagine, especially for skin as dark as his.

He was like a newborn child, seeing the world for the first time. Almost every single object in his field of vision was unfamiliar, or recognizable only from the recordings he had studied. Impressions flowed in upon him at such a rate that he felt utterly confused, until he decided that the only thing to do was to concentrate on a single category of objects and to ignore all the rest — even though they were clamoring for his attention.

Trees, for example. There were millions of them — but he had expected that. What he had not anticipated was the enormous variety of their shape, size and color. And he had no words for any of them. Indeed, as he realized with shame, he could not have identified the few trees in his own Meridian Park. Here was a whole complex universe, part of everyday life for most of mankind since the beginning of history; and he could not utter one meaningful sentence about it, for lack of a vocabulary. When he searched his mind, he could think of only four words that had anything to do with trees — ‘leaf,’ ‘branch,’ ‘root,’ and ‘stem.’ And all these he had learned in a totally different context.

Then there were flowers. At first, Duncan had been puzzled by the random patches of color that he glimpsed from time to time. Flowers were not uncommon on Titan — usually as highly prized, isolated specimens, though there were some small groups of a few dozen in the Park. Here they were as countless as the trees, and even more varied. And once again, he had no names for any of them. This world was full of beauties of which he could not speak. Living on Earth was going to have some unanticipated frustrations...

"What was that?" he suddenly cried. Washington swung around in his seat to get a fix on the tiny object that had just shot across the roadway.

"A squirrel, I think. Lots of them in these woods — and of course they're always getting run over. That's one problem no one has ever been able to solve." He paused, then added gently: "I suppose you've never seen them before?"

Duncan laughed, without much humor.

"I've never seen anyanimal — except Man."

"You don't even have a zoo on Titan?"

"No, We've been arguing about it for years, but the problems are too great. And, to be perfectly frank, I think most people are scared of something going wrong — remember the plague of rats in that Lunar colony. What we're really frightened of, though, are insects. If anyone ever discovered that a fly had slipped through quarantine, there'd be a world-wide hysteria. We've got a nice, sterile environment, and we want to keep it that way."

"Hm," said Washington. "You're not going to find it easy to adjust to our dirty, infested world. Yet a lot of people here have been complaining for the last century or so that it's too clean and tidy. They're talking nonsense, of course; there's more wilderness now that there has been for a thousand years."

The car had come to the crest of a low hill, and for the first time Duncan had an extensive view of the surrounding countryside. He could see for at least twenty kilometers, and the effect of all this open space was overwhelming. It was true that he had gazed at much larger — and far more dramatic — vistas on Titan; but the landscapes of his own world were implacably lethal, and when he traveled on its open surface he had to be insulated from the hostile environment by all the resources of modern technology. It was almost impossible to believe that there was nowhere here, from horizon to horizon, where he could not stand unprotected in the open, breathing freely in an atmosphere which would not instantly shrivel his lungs. The knowledge did not give him a sense of freedom, but rather of vertigo.

It was even worse when he looked up at the sky, so utterly different from the low, crimson overcast of Titan. He had flown halfway across the Solar System, yet never had he received such an impression of space and distance as he did now, when he stared at the solid-looking white clouds, sailing through a blue abyss that seemed to go on forever. It was useless to tell himself that they were only ten kilometers away — the distance a spaceship could travel in a fraction of a second. Not even the starfields of the Milky Way had yielded such glimpses of infinity.

For the very first time, as he looked at the fields and forests spread out around him under the open sky, Duncan realized the immensity of Planet Earth by the only measure that counted — the scale of the individual human being. And now he understood that cryptic remark Robert Kleinman had made before he left for Saturn: ‘Space is small; only the planets are big.’

"If you were here three hundred years ago," said his host, with considerable satisfaction, "about eighty percent of this would have been houses and highways. Now the figure's down to ten percent — and thisis one of the most heavily built-up areas on the continent. It's take a long time, but we've finally cleaned up the mess the twentieth century left. Most of it, anyway. We've kept some as a reminder. There a couple of steel towns still intact in Pennsylvania; visiting them is an essential experience you won't forget, but won't want to repeat."

"You said this was a ten percent built-up area. I find it hard to believe even that. Where is everyone?" Duncan queried.

"There are many more people around than you imagine. I'd hate to think of the activity that's going on within two hundred meters of us, at this very moment. But because this parkway is so well landscaped, you probably haven't noticed the surface exits and feeder roads."

"Of course — I still have the old-fashioned picture of Terrans as surface dwellers."

"Oh, we are, essentially. I don't think we'll ever develop the — ah — ‘corridor culture’ you have on the Moon and planets."

Professor Washington had used that term anthropological clichй with some caution. Obviously he was not quite sure if Duncan approved of it. Nor, for that matter, was Duncan himself; but he had to admit that despite all the debates that had raged about it, the phrase was a accurate description of Titan's social life.

"One of the chief problems of entertaining off-worlders like yourself," said Washington somewhat ruefully, "is that I find myself explaining at great length things that they know perfectly well, but are too polite to admit. A couple of years ago I took a statistician from Tranquility along this road, and gave him a brilliant lecture on the population changes here in the Washington-Virginia region over the last three hundred years. I thought he'd he interested, and he was. If I'd done my homework properly — which I usuallydo, but for some reason had neglected in this case — I'd have found that he'd written the standard work on the subject. After he'd left, he sent me a copy, with a very nice inscription."

Duncan wondered how much ‘homework’ George had done on him; doubtless a good deal.

"You can assume my total ignorance in these matters. Still, I should have realized that fusor technology would be almost as important on Earth as off it."

"It's not my field, but you're probably right. When it was cheaper and simpler to melt a home underground than to build it above — andto fit it with viewscreens that were better than any conceivable window — it’s not surprising that the surface lost many of its attractions. Not all, though." He gestured toward the left-hand side of the parkway.

They were approaching a small access road, which merged gently into the main traffic lane. It led into a wood about a kilometer away, and through the trees Duncan could glimpse at least a dozen houses. They were all of different design, yet had common features so that they formed a harmonious group. Every one had steeply gabled roofs, large windows, gray stone walls — and even chimneys. These were certainly not functional, but many of them served to support complicated structures of metal rods.

"Fake antique," said Washington with some disapproval. "Mid-twentieth-century TV antennas. Oh well, there's no accounting for tastes."

The road was plunging downhill now, and was about to pass under a graceful bridge carrying a road much wider than the parkway. It was also carrying considerably more traffic, moving at a leisurely twenty or thirty kilometers an hour.

"Enjoying the good weather," said Washington. "You only see a few madmen there in the winter. Any you may not believe this, but there was a time when the motorwayswere the wide roads. They had to be when there was a hundred times as much traffic — and no automatic steering." He shuddered at the thought. "More people were killed on these roads than ever died in warfare — did you know that? And of course they still get killed, up there on the bikeways. No one's ever discovered a way to stop cyclists from wobbling; that's another reason why the road's so wide."

As they dived under the bridge, a colorful group of young riders waved down at them, and Washington replied with a cheerful salute.

"When I was thirty years younger," he said wistfully, "a gang of us set off for California on the Transcontinental Bikeway. No electrocycles allowed, either. Well, we were unlucky — ran into terrible weather in Kansas. Some of us made it, but I wasn't one of them. I've still got a twelve-speed Diamond Special — all carbon fiber and beryllium; you can lift it with one finger. Even now, I could do a hundred klicks on it, if I were fool enough to try."

The big car was slowing down, its computer brain sensing an exit ahead. Presently it peeled off from the parkway, then speeded up again along a narrow road whose surface rapidly disintegrated into a barely visible grass-covered track. Washington took the steering lever just a second before the END AUTO warning light started to flash on the control panel.

"I'm taking you to the farm for several reasons," he said. "Life will soon get hectic for both of us, as more visitors start arriving. This may be the last opportunity we have to go through your program in peace and quiet. Also, out-worlders can learn a lot about Earth very quickly in a place like this. But to be honest — the truth is that I'm proud of the place, and like showing it off."

They were now approaching a high stone wall, running for hundreds of meters in both directions. Duncan tried to calculate how much labor it represented, if all those oddly shaped blocks were assembled by hand — as surely they must have been. The figure was so incredible that he couldn't believe it.

And that huge gate was made of — genuinewood, for it was unpainted and he could see the grain. As it swung automatically open, Duncan read the nameplate, and turned to the Professor in surprise.

"But I thought—" he began.

George Washington looked slightly embarrassed.

"That's my private joke," he admitted. "The real Mount Vernon is fifty kilometers southeast of here. You mustn't miss it."

That last phrase, Duncan guessed, was going to become all too familiar in the months ahead — right up to the day when he reembarked for Titan.

Inside the walls, the road — now firm-packed gravel — ran in a straight line through a checkerboard of small fields. Some of the fields were plowed, and there was a tractor working in one of them — under direct human control, for a man was sitting on the open driving seat. Duncan felt that he had indeed traveled back in time.

"I suppose there's no need to explain," said the Professor, "that all this doesn't belong to me. It's owned by the Smithsonian. Some people complain that everything within a hundred kilometers of the Capitol is owned by the Smithsonian, but that's a slight exaggeration. I'm just the administrator; you might say it's a kind of full-time hobby. Every year I have to submit a report, and as long as I do my job, and don’t have a fight with the Regents, this is my home. Needless to say, I am careful to keep on excellent terms with at least fifty-one percent of the Regents. By the way, do you recognize any of these crops?"

"I'm afraid not — though that's grass, isn't it?"

"Well, technically, almost everything here is. Grass includes all the cereals — barley, rice, maize, wheat, oats... We grow them all except rice."

"But why — I mean, except for scientific and archaeological interest?"

"Isn't that sufficient? But I think you'll find there's more to it than that, when you've had a look around."

At the risk of being impolite, Duncan persisted. He was not trying to be stubborn, but was genuinely interested.

"What about efficiency? Doesn't it take a square kilometer to feed one man, with this system?"

"Out around Saturn, perhaps; I'm afraid you've dropped a few zeros. If it hadto, this little farm could support fifty people in fair comfort, though their diet would be rather monotonous."

"I'd no idea — my God, what's that?"

"You're joking — you don't recognize it?"

"Oh, I know it's a horse. But it's enormous. I thought..."

"Well, I can't blame you, though wait until you see an elephant. Charlemagne is probably the largest horse alive today. He's a Percheron, and weights a little over a ton. His ancestors used to carry knights in full armor. Like to meet him?"

Duncan wanted to say, "Not really," but it was too late. Washington brought the car to a halt, and the gigantic creature ambled toward them.

Until this moment, the limousine had been closed and they had been traveling in air-conditioned comfort. Now the windows slid down — and Primeval Earth hit Duncan full in the nostrils.

"What's the matter?" asked Washington anxiously. "Are you all right?"

Duncan gulped, and took a curious sniff.

"I think so," he said, without much conviction. "It's just that — the air is rather —" He struggled for words as well as breath, and had almost selected ‘ripe’ when he gratefully switched to ‘rich’ in the nick of time.

"I'm so sorry," apologized Washington, genuinely contrite. "I'd quite forgotten how strange this must be to you. Let me close the window. Go away, Charlie — sorry, some other time."

The monster now completely dwarfed the car, and a huge head, half as big as a man, was trying to insert itself through the partially open window on Duncan's side. The air became even thicker, and redolent of more animal secretions than he cared to identify. Two huge, slobbering lips drew back, to disclose a perfectly terrifying set of teeth...

"Oh, very well," said Professor Washington in a resigned voice. He leaned across his cowering guest, holding out an open palm on which two lumps of sugar had magically appeared. Gently as any maiden's kiss, the lips nuzzled Washington's hand, and the gift vanished as if inhaled. A mild, gentle eye, which from this distance seemed about as large as a fist, looked straight at Duncan, who started to laugh a little hysterically as the apparition withdrew.

"What's so funny," asked Washington.

"Look at it from mypoint of view. I've just met my first Monster from Outer Space. Thank God it was friendly."

20

The Taste of Honey

"I do hope you slept well," said George Washington, as they walked out into the bright summer morning.

"Quite well, thank you," Duncan answered, stifling a yawn. He only wished that statement were true.

It had been almost as bad as his first night aboard Sirius. Then, the noises had all been mechanical. This time, they were made by — things.

Leaving the window open had been a big mistake, but who could have guessed? "We don't need air conditioning this time of year," George had explained. "Which is just as well, because we haven't got it. The Regents weren't too happen even about electric light in at four-hundred-year-old house. If you do get too cold, there are some extra blankets. Primitive, but effective."

Duncan did not get too cold; the night was pleasantly mild. It was also extremely busy.

There had been distant thumpings which, he eventually decided, must have been Charlie moving his thousand kilos of muscle around the fields. There had been strange squeakings and rustlings apparently just outside his window, and one high-pitched squeal, suddenly terminated, which could only have been caused by some unfortunate small beast meeting an untimely end.

But at last he dozed off — only to be wakened, quite suddenly, by the most horrible of all sensations that can be experienced by a man in the utter darkness of an unfamiliar bedchamber. Somethingwas moving around the room.

It was moving almost silently, yet with amazing speed. There was a kind of whispering rush and, occasionally, a ghostly squeaking so high-pitched that at first Duncan wondered if he was imagining the entire phenomenon. After some minutes he decided, reluctantly, that it was real enough. Whatever the thing might be, it was obviously airborne. But what could possibly move at such speed, in total darkness, without colliding with the fittings and furniture of the bedroom?

While he considered this problem, Duncan did what any sensible man would do. He burrowed under the bedclothes, and presently, to his vast relief, the whispering phantom, with a few more shrill gibberings, swooped out into the night. When his nerves had fully recovered, Duncan hopped out of bed and closed the window; but it seemed hours before his nervous system settled down again.

In the bright light of morning, his fears seemed as foolish as they doubtless were, and he decided not to ask George any questions about his nocturnal visitor; presumably it was some night bird or large insect. Everyone knew that there were no dangerous animals left on Earth, except in well-guarded reservations...

Yet the creatures that George now seemed bent on introducing to him looked distinctly menacing. Unlike Charlemagne, they had built-in weapons.

"I suppose," said George, only half doubtfully, "that you recognize these?"

"Of course — I do know someTerran zoology. If it has a leg at each corner, andhorns, it's not a horse, but a cow."

"I'll only give you half marks. Not all cows have horns. And for that matter, there used to be horned horses. But they became extinct when there were no more virgins to bridle them."

Duncan was still trying to decide if this was a joke, and if so what was the point of it, when he had a slight mishap.

"Sorry!" exclaimed George, "I should have warned you to mind your step. Just rub it off on that tuft of grass."

"Well, at least it doesn't smell quite as bad as it looks," said Duncan resignedly, determined to make the best of a bad job.

"That's because cows are herbivores. Though they're not very bright, they're sweet, clean animals. No wonder they used to worship them in India. Hello, Daisy — morning, Ruby — now, Clemence, thatwas naughty—"

It seems to Duncan that these bovine endearments were rather one-sided, for their recipients gave no detectable reaction. Then his attention was suddenly diverted; something quite incredible was flying toward them.

It was small — its wingspan could not have been more than ten centimeters — and it traced wavering, zigzag patterns through the air, often seeming about to land on a low bush or patch of grass, then changing its mind at the last moment. Like a living jewel, it blazed with all the colors of the rainbow; its beauty struck Duncan like a sudden revelation. Yet at the same time he found himself asking what purpose such exuberant — no, arrogant— loveliness could possibly serve.

"What is it?" he whispered to his companion, as the creature swept aimlessly back and forth a couple of meters above the grass.

"Sorry," said George. "I can't identify it. I don't thinkit's indigenous, though I may be wrong. We get a lot of migrants nowadays, and sometimes they escape from collectors — breeding them's been a popular hobby for years." Then he stopped. He had suddenly understood the real thrust of Duncan's question. There was something close to pity in his eyes when he continued, in quite a different tone of voice: "I should have explained — it's a butterfly."

But Duncan scarcely heard him. That iridescent creature, drifting so effortlessly though the air, made him forget the ferocious gravitational field of which he was now a captive. He started to run toward it — with the inevitable result.

Luckily, he landed on a clean patch of grass.

* * * * *

Half an hour later, feeling quite comfortable but rather foolish, Duncan was sitting in the centuries-old farmhouse with his bandaged ankle stretched out on a footstool, while Mrs. Washington and her two young daughters prepared lunch. He had been carried back like a wounded warrior from the battlefield by a couple of tough farm workers who handled his weight with contemptuous ease, and also, he could not help noticing, radiated a distinct aroma of Charlemagne...

It must be strange, he thought, to live in what was virtually a museum, even as a kind of part-time hobby; he would have been continually afraid of damaging some priceless artifact — such as the spinning wheel that Mrs. Washington had demonstrated to him. At the same time, he could appreciate that all this activity made a good deal of sense. There was no other way in which you could really get to understand the past, and there were still many people on Earth who found this an attractive way of life. The twenty or so farm workers, for example, were here permanently, summer and winter. Indeed, he found it rather hard to imagine some of them in any other environment — even after they had been thoroughly scrubbed...

But the kitchen was spotless, and a most attractive smell was floating from it. Duncan could recognize very few of its ingredients, but one was unmistakable, even though he had met it today for the first time in his life. It was the mouth-watering fragrance of newly baked bread.

It would be all right, he assured his still slightly queasy stomach. He had to ignore the undeniable fact that everything on that table was grown from dirt and dung, and not synthesized from nice, clean chemicals in a spotless factory. This was how the human race had lived for almost the whole of its history; only in the last few seconds of time had there been any alternative.

For one gut-wrenching moment, until Washington had reassured him, he had feared that he might be served real meat. Apparently it was still available, and there was no actual law against it, thought many attempts had been made to pass one. Those who opposed Prohibition pointed out that attempts to enforce morality by legislation were always counterproductive; if meat were banned, everybody would want it, even if it made them sick. And anyway, this was a perversion which did harm to nobody... Not so, retorted the Prohibitionists; it would do irreparable harm to countless innocent animals, and revive the revolting trade of the butcher. The debate continued, with no end in sight.

Confident that lunch would present mysteries but no terrors, Duncan did his best to enjoy himself. On the whole he succeeded. He bravely tackled everything set before him, rejecting about a third after one nibble, tolerating another third, and thoroughly appreciating the remainder. As it turned out, there was nothing that he actively disliked, but several items had flavors that were too strange and complicated to appeal to him at first taste. Cheese, for example — that was a complete novelty. There were about six different kinds, and he nibbled at them all. He felt that he could get quite enthusiastic about at least two varieties, if he worked on it. But that might not be a good idea, for it was notoriously difficult to persuade the Titan food chemists to introduce new patterns into their synthesizers.

Some products were quite familiar. Potatoes and tomatoes, it seemed, tasted much the same all over the Solar System. He had already encountered them, as luxury products of the hydroponic farms, but had always found it difficult to get enthusiastic about either, at several solars a kilogram.

The main dish was — well, interesting. It was something called steak and kidney pie, and perhaps the unfortunate name turned him off. He knew perfectly well that the contents were based on high-protein soya; Washington had confessed that this was the only item not actually produced on the farm, because the technology needed was too elaborate. Nevertheless, he could not manage more than a few bites. It was too bad that every time he tried to take a mouthful, he kept thinking of the phrase ‘kidney function’ and its unhappy associations. But the crust of the pie was delicious, and he polished off more than half of it.

Dessert was no problem. It consisted of a large variety of fruits, most of them unfamiliar to Duncan even by name. Some were insipid, others very pleasant, but he felt that all were perfectly safe. The strawberries he thought especially good, though he turned down the cream that was offered with them when he discovered, by tactful questioning, exactly how it was made.

HE was comfortably replete when Mrs. Washington produced a final surprise — a small wooden box containing a wax honeycomb. As long as he could remember, Duncan had been familiar with that term for lightweight structures; it required a mental volte-face to realize that this was the genuine, original item, constructed by Terran insects.

"We've just started keeping bees," explained the professor. "Fascinating creatures, but we're still not sure if they're worth the trouble. I think you'll like this honey — try it on this crust of new bread."

His hosts watched him anxiously as he spread the golden fluid, which he thought looked exactly like lubricating oil. He hoped it would taste better, but he was now prepared for almost anything.

There was a long silence. Then he took another bite — and another.

"Well?" asked George at last.

"It's — delicious — one of the best things I've ever tasted."

"I'm so pleased," said Mrs. Washington. "George, be sure to send some to the hotel for Mr. Makenzie."

Mr. Makenzie continued to sample the bread and honey, very slowly. There was a remote and abstracted expression on his face, which his delighted hosts attributed to sheer gastronomical pleasure. They could not possibly guessed at the real reason.

Duncan had never been particularly interested in food, and had made no effort to try the occasional novelties that were imported into Titan. The few times that any had been pressed upon him, he had not enjoyed them; he still grimaced at the memory of a reputed delicacy called caviar. He was therefore absolutely certain that never before in his life had he tasted honey.

Yet he recognized it at once; and that was only half the mystery. Like a name that is on the tip of the tongue, yet eludes all attempts to grasp it, the memory of that earlier encounter lay just below the level of consciousness. It had happened a long time ago — but when, and where?For a fleeting moment he almost took seriously the idea of reincarnation. You, Duncan Makenzie, were a beekeeper in some earlier life on Earth...

Perhaps he was mistaken in thinking he knew the taste. The association could have been triggered by some random leakage between mental circuits. And anyway, it could not possibly be of the slightest importance...

He knew better. Somehow, it was very important indeed.

21

History Lesson

Of all the old cities, it was generally agreed that Paris and Washington offered the best combination of beauty, culture, history — and convenience. Unlike such largely random aggregations as London and Rome, which had defied millennia of planning, they had been adapted fairly easily to automatic transportation. Could he have risen from his tomb in Arlington, the luckless Pierre Charles L'Enfant would have been proud indeed to have discovered how well he had laid the ground for a technology centuries in his future.

Though an official car was available whenever he wished, Duncan preferred to be as independent as possible. Coming from an aggressively egalitarian society, he never felt quite happy when he was afforded special privileges — except, of course, those he had earned himself. Now that his sprained ankle was no longer paining him he had no excuse for using personal transport, and one could never know a city until one had explored it on foot.

Like any ordinary tourist — and Washington expected the incredible total of five million before the end of July — Duncan rode the glideways and autojitneys, gaping at the famous buildings and remembering the great men who had lived and worked here for half a thousand years. In the five-kilometer-long rectangle from the Lincoln Memorial to the Capitol, and from the Washington Monument to the White House, no changes had been permitted for more than a century. To ride the shuttle from Constitution Avenue and back along Independence, on the south side of the Mall, was to take a journey through time.

And time was the problem, for Duncan could spare only an hour or two a day for sightseeing. His planned schedule had already been wrecked by a factor that he had refused to take seriously, despite numerous warnings. Instead of his usual six, he needed no fewer than ten hours of sleep every day. This was yet another side effect of the increased gravity, and there was nothing he could do about it; his body stubbornly insisted on the additional time, to overcome the extra wear and tear. Eventually, he knew, he would make a partial adaptation, but he could hardly hope to manage with less than eight hours. It was maddening to have come all this way, to one of the most fascinating places on Earth, and to be compelled to waste more than forty percent of his life in unconsciousness.

As with most off-worlders, his first target had been the National Museum of Astronautics on the Mall, because it was here that his own history had begun, that day in July 1969. He had walked past the flimsy and improbable hardware of the early Space Age, and had taken his seat with several hundred other visitors in the Apollo Rotunda just before the beginning of the half-hourly show.

There was nothing he had not seen many times before, yet the old drama still gripped him. Here were the faces of the first men to ride these crazy contraptions into space, and the sound of their actual voices — sometimes emotionless, sometimes full of excitement — as they spoke to their colleagues on the receding Earth. Now the air shook with the crackling roar of a Saturn launch, magically re-created exactly as it had taken place on that bright Florida morning, three hundred and seven years ago — and still, in many ways, the most impressive spectacle ever staged by man.

The Moon drew closer — not the busy world that Duncan knew, but the virgin Moon of the twentieth century. Hard to imagine what it must have meant to the peoples of that time, to whom the Earth was not only the center of the Universe, but — even to the most sophisticated — still the whole of creation...

Now Man's first contact with another world was barely minutes ahead. It seemed to Duncan that he was floating in space, only meters away from the spidery Lunar Module, bristling with antennas and wrapped in multicolored metal foil. The simulation was so perfect that he had an involuntary urge to hold his breath, and found himself clutching the handrail, seeking reassurance that he was still on Earth.

"Two minutes, twenty seconds, everything looking good. We show altitude about 47,000 feet..." said Houston to the waiting world of 1969, and to the centuries to come. And then, cutting across the voice of Mission Control, making a montage of conflicting accents, was a speaker whom for a moment Duncan could not identify, though he knew the voice...

"I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the Moon and returning him safely to the Earth."

Even back in 1969, that was already a voice from the grave; the President who had launched Apollo in that speech to Congress had never lived to see the achievement of his dream.

"We're now in the approach phase, everything looking good. Altitude 5,200 feet."

And once again that voice, silenced six years earlier in Dallas:

"We set sail on this new sea because there is new knowledge to be gained, and new rights to be won, and they must be won and used for the progress of all people..."

"Roger. Go for landing. 3,000 feet. We're go. Hang tight. We're go. 2,000 feet. 2,000 feet..."

"And why, some say, the Moon? Why choose this as our goal...? Why, thirty-five years ago, fly the Atlantic? WE CHOOSE TO GO TO THE MOON!"

"200 feet, 4Ѕ down, 5Ѕ down, 160, 6Ѕ down, 5Ѕ down, 9 forward, 120 feet, 100 feet, 3Ѕ down, 9 forward, 75 feet, thing still looking good..."

"We choose to go to the Moon in this decade because that challenge is one that we're willing to accept, one that we are unwilling to postpone, and one that we intend to win!"

"Forward, forward 40 feet, down 2Ѕ, kicking up some dust, 30 feet, 2Ѕ down, faint shadow, 4 forward, 4 forward, drifting to the right a little... Contact light. O.K. engine stopped, descent engine command override off... Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eaglehas landed."

The music rose to a crescendo. There before his eyes, on the dusty Lunar plain, history had lived again. And presently he saw the clumsy, spacesuited figures climb down the ladder, cautiously test the alien soil, and utter the famous words:

"That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

As always, Duncan listened for that missing “a” before the word “man,” and as always, he was unable to detect it. A whole book had been written about that odd slip of the tongue, using as its starting point Neil Armstrong's slightly exasperated "That's what I intendedto say, and that's what I thoughtI said."

All this, of course, was simulation — utterly convincing, and apparently life-sized by the magic of holography — but actually contrived in some studio by patient technicians, two centuries after the events themselves. There was Eagle, glittering in the fierce sunlight, with the Stars and Stripes frozen motionless beside it, just as it must have appeared early in the Lunar morning of that first day. Then the music became quiet, mysterious... something was about to happen. Even though he knew what to expect, Duncan felt his skin crawling in the ancient, involuntary reflex which Man had inherited from his hirsute ancestors.

The image faded, dissolved into another — similar, yet different. In a fraction of a second, three centuries had dropped away.

They were still on the Moon, viewing the Sea of Tranquility from exactly the same vantage point. But the direction of the light had changed, for the sun was now low and the long shadows threw into relief all the myriads of footprints on the trampled ground. And there stood all that was left of Eagle— the slightly peeled and blistered descent stage, standing on its four outstretched legs like some abandoned robot.

He was seeing Tranquility Base as it was at this instant — or, to be precise, a second and a quarter ago, when the video signals left the Moon. Again, the illusion was perfect; Duncan felt that he could walk out into that shining silence and feel the warm metal beneath his hands. Or he could reach down into the dust and lift up the flag, to end the old debate that he reerupted in the Centennial Year. Should the Stars and Stripes be left where the blast of the takeoff had thrown it, or should it be erected again? Don’t tamper with history, said some. We're only restoringit, said others...

Something was happening just beyond the fenced-off area, at the very limits of the 3-D scanners. It was shockingly incongruous to see any movement at all at such a spot; the Duncan remembered that the Sea had lost its tranquility at least two centuries ago. A busful of tourists was slowly circling the landing site, its occupants in full view through the curving glass of the observation windows. And though they could not see him, they waved across at the scanners, correctly guessing that someone on Earth was watching at this very moment.

The interruption should have destroyed the magic, yet it did not. Nothing could detract from the skill and courage of the pioneers; and they would have been happy to know that, where they had first ventured, thousands could now travel in safety and in comfort.

That, in the long run, was what History was all about.

22

Budget

"Today I walked at least three kilometers, and was on my feet for over two hours. I'm beginning to felt that life ispossible on Earth..."

"But I must be careful not to overdo it, and I'm still using glideways and transporters most of the time. This means that I've not visited the White House or the Capitol, which can only be entered on foot. But I've been to the Museum of Technology and the National Gallery of Art. They have transport cubicles that you can program yourself, so there's no need to waste time on exhibits that don't interest you. Of course, I could stay in the hotel and take a holovision tour anywhere, but that would be ridiculous. I could do that any time, back at home..."

"I must remember that I'll be replaying these words twenty, fifty, maybe a hundred years from now, when this visit to Earth is a dim memory. So it may be a good idea to describe a typical day — if there is such a thing! — here at the Centennial Hotel."

"I wake up at six-thirty and listen to the radio news summary while I'm having my bath. Then I dial the Comsole for any messages that have arrived during the night — usually there are half a dozen. Not many people know I'm here yet, but I've had quite a few offers of hospitality and have been asked to speak to a number of social and cultural groups. I suspect Ambassador Farrell is behind most of these."

"Then I set the news abstractor to print out anything that's happened in my area of interest, and scan the result. That doesn't take long, since I give TITAN as the main heading, and we're neverin the news. If I want to know what's happening at home, I call the Embassy and get the daily dispatch. Usually that makes me rather homesick, especially when my friends and family are being reported. Which is most days..."

"At seven-fifteen I go down to breakfast. As there are only a dozen guests — the place won't get crowded until later in June — I have a table to myself. We nod politely to each other, but no one is very sociable at this time in the morning."

"The food and service are excellent, and I'm going to miss both when I get home. Terrans know how to live comfortably — they've had enough time to practice — but it was several days before I realized that the hotel was unusual, maybe unique. It's been set up purely for the duration of the festivities, regardless of expense, just for us VIP guests. Staff has been brought from all over the world — some professional, some voluntary, like those academic clowns who met us when we arrived. (I still see them from time to time, and still can't understand a word they say. Because I'm darker than they are, I think they enjoy making a fool of me.)"

"For breakfast — in fact, for all my meals — I try to have something new every day, and this has caused problems. I won't forget my first eggs..."

"I asked for them boiled — because that was the first listing — and the waiter said, ‘How many minutes, sir?’ (I don't think I'll ever get used to being called ‘sir’ by people who are nottrying to insult me.) Of course, I had no idea what to answer, so I said 'Medium rare', which was a phrase I'd picked up at dinner the night before. The waiter looked at me rather oddly, I thought."

"He came back five minutes later with two eggs sitting in silver cups, and placed them in front of me. I just sat there looking at them; never having seen eggs before, I'd no idea what to do next. And incidentally, they were larger than I'd imagined."

"I'm afraid I might have gone hungry if another guest a couple of tables away hadn't ordered the same thing. I watched him carefully, and discovered that you started by cutting off the top of the shell with a knife. I made a horrible mess of the first egg, but got it right the second time. Later, I found that they'll do this in the kitchen, which saves a lot of trouble. I'll never ask for eggs this way again, but I'm glad I did it once."

"The taste — though not the texture — was perfectly normal. Our chemists have done a good job here, and I've never have known that it wasn't synthetic. I've since discovered that very few Terrans have ever tasted a real egg, and there are only two or three farms that still produce them. Hens are not very interesting animals, it appears."

"I should have mentioned the menu — it's a most elaborate affair, beautifully printed, and changes every day. I'm keeping a set as a souvenir, though I don't recognize half the items — or understand many of the instructions. I suspect that some are jokes. What does ‘No Tipping’ mean? And ‘Gentlemen are requested to use the cuspidors provided’? What isa cuspidor? And why only gentlemen and not ladies? I must ask George."

"After breakfast I go back to my room and deal with the overnight messages. Usually I spend the next two or three hours at the Comsole, talking to people, recording data, transferring items from the main memory to my Minisec, or vice versa."

"Most of this is dull but important; I'm working through a list of contacts that every head of department on Titan has given me. I'm trying to be as tactful as possible, but I'm afraid I'm not going to be very popular by the time I've delivered all these complaints and apologies."

"And I've run into something that complicates business on Earth to an incredible extent. I knewabout it, but hadn't realized its full implications. It's the problem of Time Zones..."

"There are some advantages in belonging to a corridor culture. We're not slaves of the sun, and can set all our clocks to the same time, all over Titan. But on Earth!"

"There are four time zones — America, Africa, Asia, Oceania — six hours apart. So when you want to speak to anyone, or make an appointment, you have to know what zone he's in. And when you move from one zone to another, you have to put your watch ahead — or back — six hours."

"It's very awkward and confusing, but it was even worse a couple of centuries ago; then there were twenty-four zones, one for every hour of the day! The development of global telecommunications made that situation impossible — not that it's very satisfactory even now. There's talk of going over to a single World Time — probably Absolute Ephemeris Time — and ignoring the day-night cycle, just as we do. But the arguments on both sides are nicely balanced, and no one expects a decision in a hurry. After all, it took several hundred years to get the World Calendar adopted, and thatwas because the Martian and Lunar administrations simply wouldn't put up with Earth's ridiculous months any longer..."

"Where was I? Oh, the morning's business. By noon, I usually feel that I need a break, and I spend half an hour in the swimming pool. At first I did this merely to get away from gravity, but now I enjoy it for its own sake. I've even learned to swim, and feel quite confident in the water. When I get home, I'll be a regular visitor to the Oasis pool."

"After that, I go for a quick walk in the hotel grounds. There are more flowers and trees here than I ever imagined, all beautifully kept. It reminds me a little of George's farm, though on a smaller scale. But Earth is a dangerous place, and there are things I'd not been warned about. Who would have guessed that there were plants with thorns on them — sharp enough to draw blood? I'm going to make very sure they never take me to any really wild places on this complicated old planet."

"And even here in Washington, not everything is under control. Yesterday, just as I was going for a walk, it started to rain. Rain!In no time, the streets were wet and glistening; they looked so slippery I should have been afraid to walk on them, but from my window I could see people moving about as if nothing had happened. Some of them weren't even wearing protective clothing..."

"After watching for a while, I went down to the lobby and stood under the portico. I had to fight off the bellboys — they tried to get me a car, and couldn't believe I merely wanted to watch the falling water from a safe place. Eventually I managed to make myself believe that it wasn'tliquid ammonia, and stepped outside for a few seconds, all in the cause of science. Needless to say, I got wet very quickly, and I can't say I really enjoyed it."

"Around thirteen hundred I go to lunch, usually with someone who wants to talk business or politics, or both. There are some wonderful restaurants here, and the great problem is not to eat too much. I've put on a couple of kilos since I arrived... One of the favorite dining places — I've been there several times — is called the Sans Souci, which means “without a care” in Greek or Latin, I'm not sure which. Apparently President Washington himself used to eat there, though I find that hard to believe. One would have thought they'd have had photographs to prove it — stupid! I keep forgetting—"

"I met my first congressmen in the Sans Souci — Representative Matsukawa of Hawaii, Senator Gromeyko of Alaska. It was a purely social get-together; we had no business to discuss. But they were interested in Titan because they both felt that it had some points in common with their states, now temporarily back in the Union. They're quite right — Engineer Warren Mackenzie made the same point, aboard Sirius. To the people who explored the Pacific in canoes, the ocean must have seemed about as large as the Solar System. And the development of Alaska, in its time, must have been as tough a job as getting a foothold on Titan."

"After lunch I do a little sightseeing, then get back to the hotel and carry on with the day's business, until dinnertime. By then, I'm too exhausted to think of anything but bed; the very latest I've been awake is twenty-one thirty. It's going to be quite embarrassing if I don't adapt soon to the local life style. Already I've had to turn down several party invitations because I couldn't afford to miss the sleep. That sort of thing isn't easy to explain, and I hope I've not offended any of the hostesses this city's famous for."

"I haveaccepted one late engagement, because George stressed its importance. This is to speak — in person, not holovision — to a group called the Daughters of the Revolutions. They're mostly elderly ladies (“Queen dragons — but dears when you get to know them,” George said) and they're all over the place this Centennial year. Originally they were only concerned with the American Revolution, but later they became less exclusive. I'm told I'll meet direct descendants of Lenin and Mao and Balunga. What a pity Washington never had any children... I wonder why."

"Because I've given priority to my official mission — I'm still working on that damn speech — I've had almost no time for personal or family business. About the only thing I've been able to do in this direction is to contact the bank and establish my credentials, so that I can use Malcolm's accumulated funds. Even if everything works out according to plan and our estimates are correct, the budget will be tight. My big fear is running out of money and having to go to Finance for more of our precious Terran solars. If that happens, the family will be under attack from all quarters, and it won't be easy to think of a good defense."

"This is one reason why I've done no shopping — that, and the time factor. I won't know how much money I'll have until I'm almost ready to leave! But I have run some of the catalogs through the Comsole, and they're fascinating. You could spend a lifetime — and a million solars a day — sampling the luxuries of Earth. Every conceivable artifact has its tape stored somewhere, waiting to go into a replicator. Since manufacturing costs are essentially zero, I don't understand why some of the items are so expensive. The capital costs of the replicators must have been written off decades ago, one would have thought. Despite Colin's efforts, I don't really understand Terran economy."

"But I'm learning many things, fast. For example, there are some smart operators around, on the lookout for innocents from space. Yesterday I was going through a display of Persian carpets — antique, not replicated — wondering if I could possibly afford to take a small one back to Marissa. (I can't.) This morning there was a message — addressed to me personally, correct room number — from a dealer in Tehran, offering his wares at very special rates. He's probably quite legitimate, and may have some bargains — but how did he know?I thought Comsole circuits were totally private. But perhaps this doesn't apply to some commercial services. Anyway, I didn't answer."

"Nor have I acknowledged some even more personal messages from various Sex Clubs. They were very explicit, and I've stored them as mementos for my old age. After the carpet episode, I was wondering if any would be tailored to my psych profile, which must be on record somewhere — that wouldhave made me mad. But it was very broad-band stuff, and the artwork was beautiful. Perhaps when I'm not so busy..."

Duncan stopped talking; he was not quite sure why — and then he began to laugh at his hesitation. Could it be that, despite fairly heroic efforts, the Makenzies were puritanical after all? For he had just recalled that, only a kilometer or so from this very spot, a President of the United States had got into perfectly terrible trouble with a tape recorder.

But whether it had been a Roosevelt or a Kennedy, he was not quite sure.

23

Daughters of The Revolutions

George Washington had been right; they didlook like dragons. Formidable, tight-lipped ladies, few of them under seventy, and they sported the most astonishing array of hats, in more shapes and sizes than Duncan would have believed possible. On Titan, hats were as rare as wigs, and even less useful. Not that there was any question of utility with most of this headgear; it was obviously designed to impress or intimidate. It certainly intimidated Duncan.

So did the introductions, though he quickly lost track of all the names being thrown at him. Every one of these ladies, it appeared, boasted ancestors who had played some role in the great revolutions that had shaped the modern world. As he shook hands, and listened to the chairperson's brief comments, he felt that he was being presented with snapshots of history. Most of the audience, of course, traced its involvement back to the birth of United States, and he had heard vaguely of such places as Yorktown and Valley Forge. But he could only smile with feigned comprehension when hearing of revered ancestors who had fought in the hills with Castro, or accompanied Mao on the Long March, or shared the sealed train with Lenin, or fallen in the final assault on Cape Town...

At last all the introductions — including his own — were completed. Feeling none too sure of himself, Duncan perched on the high chair overlooking his expectant audience.

"Perhaps I should apologize," he began, "for addressing you from a seated position. But as you know, I've spent all my life on a world with only a fraction of Earth's gravity. Believe me, having five times normal weight isn't exactly enjoyable! How would you like it if you woke up one morning and found your scales registered — oh — three hundred and fifty kilograms?"

There was a moment of shocked surprise as the audience confronted this startling vision, then a titter ran around the room. Fine, Duncan told himself — I've broken the ice. Then he realized that there was an undertone of something besides good-natured amusement in the sound, as if his listeners were laughing not with him, but athim.

He glanced frantically around the audience; then, to his horror, saw that there was a perfectly enormous woman halfway back on the far left. She was the fattest person Duncan had ever seen — and the entire audience seemed to be carefully not looking in her direction.

Well, thought Duncan, I've got nothing more to lose. It can only go uphill from here. He plunged into his prepared speech.

"This history of my world goes back little more than halfway to the event we are all celebrating next month. The first manned ship touched down on Titan in 2015 — but the first permanentbase wasn't established there until considerably later — 2046. Even then, it was only a scientific observation post, with the crews rotating back to Earth every few years. There was no thought, in those days, of a self-contained colony that might eventually develop its own culture, just as happened on this continent. In any case, the twenty-first century was too busy dealing with Mars and the Moon to have the energy, or the resources, for activities farther afield."

Could that have been a yawn he spotted there, near the back of the hall? Surely not so soon! He was being morbidly sensitive; that seat of hats was getting him down. Most of the faces beneath them seemed to be reasonably attentive...

But how to make these sleek and elegant matrons — not one of whom, probably, had ever been farther than the Moon — understand the harsh realities of his distant world? It was a challenge, and that was something no Makenzie could ever resist.

"You may wonder why anyone would want to settle down in a place where the temperature never rises above a hundred below zero, where the atmosphere is poisoned by methane and ammonia, and the sun's so feeble that you can't detect its heat when it shines full on your face. Well, I won't pretend Titan is an attractive tourist resort — though we have sometourists, believe it or not. But it does have certain unique advantages, which is why it's become important in human affairs."

"First of all, it's the onlyplace, outside the Earth, where a man can move around on the surface without a full spacesuit. That may surprise you, after what I've just said about the conditions there! I don't deny that we need protection, but it's much less than required on the Moon, or even on Mars. The atmosphere is so dense it allows us to breathe with simple oxygen masks, though we have to be extremely careful to avoid any leaks. If you've ever smelled ammonia, you'll know why. And lightweight thermosuits can cope with the temperature, except in very bad weather."

"Having an atmosphere — even a poisonous one! — makes life easier in dozens of ways. It means that we can use aircraft for long-distance transportation. It protects us from meteorites — not that there are many out there — and from the temperature extremes that a completely airless world would have. And, most important of all — we've got an atmosphere we can burn, and use as a source of energy."

"It's just the opposite of the way things are here on Earth. Here, you burn hydrogen compounds, and the atmosphere supplies the oxygen. On Titan, we have to provide the oxygen, and we burn thatin the hydrogen atmosphere. But the final result is the same —heat and energy, to warm ourselves and drive our vehicles."

"That hydrogen-rich atmosphere is Titan's greatest asset, and the reason men settled there in the first place. For without hydrogen, our spaceships cannot operate. Our chemical rockets burn it, and our fusion rockets — er — fuse it. Hydrogen is the key to the Solar System."

"And there are only two places where it's easily obtainable. One is right here — in the oceans of Earth. But it's expensive, lifting it out into space against the huge gravity field of your world — the one that's keeping me pinned to this chair right now."

Duncan paused hopefully, and got a few encouraging smiles.

"The other place is Titan. It's a filling station, if you like, halfway to the stars. And because of it's low gravity, we can export hydrogen cheaply, to anywhere in the Solar System, using robot tankers carrying up to ten thousand tons. Without us, space travel would be at least four times as expensive as it is now, and interplanetary commerce would be crippled."

"And how we get that hydrogen is interesting. We've been called ‘sky miners’ because of the way we take it out of the atmosphere. Specialized aircraft — ‘transcoops’ — fly at high altitude and ever-increasing velocity, collecting hydrogen and liquefying it, then jumping up to orbit when they have a full load. There they rendezvous with the space tankers, deliver the goods, and they go back into the atmosphere for more. They stay up for weeks on end, and land only when it's time for servicing, or a change of crew."

Better not overdo the technicalities, Duncan told himself. It was a pity, but he'd be wise to omit the most dramatic part of the whole operation — the fall down to Saturn after the robot tanker had escaped from Titan, and the hairpin loop around the giant planet taking advantage of its gravitational field to launch the precious payload to the customer who was waiting one or two years in the future. And he certainly couldn't do justice to the most spectacular trip in the Solar System — the Saturn sleighride, as it had been aptly christened by one of the few men who had raced across the thousands of kilometers of spinning ice that formed the rings.

Duncan bravely resisted these temptations. He had best stick to history and politics — even though, in this case, both were largely by-products of technology.

"One could make a very interesting comparison," he continued, "between the settlement of Titan and the opening up of thiscontinent, three or four hundred years earlier. I'm sure it took the same kind of pioneering spirit, and in our case we're lucky because we have films and tapes and cassettes of the whole period. More than that — some of our pioneers are still around, ready to reminisce at the drop of a hat. In fact, quicker than that, because hats drop slowly on Titan..."

That was rather neat, Duncan told himself, though it was undoubtedly inspired by the view in front of him. Why did they wear the damn things indoors?Obviously, they were trying to outdo each other. Most of these creations were not merely useless; they looked as if they would take off in the slightest wind.

A flicker of movement caught Duncan's eye. I don't believe it, he thought. Then he stole another quick glance, hoping his interest would be unobserved.

Either he had taken leave of his senses, which was an acceptable working hypothesis, or there was a live fish swimming around in the third row. It was orbiting in a tiny crystal globe, surrounded by a tasteful display of corals and seashells, on the head of an intense, middle-aged lady who, unluckily, was staring straight at him with popeyed concentration.

Duncan gulped, gave a sickly smile, and stumbled on. He tried to push to the back of his mind the baffling problem of the fish's life-support system. If he stopped to worry about that, he would be tripping over his tongue in no time at all. Where was he? OH, back with the pioneers, difficult though it was to focus on them in this lavishly decorated and slightly overheated room.

"I'm sure many of you have read Professor Prescott's famous book With Axe and Laser: A Study of Two Frontiers. Though he draws his parallels between America and Mercury, everything that he says is also applicable to Titan."

"As I recall, Prescott argues that Man's conquest of the wilderness on thisplanet was based on three things: the axe, the plow, and fire. He uses these symbolically rather than literally; the axe stands for all tools, the plow for agriculture, and fire for all forms of power generation."

"The axe cut down the forests, shaped homes and furniture. More refined tools manufactured all the other necessities of civilized living, from cups and saucers to aircraft and computers."

"The axe wasn't much use on the Moon, or Mercury — or Titan. What took its place was the power laser. That was the tool that carved out our homes and, later, cities. And it opened up the mineral resources, buried kilometers down in the rocks."

"Of course, we were luckier than the old pioneers, because we did not have to spend endless man-hours making every single object that we needed. All the artifacts of civilization were already stored in the memories of our replicators. As long as we fed in the raw materials, anything we needed — no matter how complex — would be produced automatically in a matter of seconds, and in any quantity we needed. I know we take the replicator for granted, but it would have seemed like magic to our ancestors."

"As for the plow, that too had no place on our world. But by the twenty-second century, it had no place on yours either; we simply took your food technology to the planets. And on Titan, it was easy, much easier than anywhere else in the Solar System. We have enormous deposits of hydrocarbons — waxes, oils, and so forth. Who knows — perhaps one day wemay be feeding Earth!"

"Finally, the third item — fire. Occasionally, we still use it, though, as I explained, we have to provide the oxygen. But, again as on Earth, we get all the power we need for nuclear fusion. We're already heating large areas of Titan and are thinking about major changes to its climate. But as some of these may be irreversible, we're proceeding very cautiously. We don't want to repeat the mistakes that have been made — elsewhere."

Duncan nearly said “on Earth,” but tactfully changed gear just in time. He did a swift scan of the audience, carefully avoiding the fish in the third row. The ladies still seemed to be with him, though one or two hats were nodding suspiciously.

"Yet despite their sophisticated tools, the first generation of ourpioneers probably had as tough a time as your Pilgrim Fathers. What they lacked in hostile Indians was more than made up for by a hostile environment. Deaths by accident were common; anyone who was careless did not live long on Titan in the early days..."

"But, slowly and painfully, we managed to convert our first primitive bases, which had no more than the bare necessities for survival, into fairly comfortable towns, then cities... like Meridian, Carbonville, Oasis. True, the largest has a population of only fifty thousand — there are still fewer than a quarter of a million of us on Titan — but, as we all know, quality is more important than quantity."

There were a few smiles at this strikingly original remark, and Duncan felt encouraged to continue, but then he saw something that almost stopped him dead in his tracks.

The smallest member of his audience was showing obvious signs of distress. Back there in the third row, that infernal fish was swimming round and round at an acute angle to the rest of the world. Since Duncan had noticed no alteration in the force of gravity, he could only assume that something had happened to its sense of balance. Even as he watched, it flipped over on its side...

Very close at hand, somebody was talking, using Duncan's voice. Whether the words made any sense, he could not even guess. He was elsewhere, struggling with a problem of life and death.

Should he stop talking and warn Miss Fishbowl of the impending tragedy of which she was obviously unaware? Perhaps there was still time for her to rush to the nearest animal hospital. That creature might be the last of its species — the only one in the world, doomed to extinction owing to his negligence.

Alas, it was too late. With a final convulsive wriggle, the fish turned belly up and floated motionless in its crystal globe. Duncan had never received a more obvious hint. As quickly as possible he brought his peroration to a close. To his astonishment the applause seemed perfectly genuine.

He hoped he was not mistaken, but in any event he was quite sure of one thing. After thisordeal, speaking to the Congress of the United States would be child's play.

24

Calindy

The package had been delivered to Duncan's room while he was lecturing. It was a small, neatly wrapped cylinder, about fifteen centimeters high and ten across, and he could not imagine what it contained.

He hefted it in his hand a few times; it was fairly heavy, but not heavy enough to be metal. When he tapped it, there was merely a dull, unreverberant thud.

He abandoned futile speculation and tore open the envelope taped around the cylinder.

Mount Vernon Farm

Dear Duncan,

Sorry about the delay, but we had a little accident. Charlemagne managed to walk into the hives one night. Luckily — or not, depending on the point of view — our bees don't sting. However, production was badly affected.

Remembering your reaction last time, Clara and I thought you might like this souvenir of your visit.

Best,

George

How kind of them, Duncan told himself. When he got through the wrappings, he found a transparent plastic jar, full of golden liquid. The locking mechanism on the screw-top lid baffled him for a moment — it had to be pushed down and tightenedbefore it could be opened — but after a few frustrating minutes he had it off.

The smell was delicious, and once again there was that haunting sense of familiarity. Like a small boy, he could not resist dipping in a finger, then savoring the tip with his tongue.

Some delayed-action circuit was operating: deep in the recesses of memory, the most primitive — and potent — of all senses was opening doors that had been locked for years.

His body remembered before his mind. As he relaxed contentedly in a warm glow of sheer animal lust, everything came back to him.

Honey tasted like Calindy...

* * * * *

Sooner or later, of course, he would have contacted her. But he wanted time to adjust, and to feel as much at home on Earth as he could ever be. So he had told himself; but that was not the only reason.

The logical part of his mind had no wish for him to be sucked back into the whirlpool that had engulfed him as a boy. But in matters of the heart, logic was always defeated. In the long run, it could do no more than say: "I told you so..." and by then it was too late.

He had known Calindy's body, but he had been too young to know her love. Now he was a man — and there was nothing that Karl could do to stop him.

The first task was to locate Calindy. He felt some disappointment that she had not already contacted him, for the news of his arrival had been well publicized. Was she indifferent — even embarrassed? He would take that chance.

Duncan walked to the Comsole, and the screen became alive as his fingers brushed the ON pad. Now it was a miracle beyond the dreams of any poet, a charmed magic casement, opening on all seas, all lands. Through his window could flow everything that Man had ever learned about his universe, and every work of art he had saved from the dominion of Time. All the libraries and museums that had ever existed could be funneled through this screen and the millions like it scattered over the face of the Earth. Even the least sensitive of men could be overwhelmed by the thought that one could operate a Comsole for a thousand lifetimes — and barely sample the knowledge stored within the memory banks that lay triplicated in their widely separated caverns, more securely guarded than any gold. There was an appropriate irony in the fact that two of these buried complexes had once been control centers for nuclear missiles.

But now Duncan was not concerned with the heritage of mankind; he had a more modest objective in view. His fingers tapped out the word INFO, and the screen instantly displayed:

PLEASE SPECIFY CATEGORY

01. General

02. Science

03. History

04. Arts

05. Recreation

06. Geography

07. Earth Directory

08. Moon Directory

09. Planet Directory

and so on for more than thirty subject headings.

As his fingers tapped out 07, Duncan could not help recalling his very first confrontation with the Terran Comsole System. The categories were almost the same as on Titan, but ACTIVATE was on the left-hand side of the keyboard, and the unfamiliar position had made him forget to press it. So nothing happened for a good five seconds; then a really beautiful girl had appeared on the screen and said sweetly, in a voice to which Duncan could have listened forever: "You seem to be having some difficulty. Have you remembered to press ACTIVATE?"

He had stared at her until she faded out, leaving a dazzling smile that, like the Cheshire Cat, lingered in his memory. Though he had promptly repeated the same mistake five times in a row, she never came back. It was a different girl each time. Oh well, he told himself, they had probably all been dead for years...

When EARTH DIRECTORY came up, he was requested to give Family Name, Given Names, Personal Number, and Last Known Address — Region, Country, Province, Postal Code. But that was the problem — he had not heard from Calindy for five years, and had never known her personal number. It had even been hard to recall her family name; if it had been Smith or Wong or Lee the task would have been hopeless.

He typed out ELLERMAN, CATHERINE LINDEN, and a string of DON'T KNOWS. The Comsole shot back: WHAT INFORMATION DO YOU WANT? Duncan answered: ADDRESS AND VIDDY NUMBER: ACTIVATE

Suppose Calindy had changed her name? Unlikely; she was not the sort of woman who would let herself be dominated by any man, even if she established a long-term relationship with one. Duncan could imagine the man changing his name, rather than the other way around...

He had barely completed this thought when, to his surprise, the screen announced:

ELLERMAN, CATHERINE LINDEN

North Atlan

New York

New York

Personal: 373:496:000:000

Viddy: 99:373:496:000:000

The speed with which the system had located Calindy was so amazing that it was several seconds before two even more surprising facts registered in Duncan's mind.

The first was that Calindy had managed to secure a — quite literally — one-in-a-million personal identification. The second was that she had been able to get it incorporated into her viddy number. Duncan would not have believe it possible; Karl had once tried to do the same thing, and even he had failed. Calindy's powers of persuasion had always been remarkable, but he realized that he had underestimated them.

So here she was, not only on this planet, but on this continent — a mere five hundred kilometers away. He had only to tap out that number, and he could look once more into the eyes that had so often smiled at him for the bubble stereo.

He knew that he was going to do it; of that there was never any question. Yet still he hesitated, partly savoring the moment of anticipation, partly wondering just what he was going to say. He had still not decided this when, almost impulsively, he tapped out the fourteen digits that opened up the road to the past.

Duncan would never have recognized her had they met in the street; he had forgotten what years of Earth gravity could do. For long seconds he stared at the image, unable to speak. Finally she broke the silence, with a slightly impatient: "Yes? What is it?"

Before he could answer, Duncan found it necessary to start breathing again.

"Calindy," he said, "don't you remember me?"

The expression in those lustrous eyes changed imperceptibly. Then there was the trace of a smile, though a wary one. Be reasonable, Duncan told himself; she can't possibly recognize you, after fifteen years. How many thousands of people has she met in that time, on this busy, crowded world? (And how many lovers, since Karl?)

But she surprised him, as usual.

"Of course, Duncan — how lovely to see you. I knew you were on Earth, and had been wondering when you'd call."

He felt a little embarrassed, as perhaps he was intended to do.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was incredibly busy. The Centennial celebrations, you know."

As he stared into the screen, the remembered features slowly emerged from the stranger looking back at him. The impact of the years was not as great as he had supposed; much of the unfamiliarity was purely artificial. She had changed the color of her hair so that it was no longer black, but brown, shot with flecks of gold. The oval of the face was the same, the ivory skin still flawless. When he forgot that image in the bubble stereo, he could see that she was still Calindy — more mature, and even more desirable.

He could also see that she was sitting in a crowded office, with shadowy figures coming and going all around her, and occasionally handing her sheafs of documents. Somehow, he had never imagined Calindy as a busy executive, but he was quite sure that if she had set her heart on the role, she would be a great success. It was obvious, however, that this was no time for tender endearments. The best that he could hope for was to arrange a meeting as soon as possible.

He had come all the way from Saturn; it should not be difficult to span the extra distance between Washington and New York. But, it seemed, there were problems. He even got the impression that there was some hesitation, even reluctance, on Calindy's part. She consulted a very complicated diary, threw several dates at him, and appeared slightly relieved when Duncan found that they clashed with his own appointments.

He was becoming quite disheartened when she suddenly exclaimed: "Wait a minute — are you free next Thursday — and Friday?"

"I think so — yes, I could manage." It was almost a week ahead; he would have to be patient. But two days — that sounded promising.

"Wonderful." A slow, mischievous smile spread over her face, and for a moment the old Calindy looked back at him.

"And it's perfect — so veryappropriate... I couldn't have arranged it better if I'd tried."

"Arranged what?" asked Duncan.

"Contact the van Hyatts at this number — they're just outside Washington — and do exactlywhat they tell you. Say that Enigma's asked them to bring you along as my personal guest. They're nice people and you'll like them. Now I really must break off — see you next week." She paused for a moment, then said carefully: "I'd better warn you that I'll be so busy we won't have much time, even then. But I promise you — you'll really enjoy the experience."

Duncan looked at her doubtfully. Notwithstanding that assurance, he felt disappointed; he also hated to be involved in something over which he had no control. Makenzies organized other people, for their own good, of course, even if the victim did not always agree. This reversal of standard procedure made him uncomfortable.

"I'll come," he said, taking the plunge. "But at least tell me what this is all about."

Calindy gave that stubborn little mouewhich he remembered so well.

"No," she replied firmly. "I'd be violating the motto of my own organization, and even the executive vice-president can't do that."

"What organization?"

"Really?" she said, with a smile of pure delight. "I thought Enigma was rather well known, but this makes it even better. Anyone on Earth will tell you our slogan..." She broke off for a second to collect some documents from another harried assistant.

"Good-bye, Duncan — I haveto rush. See you soon."

"Your slogan!" he almost yelled at her.

She blew him a dainty kiss.

"Ask the van Hyatts. Lots of love."

The screen was blank.

Duncan did not immediately contact the van Hyatts; he waited for a few minutes, until he had emotionally decompressed, then called his host and general adviser.

"George," he said, "have you heard of Enigma Associates?"

"Yes, of course. What about them?"

"Do you know their slogan?"

"We astonish."

"Eh?"

Washington repeated the phrase, slowly and carefully.

"Well, I'm astonished. What does it mean?"

"You might say they're very sophisticated entertainers, or impresarios, working on a highly individual basis. You go to them when you're bored, and want novelty. They analyze your psych profile, run it through their computer banks, and come up with a program to fit the time and money you're prepared to invest. They may arrange for you to live at the North Pole, or take up a new profession, or have an exotic love affair, or write a play, or learn three-dimensional chess... And they rely a great deal on the element of surprise — you never know what they've planned for you until you're already involved..."

"Suppose you don't like their program, and want to pull out?"

"Apparently, that very seldom happens. They know their job — and, moreover, you don't get your money back. But how did you hear about them? I hope youaren't bored!"

Duncan laughed.

"I haven't had time for that luxury. But I've just contacted an old friend who's apparently vice-president of the organization, and she's invited me to join a group for a couple of days. Would you advise it?"

"Frankly, that's difficult to say. How well does she know you?"

"We've not met for fifteen years, since she visited Titan."

"Then whatever program she's invited you to join will be fairly bland and innocuous, especially if it lasts only two days. Your chances of survival are excellent."

"Thank you," said Duncan. "That's all I wanted to know."

The van Hyatts, when he introduced himself to them a little later, were able to fill in a few more details. They were a friendly but rather highly strung couple in late middle age, which was itself some reassurance. Calindy would hardly dump them in the heart of a desert with one canteen of water, or set them climbing Mount Everest. Duncan felt reasonably confident that he could handle whatever was in store for them.

"We've been instructed," said Bill van Hyatt, "to wear old clothes and sturdy boots, and to carry raincoats. It also says here, ‘Hard hats will be provided when necessary.’ What on Earth is a hard hat?"

The van Hyatts, Duncan decided, had led somewhat sheltered lives.

"A hard hat," he explained, "is a protective helmet of metal or plastic. Miners and construction workers have to wear them."

"That sounds dangerous," said Millie van Hyatt, with obvious relish.

"It sounds like cave-exploring to me. I hate caves."

"Then Enigma won't send you into them. They have your profile, don't they?"

"Yes, but sometimes they decide that what you don'tlike may be good for you. Shock treatment. Remember what happened to the Mulligans."

Duncan never did discover what happened to the Mulligans, as he thought it best not to intervene in what looked to be escalating into a family quarrel. He made hasty arrangements for a rendezvous at Washington airport next Thursday, signed off, and then sat wondering if her had done the right thing.

It was quite some time before he was suddenly struck by a curious omission on Calindy's part — one that both surprised and saddened him.

She had never asked about Karl.

25

Mystery Tour

Only an expert on the history of aeronautics could have dated the vehicle that stood glistening in the late-afternoon light. Like sailing ships, though in less than a tenth of the time, aircraft had reached their technological plateau. Improvements in detail would continue indefinitely, but the era of revolutionary change was long past.

Bill van Hyatt was convinced that this flying machine was at least a hundred years old. "It's powered by rubber bands," he insisted. "When we get inside, there'll be a big windlass and we'll all have to walk round and round, winding it up."

"Thank you, Mr. van Hyatt," said the Enigma representative, who had met them at Washington airport. "That's a very interesting idea. We'll bear it in mind."

There were twenty clients in the party, and they all seemed a little tense and expectant. The only person who was in complete control — in more ways than one — was the man from Enigma. He was a tough, self-assured character (“Just call me Boss — you may think of something else later”); Duncan would have guessed his age at about fifty. They never discovered his real name, but he had that indefinable air of authority that comes only from years of command; van Hyatt advanced the plausible theory that he was a spaceship captain, grounded for some technical misdemeanor. However, he showed no signs of concealing any secret disgrace.

Boss's first order to his customers was completely unexpected, but set the tone for the whole enterprise.

"I must ask you," he said, "to hand over all watches, radios, and communications devices. You won't need them until you get home."

He held up an admonitory hand at the chorus of protests.

"There's a good reason for this — and for any other peculiar requests I may make. Remember, this whole program has been worked out for yourbenefit. If you won't cooperate, you're only cheating yourselves. Cameras and recorders — yes, of course. Use them as much as you like."

There was a general sigh of relief at this. Duncan had noticed that most of his companions were festooned with equipment designed to capture every aspect of their experience. A couple were obviously “tapeworms,” those particular addicts who went through life accompanied by voice-actuated recorders, so that nothing they said — or heard — was ever lost. Unless they could do this, Duncan had been told, they did not believe that they had really and truly lived...

Such a backward-looking obsession was typically Terran. Duncan could not imagine anyone on hisworld trying to encapsulate his whole life so that whenever he wished he could recall any moment of the past. On Titan, it was the future that mattered.

As he walked to the aircraft, carrying his scanty baggage (toilet necessities, a change of underwear, raincoat), Duncan decided that van Hyatt's guess at its age was not too far out. An obvious vertical-lift fusion jet, it probably dated from the turn of the century, and looked as if it had been built to last forever. He guessed that it was designed to operate in the five-thousand-klick range, which meant that it could reach anywhere on Earth in three or four hours. Now he began to understand why all watches had been confiscated; if the flight lasted any length of time, it would be almost impossible to estimate how far they had traveled.

Though the jet was a small one, the score of passengers barely half filled it, and quickly segregated themselves into little groups. Duncan, with some skillful seatsmanship, managed to get away from the van Hyatts. He was beginning to suspect that he would see — or certainly hear — more than he wanted of them before the adventure was over.

He snuggled down into the luxurious, though slightly worn, upholstery and tried his luck with the video screen. As he had expected, there was no external view, just continuous loops of canned scenery. And the global viddy channels were all blank. There would be no clues here...

There was, however, a bulky package of literature thoughtfully provided by Enigma, and he settled down to read this. It described, in tantalizingly vague detail, the types of service provided by the organization. As far as Duncan could judge, Enigma seemed to combine many of the functions of a travel agency, psychiatrist, nursemaid, procurer, baby-sitter, father confessor, educator, and theatrical impresario. He could understand how Calindy had been attracted to such an enterprise, and was sure that she was very good at her job.

There was a brief announcement from Boss, who had disappeared into the crew quarters.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Please prepare for takeoff. Our flight time will be between one hour and one day, and we shall not be going beyond the orbit of the Moon. Refreshments will be available shortly for those who need them. Thank you."

There was scarcely any change of sound level in the cabin as the jet lifted and began to climb like an elevator. Presently Duncan felt a surge of forward acceleration, but by this time he had already lost all sense of direction, despite a deliberate attempt to monitor his inertial-guidance system. There was no way of telling whether they were flying north, south, east or west.

He continued to browse through the Enigma literature, glancing from time to time at the fare provided by the video screen. If this was to be believed, they were flying in rapid succession over a desert, over the open sea, over a range of magnificent mountains, over an ice field, over clouds, over the Moon (or Mercury), and over an apparently endless stretch of flat, cultivated fields, laid out in huge squares. This last display was particularly interesting, for Duncan was quite sure that nothing like it had existed for a couple of hundred years. However, he reluctantly dismissed the theory that Enigma Associates had managed to invent a time machine.

Presently, coffee and light snacks were brought around by the inevitable and unchanging stewardesses. Perhaps an hour later — it was amazing how soon one lost the ability to estimate the passage of time when mechanical aids were no longer available — they came around again with a second serving. Almost immediately after this, the aircraft started to descend.

"We'll be on the ground for about fifteen minutes," Boss announced. "If you want to stretch your legs, you're free to do so. But don't get too far away; we're not going to wait for stragglers."

He had scarcely finished when there was a barely perceptible bump, and the whisper of the jets faded away into silence. Almost at once there was a rush to the doors.

The anticlimax was considerable. Wherever they were, it was already night, and all that could be seen was a large shed, lit by flickering oil lamps — oil lamps! — beneath which about twenty people were standing expectantly. The night was so dark and so completely overcast that it was impossible to see beyond the limited range of the lights. The shed was apparently standing in a large field or clearing; Duncan thought he could just see some trees at the limits of his vision. There was no sign of any other form of transportation — either of land or air.

"Any guesses?" said the ubiquitous van Hyatt.

"I haven't the faintest idea. Remember — everywhereon Earth is new to me."

"We're somewhere in the tropics."

"What makes you think that?" It doesn't seem particularly warm."

"It's so dark. Remember, this is early summer in Washington — twilight lasts all night, and it never gets really dark."

Duncan was aware of this, somewhere at the back of his mind; but it was theoretical knowledge, which he never would have thought of applying to a practical situation. It was very hard for a resident of Titan to understand all the implications of Earth's seasons.

"So where do you think we are?" he asked.

"Well, we were airborne about two hours..."

"As long as that? I would have said not much more than one."

"At leasttwo. So we could be anywhere in Africa, or South America. That is, if we were traveling at full speed. Perhaps the newcomers will have some ideas."

They turned out to be equally ignorant, having left Los Angeles about two hours earlier in another jet, which had dumped them and taken off again. When he learned this, van Hyatt walked away muttering, "Well, it could stillbe Africa.... what a pity we can't see the stars."

There were few empty seats when the aircraft took off again, and soon after they were airborne Boss announced: "As this will be a long hop, we'll be dimming the lights shortly so that you can get some sleep."

This was obviously nonsense, and merely intended to further confuse the now thoroughly disorientated passengers. Nevertheless, Duncan thought it not a bad idea to accept the suggestion. He might need all his physical resources to face whatever ordeals Enigma had in store for him.

He got to sleep more easily than during his first night aboard Sirius. But it was a far from dreamless sleep, and after many improbably adventures on a world that seemed neither Earth nor Titan, he found himself trying to reach Calindy, beckoning to him from a mountaintop. Unfortunately, judging by the gravity, he must have been on the surface of a neutron star.

"Wake up," said Boss, "we're there..."

"Out of luck again," grumbled van Hyatt. "If only I could see a few stars..."

There was no chance of that; the sky was still overcast. Yet it did not seem quite as dark as at the last stop, even though that was several hours earlier.

Van Hyatt agreed, when Duncan pointed this out. "Either we're overtaking the sun, or we've flown all the way back toward tomorrow morning. Let's see — that would put us somewhere in the Far East."

"Come along, you sluggards!" shouted Boss. "We've got a couple of tons of gear to unload!"

A human chain was quickly formed, and equipment and packages were rapidly shuttled out of the cargo hold. This all had to be carried a hundred meters to avoid the jet blast at takeoff, and his very modest exertions as a porter gave Duncan a chance to examine the landing site.

It was a small, grassy clearing, surround by a high wall of trees. For the first time, Duncan began to have serious qualms. He remembered his first night at Mount Vernon; he could laugh at his fears, now that he realized how tame and harmless everything had been down on the farm. But this appeared primeval jungle, and there were still dangerous wild animals on Earth. Did Enigma reallyknow what it was doing?"

Well, it was too late to back out now. With a deep-throated roar, the jet heaved itself off the grass and started to climb into the sky. Duncan turned his back to the blast, and for a minute was whipped by flying debris. The diapason of power faded away into clouds. They were alone in the forest.

For the next hour, however, no one had time to brood over the precariousness of the situation. There were tents to be erected, a small mobile kitchen to be activated, lights to be strung from poles, portable toilets to be set up... All this was done under the supervision of Boss, with the expert help of four assistants and the enthusiastic but far from expert help of a dozen volunteers. Duncan was not one of these; camping was not a recreation that could be practiced on Titan, and he could best serve by keeping out of the way.

However, he found it fascinating to watch the deployment of all this strange technology. The inflatable beds looked extremely inviting, and the collapsible seats, though liable to live up to their name if carelessly handled, turned out to be surprisingly comfortable. Life in the jungle need not be too rigorous — but Duncan was still worried about wild animals. His imagination was full of confused images of carnivorous beasts — lions, tigers, bears, wolves — against whom the flimsy fabric of the tents appeared very inadequate protection.

He felt much happier when the bonfire was lit. Its cheerful glow seemed far more effective than electricity in dispelling the dangers of the night. To Duncan, being able to feel, smell, and throw logs onto a large open fire was a unique experience, and another rare memory to store for the future. For the first time, he could understand what fire must have meant to early man. Looking around at his companions, he could see that many of them were also discovering their lost past. He was not the only stranger here — wherever ‘here’ might be.

Needless to say, Bill van Hyatt had come up with a theory.

"We're not too far from the Equator," he assured Duncan, passing on his way to the fire with an armful of wood. "Probably a couple of thousand meters above sea level, or it would be even warmer. Judging by the distance we must have flown, this could be somewhere in Indonesia."

"But wouldn't it be daylight here?" asked Duncan, somewhat uncertainly. He did not want to reveal his ignorance of geographical details, but he had a vague idea that Indonesia was almost as far from Washington as one could get. And the one fact of which they were sure was that they had left late in the afternoon.

"Look at the sky," said Bill confidently. "It soon will be sunrise. Very quick in the tropics — you know, where the dawn comes up like thunder."

An hour later, however, there was not the slightest sign of the dawn, but no one except Bill van Hyatt seemed to worry in the least. A loud and happy campfire party was in progress, consuming food and drink in amazing quantities. Almost equally amazing was the speed with which forty perfect strangers could become intimate friends. Duncan would never have recognized this uninhibited and noisy group as Terrans. Though he still felt a little apart from the scene, he enjoyed watching it and wandering round the circle listening to the discussions in progress. He was also surprised to discover how much he could eat; something seemed to have happened to his appetite. And there were some splendid wines — all new to him, of course, so it was necessary to do a great deal of research to discover which he liked best.

Presently, singing started, led by an Enigma staff member whose voice — and repertoire — were so professional that he had obviously been selected for this role. In a very short time, he had the whole group rocking and stomping, and joining in choruses describing events most of which were wholly unfamiliar to Duncan. Some seemed to be tragic, though he judged this by the musical treatment rather than the words. He was not quite sure what fate had befallen Darling Clementine, but thatsong was crystal clear compared with one recounting the exploits of Waltzing Matilda. He listened for a few minutes in utter bafflement, then drifted away from the circle of firelight into the semidarkness.

"It's perfectly safe to go as far as the trees," Boss had said. "But if you go intothem, we can accept no responsibility whatsoever, and the indemnity clause of our contract comes into force."

Duncan would probably not have traveled even as far as this without the encouragement of the wine, but presently he was standing about fifty meters from the edge of the forest, and a considerably greater distance from the songsters. The illumination was roughly that of a cloudy night on Titan, when Saturn was in its crescent phase. Thus he could see general outlines, but no fine detail.

The trees were large and impressive, and he guessed that they were very old. Somehow, he had expected to see the slender palms which were the universal symbol of Earth's tropics — but to his disappointment, there was not a palm in sight. The trees were not very different from those at Mount Vernon; then he remembered van Hyatt's suggestion that they might be well above sea level, where the climate was mild.

Duncan's chemical courage was beginning to desert him; the thrill of standing at the edge of the unknown was rapidly losing its novelty. He turned back toward the now dwindling glow of the bonfire, from which stragglers were slowly departing as they headed to the tents, but had taken no more than a dozen paces when the sound from the forest rooted him to the spot.

Never in his life had he heard anything remotely resembling it. Only a soul in the lowest circle of hell could have produced the wail of anguish that burst from the trees and instantly quenched the festivities at the campsite. It rose and fell, rose and fell, then ululated away into silence. But even in that first moment of sheer terror, when Duncan felt the strength ebb from his limbs, he found himself feeling thankful that at least no humanthroat could have produced that awful sound.

Then the paralysis left him, and he was already halfway back to the camp before he remembered that he was unable to run. Deliberately slowing down was one of the bravest things he had ever done — especially when that nightmare howl echoed once more from the forest.

When he reached the tents, Boss was still trying to restore morale.

"Just some wild animal," he explained soothingly. "After the noise we'vebeen making, I'm surprised everything has been so quiet until now."

"What kind of animal, for heaven's sake!" someone expostulated.

"Ask Mr. van Hyatt — heseems to have all the answers."

Bill van Hyatt was completely unabashed, and ready as ever to accept the challenge.

"It sounded like a hyena to me," he replied. "I've never actually heard one, but it fits the descriptions I've read."

"I don't see how anyone could describe that," somebody muttered.

"Hyenas live in Africa, don't they?" said another voice. "Anyway, they're quite harmless."

"Personally, I don't consider death from heart failure harmless."

"All right, all right," Boss interjected. "We've a busy day ahead of us. It's time to go to bed."

Everyone glanced at absent wrist watches, but no confirmation of this fact was really needed. The camp slowly settled down for the night.

Despite maneuverings that had barely stopped short of actual rudeness, Duncan had been unable to avoid sharing a tent with the van Hyatts. Just before he dozed off, he heard Bill remark sleepily to his wife: "I've just remembered — the program said that hard hats would be provided. I wonder why?"

"Because, Bill," said another voice in the darkness, "tomorrow we explore the caves of the man-eating vampire bats of Bongo Bongo. Now for heaven's sake shut up and go to sleep."

26

Primeval Forest

To Duncan's surprise, it was already full daylight when he awoke. He decided that the wine must have been responsible, and even wondered if it had been drugged, for all his companions were still sleeping stertorously.

He rolled off the air mattress, and treading carefully over unconscious bodies, opened the flap of the tent. The glare drove him back for his dark glasses, for the sun was now shining from a blue, cloudless sky. As he walked to the portable shower, carrying towel and toothbrush, he scanned the circle of trees. In broad daylight, they seemed much less ominous; but with that infernal how still echoing in his memory, nothing would have induced Duncan to venture there alone. For that matter, he was not quite sure how many companions he would need to give him any sense of security in the forest — but unless the jet returned for them, that was precisely where they would have to go. At one point he could see what looked like the beginning of a jungle trail, though from this distance it was impossible to tell whether it was made by men or animals. Nothing else was visible; the trees were so high, and so thick, that there could have been a range of mountains a few kilometers away, completely hidden from view.

Duncan ran into Boss on the way back from his toilet. The fearless leader looked as if he could use some extra sleep, but otherwise still seemed in full charge of the situation.

"Did you put something in that wine?" Duncan asked, after they had exchanged greetings. "Usually I dream — but last night..."

Boss grinned.

"Don't expect me to reveal all Enigma's little secrets. But in this case, we've nothing to hide. You can thank the natural, open-air life for you good night's sleep — though the wine probably helped. Now let's wake up the others."

This took some time, but eventually all the troops were on parade, though in a slightly disheveled condition, with not a few still yawning mightily. Groans of protest greeted Boss's first order.

"We're going for a little safari before breakfast. Coffee will be along in a minute, but that all you're having now. Your appetites will be all the better when we get back."

"And when will thatbe?" cried half a dozen voices simultaneously.

"It depends how fast you march. Bob — you'll need better footwear than those sandals. Miss Lee — sorry, but in the jungle it's advisable to wear somethingabove the waist. And even more advisable below it, Miss Perry. Right, everybody — back here in five minutes, then we start. No breakfast for stragglers."

There were no stragglers, though it must have been more than five minutes before Boss had everyone lined up in double file. Then he disappeared into his private tent, only to emerge again at once, heavily laden.

Instantly, the babble of conversation stopped. There were sudden gasps of indrawn breath, and Duncan found himself staring at Enigma's latest surprise with a curious mixture of fascination and disgust.

The fascination was undoubtedly there, despite the conditioning of a lifetime. He was ashamed of it — yet, somehow, not as ashamed as he might have been. Duncan had never concealed his impulses from himself; now he recognized the almost irresistible urge to reach and take one of those monstrous instruments in his hand, to feel its power and weight — and to use it for the only purpose for which it was designed.

It was the first time he had ever seen a gun, and Boss was carrying two, as well as a pair of cartridge belts. He handed one gun and belt over to an assistant, who took up his position at the end of the file.

"O.K.," said Boss, just as nonchalantly as if he were unaware of the impression he had created. "Let's go!"

As he walked toward the edge of the clearing, he threw the gun over his shoulder and buckled on the belt of ammunition. It was perfectly obvious that he knew how to handle his armament, but Duncan did not find this in the least reassuring. And judging by the glum silence, neither did anyone else.

The track through the jungle turned out to be surprisingly well kept; when someone commented on this, Boss called back over his shoulder: "We have an arrangement with the local tribes — they're friendly — you'll meet them later."

"That's a giveaway!" whispered Bill van Hyatt in Duncan's ear. "The only primitive tribes left are in the Far East. I knewit was Borneo."

They had now walked perhaps a kilometer through the closely packed trees and were already beginning to feel the effects of the day's increasing heat. There was a chorus of relief when Boss abruptly called back: "We're nearly there — close up!"

He stepped to the side of the trail, and let the file walk on past him. Duncan was near the head of the line, and saw that they were approaching a mass of bare rocks which formed a small hillock. Now at last, he told himself, we'll be able to get a good view of the land around us.

Those ahead of him were already scrambling up the rocks, eager to see what lay ahead. Suddenly, there were cries of astonishment, inarticulate shouts. Millie van Hyatt, who had reached the top long before her husband, suddenly collapsed in hysterics. "Borneo!" she screamed. "He said Borneo!"

Duncan hurried to join her as swiftly as he could, in this unaccustomed gravity. A moment later, he reached the top of the little hill, and the vista to the south lay open before him.

Enigma had certainly fulfilled its promise. Not more than five kilometers away, gleaming in the morning light, was the most famous structure in the world. And now that all its upstart rivals had long since been demolished, it was once again the tallest.

Even a visitor from Titan could have no difficulty in recognizing the Empire State Building.

* * * * *

"Very clever," said Bill van Hyatt in grudging admiration. "They must have flown us straight back over the same course, when they picked up the second load of passengers. But there are still some questions. That hideous noise last night—"

"Oh, eat your breakfast, Bill. Don't always try to get ahead of the game."

Boss, who was clearly relaxed now that his deception had been successfully carried off, called back from the end of the table: "Surely you've guessed that one, Bill?"

"Probably the sound track from an old Tarzan movie."

Boss chuckled and glanced at his watch. All timepieces and communicators had been returned to their owners, and Duncan no longer felt so naked. He had never been able to stop himself looking at his absent watch, and he realized how cleverly Enigma had managed to disorient him in all four dimensions.

"In about five minutes, Bill, you'll know better."

"In that case, I'd appreciate it if you'd bring up the artillery again."

"No use. The guns were real, but the bullets weren't."

"I see — just another part of the act. Tell me — have you ever used one of those things?"

"Yes."

"On what? Anything big?"

"Fairly."

"Was it dangerous?"

One had to admire Bill's persistence, almost as much as his resilience. It was obvious that Boss was getting tired of this line of questioning, but was too polite to shut it off.

" Quitedangerous."

"Could it have killed you?"

"Easily," said Boss, "and now his voice had suddenly become bleak and impersonal. "You see, it was carrying a gun too."

In the ensuing silence, Duncan came to several quick conclusions. Boss was speaking the cold truth; it was no concern of theirs; and they would never learn any more.

Conversation was just getting under way again after this derailment when there was another interruption.

"Hey!" somebody shouted. "Look over there!"

A man was walking out of the ‘jungle’, and he was not alone. Trotting beside him were two enormous animals, attached to leashes which seemed highly inadequate. They were undoubtedly dogs of some kind, though Duncan had not realized that any grew to such a size. There were, he knew, thousands of different breeds, but there seemed something strange about these; they did not fit any of the visual records he had ever seen.

"Of course!" someone exclaimed. "That's Fido and Susie."

There were murmurs of assent, but Duncan was none the wiser. He also thought that he could have chosen more appropriate names.

He was even more certain of this by the time that the monsters had reached the camp. They stood half as high as a man, and must have weighed two hundred kilos.

"What arethey?" he asked. "Wolves?"

"Yes and no," Boss answered. "They're dire wolves. They've been extinct for about ten thousand years."

Now Duncan remembered. He had heard vaguely of the experiments on genetic reversal that had been taking place on Earth. There had been much excitement a few years ago about something called a passenger pigeon, which had now become such a pest that efforts were being made to control it. And there was even talk of restoring dinosaurs when the technique was perfected.

"Hello, Professor," said Boss. "Your hounds really shook some of us last night. By the way, folks, this is Cliff Evans, head of the department of animal genetics at the Central Park Zoo — have I got that right? And as some of you have guessed, this is the famous Fido and Susie. Is it safe to feed them a few scraps, Cliff?"

The professor shook his head.

"Not on your life; I'm afraid they're not terribly bright. We go to a lot of trouble balancing their diet. I should hate to get human protein mixed up in it."

"Very considerate of you. Now, how's the transport going to work out?"

"I can let you have ten well-behaved horses and five ditto ponies."

"That's only enough for fifteen. We need at least twenty-five."

"No problem. You can also have six miniphants. They can each take two riders, and they're safer than horses..."

While this discussion was in progress, Duncan examined the professor and his pets. The survey did not inspire much confidence; in particular, he did not care for the way in which the scientist was covered from head to heels in smooth leather, with massive reinforcements around the throat and from elbow to heavily gloved hands. It could not have been very comfortable on a hot June morning, and presumably he was not wearing this armor for fun.

However, Fido and Susie seemed sleek, well fed, and even somnolent. From time to time they yawned and licked their chops, with a disturbing display of dentition, but they showed no interest in after-breakfast snacks. In fact, they showed very little interest in anything, and Duncan could see the truth of the professor's remarks about their intelligence. Their narrow skulls obviously contained much smaller brains than those of modern wolves; it was no wonder that they had become extinct. Duncan — himself an experiment in controlled genetics — felt rather sorry for the big, clumsy beasts.

"Attention, everyone!" Boss called. "We're breaking camp in thirty minutes, and then we have a short trip to make — only about six kilometers. You know the restrictions on transport in New York City, so we have the following choices — foot, horse, or miniphant. On a beautiful morning like this, I'mgoing to walk. But it's up to you — who wants to ride horseback? One, two, three — was your hand up, Bill? ... four ... eleven, twelve, thirteen ... that's unlucky — any more? No? O.K., thirteen it is."

"What about bicycles?" somebody shouted.

"Not allowed in the park," said Professor Evans. "Only last year a mad cyclist killed one of my ponies. Unfortunately, hesurvived. If you want a bike, you can go across Fifth Avenue and hire one. For that matter, you can walk to 96 ^thStreet station and catch the subway. It runs every ten minutes in the tourist season."

There were no takers, but all the miniphants were snapped up. Duncan opted for this mode, on Boss's advice. The rest of the party elected to walk.

Half an hour later, the string of animals arrived at the camping site. To Duncan's astonishment, they were unaccompanied by humans. One large miniphant led the procession, and the other five kept the horses from straying. The two species seemed to be on excellent terms with each other.

"I suppose it's the fist time you've seen a miniphant?" said Boss, noticing Duncan's interest.

"Yes — I'd heard about them, of course. Why are they so popular?"

"They have the advantage of the elephant without the handicap of its size. As you see, they're not much bigger than horses. But they're much more intelligent, understand several hundred words, and can carry out quite complicated orders without supervision. And with that trunk they can open doors, pick up parcels, work switches — would you believe that they can operate viddies?"

"Frankly, no."

"You're wrong; some of them can, though not reliably yet. They get the right number about eight times out of ten."

The leader ambled up to Boss and raised his trunk in salutation.

"Hello, Rajah — nice to see you again."

Rajah brought down his trunk and wound it affectionately around Boss's wrist. Then he bent his legs and knelt ponderously on the ground, so that his riders could climb easily into the pair of seats arranged sidesaddle on his back. The other five miniphants performed the same act with the timing of a well-trained corps de ballet.

Did a boat feel like this? Duncan asked himself, as he swayed gently and comfortably out of the park. This was certainly the way to travel if the weather was fine, you didn't have far to go, and you wanted to enjoy the view. As all three criteria were now satisfied, he was blissfully content.

The file of animals and humans made its way out of the clearing, through the belt of trees, and past the pile of rocks from which they morning's revelation had been vouchsafed. They skirted the little hill, and presently came to a lake on which dozens of small boats were being languidly paddled back and forth. Each boat appeared to contain one young man, who was doing the paddling, and one young lady, who was doing nothing. Only a few couples took enough notice of the procession wending past to wave greetings; presumably New Yorkers were too accustomed to miniphants to give them more than a passing glance.

After the lake, there came a beautiful expanse of grass, smooth and flat as a billiard table. Though there were no warning signs, not a single person was walking on it, and all the animals avoided it with scrupulous care. Duncan's fellow passenger twisted around in his seat and called over his shoulder: "They say the New Yorkers are getting more tolerant. Last man to walk on thatwasn't lynched on the spot — they gave him a choice between gas and electrocution." Duncan presumed he was joking, but didn't pursue the matter; this back-to-back seating was not good for conversation.

From time to time Bill van Hyatt, who was riding — quite expertly — a beautiful cream-colored pony, came up to him to deliver snippets of information. Most of these were welcome, even though not always necessary. Of all Man's cities, New York was still the most famous — the only one where all exiles, everywhere in the Solar System, would feel at home. Now that they were clear of the smaller trees, it was possible to see many of the midtown landmarks — not only the dominating finger of the Empire State Building, but the slowly orbiting Grand Central Mobile, the shining slab of the Old United Nations, the great terraced pyramid of Mount Rockefeller spanning half the island from Fifth Avenue to the Hudson River... Duncan had no difficulty recognizing and naming these, but the more distant structures to the east and west were strange to him. That big golden dome over in — was it New Jersey? — was most peculiar, but Duncan had grown a little tired of exposing his ignorance and was determined to ask no more nonessential questions. He could always look up the guidebooks later.

They reached Columbus Circle and started climbing the ramp up to the bridge over the Grand Canal that now bisected Manhattan. On the level below, bikes, trikes, and passenger capsules were racing silently back and forth; and on the level below them, the famous Checker Gondolas were shuttling between the East River and the Hudson. Duncan was surprised to see such heavy traffic so far north of the city area, but guessed it was almost all recreational or tourist.

There was a brief pause at an Eighth Avenue comfort station for the benefit of the horses and miniphants — which, like all herbivores, had low-efficiency, rapid-turnover conversion systems. Some of the passengers also took advantage of the stop, even though the facilities were not intended for them. Remembering his contretemps at Mount Vernon, Duncan tried to imagine what the New York streets must have been like in the days when horses provided the onlytransportation, but failed and thankfully abandoned the attempt.

Now they were skirting the northern flank of Mount Rockefeller, which towered two hundred and fifty meters above them —challenging the Empire State Building in altitude and completely eclipsing it in bulk. With the exception of a few dams and the Great Wall of China — hardly a fair comparison — it was the largest single structure on Earth. Here had gone all the rubble and debris, all the bricks and concrete, the steel girders and ceramic tiles and bathtubs and TV sets and refrigerators and air conditioners and abandoned automobiles, when the decayed uptown area was finally bulldozed flat in the early twenty-second century. The clean-up had, perhaps, been a little too comprehensive; now the industrial archaeologists were happily mining the mountain for the lost treasures of the past.

The straggling line of men and animals continued south along the wide, grassy sward of Eighth Avenue, skirting the western face of the huge pyramid. Unlike the southern faзade, which was entirely covered by the celebrated hanging gardens of Manhattan, this side was a montage of frescoes, murals, and mosaics. It would never be completed. As fast as one work of art was finished, another would be demolished, not always with the consent of the artist. The west side of Mount Rockefeller was an aesthetic battlefield; it had even been bombed — with cans of red paint. The terraces and stairways of the man-made hill were crowded with sightseers, and on many of the vertical surfaces craftsmen were at work in swinging chairs suspended by cables. Morbidly conscious as he was of terrestrial gravity, Duncan could only look on these courageous artists with awe-struck admiration.

Nearer ground level, there were hundreds of more informal attempts at expression. Once section of wall, four meters high and fifty long, had been set aside for graffiti, and the public had taken full advantage of the opportunity with crayons, chalk, and spray guns. There was a good deal of cheerful obscenity, but most of the messages were totally meaningless to Duncan. Why, he wondered, should he SUPPORT THE MINIMALIST MANIFESTO? Was it true the KILROY WAS HERE, and if so, why? Did the announcement that COUNCILMAN WILBUR ERICKSON IS A YENTOR convey praise or censure? He brooded over these and similar world-shattering problems all the way south to 44 ^thStreet.

Here, in a small plaza between Tenth and Eleventh avenues, they said good-bye to the horses and miniphants. Duncan's mount gently collapsed in slow motion, so that its riders could step off onto terra firma; then, with equal solemnity, it rose to its feet, gravely saluted them with upraised trunk, and headed back toward its home in the Central Park Zoo. The ride had been an enjoyable experience, and Duncan could imagine few nicer ways of sightseeing, in perfect weather such as this. Nevertheless, he was glad to be back on his own feet again. That gentle swaying had been growing a little monotonous. And although he had been in no real danger, he now knew what the first intimations of seasickness must be like.

They were now only a few hundred meters from the elevated ribbon of the West Side Highway and the impressive expanse of the Hudson River, blue and flat in the morning sunlight. Never before had Duncan seen so large a body of water at such close quarters. Though it looked calm and peaceful, he found it slightly ominous — even menacing. He was more familiar with the ocean of space than the realm of water, with all its mysteries and monsters; and because of that ignorance, he felt fear.

There were numerous small villas and cafйs and shops along the riverfront, as well as dozens of little docks containing pleasure boats. Although marine transport had been virtually extinct for more than two centuries, water still had an irresistible fascination for a large part of the human race. Even now, a garishly painted paddleboat, loaded with sightseers, was skirting the New Jersey shore. Duncan wondered if it was a genuine antique, or a modern reconstruction.

The three-masted man-of-war with the gilded figurehead could not possibly be the real thing — it was much too new and had obviously never gone to sea. But moored at a dock close to it was the scarred yet still beautifully streamlined hull of a sailing ship which, Duncan guessed, might have been launched in the early twentieth century. He looked at it with awe, savoring the knowledge that it had already finished its career before the first ships of space lifted from Earth.

Boss did not give them an opportunity to linger over these relics; he was heading toward an enormous, translucent half-cylinder lying along more than three hundred meters of the shoreline. It appeared to be a makeshift, temporary structure, quite out of keeping — in scale and appearance — with the careful good taste of everything around it.

And now, as they approached this peculiar building, Duncan became aware of a sudden change in the behavior of his companions. All the way from the park they had been chattering and laughing, completely relaxed and enjoying themselves on this beautiful summer day. Quite abruptly, it seemed as if a cloud had passed across the face of the sun; all laughter, and almost all talking, had suddenly ceased. Very obviously, they knew something that he did not, yet he was reluctant to disturb the mood of solemn silence by asking naпve questions.

They entered a small auxiliary building, so much like an airlock that it was easy to imagine that they were going into space. Indeed, it was a kind of airlock, holding rows of protective clothing: oilskins, rubber boots, and — at last! — the hard hats that had been exercising Bill van Hyatt's imagination. Still in that curious expectant hush, with only a few fleeting smile at each other's transformed appearance, they passed through the inner airlock.

Duncan had expected to see a ship. In this, at least, he was not surprised. But he was completely taken aback by its sheer size; it almost filled the huge structure that surrounded it. He knew that, toward the end, oil tankers had become gigantic — but he had no idea that passenger liners had ever grown so huge. And it was obvious from its many portholes and decks that this ship had been build to transport people, not bulk cargo.

The viewing platform on which they stood was level with the main deck and just ahead of the bridge. To his right, Duncan could see one huge but truncated mast and a businesslike maze of cranes, winches, ventilators, and hatches, all the way up to the prow. Stretching away on the left, toward the ship's hidden stern, was an apparently endless wall of steel, punctuated by hundreds of portholes. Looming high above everything were three huge funnels, almost touching the curved roof of the enclosure. From their spacing, it was obvious that a fourth one was now missing.

There were many other signs of damage. Windows were shattered, parts of the decking had been torn up, and when he looked down toward the keel, Duncan could see an enormous metal patch, at least a hundred meters long, running just below the waterline.

Only then did all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Now he understood the awed silence of his companions, and was able to share their emotions of wonder and pity.

On that day, he had been a boy on a distant world; but he could still remember when, after her three-hundred-and-fifty-year maiden voyage, the Titanichad at last reached New York.

27

Ghost From The Grand Banks

"They never built another one like her; she marked the end of an age — an age of wealth and elegance which was swept away, only two years later, by the first of the World Wars. Oh, they built faster and bigger, in the half century before air travel closed that chapter for all time. But no ship ever again matched the luxury you see around you now. It broke too many hearts when she was lost."

Duncan could not believe it; he was still in a dream. The magnificent Grand Saloon, with its vast mirrors, gilded columns, and ankle-deep carpet, was opulent beyond anything he had ever imagined, and the sofa into which he was sinking made him almost forget the gravity of Earth. Yet the most incredible fact of all was that everything he saw and touched had been lying for three and a half centuries on the bed of the Atlantic.

He had not realized that the deep sea was almost as timeless as space. "All the damage," the speaker had explained, "was done on that first morning. When she sake, two and a half hours after the spur of ice ripped open the starboard hull, she went down bow first, almost vertically. Everything loose tumbled forward until it was either stopped by the bulkheads, or else smashed through them. By miraculous good luck — and this tells you how superbly she was built — all three engines remained in place. If theyhad gone, the hull would have been so badly damaged that we could never have salvaged her..."

"But once she reached the bottom, three kilometers down, she was safe for centuries. The water there is only two degrees above freezing point; the combination of cold and pressure quenches all decay, inhibits all rust. We've found meat in the refrigerators as fresh as when it left Southampton on April 10, 1912, and everything that was canned or bottled is still in perfect condition."

"When we'd patched her up — a straightforward job, though it took a year to plug all the holes and reinforce the weak spots — we blasted out the water with the zero-thrust cold rockets the deep-sea salvage people have developed. Naturally, weather conditions were critical; by good luck, there was an ideal forecast for April 15, 2262, so she broke surface three hundred and fifty years to the very day after she sank. Conditions were identical — dead calm, freezing temperature — and you won't believe this, but we had to avoid an iceberg when we started towing!"

"So we brought her to New York, pumped her full of nitrogen to stop rusting, and slowly dried her out. No problems here — the underwater archaeologists have preserved ships ten times older than Titanic. It's the sheer scaleof the job that's taken us fourteen years, and will take us at least ten more. Thousands of pieces of smashed furniture had to be sorted out, hundreds of tons of coal to be moved —almost every lump by hand."

"And the dead... 158 so far. Only a few people were trapped in the ship. Those in sealed compartments looked as if they had been drowned yesterday. In the sections the fish could reach, there were only bones. We were able to identify several, from the cabin numbers and the White Star Line's records. And that story you've heard is quite true: we found one couple still in each other's arms. They were married — but each to someone else. And the two other partners survived; I wonder if they ever guessed? After three and a half centuries, it doesn't much matter..."

"Sometimes we're asked — why are you doing this, devoting years of time and millions of solars to salvaging the past? Well, I can give you some down-to-earth, practical reasons. This ship is a part of our history. We can better understand ourselves, and our civilization, when we study her. Someone said that a sunken ship is a time capsule, because it preserves all the artifacts of everyday life, exactly as they were at their last instant of use. And the Titanicwas a cross-section of an entire society, at the unique moment before it started to dissolve."

"We have the stateroom of John Jacob Astor, with all the valuables and personal effects that the richest man of his age was taking to New York. He could have bought the Titanic— a dozen times over. And we have the tool kit that Pat O'Connor carried when he came aboard at Queenstown, hoping to find a better living in a land he was never to see. We even have the five sovereigns he managed to save, after more years of hardship than we can ever imagine."

"These are the two extremes; between them we have every walk of life — a priceless treasure trove for the historian, the economist, the artist, the engineer. But beyond that there's a magic about this ship which has kept its name fresh through all the centuries. The story of the Titanic's first and last voyage is one that has to be told anew in every generation, lest men forget the workings of fate and chance."

"I have talked longer than I intended, and pictures speak louder than words. There have been ten movies about the Titanic— and the most ambitious will start production shortly, using the actual location for the first time. But the extracts we want to show you now are from a film made three hundred and twenty years ago. Of course it will look old-fashioned, and it's in black and white, but it was the last film to be made while survivors were still alive and could check its details. For this reason, it remains the most authentic treatment; I think you will discover that A Night To Rememberlives up to its name."

The lights in the Grand Saloon dimmed, as they had dimmed at two-eighteen in the morning of April 15, 1912. Time rolled back three and half centuries as the grainy, flickering real-life footage merged into the impeccable studio reconstruction. Titanicsailed again, to make her last appointment with destiny, off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland.

Duncan did not cry easily, but presently he was weeping.

* * * * *

When the lights came on again, he understood why men had spent so much of toil and treasure to win back what the sea had stolen from them so long ago. His eyes were still so misty, and his vision so uncertain, that for a moment he did not recognize the woman who had just entered the Grand Saloon and was standing by one of the ornate doors.

Even carrying a hard hat, and with shapeless plastic waterproof covering her from neck to knees, Calindy still looked poised and elegant. Duncan rose to his feet and walked toward her, ignoring the stares of companions. Silently, he put out his arms, embraced her, and kissed her full on the lips. She was not as tall as he had remembered — or he had grown — because he had to stoop.

"Well!" she exclaimed, when she had disentangled herself. "After fifteen years!"

"You haven't changed in the least."

"Liar. I hope I have. At twenty-one I was an irresponsible brat."

"At twenty-one you should be. It's the last chance you'll have."

This scintillating conversation then ground to a halt, while they looked at each other and everyone in the Grand Saloon looked at them. I'm quite sure, Duncan told himself wryly, that they think we're old lovers; would that it were true...

"Duncan, darhling— sorry — I always start talking early twentieth century when I'm in here: Mr. D. Makenzie, please excuse me for a few minutes while I speak to my other guests — then we'll tour the ship together."

He watched her dart purposefully from one group to another, the very embodiment of the efficient administrator, confirming that everything was going as planned. Was she playing another of her roles, or was this the real Calindy, if such a creature existed?

She came back to him five minutes later, with all her associates trotting dutifully behind.

"Duncan — I don't think you've met Commander Innes — he knows more about this ship than the people who built her. He'll be showing us around."

As they shook hands, Duncan said: "I enjoyed your presentation very much. It's always stimulating to meet a real enthusiast."

His words were not idle flattery. While he had been listening to that talk, Duncan had recognized something that he had not met before on Earth.

Commander Innes was slightly larger than life, and seemed to be inclined at a small angle to his fellow Terrans. A world which had put a premium on tolerance and security and safe, well-organized excitements like those provided by Enigma had no place for zealots. Though enthusiasm was not actually illegal, it was in somewhat bad taste; one should not take one's hobbies and recreations too seriously. Commander Innes, Duncan suspected, lived and dreamed Titanic. In an earlier age, he might have been a missionary, spreading the doctrines of Mohammed or Jesus with fire and sword. Today he was a harmless and indeed refreshing anomaly, and perhaps just a trifle mad.

For the next hour, they explored the bowels of the ship — and Duncan was thankful for his protective clothing. There was still mud and oil sloshing around on G deck, and several times he banged his head against unexpected ladders and ventilating ducts. But the effort and discomfort were well worth it, for only in this manner could he really appreciate all the skill and genius that had gone into this floating city. Most moving of all was to touch the inward-curling petals of steel far below the starboard bow, and to imagine the icy waters that had poured through them on that tragic night.

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 andturbines?) 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

Consommй Fermier Cockie Leekie

Fillets of Brill

Egg А l'Argenteuil

Chicken А 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 somethingwas 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 thatmight 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 thatquestion," 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 youwant? 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 ifit'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, thatwas 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, thesewere 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 deliberatelyeavesdrop; 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 loatheparties like this, don't you?

It's supposed to be the only set of genuine antique inflatable furniture in the world. Of course, they won't let you siton it.

I'm sosorry. But it will wash out easily.

—buying at one fifty and selling at one eighty. Would you believe that grown men once spent their entirelives 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 believeit.

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 notslept with?

Well, maybe that statue of Zeus.

French is nota dead language. At least five million people still speak it — or at least readit.

I'm getting up a petition to save the Lunar wilderness areas.

I thought it was the Van Allen Belt.

Oh, that was lastyear.

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.

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 somewherethat 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 Ido...

"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'mnot 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 thatbusiness, one can't afford even the hint of a suspicion. You can trust him absolutely."

"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 moirй 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 andtotal 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 mustmake 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 entrйe 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 thatfar, 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.