IMPERIAL EARTH
by
ARTHUR C. CLARKE


 BOOKS BY ARTHUR C. CLARKE

14ON FICTION FICTION

Interplanetary Flight Islands in the Sky

The Exploration of Space Prelude to Space

The Exploration of the Moon The Sands of Mors

Going into Space Childhood's End

The Coast of Coral Expedition to Earth

The Making of a Moon Earthlight

The Reefs of Taprobane Reach for Tomorrow

Voice Across the Sea The City and the Stars

The Challenge of the Spaceship To les from the "White Hart"

The Challenge of the Sea The Deep Range

Profiles of the Future The Other Side of the Sky

Voices from the Sky Across the Sea of Stars

The Promise of Space A Fall of Moondust

Report on Plonet Three From the Ocean, From the Stars

The First Five Fathoms Tales of Ten Worlds

Boy Beneath the Sea Dolphin Island

Indian Ocean Adventure Glide Path

Indian Ocean Treasure The Lion of Comarre & Against The Treasure of the
Great Reef the Fall of Night

The Nine Billion Names of God

WITH THE EDITORS OF Prelude to Mars "LIFE" The Lost Worlds of 2001

Man and Space The Wind from the Sun Rendezvous with Roma

WITH THE ASTRONAUTS

First on the Moon WITH STANLEY KUBRICK 2001: A Space Odyssey

WITH ROBERT SILVER BERG

Into Space

WITH CHESLEY BONES TELL

Beyond Jupiter

Arthur Clarke has also edited:

The Coming of the Space Age

Time Probe

Three for Tomorrow

PUBLISHED BY BALLANTINE BOOKS

 BALLANTINE BOOKS o NEW YORK

 Copyright @ 1976 by Arthur C. Clarke

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from Harcourt Brace
Jovanovich, Inc.  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a
division of Random House, Inc.,

New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Ballantine Books of Canada,
Ltd.,

Toronto, Canada.

library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 75-30595

ISBN 0-345-25352-3-195

This edition published by arrangement with Harcourt Brace Jovanovich,
Inc.

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Ballantine Books Edition: November 1976

Cover art by Stanislaw Fernandes  For a lost friend

 CONTENTS

I TITAN

1. A SHRIEK IN THE NIGHT 2

2. DYNASTY 6

3. INVITATION TO A CENTENNIAL 11

4. THE RED MOON 16

5. THE POLITICS OF TIME AND SPACE19

6. BY THE BONNY, BONNY BANKS OF LOCH HELL BREW 24

7. A CROSS OF TITANITE 32

8. CHILDREN OF THE CORRIDORS 39

9. THE FATAL GIFT 45

10.  WORLD'S END 51

II TRANSIT

11.  SIRIUS 60

12.  LAST WORDS 67

13.  THE LONGEST VOYAGE 71

14.  SONGS OF EMPIRE 80

15.  AT THE NODE 84

16.  PORT VAN ALLEN 92

III TERRA

17.  WASHINGTON, D.C. 100

18.  EMBASSY 106

19.  MOUNT VERNON 110

20.  THE TASTE OF HONEY 119

21.  HISTORY LESSON 125

22.  BUDGET 130

23.  DAUGHTERS OF THE REVOLUTIONS 137

24.  CALINDY 144

25.  MYSTERY TOUR 152

26.  PRIMEVAL FOREST 162

27.  THE GHOST FROM THE GRAND BANKS174

28.  AKHENATON AND CLEOPATRA 182

29.  PARTY GAMES 185

30.  THE RIVALS 196

31.  THE ISLAND OF DR.  MOHAMMED 202

32.  GOLDEN REEF 209

33.  SLEUTH 218

34.  STAR DAY 223

35.  A MESSAGE FROM TITAN 229

36.  THE EYE OF ALLAH 236

37.  MEETING AT CYCLOPS 242

38.  THE LISTENERS 251

39.  BUSINESS AND DESIRE 260

40.  ARGUS PANOPTES 271

41.  INDEPENDENCE DAY 285

42.  THE MIRROR OF THE SEA 291

IV TITAN

43.  HOMECOMING 300

Acknowledgmenfs and Notes 302

AddiTional Note 305

"Remember them as they were-, and write them off."

-ERNEST HEMINGWAY

For every man has business and desire.  -HAMLET, Act 1, Scene 4

-4  Part I. Titan

 A SHRIEK IN THE NIGHT

Duncan Makenzie was ten years old when he found the magic number.  It
was pure chance; he had intended to call Grandma Ellen, but he had been
careless and his fingers must have touched the wrong keys.  He knew at
once that he had made a mistake, because Grandma's viddy had a
two-second delay, even on Auto/ Record  This circuit was live
immediately Yet there was no ringing tone, and no picture.  The screen
was completely blank, with not even a speckling of interference. Duncan
guessed that he had been switched into an audio-only channel, or had
reached a station where the camera was disconnected.  In any case, this
certainly wasn't

Grandma's number, and he reached out to break the circuit.

Then he noticed the sound.  At first, he thought that someone was
breathing quietly into the microphone at the far end, but he quickly
realized his mistake.  There was a random, inhuman quality about this
gentle susurration; it lacked any regular rhythm, and there were long
intervals of complete silence.

As he listened, Duncan felt a growing sense of awe.  Here was something
completely outside his normal, everyday experience, yet he recognized
it almost at once.  In his ten years of life, the impressions of many
worlds had been in printed on his mind, and no one who had heard this
most evocative of sounds could ever forget it.  He was listening to the
voice of the,~and, as it sighed and whispered across the lifeless
landscape a hundred meters above his head.

Duncan forgot all about Grandma, and turned the volume up to its
highest level.  He lay back on the couch, closed his eyes, and tried to
project himself into the unknown, hostile world from which he was
protected by all the safety devices that three hunared years of space
technology could contrive.

Someday, when he had passed his survival tests, he would go up into
that world and see with his own eyes the lakes and chasms and lowering
orange clouds, lit by the thin, cold rays of the distant sun.  He had
looked forward to that day with calm anticipation rather than
excitement-the Makenzies were noted for their lack of excitement-but
now he suddenly realized what he was missing.  So might a child of
Earth, on some dusty desert far from the ocean, have pressed a shell
against his ear and listened with sick longing to the music of the
unattainable sea.

There was no mystery about the sound, but how was it reaching him?  It
could be coming from any of the hundred million square kilometers lying
above his head.  Somewhere-perhaps in an abandoned construction project
or experimental station-a live microphone had been left in circuit,
exposed to the freezing, poisonous winds of the world above.  It was
not likely to remain undetected for long; sooner or later it would be
discovered and disconnected.  He had better capture this message from
the outside while it was still there; even if he knew the number he had
accidentally called, he doubted if he could ever establish the circuit
again.

The amount of audio-visual material that Duncan had stored under misc
was remarkable, even for an inquisitive ten-year-old.  It was not that
he lacked organizing ability-that was the most celebrated of all the
Makenzie talents-but he was interested in more things than he knew how
to index.  He had now begun to discover, the hard, way that information
not properly classified can be irretrievably lost.

He thought intently for a minute, while the lonely wind sobbed and
moaned and brought the chill of space into his warm little cubicle.
Then he tapped out

APHA INDEX WIND SOUNDS PERM STORE #.

From the moment he touched the # or EXECUTE key, he had begun to
capture that voice from the world above.  If all went well, he could
call it forth again at any time by using the index heading W1ND
SOUNDS.  Even if he had made a mistake, and the console's search
program failed to locate the recording, it would be somewhere in the
machine's permanent, nonerasable memory.  There was always the hope
that he might one day find it again by chance, as was happening all the
time with information he had filed under MISC.

He decided to let the recording run for another few minutes before
completing the interrupted call to Grandma.  As luck would have it, the
wind must have slackened at about the time he keyed EXECUTE, because
there was a long, frustrating silence.  Then, out of that silence, came
something new.

It was faint and distant, yet conveyed the impression of overwhelming
power.  First there was a thin scream that mounted second by second in
intensity, but somehow never came any closer.  The scream rose swiftly
to a demonic shriek, with undertones of thunder then dwindled away as
quickly as it had appeared.  From beginning to end it lasted less than
half a minute.

Then there was only the sighing of the wind, even lonelier than
before.

For a long, delicious moment, Duncan savored the unique pleasure of
fear without danger; then he reacted as he always did when he
encountered something new or exciting.  He tapped out Karl Helmer's
number, and said:

"Listen to this."

Three kilometers away, at the northern end of Oasis City, Karl waited
until the thin scream died into silence.  As always, his face gave no
hint of his thoughts.  Presently he said: "Let's hear it again."

Duncan repeated the playback, confident that the mystery would soon be
solved.  For Karl was fifteen, and therefore knew everything.

Those dazzling blue eyes, apparently so candid yet already so full of
secrets, looked straight at Duncan.  Karl's surprise and sincerity were
totally convincing as he exclaimed: "You didn't recognize it?"

Duncan hesitated.  He had thought of several obvious possibilities-but
if he guessed wrongly, Karl would make fun of him.  Better to be on the
safe side .

"No," he answered.  "Did you?"  "Of course," said Karl, in his most
superior tone of voice.  He paused for effect, then leaned toward the
camera so that his face loomed enormous on it screen.

"It's a Hydrosaurus on the rampage."

For a fraction of a second, Duncan took him seriouslya-which was
exactly what Karl had intended.  He quickly recovered, and laughed back
at his friend.

"You're crazy.  So you don't know what it is."

For the methane-breathing monster Hydrosaurus rex was their private
joke-the product of youthful imaginations, inflame by pictures of
ancient

Earth and the wonders it had brought forth near the dawn of creation.

Duncan knew perfectly well that nothing lived now, or had ever lived,
on the world that he called home; only Man had walked upon its frozen
surface.

Yet if Hydrosaurus could have existed, that awesome sound might indeed
have been its battle cry, as it leaped upon the gentle Carbotherium,
wallowing in some ammonia lake ... "Oh.  I know what made that noise,"
said Karl smugly.  "Didn't you guess?

That was a ram-tanker making a scoop.  If you call Traffic Control,
they'll tell you where it was heading."

Karl had had his fun, and the explanation was undoubtedly correct.
Duncan had already thought of it,

et he had hoped for something more romantic.  ho ugh it was perhaps too
much to expect methane monsters, an everyday spaceship was a
disappointing anticlimax.  He felt a sense of letdown, and was sorry
that he had given Karl another chance to deflate his dreams.  Karl was
rather good at that.

But like all healthy ten-year-olds, Duncan was resilient.  The magic
had not been destroyed.  Though the first ship had lifted from Earth
three centuries before he was born, the wonder of space had not yet
been exhausted.  There was romance enough in that shriek from the edge
of the atmosphere, as the orbiting tanker collected hydrogen to power
the commerce of the Solar

System.

In a few hours, that precious cargo would be falling sunward, past
Saturn's other- moons, past giant Jupiter, to make its rendezvous with
one of the fueling stations that circled the inner planets.  It would
take months-even years-to get there, but there was no hurry.  As long
as cheap hydrogen flowed through the invisible pipeline across the
Solar System, the fusion rockets could fly from world to world, as once
the ocean liners had plied the seas of Earth.

Duncan understood this better than most boys of his age; the hydrogen
economy was also the story of his family, and would dominate his own
future when he was old enough to play a part in the affairs of Titan.
It was now almost a century since Grandfather Malcolm had realized that
Titan was the key to all the planets, and had shrewdly used this
knowledge for the benefit of mankind-and of himself.

So Duncan continued to listen to the recording after Karl had switched
off.

Over and over again he played back that triumphant, cry of power,
trying to detect the precise moment when it was finally swallowed up in
the gulfs of space.  For years it would haunt his dreams; he would wake
in the night, convinced that he had heard it again through the roof of
rock that protected Oasis from the hostile wilderness above.

And when at last he fell back into sleep, he would always dream of
Earth.

DYNASTY

Malcolm Makenzie had been the right man, at the right time.  Others
before him had looked covetously at Titan, but he was the first to work
out all the engineering details and to conceive the total system of
orbiting scoops, compressors, and cheap, expendable tanks that could
hold their liquid hydrogen with minimum loss as they dropped leisurely
sunward.

Back in the 2180's, Malcolm had been a promising young aerospace
designer at Port Lowell, trying to make aircraft that could carry
useful payloads in the tenuous Martian atmosphere.  In those days he
had been Malcolm Mackenzie, for the computer mishap that had
irrevocably changed the family name did not occur until he emigrated to
Titan.  After wasting five years in futile attempts at correction,
Malcolm had finally co-operated with the inevitable.  It was one of the
few battles in which the Makenzies had ever admitted defeat, but now
they were quite proud of their unique name.

When he had finished his calculations and stolen enough
drafting-computer time to prepare a beautiful set of drawings, young
Malcolm had approached the Planning Office of the Martian Department of
Transportation.  He did not anticipate serious criticism, because he
knew that his facts and his logic were impeccable.

A large fusion-powered space liner could use ten thousand tons of
hydrogen on a single flight, merely as inert working fluid. Ninety-nine
percent of it took no part in the nuclear reaction, but was hurled from
the jets unchanged, at scores of kilometers a second, imparting
momentum to the ships it drove between the planets.

There was plenty of hydrogen on Earth, easily available in the oceans;
but the cost of lifting megatons a year into space was horrendous.  And
the other inhabited worlds-Mars, Mercury, Ganymede, and the Moon-could
not help.  They had no surplus hydrogen at all.

Of course, Jupiter and the other Gas Giants possessed unlimited
quantities of the vital element, but their gravitational fields guarded
it more effectively than any unsleeping dragon, coiled round some
mythical treasure of the Gods.  In all the Solar System, Titan was the
only place where Nature had contrived the paradox of low gravity and an
atmosphere remarkably rich in hydrogen and its compounds.

Malcolm was right in guessing that no one would challenge his figures,
or deny the feasibility of the scheme, but a kindhearted senior
administrator took it upon himself to lecturp young Makenzie on the
political and economic facts of life.  He learned, with 7  remarkable
speed, about growth curves and forward discounting and interplanetary
debts and rates of depreciation and technological obsolescence, and
understood for the first time why the solar was backed, not by gold,
but by kilowatt-hours.

"It's an old problem," his mentor had explained patiently.  "In fact,
it goes back to the very beginnings of astronautics, in the twentieth
century.

We couldn't have commercial space flight until there were flourishing
extraterrestrial colonies-and we couldn't have colonies until there was
commercial space transportation.  In this sort of bootstrap situation,
you have a very slow growth rate until you reach the takeoff point.
Then, quite suddenly, the curves start shooting upward, and you're in
business.

"It could be the same with your Titan refueling scheme-but have you any
idea of the initial investment required?  Only the World Bank could
possibly underwrite it..  .."

"What about the Bank of Selene?  Isn't it supposed to be more
adventurous?"

"Don't believe all you've read about the Gnomes of Aristarchus; they're
as careful as anyone else.  They have to be.  Bankers on Earth can
still go on breathing if they make a bad investment ...... But it was
the Bank of Selene, three years later, that put up the five megasols
for the initial feasibility study.  Then Mercury became interested-and
finally Mars."  By this time, of course, Malcolm was no longer an
aerospace engineer.  He had become, not necessarily in this order, a
financial expert, a public-relations adviser, a media manipulator, and
a shrewd politician.  In the incredibly short time of twenty years, the
first hydrogen shipments were falling sunward from Titan.

Malcolm's achievement had been an extraordinary one, now well
documented in dozens of scholarly studies, all respectful, though some
of them far from flattering.  What made it so remarkable-even unique
was the way in which he had converted his hard-won expertise from
technology to administration.  The process had been so imperceptible
that no one realized what was happening.

Malcolm was not the first engineer to become a head of state; but he
was the first, a  his critics pointed out sourly, to establish a
dynasty.  And he had done so against odds that would have daunted
lesser men.

In 2195, at the age of forty-four, he had married Ellen Killner,
recently emigrated from Earth.  Their daughter, Anitra, was the first
child to be born in the little frontier community of Oasis, then the
only permanent base on

Titan, and it was several years before the devoted parents realized the
cruel jest that Nature had played upon them.

Even as a baby, Anitra was beautiful, and it was confidently predicted
that when she grew up she would be completely spoiled.  Needless to
say, there were as yet no child psychologists on Titan; so no one
noticed that the little girl was too docile, too well behaved-and too
silent.  Not until she was almost four years old did Malcolm and Ellen
finally accept the fact that Anitra would never be able to speak, and
that there was really no one at home in the lovely shell their bodies
had fashioned.

The fault lay in Malcolm's genes, not Ellen's.  Sometime during his
shuttling back and forth between Earth and Mars, a stray photon that
had been cruising through space since the cosmic dawn had blasted his
hopes for the future.  The damage was irreparable, as Malcolm
discovered when he consulted the best genetic surgeons of four worlds.
It was a chilling thought that he had actually been lucky with Anitra;
the results could have been far, far worse.... To the mingled sorrow
and relief of an entire world, Anitra had died before she was six years
old, and the Makenzie marriage died with her in a flurry of grief and
recrimination.  Ellen threw herself into her work, and Malcolm departed
on what was to be his last visit to Earth.  He was gone for almost two
years, and in that time he achieved much.

He consolidated his political position and set the pattern of economic
development on Titan for the next half-century.  And he acquired the
son he had now set his heart upon.

Human cloning-the creation of exact replicas of another individual from
any cell in the body except the sex cells-had been achieved early in
the twenty-first century.  Even when the technology had been perfected,
it had never become widespread, partly because there were few
circumstances that could ever justify it.

Malcolm was not a rich man-there had been no large personal fortunes
for a hundred years-but he was certainly not poor.  He used a skillful
combination of money, flattery, and more subtle pressures to attain his
goal.  When he returned to Titan, he brought with him the baby who was
his identical twin-but half a century younger.

When Colin grew up, there was no way in which he could be distinguished
from his clone father at the same age.  Physically, he was an exact
duplicate in every respect.  But Malcolm was no Narcissus, interested
in creating a mere carbon copy of himself; he wanted a partner as well
as a successor.  So Colin's educational program concentrated on the
weak points of Malcolm's.  Though he had a good grounding in science,
he specialized in history, law, and economics.  Whereas Malcolm was an
engineer-administrator,

Colin was an administrator-engineer.  While still in his twenties, he
was acting as his father's deputy wherever it was legally admissible,
and sometimes where it was not.  Together, the two Makenzies formed an
unbeatable combination, and trying to draw subtle distinctions between
their psychologies was a favorite Titanian pastime.

Perhaps because he had never been compelled to fight for any great
objective, and had had all his goals formulated before his birth, Colin
was more gentle and easygoing than Malcolm-and therefore more popular.
No one outside the Makenzie family ever called the older man by his
first name; few called Colin anything else.  He had no real enemies,
and there was only one person on Titan who disliked him.  At least, it
was assumed that

Malcolm's estranged wife, Ellen, did so, for she refused to acknowledge
his existence.

Perhaps she regarded Colin as a usurper, an unacceptable substitute for
the son who could never be born to her.  If so, it was indeed strange
that she was so fond of Duncan.

But Duncan had been cloned from Colin almost forty years later and by
that time Ellen had passed through a second tragedy-one that had
nothing to do with the Makenzies.  To Duncan, she was always Grandma
Ellen, but he was now old enough to realize that in his heart she
combined two generations, and filled a void that earlier ages would
have found it impossible to imagine or believe.

If Grandma had any real genetic relationship with him, all trace of it
had been lost centuries ago on another world.  And yet, by some strange
quirk of chance and personality, she had become for him the phantom
mother who had never even existed.

INVITATION TO A CENTENNIAL

"And who the bell is George Washington?"  asked Malcolm Makenzie.

"Middle-aged Virginia farmer, runs a place called Mount Vernon-"

"You're joking."

"I'm not.  No relation, of course-old George was childless-but that's
his real name, and he's perfectly genuine."

"I suppose you've checked with the embassy."

"Of course, and got a fifty-line print-out of his family tree.  Most
impressive-half the American aristocracy for the last hundred years.
Lots of Cabots and Du Ponts; and Kennedys and Kissingers.  And before
that, a couple of African kings."

"It may impress you, Colin," interjected Duncan, "but now that I've
glanced at the program, it all seems a little childish.  Grown men
pretending to be historical  figures.  Are they really going to throw
tea into Boston Harbor?"

Before Colin could answer, Grandfather Malcolm stepped in.  A
discussion among the three Makenzies -which was something seldom
overheard by outsiders-was more in the nature of a monologue than an
argument.  Because their three personas differed only through the
accidents of background and education, genuine disagreements among them
were virtually unknown.  When difficult decisions had to be made,
Duncan and Colin would take opposing viewpoints and debate them before
Malcolm-who would listen without saying a word, though his eyebrows
could be very eloquent.  He seldom had to give a judgment, because the
two advocates usually reached a synthesis without much difficulty; but
when he did, that was the end of the matter.  It was quite a good way
to run a family-or a world.

"I don't know about the tea, which would certainly be a waste at fifty
so lars a kilo, but you're being too hard on Mr.  Washington and his
friends.

When we have five hundred years behind us, we'll be justified in a
little pomp and ceremony.  And never forget the Declaration of
Independence was one of the most important historical events of the
last three thousand years.

We wouldn't be here without it.  After all, the Treaty of Phobos opens
with the words: When in the course of human events, it becomes
necessary for one ly people ... "Quite inappropriate in that context.
On the whole, Earth was heartily glad to get rid of us."

"Perfectly true, but don't ever let the Terrans hear it.19

"I'm still confused," said Duncan rather plaintively.  "Just what does
the good general want from us?  How can we raw colonials contribute to
the proceedings?"

"He's only a professor, not a general," replied Colin.  "They're
extinct, even on Earth.  As I see it, a few nicely composed speeches,
drawing whatever parallels you can find between our historical
situations.  A certain exotic charm-you know; a whiff of the frontier,
where men still live dangerously.  The usual barbarian virility, so
irresistible to decadent Terrans of all sexes.  And, not least, a
low-keyed yet genuine gratitude for the unexpected gift of an open
Earth-Titan return ticket with all expenses for a two month stay.  That
solves several of our problems, and we should appreciate it."

"Very true," Duncan replied thoughtfully, "even though it wrecks our
plans for the next five years."

"It doesn't wreck them," said Colin.  "It advances them.  Time gained
is time created.  And success in politics-" "--depends upon the
masterful administration of the unforeseen, as you are so fond of
saying.  Well, this invitation is certainly unforeseen, and I'll try to
master it.  Have we sent an official thank you?"

"Only a routine acknowledgment.  I suggest that you follow it up,
Duncan, with a personal note to President--er-Professor Washington."

"They're both right," said Malcolm, rereading the formal invitation.
"it says here: "Chairman of the Quincentennial Celebration Committee,
and

President of the Historical Association of Virginia."  So you can take
your choice."

"We've got to be very careful about this, or someone will bring it up
in the Assembly.  Was the invitation official, or personal?"

"It's not government to government, I'm happy to say, since the
Committee sponsored it.  And the fax was addressed to the Honorable
Malcolm Makenzie, not to the President."  The Honorable Malcolm
Makenzie, also President of

Titan, was clearly pleased at this subtle distinction.

"Do I detect in this the fine hand of your good friend Ambassador
Farrell?"  asked Colin.

"I'm sure the idea never occurred to him."

"I thought as much.  Well, even if we are on firm legal grounds, that
won't stop the objections.  There will be the usual cries of privilege,
and we'll be accused once again of running Titan for our personal
benefit."

"I'd like to know who started the word 'fiefdom!  circulating.  I had
to look it up."

Colin ignored the older man's interruption.  As Chief Administrator, he
had to face the day-to-day problems of running the world, and could
not afford the slight irresponsibility that Malcolm was beginning to
show in his old age.  It was not senility Grandfather was still only a
hundred and twenty-four -but, rather, the carefree, Olympian attitude
of one who had seen and experienced everything, and had achieved all
his ambitions.

"There are two points in our favor," Colin continued.  "No official
funds are involved, so we can't be criticized for using government
money.  And let's have no false modesty-Earth will expect a Makenzie.
It might even be regarded as an insult if one of us didn't go.  And as
Duncan is the only possibility, that settles the matter."

"You're perfectly correct, of course.  But not everyone will see it
that way.  All the families will want to send their younger sons and
daughters."

"There's nothing to stop them," Duncan interjected.

"How many could afford it?  We couldn't."

"We could if we didn't have some expensive extras in mind.  So can
the

Tanaka-Smiths, the Mohadeens, the Schwartzes, the Deweys .. ."

"But not, I believe, the Helmers."

Colin spoke lightly, but without humor, and there was a long silence
while all three Makenzies shared a single thought.  Then Malcolm said
slowly:

"Don't underrate Karl.  We have only power and brains.  But he has
genius, and that's always unpredictable."

"But he's crazy," protested Duncan.  "The last time we met, he tried to
convince me that there's intelligent life on Saturn."

"Did he succeed?"

C6,811most.99

"If he's crazy-which I doubt, despite that famous breakdown-then he's
even more dangerous.  Especially to you, Duncan."

Duncan made no attempt to answer.  His wiser and older twins understood
his feelings, even if they could never fully share them.

"There is one other point," said Malcolm thoughtfully, "and it may be
the most important of all.  We may have only ten years in which to
change the whole basis of our economy.  If you can find an answer to
this problem on your trip--even a hint of an answer!-you'll be a hero
when you come home.  No one will criticize any of your other
activities, public or private."

"That's a tall order.  I'm not a magician."

"Then perhaps you'd better start taking lessons.  If the Asymptotic
Drive isn't pure magic, I don't know what it is."

"Just a minute!"  said Colin.  "Isn't the first A-Drive ship going to
be here in a few weeks?"

"The second.  There was that freighter, Fomalhaut.  I went aboard, but
they wouldn't let me see anything.  Sirius is the first passenger
liner-she enters parking orbit-oh-in about thirty days."

"Could you be ready by then, Duncan?"

"I very much doubt it."

"Of course you can."

"I mean physiologically.  Even on a crash program, it takes months to
prepare for Earth gravity."

"Um.  But this is far too good an opportunity to miss--everything is
falling into place beautifully.  After all, you were born on Earth."

"So were you.  And how long did you take to get ready when you went
back?"

Colin sighed.

"It seemed like ages, but by now they must have improved the
techniques.

Don't they have neuro programming while you sleep?"

"It's supposed to give you horrible dreams, and I'll need all the sleep
I can get.  Still, what's good for Titan..."

He had no need to complete the quotation, which had been coined by some
unknown cynic half a century ago.  In thirty years, Duncan had never
really doubted this old cliche-once intended to wound, now virtually
adopted as a family motto.

What was good for the Makenzies was indeed good for Titan.

THE RED MOON

If the eighty-five known natural satellites, only Ganymede, lord of the
Jovian system, exceeds Titan in size-and that by a narrow margin.

But in another respect Titan has no rivals; no other moon of any planet
has more than a trace of atmosphere.  Titan's is so dense that if it
were made of oxygen, it would be easy for a man to breathe.

When this fact was discovered, late in the twentieth century, it
presented the astronomers with a first-class mystery.  Why should a
world not much larger than the Earth's totally airless Moon be able to
hold on to any atmosphere-particularly one rich in hydrogen, lightest
of all gases?  It should long ago have leaked away into space.

Nor was that the only enigma.  Like the Moon, almost all other
satellites are virtually colorless, covered with rock and dust
shattered by ages of meteoric bombardment.  But Titan is red-as red as
Mars, whose baleful glare reminded men in ancient times of bloodshed
and of war.

The first robot probes solved some of Titan's mysteries, but, as is
always the case, raised a host of new problems.  The red color came
from a layer of low, thick clouds, made from much the same bewildering
mixture of organic compounds as the Great Red Spot of Jupiter.  Beneath
those clouds was a world more than a hundred degrees hotter than it had
any right to be; indeed, there were regions of Titan where a man needed
little more than an oxygen mask and a simple thermofoil suit to move
around in the open.  To everyone's great surprise, Titan had turned out
to be the most hospitable place in the Solar System, next to Earth
itself.  Part of this unexpected warmth came from the greenhouse
effect, as the hydrogenous atmosphere trapped the feeble rays of the
distant sun.  But a good deal more was due to internal sources; the
equatorial region of Titan abounded in what, for want of a better
phrase, might be called cold volcanoes.  On rare occasions, indeed,
some of them actually erupted liquid water.

This activity, triggered by radioactive heat generated deep in the core
of

Titan, spewed megatons of hydrogen compounds into the atmosphere, and
so continually made up for the leakage into space.  One day, of course,
the bruised reserves-like the lost oil fields of Earth-would all be
gone, but the geologists had calculated that Titan could hold the
vacuum of space at bay for at least two billion years.  Man's most
vigorous atmospheric mining activities would have only a negligible
influence on this figure.

Like the Earth, Titan has distinct seasons-though it is difficult to
apply the word "summer" where the temperature at high noon seldom
climbs to fifty below.  And as Saturn takes almost thirty years to
circle the sun, each of the Titanian seasons is more than seven Terran
years in length.

The tiny sun, taking eight days to cross the sky, is seldom visible
through the cloud cover, and there is very little temperature
difference between day and night--or, for that matter, between Poles
and Equator.  Titan thus lacks climate; but it can, on occasion,
produce its own quite spectacular brand of weather.

The most impressive meteorological phenomenon is the so-called
Methane

Monsoon, which often though not invariably-occurs with the onset of
spring in the northern hemisphere.  During the long winter, some of the
methane in the atmosphere condenses in local cold spots and forms
shallow lakes, up to a thousand kilometers square but seldom more than
a few meters deep, and often covered with fantastically shaped bergs
and floes of ammonia ice.

However, it requires the exceedingly low temperature of minus a hundred
and sixty to keep methane liquefied, and no part of Titan is ever that
cold for very long.  A "warm" wind, or a break in the clouds-and the
methane lakes will flash suddenly into vapor.  It is as if, on Earth,
one of the oceans were to evaporate, abruptly increasing its volume
hundreds of times and so completely changing the state of the
atmosphere.  The result would be catastrophic, and on Titan it is
sometimes scarcely less so.  Wind speeds of up to five hundred
kilometers an hour have been recorded -or to be accurate, estimated
from their aftereflects.  They last only for a few minutes; but that is
quite long enough.  Several of the early expeditions were annihilated
by the monsoon, before it became possible to predict its onset.

Before the first landings on Titan, at the beginning of the
twenty-first century, some optimistic exobiologists had hoped to find
life around the relatively warm oases that were known to exist.  This
hope was slow to fade, and for a while it was revived by the discovery
of the strange wax formations of the famous Crystal Caves.  But by the
end of the century, it was quite certain that no indigenous life forms
had ever existed on Titan.

There had never been any expectation of finding life on the other
moons, where conditions were far more hostile.  Only.  Iapetus and
Rhea, less than half the size of Titan, had even a trace of atmosphere.
The remaining satellites were barren aggregates of rock, overgrown
snowballs, or mixtures of both.  By the mid-2200's, more than forty had
been discovered, the majority of them less than a hundred kilometers in
diameter.  The outer ones-twenty million kilometers from Saturn-all.
moved in retrograde orbits and were clearly temporary visitors from the
asteriod belt; there was much argument as to whether they should be
counted as genuine satellites at all.

Though some had been explored by geologists, many had never been
examined, except by robot space probes, but there was no reason to
suppose that they held any great surprises.

Perhaps one day, when Titan was prosperous and getting a little dull,
future generations would take up the challenge of these tiny worlds.
Some optimists had talked of turning the carbon-rich snowballs into
orbital zoos, basking beneath the warmth of their own fusion suns and
teeming with strange life forms.  Others had dreamed of private
pleasure domes and low-gravity resorts, and islands in space for
experiments in super-technology life styles.  But these were fantasies
of a Utopian future;

Titan needed all its energies now to solve its coming crisis, in this
demi millennial year of 2276.

THE POLITICS OF TIME AND SPACE

Then only two Makenzies were talking together, their conversation was
even more terse and telegraphic than when all three were present.

Intuition, parallel thought processes, and shared experience filled in
gaps that would have made much of their discourse wholly unintelligible
to outsiders.

"Handle?"  asked Malcolra.

"We?!"  retorted Colin.

"Thirty-one?  Boy!"

Which might be translated into plain English as:

"Do you think he can handle the job?"

"Have you any doubts that we could?"

"At thirty-one?  I'm not so sure.  He's only a boy."  "Anyway, we've no
choice.

This is a God-sent or Washington-sent--opportunity that we can't afford
to miss.  He'll have to get a crash briefing on Terran affairs, learn
all that's necessary about the United States .. ."

"That reminds me-what is the United States these days?  I've lost
count."

"Now there are forty-five states-Texas, New Mexico, Alaska, and Hawaii
have rejoined the Union, at least for the Centennial year."

"Just what does that mean, legally?"

"Not very much.  They pretend to be autonomous, but pay their regional
and global taxes like everyone else.  It's a typical

Terran compromise."

Malcolm, remembering his origins, sometimes found it necessary to
defend his native world against such cynical remarks.

"I often wish we had a little more Terran compromise here.  It would be
nice to inject some into Cousin Armand."

Armand Helmer, Controller of Resources, was not in fact a cousin of

Malcolm's, but a nephew of his ex-wife, Ellen.  However, in the closed
little world of Titan everyone except recent immigrants was related to
everybody else, and the designations "uncle," 6daunt ..... nephew,"
"cousin" were tossed around with cheerful inaccuracy.

"Cousin Armand," said Colin with some satisfaction, "is going to be
very upset when he learns that Duncan is on his way to Earth."

"And what will he do about it?"  Malcolm asked softly.

It was a good question, and for a moment both Makenzies brooded over
the deepening rivalry between their family and the Helmers.  In some
ways, it was commonplace enough; both Armand and his son, Karl, were
Terran-born, and had brought with them across a billion kilometers that
maddening aura of superiority that was so often the hallmark of the
mother world.  Some immigrants eventually managed to eradicate it,
though the process was difficult.  Malcolm Makenzie had succeeded only
after three planets and a hundred years, but the Helmers had never even
tried.  And although Karl had been only five years old when he left
Earth, he seemed to have spent the subsequent thirty trying to become
more Terran than the Terrans.  Nor could it have been a coincidence
that all his wives had been from Earth.

Yet this had been a matter of amusement, rather than annoyance, until
only a dozen years ago.  As boys, Duncan and Karl had been inseparable,
and there had been no cause for conflict between the families until
Armand's swift rise through the technological hierarchy of Titan had
brought him into a position of power.  Now the Controller did not
bother to conceal his belief that three generations of Makenzies were
enough.

Whether or not he had actually coined the famous "What's good for the
Makenzies .. ."  phrase, he certainly quoted it with relish.

To do Armand justice, his ambitions seemed more concentrated on his
only son than on himself.  That alone would have been sufficient to put
some str i s on the friendship between Karl and Duncan, but it would
probably have survived paternal pressures from either direction.  What
had caused the final rift was still something of a mystery, and was
associated with a psychological breakdown that Karl had experienced
fifteen years ago.

He had emerged from it with all his abilities intact, but with a marked
change of personality.  After graduating with honors at the University
of

Titan, he had become involved in a whole range of research activities,
from measurements of galactic radio waves to studies of the magnetic
fields around Saturn.  All this work had some practical relevance, and
Karl had also played a valuable role in the establishment and
maintenance of the communications network upon which Titanian life
depended.  It would be true to say, however, that his interests were
theoretical rather than practical, and he sometimes tried to exploit
this whenever the old "Two Cultures" debate raised its hoary head.

Despite a couple of centuries of invective from both sides, no one
really believed that Scientists, with a capital S, were more cultured
(whatever that meant) than Engineers.  The purity of theoretical
knowledge was a philosophical aberration which would have been laughed
out of court by those Greek thinkers who had had it foisted on them
more than a thousand years earlier.  The fact that the greatest
sculptor on Earth had begun his career as a bridge designer, and the
best violinist on Mars was still doing original work in the theory of
numbers, proved exactly nothing one way or the other.  But the Helmers
liked to argue that it was time for a change; the engineers had run
Titan for long enough, and they had the perfect replacement, who would
bring intellectual distinction to his world.  At thirty-six, Karl
still possessed the charm that had captivated all his peers, but it
seemed to many-and certainly to Duncan-that this was now underlined by
something hard, calculating, and faintly repellent.  He could still be
loved, but he had lost the ability to love; and it was strange that
none of his spectacular marriages had produced any offspring.

If Armand hoped to challenge the Makenzie regime, Karl's lack of an
heir was not his only problem.  Whatever the Seven Worlds might say
about their independence, the center of power was still on Earth.  As,
two thousand years ago, men had once gone to Rome in search of justice,
or prestige, or knowledge, so in this age the Imperial planet called to
its scattered children.  No man could be taken seriously in the arena
of Solar politics unless he was personally acquainted with the key
figures of Terran affairs, and had traced his way at least once through
the labyrinth of the terrestrial bureaucracy.

And to do this, one had to go to Earth; as in the days of the Caesars,
there was no alternative.  Those who believed otherwise-or pretended
to-risked being tagged with the dreaded word "colonial."

It might have been different if the velocity of light were infinite;
but it was a mere billion kilometers an hour-and therefore, real-time
conversation would be forever impossible between Earth and anyone
beyond the orbit of the Moon.  The global electronic village which had
existed for centuries on the mother world could never be extended into
space; the political and psychological effects of this were enormous,
and still not fully understood.

For generations, earth-dwellers had been accustomed to being in each
other's presence at the touch of a button.  The communications
satellites had made possible, and then inevitable, the creation of the
World State in all but name.  And despite many earlier fears, it was a
state still controlled by men, not by machines.

There were perhaps a thousand key individuals, and ten thousand
important ones-and they talked to each other incessantly from Pole to
Pole.  The decisions needed to run a world sometimes had to be made in
minutes, and for this the instantaneous feedback of face-to-face
conversation was essential.  Across a reaction of a light-second, that
was easy to arrange, and for three hundred years men had taken it for
granted that distance could no longer bar them from each other.

But with the establishment of the first Mars Base, this.  intimacy had
ended.  Earth could talk to Mars-but its words would always take at
least three minutes to get there, and the reply would take just as
long.

Conversation was thus impossible, and all business had to be done by
Telex or its equivalent.

In theory, this should have been good enough, and usually it was.  But
there were disastrous exceptions costly and sometimes fatal
interplanetary misunderstandings resulting from the fact that the two
men at the opposite ends of the circuit did not really know each other,
or comprehend each other's ways of thought, because they had never been
in personal contact.

And personal contact was essential at the highest levels of
statesmanship and administration.  Diplomats had known this for several
thousand years, with their apparatus of missions and envoys and
official visits.  Only after that contact, with its inevitable
character evaluation, had been made, and the subtle links of mutual
understanding and common interest established, could one do business by
long-distance communications with any degree of confidence.

Malcolm Makenzie could never have achieved his own rise on Titan
without the friendships made when he had returned to Earth.  Once he
had thought it strange that a personal tragedy should have led him to
power and responsibility beyond all the dreams of his youth; but unlike
Ellen, he had buried his dead past and it had ceased to haunt him long
ago.

When Colin had repeated the pattern, forty years later, and had
returned to

Titan with the infant Duncan, the position of the clan had been
immensely strengthened.  To most of the human race, Saturn's largest
moon was now virtually identified with the Makenzies.  No one could
hope to challenge them if he could not match the network of personal
contacts they had established not only on Earth, but everywhere else
that mattered.

It was through this network, rather than official channels, that the

Makenzies, as even their opponents grudgingly admitted, Got Things
Done.

And now a fourth generation was being prepared to consolidate the
dynasty.

Everyone knew that this would happen eventually, but no one had
expected it so soon.

Not even the Makenzies.  And especially not the Helmers.

BY THE BONNY, BONNY BANKS

OF LOCH HELL BREW

in the past, Duncan had always cycled to Grandmother Ellen's home, or
taken an electric cart whenever he had to deliver some household
necessity.  This time, however, he walked the two-kilometer tunnel from
the city, carrying fifty kilos of carefully distributed mass-which,
however, only gave him ten kilos of extra weight.  Had he known that
such characters had once existed, he might have felt a strong affinity
with old-time smugglers, wearing a stylish waistcoat of gold bars.

Colin had presented him with the complex harness of webbing and
pouches, with a heartfelt "Thank God r1l never have to use it again!  I
knew I had it around somewhere, but it took a couple of days to find.
It's only too true that the Makenzies never throw anything away."

Duncan found that it needed both hands to lift the harness off the
table; when he unzipped one of the many small pouches, he found that it
contained a pencil-sized rod of dull metal, astonishingly massive.

"What is it?"  he asked.  "It feels heavier than gold."  "It is.
Tungsten superalloy, if I remember.  The 24  total mass is seventy
kilos, but don't start wearing it all at once.  I began at forty, and
added a couple of kilos a day.  The important thing is to keep the
distribution uniform, and to avoid chafing."

Duncan was doing some mental arithmetic, and finding the results very
depressing.  Earth gravity was five times Titan's-yet this diabolical
device would merely double his local weight.

"It's impossible," he said gloomily.  "I'll never be able to walk on
Earth."

"Well, I did-though it wasn't easy at first.  Do everything that the
doctors tell you, even if it sounds silly.  Spend all the time you can
in baths, or lying down.  Don't be ashamed to use wheelchairs or
prosthetic devices, at least for the first couple of weeks.  And never
try to run."

"RUWIR

"Sooner or later you'll forget you're on Earth, and then you7U break a
leg.

Like to bet on it?"

Betting was one of the useful Makenzie vices.  The money stayed in the
family, and the loser always learned some valuable lesson.  Though
Duncan found it impossible to imagine five gravities, it could not be
denied that

Colin had spent a year on Earth and had survived to tell the tale.  So
this was not a bet that promised favorable odds.

Now he was beginning to believe Colin's prediction, and he scarcely
noticed the extra mass-at least when he was moving in a straight line.
It was only when he tried to change direction that he felt himself in
the grip of some irresistible force.  Not counting visitors from Earth,
he was probably now the strongest man on Titan.  It was not that his
body was developing new strength; rather, it was recovering latent
powers which had been slumbering, waiting for the moment when they
would be called forth.  In a few more years, what he was now attempting
would be too late.

The four-meter-wide tunnel had been lasered, years ago, through the rim
of the small crater which surrounded Oasis.  Originally, it had been a
pipeline for the ammoniated petrochemicals of the aptly named Loch
Hellbrew, one of the region's chief That25  ural resources.  Most of
the lake had gone to feed the industries of Titan; later, the tapping
of the moon's internal heat, as part of the local planetary engineering
project, had caused the remainder to evaporate.

There had been a certain amount of quiet grumbling when Ellen Makenzie
had made her intentions clear, but the Department of Resources had
pumped the remaining hydrogen-methane fog out of the tunnel, and now
carried its oxygen, to the annual annoyance of the auditors, on
inventory as part of the city's air reserve.  There were two manually
operated bulkheads, as well as the city's own backup seals.  Anyone
went beyond the second bulkhead at his own risk, but that was
negligible.  The tunnel was through solid rock, and since the pressure
inside was higher than ambient, there was no danger of Titanian poisons
leaking inward.

Half a dozen side tunnels, all of them now blocked, led out of the main
passageway.  When he had first come here as a small boy, Duncan had
filled those sealed-off shafts with wonder and magic.  Now he knew that
they merely led to long-abandoned surge chambers.  Yet though all the
mystery was gone, it still seemed to him that these corridors were
haunted by two ghosts.  One was a little girl who had been known and
loved by only a handful of pioneers; the other was a giant who had been
mourned by millions.

There had been endless jokes about Robert Kleinman's name, for he was
almost two meters tall, and porportioned accordingly.  And his talents
had matched his physique; he had been a master pilot at the age of
thirty, despite the difficulty of fitting him into standard space
equipment.  Duncan had never considered him particularly good-looking,
but in this matter he was outvoted by a small army of women including
Ellen Makenzie.

Grandma had met Captain Kleinman only a year after the final parting
with

Malcolm; she may have been on an emotional rebound, but he certainly
was not.  Yet thereafter the Captain had never looked at another woman,
and it had become one of those love affairs famous on many worlds.  It
had lasted throughout the planning and preparations for the first
expedition to Saturn and the fitting-out of the Challenger in orbit
off Titan.

And as far as Ellen Makenzie was concerned it had never died; it was
frozen forever at the moment when the ship met its mysterious and still
inexplicable doom, deep in the jet streams of the South Temperate
Zone.

Moving rather more slowly than when he had started his walk, Duncan
came to the final bulkhead.  On Grandma's hundredth birthday, the
younger members of the family had painted it in brilliant fluorescent
colors, which had faded not at all in the last dozen years.  Since
Ellen had never referred to it, and never heard questions which she did
not wish to answer, there was no way of discovering if she appreciated
the gift.

"I'm here, Grandma," Duncan called into the antique intercom which had
been presented to her by some anonymous admirer long ago.  (It was
still clearly marked "Made in Hong Kong," and had been dated circa
1995.  Shameful to relate, there had been one attempt to steal it,
though since theft was virtually unknown on Titan, this was probably
only a childish prank or an anti-Makenzie gesture.)

There was, as usual, no reply, but the door unlatched at once and
Duncan walked through into the tiny foyer.  Grandma's electro cycle
occupied the place from which it had not moved for years.  Duncan
checked the battery and kicked the tires, as he always did with great
conscientiousness.  No need for any pumping or charging this time; if
the old lady suddenly felt the impulse to descend upon the city, there
was nothing to prevent her.

The kitchen, which was a unit lifted intact from a small orbital
passenger shuttle, was a little tidier than usual.  Presumably one of
the voluntary helpers had just made her weekly visit.  Nevertheless,
the usual sickly sour smell of slow culinary disintegration and
inadequate recycling was heavy in the air, and Duncan held his breath
as he hurried through into the living room.  He never accepted more
than a cup of coffee from Grandma, and feared accidental poisoning if
he ever sampled the products of her robot reconstituter.  But Ellen
seemed to thrive on it; over the years she must have established some
kind of symbiosis with her kitchen.  It still lived up to the
manufacturer's "failsafe" guarantee, even though it did produce the
most peculiar odors.  Doubtless Grandma never noticed them.

Duncan wondered what she would do when the final disaster occurred.

The main living room was as crowded as ever.  Against one wall.  were
the shelves of carefully labeled rocks-a complete mineralogy of Titan
and the other examined moons of Saturn, as well as samples from each of
the rings.

As long as Duncan could remember, there had been just one section
empty, as if, even now.  Grandma was still waiting for Kleinman to
return.

The opposite wall was more sparsely occupied with communications and
information equipment, and racks of micro modules which, if completely
saturated, could have held more knowledge than all the libraries of
Earth up to the twenty-first century.  The rest of the room was a
compact little workshop, most of the floor space being occupied by the
machines that had fascinated Duncan throughout his childhood, and that
he would associate with Grandma Ellen as long as he lived.

There were petrological microscopes, polishing and cutting tools,
ultrasonic cleaners, laser knives, and all the shining paraphernalia of
gemologist and jeweler.  Duncan had learned to use most of them, over
the years, though he had never acquired more than a fraction of his
grandmother's skill and almost wholly lacked her artistic talents. What
he did share, to a much greater extent, were her mathematical
interests, exemplified by the small computer and associated holographic
display.

The computer, like the kitchen, was long overdue for retirement.  But
it was completely autonomous, so Grandma did not have to rely in any
way upon the immensely larger storage facilities in the city.  Although
her computer had a memory scarcely larger than that of a human brain,
it was sufficient for her rather modest purposes.  Her interest in
minerals had led her, inevitably, to crystallography, then to group
theory, and then to the harmless obsession that had .   dominated so
much of her lonely existence.  Twenty years ago, in this same room, she
had infected Duncan with it.  In his case, the disease was no longer
virulent, having run its course in a few months; but he knew, with
amused tolerance, that he would suffer occasional relapses throughout
his life.  How incredible that five perfectly identical squares could
create a universe that neither man nor computer would ever be able to
explore fully.... Nothing in the familiar room had changed since his
last visit, three.  weeks ago.  He could even imagine that Grandma had
not moved; she was still sitting at her worktable, sorting rocks and
crystals, while behind her the read-out screen intermittently flashed
solutions of some problem the computer was analyzing.  She was, as
usual, wearing a long gown that made her look like a Roman matron,
though Duncan was quite sure that no Roman matron's dress ever appeared
quite so disheveled or, to be perfectly frank, so overdue for the
laundry.  While Duncan had known her, Ellen's care of her equipment had
never extended to her personal appearance.

She did not rise, but tilted her head slightly so that he could deliver
his usual affectionate kiss.  As he did so, he noticed that the
external world, at least, had been touched by change.

The view from Grandma's picture window was famous-but by reputation
only, since few indeed had been privileged to see it with their own
eyes.  Her home was partly countersunk into a ledge overlooking the
dried-up bed of

Loch Hellbrew and the canyon that led into it, so it presented her with
a 180-degree panorama of Titan's most picturesque landscape. Sometimes,
when storms raged through the mountains, the view disappeared for hours
behind clouds of ammonia crystals.  But today the weather was clear and
Duncan could see for at least twenty kilometers.

"What's happening over there?"  he asked.

At first, he had thought it was one of the fire fountains that
sometimes erupted in unstable areas; but in that case the city would
have been in danger, and he would have heard of it long ago.  Then he
realized that the brilliant yet smoky column of light burning steadily
on the hill crest three or four kilometers away could only be
man-made.

"There's a fusor running over at Huygens.  I don't know what they're
doing, but that's the oxygen burn off29

"Oh, one of Armand's projects.  Doesn't it annoy you?99

"No-I think it's beautiful.  Besides, we need the water.  Look at those
rain clouds ... real rain.  And I think there's something growing over
there.  I've noticed a change in color on the rocks since that flame
started burning."

"That's quite possible-the bioengineering people will know all about
it.

One day you may have a forest to look at, instead of all this bare
rock."

He was joking, of course, and she knew it.  Except in very restricted
areas, no vegetation could grow here in the open.  But experiments like
this were a beginning, and one day ... Over there in the mountain, a
hydrogen fusion plant was at work, melting down the crust of Titan to
release all the elements needed for the industries of the little world.
And as half that crust consisted of oxygen, now needed only in very
small quantities in the closed-cycle economies of the cities, it was
simply allowed to burn off.

"Do you realize, Duncan," said Grandma suddenly, "how neatly that flame
symbolizes the difference between Titan and Earth?"

"Well, they don't have to melt rocks there to get everything they
need."  91 was thinking of something much more fundamental.  If a
Terran wants a fire, he ignites a jet of hydrocarbons and lets it burn.
We do exactly the opposite.  We set fire to a jet of oxygen, and let
it burn in our hydro methane atmosphere."

This was such an elementary fact of life-indeed an ecological
platitude-that Dqmcan felt disappointed; he had hoped for some more
startling revelation.  His face must have reflected his thoughts, for

Grandma gave him no chance to comment.

"What I'm trying to tell you," she said, "is that it may not be as easy
for you to adjust to Earth as you imagine.  You may know-or think you
know what conditions are like there, but that knowledge isn't based on
experience.  When you need it in a hurry, it won't be there.  Your
Titan instincts may give the wrong answers.  So act slowly, and always
think twice before you move."

"I've no choice about acting slowly-my Titan muscles will see to
that."

"How long will you be gone?"

"About a year.  My official invitation is for two months, but now the
trip's being paid for, I'll have funds for a much longer stay.  And it
seems a pi 7, to waste the opportunity, since it's my only one."

He tried to keep his voice as cheerfully optimistic as he could, though
he knew perfectly well the thoughts that must be passing through
Grandma's mind.  They were both aware that this might be their last
meeting.  One hundred fourteen was not an excessive age for a
woman-but, truly, what did

Grandma have to live for?  The hope of seeing him again, when he
returned from Earth?  He liked to think so.... And there was another
matter, never to be referred to, yet hovering in the background.
Grandma knew perfectly well the main purpose of his visit to Earth, and
the knowledge must, even after all these years, be like a dagger in her
heart.  She had never forgiven

Malcolm; she had never accepted Colin; would she continue to accept him
when he returned with little

Malcolm?

Now she was hunting around, with a clumsiness quite unlike her normal
precise movements, in one of the cubbyholes of her work desk.

"Here's a souvenir to take with you."

"What-oh, it's beautiful!"  He was not being excessively polite; sheer
surprise had forced the reaction from him.  The flat, crystal-lidded
box he was now holding in his hands was, indeed, one of the most
exquisite works of geometrical art he had ever seen.  And Grandma could
not have chosen any single object more evocative of his youth and of
the world that, though he was now about to leave it, must always be his
home.  As he stared at the mosaic of colored stones that 31  exactly
filled the little box, greeting each of the familiar shapes like an old
friend, his eyes misted and the years seemed to roll away.  Grandma had
not changed; but he was only ten....

A CROSS OF TITANITE

I I You're old enough now, Duncan, to understand this game ... though
it's very much more than a game.1p

Whatever it is, thought Duncan, it doesn't look very exciting.  What
can you do with five identical squares of white plastic, a couple of
centimeters on a side?

"Now the first problem," continued Grandma, "is to see how many
different patterns you can make, by putting all these squares
together."

"While they lie flat on the table?"

"Yes, with the edges matching exactly--overlapping isn't allowed."

Duncan started to shuffle the squares.

"Well," he began, "I can put them all in a straight line like this .. .
then I can switch the end one to make an L ... and the one at the other
end to make a U.... He quickly produced half a dozen different
assemblies of the five squares, then found that he was repeating
himself.

"I think that's all-oh, stupid of me."

He had missed the most obvious figure of all the cross, or X, formed by
putting one square in the middle and the other four surrounding it.

"Most people," said Grandma, "find that one first.  I don't know what
this proves about your mental processes.  Do you think you've found
them all?"

Duncan continued to slide the squares around, and eventually
discovered three more figures.  Then he gave UP.

"That's the lot," he announced confidently.

"Then what about this one?"  said Grandma, moving the squares swiftly
to make a figure that looked like a humpbacked F. "Oh!"

"And this ... Duncan began to feel very foolish, and was much relieved
when Grandma continued: "You did fairly well-you only missed these two.
Altogether, there are exactly twelve of these patterns-no more and no
less.  Here they are.  You could hunt forever-you won't find another
one."

She brushed aside the five little squares, and laid on the table a
dozen brightly colored pieces of plastic.  Each was different in shape,
and together they formed the complete set of twelve figures that,
Duncan was now quite prepared to admit, were all that could be made
from five equal squares.

But surely there must be more to it than this.  The game couldn't have
finished already.  No, Grandma still had something up her sleeve.

"Now listen carefully, Duncan.  Each of these figures-they're called
pentominoes, by the way-is obviously the same size, since they're all
made from five identical squares.  And there are twelve of them, so the
total area is sixty squares.  Right?"

GUm ... yes."

"Now sixty is a nice round number, which you can split up in lots of
ways.

Let's start with ten multiplied by six, the easiest one.  That's the
area of this little box-ten units by six units.  So the twelve pieces
should fit exactly into it, like a simple jigsaw puzzle."

Duncan looked for traps-Grandma had a fondness for verbal and
mathematical paradoxes, not all of them comprehensible to a
ten-year-old victim but he could find none.  If the box was indeed the
size Grandma said, then the twelve pieces should just fit into it.
After all, both were sixty units in area.

Wait a minute ... the area might be the same, but the shape could be
wrong.

There might be no way of 33  making the twelve pieces fit this
rectangular box, even though it was the right size.

"I'll leave you to it," said Grandma, after he had shuffled pieces
around for a few minutes.  "But I promise you this-it can be done."

Ten minutes later, Duncan was beginning to doubt it.  It was easy
enough to fit ten of the pieces into the frame-and once he had managed
eleven.  Unfortunately the hole then left in the jigsaw was not the
same shape as the piece that remained in his hand --even though, of
course, it was of exactly the same area.  The hole was an X, the piece
was a Z.... Thirty minutes later, he was fairly bursting with
frustration.  Grandma had left him completely alone, while she
conducted an earnest dialogue with her computer; but from time to time
she gave him an amused glance, as if to say

"See-it isn't as easy as you thought..  .."

Duncan was stubborn for his age.  Most boys of ten would have given up
long ago.  (It never occurred to him, until years later, that Grandma
was also doing a neat job of psychological testing.) He did not appeal
for help for almost forty minutes.  - .  Grandma's fingers flickered
over the mosaic.  The U and X and L slid around inside their
restraining frame-and suddenly the little box was exactly full.  The
twelve pieces had been perfectly fitted into the jigsaw.

"Well, you knew the answerl" said Duncan, rather lamely.

"The answer?"  retorted Grandma.  "Would you care to guess how many
diflerent ways those pieces can be fitted into their box?"

There was a catch here-Duncan was sure of it.  He hadn't found a single
solution in almost an hour of effort-and he must have tried at least a
hundred arrangements.  But it was possible that there might be-oh-a
dozen different answers.

"I'd guess there might be twenty ways of putting those pieces into the
box," he replied, determined to be on the safe side.

"Try again."  That was a danger signal.  Obviously, there was 34  much
more to this business than met the eye, and it would be safer not to
commit himself.

Duncan shook his head.

"I can't imagine.~P

"Sensible boy.  Intuition is a dangerous guide though sometimes it's
the only one we have.  Nobody could ever guess the right answer.  There
are more than two thousand distinct ways of putting these twelve pieces
back into their box.  To be precise, 2,339.  What do you think of
that?"

It was not likely that Grandma was lying to him, yet Duncan felt so
humiliated by his total failure to find even one solution that he
blurted out: "I don't believe it!"

Grandma seldom showed annoyance, though she could become cold and
withdrawn when he had offended her.  This time, however, she merely
laughed and punched out some instructions to the computer.

"Look at that," she said.

A pattern of bright lines had appeared on the screen, showing the set
of all twelve pentominoes fitted into the six-by-ten frame.  It held
for a few seconds, then was replaced by another obviously different,
though Duncan could not possibly remember the arrangement briefly
presented to him.  Then came another .. . and another, until Grandma
canceled the program.

"Even at this fast rate," she said, "it takes five hours to run through
them all.  And take my word for it-though no human being has ever
checked each one, or ever could-they're all different."

For a long time, Duncan stared at the collection of twelve deceptively
simple figures.  As he slowly assimilated what Grandma had told him, he
had the first genuine mathematical revelation of his life.  What had at
first seemed merely a childish game had opened endless vistas and
horizons-though even the brightest of ten-year-olds could not begin to
guess the full extent of the universe now opening up before him.

This moment of dawning wonder and awe was purely passive; a far more
intense explosion of intellectual delight occurred when he found his
first very own solution to the problem.  For weeks he carried around
with him the set of twelve pentominoes in their plastic box, playing
with them at every odd moment.  He got to know each of the dozen shapes
as personal friends, calling them by the letters which they most
resembled, though in some cases with a good deal of imaginative
distortion: the odd group, F, 1, L, P, N and-the ultimate alphabetical
sequence T, U, V, W,

Y..."  Y, Z.

And once in a sort of geometrical trance or ecstasy which he was never
able to repeat, he discovered five solutions in less than an hour.
Newton and

Einstein and Chen-tsu could have felt no greater kinship with the gods
of mathematics in their own moments of truth.... It did not take him
long to realize, without any prompting from Grandma, that it might.
also be possible to arrange the pieces in other shapes besides the
six-by-ten rectangle.  In theory, at least, the twelve pentominoes
could exactly cover rectangles with sides of five-by-twelve units,
four-by-fifteen units, and even the narrow strip only three units wide
and twenty long.

Without too much effort, he found several examples of the five-by
twelve and four-by-fifteen rectangles.  Then he spent a frustrating
week, trying to align the dozen pieces into a perfect three-by-twenty
strip. Again and again he produced shorter rectangles, but always there
were a few pieces left over, and at last he decided that this shape was
impossible.

Defeated, he went back to Grandma-and received another surprise.

"I'm glad you made the effort," she said.  "Generalizing---exploring
every possibility-is what mathematics is all about.  But you're wrong.
It can be done.  There are just two solutions; and if you find one,
you'll also have the other."

Encouraged, Duncan continued the hunt with renewed vigor.  After
another week, he began to realize them.agnitude of the problem.  The
number of distinct ways in which a mere twelve objects could be laid
out essentially in a straight line, when one also allowed for the fact
that most of them could assume at least four different orientations,
was staggering.  Once again, he appealed to Grandma, pointing out the
unfairness of the odds.  If there were only two solutions, bow long
would it take to find them?

"I'll tell you," she said.  "If you were a brainless computer, and put
down the pieces at the rate of one a second in every possible, way, you
could run through the whole set in"--she paused for effect----~'rather
more than six million, million years."

Earth years or Titan years?  thought the appalled Duncan.  Not that it
really mattered ... "But you aren't a brainless computer," continued
Grandma.  "You can see at a glance whole categories that won't fit into
the pattern, so you don't have to bother about them.  Try again.. .."

Duncan obeyed, though without much enthusiasm or success.  And then he
had a brilliant idea.

Karl was interested, and accepted the challenge at once.  He took the
set of pentominoes, and that was the last Duncan heard of him for
several hours.

Then he called back, looking a little flustered.

"Are you sure it can be done?"  he demanded.

"Absolutely.  In fact, there are two solutions.  Haven't you found even
one?

I thought you were good in mathematics."

"So I am.  That's why I know how tough the job is.  There are over a
quadrillion possible arrangements to be checked."

"How do you work that out?"  asked Duncan, delighted to discover
something that had baffled his friend.

Karl looked at a piece of paper covered with sketches and numbers.

"Well, excluding forbidden positions, and allowing for symmetry and
rotation, it comes to factorial twelve times two to the
twenty-first-you wouldn't understand why!  That's quite a number; here
it is."

He held up a sheet on which he had written, in large figures, the
imposing array of digits:

1 004 539 160 000000

Duncan looked at the number with satisfaction; he did not doubt Karl's
arithmetic.  "So you've given up."

"NO!  I'm just telling you how hard it is."  And Karl, looking grimly
determined, switched off.

The next day, Duncan had one of the biggest surprises of his young
life.  A bleary-eyed Karl, who had obviously not slept since their last
conversation, appeared on his screen.

"Here it is," he said, exhaustion and triumph competing in his voice.

Duncan could hardly believe his eyes; he had been convinced that the
odds against success were impossibly great.  But there was the narrow
rectangular strip, only three squares wide and twenty long, formed from
the complete set of twelve pieces.... With fingers that trembled
slightly from fatigue, Karl took the two end sections and switched them
around, leaving the center portion of the puzzle untouched.

"And here's the second solution," he said.  "Now I'm going to bed. Good
night-or good morning, if that's what it is."

For a long time, a very chastened Duncan sat staring at the blank
screen.

He did not yet understand what had happened.  He only knew that Karl
had won against all reasonable expectations.

It was not that Duncan really minded; he loved Karl too much to resent
his little victory, and indeed was capable of rejoicing in his friend's
triumphs even when they were at his own expense.  But there was
something strange here, something almost magical.

It was Duncan's first glimpse of the power of intuition, and the mind's
mysterious ability to go beyond the available facts and to
short-circuit the process of logic.  In a few hours, Karl had completed
a search that should have required trillions of operations and would
have tied up the fastest computer in existence for an appreciable
number of seconds.

One day, Duncan would realize that all men had such powers, but might
use them only once in a lifetime.  In Karl, the gift was exceptionally
well developed; from that moment onward, Duncan had learned to take
seriously even his most outrageous speculations.  That was twenty
years ago; whatever had happened to that little set of plastic figures?
 He could not remember when he had last seen it.

But here it was again, reincarnated in colored minerals-the peculiar
rose-tinted granite from the Galileo Hills, the obsidian of the
Huygens

Plateau, the pseudo marble of the Herschel Escarpment.  And there--it
was unbelievable, but doubt was impossible in such a matter-was the
rarest and most mysterious of all the gemstones found on this world.
The X of the puzzle was made of Titanite itself; no one could ever
mistake that blue-black sheen with its fugitive flecks of gold.  It was
the largest piece that Duncan had ever seen, and he could not even
guess at its value.

"I don't know what to say," he stammered.  "It's beautiful-I've never
seen anything like it."

He put his arms around Grandma's thin shoulders -and found, to his
distress, that they were quivering uncontrollably.  He held her gently
until the shaking stopped, knowing that there were no words for such
moments, and realizing as never before that he was the last love of her
empty life, and he was leaving her to her memories.

CHILDREN OF THE CORRIDORS

There was a sense of sadness and finality about almost everything that
he did in these last days.  Sometimes it puzzled Duncan; he should be
excited, anticipating the great adventure that only a handful of men on
his world could ever share.  And though he had never before been out of
touch with his friends and family for more than a few hours, he was
certain that a year's absence would pass swiftly enough, among the
wonders and distractions of Earth.  So why this melancholy?  If he was
saying farewell to the things of his youth, it was only for a little
while, and he would appreciate them all the more when he returned....
When he returned.  That, of course, was the heart of the problem.  In a
real sense, the Duncan Makenzie who was now leaving Titan would never
return; indeed, that was the purpose of the exercise.  Like Colin
thirty years ago, and Malcolm forty years before that, he was heading
sunward in search of knowledge, of power, of maturity-and, above all,
of the successor which his own world could never give him.  For, of
course, being Malcolm's duplicate, he too carried in his loins the
fatal Makenzie gene.

Sooner than he had expected, he had to prepare his family for the new
addition.  After the usual number of earlier experiments, he had
settled down with Marissa four years ago, and he loved her children as
much, he was certain, as if they had been his own flesh and blood.
Clyde was now six years old, Caroline three.  They in their turn
appeared to be as fond of

Duncan as of their real fathers, who were now regarded as honorary
members of the Clan Makenzie.  Much the same thing had happened in
Colin's generation-he had acquired or adopted three families-and in
Malcolm's.

Grandfather had never gone to the trouble of marrying again after Ellen
had left him, but he had never lacked company for long.  Only a
computer could keep track of the comings and goings on the periphery of
the clan; it often seemed that most of Titan was related to it in some
way or other.  One of

Duncan's major problems now was deciding who would be mortally offended
if he failed to say good-bye.

Quite apart from the time factor, he had other rea sons for making as
few farewells as possible.  Every one of his friends and relatives-as
well as almost complete strangers-seemed to have some request for him,
some mission they wanted him to carry out as soon as he reached Earth.
Or, worse still, there was some essential item ("It won't be any
trouble") they wanted him to bring back.  Duncan calculated that he
would have to charter a special freighter if he aoquiesced to all these
demands.

Every job now had to be divided into one of two categories.  There were
the things that must be done before he left Titan, and those that could
be postponed until he was aboard ship.  The latter included his studies
of current terrestrial affairs, which kept slipping despite ColWs
increasingly frantic attempts to update him

Extricating himself from his official duties was also no easy task,
and

Duncan realized that in a few more years it would be well-nigh
impossible

He was getting involved in too many things, though that was a matter of
deliberate family policy.  More than once he had complained that his
title of Special Assistant to the Chief Administrator gave him
responsibility without power.  To this, Chief Administrator Colin had
retorted: "Do you know what power means in our society?  Giving orders
to people who carry them out only it and when they feel like it."

This was, of course, a gross libel on the Titanian bureaucracy, which
functioned surprisingly well and with a minimum of red tape.  Because
all the key individuals knew each other, an immense amount of business
got done through direct personal contact.  Everyone who had come to
Titan had been carefully selected for intelligence and ability, and
knew that survival depended upon co-operation.  Those who felt like
abandoning their social responsibilities first had to practice
breathing methane at a hundred below.

One possible embarrassment he had at least been spared.  He could
hardly leave Titan without saying good-bye to his once closest
friend-but, very fortunately, Karl was off-world.  Several months ago
he had left on one of the shuttles to join a Terran survey ship working
its way through the outer moons.  Ironically enough, Duncan had envied
Karl his chance of seeing some unknown worlds; now it was Karl who
would be envious of him.

He could well imagine Karl's frustration when he heard that Duncan was
on his way to Earth.  The thought gave him more sadness than pleasure;
the

Makenzies, whatever their faults, were not vindictive  Yet Duncan
could not help wondering how often Karl's reveries would now turn
sunward, and to the moment long ago when their emotions had been
irrevocably linked with the mother world.

Duncan was just sixteen, and Karl twenty-one, when the cruise liner
Mentor had made her first, and it was widely hoped only, rendezvous
with Titan.

She was a converted fusion-drive freighter-slow but economical,
provided adequate supplies of hydrogen could be picked up at strategic
points.

Mentor had stopped at Titan for her final refueling, on the last leg of
a grand tour that had taken her to Mars, Ganymede, Europa, Pallas,
and

Iapetus, and had included flybys of Mercury and Eros.  As soon as she
had loaded some fifteen thousand tons of hydrogen, her exhausted crew
planned to head back to Earth on the fastest orbit they could compute,
if possible after marooning all the passengers.

The cruise must have seemed a good idea when a consortium of Terran
universities had planned it several years earlier.  And so indeed it
had turned out, in the long run, for Mentor graduates had since proved
their worth throughout the Solar System.  But when the ship staggered
into her parking orbit, under the command of a prematurely gray
captain, the whole enterprise looked like a first-magnitude disaster.

The problems of keeping five hundred young adults entertained and out
of mischief on a six-months' cruise aboard even the largest space liner
had not been given sufficient thought; the law professor who had signed
on as master-at-arms was later heard to complain bitterly about the
complete absence from the ship's inventory of hypodermic guns and
knockout gas.  On the other hand, there had been no deaths or serious
injuries, only one pregnancy, and everyone had learned a great deal,
though not necessarily in the areas that the organizers had intended.
The first few weeks, for example, were mostly occupied by experiments
in zero-gravity sex, despite warnings that this was an expensive
addiction for those compelled to spend most of their lives on planetary
surfaces.  Other shipboard activities, it was widely believed, were
not quite so harmless.  There were reports of tobacco-smoking-not
actually illegal, of course, but hardly sensible behaviour when there
were so many safe alternatives.  Even more alarming were persistent
rumors that someone had smuggled an Emotion Amplifier on board Mentor. 
The so-called joy machines were banned on all planets, except under
strict medical control; but there would always be people to whom
reality was not good enough, and who would want to try something
better.

Notwithstanding the horror stories radioed ahead from other ports of
call,

Titan had looked forward to welcoming its young visitors.  It was felt
that they would add color to the social scene, and help establish some
enjoyable contacts with Mother Earth.  And anyway, it would be for only
a week.... Luckily, no one dreamed that it would be for two months.
This was not

Mentor's fault; Titan had only itself to blame.

When Mentor fell into her parking orbit, Earth and Titan were involved
in one of their periodical wrangles over the price of hydrogen, FOB.
Zero

Gravitational Potential (Solar Reference).  The proposed 15 percent
rise, screamed the Terrans, would cause the collapse of interplanetary
commerce.

Anything under 10 percent, swore the Titanians, would result in their
instant bankruptcy and would make it impossible for them to import any
of the expensive items Earth was always trying to sell.  To any
historian of economics, the whole debate was boringly familiar.

Unable to get a firm quotation, Mentor was stranded in orbit with empty
fuel tanks.  At first, her captain was not too unhappy; he and the crew
could do with the rest, now that the passengers had shuttled down to
Titan and had fanned out all over the face of the hapless satellite.
But one week stretched into two, then three, then a month.  By that
time, Titan was ready to settle on almost any terms; unfortunately,
Mentor had now missed her optimum trajectories, and it would be another
four weeks before the next launch window opened.  Meanwhile, the five
hundred guests were enjoying themselves, usually much more than their
hosts.

But to the younger Titanians, it was an exciting time which they would
remember all their lives.  On a small world where everyone knew
everybody else, half a thousand fascinating strangers had arrived, full
of tales, many of them quite true, about the wonders of Earth.  Here
were men and women, barely into their twenties, who had seen forests
and prairies and oceans of liquid water, who had strolled unprotected
under an open sky beneath a sun whose heat could actually be felt....
This very contrast in backgrounds, however, was a possible source of
danger.  The Terrans could not be allowed to go wandering around by
themselves, even inside the habitats.  They had to have escorts,
preferably responsible people not too far from their own age group, to
see that they did not inadvertently kill either themselves or their
hosts.

Naturally, there were times when they resented this well-intentioned
supervision, and even tried to escape from it.  One group succeeded; it
was very lucky, and suffered no more than a few searing whiffs of
ammonia.

Damage was so slight that the foolish adventurers required only routine
lung transplants, but after this exploit there was no more serious
trouble.

There were plenty of other problems.  The sheer mechanics of absorbing
five hundred visitors was a challenge to a society where living
standards were still somewhat Spartan, and accommodation limited.  At
first, all the unexpected guests were housed in the complex of
corridors left by an abandoned i i g operation, hastily converted into
dormitories.  Then, as quickly as arrangements could be made, they were
farmed out-like refugees from some bombed city in an ancient war-to any
households that were able to cope with them.  At this stage, there were
still many willing volunteers, among them Colin and Sheela Makenzie.

The apartment was lonely, now that Duncan's pseudo sibling Glynn had
left home to work on the other side of Titan; Sheela's other child,
Yuri, had been gone for a decade.  Though Number 402, Second Level,
Meridian Park was hardly spacious by Terran standards,

Assistant Administrator Colin Makenzie, as he was then, had selected
one of the homeless wafes for temporary adoption.

And so Calindy had come into Duncan's life-and into Karl's.

THE FATAL GIFT

Catherine Linden Ellerman had celebrated her twenty-first birthday just
before Mentor reached Saturn.  By all accounts, it had been a memorable
party, giving the final silvery gloss to the captain's remaining
hairs.

Calindy would have sailed through untouched; next to her beauty, that
was her most outstanding characteristic.  In the midst of chao seven
chaos that she herself had generated-she was the calm center of the
storm.

With a self-possession far beyond her years, she seemed to young Duncan
the very embodiment of Terran culture and sophistidation.  He could
smile wryly, one and a half decades later, at his boyish naievete but
it was not wholly unfounded.  By any standards, Calindy was a
remarkable phenomenon.

Duncan knew, of course, that all Terrans were rich.  (How could it be
otherwise, when each was the heir to a hundred thousand generations?)
But he was overawed 'by Calindy's display of jewels and silks, never
realizing that she had a limited wardrobe which she varied with
consummate skill.

Most impressive of all was a stunningly beautiful coat of golden
fur-the only one ever seen on Titan-made from the skins of an animal
called a mink.

That was typical of Calindy; no one else would have dreamed of taking a
fur coat aboard a spaceship.  And she had not done so--as malicious
rumor pretended-because she had heard it was cold out around Saturn.
She was much too intelligent for that kind of stupidity, and knew
exactly what she was doing; she had brought her mink simply because it
was beautiful.

Perhaps because he could see her only through a mist of adoration,
Duncan could never visualize her, in later years, as an actual person.
When he thought of Calindy, and tried to conjure up her image, he did
pot see the real girl, but always his only replica of her, in one of
the bubble stereos that had become popular in the '50's.

How many thousands of times he had taken that apparently solid, yet
almost weightless sphere in his hands, shaken it gently, and thus
activated the five second loo pI Through the subtle magic of organized
gas molecules, each releasing its programmed quantum of light,
Calindy's face would appear out of the swirling mists-tiny, yet perfect
in form and color.  At first she would be in proffle; then she would
turn and suddenly-Duncan could never be sure of the moment when it
arrived-there would be the faint smile that only

Leonardo could have captured in an earlier age.  She did not seem to be
smiling at him, but at someone over his shoulder.  The impression was
so strong that more than once Duncan had looked back, startled, to see
who was standing behind him.

Then the image would fade, the bubble would become opaque, and he would
have to wait five minutes before the system recharged itself.  It did
not matter; he had only to close his eyes and he could still see the
perfect oval face, the delicate ivory skin, the lustrous black hair
gathered up into a toque and held in place by a silver comb that had
belonged to a

Spanish princess, when Columbus was a child.  Calindy liked playing
roles, though she took none of them too seriously, and Carmen was one
of her favorites.  when she entered the Makenzie household, however,
she was the exiled aristocrat, graciously accepting the hospitality of
kindly provincials, with what few family heirlooms she had been able to
save from the

Revolution.  As this impressed no one except Duncan, she quickly became
the studious anthropologist, taking notes for her thesis on the quaint
habits of 46  primitive societies.  This role was at least partly
genuine, for Calindy was really interested in differing life styles;
and by some definitions, Titan could indeed be classed as
primitive--or, at least, undeveloped.

Thus the supposedly unshockable Terrans were genuinely horrified at
encountering families with three--and even fourl---children on Titan.
The twentieth century's millions of skeleton babies still haunted the
conscience of the world, and such tragic but understandable excesses as
the "Breeder Lynching" campaign, not to mention the burning of the
Vatican, had left permanent scars on the human psyche.  Duncan could
still remember

Calindy's expression when she encountered her first family of six:
outrage contended with curiosity, until both were moderated by Terran
good manners.

He had patiently explained the facts of life to her, pointing out that
there was nothing eternally sacred about the dogma of Zero Growth, and
that

Titan really needed to double its population every fifty years.
Eventually she appreciated this logically, but she had never been able
to accept it emotionally.  And it was emotion that provided the driving
force of

Calindy's life; her will and beauty and intelligence were merely its
servants.

For a young Terran, she was not promiscuous.  She once told Duncan-and
he believed her-that she never had more than two lovers at a time.  On
Titan, to Duncan's considerable distress, she had only one.

Even if the Helmers and Makenzies had not been related through
Grandma

Ellen, it was inevitable that she would have met Karl, at one of the
countless concerts and parties and dances arranged for Mentor's
castaways.

So Duncan could not really blame himself for introducing them; it would
have made no difference in the end.  Yet even so, he would always
wonder.... Karl was then almost twenty-two-a year older than Calindy,
though far less experienced.  He still possessed the slightly
overmuscled build of the native born Terran, but had adapted so well to
the lower gravity that he moved more gracefully than most men who had
spent their entire lives on

Titan.  He seemed to possess the secret of power without clumsiness.
And in a quite literal sense, he was the Golden Boy of his
generation.

Though he pretended to hate the phrase, Duncan knew that he was
secretly proud of the title someone had given him in his teens: "The
boy with hair like the sun."  The description could only have been
coined by a visitor from Earth.  No Titanian would have thought of
it-but everyone agreed that it was completely appropriate.  For Karl
Helmer was one of those men upon whom, for their own amusement, the
Gods had bestowed the fatal gift of beauty.

Only years later, and partly thanks to Colin, did Duncan begin to
understand all the nuances of the affair.  Soon after his twenty-third
birthday, the Makenzies received the last Star Day card that Calindy
ever sent them.

"I still don't know if I made a mistake," Colin said ruefully as he
fingered the bright rectangle of paper that had carried its
conventional greetings halfway across the Solar System.  "But it seemed
a good idea at the time."

"Well, I don't think it did any harm, in the long run.  tv

Cohn looked at him strangely.

"I wonder.  Anyway, it certainly didn't turn out as I expected."

"And what did you expect?"

It was sometimes a great advantage, and sometimes downright
embarrassing, to have a father who was also your thirty-year-older
identical twin.  He knew all the mistakes you were going to make,
because he had made them already.  It was impossible to conceal any
secrets from him, because his thought processes were virtually the
same.  In such a situation, the only policy that made any sense was
complete honesty, as far as that could be achieved by human beings.

"I'm not quite sure.  But the moment I saw Calindy, shining like a nova
amid all that gloom and chaos down in the old mine workings, I wanted
to learn more about her ... wanted to make her part of my life.  You
know what I mean."  48  Duncan could only nod his head in silent
agreement.

"Sheela didn't mind-after all, I'm not a babysnatcherl And we both
hoped that Calindy would give you someone to think about besides
Karl."

"I was already getting over that, anyway.  It was much too
frustrating."

Colin chuckled, not unsympathetically.

"So I can imagine.  Karl was spreading himself pretty thin.  Half of
Titan was in love with him in those days-still is, for that matter.
Which is why we must keep him out of politics.  Remind me to tell you
about Alcibiades someday."

"Who?"

"Ancient Greek general-too clever and charming for his own good.  Or
for anyone else's."

"I appreciate your concern," said Duncan, with only a slight trace of
sarcasm.  "But that increased my problems a hundred percent.  As she
made quite clear, I was much too young for Calindy, and of course Karl
was now interested only in her.  And to make matters worse, they didn't
even mind me sharing their bed as long as I didn't get in the way.  In
fact--2'

"Yes?"

Duncan's face darkened.  How strange that he had never thought of this
before, yet how obvious it wasl

"Didn't mind, hell!  They enjoyed having me there, just to tease me! At
least Karl did."

It should have been a shattering revelation, yet somehow it did not
hurt as much as he would have expected.  He must have realized for a
long time, without admitting it to himself, that there was a very
definite streak of cruelty in Karl.  Certainly his lovemaking often
lacked tenderness and consideration; there were even times when he had
scared Duncan into something approaching impotence.  And to do that to
a virile sixteen-year-old was no mean feat.  "I'm glad you've realized
that," said Colin somberly.  "You had to find it out for yourself-you
wouldn't have believed us.  But whatever Karl did, he certainly paid
for it.  That breakdown was serious.  And, frankly, I don't believe his
recovery is as complete as the doctors claim."  This was also a new
thought to Duncan, and he turned it over in his mind.

Karl's breakdown was still a considerable mystery, which the Helmer
family had never discussed with outsiders.  The romantics had a simple
explanation: he was heartbroken over the loss of Calindy.  Duncan had
always found this too hard to accept.  Karl was too tough to pine away
like some character in an old time melodrama---especially when there
were at least a thousand volunteers waiting to console him.  Yet it was
undeniable that the breakdown had occurred only a few weeks after
Mentor had, to everyone's relief, blasted Earthward.

After that, there had been a complete change in his personality;
whenever

Duncan met him in these last few years, he had seemed almost a
stranger.

Physically, he was as beautiful as ever-perhaps even more so, thanks to
his greater maturity.  And he could still be friendly, though there
were sudden silences when he seemed to retreat into himself for no
apparent reason.  But real communication was missing; maybe it had
never been there.... No, that was unfair and untrue.  They had known
many shared moments before

Calindy entered their lives.  And one, though only one, after she had
left.

That was still the deepest pain that Duncan had ever known.  He had
been inarticulate with grief when they had made their farewells in the
shuttle terminus of Meridian, surrounded by scores of other parting
guests.  To its great surprise, Titan had suddenly discovered that it
was going to miss its young visitors; nearly every one of them was
surrounded by a tearful group of local residents.

Duncan's grief was also, to no small extent, compounded with jealousy.
He never discovered how Karl -or Calindy-had managed it, but they flew
up in the shuttle together, and made their final farewells on the ship.
So when

Duncan glimpsed Calindy for the last time, when she waved back at him
from the quarantine barrier, Karl was still with her.  In that
desolating moment, he did not suppose that he would ever see her
again.

When Karl returned on the last shuttle flight, five hours later, he was
drawn and pale, and had lost all 50  his usual vivacity.  Without a
word, he had handed Duncan a small package, wrapped in brightly colored
paper, and bearing the inscription LOVE FROM

CALINDY.

Duncan had opened it with trembling fingers; a bubble stereo was
inside.  It was a long time before he was able to see, through the mist
of tears, the image it contained.

Much later that same day, as they clung together in mutual misery, an
obvious question had suddenly occurred to Duncan.

"What did she give you, Karl?"  he had asked.

There was a sudden pause in the other's breathing, and he felt Karl's
body tense slightly and draw away from him.  It was an almost
imperceptible gesture; probably Karl was not even aware of it.

When he answered, his voice was strained and curiously defensive.

"It's-it's a secret.  Nothing important; perhaps one day I'll tell
you."

Even then, Duncan knew that he never would; and somehow he already
yealized that this was the last night they would ever spend together.

WORLD'S END

Ground Effect Vehicles were very attractive in a low-gravity,
dense-atmosphere environment, but they did tend to rearrange the
landscape, especially when it consisted largely of fluffy snow.  That
was only a problem, however, to anyone following in the rear.  When it
reached its normal cruising speed of two hundred kilometers an hour,
the hover sled left its private blizzard behind it, and the view ahead
was excellent.

But it was not cruising at two hundred klicks; it was flat out at
three, and Duncan was beginning to wish he had stayed home.

It would be very stupid if he broke his neck, on a mission where his
presence was quite unnecessary, only two days before he was due to
leave for

Earth.

Yet there was no real danger.  They were moving over smooth, flat
ammonia snow, on a terrain known to be free from crevasses.  Top speed
was safe, and it was fully justified.  This was too good an opportunity
to miss, and he had waited for it for years.  No one had ever observed
a wax worm in the active phase, and this one was only eighty kilometers
from Oasis.  The seismographs had spotted its characteristic signature,
and the environment computer had given the alert.  The hover sled had
been through the airlock within ten minutes.

Now it was approaching the lower slopes of Mount Shackelton, the
well-behaved little volcano which, after much careful thought, the
original settlers had decided to accept as a neighbor.  Waxworms were
almost always associated with volcanoes, and some were festooned with
them "like an explosion in a spaghetti factory," as one early explorer
had put it.  No wonder that their discovery had caused much excitement;
from the air they looked very much like the protective tunnels built by
termites and other social insects on Earth.

To the bitter disappointment of the exobiologists, they had turned out
to be a purely natural phenomenon-the equivalent, at a much lower
temperature, of terrestrial lava tubes.  The head of a wax worm moved,
judging from the seismic records, at up to fifty kilometers an hour,
preferring slopes of not more than ten degrees.  They had even been
known to go uphill for short distances, when the driving pressure was
sufficiently high.  Once the core of hot petrochemicals had passed
along, what remained was a hollow tube as much as five meters in
diameter.  Waxworms were among Titan's more benign manifestations; not
only were they a valuable source of raw materials, but they could be
readily adapted for storage space and even temporary surface housing-if
one could get used to the rich orchestration of alliphatic smells. 
The hover sled had another reason for speed; it was the season of
eclipses.

Twice every Saturnian year, around the equinoxes, the sun would vanish
behind the invisible bulk of the planet for up to six hours at a
time.

There would be no slow waning of light, as on Earth; with shocking
abruptness, the monstrous shadow of Saturn would sweep across Titan,
bringing sudden and unexpected night to any traveler who had been
foolish enough not to check his calendar.

Today's eclipse was due in just over an hour, which, unless they ran
into obstacles, would give ample time to reach the wax worm  The sled
was now driving down a narrow valley flanked by beautiful ammonia
cliffs, tinted every possible shade of blue from the palest sapphire to
deep indigo.  Titan had been called the most colorful world in the
Solar System-not excluding

Earth; if the sunlight had been more powerful, it would have been
positively garish.  Although reds and oranges predominated, every part
of the spectrum was available somewhere, though seldom for long in the
same place.  The methane storms and ammonia rains were continually
sculpting the landscape.

"Hello, Sled Three," said Oasis Control suddenly.  "You'll be out in
the open again in five kilometers less than two minutes at your present
speed.

Then there's a ten-kilometer slope up to the Amundsen Glacier.  From
there, you should be able to see the worm.  But I think you're too
late-it's almost reached World's End."

"Damn," said the geologist who had been handling the sled with such
effortless skill.  "I was afraid of that.  Something tells me I'm never
going to catch a worm on the run."

He cut the speed abruptly as a flurry of snow reduced visibility almost
to zero, and for a few minutes they were navigating on radar alone
through a shining white mist.  A film of sticky hydrocarbon slush
started to build up on the forward windows, and would soon have covered
them completely if the driver had not taken remedial action A
high-pitched whine filled the cabin as the sheets of tough plastic
started to oscillate at near ultrasonic frequencies, and a fascinating
pat53  tern of standing waves appeared before the obscuring layer was
flicked away.

Then they were through the little storm, and the jet-black wall of
the

Amundsen Glacier was visible on the horizon.  In a few centuries that
creeping mountain would reach Oasis, and it would be necessary to do
something about it.  During the years of summer, the viscosity of the
carbon-impregnated oils and waxes became low enough for the glacier to
advance at the breath-taking speed of several centimeters an hour, but
during the long winter it was as motionless as rock.

Ages ago, local heating had melted part of the glacier and formed
Lake

Tuonela, almost as Stygian black as its parent but decorated by great
whorls and loops where lighter material had been caught in patterns of
turbulence, now frozen for eternity.  Everyone who saw the phenomenon
from the air for the first time thought he was being original when he
exclaimed:

"Why, it looks exactly like a cup of coffee, just after you've stirred
in the cream!"

As the sled raced over the lake, the pattern flickered past in a few
minutes, too close for its swirls to be properly observed.  Then there
was another long slope, dotted with large boulders which could be
avoided only by the full thrust of the under jets  This cut speed to
less than a hundred klicks, and the sled labored up toward the crest in
zigs and zags, the driver cursing and looking every few seconds at his
watch.

"There it is!"  Duncan shouted.

Only a few kilometers away, coming out of the mist that always
enveloped the flanks of Mount Shackelton, was a thin white line, like a
piece of rope laid across the landscape.  It stretched away downhill
until it disappeared over the horizon, and the driver swung the sled
around to follow its track.

But Duncan already knew that they were too late to achieve their main
objective; they were much too close to World's End.  Minutes later,
they were there, and the sled came to a stop at a respectful
distance.

"That's as close as I'm getting," said the driver.  "I wouldn't like a
gust to catch us when we're skirting the edge.  Who wants to go out?
We still have thirty minutes of light."  "What's the temperature?"
someone asked.

"Warm.  Only fifty below.  Single-layer suits will do."

It was the first time that Duncan had been out in the open for months,
but there were some skills that nobody who lived on Titan ever allowed
himself to forget.  He checked the oxygen pressure, the reserve tank,
the radio, the fit of the neck seal-all those little details upon which
his hopes of a peaceful old age depended.  The fact that he would be
within a hundred meters of safety, and surrounded by other men who
could come to his aid in a moment, did not affect his thoroughness in
the least.

Real spacers sometimes underestimated Titan, with disastrous results.
It seemed altogether too easy to move around on a world where a
pressure suit was unnecessary and the whole body could be exposed to
the surrounding atmosphere.  Nor was there any need to worry gbout
freezing, even in the

Titanian night.  As long as the thermosuit retained its integrity, the
body's own hundred and fifty watts of heat could maintain .a
comfortable temperature indefinitely.

These facts could induce a sense of false security.  A torn suit-which
would be immediately noticed and repaired in a vacuum environment-might
be ignored here as a minor discomfort until it was too late, and toes
and fingers were quietly dropping off through frostbite.  And although
it seemed incredible that anyone could ignore an oxygen warning, or be
careless enough to go beyond his point of no return, it had happened.
Ammonia poisoning is not the nicest way to die.

Duncan did not let these facts oppress him, but they were always -there
at the back of his mind.  As he walked toward the worm, his feet
crunching through a thin crust like congealed candle grease, he kept
automatically checking the positions of his nearest companions, in case
they needed him--or he needed them.

The cylindrical wall of the worm now loomed above him, ghostly white,
textured with little scales or platelets which were slowly peeling off
and falling to the ground.  Duncan removed a mitten and laid his bare
hand on the tube.  It was slightly warm and there was a gentle
vibration; the core of hot liquid was still pulsing within, like blood
through a giant artery.  But the worm itself, controlled by the
interacting forces of surface tension and gravity, had committed
suicide.

While the others busied themselves with their measurements,
photographs, and samples, Duncan walked to World's End.  It was not his
first visit to that famous and spectacular view, but the impact had not
diminished.

Almost at his feet, the ground fell away vertically for more than a
thousand meters.  Down the face of the cliff, the decapitated worm was
slowly dripping stalactites of wax.  From time to time an oily globule
would break off and fall slowly toward the cloud layer far below.
Duncan knew that the ground itself was another kilometer beneath that,
but the sea of clouds that stretched out to the horizon had never
broken since men had first observed it.

Yet overhead, the weather was remarkably clear.  Apart from a little
ethylene cirrus, nothing obscured the sky, and the sun was as sharp and
bright as Duncan had ever seen it.  He could even make out, thirty
kilometers to the north, the unmistakable cone of Mount Shackelton,
with its perpetual streamer of smoke.

"Hurry up and take your pictures," said a voice in his radio.  "You
have less than five minutes."

A million kilometers away, the invisible bulk of Saturn was edging
toward the brilliant star that flooded this strange landscape with a
light ten thousand times brighter than Earth's full Moon.  Duncan
stepped back a few paces from the brink, but not so far that he could
no longer watch the clouds below; he hoped he would be able to observe
the shadow of the eclipse asit came racing toward him.

The light was going-going-gone.  He never saw the onrushing shadow; it
seemed that night fell instantly upon all the world.

He looked up toward the vanished sun, hoping to catch a glimpse of the
fabled corona.  But there was only a shrinking glow, revealing for a
few seconds the curved edge of Saturn as the giant world swept
inexorably across the sky.  Beyond that was a faint and distant star,
which in another moment would also be engulfed.

"Eclipse will last twelve minutes," said the hover sled driver.  "If
any of you want to stay outside, keep away from the edge.  You can
easily get disoriented in the darkness."

Duncan scarcely heard him.  Something had caught at his throat, almost
as if a whiff of the surrounding ammonia had invaded his suit.

He could not take his gaze off that faint little star, during the
seconds before Saturn wiped it from the sky.  He continued to stare
long after it was gone, with all its promise of warmth and wonder, and
the storied centuries of its civilization.

For the first time in his life, Duncan Makenzie had seen the planet
Earth with his own unaided eyes.  Part 11

I - -1 L Transit

 I I

SIRIUS

After three hundred years of spaceships that were mostly fuel tanks,

Sirius was not quite believable.  She seemed to have far too many
windows, and there were entrance hatches in most improbable places,
some of them still gaping open as cargo was loaded.  At least she was
taking on some hydrogen, thought Duncan sourly; it would be adding
insult to economic injury if she made the round trip on a single
fueling.  She was capable of doing this, it was rumored, though at the
cost of doubling her transit time.

It was also hard to believe that this stubby cylinder, with the smooth
mirror-bright ring of the radiation baffle surrounding the drive unit
like a huge sunshade, was one of the fastest objects ever built by man.
Only the interstellar probes, now far out into the abyss on their
centuries-long journeys, could exceed her theoretical maximum-almost
one percent of the velocity of light.  She would never achieve even
half this speed, because she had to carry enough propel lent to slow
down and rendezvous with her destination.  Nevertheless, she could make
the voyage from Saturn to Earth in twenty days, despite a minor detour
to avoid the hazards-largely psychological-of the asteroid belt.

The forty-minute flight from surface to parking orbit was not Duncan's
first experience of space; he had made several brief trips to
neighboring moons, aboard this same shuttle.  The Titanian passenger
fleet consisted of exactly five vessels, and as none possessed the
expensive luxury of centrifugal gravity, all safety belts were secured
throughout the voyage.

Any passenger who wished to sample the joys and hazards of
weightlessness would have just under two hours to experience it aboard
Sirius, before the drive started to operate.  Although Duncan had
always felt completely at ease in free fall, he let the stewards float
him, an inert and unresisting package, through the airlock and into the
ship.

It had been rather too much to expect the Centennial Committee to
provide a single cabin-there were only four on the ship-and Duncan knew
that he would have to share a double.  L.3 was a minute cell with two
folding bunks, a couple of lockers, two seats-also folding-and a
mirror-vision screen.

There was no window looking out into space; this, the Welcome Aboard!
brochure carefully explained, would create unacceptable structural
hazards.

Duncan did not believe this for a moment, and wondered if the designers
feared an attempt by claustrophobic passengers to claw a way out.

And there were no toilet facilities-these were all in an adjacent
cubicle, which serviced the four cabins around it.  Well, it was only
going to be for a few weeks.... Duncan's spirits rose somewhat after he
had gained enough confidence to start exploring his little world.  He
quickly learned to visualize his location by following the advice
printed on the shipboard maps; it was convenient to think of Sirius as
a cylindrical tower with ten floors.  The fifty cabins were divided
between the sixth and seventh floors.  Immediately below, on the fifth
level, was the lounge, recreation and dining area.

The territory above these three floors was forbidden to passengers.
Going upward, the remaining levels were Life Support, Crew Quarters,
and-forming a kind of penthouse with all-round visibility-the Bridge.
In the other direction, the four levels were Galley, Hold, Fuel, and
Propulsion.  It was a logical arrangement, but it would take Duncan
some time to discover that the Purser's Office was on the kitchen
level, the surgery next to the freight compartment, the gym in Life
Support, and the library tucked away in an emergency airlock
overlapping levels Six and Seven.... During the circumnavigation of his
new home, Duncan encountered a dozen other passengers on a 61  similar
voyage of exploration, and exchanged the guarded greetings appropriate
among strangers who will soon get to know each other perhaps all too
well.  He had already been through the passenger list to see if there
was anyone on board he knew and had found a few familiar Titanian
names, but no close acquaintances.  Sharing cabin L.3, he had
discovered, was a Dr.  Louise

Chung; but the parting with Marissa still hurt too much for the
"Louise" to arouse more than the faintest flicker of interest.

I In any event, as he found when he returned to L.3, Dr.  Chung was a
bright little old lady, undoubtedly on the far side of a hundred, who
greeted him with an absent-minded courtesy which, even by the end of
the voyage, never seemed to extend to a complete recognition of his
existence.  She was, he soon discovered, one of the Solar System's
leading mathematical physicists, and the authority on resonance
phenomena among the satellites of the outer planets.  For half a
century she had been trying to explain why the gaps in

Saturn's rings were not exactly where all the best theories demanded.

The two hours ticked slowly away, finally seeming to move with a rush
toward the expected announcement: "This is Captain Ivanov speaking at
minus five minutes.  All crew members should be on station or standby,
all passengers should have safety straps secured.  Initial acceleration
will be one hundredth gravity-ten centimeters second squared.  I
repeat, one hundredth gravity.  This will be maintained for ten minutes
while the propulsion system undergoes routine checks."

And suppose it doesn't pass those checks?  Duncan asked himself.  Do
even the mathematicians know what would happen if the Asymptotic Drive
started to malfunction?  This line of thought was not very profitable,
and he hastily abandoned it.

"Minus four minutes.  Stewards check all passengers secured."

Now that instruction could not possibly be obeyed.  There were three
hundred twenty-five passengers, half of them in their cabins and the
other half in the two lounges, and there was no way in which the dozen
harassed stewards could see that all their charges were behaving.  They
had made one round of the ship at minus thirty and minus ten minutes,
and passeligers who had cut loose since then had only themselves to
blame.  And anyone who could be hurt by a hundredth of a gee, thought
Duncan, certainly deserved it.  Impacts at that acceleration had about
the punch of a large wet sponge.

"Minus three minutes.  All systems normal.  Passengers in Lounge B will
see

Saturn rising."

Duncan permitted himself a slight glow of self satisfaction.  This was
precisely why, after checking with one of the stewards, he was now in
Lounge B. As Titan always kept the same face turned toward its pr tary
the spectacle of the great globe climbing abe the horizon was one that
could never be seen from the surface, even if the almost perpetual over
cast of hydrocarbon clouds had permitted.

That blanket of clouds now lay a thousand kilometers below, hiding the
world that it protected from the chill of space.  And then
suddenly-unexpectedly, even though he had been waiting for it-Saturn.
was rising like a golden ghost.

In all the known universe, there was nothing to compare with the wonder
he was seeing now.  A hundred times the size of the puny Moon that
floated in the skies of Earth, the flattened yellow globe looked like
an object lesson in planetary meteorology.  Its knotted bands of cloud
could change their appearance almost every hour, while thousands of
kilometers down in the hydrogen-methane atmosphere, eruptions whose
cause was still unknown would lift bubbles larger than terrestrial
continents up from the hidden core.

They would expand and burst as they reached the limits of the
atmosphere, and in minutes Saturn's furious ten-hour spin would have
smeared them out into long colored ribbons, stretching halfway round
the planet.

Somewhere down there in that inferno, Duncan reminded himself with
awe,

Captain Kleinman had died seventy years ago, and so had part of
Grandma

Ellen.  In all that time, no one had attempted to return.  Saturn still
represented one of the largest pieces of unfinished business in the
Solar System-next, perhaps, to the smoldering hell of Venus.

The rings themselves were still so inconspicuous that it was easy to
overlook them.  By a cosmic irony, all the inner satellites lay in
almost the same plane as the delicate, wafer-thin structure that made
Saturn unique.  Edge on, as they were now, the rings were visible only
as hairlines of light jutting out on either side of the planet, yet
they threw a broad, dusky band of shadow along the equator.

In a few hours, as Sirius rose above the orbital plane of Titan, the
rings would open up in their full glory.  And that alone, thought
Duncan, would be enough to justify this voyage.

"Minus one minute..."

He had never even heard the two-minute mark; the great world rising out
of the horizon clouds must have held him hypnotized.  In sixty seconds,
the automatic sequencer in the heart of the drive unit would' initiate
its final mysteries.  Forces which only a handful of living men could
envisage, and none could truly understand, would awaken in their fury,
tear Sirius from the grip of Saturn, and hurl her sunward toward the
distant goal of

Earth.  "..  . ten seconds .. . five seconds ... ignition!"

How strange that a word that had been technologically obsolete for at
least two hundred years should have survived in the jargon of
astronautics!

Duncan barely had time to formulate this thought when he felt the onset
of thrust.  From exactly zero his weight leaped up to less than a
kilogram.  It was barely enough to dent the cushion above which he had
been floating, and was detectable chiefly by the slackening tension of
his waist belt.

Other effects were scarcely more dramatic.  There was a distinct change
in the timbre of the indefinable noises which never cease on board a
spacecraft while its mechanical hearts are operating; and it seemed
to

Duncan that, far away, he could hear a faint hissing.  But he was not
even sure of that.

And then, a thousand kilometers below, he saw the unmistakable evidence
that Sirius was indeed breaking away from her orbit.  The ship had been
driving 64  into night on its final circuit of Titan, and the wan
sunlight had been swiftly fading on the sea of clouds far below.  But
now a second dawn had come, in a wide swathe across the face of the
world he was soon to leave.

For a hundred kilometers behind the accelerating ship, a column of
incandescent plasma was splashing untold quintillions of candlepower
out into space and across the carmine cloud scape of Titan.  Sirius was
falling sunward in greater glory than the sun itself.

"Ten minutes after ignition.  All drive checks complete.  We will now
be increasing thrust to our cruise level of point two gravities-two
hundred centimeters second squared."

And now, for the first time, Sirius was showing what she could do.  In
a smooth surge of power, thrust and weight climbed twenty-fold and held
steady.  The light on the clouds below was now so strong that it hurt
the eye.  Duncan even glanced at the still-rising disc of Saturn to see
if it too showed any sign of this fierce new sun.  He could now hear,
faint but unmistakable, the steady whistling roar that would be the
background to all life aboard the ship until the voyage ended.  It
must, he thought, be pure coincidence that the awesome voice of the
Asymptotic Drive sounded so much like that of the old chemical rockets
that first gave men the freedom of space.  The plasma hurtling from the
ship's reactor was moving a thousand times more swiftly than the
exhaust gases of any rocket, even a nuclear one; and how it created
that apparently familiar noise was a puzzle that would not be solved by
any naive mechanical intuition.

"We are now on cruise mode at one-fifth gee.  Passengers may unstrap
themselves and move about freely-but please use caution until you are
completely adapted."

That won't take me very long, thought Duncan as be unbuckled himself;
the ship's acceleration gave him his normal, Titan weight.  Any
residents of the

Moon would also feel completely at home here, while Martians and
Terrans would have a delightful sense of buoyancy.  The lights in the
lounge, which had been dimmed almost to extinction for better viewing
of the spectacle outside, slowly brightened to normal.  The few first
magnitude stars that had been visible disappeared at once, and the
gibbous globe of Saturn became bleached and pale, losing all its
colors.

Duncan could restore the scene by drawing the black curtains around the
observation alcove, but his eyes would take several minutes to readapt.
He was wondering whether to make the effort when the decision was made
for him.

There was a musical "Ding-dong-ding," and a new voice, which sounded as
if it came from a social stratum several deLyrees above the Captain's,
anuounced languidly: "This is the Chief Steward.  Will passengers
kindly note that First Seating for lunch is at twelve hundred, Second
Seating at thirteen hundred, Last Seating at fourteen hundred.  Please
do not attempt to make any changes without consulting me.  Thank you."
A less peremptory

"Dong-ding-dong" signaled end of message.

Looking at the marvels of the universe made you hungry, Duncan
instantly discovered.  It was already 1150,"and he was glad that he was
in the First

Seating.  He wondered how many starving passengers were now converging
upon the Chief Steward, in search of an earlier time slot.

Enioyin!~ the sensation of man-made weight which, barrina accidents,
would remain constant until the moment of mid-voyage, Duncan went to
join the rapidly lengthening line at the cafeteria.

Already, his first thirty years of life on Titan seemed to belong to
another existence.

LAST WORDS

For onemomentmore, the achingly familiar image remained frozen on the
screen.  Behind Marissa and the children, Duncan could see the two
armchairs of the living room, the photograph of Grandfather (as usual,
slightly askew), the cover of the food distribution hatch, the door to
the main bedroom, the bookcase with the few but priceless treasures
that had survived two centuries of interplanetary wandering..  .. This
was his universe.  It held everything he loved, and now he was leaving
it.

Already, it lay in his past

It lay only three seconds away, yet that was enough.  He had traveled a
mere million kilometers in less than half a day; but the sense of
separation was already almost complete.  It was intolerable to wait six
seconds for every reaction and every answer.  By the time a reply came,
he had forgotten the original question and had started to say something
else.  And so the attempted conversation had quickly degenerated into a
series of stops and starts, while he and Marissa had stared at each
other in dumb misery, each waiting for the other to speak.... He was
glad that the ordeal was over.

The experience brought home to him, as nothing else had yet done, the
sheer immensity of space.  The Solar System, he began to suspect, was
not designed for the convenience of Man, and that presumptuous
creature's attempts to use it for his own advantage would often be
foiled by laws beyond his control.  All his life, Duncan had assumed
without question that he could speak to friends or family instantly,
wherever he might be.  Yet now-before he had even passed Saturn's outer
moons!-that power had been taken from him.  For the next twenty days,
he would share a lonely, isolated bubble of humanity, able to interact
with his fellow passengers, but cut off from all real contact with the
rest of mankind.

His self-pity lasted only a few moments.  There was also an
exhilaration--even a freedom-in this sense of isolation, and in the
knowledge that he was setting forth on one of the longest and swiftest
voyages that any man could make.  Travel to the outer planets was
routine and uneventful-but it was also rare, and only a very small
fraction of the human race would ever experience it.  Duncan remembered
a favorite Terran phrase of Malcolm's, usually employed in a different
context, but sound advice for every occasion: "When it's inevitable,
relax and enjoy it."  He would do his best to enjoy this voyage.

Yet Duncan was exhausted when he finally climbed into his bunk at the
end of his first day in space.  The strain of innumerable farewells,
not only to his family but to countless friends, had left him
emotionally drained.  On top of this, there were all the nagging
worries of departure: What had he forgotten to do?  What vital
necessities had he failed to pack?  Had all his baggage been safely
loaded and stowed?  What essential good-byes had he overlooked?  It was
useless worrying about these matters now that he was speeding away from
home at a velocity increasing by twenty-five thousand kilometers an
hour, every hour, yet he could not help doing so.  Tired though he was,
his hyperactive brain would not let him sleep.

It takes real genius to make a bed that can be uncomfortable at a fifth
of a gravity, and luckily the designers of Sirius had not accepted this
challenging assignment.  After thirty minutes or so, Duncan began to
relax and to get his racing thoughts in order.  He prided himself on
being able to sleep without artificial aids, and it looked as if he
would be able to dispense with electro narcosis after all.  That was,
of course, supposed to be completely harmless, but he never felt
pronerly awake the next day.

You're'falling asleep, he told himself.  You won't know anything more
until it's time for breakfast.  All your dreams are going to be happy
ones.... A sound like a small volcano clearing its throat undid the
good work of the last ten minutes.  He was instantly wide awake,
wondering what disaster had befallen Sirius.  Not until several anxious
seconds had passed did he realize that some antisocial shipmate had
found it necessary to visit the adjacent toilet.

Cursing, he tried to recapture the broken mood and to return to the
threshold of sleep.  But it was useless; the myriad voices of the ship
had started to clamor for his attention.  He seemed to have lost
control of the analytical portion of his brain, and it was busy
classifying all the noises from the surrounding universe.

It had been hours since he had really noticed the far-off, ghostly
whistling of the drive.  Every second Sirius was ejecting a hundred
grams of hydrogen at a third of the velocity of light-a trifling loss
of mass, yet it represented meaningless millions of gigawatts.  During
the first few centuries of the Industrial Revolution, all the factories
of Earth could not have matched the power that was now driving him
sunward.

That incongruously faint and feeble scream was not really disturbing,
but it was overlaid with all.  sorts of other peculiar sounds.  What
could possibly cause the "Buzz .. . click, click ... buzz," the soft
"thump ... thump ... thump," the "gurgle, hissssss," and the
intermittent "whee-wheee-whee" which was the most maddening of all?

Duncan rolled over and tried to bury.  his head in the pillows.  It
made no difference, except that the higher-pitched sounds got filtered
out and the lower frequencies were enhanced.  He also became more aware
of the steady pulsation of the bed itself, at just about the ten cycles
per second nicely calculated to produce epileptic fits.

Hello, that was something new.  It was a kind of dispirited kerplunk,
kerplunk, kerplunk" that might have been produced by an ancient
internal combustion engine in the last stages of decrepitude.  Somehow,
Duncan seriously doubted that i.c. engines, old or new, were to be
found aboard

Sirius.  He rolled over on the other side-and then became conscious of
the slightly cold airstream from the ventilator hitting him on his left
cheek.  Perhaps if he ignored it, the sensation would sink below the
threshold of consciousness.  However, the very effort of pretending it
wasn't there focused attention upon the annoyance.

On the other side of the thin partition, the ship's plumbing once again
advertised its presence with a series of soft thumps.  There was an air
bubble somewhere in the system, and Duncan knew, with a deadly
certainty, that all the engineering skills aboard Sirius would be
unable to exorcise it before the end of the voyage.

And what was that?  It was a rasping, whistling sound, so irregular
that no well-adjusted mechanism could possibly have produced it.  As
Duncan lay in the darkness, racking his brains to think of an
explanation, his annoyance slowly grew to alarm.  Should he call the
steward and report that something had gone wrong?

He was still trying to make up his mind when a sudden explosive change
in pitch and intensity left him in no doubt as to the sound's origin.
Groaning and cursing his luck, Duncan resigned himself to a sleepless
night.

Dr.  Chung snored..

Someone was gently shaking him.  He mumbled "Go away," then swam
groggily upward from the depths of slumber.

"If you don't hurry," said Dr.  Chung, "you're going to miss
breakfast."

THE LONGEST VOYAGE

1 Tis is the Captain speaking.  We will be performing a final
out-of-ecliptic velocity trim during the next fifteen minutes.  This
will be your last opportunity for a good view of Saturn, and we are
orientating the ship so that it will be visible through the B Lounge
windows.  Thank you."

Thank you, thought Duncan, though he was a little less grateful when he
reached B Lounge.  This time, too many other passengers had been tipped
off by the stewards.  Nevertheless, he managed to obtain a good vantage
point, even though he had to stand.

Though the journey had scarcely begun, Saturn already seemed far away.
The planet had dwindled to a quarter of its accustomed size; it was now
only twice as large as the Moon would appear from Earth.

Yet though it had shrunk in size, it had gained in impressiveness.
Sirius had risen several degrees out of the planet's equatorial plane,
and now at last he could see the rings in all their glory.  Thin,
concentric silver haloes, they looked so artificial that it was almost
impossible to believe that they were not the work of some cosmic
craftsman whose raw materials were worlds.  Although at first sight
they appeared to be solid, when he looked more carefully Duncan could
see the planet glimmering through them, its

Ilow light contrasting strangely with their immacuaet'e, snowy
whiteness.  A hundred thousand kilometers below, the shadow of the
rings lay in a dusky band along the equator; it could easily have been
taken for an unusually dark cloud belt, rather than something whose
cause lay far out in space.

The two main divisions of the rings were apparent at the most casual
glance, but a more careful inspection revealed at least a dozen fainter
boundaries where there were abrupt changes in brightness between
adjacent sections.  Ever since the rings had been discovered, back in
the seventeenth century, mathematicians like Dr.  Chung had been trying
to account for their structure.  It had long been known that the
attractions of

Saturn's many moons segregated the billions of orbiting particles into
separate bands, but the details, of the process were still unclear.

There was also a certain amount of variation within the individual
bands themselves.  The outermost ring, for example, showed a distinct
mottling or beadiness, and a tiny clot of light was clearly visible
near its eastern extremity.  Was this, Duncan wondered, a moon about to
be born-or the last remnants of one that had been destroyed?

Rather diffidently, he put the question to Dr.  Chung.

"Both possibilities have been considered," she said.  "My studies
indicate the former.  That condensation may, with luck, become another
satellite in a few thousand years."

"I can't agree, Doctor," interjected another passenger.  "It's merely a
statistical fluctuation in the particle density.  They're quite common,
and seldom last more than a few years."

"The smaller ones-yes.  But this is too intense, and too near the edge
of the B-ting."

"But Vanderplas' analysis of the Janus problem ... At that moment, it
became rather like the shootout in an old time Western movie.  The two
scientists reached simultaneously for their hip computers and then
retreated, muttering equations, to the back of the lounge.

Thereafter, they completely ignored the real Saturn they had come so
far to study-and which, in all probability, they would never see
again.

"Captain speaking.  We have concluded our velocity trim and are re
orientating the ship into the plane of the ecliptic.  I hope you had a
good view-Saturn will be a long way off next time you see it."

There was no perceptible sense of motion, but the great ringed globe
began to creep slowly down the observation window.  The passengers in
front craned forward to follow it, and there was a chorus of
disappointed "Ohs" as it finally sank from view below the wide skirting
that surrounded the lower part of the ship.  That band of metal had one
purpose only-to block any radiation from the jet that might stray
forward.  Even a momentary glimpse of that intolerable glare, bright as
a -supernova at the moment of detonation, could cause total blindness;
a few seconds' exposure would be lethal.

Sirius was now aimed almost directly at the sun, as she accelerated
toward the inner planets.  While the drive was on, there could be no
rear-viewing.

Duncan knew that when he next saw Saturn with his unaided eyes, it
would be merely a not-very-distinguished star.

A day later, moving at three hundred kilometers a second, the ship
passed another milestone.  She had, of course, escaped from the
planet's gravitational field hours earlier; neither Saturn-nor, for
that matter, the

Sun-could ever recapture her.  The frontier that Sirius was crossing
now was a purely arbitrary one: the orbit of the outermost moon.

Mnemosyne, only fifteen kilometers in diameter, could claim two modest
records.  It had the longest period of any satellite, taking no fewer
than 1,139 days to orbit Saturn, at an average distance of twenty-one
million kilometers.  And it also had the longest day of any body in the
Solar

System, its period of rotation being an amazing 1,143 days.  Although
it seemed obvious that these two facts must be connected, no one had
been able to arrive at any plausible explanation of Mnemosyne's
sluggish behavior.

Purely by chance, Sirius passed within fewer than a million kilometers
of the tiny world.  At first, even under the highest power of the
ship's telescope, Mnemosyne was only a minute crescent showing no
visible features at all, but as it swiftly grew to a half-moon, patches
of light and shade merged which eventually resolved themselves into
craters.  It was typical of all the denser, Mercury-type satellites-as
opposed to the inner snowballs like Mimas, Enceladus, and Tethys-but
to Duncan it now held a special interest.  It was more to him than the
last landmark on the road to Earth.

Karl was there, and had been for many weeks, with the joint
Titan-Terran

Outer Satellite Survey.  Indeed, that survey had been in progress as
long as

Duncan could remember-the surface area of all the moons added up to a
surprising number of million square kilometers-and the TTOSS team was
doing a thorough job.  There had been complaints about the cost, and
the critics had subsided only when promised that the survey would be so
thorough that it would never be necessary to go back to the outer moons
again.  Somehow,

Duncan doubted that the promise would be kept.

He watched the pale crescent of Mnemosyne wax to full, simultaneously
dwindling astern as the ship dropped sunward, and wondered fleetingly
if he should send Karl a farewell greeting.  But if he did, it would
only be interpreted as a taunt.

It took Duncan several days to adjust to the complicated schedule of
shipboard life-a schedule dominated by the fact that the dining room
(as the lounge adjacent to the cafeteria was grandly called) could seat
only one third of the passengers at a time.  There were consequently
three sittings for each of the three main meals-so for nine hours of
every day, at least a hundred people were eating, while two hundred
were either thinking about the next meal or grumbling about the last.
This made it very difficult for the Purser, who doubled as
Entertainment Officer, to organize any shipboard activities.  The fact
that most of the passengers had no wish to be organized did not help
him.

Nevertheless, the day was loosely structured by a series of events, at
which a good attendance was guaranteed by sheer boredom.  There would
be a thirty minute newscast from Earth at 0800, with a repeat at 1000,
and updates in the evening at 1900 and 2100.  At the beginning of the
voyage, the Earth news would be at least an hour and a half late, but
it would become more and more timely as Sirius approached her
destination.

When she reached her final parking orbit, a thousand kilometers above
the

Equator, the delay would be effectively zero, and watches could at last
be set by the radio time signals.  Those passengers who did not realize
this were liable to get into a hopeless state of confusion and, even
worse, to miss meal sittings.

All types of visual display, including the contents of several million
volumes of fiction and nonfiction, as well as most of the musical
treasures of mankind, were available in the tiny library; at a squeeze,
it could hold ten people.  However, there were two movie screenings
every evening in the main lounge, selection being made-if the Purser
could be believed -in the approved democratic manner by public ballot.
Almost all the great film classics were available, right back to the
beginning of the twentieth century.  For the first time in his life,
Duncan saw Charlie Chaplin's

Modern Times, much of the Disney canon, Olivier's Hamlet, Ray's
Pather

Panchali, Kubrick's Napoleon Bonaparte, Zymanowski's Moby Dick, and
many other old masterpieces that had not even been names to him.  But
by far the greatest popular success was If This Is Tuesday, This Must
Be Mars-a selection from the countless space-travel movies made in the
days before space Right was actually achieved.  This invariably reduced
the audience to helpless hysterics, and it was hard to believe that it
had once been banned for in-flight screening because some unimaginative
bureaucrat feared that its disasters such as accidentally arriving at
the wrong planet might alarm nervous passengers.  In fact, it had just
the opposite effect; they laughed too much to worry.

The big event of the day, however, was the lottery on the ship's run, a
simple but ingenious device for redistributing wealth among the
passengers.

All that one had to do was to guess how far Sirius had traveled along
her heliocentric trajectory during the previous twenty-four hours; any
number of guesses was permitted, at the cost of one solar each.

At noon, the Captain announced the correct result.  The suspense was
terrific, as he read out the figures very slowly: "Today's run has been
two-two-seven five-nine -zero -six four-point-three kilometers."
(Cheers and moans.) Since everyone knew the ship's position and
acceleration, it required very little mathematics to calculate the
first four or five figures, but beyond that the digits were completely
arbitrary, so winning was a matter of luck.  Although it was rumored
that navigating officers had been bribed to trim the last few decimal
places by minute adjustments to the thrust, no one had ever been able
to prove it.

Another wealth-distributor was a noisy entertainment called "Bingo,"
apparently the main surviving relic of a once flourishing religious
order.

Duncan attended one session, then decided that there were better ways
of wasting time.  Yet a surprising percentage of his very talented and
intellectually superior companions seemed to enjoy this rather mindless
ritual, jumping up and down and shrieking like small children when
their numbers were called.... They could not be criticized for this;
they needed some such relaxation.

For they were the loneliest people in the Solar System; hundreds of
millions of kilometers separated them from the rest of mankind.
Everybody knew this, but no one ever mentioned it.  Yet it would not
have taken an astute psychologist to detect countless slightly unusual
reactions-even minor symptoms of stress-in the behavior of Sirius'
passengers and crew.

There was, for example, a tendency to laugh at the feeblest of jokes,
and to go into positive convulsions over catch phrases such as "This is
the

Captain speaking" or "Dining room closes in fifteen minutes."  Most
popular of all-at least among the men-was "Any more for Cabin 44."  Why
the two middle-aged and rather quiet lady geologists who occupied this
cabin had acquired a reputation for ravening insatiability was a
mystery that Duncan never solved.

Nor was he particularly interested; his heart still ached for Marissa
and he would not seek any other consolation until he reached Earth.
Moreover, with 76  the somewhat excessive conscientiousness that was
typical of the Makenzies, he was already hard at work by the second day
of the voyage.

He had three major projects-one physical and two intellectual.  The
first, carried out under the hard, cold eye of the ship's doctor, was
to get himself fit for life at one gravity.  The second was to learn
all that he could about his new home, so that he would not appear too
much of a country cousin when he arrived.  And the third was to prepare
his speech of thanks, or at least to write a fairly detailed outline,
which could be revised as necessary during the course of his stay.

The toughening-up process involved a fifteen-minute session, twice a
day, in the ship's centrifuge or on the "race track."  Nobody enjoyed
the centrifuge; not even the best background music could alleviate the
boredom of being whirled around in a tiny cabin until legs and arms
appeared to be made of lead.  But the race track was so much fun that
it operated right around the clock, and some enthusiasts even tried to
get extra time on it.

Part of its appeal was undoubtedly due to sheer novelty; who would have
expected to find bicycles in space?  The track was a narrow tunnel,
with steeply banked floor, completely encircling the ship, and rather
like an old-time particle accelerator-except that in this case the
particles themselves provided the acceleration.

Every evening, just before going to bed, Duncan would enter the tunnel,
climb onto one of the four bicycles, and start pedaling slowly around
the sixty meters of track.  His first revolution would take a leisurely
half minute; then he would gradually work up to full speed.  As he did
so, he would rise higher and higher up the baAed wall, until at maximum
speed he was almost at right angles to the floor.  At the same time, he
would feel his weight steadily increase; the bicycle's speedometer had
been calibrated to read in fractions of a gee, so he could tell exactly
how well he was doing.  Forty kilometers an hour ten times around
Sirius every minute-was the equivalent of one Earth gravity.  After
several days of practice Duncan was able to maintain this for ten
minutes without too much effort.  By the end of the voyage, he could
tolerate it indefinitely-as he would have to, when he reached Earth.

The race track was at its most exciting when it contained two or more
riders-especially when they were moving at different speeds.  Though
overtaking was strictly forbidden, it was an irresistible challenge,
and on this voyage there were no serious casualties.  One of Duncan's
most vivid and incongruous memories of Sirius would be the tinkle of
bicycle bells, echoing round and round a brightly lit circular tunnel
whose blurred walls flashed by only a few centimeters away..  .. And
the race track also provided him with a more material souvenir, a
pseudo medieval scroll which announced to all who were interested
that

1, DUNCAN MAKENZIE, OF OASIS

CITY, TITAN, AM HEREBY CERTIFIED TO HAVE BICYCLED FROM SATURN TO
EARTH,

AT

AN AVERAGE VELOCITY OF 2,176,420 KILOMETERS AN HOUR.

Duncan's mental preparation for life on Earth occupied considerably
more time, but was not quite so exhausting.  He already had a good
knowledge of

Terran history, geography, and current affairs, but until now it had
been mostly theoretical, because it had little direct application to
him.  Both astronomically and psychologically, Earth had been a long
way off.  Now it was coming closer by millions of kilometers a day.

Even more to the point, he was now surrounded by Terrans; there were
only seven passengers from Titan aboard Sirius, so they were
outnumbered fifty to one.  Whether he liked it or not, Duncan was being
rapidly brainwashed and molded by another culture.  He found himself
using Terran figures of speech, adopting the slightly sing-song
intonation now universal on Earth, and employing more and more words of
Chinese origin.  All this was to be expected; what he found disturbing
was the fact that his own swiftly receding world was becoming steadily
more unreal.  Before the voyage was finished, he suspected that he
would have become half-Terran.

He spent much of his time viewing Earth scenes, listening to famous
political debates, and trying to understand what was happening in
culture and the arts, so that he would not appear to be a complete
barbarian from the outer darkness.  When he was not sitting at the
viddy, he was likely to be flicking through the pages of a small, dense
booklet optimistically entitled Earth in Ten Days.  He was fond of
trying out bits of new-found information on his fellow passengers, to
study their reactions and to check on his own understanding.  Sometimes
the response was a blank stare, sometimes a slightly condescending
smile.  But everyone was very polite to him; after a while, Duncan
realized that there was some truth in the old cliche that Terrans were
never unintentionally rude.

Of course, it was absurd to apply a single label to half a billion
people-or even to the three hundred and fifty on the ship.  Yet Duncan
was surprised to find how often his preconceived ideas-even his
prejudices-were perfectly accurate.  Most Terrans did have a quite
unconscious air of superiority.  At first, Duncan found it annoying;
then he realized that several thousand years of history and culture
justified a certain pride.

It was still too early for him to answer the question, so long debated
on all the other worlds: "Is Earth becoming decadent?"  The individuals
he had met aboard Sirius showed no trace of that effete over
sensibility with which

Terrans were frequently charged-but, of course, they were not a fair
sample.  Anyone who had occasion to visit the outer reaches of the
Solar

System must possess exceptional ability or resources.

He would have to wait until he reached earth before he could measure
its decadence more precisely.  The project might be an interesting
one-if his budget and his timetable could stand the strain.

SONGS OF EMPIRE

In a hundred years, thought Duncan, he could never have managed to
arrange this deliberately.  Masterful administration of the unforeseen,
indeed!  Colin would be proud of him.... It had all begun quite
accidentally.  When he discovered that the Chief

Engineer bore the scarcely uncommon name of Mackenzie, it had been
natural enough to introduce himself and to compare family trees.  A
glance was sufficient to show that any relationship was remote: Warren
Mackenzie,

Doctor of Astrotechnology (Propulsion) was a freckled redhead.

It made no difference, for he was pleased to meet Duncan and happy to
chat with him.  A genuine friendship had developed, long before Duncan
decided to take advantage of it.

"I sometimes feel," Warren lamented, not very seriously, "that I'm a
living cliche.  Did you know that there was a time when all ship's
engineers were

Scots, and called Mac-something-or-other?"

"I didn't know it.  Why not Germans or Russians?  They started the
whole thing."

"You're on the wrong wavelength.  I'm talking about ships that float on
water.  The first powered ones were driven by steam-piston engines,
working paddle wheels-around the beginning of the nineteenth century.
Now, the

Industrial Revolution started in Britain, and the first practical steam
engine was made by a Scot.  So when steamships began to operate all
over the world, the Macs went with them.  No one else could understand
such complicated pieces of machinit cry.  "Steam engines? 
Complicated? You must be joking.  99

"Have you ever looked at one?  More to it than you might think, though
it doesn't take long to figure it out..  .. Anyway, while the
steamships lasted-that was only about a hundred years-the Scots ran
them.  I've made a hobby of the period; it has some surprising
parallels with our time."

"Go on-surprise me."

"Well, those old ships were incredibly slow, averaging only about ten
klicks, at least for freighters.  So really long journeys, even on
Earth, could take weeks.  Just like space travel."

"I see.  In those days, the countries on Earth were almost as far apart
as the planets."

"Well, some of them.  The most perfect analogy is the old British

Commonwealth, the first and last world empire.  For almost a hundred
years, countries like Canada, India, and Australia relied entirely on
steamships to link them to Britain; the one-way journey could easily
take a month or more, and was often a once-in-a-lifetime affair.  Only
the wealthy, or people on official business, could afford it.  And-just
like today-people in the colonies couldn't even speak to the mother
country.  The psychological isolation was almost complete."

"They had telephones, didn't they?"

"Only for local use, and only a few even then.  I'm talking about the
beginning of the twentieth century, remember.  Universal global
communication didn't arrive until the end of it."

"I feel that the analogy is a little forced," protested Duncan.  He was
intrigued but unconvinced, and quite willing to listen to Mackenzie's
arguments-as yet, with no ulterior motive.

"I can give you some more evidence that makes a better case.  Have you
heard of Rudyard Kipling?"

"Yes, though I've never read anything of his.  He was a writer, wasn't
he?

Anglo-American-sometime between Melville and Hemingway.  English Lit's
almost unknown territory to me.  Life's too short."

"True, alas.  But I have read Kipling.  He was the first poet of the
machine age, and some people think he was also the finest short-story
writer of his century.  I couldn't judge that, of course, but he
exactly described the period I'm talking about.  "McAndrew's Hymn," for
example-an old engineer musing about the pistons and boilers and
crankshafts that drive his ship round the world.  Its technology-not to
mention its theology!-has been extinct for three hundred years; but the
spirit behind it is still as valid as ever.

"And he wrote poems and stories about the far places of the empire
which make them seem quite as remote as the planets are today-and
sometimes even more exotic!  There's a favorite of mine called "The
Song of the Cities."  I don't understand half the allusions, but the
tributes to Bombay, Singapore,

Rangoon, Sydney, Auckland .. . make me think of Luna, Mercury, Mars,

Titan..."

Mackenzie paused and looked just a little embarrassed.

"I've tried to do something of the same kind myself-but don't worry, I
won't inflict my verses on it you.

Duncan made the encouraging noises he knew were expected.  He was quite
sure that before the end of the voyage he would be asked for his
criticism-translation, praise--of Mackenzie's literary efforts.

It was a timely reminder of his own responsibilities.  While the voyage
was still beginning, he had better start work.

Exactly ten minutes, George Washington had directed-not a second more.
Even the President will be allowed only fifteen, and all the planets
must have equal time.  The whole affair is scheduled to last two and a
half hours, from the moment we enter the Capitol until we leave for the
reception at the White House.... It still seemed faintly absurd to
travel three billion kilometers to make a ten-minute speech, even for
an occasion as unique as a five-hundredth anniversary.  Duncan was not
going to waste more than the bare minimum of it on polite formalities;
anyway, as Malcolm had pointed out, the sincerity of a speech of thanks
is often inversely proportional to its length.  For his amusement-and,
more important, because it would help to fix the other participants in
his mind -Duncan had tried to compose a formal opening, based on the
list of guests that Professor Washington had provided.  It started off:
"Madame President, Mr.  Vice President, Honorable

Chief Justice, Honorable Leader of the Senate, Honorable Leader of
the

House, Your Excellencies the Ambassadors for Luna, Mars, Mercury,
Ganymede, and Titan"-at this point he would incline his head slightly
toward

Ambassador Farrell, if he could see him in the crowded
gallery'distinguished representatives from Albania, Austrand, Cyprus,
Bohemia,

France, Khmer, Palestine,

Kalinga, Zimbawe, Eire He calculated that if he acknowledged all the
fifty or sixty regions that still insisted on some form of individual
recognition, a quarter of his time would be expended before he had even
begun.  This, obviously, was absurd, and he hoped that all the other
speakers would agree.  Regardless of protocol, Duncan had decided to
opt for dignified brevity.

"People of Earth" would cover a lot of ground-to be precise, five times
the area of Titan, an impressive statistic which Duncan knew by heart.
But that would leave out the visitors; what about "Friends from other
worlds"?  No, that was too pretentious, since most of them would be
complete strangers.

Perhaps: "Madame President, distinguished guests, known and unknown
friends from many worlds .. ."  That was better, yet somehow it still
didn't seem right.

There was more to this business, Duncan realized, than met the eye, or
the ear.  Plenty of people would be willing to give him advice, but he
was determined, in the good old Makenzie tradition, to see what he
could do himself before calling for help.  He had read somewhere that
the best way to learn to swim is by being thrown into deep water.
Duncan could not swim -that skill being singularly useless on Titan-but
he could appreciate the analogy.  His career in Solar politics would
start with a spectacular splash, and before the eyes of millions.

It was not that he was nervous; after all, he had addressed his whole
world as an expert witness during technical debates in the Assembly.
He had acquitted himself well when he weighed the complex arguments for
and against mining the ammonia glaciers of

Mount Nansen.  Even Armand Helmer had congratulated him, despite the
fact that they had reached opposing conclusions.  In those debates,
affecting the future of Titan, he had had real responsibility, and his
career might have come to an abrupt end if he had made a fool of
himself.  His Terran audience might be a thousand times larger, but it
would be very much less critical.  Indeed, his listeners would be
friendly unless he committed the unpardonable sin of boring them.

This, however, he could not yet guarantee, for he still had no idea how
he was going to use the most important ten minutes of his life.

Is

AT THE NODE

0 n the seas of Earth, they had called it

"Crossing the Line."  Whenever a ship had passed from one hemisphere to
another, there had been light hearted ceremonies and rituals, during
which those who had never traversed the Equator before were subjec I
ted to ingenious indignities by Father Neptune and his Court.

During the first centuries of space flight, the equivalent transition
involved no physical changes; only the navigational computer knew when
a ship had ceased to fall toward one planet and was beginning to fall
toward another.  But now, with the advent of constant acceleration
drives, which could maintain thrust for the entire duration of a
voyage, Midpoint, or

"Turnaround," had a real physical meaning, and a correspondingly
enhanced psychological impact.  After living and moving for days in an
apparent gravitational field, 84  Sirius' passengers would lose all
weight for several hours, and could at least feel that they were really
in space.

They could watch the slow rotation of the stars as the ship was swung
through one hundred eighty degrees, and the drive was aimed precisely
against its previous line of thrust, to slowly whittle away the
enormous velocity built up over the preceding ten days.  They could
savor the thought that they were now moving faster than any human
beings in history-and could also contemplate the exciting prospect that
if the drive failed to restart,

Sirius would ultimately reach the nearest stars, in not much more than
a thousand years.... All these things they could do; however, human
nature having certain invariants, a majority of Sirius' passengers had
other possibilities in mind.

It was the only chance most of them would ever have of experiencing
weightlessness long enough to enjoy it.  What a crime to waste the
opportunity!  No wonder that the most popular item in the ship's
library these last few days had been the Nasa Sutra, an old book and an
old joke, explained so often that it was no longer funny.

Captain Ivanov denied, with a reasonably convincing show of
indignation, that the ship's schedule had been designed to pander to
the passenger's lower instincts.  When the subject had been raised at
the Captain's table, the day before Turnaround, he had put up quite a
plausible defense.

"It's the only logical time to shut down the Drive," he had
explained.

"Between zero zero and zero four, all the passengers will be in their
cabins, er, sleeping.  So there will be the minimum of disturbance.  We
couldn't close down during the day-remember, the kitchens and the
toilets will be out of action while we're weightless.  Don't forget
that!  We'll remind everyone in the late evening, but some idiot always
gets overconfident, or drinks too much, and doesn't have enough sense
to read the instructions on those little plastic bags you'll find in
your cabins-no thanks, Steward, I don't feel like soup."

Duncan had been tempted; Marissa was beginning to fade, and there was
no lack of opportunity.  He had received unmistakable signals from
several directions, and for groups with all values of n from one to
five.  It would not have been easy to make a choice, but Fate had saved
him the trouble.

It was a full week, and Turnaround was only three days ahead, before he
had felt confident enough of his increasing intimacy with Chief
Engineer

Mackenzie to drop some gentle hints.  They had not been rejected out of
hand, but Warren obviously wanted time to weigh the possibilities.  He
gave

Duncan his decision only twelve hours in advance.

"I won't pretend this might cost me nay job," he said, "but it could be
embarrassing, to say the least, if it got around.  But you are a
Makenzie, and a Special Assistant to the Administrator, and all that.
If the worst comes to the worst, which I hope it won't, we can say your
request's official."

"Of course.  I understand completely, and I really appreciate what
you're doing.  I won't let you down."  .  "Now there's the question of
timing.  If everything checks out smoothly-and I've no reason to expect
otherwise-I'll be through in two hours and can dismiss my assistants.
They'll leave like meteors-they'll all have something lined up, you can
be sure of that -so we'll have the place to ourselves.  I'll give you a
call at zero two, or as soon after as possible."

"I hope I'm not interrupting any~ ah-personal plans you've made."

"As it happens, no.  The novelty's worn off.  What are you smiling
at?"

"It's just occurred to me," Duncan answered, "that if anyone does meet
the pair of us at two o'clock on the morning of Turnaround, we'll have
a perfect alibi .... "

Nevertheless, he felt a mild sense of guilt as he drifted along the
corridors behind Warren Mackenzie.  The weightless-but far from
sleeping-ship might have been deserted, for there was no occasion now
for anyone to descend below the freight deck on Level Three.  It was
not even necessary to pretend that they were heading for an innocent
assignation.

Yet the guilt was there, and he knew why.  He was taking advantage of
a friendship for secret purposes of his own, by suggesting that his
interest in the Asymptotic Drive was no more than would be expected
from anyone with a scientific or engineering background.  But perhaps
Warren was not as naieve as he seemed; he could hardly be unaware that
the Drive posed a threat to the entire economy of Duncan's society.  He
might even be trying to help, in a tactful way.

"You may be disappointed," said Warren as they passed through the
bulkhead floor separating levels Three and Two.  "There's not much to
see.  But what there is is enough to give some people nightmares which
is why we discourage visitors."

Not the most important reason, thought Duncan.  The Drive was not
exactly a secret; there was an immense literature on the subject, from
the most esoteric mathematical papers down to popularizations so
elementary that they amounted to little more than: "You pull on your
bootstraps, and away you go."  But it would be fair to say that Earth's
Space Transportation

Authority was curiously evasive when it came down to the practical
details, and only its own personnel were allowed on the minor planet
where the Drive was assembled.  The few photos of Asteroid 4587 were
blurred telescopic shots showing two cylindrical structures, more than
a thousand kilometers long, stretching out into space on either side of
the tiny world, which was an almost invisible speck between them.  It
was known that these were the accelerators that smashed matter together
at such velocities that it fused to form the node or singularity at the
heart of the Drive; and this was all that anyone did know, outside
the

STA.

Duncan was now floating, a few meters behind his guide, along a
corridor lined with pipes and cable ducts-all the anonymous plumbing
any vehicle of sea, air, or space for the last three hundred years.
Only the remarkable number of handholds, and the profusion of thick
padding, revealed that this was the interior of a ship designed to be
independent of gravity.

"D'you see that pipe?"  said the engineer.  "The little red one?"

"Yes-what about it?"  Duncan would certainly never have given it a
second glance; it was only about as thick as a lead pencil.

"That's the main hydrogen feed, believe it or not.  All of a hundred
grams a second.  Say eight tons a day, under full thrust."

Duncan wondered what the old-time rocket engineers would have thought
of this tiny fuel line.  He tried to visualize the monstrous pipes and
pumps of the Saturns that had first taken men to the Moon; what was
their rate of fuel consumption?  He was certain that they burned more
in every second than Sirius consumed in a day.  That was a good measure
of how far technology had progressed, in three centuries.  And in
another three ... ?

"Mind your head-those are the deflection coils.  We don't trust
room-temperature superconductors.  These are still good old
cryogenics."

"Deflection coils?  What for?"

"Ever stopped to think what would happen if that jet accidentally
touched part of the ship?  These coils keep it centered, and also give
all the vector control we need."

They were now hovering beside a massive-yet still surprisingly
small-cylinder that might have been the barrel of a twentieth-century
naval gun.  So this was the reaction chamber of the Drive.  It was hard
not to feel a sense of almost superstitious awe at the knowledge of
what lay within a few centimeters of him.  Duncan could easily have
encircled the metal tube with his arms; how strange to think of putting
your arms around a singularity, and thus, if some of the theories were
correct, embracing an entire universe.... Near the middle of the
five-meter-long tube a small section of the casing had been removed,
like the door of some miniature bank vault, and replaced by a crystal
window.  Through this obviously temporary opening a microscope, mounted
on a swinging arm so that it could be moved away after use, was aimed
into the interior of the drive unit.

The engineer clipped himself into position by the buckles conveniently
fixed to the casing, stared through the eyepiece, and made some
delicate micrometer adjustments.  "Take a look," he said, when he was
finally satisfied.

Duncan floated to the eyepiece and fastened himself rather clumsily in
place.  He did not know what he had expected to see, and he remembered
that the eye had to be educated before it could pass intelligible
impressions to the brain.  Anything utterly i!nfamiliar could be, quite
literally, invisible, so he was not too disappointed at his first
view.

What he saw was, indeed, perfectly ordinary merely a grid of fine
hairlines, crossing at right angles to form a reticule of the kind
commonly used for optical measurements.  Though he searched the
brightly lit field of view, he could find nothing else; he might have
been exploring a piece of blank graph paper.

"Look at the crossover at the exact center," said his guide, "and turn
the knob on the left-very slowly.  Half a rev will do-either
direction."

Duncan obeyed, yet for a few seconds he could still see nothing.  Then
be realized that a tiny bulge was creeping along the hairline as he
tracked the microscope.  It was as if he was looking at the reticule
through a sheet of glass with one minute bubble or imperfection in
it.

"Do you see it?"

"Yes-just.  Like a pin head-sized lens.  Without the grid, you'd never
notice it."

"Pinbead-sized!  That's an exaggeration, if ever I heard one.  The
node's smaller than an atomic nucleus.  You're not actually seeing it,
of course-only the distortion it produces."

"And yet there are thousands of tons of matter in there."

"Well, one or two thousand," answered the engivneer, rather
evasively.

"It's made a dozen trips and is getting near saturation, so we'll soon
have to install a new one.  Of course it would go on absorbing hydrogen
as long as we fed it, but we can't drag too much unnecessary mass
around, or we'll pay for it in performance.  Like the old seagoing
ships-they used to get covered with barnacles, and slowed down if they
weren't scraped clean every so often."

"What do they do with old nodes when they're too massive to use?  Is
it true that they're dropped into the sun?"

"What good would that do?  A node would sail right through the sun and
out the other side.  Frankly, I don't know what they do with the old
ones.

Perhaps they lump them all together into a big granddaddy node, smaller
than a neutron but weighing a few million tons."

There were a dozen other questions that Duncan was longing to ask.  How
were these tiny yet immensely massive objects handled?  Now that Sirius
was in free fall, the node would remain floating where it was-but what
kept it from shooting out of the drive tube as soon as acceleration
started?  He assumed that some combination of powerful electric and
magnetic fields held it in place, and transmitted its thrust to the
ship.

"What would happen," Duncan asked, "if I tried to touch it?"

"You know, absolutely everyone asks that question."

"I'm not surprised.  What's the answer?"

"Well, you'd have to open the vacuum seal, and then all hell would
break loose as the air rushed in."

"Then I don't do it that way.  I wear a spacesuit, and I crawl up the
drive tunnel and reach out a finger ... to

"How clever of you to hit exactly the right spot!  But if you did, when
your finger tip got within--oh -something like a millimeter, I'd
guess-the gravitational tidal forces would start to tear away at it. As
soon as the first few atoms fell into the field, they'd give up all
their mass-energy-and you'd think that a small hydrogen bomb had gone
off in your face.  The explosion would probably blow you out of the
tube at a fair fraction of the speed of light."

Duncan gave an uncomfortable little laugh.

"It would certainly take a clever man to steal one of your babies.
Doesn't it ever give you nightmares?"

"No.  It's the tool I'm trained to use, and I understand its little
ways.  I can't imagine handling power lasers-they scare the hell out of
me.  You know, old Kipling had it all summed up, as usual.  You
remember me talking about him?"

"Yes."

"He wrote a poem called "The Secret of the Machines," and it has some
lines

I often say to myself when I'm down here:

"But remember, please, the Law by which we live,

We are not built to comprehend a lie,

We can neither love nor pity nor forgive.

If you make a slip in handling us you die!

"And that's true of all machines-all the natural forces we've ever
learned to handle.  There's no real difference between the first
caveman's fire and the node in the heart of the Asymptotic Drive."

An hour later, Duncan lay sleepless in his bunk, waiting for the Drive
to go on and for Sirius to begin the ten days of deceleration that
would lead to her rendezvous with Earth.  He could still see that tiny
flaw in the structure of space, hanging there in the field of the
microscope, and knew that its image would haunt him for the rest of his
life.  And he realized now that Warren Mackenzie had betrayed nothing
of his trust; all that he had learned had been published a thousand
times.  But no words or photos could ever convey the emotional impact
he had experienced.

Tiny fingers began to tug at him; weight was returning to Sirius.  From
an infinite distance came the thin wail of the Drive; Duncan told
himself that he was listening to the death cry of matter as it left the
known universe, bequeathing to the ship all the energy of its mass in
the final moment of dissolution.  Every minute, several kilograms of
hydrogen were falling into that tiny but insatiable vortex-the hole
that could never be filled.

Duncan slept poorly for the rest of the night.  He had dreams that he
too was Falling, falling into a spinning whirlpool, indefinitely deep.
As he fell, he was being crushed to molecular, to atomic, and finally
to sub nuclear dimensions.  In a moment, it would all be over, and he
would disappear in a single flash of radiation.... But that moment
never came, because as Space contracted, Time stretched endlessly, the
passing seconds becoming longer .. . and longer .. . and longer -until
he was trapped forever in a changeless Eternity.

PORT VAN ALLEN

When Duncan had gone to bed for the last time aboard Sirius, Earth was
still five million kilometers away.  Now it seemed to fill the sky-and
it was exactly like the photographs.  He had laughed when more seasoned
travelers told him he would be surprised at this; now he was ruefully
surprised at his surprise.

Because the ship had cut right across the Earth's orbit, they were
approaching from sunward, and the hemisphere below was almost fully
illuminated.  White continents of cloud covered most of the day side,
and there were only rare glimpses of land, impossible to identify
without a map.  The dazzling glare of the Antarctic icecap was the most
prominent surface feature; it looked very cold down there, yet Duncan
reminded himself that it was tropical in comparison with much of his
world.

Earth was a beautiful planet; that was beyond dispute.  But it was also
alien, and its cool whites and blues did nothing to warm his heart.  It
was indeed a paradox that Titan, with its cheerful orange clouds,
looked so much more hospitable from space.

Duncan stayed in Lounge B, watching the approaching Earth and making
his farewells to many temporary friends, until Port Van Allen was a
dazzling star against the blackness of space, then a glittering ring,
then a huge, slowly turning wheel.  Weight gradually ebbed away as the
drive that had taken them halfway across the Solar System decreased its
thrust to zero; then there were only occasional nudges as low-powered
thrustors trimmed the attitude of the ship.

The space station continued to expand.  Its size was incredible, even
when one realized that it had been steadily growing for almost three
centuries.

Now it completely eclipsed the planet whose commerce it directed and
controlled; a moment later a barely perceptible vibration, instantly
damped out, informed everyone that the ship had docked.  A few seconds
later, the Captain confirmed it.

"Welcome to Port Van Allen-Gateway to Earth.  It's been nice having you
with us, and I hope you enjoy your stay.  Please follow the stewards,
and check that you've left nothing in your cabins.  And I'm sorry to
mention this, but three passengers still haven't settled their
accounts.  The Purser will be waiting for them at the exit..  .."

A few derisive groans and cheers greeted this announcement, but were
quickly lost in the noisy bustle of disembarkation.  Although
everything was supposed to have been carefully planned, chaos was
rampant.  The wrong passengers went to the wrong checkpoints, while the
public-address system called plaintively for individuals with
improbable names.  It took Duncan more than an hour to get into the
spaceport, and he did not see all of his baggage again until his second
day on Earth.

But at last the confusion abated as people squeezed through the
bottleneck of the docking hub and sorted themselves out in the
appropriate levels of the station.  Duncan followed instructions
conscientiously, and eventually found himself, with the rest of his
alphabetical group, lined up outside the Quarantine Office.  All other
formalities had been completed hours ago, by radio circuit; but this
was something that could not be done by electronics.  Occasionally,
travelers had been turned back at this point, on the very door  step
of Earth, and it was not without qualms that Duncan confronted this
last hurdle.

"We don't get many visitors from Titan," said the medical officer who
checked his record.  "You come in the Lunar classification-less than a
quarter gee.  It may be tough down there for the first week, but you're
young enough to adapt.  It helps if both your parents were born .. ."

The doctor's voice trailed off into silence; he had come to the entry
marked MOTHER.  Duncan was used to the reaction, and it had long ago
ceased to bother him.  Indeed, he now derived a certain amusement from
the surprise that discovery of his status usually produced.  At least
the M.O. would not ask the silly question that laymen so often asked,
and to which he had long ago formulated an automatic reply: "Of course
I've got a navel-the best that money can buy."  The other common
myth-that male clones must be abnormally virile "because the had one
father twice"-he had wisely left unchY lenged.  It had been useful to
him on several occasions.

Perhaps because there were six other people waiting in line, the doctor
suppressed any scientific curiosity he may have felt, and sent Duncan
"upstairs" to the Earth-gravity section of the spaceport.  It seemed a
long time before the elevator, moving out along one of the spokes of
the slowly spinning wheel, finally reached the rim; and all the while,
Duncan felt his weight increasing remorselessly.

When the doors opened at last, he walked stiff legged out of the
cage.

Though he was still a thousand kilometers above the Earth, and his
new-found weight was entirely artificial, he felt that he was already
in the cruel grip of the planet below.  if he could not pass the test,
he would be shipped back to Titan in disgrace.

It was true that those who just failed to make the grade could take a
high-speed toughening-up course, primarily intended for returning Lunar
residents.  This, however, was safe only for those who had spent most
of their infancy on Earth, and Duncan could not possibly qualify.  He
forgot all these fears when he entered the lounge and saw the cresent

Earth, filling half the sky and slowly sliding along the huge
observation windows-themselves a famous tour de * force of space
engineering.  Duncan had no intention of calculating how many tons of
air pressure they were resisting; as he walked, up to the nearest, it
was easy to imagine that there was nothing protecting him from the
vacuum of space.  The sensation was both exhilarating and disturbing.

He had intended to go through the check list that the doctor had given
him, but that awesome view made it impossible.  He stood rooted to the
spot, only shifting his unaccustomed weight from one foot to the other
as hitherto unknown muscles registered their complaints.

Port Van Allen circled the globe every two hours, and also rotated on
its own axis three times a minute.  After a while, Duncan found that he
could ignore the station's own spin; his mind was able to cancel it
out, like an irrelevant background noise or a persistent but neutral
odor.  Once he had achieved this mental attitude, he could imagine that
he was alone in space, a human satellite racing along the Equator from
night into day.  For the

Earth was waxing visibly even as he watched, the curved line of dawn
moving steadily away from him as he hurtled into the east.

As usual, there was little land visible, and what could be seen through
or between the clouds seemed to have no relationship to any maps.  And
from this altitude there was not the slightest sign of life-still less
of intelligence.  it was very hard to believe that most of human
history had taken place beneath that blanket of brilliant white, and
that, until a mere three hundred years ago, no man had ever risen above
it.

He was still searching for signs of life when the disc started to
contrast to a crescent once more, and the public-address system called
on all passengers for Earth to report to the shuttle embarkation area,
Elevators

Two and Three.

He just had time to stop at the "Last Chance" toilet-almost as famous
as the lounge windows-and then he was down by elevator again, back
into the weightless world of the station's hub, where the
Earth-to-orbit shuttle was being readied for its return journey.

There were no windows here, but each passenger had his own vision
screen, on the back of the seat in front of hina, and could switch to
forward, rear, or downward as preferred.  The choice was not completely
free, though this fact was not widely advertised.  Images that were
likely to be too disturbing like the final moments of docking or
touchdown were thoughtfully censored by the ship's computer.

It was pleasant to be weightless again-if only during the fifty minutes
needed for the fall down to the edge of the atmosphere-and to watch
the

Earth slowly changing from a planet to a world.  The curve of the
horizon became flatter and flatter; there were fleeting glimpses of
islands and the spiral nebula of a great storm, raging in silence far
below.  Then at last a feature that Duncan could recognize-the
characteristic narrow isthmus of the California coastline, as the
shuttle dropped out of the Pacific skies for its final landfall, still
the width of a continent away.

He felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into the superbly padded
seat, which spread the load so evenly over his body that there was the
minimum of discomfort.  But it was hard to breathe, until he remembered
the "Advice to

Passengers" he had finally managed to read.  Don't try to inhale
deeply, it had said; take short, sharp pants, to reduce the strain on
the chest muscles.  He tried it, and it worked.

Now there was a gentle buffeting and a distant roar, and the vision
screen flashed into momentary flame, then switched automatically from
the fires of reentry to the view astern.  The canyons and deserts
dwindled behind, to be replaced by a group of lakes-obviously
artificial, with the tiny white flecks of sailboats clearly visible. He
caught a glimpse of the huge

V-shaped wake, kilometers long, of some vessel going at great speed
over the water, although from this altitude it seemed completely
motionless.

Then the scene changed with an abruptness that took him by surprise.
He might have been flying over the ocean once more, so uniform was the
view below.  Still so high that he could not see the individual trees,
he was passing over the endless forests of the American Midwest.

Here indeed was proof of Life, on a scale such as he had never
imagined.  On all of Titan, there were fewer than a hundred trees,
cherished and protected with loving care.  Spread out beneath him now
were incomputable millions.

Somewhere, Duncan had encountered the phrase "primeval forest," and now
it flashed again into his mind.  So must the Earth have looked in the
ancient days, before Man had set to work upon it with fire and axe.
Now, with the ending of the brief Agricultural Age, much of the planet
was reverting to something like its original state.

Though the fact was very hard to believe, Duncan knew perfectly well
that the "primeval forest" lying endlessly beneath him was not much
older than

Grandfather.  Only two centuries ago, this had all been farmland,
divided into enormous checkerboards and covered in the autumn with
golden grain.  (That concept of seasons was another local reality he
found extremely difficult to grasp .. .. ) There were still plenty of
farms in the world, run by eccentric hobbyists or biological research
organizations, but the disasters of the twentieth century had taught
men never again to rely on a technology that, at its very best, had an
efficiency of barely one percent.

The sun was sinking, driven down into the west with unnatural speed by
the shuttle's velocity.  It clung to the horizon for a few seconds,
then winked out.  For perhaps a minute longer the forest was still
visible; then it faded into obscurity.

But not into darkness.  As if by magic, faint lines of light had
appeared on the land below-spiders' webs of luminosity, stretching as
far as the eye could see.  Sometimes three or four lines would meet at
a single glowing knot.  There were also isolated islands of
phosphorescence, apparently unconnected with the main network.  Here
was further proof of Man's existence; that great forest was a much
busier place than it appeared to be by daylight.  Yet Duncan could not
help comparing this modest display with pictures he had seen from the
early Atomic Age, when millions of square kilometers blazed at night
with such brilliance that men could no longer see the stars.

He suddenly became aware of a compact constellation of flashing lights,
moving independently of the glimmering landscape far below.  For a
moment, he was baffled; then he realized that he was watching some
great airship, cruising not much faster than a cloud with its cargo of
freight or passengers.  This was one experience Titan could not
provide.  He determined to enjoy it as soon as the opportunity arose.

And there was a city-quite a big one, at least a hundred thousand
people.

The shuttle was now so low that he could make out blocks of buildings,
roads, parks, and a stadium blazing with light, presumably the scene of
some sporting event.  The city fell astern, and a few minutes later
everything was lost in a gray mist, lit by occasional flashes of
lightning, not very impressive by the standards of Titan.  Inside the
cabin, Duncan could hear nothing of the storm through which they were
now flying, but the vibration of the engines had taken a new note and
he could sense that the ship was dropping rapidly.  Nevertheless, he
was taken completely by surprise when there was a sudden surge of
weight, the slightest of jolt sand there on the screen was a sea of wet
concrete, a confusion of lights, and half a dozen buses and service
vehicles scurrying around in the driving rain.

After thirty years, Duncan Makenzie had returned to the world where he
was born, but which he had never seen.... Part III

Terra

WASHINGTON, D.C.

"Sorry about the weather," said George Washington.  "We used to have
local climate control, but gave it up after an Independence Day parade
was blocked by snow."

Duncan laughed dutifully, though he was not quite sure if he was
supposed to believe this.

"I don't mind," he said.  "It's all new to me.  I've never seen rain
before."

That was not the literal truth, but it was near enough.  He had often
driven through ammonia gales and could still remember the poisonous
cascades streaming down the windows only a few centimeters before his
eyes.  But this was harmless-no, beneficent-water, the source of life
both on Earth and on

Titan.  If he opened the door now he would merely get wet; he would not
die horribly.  But the instincts of a lifetime were hard to overcome,
and he knew that it would require a real effort of will to leave the
protection of the limousine.

And it was a genuine limousine-another first for Duncan.  Never before
had he traveled in such sybaritic comfort, with a communications
console on one side and a well-stocked bar on the other.  Washington
saw his admiring gaze and commented: "Impressive, isn't it?  They don't
make them any more.  This was President Bernstein's favorite car."

Duncan was not too good on American presidents -after all, there had
been by now ninety-five of them-but he had an approximate idea of
Bernstein's date.  He performed a quick calculation, didn't believe the
resuli, and repeated it.  "That means-it's more than a hundred and
fifty years old!"

"And it's probably good for another hundred and fifty.  Of course, the
upholstery-real leather, notice -is replaced every twenty years or so.
If these seats could talk, they could tell some secrets.  As a matter
of fact, they often did-but you have my personal assurance that it's
now been thoroughly debugged."

"Debugged?  Oh, I know what you mean.  Anyway, I don't have any
secrets."

"Then we'll soon provide you with some; that's our chief local
industry."

As the beautiful old car cruised in almost perfect silence under the
guidance of its automatic controls, Duncan tried to see something of
the terrain through which he was passing.  The spaceport was fifty
kilometers from the city-no one had yet invented a noiseless rocket-and
the four-lane highway bore a surprising amount of traffic.  Duncan
could count at least twenty vehicles of various types, and even though
they were all moving in the same direction, the spectacle was somewhat
alarming.

"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 all its
problems.

One of the greatest dangers to the Technological Society was the
unpredictable madman who tried to express his frustrationsconsciously
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 that 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 this George 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; that was
pulled down around 2000, though the Democrats wanted to make it a
national monument.  And the

Kennedy Center-that is the 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 did you 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 may 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 genuine black 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 do have 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 host 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 size of
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 tfien), 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 camera lens and speaker
grille-something about the design gave it an oldfashioned 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 the 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 the 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.

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 no 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, +, - ,
--, =, 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 Transmit Receive bull's-eye
operating in the near ultraviolet 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 not 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
radio mike 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 these words of his youth ... ?  112276 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 an 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 have to, 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 the first time I've had the
energy-and the inclination-and the 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 Eve 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 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 sam eT 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 pioneers at the edge of the Solar System,
carving out a new civilization 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 is getting decadentT
And he looked at me with a grin and answered quickly: "Oh no-we aren't
decadent."  Then he paused, and added: "But the next generation 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 I in full daylight.  I'm still trying to
get over it.  21

MOUNT VERNON

"Don't take this program too seriously," said General George
Washington.

"It's still being changed every day.  But your main appointmentsI'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 110  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 had done 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 volunteered for
them, especially if they showed too much enthusiasm.  As on 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 that was 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
directly on his exposed skin, he could actually feel the heat.  On
Titan, the very concept of 64 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

III

 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 one before?"

Duncan laughed, without much humor.

"I've never seen any animal before-except Man."

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

"No.  We've been arguinf, 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
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 than
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 star fields of the

Milky Way had yielded such glimpses of infinity.

I 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
this is one of the most heavily built-up areas on the continent.  It's
taken 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 are a couple
of steel towns still intact in Pennsylvania; visiting them is an
educational 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 mental 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 anthropological cliche 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 an
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 coiinle of years ago I took a statistician from
Tranquillity 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 be interested, and he was.

If I'd done my homework properly-which I usually do, 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--and to 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 red 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 car ring 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.  And you may not
believe this, but there was a time when the motor ways were 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 electro cycles
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-genuine wood, 116
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 a good 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 had to, 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 weighs 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 cautious sniff.

"I think so," he said, without much conviction.  "IVS just that-the air
is rather--2' 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 118  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 my point of view.  I've just met my first Monster
from

Outer Space.  Thank God it was friendly."

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 the 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 happy even about electric light in a four-hundred-year-old house.
If you do get too cold, here are some extra blankets.  Primitive, but
very 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 the sensations that can be experienced by a man in
the utter darkness of an unfamiliar bedchamber.  Something was 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 some Terran zoology.  If it has a leg at each
corner, and horns, 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 homed 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, that was naughty-Tv

It seemed 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 think it'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 through the air, made him forget the ferocious
gravitational field of which he was now a captive.

He started to ran 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 d
aging 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 the 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, though 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
so lars 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 off.  He hoped that 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 have guessed at the real reason.  Duncan had never
been particularly interested in 124  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 that 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.

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 glide ways and
auto jitneys 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 down
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, 126  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 that 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 people 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, 41/2 down, 51h down, 160, 61h down, 5V2 down, 9 forward, 120
feet, 100 feet, 31h down, 9 forward, 75 feet, things 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 21h, kicking up some dust, 30 feet, 21h
down, faint shadow, 4 forward, 4 forward, drifting to the right a
little .  . Contact light.  O.K. engine stopped, descent engine command
ove ride off ... Houston, Tranquillity Base here.  The Eagle has
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 figure 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 64a9l 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 intended to say, and
that's what I thought I said."  128  All of 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 Tranquillity 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 Tranquillity 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 had reerapted in this 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. Were
only restoring it, said others.... Something was happening just beyond
the fence doff area, at the very limits of the 3-D scanners.  It was
shockingly incongruous to see any movement at all at such a spot; then
Duncan remembered that the Sea had lost its tranquillity 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.

BUDGET

"Today I walked at least three kilometers, and was on my feet for over
two hours.  I'm beginning to feel that life is possible on Earth....
"But I must be careful not to overdo it, and I'm still using glide ways
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 130  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 any~-thing 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 never in 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 at 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 not trying
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 start 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'd 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 is a 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 knew about 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 igignoring 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 that was 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, IT 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't liquid
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 Gro meyko 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 "I have accepted one late engagement, because George stressed its
importance.  This is to speakin 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 so lars  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 so lars 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 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
would have 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.

DAUGHTERS OF THE REVOLUTIONS

George Washington had been right; they did look like dragons.

Formidable, tight-lipped ladies, few of them were 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 the 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, Dun137  can 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 the listeners were laughing not with him, but at him.

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.

"The 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 permanent base 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
selfcontained 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 sea of hats
was getting 138  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 that 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 that Titan is an atractive tourist resort-though we
have some tourists, 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 only place, outside the Earth, where a man can
move around on the surface without a full spacesuit.  That may surprise
your 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 on Earth.  Here, you burn hydrogen compounds, and -the
atmosphere supplies the oxygen.  On Titan, we have to provide the
oxygen, and we burn that in 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 its 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'ramscoops'-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 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 sleigh ride as it had been aptly christened by one of
the few men who had 140  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-product of technology.

"One could make a very interesting comparison," he continued, "between
the settlement of Titan and the opening up of this continent, 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 141  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
this planet 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 we may 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 from 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 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 our
pioneers 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
astotfishment the applause seemed perfectly genuine.

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

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,
un reverberant thud.  He abandoned futile speculation and tore open the
envelope taped around the cylinder.

Mt.  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 tightened before 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 this 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 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.  Recreatibn 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 had 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 ACTIVATET'

He had stared at her until she faded out, leaving a dazzling smile
that, like the Cheshire Cat, lingered in 146  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 in her viddy number.
Duncan would not have believed 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 be 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
from 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
imagge 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 very appropriate.  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 exactly what 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 moue which he remembered so well.

"No," she replied firmly.  "I'd be violating the motto of my own
organization, and even the executive vice7 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 have to 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."  dgEh?99

Washington repeated the phrase, slowly and caro fully

"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 you aren'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 very 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't like 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 he 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.,

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, 152  there'll be a big windlass and weT 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,
selfassured 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 of the whole enterprise.

"I must ask you," he said, "to hand over all watches, radios, and
communication 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 your
benefit.  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 peculiar 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 153  Terran.  Duncan could
not imagine anyone on his world 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 seatmanship, 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
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 take-off.  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 155  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 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-everywhere on 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 would never 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?"  be asked.

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

"As long as that?  I would have said not much more than one."  " At
least two.  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 be learned this, van Hyatt walked away muttering, "Well, it could
still be 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 156  to further
confuse the now thoroughly disorientated passengers.

Nevertheless, Duncan thought it not a bad idea to accept the
suggestion.  He might need an 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 improbable
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, surrounded by a high wall of trees.
For the first time, Duncan began to have serious qualms.  He remembered
his 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 really know 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 there?"  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
that song 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 into them, 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 human throat 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've been making, I'm surprised everything has been so quiet until
now."

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

"Ask Mr.  van Hyatt-he seems to have all the answers.19

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," somobody muttered.

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

"Personally, I don1 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 from the darkness, "tomorrow we
explore the caves of the maneating vampire bats of Bongo Bongo.  Now
for heaven's sake shut up and go to sleep."

PRIMEVAL FOREST

TDuncan'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 howl 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 your 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 stiff 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's all you're having now.  Your appetites
will be all the better when we get back."

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

"It depends how fast you march.  Bob-you'll need better footwear than
those sandals.  Miss Leesorry, but in the jungle it's advisable to wear
something above 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 ten
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 out 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 knew it 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.

Engima had certainly fulfilled its promise.  Not more than five
kilometers away, gleaming in the morning 164  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 of 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?"

V9

"Yes.

"On what?  Anything big?"

"Fairly.  99

"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.

"Quite dangerous."

"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 uncomfortable 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 are they?"  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 166  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 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 professoes 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 m-in-i-phant.  On a
beautiful morning like this, Fm going 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, he survived.  If you
want a bike, you can go across to Fifth Avenue and hire one.  For that
matter, you can walk to the 96th Street 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 first 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 affectionatoly around BoWs
wrist.

Then he bent his legs 168  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 the
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 that wasn'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, every169  where in the Solar System, would feel at
home.  Now that they were clear of the taller 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 only transportation, 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 170  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 comprehehsive; 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 facade, 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
Rockfeller was an aesthetic battlefield; it had even been bombed-with
cans of red paint.  The terraces and stairways of the man-made bill
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.  One 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 MIMIMALIST MANIFESTO?
Was it true that 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 44th Street.

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 mornine 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 cafes 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 paddle boat
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
finished172  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
this mood of solemn silence by asking nal ve 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 lasO-the hard hats that had been exercising Bill
van Hyatt's imagination.  Still in that curious expectant hush, with
only a few fleeting smiles 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 built 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 of 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

Titanic had at last reached New York.

THE 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 sank, 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 they had 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 towingl

"So we brought her to New York, pumped her full of nitrogen to stop
rusting, and slowly dried her out.  ~Io problems here-the underwater
archaeologists have preserved ships ten times older than Titaydc.  It's
the sheer scale of the job that's taken us fourteen years, and will
take us at least ten more.  Thousands 175  of pieces of smashed
furniture 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 so lars to- salvaging the past?  Well, I
can give you some down-to earth practical reasons: This ship is part of
our history.  We can better understand ourselves, and our civilization,
when we study her.

Someone once 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 Titanic was 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 had 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
Titanies 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
oldfashioned, 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

Remember lives up to its name.tg

The lights in the Grand Saloon dimmed, as they had dimmed at
two-eighteen on the morning of April 15, 1912.  Time rolled back three
and a half centuries as the grainy, flickering real-life footage merged
into the impeccable studio reconstruction.  Titanic sailed again, to
make her 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 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.

We Ill she exclaimed, when she had disentangled herself.  "After
fifteen years!"  "You haven't changed in the least."  177  "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 Teffans.  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
ealier age, he might have been a missionary, spreading the doctrines of
Mohammed or Jesus with fire and sword.  Today he.  was 178  a barmless
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 be 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 and turbines?) Then
his admiration was abruptly tempered when Commander Innes gave him 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:

RMS.  "TITANIC"

April 14, 1912

LUNCHEON

Consomme Fermier Cockie Leekie Fillets of Brill Egg A I'Argenteuil
Chicken A 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 Munch 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
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 dive
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 of the sea, but it terrified him.  Nothing,
he was sure, would ever induce him to enter that alien universe of
strange beasts, full of known dangers that were bad enough, and unknown
ones that must be even worse.  (As if one could possibly imagine
anything worse than the man-eating shark or the giant squid .. .. )
People like Commander

Innes must indeed be mad.  They made life interesting, but there was no
need to follow their example.

And at the moment, Duncan was too busy trying to follow Calindy-without
much success.  He could appreciate the fact that, having' some fifty
people to deal with, she could give him only two percent of her time;
but when he tried to pin her down to a meeting under less hectic
circumstances, she was curiously evasive.  It was not that she was
unfriendly, for she seemed genuinely pleased to see him.  But something
was worrying her-she was holding him at arm's length.  It was almost as
if she had been warned that he was bringing deadly Titanian germs to
Earth.  All that he could extract from her before they parted was a
vague promise that she would contact him "just as soon as the season is
over"-whatever that might mean.

Enigma Associates had not disappointed him, but their vice-president
had left him puzzled and saddened.  Duncan worried at the problem
throughout the thirty-minute ride in the vacuum subway back to 181
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.

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 bio type 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.  182  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 in his desk.

"To answer that question," Duncan began slowly, "I'd have to IF, ve 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
vary 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, vdth his interest in the past, would probably know what Keynes
was driving at, but

Duncan was completely lost.

"I'm referring to the problem of succession.  How do you make sure your
dynasty continues after your death, on the lines you want?  There's no
way of guaranteeing it, of course, but you can improve the odds if you
can leave a carbon copy of yourself..  ..

"The Egyptian Pharaohs made a heroic attempt at this-the best that
could be done without modern 183  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 problem of inbreeding.  But it introduces other problems.
Because 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 it it's
combined with genetic repair-which is not possible in your case, as you
certainly know.  When you were cloned from Colin, that was merely an
attempt to perpetuate the dynasty.  Healing was not involved--only
politics and personal vanity.  Oh, I'm sure that both your precursors
are convinced that it was all for the good of Titan, and they may well
be absolutely right.

But I'm afraid I've given up playing God.  I'm sorry, Mr.  Makenzie.
Now, if you will excuse me-I hope you have an enjoyable visit.  Goodbye
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 could 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.

PARTY GAMES

It was well for Duncan that he was now becoming less awed by
conspicuous displays of culture.  Impressed, by all means; overwhelmed,
no.  Too strong a colonial inferiority complex would certainly have
spoiled his enjoyment of this reception.

He had been to other parties since his arrival, but this was by far the
largest.  It was sponsored by the National Geographic Society-no, that
was tomorrow -by the Congressional Foundation, whatever that might be,
and there were at least a thousand guests circulating through the
marble halls.

"If the roof fell in on us now," he overheard someone remark, rather
smugly, "Earth would start running around like a headless chicken."

There seemed no reason to fear such a disaster; the National Gallery of
Art had stood for almost four hundred years.  Many of its treasures, of
course, were far older: no one could possibly put a value on the
paintings and sculpture displayed in its halls.  Leonardo's Ginevra de'
Benci,

Michelangelo's miraculously recovered bronze David, Picasso's Willie

Maugham, Esq."  Levinski's Martian Dawn, were merely the most famous of
the wonders it had gathered through the centuries.  Every one of them,
Duncan knew, he could study through holograms in closer detail than he
was doing now-but it was not the same thing.  Though the copies might
be technically perfect, 185  these were the originals, forever unique;
the ghosts of the long-dead artists still lingered here.  When he
returned to Titan, he would be able to boast to his friends: "Yes-I've
stood within a meter of a genuine Leonardo."

It also amused Duncan to realize that never on his own world could he
move in such a crowd-and be completely unrecognized.  He doubted if
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 one 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
pressed, the guest's badge would emit a buzz just loud enough for him
to hear, and his light would start Bashing.  He then had two
alternatives.  He could apologize to the group he was with, 186  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 cal lee did not wish to be
disturbed.  Only the most persistent or bad-mannered inquirer would
ignore this hint.

Although some hostesses thought the system too coldly mechanical, and
refused to use it at any price, it was in fact deliberately
imperfect.

Anyone who wished to opt out could neglect to pick up his badge, and it
would then be assumed that he had not put in an appearance.  To aid
this deception, an ample supply of false badges was available, and the
protocol that went with them was well understood.  If you saw a
familiar face above an innocuous JOHN DOE or MARY SMITH, you
investigated no further.  But a

JESUS CHRIST or a JULIUS CAESAR was fair game.

Duncan saw no need for anonymity.  He was quite happy to meet anyone
who wished to meet him, so he left his badge in the operating mode
while he raided the lavish buffet, then beat a retreat to one of the
smaller tables.

Although he could now function in Earth's gravity better than he would
once have believed possible, he still took every opportunity of sitting
down.

And in this case it was essential even for Terrans, except those
skillful enough to manipulate three plates and one glass with two
hands.

He had been one of the early arrivals--this was a folly he never
succeeded in curing during his whole stay on Earth-and by the time he
had finished nibbling at unknown delicacies, the hall was comfortably
full.  He decided to start circulating among the other guests, lest he
be identified for what he was-a lost and lonely outsider.

He did not deliberately eavesdrop; but Makenzies had unusually good
hearing, and Terrans-at least party-going Terrans---seemed anxious to
spread in formation as widely as possible.  Like a free electron
wandering through a semiconductor, Duncan drifted from one group to
another, occasionally exchanging a few words of greeting, but never
getting involved for more than a couple of minutes.  He was quite
content to be a passive observer, and ninety percent of the
conversations he overheard were meaningless or boring.

But not all .. .

I loathe parties like this, don't you?

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

I'm so sorry.  But it will wash out easily.

-buying at one fifty and selling at one eighty.  Would you believe that
grown men once spent their entire lives doing that sort of thing?

-no music worth listening to since the late twentieth century.... Make
it early twenty-first.

Sorry-I don't know who's throwing this party, either.

Did El Greco come before Modigliani?  I just can't believe it.

Bill's ambition is to be shot dead at the age of two hundred by a
jealous wife.

How's the Revolution going?  If you need any more money from the Ways
and

Means Committee, let me know.

Food should come in pills, the way God intended.... Anyone in the room
she's not slept with?  Well, maybe that statue of Zeus.  French is not
a dead language.  At least five million people still speak it-or at
least read it.

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

I thought it was the Van Allen Belt.

Oh, that was last year.

At that 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, 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 co me!  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, goa teed 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--2'

"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 conspirational glance to check that there was
nobody in earshot except Winslow Homer's fisher boys 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.99

"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 talI 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, cornute 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 co mute 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 grains.  What would you say to that?"

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

"You can't fake titanite."

"Well-synthetic?"

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

"Have you ever seen it?"

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

Duncan refrained from adding that there was an even finer specimen in
the

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're certainly well informed, Duncan told himself -in fact, I'm sure
you know far more about titanite than I do.... "I suppose you mean the
theory that there may be bigger lodes on the other moons?"

"Yes.  In fact, traces have been detected on lapetus.95

"That's news to me, but I wouldn't have heard un less 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 complicatons.  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.  Fm not interested
in that, of course-but most governments are rather grateful to anyone
who detects a loss of revenue.  If I can help you earn that gratitude,
I should be delighted."

I understand you perfectly, said Duncan to himself, and this makes the
proposition much more attractive.  He did not know the Titan law on
these matters, and even if a reward was involved, it would be tactless
for the

Special Assistant to the Chief Administrator to claim it.  But his task
would certainly not be much easier if-as he gloomily expected-he were
compelled to apply for more Terran so lars 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 that 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--2'

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

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

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

"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.... he first time he had
ever 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 Maken2ie'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
pseudo white light from a tri chromatic 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.  The 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 half a dozen theories.  I'm
not even sure if we're seeing a real structure-or some kind of moire
pattern in three dimensions, if that's possible..  .."

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

Makenzies always kept their promises, even in the most trifling
matters.

Duncan would send a message off to Colin the first thing in the
morning.

There was no hurry; and that, he expected and half hoped, would be the
last he would hear of it.

Very gently, he replaced the titanite cross in its setting between
the

F,

N, U, and V pentominoes.  One day, he really must make a sketch of the
configuration.

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

 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' 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, fall 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 entree 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.92

"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 "Doctoe?  Surgeons often hate that."

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

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

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

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

"No problem," he said triumphantly.  "Everyone knows the story-I should
have remembered it my~ self.  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 agrued that Nature had chosen that nine months for
very good reasons, and that the human race should stick to it.

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

The younger man, of course, disagreed completely.  The debate had
become more and more bitter-also more and more public, as it was
inflamed by sensation-seeking hangers-on who wanted to see a good
fight.

After one abortive attempt at reconciliation, the partnership split up,
and the two men had never spoken to each other again.  A major problem
at medical congresses for the last decade had been to ensure that they
were not present simultaneously at any meeting.

That had been the end of Mortimer Keynes's active career.  The famous
clinic he had established was closed down, though he still kept his
Harley Street office and did a little consultation.  His ex-partner,
who had a remarkable gift for acquiring public and private funds,
promptly established a new base and continued his experiments.

As Duncan read on, with increasing curiosity and excitement, he
realized that here was the man he needed.  Whether he would take
advantage of the highspeed cloning technique he could decide later; it
was certainly interesting to know that the option existed, and that if
he wished, he could return to Titan months in advance of his original
schedule.

Now to locate Sir Mortimer's ex-colleague and successor.  It was lucky
that the search did not have to rely on the name alone, for it was one
that occurred in some form or other half a million times in the Earth
Directory.

But he had only to consult the Classified Section-often referred to,
for some mysterious reason lost in the depths of time, by the utterly
meaningless phrase "Yellow Pages."

And so, on a small island off the east coast of Africa, Duncan
discovered

El Hadj Yehudi ben Mohammed.

He had scarcely made arrangements to fly to Zanzibar when a small
bombshell arrived from Titan.  It bore Colin's identification number,
but he was unable to make sense of it until he realized that it was
both in cipher and the Makenzie private code.  Even after two
processing trips through his

Minisec, it was still somewhat cryptic: PRIORITY AAA SECURITY AAA

NO RECORD OF ANY SHIPMENT TITANrrB REGISTERED BUREAU OF RESOURCES
LAST

TWO

YEARS.  POSSIBLE INFRINGEMENT FINANCE REGULATIONS IF PRIVATE SALE FOR

CONVERTIBLE SO LARS NOT APPROVED BY BANK OF TITAN.  PERSISTENT RUMOR

MAJOR

DISCOVERY ON OUTER MOON.  ASKING HELMER TO INVESTIGATE.  WILL REPORT

SOONEST.

COLIN.

Duncan read the message several times without any immediate reaction.
Then, slowly, the pieces of the puzzle began to drift around into new
configurations, and a pattern started to emerge.  It was one that
Duncan did not like at all.

Naturally, Colin would have gone to Armand Helmer, Controller of
Resources; the export of minerals came under his jurisdiction.
Moreover, Armand was a geologist-in fact, he had made one small
titanite find himself, of which he was inordinately proud.

Was it conceivable that Armand himself might be involved?  The thought
flashed through Dancan's mind, but he dismissed it instantly.  He had
known

Armand all his life and despite their many political and personal
differences, he did not for a moment believe that the Controller would
get involved in any illegality-especially one that concerned his own
Bureau.

And for what purpose?  Merely to accumulate a few thousand so lars in
some terrestrial bank?  Armand was now too old, and too
gravity-conditioned, ever to return to Earth, and he was not the kind
of man who would break the law for so trivial a purpose as importing
Terran luxuries.  Especially as such chicanery was always discovered,
sooner or later; smugglers could never resist displaying their
treasures.  And then there would be another acquisition for the
impecunious Titan Museum, while the criminal would be barred from all
the best places for at least a month.

No, Armand could be excluded; but what of his son?  The more Duncan,
considered this possibility, the more likely it seemed.  He had no
proof whatsoever-OnlY an allaY of facts all pointing in one
direction.

Consider: Karl had always been daring and adventurous, willing to run
risks for what he believed sufficiently good reasons.  As a boy, he had
taken a positive delight in circumventing regulations-except, of
course, those basic safety rules that no sane resident of Titan would
ever challenge.

If titanite had been discovered on one of the other satellites, Karl
would be in an excellent position to take advantage of it.  In the last
three years, he had been on half a dozen Titan-Terran surveys.  To
Duncan's certain knowledge, he was one of the few men who had been to
Enceladus,

Tethys, Dione, Rhea, Hyperion, Iapetus, Phoebe, Chronus, Prometheus.
And now he was on remote Mnemosyne..  ..

Already Duncan could draw up a seductively plausible scenario.  Karl
might even have made the find himself.  Certainly he would have seen
all the specimens coming aboard the survey ship, and his well known
charm would have done the rest.  Indeed, the actual discoverer might
never have known what he had found.  Few people had seen raw titanite,
and it was not easy to identify until it had been polished.

Then it would have been a simple matter of sending a small package to

Earth, pprhaps on one of the resupply ships which did not even call
at

Titan.  (What would be the legal situation then?  That could be tricky.
Titan had jurisdiction over the other permanent satellities, but its
claim to the obvious temporary ones like Phoebe & Co.  was still in
dispute.  It was possible that no laws had been broken at all .... )

But this was sheer speculation.  He had not the slightest hard
evidence.

Why, indeed, had he thought of Karl at all in this context?

He reread the message, still glowing on the

Comsole monitor: MAJOR DISCOVERY ON OUTER

MOON.  ASKING HELMER .. . That was what had triggered this line of
'thought.  Guilt by association, perhaps the juxtaposition might be
pure coincidence.

But the Makenzies could read each other's minds, and' Duncan knew that
the phraseology was deliberate.  There was no need for Colin to have
mentioned Helmer; he was sending out an early warning signal.

It was ridiculous to pile speculation upon speculation, but Duncan
could not resist the next step.  Assuming that Karl was involved-why?

Karl might take risks, might even get involved in petty illegalities,
but it would be for some good purpose.  If-and it was still an enormous
"if"-he was trying to accumulate funds on Earth, he must have a
long-range objective in mind.  The most obvious was the establishment
of a power base-precisely as Duncan was doing.

He must also have an agent here, someone he could trust implicitly.
That would not be difficult; Karl had met hundreds of Terrans "Oh, my
God," Duncan breathed.  "That explains everything..  .."

He wondered if he should cancel his trip to Zanzibar; no, that took
priority over all else, except the speech he had come a billion
kilometers to deliver.  In any case, he did not see what more he could
do here in

Washington until he had further news from home.

He was still operating on pure guesswork, without one atom of proof.
But there was a cold, dead feeling in the general region of his heart;
and suddenly, for no good reason at all, Duncan thought of that
solitary iceberg, gliding southward on the hidden current toward its
irrevocable destiny.

THE ISLAND OF DR.  MOHAMMED

El Hadj's deputy, Dr.  Todd, was one of those medical men who seem, not
always justifiably, to radiate an aura of confidence.  This despite his
relative youth and informality; for reasons which Duncan never
discovered, all his colleagues used his nickname, Sweeney.  ""I'm
sorry you won't meet El Hadj this time," he said apologetically.  "He
had to rush to Hawaii, for an emergency operation."

"I'm surprised that's necessary, in this age."

"Normally, it's not.  But Hawaii's almost exactly on the other side of
the world-which means you have to work through two com sats in series.
During tele surgery that extra time delay can be critical."

So even on Earth, thought Duncan, the slowness of radio waves can be a
problem.  A half-second lag would not matter in conversation; but
between a surgeon's hand and eye, it might be fatal.

"Until twenty years ago," Dr.  Todd explained, "this was a famous
marine biology lab.  So it had most of the facilities we need-including
isolation."

"Why is that necessary?"  asked Duncan.  He had wondered why the clinic
was in such an inconveniently out-of-the-way spot.

"There's a good deal of emotional interest in our work, and we have to
control visitors.  Despite air transportation, you can still do that
much easier on an island than anywhere else.  And above all, we have to
protect our Mothers.  They may not be very intelligent, but they're
sensitive, and don't like being stared at."

"I've not seen any yet."

"Do you really want to?"

That was a difficult question to answer, for Dun can felt his emotions
tugging in opposite directions.

Thirty-one years ago, he must have been born in a place not unlike
this, though probably not as sT)ec tacularly beautiful.  If he had gone
full term-and in those days, he assumed, all clones did so-some un
known woman had carried him in her body for at least eight months after
implantation.  Was she still alive?  Did any record of her name still
exist, or was she merely a number in a computer file?  Perhaps not even
that, for the identity of a foster mother was not of the slightest
biological importance.  A purely mechanical womb could have served as
well, but there had never been any real need to perfect so complex a
device.  In a world where reproduction was strictly limited, there
would always be plenty of volunteers; the only problem was selecting
them.

Duncan had no memory whatsoever of his unknown foster mother or of the
months he must have spent on Earth as a baby.  Every attempt to
penetrate the fog that lay at the very beginning of his childhood was a
failure.  He could not be certain if this was normal, or whether the
earliest part of his life was hidden by deliberately induced amnesia.
He suspected the latter, since he felt a distinct reluctance ever to
investigate the subject in any detail.

When he formed the concept "Mother" in his mind, he instantly saw
Colin's wife, Sheela.  Her face was his earliest memory, her affection
his first love, later shared with Grandma Ellen.  Colin had chosen
-carefully and had learned from Malcolm's mistakes.

Sheela had treated Duncan exactly like her own children, and he had
never thought of Yuri and Glynn as anything except his older brother
and sister.

He could not remember when he had first realized that Colin was not
their father, and that they bore no genetic relationship to him
whatsoever.  Somehow, it had never seemed to matter.

He appreciated, now, the unobtrusive skills that had gone into the
creation of so well adjusted a "family"; it would not have been
possible in an earlier age of exclusive marriage and sexual
possessiveness.  Even today, it was no easy task.  He hoped that he and
Marissa would be equally successful, and that Clyde and Carline would
accept little Malcolm as their brother, just as wholeheartedly as Yuri
and Glynn had once accepted him.... "I'm sorry," said Duncan.  "I was
daydreaming."

"Can't say I blame you; this place is too damned beautiful.  I
sometimes have to draw the curtains when I want to do any work."

That was easy to believe-yet beauty was not the first impression to
strike

Duncan when he landed on the island.  Even now, his dominant feeling
was one of awe, mixed with more than a trace of fear.

Starting a dozen meters away, and filling his field of vision right out
to the sharp blue line of the horizon, was more water than he had ever
imagined.  It 204  was true that he-had seen Earth's oceans from
space, but from that Olympian vantage point it had been impossible to
envisage their true size.  Even the greatest of seas was diminished,
when one could flash across it in ten minutes.

This world was indeed misnamed.  It should have been called Ocean,
not

Earth.  Duncan performed a rough mental calculation-one of the skills
the

Makenzies had carefully retained, despite the omnipresent computer.
Radius six thousand-and his eye was about six meters above sea
level-that made it simple-six root two, or near enough eight
kilometers.  Only eight!  It was incredible; he could easily have
believed that the horizon was a hundred kilometers away.  His vision
could not span even one percent of the distance to the other shore....
And what he could see now was only the two dimensional skin of an alien
universe, teeming with strange life forms seeking whom they might
devour.

To Duncan, that expanse of peaceful blue concealed a word much more
hostile, and more terrifying, than Space.  Even Titan, with its known
dangers, seemed benign in comparison.

And yet there were children out there, splashing around in the
shallows, and disappearing underwater for quite terrifying lengths of
time.  One of them, Duncan was certain, had been gone for well over a
minute.

"Isn't that dangerous?"  he asked anxiously, gesturing toward the
lagoon.

"We don't let them go near the water until they're well trained.  And
if you must drown yourself, this is the place for it-with some of the
best medical facilities in the world.  We've had only one permanent
death in the last fifteen years.  Revival would have been possible even
then, but after an hour underwater, brain damage is irreversible."

"But what about sharks and all the other big fish?"

"We've never had an attack inside the reef, and only one outside it.
That's a small price to pay for admission to Fairyland.  We're taking
out the big trimaran tomorrow-why don't you come along?"  "I'll think
about it, "Duncan answered evasively.  205  "Oh-I suppose you've never
been underwater before."

"I've never been on it--except in a swimming Pool."

"Well, you've nothing to lose.  Though we won't complete the tests for
another forty-eight hours, I'm sure we'll be able to clone successfully
from the genotypes you've given.  So your immortality insurance is
taken care of."

"Thank you very much," said Duncan dryly.  "That makes all the
difference."

He remembered Commander Innes' invitation to the Caribbean reefs, and
his instant though unexpressed refusal.  But those mere children were
obviously enjoying themselves, and their confidence was a reproach to
his manhood.

The pride of the Makenzies was at stake; he looked glumly at that
appalling mass of water, and realized that he would have to do
something about it before he left the island.

He had never felt less enthusiastic about any project in his life.

The night was beautiful, blazing with more stars than any man could
ever see from the surface of Titan, however long he lived.  Though it
was only nineteen hundred hours-too early for dinner, let alone
sleep-the sun might never have existed, so total was the darkness away
from the illumination of the main buildings, and of the little lights
strung along the paths of crushed coral.

From somewhere in that darkness came the sound of music-a rhythmical
throbbing of drums, played with more enthusiasm than skill.  Rising
above this steady beat were occasional bursts of song, and women's
voices calling to one another.  Those voices made Duncan suddenly
lonely and homesick.  He started to walk along the narrow path in the
general direction of the revelry.

After wandering down several blind alleys--ending up once in a charming
sunken garden, which he left with profuse apologies to the couple
busily occupying it-he came to the clearing where the party was in 206
 progress.  At its center, a large bonfire was lofting a column of
smoke and flames toward the stars, and a score of figures was dancing
around it, like the priestesses of some primitive religion.

They were not dancing with much grace or vigor; in fact, it would be
more truthful to say that most of them were circulating in a dignified
waddle.

But despite their obvious advanced state of pregnancy, they were
clearly enjoying themselves, and were being as active as was advisable
in the circumstances.

It was a grotesque yet strangely moving spectacle, arousing in Duncan a
mixture of pity and tenderness -even an impersonal and wholly un erotic
love.  The tenderness was that which all men feel in the imminent
presence of birth and the wonder of their own existence; the pity had a
different cause.

Ugliness and deformity were rare on Titan-and rarer still on Earth,
since both could almost always be corrected.  Almost-but not always.
Here was proof of that.

Most of these women were extremely plain; some were ugly; a few were
frankly hideous.  And though Duncan noticed two or three who might even
pass as beautiful, it needed only a glance to show that they were
mentally subnormal.  Had his long-dead sis tee Anitra survived into
adult life, she would have been at home in this strange assembly.

If the dancers-and those others merely sitting around, banging away at
drums and sawing on fiddles.-had not been so obviously happy it would
have been a disturbing, perhaps even a sickening spectacle.  It did not
upset

Duncan.  Though he was startled, he was prepared for it.

He knew how the foster mothers were chosen.  The first requirement, of
course, was that they should have no gynecological defects.  That
demand was easy to satisfy.  It was not so simple to cope with the
psychological factors, and it might have been a virtually impossible
task in the days before the world's population was computer-profiled.

There would always be women who desperately yearned to bear children,
but who for one reason or another could not fulfill their destiny.  In
earlier ages, most of them would have been doomed to spinsterly
frustration; indeed, even in this world of 2276, many of them still
were.  There were more would-be mothers than the controlled birth rate
could satisfy, but those who were especially disadvantaged could find
some compensation here.  The losers in the lottery of Fate could yet
win a consolation prize, and know for a few months the happiness that
would otherwise be denied them.

And so the World Computer had been programmed as an instrument of
compassion.  This act of humanity had done more than anything else to
silence those who objected to cloning.

Of course, there were still problems.  All these Mothers must know,
however dimly, that soon after birth they would be separated forever
from the child they were to bring into the world.  That was not a
sorrow that any man could understand; but women were stronger than men,
and they would get over it -more often than not by taking part again in
the creation of another life.

Duncan remained in the shadows, not wishing to be seen and certainly
not wishing to get involved.  Some of those incipient Mothers could
crush him to a pulp if they grabbed him and whirled him into the dance.
He had now noticed that a handful of men -presumably medical orderlies
or staff from the clinic-were circulating light-heartedly with the
Mothers and entering into the spirit of the festivities.

He could not help wondering if there had also been some deliberate
psychological selection here.  Several of the men looked very
effeminate, and were treating their partners with what could only be
called sisterly affection.  They were obviously dear friends; and that
was all they would ever be.

No one could have seen, in the darkness, Duncan's smile of amused
recollection.  He had just remembered-for the first time in years-a boy
who had fallen in love with him in his late teens.  It is hard to
reject anyone who is devoted to you, but although Duncan had
good-naturedly succumbed a few times to Nikki's blandishments, he had
eventually managed to discourage his admirer, despite torrents of
tears.  Pity is not a good basis for any relationship, and Duncan
could never feel quite happy with someone whose affections were
exclusively polarized toward one sex.  What a contrast to the
aggressive normality of Karl, whq, did not give a damn whether he had
more affairs with boys or girls, or vice versa.

At least, until the Calindy episode ... These memories, so unexpectedly
dredged up from the past, made Duncan aware of the complicated
emotional crosscurrents that must be sweeping through this place.  And
he suddenly recalled that disturbing conversation-or, rather,
monologue-with Sir Mortitimer Keynes.... That he would follow in the
steps of Colin, and of Malcolm before, was something that Duncan had
always taken for granted, without any discussion.

But now he realized, rather late in the day, that there was a price for
everything, and that it should be considered very carefully before the
contract was finally signed.

Cloning was neither good nor bad; only its purpose was important.  And
that purpose should not be one that was trivial or selfish.

GOLDEN REEF

The vivid green band of palms and the brilliant white crescent of the
perfect beach were now more than a kilometer away, on the far side of
the barrier reef.  Even through the dark glasses which he dared not
remove for a moment, the scene was almost painfully bright; when he
looked in the direction of the sun, and caught its sparkle off the
ocean swell, Duncan was completely blinded.  Though this was a tritling
matter, it enhanced his feeling of separation from all his companions.
True, most of them also wore dark glasses-but in their case it was a
convenience, not a necessity.

Despite his wholly terrestrial genes, it seemed that he had adapted
irrevocably to the light of a world ten times farther from the sun.

Beneath the smoothly sliding flanks of the triple hull, the water was
so clear that it added to Duncan's feeling of insecurity.  The boat
seemed to be hanging in midair, with no apparent means of support, over
a dappled sea bed five or ten meters below.  It seemed strange that
this should worry him, when he had looked down on Earth from orbit,
hundreds of kilometers above the atmosphere.

He was startled by a sudden, distant crash, altogether out of place on
this idyllic ally peaceful morning.  It came from somewhere out at sea,
and Duncan spun around just in time to see a column of spray slowly
falling back into the water.  Surely no one would be allowed to set off
submarine explosions in this area.... Now there was a jet of vapor,
which rose slanting from the sea, hung for a moment in the bright
sunlight, and gradually dispersed.

For a full minute, nothing else happened.  And then Duncan was
paralyzed with astonishment.  With unbelievable slowness, but with the
inevitability of some continent rising from the primordial depths, a
vast gray shape was soaring out of the sea.  There was a flash of
white, as monstrous flukes slammed against the waves and created
another cloud of spray.  And still that incredible bulk continued to
climb, as if defying gravity, until it was completely clear of the
water, and hung poised for a moment above the blue ledge of the
horizon.  Then, still in slow motion, as if reluctant to leave an alien
element, it fell back into the ocean and vanished beneath a final
geyser of spray.  The booming crash seemed to come ages later.

Duncan had never imagined such a spectacle, but he had no need of any
explanation.  Moby Dick was one of the thousands of Terran classics he
knew only through repute, but now he understood how Herman Melville
must have felt when, for the first time, he saw the sea furrowed by a
glistening back as large 210  as an overturned ship, and conceived in
the image of the white whale a symbol of the forces that lie behind the
universe.

He waited for many minutes, but the giant did not leap again, though
from time to time there were brief spouts of vapor, becoming more and
more distant until they vanished from sight.

"Why did it do that?"  he asked Dr.  Todd, his voice still hushed by
the lingering aura of departed majesty.

"Nobody really knows.  It may be pure joie de vivre.  It may be to
impress a lady friend.  Or it may be merely to get rid of
parasites-whales are badly infested with barnacles and lampreys."

How utterly incongruous, thought Duncan.  It seemed almost an outrage
that a god should be afflicted with lice.

Now the trimaran was slowing down, and the sheer strangeness and beauty
of the underwater scene captured his attention so completely that
Duncan forgot his remoteness from land.  The fantastic shapes of the
corals, and the colors of the fish that sported or sauntered among
them, were a revelation.  He had already been astounded by the vexiety
of life on land; now he saw that it was far exceeded by the reckless
profusion of the sea.

Something like an antique jet plane went flapping slowly past, with
graceful undulations of its spotted wings.  None of the other fish took
any notice.  To Duncan's surprise, there was no sign of the carnage he
had expected to witness, in this realm where everything fed on
everything else.

In fact, it was hard to imagine a more peaceful scene; the few fish
that had been chasing others were obviously doing so merely to protect
their territory.  The impression he had gathered from books and films
had been almost wholly misleading.  Co-operation, not competition,
seemed to rule the reef.

The trimaran came to a halt, the anchor was thrown out-and was followed
almost instantly by three rubber dinghies, four doctors, five nurses,
and a mass of diving equipment.  The scene appeared to

Duncan to be one of utter confusion; actually, it was much better
planned and disciplined than he realized.  The swimmers promptly
divided into groups of three, and each trio went off with one of the
dinghies, heading in a purposeful manner toward spots that had
obviously been chosen in advance.

"If it's so safe," remarked Duncan after the last splashings had died
away, "why are they all carrying knives, aand those vicious-looking
little spears?"

The trimaran was now almost deserted, its only other occupants
besides

Duncan being the skipper who had promptly fallen asleep in front of the
wheel -the engineer, who had disappeared below deck, and Dr.  Todd.

"Those aren't weapons.  They're gardening tools."

"You must have rather ferocious weeds.  I wouldn't care to meet
them."

"Oh," said Todd, "some of them put up a good fight.  Why don't you go
and have a look?  You'll be sorry if you miss the chance."

That was perfectly true, yet Duncan still hesitated.  The water in
which the trimaran was gently rocking was very shallow; indeed, it
appeared no deeper than the swimming pool at the Centennial Hotel.

"I'll go in with you.  You can stand on the diving ladder, until you
get the hang of the face mask-and snorkel-breathing should be easy to
anyone who's used to a spacesuit."

Duncan did not volunteer the information that he had never worn a
genuine spacesuit; nevertheless, a Titan surface life-support system
should be good training.  And anyway, what could go wrong in a couple
of meters of water?

Why, there were places here where he could stand with his head above
the surface.  Sweeney Todd was right; he would never forgive himself if
he turned down this opportunity of a lifetime.

Ten minutes later, he was splashing inexpertly but steadily along the
surface.  Although it had seemed astonishing-and even indecent-to put
on clothing when one entered the water, Todd had insisted that he dress
from head to foot in a light, one-piece overall of some closely knit
fabric.  It scarcely affected his movements, but he wished he could do
without it.  "Some of these corals sting," the doctor had explained 
"It could spoil your day if you backed into one-and you might have an
allergic reaction."

"Anything else you can think of?"

"No, that's about it.  Just watch me, and hang on to the rubber dinghy
whenever you want a rest."

He was now rapidly gaining confidence and beginning to enjoy himself
thoroughly.  There was obviously no danger whatsoever while he drifted
along behind the dinghy, never letting go of the rope dangling in the
water.  And

Dr.  Todd, he was reassured to observe, always kept within arm's
length; he was being almost ridiculously overcautious.  Even if a shark
came shooting up out of the depths, Duncan believed he could be aboard
the dinghy in two seconds flat-notwithstanding Earth's gravity.

Now that he had mastered the use of the snorkel tube, he kept his head
under water all the time, and even essayed shallow dives which involved
holding his breath for considerable periods.  The panorama beneath was
so fascinating that Duncan even occasionally forgot the need for air,
and emerged sputtering foolishly.

The first signboard was at a depth of five meters and said, in
fluorescent yellow letters: NO UNAUTHORrZED VISITORS BEYOND THIS POINT.
The second warning was a flashing holographic display in mid water
which must have been very perplexing to the fish.  It announced
ominously: THIS REEF IS

MONITORED.  Duncan could see no trace of the projectors; they had been
very cunningly concealed.

Todd was pointing ahead, to the line of divers working along the edge
of the reef.  So he had not been joking.  They really were going
through the unmistakable motions of gardeners digging up noxious weeds.
And each one was surrounded by a small cloud of brilliantly colored
fish, clearly benefiting from all this activity.

The coral formations seemed to be changing shape.  Even to Duncan's
untrained eye, they looked strange-even abnormal.  He had grown
accustomed to the branching antlers of the stag-horns, the convoluted
labyrinths that looked like giant brains, the delicate 213  mushrooms
sometimes meters in diameter.  They were still here, but now subtly
distorted.

Then he saw the first metallic glint-then another, and another.  As he
came closer, and the blue haze of distance no longer softened the
details of the underwater world, Duncan realized why this reef was
cberisbed and protected.

Everywhere he looked, it glittered and sparkled with gold.

Two hundred years earlier, it had been one of the greatest triumphs of
biological engineering, bringing world fame to its creators.
Ironically, success had come when it was no longer required; what had
been intended to fulfill a vital need had turned out to be no more than
a technological cul-de-sac.

It had been known for centuries that some marine organisms were able to
extract, for the benefit of their own internal economies, elements
present in seawater in unbelievably small proportions.  If sponges and
oysters and similar lowly creatures could perform such feats of
chemical engineering with iodine or vanadium, the biologists of the
2100's had argued, why could they not be taught to do the same trick
with more valuable elements?

And so, by heroic feats of gene-manipulation, several species of coral
had been persuaded to become gold miners.  The most successful were
able to replace almost ten percent of their limestone skeletons with
the precious metal.  That success, however, was measured only in human
terms.  Since gold normally plays no part in biochemical reactions, the
consequences to the corals were disastrous; the auriferous reefs were
never healthy, and had to be carefully protected from predators and
disease.

Only a few hundred tons of gold were extracted by this technique before
large-scale transmutation made it uneconomic; the nuclear furnaces
could manufacture gold as cheaply as any other metal.  For a while, the
more accessible reefs were maintained as tourist attractions, but
souvenir hunters soon demolished them.  Now only one was left, and Dr.
Mohammed's staff was determined to preserve it.  So, at regular
intervals, the doctors and nurses took time off from their usual
duties, and enjoyed an arduous working holiday on the reef.  They
dumped carefully selected fertilizers and antibiotics to improve the
health of the living corals, and waged war against its
enemies-particularly the spectacular crown of thorns starfish and its
smaller relative the spiny sea urchin.  Duncan floated, perfectly
relaxed, in the tepid water, lazily flippering from time to time so
that he remained in the shadow of the dinghy.  Now he understood the
purpose of those sinister knives and spikes; the adversaries they had
to deal with were well protected indeed.

Only a couple of meters beneath him, one of the divers was jabbing at a
colony of small black spheres, each at the center of a formidable array
of needle-sharp spines.  From time to time one of the spheres would be
split open, and fish would dart in to grab the pieces of white meat
that came floating out.  It was a delicacy they could scarcely ever
have enjoyed without human intervention; Duncan could not imagine that
these spiky beasts had any natural enemies.

The diver--one of the nurses-noticed the two spectators hovering
overhead, and beckoned Duncan to join her.  He had become so fascinated
that he now obeyed automatically, without a second's thought.  Taking
several deep breaths, and partly exhaling on the last one, he hauled
himself slowly down the line anchoring the dinghy to its small
grapnel.

The distance was greater than he had imagined more like three meters
than two, for he had forgotten the refractive effect of the water.
Midway, his left ear gave a disconcerting "click," but Dr.  Todd had
warned him about this, and he did not check his descent.  When he
reached the anchor, and grabbed its shank, he felt a tremendous sense
of achievement.  He was a deep-sea diver-he had plumbed the fabulous
depth of three meters!  Well, at least two point five ... The glitter
of gold was all around him.  There was never more than a tiny speck,
smaller than a grain of sand, at any one spot-but it was everywhere;
the entire reef was impregnated with it.  Duncan felt that he was
floating beside the chef-d'oeuvre of some mad jeweler, determined to
create a baroque masterpiece regardless of expense.  Yet these
pinnacles and plates and twisted spires were the work of mindless
polyps, not-except indirectly-the products of human intelligence.

Reluctantly, he shot up to the surface for air.  This was easy; he felt
ashamed of his previous fears.  Now he understood how visitors often
reacted to Titan.  Next time, when someone politely declined an
invitation to take a pleasant jaunt outside, he would be a little more
tolerant.

"What are those black things?"  be asked Dr.  Todd, who was still
hovering watchfully above him.

"Long-spined sea urchin, Diadema something-or other  When you see so
many, it's a sign of pollution or an unbalanced ecology.  They don't
really damage the reef-unlike Acanthaster- but they're ugly, and a
nuisance.  If you back into one, the needles may take a month to work
their way out.  Are you going down again?"

"Yes.  99

"Good.  Don't overdo it.  And watch out for those spines!"

Duncan hauled himself down the anchor line once more, and the diver
waved him a greeting as he approached.  Then she offered him her
deadly-looking knife, and pointed toward a small group of sea urchins.
Duncan nodded, took the tapering metal blade by the proffered handle,
and started jabbing away inexpertly, being careful to avoid those
ominous black needles.

Not until then did he realize, to his considerable surprise, that these
lowly animals were aware of his presence, and were not relying merely
on a static defense.  The long spines were swinging toward him,
orienting themselves in the direction of maximum danger.  Presumably it
was only a simple automatic reflex, but it made him pause for a moment.
There was more here than met the eye-perhaps the first faint
intimations of dawning consciousness.

His knife was longer than the sea urchin's spines, and he jabbed
vigorously again and again.  The cara216  pace was surprisingly tough,
but presently it gave way, and the waiting fish raced in to grab at the
creamy white flesh that was suddenly exposed.

And then, with growing discomfort, Duncan realized that his victim was
not dying in silence.  For some time he had been aware of faint sounds
in the water around him-the hammering of the other divers on the reef,
the occasional "clang" of the anchor against the rocks.  But this noise
came from much closer at hand, and was most peculiar-even disturbing.
It was a crackling, grinding sound; though the analogy was patently
ridiculous, it could only be compared to the crunching of thousands of
tiny teeth, clashing in rage and agony.  Moreover, there was no doubt
that it came from the eviscerated sea urchin.

That faint, inhuman death rattle was so unexpected that Duncan checked
his onslauLyht and remained howe ring motionless in the water.  He had
completely forgotten the necessity for air, and the conscious part of
his mind had dismissed the mounting symptoms of suffocation as
irrelevant-to be dealt with later.  But finally he could ignore them no
longer, and shot gasping to the surface.

With a profound sense of shock-even of shame Duncan realized that he
had just destroyed a living creature.  He could never have imagined,
before he left Titan, that such an experience would ever come his
way.

One could hardly feel much guilt over the murder of a sea urchin.

Nevertheless, for the first time in his life, Duncan Makenzie was a
killer.

SLEUTH

When Duncan returned to Washington, the second time bomb from Colin was
ticking away in the Centennial Hotel.  Once again, it was so cryptic
that it would have been almost unintelligible, even to an outsider who
had succeeded in decoding it.

CONFIRM YOUR OLD FRIEND HAS UNAUTHORIZED ACCOUNT 65842 GENEVA BRANCH

FIRST

BANK OF ARISTARCHUS.  BALANCE SEVERAL TENS OF THOUSANDS SO LARS  THIS

INFORMATION NOT TO BE DISCLOSED ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.  PRESUME FROM SALE

OF

TITANITE.  MAKING INQUIRIES MNEMOSYNE.  MEANWHILE SUGGEST YOU KEEP

ALERT.

REGARDS COLIN.

Duncan understood perfectly well why this information was "not to be
disclosed"; the Lunar banks guarded their secrets well, and heaven
alone knew by what prodigies of persuasion or genteel blackmail Colin
had managed to get hold of Karl's account number.  Even so, he had been
unable to obtain a figure for the balance-but it was obviously
considerable.  Ten thousand so lars was far more than anyone would need
for the purchase of a few Terran luxuries.  And several times that was
more than the Makenzies held in their own, perfectly legal accounts.
Such an amount of money was more than a cause for envy; it was
disturbing, especially if it was intended for some clandestine use.

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

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

The only real problem in life, an ancient philosopher had once said, is
what to do next.  There was still no link with Calindy-or anyone
else.

Duncan did not relish playing a role in some sleazy, old-time spy or
detective melodrama, and was not even sure how one got started on such
an enterprise.  Colin would have been much better at it; of the three

Makenzies, he was the only one with any flair for subterfufe.
indirection, and secrecy.  He was probably enjoying himself-especially
since he had never liked Karl, being one of the few people on Titan
immune to his charms.

But Colin, though he was do ini g a remarkable job, was more than a
billion kilometers away, at the end of an expensive three-hour
time-lag.

There was no one on Earth in whom Duncan could confide.

This was a private Titanian matter, and might yet turn out to be a
storm in a teacup.  However, if it was serious, the fewer people who
knew about it, the better.

Duncan considered, and dismissed, the idea of talking to Ambassador

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

A,nd yet perhaps there was one Terran he could trust-the man who had
raised the matter in the first place, and who was equally interested in
finding the answer.  Duncan tapped out the name on his

Comsole, wondering if it would accept that ridiculous apostrophe.  (He
had managed to misplace the dealer's card, which would have placed the
call automatically.)

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

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

"You've been seeing too many historical films, Mr.  Makenzie," Ivor

Mandel'stahm replied.  "This isn't the twentieth century, and it would
take a singularly determined police state to bug every auto jitney in
Washington.

I always do my confidential business cruising round and round the
Mall.

There's absolutely nothing to worry about."

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

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

"Several tens of thousands of so lars

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

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

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

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

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

A knowing smile creased Mandel'stahm's face.  "I appreciate your
problem."

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

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

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

He was anxious to find out what Karl was doing, and if necessary
frustrate him.  He wanted to make Calindy ashamed of her deceit, and
possibly turn her embarrassment to his emotional advantage.  (This was
a rather forlorn hope;

Calindy did not embarrass easily, if at all .. .. ) And he wanted to
help

Titan, and thereby the Makenzies.  All these objectives were not likely
to be compatible.  Duncan be ian to wish that titanite had never been
discovered.  Yet, undoubtedly, there was a brilliant opportunity here,
if only he had the wit to make his moves correctly.

Their auto jitney was now gliding, at the breathless speed of some
twenty klicks, between the Capitol and the Library of Congress.  The
siqht reminded

Duncan of his other responsibility; already it was the last week in
June, yet his speech still consisted of no more than a few sheets of
notes.

Overpreparation was one of the Makenzie failings; the "all right on the
night" attitude was wholly alien to their natures.  But even allowing
for this often valuable fault, of which he was well aware, Duncan was
beginning to feel a mild sense of panic.

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

Mandel'stahm was still waiting patiently when they passed the Rayburn

Building-now encrusted with a vast banyan tree brought all the way
from

Angkor Wat; it was hoped that within the next fifty years, this would
do the job of demolition at vir tm-Pv no nublic expense.  There were
times when aesthetics took precedence over history, and it was
generally agreed that -unlike the old Smithsonian-the Rayburn Building
was not quite hideous enough to be worth preservation.  (But what would
that vegetable octopus do next, the professional alarmists had worried,
when it had finished this task?  Would the monster crawl across
Independence Avenue and attack the hallowed dome?)

Now the jitney was cruising past the prone hundred meters of the Saturn
V replica lying on what had once been the site of NASA Headquarters.
They could not spend all day orbiting central Washington; very well,
Duncan told himself with a sigh ... "I have your promise that my name
won't come out, under any circumstances?"  Yes,"

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

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

"It's not a 'he."  I leave the details to you, but you mipht make some
tactful inquiries n.bout he vi-(-president of Enigma Associates,

Catherine Linden Ellerman."

STAR DAY

Though be tried to convince himself that he had done the right
thing-even the only thing-Duncan was still slightly ashamed.  Deep in
his heart, he felt that he had been guilty of betraying an old
friendship.

He was glad that some impulse had kept him from mentioning Karl, and
with part of his mind he still hoped that Mandel'stahm-and Colin-would
run into blank walls, so that the whole investigation would collapse.

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

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

Which reminded Duncan that he had not sent off his own cards for this
quadrennial occasion.  Since '76 was a leap year, Star Day was
therefore looming up 223  in the near future-to be precise, between
June 30 and July 1. Duncan was glad of the extra day, but it also meant
that there would shortly be three days in five where no business could
be done.  For July 1, being at the beginning of a new quarter, was of
course a Sunday; and the Sunday before that was only June 28.  It was
bad enough, in an ordinary year, to have two

Sundays at the end of every 91-day quarter, with only a Monday and
Tuesday between them-but now to have another holiday as well made it
even worse.

There was still time to mail cards to all his Terran
friends-Ambassador

Farrell, the Wasbingtons, Calindy, Bernie Patras, and half a dozen
others.

As for Titan, there was really no hurry.  Even if they took six months
to get there, the cards, with their beautiful gold-leaf Centennial
stamps (five so lars each, for heaven's sake, even by second-class
space mail!), would still be appreciated.

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

He also attended several concerts, two ballets, and one play-all
arranged for the benefit of visitors in this Centennial year, and all
unavoidable without the exercise of more diplomatic illness, or sheer
bad manners, than Duncan felt able to muster.  The music, though
doubtless magnificent, bored him; his tastes were old-fashioned, and he
enjoyed little written after the twenty-first century.  The ballet was
also a disappointment; to anyone who had spent all his life at a fifth
of a gravity, the most remarkable of Terran grands jet6s was
unimpressve-and also nerveracking, for Duncan could never quite get
over the fear that the dancers would injure themselves.  He watched
them with envy, but he had no wish to imitate them.  It was enough that
he could now walk and stand without conscious effort.  This achievement
was a matter of modest pride, for there had been a time when he would
not have believed it possible.

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

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

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

Bernie Patras, of course, was happy to relieve his symptoms, and had
arranged several enjoyable encounters.  One cuddlesome and talented
young lady, he swore, was his own girl friend, "who only does this with
people she really wants to meet."  She did, indeed, show a genuine
interest in

Titan and its problems; but when Bernie, as an interested party,
wanted to join in the festivities,

Duncan selfishly threw him out.

That was shortly before Ivor Mandel'stahm-this time in the Penn-Mass
auto jitney-totally demolished his peace of mind.  They had just left
the

Dupont Circle Interchange when he told Duncan: "I've some interesting
news for you, but I don't know what it means.  You may be able to
explain it."

"I'll do my best."

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

"Not for--oh, at least a week.  I thought it better to keep out of the
way."

Duncan did not add, to this perfectly good excuse, the fact that he had
felt ashamed to face Calindy.

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

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

"What was her excuse?"  asked Duncan.

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

"I hope she wasn't badly hurt."

"Apparently not, though she sounded rather unhappy.  Anyway, my friend
had a brief conversation with her and raised the subject of
Titan--quite legitimately, and in a way that couldn't possibly arouse
suspicion.  He knew that she'd been there, and asked if she could put,
him in touch with any

Titanians she 226  happened to know on Earth.  Actually, he said he
had an export order in mind."

"Not a very good story.  All business is handled through the Embassy
Trade

Division, and he could have contacted them."

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

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

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

Duncan began to laugh; the anticlimax was so ridiculous.... "So your
friend wasted his time.  We're right back where we started."

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

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

"I tried several other lines of inquiry, but they all came to nothing.
I even thought of calling Miss Ellerman myself and saying outright that
I knew she was the principal behind the titanite negotiations without
accusing her of anything, of course."  -"I'm glad you didn't."

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

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

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

"The what?"  "You don't have them on Titan?"

"I don't even know what they are."

"Perhaps you're lucky.  On Earth, they're an indispensable nuisance.
Miss

Ellerman, as I assume you know, lives in a very luxurious Deep Ten just
south of Mount Rockefeller.  In f act, she has the basement penthouse-a
hankering I've never understood; the farther down I go, the more
claustrophobic I get.  Well, any large complex has a doorkeeper at the
entrance to tell visitors who's in and who's out, take messages, accept
deliveries-and authorize the right people to go to the right
apartments.

That's the concierge.

"And you were able to get at its memory bank?"

Mandel'stalun had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.

"It's surprising what can be done if you know the right people.  Oh,
don't misunderstand.  There was nothing illegal; but I prefer to omit
details."

"On Titan, we're very particular about invasion of privacy."

"Soare we on Earth.  Anyone who really wants to do so can easily
by-pass the concierge.  Which, in fact, suggests to me that Miss
Ellerman does not have a guilty conscience, or anything to hide.  But
tell me, Mr.

Makenzie--didn't you know that she had a Titanian guest staying with
her?"

Duncan stared at him open-mouthed, but quickly recovered himself.  Of
course-Karl might well have prevailed on some trusted friend to act as
a courier.  That must have been a good many months ago; there had been
no passenger ship for six weeks before Sirius.  Who could possibly ...
?

That could wait.  There was another little matter to clear up first.

"You said staying with her?"

"Yes.  That is, until only two days ago."

That explained everything-almost.  No wonder Calindy had avoided him!
In equal measure, Duncan felt jealousy, disappointment-and relief that
his maneuverings had, after all, been justified by events.  228  "T~ho
is this Titanian?"  he asked glumly.  "I wonder if I know him."

"That's what I'll be interested to hear.  His name is Karl Helmer."

A MESSAGE FROM TITAN

"That's utterly impossible," said Duncan, when he had recovered from
the initial shock.  "I left Helmer at Saturn-and I came here on the
fastest ship in the Solar System."

Mandel'stahm gave an expressive shrug.

"Then perhaps someone else is using that name, for reasons best known
to himself.  Miss Ellerman's concierge is not very bright-they seldom
are-and incidentally, we were lucky to get at it just before the
regular end-of-month memory update.  I got hold of the visual
recognition coding, and here's the reconstruction."

He handed over the crude but perfectly adequate synthesis.  Duncan
could identify it as quickly as any robot pattern-detecting circuit.

Without question, it was Karl.

"So you know him," said Mandel'stahm.

"Very well," Duncan replied faintly.  His mind was still in a whirl;
even now, he could not fully believe the evidence of his eyes.  It
would take a long time for him to work out all the implications of this
stun i g development.

"You said he was no longer at Cal-Miss Ellerman's.  Do you know where
he is now?"

"No.  I was hoping you might have some ideas.  But now that we know the
name,

I'll be able to trace him -though if may take some time."

And doubtless expense, thought Duncan.  "Tell me, Mr.  Mandel'stahm,
why are you taking all this trouble?  Frankly,

I don't see what you hope to get out of it."

"Don't you?  Well, it's a good question.  I certainly began this out of
a pure and honest lust for titanite, and I hope that in due course my
efforts will win their just reward.  But now it's gone beyond that. The
only thing more valuable than gems or works of art is entertainment. 
And this little caper, Mr.  Makenzie, is more interesting than anything
I've seen on the viddy for weeks."

Despite his gloomy preoccupations, Duncan could not help smiling.  He
had been cautious in his approach to Mandel'stahm, but now he was
definitely beginning to feel genuine warmth toward the dealer.  He was
shrewd and perhaps even crafty, and Duncan did not doubt that he would
drive a very hard bargain.  But he was now quite convinced that George
Washington was right: Ivor Mandel'stahm could be trusted implicitly, in
all the things that really mattered.

"May I make a modest proposal?"

"Of course," Duncan answered.

"Can you think of any reason at all, now that we've reached this stage,
why you should not call Miss Ellerman, say that you've just heard from
Titan that your mutual friend Mr.  Helmer is on Earth-and does she know
where he is?"

Duncan thought it over; the suggestion was so blatantly obvious that,
in his somewhat dazed state, he had completely overlooked it.  Even
now, he was not sure that he could give it an accurate evaluation.

But the affair was no longer a matter of impersonal tactics and policy,
to be worked out like the closing move of some chess game.  For his own
self-respect and peace of mind, it was time for a confrontation with

Calindy.

"You're right," he said.  "There's no reason at all why I shouldn't
call her.  I'll do so, just as soon as I can get back to the hotel.
Let's stop off at Union Station and take the express ...... When Duncan
reached the hotel twenty minutes  later (the "express" was somewhat
misnamed) he had the second surprise of the day, though by now it was
something of an anticlimax.  The longest fax that Colin had ever sent
him was waiting in the Comsole.

After the initial quick reading, Duncan's first reaction was, "This
time, at least, I'm one jump ahead."  But even that, he realized, was
not quite true.  When one allowed for the fact that Colin's message had
left Titan two hours ago, it was virtually a photo finish.

SECURITY AAA PRIORITY AAA

INQUIRIES MNEMOSYNE DISCLOSE KARL LEFT MID MARCH ON NONSKED EARTH

FLIGHT AND

ARRIVED APPROXIMATELY TWO WEEKS BEFORE YOU.  ARM AND PROFESSES
SURPRISE

AND

TOTAL IGNORANCE.  MAY BE TELLING TRUTH.  IMPERATIVE YOU LOCATE KARL

FIND WHAT

HE IS DOING AND IF NECESSARY WARN HIM OF CONSEQUENCES.  PROCEED WITH

EXTREME

CAUTION AS ANXIOUS AVOID PUBLICITY OR INTERPLANETARY COMPLICATIONS.

YOU

APPRECIATE THE SITUATION MAY BE TO OUR ADVANTAGE BUT DISCRETION

ESSENTIAL.

SUGGEST CALINDY MAY KNOW WHERE HE IS.  COLIN AND MALCOLM.

Duncan reread the message more slowly, absorbing its nuances.  It
contained nothing that he did not now know, or had not already guessed;
however, he did not relish its uncompromising tone.  Being signed by
both Colin and

Malcolm, it had the authority of a direct order-something rare indeed
in

Makenzie affairs.  Though Duncan admitted that it made good sense, he
could also detect an underlying note of satisfaction.  For a moment he
had an unflattering image of his older twins moving in like a pair of
vultures, scenting a kill.... At the same time, he was wryly amused to
see that Colin had drafted the

Telex in a great hurry; it contained half a dozen superfluous words,
most offensive to the economical maxims of the clan.  Why, there were
even "and's" and "the's" .. .

Perhaps, after all, he was not suited for politics.  He felt a growing
disenchantment with these machinations.  There were, despite genetics,
subtle differences between the Makenzies, and it might well be that he
was not as tough---or as ambitious-as his precursors.

In any event, his first step was obvious, especially as all his
advisers had suggested it.  The second move could be decided later.

It was no surprise when Calindy failed to appear on the screen of his

Comsole, and he soon had proof that the social convention was
justified.

Unless there was some excellent reason, it was indeed bad manners to
switch off one's viddy circuit.  Duncan felt both frustrated and at a
serious disadvantage, knowing that Calindy could see him but that he
could not see her.  The voice alone did not convey all the shades of
emotion.  There was so many times when the expression of the eyes could
contradict the spoken word.

"Why, what's the matter, Calindy?"  said Duncan in feigned
astonishment.  He would feel genuine sympathy if she were indeed hurt;
but he intended to reserve judgment.

Her voice was-could it be imagination on his part?-not quite under
control.

She appeared surprised to see him, perhaps disconcerted.

"I'm terribly sorry, Duncan-I'd rather not show my face at the moment.
I fell and hurt my eye-it looks ghastly.  But there's nothing to worry
about-it will be all right in a few days."

"I'm sorry to hear that.  I won't bother you if you feet unwell."

He waited, hoping that Calindy could read the concern that he had
carefully imprinted on his face.

"Oh, that's no problem.  Otherwise it's business as usual-I've just cut
out my weekly trip to the office, and now do everything by Comsole."

"Well, that's a relief.  Now I've got a piece of news for you.  Karl is
on

Earth."

There was a long silence before Calindy replied.  When she finally
answered,

Duncan realized, with amused mortification, that he was not really in
her league  He could not hope to outwit her for very long.  "Duncan,"
she said, in a resigned tone of voice, 4tyou really didn't know that he
was staying with me?"

Duncan did his best to exhibit incredulity, shock, and umbrage-in that
order.

"Why didn't you tell me?"  he cried.

"Because he asked me not to.  That put me in a difficult position, but
what was I to do?  He said you were no longer on good terms and his
business was highly confidential."

Duncan guessed that Calindy was telling the simple truth, if indeed the
truth was simple.  Some, but not all, of his pique evaporated.

"Well, I'm upset and disappointed.  I should have thought you'd have
trusted me.  Anyway, there's no further need for-subterfuge-now that I
know He's here.  I've an urgent message for him-where can I locate
him?"

There was another long pause; then Calindy answered: "I don't know
where he is.  He left suddenly, and never told me where he was going.
He might even have returned to Titan."

"Without saying good-bye?  Hardly!  And there are no ships to Titan for
a month."

"Then I suppose he's still on Earth, or no farther away than the Moon.
I simply don't know."

Oddly enough, Duncan believed her.  Her voice still had the ring of
truth, though he did not delude himself about her power to deceive him
if she wished.

"In that case, IT have to trace him in some other way.  It's imperative
that we meet."

"I wouldn't advise that, Duncan."

"Why ever not?"

"He's-very angry with you."

"I can't imaoi e the reason," retorted Duncan, in swiftly imagining
several.  Calindy's voice sounded such a genuine note of alarm that he
felt himself responding strongly to her concern.

However, it seemed that this avenue was closed, at least for the time
being.  He knew better than to argue with Calindy.  With a mixture of
emotions, he expressed hopes for her continued improvement, and broke
the circuit.  He hoped that she would interpret his attitude as one of
both sorrow and anger, and feel correspondingly contrite.

A minute later, he was looking-with some relief -at a screen that was
no longer empty, and could reveal the other party's reactions.

"Did you know," he asked Ambassador Farrell, "that Karl Helmer is on

Earth?"

His Excellency blinked.

"I certainly did not.  He never contacted me-I'll see if the Chancery
knows anything."

He punched a few buttons, and it was obvious that nothing happened. The
ambassador glanced at Duncan with annoyance.

"I wish we could afford a new intercom system," he said accusingly.
"They cost a very small fraction of the Titan Gross National
Product."

Duncan thought it wise to let this pass, and luckily on the second
attempt the ambassador got through.  He muttered a few inaudible
questions, waited for a minute, then looked at Duncan and shook his
head.

"No trace of him-not even a Terran forwarding address for any messages
from home.  Most odd."

"Wouldn't you say-unprecedented?"

"Um-yes.  I've never heard of anyone failing to contact the Embassy as
soon as they reach Earth.  Usually, of course, we know that they're
coming, weeks in advance.  There's no law compelling them to get in
touch-but it's a matter of courtesy.  Not to mention convenience."

"That's what I thought.  Well, if you hear anything of him, would you
let me know?"

The ambassador stared back at him in silence for a moment, with the
most enigmatic of smiles on his face.  Then he said: "What do Malcolm
and Colin think he's doing?  Plotting a coup dYtat with smuggled
guns?"

After a moment's shock, Duncan laughed at the joke.

"Not even Karl is that crazy.  Frankly, I'm completely baffled by the
whole thing-but I'm determined to locate him.  Though there may be half
a billion people on Earth, he's not exactly inconspicuous.  Please
keep in touch.  Good-bye for the present."

Two down, thought Duncan, and one to go.  It was back to Ivor
Mandel'stahm, in his self-appointed, and by no means unsuccessful, role
of private eye.

But Ivor's Comsole answered: "Please do not disturb.  Kindly record any
message."

Duncan was annoyed; he was bursting to pass on his news, but was
certainly not going to leave it stored in a Comsole.  He would have to
wait until

Mandel'stahm called back.

That took two hours, and meanwhile it was not easy to concentrate on
other work.  When the dealer finally returned the call, he apologized
profusely.

"I was trying a long shot," he explained.  "I wondered if he'd bought
anything in New York on a credit card.  There aren't all that number of
aitches, and the Central Billing computer zipped through them in an
hour.  . Alas-he must be using cash.  Not a federal crime, of course.
But a nuisance to us honest investigators."

Duncan laughed.

"It was a good idea.  I've done slightly better-at least I've
eliminated some possibilities."

He gave Mandel'stalun a brief resume of his discussions with Calindy
and

Ambassador Farrell, then added: "Where do we go from here?"

"I'm not sure.  But don't worry-I'll think of something."

Duncan believed him.  He now had an almost unreasoning confidence in
the dealer's ingenuity, not to mention his influence and his knowledge
of the ways of Earth.  If anyone could locate Karl-short of going to
the police, or inserting a personal appeal in the World Times-it would
be Mandel'stalun.

In fact, it took him only thirty-six hours.

THE EYE OF ALLAH

I I I've found him," said Mandel'stahm.  He looked tired but
victorious.

"I knew you would," Duncan replied with unfeigned admiration.  "Where
is he?"

"Don't be so impatient-let me have my reasonably innocent fun.  I've
earned it."

"Well, whose concierge did you bamboozle this time?"

Mandel'stahm looked slightly pained.

"Nobody's.  I first tried to find all I could about your friend Helmer,
by the brilliant device of looking him up in the Interplanetary Who's
Who.  I assumed he'd be there, and he was-a hundred-line print-out.  I
looked you up at the same time, by the, way..  .. You rate one hundred
fifty lines, if that's any satisfaction."

"I know," said Duncan, with what patience he could muster.  "Go on."

"I wondered if it would list any Terran contacts or interests, and
again I was in luck.  He belongs to the Institution of Electronic
Engineers, the

Royal Astronomical Society, the Institute of Physics, and the Institute
of

Astronautics-as well as several Titanian professional organizations, of
course.  And I see he's written half a dozen scientific papers, and
been joint author in others: the Ionosphere of Saturn, origins of
ultra-long-wave electromagnetic radiation, and other thrilling
esoterica nothing of any use to us, though.

"The Royal astronomers are in London, of course -but the engineers and
astronauts and physicists are all in New York, and I wondered if he'd
contacted them.  So I called on another of my useful friends-a
scientist this time, and a most distinguished one, who 236  could open
any doors without questions being asked.  I hoped that a visiting

Titanian colleague was a rare enough phenomenon to attract attention ..
. and indeed he was."

Mandel'stahm gave another of his pregnant pauses, so that Duncan could
simmer for a while, then went on This is what puzzles me.  Apart from
ignoring the Embassy, and telling

Miss Ellerman to keep quiet, he's done absolutely nothing to cover his
tracks.  I don't think that anyone with much to hide would behave in
that way.... "It was really very simple.  The Electronics people were
happy to help.  They told us he'd left North Atlan and could be
contacted care of the Assistant

Chief Engineer, Division C, World Communications Headquarters, Tehran.
Not the sort of address you'd associate with gem smuggling and
interplanetary skulduggery.... "So over to Tehran-just in time to miss
him, but no matter.  He'll be at the same location now for a couple of
days, and in view of his background, at last we've got something that
makes a little sense.

"World Com's Division C are the boys who keep Project CYCLOps running.
And even I have heard of that."

It had been conceived in the first bright dawn of the Space Age; the
largest, most expensive, and potentially most promising scientific
instrument ever devised.  Though it could serve many purposes, one was
paramount-the search for intelligent life elsewhere in the universe.

One of the oldest dreams of mankind, this remained no more than a dream
until the rise of radio astronomy, in the second half of the twentieth
century.  Then, within the short span of two decades, the combined
skills of the engineers and the scientists gave humanity power to span
the interstellar gulfs if it was willing to pay the price.

The first puny radio telescopes, a few tens of meters in diameter, had
listened hopefully for signals from the stars.  No one had really
expected success from these pioneering efforts, nor was it achieved.
Making certain plausible assumptions about the distribution of
intelligence in the Galaxy, it was easy to calculate that the detection
of a radio-emitting civilization would require telescopes not
decameters, but kilometers, in aperture.

There was only one practical method of achieving this result-at least,
with structures confined to the surface of the Earth.  To build a
single giant bowl was out of the question, but the same result could be
obtained from an array of hundreds of smaller ones.  CYCLOPS was
visualized as an antenna "farm" of hundred-meter dishes, uniformly
spaced over a circle perhaps five kilometers across.  The faint signals
from each element in this army of antennas would be added together, and
then cunningly processed by computers programmed to look for the unique
signatures of intelligence against the background of cosmic noise.

The whole system would cost as much as the original Apollo Project. But
unlike Apollo, it could proceed in installments, over a period of years
or even decades.  As soon as a relatively few antennas had been built,
CYCLOPS could start operating.  From the very beginning, it would be a
tool of immense value to the radio astonomers.  Over the years, more
and more antennas could be installed, until eventually the whole array
was filled in; and all the while CYCLOPS would steadily increase in
power and capability, able to probe deeper and deeper into the
universe.

It was a noble vision, though there were some who feared its success as
much as its possible failure.  However, during the Time of Troubles
that brought the twentieth century to its unlamented close, there was
little hope of funding such a project.  It could be considered only
during a period of political and financial stability; and therefore
CYCLOPS did not get under way until a hundred years after the initial
design studies.

A child of the brief but brilliant Muslim Renaissance, it helped to
absorb some of the immense wealth accumulated by the Arab countries
during the 238  Oil Age.  The millions of tons of metal required came
from the virtually limitless resources of the Red Sea brines, oozing
along the Great Rift

Valley.  Here, where the crust of the Earth was literally coming apart
at the seams as the continental plates slowly separated, were metals
and minerals enough to banish all fear of shortages for centuries to
come.

Ideally CYCLOPS should have been situated on the Equator, so that its
questing radio mirrors could sweep the heavens from pole to pole. Other
requirements were a good climate, freedom from earthquakes or other
natural disasters-and, if possible, a ring of mountains to act as a
shield against radio interference.  Of course, no perfect site existed,
and political, geographical, and engineering compromises had to be
made.  After decades of often acrimonious discussion, the desolate
"Empty Quarter" of Saudi Arabia was chosen; it was the first time that
anyone had ever found a use for it.

Wide tracks were roughly graded through the wilderness so that
ten-thousand-ton hover-freighters could carry in components from the
factories on the shore of the Red Sea.  Later, these were supplemented
by cargo airships.  In the first phase of the project, sixty parabolic
antennas were arranged in the form of a giant cross, it's
five-kilometer arms extending north-south, east-west.  Some of the
faithful objected to this symbol of an alien religion, but it was
explained to them that this was only a temporary state of affairs. When
the "Eye of Allah" was completed, the offending sign would be utterly
lost in the total array of seven hundred huge dishes, spaced uniformly
over a circle eighty square kilometers in extent.

By the end of the twenty-first century, however, only half of the
planned seven hundred elements had been installed.  Two hundred of them
had filled in most of the central core of the array, and the rest
formed a kind of picket fence, outlining the circumference of the giant
instrument.  This reduction in scale, while saving billions of so lars
had degraded performance only slightly.  CYCLOPS had fulfilled
virtually all its design objectives, and during the course of the
twenty-second century had wrought almost as great a revolution in
astronomy as had the reflectors on Mount Wilson and Mount Palomar, two
hundred years earlier.  By the end of that century, however, it had run
into trouble-through no fault of its builders, or of the army of
engineers and scientists who served it.

CYCLOPS could not compete with the systems that had now been built on
the far side of the Moonalmost perfectly shielded from terrestrial
interference by three thousand kilometers of solid rock.  For many
decades, it had worked in conjunction with them, for two great
telescopes at either end of an

Earth-Moon baseline formed an interferometer that could probe details
of planetary systems hundreds of light-years away.  But now there were
radio telescopes on Mars; the Lunar observatory could achieve far more
with their co-operation than it could ever do with nearby Earth.  A
baseline two hundred million kilometers long allowed one to survey the
surrounding stars with a precision never before imagined.

As happens sooner or later with all scientific instruments, technical
developments had by-passed CYCLOPS.  But by the mid-twenty-third
century it was facing another problem, which might well prove fatal.
The Empty Quarter was no longer a desert.

CYCLOPS had been built in a region which might see no rains for five
years at a time.  At Al Hadidah, there were meteorites that had lain un
rusting in the sand since the days of the Prophet.  All this had been
changed by reforestation and climate control; for the first time since
the Ice Ages, the deserts were in re treat.  More rain now fell on the
Empty Quarter in days than had once fallen in years.

The makers of CYCLOPS had never anticipated this.

They had, reasonably enough, based all their designs on a hot, and
environment.  Now the maintenance staff was engaged in a continual
battle against corrosion humidity in coaxial cables, fungus-induced
breakdowns in high-tension circuits, and all the other ills that
afflict electronic equipment if given the slightest chance.  Some of
the hundred-meter antennas had even rusted up solidly, so that they
could no longer be moved and had to be taken out of service.  For
almost twenty years, the system had been working at slowly decreasing
efficiency, while the engineers, administrators, and scientists carried
out a triangular argument, no one party being able to convince either
of the others.  Was it worth investing billions of so lars to refurbish
the system--or would the money be better spent on the other side of the
Moon?  It was impossible to arrive at any clear-cut decision, for no
one had ever been able to put a value on pure scientific research.

Whatever its present problems, CYCLOPs had been a spectacular success,
helping reshape man's views of the universe not once, but many times.
It had pushed back the frontiers of knowledge to the very microsecond
after the Big Bang itself, and had trapped radio waves that had
circumnavigated the entire span of creation.  It had probed the
surfaces of distant stars, detected their hidden planets, and
discovered such strange entities as neutrino suns, anti tachyons
gravitational lenses, space quakes and revealed the mind-wrenching
realms of negative-probability "Ghost" states and inverted matter.

But there was one thing that it had not done.  Despite scores of false
alarms, it had never succeeded in detecting signals from intelligent
beings elsewhere in the universe.

Either Man was alone, or nobody else was using radio transmitters.  The
two explanations seemed equally improbable.

MEETING AT CYCLOPS

He had known what to expect, or so he had believed, but the reality was
still overwhelming.  Duncan felt like a child in a forest of giant
metal trees, extending in every direction to the limit of vision.  Each
of the identical "trees" had a slightly tapering trunk fifty meters
high, with a stairway spiraling round it up to the platform supporting
the drive mechanism.  Looming above this was the huge yet surprisingly
delicate hundred-meter-wide bowl of the antenna itself, tilted toward
the sky as it listened for signals from the deeps of space.

Antenna 005, as its number indicated, was near the center of the array,
but it was impossible to tell this by visual inspection.  Whichever way
Duncan looked, the ranks and columns of steel towers dwindled into the
distance until eventually they formed a solid wall of metal.

The whole vast array was a miracle of precision engineering, on a scale
matched nowhere else on Earth.  It was altogether appropriate that many
key components had been manufactured in space; the foamed metals and
crystal fibers which gave the parabolic reflectors strength with
lightness could be produced only by the zero-gravity orbiting
factories.  In more ways than one, CYCLOPS was a child of space.

Duncan turned to the guide who had driven him through the labyrinth of
access tunnels on.  the small, chemically powered scooter.  "I don't
see anyone," he complained.  "Are you sure he's here?"

"This is where we left him, an hour ago.  He'll be in the preamplifier
assembly, up there on the platform.  242  You'll have to shout-no
radios allowed here, of course."

Duncan could not help smiling at this further example of the CYCLOPS
management's almost fanatical precautions against interference.  He had
even been asked to surrender his watch, lest its feeble electronic
pulses be mistaken for signals from an alien civilization a few hundred
light-years away.  His guide was actually wearing a spring-driven
timepiece-the first that Duncan had ever seen.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Duncan tilted his head toward the
metal tower looming above him and shouted "Karl!"  A fraction of a
second later, the K echoed back from the next antenna, then
reverberated feebly from the ones beyond.  After that the silence
seemed more profound than before.  Duncan did not feel like disturbing
it again.

Nor was there any need.  Fifty meters above, a figure had moved to the
railing around the platform; and it brought with it the familiar glint
of gold.

"V~Io's there?"

Who do you think?  Duncan asked himself.  Of course, it was hard to
recognize a person from vertically overhead, and voices were distorted
in this inhumanly scaled place.

"It's Duncan."

There was a pause that seemed to last for the better part of a minute,
but could only have been a few seconds in actuality.  Karl was
obviously surprised, though by this time he must surely have guessed
that Duncan knew of his presence on Earth.  Then he answered: "I'm in
the middle of a job.

Come up, if you want to."

That was hardly a welcome, but the voice did not seem hostile.  The
only emotion that Duncan could identify at this distance was a kind of
tired resignation; and perhaps he was imagining even this.

Karl had vanished again, doubtless to continue whatever task he had
come here to perform.  Duncan looked very thoughtfully at the spiral
stairway winding up the cylindrical trunk of the antenna tower.

Fifty meters was a trifling distance-but not in terms of Earth's
gravity  It was the equivalent of two him243  dred and fifty on Titan;
he had never had to climb a quarter of a kilometer on his own world.

Karl, of course, would have had little difficulty, since he had spent
his early years on Earth, and his muscles would have recovered much of
their original strength.  Duncan wondered if this was a deliberate
challenge.  That would be typical of Karl, and if so he had no choice
in the matter.

As he stepped onto the first of the perforated metal stairs, his
CYCLOPS guide remarked hopefully: "There's not much room up there on
the platform.

Unless you want me, I'll stay here."

Duncan could recognize a lazy man when he met one, but he was glad to
accept the excuse.  He did not wish any strangers to be present when he
came face to face with Karl.  The confrontation was one that he would
have avoided if it had been at all possible, but this was not a job
that could be delegated to anyone else-even if those instructions from
Colin and

Malcolm had allowed it.

The climb was easy enough, though the safety rail was not as
substantial as

Duncan would have wished.  Moreover, sections had been badly rusted,
and now that he was close enough to touch the metal he could see that
the mounting was in even worse condition than he had been led to
expect.  Unless emergency repairs were carried out very soon, CYCLOPS
would never see the dawn of the twenty-fourth century.

When Duncan had completed his first circuit, the guide called up to
him: "I forgot to tell you-we're selecting a new target in about five
minutes.

You'll find it rather dramatic."

Duncan stared up at the huge bowl now completely blocking the sky above
him.  The thought of all those tons of metal swinging around just
overhead was quite disturbing, and he was glad that he had been warned
in time.

The other saw his action and interpreted it correctly.

"It won't bother you.  This antenna's been frozen for at least ten
years.

The drive's seized up, and not worth repairing."  So that confirmed a
suspicion of Duncan's, which he had dismissed as an optical illusion.
The great parabola above him was indeed at a slight angle to all the
others; it was no longer an active part of the CYCLOPs array, but was
now pointing blindly at the sky.  The loss of one-or even a
dozen---elements would cause only a slight degradation of the system."
but it was typical of the general air of neglect.  One more circuit,
and he would be at the platform.  Duncan paused for breath.  He had
been climbing very slowly, but already his legs were beginning to ache
with the wholly unaccustomed effort.  There had been no further * sound
from Karl.  What was he doing, in this fantastic place of old triumphs
and lost dreams?

And how would he react to this unexpected, and doubtless unwelcome,
confrontation, when they were face to face?  A little belatedly, it
occurred to Duncan that a small platform fifty meters above the ground,
and in this frightful gravity, was not the best place to have an
argument.  He smiled at the mental image this conjured up; whatever
their disagreement, violence was unthinkable.

Well, not quite unthinkable.  He had just thought of it.... Overhead
now was a narrow band of perforated metal flooring, barely wide enough
for the rectangular slot through which the stairway emerged.  With a
heartfelt sigh of relief, pulling himself upward with rust-stained
hands,

Duncan climbed the last few steps and stood amid monstrous bearings,
silent hydraulic motors, a maze of cables, much dismantled plumbing,
and the delicate tracery of ribs supporting the now useless
hundred-meter parabola.

There was still no sign of Karl, and Duncan began a cautious
circumnavigation of the antenna mounting.  The catwalk was about two
meters wide, and the protective rail almost waist-high, so there was no
real danger.  Nevertheless, he kept well away from the edge and avoided
looking at the fifty-meter drop.

He had barely completed half a circuit when all hell broke loose. There
was a sudden whirr of motors, the low booming of great machineries on
the move--and even the occasional accompaniment of protesting shrieks
from gears and bearings that did not wish to be disturbed.

On every side, the huge skyward-facing bowls were beginning to tam in
unison, swinging around to the south.  Only the one immediately
overhead was motionless, like a blind eye no longer able to react to
any stimulus.  The din was quite astonishing, and continued for several
minutes.  Then it stopped as abruptly as it had started.  CYCLOPs had
located a new target for its scrutiny.

"Hello, Duncan," said Karl in the sudden silence.  "Welcome to
Earth."

He had emerged, while Duncan was distracted by the tumult, from a small
cubicle on the underside of the parabola, and was now climbing down a
somewhat precarious arrangement of hanging ladders.  His descent looked
particularly hazardous because he was using only one hand; the other
was firmly clutching a large notebook, and Duncan did not relax until
Karl was safely on the platform, a few meters away.  He made no attempt
to come closer, but stood looking at Duncan with a completely
unfathomable expression, neither friendly nor hostile.

Then there was one of those embarrassing pauses when neither party
wishes to speak first, and as it dragged on interminably Duncan became
aware for the first time of an omnipresent faint hum from all around
him.  The cycLops array was alive now, its hundreds of tracking motors
working in precise synchronism.  There was no perceptible movement of
the great antenna's, but they would now be creeping around at a
fraction of a centimeter a second.

The multiple facets of the CYCLOPs eye, having fixed their gaze upon
the stars, were now turning at the precise rate needed to counter the
rotation of the Earth.

How foolish, in this awesome shrine dedicated to the cosmos itself, for
two grown men to behave like children, each trying to outface the
other!  Duncan had the dual advantage of surprise and a clear
conscience; he would have nothing to lose by speaking first.  He did
not wish to take the initiative and perhaps antagonize Karl, so it was
best to open with some innocuous triviality.

No, not the weather-the amount of Terran conversation devoted to that
was quite incrediblel-but something equally neutral.

"That was the hardest work I've done since I got here.  I can't believe
that people really~ climb mountains on this planet."

Karl examined this brilliant gambit for possible booby traps.  Then he
shrugged his shoulders and replied: "Earth's tallest mountain is two
hundred times as high as this.  People climb it every year."

At least the ice was broken, and communication had been established.
Duncan permitted himself a sigh of relief; at the same time, now that
they were at close quarters, he was shocked by Karl's appearance.  Some
of that golden hair had turned to silver, and there was much less of
it.  In the year since they had last met, Karl seemed to have aged ten.
There were crow's-feet wrinkles of anxiety around his eyes, and his
brow was now permanently furrowed.  He also seemed to have shrunk
considerably, and Earth's gravity could not be wholly to blame, for
Duncan was even more vulnerable to that.

On Titan, he had always had to look up at Karl; now, as they stood face
to face, their eyes were level.

But Karl avoided his gaze and moved restlessly back and forth, firmly
clutching the notebook he was stiff carrying.  Presently he walked to
the very edge of the platform and leaned with almost ostentatious
recklessness against the protective rail.

"Don't do that!"  protested Duncan.  "It makes me nervous."  That, he
suspected, was the purpose of the exercise.

"Why should you care?"

The brusque answer saddened Duncan beyond measure.  He could only
reply: "If you really don't know, it's too late for me to explain."

"Well, I know this isn't a social visit.  I suppose you've seen
Calindy?"

"Yes.  I've seen her."  "What are you trying to do?"  247  "I can't
speak for Calindy.  She doesnt even know that I'm here."

"What are the Makenzies trying to do?  For the good of Titan, of
course."

Duncan knew better than to argue.  He did not even feel angry at the
calculated provocation.

"All I'm trying to do is to avoid a scandal-if it's not too late."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know perfectly well.  Who authorized your trip to Earth?  Who's
paying your expenses?"

Duncan had expected Karl to show some signs of guilt, but he was
mistaken.

"I have friends here.  And I don't recall that the Makenzies worried
too much about regulations.  How did Malcolm get the first Lunar
orbital refueling contract?"

"That was a hundred years ago, when he was trying to get the Titan
economy started.  There's no excuse now for financial irregularities.
Especially for purely personal ends."

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

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

Titan..  ."

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

Duncan closed his eyes until his dark glasses had adjusted to the
glare.

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

It was also uncomfortably hot, especially for Titanians.

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

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

"I was saying," continued Duncan, when they had settled down again,
"that

I'm merely trying to avoid any unpleasantness that will embarrass
both

Earth and Titan.  There's nothing personal in this, and I wish that
someone else were doing it-believe me.1P

Karl did not answer at once, but bent down and carefully placed his
notebook on the most rust-free section of the catwalk he could find.
The action reminded Duncan so vividly of old times that he was absurdly
moved.

Karl had never been able to express his emotions properly unless his
hands were free, and that notebook was obviously a major hindrance.

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

"She's told me nothing."

"She must have helped you find me."

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

"I don't believe you."

Duncan shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.  His strategy seemed
to be working.  By hinting that he knew much more than he did-which was
indeed little enougb-he hoped to undercut Karl's confidence and gain
further admissions from him.  But what he would do then, he still had
no idea; he could only rely on Colin's maxim of the masterful
administration of the unforeseen.  Karl had now begun to pace back and
forth in such an agitated manner that, for the first time, Duncan felt
distinctly nervous.  He remembered Calindy's warning; and once again,
he reminded himself uneasily that this was not at all a good place for
a confrontation with an adversary who might be slightly unbalanced.

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

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

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

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

Duncan dared to open his eyes, and found that he could see again,
though through a veil of pinkish mist.  But Karl, it was obvious, could
not see at all; he was blundering around blindly, with his hands cupped
tightly over his eyes.  And still the expected thunder never came....
If Duncan had not been half-paralyzed by shock, he might yet have acted
in time.  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, as in a dream. He
could not believe that it was real.

He saw Karl's foot hit the precious notebook, so that it went spinning
off into space, fluttering downward like some strange, white bird.
Blinded though he was, Karl must have realized what he had done.
Totally disoriented, he made one futile grab at the empty air, then
crashed into the guardrail.  Duncan tried to reach him, but it was too
late.  250  Even then, it might not have mattered; but the years and
the rust had done their work.  As the treacherous metal parted, it
seemed to Duncan that Karl cried out his name, in the last second of
his life.  But of that he would never be sure.

THE LISTENERS


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

"And who are they?"

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

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

"Bureaucracies are self-perpetuating-you should know that.  But
civilization will always have its discontents, to use a phrase I came
across somewhere.

Though the police handles most matters, as they do on Titan, there are
cases which require-special treatment.  By the way, I've been asked to
make it clear that anything you care to say will be privileged and
won't be published without your consent.  And if you wish, I will come
along with you for moral support and guidance."

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

He had half expected to be taken in a blacked-out car on a long,
tortuous drive to some vast underground complex in the depths of
Virginia or Maryland.  It was a little disappointing to end up in a
small room at the old

State Department Building, talking to an Assistant Under Secretary with
the improbable name of John Smith; later checking on Duncan's part
disclosed that this actually was his name.  However, it soon became
clear that there was much more to this room than the plain desk and
three comfortable chairs that met the eye.

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

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

Duncan nodded politely toward the mirror.

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

Minisec?"

There was a painful silence, broken only by an ambassadorial chuckle.
Then

Mr.  Smith answered: "We would prefer to supply you with a transcript.
I can promise that it will be quite accurate."

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

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

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

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

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

It was a friendly, powerful voice, very deep and resonant, yet there
was something slightly unnatural about it.  A computer?  Duncan asked
himself.

That was too easy an assumption; in any case, there was no way of
distinguishing between computer vocalization and human
speech-especially now that a realistic number of "ers," "wells,"
incomplete sentences, and downright grammatical errors could be
incorporated to make the nonelectronic participants in a conversation
feel at ease.  He guessed that he was listening to a, man talking
through a speech-disguising circuit.

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

"It's only fair to reassure you on one point, Mr.  Makenzie.  As far as
we can ascertain, no Terran laws have been broken.  We are not here to
investigate a _crime--only to solve a mystery, to explain a tragedy. If
any

Titanian regulations are involved, that is your problem-not ours.  I
hope you understand.  ""Yes Duncan replied.  "I assumed that was the
case, but I'm glad to have your confirmation."

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

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

"To save us all time, let me explain that we have a complete summary of
Mr.

Helmer's background."  And mine, thought Duncan.  "Your government has
been most helpful, but you may have information which is unknown to us,
since you were one of his closest friends."

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a gesture of peace, across the grave of all their hopes, and
Duncan felt his eyes stinging with unshed tears.  He looked at the
handful of microelectronics on the table and felt a deep reluctance
even to touch it.

There were all Karl's secrets.  Would the Helmers have asked him to
accept this if they had anything to hide?  But there was a great deal,
Duncan was certain, that Karl had concealed from his own family; there
would be much in the Minisec that only he had ever known.  True, it
would be guarded by carefully chosen code words, some of them possibly
linked with ERASE circuits to prevent unauthorized intrusion.
"Naturally," continued the voice from the Moon (if it was from the
Moon), 66we are interested in what may be in this Minisec.  In
particular, we would like any list of contacts on Earth-addresses or
personal numbers."

Yes, thought Duncan, I can understand that.  I'm sure you must have
been tempted to do some interrogation already, but are scared of
possible ERASE circuits and want to explore other alternatives
first.... He stared thoughtfully at that little box on the table, with
its multitudinous studs and its now darkened read-out panel.  There lay
a device of a complexity beyond all the dreams of earlier ages-a
virtual micro simulacrum of a human brain.  Within it were billions of
bits of information, stored in endless atomic arrays, waiting to be
recalled by the right signal--or obliterated by the wrong one.  At the
rhoment it was lifeless, inert, like consciousness itself in the
profoundest depths of sleep.  No-not quite inert; the clock and
calendar circuits would still be operating, ticking off the seconds and
minutes and days that now were no concern of Karl's.

Another voice broke in, this time from the right.

"We have asked Mr.  Armand Helmer if his son left any code words with
him, as is usual in such cases.  You may be hearing more on the matter
shortly.

Meanwhile, no attempt will be made to obtain any read-outs.  With your
permission, we would like to retain the Minisec for the present."

Duncan was getting a little tired of having decisions made for him-and
the

Helmers had apparently stated that he was to take possession of Karl's
effects.  But there was no point in objecting; and if he did, some
legal formality would undoubtedly materialize out of the same thin air
as these mysterious voices.

Mr.  Smith was digging into his case again.

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

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

"It is.  Would you like to go through it, and see if there is anything
that strikes you as unusual-note255  worthy-of any possible value to
this investigation?  Even if it seems utterly trivial or irrelevant,
please don't hesitate to speak."

What a technological gulf, thought Duncan, between these two objects!
The

Minisec was a triumph of the Neoelectronic Age; the sketchbook had
existed virtually unchanged for at least a thousand years -and so had
the pencil tucked into it.  It was very true, as some philosopher of
history had once said, that mankind never completely abandons any of
its ancient tools.  Yet

Karl's sketchbooks had always been something of an affectation; he
could make competent engineering drawings, but had never shown any
genuine sign of artistic talent.

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

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

And there were spaces capes obviously rough drawings of scenes on the
outer moons, with the formalized circle-and-ellipse of Saturn hanging
in the sky .  circuit diagrams, with more calculations full of lambdas
and omegas, and vector notations that Duncan could recognize, but could
not understand .  and then suddenly, bursting out of the pages of
impersonal notes and rather inept sketches, something that breathed
life, something that might have been the work of a real artist-a
portrait of Calindy, drawn with obvious, loving care.

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

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

No one spoke from the air around him or interrupted his thoughts.  And
presently he moved on.  . more calculations .. . patterns of hexagons,
dwindling away into the distance-why, of course!

"ThaVs the titanite lattice-but the number written against it means
nothing to me.  It looks Eke a Terran viddy coding."

"You are correct.  It happens to be the number of a gem expert here
in

Washington.  Not Ivor Mandel'stahm, in case you're wondering.  The
person concerned assures us that Mr.  Helmer never contacted him, and
we believe him.  It's probably a number he acquired somehow, jotted
down, but never used."  more calculatiogs, now with lots of frequencies
and phase angles.

Doubtless communications stuff part of Karl's regular work ... .
geometrical doodles, many of them based on the hexagon motif ...
Calindy again-only an outline sketch this time, showing none of the
loving care of the earlier draw in !  ... : a honeycomb pattern of
little circles, seen in plan and elevation.  Only a few were drawn in
detail but it was obvious that there must be hundreds.  The
interpretation was equally obvious.

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

"Why do you think he was so interested?"

"That's quite natural-it's the biggest and most famous radio telescope
on

Earth.  He often discussed it with me."

"Did he ever speak of visiting it?"

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

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

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," he said, closing the book, "but I get
nothing at all from this.  Kar-Mr.  Helmer's field was communications
science; he helped design the Titan-Inner Planets Link.  This is all
part of his work.  His interest is completely understandable, and I see
nothing unusual about it."

"Perhaps so, Mr.  Makenzie.  But you haven't finished."

Duncan looked in surprise at the empty air.  Then Under Secretary Smith
gestured toward the sketchbook.

"Never take anything for granted," he said mildly.  "Start at the other
end."

Feeling slightly foolish, Duncan reopened the sketchbook, then flipped
it over as he realized that Karl had used it from both directions. (But
he had been badly shaken by those last drawings, and was not thinking
too clearly )

The inside back cover was blank, but the facing page bore the single
enigmatic word ARGUS.  It meant nothing to Duncan, though it did arouse
some faint and unidentifiable association from history.  He turned the
page-and had one of the biggest shocks of his life.

As he stared incredulously at the drawing that occupied the entire area
of the paper, he was suddenly transported back to Golden Reef.  There
could be no misinterpretation; yet as far as he knew, Karl had never
shown the slightest interest in the minutiae of terrestial zoology. The
very idea that any Titanian might be fascinated by marine biology was
faintly incongruous.

Yet here was a detailed study, with the perspective meticulously worked
out around the faintly limned x, y-, and z-axes of the spiny sea
urchin,

Diadema.  Only a dozen of its thin, radiating needles were shown, but
it was clear that there were hundreds, occupying the entire sphere of
space around it.

That was astonishing enough, but there was something even more
remarkable.

This drawing must have required hours of devoted labor.  Karl had
dedicated to an unprepossessing little invertebrate-which surely he
could never have seen in his life!-all the love and skill he had
applied to the portrait of

Calindy.

In the bright sunshine outside the old State Department, Duncan and
the

Ambassador had to wait for five minutes before the next shuttle came
gliding silently down Virginia Avenue.  No one was within earshot, so
Duncan said with quiet urgency: "Does "Argus' mean anything to you?"

"As a matter of fact, yes-though I'm damned if I see how it can help. I
still have the remnants of a classical education, and unless I'm very
much mistaken, Argus was the name of Odysseus' old dog.  It recognized
him when he came home to Ithaca after his twenty years of wandering,
then died."

Duncan brooded over this information for a few seconds, then shrugged
his shoulders.

"You're right-that's no help at all.  And I still want to know why
these people I met-or didn't meet-are so interested in Karl.  As they
admitted at the start, there's no suggestion that he's done anything
illegal, as far as

Earth is concerned.  And I suspect that he may have only bent some
Titanian regulations, not broken them."

"Just a moment-just a moment!"  said the Ambassador.  "You've reminded
me of something."  His face went through some rather melodramatic
contortions, then smoothed itself out.  He glanced around
conspiratorially, saw that there was no one within hearing and that the
shuttle was still three minutes away by the countdown indicator.

"I think I may have it, and I'll be obliged if you don't attribute this
to me.  But just consider the following wild speculation... "Every
organism has defense mechanisms to protect itself.  You've just
encountered one-part of the security system of Earth.  This particular
group, what259  ever its responsibilities may be, probably consists of
a fairly small number of important people.  I expect I know most of
them-in fact, one voice .. . never mind .. .

"You could call it a watchdog committee.  Such a committee has to have
a name for itself-a secret name, naturally.  In the course of my
duties, I occasionally hear of such things, and carefully forget
them.... "Now, Argus was a watchdog.  So what better name for-such a
group?  Mind you,

I'm still not asserting anything.  But imagine the acute embarrassment
of a secret organization that happens to find its name carefully
spelled out in highly mysterious circumstances."

It was a very plausible theory, and Duncan was sure that the Ambassador
would not have advanced it without excellent reasons.  But it did not
go even halfway.

"That's all very well, and I'm prepared to accept it.  But what the
devil has all this to do with a drawing of a sea urchin?  I feel I'm
going slowly mad."

The shuttle was now gliding to a halt in front of them, and the
Ambassador waved him into it.

"If it's any consolation, Duncan, be assured that you're in very good
company.  I'd sacrifice a fair share of my modest retirement benefits
if I could eavesdrop now on Under Secretary Smith and his invisible
friends."

BUSINESS AND DESIRE

There was no way of telling, as Duncan stood at the window of Calindy's
apartment, that he was not looking down at the busy traffic of 57th

Street on a crisp winter night, when the first flakes of snow were
drifting down, to melt at once as they struck the heated sidewalks.
But this was summer, not winter; and even President Bernstein's
limousine was not as old as the cars moving silently a hundred meters
below.  He was watching the past, perhaps a hologram from the late
twentieth century.  Yet though Duncan knew that he was actually far
underground, there was nothing that he could do to convince his senses
of this fact.

He was alone with Calindy at last, though in circumstances of which he
could never have dreamed only a few days ago.  How ironic that, now the
opportunity had come, he felt barely the faintest flicker of desire!

"What is it?"  he asked suspiciously, as Calindy handed him a slim
crystal goblet containing a few centimeters of blood-red liquid.

"If I told you, the name would mean nothing.  And if I said what it
cost, you'd be scared to drink it.  Just taste it slowly; you'll never
have another chance, and it will do you good."

It was good-smooth, slightly sweet, and, Duncan was quite certain,
charged with several megatons of slumbering energy.  He sipped it very
slowly indeed, watching Calindy as she moved around the room.

He had not really known what to expect, yet her apartment had still
been something of a surprise.  It was almost stark in its simplicity,
but large and beautifully proportioned" with dove-gray walls, a blue
vaulted ceiling like the sky itself, and a green carpet that gave the
impression of a small sea of grass lapping against the walls.  There
were fewer than a dozen pieces of furniture: four deeply cushioned
chairs, two divans, a closed writing desk, a glass cabinet full of
delicate chinaware, a low table upon which were lying a small box and a
splendid book on twenty-second century primitives-and, of course, the
ubiquitous Comsole, its screen now crawling with abstract art that was
very far from primitive.

Even without the force of gravity to remind him, there was no danger
that

Duncan would forget he was on Earth.  He doubted if a private home on
any other planet could show a display like this; but he would not like
to live here.  Everything was a little too perfect and displayed
altogether too clearly the Terran obsession with the past.  He
suddenly remembered Ambassador Farrell's remark:

"We aren't decadent, but our children will be."  That would include
Calindy's generation.  Perhaps the Ambassador was right.... He took
another sip, staring at Calindy in silence as she orbited the room.

Clearly ill at ease, she moved a chair through an imperceptible
fraction of an inch, and gave a picture an equally invisible
adjustment.  Then she came back to the divan and sat down beside him.

A little more purposefully now, she leaned across the low coffee table
and picked up the box lying upon it.

"Have you seen one of these?"  she asked, as she opened the lid.

Lying in a nest of velvet was something that looked like a large,
silver egg, about twice the size of the real eggs that Duncan had
encountered in the Centennial Hotel.

"What is it?"  he asked.  "A piece of sculpture?"

"Pick it up-but be careful not to drop it."

Despite this warning, that was very nearly what he did.  The egg was
not particularly heavy, but it seemed alive-even squirming in his hand,
though it showed no sign of any visible movement.  However, when he
looked at it more carefully, he could see faint opalescent bands
flowing over the surface and momentarily blurring the mirror finish.
They looked very much like waves of heat, yet there was no sensation of
warmth.

"Cup it in both hands," Calindy instructed him, "and close your
eyes."

Duncan obeyed, despite an almost irresistible impulse to see what was
really happening to the extraordinary object he held.  He felt
completely disoriented, because it seemed that the sense of touch-the
most reliable of all man's messengers from the external universe-was
betraying him.

For the very texture of the egg was constantly changing.  It no longer
felt like metal; unbelievably, it was furry.  He might have been
fondling some small woolly animal-a kitten, perhaps.... But only for
seconds.  The egg shivered, became 262  hard and rough-it was made of
sandpaper, coarse enough to grate the skin ... the sandpaper became
satin, so smooth and silky that he wanted to caress it.  There was
barely time to obey the impulse when ... the egg was liquefying and
becoming gelatinous.  It seemed about to ooze through his fingers, and
Duncan had to force himself not to drop it in disgust.  Only the
knowledge that this could not really be happening gave him strength to
control the reflex ... . it was made of wood; there was no doubt of
that, for he could even feel the grain ... . before it dissolved into
myriads of separate bristles, each so sharp and distinct that he could
feel them prickling his skin.... And there were sensations that he
could not even name, some delightful, most neutral, but some so
unpleasant that he could scarcely control his revulsion.  At last, when
within his cupped palms Duncan felt the unique, the incomparable touch
of human skin, curiosity and amazement got the better of him.  He
opened his hands; the silver egg was completely unchanged, though now
it felt as if it were carved from soap.

"What in heaven's name is it?"  he cried.

"It's a tacto id  You haven't heard of them?"

"No."

"Fascinating, isn't it?  It does to the sense of touch what a
kaleidoscope does to vision.  No, don't ask me how it works-something
to do with controlled electrical stimulation."

"What's it used for?"

Must everything have -a -purpose?  It's just a toy'a novelty.  But I
had a very good reason for showing it to YOU."

"Oh, I know.  "The latest from Earth."

Calindy gave a wistful smile; she recognized that old ~arch phrase.  It
brought back vividly to both of them those days together on Titan, a
lifetime ago.

"Duncan," she said, so quietly that he could barely hear the words, "do
you think it was all my fault?"  They were now sittin igy two meters
apart on the divan, and he had to twist his body to face her.  The
woman he saw now was no longer the self-assured executive and
impresario he had met on the Titanic, but an unhappy and uncertain
girl.  He wondered how long the mood of contrition would last, but for
the moment it was genuine enough.

"How can I answer that?"  he replied.  "I'm still completely in the
dark.  I don't know what Karl was doing on Earth, or why he came
here."

This was only partially true; Karl's Minisec had begun to reveal its
secrets.  But Duncan was not yet prepared to discuss those with
anybody, least of an with Calindy.

She looked at him with an air of faint surprise and answered: "Do you
mean to say that he never told you-in fifteen years?"

"Told me what?"  said Duncan.

"What happened on that last night aboard Mentor."

"No," replied Duncan, with painful slowness.  "He never talked about
it."

After all these years, that betrayal was still a bitter memory.  He
knew now, of course, that it was absurd for two young adults like Karl
and

Calindy, obsessed by their own grief, to have given any thought to the
feelings of the boy who adored them both.  He could not blame them now;
but in his heart he had never forgiven them.

"So you didn't know that we used a joy machine."

"Oh, no!"

"I'm afraid so.  It wasn't my idea.  Karl insisted, and I didn't know
any better.  But at least I had sense enough not to use it myself.
Well, only at very low power ... "They were illegal even in those days.
How did one get aboard Mentor?"

"There were a lot of things on Mentor that no one ever knew about."

"I'm sure of that.  What happened?"

Calindy got to her feet again and began to pace nervously to and fro.
She avoided Duncan's eyes as she continued.

"I don't like to think about it.  Even now, it frightens me, and I can
understand why people get hopelessly addicted.  I'm sure your fingers
have never 264  touched anything as-well, I suppose -palpable is the
only word-as that tacto id  The joy machine is just the same; it makes
real life seem pale and thin-and Karl, remember, used it at full power.
I told him not to, but he laughed.  He was confident that he could
handle it ...... Yes, thought Duncan, that would be just like Karl.
Though he had never seen an emotion amplifier, one was kept under
proper supervision at the Oasis

Central Hospital.  It was a very valuable psychiatric tool, but when
the simple, portable versions quickly christened "joy machines" had
become available around the mid century they had spread like a plague
over the inhabited worlds.  No one would ever know how many immature
young minds had been ruined by them.  "Brain burning" had been a
disease of the sixties, until the epidemic had run its course, leaving
behind it hundreds of emotional husks.  Karl had been lucky to
escape.... But, of course, he had not escaped.  So this was the truth
about his "breakdown," and the explanation of his changed personality.
Duncan began to feel a cold anger toward Calindy.  He did not believe
her protestation of innocence; she must have known better, even then.
But part of his anger was not based on moral judgments.  He blamed
Calindy because she was alive, while Karl lay frozen in the Aden
morgue, like some splendid marble statue defaced by time and carelessly
restored.  There he must wait until the legal complications involved in
the disposal of an extraterrestrial corpse were unraveled.  This was
another duty that had fallen upon Duncan; he had done everything he
believed necessary before saying farewell to the friend he had lost
before his death.

"I think I see the picture," continued Duncan, so harshly that Calindy
looked at him with sudden surprise.  "But tell me the rest-what
happened then?"

"Karl used to send me long, crazy speeches sealed special delivery.  He
said he would never be able to love anyone else.  I told him not to be
foolish, but to forget me as quickly as he could, since we'd never be
able to meet again.  What else could I have said?  I didn't realize how
absolutely useless that ad265  vice was-like telling a man to stop
breathing.  I was ashamed to ask, and only discovered years later what
a joy machine does to the brain.

"You see, Duncan, he was telling the literal truth when he said he
could never love anyone else.  When they reinforce the pleasure
circuits, joy machines create a permanent, almost unbreakable pattern
of desires.  The psychologists call it electro-imprinting.  I believe
that there are techniques to modify it now, but there weren't fifteen
years ago, even on

Earth.  And certainly not on Titan.

"After a while, I stopped answering; there was nothing I could say. But
I still heard from Karl several times a year.  He swore that sooner or
later, he would get to Earth and see me again.  I didn't take him
seriOusly.tg

Perhaps not, thought Duncan; but I am sure you weren't wholly
displeased.

It must have been flattering to have held in your hand the soul of
someone as talented and beautiful as Karl-even if he had been enslaved
accidentally, with the aid of a machine..  ..

He saw very clearly now why all Karl's later liaisons and marriages had
exploded violently.  They had been doomed to failure at the start.
Always, the image of Calindy would have stood, an unattainable ideal,
between Karl and happiness.  How lonely he must have been!  And how
many misunderstandings might have been averted if the cause of his
behavior had been realized in time.

Yet perhaps nothing could have been done, and in any case it was futile
to dream about missed opportunities.  Who was the old philosopher who
had said:

"The human race will never know happiness, as long as the words "If
only ."  can still be spoken"?

"So it must have been a surprise, when he finally did turn up."

"No.  He'd dropped several hints-I'd been half expecting him for a
year.

Then he called me from Port Van Allen, said he'd just arrived on a
special flight, and would be seeing me as soon as he'd completed his
gravity reconditioning."

"It was a Terran Survey supply ship, going back empty-and fast.  Even
so, it took him fifty days."  And it couldn't have been a very
comfortable trip, Duncan added to himself-fifty days inside one of
those space trucks, with minimal life-support systems.  What a contrast
to Sirius!  He felt sorry for the officers who had innocently succumbed
to Karl's persuasion, and hoped that the current Court of Inquiry would
not damage their careers.

Calindy had recovered some of her poise.  She stopped pacing around,
and rejoined Duncan on the divan.

"I was not sure whether I really wanted to see him again, after all
these years, but I knew how determined he was; it would have been
useless trying to keep him away.  So-I suppose you can say I took the
line of least resistance."

She managed a wry smile, then continued: "It didn't work, of course,
and I should have known it.  Then we saw in a newscast that you'd just
arrived on

Earth."

"That must have been a shock to Karl.  What did he say?"

"Not much; but I could see that he was upset and very surprised."

"Surely he must have made some comment."

"Only that if you contacted me, I was not to tell you that he was on
Earth.

That was the first time I suspected something was wrong, and started to
worry about the titanite he'd asked me to sell."

"That's a trivial matter-forget about it.  Let's say it was just one of
the many tools that Karl used to reach his objective.  But I'd like to
know this-when we met aboard Titanic, was he still with you?"

Another hesitation, which in itself supplied half the answer.  Then
Calindy replied, rather defiantly: "Of course he was.  And he was very
angry when I said I'd met you.  We had a bad row over that.  Not the
first one."  She sighed, slightly too dramatically.  "By that time,
even Karl realized that it wouldn't work -that it was quite hopeless.
I'd warned him many times, but he wouldn't believe me.  He refused to
face the fact that the Calindy he'd known fifteen years before, and
whose image was burned in his brain, no longer existed..  .."

Duncan had never thought that he would see tears in Calindy's eyes.
But was she weeping for Karl, he wondered--or for her own lost youth?

He tried to be cynical, but he did not succeed.  He was sure that some
part of her sorrow was perfectly genuine, and despite himself was
deeply touched by it, And more than touched, for now, to his great
surprise, he found that sympathy was not the only emotion Calindy was
arousing in him.  He had never realized before that shared grief could
be an aphrodisiac.

This was a development that he did nothing to discourage, but he did
not want to hurry matters.  There was still much that he hoped to learn
and that only Calindy could tell him.

"So he was always disappointed when we made love," she continued
tearfully, "though at first he tried to conceal it.  I could tell-and
it wasn't pleasant for me.  It made me feel-inadequate.  You see, by
this time I'd learned a good deal about imprinting and knew exactly
what the trouble was.

Karl's case isn't unique.... "So he got more and more frustrated-and
also violent.  Sometimes he frightened me.  You know how strong he
was-look at this."

With another theatrical gesture, she slipped open her dress, displaying
the upper left arm-not to mention her entire left breast.

"He hit me here, so hard that I was badly bruised.  You can still see
the mark."

With the best will in the world, Duncan could discover no trace of a
bruise on the milky-white skin, smooth as satin, that was exposed
before his eyes.

Nevertheless, the revelation did not leave him unmoved.

"So that's why you switched off the viddy," he said sympathetically,
and edged closer.

"Then Ivor's friend called me, with that query about Titan.  I thought
it was an odd coincidence .. . you know, Duncan, that was an unkind
trick to play on me."  She sounded more sad than angry; and she did not
268  move away from him.  Almost half of the sofa was now
unoccupied.

"And then everything started to happen at once.  Did you know that
Terran

Security sent two of its agents to interview me?"

"No, but I guessed it.  What did you tell them?"

"Everything, of course.  They were very kind and understanding."

"And also clumsy," said Duncan with deep bitterness.

"Oh, Duncan, that was an accident!  You were an important guest-you had
to be protected.  There would have been an interplanetary scandal if
something had happened just before you were going to address Congress.
But you should never have gone after Karl, in such a dangerous
place."

"It wasn't dangerous-we were having a perfectly friendly discussion.
How did I know that trigger happy idiot was lurking in the next
antenna?"

"What was he to do?  He'd been ordered to protect you at all costs, and
had been warned that Karl might be violent.  It looked as if you were
starting to fight and that laser blast would only have blinded Karl for
a few hours.

It was all a terrible accident.  No one was to blame."

Perhaps, thought Duncan; it would be a long, long time before he could
view the whole sequence of events dispassionately.  If there was blame,
it was spread thinly, and across two worlds.  Like most human
tragedies, this one had been caused not by evil intentions, but by
errors of judgment, misunderstandings.... If Malcolm and Colin had not
insisted that he have a showdown with Karl, confronting him with the
facts .. . if he had not wanted Karl to prove his innocence, and
deliberately given him the opportunity to assert it, even to the
extent-unconsciously, but he was aware of it now-of putting himself in
his power .. . Perhaps Karl had been really dangerous; that was
something else he would never know.

It seemed as if they had both been enmeshed in some complex web of fate
from which there had never been any possibility of escape.  And though
the scale of that disaster was so much greater that the very comparison
appeared ludicrous, Duncan was again reminded of the Titanic.  She too
had been doomed, as if the gods themselves conspired against her, by a
whole series of apparently random and trivial chances.  If the radioed
warnings had not been buried under greetings and business messages .. .
If that iceberg had not sliced so incredibly through all those
watertight compartments .. . If the radio operator on the ship only
twenty kilometers away had not gone off duty when the first of all

SOS signals was flashed into the Atlantic night .. . If there had been
enough lifeboats ... It was like the failure of a whole series of
safety devices, one by one, against incalculable odds, until
catastrophe was inevitable.

"Perhaps you are right," said Duncan, trying to console himself as much
as

Calindy.  "I don't really blame anyone.  Not even Karl."

"Poor Karl.  He really loved me.  To have come all the way to Earth..
."

Duncan did not answer, though for a moment he was tempted.  Surely
Calindy did not believe that this was the only reason!  Even a
brain-burned man, imprinted by one of those diabolical joy machines,
was driven by more than passion.  And Karl's main objective had been so
awesome that, even now,

Duncan could scarcely believe the picture that was slowly emerging from
his sketchbook and the guarded portions of his Minisec.

Karl had had a dream-or a nightmare-and Duncan was the only man alive
who even partially understood it.  How utterly baffled and bewildered
the Argus

Committee must be!  That thought gave Duncan a heady sense of power,
though there were times when he wished that the burden of knowledge had
reached him in some other way, or had not come at all.... For power and
happiness were incompatible.  Karl had reached for both, and both had
slipped through his fingers.  How Duncan could profit by the lesson he
did not yet know; but it would be with him for all the years to come.

But if happiness was perhaps unattainable, at least pleasure was not
beyond his grasp, nor was it to be despised.  For a few moments he
could forget the affairs of state and turn his back upon an enigma far
more profound than any of those that Calindy peddled to her clients.

It was strange how the wheel had gone full circle.  Fifteen years ago,
he and Karl had turned to each other in shared sorrow for the loss of
Calindy.

Now he and Calindy were mourning Karl.

And presently Duncan knew, though it could be only a faint shadow of
that unassuageable hunger, something of the disappointment Karl must
have experienced.  How true it was that one could never quite recover
the past.... It was almost as good as he had hoped, but one thing was
lacking.

Calindy no longer tasted of honey.

ARGUS PANOPTES

So they had the wrong Argus.  If this were a time for humor, Duncan
would have felt like laughing.

Colin had put him on the track, with one of his usual economical
Telexes.

It should not have been necessary to go all the way to Titan to check
such an elementary point.

WHICH ARGUS DO YOU MEAN?  Colin had asked.

THERE WERE THREE.

A couple of minutes with the Comsole's ENCYCLOPEDIA section had
confirmed this.  As Ambassador Farrell had recalled, Argus was indeed
Odysseus' faithful old watchdog, who had recognized his master when
the wanderer returned from exile.  The name was certainly appropriate
for a secret intelligence organization, though now that Duncan had
started making inquiries, it turned out that the Argus Committee was
not as secret as it might have wished.  Bernie Patras (needless to say)
had heard of it; so had

George Washington, who admitted with some embarrassment: "Of course
they've asked me questions.  But there's nothing to worry about."

Ivor Mandel'stahm had been more forthcoming even a little sarcastic.

"I'm used to secrecy in my business, and I could teach these people a
thing or two.  They wouldn't have lasted five minutes under Stalin-or
even the old czars.  But I suppose they're necessary.  Society will
always need some warning system to spot malcontents before they can
cause real trouble.  I only doubt if any system will really work, when
it's needed."

The second Argus, had been the builder of Jason's mythical--or perhaps
not so mythical-ship, the Argo.  Duncan had never heard of the Golden
Fleece, and the legend fascinated him.  Argo would be a good name for a
spaceship, he thought; but even this association had nothing to do with
Karl Helmees notes.

He wondered how Karl had ever come across the third Argus; his
inquisitive mind had wandered down many byways of fantasy as well as
science.  And now that he had the key, Duncan understood why the
project that had clearly dominated Karl's later years could have only
one name-that of the all-seeing, multiple-eyed god, Argus Panoptes, who
could look in every direction simultaneously.  Unlike poor Cyclops, who
had only a single line of vision ... There had been a delay of almost
thirty hours before the legal computer on

Titan could probate Karl's will.  Then Armand Helmer reported that,
as

Duncan had hoped, it contained a list of obvious code words -presumably
the keys to the Minisec's private memories.

Armand had been perfectly willing to Telex the codes, and Duncan had
stopped him just in time.  272  Thanks to recent experience, the naive
young Makenzie who had arrived on

Earth only a few weeks ago had now developed a mild paranoia.  He hoped
that it would not become obsessive, as sometimes seemed to be the case
with

Colin.  Yet perhaps Colin was right.... Not until the Argus Committee
had, with some reluctance, handed over Karl's

Minisec did Duncan allow Axmand to radio the codes from Titan.  Now it
would not matter even if they were intercepted.  He alone could use
them.

In all, there were a dozen combinations, with identical formats.  Each
began with the G/T or GO TO instruction, followed by the six binary
digits 101000.  That might be an arbitrary number, but it was more
likely to have some mnemonic association.  A common trick was to use
one's day or year of birth; Karl had been born in '40, and Duncan was
not surprised at the answer when he converted 101000 to base ten
-though he was a little disappointed at so obvious a subterfuge.

Yet the code was secure enough, for the chances were astronomically
remote that anyone, in a random search, would ever hit upon the
alphabetical sequences that followed.  Though they were easy to
remember-at least for a

Titanian-they were safe from accidental triggering.  Each was a name
spelled backward-another old trick, but one which never lost its
effectiveness.

The list began with G/T 101000 SAmrm and continued with G/T 101000

SYHTET,

G/T 101000 suNAj, G/T 101000 ENom, G/T 101000 EBEOHP.  Then Karl grew
tired of moons, for the next, unsurprisingly, was G/T 101000 DNAmRA.
That would certainly be a personal message-and so, of course, would
be

G/T 101000

YDNILAC....

There was no G/T 101000 NAcNm.  Though it was unreasonable to have
expected it, Duncan stiff felt a momentary flicker of regret.

A few more family names, but he scarcely noticed them, for his eyes had
already caught the final entry: G/T 101000 suGRA.  The search was
ended.  But it was not yet successful; there could be one last
barrier. Most men had some secrets that they wished to preserve
inviolate, even after death.

It was still possible that unless these codes were used correctly, they
might trigger an ERASE instruction.

Possible-but unlikely.  Karl had clearly intended these memories to be
released, or he would not have 'left the codes in his will, with no
warning attached to them.  Perhaps the wisest move would be to Telex
Armand again, just in case Karl had left any further instructions that
his distraught father had overlooked.

That would take hours, and it might still prove nothing.  Duncan
scanned the list again, looking for clues and finding none.  The
sequence 101000 might mean ERASE.  He could speculate forever, and get
nowhere.

There was no # or EXECUTE sign at the end of the sequences, but that
proved nothing at all, for few people bothered to write down anything
so obvious; nine times out of ten, it was omitted as understood.  Yet
one of the standard ways of canceling a secret ERASE order was to hit
EXECUTE twice in quick succession.  Another was to do so with a
definite interval between the two keyings.  Did Karl's omission have
any significance, or was he merely following the usual convention?

The problem contained its own solution, though emotion rather than
intelligence pointed the way to it.  Duncan could see no flaw, though
he explored every possibility that he could imagine.  Then, feeling a
faint trace of guilt, he tapped out G/T 101000 YDNILAC, pausing for a
fraction of a second before he completed the sequence with A

If he was wrong, Calindy would never know what she had lost.  And
though

Karl's last message to her might have been erased, none of the other
stored memories would be placed in hazard.

His fears were groundless.  Duncan heard only the opening
words----~"Hello,

Calindy, when you hear this, I shall be .. ."~--before he hit the STOP
key and the Minisec became silent again.  He was after bigger game.
Perhaps one day, when he had the time-no, 274  that was a temptation
he would be strong enough to resist.... And so, in the secluded luxury
of the Centennial Hotel, with a Do NOT

DISTuRB block on all visitors and incoming messages, Duncan keyed G/T
101000 suGRA A For two days he canceled his appointments, and had all
meals sent up to his room.  Occasionally, he made an outgoing call to
check upon some technical point, but most of the time he was alone,
communing with the dead.

Finally he was ready to meet the Argus Committee again, on his own
terms.

He understood everything -except, of course, the greatest mystery of
all.

How delighted Karl would have been if he had ever known about Golden

Reef.... he room had not changed, and perhaps the invisible audience
was the same.

But there was now no trace of the slightly uncertain Duncan Makenzie
who, only a few days ago, had wondered if he should opt for diplomatic
immunity.

They had accepted, without any dispute, his explanation of the word

"Argus," though he did not imagine they were much impressed by his
suddenly acquired knowledge of classical mythology.  He could tell from
the brief questioning that there was a certain disappointment; perhaps
the Committee would have to find some other justification for its
existence.  (Was there really an organized underground movement on
Terra, or was it merely a joke?

This was hardly the right time to ask, though Duncan was tempted.)

Yet, ironically, there was a small conspiracy, in this very room-a
conspiracy mutually agreed upon.  The Committee had guessed that he now
appreciated the significance of the name Argus to Terran security -and
he knew that it knew.  Each side understood the other perfectly, and
the next item of business was quickly adopted.

"So what was Mr.  Helmer's Argus?"  asked the woman whom Duncan had
tentatively placed up on the Moon.  "And can you account for his odd
behavior?"

Duncan opened the stained notebook to display 275  that astonishing
fall-page sketch which had so transfixed him at its first revelation.
Even now that he knew its true scale, he could not think of it as
anything except a drawing of a sea urchin.  But Diadenta was only
thirty or forty centimeters across; Argus would be at least a thousand
kilometers in diameter, if Karl's analysis was right.  And of that,
Duncan no longer had any doubt, though he could never give his full
reasons.

"Karl Helmer had a vision," he began.  "I'll try to pass it on as best
I can, though this is not my field of knowledge.  But I knew his
psychology, and perhaps I can make you understand what he was trying to
do."

You may be disappointed again, he told himself -you may dismiss the
whole concept as a crazy !cientist's delusion.  But you'll be wrong;
this could be infinitely more important than some trivial conspiracy
threatening your tidy little world..  ..

"Karl was a scientist, who always hoped to make some great
discovery-but never did.  Though he was highly imaginative, even his
wildest flights were always soundly based on reality.  And he was
ambitious..  .."

"If it were so," murmured a quiet voice from the air beside him, "it
was a grievous fault.  And grievously hath Caesar answered it.
Sorry-please continue

The reference was unfamiliar to Duncan, and he showed his annoyance at
the interruption by pausing for a few seconds.

"He was interested in everything-too many things, perhaps-but his great
passion was the still unsolved cETi problem--communications with
extraterrestrial intelligence.  We used to argue about it for hours
when we were boys; I could never be quite sure when he was completely
serious, but I am now.

"Why have we never detected radio signals from the advanced societies
which must surely be out there in space?  Karl had many theories, but
in the end he settled on the simplest.  It's not original, and I'm sure
you've heard it before.  "We ourselves broadcast radio signals for only
276

 about a hundred years, roughly spanning the twentieth century.  By
the end of that time, we'd switched to cable and optical and satellite
systems, concentrating all their power where it was needed, and not
spilling most of it wastefully to the stars.  This may well be true of
all civilizations with a technology comparable to ours.  They only
pollute the universe with indiscriminate radio noise for a century or
two-a very brief fraction of their entire history.

"So even if there are millions of advanced societies in this Galaxy,
there may be barely a handful just where we were three hundred years
ago-still splashing out radio waves in all directions.  And the laws of
probability make it most unlikely that any of these early electronic
cultures will be within detection range; the nearest may be thousands
of light-years away.

"But before we abandon the search, we should explore all the
possibilities-and there's one that has never been investigated, because
until now there was little we could do about it.  For three centuries,
we've been studying radio waves in the centimeter and meter bands.  But
we have almost completely ignored the very long waves-tens and hundreds
of kilometers in length.

"Now of course there were several good reasons for this neglect.  In
the first case, it's impossible to study these waves on Earth-they
don't get through the ionosphere, and so never reach the surface.  You
have to go into space to observe them.

"But for the very longest waves, it's no good merely going up to orbit,
or to the other side of the Moon, where CYCLOPS n was built.  You have
to go halfway out to the limits of the Solar System.

"For the Sun has an ionosphere, just like the Earth's--except that it's
billions of times larger.  It absorbs all waves more than ten or twenty
kilometers in length.  If we want to detect these, we have to go out
to

Saturn.

"Such waves have been observed, but only on a few occasions.  About
forty years ago, a Solar Survey mission picked them up; it wasn't
looking for radio waves at all, but was measuring magnetic fields
between Jupiter and

Saturn.  It observed pulsations that must have been due to a radio
burst at around fifteen kilohertz, corresponding to a wavelength of
twenty kilometers.  At first it was thought that they came from
Jupiter, which is still full of electromagnetic surprises, but that
source was eventually ruled out, and the origin is still a mystery.

"There have been half a dozen observations since then, all of them by
instruments that were measuring something else.  No one's looked for
these waves directly; you'll see why in a moment.

"The most impressive example was detected ten years ago, in '66, by a
team doing a survey of Iapetus.  They obtained quite a long recording,
rather sharply tuned at nine kilohertz-that's thirty-three kilometers
wavelength.

I thought you might Eke to hear it..  .."

Duncan consulted a slip of paper and carefully tapped out a long
sequence of numbers and letters on the Minisec.  Into the anechoic
stillness of that strange room, Karl spoke from the grave, in a brisk,
businesslike voice.

"This is the complete recording, demodulated and speeded up sixty-four
times, so that two hours is compressed into two minutes.  Starting
now."

Across twenty years of time, a childhood memory suddenly came back to

Duncan.  He recalled listening out into the Titanian night for that
scream from the edge of space, wondering if it was indeed the voice of
some monstrous beast, yet not really believing his own conjecture, even
before

Karl had demolished it.  Now that fantasy returned, more powerful than
ever.

This sound--or, rather, infrasound, for the original modulation was far
below the range of human hearing-was Eke the slow beating of a giant
heart, or the tolling of a bell so huge that a cathedral could be
placed inside it, rather than the reverse.  Or perhaps the waves of the
sea, rolling forever in unvarying rhythm against some desolate shore,
on a world so old that though Time still existed, Change was dead....
The recording, as it always did, set Duncan's skin crawling and sent
shivers down his spine.  And it brought back yet another memory-the
image of that mightiest of all Earth's creatures, leaping in power and
278  glory into the sky above Golden Reef.  Could there be beasts
among the stars, to whom men would be as insignificant as the lice upon
the whale?

It was a relief when the playback came to an end, and Karl's
surprisingly unemotional voice commented: "Note the remarkably constant
frequency the original period is 132 seconds, not varying by more than
point one percent.

This implies a fairly high Q- say..  ."

"The rest is technical," said Duncan, switching off the recording.  "I
merely wanted you to hear what the Iapetus survey team brought home
with them.  And it's something that could never have been picked up
inside the orbit of Saturn."

A voice he had not heard before-young, rather self-assured--came out of
the air behind him.

"But this is all old material, familiar to everyone in the field.
Sandemann and Koralski showed that those signals were almost certainly
relaxation oscillations, probably in a plasma cloud near one of
Saturn's Trojan points."

Duncan felt his facade of instant expertise rapidly crumbling; he
should have guessed that there would be someone in his audience who
would know far more about this subject than he did-and possibly, for
that matter, even than Karl.

"I'm not competent to discuss that," he replied.  -I'm only reporting
Dr.

Helmer's opinions.  He believed that there was a whole new science
here, waiting to be opened up.  After all, every time we have explored
some new region of the spectrum, it's led to astonishing and totally
unexpected discoveries.  Helmer was convinced that this would happen
again.

"But to study these gigantic waves-up to a million times longer than
those observed in classical radio astronomy-we must use correspondingly
gigantic antenna systems.  Both to collect them-because they're very
weak-and to determine the directions from which they come.

"This was Karl Helmer's Argus.  His records and sketches contain quite
detailed designs.  I leave it to others to say how practical they
are.

"Argus would look in all directions simultaneously like the great
missile-tracking radars of the twentieth century.  It would be the
three-dimensional equivalent of cycLops-and several hundred times
larger, because it would need to be at least a thousand kilometers in
diameter.  Preferably ten thousand, to get good resolving power at
these ultralow frequencies.

"Yet it need contain much less material than cyCLOPS, because it would
be built in Deep Space, under weightless conditions.  Helmer chose as
its location the satellite Mnemosyne, outermost of Saturn's moons, and
it seems a very logical choice.  In fact the only choice .. .

"For Mnemosyne is twenty million kilometers from Saturn, well clear of
the planet's own feeble ionosphere, and also far enough out for its
tidal forces to be negligible.  But most important of all, it has
almost zero rotation.  Only a modest amount of rocket power would
cancel its spin entirely.  Mnemosyne would then be the only body in the
universe with no rotation at all, and Helmer suggests that it might be
an ideal laboratory for various cosmological experiments."

"Such as a test of Mach's principle," interrupted that confident young
voice.

"Yes," agreed Duncan, now more than ever impressed by his unknown
critic.

"That was one possibility he mentioned.  But back to Argus ...
"Mnemosyne would serve as the core or nucleus of the array.  Thousands
of elements-little more than stiff wires-would radiate from it,
like-like the spines of a sea urchin.  Thus it could comb the entire
sky for signals.  And incidentally, the temperature out around
Mnemosyne is so low that cheap superconductors could be used,
enormously increasing the efficiency of the system.

"I won't get involved in the details, of switching and phasing that
would allow Argus to swing its antenna spines electrically-without
moving them physically--so that it could concentrate on any particular
region of the sky.  All this, and a great deal more, Helmer had worked
out in his notes, using techniques evolved with CYCLops and other radio
telescopes.  "You may wonder-as I did-how he ever hoped to get such a
gigantic project started.  He planned a simple demonstration, which he
was certain would provide enough evidence to prove his theories.

"He was going to launch two equal, massive weights in exactly opposite
directions, each towing a fine wire, several hundred kilometers long.
When the wires had been completely deployed, the weights would be
jettisoned--and he would have a simple dipole antenna, perhaps a
thousand kilometers long.  He hoped that he could persuade the Solar
Survey to do the experiment, which would be quite cheap, and would
certainly produce some results of value.  Then he was going to follow
it up with more ambitious schemes, shooting wires out at right angles,
and so on..  ..

"But I think I've said enough to let you judge for yourselves.  There's
much more I've not had time to transcribe.  I hope you can be patient,
at least until after the Centennial.  For that, as you are well aware,
is what I really came for--and I have work to do .... 9"

"Thank you for your moral support, Bob," said Duncan when he and His

Excellency the Ambassador for Titan had emerged into the bright
sunlight of

Virginia Avenue.

"I never said a word.  I was completely out of my depth.  And I kept
hoping that someone would put the question I'm stiff anxious to see
answered."

"What's that?"  Duncan asked suspiciously.

"How did Helmer think he could get away with 09)

"Oh, that," said Duncan, mildly disappointed; this aspect of the matter
seemed so unimportant now.  "I think I understand his strategy.  Four
years ago, when we turned down his project for a simple long wave
detecting system-because we couldn't afford it, and he wouldn't say
what he was really driving at-he decided he'd have to go directly to
Earth and convince the top scientists there.  That meant acquiring
funds, somehow.  I'm sure he hoped that he'd be vindicated so quickly
that we'd forget any minor in281  fraction of the exchange laws.  It
was a gamble, of course, but he felt it so important that he was
prepared to take risks."

"Hmm," said the Ambassador, obviously not too impressed.  "I know
that

Helmer was a friend of yours, and I don't want to speak harshly of him.
But wouldn't it be fair to call him a scientific genius-and a criminal
psychopath?"

Rather to his surprise, Duncan found himself bristling at this
description.

Yet he had to admit it contained some truth.  One of the attributes of
the psychopath-a term still popular among laymen, despite three hundred
years of professional attempts to eradicate it-was a moral blindness to
any interests but his own.  Of course, Karl could always produce a very
convincing argument that his interests were for the best of all
concerned.

The Makenzies, Duncan realized with some embarrassment, were also
skilled at this kind of exercise.

"If there were irrational elements in Karl's behavior, they were at
least partly due to a breakdown he had fifteen years ago.  But that
never affected his scientific judgment; everyone I've spoken to agrees
that Argus is sound."

"I don't doubt it-but why is it important?"  -I'd hoped," said Duncan
mildly, "that I'd made that clear to our invisible friends."

And I believe I have, he told himself, to at least one of them.  His
most penetrating questioner was certainly one of Terra's top radio
astronomers.

He would understand, and only a few allies at that level were
necessary.

Duncan was certain that someday they would meet again, this time eye to
eye, and with a pointed lack of reference to any prior encounter.

"As to why it's important, Bob, I'll tell you something that I didn't
mention to the Committee, and which I'm sure Karl never considered,
because he was too engrossed in his own affairs.  Do you realize what a
project like

Argus would do to the Titan economy?  It would bring us billions and
make us the scientific hub of the Solar System.  It might even go a
long way to solve our financial problems, when the demand for hydrogen
starts to drop in the '80's."  282  "I appreciate that," Farrell
answered dryly, "especially as my taxes will go toward it.  But let
nothing interfere with the March of Science."

Duncan laughed sympathetically.  He liked Bob Farrell, and he had been
extremely helpful.  But he was less and less sure of the Ambassador's
loyalties, and it might soon be time to find a replacement.
Unfortunately, it would again have to be a Terran, because of this
infernal gravity; but that was a problem Titan would always have to
live with.

He could certainly never tell his own ambassador, still less the
Argus

Committee, why Karl's brainchild might be so vital to the human race.
There were speculations in that Minisec-luckily, there was no hint of
them in the sketchbook-which had best not be published for many years,
until the project had proved itself.

Karl had been right so often in the past, seizing on truths beyond all
bounds of logic and reason, that Duncan felt sure that this last
awesome intuition was also correct.  Or if it was not, the truth was
even stranger; in any event, it was a truth that must be learned.
Though the knowledge might be overwhelming, the price of ignorance
could be-extinction.

Here on the streets of this beautiful city, steeped in sunlight and in
history, it was hard to take Karl's final comments seriously, as he
speculated about the origin of those mysterious waves.  And surely even
Karl did not really believe all the thoughts he had spoken into the
secret memory of his Minisec, during the long voyage to Earth.... But
he was diabolically persuasive, and his arguments had an irresistible
logic and momentum of their own.  Even if he did not believe all his
own conjectures, he might still be right.

"Item one," he had murmured to himself (it must have been hard to get
privacy on that freighter, and Duncan could sometimes bear the noises
of the ship, the movements of the other crew members), "these kilohertz
waves have a limited range because of interstellar absorption.  They
would not normally be able to pass from one star to another, unless
plasma clouds act as waveguides, channeling them over greater
distances.  So their origin must be close to the Solar System.

"My calculations all point to a source-or sources -at about a tenth of
a light-year from the Sun.  Only a fortieth of the way to Alpha
Centauri, but two hundred times the distance of Pluto .. . No man's
land-the edge of the wilderness between the stars.  But that's exactly
where the comets are born, in a great, invisible shell surrounding the
Solar System.  There's enough material out there for a trillion of
those strange objects, orbiting in a cosmic freezer.

"What's going on, in those huge clouds of hydrogen and helium and all
the other elements?  There's not much energy-but, there may be enough.
And where there's matter and energy-and Time-sooner or later there's
organization.

"Call them Star Beasts.  Would they be alive No -that word doesn't
apply.

Let's just say-"Organized systems."  They'd be hundreds or thousands of
kilometers across, and they might live-I mean, maintain their
individual identity-for millions of years.

"That's a thought.  The comets that we observe are they the corpses of
Star

Beasts, sent sunward for cremation?  Or executed criminals?  I'm being
ridiculously anthropomorphic-but what else can I be?

"And are they intelligent?  What does that word mean?  Are ants
intelligent-are the cells of the human body intelligent?  Do all the
Star

Beasts surrounding the Solar System make a single entity-and does It
know about us?  Or does It care?

"Perhaps the Sun keeps them at bay, as in ancient times the campfire
kept off the wolves and saber-toothed tigers.  But we are already a
long way from the Sun, and sooner or later we will meet them.  The more
we learn, the better.

"And there's one question I'm almost afraid to think about.  Are they
gods?

OR ARE THEY EATERS OF GO DST



INDEPENDENCE DAY

Extract from the Congressional Record for 2276 July 4. Address by the

Honorable Duncan Makenzie, Special Assistant to the Chief
Administrator,

Republic of Titan.

Mr.  Speaker, Members of Congress, Distinguished Guests-let me first
express my deep gratitude to the Centennial Committee, whose generosity
made possible my visit to Earth and to these United States.  I bring
greetings to all of you from Titan, largest of Saturn's many moons-and
the most distant world yet occupied by mankind.

Five hundred years ago this land was also a frontier-not only
geographically but politically.  Your ancestors, less than twenty
generations in the past, created the first democratic constitution that
really worked-and that still works today, on worlds that they could not
have imagined in their wildest dreams.

During these celebrations, many have spoken of the legacy that the
founders of the Republic left us on that day, half a thousand years
ago.  But there have been four Centennials since then; I would like to
look briefly at each of them, to see what lessons they have for us.

At the first, in 1876, the United States was still recovering from a
disastrous Civil War.  Yet it was also laying the foundations of the
technological revolution that would soon transform the Earth.  Perhaps
it is no coincidence that in the very year of the first Centennial,
this country brought forth the invention which really began the
conquest of space.

For in 1876, Alexander Graham Bell made the first practical telephone.
We take electronic communications so utterly for granted that we
cannot imagine a society without them; we would be deaf and dumb if
these extensions of our senses were suddenly removed.  So let us
remember that just four hundred years ago, the telephone began the
abolition of space -at least upon this planet.

A century later, in 1976, that process had almost finished-and the
conquest of interplanetary space was about to begin.  By that time, the
first man had already reached the Moon, using techniques which today
seem unbelievably primitive.  Although all historians now agree that
the Apollo Project marked the United States's supreme achievement, and
its greatest moment of triumph, it was inspired by political motives
that seem ludicrous-indeed, incomprehensible -to our modern minds.  And
it is no reflection on those first engineers and astronauts that their
brilliant pioneering effort was a technological dead end, and that
serious space travel did not begin for several decades, with much more
advanced vehicles and propulsion systems.

A century later, in 2076, all the tools needed to open up the planets
were ready to hand.  Longduration life-support systems had been
perfected; after the initial disasters, the fusion drive had been
tamed.  But humanity was exhausted by the effort of global rebuilding
following the Time of

Troubles, and in the aftermath of the Population Crash there was little
enthusiasm for the colonization of new worlds.

Despite these problems, mankind had set its feet irrevocably on the
road to the stars.  During the twenty-first century, the Lunar Base
became self supporting the Mars Colony was established, and we had
secured a bridgehead on Mercury.  Venus and the Gas Giants defied us-as
indeed they still do but we had visited all the larger moons and
asteroids of the Solar

System.

By 2176, just a hundred years ago, a substantial fraction of the human
race was no longer Earthborn.  For the first time we had the assurance
that whatever happened to the mother world, our cultural heritage 286
would not be lost.  It was secure until the death of the Sun-and
perhaps beyond.... The century that lies behind us has been one of
consolidation, rather than of fresh discovery.  I am proud that my
world has played a major role in this process, for without the easily
accessible hydrogen of the Titanian atmosphere, travel between the
planets would still be exorbitantly expensive.

Now the old question arises: Where do we go from here?  The stars are
as remote as ever; our first probes, after two centuries of travel,
have yet to reach Proxima Centauri, the Sun's closest neighbor.  Though
our telescopes can now see to the limits of space, no man has yet
traveled beyond Pluto.  And we have still to set foot on far
Persephone, which we could have reached at any time during the last
hundred years.... Is it, true, as many have suggested, that the
frontier has again closed?

Men have believed that before, and always they have been wrong.  We can
laugh now at those early4wentieth-century pessimists who lamented that
there were no more worlds to discover-at the very moment when Goddard
and

Korolev and von Braun were playing with their first primitive rockets.
And earlier still, just before Columbus opened the way to this
continent, it must have seemed to the peoples of Europe that the future
could hold nothing to match the splendors of the past.

I do not believe that we have come to the end of History, and that what
lies ahead is only an elaboration and extension of our present powers,
on planets already discovered.  Yet it cannot be denied that this
feeling is now widespread and makes itself apparent in many ways. There
is an unhealthy preoccupation with the past, and an attempt to
reconstruct or relive it.  Not, I hasten to add, that this is always
bad -what we are doing now proves that it is not.

We should respect the past, but not worship it.  While we look back
upon the four Centennials that lie behind us, we should think also of
those that will be celebrated in the years to come.  What of 2376, 2476
.. . 2776, a full thousand years after the birth of the Republic?  How
will the people of those days 287  remember us?  We remember the
United States chiefly by Apollo; can we bequeath any comparable
achievement to the ages ahead?

There are many problems still to be solved, on all the planets.

Unhappiness, disease-even poverty -still exist.  We are still far
from

Utopia, and we may never achieve it.  But we know that all these
problems can be solved, with the tools that we already possess.  No
pioneering, no great discoveries, are necessary here.  Now that the
worst evils of the past have been eliminated, we can look elsewhere,
with a clear conscience, for new tasks to challenge the mind and
inspire the spirit.  Civilization needs long-range goals.  Once, the
Solar System provided them, but now we must look beyond.  I am not
speaking of manned travel to the stars, which may still lie centuries
ahead.  What I refer to is the quest for intelligence in the universe,
which was begun with such high hopes more than three centuries ago-and
has not yet succeeded.

You are all familiar with CYCLOPS, the largest radio telescope on
Earth.

That was built primarily to search for evidence of advanced
civilizations.

It transformed astronomy; but despite many false alarms, it never
detected a single intelligent message from the stars.  This failure has
done much to turn men's minds inward from the greater universe, to
concentrate their energies upon the tiny oasis of the Solar System....
Could it be that we are looking in the wrong place?  The wrong place,
that is, in the enormously wide spectrum of radiations that travel
between the stars.

All our radio telescopes have searched the short waves-centimeters, or
at most, meters-in length.  But what of the long and ultra long
waves-not only kilometers but even mega meters from crest to crest?
Radio waves of frequencies so low that they would sound like musical
notes in our ears could detect them.

We know that such waves exist, but we have never been able to study
them, here on Earth.  They are blocked, far out in the fringes of the
Solar Sys term, by tho gale of electrons that blows forever from the
Sun.  To know what the universe is saying with these vast, slow
undulations, we must build radio telescopes of enormous size, beyond
the limits of the Sun's own billion-Hometer-deep ionosphere-that is, at
least as far out as the orbit of Saturn.  For the first time, this is
now possible.

For the first time, there are real incentives for doing so.... We tend
to judge the universe by our own physical size and our own time scale;
it seems natural for us to work with waves that we could span with our
arms, or even with our fingertips.  But the cosmos is not built to
these dimensions; nor, perhaps, are all the entities that dwell among
the stars.

These giant radio waves are more commensurate with the scale of the
Milky

Way, and their slow vibrations are a better measure of its eon-long

Galactic Year.  They may have much to tell us when we begin to decipher
their messages.

How those scientist-statesmen Franklin and Jefferson would have
welcomed such a project!  They would have grasped its scope, if not its
technology for they were interested in every branch of knowledge
between heaven and Earth.

The problems they faced, five hundred years ago, will never rise again.
The age of conflict between nations is over.  But we have other
challenges, which may yet tax us to the utmost.  Let us be thankful
that the universe can always provide great goals beyond ourselves, and
enterprises to which we can pledge our Lives, our Fortunes, and our
sacred Honor.

Duncan Makenzie closed the beautifully designed souvenir book-a
masterpiece of the printer's art, such as had not been seen for
centuries and might never be seen again.  Only five hundred copies had
been produced--one for every year.  He would carry his back in triumph
to Titan, where for the rest of his life it would be among his most
cherished possessions.  Many people had complimented him on his speech,
enshrined forever in these pages-and, much more accessibly, in lib
aries and information banks throughout the Soar System.  Yet he had
felt embarrassed to receive those plaudits, for in his heart be knew
that he had not earned them.  The Duncan of a few weeks ago could never
have conceived that address; he was little more than a medium, passing
on a message from the dead.  The words were his, but all the thoughts
were Karl's.

How astonished, he told himself wryly, all his friends on Titan must
have been, when they watched the ceremony!  Perhaps it had been
slightly inappropriate to use such a forum as this for what might be
considered self-serving propaganda-even special pleading on behalf of
his own world.

But Duncan had a clear conscience, and as yet there had been no
criticism on this score.  Even those who were baffled by his thesis had
been grateful for the excitement he had injected into all the routine
formalities.

And even if his speech was only a seven-day wonder to the general
public, it would not be forgotten.  He had planted a seed; one day it
would grow--on barren Mnemosyne.

Meanwhile, there was a slight practical problem, though it was not yet
urgent.  This splendid volume, with its thick vellum, and its tooled
leather binding, weighed about five kilograms.

The Makenzies hated waste and extravagance.  Tt would be pleasant to
have the book on the voyage home, but excess baggage to Titan was a
hundred so lars a kilo.... It would have to go back by slow boat, on
one of the empty tankerS-UNACCOMPANIED FREIGHT, MAY BE STOWED IN
VACUUM.. ..

THE MIRROR OF THE SEA

Dr.  Yehudi ben Mohammed did not look as if he belonged in a modern
hospital, surrounded by flickering life-function displays, Comsole
read-outs, whispering voices from hidden speakers, and all the aseptic
technology of life and death.  In his spotless white robes, with the
double circlet of gold cord around his headdress, he should have been
holding court in a desert tent, or scanning the horizon from the back
of his camel for the first glimpse of an oasis.

Duncan remembered how one of the younger doctors had com men ed, during
his first visit: "Sometimes I think El Hadj believes he's a
reincarnation of

Saladin and Lawrence of Arabia."  Although Duncan did not understand
the full flavor of the references, this was obviously said more in
affectionate jest than in criticism.  Did the surgeon, he wondered,
wear those robes in the operating theater?  They would not be
inappropriate there; and certainly they did not interfere with the
feline grace of his movements.

"I'm glad," said Dr.  Yehudi, toying with the jeweled dagger on his
elaborately inlaid desk-the two touches of antiquity in an otherwise
late-twenty-third century environment--- ~'that you've finally made up
your mind.  The--ah-delay has caused certain problems but we've
overcome them.  We now have four perfectly viable embryos, and the
first will be trans planted in a week.  The others will be kept as
backups, in case of a rejection-though that is now very rare."

And what will happen to the unwanted three?  Duncan asked himself, and
shied away from the answer.  One human being had been created who would
never otherwise have existed.  That was the positive side; 291  better
to forget the three ghosts who for a brief while had hovered on the
borders of reality.  Yet it was hard to be coldly logical in matters
like this.  As he stared across the intricate arabesques, Duncan
wondered at the psychology of the calm and elegant figure whose
skillful hands had controlled so many destinies.  In their own small
way, on their own little world, the Makenzies had played at God; but
this was something beyond his understanding.

Of course, one could always take refuge in the cold mathematics of
reproduction.  Old Mother Nature had not the slightest regard for human
ethics or feelings.  In the course of a lifetime, every man generated
enough spermatozoa to populate the entire Solar System, many times
over-and all but two or three of that potential multitude were doomed.
Had anyone ever gone mad by visualizing each ejaculation as a hundred
million murders?

Quite possibly; no wonder that the adherents of some old religions had
refused to look through the microscope.... There were moral obligations
and uncertainties behind every act.  In the long run, a man could only
obey the promptings of that mysterious entity called Conscience and
hope that the outcome would not be too disastrous.

Not, of course, that one could ever know the final results of any
actions.

Strange, thought Duncan, how he had resolved the doubts that had
assailed him when he first came to the island.  He had learned to take
the broader view, and to place the hopes and aspirations of the
Makenzies in a wider context.  Above all, he had seen the dangers of
overreaching ambition; but the lesson of Karl's fate was still
ambiguous and would give him cause to wonder all his life.

With a mild sense of shock, Duncan realized that he had already signed
the legal documents and was returning them to Dr.  Yehudi.  No matter;
he had read them carefully and knew his responsibilities.  "I, Duncan
Makenzie, resident of the satellite Titan presently in orbit around the
planet

Saturn" (when did the lawyers think it was going to run away?) "do
hereby accept guardianship of one cloned male 292  child, identified
by the chromosome chart herewith attached, and will to the best of my
ability .. .... etc."  etc."  etc.  Perhaps the world would have been a
better place if the parents of normally conceived children had been
forced to sign such a contract.  This thought, however, was some
hundred billion births too late.

The surgeon flowed upward to his full commanding two meters in a
gesture of dismissal which, from anyone else, would have seemed
slightly discourteous.

But not here, for El Hadj had much on his mind.  All the while they had
been talking, his eyes had seldom strayed from the pulsing lines of
life and death on the read-outs that covered almost one whole wall of
his office.

In the main hall of the Administration Building, Duncan paused for a
moment before the giant, slowly rotating DNA helix which dominated the
entrance.

As his gaze roamed along the spokes of the twisted ladder,
contemplating its all-but-infinite possibilities, he could not help
thinking again of the pentominoes that Grandma Ellen had set out before
him years ago.  There were only twelve of those shapes-yet it would
take the lifetime of the universe to exhaust their possibilities.  And
here was no mere dozen, but billions upon billions of locations to be
filled by the letters of the genetic code.

The total number of combinations was not one to stagger the
mind-because there was no way whatsoever in which the mind could grasp
even the faintest conception of it.  The number of electrons required
to pack the entire cosmos solid from end to end was virtually zero in
comparison.

Duncan stepped out into the blazing sunlight, waited for his dark
glasses to adjust themselves, and set off in search of Dr.  Todd, guide
and friend of his previous visit.  He would not be leaving for another
four hours, and there was one major item of business still to be
settled.

Luckily, as Sweeney Todd explained, there was no need to go out to
the

Reef.

"I can't imagine why you're interested in those ugly beasts.  But
you'll find some on a patch of dead coral at the end of that groin;
not much else will live there.  The water's only a meter deep-you won't
even need flippers, just a strong pair of shoes.  If you do step on a
stonefish, your screams will bring us in time to save your life-though
you may wish we hadn't."

That was not very encouraging, but ten minutes later Duncan was
cautiously walking out into the shallows, bent double as he peered
through his borrowed face mask.

There was none of the beauty here that he had seen on the approach to

Golden Reef.  The water was crystal clear, but the sea bed was a
submarine desert.  It was mostly white sand, mingled with broken pieces
of coral, like the bleached bones of tiny animals.  A few small, drably
colored fish were swimming around, and others stared at him with
anxious, unfriendly eyes from little burrows in the sand.  Once, a
brilliantly blue creature like a flattened eel came darting at him and,
to his great surprise, gave him a painful nip before he chased it away.
It was every bit of three centimeters long, and Duncan, who had never
heard of cleaning symbiosis, worried about poison for a few minutes.
However, he felt no pangs of imminent dissolution, so pushed his way
onward through the tepid water.

The concrete groin-part of the island's defense against the ceaseless
erosion of the waves -stretched out for a hundred meters from the shore
and then disappeared beneath the surface.  Near its seaward end,

Duncan came across a pile of jumbled rocks, perhaps hurled up by some
storm.  They must have been here for many years, for they were cemented
together with barnacles and small, jagged oysters.  Among their caves
and crevices, Duncan found what he was seeking.

Each sea urchin appeared to have hollowed out its own cavity in the
hard rock; Duncan could not imagine how the creatures had performed
this remarkable feat of burrowing.  Anchored securely in place, with
only a bristling frieze of black spines exposed to the outer world,
they were invulnerable to all enemies except Man.  But Duncan wished
them no harm, and this time had not even brought a knife.  He had seen
294  enough of death, and his sole purpose now was to confirm-or
refute-the impression that had haunted him ever since he had set eyes
on that drawing in Karl's notebook.

Once again, the long black spines started to swing slowly toward his
shadow.  These primitive creatures, despite their apparent lack of
sense organs, knew that he was there, and reacted to his presence. They
were scanning their little universe, as Argus would search the
stars.... Of course, there would be no actual physical movement of the
Argus antennas-that was unnecessary, and would be impossible with such
fragile, thousand kilometer-long structures.  Yet their electronic
sweeping of the skies would have an uncanny parallel with Diadema's
protective reaction.  If some planet-sized monster, which used ultra
long radio waves for vision, could observe the Argus system at work,
what it "save' would be not unlike this humble reef dweller.

For a moment, Duncan had a curious fantasy.  He imagined that he was
such a monster, observing Argus in silhouette against the background
radio glow of the Galaxy.  There would be hundreds of thin black lines,
radiating out from a central point-most of them stationary, but some of
them waving slowly back and forth, as if responding to a shadow from
the stars.

Yet it was hard to realize that even if Argus was built, no human eye
could ever see it in its entirety, The structure would be so huge that
its slender rods and wires would be totally invisible from any
distance.

Perhaps, as Karl had suggested in his notes, there would be warning
lights dotted all over the millions of square kilometers of the
spherical surface and strung along the six principle axes.  To an
approaching spaceship, it would look like some glittering Star Day
ornament.

Or-and this was more appropriate-a discarded toy from the nursery of
the

Gods... Toward evening, while he was waiting for the shuttle back to
the mainland,

Duncan found a secluded corner of the coffee shop-cum-bar which
overlooked the lagoon.  He sat there thoughtfully, sipping from time
to time at a Terran drink he had discovered something called a Tom
Collins.  It was a bad idea, acquiring vices which could not be
exported to Titan; on the other hand, it could equally well be argued
that it was foolish not to enjoy the unique pleasures of Earth, even if
one had to relinquish them all too soon.

There was also endless enjoyment in watching the play of wind over the
water protected by the barrier of the inner reef.  Some stretches were
absolutely flat, reflecting the blue of the unclouded sky as if in a
flawless mirror.  Yet other areas, apparently no different, were
continually quivering so that not for a moment was the surface still;
it was crossed and crisscrossed by innumerable tiny wavelets, no more
than a centimeter in height.  Presumably some relationship between the
varying depth of the lagoon and the velocity of the wind was
responsible for the phenomenon, quite unlike anything that Duncan had
ever before seen.  No matter what the explanation, it was enchantingly
beautiful, for the countless reflections of the sun in the dancing
water created sparkling patterns that seemed to move forever down the
wind, yet remained always in the same spot.

Duncan had never been hypnotized, nor had he experienced more than a
few of the nine states of consciousness between full awareness and
profound sleep.

he alcohol might have helped, but the scintillating sea was undoubtedly
the main factor in producing his present mood.  He was completely alert
indeed his mind seemed to be working with unusual clarity-but he no
longer felt bound by the laws of logic that had controlled all his
life.  It was almost as if he was in one of those dreams where the most
fantastic things can happen, and are accepted as matter of-fact,
everyday occurrences.

He knew that he was facing a mystery, of the sort that was anathema to
the reputedly hard-headed Makenzies.  Here was something that he could
never explain to Malcolm and Colin; they would not laugh 296  at
him---or so he hoped-but they would never take him seriously.

Besides, it was so utterly trivial.  He had not been vouchsafed some
blinding revelation, like an ancient prophet receiving the word of God.
All that had happened was that he had come across the same very unusual
shape in two quite independent contexts; it might have been a mere
coincidence, and the sense of deja vu pure self-delusion.  That was the
simple, logical answer, which would certainly satisfy everyone else.

It would never satisfy Duncan.  He had experienced that indescribable
shock a man may know only once in a lifetime, when he is in the
presence of the transcendental and feels the sure foundations of his
world and his philosophy trembling beneath his feet.

When he saw that careful drawing in Karl's sketchbook, Duncan had
recognized it at once.  But now it seemed to him that the recognition
came not only from the past, but also from the future.  It was as if he
had caught a momentary glimpse in the Mirror of Time, reflecting
something that had not yet occurred-and something that must be
awesomely important for it to have succeeded in reversing the flow of
causality.

Project Argus was part of the destiny of mankind; of this, Duncan was
now sure beyond any need for rational proof.  But whether it would be
beneficent was another question.  All knowledge was a two-edged sword,
and it might well be that any messages from the stars would not be to
the liking of the human race.  Duncan remembered the dying cries of the
sea urchin he had killed, out there on Golden Reef.  Were those faint
but sinister crepitations wholly meaningless-an accidental by-product?
Or did they have some more profound significance?  His instincts gave
him not the slightest clue, one way or the other.

But it was an act of faith to Duncan, and to those he had worked with
all his life, that it was cowardice not to face the truth, whatever it
might be and wherever it might lead.  If the time was coming for
mankind to face the powers behind the stars, so be it.  He had no
doubts.  All he felt now was a calm contentment--even if it was the
calm at the center of the cyclone.

Duncan watched the light trembling and dancing on the lagoon, as the
sun sank lower and lower toward the horizon and the hidden coast of
Africa.

Sometimes he thought he could see, in those flaring, coruscating
patterns, the warning beacons of Argus, staking a claim to the billions
of cubic kilometers of space they enclosed-fifty or a hundred years
from now.... Changing shape even as Duncan watched, the Sun kissed the
horizon and spread out a crimson, bellshaped skirt across the sea.  Now
it looked like the film of an atomic blast-but run backward, so that
the fires of hell sank harmlessly into the ocean.  The last golden arc
of the departing disc lingered on the edge of the world for an instant,
and at the very second it disappeared there was a momentary Bash of
green.

As long as Duncan lived, he might never see such heartbreaking beauty
again.  It was a memory to take back to Titan, from the island on which
he had made the great decision of his life and opened the next chapter
in the story of the outer worlds.  Part IV

I 1~ I

71 L Titan

HOMECOMING

It was over.  All the good-byes had been said to crew and passengers,
all the formalities had been completed, everything he had brought from
Earth was already moving along the conveyor belt.  Everything, that is,
except for the most important gift of all.

He could walk through that door marked TITAN CITIZENS, and he would be
home.  Already he had forgotten the crippling gravity of Earth;
that-and so much else-was fading into the past like a dissolving dream.
This was where he belonged and where his life's work would be done. He
would never again go sunward, though he knew there would be times when
some remembered beauty of the mother world would drive a dagger into
his heart.

The family must be waiting, there in the reception lounge; and now,
with only seconds before the moment of reunion, Duncan felt a
reluctance to face the whole Makenzie clan.  He let the other travelers
go hurrying past him, while he stood irresolutely, trying to pluck up
his courage and clutching his precious bundle awkwardly to his chest.
Then be moved forward, under the archway, and out onto the ramp.

There were so many of them!  Malcolm and Colin, of course, Marissa,
more beautiful and desirable than even in his most restless dreams, now
free of

Calindy forever; Clyde and Carline-could she really have grown so much,
in so short a time?  And at least twenty nephews and nieces whose names
he knew as well as his own, but just couldn't recall at the moment.

No-it was impossible!  But there she was, standing a little apart from
the others, leaning heavily on her cane, yet otherwise completely
unaltered since he had 300  last seen her on the cliffs of Loch
Hellbrew.  Much else had changed indeed if Grandma Ellen had retamed to
Oasis for the first time in fifty years.

As she saw Duncan's astonished gaze, she gave a barely perceptible
smile.

It was more than a greeting; it was a signal of reassurance.  She
already knows, thought Duncan.  She knows and approves.  When the full
fury of the

Makenzies breaks upon my head I can rely on her.... There flashed into
his mind an old Terran phrase, whose origin he had long ago forgotten:
the Moment of Truth.  Well, here it was They all crowded eagerly around
him as he drew back the shawl.  For an instant only he felt regret;
perhaps he should have given some warning.  No, it was better this way.
Now they would learn that he was his own man at last, no longer a pawn
of others-however much he might owe to theta, however much he might be
part of them.

The child was still sleeping, but normally now, not in the, electronic
trance that had protected it on the long voyage from Earth.  Suddenly
it threw out a chubby arm, and tiny fingers gripped Duncan's hand with
surprising strength.  They looked like the pale white tentacles of a
sea anemone against the dark brown of Duncan's skin.

The little head was still empty even of dreams, and the face was as
void and formless as that of any mont hold baby.  But already the
smooth, pink scalp bore an unmistakable trace of hair-the golden hair
that would soon bring back to Titan the lost glories of the distant
Sun.

 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS AND NOTES

my first thanks should go to Truman Talley, who in the early '50's made
what was then (and for that matter still is) a most generous offer for
this book, on the strenath of the title and one conversation.  I have
often wished that I could remember what I said then; it might have
saved me much trouble, twenty years later.  I now have no idea if this
book bears the slightest resemblance to that early concept, but "Macls"
initial encouragement kept me from abandoning it.

Like many other addicts, I was introduced to polyominoes by Martin

Gardner's Scientific American Book of Mathematical Puzzles and
Diversions, which, however, fiendishly refrains from giving the
solution to the 20 X 3 rectangle.  In his definitive book Polyominoes,
Solomon W. Golomb takes mercy on his readers.  In the hope of
preventing a few nervous breakdowns,

I reproduce his answer herewith:

UXPILNFTWYZV

Anyone who wishes to construct this rectangle from the twelve
pentominoes should have no difficulty in matching them with the letters
they (sometimes approximately) resemble.  It is easy to see that the
second of the (only) two solutions is obtained by rotating a
seven-element central portion.

Dr.  Golomb, who is now professor of Electrical

Engineering and Mathematics at the University of

Southern California, has also invented an ingenious game called
Pentominoes@ (distributed in North

America by Hallmark Cards and in Europe by Zimpfer

Puzzles).  It has more openings than chess.  In an earlier version of
2001: A Space Odyssey, Stanley Kubrick shot Hal playing this game
against the astronauts.

I am indebted to Dr.  Robert Forward of the Hughes Research
Laboratory,

Malibu, for introducing me to the fascinating concept of mini black
holes, and for making such encouraging noises about the somewhat
outrageous propulsion system of S. S. Sirius that I am almost inclined
to patent it.... Dr.  Grote Reber, the father of radio astronomy and
builder of the world's first radio telescope, started me thinking about
the extent of the heliosphere and, its possible consequences.  I am
grateful for his comments on cutoff frequencies, but he is in no way
responsible for my wilder extrapolations of his ideas.  Dr.  Adrian
Webster, of Cavendish Laboratory's

Mullard Radio Astronomy Observatory, also gave much vital information,
and he too is not to be blamed for my use of it.

I am especially indebted to Dr.  Bernard Oliver, vice-president and
director of research of Hewlett Packard not only for hospitality at
Palo Alto but also for an advance copy of the Project CYCLOPS Design
Study NASA Ames CR 114445), which he directed.  And I hope Barney will
forgive me for the assumption-which in fact I regard as highly
improbablo---that CYCLOPS would not have detected intelligent signals,
even after two hundred years of operation.

Indignant antenna designers who feel that Argus would not work as
specified are invited to contemplate ABM search radars, and to Think
Big.  All I will say in self-defense is that the Argus elements would
be superconducting, active, and divided into many switchable
subsections, perhaps with cross-connections between the "spines."  I
leave minor practical details (as in the case of the Asymptotic Drive)
as an exercise for the student.

The "exasperated" remark in Chapter 21 was made to me at a NASA
conference by Professor Neil Armstrong in July 1970.  I hope it is the
last word on some famous first words.

I am deeply grateful to my old friend William Mac

Quitty, producer of A Night to Remember, for much material concerning
the Titanic-including the menu in Chapter 27.  Collectors of unlikely
coincidences may be interested to know that just three hours after I
had decided to incorporate it in the text, I read in the May 1974 Skin
Diver that the

Titanic Enthusiasts of America had served this menu at their Annual

Dinner.... Some readers may feel that the coincidences-or
"correspondences"-that play a key part in this story are too unlikely
to be plausible.  But they were, in fact, suggested by far more
preposterous events in my own life; and anyone who doubts that this
sort of thing can happen is referred to Arthur

Koestler's The Roots of Coincidence.  I read this fascinating book only
after completing Imperial Earth, though that fact itself now seems
somewhat improbable to me.

Even more improbable is the fact that when, on July 24, 1975, I
appeared as a witness before the House of Representatives Subcommittee
on Space Science (in the very building libeled and demolished in
Chapter 33!), I was able to quote extensively from Duncan's address to
Congress in Chapter 41.  Thus the

House of Representatives' hearings now contain extracts from the

Congressional Record for July 4, 2276, which should cause confusion
among future historians.

The curious acoustic behavior of the spiny sea urchin, Diadema setosum,
was observed by me on Unawatuna Reef, off the south coast of Sri Lanka.
I have never seen this recorded elsewhere, so it may be my one original
contribution to marine biology.

Finally, my speculations about conditions on Titan were triggered by a
series of papers that Dr.  Carl Sagan was good enough to send me.
Needless to say, I am also indebted to Carl for many other stimulating
ideas, which any properly designed universe would be very foolish to
ignore.  "For if not true, they are well imagined..  .

ARTHUR C. CLARKE Cinnamon Gardens, Colombo January 1974-January 1975

ADDITIONAL NOTE

Several expert readers have accused me of grave error by assuming
that

Malcolm would pass on the Makenzie defect to his clones.  Though I was
well aware of this problem (and tried to avoid it by being carefully
unspecific)

I did not go into the matter as seriously as I should have done.  I am
still hoping that some ingenious geneticist will be able to contrive a
solution; unfortunately, I doubt if I will be able to understand it.

Meanwhile, for those biologists who refuse to be placated, I can only
fall back upon what is known in the trade as Bradbury's Defense, viz:

One dreadful boy ran up to me and said:

"That book of yours, The Martian Chronicles?"

"Yes," I said.

"On page 92, where you have the moons of Mars rising in the East?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Nah," he said.

So I hit him

ARTHUR C. CLARKE

Colombo, June 1976

Mars and the Mind ol Men (Harper & Row 1973.)

