Imperial Earth

by Clarke, Arthur C.

  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 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.

  3

  Invitation To A Centennial

  "And who the hell 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 Makenzie 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 solars 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 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."

  "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?"

  "Almost."

  "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 o
ther 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 is."

  "Just a minute!" said Colin. "Isn't the first A-Drive ship going to be here in just 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 neuroprogramming 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 cliché — once intended to wound, now virtually adopted as a family motto.

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

  4

  The Red Moon

  Of 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 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 onto 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 the 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 buried 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 aftereffects. 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 asteroid 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 demimillennial year of 2276.

  5

  The Politics of Time And Space

  When 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 Malcolm.

  "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 in 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,” “aunt,” “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, thought 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.