by Anthology
These are mistakes which only a madman would make. There are those who think our prisoner is mad, because of his apparent delusions about the great conqueror, General Bonaparte, alias the Emperor Napoleon. Madmen have been known to fabricate evidence to support their delusions, it is true, but I shudder to think of a madman having at his disposal the resources to manufacture the papers you will find in this dispatch case. Moreover, some of our foremost medical men, who have specialized in the disorders of the mind, have interviewed this man Bathurst and say that, save for his fixed belief in a nonexistent situation, he is perfectly sane.
Personally, I believe that the whole thing is a gigantic hoax, perpetrated for some hidden and sinister purpose, possibly to create confusion, and to undermine the confidence existing between your government and mine, and to set against one another various persons connected with both governments, or else as a mask for some other conspiratorial activity. Only a few months ago, you will recall, there was a Jacobin plot unmasked at Köln.
But, whatever this business may portend, I do not like it. I want to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible, and I will thank you, my dear sir, and your government, for any assistance you may find possible.
I have the honor, sir, to be, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,
Berchtenwald
FROM BARON VON KRUTZ, TO THE COUNT VON BERCHTENWALD.
MOST URGENT; MOST IMPORTANT.
TO BE DELIVERED IMMEDIATELY AND IN PERSON REGARDLESS OF CIRCUMSTANCES.
28 November, 1809
Count von Berchtenwald:
Within the past half hour, that is, at about eleven o’clock tonight, the man calling himself Benjamin Bathurst was shot and killed by a sentry at the Ministry of Police, while attempting to escape from custody.
A sentry on duty in the rear courtyard of the Ministry observed a man attempting to leave the building in a suspicious and furtive manner. This sentry, who was under the strictest orders to allow no one to enter or leave without written authorization, challenged him; when he attempted to run, the sentry fired his musket at him, bringing him down. At the shot, the Sergeant of the Guard rushed into the courtyard with his detail, and the man whom the sentry had shot was found to be the Englishman, Benjamin Bathurst. He had been hit in the chest with an ounce ball, and died before the doctor could arrive, and without recovering consciousness.
An investigation revealed that the prisoner, who was confined on the third floor of the building, had fashioned a rope from his bedding, his bed cord, and the leather strap of his bell pull. This rope was only long enough to reach to the window of the office on the second floor, directly below, but he managed to enter this by kicking the glass out of the window. I am trying to find out how he could do this without being heard. I can assure you that somebody is going to smart for this night’s work. As for the sentry, he acted within his orders; I have commended him for doing his duty, and for good shooting, and I assume full responsibility for the death of the prisoner at his hands.
I have no idea why the self-so-called Benjamin Bathurst, who, until now, was well-behaved and seemed to take his confinement philosophically, should suddenly make this rash and fatal attempt, unless it was because of those infernal dunderheads of madhouse doctors who have been bothering him. Only this afternoon they deliberately handed him a bundle of newspapers—Prussian, Austrian, French, and English—all dated within the last month. They wanted they said, to see how he would react. Well, God pardon them, they’ve found out!
What do you think should be done about giving the body burial?
Krutz
(From the British Minister, to the Count von Berchtenwald.)
December 20th, 1809
My dear Count von Berchtenwald:
Reply from London to my letter of the 28th, which accompanied the dispatch case and the other papers, has finally come to hand. The papers which you wanted returned—the copies of the statements taken at Perleburg, the letter to the Baron von Krutz from the police captain, Hartenstein, and the personal letter of Krutz’s nephew, Lieutenant von Tarlburg, and the letter of safe-conduct found in the dispatch case—accompany herewith. I don’t know what the people at Whitehall did with the other papers; tossed them into the nearest fire, for my guess. Were I in your place, that’s where the papers I am returning would go.
I have heard nothing, yet, from my dispatch of the 29th concerning the death of the man who called himself Benjamin Bathurst, but I doubt very much if any official notice will ever be taken of it. Your government had a perfect right to detain the fellow, and, that being the case, he attempted to escape at his own risk. After all, sentries are not required to carry loaded muskets in order to discourage them from putting their hands in their pockets.
To hazard a purely unofficial opinion, I should not imagine that London is very much dissatisfied with this dénouement. His Majesty’s government are a hard-headed and matter-of-fact set of gentry who do not relish mysteries, least of all mysteries whose solution may be more disturbing than the original problem.
This is entirely confidential, but those papers which were in that dispatch case kicked up the devil’s own row in London, with half the government bigwigs protesting their innocence to high Heaven, and the rest accusing one another of complicity in the hoax. If that was somebody’s intention, it was literally a howling success. For a while, it was even feared that there would be questions in Parliament, but eventually, the whole vexatious business was hushed.
You may tell Count Tarlburg’s son that his little friend is a most talented young lady; her sketch was highly commended by no less an authority than Sir Thomas Lawrence, and here comes the most bedeviling part of a thoroughly bedeviled business. The picture was instantly recognized. It is a very fair likeness of Benjamin Bathurst, or, I should say, Sir Benjamin Bathurst, who is King’s lieutenant governor for the Crown Colony of Georgia. As Sir Thomas Lawrence did his portrait a few years back, he is in an excellent position to criticize the work of Lieutenant von Tarlburg’s young lady. However, Sir Benjamin Bathurst was known to have been in Savannah, attending to the duties of his office, and in the public eye, all the while that his double was in Prussia. Sir Benjamin does not have a twin brother. It has been suggested that this fellow might be a half-brother, but, as far as I know, there is no justification for this theory.
The General Bonaparte, alias the Emperor Napoleon, who is given so much mention in the dispatches, seems also to have a counterpart in actual life; there is, in the French army, a Colonel of Artillery by that name, a Corsican who Gallicized his original name of Napolione Buonaparte. He is a most brilliant military theoretician; I am sure some of your own officers, like General Scharnhorst, could tell you about him. His loyalty to the French monarchy has never been questioned.
This same correspondence to fact seems to crop up everywhere in that amazing collection of pseudo-dispatches and pseudo-State papers. The United States of America, you will recall, was the style by which the rebellious colonies referred to themselves, in the Declaration of Philadelphia. The James Madison who is mentioned as the current President of the United States is now living, in exile, in Switzerland. His alleged predecessor in office, Thomas Jefferson, was the author of the rebel Declaration; after the defeat of the rebels, he escaped to Havana, and died, several years ago, in the Principality of Lichtenstein.
I was quite amused to find our old friend Cardinal Talleyrand—without the ecclesiastical title—cast in the role of chief adviser to the usurper, Bonaparte. His Eminence, I have always thought, is the sort of fellow who would land on his feet on top of any heap, and who would as little scruple to be Prime Minister to His Satanic Majesty as to His Most Christian Majesty.
I was baffled, however, by one name, frequently mentioned in those fantastic papers. This was the English general, Wellington. I haven’t the least idea who this person might be.
I have the honor, your excellency, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera,
Sir Arthur Wellesley
HEREDIT
Y
Isaac Asimov
Dr. Stefansson fondled the thick sheaf of typewritten papers that lay before him, “It’s all here, Harvey—twenty-five years of work.”
Mild-mannered Professor Harvey puffed idly at his pipe, “Well, your part is over—and Markey’s, too, on Ganymede. It’s up to the twins, themselves, now.”
A short ruminative silence, and then Dr. Stefansson stirred uneasily, “Are you going to break the news to Allen soon?”
The other nodded quietly, “It will have to be done before we get to Mars, and the sooner the better.” He paused, then added in a tightened voice, “I wonder how it feels to find out after twenty-five years that one has a twin brother whom one has never seen. It must be a damned shock.”
“How did George take it?”
“Didn’t believe it at first, and I don’t blame him. Markey had to work like a horse to convince him it wasn’t a hoax. I suppose I’ll have as hard a job with Allen.” He knocked the dottle from his pipe and shook his head.
“I have half a mind to go to Mars just to see those two get together,” remarked Dr. Stefansson wistfully.
“You’ll do no such thing, Stef. This experiments taken too long and means too much to have you ruin it by any such fool move.”
“I know, I know! Heredity versus environment! Perhaps at last the definite answer.” He spoke half to himself, as if repeating an old, familiar formula, “Two identical twins, separated at birth; one brought up on old, civilized Earth, the other on pioneer Ganymede. Then, on their twenty-fifth birthday brought together for the first time on Mars—God! I wish Carter had lived to see the end of it. They’re his children.”
“Too bad!—But were alive, and the twins. To carry the experiment to its end will be our tribute to him.”
There is no way of telling, at first seeing the Martian branch of Medicinal Products, Inc., that it is surrounded by anything but desert. You can’t see the vast underground caverns where the native fungi of Mars are artificially nurtured into huge blooming fields. The intricate transportation system that connects all parts of the square miles of fields to the central building is invisible. The irrigation system; the air-purifiers; the drainage pipes, are all hidden.
And what one sees is the broad squat red-brick building and Martian desert, rusty and dry, all about.
That had been all George Carter had seen upon arriving via rocket-taxi, but him, at least, appearances had not deceived. It would have been strange had it done so, for his life on Ganymede had been oriented in its every phase towards eventual general managership of that very concern. He knew every square inch of the caverns below as well as if he had been born and raised in them himself.
And now he sat in Professor Lemuel Harvey’s small office and allowed just the slightest trace of uneasiness to cross his impassive countenance. His ice-blue eyes sought those of Professor Harvey. “This—this twin brother o’ mine. He’ll be here soon?”
Professor Harvey nodded, “He’s on his way over right now.” George Carter uncrossed his knees. His expression was almost wistful, “He looks a lot like me, d’ya rackon?”
“Quite a lot. You’re identical twins, you know.”
“Hmm! Rackon so! Wish I’d known him all the time—on Ganny!” He frowned, “He’s lived on Airth all’s life, huh?”
An expression of interest crossed Professor Harveys face. He said briskly, “You dislike Earthmen?”
“No, not exactly,” came the immediate answer. “It’s just the Airthmen are tanderfeet. All of m I know are.”
Harvey stifled a grin, and conversation languished.
The door-signal snapped Harvey out of his reverie and George Carter out of his chair at the same instant. The professor pressed the desk-button and the door opened.
The figure on the threshold crossed into the room and then stopped. The twin brothers faced each other.
It was a tense, breathless moment, and Professor Harvey sank into his soft chair, put his finger-tips together and watched keenly.
The two stood stiffly erect, ten feet apart, neither making a move to lessen the distance. They made a curious contrast—a contrast all the more marked because of the vast similarity between the two.
Eyes of frozen blue gazed deep into eyes of frozen blue. Each saw a long, straight nose over full, red lips pressed firmly together. The high cheekbones were as prominent in one as in the other, the jutting, angular chin as square. There was even the same, odd half-cock of one eyebrow in twin expressions of absorbed, part-quizzical interest.
But with the face, all resemblance ended. Allen Carters clothes bore the New York stamp on every square inch. From his loose blouse, past his dark purple knee breeches, salmon-colored cellulite stockings, down to the glistening sandals on his feet, he stood a living embodiment of latest Terrestrial fashion.
For a fleeting moment, George Carter was conscious of a feeling of ungainliness as he stood there in his tight-sleeved, close-necked shirt of Ganymedan linen. His unbuttoned vest and his voluminous trousers with their ends tucked into high-laced, heavy-soled boots were clumsy and provincial. Even he felt it—for just a moment.
From his sleeve-pocket Allen removed a cigarette case—it was the first move either of the brothers had made—opened it, withdrew a slender cylinder of paper-covered tobacco that spontaneously glowed into life at the first puff.
George hesitated a fraction of a second and his subsequent action was almost one of defiance. His hand plunged into his inner vest pocket and drew therefrom the green, shriveled form of a cigar made of Ganymedan greenleaf. A match flared into flame upon his thumbnail and for a long moment, he matched, puff for puff, the cigarette of his brother.
And then Allen laughed—a queer, high-pitched laugh, “Your eyes are a little closer together, I think”
“Rackon ’tis, maybe. Y’r hair’s fixed sort o’ different.” There was faint disapproval in his voice. Allens hand went self-consciously to his long, light-brown hair, carefully curled at the ends, while his eyes flickered over the carelessly-bound queue into which the others equally long hair was drawn.
“I suppose we’ll have to get used to each other. I’m willing to try.” The Earth twin was advancing now, hand outstretched.
George smiled, “Y’ bet.’At goes here, too.”
The hands met and gripped.
“Y’r name’s All’n, huh?” said George.
“And yours is George, isn’t it?” answered Allen.
And then for a long while they said nothing more. They just looked—and smiled as they strove to bridge the twenty-five year gap that separated them.
George Carters impersonal gaze swept over the carpet of low-growing purple blooms that stretched in plot-path bordered squares into the misty distance of the caverns. The newspapers and feature writers might rhapsodize over the “Fungus Gold” of Mars—about the purified extracts, in yields of ounces to acres of blooms, that had become indispensable to the medical profession of the System. Opiates, purified vitamins, a new vegetable specific against pneumonia—the blooms were worth their weight in gold, almost.
But they were merely blooms to George Carter—blooms to be forced to full growth, harvested, baled, and shipped to the Aresopolis labs hundreds of miles away.
He cut his little ground car to half-speed and leant furiously out the window, “Hi y’ mudcat there. Y’ with the dairty face. Watch what y’r doing—keep the domned water in the channel.”
He drew back and the ground car leapt ahead once more. The Ganymedan muttered viciously to himself, “These domned men about here are wairse than useless. So many machines t’ do their wairk for’m they give their brains a pairmenent vacation, I rackon.”
The ground car came to a halt and he clambered out. Picking his way between the fungus plots, he approached the clustered group of men about the spider-armed machine in the plotway ahead.
“Well, here I am. What is ’t, All’n?”
Allen’s head bobbed up from behind the other side of the machine. He wave
d at the men about him, “Stop it for a second!” and leaped toward his twin.
“George, it works. It’s slow and clumsy, but it works. We can improve it now that we’ve got the fundamentals down. And in no time at all, we’ll be able to—”
“Now wait a while, All’n. On Ganny, we go slow. Y’ live long, that way. What y got there?”
Allen paused and swabbed at his forehead. His face shone with grease, sweat, and excitement. “I’ve been working on this thing ever since I finished college. It’s a modification of something we have on Earth—but it’s no end improved. Its a mechanical bloom picker.” He had fished a much-folded square of heavy paper from his pocket and talked steadily as he spread it on the plotway before them, “Up to now, bloom-picking has been the bottleneck of production, to say nothing of the 15 to 20% loss due to picking under-and overripe blooms. After all, human eyes are only human eyes, and the blooms—Here, look!”
The paper was spread flat and Allen squatted before it. George leaned over his shoulder, with frowning watchfulness.
“You see. It’s a combination of fluoroscope and photo-electric cell. The ripeness of the bloom can be told by the state of the spores within. This machine is adjusted so that the proper circuit is tripped upon the impingement of just that combination of light and dark formed by ripe spores within the bloom. On the other hand, this second circuit—but look, its easier to show you.”
He was up again, brimming with enthusiasm. With a jump, he was in the low seat behind the picker and had pulled the lever.
Ponderously, the picker turned towards the blooms and its “eye” travelled sideways six inches above the ground. As it passed each fungus bloom, a long spidery arm shot out, lopping it cleanly half an inch from the ground and depositing it neatly in the downward-sloping slide beneath. A pile of blooms formed behind the machine.