Imperial Earth

by Arthur C. Clarke

  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, 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, "thought 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 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 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 that 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.

  40

  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 had 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 minu
tes 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 Helmer's 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. Thanks to recent experience, the naïve 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 Armand 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 that 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 SAMIM and continued with G/T 101000 SYHTET, G/T 101000 SUNAJ, G/T 101000 ENOID, 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...

  The was no G/T 101000 NACNUD. Though it was unreasonable to have expected it, Duncan still 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, so he explored every possibility that he could imagine. Then, feeling a faint trace of guilt, he tapped out G/T 101000 YNDILAC, pausing for a fraction of a second before he completed the sequence with #.

  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.

  He 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, 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 #. 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...

  * * * * *

  The 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's 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 that astonishing full-page sketch which had so transfixed him as 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 Diadema 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 scientist's delusion. But you'll be wrong; this could be infinitely more important that 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 a
nswered 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 sure 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 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, concentration 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 had 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."