“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