Arthur Clarke - The Ghost from the Grand Banks

As might be expected in her profession, Evelyn Merrick was a woman of many secrets, mostly other peoples’; but she also had one of her own which she guarded with special care. Though nothing could have been more respectable, if it came out it might be bad for trade. For the last two years, she had been employing her extensive—perhaps unique—knowledge of paraphilia to complete her doctor’s degree in psychology at the University of Auckland.

She had never met Professor Hinton, except over video circuits—and even that very rarely, since both preferred the digital impersonality of computer file exchanges. One day—perhaps a decade after she had retired—her thesis would be published, though not under her own name, and with all the case histories disguised beyond identification. Not even Professor Hinton knew the individuals involved, though he had made some shrewd guesses at a few.

“Subject O.G.,” Eva typed. “Age fifty. Successful engineer.”

She considered the screen carefully. The initials, of course, had been changed according to her simple code, and the age had been rounded down to the nearest decade. But the last entry was reasonably accurate: his profession reflected a man’s personality, and should not be disguised unless it was absolutely necessary to avoid identification. Even then, it had to be done with sensitivity, so that the displacement was not too violent. In the case of a world-famous musician, Eva had altered “pianist” to “violinist,” and she had converted an equally celebrated sculptor into a painter. She had even turned a politician into a statesman.

“…As a small boy, O.G. was teased and occasionally captured by the pupils of a neighboring girl’s school, who used him as a (fairly willing) subject for lessons in nursing and male anatomy. They frequently bandaged him from head to foot, and though he now asserts that there was no erotic element involved, this is rather hard to believe. When challenged, he shrugs his shoulders and says, ‘I just don’t remember.’

“Later, as a young man, O.G. witnessed the aftermath of a major accident which caused many deaths. Though not injured himself, the experience also appears to have affected his sexual fantasies. He enjoys various forms of bondage (see List A) and he had developed a mild case of the Saint Sebastian Complex, most famously demonstrated by Yukio Mishima. Unlike Mishima, however, O.G. is completely heterosexual, scoring only 2.5±0.1 on the Standard Mapplethorpe Phototest.

“What makes O.G.’s behavior pattern so interesting, and perhaps unusual, is that he is an active and indeed somewhat aggressive personality, as befits the manager of an organization in a demanding and competitive business. It is hard to imagine him playing a passive role in any sphere of life, yet he likes my personnel to wrap him up in bandages like an Egyptian mummy, until he is completely helpless. Only in this way, after considerable stimulation, can he achieve a satisfactory orgasm.

“When I suggested that he was acting out a death wish, he laughed but did not attempt to deny it. His work often involves physical danger, which may be the very reason why he was attracted to it in the first place. However, he gave an alternative explanation which, I am sure, contains a good deal of truth.

“ ‘When you have responsibilities involving millions of dollars and affecting many men’s lives, you can’t imagine how delightful it is to be completely helpless for a while—unable to control what’s happening around you. Of course, I know it’s all play-acting, but I manage to pretend it isn’t. I sometimes wonder how I’d enjoy the situation if it was for real.’

“ ‘You wouldn’t,’ I told him, and he agreed.”

Eva scrolled the entry, checking it for any clues that might reveal O.G.’s identity. The Villa specialized in celebrities, so it was better to be excessively cautious than the reverse.

That caution extended to the celebrities themselves. The Villa’s only house rule was “No blood on the carpets,” and she recalled, with a grimace of disgust, a third world country’s chief-of-staff whose frenzies had injured one of her girls. Eva had accepted his apologies, and his check, with cold disdain, then made a quick call to the Foreign Office. The general would have been most surprised—and mortified—to know exactly why the British ambassador now found so many reasons for postponing his next visit to the United Kingdom.

Eva sometimes wondered what dear Sister Margarita would have thought of her star pupil’s present vocation; the last time she had wept was when the notice of her old friend’s death had reached her from the Mother Superior. And she remembered, with wistful amusement, the question she had once been tempted to ask her tutor: exactly why should a vow of perpetual chastity be considered any nobler—any holier —than a vow of perpetual constipation?

It was a perfectly serious query, not in the least intended to scandalize the old nun or shake the sure foundations of her faith. But on the whole, perhaps it was just as well left unasked.

Sister Margarita already knew that little Eva Merrick was not meant for the church; but Eva still sent a generous donation to St. Jude’s every Christmas.

Article 156

Establishment of the Authority

1. There is hereby established the International Seabed Authority, which shall function in accordance with this Part.

2. All States Parties are ipso facto members of the Authority.

…

4. The seat of the Authority shall be in Jamaica.

Article 158

Organs of the Authority

…

2. There is hereby established the Enterprise, the organ through which the Authority shall carry out the functions referred to in article 170, paragraph 1.

“Sorry about the emoluments,” said Director-General Wilbur Jantz apologetically, “but they’re fixed by U.N. regulations.”

“I quite understand. As you know, I’m not here for the money.”

“And there are very considerable fringe benefits. First, you’ll have the rank of ambassador…”

“Will I have to dress like one? I hope not—I don’t even have a tux, let alone the rest of that damned nonsense.”

Jantz laughed.

“Don’t worry—we’ll take care of details like that. And you’ll be VIPed everywhere, of course—that can be quite pleasant.”

It’s a long time, thought Jason Bradley, since I’ve not been VIPed, but it would be rather tactless to say so. Despite all his experience, he was a new boy in this environment; maybe he shouldn’t have made that crack about ambassadors…

The D.G. was scanning the readout scrolling on his desk display, giving an occasional PAUSE command so that he could examine some item in detail. Bradley would have returned a substantial slice of his income to his new employers for the privilege of reading that file. I wonder if they know, he thought, about the time that Ted and I “salted” that wreck off Delos with fake amphorae? Not that I’ve got a guilty conscience: it caused a lot of trouble to people who thoroughly deserved it.

“I think I should tell you,” said the D.G., “that we did have one small problem—though I shouldn’t worry about it. Some of our more, ah, aggressively independent states-parties may not be too happy about your CIA connection.”

“That was more than thirty years ago! And I didn’t even know it was a CIA job until long after I’d signed up—as an ordinary seaman, for heaven’s sake… I thought I was joining Hughes” Summa Corporation—and so I was.”