Arthur Clarke: Imperial Earth

Human cloning—the creation of exact replicas of another individual from any cell in the body except the sex cells—had been achieved early in the twenty-first century. Even when the technology had been perfected, it had never become widespread , partly because there were few circumstances that could ever justify it.

Malcolm was not a rich man—there had been no large personal fortunes for a hundred years—but he was certainly not poor. He used a skillful combination of money, flattery, and more subtle pressures to attain his goal. When he returned to Titan, he brought with him the baby who was his identical twin—but a half a century younger.

When Colin grew up, there was no way in which he could be distinguished from his clone father at the same age. Physically, he was an exact duplicate in every respect. But Malcolm was no Narcissus, interested in creating a mere carbon copy of himself; he wanted a partner as well as a successor. So Colin’s educational program concentrated on the weak points of Malcolm’s. Though he had a good grounding in science, he specialized in history, law, and economics. Whereas Malcolm was an engineer-administrator, Colin was an administrator-engineer. While still in his twenties, he was acting as his father’s deputy wherever it was legally admissible, and sometimes where it was not. Together, the two Makenzies formed an unbeatable combination, and trying to draw subtle distinctions between their psychologies was a favorite Titanian pastime.

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.

“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.