Arthur Clarke - Imperial Earth

“I’ve no objection,” the surgeon continued, “to cloning if 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. Good-bye 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 cold 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.

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, 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 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 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 pushed, the guest’s badge would emit a buzz just loud enough for him to hear, and his light would start flashing. He then had two alternatives. He could apologize to the group he was with, 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 callee 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 JESUS CHRIST or a JULIUS CAESAR was fair game.

Duncan saw no need for anonymity. He was quite happy to meet anyone who wished to meet him, so he left his badge in the operating mode while he raided the lavish buffet, then beat a retreat to one of the smaller tables. Although he could now function in Earth’s gravity better than he would once have believed possible, he still took every opportunity of sitting down. And in this case it was essential even for Terrans, except those skillful enough to manipulate three plates and one glass with two hands.

He had been one of the early arrivals—this was a folly he never succeeded in curing during his whole stay on Earth—and by the time he had finished nibbling at unknown delicacies, the hall was comfortably full. He decided to start circulating among the other guests, lest he be identified for what he was—a lost and lonely outsider.

He did not deliberately eavesdrop; but Makenzies had unusually good hearing, and Terrans—at least party-going Terrans—seemed anxious to spread information as widely as possible. Like a free electron wandering through a semiconductor, Duncan drifted from one group to another, occasionally exchanging a few words of greeting, but never getting involved for more than a couple of minutes. He was quite content to be a passive observer, and ninety percent of the conversations he overheard were meaningless or boring. But not all...

I loathe parties like this, don’t you?

It’s supposed to be the only set of genuine antique inflatable furniture in the world. Of course, they won’t let you sit on it.

I’m so sorry. But it will wash out easily.

—buying at one fifty and selling at one eighty. Would you believe that grown men once spent their entire lives doing that sort of thing?

—no music worth listening to since the late twentieth century... Make it early twenty-first.