Arthur Clarke - Imperial Earth

Sorry—I don’t know who’s throwing this party, either.

Did El Greco come before Modigliani? I just can’t believe it.

Bill’s ambition is to be shot dead a the age of two hundred by a jealous wife.

How the Revolution going? If you need any more money from the Ways and Means Committee, let me know.

Food should come in pills, the way God intended.

Anyone in the room she’s not slept with?

Well, maybe that statue of Zeus.

French is not a dead language. At least five million people still speak it—or at least read it.

I’m getting up a petition to save the Lunar wilderness areas.

I thought it was the Van Allen Belt.

Oh, that was last year.

At one point, Duncan’s badge started to hum gently. For a moment he was taken by surprise; he had quite forgotten that it was part of a paging system. He looked around for the rendezvous point, which he had not even bothered to check. Eventually he spotted a discreet little banner bearing the notice L-S HERE, PLEASE. Needless to say it was on the far side of the room, and it took him a good five minutes to plow through the crowd.

Half a dozen complete strangers were waiting hopefully under the banner. He scanned their faces in vain, looking for some sign of recognition. But when he got within name-reading range, one of the group broke away and approached him with outstretched hands.

“Mr. Makenzie—how good of you to come! I’ll take only a few minutes of your time.”

From bitter experience, Duncan had learned that this was one of Terra’s great understatements. He looked cautiously at the speaker to sum him up and to guess his business. What he saw was reasonably reassuring: a very neat, goateed little man wearing a traditional Chinese/Indian shervani , tightly buttoned up at the neck. He did not look like a bore or a fanatic; but they seldom did.

“That’s all right, Mr.—er—Mandel’stahm. What can I do for you?”

“I’d intended to contact you—it was pure luck, seeing your name on the list—I knew there could be only one Makenzie—what does the D stand for—Donald, Douglas, David—”

“Duncan.”

“Ah, yes. Let’s move over to that seat—it’ll be quieter—besides, I love Winslow Homer’s Fair Wind , even though the technique is so crude—you can almost smell the fish sliding around in the boat—why, what a coincidence—it’s exactly four hundred years old ! Don’t you think coincidences are fascinating? I’ve been collecting them all my life.”

“I’ve never thought about it,” replied Duncan, already feeling a little breathless. He was afraid that if he listened much longer to Mr. Mandel’stahm, he too would start to talk in jerks. What did the man want? For that matter, was there any way of discovering the intentions of a person whose flow of speech seemed to be triggered by random impulses?

Luckily, as soon as they were seated, Mr. Mandel’stahm became much more coherent. He gave a conspiratorial glance to check that there was nobody in earshot except Winslow Homer’s fisherboys, then resumed his conversation in a completely different tone of voice.

“I promised I’d take only a few minutes. Here’s my card—you can use it to key my number. Yes, I call myself an antique dealer, but that covers a multitude of sins. My main interest is gems—I have one of the largest private collections in the world. So you’ve probably guessed why I was anxious to meet you.”

“Go on.”

“ Titanite , Mr. Makenzie. There are not more than a dozen fragments on Earth—five of them in museums. Even the Smithsonian doesn’t have a specimen, and its curator of gems—that tall man over there—is most unhappy. I suppose you know that titanite is one of the few materials that can’t be replicated?”

“So I believe,” answered Duncan, now very cautious. Mr. Mandel’stahm had certainly made his interests clear, though not his intentions.

“You’ll understand, therefore, that if a swarthy, cornuted gentleman suddenly appeared in a puff of smoke with a contract for several grams of titanite in exchange for my signature in blood, I wouldn’t bother to read the small print.”

Duncan was not quite sure what ‘cornute’ meant, but he got the general picture quickly enough, and gave a noncommittal nod.

“Well, something like this has been happening over the last three months—not quite so dramatically, of course. I’ve been approached, in great confidence, by a dealer who claims to have titanite for sale, in lots of up to ten grams. What would you say to that?”

“I’d be extremely suspicious. It’s probably fake.”

“You can’t fake titanite.”

“Well—synthetic?”

“I’d thought of that too—it’s an interesting idea, but it would mean so many scientific breakthroughs somewhere that it couldn’t possibly be hushed up. It certainly wouldn’t be a simple job, like diamond manufacture. No one has any idea how titanite is produced. There are at least four theories proving that it can’t exist.”

“Have you ever seen it?”

“Of course—the fragment in the American Museum of Natural History, and the very fine specimen in the Geological Museum, South Kensington.”

Duncan refrained from adding that there was an even finer specimen in the Centennial Hotel, not ten kilometers from here. Until this mystery was cleared up, and he knew more about Mr. Mandel’stahm, this information was best kept to himself. He did not believe that burglarious visitors were likely, but it was foolish to take unnecessary chances.

“I don’t quite see how I can help you. If you’re sure that the titanite is genuine, and hasn’t been acquired illegally, what’s your problem?”

“Simply this. Not everything rare is valuable—but everything valuable is rare. If someone’s discovered a few kilograms of titanite, it would be just another common gemstone, like opal or sapphire or ruby. Naturally, I don’t want to make a big investment if there’s any danger that the price might suddenly nose-dive.”

He saw Duncan’s quizzical expression and added hastily, “Of course, now that the profit motive’s extinct, I do this for amusement. I’m more concerned with my reputation.”

“I understand. But if there had been such a find, I’m sure I would have heard of it. It would have been reported to my government.”

Mr. Mandel’stahm’s eyebrows gained altitude perceptibly.

“Perhaps. But perhaps not. Especially if it were found—off-planet. I’m referring, of course, to the theories suggesting that it’s not indigenous to Titan.”

You’re certainly well informed, Duncan told himself—in fact, I’m sure you know far more about titanite than I do...

“I suppose you mean the theory that there may be bigger lodes on the other moons?”

“Yes. In fact, traces have been detected on Iapetus.”

“That’s news to me, but I wouldn’t have heard unless there had been a major find. Which, I gather, is what you suspect.”

“Among other things.”

For a few seconds, Duncan processed this information in silence. If it was true—and he could think of no reason why Mandel’stahm should be lying—it was his duty as an officer of the Titanian administration to look into it. But the very last thing he wanted now was extra work, especially if it was likely to lead to messy complications. If some clever operator was actually smuggling titanite, Duncan would prefer to remain in blissful ignorance. He had more important things to worry about.

Perhaps Mandel’stahm understood the reason for his hesitation, for he added quietly: “The sum involved may be quite large. I’m not interested in that, of course—but most governments are rather grateful to anyone who detects a loss of revenue. If I can help you earn that gratitude, I should be delighted.”