Arthur Clarke - Imperial Earth

That faint, inhuman death rattle was so unexpected that Duncan checked his onslaught and remained hovering motionless in the water. He had completely forgotten the necessity for air, and the conscious part of his mind had dismissed the mounting symptoms of suffocation as irrelevant—to be dealt with later. But finally he could ignore them no longer, and shot gasping to the surface.

With a profound sense of shock—even of shame—Duncan realized that he had just destroyed a living creature. He could never have imagined, before he left Titan, that such an experience would ever come his way.

One could hardly feel much guilt over the murder of a sea urchin. Nevertheless, for the first time in his life, Duncan Makenzie was a killer.

When Duncan returned to Washington, the second time bomb from Colin was ticking away in the Centennial Hotel. Once again, it was so cryptic that it would have been almost unintelligible, even to an outsider who had succeeded in decoding it.

CONFIRM YOUR OLD FRIEND HAS UNAUTHORIZED ACCOUNT 65842 GENEVA BRANCH FIRST BANK OF ARISTARCHUS. BALANCE SEVERAL TENS OF THOUSANDS SOLARS. THIS INFORMATION NOT TO BE DISCLOSED ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. PRESUME FROM SALE OF TITANITE. MAKING INQUIRIES MNEMOSYNE. MEANWHILE SUGGEST YOU KEEP ALERT. REGARDS, COLIN.

Duncan understood perfectly well why this information was “not be disclosed”; the Lunar banks guarded their secrets well, and heaven alone knew by what prodigies of persuasion or genteel blackmail Colin had managed to get hold of Karl’s account number. Even so, he had been unable to obtain a figure for the balance—but it was obviously considerable. Ten thousand solars was far more than anyone would need for the purchase of a few Terran luxuries. And several times that was more than the Makenzies held in their own, perfectly legal accounts. Such an amount of money was more than a cause for envy; it was disturbing, especially if it was intended for some clandestine use.

Duncan allowed himself a few moments of wistful daydreaming, imagining what he could do with twenty or thirty thousand solars. Then he put the seductive vision firmly aside and concentrated all his mind upon the problem. While Karl’s involvement had been only a vague suspicion, he had been reluctant to waste time on a detailed analysis of how, when, and—above all— why . But now that speculation had congealed into certainty, he could no longer evade the issue.

What a pity that the obvious line of approach was out of the question! He could hardly call up the First Bank of Aristarchus and ask for a print-out of Account 65842. Not even the World Government could do that , unless fraud or crime had already been proved beyond a shadow of a doubt. Even the most discreet inquiry would trigger an explosion; someone would certainly be fired, and Colin might be faced with most embarrassing questions.

The only real problem in life, an ancient philosopher had once said, is what to do next. There was still no link with Calindy—or anyone else. Duncan did not relish playing a role in some sleazy, old-time spy or detective melodrama, and was not even sure how one got started on such an enterprise. Colin would have been much better at it; of the three Makenzies, he was the only one with any flair for subterfuge, indirection, and secrecy. He was probably enjoying himself—especially since he had never liked Karl, being one of the few people on Titan immune to his charms.

But Colin, though he was doing a remarkable job, was more than a billion kilometers away, at the end of an expensive three-hour time-lag. There was no one on Earth in whom Duncan could confide. This was a private Titanian matter, and might yet turn out to be a storm in a teacup. However, if it was serious, the fewer people who knew about it, the better.

Duncan considered, and dismissed, the idea of talking to Ambassador Farrell. He might have to enter the picture later, but not now. Duncan had not been too impressed with Bob Farrell’s discretion—and, of course, he was a Terran. Moreover, if the Embassy discovered that there was a large amount of masterless money floating around Earth, that would undoubtedly precipitate a tug-of-war. It was true that the rent on Wyoming Avenue had to be paid, but Titan’s demands were even more urgent.

And yet perhaps there was one Terran he could trust—the man who had raised the matter in the first place, and who was equally interested in finding the answer. Duncan tapped out the name on his Comsole, wondering if it would accept that ridiculous apostrophe. (He had managed to misplace the dealer’s card, which would have placed the call automatically.)

“Mr. Mandel’stahm?” he said, when the screen lit up. “Duncan Makenzie. I have some news for you. where can we meet for a private conversation?”

“Are you absolutely certain,” said Duncan anxiously, “that no one can overhear us?”

“You’ve been seeing too many historical films, Mr. Makenzie,” Ivor Mandel’stahm replied. “This isn’t the twentieth century, and it would take a singularly determined police state to bug every autojitney in Washington. I always do my confidential business cruising round and round the Mall. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

“Very well. It’s imperative that this doesn’t go any further. I am fairly sure that I know the source of the titanite. What’s more, I have a very good idea of the Terran agent—who has apparently already made some substantial sales.”

“I’ve discovered that,” said Mandel’stahm, a little glumly. “Do you know how substantial?”

“Several tens of thousands of solars.”

To Duncan’s surprise, Mandel’stahm brightened appreciably.

“Oh, is that all?” he exclaimed. “I’m quite relieved. And can you give me the name of the prime agent? I’ve been operating through a very close-mouthed intermediary.”

Duncan hesitated. “I believe you implied that no Terran laws were being broken.”

“Correct. There’s no import duty on extraterrestrial gems. Everything at this end is perfectly legal—unless, of course, the titanite is stolen, and the Terran agent is an accomplice.”

“I’m sure that isn’t the case. You see—and it’s not really as big a coincidence as you might think—the agent is a friend of mine.”

A knowing smile creased Mandel’stahm’s face.

“I appreciate your problem.”

No, you don’t , Duncan told himself. It was an excruciatingly complicated situation. He was quite sure now why Calindy had been avoiding him. Karl would have warned her that he was coming to Earth and would have advised her to keep out of his way. Yes, Karl must have been very worried, up there on little Mnemosyne, lest Duncan stumble upon his activities.

It was essential to keep completely out of the picture; Calindy must never guess that he knew. There was no way in which she could possibly link him with Mandel’stahm, with whom she was already dealing through her own exceedingly discreet intermediary.

Yet still Duncan hesitated, like a chess master over a crucial move. He was analyzing his own motives, and his own conscience, for his personal and official interests were now almost inextricably entangled.

He was anxious to find out what Karl was doing, and if necessary frustrate him. He wanted to make Calindy ashamed of her deceit, and possibly turn her embarrassment to his emotional advantage. (This was a rather forlorn hope; Calindy did not embarrass easily, if at all...) And he wanted to help Titan, and thereby the Makenzies. All these objectives were not likely to be compatible. Duncan began to wish that titanite had never been discovered. Yet, undoubtedly, there was a brilliant opportunity here, if only he had the wit to make his moves correctly.