Arthur Clarke - Imperial Earth

Their autojitney was now gliding, at the breathless speed of some twenty klicks, between the Capitol and the Library of Congress. The sight reminded Duncan of his other responsibility; already it was the last week in June, yet his speech still consisted of no more than a few sheets of notes. Overpreparation was one of the Makenzie failings; the “all right on the night” attitude was wholly alien to their natures. But even allowing for this often valuable fault, of which he was well aware, Duncan was beginning to feel a mild sense of panic.

The problem was a very simple one, yet its diagnosis had not suggested a remedy. Try as he could, Duncan had still been unable to decide on a basic theme, or any message from Titan more inspiring than the usual zero-content official greetings.

Mandel’stahm was still waiting patiently when they passed the Rayburn Building—now encrusted with a vast banyan tree brought all the way from Angkor What; it was hoped that within the next fifty years, this would do the job of demolition at virtually no public expense. There were times when aesthetics took precedence over history, and it was generally agreed that—unlike the old Smithsonian—the Rayburn Building was not quite hideous enough to be worth preservation. (But what would that vegetable octopus do next, the professional alarmists had worried, when it had finished this task? Would the monster crawl across Independence Avenue and attack the hallowed dome?)

Now the jitney was cruising past the prone hundred meters of the Saturn V replica lying on what had once been the site of NASA Headquarters. They could not spend all day orbiting central Washington; very well, Duncan told himself with a sigh...

“I have your promise that my name won’t come out, under any circumstances?”

“Yes.”

“And there’s no risk that—my friend—may get into trouble?”

“I can’t guarantee that he won’t lose any money. But there will be no legal problems—at any rate, under Terran jurisdiction.”

“It’s not a ‘he.’ I leave the details to you, but you might make some tactful inquiries about the vice-president of Enigma Associates, Catherine Linden Ellerman.”

Though he tried to convince himself that he had done the right thing—even the only thing—Duncan was still slightly ashamed. Deep in his heart, he felt that he had been guilty of betraying an old friendship. He was glad that some impulse had kept him from mentioning Karl, and with part of his mind he still hoped that the whole investigation would collapse.

Meanwhile, there was so much to be done, and so much to see, that for long periods of time Duncan could forget his twinges of conscience. It seemed ridiculous to have come all the way to Earth—and then to sit for hours of every day (in beautiful weather!) in a hotel room talking into a Comsole.

But every time Duncan thought he had completed one of the innumerable chores they had given him before he left home, there would be a back-up message reopening the subject, or adding fresh complications. His official duties were time-consuming enough; what made matters worse were all the private requests from relatives, friends, and even complete strangers, who assumed that he had nothing else to do except contact lost acquaintances, obtain photos of ancestral homes, hunt for rare books, research Terran genealogies, locate obscure works of art, act as agent for hopeful Titanian authors and artists, conjure up scholarships and free passages to Earth—and say “Thank you” for Star Day cards received ten years ago and never acknowledged.

Which reminded Duncan that he had not sent off his own cards for this quadrennial occasion. Since ’76 was a leap year, Star Day was therefore looming up in the near future—to be precise, between June 30 and July 1. Duncan was glad of the extra day, but it also meant that there would shortly be three days in five where no business could be done. For July 1, being at the beginning of a new quarter, was of course a Sunday; and the Sunday before that was only June 28. It was bad enough, in an ordinary year, to have two Sundays at the end of every 91-day quarter, with only a Monday and Tuesday between them—but now to have another holiday as well made it even worse.

There was still time to mail cards to all his Terran friends—Ambassador Farrell, the Washingtons, Calindy, Bernie Patras, and half a dozen others. As for Titan, there was really no hurry. Even if they took six months to get there, the cards, with there beautiful gold-leaf Centennial stamps (five solars each, for heaven’s sake, even by second-class space mail!), would still be appreciated.

Despite these problems, Duncan had found some opportunities to relax. He had been on personal teletours of London, Rome, and Athens, which was the next best thing to being there in the flesh. Seated in a tiny, darkened cubicle with 360 degrees of high-quality sound and vision, he could easily believe that he was actually walking through the streets of the ancient cities. He could ask questions of the invisible guide who was his alter ego, talk to any passers-by, change the route to look more closely at something that took his interest. Only the sense of smell and touch remained immobile—and even these could be tele-extended for anyone willing to foot the bill. Duncan could not afford such marginal luxury, and did not really miss it.

He also attended several concerts, two ballets, and one play—all arranged for the benefit of visitors in this Centennial year, and all unavoidable without the exercise of more diplomatic illness, or sheer bad manners, than Duncan felt able to muster. The music, though doubtless magnificent, bored him; his tastes were old-fashioned, and he enjoyed little written after the twenty-first century. The ballet was also a disappointment; to anyone who had spent all his life at a fifth of a gravity, the most remarkable of Terran grands jetés was unimpressive—and also nerve-racking, for Duncan could never quite get over the fear that the dancers would injure themselves. He watched them with envy, but he had no wish to imitate them. It was enough that he could now walk and stand without conscious effort. This achievement was a matter of modest pride, for there had been a time when he would not have believed it possible.

But the play delighted him. He had heard vaguely of George Bernard Shaw, now undergoing one of his periodic revivals, and The Devil’s Disciple was perfect for the occasion. Though George Washington muttered from time to time in Duncan’s ear such comments as “General Burgoyne wasn’t the least like that ,” he felt that he at least understood the American Revolution in human terms. It was no longer a shadowy affair of two-dimensional puppets, five hundred years in the past, but a life-and-death struggle involving real people, whose hopes and fears and loves he could share.

Though love, with a capital L, was not a complication that Duncan would welcome during his stay on Earth. He could not imagine anyone ever replacing Marissa, and to have a really serious affair with a Terran would be the stuff of tragedy, since separation would be inevitable when he returned to Titan. He wanted no part of that; he had been through it once before, with Calindy.

Or so it had seemed at the time. Now he realized that the calf love of a sixteen-year-old boy, though it had once dominated all his waking hours, was indeed shallow and transient. Yet its aftereffects still lingered, shaping all his later passions and desires. Although he was annoyed and disappointed with Calindy, that was unchanged; her deliberate avoidance had, if anything, added fuel to his emotions and contributed to some notably fevered dreams.

Bernie Patras, of course, was happy to relieve his symptoms, and had arranged several enjoyable encounters. One cuddlesome and talented young lady, he swore, was his own girl friend, “who only does this with people she really wants to meet.” She did, indeed, show a genuine interest in Titan and its problems; but when Bernie, as an interested party, wanted to join in the festivities, Duncan selfishly threw him out.