Arthur Clarke - Imperial Earth

In the bright sunshine outside the old State Department, Duncan and the Ambassador had to wait for five minutes before the next shuttle came gliding silently down Virginia Avenue. No one was within earshot, so Duncan said with quiet urgency: “Does ‘Argus’ mean anything to you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes—though I’m damned if I see how it can help. I still have the remnants of a classical education, and unless I’m very much mistaken, Argus was the name of Odysseus’ old dog. It recognized him when he came home to Ithaca after his twenty years of wandering, then died.”

Duncan brooded over this information for a few seconds, then shrugged his shoulders.

“You’re right—that’s no help at all. And I still want to know why these people I met—or didn’t meet—are so interested in Karl. As they admitted at the start, there’s no suggestion that he’s done anything illegal, as far as Earth is concerned. And I suspect that he may have only bent some Titanian regulations, not broken them.”

“Just a moment—just a moment!” said the Ambassador. “You’ve reminded me of something.” His face went through some rather melodramatic contortions, then smoothed itself out. He glanced around conspiratorily, saw that there was no one within hearing and that the shuttle was still three minutes away by the countdown indicator.

“I think I may have it, and I’ll be obliged if you don’t attribute this to me. But just consider the following wild speculation...

“Every organism has defense mechanisms to protect itself. You’ve just encountered one—part of the security system of Earth. This particular group, whatever its responsibilities may be, probably consists of a fairly small number of important people. I expect I know most of them—in fact, one voice... never mind...

“You could call a watchdog committee. Such a committee has to have a name for itself—a secret name, naturally. In the course of my duties, I occasionally hear of such things, and carefully forget them...”

“Now, Argus was a watchdog . So what better name for such a group? Mind you, I’m still not asserting anything. But imagine the acute embarrassment of a secret organization that happens to find its name carefully spelled out in highly mysterious circumstances.”

It was a very plausible theory, and Duncan was sure that the Ambassador would not have advanced it without excellent reasons. But it did not go even halfway.

“That’s all very well, and I’m prepared to accept it. But what the devil has all this to do with a drawing of a sea urchin? I feel like I’m going slowly mad.”

The shuttle was now gliding to a halt in front of them, and the Ambassador waved him into it.

“If it’s any consolation, Duncan, be assured that you’re in very good company. I’d sacrifice a fair share of my modest retirement benefits if I could eavesdrop now on Under Secretary Smith and his invisible friends.”

There was no way of telling, as Duncan stood at the window of Calindy’s apartment, that he was not looking down at the busy traffic of 57 thStreet on a crisp winter night, when the first flakes of snow were drifting down, to melt at once as they struck the heated sidewalks. But this was summer, not winter; and even President Bernstein’s limousine was not as old as the cars moving silently a hundred meters below. He was watching the past, perhaps a hologram from the late twentieth century. Yet though Duncan knew that he was actually far underground, there was nothing he could do to convince his senses of this fact.

He was alone with Calindy at last, though in circumstances of which he could never have dreamed only a few days ago. How ironic that, now the opportunity had come, he felt barely the faintest flicker of desire!

“What is that?” he asked suspiciously, as Calindy handed him a slim crystal goblet containing a few centimeters of blood-red liquid.

“If I told you, the name would mean nothing. And if I said what it cost, you’d be scared to drink it. Just taste it slowly; you’ll never have another chance, and it will do you good.”

It was good—smooth, slightly sweet, and, Duncan was quite certain, charged with several megatons of slumbering energy. He sipped it very slowly indeed, watching Calindy as she moved around the room.

He had not really known what to expect, yet her apartment had still been something of a surprise. It was almost stark in its simplicity, but large and beautifully proportioned, with dove-gray walls, a blue vaulted ceiling like the sky itself, and a green carpet that gave the impression of a small sea of grass lapping against the walls. There were fewer than a dozen pieces of furniture: four deeply cushioned chairs, two divans, a closed writing desk, a glass cabinet full of delicate chinaware, a low table upon which were lying a small box and a splendid book on twenty-second-century primitives—and, of course, the ubiquitous Comsole, its screen now crawling with abstract art that was very far from primitive.

Even without the force of gravity to remind him, there was no danger that Duncan would forget he was on Earth. He doubted if a private home on any other planet could show a display like this; but he would not like to live here. Everything was a little too perfect and displayed altogether too clearly the Terran obsession with the past. He suddenly remembered Ambassador Farrell’s remark: “ We aren’t decadent, but our children will be.” That would include Calindy’s generation. Perhaps the Ambassador was right...

He took another sip, staring at Calindy in silence as she orbited the room. Clearly ill at ease, she moved a chair through an imperceptible fraction of an inch, and gave the picture an equally invisible adjustment. Then she came back to the divan and sat down beside him.

A little more purposefully now, she leaned across the low coffee table and picked up the box lying upon it..

“Have you seen one of these?” she asked, as she opened the lid.

Lying in a nest of velvet was something that looked like a large, silver egg, about twice the size of the real eggs that Duncan has encountered in the Centennial Hotel.

“What is it?” he asked. “A piece of sculpture?”

“Pick it up—but be careful not to drop it.”

Despite this warning, that was very nearly what he did. The egg was not particularly heavy, but it seemed alive —even squirming in his hand, though it showed no sign of any visible movement. However, when he looked at it more carefully, he could see faint opalescent bands flowing over the surface and momentarily blurring the mirror finish. They looked very much like waves of heat, yet there was no sensation of warmth.

“Cup it in both hands,” Calindy instructed him, “and close your eyes.”

Duncan obeyed, despite an almost irresistible impulse to see what was really happening to the extraordinary object he held. He felt completely disoriented, because it seemed that the sense of touch—the most reliable of all man’s messengers from the external universe—was betraying him.

For the very texture of the egg was constantly changing. It no longer felt like metal; unbelievably, it was furry . He might have been fondling some small woolly animal—a kitten, perhaps...

But only for seconds. The egg shivered, became hard and rough—it was made of sandpaper, coarse enough to grate the skin...

... the sandpaper became satin, so smooth and silky that he wanted to caress it. There was barely time to obey the impulse when...

... the egg was liquefying and becoming gelatinous. It seemed about to ooze through his fingers, and Duncan had to force himself not to drop it in disgust. Only the knowledge that this could not really be happening gave him strength to control the reflex...