Arthur Clarke - Imperial Earth

It was strange how the wheel had gone full circle. Fifteen years ago, he and Karl had turned to each other in shared sorrow for the loss of Calindy. Now he and Calindy were mourning Karl.

And presently Duncan knew, though it could be only a faint shadow of that unassuageable hunger, something of the disappointment Karl must have experienced. How true it was that one could never quite recover the past...

It was almost as good as he had hoped, but one thing was lacking.

Calindy no longer tasted of honey.

So they had the wrong Argus. If this were a time for humor, Duncan would have felt like laughing.

Colin had put him on the track, with one of his usual economical Telexes. It should not have been necessary to go all the way to Titan to check such an elementary point.

WHICH ARGUS DO YOU MEAN? Colin had asked. THERE WERE THREE.

A couple of minutes with the Comsole’s ENCYCLOPEDIA section had confirmed this. As Ambassador Farrell had recalled, Argus was indeed Odysseus’ faithful old watchdog, who had recognized his master when the wanderer had returned from exile. The name was certainly appropriate for a secret intelligence organization, though now that Duncan had started making inquiries, it turned out that the Argus Committee was not as secret as it might have wished. Bernie Patras (needless to say) had heard of it; so had George Washington, who admitted with some embarrassment: “Of course they’ve asked me questions. But there’s nothing to worry about.”

Ivor Mandel’stahm had been more forthcoming—even a little sarcastic.

“I’m used to secrecy in my business, and I could teach these people a thing or two. They wouldn’t have lasted five minutes under Stalin—or even the old czars. But I suppose they’re necessary. Society will always need some warning system to spot malcontents before they can cause real trouble. I only doubt if any system will really work, when it’s needed.”

The second Argus had been the builder of Jason’s mythical—or perhaps not so mythical—ship, the Argo . Duncan had never heard of the Golden Fleece, and the legend fascinated him. Argo would be a good name for a spaceship, he thought; but even this association had nothing to do with Karl Helmer’s notes.

He wondered how Karl had ever come across the third Argus; his inquisitive mind had wandered down many byways of fantasy as well as science. And now that he had the key, Duncan understood why the project that had clearly dominated Karl’s later years could have only one name—that of the all-seeing, multiple-eyed god, Argus Panoptes, who could look in every direction simultaneously. Unlike poor Cyclops, who had only a single line of vision...

There had been a delay of almost thirty hours before the legal computer on Titan could probate Karl’s will. Then Armand Helmer reported that, as Duncan had hoped, it contained a list of obvious code words—presumably the keys to the Minisec’s private memories.

Armand had been perfectly willing to Telex the codes, and Duncan had stopped him just in time. Thanks to recent experience, the naïve young Makenzie who had arrived on Earth only a few weeks ago had now developed a mild paranoia. He hoped that it would not become obsessive, as sometimes seemed to be the case with Colin. Yet perhaps Colin was right...

Not until the Argus Committee had, with some reluctance, handed over Karl’s Minisec did Duncan allow Armand to radio the codes from Titan. Now it would not matter even if they were intercepted. He alone could use them.

In all, there were a dozen combinations, with identical formats. Each began with the G/T or GO TO instruction, followed by the six binary digits 101000. That might be an arbitrary number, but it was more likely to have some mnemonic association. A common trick was to use one’s day or year of birth; Karl had been born in ’40, and Duncan was not surprised that the answer when he converted 101000 to base ten—though he was a little disappointed at so obvious a subterfuge.

Yet the code was secure enough, for the chances were astronomically remote that anyone, in a random search, would ever hit upon the alphabetical sequences that followed. Though they were easy to remember—at least for a Titanian—they were safe from accidental triggering. Each was a name spelled backward—another old trick, but one which never lost its effectiveness.

The list began with G/T 101000 SAMIM and continued with G/T 101000 SYHTET, G/T 101000 SUNAJ, G/T 101000 ENOID, G/T 101000 EBEOHP. Then Karl grew tired of moons, for the next, unsurprisingly, was G/T 101000 DNAMRA. That would certainly be a personal message—and so, of course, would be G/T 101000 YDNILAC...

The was no G/T 101000 NACNUD. Though it was unreasonable to have expected it, Duncan still felt a momentary flicker of regret.

A few more family names, but he scarcely noticed them, for his eyes had already caught the final entry: G/T 101000 SUGRA. The search was ended.

But it was not yet successful; there could be one last barrier. Most men had some secrets that they wished to preserve inviolate, even after death. It was still possible that unless these codes were used correctly, they might trigger an ERASE instruction.

Possible —but unlikely. Karl had clearly intended these memories to be released, or he would not have left the codes in his will, with no warning attached to them. Perhaps the wisest move would be to Telex Armand again, just in case Karl had left any further instructions that his distraught father had overlooked.

That would take hours, and it might still prove nothing. Duncan scanned the list again, looking for clues and finding none. The sequence 101000 might mean ERASE. He could speculate forever, and get nowhere.

There was no # or EXECUTE sign at the end of the sequences, but that proved nothing at all, for few people bothered to write down anything so obvious; nine times out of ten, it was omitted as understood. Yet one of the standard ways of canceling a secret ERASE order was to hit EXECUTE twice in quick succession. Another was to do so with a definite interval between the two keyings. Did Karl’s omission have any significance, or was he merely following the usual convention?

The problem contained its own solution, though emotion rather than intelligence pointed the way to it. Duncan could see no flaw, so he explored every possibility that he could imagine. Then, feeling a faint trace of guilt, he tapped out G/T 101000 YNDILAC, pausing for a fraction of a second before he completed the sequence with #.

If he was wrong, Calindy would never know what she had lost. And though Karl’s last message to her might have been erased, none of the other stored memories would be placed in hazard.

He fears were groundless. Duncan heard only the opening words—“Hello, Calindy, when you hear this, I shall be...” before he hit the STOP key and the Minisec became silent again. He was after bigger game. Perhaps one day, when he had the time—no, that was a temptation he would be strong enough to resist...

And so, in the secluded luxury of the Centennial Hotel, with a DO NOT DISTURB block on all visitors and incoming messages, Duncan keyed G/T 101000 SUGRA #. For two days he canceled his appointments, and had all meals sent up to his room. Occasionally, he made an outgoing call to check upon some technical point, but most of the time he was alone, communing with the dead.

Finally he was ready to meet the Argus Committee again, on his own terms. He understood everything—except, of course, the greatest mystery of all. How delighted Karl would have been if he had ever known about Golden Reef...

The room had not changed, and perhaps the invisible audience was the same. But there was now no trace of the slightly uncertain Duncan Makenzie who, only a few days ago, had wondered if he should opt for diplomatic immunity.