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.
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...