“Bureaucracies are self-perpetuating—you should know that. But civilization will always have its discontents, to use a phrase I came across somewhere. Though the police handle most matters, as they do on Titan, there are cases which require—special treatment. By the way, I’ve been asked to make it clear that anything you care to say will be privileged and won’t be published without your consent. And if you wish, I will come along with you for moral support and guidance.”
Even now, Duncan was not quite sure who the Ambassador was representing, but the offer was a reasonable one and he had accepted it. He could see no harm in such a private meeting; some kind of judicial inquiry was obviously needed, but the less publicity, the better.
He had half expected to be taken in a blacked-out car on a long, tortuous drive to some vast underground complex in the depths of Virginia or Maryland. It was a little disappointing to end up in a small room at the old State Department Building, talking to an Assistant Under Secretary with the improbable name of John Smith; later checking on Duncan’s part disclosed that this actually was his name. However, it soon became clear that there was much more to this room than the plain desk and three comfortable chairs that met the eye.
Duncan’s suspicions about the large mirror that covered most of one wall were quickly confirmed. His host—or interrogator, if one wanted to be melodramatic—saw the direction of his glance and gave him a candid smile.
“With your permission, Mr. Makenzie, we’d like to record this meeting. And there are several other participants watching; they may join in from time to time. If you don’t mind, I’ll refrain from introducing them.”
Duncan nodded politely toward the mirror.
“I’ve no objection to recording,” he said. “Do you mind if I also use my Minisec?”
There was a painful silence, broken only by an ambassadorial chuckle. Then Mr. Smith answered: “We would prefer to supply you with a transcript. I can promise that it will be quite accurate.”
Duncan did not press the point. Presumably, it might cause embarrassment if some of the voices involved were recognized by outsiders. In any case, a transcript would be perfectly acceptable; he could trust his memory to spot errors or deletions.
“Well, that’s fine,” said Mr. Smith, obviously relieved. “Let’s get started.”
Simultaneously, something odd happened to the room. Its acoustics changed abruptly; it was as if it had suddenly become much larger. There was not the slightest visible alteration, but Duncan had the uncanny feeling of unseen presences all around him. He would never know if they were actually in Washington, or on the far side of the Earth, and it gave him an uncomfortable, naked sensation to be surrounded by invisible listeners—and watchers.
A moment later, a voice spoke quietly from the air immediately in front of him.
“Good morning, Mr. Makenzie. It’s good of you to spare us your time, and please excuse our reticence. If you think this is some kind of twentieth-century spy melodrama, our apologies. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, these precautions are totally unnecessary. But we can never tell which occasion will be the hundredth.”
It was a friendly, powerful voice, very deep and resonant, yet there was something slightly unnatural about it. A computer? Duncan asked himself. That was too easy an assumption; in any case, there was no way of distinguishing between computer vocalization and human speech—especially now that a realistic number of ‘ers’ ‘wells’, incomplete sentences, and downright grammatical errors could be incorporated to make the nonelectronic participants in a conversation feel at ease. He guessed that he was listening to a man talking through a speech-disguising circuit.
While Duncan was still trying to decide if any answer was necessary, another speaker took over. This time, the voice emerged about half a meter from his left ear.
“It’s only fair to reassure you on one point, Mr. Makenzie. As far as we can ascertain, no Terran laws have been broken. We are not here to investigate a crime—only to solve a mystery, to explain a tragedy. If any Titanian regulations are involved, that is your problem—not ours. I hope you understand.”
“Yes,” Duncan replied. “I assumed that was the case, but I’m glad to have your confirmation.”
This was indeed a relief, but he knew better than to relax. Perhaps this statement was exactly what it seemed to be—a friendly plea for co-operation. But it might also be a trap.
Now a woman’s voice came from immediately behind him, and he had to resist the impulse to swing around and look at the speaker. Was this quite unnecessary shifting of sound focus a deliberate attempt to disorient him? How naïve did they take him to be?
“To save us all time, let me explain that we have a complete summary of Mr. Helmer’s background.” And mine, thought Duncan. “Your government has been most helpful, but you may have information which is unknown to us, since you were one of his closest friends.”
Duncan nodded, without bothering to speak. They would know all about that friendship, and its ending.
As if responding to some hidden signal, Mr. Smith opened his briefcase and carefully laid a small object on the table.
“You’ll recognize this, of course,” the female voice continued. “The Helmer family has asked that it be handed over to you for safe custody, with the other property of the deceased.”
The sight of Karl’s Minisec—virtually the same model as his own—was in itself such a shock that at first the remainder of the message failed to get through. Then Duncan reacted with a start and said: “Would you please repeat that?”
There was such a surprisingly long delay that he wondered if the speaker was on the Moon; during the course of the session, Duncan became almost certain of it. With all the other interrogators, there was a quick give-and-take, but with the lone woman there was always this invariable time-lag.
“The Helmers have asked that you be custodian of their son’s effects, until disposition is settled.”
It was a gesture of peace, across the grave of all their hopes, and Duncan felt his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He looked a the handful of microelectronics on the table and felt a deep reluctance to touch it. There were all of Karl’s secrets. Would the Helmers have asked him to accept this if they had anything to hide? But there was a great deal, Duncan was certain, that Karl had concealed from his own family; there would be much in the Minisec that only he had ever known. True, it would be guarded by carefully chosen code words, some of them possibly linked with ERASE circuits to prevent unauthorized intrusion.
“Naturally,” continued the voice from the Moon (if it was from the Moon), “we are interested in what may be in this Minisec. In particular, we would like any list of contacts on Earth—addresses or personal numbers.”
Yes, thought Duncan, I can understand that. I’m sure you must have been tempted to do some interrogation already, but are scared of possible ERASE circuits and want to explore other possibilities first...
He stared thoughtfully a that little box on the table, with its multitudinous studs and its now darkened read-out panel. There lay a device of a complexity beyond all the dreams of earlier ages—a virtual microsimulacrum of a human brain. Within it were billions of bits of information, stored in endless atomic arrays, awaiting to be recalled by the right signal—or obliterated by the wrong one. At the moment it was lifeless, inert, like a consciousness itself in the profoundest depths of sleep. No—not quite inert; the clock and calendar would still be operating, ticking off the seconds and minutes and days that now were no concern of Karl’s.