“I don’t believe it’s natural,” he had once told Duncan. “A material like that couldn’t happen. It’s an artifact of a superior civilization-like-oh-one of our crystal memories.”
Duncan had been impressed. It was one of those theories that sounded just crazy enough to be true, and every few years someone “rediscovered” it. But as the debate raged on inconclusively, the public soon lost interest; only the geologists and gemologists still found titanite a source of endless fascination-as Manderstahm had now demonstrated.
Makenzies always kept their promises, even in the most trifling matters.
Duncan would send a message off to Colin the first thing in the morning.
There was no hurry; and that, he expected and half hoped, would be the last he would hear of it.
Very gently, he replaced the titanite cross in its setting between the
F,
N, U, and V pentominoes. One day, he really must make a sketch of the configuration.
If the pieces ever fell out of the box, it might take him hours to get them back again….
THE RIVALS
After the encounter with Mortimer Keynes Duncan licked his wounds in silence for several days. He did not feel like discussing the matter with his usual confidants, General George and Ambassador Farrell. And though he did not doubt that Calindy would have all the answers-or could find them quickly-he also hesitated to call her. Instinct, rather than logic, told him that it might not be a good idea. When he looked into his heart, Duncan had to admit ruefully that though he certainly desired
Calindy, and perhaps even loved her, he did not trust her.
The Classified Section of the Comsole was not much use. When he asked for information on cloning services, he got several dozen names, none of which meant anything to him. He was not surprised to see that the list no longer included Keynes; when he checked the surgeon’s personal entry, it printed out “Retired.” He might have saved himself some embarrassment if he had discovered this earlier, but who could have guessed?
Like many such problems, this one solved itself unexpectedly. He was groaning beneath Bernie Patras’ ministrations when he suddenly realized that the person who could help was right here, pulverizing him with merciless skill.
Whether or not a man has any secrets from his valet, he certainly has none from his masseur. With Bernie, Duncan had established a cheerful, bantering relationship, without detracting from the serious professionalism of the other’s therapy-thanks to which he was not merely mobile, but still steadily gaining strength.
Bernie was an inveterate gossip, fall of scandalous stories, but Duncan had noticed that he never revealed names and was as careful to protect his sources as any media reporter. For all his chattering, he could be trusted; and he also had any entree he wished to the medical profession. He was just the man for the job.
“Bernie, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.92
“Delighted. Just tell me whether it’s boys or girls, and how many of each, with approximate shapes and sizes. I’ll fill in the details.”
“This is serious. You know I’m a clone, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Duncan had assumed as much; it was not one of the Solar System’s best-kept secrets.
“Ouch-have you ever heard of Mortimer Keynes?”
“The genetic surgeon? Of course.”
“Good. He was the man who cloned me. Well, the other day I called him, just to-ah-say hello. And he behaved in a very strange way. In fact, he was almost rude.”
“You didn’t call him “Doctoe? Surgeons often hate that.”
“No-at least, I don’t think so. It wasn’t really anything on a personal level. He just tried to tell me that cloning was a bad idea, and he was against it. I felt I should apologize for existing.”
“I can understand your feelings. What do you want me to do? My rates for assassination are quite high, but easy terms can be arranged.”
“Before we get that far, you might make some inquiries among your medical friends. I’d very much like to discover why Sir Mortimer changed his mind -that is, if anyone knows the reason.”
“I’ll find out, don’t worry-though it may take a few days.” Bernie was obviously delighted at the challenge; he was also unduly pessimistic in his estimate, for he called Duncan the very next morning.
“No problem,” he said triumphantly. “Everyone knows the story-I should have remembered it my~ self. Are you ready to record? A few kilobits of the
World Times coming over…” The tragicomedy had reverberated around the Terran news services for several months, more than fifteen years ago, and echoes of it were still heard from time to time. It was an old tale-as old as human history, in some form or other. Duncan had read only a few paragraphs before he was able to imagine the rest.
There had been the brilliant but aging surgeon and his equally brilliant young assistant, who in the natural course of events would have been his successor. They had known triumphs and disasters together, and had been so closely linked that the world had thought of them almost as one person.
