"So that's why you switched off the viddy," he said sympathetically, and edged closer.
"Then Ivor's friend called me, with that query about Titan. I thought it was an odd coincidence... you know, Duncan, that was an unkind trick to play on me."
She sounded more sad than angry; and she did not move away from him. Almost half of the sofa was
now unoccupied.
"And then everything started to happen at once. Did you know that Terran Security sent two of its agents to interview me?"
"No, but I guessed it. What did you tell them?"
"Everything, of course. They were very kind and understanding."
"And also clumsy," said Duncan with deep bitterness.
"Oh, Duncan, that was an accident! You were an important guest — you had to be protected. There
would have been an interplanetary scandal if something had happened just before you were going to
address Congress. But you should never have gone after Karl, in such a dangerous place."
"It wasn't dangerous — we were having a perfectly friendly discussion. How did I know that trigger-happy idiot was lurking in the next antenna?"
"What was he to do? He'd been ordered to protect you at all costs, and had been warned that Karl
might be violent. It looked as if you were starting to fight — and that laser blast would only have blinded Karl for a few hours. It was all a terrible accident. No one was to blame."
Perhaps, thought Duncan; it would be a long, long time before he could view the whole sequence of
events dispassionately. If there was blame, it was spread thinly, and across two worlds. Like most human tragedies, this one had been caused not by evil intentions, but by errors of judgment, misunderstandings...
If Malcolm and Colin had not insisted that he have a showdown with Karl, confronting him with the
facts... if he had not wanted Karl to prove his innocence, and deliberately given him the opportunity to assert it, even to the extent — unconsciously, but he was aware of it now — of putting himself in his
power... Perhaps Karl had been really dangerous; that was something else he would never know.
It seemed as if they had both been enmeshed in some complex web of fate from which there had never
been any possibility of escape. And though the scale of that disaster was so much greater that the very comparison appeared ludicrous, Duncan was again reminded of the Titanic. She too had been doomed, as
if the gods themselves conspired against her, by a whole series of apparently random and trivial chances.
If the radioed warnings had not been buried under greetings and business messages... If that iceberg had not sliced so incredibly through all those watertight compartments... If the radio operator on the ship twenty kilometers away had not gone off duty when the first of all SOS signals was flashed into the
Atlantic night... If there had been enough lifeboats... It was like the failure of a whole series of safety devices, one by one, against incalculable odds, until catastrophe was inevitable.
"Perhaps you are right," said Duncan, trying to console himself as much as Calindy. "I don't really blame anyone. Not even Karl."
"Poor Karl. He really loved me. To have come all the way to Earth..."
Duncan did not answer, though for a moment he was tempted. Surely Calindy did not believe that
this was the only reason! Even a brain-burned man, imprinted by one of those diabolical joy machines,
was driven by more than passion. And Karl's main objective had been so awesome that, even now,
Duncan could scarcely believe the picture that was slowly emerging from his sketchbook and the guarded portions of his Minisec.
Karl had had a dream — or a nightmare — and Duncan was the only man alive who even partially
understood it. How utterly baffled and bewildered the Argus Committee must be! That thought gave
Duncan a heady sense of power, though there were times when he wished that the burden of knowledge
had reached him in some other way, or had not come at all...
For power and happiness were incompatible. Karl had reached for both, and both had slipped through
his fingers. How Duncan could profit by that lesson he did not yet know; but it would be with him for all the years to come.
But if happiness was perhaps unattainable, at least pleasure was not beyond his grasp, nor was it to be despised. For a few moments he could forget the affairs of state and turn his back upon an enigma far
more profound than any of those that Calindy peddled to her clients.
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.
40
Argus Panoptes