He saw Karl's foot hit the precious notebook, so that it went spinning off into space, fluttering
downward like some strange, white bird. Blinded though he was, Karl must have realized what he had
done. Totally disoriented, he made one futile grab at the empty air, then crashed into the guardrail.
Duncan tried to reach him, but it was too late.
Even then, it might not have mattered; but the years and the rust had done their work. As the
treacherous metal parted, it seemed to Duncan that Karl cried out his name, in the last second of his life.
But of that he would never be sure.
38
The Listeners
"You're under no legal compulsion," Ambassador Farrell had explained. "If you wish, I could claim diplomatic immunity for you. But it would be unwise, and might lead to various — ah — difficulties. In any case, this inquiry is in the mutual interest of all concerned. We want to find out what's happened, just as much as they do."
"And who are they? "
"Even if I knew, I couldn't tell you. Let's say Terran Security."
"You still have that kind of nonsense here? I thought spies and secret agents went out a couple of hundred years ago."
"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