nothing to Duncan, though it did arouse some faint and unidentifiable association from history. He turned the page — and had one of the biggest shocks of his life.
As he stared incredulously at the drawing that occupied the entire area of the paper, he was suddenly
transported back to Golden Reef. There could be no misinterpretation; yet as far as he knew, Karl had
never shown the slightest interest in the minutiae of terrestrial zoology. The very idea that any Titanian might be fascinated by marine biology was faintly incongruous.
Yet here was a detailed study, with the perspective meticulously worked out around the faintly limned
x-, y-, and z-axes of the spiny sea urchin. Diadema. Only a dozen of its thin, radiating needles were
shown but it was clear that there were hundreds, occupying the entire sphere around it.
That was astonishing enough, but there was something even more remarkable. This drawing must
have required hours of devoted labor. Karl had dedicated to an unprepossessing little invertebrate —
which surely he could never have seen in his life! — all the love and skill he had applied to the portrait of Calindy.
*
*
*
*
*
In the bright sunshine outside the old State Department, Duncan and the Ambassador had to wait for
five minutes before the next shuttle came gliding silently down Virginia Avenue. No one was within
earshot, so Duncan said with quiet urgency: "Does ‘Argus’ mean anything to you?"
"As a matter of fact, yes — though I'm damned if I see how it can help. I still have the remnants of a classical education, and unless I'm very much mistaken, Argus was the name of Odysseus' old dog. It
recognized him when he came home to Ithaca after his twenty years of wandering, then died."
Duncan brooded over this information for a few seconds, then shrugged his shoulders.
"You're right — that's no help at all. And I still want to know why these people I met — or didn't meet — are so interested in Karl. As they admitted at the start, there's no suggestion that he's done
anything illegal, as far as Earth is concerned. And I suspect that he may have only bent some Titanian regulations, not broken them."
"Just a moment — just a moment!" said the Ambassador. "You've reminded me of something." His face went through some rather melodramatic contortions, then smoothed itself out. He glanced around
conspiratorily, saw that there was no one within hearing and that the shuttle was still three minutes away by the countdown indicator.
"I think I may have it, and I'll be obliged if you don't attribute this to me. But just consider the following wild speculation...
"Every organism has defense mechanisms to protect itself. You've just encountered one — part of the security system of Earth. This particular group, whatever its responsibilities may be, probably consists of a fairly small number of important people. I expect I know most of them — in fact, one voice... never
mind...
"You could call a watchdog committee. Such a committee has to have a name for itself — a secret
name, naturally. In the course of my duties, I occasionally hear of such things, and carefully forget
them..."
"Now, Argus was a watchdog. So what better name for such a group? Mind you, I'm still not
asserting anything. But imagine the acute embarrassment of a secret organization that happens to find its name carefully spelled out in highly mysterious circumstances."
It was a very plausible theory, and Duncan was sure that the Ambassador would not have advanced it
without excellent reasons. But it did not go even halfway.
"That's all very well, and I'm prepared to accept it. But what the devil has all this to do with a drawing of a sea urchin? I feel like I'm going slowly mad."
The shuttle was now gliding to a halt in front of them, and the Ambassador waved him into it.
"If it's any consolation, Duncan, be assured that you're in very good company. I'd sacrifice a fair share of my modest retirement benefits if I could eavesdrop now on Under Secretary Smith and his
invisible friends."
39
Business And Desire
There was no way of telling, as Duncan stood at the window of Calindy's apartment, that he was not
looking down at the busy traffic of 57th Street on a crisp winter night, when the first flakes of snow were drifting down, to melt at once as they struck the heated sidewalks. But this was summer, not winter; and even President Bernstein's limousine was not as old as the cars moving silently a hundred meters below.
He was watching the past, perhaps a hologram from the late twentieth century. Yet though Duncan knew
that he was actually far underground, there was nothing he could do to convince his senses of this fact.
He was alone with Calindy at last, though in circumstances of which he could never have dreamed
only a few days ago. How ironic that, now the opportunity had come, he felt barely the faintest flicker of desire!
"What is that?" he asked suspiciously, as Calindy handed him a slim crystal goblet containing a few centimeters of blood-red liquid.