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Sir Mortimer Keynes sat in his armchair in Harley Street and looked with clinical interest at Duncan Makenzie, on the other side of the Atlantic.

“So you’re the latest of the famous Makenzies. And you want to make sure you’re not the last.”

This was a statement, not a question. Duncan made no attempt to answer, but continued to study the man who, in an almost literal sense, was his creator.

Mortimer Keynes was well into his eighties, and looked like a rather shaggy and decrepit lion. There was an air of authority about him-but also of resignation and detachment. After half a century as Earth’s leading genetic surgeon, he no longer expected life to provide him with any surprises; but he had not yet lost all interest in the human comedy.

“Tell me,” he continued, “why did you come yourself, all the way from

Titan? Why not just send the necessary bio type samples?”

“I have business here,” Duncan answered. “As well as an invitation to the

Centennial. It was too good an opportunity to miss.” “You could still

have sent the sample on ahead. 182 Now you’ll have to wait nine months-that is, if you want to take your son back with you.”

“This visit was arranged very unexpectedly, at short notice. Anyway, I can use the time. This is my only chance to see Earth; in another ten years, I won’t be able to face its gravity.”

“Why is it so important to produce another guaranteed one-hundred-percent

Makenzie?”

Presumably Colin had gone through all this with Keynes-but, of course, that was thirty years ago, and heaven knows how many thousands of clonings the surgeon had performed since then. He could not possibly remember; on the other hand, he would certainly have detailed records, and was probably checking them at this very moment on that display panel in his desk.

“To answer that question,” Duncan began slowly, “I’d have to IF, ve you the history of Titan for the last seventy years. ‘

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” interrupted the surgeon, his eyes scanning his hidden display. “It’s an old story; only the details vary from age to age. Have you ever heard of Akhenaton?”

“Who?”

“Cleopatra?” Oh yes-she was an Egyptian queen, wasn’t she?”

Queen of Egypt, but not Egyptian. Mistress of Anthony and Caesar. The last and greatest of the Ptolemies.”

What on Earth, Duncan thought in bemusement, has this to do with me? Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, he felt overwhelmed by the sheer detail and complexity of terrestrial history. Colin, vdth his interest in the past, would probably know what Keynes was driving at, but

Duncan was completely lost.

“I’m referring to the problem of succession. How do you make sure your dynasty continues after your death, on the lines you want? There’s no way of guaranteeing it, of course, but you can improve the odds if you can leave a carbon copy of yourself….

“The Egyptian Pharaohs made a heroic attempt at this-the best that

could be done without modern 183 science. Because they claimed to be gods, they could not marry mortals, so they mated brother and sister. The result was sometimes genius, but also deformity -in the case of Akhenaton, both. Yet they continued the tradition for more than a thousand years, until it ended with Cleopatra.

“If the Pharaohs had been able to clone themselves, they would certainly have done so. It would have been the perfect answer, avoiding the problem of inbreeding. But it introduces other problems. Because genes are no longer shuffled, it stops the evolutionary clock. It means the end of all biological progress

What’s he driving at? Duncan asked himself impatiently. The interview was not going at all in the way he had planned. It had seemed a simple enough matter to set up the arrangements, just as Colin and Malcolm had done, three and seven decades ago, respectively. Now it appeared that the man who had made more clonings than anyone on Earth was trying to talk him out of it. He felt confused and disoriented, and also a little angry.

“I’ve no objection,” the surgeon continued, “to cloning it it’s combined with genetic repair-which is not possible in your case, as you certainly know. When you were cloned from Colin, that was merely an attempt to perpetuate the dynasty. Healing was not involved—only politics and personal vanity. Oh, I’m sure that both your precursors are convinced that it was all for the good of Titan, and they may well be absolutely right.

But I’m afraid I’ve given up playing God. I’m sorry, Mr. Makenzie. Now, if you will excuse me-I hope you have an enjoyable visit. Goodbye to you.”

Duncan was left staring, slack-jawed, at a blank screen. He did not even have time to return the farewell-still less give Colin’s greetings, as he had intended, to the man who had created both of them.

He was surprised, disappointed-and hurt. No doubt he could make other arrangements, but it had never occurred to him to go anywhere than to his own point of origin. He felt like a son who had just been