For that he had no answer; he could only nod.
Later, after Mary had left with the check, he looked for and found a stack of old homeopapes in the closet of the apt; he sat on the ancient, Danish-style sofa in the living room, rooting through them for the articles on the interplan project which Mary intended to become involved in. Her new life, he said to himself, to replace that of being married.
In a ’pape one week old he found a more or less complete article; he lit a cigarette and read carefully.
Psychologists were needed, it was anticipated by the US Interplan Health & Welfare Service, because the moon had originally been a hospital area, a psychiatric care-center for Terran immigrants to the Alphane system who had cracked under the abnormal, excessive pressures of inter-system colonization. The Alphanes had left it alone, except for their traders.
What was known of the moon’s current status came from these Alphane traders. According to them a civilization of sorts had arisen during the decades in which the hospital had been severed from Terra’s authority. However, they could not evaluate it because their knowledge of Terran mores was inadequate. In any case local commodities were produced, traded; domestic industry existed, too, and he wondered why the Terran government felt the necessity of meddling. He could imagine Mary there so well; she was precisely the sort which TERPLAN, the international agency, would select. People of Mary’s type would always succeed.
Going to the ancient picture window he stood for a time once more, gazing down. And then, stealthily, he felt rise up within him the familiar urge. The sense that it was pointless to go on; suicide, whatever the law and the church said, was for him the only real answer at this instant.
He found a smaller side window that opened; raising it, he listened to the buzz of a jet-hopper as it landed on a rooftop on the far side of the street. Its sound died. He waited, and then he climbed part way over the edge of the window, dangling above the traffic which moved below.…
From inside him a voice, but not his own, said, “Please tell me your name. Regardless of whether you intend or do not intend to jump.”
Turning, Chuck saw a yellow Ganymedean slime mold that had silently flowed under the door of the conapt and was gathering itself into the heap of small globes which comprised its physical being.
“I rent the conapt across the hall,” the slime mold declared.
Chuck said, “Among Terrans it’s customary to knock.”
“I possess nothing to knock with. In any case I wished to enter before you—departed.”
“It’s my personal business whether I jump or not.”
“‘No Terran is an island,’” the slime mold more or less quoted. “Welcome to the building which we who rent apts here have humorously dubbed ‘Discarded Arms Conapts.’ There are others here whom you should meet. Several Terrans—like yourself—plus a number of non-Ts of assorted physiognomy, some which will repel you, some which no doubt will attract. I had planned to borrow a cup of yogurt culture from you, but in view of your preoccupation it seems an insulting request.”
“I haven’t moved in anything. As yet.” He swung his leg back over the sill, stepped back into the room, away from the window. He was not surprised to see the Ganymedean slime mold; a ghetto situation existed with non-Ts: no matter how influential and highly-placed in their own societies on Terra they were forced to inhabit substandard housing such as this.
“Could I carry a business card,” the slime mold said, “I would now present it to you. I am an importer of uncut gems, a dealer in secondhand gold, and, under the right circumstances, a fanatic buyer of philatelic collections. As a matter of fact I have in my apt at the moment a choice collection of early US, with special emphasis on mint blocks of four of the Columbus set; would you—” It broke off. “I see you would not. In any case the desire to destroy yourself has at least temporarily abated from your mind. That is good. In addition to my announced commercial—”
“Aren’t you required by law to curb your telepathic ability while on Terra?” Chuck said.
“Yes, but your situation seemed to be exceptional. Mr. Rittersdorf, I cannot personally employ you, since I require no propagandistic services. But I have a number of contacts among the nine moons; given time—”
“No thanks,” Chuck said roughly. “I just want to be left alone.” He had already endured enough assistance in job acquisition to last him a lifetime.
“But, on my part, quite unlike your wife, I have no ulterior motive.” The slime mold ebbed closer. “Like most Terran males your sense of self-respect is bound up in your wage-earning capabilities, an area in which you have grave doubts as well as extreme guilts. I can do something for you… but it will take time. Presently I leave Terra and start back to my own moon. Suppose I pay you five hundred skins—US, of course—to come with me. Consider it a loan, if you want.”
“What would I do on Ganymede?” Irritably, Chuck said, “Don’t you believe me either? I have a job; one I consider adequate—I don’t want to leave it.”
“Subconsciously—”
“Don’t read my subconscious back to me. And get out of here and leave me alone.” He turned his back on the slime mold.
“I am afraid your suicidal drive will return—perhaps even before tonight.”
“Let it.”
The slime mold said, “There is only one thing that can help you, and my miserable job-offer is not it.”
“What is it, then?”
“A woman to replace your wife.”
“Now you’re acting as a—”
“Not at all. This is neither physically base nor ethereal; it is simply practical. You must find a woman who can accept you, love you, as you are; otherwise you’ll perish. Let me ponder this. And in the meantime, control yourself. Give me five hours. And remain here.” The slime mold flowed slowly under the door, through the crack and outside into the hall. Its thoughts dimmed. “As an importer, buyer and dealer I have many contacts with Terrans of all walks of life…” Then it was gone.
Shakily, Chuck lit a cigarette. And walked away—a long distance away—from the window, to seat himself on the ancient Danish-style sofa. And wait.
It was hard to know how to react to the slime mold’s charitable offer; he was both angered and touched—and, in addition, puzzled. Could the slime mold actually help him? It seemed impossible.
He waited one hour.
A knock sounded on the door of the conapt. It could not be the Ganymedean returning because a slime mold did not—could not—knock. Rising, Chuck went to the door and opened it.
A Terran girl stood there.
THREE
Although she had a thousand matters to attend to, all pertaining to her new non-paying job with the US Interplan Health & Welfare Department, Dr. Mary Rittersdorf took time off for a personal item. Once more she rode by jet cab to New York and the Fifth Avenue office of Jerry Feld, the producer of the Bunny Hentman show. A week ago she had given him a batch of the very latest—and best—CIA scripts which Chuck had written; it was now time to find out if her husband, or ex-husband, had a chance at the job.
If Chuck wouldn’t seek better employment on his own she would. It was her duty, if for no other reason than that she and the children, for the next year at least, would be totally dependent on Chuck’s earnings.
Let off on the roof field Mary descended by in-ramp to floor ninety, came to the glass door, hesitated, then allowed it to open and entered the outer office in which Mr. Feld’s receptionist—very pretty, with much make-up and a rather tight spider-silk sweater—sat. Mary felt annoyed at the girl; just because bras had become passé, did a girl with so pronounced a bosom have to cater to fashion? In this case practicality dictated a bra, and Mary stood at the desk feeling herself flushing with disapproval. And artificial nipple-dilation; it was just too much.
“Yes?” the receptionist said, glancing up through an ornate, stylish monocle. As she met Mary’s coldness her nipples deburgeoned slightly, as if scared into submission
, frightened away.
“I’d like to see Mr. Feld. I’m Dr. Mary Rittersdorf and I don’t have much time; I have to leave for the TERPLAN lunar base at three P.M. New York time.” She made her voice as efficient—and demanding—as she knew how.
After a series of bureaucratic actions on the receptionist’s part Mary was sent on in.
At his imitation oak desk—no genuine oak had existed for a decade—Jerry Feld sat with a video tape projector, deep in his business tasks. “Just a moment, Dr. Rittersdorf.” He pointed to a chair; she seated herself, crossed her legs and lit a cigarette.
On the miniature TV screen Bunny Hentman was doing an act in which he played a German industrialist; wearing a blue, double-breasted suit, he was explaining to his board of directors how the new autonomic plows which their cartel was producing could be used for war. Four plows would guide themselves, at news of hostilities, into a single unit; the unit was not a larger plow but a missile-launcher. In his heavy accent Bunny explained this, putting it as if it were a great achievement, and Feld chuckled.
“I don’t have much time, Mr. Feld,” Mary said crisply.
Reluctantly, Feld stopped the video tape and turned toward her. “I showed Bunny the scripts. He’s interested. Your husband’s wit is dry, moribund, but it’s authentic. It’s what once was—”
“I know all this,” Mary said. “I’ve had to hear his programming scripts for years; he always tried them out on me.” She smoked rapidly, feeling tense. “Well, do you think Bunny could use them?”
“We’re nowhere,” Feld said, “until your husband sees Bunny; there’s no use your—”
The office door opened and Bunny Hentman entered.
This was the first time Mary had seen the famous TV comic in person and she felt curious; how did he differ from his public image? He was, she decided, a little shorter, quite a bit older, than on TV; he had a large bald area and he looked tired. In fact, in real life Bunny looked like a worried Central European junk dealer, in a rumpled suit, not quite well-shaved, thinning hair disarrayed, and—to cap the impression—smoking the shortened remains of a cigar. But his eyes. He had an alert and yet warm quality; she rose and stood facing him. Over TV the strength of his gaze did not register. This was not mere intelligence on Bunny’s part; this was more, a perception of—she did not know what. And—
All about Bunny an aura hung, an aura of suffering. His face, his body, seemed sopped with it. Yes, she thought, that’s what shows in his eyes. Memory of pain. Pain that took place long ago, but which he has never forgotten—nor will he. He was made, put on this planet, to suffer; no wonder he’s a great comic. For Bunny comedy was a struggle, a fighting back against the reality of literal physical pain; it was a reaction formation of gigantic—and effective—stature.
“Bun,” Jerry Feld said, “This is Dr. Mary Rittersdorf; her husband wrote those CIA robot programs I showed you last Thursday.”
The comic held out his hand; Mary shook hands with him and said, “Mr. Hentman—”
“Please,” the comic said. “That’s just my professional name. My real name, the one I was born with, is Lionsblood Regal. Naturally I had to change it; who goes into show biz calling himself Lionsblood Regal? You call me Lionsblood or just Blood; Jer here calls me Li-Reg—it’s a mark of intimacy.” He added, still holding onto her hand, “And if there is anything I like about a woman it’s intimacy.”
“Li-Reg,” Feld said, “is your cable address; you’ve got it mixed up again.”
“That’s so.” Hentman released Mary’s hand. “Well, Frau Doktor Rattenfänger—”
“Rittersdorf,” Mary corrected.
“Rattenfänger,” Feld said, “is German for rat-catcher. Look, Bun, don’t make a mistake like that again.”
“Sorry,” the comic said. “Listen, Frau Doktor Rittelsdof. Please call me something nice; I can use it. I crave affection from pretty women; it’s the small boy in me.” He smiled, and yet his face—and especially his eyes—still contained the world-weary pain, the weight of an ancient burden. “I’ll hire your husband if I get to see you now and then. If he understands the real reason for the deal, what diplomats call the ‘secret protocols.’” To Jerry Feld he said, “And you know how my protocols have been bothering me, lately.”
“Chuck is in a run-down conapt on the West Coast,” Mary said. “I’ll write the address down.” Quickly she took pen and paper and jotted. “Tell him you need him; tell him—”
“But I don’t need him,” Bunny Hentman said quietly.
Mary said, with caution, “Couldn’t you see him, Mr. Hentman? Chuck has a unique talent. I’m afraid if no one pushes him—”
Plucking at his lower lip Hentman said, “You’re afraid he won’t make use of it, that it’ll go abegging.”
“Yes.” She nodded.
“But it’s his talent. It’s for him to decide.”
“My husband,” Mary said, “needs help.” And I ought to know, she thought. It’s my job to understand people. Chuck is a dependent infantile type; he must be pushed and led if he’s to move at all. Otherwise, he’ll rot in that awful little old conapt he’s rented. Or—throw himself out the window. This, she decided, is the only thing that will save him. Although he would be the last to admit it.
Eyeing her intently Hentman said, “Can I make a side-deal with you, Mrs. Rittersdorf?”
“W-what kind of side-deal?” She glanced at Feld; his face was impassive as if he had withdrawn, turtlelike, from the situation.
“Just to see you now and then,” Hentman said. “Not on business.”
“I won’t be here. I’m going to work for TERPLAN; I’ll be in the Alph’ system for months if not years.” She felt panic.
“Then no job for your hubby,” Hentman said.
Feld spoke up. “When are you leaving, Dr. Rittersdorf?”
“Right away,” Mary said. “In four days. I have to pack my things, arrange for the children to—”
“Four days,” Hentman said meditatively. He continued to eye her, up and down. “You and your husband are separated? Jerry said—”
“Yes,” Mary said. “Chuck’s already moved out.”
“Have dinner with me tonight,” Hentman said. “And meanwhile I’ll either drop by your husband’s conapt, or send someone from my staff. We’ll give him a six weeks’ try… get him started doing scripts. Is it a deal?”
“I don’t mind having dinner with you,” Mary said. “But—”
“That’s all,” Hentman said, “just dinner. Any restaurant you want, anywhere in the United States. But, if more develops…” He smiled.
After flying back to the West Coast by jet cab, she traveled on the urban monorail into downtown San Francisco and TERPLAN’s branch office, the agency with whom she had dealt regarding her highly desirable new job.
Shortly she found herself ascending by elevator; beside her stood a trim-cut young man, well-dressed, a P.R. official of TERPLAN whose name, as she had gotten it, was Lawrence McRae.
McRae said, “There’s a gang of homeopape reporters waiting, and here’s what they’ll throw at you. They’ll imply, and try to get you to confirm, that this therapeutic project is a coverup for Terra’s acquisition of the moon Alpha III M2. That fundamentally we’re there to reestablish a colony, claim it, develop it, then send settlers to it.”
“But it was ours before the war,” Mary said. “Otherwise how could it have been used as a hospital base?”
“True,” McRae said. They left the elevator, walked down a hall. “But no Terran ship has visited it for twenty-five years and legally speaking that terminates our land-claim. The moon reverted five years ago to political and legal autonomy. However, if we land and reëstablish a hospital base, with technicians, doctors, therapists, whatever else is needed, we can assert a fresh claim—if the Alphanes haven’t, and evidently they haven’t. They’re still recovering from the war, of course; that may be it. Or they may have scouted the moon and decided it’s not what they want, that the ecology
is too foreign to their biology. Here.” He held a door open and she entered, finding herself facing seated homeopape reporters, fifteen or sixteen of them, some with pic-cameras.
Taking a deep breath she walked to the lectern which McRae pointed out; it was equipped with a microphone.
McRae, speaking into the mike, said, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Dr. Mary Rittersdorf, the renowned marriage counselor from Marin County who as you know has volunteered her services for this project.”
A reporter at once said, lazily, “Dr. Rittersdorf, what is this project called? Project Psychotic?” The other reporters laughed.
It was McRae who answered. “Operation Fifty-minutes is the working name we’ve applied to it.”
“Where do the sickies on the moon go when you catch them?” another reporter asked. “So maybe you sweep them under the rug, is that it?”
Mary, speaking into the mike, said, “At first we will be involved in research, in order to fathom the situation. We know already that the original patients—at least some of them—and their progeny are alive. How viable the society they’ve formed is we don’t pretend to know. I would guess it’s not viable at all, except in the bare, literal sense that they do live. We will attempt corrective therapy with those we can. It’s the children, of course, that we’re most concerned with.”
“When do you expect to be on Alpha III M2, Doctor?” a reporter asked. The pic-cameras ground away, whirring like distant flights of birds.
“I’d say within two weeks,” Mary said.
“You’re not being paid for this, are you, Doctor?” a reporter asked.
“No.”
“You’re convinced, then, that this is in the public good? It’s a Cause?”
“Well,” Mary said, hesitantly. “It—”
“Terra, then, will benefit by our meddling with this culture of ex-mental hospital patients?” The reporter’s voice was sleek.
Turning to McRae, Mary said, “What should I say?”
McRae, into the mike, said, “This is not Dr. Rittersdorf’s area; she’s a trained psychologist, not a politician. She declines to answer.”
Clans of the Alphane Moon Page 3
