Clans of the Alphane Moon

by Philip K. Dick

  “I suppose so,” Ledebur said, without an iota of enthusiasm.

  Chuck appeared, pale and grim; he strode past Ledebur toward the launch. “Let’s go,” he said roughly to the slime mold over his shoulder.

  The slime mold, as hastily as was physically possible, followed after him. The two of them entered the launch; the hatch shut and the launch zooped up into the mid-morning sky.

  For an interval Ignatz Ledebur watched it go, and then he re-entered the shack. He found Mary at the ice box searching for something out of which to fashion breakfast.

  Together he and she prepared their morning meal.

  “The Manses,” Ledebur pointed out, “are very brutal, in some ways.”

  Mary laughed. “So what?” she said mockingly.

  He had no answer to that. His saintliness and his visions did not help him there, not one bit.

  After a long time Chuck said, “Will this launch take us back to the Sol system and Terra?”

  “Absolutely not,” Lord Running Clam said.

  “Okay,” Chuck said, “I’ll locate a Terran warship parked in this region. I’m going back to Terra, accept whatever punitive litigation the authorities have in mind, and then work out an arrangement with Joan Trieste.”

  The slime mold stated, “In view of the fact that the punitive litigation will consist of a request for the death penalty, any arrangement with Joan Trieste is unlikely.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  “Something you will balk at.”

  Chuck said, “Tell me anyhow.” In view of his situation he could not turn anything down.

  “You—ahem. This is awkward; I must put it properly. You must entice your wife into giving you a thorough battery of psychological tests.”

  After a while he managed to say, “To find out which settlement I would fit best in?”

  “Yes,” the slime mold said, but reluctantly. “That was the idea. This is not to say you’re psychotic; this is merely to determine the drift of your personality in the most general—”

  “Suppose the tests show no drift, no neurosis, no latent psychosis, no character deformation, no psychopathic tendencies, in other words nothing? What do I do then?” Without unduly complimenting himself—at this point he was well beyond that—he had an inkling that was precisely what the tests would show. He did not belong in any of the settlements here on Alpha III M2; here he was a loner, an outcast, accompanied by no one even remotely resembling him.

  “Your long-held urge to murder your wife,” the slime mold said, “may well be a symptom of an underlying emotional illness.” It tried to sound hopeful, but nonetheless it failed. “I still believe it’s worth a try,” it persisted.

  Chuck said, “Suppose I founded one more settlement here.”

  “A settlement composed of one person?”

  “There must be occasional normals showing up here. People who work their way out of their derangements and possibly children who never developed them. As it stands here you’re classified as polymorphous schizophrenic until proved otherwise; that’s not right.” He had been giving this considerable thought, ever since it had first appeared that he might be required to remain on the moon. “They’ll come trickling in. Given time.”

  “The gingerbread house in the woods of this moon,” the slime mold mused. “And you inside, waiting stealthily to trap whoever passes by. Especially the children.” It tittered. “Pardon me. I shouldn’t take this lightly; forgive me.”

  Chuck said nothing; he merely piloted the launch upward.

  “Will you try the tests?” the slime mold asked. “Before going off and founding your own settlement?”

  “Okay,” Chuck said. That did not seem unreasonable to ask.

  “Do you imagine, in view of your mutual hostility toward each other, that your wife can properly administer the tests?”

  “I suppose so.” Scoring was routine, not interpretive.

  The slime mold decided, “I will act as the intermediary between you and her; you will not have to confront each other again until the results are obtained.”

  “Thanks,” Chuck said, with gratitude.

  The slime mold said reflectively, “There is one other possibility which although admittedly farfetched might well be considered. It might yield a great harvest, although of course considerable time would be involved for that to come about.” It plunged through to the summation of its thought. “Perhaps you can induce Mary to take the tests, too.”

  The idea came to Chuck as a complete, shocking surprise. For one thing—his mind moved swiftly, analyzing and introspecting—he could not see the advantage in it whatever showed up. Because the inhabitants of the moon would not be receiving therapy; that had already been decided, and by his own actions. If Mary revealed herself in the tests—as well she might—as seriously disturbed, she would simply remain so, would continue as she was; no psychiatrist was about to enter and begin tinkering with her. So what did the slime mold mean by a “great harvest”?

  The slime mold, receiving his rapid thoughts, explained, “Suppose your wife did disclose by means of the testing process that she includes a severe streak of the manic in her makeup. This would be my lay analysis of her, and it evidently is her own as well. For her to recognize this, that she is, like Howard Straw or those wild tank drivers, a Mans, would be for her to face the fact that—”

  “You seriously believe it would make her humble? Less sure of herself?” The slime mold patently was no authority on human nature—and in particular Mary Rittersdorf’s nature. Not to mention the fact that for a manic, as well as a Pare, self-doubt was beyond conception; their entire emotional structure was predicated on a sense of certitude.

  How simple it would be if the slime mold’s naïve view were correct, if a severely disturbed person had only to see his test results to comprehend and accept his psychological deformation. Lord, Chuck thought dismally. If there’s one thing that contemporary psychiatry has shown, it’s that. Merely knowing that you are mentally sick won’t make you well, any more than knowing you have a heart condition provides a suddenly sound heart.

  In fact, the opposite would more than likely be the case. Mary, fortified by the companionship of a settlement of those resembling her, would be stabilized forever: her manic tendency would have received social sanction. She would probably wind up as the mistress of Howard Straw, perhaps even eventually replace him as the Mans delegate to the supreme inter-clan council. At Da Vinci Heights she would rise to power—by treading on those around her.

  “Nevertheless,” the slime mold persisted, “when I ask her to give you the tests I will beg her to do the same for herself. I still believe that some good can arise out of this. Know thyself; that was an ancient Terran slogan, is it not? Dating from your highly-praised Greek antiquity. I can’t help thinking that to know yourself is to provide yourself with a weapon by which you non-telepathic species may reshape your psyche until—”

  “Until just what?”

  The slime mold was silent; clearly when it came right down to it the slime mold did not actually know.

  “Give her the tests,” Chuck said. “And we’ll see.” We’ll see who is right, he thought. He hoped that it would be the slime mold.

  That night in Da Vinci Heights, very late, Lord Running Clam after much delicate negotiation managed to persuade Dr. Mary Rittersdorf to take a full spectrum of psychological profile tests and then to administer, in her professional capacity, the same group of tests to her husband.

  In the intricately-decorated, convoluted home of the Mans council delegate, Howard Straw, the three of them faced one another; Straw himself lurked in the background, amused by what was taking place, aloof and constitutionally contemptuous. He sat and sketched with pastel crayons, rapidly, a series of portraits of Mary; this was only one of his many artistic and creative pursuits and even at this time of upheaval, with the Alphane warships landing on the moon one behind another, he did not abandon it. Typically Mans, he had countless irons in
the fire simultaneously; he was multi-sided.

  Mary, with the test results spread out before her on Howard Straw’s handwrought handsome wood and black-iron table, said, “This is a dreadful thing for me to have to admit, but it was a good idea. The two of us subjecting ourselves to these standard psychprofile testing procedures. Frankly I’m surprised at the results. Obviously—it goes without saying—I should have been exposing myself at regular intervals to such tests… in view of the results.” She sat back, willowy and supple in her white turtleneck sweater and Titanian og-metal slacks; getting out a cigarette with trembling fingers she lit up. “You’re without a trace of mental disturbance, dear,” she said to Chuck, who sat across from her. “Merry Christmas,” she added, and smiled frozenly.

  “What about you?” Chuck said, constricted in his throat and heart with tension.

  “I’m not Mans at all. In fact I’m just the opposite; I reveal a marked agitated depression. I’m a Dep.” She continued to smile; it was a worthy effort on her part and he took note of it, of her courage. “My continual pressing of you regarding your income—that was certainly due to my depression, my delusional sense that everything had gone wrong, that something had to be done or we were doomed.” She stubbed her cigarette out, all at once, and lit another. To Howard Straw she said, “What’s your reaction to that?”

  “Tough,” Straw said with his customary lack of empathy, “you won’t be living here after all; you’ll be situated over at Cotton Mather Estates. With happy-boy Dino Watters and the rest like him.” He chuckled. “And some of them are even worse, as you’re going to discover. We’ll let you hang around here a few days but then you’ve absolutely got to go. You’re just not one of us.” He added, in a little less brutal tone, “If you could have foreseen this moment when you volunteered to TERPLAN for this job, this Operation Fifty-minutes—I’ll bet you would have thought twice. Am I right?” He gazed at her penetratingly.

  She shrugged without answering. And then all at once, to the surprise of all of them, she began to cry. “Jesus, I don’t want to live with those damn Deps,” she whispered. “I’m going back to Terra.” To Chuck she said, “I can, but you can’t. I don’t have to stay here and find a niche. Like you do.”

  The slime mold’s thoughts reached Chuck. “Now that you’ve received your tests results what do you intend to do, Mr. Rittersdorf?”

  “Go ahead and found my own settlement,” Chuck said. “I’m calling it Thomas Jeffersonburg. Mather was a Dep, Da Vinci was a Mans, Adolf Hiter was a Pare, Gandhi was a Heeb. Jefferson was a—” He hunted for the correct word. “A Norm. That will be Thomas Jeffersonburg: the Norm settlement. So far containing only one person, but with great anticipations for the future.” At least the problem of picking the delegate to the supreme inter-clan council is automatically solved, he thought to himself.

  “You’re an absolute fool,” Howard Straw said disparagingly. “Nobody’ll ever show up and live with you in your settlement. You’ll spend the rest of your life in isolation—six weeks from now you’ll be out of your mind; you’ll be ready for every other settlement on the moon, except of course this one.”

  “Maybe so.” Chuck nodded. But he was not so positive as Straw. He was thinking once more of Annette Golding, for one. Surely in her case it would not require much; she was so close to rationality, to a balanced outlook. There was virtually nothing separating himself from her. And if there existed one such as this there had to be more. He had a feeling that he would not be the sole inhabitant of Thomas Jeffersonburg for long. But even if he were—

  He would wait it out. For however much time it took. And he would get help in building his settlement; already he had established what appeared to be a solid working relationship with the Pare rep, Gabriel Baines, and that portended something. If he could get along with Baines he probably could get along with the several clans as such, with perhaps the possible exception of Manses such as Straw and of course the noxious, deteriorated Heebs like Ignatz Ledebur, who had no sense of inter-personal responsibility.

  “I feel sick,” Mary said, her lips trembling. “Will you come and visit me in Cotton Mather Estates, Chuck? I’m not going to be stuck with just Deps around me the rest of my life, am I?”

  “You said—” he began.

  “I just can’t go back to Terra, not if I’m sick; not with what those tests showed.”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’ll be glad to visit you.” As a matter of fact he expected to spend a good deal of his time at the other settlements. By this he would forestall Howard Straw’s prophecy from coming true. By this—and a great deal else.

  “When I next sporify,” the slime mold thought to him, “there will be a reasonably large number of myselves; some of us will be glad to settle in Thomas Jeffersonburg. And we will stay away from burning autos, this time.”

  “Thanks,” Chuck said. “I’ll be grateful to have you, All of you.”

  Howard Straw’s jeering, manic laugh filled the room; the idea seemed to awaken his cynical amusement. However, no one paid attention to him. Straw shrugged, returned to his pastel sketching.

  Outside the house the retro-rockets of a warship roared as the ship expertly settled to a landing. The Alphane occupation of Da Vinci Heights, long delayed, was about to begin.

  Rising to his feet and opening the front door Chuck Rittersdorf stepped out into the night darkness to watch and listen. For a time he stood alone, smoking, hearing the sounds that gradually settled lower and lower to the surface of the moon, came to rest in a silence that seemed permanent. It would be a long time, perhaps after he himself had disappeared from the scene, before they would be taking off again; he felt that keenly as he lounged in the darkness, close by Howard Straw’s front door.

  All at once the door behind him opened. His wife, or more specifically his former wife, stepped out, shut the door after her and stood beside him, not speaking; together the two of them listened to the racket of the descending Alphane warships and admired the fiery trails in the sky, each enclosed in his own thoughts.

  “Chuck,” Mary said abruptly, “you know we have to do one vital thing… you probably haven’t thought about it but if we’re going to settle here we’ve got to find some way to get our children from Terra.”

  “That’s right.” Actually he had thought of it; he nodded. “But would you want to bring the kids up here?” Especially Debby, he thought. She was extremely sensitive; undoubtedly she would, living here, pick up the deranged patterns of belief and conduct from the psychotic majority. It was going to be a difficult problem.

  Mary said, “If I’m sick—” She did not finish; it was unnecessary. Because if she were sick, Debby would already have been exposed to the subtle play of mental illness operating within the close quarters of family life, the harm, if it were to be done, had already been accomplished.

  Tossing his cigarette away into the darkness Chuck put his arm around his wife’s small waist and drew her against him; he kissed the top of her head, smelling the warm, sweet odor of her hair. “We’ll take the chance, exposing the children to this environment. Maybe they’ll supply a model to the other children here… we can put them into the common school which is maintained here on Alpha III M2; I’d be willing to risk it, if you would. What do you say?”

  “Okay,” Mary said remotely. And then more vigorously she said, “Chuck, do you really think we have a chance, you and I? Of working out a new basis of living… by which we can be around one another for a prolonged time? Or are we just—” She gestured. “Just going to drift back into the old ways of hatred and suspicion and all the rest.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, and that was the truth.

  “Lie to me. Tell me we can do it”.

  “We can do it.”

  “You really think so? Or are you lying?”

  “I’m—”

  “Say you’re not lying.” Her voice was urgent.

  “I’m not lying,” he said. “I know we can do it. We’re both young and
viable and we’re not rigid like the Pares and the Manses. Right?”

  “Right.” Mary was silent a moment and then she said, “You’re sure you don’t prefer that Poly girl, that Annette Golding, to me? Be honest.”

  “I prefer you.” And this time he was not lying.

  “What about that girl Alfson took the potent-pics of? You and that Joan whatever-her-name-is… I mean, you actually went to bed with her.”

  “I still prefer you.”

  “Tell me why you prefer me,” she said. “Sick and mean as I am.”

  “I can’t exactly say.” In fact he could not explain it at all; it was in the nature of a mystery. Still, it was the truth; he felt its validity within him.

  “I wish you luck in your one-man settlement,” Mary said. “One man and a dozen slime molds.” She laughed. “What a crazy enclave. Yes, I’m sure we should bring our children here. I used to think that I was so—you know. So completely different from my patients. They were sick and I wasn’t. Now—” She became silent.

  “There’s not that much difference,” he finished for her.

  “You don’t feel that about yourself, do you? That you’re basically different from me… after all, you do test out as being well and I don’t.”

  “It’s just degree,” he said, and meant it. Suicidal impulses had motivated him, and after that hostile, murderous impulses toward her—and yet he tested out satisfactorily on the formal graphs derived from long-accepted testing procedures, while Mary did not. What a slight degree it was. She, as well as he, as well as everyone on Alpha III M2 including the arrogant Mans rep Howard Straw, struggled for balance, for insight; it was a natural tendency for living creatures. Hope always existed, even perhaps—God forbid—for the Heebs. Although unfortunately the hope for those of Gandhitown was slender indeed.

  He thought: And the hope is slender enough for us of Terra. We who have just now emigrated to Alpha III M2. Yet-it is there.

  “I’ve decided,” Mary announced huskily, “that I love you.”

  “Okay,” he agreed, pleased.