The Reproductive System (Gollancz SF Library)

by John Sladek

  When the entire floor was wet and slick, Grandison grew really frantic. He ran from one stainless steel, rubber-sealed door to another, rattling the knobs and knocking, though he knew how useless this was.

  To his surprise, he heard a noise beyond one door. Footsteps!

  ‘Help, help!’ he croaked, and beat upon the shining steel.

  A key grated and the door swung open. The chicken cawked and flapped out through it on big membraneous batwings, its tail prop slowly revolving.

  An unshaven marine guard stood before him, hand on the butt of his automatic, and surveyed the floor.

  ‘What’s going on here? Who’s been tampering with the coffee machine?

  Hoarsely murmuring his thanks, Grandison tried to go through the door. The guard blocked his way.

  ‘Not so fast, buddy. I want to see your pass. I also want to know what kind of funny business is going on with that machine.’

  ‘My pass? But I’m Grandison Wompler,’ quavered the old man. ‘Don’t you recognize me? I’m old Granny Wompler—’

  ‘I don’t care if you was the frigging company president his-self, you can’t come through here without a pass!’

  The door slammed, knocking Granny back a step. He lost his footing in the greasy slush and fell. It hardly seemed worthwhile to get up again.

  Louie finally came over and helped him to his feet. ‘Just ignore him, Pop,’ he said, jerking a thumb towards the sealed door—against which foot-deep coffee now lapped. ‘Just pretend he don’t exist. Hey, listen to this!’ He rattled the magazine. ‘A recipe for squab Louisiane: First marinate a couple of plump squab in warm Tio Pepe, to which had been added …”

  CHAPTER XV

  FROM MARRAKECH TO THE MOON!

  ‘Décidément nous sommes hors du monde.’

  RIMBAUD

  Shortly after sunset, two men stood in a shadowy sidestreet near the Jardin Abdallah. They spoke in hushed voices.

  ‘I have done all I can,’ Marcel Brioche said, ‘Mon général, the rest is in the hands of le bon Dieu.’

  ‘Stick to English, vache! The walls have ears in Marrakech. Tell me, exactly what measures have you taken to guarantee the safety of this mission—in other words, of your person?’

  ‘First of all, I have hinted to each of the agents—the Russian and the American—that I have made some sort of deal with the other side. Thus I have been able to keep them both off-balance

  up till now, playing them off against one another. With luck, they will be so busy spying each other out—or even fighting—that they will leave me alone’

  ‘And—with no luck?’

  ‘I have secondly instructed my valet, Antoine, to don a duplicate of my space suit and to—shall we say—hide conspicuously. That is, he is to slip through back streets to the launching site—which only the three of us know—and draw off anyone who means to follow me. If there remains anyone who is seeking my life, it is my hope that they will make a crucial mistake.’

  ‘Does Antoine know the risk?’

  ‘He is, like me, a loyal Frenchman. For such, there are no risks.’

  ‘I see—’ The voice of the general broke.

  ‘Is something wrong, general?’

  ‘No Brioche, nothing.’ The older man put a hand to his brow. ‘I—I had no idea this mission might be risking a man’s life.’

  ‘There is probably little risk, general. As I said, only the three of us know where the launch is to take place. Even the technicians who assembled the ship secretly here were then taken back to France under guard, and will remain incommunicado until the lift off is completed. Antoine is only a safety factor.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right.’ The general’s knuckles kneaded his brow, as if trying to smooth away knots of anxiety. ‘Please go on.’

  ‘There is nothing more to tell. I shall go through the main streets to the launching site, in an ordinary cab. I will wear my dress uniform, as though I were going out to supper. I’ll meet Antoine at the launching site and there put on the space suit Lift-off will take place on the stroke of midnight.’

  ‘Then bonne chance, mon ami,’ said the general, in a strangely choked voice. ‘The spirit of the Republic is with thee tonight!’

  The astronaut strode away, the words of his superior glowing within his breast, next to which nestled the picture of a dead girl. He did not notice the shadowy figure of Vetch glide from a doorway and press a note of large denomination into the general’s hand.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Vetch said, not without sarcasm. ‘Wasn’t it easy though? All you had to do was betray your country and two of your countrymen, and now you have enough to take care of those gambling debts.’ His face was in shadow; the general could see only the moving point of his satanic little beard.

  ‘You devil! You filthy—!’

  ‘Haha, why what’s the matter, general? Not happy with your night’s work?’

  ‘I am miserable,’ confessed the older man, shaking with emotion. ‘I wish I had died, rather than do such a despicable deed!’

  ‘Why make it a choice?’ asked Vetch smoothly. His motion was sudden and smooth. Without a sound, the traitorous general crumpled to the pavement, a dagger in his heart.

  ‘You won’t be needing this, after all,’ Vetch said, twitching the banknote from the dead man’s grasp. ‘You have been rewarded as you deserve.’ He laughed harshly.

  ‘Now here’s my plan,’ said Suggs, helping Barthemo Beele into the silvery space suit. ‘You’ll pretend to be Brioche when you get to the ship. Meanwhile, I’ll go out and kill the real Brioche, giving you plenty of time to figure out the controls. I’ll put on his suit and join you if I can. Got it?’

  He fastened down the white helmet, but Beele gestured that he wished to speak, so Suggs unbolted it once more.

  ‘Do you have to kill Brioche? He seemed like a pretty decent guy, Suggs.’

  ‘He’s a Frog, Beele, and don’t you forget: it. It’s Frogs that have been cheating the American tourist for years. They’re all sneaky and dirty and mean and back-knifers, and the only ones that ain’t fairies are commies. So get crackin’, Beele.’ Before Beele could argue, Suggs slapped the helmet back in place.

  When Vovov had put on his space suit of silvered material—designed to look exactly like the French suit—and departed, Vetch loaded his pistol, checked the action, and fitted it with a silencer.

  ‘Poor Vovov,’ he sighed. ‘Poor boob. He thinks he is to take a ride to the Moon—when he is only to “take a ride”. I have no doubt the Americans will think he is Brioche and kill him. How fitting! How like something from one of those preposterous films of theirs (to which poor Vovov is so devoted)! Of course if they fail to kill him—these Americans are so inept—I shall simply have to do it myself. Orders are orders.’

  He pulled from his breast pocket the coded telegram and read it once again. ‘“Give Vovov special treatment. Bad risk long suspected, now confirmed by your description of his admiration for Virginia Mayo. The Commandant.” Ah, poor Vovov!’ he

  said once again, sighing with a great deal of satisfaction as he drew on black gloves. ‘Poor ape does not even realize his own decadence.’

  As soon as the valet had left, Marcel Brioche had second thoughts. ‘How can I be so selfish?’ he cried, smiting his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Antoine had a fiancée in France; I have no one to return to. How can I ask him to take this risk? No, I shall not! I cannot let him do this!’ He snatched up a paperweight. ‘I’ll catch up with him and change clothes once again. I cannot ask him to wear the suit I should be proud to wear—to face the bullet I should be glad to face!’ He hurried out into the caluginous night.

  The silver-suited figure stepped into the glare of the streetlight for only a second, but it was enough. Suggs flung his knife, snarling, ‘Take that, you filthy Frog!’

  The figure slumped to its knees, writhed, and fell flat. Hurrying over, the CIA agent removed its helmet and peered at the still features.

  ‘V
ovov!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh, they’re playing a cute game, all right. Thought they’d smuggle you into the ship as Brioche, eh? Well, Vovov, I guess I’ll borrow this suit. You ain’t going on no Moon trip tonight, anyways.’ As quickly as he could, Suggs donned the suit and helmet.

  Barthemo Beele had almost reached the launching site. He had kept to the back alleys and, thus far, avoided seeing anything suspicious. His only mistake, he saw, had been wearing the helmet. Now he paused in the long alley near the mosque, struggled out of the helmet and mopped away perspiration. Only a few yards to go. Only a few—

  He was aware of the pounding of running feet. Deceptive echoes sprang up from every direction, and in this twisted alleyway it was impossible to see someone until they were on top of one. In vain he twisted this way and that, straining his senses in the echoing dark.

  Suddenly there was an arm about his throat and he was pulled backwards into a choking hold. A voice spoke close to his ear:

  ‘It is for your own good that I do this, Antoine! You have someone to go back to.’

  Something cracked him behind the ear, and Beele—

  Suggs was absolutely right, he thought. Brioche is a bad actor, all right. Anyone who would deliberately and unprovokedly assault an agent of the CIA like this deserves to be shot like a dog.

  —and so thinking, Beele fell forward into a starry abyss.

  Vetch saw the figure emerge from the end of the alley near the mosque, wearing the suit and carrying the helmet. Though it was too shadowy to see the face, he knew—for it was too small to be Vovov—it must be the valet.

  I ought to kill you, he thought. But you are a brave man who does not know what he is doing. You are a mere tool of vicious capitalism. I salute your bravery, O valet, he went on, reversing his gun, O man of the proletariat!

  He crept up in a dozen quick catlike steps and swung, aiming for a spot just behind the ear. ‘Fellow Worker, forgive me this!’ Vetch shrieked. The man grunted and went down. Vetch could not help pausing, turning him over to see if he were hurt.

  ‘So, Monsieur Brioche!’ he exclaimed, gazing with some surprise on the astronaut’s face. ‘So, you changed clothes with your valet once again, eh? As in a bad French farce—or an American movie!’ Angry with himself for having called the aristocratic Brioche a worker, Vetch could hardly keep himself from shooting the astronaut. Yet he forced himself to relax and began putting on Brioche’s space suit.

  ‘No, I’m no murderer,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave that to your superiors—when they learn that you have lost France her only moon ship!’

  He stood there for a moment, overcome with silent laughter at the idea of what was to become of Brioche. Was Devil’s Island still a penal colony? He hoped so. He could remember it from old American films …

  But there were footsteps, and at one end of the narrow street another figure in a space suit appeared. Vetch drew his gun and slunk back in the shadows.

  I pity you, Vovov, he thought, resting his gun over his forearm. But you are a fool, and fools are dangerous, as co-workers. Goodbye—pardner!

  He let the figure get some little distance past him, then squeezed the trigger. His first silent shot shivered the man’s helmet; the next two completely destroyed his head.

  Vetch hurried off to the launching rendezvous without pausing to look at the body of the last proletarian he would ever see.

  Suggs was surprised to see another figure waiting at the secret launching pad, wearing a space suit like his own. Ghosts rose unbidden to his mind, but he shook them off. No, it must be Beele. It was odd that the young assistant had got through all right. He must have had to take care of a couple of Russkies on the way—with his bare hands! There was something frightening about getting in the ship with this man.

  Suggs made a thumbs-up sign and the figure replied. Of course it was Beele. Suggs turned his attention to inspecting the rocket itself, so cunningly disguised. So this was how the sneaky Frogs had done it! He had to hand it to the bastards.

  Vetch was surprised to see another figure arrive at the launching pad wearing a space suit like his own. Ghosts rose unbidden to his mind, but he shook them off. No, it would be the valet, of course. As if reading his thoughts, the figure made a cheery, working-class thumbs-up sign and Vetch replied with all his heart. Of course it was the valet! The sturdy peasant had double-crossed these capitalist pigs who supposed themselves his masters!

  Vetch turned his attention to inspecting the rocket itself, so cunningly disguised. In his ears, the countdown had reached (in the droning voice of a tape recording) quatre-vingt dix-neuf. Vetch strapped himself carefully into his couch seat.

  ‘Hey, man, this sure is good stuff,’ said Ron. He and Kevin Mackintosh lay in chaises on a dark rooftop overlooking most of the city. They were sipping mint tea to slake the thirst created by kif. ‘Sure is good,’ he said again.

  Kevin nodded wearily. He hated to tell Ron that a real kif-head never talked about how good the stuff was.

  ‘Hey,’ said Ron, with a lazy gesture over the roof edge. ‘I just saw—I mean seen—two Martians, down in the street.’

  Martians, Christ! thought Kevin. ‘What were they doin’?’ he asked dreamily.

  ‘Shooting at each other, man. Like in Night of the Phallopods, you know? Like in Invasion of the Saucer Men. They were silver all over, with big white heads, see. Shooting with

  ray guns that didn’t make no noise. One cat shot the other one. Then he skinned him.’

  ‘Yeah? Like in Creature from the Voidd?’

  ‘Yeah, and then he shot hell out of another one. The body is still lying down there.’

  Kevin leaned over the parapet and looked down. A body with glistening silver skin lay inert. It had no head, A chill ran through him. It was just like I Was a Teenage Beach Monster. Maintaining a disinterested expression, Kevin leaned back once again. At that moment, the earth began to tremble. A few blocks away, a battery of floodlights came on. The tremors increased, rattling the tea glasses in their saucers.

  ‘Do you see what I see?’ cried Ron. ‘Do I see it?’

  ‘Man, this sure is good stuff,’ Kevin breathed, watching in wonder.

  A minaret rose slowly into the air, supported on a column of fire.

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE SECRET HEART OF DR. S.

  ‘I am obliged to perform in complete darkness operations of great delicacy on myself.’

  JJOHN BERRYMAN

  ‘Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? No.’

  SHAKESPEARE

  The perfect symmetry of Susie Suggs’s body was settled on the edge of a black leatherette examining table, the only furniture in the room. While her tears had subsided, an unaccustomed frown troubled Susie’s forehead—but the frown, too, was perfectly symmetrical. Rhythmically, her white boots kicked at the side of the table, while she, seeing that she had chewed the polish off one nail, went to work on its opposite number.

  Dr. Smilax had not only learned everything he could about Susie Suggs—from the contents of her purse and from her

  father’s security file—but he had studied her for some time through a peephole. Her movements, he saw, were quick but graceful; impulsive, but eager to please and generous. Having donned a white coat and jammed a stethoscope in his pocket, Dr. Smilax unlocked the door and let himself into the room.

  ‘I’m Dr. Smilax, my dear,’ he said unsmilingly, sitting beside her to take her pulse. ‘And you are Miss Susan Suggs of Santa Filomena, California. Is that correct? Do your friends call you Susie?’

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice was husky with fear, and she tried to draw her hand away. He imprisoned the wrist.

  ‘Now, I’m not going to hurt you, my dear. I’m only going to examine you.’ His tone achieved just the right balance between kind concern and brusque command.

  ‘But I don’t want to be examined. I don’t need to be examined. I’m not sick. All I did was faint, when they arrested me.’

  He released her hand after a moment, at the same tim
e letting the creases round his eyes crinkle into a smile. ‘Of course, if that’s the way you prefer it. Feel all right, do you?’ She nodded. ‘That’s fine, then. I had almost hoped there was something I could do …’ Letting his voice and expression fade to blankness, he turned to stare at the olive-drab wall.

  ‘You see,’ he went on after a moment, ‘there isn’t much reward in being a military doctor. I assist at deaths, that is all. I—I can hardly go on, sometimes, when I think of those poor men I save—only to send them out to be killed!’

  ‘How awful!’ she murmured. He stood up and paced the room.

  ‘Yes, the Army does not think of itself as a group of men but rather as a machine. Men are not humans to it, merely coks—mere cells in a great big organism.’

  For some reason, Susie blushed at the word.

  ‘I would give anything not to have to do it—but someone must!’ he said passionately. Sitting down again, heavily, he dropped his face into his long, slender, artist’s hands. ‘Someone must!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, laying a hand on his arm hesitantly. He feigned not to notice. ‘I had no idea—’

  ‘No, of course not. To you, to everyone on the outside, we are mere monsters—mere machines which can work on and on, performing miracles on cue, without even a word of thanks, a

  kind thought, without a single one of those little touches of humanity that make life worth living at all. But we are not monsters! Do I look like a monster to you? Do I?’ He was well aware that he looked, at the moment, like a motherless child who happened to have grey hair.