Analog SFF, October 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  I think it was my height that softened her attitude. “That you're working on a device to transmit people through space instantaneously,” she replied, her voice lower, gentler.

  "No, that is not true,” I replied. Honestly.

  She sank down into the chair in front of my desk, which I had cleaned off since Sam's first visit. There were hardly more than three or four slim reports resting on it.

  Bishop MacTavish looked startled for a moment; then she slipped the reports out from beneath her curvaceous rump and let them fall to the floor in the languid low gravity of the Moon.

  "Thank God,” she murmured. “That's one blasphemy we won't have to deal with."

  "Blasphemy?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

  She blinked those gorgeous eyes at me. “A matter transmitter, if it could be made successfully, could also be used as a matter duplicator, couldn't it?"

  It took me a moment to understand what she was saying; I was rather hypnotized by her eyes.

  "Couldn't it?” she repeated.

  "Duplicator? Yes, I suppose it might be feasible..."

  "And every time you use it you'd be murdering a human being."

  "What?” That truly stunned me. “What are you talking about?"

  "When someone goes into your transporter his body is broken down into individual atoms, isn't it? The pattern is sent to the receiver, where the body is reconstituted out of other atoms. The original person has been destroyed. Just because a copy comes out of the receiver—"

  "No, no, no!” I interrupted. “That's fantasy from the kiddy shows. Entanglement doesn't work that way. Nothing gets destroyed."

  "It doesn't?"

  I shook my head. “It's rather complicated, but essentially the process matches the pattern of the thing to be transported and reproduces that pattern at the other end of the transmission. The original is not destroyed; it isn't harmed in any way."

  She cocked a suspicious brow at me.

  "It takes a lot of energy, though,” I went on. “I doubt that it will ever be practical."

  "But such a machine would be creating living human beings, wouldn't it? Only God can create people. A matter duplicator would be an outright blasphemy, clearly."

  "Maybe so,” I muttered. But then I came back to my senses. “Uh ... although, that is, well, I thought that people create people. You know ... uh, sexually."

  "Of course.” She smiled and lowered her lashes self-consciously. “That's doing God's work."

  "It is?"

  She nodded, then took a deep breath. I nearly started hyperventilating.

  "But if you're not working on a matter transmitter,” she said, breaking into a happy smile as she started to get up from the chair, “then there's no cause for alarm."

  The trouble with being a scientist is that it tends to make you honest. Oh, sure, there've been cheats and outright frauds in science. But the field has a way of winnowing them out, sooner or later. Honesty is the bedrock of scientific research. Besides, I didn't want her to leave my office.

  So I confessed, “I am working on a matter transmitter, I'm afraid."

  She looked shocked. “But you said you weren't."

  "I'm not working on a device to transport people. That would be too dangerous. My device is intended merely to transmit documents and other lightweight, non-organic materials."

  She thumped back into the chair. “And you're doing this for Sam Gunn?"

  "Yes, that's true."

  She took an even deeper breath. “That little devil. Blasphemy means nothing to him."

  "But the transmitter won't be used for people."

  "You think not?” she said sharply. “Once Sam Gunn has a matter transmitter in his hands he'll use it for whatever evil purposes he wants."

  "But the risks—"

  "Risks? Do you think for one microsecond that Sam Gunn cares about risks? To his body or his soul?"

  "I ... suppose not,” I replied weakly.

  "This has got to be stopped,” she muttered.

  I finally came to my senses. “Why? Who wants to stop this work? Who are you, anyway?"

  "Oh!” She looked suddenly embarrassed. “I never introduced myself, did I?"

  I tried to smile at her. “Other than the fact that you're worried about blasphemy and you're the most incredibly beautiful woman I've ever seen, I know nothing at all about you."

  Which wasn't entirely true. I knew that she believed the act of procreation was doing God's work.

  "I am Bishop Ingrid MacTavish,” she said, extending her hand across my desk, “of the New Lunar Church."

  "You must be a newcomer to Selene,” I said as I took her hand in mine. Her grip was firm, warm. “I'd have noticed you before this."

  "I arrived yesterday,” she said. Neither one of us had released our hands. “Actually, I'm an ethicist."

  "Ethicist?"

  "Yes,” she said. “There are certain ethical inconsistencies between accepted moral practice on Earth and here in Selene."

  That puzzled me, but only for a moment. “Oh, you mean nanotechnology."

  "Which is banned on Earth."

  "And common practice here on the Moon. We couldn't survive without nanomachines."

  "That's one of the reasons why I decided to set up my ministry here on the Moon."

  Interesting, I thought. “And the other reason?"

  She hesitated, then answered, “I've been hired temporarily by a consortium of law firms to find Sam Gunn and serve him with papers for a large number of major lawsuits."

  At that moment, with impeccable timing, Sam bounced into my office.

  "Hey, Dan-o, I've been thinking—"

  Ingrid jumped to her feet, stumbling clumsily because she was unaccustomed to the light lunar gravity.

  Sam rushed over to help her and she lurched right into his arms. With her height, and Sam's lack of same, Sam's face got buried in Ingrid's bosom momentarily while I stood behind my desk, too stunned to do anything more than gape at the sight.

  Sam jerked away from her, his face flame red. The little guy was actually embarrassed! Ingrid's face was red, too, with anger. She swung a haymaker at Sam. He ducked, she staggered off-balance. I came around my desk like a shot and grabbed Ingrid by her shoulders, steadying her.

  Sam backed away from us, stuttering, “I didn't mean to ... that is, it was an accident ... I was only trying...” Then he seemed to see Ingrid for the first time, really see her in all her statuesque beauty. His eyes turned into saucers.

  "Who ... who are you?” Sam asked, his voice hollow with awe.

  Ingrid pulled free of me, but I noticed that she placed one hand lightly on my desktop. “I'm your worst nightmare,” she hissed.

  "No nightmare,” Sam said. “A dream."

  She wormed a hand into the hip pocket of her snug-fitting trousers and pulled out a wafer-thin data chip. “Sam Gunn, I hereby serve you legal notification of—"

  Sam immediately clasped his hands behind his back. “You're not serving me with anything, lady. You've got no jurisdiction here in Selene. You have to go through the international court and even then you can only serve me if I'm on Earth, in a nation that's got an extradition treaty with the North American Alliance. Which Selene hasn't."

  Ingrid smiled thinly at him. “Well, you know your law, I must admit."

  Sam made a little bow, his hands still locked behind his back. “How'd you get in here, anyway? Selene doesn't allow Earthside lawyers to come here. Legal issues with Earth are handled electronically."

  "Which is why you're hiding here in Selene,” Ingrid replied.

  With a Huck Finn grin, Sam acknowledged, “Until I can recoup my fortune and deal with all those malicious lawsuits."

  "Malicious?” Ingrid laughed. “You owe Masterson Aerospace seven hundred million for the spacecraft you leased. Forty-three million—and counting—to Rockledge Industries for expenses on the orbital hotel that you haven't paid for in more than two years. Nine million—"

  "Okay, okay,�
�� Sam conceded. “But how can I settle with them when they've got all my assets frozen?"

  "That's your problem,” said Ingrid.

  "Why don't we discuss it over dinner?” Sam suggested, his grin turning sly.

  "Dinner? With you? Don't be ridiculous."

  "Scared?"

  She hesitated, then glanced at me. I caught her meaning. She didn't want to be alone with Sam.

  "Sam,” I said, “we have a lot to talk about. I've got a working model just about finished, but to build a real machine I'm going to need some major funding and—"

  Sam's no dummy. He caught on immediately. “Okay, okay. You come to dinner, too."

  Turning back toward Ingrid, he asked, “Is that all right with you? Now you'll have a chaperone."

  Ingrid smiled brightly. “That's perfectly fine with me, Mr. Gunn."

  * * * *

  The Earthview is the oldest and, to my mind, still the best restaurant in Selene. On Earth, the higher you are in a building the more prestigious and expensive; that's why penthouses cost more than basement apartments—on Earth. On the Moon, though, the surface is dangerous: big temperature swings between sunlight and shadow, ionizing radiation constantly sleeting in from the Sun and stars, micrometeoroids peppering the ground and sandpapering everything exposed to them.

  So in Selene, prestige and cost increase as you go down, away from the surface. The Earthview took in four full levels: its main entrance was on the third level below the Grand Plaza, and an actual human maitre d’ guided you to tables set along the winding descending rampway that led all the way down to the seventh level.

  The place got its name from the oversized screens that studded the walls showing camera views of the surface with the Earth hanging big and blue and majestic in the dark lunar sky. I never got tired of gazing at Earth and its ever-changing pattern of dazzling white clouds shifting across those glittering blue oceans.

  Sam had reserved the best table in the place, down at the very lowest level. While we waited for Ingrid to arrive, Sam and I had a drink: lunar “rocket fuel” with carbonated water for me and plain South Pole water for Sam. He pumped me for everything I knew about her.

  "I didn't realize she's working for lawyers. She told me she's an ethicist, and a Bishop in the New Lunar Church,” I said.

  "A Bishop? That's enough to give a man religion, almost,” he mused.

  "I never heard of the New Lunar Church before. Must be something new."

  "Fundamentalist,” Sam said knowingly. “Connected to the New Morality back Earthside."

  "She did say something about blasphemy."

  "Blasphemy?"

  "In connection with the matter transmitter."

  "Blasphemy,” Sam muttered.

  I took a sip of my drink. “Sam, there's something I've got to ask you."

  "Ask away,” he said blithely.

  "Why do you want a matter transmitter? I mean, what in the world do you plan to do with it? You can't use it for people—"

  "Why not?"

  "It's too dangerous. We don't know enough about entanglement to risk people. Not even volunteers."

  "Maybe there are some pets in Selene we can test it with,” Sam muttered.

  "Pets?” I shuddered at the idea of sending a dog or cat into the device I was building. Even a goldfish. Maybe the bio labs have some mice, I thought.

  "Relax,” Sam said, smiling easily. “I don't want to send people through space. Or pets. Just certain kinds of paperwork."

  "Paperwork?"

  "Legal tender. Money.” He screwed up his face in a thoughtful frown for a moment. Then, “Legal documents too, I guess."

  "Why?"

  "Tax haven.” Sam smiled his happiest, sunniest smile. “I'm going to turn Selene into a tax haven for all those poor souls down on Earth who're trying to hide their assets from their money-grabbing governments."

  "A tax shelter? Selene?"

  "Sure. Earthside governments won't let you carry your money off-planet. They won't even allow you to bring letters of credit or any other papers that can be transformed into money."

  "It's all done electronically,” I murmured, reaching for my drink again.

  "Right. And taxed electronically. Every goddamned financial transaction between Earth and the Moon is monitored by those snake-eyed tax collectors and their computers."

  "That's Earthside law, Sam."

  "Yeah, sure. But if a person could send money or its equivalent from Earth to the Moon through a matter transmitter, privately, instantaneously, with nobody else knowing about it...” He leaned back in his chair and gave me that sly smile of his.

  "Money would stream into Selene,” I realized. “Money that people want to hide from their tax collectors."

  "Selene could get very wealthy, very fast."

  "The governments on Earth would be furious,” I said.

  "Right again. But what can they do about it? They tried to muscle Selene once with Peacekeeper troops and got their backsides whipped."

  "But..."

  "Besides, the richer Selene gets, the more Earthside politicians we can buy."

  "Bribery?"

  "Lubrication,” Sam corrected. “Money is the oil that smoothes the machinery of government."

  "Bribery,” I said, firmly.

  Sam shrugged.

  A tax haven. A shelter for the fortunes that wealthy Earthsiders wanted to hide from their governments. It was wrong. Insidious. Definitely evil. But it could work!

  And it could even result in more funding being available for Selene University. More funding for my research.

  If I could make a matter transmitter.

  "So how's the zapper coming along?” Sam asked, reaching for his South Pole water.

  For the next fifteen minutes or so I nattered on about entanglement and the bench model I was almost ready to test. Sam appeared to listen closely; he asked questions that showed he understood most of what I was telling him.

  Then all of a sudden he looked past my shoulder and his eyes went wide as pie plates. I turned in my chair. Ingrid MacTavish was coming down the rampway toward our table.

  Even in the modest pure white floor-length outfit she was wearing she looked spectacular. Radiant. Heads turned as she followed the maitre d’ past the other tables. And not just men's heads, either. Ingrid looked like a glowing golden-haired empress proceeding regally toward her throne. She was even followed by a quartet of acolytes, all of them women, all of them dressed in unadorned white suits. Compared to Ingrid they looked like four dumpy troglodytes.

  Sam bounded to his feet and held her chair for her, making the normally impassive maitre d’ frown at him. The acolytes seated themselves at the next table.

  "Bishop MacTavish,” Sam murmured as she sat down.

  "Mr. Gunn,” she replied. Then, with a nod toward me, “Dr. Townes."

  I swallowed hard and tried to say something but no words came out. All I could do was smile and hope I didn't look like a complete idiot.

  Sam was at his charming best all through dinner. Not a word about his legal troubles. Or about the matter transmitter. He regaled us both with improbable tales of his past misadventures.

  Despite myself, I felt intrigued. “Tell us about the black hole, Sam,” I begged. “What really happened to you?"

  Ingrid seemed equally curious. “Did you actually meet truly intelligent alien creatures?"

  "Very intelligent aliens,” Sam said.

  "What were they like? Did they have souls? Were they able to—"

  "We didn't talk religion,” Sam replied. “They were little guys. Smaller than me. Smart, though. High level of technology. I want to go back and learn how they operate that black hole."

  "Do you?” Ingrid asked. “Wouldn't that be dangerous?"

  Sam gave her his what-the-hell grin. “Lady, danger's my middle name."

  "You're not worried about the danger to your soul?"

  Sam blinked at her. “My soul's in decent shape. It's my finances that I'm worrie
d about."

  Ingrid scoffed, “What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world..."

  "I don't want the whole world,” Sam replied. “I just want my assets unfrozen and all you lawyers off my back."

  "What would you give in return for that?"

  That stopped Sam. But only for a moment. “You could make all these lawsuits go away?"

  "I think a settlement could be arranged,” she said.

  "A settlement?"

  "A settlement."

  "Forgive me my debts,” Sam mused, “as I forgive my debtors."

  "Even the Devil can quote scripture,” Ingrid retorted.

  They were talking as if I wasn't there. I felt like a spectator at a tennis match; my eyes shifted back and forth from one to the other.

  "Mr. Gunn, the New Morality—"

  "Sam,” he said. “Call me Sam."

  Ingrid smiled. “Very well. Sam."

  "May I call you Ingrid?” he asked her.

  Her smile widened slightly. “Bishop MacTavish, Sam."

  "No,” Sam replied, not taken aback at all. “I'll call you Aphrodite: the goddess of beauty."

  I saw anger flare in her green eyes, but only for the flash of a second. She controlled it immediately.

  "That's the name of a pagan goddess."

  "It's the only name I can think of that fits you,” Sam said, looking totally sincere.

  And then I heard myself blab, “Galileo said, ‘Names and attributes must be accommodated to the essence of things, and not the essence to the names, for things come first and names afterward.’”

  They both stared at me. “What?"

  "Well, I mean ... that is...” I was back in the conversation, but floundering like a particle in Brownian motion.

  "Galileo was a notorious heretic,” Ingrid said.

  "The Church apologized for that, er ... misunderstanding,” I said. Then I added, “Three hundred and fifty-nine years afterward."

  "What's Galileo got to do with anything?” Sam demanded.

  "Well, he said names should be given based on the observable attributes of the thing being named.” Turning to Ingrid, I said, “I think naming you Aphrodite is completely appropriate."

  She looked thoughtfully at me. Then, her face totally serious, “You mean that as a compliment, Dr. Townes. And I accept it as such. Thank you."