(2/15) The Golden Age of Science Fiction Volume II: An Anthology of 50 Short Stories

by Various

  But it wasn't until Friday, three days later, that he saw Livia Cord again. He accomplished that by calling her in for a conference, spreading his own typewritten notes on the desk in front of him.

  "Got some rough ideas drafted on the program," he told her. "The possibilities of this thing are really unlimited. Granted, of course, that there's money in this picture."

  "There's money all right," Livia said. "We don't have to worry about that."

  "Good. I've put down a list of leading citizens that might be enrolled as backers for anything we might come up with, people who have been outspoken about the expense or danger of space flight. We'll keep it on file, and add to it as new names crop up in the press. Then here's a listing of categories for us to develop subprograms around. Religious, economic, social, medical--Medical's good. There's a heck of a lot of scare-value in stories about cosmic rays, alien diseases, plagues, zero gravity sickness, all that sort of thing. Sterility is a good gimmick; impotence is even better."

  * * * * *

  Livia smiled. "I know what you mean."

  "Mmm. Come to think of it, we ought to set up a special woman's-point-of-view program, too. That'll be worth plenty. Then there's the tax question. We'll have to see what we can set up in Washington, some kind of anti-space lobby. Good feature story material here, too. You know the stuff--one space vessel equals the cost of two hundred country hospitals."

  "Sounds great."

  "We'll have to plan on press parties, special stuff for the magazines and networks. I've got a plan for some Hollywood promotion to counteract all this Destination Space garbage they've been turning out. And as for television--"

  He talked on for another hour, feeling mounting excitement for the job he was doing. Tom wasn't sure that he liked the aims of Homelovers, Incorporated, but the challenge was enjoyable. Even at dinner that night, in Livia's snug apartment, he rattled on about the PR program until the girl began to yawn.

  The bedroom was still monochrome. Only Livia had transformed it magically into powder blue. Tom slept blissfully until morning, and went into the office that weekend for sheer love of what he was doing.

  After less than a month, his efforts started producing results. On a crisp December morning, he found the following in his mail:

  "EARTH SONG" A Screenplay by Duncan Devine

  Roger Tenblade, a dashing young rocket pilot in the UN Air Force, yearns to join the Space Expeditionary Force now planning the first landing and colonization of the planet Mars. Despite the protest of his lovely fiancée, Diane, he embarks upon the journey. The trip is fraught with hazards, and the ship is struck by a meteor en route. Every member of the crew is killed, except Roger, who heroically brings the vessel back to home base. However, Roger is exposed to large amounts of cosmic radiation. When he is so informed by the medical authorities, he realizes that he can never make Diane a normal husband. So rather than return to her and ruin her life, he changes his identity and disappears to South America, where he takes a job as a shuttle pilot for a third-class airline.

  Meanwhile, Diane marries Harold Farnsworth, scion of one of America's wealthiest families ...

  Tom Blacker chuckled, and slipped the scenario back into the envelope. He marked the manuscript "O.K. for Production," and turned to the other mail.

  There was the prospectus of a television series that sounded interesting. He looked it over carefully.

  "CAPTAIN TERRA" Half-hour Television Series written by Craig Comfort

  Captain Terra, and his Earth Cadets are dedicated to the principle of "Earth Above All" and have sworn their lives to the preservation of Earth and its peoples, and to the protection of Earth against the hostile aliens constantly threatening the planet.

  Program One, Act One

  Bobby, Captain Terra's youthful aide, is attacked one day by a strange creature which he describes as half-man, half-snake. He reports the incident to Captain Terra, who calls a special session of his Earth Patrol to determine how best to deal with this enemy ...

  Tom read the prospectus through, and then dictated a letter to its producers to call for an appointment.

  At the bottom of the mail pile, he found an enthusiastic letter from a theatrical producer named Homer Bradshaw, whom he had dealt with briefly during his career at Ostreich and Company.

  Dear Tom,

  Great to hear about your new connection! Have a fabulous gimmick that ought to be right down your alley. Am thinking of producing a new extravaganza entitled: "Be It Ever So Humble."

  This will be a real classy show, with plenty of chorus line and top gags. We plan to kid the pants off this spaceman business, until those bright boys in the glass hats cry uncle. I've already lined up James Hocum for the top banana, and Sylvia Crowe for the female lead. You know Sylvia, Tom; she'll make space flight sound about as chic as a debutante's ball on the Staten Island Ferry. This is the way to do the job, Tom--laugh 'em out of it.

  If you're interested in a piece of this, you can always reach me at ...

  He was about to call it a day at five-thirty, when he got a visiphone call from John Andrusco. When he walked into the immense office at the other end of the floor, he saw a glassy-eyed man standing at Andrusco's desk, twirling his hat with nervous fingers.

  "Tom," Andrusco said cheerfully, "want you to meet somebody. This is Sergeant Walt Spencer, formerly of the UN Space Commission."

  Tom shook the man's hand, and he could feel it trembling in his own.

  "I called Walt in here specially, thanks to that memo you sent me, Tom. Great idea of yours, about talking to some of the boys who've actually been in space. Walter here's willing to cooperate a hundred percent."

  "That's fine," Tom said uneasily.

  "Thought you two ought to get together," Andrusco said, reaching for his hat. "Think he can help a lot, Tom. Talk it over."

  "Well--suppose we have a drink, Sergeant? That fit your plans all right?"

  "Suits me," the man said, without emotion.

  They went down in the elevator together, and slid into a red-leather booth in the Tuscany Bar in the base of the building. The sergeant ordered a double Scotch, and gulped it with the same respect you give water.

  "So you've been in space," Tom said, looking at him curiously. "Must have been quite an experience."

  "Yeah."

  "Er--I take it you've left the service."

  "Yeah."

  Tom frowned, and sipped his martini. "How many trips did you make, Sergeant?"

  "Just one. Reconnaissance Moon Flight Four. About six years ago. You must have read about it."

  "Yes," Tom said. "Sorry."

  The man shrugged. "Things happen. Even on Earth, things happen."

  "Tell me something." Tom leaned forward. "Is it true about--" He paused, embarrassed. "Well, you hear a lot of stories. But I understand some of the men on that flight, the ones who got back all right, had children. And--well, you know how rumors go--"

  "Lies," Spencer said, without rancor. "I've got two kids myself. Both of 'em normal."

  "Oh." Tom tried to hide his disappointment behind the cocktail glass. It would have made great copy, if he could have proved the truth of the old rumor about two-headed babies. But what could Sergeant Spencer do for the PR program? Andrusco must have had something in mind.

  * * * * *

  He asked him point-blank.

  "It's like this," the man said, his eyes distant. "Since I quit the service, I haven't been doin' so good. With jobs, I mean. And Mr. Andrusco--he said he'd give me five thousand dollars if I'd--help you people."

  "Did Mr. Andrusco describe this help?"

  "Yeah. He wants me to do a story. About the kid my wife had. The first kid."

  "What about the first kid?"

  "Well, she died, the first kid did. In childbirth. It was something that happens, you know. My wife's a little woman; the baby was smothered."

  "I see. And what kind of story do you want to tell?"

  "It's not my idea." A hint of stubbornness
glimmered in his dull eyes. "It's that Andrusco guy's. He wants me to tell how the baby was born a--mutant."

  "What?"

  "He wants me to release a story saying the baby was a freak. The kid was born at home, you see. The only other person who saw her, besides me and my wife, was this doctor we had. And he died a couple of years back."

  Tom slumped in his chair. This was pushing public relations a little far.

  "Well, I dunno," he said. "If the baby was really normal--"

  "It was normal, all right. Only dead, that's all."

  Tom stood up. "Okay, Sergeant Spencer. Let me think it over, and I'll give you a buzz before the end of the week. All right?"

  "Anything you say, Chief."

  * * * * *

  In the morning, Tom Blacker went storming into John Andrusco's plush office.

  "Now look, Mr. Andrusco. I don't mind slanting a story a little far. But this Spencer story of yours is nothing but a hoax."

  Andrusco looked hurt. "Did he tell you that? How do you like that nerve?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Why, that story's as genuine as gold. We've known about the freak birth for a long time. Cosmic rays, you know. Those men on that reconnaissance flight really got bombarded."

  Tom wasn't sure of himself. "You mean, it's true?"

  "Of course it is! As a matter of fact, we've got a photograph of the dead baby, right after it was delivered. The doctor who attended Mrs. Spencer took it without their knowledge, as a medical curiosity. He sold it to us several years ago. We've never used it before, because we knew that the Spencers would just deny it. Now that Walt's willing to cooperate ..."

  "Can I see the photo?"

  "Why, certainly." He opened the top drawer and handed a glossy print across the desk. Tom looked at it, and winced.

  "Scales!" he said.

  "Like a fish," Andrusco said sadly. "Pretty sad, isn't it?" He looked out of the window and sighed cavernously. "It's a menacing world up there...."

  The rest of the day was wasted. Tom Blacker's mind wasn't functioning right.

  He told Livia about it at lunch.

  Livia Cord continued eating, chewing delicately on her food without flexing a muscle or wincing an eyebrow.

  * * * * *

  On the Third of April, the story of Sergeant Walter Spencer's first-born monster broke in newspapers, magazines, and telecasts across the country. It was a five-year-old story, but it carried too much significance for the space-minded present to be ignored.

  Two days later, Sergeant Spencer, 32, and his wife, Laura, 30, were found dead of asphyxiation in their new home in Greenwich, Connecticut. The cause of death was listed as suicide.

  Tom Blacker didn't hear the news until a day after it happened. He was in Washington, setting up a series of meetings with members of a House group investigating space flight expenditures. When he returned by 'copter that evening, he found Police Commissioner Joe Stinson waiting for him in Tom's own favorite chair.

  The square, heavy-jowled face was strangely calm.

  "Long time no see," he said mildly. "You've been a busy man lately, Mr. Blacker."

  "Hello, Mr. Stinson. Won't you come in?"

  "I'm in," the commissioner shrugged. "Landlord let me wait here. It's chilly outside. Do you want the preliminaries, or should we have the main bout?"

  "It's about Spencer, isn't it?" Tom built himself a long drink. "I heard about it on the 'copter radio, flying in. Too bad. He was a nice guy; I never met his wife."

  "But you knew him, right? In fact, you and the sergeant did a lot of business together?"

  "Look, Mr. Stinson. You know what kind of job I'm trying to do. It's no secret. Spencer's story happened to gear in nicely with our public relations effort. And that's all."

  "Maybe it is." The commissioner's eyes hardened. "Only some of us aren't satisfied. Some of us are kinda restless about the coroner's verdict."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. It's fishy, you know? Nice young couple buys a new house, then turns on the gas. Leave behind a couple of kids, too. Boys, nice boys."

  "I couldn't feel worse about it," Tom said glumly. "In a way, I can almost feel responsible ..."

  "How?"

  "I dunno. They were perfectly willing to release that story about their first-born. But maybe when they actually saw it in print, they couldn't stand the spotlight--"

  "And that's your theory?"

  "Yes. But I hope I'm wrong, Mr. Stinson. For my own sake."

  The commissioner drew a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket.

  "Let me read you something. This hasn't been released to the press, and maybe it won't be. Interested?"

  "Of course."

  "It's a letter. A letter that was never mailed. It's addressed to Tom Blacker, care of Homelovers, Incorporated, 320 Fifth-Madison, New York."

  "What?" Tom reached for it.

  "Uh-uh. It was never mailed, so it's not your property. But I'll read it to you." He slipped on a pair of bifocals.

  Dear Mr. Blacker. I've been trying to reach you all week, but you've been out of town. Laura and I have just seen the first news story about our baby, and we're just sick about it. Why didn't you tell us about that photograph you were going to print? If we had known about that, we never would have consented to doing what you wanted. My wife never gave birth to that damned thing, and I don't care who knows it. I've called Mr. Andrusco to tell him that we don't want any part of this business any more. I'd send you back every penny of the five thousand dollars, only we've already spent half of it. I'm going to call the newspapers and tell them everything ...

  The commissioner paused. "It goes on for another half page. But no use reading any more. I'd like a reaction, Mr. Blacker. Got one handy?"

  Tom was on his feet.

  "I don't believe it!" His fist thudded into his palm. "The letter's a fake!"

  "That's easy to prove, Mr. Blacker."

  "But the picture was genuine! Don't you see that? Sure, we paid Spencer something for his cooperation. But the picture was the real thing, taken by his family doctor. You've heard what the medical authorities said about it."

  Stinson said nothing. Then he got up slowly and walked to the door.

  "Maybe so. But you're missing the point I want to make, Mr. Blacker. This letter was dated the same day as the Spencer suicides. Does it sound to you like the kind of thing a man would put in a suicide note? Think it over."

  Tom looked at the door the commissioner closed behind him.

  "No," he said aloud. "It doesn't."

  * * * * *

  Tom didn't go to the Homelovers building the next morning. He proceeded directly to the Lunt Theatre, where Homer Bradshaw was putting Be It Ever So Humble into rehearsal.

  He was in no mood for the theatre, but the appointment had been made too long before. When he came through the doors of the theatre, Homer leaped halfway up the aisle to greet him, and pounded his back like a long-lost pal. Actually, he had met the producer only twice before.

  "Great to have you here, Tom!" he said enthusiastically. "Great! We've just been putting things together. Got some red-hot numbers we had written specially for us. Wait 'til you hear 'em!" He waved towards the two shirtsleeved men hovering around the on-stage piano. "You know Julie, don't you? And Milt Steiner? Great team! Great team!"

  They took seats in the sixth row while Homer raved about the forthcoming production that was going to cost Homelovers, Incorporated some hundred thousand dollars. A dozen shapely girls in shorts and leotards were kicking their heels lackadaisically in the background, and a stout man with a wild checkered suit was wandering around the stage with an unlit cigar in his hand, begging the stagehands for a match.

  "Hey, fellas!" Homer Bradshaw called to the men at the piano. "Run through that Gypsy number for Mr. Blacker, huh?"

  They came to life like animated dolls. The tallest of the pair stepped in front of the stage while the other thumped the piano keys. The tall one sang in a loud nasal voi
ce, with an abundance of gestures.

  "Gypsy! Gypsy! Why do you have to be a gypsy? Life could be so ipsy-pipsy Staying home and getting tipsy Safe on Earth with me!"

  He swung into the second chorus while Tom Blacker kept his face from showing his true opinion of the specialty number. The next offering didn't change his viewpoint. It was a ballad. A blonde girl in clinging black shorts sang it feelingly.

  "There's a beautiful Earth tonight With a beautiful mellow light Shining on my spaceman in the moon. Why did he leave me? Only to grieve me? Spaceman, come home to me soon ..."

  "Did you like it? Did you like it?" Homer Bradshaw said eagerly.

  "It'll do fine," Tom Blacker said, with his teeth clenched.

  * * * * *

  When he left the theatre, Tom visiphoned the office to tell Livia that he was taking the rest of the day off. But he found that Livia herself was spending the day in her two-room apartment downtown. He hung up, and decided that he had to talk to her about Stinson's visit. He hopped a cab, and gave him Livia's address.

  John Andrusco answered the door.

  "Well! Thought you were at the office, Tom?"

  He found himself glaring at the lean-jawed executive. What was Andrusco doing here?

  "I've been over at the theatre," Tom explained. "Watching that musical we're spending all that dough on." He stepped inside. "I might say the same about you, Mr. Andrusco."

  "Me? Oh, I just came to talk over some business with Livia. Poor kid's not feeling so hot, you know."

  "No, I didn't." He dropped his hat familiarly on the contour couch, with almost too much deliberation. "Livia in bed?"

  "No." The girl appeared at the door of the bedroom, wrapping a powder-blue negligee around her. "What brings you here, Tom?"

  "I--I wanted to talk something over with you. Now that you're here, Mr. Andrusco, we can all talk it over."

  "What's that?" Andrusco made himself at home at the bar.

  "It's about Walt Spencer. I had a visitor last night, the police commissioner. He showed me a letter that Spencer had written just before he--before he died. It was addressed to me, only Spencer had never mailed it."

  Andrusco looked sharply at the girl. "And what was in this letter?"