Another Girl, Another Planet
Page 23
“It is good to be the Space King!” I declared.
They could probably hear the tumult back on Earth.
Les gave me “the leg,” as they say in England, and, bowing deeply, asked, “What is your decision, your majesty?”
I awarded the Space Cowboys and the Saloon Gal third place, which consisted of a pair of oversized bronze medals.
“By the light of the silvery Moon,” I said next. “I will give the Girl in the Moon the silver.”
Honestly, she was my personal favorite, but “Von Braunschweiger” didn’t seem to fit well with her. It was like the couple hadn’t coordinated outfits and they just showed up together. The silver medal almost disappeared in “Bettie’s” chest. Werner took his in hand and strode away.
“Now, for first place, and the gold, I choose … Nicky and Natasha!”
The pair of Russians rushed up with great big smiles. “Nicky” quickly went back to playing the dour put-upon flunky, while “Natasha” blew big fat kisses to the crowd. When I placed the gold medal around her neck, she placed a giant kiss on my cheek that left three inches of smeared lipstick. Then, in her enthusiasm, she turned to “Nicky” and did the same. He began to do a little dance of joy when suddenly there was a loud shouting in Russian from a dark corner, and a fat woman charged out and toward us.
It was obvious from the reaction of the Russians in the audience that this was a part of the whole gag, and as “Mrs. Nicky” charged, she yanked a rolling pin from her cleavage. “Nicky” took off in the opposite direction, followed by his wife, waving the rolling pin on high and apparently screaming some very funny, and serious, threats in Russian.
“Natasha” shrugged as the pair disappeared past some ships, and then turned to me and laid a messy one on my other cheek, at which point I dropped the “scepter” and fell back into my throne as everyone guffawed.
“Natasha” shrugged again and was regally escorted away.
“You’re a natural at this,” Les hissed from behind the throne.
“I could have been the next Benny Hill,” I responded in a low voice.
“This is where we part ways,” he said. “I need to get to the stage, I’m the entertainment.”
“Well, good luck then,” I said.
Jake came up to me. “Les will be playing with his band, Goddard and his Rocketeers. They always finish up the night.”
“How long am I supposed to stay?”
“You have to stay at least through the Orion Nine dance,” Jake said.
“The Orion Nine dance?”
Jake smiled. “It’s a special song, just for this occasion. Les wrote it himself, and we play it every year.”
In the meantime, a few people tried to press drinks on me, but that Martian Moonshine was so potent, my rejections were taken with good grace. Les and his mates tuned up and, after a while, he took the mic.
He was dark-haired and wiry; I later learned he was a Romanichal—a British gypsy. He strutted across the stage and bounced on his heels.
“Are you ready?” he shouted.
The crowd roared back. “Yes!”
“Sounds like a rocket about to launch,” I said to Jake.
“It is! Orion Nine!”
One of the other band members started a count-down, with Les and the rest interjecting:
Ten (Is it up?)
Nine (Is it up?)
Eight (Is it up?)
Seven (Is it up?)
Six (Fuck fuck fuckity fuck Whoops!)
The crowd engaged in the wildest, most frantic dancing I had ever seen, and kept it up through the song:
Oh boy, wadda ya know?
Up in the air and away we go
Warned me once, warned me twice
Took off real fast, shed the ice
Hey hey, what can ya’ do?
When the ship knocks ya black and blue?
Can the chit-chat, hunker down
Drop your fuel on Patton town
Well, whoops fuck whoops fuck (Is it up?)
Hammer down a gangway (Is it up, is it up?)
Rama rama Clarke-a dong (Is it up?)
Hey hey! Moon shine!
We will be fine (We will be fine)
Orion 9 (Orion 9)
Even though Heinlein say we out of line (Out of line)
We will be fine (We will be fine)
Orion 9 (Orion 9)
Even though Heinlein say we out of line (Out of line)
Well, whoops fuck whoops fuck (Is it up?)
Hammer down a gangway (Is it up, is it up?)
Rama rama Clark-a dong (Is it up?)
Hey hey! Moon shine!
We will be fine (We will be fine)
Orion 9 (Orion 9)
Even though Heinlein say we out of line (Out of line)
We will be fine (We will be fine)
Orion 9 (Orion 9)
Even though Heinlein say we out of line (Out of line)
Ten (Is it up?)
Nine (Is it up?)
Eight (Is it up?)
Seven (Is it up?)
Six (Fuck fuck fuckity fuck Whoops!)
Hey hey, wadda ya think?
When you’re heading for the drink!
Skidded into orbit near
Fueled the jets with Mars Moonshine!
Hey, hey, what’s your choice?
When you’re stuck with a buncha boys.
I don't worry, we’ll muddle through
Orion Nine drops in on you!
Well, whoops fuck whoops fuck (Is it up?)
Hammer down a gangway (Is it up, is it up?)
Rama rama Clark-a dong (Is it up?)
Hey hey! Moon shine!
We will be fine (We will be fine)
Orion 9 (Orion 9)
Even though Heinlein say we out of line!
We will be fine (We will be fine)
Orion 9 (Orion 9)
Even though Heinlein say we out of line!
Ten (Is it up?)
Nine (Is it up?)
Eight (Is it up?)
Seven (Is it up?)
Six (Fuck fuck fuckity fuck Whoops!)
Hey, hey, wadda ya say
Had me a robot she ran away
Climbed into the nearest dome
Called it our own home sweet home
Hey, hey, wadda ya do?
They say she’s alive, but that isn’t true!
Ten (Is it up?)
Nine (Is it up?)
Eight (Is it up?)
Seven (Is it up?)
Six (Fuck fuck fuckity fuck Whoops!)
People twice my age seemed to have double the energy I had. I wouldn’t have tried to keep up with that dancing. I looked at my watch and realized it was getting late, and now would be a good time to make as dignified an exit as possible.
I stood up as Jake and Ivan whistled to get people’s attention.
“My disloyal subjects,” I croaked. “My work is done. It is time for your King to take his leave. I bid you a good evening.”
As I stepped down from the throne, I stopped. “You may continue!” There were raucous cheers, and some applause, as I left and headed toward the exit.
Jake and Ivan followed me.
I popped off my “crown” and took off my “cape,” handing both to Jake.
“You did great,” he said. “I knew you would.”
“Jake, old pal, I get the damnedest invites from you,” I said. “But the most fun.”
I patted Ivan on the shoulder. “And you, tell Gunter I said hi!”
“I will!”
As I left, I pulled out a pocket comb and neatened my hair. I leaned on the railing of the moving sidewalk as it took me back to the dome; it was a lot cooler there, and I stopped sweating.
By the time I got to my apartment, I had relaxed to the point where I went to bed and fell right asleep.
Chapter Fifteen
On the way to the office the next morning, the transport PA system was playing the Talking Heads song, “Life During Wartime,”
which struck me as rather strange, given the venue.
When I arrived at my office I found an envelope, delivered first thing that morning by Tesla, marked “Private.” Inside there was a neatly typewritten note:
Dear Mr. Shuster,
Mr. Kurland wanted me to tell you that you can visit Mark Davis-Seale on Thursday afternoon. He is having a palliative treatment that morning and has indicated that afterwards, he would like to speak to you.
Mr. Kurland said you should take this opportunity to see Mr. Davis-Seale. He will not be with us much longer.
Sincerely,
Dolores McCarver
Personal Assistant
I folded the note and stuck it in my pocket.
“Sherry, I will be out of the office tomorrow morning,” I said. “Don’t schedule any appointments.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “How’d last night go?”
“It was actually loads of fun,” I said. “Great to see such craziness. People need to let their hair down every so often.”
She slid a thin manila folder onto my desk. “Here’s the incorporation info you wanted on FSM.”
I flipped through the paperwork. FSM was incorporated on the Moon, but transferred to Mars when the colony was started. Kurland was the board chairman. The statement of purpose indicated it used a flexi press to print decals, wrappers, and instructions on plastic and silicone surfaces. With no paper on Mars, all printed materials, including manuals for the robots and androids, had to be printed on plastic. That also meant Kurland had control of the one newspaper press on the planet.
I picked up the phone book and called the office of the Interplanetary Herald-Tribune. I spoke with the managing editor, a Brit named Nigel Christopher, and asked him if he remembered the change in the paper that day, when the story about Desiree disappeared.
“Yes, that was unusual. I can’t remember the press pool pulling a story before,” he said. “I was told the UPI recalled the story.”
“You got a teletype from the UPI?”
“No, it was relayed locally, by the press pool. The current manager of the press pool, Mick Cardinale, is the UPI bureau chief, anyway.”
“When that happened, who paid for the change?”
“We were told that because it was so unusual, FSM would forgo any charge as a goodwill gesture,” he said. “So we got a free plate change.”
“Plate change?”
“Yes, a printing plate change. And we weren’t billed for the replacement papers.”
“Did Cardinale say why the story was recalled?”
“No, he didn’t. And now that you mention it, I never saw the story re-released,” said Christopher. “Usually, if there is a mistake, a corrected version of the story is issued later.”
“Thanks for the information,” I said.
“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you interested in that story?”
“It’s personal,” I said.
“Oh.”
I set the phone handset back in its cradle, and shoved back my chair. I straightened my tie, put on my jacket, and stopped by Sherry’s desk.
“I’m doing more of my snooping,” I said. “I’m going to the newspaper printing plant.”
She smiled. “Don’t get the wrong impression!”
“Ouch,” I said, wincing at the pun.
* * *
While I was waiting for the transport, the song “Sex” by the group Berlin was playing on the speaker. I actually stopped and looked up at the speaker.
This is not a song for a public place. What’s happened to the playlist? I thought, feeling much like the Catholic kid I really still was.
I have a pet theory that sometimes you notice songs because they have some kind of subconscious meaning to you. Just like your mind will form patterns out of tea leaves or distortions in a crystal ball at the instigation of your subconscious, so I think some songs on the radio or public speakers catch your attention because of something in the back of your mind.
I don’t know what you could call it, fortune telling by song? Audiomancy? That song really creeped me out.
I had to take the train to Dome Six, and then find the printing plant, which really wasn’t all that big. When I walked through the double doors, a sharp chemical smell assaulted my sinuses. Printers’ ink is made from petroleum; it smelled like a gas station back on Earth.
An old-style robot walked up to me.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mister Bird. Tell him Administrator Shuster would like to speak with him.”
The robot nodded once and turned around. I lingered inside the door. The plant seemed to have an equal number of robots and human workers. The robots were working with the barrels of ink and rolls of poly plastic, while the press itself seemed to be manned by humans.
I saw the robot had walked to an enclosed office past and behind the press. He came back, holding a hard hat.
“Please put this on,” he said. “Since you already wear spectacles, you don’t need goggles.”
I put on the hard hat. “Follow me carefully,” said the robot.
We walked the length of the press, which had multiple rollers and units, and the robot opened the office door for me.
Inside, a small man in heavily soiled coveralls was wiping his hands with a thick rag. “I’d shake your hand, but mine’s got grease on it,” he said. “I’m Rick Bird.”
I reached forward and grasped his hand. “A little grease never killed anyone,” I said.
He smiled. “What brings you to this smelly part of Dome Six?”
“On February 7, you had a plate change with the Tribune,” I said. “Why?”
“The paper said so,” he said. “We only do what we’re told to do.”
“I understand. Did the Tribune send you the changed page?”
“Yes, but since you mention it, we had a hard time making the plate.”
“Why is that?”
“The Trib sent the page layout, but it didn’t fit well,” he said.
“Well, I assume it was a rush job,” I said.
“No, it wasn’t that. The change, the patch, didn’t fit. The Trib uses a Ludlow machine, the correction was typeset on something different. It didn’t line up quite right. But we finagled it. We shot two negatives, at slightly different sizes, and then spliced them together to make the plate. But it was hard.”
“That’s strange,” I said.
“I assume they had to have someone somewhere else make the new page,” said Bird. “Their typesetters must have gone home.”
“Must have,” I said.
“Why do you ask?”
“The change replaced a story that I was interested in,” I said. “I saw the original edition of the paper, and noticed the change later.”
“Would you like to see the original story?”
“Do you still have it somehow?”
“We always save the plate negatives,” said Bird. “Every six months they are recycled for the silver.”
“You mean you still have the negative of the original page the story was on?”
“Sure. Do you want it?”
“Yes!”
Bird turned to a human pressman, who went into another room and clicked on a light. He came back in a minute and handed the large negative to Bird.
“We really don’t need this,” he said as he rolled it up like a large map and snapped a rubber band around it.
“That reminds me, what happened to the papers that were recalled?” I asked.
“They were tossed in the recycle bin, which is collected each day,” he said.
I held the rolled up negative sheet. “You’ve been a big help.”
“No problem,” he said. “Glad to be of service.”
“I have another question,” I said. “There seems to be overlap between this printing company and Tesla. I wouldn’t think there is much in common.”
“Oh, it’s very technical, but there is. That’s why Gerry Kurland is also inv
olved with us.”
That surprised me a bit. “What’s the connection?”
“Etching.”
“Etching?”
He got serious, like a schoolteacher explaining something to a student.
“Yes, we use the same kind of process for etching printing plates as he uses to etch electronic circuits onto boards. He developed a way of cramming transistors tightly together, and instead of wires, to save space, he etches thin lines as the connectors instead of using wires. He calls them integrated circuits. That’s how he got involved in the printing press, because of the process of etching the printing plates. It’s essentially the same way those electrical circuits are etched on the boards holding the transistors.”
“I saw those when I toured his factory. he can cram two dozen transistors onto a circuit board the size of a playing card,” I said.
“He told you that, huh?”
“Why? That’s not true?”
Bird looked at me slyly. “Oh, he can cram a lot more, hundreds of them. He’s been working on those for years. That’s why the androids have so much programming and can act realistically,” said Bird. “He probably doesn’t want word to get out how much power those circuit boards have, for business reasons,” he continued. “There’s a thousand times more information on the circuit boards now than in the positronic brain itself. He has an unofficial monopoly on androids, but if potential competitors knew how much they have advanced …”
“He’d get some competition,” I said.
“We have some androids here at the plant that are pretty versatile. They’re getting better all the time.”
A man stood at the door of Bird’s office and looked at him.
“I need to get back to work. Blotto will see you out,” he said, indicating the android.
“Blotto?”
“Androids come with names, robots don’t.” He shrugged. “We have to call them something, and ‘Hey You!’ is taken.”
I shook his hand. “Thanks for the information; I learned a few things today.”
I followed the robot, carefully watching my steps on my way out. I didn’t want to step in any random blotches of ink on the floor. There were vats of yellow, blue, and red ink lined up alongside the giant tanks of black ink.
When I got back to my office, I summoned Bill Bauer on the intercom.
I pushed the large negative toward him.
“Can you have this made into a photo someplace?” I asked.