Diplomatic relations became strained when
the Targoffian Ambassador started selling miracle
products on Earth. Products that didn't exist!...
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
October 1955
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Nicholson ducked into the room and squinted myopically through contact
lenses which made his eyes look watery and far away. "Better scram out
the back way, boss," he said. "That dame from the Department of Health
and Public Welfare is here again."
Bryan Channing allowed himself ten seconds of barely audible swearing.
Finally, he said, "What does she expect me to do, snap my fingers and
make the Ambassador from Targoff disappear?"
"It would be nice," Nicholson admitted.
"Unfortunately," Bryan Channing said for the fifth time that day, "our
hands are tied. Sure, Earth can get along without Targoff. The galaxy
would hardly know the difference if sub-space opened up a world-sized
pocket tomorrow and swallowed Targoff and its sun."
"But," said Nicholson.
"Yes, but, I'll have to see the old battle-ax sooner or later, Nick. On
your way out you might as well tell Julie to send her in."
"Oh, am I leaving?"
"You get the idea," said Bryan Channing. "You discovered Targoff, then
dumped it in my lap. One of these days you better find us a planet
which will make Health and P. W. happy. Now, beat it."
A moment after Nicholson had departed, the under-secretary of Health
and Public Welfare opened the door with a well-manicured hand and
followed it into Bryan Channing's office, which looked out on the East
River and the dismantling job being done on the Queensboro Bridge
through a solid wall of thermoglass.
"I don't smoke and I don't drink on duty," she said primly after Bryan
Channing had made the necessary gestures and offerings. "There were
twenty-two thousand divorces in the New York Metropolitan Area alone
last week, Mr. Channing. I have figures for other locations, if you
wish."
"Just let my secretary have them on your way out."
"Very well."
"Incidentally, I don't want to tell you your business, but the figure
doesn't seem so alarmingly high."
"Perhaps. How would fifty thousand sound--for the first half of this
week?"
"High," said Bryan Channing. "Go ahead."
"Deaths from malnutrition and disease continue at an even more alarming
rate. These figures--" And the under-secretary began to remove a sheaf
of papers from her briefcase.
"My secretary," Bryan Channing said again. "Can you pin these things
directly on Qui Dor?"
"Qui Dor?"
"The Targoffian Ambassador."
"I can only go by his advertisements and what our field workers report
after interviews. Qui Dor or whatever his name is, is to blame, it
appears. Tell me, Mr. Channing, is it quite regular for a planetary
Ambassador to--well, to go into business like that?"
"Yes and no," Bryan Channing told her, launching himself on his
favorite subject. "We don't make the laws, m'am. Fifty different
planetary cultures nurtured on fifty different sets of laws with a
heritage as rich as our own Roman one--you don't merely stamp out all
the existing laws and arbitrarily distribute a new code. All you can do
is hope that in some fields at least there is a common meeting point
for the planets."
"You've failed to answer my question."
"Sorry. The Lurane Ambassadors are primarily businessmen, out to make a
buck for their planet, as the expression goes. The Specixes Ambassador
is a glorified emcee trooping around with a bunch of acrobats, dancers
and singers. There are no laws which would prohibit Qui Dor--"
"But he's threatening our entire way of life!" cried the
under-secretary, no longer prim and diplomatically correct.
"Aren't you exaggerating the situation, m'am?" he asked politely. He
wanted to say she was making a mountain not out of a mole hill but a
pimple. He wanted to say a lot of things but never did, and realized
that was one of the reasons ulcers ran so high in the Department
of State. He would settle for some chianti, antipasto and chicken
cacciatore with Ellen in their favorite Italian restaurant, but first
he had to placate the emissary from Health and P. W. and keep Nicholson
happy at the same time. It hardly seemed possible, for if he knew
Nick, the myopic explorer-with-portfolio was eavesdropping on their
conversation through the office intercom.
"You think it isn't serious, if our standard of living is threatened
by--"
"Let's look at it another way. I mean, it's just not our problem.
That's an internal problem for the Department of Health and Public
Welfare to solve, m'am."
"You can tell the Targoffian Ambassador to get the hell off our planet.
Excuse me."
* * * * *
Channing shook his head. "Even if I agreed with you, I couldn't do
that. Wouldn't that be perfect grist for the propaganda mills on Sirius
and Centauri, not to mention Deneb? Big Brother Earth goes around using
all the little planets. Humans break off diplomatic relations with
cultures which don't adhere to Earth standards--unless, of course, we
could milk something out of them."
"You know that isn't true."
"I'm not standing in judgment on it. I'm merely saying how they would
interpret it on Centauri and Sirius. Not to mention Deneb."
It was Channing's trump card. You didn't argue when someone mentioned
Deneb like that. Deneb was the _ne plus ultra_ of dangerous
interplanetary relations. If something were white on Earth, it was
black on Deneb. Unfortunately, Channing knew, there was at least as
much truth as fancy in what he said.
"How do the Denebians deal with Targoff?" the under-secretary demanded.
Channing lit his pipe and knew he was in for trouble. "They don't,"
he said. "Diplomatic relations are not maintained between Deneb and
Targoff."
"May I ask you why not? You see, Deneb can get away with it, but we--"
"I'm surprised at you," Channing cut her off. "Earth can't sink to the
Denebian level. We've got to set the example. We've got to be a shining
light, a beacon, a...."
"Those speeches sound fine on television," the under-secretary said,
"but I wasn't born yesterday, Mr. Channing. What are you going to do
about this situation?"
"Nothing right now. The Secretary of State wants to let matters ride
for the time being. The President...."
"I'm going to see the President, you know."
"Maybe it's best," Channing admitted. He was a thirty thousand dollar
a year trouble-shooter for the Department of State, running smack-dab
into a brick wall.
"You'll hear from me," warned the under-secretary. "You'll hear from
the President. This is deplorable."
"Yes, m'am," said Channing, showing her to the door.
Half an hour later, Channing had wilted his whiskers with depilatory,
staring all the while at his moody face with the slightly sagging jowls
in a desk mirror and wishing he were in some other line of work. The
achesonian epithet, it seemed, applied to State Department officials
above the level of clerk who had the misfortune of dealing with touchy
issues. If Health and P. W.'s Girl Friday had her way, Channing
suspected, he would be an ogre by morning.
* * * * *
"Don't go near the living room," Ellen called from somewhere on the
bedroom level of the house, "it's still wet. The maid quit, dear."
"Quit?" Channing hollered back. "What on Earth for?" He settled himself
on a web-chair in the study, poured a martini from the decanter Ellen
had prepared, and began to thumb through the impressive compilation of
figures the under-secretary had left with Julie.
"She's getting married."
"What?" Channing gasped. "Fanny getting married? I don't believe it."
"Honest," said Ellen, entering the room. She was a little pretty
woman, dressed in tight black torrero slacks and a fuzzy crimson
sweater which Channing thought came from one of the Centauri planets.
She was twenty-eight, half a dozen years younger than Channing, with
short-cropped chestnut hair and the dimpled smile and attractive legs
which aided and abetted a diplomat's career. She knew it and in the
best modern fashion they made good use of it.
Ellen sipped from Channing's cocktail glass, poured another for each of
them, pecked at his cheek with carmined lips and settled comfortably in
his lap. "You see," she said, not looking at him, "someone from Qui Dor
enterprises visited us on Monday."
"So now Fanny's getting married. I'll be damned. Say, you didn't take
anything from them, did you?"
"You mean like a husband? No-o."
"I mean like anything. And stop kidding."
"Well, yes, I did. Everybody's trying it, dear. I had to. I didn't want
to feel--left out."
Channing climbed to his feet, almost dumping his pretty wife on the
floor. "All right," he said. "You tell me what you bought."
"You won't be mad?"
"I'm not saying."
"Then I won't tell you."
"Ellen--"
"Promise?"
"O.K. I promise."
Ellen skipped away from him toward the dining room. "Then come on
inside and I'll show you."
* * * * *
Afterwards, he could have sworn that Ellen did no cooking. She merely
reached into a cabinet adjacent to the electric range, (must get a
radar range one of these days, he thought, especially with no more
Fanny around and the servant situation being what it was) and came
out with the platters, piping hot. "Hey," he'd said between mouthfuls
of savory white meat which tasted like a rare Centaurian fowl he had
eaten in that interplanetary restaurant on East 48th once, "this is
all right." The dessert was Sirius, and brother, what they could do
with those whipped toppings. And to finish it all off with the proper
pleasant glow, Ellen had even managed to find a bottle of good old
French brandy which must have been corked when Napoleon was a boy.
"The devil with Fanny," Channing declared, loosening his belt a notch.
"I've got myself quite a cook. Say, if you don't want to tell me about
that Qui Dor thing, honey...."
"Ha!" Ellen laughed triumphantly. "If that isn't just like a man. Give
him something good to eat and he'll be licking the palm of your hand.
But I said I'd show you. I already have."
"Huh?"
"You've eaten it. That's what the Qui Dor people sold me, that food
cabinet. How to keep a husband, they said. You see, no one can cook
that well, not in such variety. Mad at me, dear?"
"No," Channing admitted. "It was delicious, every bit of it." But he
patted his slight paunch reflectively. "Sometimes food can be too good,
though."
"Listen, big eyes. Qui Dor's food cabinet was made for guys like you.
Are you full?"
"Lord, yes."
"There wasn't a single calorie in what you ate. Nor any vitamins,
minerals or--"
"I've heard of that," Channing said incredulously. "But, but I've
eaten. I know I have. I tasted it, all of it. I felt it going down. I
feel full now. I couldn't eat another thing."
"I can't explain that, dear. You know the Targoffian Ambassador
personally. Perhaps he can."
"But if there was no food value in any of that stuff, we still haven't
eaten dinner."
"You're supposed to eat concentrates first, dear. I just wanted to
surprise you, that's all. Well, how do you like it?"
"I want it out of this house tomorrow," said Channing, raising his
voice.
"You don't have to holler at me."
"I'm sorry. But that cabinet goes."
"Why? Give me one good reason."
"Because--because it isn't natural. That's why. Not natural."
"And you're supposed to be the broad-minded whiz-kid of the State
Department."
"I'm no kid any more."
"Well, that's what they called you. It never hurt anybody on Targoff,
did it? This kind of thing?"
"I wouldn't know. I've never been there."
"What did Nicky say?"
"He said Targoff looks like the richest planet he's ever seen, but
is really the poorest. He said they have nothing and seem to have
everything. He said they don't admit it, though. As far as the
Targoffians are concerned, they do have everything."
"Well, do they or don't they?"
"It depends on your point of view," Channing said. "Objectively, they
have nothing. Subjectively, they have everything. Point is, the stuff
isn't real."
"What do you mean, it isn't real?"
"Say, has Qui Dor or someone been lecturing you? You're really going
off on the deep end about this Targoffian business, aren't you?"
"Not Qui Dor, an Earthman, Viennese, I think, working for him. You
haven't answered me, dear. I said, what do you mean it isn't real?"
"Well, it--it doesn't exist. It's all in the mind, in the imagination."
"You just ate it. When you looked at it, the food was there. You could
smell it and taste it and touch it--if it was hot it burned your hand,
Bryan--and you had to chew it and swallow it. If you ate too fast it
might even give you an upset stomach."
"But it wasn't real," Channing protested.
"Then what is real? Look at me."
"Um, pretty," said Channing.
"Stop that. Stop trying to change the subject. It's all well and good
for you to talk about these things in the office, but you never want to
talk about them with me. Touch me. Go on, touch me."
* * * * *
Feeling mildly ridiculous, Channing placed his big hand on the fuzzy
red material covering his wife's shoulder. "So what does that prove?"
he said.
"Stand up. Turn around."
He stood up, pushing the chair back. He turned around, facing the
entrance to the living room.
"Where am I?"
"Where are you? Right behind me, of course. Sitting down at the table."
"How do you know?"
"I--I just know."
"Are you sure? Can you be sure?"
"I just saw you there, damnit!"
"But you don't see me here now, unless you have eyes in the back of
your head, dear. How do you know I'm still here, unless you see me?"
"Because you didn't get up and go away, that's why. I would have heard
you."
"How do you know? Maybe I'm only around when you look at me. When you
_perceive_ me, dear. You understand?"
"No. Yes. I read all about the idealists in college, too. Berkeley,
Hume...."
"The Qui Dor people say they have the right idea. To be is to be
perceived. As soon as you stop perceiving me--or anything--it no longer
exists. As soon as you see me again, here I am. If you carry it to
extremes, the notion can lead to solipsism, but--"
"--but," Channing finished for her, "you can thank the good Lord that
Bishop Berkeley was no pagan and saved himself and the rest of us from
that way of thinking. Sure, to be is to be perceived. Maybe nothing
does exist unless it's being perceived, but that's where God comes
in. God is the constant conserver, he said. God is always looking at
everything. So everything always exists."
"But the Targoffians are atheists, dear," Ellen pointed out with
exasperating logic. "You may turn around now."
Channing turned around and glared at her.
"You see, it works. I don't know what you're getting so mad about."
"Then I'll tell you. What would happen if I went on eating meals like
that for a couple of weeks."
"You'd lose weight, dear. You'd fit into that bathing suit I bought you
for our third anniversary."
"I'm serious, damnit."
"You'd be awful hungry. You'd suffer from malnutrition. But the
concentrates come along with the food cabinet."
"Forget about the food cabinet. You're going to get rid of it tomorrow.
I want to ask you something else. Who did Fanny marry?"
"She didn't yet. She's getting married on Saturday, she said."
"My mistake," growled Channing. Ulcer potential was now following him
home from the office. "Who is she going to marry?"
"Whom."
"Yes."
"Someone sent by the Qui Dor people."
"Will he be real?"
"We just went through all that."
"Will I be able to see him?"
"Yes."
"Anybody?"
"Of course. You see, he's real. Not only that, he'll be the ideal
husband. At least, he'll be Fanny's ideal husband. You have a wide
variety to choose from, they told me. You can even buy one whose
temperament changes to suit yours day by day."
"There were fifty thousand divorces in New York so far this week,"
said Channing, "according to the under-secretary of Health and Public
Welfare. Have you any idea why?"
"I guess people were shedding their spouses to marry the ideal mate
before the price went up. Is there anything wrong with that?"
"I think so," Channing said. "I didn't think so before. I told the
under-secretary not to get so upset. But I want you to answer one
question. Will Fanny's husband be able to give her children?"
"No," Ellen conceded.
"You get rid of the food cabinet tomorrow."
* * * * *
Within a week, the brick wall became a nightmare. Health and Welfare
met with State on the highest level. Health stood firm: something
must be done about the situation. Health's figures were not only
impressive, they were downright frightening. In Buenos Aires, where
Latin tempers flared and, anyway, summer was approaching, one out
of every two recent marriages and one out of three of older vintage
could be expected to end in the divorce courts--if annulment did not
get them first. In Paris, the shrugging French found the answer in
multiple marriage, provided not more than one of the partners was a
bona fide human being. In Russia it became illegal to talk of Qui Dor's
creations: they did not exist.
State was equally firm: the cause of the situation could not at
this time be removed. Health must find its own internal solution.
The Denebian Ambassador began to pass snide remarks and send home
delightful tidbits of propaganda--was it true that the wife of the
President of United Amereurope had visited the attorney general's
brother-in-law concerning the possibility of divorce?
The Council of International Security met with the President, who had
been called home from his Martian vacation. Health was adamant; State
left the conference with a won point but a red face. The Denebian
Ambassador received a copy of the minutes of the special session and
gloated. Some said Health had maliciously given the transcript to the
saurian from Deneb. State marched into Bryan Channing's office with
his red face and demanded a solution. Someone, said State, would have
to resign.
"Which would solve nothing," Channing told his boss glumly.
"But we might get off the hook. What about that explorer, Nicholson?"
"He did his job," said Channing. "Just like I'm trying to do mine."
"The wolves are howling from both directions," pleaded State. "You've
got to do something."
"That's the trouble. Both directions. If we get rid of Qui Dor and tell
the Targoffians we no longer want to maintain diplomatic relations,
Deneb howls and we lose prestige. If we leave Qui Dor alone, Health and
Public Welfare raises a stink."
"Well, it's justified. Have you heard the latest?"
"About what?"
"About a state of emergency, Bryan. Places where the standard of living
is high, it isn't too bad. But try telling 'em in India they have to
buy and take food concentrates along with Qui Dor's stuff. They won't
listen to you. They starve to death. They take Qui Dor's medication to
get rid of disease and the symptoms disappear. But they're still sick
and some of them die."
"Has anyone spoken to Qui Dor about this?" Channing wanted to know.
"Health wants to. We won't let 'em. State's job, I said. They told me,
then do it. How can I do it, Bryan? What can I say? The only time I
ever met this Qui Dor was when he presented his credentials. You know
Qui Dor. You've talked with him. He'll feel more at ease with you--or
possibly that Nicholson fellow."
"Afraid you'll have to count Nick out. He's not a diplomat. All he
wants is to get back into space again. You know, it isn't a bad idea. I
still have my explorer's rating. I could--"
"Don't even think of it. You came up through the ranks, Channing. A man
doesn't go down the same way. He goes out. I don't like this business
of giving ultimatums. We're all grown men here, but ... Channing. I
want you to see Qui Dor. I want you to reason with him. Not the full
treatment, you understand. Qui Dor stays. Deneb would have us spitted
over an open fire, otherwise."
"Then what do you want me to do?"
"I'll leave it in your hands, but I want results. Is that clear?
Whatever you do, do not offend Qui Dor. But placate the Department
of Health and Public Welfare. I'm going down to India on official
business, Channing. Do you have any questions?"
"Yes. How the devil can I make both of them happy?"
"Be diplomatic," said State, and took his leave, a worried, red-faced
man with an over-sized brief case and round shoulders almost but not
quite hidden by an expert job of tailoring.
"Julie," Channing called over the office intercom, "get me an
appointment with Qui Dor, Targoffian Embassy, for tomorrow morning or
as soon as possible. And is Nick out there listening?"
"Well ... yes."
"Tell him, pretty please, to take his spaceship somewhere and get lost."
"Aw, boss," said Nicholson over the intercom. But he was laughing.
Channing wasn't.
* * * * *
At least, Channing thought as he brought his copter down for an
excellent landing on the asphalt airstrip around which his and a dozen
other houses were situated in suburban Center Moriches, he could
retain his sanity at home. It was decidedly upper middle class, this
Center Moriches community, with half an acre of landscaped grounds for
each house, a copter and a surface car for each family, and enough
money floating around to keep everything, including the marble-walled
swimming pools, in good repair.
There was something warm and secure about upper middle, anyway. The
lower strata might need some of Qui Dor's goods, the highest might
play with them extensively to show that it could but didn't need to,
really. But upper middle was neither needy nor had the time for such
conspicuous consumption. Mindful of its bootstrap beginnings, upper
middle would ape what was above in such things as marble swimming pools
and over-generous charity donations and hardly leave time for what
Qui Dor had to offer. An occasional food cabinet and a little family
squabble, Channing admitted to himself, could be tolerated. But when
he remembered Ellen's thorough knowledge of Qui Dor and his Targoffian
theories, it unnerved him.
The crabapple trees had shed most of their fruit on the back lawn,
dotting the blue-green carpet of grass with brilliant red. The roses
were out of bloom but protected next year's blossoms with thorny
security. And best of all, thought Channing, breathing deep of
everything, there was the chill of autumn on the air and the brittle
gold of it in the fast-fading sunlight and the leaf-burning smell of
it, so piquant he could almost taste it.
Ellen was not on the back lawn, not in the den, the living room, the
basement, or the kitchen. Ellen was in one of the spare bedrooms.
Ellen had a baby.
* * * * *
"You're minding it until one of the neighbors returns," Channing
suggested hopefully.
"Uh-uh. It's mine."
"Now wait a minute!"
"Shh, please." Ellen was burping the tiny infant who, wrapped in
swaddling clothes and balanced shapelessly on her shoulder, was staring
at Channing out of big, solemn eyes. The lips puckered, not all at
once but slowly, building up a head of steam. Burp and frightened wail
issued forth at the same instant.
"What do you mean, it's yours?" Channing demanded. But the facts were
plain enough. The spare room had been converted to a nursery, all done
in pink, with crib and bath-gadget and nightstand and a little pink
diaper pail.
"Do you like the name Stephanie?" Ellen asked, gently placing the
infant in her crib and cooing at her until the wail subsided.
Incredulously, Channing stepped across the threshold to have a closer
look. Stephanie puckered and wailed again, drumming tiny legs under the
swaddling clothes.
"You're frightening her," said Ellen.
"Will you please tell me what's going on here?"
"Only if you lower your voice."
"There," Channing told his wife in a furious whisper which made
Stephanie shriek. "Now tell me."
"Dr. Lang said I couldn't have a baby for two more years. You know
that. When I heard about the babies Qui Dor Enterprises were--"
"So now it's enterprises," Channing shouted. Stephanie drowned him out.
"She's pretty, isn't she?"
Stephanie's small, snub-nosed face was pink with fury. The mouth opened
wide and hollered.
"I don't care if she's going to grow up and be Miss Universe. By the
way, does--does she actually grow up?"
"What's the matter with you, Bryan Channing? Of course she grows up.
She's real."
"As real as that food cabinet. How much did she cost?"
"I won't tell you while you're mad like that."
"Don't you see how fantastic this is?" Channing pleaded, "We can't go
around with a fake baby."
"Fake? How dare you!"
"Yes, fake. How would you go about entering her in school when she's
four years old, for instance?"
"We'll worry about that in four years, but don't you call Stephanie
fake. Anyway, Qui Dor is selling so many babies, provisions will have
have to be made."
"That's what the salesman told you. The Viennese."
"Yes. But if you had to clean up the mess she makes, you wouldn't call
her fake."
"She goes," Channing said, pointing theatrically at the door, then
regretting it. How did he ever get to be a diplomat, anyway?
Ellen ignored him. "You know, dear, I think she looks like you. I was
able to select my own features and weight and everything. At birth she
weighed six pounds. She's two weeks old now and already gained a pound."
"At birth? Two weeks?"
"Well, you know what I mean. She would have, if she--"
"Oh, then you admit it?" said Channing in triumph. "She isn't real."
"Well, she wasn't born like--like other babies. But she's real. You may
hold her if you want."
"I don't want."
"Just to convince you."
"Let's not go through that again."
"You're shouting. You're making Stephanie cry. What's the matter with
you, Bryan?"
"Nothing's the matter with me. My wife is going crazy. Here I'm
supposed to put a stop to this sort of thing on a worldwide level, and
my own wife betrays me."
"That Viennese had a good point, you know. I don't entirely agree with
him, but he said a lot of women like babies and want children, but
would rather not go through nine months of pregnancy and giving birth
and all. Qui Dor Enterprises provide the baby."
"It's not real."
"Don't call Stephanie an it, I said. She is perfectly real. She is as
real as you. You can touch her, feel her, smell her--try changing her
diaper sometime, Bryan." Stephanie shrieked.
"You sure can hear her," Channing admitted. He explored the little
bundle experimentally with a forefinger and was gratified when she did
not howl.
"See, you like her."
"I do not like her. She doesn't exist." Channing backed away.
"For a twenty-first century man with a college education, sometimes you
can be the stubbornest--"
"She's not even a mess of chemicals!" stormed Channing. "It wouldn't be
so bad if they made her in a test-tube or something. She just--is. You
don't even know how they do it. You can't even call her an artificial
baby."
"I'll say you can't," Ellen told him, picking Stephanie up and
engulfing her with protective arms. "She's a real one."
"She goes," Channing. "It goes, do you hear me?"
"Stop shouting."
"Well, it does."
"Is that so?" Now Ellen was shouting. "You better get that idea out of
your head, Bryan. You can't boss me like that. Stephanie stays or ...
or I don't."
"You're acting like a child."
"Am I? I'm not joking. Why don't we talk about it later, after I fix
you dinner?"
"We'll talk about it now."
"I have nothing to say."
"I don't want to see her here tomorrow night."
"You're impossible. You're getting to be an ... ogre."
"In the office too," Channing said. "But I won't stand for it at home,
understand?"
"Don't make a scene in front of the child."
"I'm not making a scene. She's no child."
"We'll talk about it later."
"Then talk to Stephanie," said Channing. "I'm going out."
"Goodbye. Don't slam the door."
They were behaving irrationally, Channing realized as he went for a
spin in the copter, clearing the suburban traffic lanes and heading
west toward the city. He was as much to blame as Ellen, but he couldn't
let this thing get the better of him at home. If only he could explain
to the Targoffian Ambassador that his business enterprises were playing
hob with the socio-economic set-up on Earth not to mention Channing's
own marital life. The thing that hurt almost as much as Channing's own
troubles was the Denebian Ambassador. He could picture the saurian face
gloating.
* * * * *
"Good morning, chief. You have an appointment with Qui Dor at the
Targoffian Embassy, eleven hundred hours."
"Morning, Julie. Anything else?"
"You look tired."
He couldn't tell her he'd been sleeping in a hotel. A man gets used to
suburban quiet. "One of those nights," he said.
"I'm afraid it's going to be one of those mornings, too, if you don't
mind me saying so. Mrs. Delacourt is here."
"From Health and Public Welfare? Oh, no."
"Definitely yes. In your office, chief. And mad. Nick called and wants
to see Qui Dor with you."
"Tell him nothing doing. Tell him I'll see him later. Sometimes I think
it's all some kind of conspiracy between Nick and Qui Dor."
"You know Nick is only doing his job, chief. As an explorer with
portfolio, he finds new planets and begins arranging diplomatic
relations with them."
"With all the planets in the galaxy, why did he have to stumble on
Targoff?"
"Ask Nick."
"Don't mind me, Julie. Just letting off steam." Channing pushed
through the door marked UNDER SECRETARY FOR EXTRA-SOLAR AFFAIRS. Mrs.
Delacourt paced back and forth like a fat lion which had learned to
walk on its hind legs and grown soft in the process, but was still
dangerous.
"State's out," she said, bristling. "I had to see someone."
"What's it about this time?" Channing demanded wearily. If he kept
this up, he would be out of a job in record time. Of all the Cabinet
portfolios, Health and P. W. was the one you had to bend over backwards
to please. The Secretary was usually a bridge-partner and friend of
the First Lady. Her assistant might have been the wife of a five-star
general or at least a Congressman. Delacourt--anyway the name wasn't
familiar. "I'm sorry," said Channing. "Bad night. Can I help you?"
"I doubt it, Mr. Channing. As you know, litigation moves swiftly these
days. Are you aware of the case of Myers versus Myers?"
"No, m'am." Before you knew it, it might be Channing versus Channing.
"You should be. When Sylvanus Myers died, he left an estate valued at
three million dollars. He cut the widow off with almost nothing and
left the bulk of his wealth to his--uh, child."
"I'm afraid I don't see the connection."
"This child was purchased from Qui Dor. Child, indeed. Mrs. Sylvanus'
attorneys brought suit, maintaining that since the Sylvanus child did
not exist, he could not legally inherit the estate. Do you follow, Mr.
Channing?"
And, after Channing lit his pipe and nodded: "They weighed the Myers
baby. They examined him. They pointed out he had a set of unique
fingerprints, like a person. They showed his retinal pattern was
both distinct and unique, as well as his electro-encephalogram.
Child psychologists tested him and found him normal in every
way. He perspires and passes his water and--forgive me, Mr.
Channing--defecates." Mrs. Delacourt took the whole thing as a personal
insult, as if, in finding that the Myers child functioned normally, the
doctors had somehow deflated not only the entire human race but Mrs.
Delacourt as well.
Half listening and half wondering if he had presented the same
ridiculous picture to Ellen the night before, Channing said, "Go on,
Mrs. Delacourt."
"The Myers child had been born, created or made to exist in the State
of New Jersey. The Myers child therefore was adjudged a citizen after
his attorneys had invoked the Fourteenth Amendment. Do you understand
what that means, Mr. Channing?"
"I guess it means the Myers child will get his inheritance."
"It means much more than that. It set a precedent. Qui Dor creations
have equal rights before the law, Mr. Channing. They can sue, they can
vote, they can hold office, they can--"
"I can't see the harm in that."
"It encourages more of them. If you leave a fortune and want it spent
a certain way, the Qui Dor Enterprises will create precisely the
individual you want as an heir. It encourages crime, Mr. Channing. The
Qui Dor Enterprises can create an individual for you to commit a crime.
He'll do the job, you'll return him, he'll cease to exist--"
"And you'd be guilty as an accessory."
* * * * *
Mrs. Delacourt shook her head. "No, you wouldn't. I have looked into
the legality of the matter. That would be like admitting there were
such things as pre-natal influence. The Qui Dor creation, whether child
or full grown, is a citizen with all a citizen's rights, and since
we don't recognize the possibility of pre-natal influence, we don't
recognize the real criminal in such a case as an accessory."
"It's not the same thing."
"In the eyes of the law, I fear it is."
"But if you return a--a citizen to Qui Dor and the citizen ceases to
exist because he's no longer needed for the job--it does work that way,
doesn't it, Mrs. Delacourt?"
"Yes."
"Then you'd be guilty of murder, taking the life away from the Qui Dor
creation, I mean. It's complicated."
"No, it isn't. It's simple. You'd be guilty of nothing. _Esse es
percipi_, Mr. Channing. No one's been murdered. There's no corpse. No
one exists."
"I give up," said Channing. "Mrs. Delacourt, I can sympathize with you.
For personal reasons, I can understand your problem. But right now
there isn't a thing I can do about it. However, I'm going to see Qui
Dor this morning and possibly something can be arranged to your mutual
satisfaction."
Mrs. Delacourt had hardly heard him. "Yet _esse_ should be more than
_percipi_," she was mumbling. "There should be more to existing than
merely being perceived, don't you think? It would all be so--so empty,
so meaningless that way. They can make any legal decision they wish: I
am more than something which is seen or touched or ... or tasted. Not
merely myself, Mr. Channing. The people. All the people. You. Are you
only the various qualities of sense, an image in my mind, an idea? Are
you?"
"I don't know," Channing admitted.
"If you are, if we all are, it's a sinister plot against the people.
Civilization is ruined. Qui Dor's creations shall surely take over.
Why, before you know it, women will stop having babies. No pain, no
nuisance, no chance of congenital illness."
"I know exactly what you mean," Channing declared ruefully. "I've got
to see Qui Dor, though, Mrs. Delacourt."
"Call me and let me know. Oh, do call me and tell me you've sent him
packing."
"Remember Deneb, m'am. I'll do my best."
A few moments later, a furious Nicholson telio'd Channing and informed
him that the New York State Junior League was lobbying Congress to pass
a law nullifying diplomatic relations with Targoff. That was the root
of the evil, they said. The planet itself. We want nothing to do with
them. We don't want our children associating with images. Channing
swore in silent desperation. You couldn't argue with the Junior League.
Qui Dor Enterprises was lowering the standard of living more and more
every day, not maliciously, certainly, but lowering it nevertheless.
Divorce, malnutrition, illness, crime, decreased birth rate, domestic
squabbles....
Which immediately suggested a hopeful but abortive attempt at
reconciliation with Ellen. Yes, she was busy. Of course she had kept
Stephanie. What was the matter with him, anyway? He could hear the girl
wailing, couldn't he? She was so helpless. She had to be cared for.
Where was his sense of responsibility? Well, yes, she still loved him,
but not if he were going to maintain his pig-headed attitude toward
their daughter. What? Yes their daughter. He heard her. Click and
fadeout of the picture of his wife, bunting in one hand and a squealing
infant with obvious quiddity but questionable essence in the other.
Three quarters of an hour later he stormed into Qui Dor's office on
the top floor of an old office building which had been converted into
the Targoffian Embassy in the days before anyone anticipated anything
but a casual interchange of cultural trivia between the Targoffians
and Earthmen. He cooled his heels in the reception room, fighting
back an impulse to ask the too-pretty, too-courteous, too-efficient
receptionist if she were real. By the time he was admitted to Qui Dor's
sanctum sanctorum he presented, at least on the surface, the unruffled
appearance of a diplomat on a routine state call.
* * * * *
"Bryan Channing, is it not? You see, I have learned your language with
no great difficulty."
In Channing's job, you had to forget human standards. The office
was large, with a high-vaulted ceiling where the insulating space
beneath the building's roof had been exposed. There were two or three
comfortable chairs which would fit Channing. There was a big sign
beyond Qui Dor's massive desk, blocking the window and the view of
other skyscrapers. It said QUI DOR ENTERPRISES--WE SELL ANYTHING. It
faced into the room, and with it as a back-drop, Qui Dor looked like
anything but an interstellar ambassador.
Qui Dor was a dozen feet tall and neither reptilian nor mammalian. He
defied classification in any terrestrial system, but with the feathery
covering, hard, protruding, pointed lips and round, small, jet-black
eyes, looked most nearly bird-like. The thin legs added to the
illusion; the three sets of thin arms dispelled it.
"I haven't seen you since that day I showed you around the city after
Nicholson introduced us," Channing began, settling himself comfortably
in a chair and wishing he didn't have to stare at the sign behind Qui
Dor's feathery back.
"You were a most gracious host, Mr. Channing. But now I suspect your
visit is of an entirely different nature."
"Well, yes. Yes, it is."
"I see that you are in danger of falling from Scylla into Charybdis,
as it is said in your literature. You needn't mince words with me. You
understand, I have my informants." The black eyes twinkled merrily, the
crest atop the long, narrow head stirred.
_I'll bet they're from Deneb_, Channing wanted to say. This was a
pretty pickle, with the Denebians sitting somewhere out of sight and
chuckling over the whole thing. Why couldn't Nick have been even more
myopic--near-sighted enough to miss Targoff entirely?
"There is no limit to what I can give your people," said Qui Dor. "Next
week we are opening a line of jewelry, as you may know. It is cheaper
than what you can get in your mines."
South Africa, here comes disaster. "Artificial jewels?" demanded
Channing.
"No, not artificial."
"Natural?"
"No."
"Real?"
"Decidedly. What is real, Mr. Channing?"
"Well--but suppose you tell me. You're the man who's livened interest
in the British Empiricists after they'd been all but forgotten except
by students of philosophy."
"What are you, Mr. Channing? That is, what makes you real?"
"Umm, let me see. The chemicals. Yes, the chemicals of which my body is
composed. And a soul, whatever that is. If there is such a thing."
"But are you really chemicals? That is, are the chemicals real?"
"I don't follow you."
"Like everything else, these chemicals have qualities. In solids, they
have size, shape, weight, bulk. Similar properties in liquid and gas.
On a secondary scale, they have color, taste, odor. On a tertiary one,
they can do things. They react. They behave as expected from a study of
the primary and secondary qualities. Now do you follow me?"
"I think so."
"I'm sorry to begin our discussion this way. I feel I know what your
problem is, but I'm starting at the beginning. Do you mind?"
"Not at all." Mrs. Delacourt would be very unhappy.
"Who is Mrs. Delacourt?"
"Eh?" Channing cried. "I didn't say anything."
"Your thoughts have such qualities too, Mr. Channing."
"You mean you can read my mind?"
"I can perceive it, as you can perceive color. To continue: we of
Targoff maintain that no thing in itself is real. Things only have
existence as their various qualities are perceived. When you leave this
room, as far as I am concerned, you do not exist."
"A man named Hume went a step further than that," Channing told Qui Dor
with a smile. "After disposing of the world in such summary fashion,
he also disposed of you and me and everyone. The mind which perceived
these qualities, he said, was nothing more than a collection--he
used the word collocation, I think--of the qualities. So you have
non-existent external things on the one hand and a non-existent mind on
the other. The second nothing somehow gets images of the first nothing,
and that's the sum total of the world."
"Interesting," said Qui Dor, ruffling his crest with a three-fingered
hand, "but hardly practical. You see, Mr. Channing, our theories work.
We can create your collocations of qualities to order. We can even give
a man immortality."
"How can you do that?"
"Why, by recreating his qualities down to the last atomic detail when
he dies."
"You wouldn't," said Channing.
"Not here, not yet. Someday, perhaps."
"I don't want to be blunt, but you're playing hob with the whole
structure of our society."
* * * * *
Three sets of arms spread out before Channing in a very human gesture.
"We call it progress, don't you see?"
"But that's interfering with the internal affairs of another planet."
"Is it? We're not foisting anything on you. What we sell is exactly as
claimed. There is no compulsory--"
"But how many people can resist?"
"How many _should_, Mr. Channing?"
"How do we know what you're creating is real, or permanent? I'll tell
you this, sir: you're in trouble if it's all an illusion."
"My dear Mr. Channing, I'm surprised at you. Your culture has created
or accepted--or that strange combination of both which is the
religious zeal--a First Principle, a Prime Mover, a deity culturally
endowed with the ability to create. Your culture then supposes this
deity did his creating once, long ago, and now is content to rest
through all eternity. I say the first half of it is anthropomorphic
wish-fulfillment. I say the second is a lack of cultural imagination."
"Are you calling yourself a deity?" Channing shuddered at the
possibility. Along with Health and P. W. and Ellen, every church on
Earth might soon be clamoring for his scalp.
"Yes and no. Why create--or accept--the godhood if you have the power
yourself? No wish-fulfillment was involved. And we never stopped
creating."
"Are you trying to tell me that you ... that you can actually, well,
create things out of air?"
"Out of nothing, Mr. Channing. For we create nothing. We merely
establish your Mr. Hume's collocation of qualities around any desired
pattern. We do not admit the existence of the external world, so we are
not bothered about creating parts of it. You understand?"
"How do you do it?"
"We do it."
"Where will you stop?"
Qui Dor made the shrugging gesture again. "I see that the problem is a
domestic one for you as well. Here." He reached into a drawer of his
desk and produced a diamond-studded tiara.
Channing touched it gingerly, as if the many-faceted gems might burn
his fingers. "Was this there a minute ago?" he asked.
"It was there when I opened the drawer and looked for it. It is there
now, when you are touching it. But put it back in the drawer, Mr.
Channing."
Channing did so. Qui Dor shut the drawer.
"Now where is it?" the Targoffian Ambassador demanded.
"In the drawer."
"Indeed? How do you know?"
"Well, I--suppose I don't know."
"Open the drawer, if you please."