_Who knows?_ He shrugged. _What’s the difference?_
He’d decided something; that was an accomplishment right there. Yeah,
big deal: go see ole buddy Chris and get yapped at some more. Okay,
he’d _decided_, hadn’t he? Give Lee a kick anyhow.
Lisa Goes To The Moon. He started to laugh, but he coughed and
half-choked instead. He was thinking of the magazines when he was a
kid. Too bad Lisa couldn’t wear one of those bubble-type outfits the
girls on the magazine covers had. That would go over big, in the Dome!
He could just see them, Chris’s crew of tame scientists, goggle-eyed.
Spent two damn years up there and never saw a babe worth looking at.
_All_ goggle-eyed.
This time the laugh almost came out right.
If it was a magazine story, though, Chris’s little Mars-bugs would
turn out to be secret-super-intelligences with invincible powers, from
Betelgeuse.
Or Arcturus.
That would be nice, he thought. Let it turn out poor old Doug was just
a rabbit mesmerized by these snakey protozoan _intelligences_. Pretty
soon they’d take the whole world over, too--except for The Hero, who’d
dash in and save everyone just in time.
Singing: “I’ll be glad when you’re dead, you amoeba, you.”
Lee was making breakfast. He wasn’t ready to see her yet. He found the
coffee jar, and made himself some, boiling scalding hot, turned the
outside wall to full light and transparency, and propped himself on the
couch with the hot coffee and the hot sun shining on him.
When he was ready to go out to the kitchen, he found her just finishing
her breakfast, wearing yellow shorts, _very_ short, and a bright
purple halter top, looking about sixteen years old.
“Hi, doll.” Grinning made his face feel cracked and a million years
old. “How come you look like that when I feel like this? I worked
late,” he said. “Lay down to think something out, and I fell asleep.”
“Sure,” she said.
He looked straight in her eyes for a moment, and remembered she wasn’t
really a kid. She was two months older than he was. He hated her for
knowing what he wouldn’t tell; and blessed her for not trying to make
him say it. He sat down and patted her hand.
“Hey, babe?”
“Hmmmm?”
“I seem to have made a decision.”
“Yes?” But there was something scared in her _eyes_.
“I have some recollection of deciding last night that we would go to
the Moon.”
She surprised him. Last night, he was sure she was all hopped up about
it. And even now, the scared look left her eyes. _Scared? Why? What
of?_ She looked pleased, all right. But she didn’t say a word.
“That is, if you still _want_ to go,” he said stiffly.
“I--well, yes, but--Let me think about it a little. All right?”
“Sure.” He stood up and went and looked in the warmer. Bacon and toast.
_You goddam lucky bastard_, he thought, _You’re so used to her doing
things your way, you think you have to get sore if she doesn’t climb
all over you and yell Hallelujah!_
He made a sandwich out of the bacon and toast, and went back to the
table.
“Whatever you want, baby,” he said softly.
_New York City--6:15_ P.M. _(E.D.S.T.)_
“Well, I’m sorry,” Kutler said. “I guess it was a bum hunch.”
“I don’t know. You weren’t too far off--I don’t think. But damn if I
knew how to get through. You’re sure there’s no way _you_--?”
The doctor shook his head. “I wish I could. I’ve tried a couple of
times. I’ll keep on trying. But--” He shrugged, and finished his drink.
Pete Christensen cleared his throat. “What do you say to some dinner?
This place serve any food?” _Damn it, the guy actually gives a damn!_
You didn’t find many like that any more.... _Any more_...? Damn fool
thought. Never was more than one in a million who did--outside his own
yard or his own pocketbook.
“Well, they serve it,” Kutler said. “Nobody in his right mind would
eat it. Tell you what--there’s a place down the street here--You like
Swedish cooking?”
“Grew up on it.”
The doctor nodded, pleased. “Okay, let’s get out of here.” He caught
a waiter, paid the check, and they walked down Lexington toward the
Swedish place, talking trivia about the city and how it changed. It
must have been seven-eight years, Chris thought, since he’d seen this
part of town; yet some blocks, you could go back twenty years after,
and nothing changed at all.
“I used to love this damn town,” he said, surprised, because it had
been so long since he had even thought about New York, let alone
_looked_ at it. Kutler was good for him; the man _cared_. It was a
little painful even to visualize all the things he seemed to care
about. Like a wheel hub, with another spoke reaching out every
part-turn. “I guess,” he said slowly, “I’ve put it all into one.” And
then thought, _That was dumb._ Then: _But he knows what I meant._
“Rockets only go one way at a time, don’t they?” the doctor said.
Chris cleared his throat.
“Here we are,” Phil said.
As soon as they’d ordered, Chris plunged in. “Here’s what I wanted
to see you about, Phil. You know, we’ve had a personnel problem up
there all along that’s a little unusual. I suppose you know the
background--I’m sure you do, because we fed you this stuff when you
worked with Wendt. Our psychogenic troubles?”
“Yeah. Fascinating stuff, too. I figured if you wanted me, it would be
something to do with that. But you want a good psychosomaticist, Chris,
there are a hell of a lot of ’em better than me. I’ve always been
interested, but it’s not really my field.”
“I don’t need just a good psychosomatics man,” Chris said. “We’ve
got the problem under control from the point of view of our people’s
health. Nothing to it. Every damn contract calls for one month Earth
rest leave after each working quarter. Three months up, one down.
Keeps ’em healthy as hell. Any good psychosomatics man will tell
you that’s the only answer, short of an all-out training program
that adds up to something like studying yoga, f’krissake!” He dipped
into heaven-scented pea soup, and broke crisp bread. “Phil, what I’m
after is someone who’ll look at it from the point of view of a new
environment that men damn well _can_ live in. _I_ do. Have, more than
ten years now. Some of the others could, if the contracts let ’em. I
don’t know how you feel about this. Maybe you’ll take the same stand
the others do: we’re asking for something ‘unnatural,’ and we have to
pay the price. I just had a hunch you might--feel differently.”
“Because of Johnny?” the doctor asked quietly.
“All right.” Chris let himself look at the other man for the first time
since he’d started his speech. “Because of Johnny. But I mean it a
couple of ways.”
“Relax, will you?” Phil looked as if he could take some of his own
advice, too. “Who’s kiddin’ whom? _I_ know I feel guilty about Johnny.
So what difference does it make if _you_ know it too? But that doesn’t
mean I’m going to throw up a good practice here and go tromping off to
Outer Space to offer myself up in his place.”
Chris finished the pea soup, looked at the other man, and laughed.
“Damn it, I’ve got to get down more often,” he said, and laughed again.
“I keep saying that. When I’m down. Now look: first of all, I said it
was a _couple_ of ways ‘because of Johnny.’ Sure, that was one of them.
The other is, you _did_ get _some_where with him. Or come to think
of it, that’s just _one_ other part of it. You got through to him;
nobody else could. That means, the way I see it, you maybe--speak our
language some? You don’t start with the idea that being off of Earth is
‘unnatural.’ Am I wrong?”
“I don’t think so,” Kutler said slowly. “Hadn’t really looked at it
that way. Maybe so--What’s the other bit?”
“Obvious. Just that you’ve had some experience with our kind of nut.”
“Oh _now_! Just because two guys have been to the same place, and both
come back sick doesn’t mean--” He stopped short. Chris grinned. “Yeah.
I see what you mean,” the doctor went on, slowly. “Nine times out of
ten, it does mean just that. Only,” he finished, “Johnny didn’t get
sick on the Moon.”
“Well, frankly, I didn’t mean it that strongly anyhow. You’re way ahead
of me, as usual. But--let’s just say, if I’ve got a sick horse, and I
can’t get a vet--because nobody’s invented veterinary medicine yet--I’m
damn well going to try to find a doctor who’s at least _worked_ on a
horse before.”
“Even if it died?”
“He’s not dead,” Chris said drily. “Far from it. You seen that layout
up there?”
“Not since it was finished.”
“Well, you’ve seen the girl.”
“Yeah.” Kutler looked at him levelly. “I saw her yesterday. He’s not
dead. Yet.”
“He’s sick. Okay. You _still_ know more about--horses--than a man who’s
never opened one up.” Kutler started to speak, but Chris went on. “At
least, _I_ think so. So here’s what I’d like to ask you to do--”
He opened his briefcase, and pulled out the folder of case histories
and medic reports. “Here’s the background stuff. If you can find time
to look it over, and you think you’re willing to consider the idea at
all, what I’d like to do is start sending my leave people in to see
you. Not for treatment,” he said hastily, as the doctor tried to stop
him again, “Just interviews, sort of. Get your own histories on them.
See what ideas you get. This thing is wide open, Phil. I don’t know if
what we need is a man on the job up there, or a consultant, or a whole
staff and program, or what the hell. I figure you can at least give us
a push the right way. Will you hire on as consultant for now on that
basis? Then if you think you’re not the right man, find us one. Or a
dozen. Or tell us what we need. Or tell us you can’t even do that. But
give it a whirl, will you? I don’t know where else to start with.”
Kutler hesitated, still. “How much time do you figure I’ll need for
that ‘month’?”
“You decide. Give it what you can. Take what time you need. Bill us
at whatever your hourly rates for government jobs are. We’re used
to cost-plus,” he added drily. “Don’t stint yourself on the expense
account. When you’ve got a yea or nay or maybe for me, let me hear it.”
The doctor was silent a moment, and Chris held his breath, almost.
He’d had the right hunch this time. If Kutler took it at all, he just
_might_ actually crack it--because if he took it, he’d kill himself
_trying_.
“I can at least look over the literature,” Phil said finally. He
grinned. “Which in English means, all right, so you’ve got me curious.
Or hooked?”
Chris passed over the envelope with the folder. He saw Phil’s eyebrows
go up.
“What’s this bit?” He was indicating the red-stamped TOP SECRET.
“Christ, I get to where I don’t even see it. Every damn thing we do
up there--But on this job, they mean it. Only reason I got funds for
anything as--way out?--as this was Security has fits about these people
going up and down all the time. Anything to keep ’em up on the farm,
the way they see it. Frankly,” he added, “that was another reason for
wanting you. You’re cleared already. God knows how long I’d wait before
they found another man they’d put their gold star on.”
_Acapulco--7:30_ P.M. _(C.S.T.)_
“What do you think?”
Brigadier General Jedro Arthur Harbridge, USA ASF, turned from the
bar cabinet in the study of his country home with an air of some
satisfaction. He carried two palest-gold martinis to the desk, handed
one ceremoniously to his Press Secretary.
“Hard to say,” Prentiss answered. “Thanks. Well--here’s luck!” He
sipped appreciatively. “Okay, you win. The Dutch gin _is_ better.” He
picked up the memo he’d been looking at while the General mixed drinks.
“I can’t see anything in here that will make headlines--that’s sure.”
“Okay.” Harbridge settled down in an anachronistically
solid-comfortable leather chair. “What _are_ you going to make ’em
with, then?”
Al Prentiss shrugged one gray dacron shoulder. “What’s the rush?”
_You wouldn’t understand, boy, if I spelled out every word!_ This
particular rush had started a _long_ time ago--for some people. For
others, including all or damn-near-all PR men, the General thought,
there _was_ no rush: just the crush of the crowd.
“That’s my problem,” he said heavily. “Now _your_ problem is getting
the Dome in the papers, and getting it in good.”
Prentiss studied his chief’s face, and nodded. “Okay. So let’s take it
from One. How much of this stuff has been released before?”
Harbridge frowned. “Just the general background. Nothing on the genetic
structure at any time. Seems to me, the only thing that went out was a
film made up from their lab micros, with a very basic sound-track--you
know, the little Mars whachahoosies in their natural habitat?--the
symbiosis stuff, or fission or fusion, or whatever these dingusses do
instead of screw--that kind of thing. That’s about a year ago, I guess,
little less. On the other hand, I think the only stuff mentioned here
that’s been officially classified is the chromosome chart stuff: or
anything that was done before June 1, come to think of it, unless it’s
been released. That was the last full regular report, and _they_ get
stamped before they’re read.”
“So I’m stupid,” said Prentiss, “but what’s such hot news about
chromosomes? We all got ’em.” He stood up abruptly. “Damn it, sir,
you just can’t make good copy out of what a bunch of amoebas do for
sex--even if they come from Mars.” He held the papers fanned out, and
looked at them with scorn.
Harbridge took the sheets, and held them in his lap. A slow smile
spread on his face. “All right, Al. I’ll give you a story to write. Two
of ’em. First one is the bugs. Just what’s in here, but no details.
Leave out the chromosomes: they might not be copy to you, lad, but
they’re hot, believe me. Now let’s see.”
He put his drink down, picked up the papers again, and reached for
a clipboard and pencil. Then he went through carefully checking and
crossing-out.
“Use this, you can quote this bit direct,” he said, as Prentiss came
around the desk to look over his shoulder. “‘... startling adaptation
syndrome, which does not conform so much to the concept of mutation as
of controlled evolution.’ Hey, you know this stuff is pretty jazzy,
Al. Come to think of it, we better leave out the last bit--What the
hell does he mean, ‘controlled’ evolution? Who’s doin’ the damn
controlling?--Never mind. Just make it, ‘does not conform entirely
to the usual concept of mutation.’ Leave out all this part about the
Earth-normal environment--that’s _really_ secret. Here, this bit won’t
hurt anything, ‘... genetic relationships between species ...’ and if
you just change this about capacity for cross-breeding to something
about experiments at cross-breeding--make it sound like Luther Burbank
or something--you follow all this?”
“From a distance,” Al Prentiss said dourly. “Or maybe through a glass,
darkly.”
“Okay. Now this chromosome chart bit I guess is pretty touchy too,
but there’s no reason we can’t say something like ‘unusual’ or
‘unanticipated’ chromosome count. What do you think?”
“I’d hate to say--_sir_. But if you mean, do I think I can write a
story out of this that sounds like telling something without actually
anything classified--sure. Just let me run home for my trusty old
bio notebook, so I know what I’m talking about, and I’ll whip right
out--one, two, three.”
The General put down the memo, stood up, and laughed. “In your own
unpleasant way, Al, you’re a good boy. Drink up, you’re too slow.” He
took the empty glasses back to the bar, and immersed himself once more
in his elaborate martini ritual.
“I take it,” Prentiss said thoughtfully, “that when I get this written,
you’d like to see it in print somewhere?”
“Probably.”
“I see. Following the same thought, I come up with the notion that
you’d want to see it--if you did--in some paper whose publisher does
not play golf with you?”
Harbridge nodded solemnly. “Not even the editor,” he said.
“Right. I assume then....”
The phone buzzer sounded. Harbridge lost all interest in the bar. He
picked up the phone, leaving his inscreen dead. “Hello.”
“Jed? Hi. Listen--”
“I’ve got company,” Harbridge said. “I think he’d rather not know who
called. What’s the word?”
“No dice. I spent five hours and had a lovely time. Nice wife. Or
whatever she is. But no dice. Stone cold dead, I’d say. You better take
the ball.”
“Okay. You know this can get rough?”
“I’ve got callouses.”
“You’re on, man.” He hung up, wondering just how sure young Prentiss
was as to Chris’ identity: and whether it mattered.
“In short,” said Prentiss smoothly, “I assume that once the thing’s
planted, we never _heard_ of it. Do I dig you, sir?”
“Right where I live,” said the General. “And, by the way--I _do_ want
to see it in print, for _sure_.”