_September 5-18, 1977_
_Acapulco--Monday evening, September 5._ “Still no dice?”
“Nothing. God knows where the damfool is.” Chris came back from the
telephone, sat down in the webbed chair, and stared without seeing at
an expanse of mountain, sun, water, and forest that would have demanded
the full attention of any man who did not live in daily view of heaven
itself.
“How bad _was_ it?” Harbridge asked.
“Not too. He had sense enough to suggest going back himself, before it
got worse. I just wish to hell _I_ hadn’t been such a fool. I should
have known--I’ll tell you, the one I feel sorry for is the girl. Lisa.
He doesn’t know what he’s--Hell, sure he does!” _I keep forgetting_, he
thought, ashamed. _Johnny’s entitled to anything he can get!_
“I don’t know what’s going to happen now,” he said thoughtfully. “If
he’s not home, he might not have gotten her wire either. Hell to pay if
he finds out from the papers, or--Well, let’s hope he took off on a bat
after he _did_ get the message. But I hope she’s heard from him.”
Harbridge was smiling with a sort of tolerant amusement. “Must be quite
a girl,” he said.
“Go to Hell,” said Chris amiably. Both men laughed, and turned their
attention to the less entertaining but more urgent business of the next
day’s testimony.
Chris was astonished, as always, at a glimpse into the workings of a
Harbridge operation. Jed had a list of the questions that he would
be asked. Jed also knew that McLafferty planned on parlaying the
week’s hearings into a trip to the Moon for himself. And he knew which
reporters would cover the day with what biasses.
“Reporters?” Chris was surprised. “Isn’t it on the air?”
“Nope.” Jed’s mouth wrinkled briefly in half-smile. “The Honorable
Congressman from East Chile says that he will not further endanger
the Security of the Americas by utilizing a hearing chamber in which
matters of utmost secrecy must be discussed as an open-air forum for
personal publicity. I quote,” he added, “from a rather extensive
article in the current _Time_.”
“Well, well. Whaddya know? This boy is not stupid.”
“Not even a little. Bear it in mind. Now; suppose we run through the
questions. Take the stand, Doctor.”
They went down the list. Occasionally, Jed would stop listening to make
a suggestion. Once he proposed a complete change of treatment. Mostly,
he nodded with satisfaction. “You’re really doing a job up there,
Chris,” he said when they finished. “Damn! It’s a pleasure to see
someone once in a while who knows what goes on in his own bailiwick.”
He went to the bar. “What’ll you have? Scotch?” He poured, shaking
his head. “Sometimes, lately, it gets to seem as if everyone has his
eye on the ball so hard that you’d swear they don’t know what team
they’re playing for. Or what game it is. I don’t think I know more
than a dozen men in Mexcity who actually _do_ their jobs--that’s not
true, either,” he stopped himself. “I know plenty of them--but they
work _for_ somebody. I meant men at the top. They’re so busy staying
there, somebody else has to ‘handle the details.’ Which means, do their
work for them, while they keep a weather-eye out on the lookout post.
Anyhow,” he said briskly, “Ray McLafferty _knows_ what he’s doing. He’s
no pushover, Chris.” He drank deeply, and walked over to where his
comrade-in-arms of twenty years’ battles sat.
“Listen, Chris, what I’m saying is: watch out for this guy. He’s
dangerous. Frankly, I think I might just have outsmarted myself this
time.”
“That’s not how you sounded an hour ago.” Chris twirled his glass in
his hand. He did not look up. He knew Jed Harbridge pretty well. There
was more coming. “I thought we had it made?”
“Here’s how I see it--as of right now. Ray’ll shoot the works on this
thing. It’s a sure ticket into the Senate for him, if he plays it
right. And he wants that seat _bad_. He’s aiming high. Frankly, I’m
with him. He’s smart and he works hard, and he’s got enough imagination
to see what that ass in Americas House couldn’t see if you painted it
out for him color by color. The day Ray gets in there--and I think
he’ll make it in twelve years, with any luck--we’ll _have_ a Space
program and we won’t ever have to go through this kind of friggin
corruption to get what we need again.”
“So? This is bad?” Chris put his glass down. He was beginning to
understand, and he did not like the way it felt, somewhere around the
middle of his belly.
“Maybe. For you. Play it tough tomorrow, Chris. But when he comes to
the Dome--I’d play it soft if I were you. He wants a Space program--but
he wants it under his thumb. If you’re _too_ tough-- Well, he’ll
probably be head of SAC next year.”
“I think I follow you, but I don’t know if I like the looks of the
terrain. I take it you mean, _we’re_ going to win, but _I_ just might
lose?”
“I didn’t figure it that way, Chris-- Well, hell, you know that. This
McLafferty is new; I underestimated him at first ... I still think
we can handle him. I just don’t want to see you go in there without
knowing everything.”
“Yeah. I know.” Chris stood up. “Guess I’ll try Johnny once more,
before I quit. Say--wasn’t there something about a subpoena for him?
Maybe he’s ducking--”
“Or maybe they’re keeping him tanked up and happy until the right day.
That’s one thing that does worry me, Chris. I hope you find the guy.”
“Yeah. Well, there’s nothing that he can say, really. Christ, he didn’t
even _see_ anything but the Dome. Had him kept under sedation the whole
way.” He stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Here’s how I figure
it, Jed. Like, I dragged Johnny up there because his name would help,
and I guess after I met the girl, I knew she’d push too, right with us.
She wants him back on his feet. She’s a smart chick. She knows he can’t
make it from flat on his fanny; he needs a job to do. So: I get the
guy up there. But I keep him knocked out all the way up. Why? Because
I knew damn well he’d flip sooner or later, and I wanted to be on hand
myself when he did. Hell, I don’t mean I thought it out that way, in so
many words--but I can see it easily enough from here.
“So Johnny’s my old buddy. Like you and me. Blood and sweat. And tears.
The whole routine. I didn’t give much of a damn what it did to _him_. I
got my newspaper story. If he’d cracked some other way from how he did,
I might even have got to him and got him back to work. Snake pit. You
know? But I wasn’t thinking about _him_.
“So if Johnny’s expendable, who gives a damn about _me_? Tell you the
truth, I’m getting old enough so I should maybe get back to Earth
anyhow.” _And get married...?_
The unbidden thought stopped him cold. “Don’t rush anything,” Jed said
drily. “You’re not quite fired yet.” His mouth wrinkled again in the
not-quite smile. “Why don’t you give this dish a job up there, man,
instead of trailing her back here?”
_That sonofabitch knows too_ damn _much!_
“Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you talk the boys up on the hill into
setting up an institute of the dance upstairs? Maybe a whole Art
Academy? They might go that a lot quicker than a manned flight again.”
When he got the operator again, he was surprised, and obscurely annoyed
with himself, to find he had to clear an adolescent lump from his
throat before he could give Johnny’s number.
And there was no answer, still.
_Dollars Dome--Monday, September 5, 5_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)
The job itself was proving unexpectedly satisfying. Dr. Kutler brought
his last patient’s card up to date and sat back, swiveled his chair
around and pulled aside the shutters that closed off the Dome wall
during consultations. For the victims of the variety of ailments that
constituted what they had started to call “loony-sickness,” even the
sight of the alien land could interfere with the effort at therapy--no
matter how eager the patient was to be there, or how idealistically or
aesthetically pleased by the sight. When a man’s body is in rebellion
against the disruptive effects of just-too-much-difference in his
environment, it helps to minimize those differences--as much as
possible--while trying to cure the bodily disorder.
The basic cause of the internal “dyscommunication” which caused hearts
to pump overtime and reaching fingers to tremble and muscles to twitch
could not be shut out or turned off or even disguised. Low gravity was
the devil man had to fight--and conquer--on the Moon; and if he _could_
have turned it off for his patients, Phil would not have done so.
That was what quarterly leaves did. His job was to help them teach
their bodies to live _with_ the difference.
Some people could do it. To the doctor, that meant that most, if not
all, could _learn_. Chris had stayed healthy for eleven years of
almost-solid Moon residence. Johnny had no psychosomatic troubles
through two and a half years of low-grav and no-grav on the Mars
trip. There were at least a dozen others on the Dome staff who had
always regarded the required leaves as a nuisance, and had volunteered
eagerly for experimental work--more eagerly than usefully. The valuable
patients were those who _got_ sick.
The valuable doctor, however, stayed healthy. It was too soon to tell,
of course, about himself. Kutler knew his own weaknesses better than
most men do; but how predict strength or weakness against an unknown
assailant?
That didn’t hold all the way either-- He knew he could predict Lisa’s
immunity. The woman was so incredibly _in control_ of her own body.
He remembered her at World Dome, soaring like a new--better?--kind of
human ... a free creature....
He tried to dispose entirely of the idea gnawing him. It was so absurd
he should never, he thought, have allowed himself to think the idea
through verbally. But he had; and it sure as hell _wasn’t_ absurd from
his own point of view. _She_ was a teacher who could be trusted to put
her words into practice, to teach by doing.
_Okay, so it’s a great notion. Get yourself somebody.... Plenty of
dancers and physical therapists would love the chance._
He went to the intercom, dialed, and waited, No answer. He had almost
switched off when the screen suddenly lit.
“Oh, Phil--Hi!” She was breathless. “I just got in, heard the thing
buzzing. What’s up? Have you heard...?”
She stopped as he shook his head. “No. I called to see if you had. Got
in from _where_?”
“Thad Bourgnese took me out to the Shack. Phil, it’s so silly, but you
know I’m halfway in love with this place? I feel like a stinker, I
mean, I ought to be chewing my fingernails to get home, but I--well,
damn it, I’m _glad_ I couldn’t take the last trip down!”
Defiant, she was rather more lovely than usual, he decided. “Well,
fine,” he smiled. “I was just thinking about a job for you here.”
“_Here?_ Dancer-in-residence?” But before she laughed, a look of
surprised delight had fled across her face, and an expression of
chagrin had followed it so quickly it was unlikely any one but a
trained observer would have noticed the change from the first flush of
reaction to the laugh.
“Why not?” He did not follow it up; he was more than a little annoyed
with himself for having said anything to begin with. “Okay, kid,” he
said. “I was just checking in on you.”
“Right. I’ll see you, Phil, thanks for the call ... hey!” She reached
to the side of the screen, toward where the tube slot must be, “There’s
a message. I didn’t notice.” She tore open the radioletter, glanced at
the bottom, and nodded: “Johnny.” Then her face went white, and her
mouth started to open as if she’d been slapped in the face.
The screen went dead. “I’m sorry, Phil. ’Scuse me.” The audio clicked
off too.
_The bastard! The lousy lushin’ whining wailing nasty-minded bastard!_
Phil went to the couch, knelt in front of it, and beat clenched fists
against the padding till he felt his rage subside.
He got up, went to his desk, pulled out his own old-fashioned
typewriter, without which he could not think, and started typing.
When he got up, half an hour later, he was Dr. Kutler again--and even
Phil, plain Phil, had recognized that whatever Johnny wrote, it was in
response to the knowledge that his wife did not want to come home.
Because she _was_ his wife--whatever _she_ thought about it.
And she did _not_ want to leave, whether _she_ knew it or not.
And it was a hundred to one, at least, that Johnny had picked the
nastiest, hurtingest, angriest way to respond; but that was just
foolish--not vicious.
A man has a right to react when his girl--or his wife--stands him up.