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CLANS OF THE ALPHANE MOON |
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SEVEN Walking along the muddy, rubbish-heaped central street of Gandhitown, Dr. Mary Rittersdorf said, "I've never seen anything like this in my life. Clinically it's mad. These people must all be hebephrenics. Terribly, terribly deteriorated." Inside her something cried at her to get out, to leave this place and never return. To get back to Terra and her profession as marriage counselor and forget she had ever seen this. And the idea of attempting psychotherapy with these people -- She shuddered. Even drug-therapy and electroshock would be of little use, here. This was the tail-end of mental illness, the point of no return. Beside her the young CIA agent, Dan Magehoom, said, "Your diagnosis, then, is hebephrenia? I can report that back officially?" Taking her by the arm he assisted her over the remains of some major animal carcass; in the mid-day sun the ribs stuck up like tines of a great curved fork. Mary said, "Yes, it's obvious. Did you see the pieces of dead rat lying strewn around the door of that shack? I'm sick; I'm actually sick to my stomach. No one lives that way now. Not even in India and China. It's like going back four thousand years; that's the way Sinanthropus and Neanderthal must have lived. Only without the rusted machinery." "At the ship," Mageboom said, "we can have a drink." "No drink is going to help me," Mary said. "You know what this awful place reminds me of? The horrible shoddy old conapt my husband moved into when we separated." Beside her Mageboom started, blinked. "You knew I was married," Mary said. "I told you." She wondered why her remark had surprised him, so; on the trip she had freely discussed her marital problems with him, finding him a good listener. "I can't believe your comparison is accurate," Mageboom said. "The conditions here are symptoms of a group psychosis; your husband never lived like that -- he had no mental disorder." He glared at her. Mary halting, said, "How do you know? You never met him. Chuck was -- still is -- sick. What I said is so; he has a latent streak of hebephrenia in him ... he always shrank from socio-sexual responsibility; I told you about all my attempts to get him to seek employment that guaranteed a reasonable return." But of course Mageboom himself was an employee of the CIA; she could hardly expect to obtain sympathy from him on that issue. Better, perhaps, to drop the whole topic. Things were depressing enough without having to rehash her life with Chuck. On both sides of her Heebs -- that was what they called themselves, a corruption of the obviously accurate diagnostic category hebephrenic -- gazed with vacuous silliness, grinning without comprehension, even without real curiosity. A white goat wandered by ahead of her; she and Dan Mageboom stopped warily. Neither of them familiar with goats. It passed on. At least, she thought, these people are harmless. Hebephrenics, at all their stages of deterioration, lacked the capacity to act out aggression; there were other far more ominous derangement-syndromes to be on the lookout for. It was inevitable that, very shortly, they would begin to turn up. She was thinking in particular of the manic-depressives, who, in their manic phase, could be highly destructive. But there was an even more sinister category which she was steeling herself against. The destructiveness of the manics would be limited to impulse; at the worst it would have a tantrum-like aspect, temporary orgies of breaking and hitting which ultimately would subside. However, with the acute paranoid a systemized and permanent hostility could be anticipated; it would not abate in time but on the contrary would become more elaborate. The paranoid possessed an analytical, calculating quality; he had a good reason for his actions, and each move fitted in as part of the scheme. His hostility might be less conspicuously violent ... but in the long run its durability posed deeper implications as far as therapy went. Because with these people, the advanced paranoids, cure or even temporary insight was virtually impossible. Like the hebephrenic, the paranoid had found a stable and permanent maladaptation. And, unlike the manic-depressive and the hebephrenic, or the simple catatonic schizophrenic, the paranoid seemed rational. The formal pattern of logical reasoning appeared undisturbed. Underneath, however, the paranoid suffered from the greatest mental disfigurement possible for a human being. He was incapable of empathy, unable to imagine himself in another person's role. Hence for him others did not actually exist -- except as objects in motion that did or did not affect his well-being. For decades it had been fashionable to say that paranoids were incapable of loving. This was not so. The paranoid experienced love fully, both as something given to him by others and as a feeling on his part toward them. But there was a slight catch to this. The paranoid experienced it as a variety of hate. To Dan Mageboom she said, "According to my theory the several sub-types of mental illness should be functioning on this world as classes somewhat like those of ancient India. These people here, the hebephrenics, would be equivalent to the untouchables. The manics would he the warrior class, without fear; one of the highest." "Samurai," Mageboom said. "As in Japan." "Yes." She nodded. "The paranoids -- actually paranoiac schizophrenics -- would function as the statesman class; they'd be in charge of developing political ideology and social programs -- they'd have the overall world view. The simple schizophrenics ..." She pondered. "They'd correspond to the poet class, although some of them would be religious visionaries -- as would be some of the Heebs. The Heebs, however, would be inclined to produce ascetic saints, whereas the schizophrenics would produce dogmatists. Those with polymorphic schizophrenia simplex would be the creative members of the society, producing the new ideas." She tried to remember what other categories might exist. "There could be some with over-valent ideas, psychotic disorders that were advanced forms of milder obsessive-compulsive neurosis, the so-called diencephalic disturbances. Those people would be the clerks and office holders of the society, the ritualistic functionaries, with no original ideas. Their conservatism would balance the radical quality of the polymorphic schizophrenics and give the society stability." Mageboom said. "So one would think the whole affair would work." He gestured. "How would it differ from our own society on Terra?" For a time she considered the question; it was a good one. "No answer?" Mageboom said. "I have an answer. Leadership in this society here would naturally fall to the paranoids. They'd be superior individuals in terms of initiative, intelligence and just plain innate ability. Of course they'd have trouble keeping the manics from staging a coup ... there'd always be tension between the two classes. But you see, with paranoids establishing the ideology, the dominant emotional theme would be hate. Actually hate going in two directions; the leadership would hate everyone outside its enclave and also would take for granted that everyone hated it in return. Therefore their entire so-called foreign policy would be to establish mechanisms by which this supposed hatred directed at them could be fought. And this would involve the entire society in an illusion struggle, a battle against foes that didn't exist for a victory over nothing." "Why is that so bad?" "Because," she said, "no matter how it came out. the results would be the same. Total isolation for these people. That would be the ultimate effect of their entire group activity: to progressively cut themselves off from all other living entities." "Is that so bad? To be self-sufficient --" "No," Mary said. "It wouldn't be self-sufficiency; it would be something entirely different, something you and I really can't imagine. Remember the old experiments made with people in absolute isolation? Back in the mid-twentieth century, when they anticipated space travel, the possibility of a man being entirely alone for days, weeks on end, with fewer and fewer stimuli ... remember the results they obtained when they placed a man in a chamber from which no stimuli at all reached him?" "Of course," Mageboom said. "It's what now is called the buggies. The result of stimulus-deprivation is acute hallucinosis." She nodded. "Auditory, visual, tactile and olfactory hallucinosis, replacing the missing stimuli. And, in intensity, hallucinosis can exceed the force of reality; in its vividness, its impact, the effect aroused by it ... for example, states of terror. Drug-induced hallucinations can bring on states of terror which no experience with the real world can produce." "Why?" "Because they have an absolute quality. They're generated within the sense-receptor system and constitute a feedback emanating not from a distant point but from within a person's own nervous system. He can't obtain detachment from it. And he knows it. There's no retreat possible." Mageboom said, "And how's that going to act here? You don't seem able to say." "I can say, but it's not simple. First, I don't know yet how far this society is advanced along the lines of isolating itself and the individuals who make it up. We'll know soon by their attitude toward us. The Heebs we're seeing here --" She indicated the hovels on both sides of the muddy road. "Their attitude is no index. However, when we run into our first paranoids or manics -- let's say this: undoubtedly some measure of hallucination, of psychological projection, exists as a component of their world view. In other words, we have to assume they're already partly hallucinating. But they still retain some sense of objective reality as such. Our presence here will accelerate the hallucinating tendency; we have to face that and be prepared. And the hallucination will take the form of seeing us as elements of dire menace; we, our ship, will literally be viewed -- I don't mean interpreted, I mean actually perceived -- as threatening. What they undoubtedly will see in us is an invading spearhead that intends to overthrow their society, make it a satellite of our own." "But that's true. We intend to take the leadership out of their hands, place them back where they were twenty-five years ago. Patients in enforced hospitalization circumstances -- in other words, captivity." It was a good point. But not quite good enough. She said, "There is a distinction you're not making; it's a slender one, but vital. We will be attempting therapy of these people, trying to put them actually in the position which, by accident, they now improperly hold. If our program is successful they will govern themselves, as legitimate settlers on this moon, eventually. First a few, then more and more of them. This is not a form of captivity -- even if they imagine it is. The moment any person on this moon is free of psychosis, is capable of viewing reality without the distortion of projection --" "Do you think it'll be possible to persuade these people voluntarily to resume their hospitalized status?" "No," Mary said. 'We'll have to bring force to bear on them; with the possible exception of a few Heebs we're going to have to take out commitment papers for an entire planet." She corrected herself, "Or rather moon." "Just think," Mageboom said. "If you hadn't changed that to 'moon' I'd have grounds for committing you." Startled, she glanced at him. He did not appear to be joking; his youthful face was grim. "It was just a slip," she said. "A slip," he agreed, "but a revealing one. A symptom." He smiled, and it was a cold smile. It made her shiver in bewilderment and unease; what did Mageboom have against her? Or was she becoming just a little bit paranoid? Perhaps so ... but she felt enormous hostility directed her way from the man, and she barely knew him. And she had felt this hostility throughout the trip. And strangely, from the very beginning; it had started the moment they met. *** Putting the Daniel Mageboom simulacrum on homeostasis, Chuck Rittersdorf switched himself out of the circuit, rose stiffly from the seat before the control panel and lit a cigarette. It was nine P.M. local time. On Alpha III M2 the sim would go about its business, functioning in an adequate manner; if any crisis came up Petri could take over. In the meantime he himself had other problems. It was time for him to produce his first script for the TV comic Bunny Hentman, his other employer. He had, now, a supply of stimulants; the slime mold from Ganymede had presented them to him as he had started from his conapt that morning. So evidently he could count on working all night. But first there was a little matter of dinner. For what it was worth he paused at the public vid phone booth in the lobby of the CIA building and put in a call to Joan Trieste's conapt. "Hi," she said when she saw who it was. "Listen. Mr. Hentman called here, trying to get hold of you. So you better get in touch with him. He said he tried to reach you at the CIA building in S.F. but they said they never heard of you." "Policy," Chuck said. "Okay. I'll call him." He asked her, then, about dinner. "I don't believe you'll be able to have dinner, with or without me," Joan answered. "From what Mr. Hentman told me. He's got some idea he wants you to listen to; he says when he springs it on you you'll drop." Chuck said, "That wouldn't come as a surprise." He felt resigned; obviously this was how the entire relationship with Hentman would function. Temporarily forgetting any further efforts in Joan's direction he called the vidphone number which the Hentman organization had provided him. "Rittersdorf!" Hentman exclaimed, as soon as the contact was established. "Where are you? Get right over here; I'm in my Florida apt -- take an express rocket; I'll pay the fare. Listen, Rittersdorf; your test is showing up right now -- this'll tell if you're any good or not." It was a long leap from the vacuous dump-like settlement of the Heebs on Alpha III M2 to Bunny Hentman's energetic schemes. The transition was going to be hard; perhaps it could be accomplished on the flight back East. He could eat, too, on the ship, but that left out Joan Trieste; already his job was undermining his personal life. "Tell me the idea now. So I can mull it over on the flight." Hentman's eyes glowed with cunning. "Are you kid- ding? Suppose someone overhears? Listen, Rittersdorf. I'll give you a hint. I had this in the back of my mind when I hired you but --" His grin increased. "I didn't want to scare you off, you know what I mean? Now I got you hooked." He laughed loudly. "So now -- wow! Anything goes, right?" "Just tell me the idea," Chuck said, patiently. Lowering his voice to a whisper Hentman leaned close to the vidscanner. His nose, magnified, filled the screen, a nose and one winking, delighted eye. "It's a new characterization I'm going to add to my repertoire. George Flibe; that's his name. As soon as I tell you what he is, you'll see why I hired you. Listen: Flibe is a CIA agent. And he's posing as a female marriage counselor, in order to get information on suspects." Hentman waited, expectantly. "Well? What you say?" After a long time Chuck said, "It's the worst thing I've heard in twenty years." It completely depressed him. "You're out of your mind. I know and you don't. This could be the biggest character in TV comedy since Red Skelton's Freddy the Freeloader. And you're the one to write the script because you've had the experience. So get here to my apt as soon as possible and we'll get started on the first George Flibe episode. All right! If that's not such a hot idea what have you got to offer?" Chuck said, "What about a female marriage counselor who poses as a CIA agent in order to get information that'll cure her patients?" "Are you pulling my leg?" "In fact," Chuck said, "how about this? A CIA simulacrum --" "You're putting me on." Hentman's face became red; at least, on the vidscreen it darkened appreciably. "I was never more serious in my life." "All right, what about the simulacrum?" "This CIA simulacrum, see," Chuck said, "poses as a female marriage counselor, see, but every now and then the simulacrum breaks down." "Do the CIA sims really do that? Break down?" "All the time." "Go on," Hentman said, scowling. Chuck said, "See, the whole point is, what the hell does a simulacrum know about human marital problems? And see, here it is advising people. It keeps giving out this advice; once it gets started it can't stop. It's even giving marital advice to the General Dynamics repairmen who're always fixing it. See?" Rubbing his chin Hentman nodded slowly. "Hmm." "There'd have to be a particular reason why this one sim acts this way. So we'd go into its origin. The episode, see, would start with the General Dynamics engineers who --" "I've got it!" Hentman interrupted. "This one engineer, call him Frank Fupp, is having trouble in his marriage; he's seeing a marriage counselor. And she's given him this document, it's an analysis of his problem, and he's brought it to work, to G.D.'s labs, with him. And there's this new sim standing there, waiting to be programmed." "Sure!" Chuck said. "And -- and Fupp reads the document aloud to this other engineer. Call him Phil Grook, The simulacrum gets accidentally programmed; it thinks it's a marriage counselor. But actually it's been contracted for by the CIA; it's shipped to the CIA and it shows up --" Hentman paused, pondering. "Where would it show up, Rittersdorf?" "Behind the Iron Curtain. Say in Red Canada." "Right! In Red Canada, in Ontario. It's supposed to pose as a -- synthetic, wabble-hide salesman; isn't that right? Isn't that what they do?" "More or less; right." "But instead," Hentman went on excitedly, "it sets itself up in a little office, hangs out a sh-shingle. George Flibe, Psychologist, Ph.D. Marital Counseling. And these high Commie party officials with marital problems keep coming to it --" Hentman puffed with agitation. "Rittersdorf, you've got the hest frigging idea I've heard in as long as I can remember. And -- and always these two General Dynamics engineers, they're showing up trying to tinker with it and get it working right. Listen; get on the express rocket for Florida right now; and sketch this out during the trip, maybe have some dialogue when you get here. I think we're really onto something; you know, your brain and mine really synchronize -- right?" "I think so," Chuck said. "I'll be right there." He obtained the address and then rang off. Wearily, he left the vidphone booth; he felt drained. And he could not for the life of him tell if he had come up with a good idea or not. Anyhow Hentman believed he had, and evidently that was what counted. By jet cab he reached the San Francisco space port; there he boarded an express rocket which would carry him to Florida. The conapt building of Bunny Hentman was luxury incarnate; all its levels were below the surface and it had its own uniformed police force patrolling the entrances and halls. Chuck gave his name to the first cop who approached him and a moment later he was descending to Bunny's floor. Within the huge apt Bunny Hentman lounged in a hand-dyed Martian spider-silk dressing gown, smoking a green, enormous, Tampa, Florida cigar; he jerked his bead in impatient greeting to Chuck and then indicated the other men in the living room. "Rittersdorf, there are two of your colleagues, my writers. This tall one --" He pointed with his cigar. "That's Calv Dark." Dark approached Chuck slowly and shook hands. "And the short fat one with no hair on his bead; that's my senior writer, Thursday Jones." Also coming forward Jones, an alert, sharp-featured Negro, shook hands with Chuck. Both the writers seemed friendly; he had no sense of hostility on their parts. Evidently they did not resent him. Dark said, "Sit down, Rittersdorf. It's been a long trip for you. A drink?" "No," Chuck said. He wanted his mind clear for the session ahead. "You had dinner on the rocket?" Hentman asked. "Yes." "I've been telling my boys about your idea," Hentman said. "Both of them like it. " "Fine," Chuck said. "However," Hentman continued, "they've batted it back and forth and a little while ago they came up with an evolution of their own ... you know what I mean?" Chuck said, "I'd be only too happy to hear their idea based on my idea." Clearing his throat Thursday Jones said, "Mr. Rittersdorf, could a simulacrum commit a murder?" After staring at him a moment Chuck said, "I don't know." He felt cold. "You mean on its own, working by autonomic --" "I mean could the person operating it from remote use it as an instrument for murder?" To Bunny Hentman, Chuck said, "I don't see any humor in an idea like that. And my wit's supposed to be moribund." "Wait," Bunny cautioned. "You forget the famous old funny thrillers, combinations of terror and humor. Like the Cat and the Canary, that movie with Paulette Goddard and Bob Hope. And the famous Arsenic and Old Lace -- not to mention classic British comedies in which someone was murdered ... there were dozens of them in the past." "Like the marvelous Kind Hearts and Coronets," Thursday Jones said. "I see," Chuck said, and that was all he said; he kept his mouth shut, while inside he seethed with disbelief and shock. Was this just some malign coincidence, this idea running parallel to his own life? Or -- and this seemed more probable -- the slime mold had said something to Bunny. But if so, why was the Hentman organization doing this? What interest did they have in the life and death of Mary Rittersdorf? Hentman said, "I think the boys have a good idea here. The scary with the ... well, you see, Chuck, you work for CIA so you don't realize this, but the average person is scared of the CIA; you got it? He regards it as a secret interplanetary police and spy organization which --" "I know," Chuck said. "Well, you don't have to bite my head off," Bunny Hentman said, with a glance at Dark and Jones. Speaking up, Dark said, "Chuck -- if I can call you that already -- we know our business. When the average Joe thinks of a CIA sim he's scared right off the bat. When you gave Bunny your idea you weren't thinking of that. Now here's this CIA operator; let's call him --" He turned to Jones. "What's our working-name?" "Siegfried Trots." "Here's Ziggy Trots, a secret agent ... trenchcoat made of Uranian molecricket fur, hat of Venusian wubfuzz pulled down over his forehead -- all that. Standing in the rain on some dismal moon, maybe one of Jupiter's. A familiar sight." "And then, Chuck," Jones said, picking up the narrative, "once the pic is established in the viewer's mind, the stereotype -- you see? Then the viewer discovers something about Ziggy Trots he didn't know, that the stereotype of the sinister CIA agent doesn't ordinarily contain." Dark said, "See, Ziggy Trots is an idiot. A nurt who can never pull off anything right. And here's what he's trying to pull off." He walked over, seated himself on the couch beside Chuck. "He's going to try to commit a murder. Got it?" "Yes," Chuck said tightly, saying as little as possible, becoming merely a listening entity. He shrank within himself, more and more bewildered by -- and suspicious of -- what was going on around him. Dark continued, "Now, who's he trying to kill?" He glanced at Jones and Bunny Hentman. "We've been arguing about this part." Bunny said, "A blackmailer. An international jewel magnate who operates from another planet entirely. Maybe a non-T." Shutting his eyes, Chuck rocked back and forth. 'What's wrong, Chuck?" Dark asked. "He's thinking," Bunny said. "Trying the idea on. Right, Chuck?' "That's -- right," Chuck managed to say. He was sure, now, that Lord Running Clam had gone to Hentman And something vast and dismal was unfolding around him, catching him up; he was a midge in the midst of this, whatever it was. And there was no way for him to get out. "I disagree," Dark said. "International jewel magnate who's maybe a Martian or a Venusian -- that's not bad ... but --" He gestured. "It's been done to death; we started with one stereotype; let's not revert to another. I think he should be trying to do away with -- well, his wife." Dark looked around at each of them. "Tell me; what's wrong with that? He's got a nagging, shrew of a wife -- get the picture? This hard, tough, CIA secret police spy type agent, who the average person is scared to death of ... we see how tough he is, pushing people around -- and then he goes home and he's got his wife who pushes him around!" He laughed. "It's not bad," Bunny admitted. "Bu it's not enough. And I wonder how many times I could do the characterization; I want something I can add permanently to the show. Not just a skit for one week." "I think the henpecked CIA man could go on forever," Dark said. "Anyhow --" He turned back to Chuck. "So this Ziggy Trots is next seen on the job, at CIA headquarters, and there's all these police gadgets and electronic devices. And all of a sudden it comes to him." Dark jumped to his feet and began striding about the room. "He can use them against his wife! And then to top it off -- in steps this new sim." Dark's voice became metallic and crabbed as he mimicked a simulacrum. "Yes, master, what may I do for you? I am waiting." Bunny, grinning. said, "What you say, Chuck?" With difficulty Chuck said, "Is -- his only motive for murdering his wife the fact that she's a shrew? That she browbeats him?" "No!" Jones shouted, leaping up. "You're right; we need a stronger motivation and I think I've got it. There's this girl. Ziggy's got a mistress on the side. An interplan female spy, beautiful and sexy -- you get it? And his wife won't give him a divorce." Dark said, "Or maybe his wife has discovered this girlfriend and has --" 'Wait. " Bunny said. "What are we getting here, a psychological drama or a comedy skit? It's getting too messy." "Right," Jones said, nodding. 'We stick to just showing what a monster the wife is. Anyhow Ziggy sees this simulacrum --" He broke off. Because someone had entered the room. It was an Alphane. One of the race of chitinous creatures who, a few years ago, had been locked in combat with Terra. Its multi-pointed arms and legs clicking it scuttled toward Bunny, feeling with its antennae -- the Alphanes were blind -- and then, touching him, delicately stroking Bunny's face, the Alphane turned and moved back, satisfied that it was where it wished to be ... its eyeless head swiveled and now it sniffed, picked up the presence of other humans . "Am I interrupting?" it asked in its twangy, harp-like voice, its Alphane sing-song. "I heard your discussion and it interested me." Bunny said to Chuck, "Rittersdorf, this is one of my oldest and dearest friends. I never trusted nobody the way I trust my buddy here, RBX 303." He explained, "Maybe you don't know it but Alphanes have license-plate type names, sort of mechanical codes. That's all there is, just RBX 303. Sounds sort of impersonal, but Alphs are real warm-hearted. RBX 303 here has a heart of gold." He sniggered "Two of them, in fact; one on each side." "I'm glad to meet you," Chuck said, reflexively. The Alphane scrabbled up to him, stroked at his features with its twin antennae; it was, Chuck decided, like having two houseflies run here and there across his face -- a distinctly unpleasant impression. "Mr. Rittersdorf ... the AIphane twanged. "Delighted." It withdrew, then. "And who else is in this room, Bunny? I smell others." "Just Dark and Jones," Bunny said, "my writers." Again turning to Chuck he explained, "RBX 303's a tycoon, a big wheeler and dealer in interplan commercial enterprises of every sort. See, Chuck, here's the situation. RBX 303 here owns controlling stock in Pubtrans Incorporated. Does that mean anything to you?" For a moment it meant nothing and then it came to Chuck. Pubtrans Incorporated was the company which sponsored Bunny Hentman's TV Show. "You mean," Chuck said, "it's owned by --" He broke off. He had started to say, "Owned by one of our former enemies?" However, he did not say it; for one thing it obviously was so, and for another -- they were, after all, the former, not the present, enemy. Terra and the Alphanes were at peace and the enmity was supposed to be over. "You never met an Alph' close up before?" Bunny said acutely. "You should; they're a great people. Sensitive, with a terrific sense of humor ... Pubtrans sponsors me partly because RBX 303 here personally believes in me and my talent -- he did a lot to get me from being nothing but a comic doing the nightclub circuit with occasional guests on TV shows to having my own show, a show that's gone over partly because Pubtrans has done a hell of a good job publicizing it." "I see," Chuck said. He felt ill. But he did not know quite why. Perhaps it was the whole situation; he could not understand it. "Are Alphanes telepathic?" he asked, knowing they weren't and yet -- there seemed to be an uncanny awareness about this Alphane. Chuck had the intuition that it knew everything; there were no secrets which the Alphane could not seek out. "They're not telepaths," Bunny said, "but they depend on hearing a lot; that makes them different from us, because we have eyes," He glanced at Chuck. "What's with you and telepaths? I mean, you must have known the answer; during the war we were briefed up to our eyeballs about the enemy. And you're not too young to remember that; you must have grown up with it." Dark spoke up suddenly. "I'll tell you what's bothering Rittersdorf; I used to feel the same way. Rittersdorf was hired for his ideas. And he doesn't want to see his brain picked clean. His ideas belong to him up until the moment he chooses to reveal them. If you brought in, say, a Ganymedean slime mold, hell, that would be an unfair invasion of all of our personal rights; it would turn us into machines that you mechanically pumped for ideas." To Chuck he said, "Don't worry about RBX 303; he can't read your thoughts; all he can do is very carefully listen to subtle, tiny nuances in what you say ... but it's surprising how much he can detect that way. Alphanes make good psychologists." Seated in the next room, the Alphane said, "reading Life magazine, I listened to your conversation, about your new humorous character Siegfried Trots. Interested, I decided to come in; I put the audio tape down and arose. Is this satisfactory with all of you?" "Nobody minds your presence," Bunny assured the Alphane. "Nothing." the Alphane said. "amuses and entertains -- and fascinates -- me as does a creative session by you gifted writers. Mr. Rittersdorf, I have never seen you in operation before, but already I can tell that you have a great deal to add. However, I sense your aversion -- a very deeply-held aversion -- to the line which the conversation has taken. May I ask what precisely you find so objectionable to Siegfried Trots and his desire to do away with his unpleasant wife? Are you married, Mr. Rittersdorf?" "Yes," Chuck said. "Perhaps this plot-idea rouses guilt-feelings within you," the Alphane said thoughtfully. "Perhaps you have unacknowledged hostile impulses toward your wife." Bunny said, "You're way off, RBX; Chuck and his wife are splitting up -- she's already gone into court. Anyway Chuck's private life is his own business; we're not here to dissect his psyche. Let's get back to the material." "I still say," the Alphane declared, "that there is something very unusual and atypical in Mr. Rittersdorf's reaction; I would like to find out why." It turned its knob-like blind head toward Chuck. "Perhaps, if you and I see more of each other, I will find out why. And I have the feeling that knowing this would be of benefit to you, too." Scratching his nose thoughtfully Bunny Hentman said, "Maybe he does know, RBX. Maybe he just doesn't want to say." He eyed Chuck and said, "I still say it's his own business, in either case." Chuck said, "It simply doesn't sound like a comedy idea to me. That's the extent of my --" He had almost said aversion. "Of my doubts." "Well, I don't have any doubts," Bunny decided. "I'll have our prop department put together a hollow simulacrum-type figure that somebody can get into; that'll be a lot cheaper and more reliable than buying a genuine one. And we'll need some girl to play the role of Ziggy's wife. My wife, because I'll be Ziggy." "How about the girlfriend?" Jones said. "Is that in or not?" Dark said, "It would have one advantage; we could have her breast-heavy. You know, fracked. That would please a lot of viewers; otherwise we're stuck with one shrewish type woman who decidedly would not be breast-heavy. That kind never gets that operation performed." "You got someone particular in mind who could play that part?" Bunny asked him, pad of paper and pen in hand. "You know that new fray your agent's handling," Dark said. "That fresh little one ... Patty something. Patty Weaver. She's really breast-heavy. The medics must have grafted in fifty pounds if it's an ounce." "I'll sign up Patty tonight," Bunny Hentman said, nodding. "I know her and she's good; she's exactly right for it. And then we need some bellicose old hag to play the shrewish wife. Maybe I'll let Chuck do the casting-select for that." He laughed owlishly. |