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CLANS OF THE ALPHANE MOON |
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EIGHT 'When, late that night, Chuck Rittersdorf wearily returned to his rundown conapt in Marin County, California, he was stopped in the hall by the yellow Ganymedean slime mold. This, at three A.M. It was too much. "'There are a pair of individuals in your apt," Lord Running Clam informed him. "It seemed to me you should be tipped off in advance." "Thanks," Chuck said, and wondered what he had to cope with now. "One of them is your superior at CIA," the slime mold said. "Jack Elwood. The second is Mr. Elwood's superior, a Mr. Roger London. They are here to interrogate you as to your other job." "I never concealed it from them," Chuck said. "In fact Mageboom operated by Pete Petri was right here on the spot when Hentman hired me." Uneasily he wondered why they considered it their affair. "'True," the slime mold agreed, "but you see they had a tap on the vidline over which you talked this evening first to Joan Trieste and then to Mr. Hentman in Florida. So not only do they know that you're working for Mr. Hentman but they also know the script-idea which you --" That explained it. He passed on by the slime mold, to the door of his apt. It was unlocked; he opened it, faced the two CIA men. "This late in the night?" he said. "It's that important?" Going to the closet -- it was the ancient-style manual variety -- he hung up his coat. The apt was comfortably warm; the CIA officials had turned on the nonthermostatically controlled radiant heat. "Is this the man?" London said. He was a tall, stooped, graying man in his late fifties; Chuck had run into him a few times and had found him difficult. "This is Rittersdorf?" "Yes," Elwood said. "Chuck, listen carefully. There are facts about Bunny Hentman you don't know. Security facts. Now, we're aware of the reason why you accepted this job; we know you didn't want to but were forced to." "Oh?" Chuck said warily. They couldn't possibly know what pressure the telepathic slime mold across the hall had put on him. Elwood said, "We fully recognize your difficult situation regarding your ex-wife Mary, the enormous settlement and alimony payments which she was able to obtain; we know you need the money in order to meet those payments. However --" He glanced at London. London nodded, and Elwood bent to unzip his briefcase. "I have Hentman's dossier here. His real name is Sam Little. During the war he was convicted on a charge of violating the trade-rules governing commerce with neutral states; in other words Hentman supplied needed commodities to the enemy by way of an intermediate source. He spent only one year in prison, however; he had a very good choir of attorneys. You want to hear more?" "Yes," Chuck said. "Because I can hardly quit my job on the grounds that fifteen years ago --" "All right," Elwood said, after a further exchange of glances with his superior, London. "After the war Sam Little -- or Bunny Hentman, as he now is known -- lived in the Alpha system. What he did there no one knows; our data-gathering sources were of no use to us in Alpha-held territory. Anyhow about six years ago he returned to Terra and with plenty of interplan skins. He began doing a comedy routine in nightclubs and then Pubtrans Incorporated sponsored him --" "I know," Chuck interrupted, "that an Alphane owns Pubtrans. I met him. RBX 303." "You MET him?" Both Elwood and London stared at him. "Do you know anything about RBX 303?" Elwood demanded. "His family, during the war, controlled the largest wargoods combine in the Alpha system. His brother is in the Alphane cabinet right now, directly responsible to the Alphane Doge. In other words when you're dealing with RBX 303 you're dealing with the Alphane government." He tossed the dossier to Chuck. "Read the rest." Chuck glanced through the neatly-typed pages. It was easy to make out the summary at the end; the CIA agents who had compiled the dossier believed that RBX 303 was acting as an untitled rep of a foreign power and that Hentman was aware of this. Therefore their activities were being watched by the CIA. "His reason for giving you the job," Elwood said, "is not what you think. Hentman doesn't need another writer; he's got five already. I'll tell you our opinion. We think it has to do with your wife." Chuck said nothing; he continued, vacantly, to pore over the sheets which made up the dossier. "The Alphanes," Elwood said, "would like to reacquire Alpha III M2. And the only way they can do it legally is to induce the Terrans inhabiting it to leave. Otherwise according to interplan law the Protocols of 2040 come into effect; the moon becomes the property of its settlers and since those settlers are Terran it's indirectly the property of Terra. The Alphanes can't make the settlers leave, but they've kept an eye on them; they're perfectly aware that it's a society made up of former mental patients of the Harry Stack Sullivan Neuropsychiatric Hospital which we established there before the war. The only agency that could get those settlers off Alpha III M2 would be Terran, either TERPLAN or the U.S. Interplan Health and Welfare Service; we could conceivably evacuate the moon, and that would leave it up for grabs." "But no one," Chuck said, "is going to recommend that the settlers be evacuated." It seemed to him entirely out of the question. One of two things would occur: either Terra would leave the settlers strictly alone or a new hospital would be built and the settlers would be coerced into entering it. Elwood said, "You may be right. But do the Alphanes know that?" "And remember," London said in his hoarse, low voice, "the Alphanes are great gamblers; the entire war was one great longshot for them -- and they lost. They don't know any other way to operate." That was true; Chuck nodded. And yet it still made no sense. What influence did he have over Mary's decisions? Hentman knew that he and Mary were legally separated; Mary was on Alpha III M2 and he was here on Terra. And even if they were both on the Alphane moon Mary would never listen to him. Her decision would be her own. Yet, if the Alphanes knew that he had control of the Daniel Mageboom simulacrum -- He simply couldn't believe that they knew this; it was impossible. "We have a theory," Elwood said, retrieving the dossier and returning it to his briefcase. "We believe that the Alphanes know --" "Don't tell me," Chuck said, "that they know about Mageboom; that would mean they'd penetrated the CIA." "I -- wasn't going to say quite that," Elwood said uncomfortably. "I was going to say that they know, just as we do, that your separation from Mary is purely legal, that you're still as emotionally involved with her as ever. As reconstructed by us, their view comes out like this; contact between you and Mary will shortly be resumed. Whether either of you anticipates it or not." "And what good will that do them?" Chuck said. "Here their concept of the situation becomes positively lurid," Elwood said. "Now, this we've picked up strictly from peripheral indications, from snatches gathered here and there; we may be wrong, but it appears that the Alphanes are going to try to induce you to make an attempt to kill your wife." Chuck said nothing; he kept his features immobile. Time passed; no one spoke. Elwood and Roger London regarded him curiously, tangibly wondering why he did not respond. "To be honest with you," London growled finally, "we have an informant on Hentman's immediate staff; never mind who. This informant tells us that the script-idea which Hentman and his writers presented you on your arrival in Florida had to do with a CIA simulacrum killing a woman. A man's wife. The man is a CIA agent. Is that correct?" Chuck nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall to the right of Elwood and London. "This plot situation," London continued, "is supposed to give you the idea of trying to kill Mrs. Rittersdorf with a CIA sim. What Hentman and his Al-phane buddies don't know, of course, is that a CIA sim is already on Alpha III M2 and that you're operating it; if they did know this they would --" He broke off, then said slowly, half to himself, "Then they'd see there's no need to build an elaborate script up to give you the idea." He studied Chuck. "Because very possibly you already have thought of it." After a pause Elwood said, "That's an interesting speculation. I hadn't come onto it, myself, but eventually I would." To Chuck he said, "Would you like to give up your operation of the Mageboom simulacrum? To prove beyond a doubt that you had no such action in mind?" Chuck said, picking his words with care, "Of course I won't give it up." It was obvious that if he did he would be admitting that they were right, that they had uncovered something about him and his intentions. And, in addition, he did not care to relinquish the Mageboom task -- for a very good reason. He wanted to continue his plan for killing Mary. "If anything should happen to Mrs. Rittersdorf," London said, "in view of this, great suspicion would fall on you." "I realize that," Chuck said woodenly. "So while you're operating that Mageboom sim," London said, "you better see to it that it protects Mrs. Rittersdorf." Chuck said, "You want my frank opinion?" "Certainly," London said, and Elwood nodded. "This whole thing is an absurdity, a concoction based on isolated data by some imaginative agent in the field, someone who evidently has hung around TV personalities too long. How is my killing Mary going to alter her decision regarding Alpha III M2 and its psychotic settlers? If she's dead she'd simply be replaced and someone else would make the determination." "I think," Elwood said, speaking to his superior, "that what we're going to find ourselves dealing with here is not a murder but an attempted murder. Murder as a threat, held over Dr. Rittersdorf's head, to make her comply." He added, speaking to Chuck, "That of course is assuming that Hentman's campaign bears fruit. That you're influenced by the logic put forth by the TV script." "But you seem to think I would be," Chuck said. "I think," Elwood said, "that it's an interesting coincidence that you are operating a CIA simulacrum in Mary's vicinity, exactly as Hentman's script proposes. What are the chances --" Chuck said, "A more plausible explanation is that somehow Hentman has found out I'm operating the Mageboorn simulacrum, that he developed his idea from the situation. And you know what that means." The implication was obvious. Despite their denials the CIA had been penetrated. Or -- There existed one other possibility. Lord Running Clam had picked up the facts from Chuck's mind and had conveyed them to Bunny Hentman. First the slime mold had blackmailed him into taking the job with Hentman and now all of them were acting together to blackmail him into fulfilling their plan for Alpha III M2. The TV script was not designed to put the idea of killing Mary into his mind; by means of the slime mold the Hentman organization knew the idea was already there. The TV script was to tell him, indirectly but clearly, that they knew. And unless he did as they directed it would be telecast, manifestly, to the entire Sol system. Seven billion people would know about his plans for killing his wife. It was, he had to admit, a compelling reason for his stringing along with the Hentman organization, to do what they wanted; they rather had him. Look what they had accomplished already: they had made high officials in the West Coast branch of the CIA suspicious. And, as London had said, if anything happened to Mary -- And yet he still intended to go through with it. Or rather to try to go through with it. And not just as a threat, as the Hentman organization wanted, to coerce Mary into advocating a certain policy regarding the psychotic settlers. It was his intention to go all the way, as he had originally planned. Why, he did not know; after all, he did not have to see her any more, live with her ... why did her death seem so vital to him? Oddly, Mary might be the only person who could poke into his mind, if she were given the chance, and discover his motives; it was her job. The irony pleased him. And, despite the proximity of the two astute CIA officials -- not to mention the everpresent yellow slime mold eavesdropping on the far side of the hall -- he did not feel badly at all. He was, wit-wise, confronting two distinct factions, both of them experienced; the CIA and the Hentman organization consisted of old-time pros and yet he felt, intuitively, that ultimately he would obtain what he wanted, not what they wanted. The slime mold of course would be overhearing his thought. He hoped that it would carry it back to Hentman; he wanted Hentman to know. *** As soon as the two CIA officials had left, the slime mold flowed under the locked door to his apt, materialized in the center of the old-fashioned wall-to-wall carpeting. It spoke accusingly, with a ring of righteous indignation. "Mr. Rittersdorf, I assure you; I had no contact with Mr. Hentman; I never saw him before that night recently when he came here to obtain your signature on a job contract." "You rascals," Chuck said as he fixed himself coffee in the kitchen. The time was now past four o'clock; however thanks to the illegal stimulants which Lord Running Clam had provided him he felt no fatigue. "Always listening in," he said. "Don't you have a life of your own?" The slime mold said, "I agree with you on one point; Mr. Hentman, in preparing that script, must have known your intentions toward your wife -- otherwise the coincidence is just too great to be acceptable. Perhaps someone, Mr. Rittersdorf, is a telepath, someone in addition to me." Chuck glanced at him. "'It could be a fellow employee at CIA," the slime mold said. "Or it could be taking place while you are in the Mageboom simulacrum on Alpha III M2; one of the psychotic settlers there might be a telepath. I conceive it to be my job from now on to assist you to every extent possible, in order to palpably demonstrate my good faith; I am desperately anxious to clear my good name in your eyes. I'll do all I can to find this telepath who has gone to Hentman, thus --" "Could it be Joan Trieste?" Chuck interrupted suddenly. "No. I'm familiar with her mind; it has no such powers. She is a Psi, as you know, but her talent deals with time." The slime mold pondered. "Unless -- you know, Mr. Rittersdorf, there is another way by which your intentions could be known. That would be the Psionic power of precognition ... assuming that one day, eventually, your scheme becomes public. A precog, looking ahead, might see this, possess this knowledge now. That is an idea we must not overlook. At least it proves that the telepathic factor is not the sole item which would account for Hentman's knowledge of what you intend to do vis-a-vis your wife." He had to admit that there was merit in the slime mold's logic. "In fact," the slime mold said, pulsing visibly with agitation, "it could be the involuntary functioning of a precog talent -- by someone close to you who does not even know he possesses it. Someone, for example, in he Hentman organization. Even Mr. Hentman himself." "Hmm," Chuck said absently, as he filled his cup with hot coffee. "Your future life-track," the slime mold said, "is filled with the spectacular violence of your murder of the woman you fear and hate. This enormous spectacle may have activated the latent precog talent of Mr. Hentman and without knowing what he was drawing from he had the 'inspiration' for this script idea ... often, Psionic talents function in this very way. The more I think of it the more I am convinced that this is precisely what occurred. Hence, I would say that your CIA people's theory is valueless; Hentman and his Alphane colleague do not mean to confront you with any so-called 'evidence' of your intentions ... they are simply doing as they say: attempting to concoct a workable TV script." "What about the CIA's contention that the Alphanes are interested in acquiring Alpha III M2?" Chuck said. "Possibly that portion is so," the slime mold conceded "It would be typical of the Alphanes not to give up, to keep hoping ... after all, the moon is in their system. But frankly -- may I so speak? -- your CIA people's theory strikes me as a miserable bundle of random suspicions, a few separate facts strung together by an intricate structure of ad hoc theorizing, in which everyone is credited with enormous powers for intrigue. A much simpler view can be entertained, with more common sense, and as a CIA employee you, must be aware that, like all intelligence agencies, it lacks the faculty of common sense." Chuck shrugged. "In fact," the slime mold said, "if I may say so, your colorful desire for vengeance on your wife is in part derived from your years of hanging around intelligence apparatus personnel." "You will admit one thing, though," Chuck said. "It's colossal bad luck for me that Hentman and his writers have hit upon that particular idea for their TV script." "Bad luck, but rather amusing in that you personally will soon be sitting down to do the dialogue for this script." The slime mold chuckled. "Perhaps you can infuse it with authenticity. Hentman will be delighted with your insight into Ziggy Trots' motivations." "How did you know the character is to be named Ziggy Trots?" At once he was again suspicious. "It's in your mind." "Then it must also be in my mind that I'd like you to leave so I can be alone." He did not feel sleepy, however; he felt like sitting down and starting on the TV script. "By all means." The slime mold flowed off and presently Chuck was alone in the apt. The only sound arose from the meager traffic in the street below. He stood at the window drinking his cup of coffee for a little while and then he seated himself at his typewriter and pressed the button which raised a sheet of blank paper into position. Ziggy Trots, he thought with aversion. Christ, what a name. What kind of person does it suggest? An idiot, like one of the Three Stooges. Someone defective enough, he thought acidly, to dwell on the concept of murdering his wife ... He began, with professional canniness, to conjure up the initial scene. It, of course, would be Ziggy at home, trying peacefully to do some harmless task. Perhaps Ziggy was reading the evening homeopape. And, like some Harpy, his wife would be there, giving him the business. Yes, Chuck thought, I can supply verisimilitude to this scene; I can draw on years of experience. He began to type. For several hours he wrote, marveling at the efficiency of the illegal hexo-amphetamine stimulants; he felt no fatigue -- in fact, he worked more swiftly than had been his custom in times past. At seven-thirty, with the street outside touched by the long, golden rays of the morning sun, he rose stiffly, walked into the kitchen and began to prepare himself breakfast. Now for my other job, he said to himself. At eight-thirty, off to the CIA building in San Francisco. And Daniel Mageboom. Piece of toast in hand he stood by the typewriter, glancing over the pages which he had written. They looked good -- and dialogue to be spoken had been his trade for years. Now to air-express them to Hentman in New York; they would be in the comic's hands within an hour. At twenty minutes after eight, as he was shaving in the bathroom, he heard the vidphone ring. His first call since having it installed. Going to it he switched it on. "Hello." On the tiny screen a girl's face formed, stunningly beautiful Irish features; he blinked. "Mr. Rittersdorf? I'm Patricia Weaver; I just learned that Bunny Hentman wants me for a script you're doing. I wondered if I could see a copy; I'm dying to look it over. For simply years I've prayed for a chance to be on Bunny's program; I just admire it to hell and back." Naturally he had a Thermofax copying machine; he could run off any number of duplicates of the script. "I'll send you what I have. But it's not done and Bunny hasn't seen it to okay it; I don't know how much he'll want to keep. Maybe none." "From the way Bunny talked about you," Patricia Weaver said, "I'm sure he'll use all of it. Could you do that? I'll give you my address. Actually I'm not far from you at all; you're up in Northern California and I'm down in L.A., in Santa Monica. We could get together; would you like that? And you could listen to me read my part of the script." Her part. Good grief, he realized; he hadn't written any dialogue that included her, the slinky, breast-heavy, nipple-dilated female intelligence agent -- he had only done scenes between Ziggy Trots and his shrewish wife. There was only one solution. To take a half-day leave of absence from his CIA job, sit here in the conapt and write more dialogue. "I'll tell you what," he said. "I'll bring a copy down to you. Give me until this evening." He found a pen and paper. "Let's have your address." The hell with he Mageboom simulacrum, in view of this; he had never witnessed such an attractive girl in his life. All at once everything else had become mediocre, hurled back into proper perspective. He got the girl's address, shakily hung up the vid- phone, then at once packaged up the pages of the script for Bunny Hentman. On his way to San Francisco he put the envelope in the rocket express mail and that was that. While he worked at his CIA job he probably could dream up dialogue for Miss Weaver; by dinner time he would be ready to get it down on paper and by eight o'clock he would have the actual pages to show her. Things, he decided, are not going so badly after all. Certainly this is a vast improvement over my nightmarish life with Mary. He reached the CIA building on Sansome Street in San Francisco and started to enter by the wide, familiar gate. "Rittersdorf," a voice said. "Please come into my office." It was Roger London, large and grimly sullen, eyeing him with displeasure. More talk? Chuck asked himself as he followed London to his office. "Mr. Rittersdorf," London said, as soon as the door had shut, "we bugged your conapt last night; we know what you did after we left." "What did I do?" For the life of him he could not remember having done anything that would arouse the CIA ... unless in his conversation with the slime mold he had said too much. The Ganymedean's thoughts, of course, would be imperceptible to the monitoring device. All that he could remember having uttered himself was some remark that it was a colossal piece of bad luck that the TV script idea which Rentman wanted written had to do with a man murdering his wife by means of a CIA sim. And surely that -- London said, "You were up the balance of the night. Working. That would be impossible unless you had access to drugs currently banned on Terra. Therefore you have non-T contacts which are supplying you with the drugs, and in view of this --" He studied Chuck. "You're temporarily suspended from your job. As a security risk." Stunned, Chuck said, "But to hold both my jobs --" "Any CIA employee foolish enough to make use of illegal non-T stimulant drugs can't possibly be capable of fulfilling his task here," London said, " As of today the Mageboom simulacrum will be operated by a team consisting of Pete Petri and a man you don't know, Tom Schneider." London's coarse features twisted into a mocking smile. "You still have your other job ... or do you?" "What do you mean, or do I?" Of course he still had his job with Hentman; they had signed a contract. London said, "If CIA's theory is correct, Hentman will have no use for you the moment he learns that you've been denied access to the Mageboom simulacrum. So I would say that in roughly twelve hours --" London examined his wristwatch. "That, say, by nine tonight you'll discover the unpleasant fact that you have no employment at all. And then, I think, you'll be a trifle more cooperative with us; you'll be glad to revert to your former status of holding one job here, period." London opened his office door, ushering Chuck out. "By the way," he continued, "would you care to name your source of supply of your drugs?" "I deny taking any illegal drugs," Chuck said, but even in his own ears it did not sound convincing. London had him and they both knew it. "Why not simply cooperate with us?" London inquired. "Give up your job with Hentman, name your supplier -- you could have access to the Mageboom simulacrum in fifteen minutes; I can personally arrange it. What reason do you have for --" "The money," Chuck said. "I need the money from both jobs." And I'm being blackmailed, he said to himself. By Lord Running Clam. But he couldn't say that, not to London. "Okay," London said. "You may go. Get in touch with us when you've seen your way clear to drop your job with Hentman; perhaps we can settle on just that one stipulation." He held the office door open for Chuck. Dazed, Chuck found himself on the wide front stairs of the CIA building. It seemed incredible and yet it had happened; he had lost his job of many years, and on what seemed to him a pretext. Now he had no way to reach Mary. The hell with the loss of salary; his income from the Hentman organization more than made that up. But without the use of the Mageboom simulacrum he could not expect to carry out his plan -- which he had obviously delayed too long anyhow -- and in the vacuum left by the disappearance of this anticipation he felt a powerful sinking emptiness inside him; his entire raison d'etre had, all at once, evaporated. He started numbly back up the stairs once more, toward the main gate of the CIA building. A uniformed guard at once materialized out of nowhere and blocked his way. "Mr. Rittersdorf, I'm sorry; I regret. But I've been given orders, you see, not to admit you." Chuck said, "1 want to see Mr. London again. For a minute." Using his portable intercom the guard put through a call. "All right, Mr. Rittersdorf; you may proceed to Mr. London's office." He then stepped aside and the turnstile flew automatically open for Chuck. A moment later he once more faced London in the man's large wood-paneled office. "You've reached a decision, have you?" London asked. "I have a point to make. If Hentman doesn't fire me, wouldn't that be de facto proof that your suspicions of him were incorrect?" He waited while London scowled ... scowled but did not answer. "If Hentman does not fire me," Chuck said, "I'm going to appeal your decision to bar me from my job; I'm going before the Civil Service Commission and show that --" "You're barred from your job," London said smoothly, "because of your use of illegal drugs. To be blunt, we've already searched your conapt and found them. It's GB-40 that you're on, isn't it? You can maintain a twenty-four hour a day work schedule indefinitely on GB-40; congratulations. However, now that you no longer have your position here with us, being able to work around the clock hardly seems a benefit. So lots of luck." He walked off, seated himself at his desk and picked up a document; the interview was at an end. "But you'll know you were wrong," Chuck said, "when Hentman doesn't fire me. All I ask is that you rethink the situation, once that's occurred. Good-by." He left the office, closing the door noisily behind him. Good-by for lord knows how long, he said to himself. Once more outdoors on the early-morning sidewalk, he stood uncertainly, buffeted by the hordes of people pushing by. Now what? he asked himself. His life, for the second time in a month, had been inverted: first the shock of the separation from Mary, now this. Too much, he said to himself, and wondered if there was anything left. The Hentman job was left. And only the Hentman job. By autonomic cab he returned to his conapt and quickly -- in fact, desperately -- seated himself at his typewriter. Now, he said to himself, to do dialogue for Miss Weaver; he forgot everything else, narrowing his world to the dimensions of the typewriter with its sheet of paper. I'll give you a damn good part, he reflected. And -- maybe I'll get something back in exchange. He began to work. And, by three that afternoon, he had finished; he rose creakily, stretched and felt the weariness of his body. But his mind was lucid. So they bugged my apt, he said to himself. With both audio and video aids. Aloud, for the benefit of the tap, he said, '"Those bastards at the office -- spying on me. Pathological. Frankly it's a relief to be out of that atmosphere of suspicion and --" He ceased; what was the use? He went into the kitchen and fixed lunch. At four, dressed in his best Titanian rouzleweave blue and black suit, powdered, shaved and dabbed with such masculine scents as only the modern chemistry lab could produce, he set off on foot, seeking a jet cab, the manuscript under his arm; he was on his way to Santa Monica and Patty Weaver's conapt, to -- heaven only knew. But he had great hopes. If this fell through, then what? A good question. and one he hoped he would not have to answer. He had lost too much already; the structure of his world had undergone an insidious process of truncation, by the loss of his wife and his raditional job, both in such a short period; he felt bewilderment within his percept-system. It expected to see Mary at night and the San Francisco CIA office by day; now it encountered neither. Something would have to occupy his void. His senses craved it. He flagged down a jet cab and gave it the Santa Monica address of Patty Weaver; then, sitting back against the seat, he got out the pages of dialogue and began going over them for last-minute small alterations. An hour later, slightly after five o'clock, the cab began to descend to the roof field of Patty Weaver's remarkably handsome, large and stylish new conapt building. This is the big time, Chuck said to himself. Hobnobbing with a breast-heavy TV starlet ... what more could he ask? The cab landed. A little unsteadily, Chuck got out the fare. |