Clans of the Alphane Moon

  With careful emphasis Joan said, “Lord Running Clam is in his room and he can pick up your thoughts; if you try to kill yourself again he’ll hear and interfere. So if you intend to do it—”

  “Okay,” Chuck said. “I won’t try it here.” He went to the door with Elwood and Petri, one of them on each side of him; Joan followed.

  As they passed out into the corridor he saw that the slime mold’s door was open; the huge yellow mound undulated slightly in greeting.

  “Thank you, too,” Chuck said, half-ironically, and then passed on with his two co-workers from the CIA.

  * * *

  As they drove by wheel to Nat Wilder’s office in San Francisco, Jack Elwood said, “This Operation Fifty-minutes—we’ve asked to be allowed to include a man in the initial landing party; a routine request which of course has been honored.” He glanced thoughtfully at Chuck. “I think we’ll use a simulacrum in this case.”

  Chuck Rittersdorf nodded vacantly. It was standard procedure to use a simulacrum in projects involving potentially hostile factions; the CIA had a low operating budget and did not like to lose its men.

  “In fact,” Elwood said, “the simulacrum—it was made for us by G. D. down in Palo Alto—is finished and at our office. If you’d care to view it.” He examined a small note pad which he brought from his coat pocket. “Name is Daniel Mageboom. Twenty-six years old. Anglo-Saxon. Graduated from Stanford with a master’s in poly sci. Taught for one year at San Jose State, then joined the CIA. That’s what we’ll tell the others in the project; only ourselves will know it’s a sim gathering data for us.” He concluded, “As yet we have not decided who to put in as determining guide for Dan Mageboom. Maybe Johnstone.”

  “That fool,” Chuck said. A sim could operate autonomously to some extent, but in an operation of this type too many decisions were required; left to itself Dan Mageboom would quickly reveal itself as a construct. It would walk and talk, but when time arrived for it to decide policy—then a good operator, seated in complete safety in Level One of the CIA building in San Francisco, took control.

  As they parked the wheel on the roof-field of Nat Wilder’s office building Elwood said reflectively, “I was thinking, Chuck, that you might like to handle Danny. Johnstone, as you say, isn’t the best.”

  Chuck glanced at him, taken by surprise. “Why? It’s not my job.” The CIA had a corps of men trained for simulacra animation.

  “As a favor to you,” Elwood said slowly, gazing off into the heavy afternoon airborne traffic that hung like a layer of smoke over the city. “So you could be with your wife, so to speak.”

  After a time Chuck said, “Absolutely no.”

  “Watch her, then.”

  “What for?” He felt baffled anger. And outrage.

  “Let’s be realistic,” Elwood said. “It’s obvious to CIA’s psych-men that you’re still in love with her. And we need a full-time operator for Dan Mageboom. Petri can do your scripts for a few weeks; take this on, see how you like it, if you don’t, then drop it and go back to your scripts. Lord, you’ve programmed simulacra for years; you ought to be a natural at remote—I’d make book on it. And you’d be going on the same ship with Mary, landing on Alpha III M2 at the same time—”

  “No,” Chuck repeated. He opened the door of the wheel, stepped out on the surface of the field. “I’ll see you later; thanks for the ride.”

  “You know,” Elwood said, “I could order you to take this remote. I would, if I thought it would be in your interest. Which it might well be. Here’s what I think I’ll do; I’ll get out your wife’s folder—from the FBI—and go over it. Depending on the kind of person she is—” He gestured. “I’ll decide on that basis.”

  “What kind of person should she be,” Chuck said, “for me to spy on her out of a CIA simulacrum?”

  Elwood said, “A woman worth your going back to.” He shut the door of the wheel; Petri started up the motor and the wheel shot up into the late-afternoon sky. Chuck stood watching it go.

  CIA thinking, he said to himself caustically. Well, I ought to be used to it by now.

  But Elwood was right about one thing. He had indeed programmed many simulacra—and with calculatedly persuasive rhetoric. If he took over the remote, he could not only successfully manage Dan Mageboom or whatever it was called; he could—and this did make him pause—he could transform the simulacrum into a delicately-tuned instrument, a machine that guided, beguiled, and, yes, even corrupted, those around him. He, himself, could not be that articulate; only in his craft was he masterful.

  Dan Mageboom, in Chuck’s hands, could accomplish a great deal vis-á-vis Mary Rittersdorf. And no one knew that better than his boss Jack Elwood. No wonder Elwood had suggested it.

  But it had a potentially sinister quality. It repelled him; he shrank back from it, intuiting its odiousness.

  And yet he could not simply turn it down out of hand; things—life itself, existence on Earth—were not that candid.

  The solution, perhaps, lay in having someone he could rely on do the remote. Petri, for instance. Someone who could watch out for his interests.

  And then he thought, Just what are my interests?

  Reflexively, he descended by in-ramp, deep in thought. Because a new idea, not one suggested by his boss Jack Elwood, had slipped without notice into his mind.

  He thought, There is one thing that might be accomplished under such circumstances. A CIA simulacrum with Mary on a distant moon in another star-system entirely… among the psychotic members of a deranged society. Something which might pass, given such exceptional circumstances.

  It was not an idea which he could discuss with anyone; in fact, he found it difficult to express it even to himself. However, it had its advantages over suicide, and he had almost achieved that.

  Under such circumstances I could actually manage to kill her, he said to himself. Through the CIA construct, or rather General Dynamic’s construct. Legally I’d stand a reasonable chance of acquittal, since a simulacrum operated at that distance often functions on its own; it’s autonomic circuits often take precedence over the long-range instructions from the remote. Anyhow it’s worth a try. In court I’ll plead that the simulacrum acted on its own; and I can sequester countless technical papers proving that simulacra often do such things… the history of CIA’s operations is full of such bunglings at crucial points.

  And it will be the burden of the prosecution to prove that I gave the instructions to the simulacrum.

  He came to Nat Wilder’s door; it opened and he passed on in, still deep in thought.

  It might or might not be a good idea; certainly its merits were open to debate—on moral grounds alone, if not on merely practical grounds. But in any case it was the sort of idea that once entertained did not tend to go away; like an idée fixe it had entered his mind and once there it stayed, could not be reversed.

  It was not by any means even theoretically a “perfect crime.” Great suspicion would at once fall on him; the county or state prosecutor—whoever it was who handled such matters as this—would accurately guess very quickly what had transpired. So would the homeopape reporters, among whom were some of the shrewdest minds in the US. But suspecting it and proving it were totally different matters.

  And to some extent he could conceal himself behind the top-secret curtain which continually obscured the activities of the CIA.

  Between Terra and the Alphane system it was over three light years, an immense distance. Certainly far too great a distance, under ordinary circumstances, over which to commit a capital crime. Many a slip of the electromagnetic signal, as it passed into and out of hyperspace, could in any case reasonably be assumed to exist as a constant factor. A defense attorney, if he were any good, could make a damn good case on that point alone.

  And Nat Wilder was such an attorney.

  FIVE

  That evening, after he had eaten dinner at the Blue Fox restaurant, he called his boss Jack Elwood at his home.

  “I’d
like to see the creature you call Dan Mage-boom,” he stated cautiously.

  On the small vidscreen his boss’s face writhed into a smile. “Okay. Easy enough—go home to that rundown conapt you’re stuck in, and I’ll have Dan hop on over. He’s here at my house. Doing dishes in the kitchen. What made you decide?”

  “No particular reason,” Chuck said, and rang off.

  He returned to his conapt—at night, with the faulty old recessed lighting turned on, the room was even more depressing than ever—and seated himself to wait for Dan.

  He heard, almost at once, a voice in the hall, a man’s voice asking for him. And then the Ganymedean slime mold’s thoughts formed in his brain. “Mr. Rittersdorf, there’s a gentleman in the corridor searching for you; please open your door and greet him.”

  Going to the door Chuck opened it.

  In the hall stood a middle-aged man, short, with protruding belly, wearing an old-fashioned suit. “Are you Rittersdorf?” the man demanded sullenly. “Jeez, what a dump. And it’s filled with weird non-Ts— what’s a Terran doing living here?” He wiped his red, perspiring face with a pocket handkerchief. “I’m Bunny Hentman. You’re the script writer, aren’t you? Or is this a complete foul-up?”

  “I’m a simulacrum script writer,” Chuck said. This was, of course, Mary’s doing; she wanted to be sure he had a good income to support her in the post-marital situation.

  “How come you didn’t recognize me?” Hentman said crossly. “Aren’t I world-famous? Or maybe you don’t watch TV.” He puffed on his cigar in irritation. “So I’m here, I’m here. You want to work for me or not? Listen, Rittersdorf—I’m not used to coming around begging. But your stuff is good; I got to admit it. Where’s your room? Or do we have to stand out here in the hall?” He saw the half-open door of Chuck’s conapt; at once he strode toward it, passed through and disappeared.

  Thinking rapidly, Chuck followed after him. Obviously there was no easy way to get rid of Hentman. But, as a matter of fact, he had nothing to lose by Hentman’s presence; it would be a good test of the effectiveness of the Dan Mageboom simulacrum.

  “You understand,” he said to Hentman as he shut the apt door, “that I’m not actively seeking this job.”

  “Sure, sure,” Hentman said, nodding. “I know; you’re a patriot—you like working for the I-spy outfit. Listen.” He waved a finger at Chuck. “I can pay you three times what they pay. And you’ll have a lot more latitude to write in. Although naturally I have a final say-so as to what’s used and exactly how it’s phrased.” He gazed around the living room of the conapt with horror. “Cripes. Reminds me of my childhood in the Bronx. I mean, this is real poverty. What happened, did your wife wipe you out in the divorce settlement?” His eyes, wise and full of compassion, flickered. “Yeah, it can be bad; I know. I been divorced three times, and each time it’s cost like hell. The law’s with the woman. That wife of yours; she’s attractive, but—” He gestured. “I don’t know. She’s sort of cold; you know what I mean? Sort of—deliberate. I don’t envy you. A woman like that, you want to be sure there’s no legal entanglement with them when you get involved. Make sure it’s extralegal; you know, limited to an affair.” He studied Chuck. “But you’re the marrying kind; I can see that. You play fair. A woman like that can run over you with both treads. And leave you flatter than a worm’s ass.”

  A knock sounded on the door. And at the same time the thoughts of the Ganymedean slime mold, Lord Running Clam, formed in Chuck’s mind. “A second visitor, Mr. Rittersdorf. A younger man this time.”

  “Excuse me,” Chuck said to Bunny Hentman; he walked to the door and opened it.

  “Who’s doing the mind-talking act?” Hentman mumbled behind him.

  An eager-faced young man, good-looking and extremely well-dressed in the most fashionable Harding Brothers clothes, said as he faced Chuck, “Mr. Rittersdorf? I’m Daniel Mageboom. Mr. Elwood asked me to drop by.”

  It was a good job; he would never have guessed. And realizing this Chuck felt elation. “Sure,” he said, “come on in,” and led the simulacrum into the shabby conapt. “Mr. Mageboom,” he said, “this is the famous TV comic Bunny Hentman. You know—ya-ya, boom-boom Hentman who runs out in a big rabbit suit with crossed eyes and flapping ears.”

  “What an honor,” Mageboom said, extending his hand; the two of them shook, measuring one another. “I’ve watched your show many times. It’s a fun-filled riot of laughs.”

  “Yeah,” Bunny Hentman murmured, glancing dourly at Chuck.

  Chuck said, “Dan is a new employee in my office; I’m meeting him for the first time.” He added, “I’ll be working with him from now on.”

  “Naw,” Hentman said vigorously. “You’ll be working for me—don’t you get it? I got the contract with me; I had my lawyers draw it up.” He groped in his coat pocket, scowling.

  “Did I interrupt?” Mageboom said, drawing back circumspectly. “I can come back later, Mr. Rittersdorf. Chuck, if I may call you that.”

  Hentman eyed him. Then, shrugging, began to unfold the contract. “See here. Look at what you’re getting paid,” he jabbed at it with his cigar. “Can this I-spy outfit pay you anything like that? I mean, making America laugh is patriotic; it helps the morale and defeats the Commies. In fact it’s more patriotic than what you’re doing; these simulacra, they all are cold fladballs—they give me the creeps.”

  “I agree,” Dan Mageboom said. “But, Mr. Hentman, there’s another side to the argument, if I can take a moment of your time to explain. Mr. Rittersdorf, Chuck, here, does a job that no one else can do. Programming simulacra is an art; without expert programming they’re nothing but hulks and anyone, even a child, can distinguish them from actual persons. But, properly programmed—” He smiled. “You’ve never seen one of Chuck’s simulacra in action. It’s incredible.” He added, “Mr. Petri does a good job, too. In fact in some ways better.”

  Obviously it was Petri who had programmed this simulacrum. And was getting in a plug for himself. Chuck could not suppress a grin.

  “Maybe I ought to hire this guy Petri,” Bunny Hentman said gloomily. “If he’s that good.”

  “For your purposes,” Mageboom said, “Petri might be better. I know the element in Chuck’s scripts that appeals to you, but the problem is this: it’s erratic. I doubt if he could sustain it as a full-time commodity, as he would have to, for your purposes. However as one ingredient among many it—”

  “Butt out,” Hentman said crossly to Mageboom. To Chuck he said, “I don’t like three-way conversations; can’t we go somewhere else?” He was visibly annoyed by Dan Mageboom… he appeared to sense something amiss.

  In Chuck’s mind the slime mold’s thoughts again formed. “That splendid lovely girl, although as you noted lacking a nipple-dilation job, is entering the building, Mr. Rittersdorf, looking for you; I have already told her to come on up.”

  Bunny Hentman, obviously also receiving the thoughts of the slime mold, groaned in despair. “Isn’t there any way we can talk? Now who the hell is this?” He turned to face the door, glaring at it.

  “Miss Trieste won’t interfere with your conversation, Mr. Hentman,” Dan Mageboom said, and Chuck glanced at the simulacrum, surprised that it had an opinion about Joan. But it was on remote; he realized that all at once. Obviously this was not a programming; Petri was operating it from the CIA building in San Francisco.

  The door opened and, hesitantly, Joan Trieste, wearing a gray sweater and dirndl, no stockings but thin high heels, stood there. “Am I bothering you, Chuck?” she asked. “Mr. Hentman,” she said, and flushed scarlet. “I’ve watched you hundreds of times—I think you’re the greatest comedian alive. You’re as great as Sid Caesar and all the great old-timers.” Her eyes bright, she came up to Bunny Hentman, stood close to him but carefully avoided touching him. “Are you a friend of Bunny Hentman?” she asked Chuck. “I wish you had told me.”

  “We’re trying,” Hentman groaned, “to conduct a business deal. So I mean,
how do we do it?” Perspiring freely he began to pace about the small living room. “I give up,” he announced. “I can’t sign you; it’s out of the question. You know too many people. Writers are supposed to be recluse types, living lonely type lives.”

  Joan Trieste had not shut the conapt door and now, through the entrance, the slime mold slowly undulated. “Mr. Rittersdorf,” its thoughts came to Chuck, “I have an urgent matter to take up with you alone, in private. Could you cross the hall to my apt for a moment, please?”

  Hentman turned his back, squealed in frustration, walked to the window and stood looking out.

  Puzzled, Chuck accompanied the slime mold across the hall to its own conapt.

  “Shut the door and come closer to me,” the slime mold said. “I don’t want the others to pick up my thoughts.”

  Chuck did so.

  “That person, Mr. Dan Mageboom,” the slime mold thought at low volume. “He is not a human being; he is a construct. There is no personality within him; an individual at some distance operates him. I thought I should warn you, since after all you are a neighbor of mine.”

  “Thanks,” Chuck said, “but I already knew that.” But now he felt uneasy; it would not do to have the slime mold prying into his thoughts, in view of the direction they had taken recently. “Listen,” he began, but the slime mold anticipated him.

  “I have already scanned that material in your mind,” it informed him. “Your hostility toward your wife, your murderous impulses. Everyone at some time or another has such impulses, and in any case it would be improper for me to discuss them with anyone else. Like a priest or a doctor, a telepath must—”

  “Let’s not discuss it,” Chuck said. The slime mold’s knowledge of his intentions put a new light on them; perhaps he would be unwise to continue. If the prosecutor could bring Lord Running Clam into court—

  “On Ganymede,” the slime mold declared, “vengeance is sanctified. If you do not believe me, have your attorney Mr. Nat Wilder look it up. In no way do I deplore the direction of your preoccupations; they’re infinitely preferable to the previous suicidal impulse, which is contrary to nature.”