Clans of the Alphane Moon

  “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 vidphone 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 kidding? 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 of
ficials with marital problems keep coming to it—” Hentman puffed with agitation. “Rittersdorf, you’ve got the best 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 head 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 head; 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. “But’s 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 girl friend 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-jointed 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, harplike 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 Alphane twanged. “Delighted,” It withdrew, then. “And who else is in this room, Bunny? I smell others.”