E. S. P. Worm

  For a while I almost thought he could pull it off. He argued, by impressive examples picked from the minds of the clerics, that all the differences did not amount to the mountains man had made of them. Molehills, not mountains—and sometimes not even molehills. Among the star civilizations, he said, there were many religions and many proponents of every conceivable viewpoint. There were faiths that could be classified as pro-life and others as anti-life, pro-intellect and anti-intellect. Qumax claimed to be representing nothing, only drawing examples for clarifying parallels.

  Oh yes, he tried. He pointed out that all ethical teachings were based on one premise: that it is better to live in such a way as to be free from the torments of unethical conduct. With that to go on, there should be united cooperation and a blurring of dissimilarities. Why wasn’t there? Why should all ethical strivings on the planet Earth lead to internecine warfare? Wasn’t the species of man sane enough to see that molehills didn’t matter when there were mountains to climb? Why didn’t the individuals quit pretending that so much mattered that didn’t matter? Why didn’t the human species learn responsibility, as the creatures of the galaxy had?

  I was enthralled in spite of myself, but Nancy shook her head negatively. I watched the clerics and felt sorry for them and thrilled for them, sure that for the first time in centuries such as these were learning answers with the strength of revelations. But Nancy was watching Qumax sadly. I thought that man might change now—practice and preaching, the old eternal conflict. Change and variety were among the most unchanging facts of the universe. Dogmatism simply wasn’t justified from any ethically based standpoint. Accept it, human species, and get on with the business of facing the universe. But Nancy frowned.

  Only gradually did I perceive certain truths, and perhaps I never grasped the whole of it. Perhaps it was that these men were by no means innocent picnickers, but trained, experienced debaters who knew how to deal with sacrilege by their definitions. Perhaps it was that they instinctively unified in the face of this challenge to all their parameters. Perhaps it was that they did not want to change their lifelong beliefs—beliefs on which they made their respective livings. But mainly I think it was that religion is not based on logic. Qumax was trying to use logic to make points that were more in the realm of emotion, spirit and faith. And so he failed.

  Qumax was a child. He simply could not appreciate the depth of commitment these men had. He succeeded only in baffling himself. Thus, abruptly, the program came to a close. With bad grace the worm terminated it before his naiveté became apparent to all.

  “But be of good cheer, Friends,” Qumax said with feigned equanimity. “For tonight there’s a big treat in store. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen—” He paused dramatically, recovering some of his normal zest for mischief. “Tonight there’s a program none of you will want to miss-”

  I looked at Nancy. Nancy looked at me. What could it be? We’d all be unbearably lucky if we stayed clear of Lucifernia that long, for now the whole world knew where Qumax was. What possible revelation could be worth such colossal risk?

  “Tonight I, Qumax, will present a dramatic far-space adventure that I will both direct and star in. Included in the cast will be none other than your real-life Minister of Inner-Galactic World Affairs, Minister Harold W. Prodkins. . . .”

  Ouch! The worm was taking it out on me! The bad-sport juvenile brat!

  “Tune in tonight, Friends, for a thrilling Captain Cloud adventure!”

  Captain Cloud—trebvee idol of the adolescent masses. My adult brain knew he was merely the stage name of a nonentitious actor, Stanley Stanslovitch; but my boyhood memory proclaimed him as the hero of all time. What were we in for now?

  As though the announcement itself were not sufficiently inane and shocking, a localized commotion arose within the studio audiences. “Goodness!” and then “Golly Gee!” in teenage timbre. Impelled by these unnatural sounds, I turned quickly and discovered the tall robust figure of Stanley Stanslovitch, Captain Cloud himself.

  “Mr. Stanslovitch!” I exclaimed before catching myself. I stared at his twin blaster-guns and wondered where his famed Texas drawl might be.

  “Hi ya, Space Partners,” he said. And yes, there it was, all sagebrush and steershit. It was illogical but I felt as excited as a six-year-old.

  But of course I was a grown, mature, adult man now. Hardly a gushing fan. It behooved me to address him with appropriate dignity. “Mr. Stanslovitch,” I said, and took another breath. “I’m sure you know who we are and I’m sure you’re not thrilled, but believe me I’m thrilled ever since I was a little kid well for years anyhow—”

  He glanced benignly at me as my balloon exhausted its air. “It’s the hairdye,” he remarked. “That and the wrinkle-cream.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply—I mean only—uh—”

  “It doesn’t matter. You all want my autograph?” He already had produced a gold celebrity pen.

  “Certainly,” I said. I searched my empty pockets, then held out a sleeve of my borrowed shirt. “Just sign here,” I mumbled awkwardly.

  “Shore.” Evidently he was used to this sort of thing. One moment the pen was posed and the next it was making pretty pink, gold and silver lines. As soon as he finished, I took my sleeve and looked at it. The autograph read: “Stanley Stanslovitch, the one and only C-A-P-T-A-I-N C-L-U-D.”

  “Uh, Mr. Stanslovitch—uh, shouldn’t there be an ‘0’ in that?”

  “Why, shore.” With gray eyes twinkling he converted the letters and hyphens of the last two words to a colorful line and printed other letters above. “And don’t,” he warned, “ask me to change it again. Enough is enough, Partner.”

  “Oh, I won’t, Mr. Stanslovitch,” I said. Then I looked at the change. The autograph now read: “ . . . the one and only C-AP-T-A-I-N C-L-O-D.”

  Qumax humped to the edge of the rostrum. “I’m going to need some personnel,” he announced. “In addition to stagehands, electricians and stenographers, I’m going to need some of you actors. Stanley Stanslovitch, get Priscilla Prentiss, your leading lady, and meet me in Studio Five.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Qumax!” said Stanslovitch. For all his being an actor, he responded rather well. I was wondering just what Qumax had planned for the rest of us, and not at all certain we would like it when we found out.

  Suddenly there was a studio page at my elbow. “Mr. Prodkins—you’re wanted on the v-phone.” Then, swallowing a suddenly bobbing Adam’s apple, the young hopeful actor added, “It’s the President, sir. President of the World! His personal secretary spoke for him!”

  “Pruneface. Well that’s great,” I said.

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “Thanks for the message.” I wondered if I should say what I really felt about the honor. Last time my cousin had phoned it had been a trap.

  “You can take the call in private, sir.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “That will of course be best.” I stood up and offered Nancy my arm, hoping she would take it and lend me the needed moral support.

  “I’m with you every step of the way, Space Partner,” she whispered. Her arm hooked into mine with a familiarity I had hardly anticipated—almost a proprietary gesture. We walked behind the page, entered a private office together and found ourselves facing a v-phone. The page left, closing the door behind him.

  I moved to the v-phone and my presence activated the screen, bringing on the image of Pruneface first, and then the President. I studied Freddy Bascum’s face with care, marveling that he was just an ordinary man after all who was maybe scared to death at this moment. I wondered what the interview would bring.

  “Mr. Minister, I must admit that I was favorably impressed by the trebcast.”

  “You . . . liked it . . . Mr. President?”

  “It was adroit. Until the end.”

  His way of saying that Qumax had made an utter fool of himself. I pretended not to comprehend. “You didn’t like the announcement?”

  “I think the announce
ment may call for rather drastic care, H—Mr. Minister. I’m wondering whether I can, after all, count on you to ease the brakes on?”

  I wondered why he felt constrained to beg this way. Why didn’t he just send in the troops? Then I realized that we had preempted the stage from the doubles he had planted, and that now it would be exceedingly awkward to remove us without giving his prior machinations away. Who would double for Qumax, now? Probably the worm had counted on this to prevent any overt measures against us. Personally, I wouldn’t have trusted Freddy that far.

  So now the President of the World was ready to play along with us, provided we calmed down the display. Maybe we’d get out of this mess with intact integuments after all. “Um, I see what you mean. You think that I should control Qumax.”

  “Precisely. For the good of Earth and your own possible future political career.”

  “Frankly, Mr. President,” I said loftily, “I haven’t been thinking about politics.”

  Freddy frowned. “Everything will be made right,” he said. “Just so you do your job now and forget about that little unpleasantness. Count it—simply a misunderstanding between relatives?”

  He was pushing it too far. “You’d better watch your step, Mr. President. I don’t take kindly to—”

  “Mr. President,” Nancy said hurriedly, “there’s something— excuse me, both of you, but I just wanted to remind you. Qumax hasn’t entered my mind yet. I think if anyone can control him or interfere with him if necessary, that I—”

  “You’d, eh, dispose of him, Dr. Dilsmore?”

  “Goodness no, Mr. President!” Nancy sounded shocked.

  “The Swarm Tyrant would really love that,” I muttered. “Then he’d have real cause to play Solar Pool with the real solar system . . .”

  “Precisely,” Freddy agreed. “We must be diplomatic.”

  “I think I can interfere if necessary,” Nancy said, “and tell the public what Qumax is really about.”

  “Really about, Dr. Dilsmore?”

  “A let’s pretend game.”

  “Oh—yes, Dr. Dilsmore. And then the inner-galactic ship will be here soon and we can straighten out anything that requires government straightening. Yes, I do believe that might work.”

  “You look,” I observed, “as though you are calling off an execution.”

  The President blanched. So some such temptation had trotted through his brain. Qumax was in no danger, of course, for the threat of his Swarm Tyrant could not be ignored. But those of us whom the worm was using as props . . . maybe. Nancy’s freak ability to defy the alien just might be the saving of us.

  “Mr. Minister,” said the President decisively, “I am putting you and Dr. Dilsmore in full charge. I want you to know that I— that I’ll be available any time of the day or night if you need help. The entire resources of the world government stand at your immediate disposal.”

  “I—” Mentally I cursed him. “I won’t forget your kind cooperation, Mr. President.”

  Thought furrowed the politician’s forehead. Hidden meaning? Hidden meaning? I might have heard. Lucky I couldn’t read his complex, ruthless mind; I’d probably be sickened. “All right, Mr. Minister and Dr. Dilsmore,” he said finally. “To each of us our jobs. That’s understood and accepted, isn’t it?”

  “It is, Mr. President,” I said.

  “Fine. Goodbye, Mr. Minister, Dr. Dilsmore.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. President,” Nancy and I said. The screen blanked.

  I marched to the large desk in the office and plumped down, weak with something like relief. I opened the drawer, searching for some tissues to wipe my face. I found—a bottle. And several clean glasses. Expensive, potent distillation.

  “I’ll take some of that,” Nancy said.

  “I didn’t know you drank!”

  “I don’t,” she said, holding forth a glass. “But I was bluffing. I don’t think I can control Qumax at all. All I can do is resist him—so far.”

  I popped the cork and poured her one, and followed with a dose of my own. She was right—we weren’t out of this morass by a long shot. The worm was planning some horrendous show involving Captain Cloud and who knew what else, and it would surely snap Freddy’s suspenders and we’d all be in dire peril. Caught between Qumax and Freddy—and neither, realistically, could be pacified.

  “Harold—” she said after a bit. “The responsibility you and I share—it’s very great, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the greatest,” I said, invoking my gift for understatement. I noticed with surprise that the fluid level was down more than it ought to be, in the bottle. But my problems did not seem nearly so pressing.

  “Harold—these coveralls . . .”

  “Delightful,” I said. Sinful too, I thought with a certain illicit pleasure.

  “Harold, eh, could you”—she threw a glance at the door— ”maybe help me get some clothing that’s a little more, eh, conventional?”

  So her most fundamental concern was not the President or the worm, but her unbagged state. Her dishabille. “If that’s what you want,” I said.

  She looked at me with doubt in her eyes. “After that speech you made?”

  “After the speech Qumax made me make.” She frowned, vaguely disappointed perhaps, and sipped at her glass again. “It made sense, that speech. But with all these ugly bumps showing—”

  “Not ugly,” I said. “I—like coveralls on you. Really, Nancy.”

  She blushed. I knew that I must be blushing. What had just passed seemed horribly profound.

  “Eh, Harold, if you’d rather I didn’t. . . ?”

  “I want—I mean I like the way you are,” I said. The bottle seemed to be empty.

  “Would you—would you do me a favor? Would you help me, please, decorate these?”

  “Decorate? How?”

  She looked about and spotted a celebrity pen behind the phone. “Here!” she said, making a couple of swipes before she managed to grasp it. “Those lovely colored lines—could you, please?”

  “You mean draw? To make you look like a baggie? I mean, like-” I fumbled about verbally for another moment, then gave up. “I’m sorry but I’ve never—never drawn.”

  “Well—design, then.” The bulges in her coverall tops rose and fell. She righted the pen, laid her coveralled arm on the desk and poised the pen over her forearm. Quickly she drew a sloppy crosshatch.

  I stared. “Tick-tack-toe?”

  She made an 0 in an upper left square and handed the pen to me. “I called it cat-and-mouse,” she said.

  I made an X. “It’s a very pretty color,” I said.

  She 0-ed.

  I X-ed.

  She 0-ed and crossed a line through it.

  We began a new game.

  She X-ed.

  I 0-ed.

  She X-ed.

  I 0-ed.

  She X-ed.

  I 0-ed and crossed a line through it.

  The games became more interesting as they marched up her sleeve and around her shoulder. Much more interesting. With a change of board, there was more and more care required, longer periods of deliberation. But somehow my concentration suffered. That is, I concentrated very hard, but kept losing the games.

  Soon, approaching a top bulge, I dropped the pen and tried kissing her. To my astonishment she responded immediately.

  “Oh, Harold,” she sighed. “Harold, my—my darling!”

  I found my arms around her. I tightened them and I thought that as she breathed her bulges were flattening. Her blue eyes looked at me in a tender way and I knew that it was going to hurt her to slap me. For she was going to have to slap me. Her entire upbringing would demand it. And the strange part of it was that I wanted her to—for that was part of a decent upbringing. It was a real necessity that she slap me, I felt.

  “All right, you Earthian loafers,” my mouth said. “It’s time you come to the studio for rehearsal. My play, The Alien Viewpoint, is undoubtedly a masterpiece.”

  I was suddenly sob
er again—and horrified. “Damn you!” Nancy said, looking pretty sober herself. And then, to my indescribable joy, she really walloped me.

  Chapter 6

  We left the unnatural privacy of the office and found our way through halls bustling with actors and actresses—many of whom eyed or commented on the scientist’s lack of a proper bag-dress—to Studio Five. Qumax and staff were waiting there for us. I glanced at a clock as we came in and learned with surprise that we had enjoyed privacy for almost three hours. Then I did another take, because the time was wrong. We had left the picnic of the Church of the Wood, way back east, around two in the afternoon. The copter journey here had taken five hours, and the Trebvee religious panel a couple more. Our three hours tick, tack, toeing Nancy’s coveralls (and oh, yes-there had been Freddy’s call in there somewhere too!) should bring us up to midnight. But it was only nine—prime viewing time.

  Then I remembered: we had traveled three time zones west. That accounted for the loss. We had spent those hours, but they wouldn’t register on the local clocks. Stupid me!

  “There won’t be time for rehearsals,” Qumax said, not quite enigmatically. “Since I will be aiding each of you to act your finest, there is no necessity that you do anything so crude as to memorize lines. To save time, I’ll just explain what each of you will be doing and why.”

  He explained, briefly and to the point: where we would enter and exit, how we would work our vocal cords, what special effects there would be. It sounded like a Captain Cloud adventure written with somewhat alien tongue in cheek.

  “I don’t know, Qumax,” I said. “This sounds as though you’re trying to make a point, but the point is, I fear, alien. Remember that religious—”