The tomorrow people : a science fiction novel

By Judith Merril

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Title: The tomorrow people
        a science fiction novel

Author: Judith Merril

Illustrator: John Schoenherr

Release date: December 15, 2025 [eBook #77468]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Pyramid Books, 1960

Credits: Tom Trussel, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TOMORROW PEOPLE ***




                                  1 9 7 7


  =Johnny Wendt=:  the world’s first Space hero--until he
                   became an alcoholic drifter

    =Lisa Trovi=:  she gave up a career to salvage Johnny,
                   then she went to the Moon to help him
                   --but found something there more
                   important than love

   =Phil Kutler=:  his job was to find out what Space had
                   done to Johnny--and see that it didn’t
                   happen to the next Spacemen

    =Congressman   he was out to grab the Space program
     McLafferty=:  for himself--and his dreadfully effective
                   weapons were headlines


These are THE TOMORROW PEOPLE




                                   THE
                                TOMORROW
                                 PEOPLE

                       a science-fiction novel by
                              JUDITH MERRIL

                  PYRAMID BOOKS [Illustration] NEW YORK




                                For Milt
                          and the unturned back

                           THE TOMORROW PEOPLE

                             A PYRAMID BOOK


                        First printing, May 1960
                     Second printing, December 1962

 This book is fiction. No resemblance is intended between any character
 herein and any person, living or dead; any such resemblance is purely
                             coincidental.


                   Copyright, © 1960 by Judith Merril
                          All Rights Reserved

               _Printed in the United States of America_

    PYRAMID BOOKS _are published by Pyramid Publications, Inc., 444
             Madison Avenue, New York 22, New York, U.S.A._




  PROLOGUE

  _June, 1973--January, 1976_


They sent two men out through unknown space to a far cold place, a
place whose very name was fear, the name of the cruel god, the god of
war. They shot two men off the Moon--out from the sun and away from the
earth--in a new great ship with a shiny hull and a miracle fuel.

The ship went out with a blast and a prayer. After three years it came
back with a sigh, unpowered, fuel-less, floating in slow-spiralled
orbit through empty sky around the Moon. It came back with its hull
scratched and dented and darkened from the dust and debris of space,
the wind and sands of Mars. It came back with one man in it instead of
two.

Johnny Wendt was the one who came back.




PART ONE

_January 1976--June 23, 1977_


_Rockland, N. Y.--Thursday, June 23, 1:30_ A.M. (_E.D.S.T._)

He woke up screaming again.

Or else he dreamed the scream?

But when his eyes started to open, they closed reactively against the
light. So Lee was up. And so it was no dream.

Sweat tickled his neck, but he lay still, breathing evenly, eyes shut.
He would talk to her in the morning. Not now. In the morning it would
be better, but not _now_....

He opened his eyes a slit to make sure. It was her light, all right.
She was sitting up, watching him.

“Sorry, darling,” she said. “I couldn’t get to sleep, I didn’t think
the light would bother you....”

“Huh?” He blinked his eyes open wider. She was sitting, but with a
pillow propped behind her back, book on her lap. “No, ‘sarigh’,” he
mumbled. “Go ’head. Light don’ bother....”

She’d been reading.... _She had been up first!_ He shook his head,
clearing it, got her in focus. The flicker of frown on her forehead was
apology, not worry....

So it _had_ been a dream?

“Hey,” he said, “Was I...?” He twisted his neck cautiously, felt for
the knot in back with an exploring hand. “I feel like.... Was I keeping
you up, babe? Thrashing around, or ... anything?”

“No. It was just this damn book. I got started reading it and I kept
thinking and I couldn’t sleep--I’m sorry, darling,” she said again.

She closed the book with a snap and reached for the light switch.

_No!_

“Don’t quit on account of me,” he said quickly. “Light doesn’t bother
me.” _Jesus, what a dream!_ “Anyhow, I’m up now.” He rubbed at his
neck, groped under the pillow and found his handkerchief. “I guess I
was dreaming.” He wiped sweat from his forehead and neck and face. Then
he swung his legs out of the bed and stood up. “Coffee?”

Lisa hesitated, shook her head: No.

Johnny found his shorts on the floor, pulled them on. There was sweat
on his thighs, too. Sticky and drying. _A shower_, he thought ...
_too damn hot in here_. He peered at the thermostat; it said 68, but
the room was hot. He turned it down. _Check it out in the morning_, he
thought. Couldn’t be working right. A drink and a shower would do it,
all right. Then he could get back to sleep. Just one drink....

“Maybe a brandy...?”

It took a moment to register--she meant for _her_. He looked down at
her, grinning. “Hey!” he said, “Don’t you think one lush around here is
enough?” She smiled and he leaned over, meaning to drop a quick kiss on
her hair. Then it hit him again: the incredible fact of her presence,
right there, in his house, in his bed ... the look and shape of her,
the curve of shoulder, the _aliveness_ just below her skin, the way
her cheek curved with her smile ... smiling light in her eyes, and all
for him ... _for him_ ... even while the faint line of frowning ...
for him, too ... lingered above. The cloudy feel and fragrance of her
hair, and the strange blend of scents on her skin; soap, grass, sex,
something else, something sweet and delicious and way-back in memory.

“Oh, _baby_!” he said and sat down to do an all-out job of kissing
her. “Maybe I _don’t_ want that coffee--Nope!” He stood up, abruptly
aware of dried sweat on his face, in his hair. “The lady wants a drink,
that’s what she gets!”

In the kitchen, he got the bottle and two glasses and went straight
back, not giving himself time for the quick one he would have had while
he mixed his coffee. He gave Lisa the bottle.

“Pour me. I’ll be right back.”

_And what the Hell do you think you’re proving?_ he jeered at himself
as he turned on the shower. All the answers he could think of sounded
more like Phil Kutler’s brand of idiocy than like any of his own. He
stepped impatiently out of the air blast and wrapped a towel around his
still-damp waist. _Well_, he thought, _any way you look at it, it’s
your own damn fault!_

He went out, took the glass Lee held out, and belted it fast. He filled
it again, leaving the jug carefully on her table, not his own. Then he
walked around the bed and sat down, leaning against the headboard.

_Sip it_, he told himself. Lisa leaned back beside him. He watched her
breasts move under the fullness of the thin nightgown: rising, as she
settled into place, and again as she raised her glass to her lips;
falling when she lowered it; shifting again when she turned to smile at
him. Her hair was freshly brushed, he saw, and her lips newly, lightly,
rouged. There was a trace of perfume, too, that had not been there
before--and the other smell, the special one he couldn’t quite place,
was lost under it. That was when he remembered something she’d said
before.

“What’s with the morning bus?” he asked.

“I have to be at the studio at ten. They’re taping the Bartok. Didn’t I
tell you Hal called...?”

“Yeah.” She _had_ told him. So okay. One more thing he didn’t remember.
He looked at her again. _What the Hell is that smell, anyway...?_

“Lee....” He could sense her tension, her shrinking from what he was
going to say. “I could go down too ... while we’re there ... we could
see about that license, you know?”

“Oh, _Johnny_....” She paused, and because he did love her, he didn’t
wait to make her say the rest.

“Okay, doll. Listen....” _No good._ “Oh, Hell! Just don’t forget old
Johnny did his best to make an honest woman out of you!” What the Hell
should _he_ care? If that’s how she wanted it....

She’d do anything for him, he knew. Anything--except marry him.

_Okay!_ “Better get some sleep,” he said stiffly.

“Mmmmm?” She emptied her glass, squashed out her cigarette, and slid
down on her pillow. Her hand hovered over the light switch while her
eyes questioned his.

“Hand me the jug first,” he said. _Jesus! What a dream!_ He filled his
glass again, setting the bottle down on his own table. The Hell with
it. This time he needed it.

“Jesus!” he said. “What a dream!” He laughed but it didn’t sound right.
“You know how words can get all mixed up? _Choke_ and _artichoke_.
First somebody’s pushing my head in, then they’re pulling me apart.
Just like an artichoke--Christ! You know, you take off one leaf at a
time and dip it in butter and suck all the good part off and throw it
away and pull off another one. Then you get down to the heart--just
sitting there naked with all the leaves off, and you can’t even yell
for help, who the Hell’d ever hear an _artichoke_...?”

The goddam glass was empty. In the dark, the gurgling sound of pouring
was too loud.

_The Hell with it!_

Lisa didn’t say anything.

Well, what _could_ she say?

What the Hell did he _want_ her to say?

“There’s a moon tonight.” That’s what she said.

“_Is_ there?”

The Hell with that too!

She shouldn’t have put on that perfume, he thought. Then, startled,
he found that his hand had gone out to the switch, and the wall that
had been milky glass before turned transparent. A near-full moon,
heavy and low on the hilltops silhouetted the silvery birches and tall
pines: brought them so close he could feel the night breeze outside. He
shivered, suddenly and uncontrollably, then remembered he’d turned the
conditioner down before.

He reached for the panel light. Lee stirred in the bed, turned her back
to him. _Fooled you!_ he thought with childish malice as he found the
light ... but no more childish than her back when she thought he was
going for the bottle again, he decided. She moved again, and he saw she
was propped on an elbow, staring out. A current of air, from her back
maybe, carried that scent again--what in Hell was it?--An old smell, a
happy one, something from back when the Moon was a moon, and the man in
the moon was a joke, and not Chris, and Mars was an orangey spot in the
sky, with no man in it anywhere....

His hand on the thermostat wavered. He stood up, dropped the towel, and
shivered again.

“Mind if I light the fire?” His voice sounded harsh in his ears. Hell
with that _too_....

“Mmmmm....” That could have meant anything. He crossed the room, set
a match to the kindling and crouched at the fireplace, hugging the
warmth, while he watched flames leap up. Smell of pine burning, the
crackle of pitch, and then he remembered....

_Vanilla!_

A year ... more than a year now ... fourteen, fifteen months, that
flavor, the scent of it on Lisa’s skin had been haunting him. _The
smell of vanilla!_ He laughed. She made an inquiring noise and he
looked around.

The moon was gone. The milky wall was black. His panel light glowed
for a moment, then she moved toward his side of the bed and stretched
out her arm and the small glow died. Firelight leaped up, warming him
through.

“Hey, babe!” he said. “Oh, baby, I love _you_....”


_The Moon--January, 1976_

Across the broad pock-marked face of the Moon, like blue-tinged boils
on chin, cheek, and forehead, three air-filled pressure domes gleamed
in the hard rays of the naked sun.

Largest and best-advertised of these was the joint military and
astronomical observatory base of the United Nations World Peace
Control and International Scientific Congress, nestled appropriately,
or at least hopefully, inside a hilltop between the great dry “seas,”
_Tranquilitatis_ and _Serenitatis_.

Flanking it, at distances of about 800 miles each, were the
Low-atmosphere and Low-temperature Laboratory of the Soviet Union of
Asian Republics, and the All America Laboratory for the Investigation
of Extra-Terrestrial Phenomena.

In both cases, the official designations of the smaller domes stated
something less than the whole truth. Certainly, valuable scientific
researches into the properties and effects of near-zero and near-vacuum
were being pursued, eagerly, in the Red Dome. Just as surely,
extra-terrestrial phenomena were being studied with active interest
inside Dollars Dome. But the primary purposes of the two national labs
were somewhat less academic than the “pure” scientific research which,
for the most part, motivated the mixed crews of physicists, chemists,
and astronomers in the big World Dome.

There was just one objective that could have induced either the USAA
or the SUAR to finance and maintain experimental scientific bases more
than a quarter of a million miles out from under the quivering noses
of, respectively, the Congressional Committees and the Politburo.
In his stronghold far out of sight beyond the Lunar Appenines, some
1500 miles from the United States of All Americas Dome in Playfair
Crater, Dr. Chen Lian-Tsu was occupied just as busily as was Dr.
Peter Andrew Christensen in Dollars Dome with the application of
known physical, chemical, and astronomical data to the specific
political-economic-imperial requirements of practical space-flight
(tomorrow ... for _our_ side).

In the surface matters of dress and taste, preference in food, sport,
and language, as well as national allegiance, the two men were worlds
apart. In the basics of personality both of them were so well suited to
the similar jobs they held that they were almost absurdly alike--even
to the fact that neither (though both were in their mid-forties) had
ever married. They were the kind of men who “marry their work”; but,
unlike others _almost_ of their own type, both had avoided entanglement
in arid marriages to which they could bring no real emotions. Their
passions were already committed, wholly and without reserve, to the
great dream of Space: of _man_ in Space.

For these two, the immediate physical world, the Earth, was already
abandoned; and from the perspective of an inward life based in the
universe-at-large, either one could see with tragic clarity the narrow
limits and uses of the old, little, world. They understood well enough
the need of _other_ men for competitive glories. They understood
profit-and-loss and its importance to other _other_-men. And they knew
perfectly well that for the non-imperial realities of the UN or the ISC
there was _no_ economic, political, or social need for space flight.

So they had cause to be loyal nationals, each to his own. And each
took care, as he had all his life, that no breath of suspicion sully
his name or place in doubt (by a wary government) his suitability for
the work he had to do. And if on rare and most private occasions,
either one of them thought briefly, wistfully, of the advantages of a
united approach to the Dream--he knew well enough that for _other_ men,
Space was no dream at all, but a prize enhanced--if not created--by
competition. The isolation, security measures, and endless duplication
of research and planning were, _realistically_, necessary.

This attitude was of course easier to maintain on the Moon than
on Earth. Fifteen hundred miles of rugged lunar terrain, and the
exigencies of rocket fuel economy, kept physical contact between the
domes down to a minimum. Two hundred fifty thousand miles of empty
space, and the economics of human existence on the Moon, kept political
contact with the home governments down to a minimum too: on the Moon,
a really rigid security could be sustained with almost no worry about
infiltration, no possible worry about associations, and no pettyfogging
annoyances from suspicious, ambitious policemen or politicians.

The prevailing state of by-mutual-consent _laissez-faire_ isolation
was such an inherent fabric that Dr. Chen and Dr. Christensen had
never even met personally. There had simply been no occasion. For that
matter, up till the day of Johnny Wendt’s return, the men on either
staff who had even _seen_ the other dome could be counted on two hands;
none had ever been further inside the other than the landing lock--and
that only on the occasions of the inevitable minor emergencies that
called for humane sharing of survival (_not_ scientific) equipment.
With the exception of these instances, USAA ships made it a point not
even to fly inside a line-of-sight of Plato Crater, and Red pilots
stayed equally clear of Playfair.

The only modification of this “natural security” status that had
occurred between the times that the two domes went up, in ’69, and
the orbiting of the _Moon Messenger_ in ’74, was when an outraged AA
Congress learned that the Reds had succeeded in sending a ship to Mars
without any previous knowledge at Dollars Dome.

But even then, no real attempt was made at an Intelligence network
operating directly between the domes; it just wasn’t worth the
waste of oxygen on a Dome resident doing less than a full-time job
of research or development. The money authorized as a result of
the indignant Congressional Investigation went into tightening and
improving existing infiltrations on Relay Station, the 400-mile Earth
satellite, and at World Dome.

Undoubtedly, counter-espionage was strengthened correspondingly--and
with just as little effect on the Red Dome itself as the USAA move had
on life at Playfair. Not till the orbiting of the _Messenger_, the
giant wheel of space that rode the great ellipse from a 12,000-mile
orbit around Earth out to the convenient dropping-distance of the
Moon, carrying shuttle-ships of all three domes, was there the kind of
intergrouping that breeds espionage. In eighteen months of operation,
the _Messenger_ had already started to acquire an aura of the sort of
glamour that once permeated Istanbul, Paris, Lisbon, and Rome, complete
with agents, counter-agents, and double agents.

Congressional apprehension had increased sharply when it was finally
admitted, less than a year after the _Messenger_ went up, that the
whole spectrum of psychogenic and psychosomatic ailments plaguing
the dwellers on the Moon could be relieved by nothing less than a
month-long quarterly rest leave on Earth. For a time, there was even
talk of “rest camps” and “recreation centers” where top-secret Moon
Dome scientists could take their rehabilitation leaves on Earth. But
public distaste for the idea prevailed--and the original Congressional
fears dissolved almost out of shape when, 32 months after its
unheralded departure, the _Lenin_ failed to make its scheduled return.
By that time--Christmas, 1973--the _Colombo_ was six months out, en
route to Mars. And when a strenuous Intelligence effort confirmed that
the Soviet ship was really lost (and not just secretly arrived), Dr.
Christensen did not hesitate to remind the genial Congressmen that he
_had_ Told Them So, three years earlier, when he explained his failure
to alert anyone to the possibility of a Red Mars-trip in the spring of
’71.

The fact was he had assumed his opposite number would wait, as he
was doing, for the next A-orbit date, in June ’73, so as to gain the
advantages that might accrue from the results of the ISC Observatory’s
studies during the close Mars opposition of ’71. _After_ the fact, he
remembered that Chen had been faced with an extra intangible that had
not troubled him: the history of Soviet “firsts.” From Sputnik I on up
through the first Moon-landing, SUAR (or USSR) rocket men had been
first. The Party Chairman desired to keep it that way--so the _Lenin_
left first.

But the _Colombo_ came back.

It came back with no news of the Red ship.

And it came back with one man instead of two.


_Dollars Dome--January 12, 1976_

Johnny Wendt was the one who came back.

They met him with cheers and rejoicing, welcomed him home with
music and medals and speeches on worldwide video beamed from the
bunting-draped central square of the United States Moon Dome.

They sent relays of shuttles up to the big ship, with fuel and
ship-to-base radio and an ace pilot, encased in the newest and safest
of protective gear, to guide her down. The first shuttle took Johnny
off, while official cameras recorded for all time the opening of the
historic lock and the return of mankind’s first space-traveler to
Terra’s Moon.

The cameras kept grinding inside the shuttle while Major Wendt was
bathed under batteries of ultraviolet, and a medic in Geiger-suit
looked down his throat, checked his heartbeat and pulse and lungs,
looked at his insides under a fluoroscope, took smears and samples
and ran off fast lab checks--then smiled and handed him a brand-new
uniform, one they could trust to harbor no alien virus or unknown seed.

The camera followed him out of the shuttle, into the dome lock. Another
camera, and the live video scanners, picked him up inside the dome. But
in the lock, for the sixty-nine seconds it took to bleed air, no record
was made. And Chris was there, alone, to meet him first.

He pumped Johnny’s hand, grinning with triumph. “_Man!_” he said. “We
made it, man!”

Then his grin faded. “_You_ did,” he corrected. “Johnny--what happened
to Doug?”

“I don’t know,” Wendt said.

The inner door opened. Cameras swung into action. General Harbridge
stepped forward and shook Johnny’s hand.

“Congratulations--Colonel!” he said, and pinned the new eagles onto the
new uniform. But when they were under way, out of range for a moment of
audio pickups, he asked anxiously, “Wendt--what happened to Laughlin?”

“I don’t know,” Johnny said, “sir.” Then, wearily: “Everything I know
is in the Log, sir. I brought it down with me. I figured you’d want it.
The doctor’s got it.”

Harbridge nodded and said nothing more. But his smile when he led
Johnny up to the platform on the Mall was a shade forced. And as soon
as he decently could, he whispered a word to an aide and ducked out,
leaving the assembled Dignitaries to welcome the space hero home.

Nobody missed him. The Ambassadors and Senators pinned a whole chestful
of medals on the new uniform, and found a few for Dr. Christensen and
his staff too. Then the VIPs and the cameras followed the new colonel
to his first meal. The staff conference room had been turned into a
banquet hall. Johnny was toasted and feted and fed.

They asked him to speak.

He stood up and looked at them all and his face was grim. Chris,
sitting next to him, knowing him almost too well from five years of
training and planning before the trip, stood up quickly beside him and
grabbed the mike.

“Boy’s all choked up,” he said.

While the room laughed he managed to cover the mike for a moment. “Just
tell ’em thanks, Johnny.”

When it was quiet again, Wendt looked around, indecisive, looked down
at Chris and grinned painfully. “I’m not much of a speaker,” he said.
“I ... Hell, I’m glad to be home!”

“Thanks,” Chris said.

When it all broke up, Chris took him up to his room.

“Thanks?”

“For keeping your mouth shut. Whatever’s bugging you....”

“You seen Harbridge yet?”

“No. He took off during the speeches.”

“I know.” Johnny smiled the new one-sided smile again. “He went to read
the Log.”

Pete Christensen looked at the stranger who had been a friend. “All
right,” he said. “What the hell happened?”

“It’s in the Log, Chris--all _I_ know about it. Ask Harbridge.” He
paused. “Hey,” he said, “You got something up here to drink?”

       *       *       *       *       *

Everything on the _Colombo_ was tested and touched (and in some cases
tasted too) by teams of two: a scientist and an Intelligence officer.
Johnny had done his job all right, and Doug apparently had completed
his before he disappeared. The boxes and bottles, tubes and jars,
notebooks and tape recorders and camera films were all filled and
filed, packed with the answers to centuries of human questioning.

Yes, there had once been intelligent life on Mars.

No, it was there no more.

There were pictures of crumbling ruins, a very few carefully packed
fossil remains, atmosphere samples, terrain maps and photographs, wind
charts, rock samples, analyses, assays, and boxes of “Mars-Earth,”
from seven different “canals,” alive with one-celled life-forms that
made planet-life possible in the dry air above ground. The record
of Laughlin’s work on the symbiosis between the moisture-retaining
“Mars-bugs” and the sparse photo-sensitive lichen of the “canals” were
there too, neat and in order, properly filed away and labeled in Doug
Laughlin’s hand. And Johnny had finished the job; he’d brought back
all the pictures and records and readings, the answers they sent him
to get. Nothing was missing, not a thing out of place--nothing but
Laughlin himself, one specially designed sand-caterpillar-tractor, two
oxygen cylinders, and the four pages torn out of the Log.

       *       *       *       *       *

Daily, sometimes hourly, press releases were beamed down to Earth,
telling it all to a waiting world--all but the last bit, about the Log.

The teams of two went through the ship of space.

The semanticists, psychers, and medics went to work on the Hero, and on
the Log he brought back.

       *       *       *       *       *

The last entry before the torn-out sheets was in Laughlin’s hand,
dated April 26, 1975, roughly a month before scheduled takeoff for
the return trip to Earth: a routine report on routine existence,
noting temperature, wind, and moisture readings; cataloguing the men’s
whereabouts and accomplishments during the twenty-four-and-a-half hours
that made one Martian day; listing lab findings of the past several
days. Nothing remarkable in any way--except that it broke off in
mid-sentence at the end of the page.

No clues or hints, no intimations, no cryptic allusions to Doug’s
impending act--not in that entry or any previous one. Presumably,
the missing pages _did_ hold some such references; but they were
gone--presumably wherever Laughlin himself had gone.

Handwriting experts, called in by the Psych staff, agreed that
Laughlin’s last entry showed signs of emotional upset. But both men’s
handwriting showed a slow increase of tension throughout the Log,
mounting sharply after the landing on Mars, and more swiftly again
during the month since the sampling and mapping were finished, until
the day of Laughlin’s departure.

The next entry, after the missing four pages, was Wendt’s, on April
29, at 1816 hours: “Laughlin gone out alone without notice. No signals
from sand cat. I do not believe he plans to return. Tire tracks visible
from cargo lock point N39W. Going out in heli now, no flight plan, will
follow tracks. Carrying four hours fuel, standard 24-hr oxy-water etc.
Figure two hours tot. flight time, unless I find him in trouble. Tape
237, a-6.”

The next notation, at 2129 hours, said briefly: “No luck. Lost tracks
in hills. Saw what looked like sand cat dust trail at N32W on other
side. Going out again now, with six hours fuel. Oxy-water, 12 hrs. Tape
237, a-9.”

Then: “4/30/75, 0110--Dust storm, 50 mi. past previous flight limit.
N32W dust cloud could have been storm approaching. Any tracks will be
covered now. Will commence standard search pattern, 3-hr. flights, when
storm passes.”

Half an hour later, at 0048: “Thought I’d catch a nap till storm let
up, but might as well get the story down, as much as I know, before I
forget anything. Doug left the ship sometime between 2315 (approx) last
night and 0650 this morning (Mars-time. eq: 1108 and 1754, 4/29/75).
Most likely he left just before I woke up, say between--”

Here, the Mars time had been written in and scratched out, and Earth
time (which was Standard Log procedure), written in instead.

“--1745, say, and 1754. This is hunch mostly, I think the sound of the
airlock might have been what woke me, since I did not actually go to
sleep till an hour or more after 1108, when I went to my bunk, and I
was surprised to see the time when I woke. Usually sleep longer. Was
not aware of what woke me (if anything) at first, and did not take
special notice of Doug’s absence. Assumed he was sleeping. Got dressed,
started making breakfast, then noticed panel signal that a sand cat
was out--but no beeps coming in. Checked Doug’s bunk, which was empty.
Checked Log, for his trip plan. Found missing pages. Checked time; then
1812. Found dust cloud that _could_ have been cat trail on scope at
N37W. Proceeded on first search, as noted, at 1816.

“Throughout first search, I kept helmet radio tuned for automatic
signals from cat, except for a five minute waveband search every half
hour after trying helmet-radio calls. No signals received.

“Storm seems to be mostly past now. Will now commence search pattern.”
Fuel and oxy-water data and signal tape reference numbers followed.

Laughlin had then been gone at least seven hours. Longer trips than
that had been made before--but not by either man alone. Nor were
_any_ trips--prior to this one--made singly by either partner without
advance arrangements. If one of them went out alone, the other was
required, by operating procedures established beforehand, to stand by
and maintain continuous radio contact. When they left ship together,
the same continuous radio contact was maintained, one-way, and
automatically taped on board the ship. Both sand cats, the helicopter,
and the small plane were equipped with radio transmitters that operated
automatically, sending signal directions, as long as the vehicle was
in operation. There was no switchoff on the devices, and there was a
secondary system designed to cut in if the primary were damaged in any
way.

No direction signals had been recorded from Laughlin’s cat at any time.
Wendt’s immediate reaction, written before his first search, “I do not
believe he plans to return,” had appeared filled with sinister import
when the log was first examined. On consideration, the quick conclusion
seemed a natural one, in view of Doug’s failure to inform Johnny of his
trip plans, or to file a route plan, plus the absence of any direction
signals from the cat (which pointed toward deliberate dismantling of
the automatic equipment), and, finally, Johnny’s discovery of the
missing pages in the log book.

The next entry, made several hours later, debated the advisability
of further search. The first effort had turned up no trail of any
kind. The rule against simultaneous departures from line-of-sight had
to be considered. Everything pointed to one extreme likelihood that
Laughlin’s departure had been planned and purposeful, and that no
amount of searching would be rewarded. Nevertheless, Johnny continued
to search for five more days, two or three flights a day, until the
search pattern was finished, the flight coordinates adding up to a
circle whose radius represented a narrow margin of safety above the
flight limits imposed for one-man trips.

The final entry on the search was brief:

“I do not believe there is a possibility that Laughlin is still alive.
He did not take any extra oxygen cylinders with him. At minimum usage,
the two standard tanks in the cat, if full when he started, would
have been stretched to 95 hours. He has now been gone from the ship
for at least 127 hours. I have seen no sign of him, or of any ship’s
equipment, or of any trail he might have left, on any flight since the
second one.”

There were no further entries except for routine daily temperature
and atmosphere reading, until the one that gave the calculations for
takeoff and homeward orbit. Doug Laughlin’s name was not mentioned
again, nor was any reference to him made. No opinion was volunteered as
to why he should have left the ship.

       *       *       *       *       *

They went back to Johnny again.

“I don’t know,” he kept saying.

“Why did you tear those pages out of the Log?”

“I didn’t.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think Laughlin did it?”

“I know _I_ didn’t.”

“Why would he do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“What made you think he wasn’t coming back?”

“I don’t know. I just thought so.”

“How did it happen that you weren’t aware of his going?”

“It’s all in the Log.”

“Now look, Colonel Wendt ...” (or “Johnny” or “son,” depending on
who did the questioning) “... you must have had _some_ idea _why_ he
went....”

Silence, usually. If the interrogator was friendly, a quiet curse.

“_What happened to Laughlin?_”

“Search me,” he said.

So they did. They searched him with “truth” drugs which only confirmed
what he’d told them. He did not know what had happened to Doug
Laughlin. He did not know what had happened to the missing pages of the
book. And he had no knowledge of having had anything to do with the
loss of the man or of the material from the Log.

Meantime, reporters and commentators, interviewers and feature-writers
from every corner of Earth fraternized restlessly in a well-appointed
suite at Mexcity’s best hotel where a Public Relations man in Space
Academy brass buttons smilingly poured drinks, dealt out freshly-inked
mimeographed sheets from a cardboard box, and made sure the free-lunch
was kept replenished.

Security would be lifted, and Colonel Wendt would be personally
available, as soon as the ship was completely unloaded, he told the
reporters.

How long would that be?

Well, it was hard to say....

Soon....


_Mexcity, U.S.A.A.--February, 1976_

They brought him back to Earth, on the next downswing the Messenger
made. Security would have preferred to keep him on the Moon till they
had something--anything--on Laughlin, or on the missing Log pages at
least. But the M. I. squad had to have expert consultants and some
psych equipment which Dr. Christensen irritably, arbitrarily, would
not grant shuttle space. And the Psych man attached to the team was
insisting they’d never get anything out of John Wendt till they let him
go home, back to Earth.

So, twenty days after the feasting and medals, Colonel Wendt and an
escort of nine guards and questioners left Dollars Dome. Five days
later, they landed on a snow-swept concrete prairie in the Andes. The
landing and clearance routine seemed to take an absurdly long time;
it was after dark when a plain helicopter finally left the spaceport,
carrying Johnny and two “bodyguards” from Security. By the time the
reporters got wind of the hero’s arrival, he was already installed in
his prison-of-honor--a whole floor of luxury in the tower penthouse
of the same hotel where, nineteen floors down, in the pressroom, free
lunch and free drinks were still passing around.

They showed Johnny through the place and explained politely, very
pleasantly, that it would be best if he stayed in his rooms for a
while. Adjustment period. Psych tests. All that sort of thing. Then
they posted a very polite, pleasant, guard at each door to keep
unauthorized visitors out--and Johnny in. Just as politely, and very
firmly, they told the clamoring press:

“Not yet....”

When the records of the trip had been fully examined, when all the
films and test-tubes and tapes and sample-boxes had been classified and
examined, Security could be lifted completely....

How long would that be?

Well, it was hard to say....

Soon. Very soon....

       *       *       *       *       *

One after another, different men of eminence in different schools
of psychiatric practice came up to the hotel penthouse. Johnny met
them politely and listened--at first with interest, and then with
indifference--and agreed, passively, to the succession of exhumative
techniques they proposed.

They explained to him how a man’s memory worked, how the brain stores
and holds memories, how a memory block occurs, how the subconscious
mind can dominate a person’s consciousness. Johnny nodded patiently,
and remembered nothing more than before.

“You can remember if you want to,” one man said.

“Yeah.” Johnny grinned, and looked embarrassed. “But what about if I
_don’t_ want to?”

They told him that the information he withheld--from them as well as
from himself--would probably make a difference of years in sending out
another ship.

“Okay,” he said, with the same one-sided grin, “Do yourselves a favor.
_Don’t_ find out.”

He made it very clear that he himself fully intended to spend the
remainder of his days on Earth; and that he was quite convinced any man
in his right mind would do likewise.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pete Christensen came down to see him. Chris was a friend, twice: not
just Johnny’s friend, but Doug’s too. It had been his job to choose the
men for that trip. The training and planning that had prepared them had
been by his orders, and much of the time at his hands. And they had all
shared the dream....

He said, “Listen, Johnny, _we’ve got to know_!” He talked about
Congress and the new appropriations bill, about the dream that was
dying in a morass of reaction and funk; and added, “There’s nothing in
your Log about the _Lenin_ either.”

“We never saw it.”

“All right, you never saw it. So now you come back, without Doug, and
something happened, but you won’t talk....”

“Chris, if I _knew_ anything....”

“Okay, but you know these Mexcity characters, four pages missing from
that damn Log, Doug missing, the _Lenin_ missing. And now you not only
_won’t_ talk, but what they’re saying is, you _can’t_. You see what I
mean? Christ, you read enough science fiction and horror stuff to see
the picture. And you can believe me, they’ve got lobbies working nights
painting the pic. Not just in Mexcity, either. You should see the
Sunday supplement trash on tri-di!”

“I’ve seen it. What do you mean--lobbies?”

“The Undersea Dome crowd, Arctic reclamation. Half a dozen of ’em.
Mostly the Undersea bunch, though.”

“Undersea? I thought that bunch was so rich they didn’t _bother_ with
Congress?”

Chris laughed. “You think that means they don’t want public money to
work with?”

Wendt shook his head and grinned: a nice young boyish grin, rueful,
amused.

“Okay, look,” Chris said. “They’ve got a bill going in now to cut _all_
Space money outside of routine Lab funds, only for maintenance, see?,
and some work on the stuff you brought back. But no new ship. Not even
a refit for the old bird. No Venus job. You know what that means?”

Johnny nodded. He still smiled; but now it had twisted to the new
one-sided kind.

“Damn it, they’re _scared_,” Chris said. “And damn it, you scared ’em!
Johnny, you know even pressure from a group like Undersea wouldn’t work
if those guys didn’t know all the folks back home were scared right out
of their pants too?”

“That’s right.”

Chris looked at him, shook his head. “What the _hell_ is out there?” he
asked. “_What made you feel this way?_”

Wendt stood up and paced the length of the big room and back again.
“Okay!” he said. “You want to know what’s out there? I’ll tell you.
All right, I’ll tell you, and you can have a good laugh and forget all
about it. Forget it until you manage to wheedle some more dough out of
Congress, and send some other poor goof out there. Then if he gets back
alive and tells you the same thing, you might even start to believe it.

“I’ll tell you what’s out there: _God_, that’s what. Mars is heaven,
see--just like it said in the story--only different--and God lives
there. So if you know some guy holy enough to meet up with the Hot Shot
in person, send him on out. Otherwise, you better forget the whole
thing.”

Chris stood up stiffly. “Okay,” he said. “I know when I’m licked.”

“What’s the matter?” Johnny said bitterly. “You’re not laughing. Don’t
you think it’s funny?”

“No. Maybe I haven’t got any sense of humor. You know how us dedicated
souls are. Anyhow, the joke is on me.”

It was only after Chris left that Johnny realized the older man hadn’t
believed that he meant it. _Score one for the psychers_, he thought; at
least they could tell when he was not kidding. _They’d_ believe that
one all right: believe that he meant it; what would bug _them_ was
trying to figure out what he meant _by_ it.

Which was a good question too, when you thought of it....

It was some hours later that he realized he couldn’t answer that one
for himself--because it wasn’t really his idea to start with. It was
something Doug had said, in that bad month, the last month, before he
went....

Okay, he thought grimly, _let’s see how long it takes for them to dig_
that _out_....

By that time, it was a game with him, a bitter game, to see how much he
could throw the psychers off without actually telling a lie they could
spot.


_Mexcity--March, 1976_

Phil Kutler would never have gotten a crack at the Wendt case, except
that none of the big men in the field had gotten anywhere, and that
Johnny and Phil happened to have gone to school together. And when
they examined the tapes that carried a record of every word Johnny
Wendt had spoken in his luxury-prison, they realized that the most
revealing thing anybody had gotten out of him--if only they knew what
it revealed--was his bitter little speech to Pete Christensen. So they
asked Kutler to come from New York, and sent him up, not quite sure
himself whether he was there as friend or doctor.

Johnny greeted him suspiciously. They ordered some beer, and yakked for
a while about things they’d done and places they’d been since they saw
each other five-six years before. Mostly Phil’s places and people and
things; Johnny found he could damn near enjoy himself when someone else
did the talking.

Finally Phil said, “Look, I’m a doctor. You know why I’m here. I got a
big pep talk downstairs about all the stuff I’m supposed to find out
for the sake of Progress and the Human Race, and a pile of high-minded
stuff like that....

“Don’t get me wrong, man. I’ve got nothing against noble abstractions.
I’m all for the human race, and I guess progress is real peachy too.
But like I said, I’m a doctor. We all get our kicks different ways,
and I get mine curing sick people. And man, you’re sick. Maybe I’m not
supposed to come out and tell you like that, but it’s sticking out all
over....”

“Sure, sure,” Johnny said quickly. “How do you want to do it? Sometimes
they want me to lie down. Sometimes I’m supposed to shut my eyes. One
guy brought up a little tank of CO₂, and there was one with some
vitamin guk, and they tried scop, or something like it, a couple of
times and--”

“Okay, chum.” Phil stood up and stuck out his hand. “I’ll tell ’em it
looks promising and maybe they’ll let me come and see you again some
time.”

“Not on your life,” Johnny said. “They’ve got every word of this down
on their magic spy rays.”

“Oh?” Kutler looked around the room curiously, then with visible
irritation, and finally with explosive fury: “The stupid brassbound
idiots! What in God’s name are they trying to do to you? Take a guy
with the most obvious case of exposure fears any half-assed medic ever
diagnosed, and sit him in a great big glass house with the whole world
looking in....” He broke off abruptly. “Well, they got _me_ on record
now, too,” he said quietly.

“You mean they sent you up here without telling you that?” Johnny asked.

“How come they told _you_?”

Johnny shook his head. “They didn’t. I just figured it. Things the
wrong people know about. Stuff like that. Yeah, sure, I know, it could
all be--what do you call it?--‘projection?’ Eyes and ears in the wall?
Stuff like that?”

Kutler looked at him thoughtfully. “Have you asked anyone about it?”

“Hell, no!”

“Why not?”

“What difference would it make? Like you said, I’m in a glass box
anyhow. Maybe I felt good knowing something they didn’t know I knew....
Well I shot _that_ wad, now, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” Kutler sat back in the soft chair, picked up his beer,
stretched his legs, and watched Johnny pacing from piano to windows
and back. “Yeah, you sure did. If you’re right, then they already have
it....”

“What did you mean, ‘exposure fears’?” Johnny broke in. He stood
tensely, half way from the wall to the piano. “Don’t you think I _want_
to get out of here?”

“Huh? Oh, no. I meant--just what you said. ‘Eyes and ears in the wall.’
Only now I’m not sure which came first, the chicken or the egg--Listen,
John, do you want to find out? Right now?” He got up and went to the
phone, but he did not pick it up, waiting for Johnny’s answer.

“I don’t give a damn one way or the other!”

“Oh?” He took his hand off the phone, half-turned away. “Of course if
you don’t think you’d feel better knowing you’re right, then maybe
you’d just rather not take a risk of being wrong. Oh, hell! Who’s
kidding whom anyway?” He turned angrily back and picked up the phone.
“_I_ want to know.”

“Okay, okay. Go ahead. I told you I don’t care....”


_New York City--March-May, 1976_

That was the beginning. Kutler came up every day for a while, just
to talk. He was the only personal visitor Johnny would admit; and he
himself refused to consider the visits professional in the bugged
apartment. By the end of the week, a compromise agreement had been
reached all around. Kutler had him for a patient, and his patient would
come, like any other, to the doctor’s office for treatment. Johnny was
moved to a new hotel penthouse in New York.

Three months of probing, plus Wendt’s agreement, finally, to the use
of hypnotic recall technique, told them what they didn’t want to know:
which was, essentially, that they already knew just as much as he did.

Oh, they gained a few details, but none of any importance. The fact
remained simply that Doug Laughlin had walked out of the ship one day
while Johnny was asleep. He hadn’t come back. He had taken nothing
with him except what he wore on his back, and the food and equipment
normally kept in the sand cat, plus, presumably, four pages out of the
Log. Nowhere in the detailed memories of the days before Laughlin’s
disappearance, or the months after, was there slightest evidence that
Wendt had torn those sheets out, nor that he had even read them at any
time. Nowhere was there anything to relate Laughlin’s disappearance,
or the mutilation of the Log, to the Soviet ship, _Lenin_. Nowhere was
there any shred of cause to believe that either of the two who went out
in _Colombo_ had seen or heard anything at all of the other ship.

The objective facts of the case, as far as Johnny Wendt knew them,
or ever had known them, were exactly as stated before. But, adding
Kutler’s findings to those of the men who had preceded him, and to the
evidence of conversations on tape, they could at least form an opinion
on which it was just barely possible to rest a theory.

As far as Johnny himself was concerned, the final official verdict was
that he was guilty of nothing but guilt itself. The two ideas to which
the guilt was most frequently attached were--

a) the obvious possibility that he had in some way been personally,
directly, responsible for Laughlin’s death: and

b) the completely suppressed (except under hypnotic recall) fear of
remembering that for a time, before Laughlin’s disappearance, a strong
homosexual attraction had apparently been developing between the two
men.

In neither case was there any reason to believe that Johnny’s
self-accusations were based on anything other than fearful fantasies.

As to what had actually happened to Doug--it was still anyone’s
guess. The best guess seemed to be that he was suffering from the
same developing fear of inversion that had afflicted Wendt; that he
had been even more horrified at the idea than Johnny was, and had
chosen deliberate suicide in preference to involuntary surrender to
“degeneracy”; and that, perhaps, he had written something into those
four pages that he thought might be revealing, and so removed them
before he left.

It hung together. As a theory, it made sense. The only trouble was,
if the theory was correct, then the wrong man had come back. The same
psychiatrists who formulated the theories swore up and down that
psych-tests on both men before the trip made it absurd to think that
Laughlin would have reacted in this way. If _any_one did, it should
have been Wendt; and that would not have made much _more_ sense.

But the theory was all they had. The only way they would ever know more
was to go back and find out--and the very fact that they _didn’t_ know
more was enough to whittle down the chances of going back, any time
soon, almost to the vanishing point.

The great All American public was scared.


_Earth--May, 1976-May, 1977_

When they were satisfied that Johnny had told all he knew, they let
him go home--which was no place in particular. He didn’t like having a
lot of people around, so he skipped the big whirl he could have had in
New York or Washington or Buenos Aires. He bummed around as quietly as
possible for a while; found that liquor helped, and women, mostly, did
not; set himself up as a kind of roving consultant in engineering and
design, and found that work could help, too, for short spells. If it
happened to catch his interest.

Getting jobs was easy; the name of Johnny Wendt was enough, even though
his qualifications could be equalled by any number of other bright
young cybernetics engineers. But _wanting_ to get jobs was tougher.
He had all the money he’d ever need; and if he needed more, after
the life-time pension and bonus pay, there were always advertisers
clamoring for his endorsements, and manufacturers for the use of his
name.

He could get money, jobs, liquor, women. But what he wanted, he
couldn’t get, and didn’t even know a name for.

The therapy had helped. But not enough. He knew for a fact that he
hadn’t killed Doug; but between fact and belief there is a world of
difference. He knew, too, that he hadn’t--done any of the things he’d
been afraid even to think about, before the therapy. Now he could
think about them; and did. Now he knew what he’d wanted to do. Now he
couldn’t forget.

After a while he met Lisa, or rather, met her again. He didn’t really
remember her from before, but she remembered him. When he first went up
to the Moon, one of the beglamoured selectees from the Space Academy,
to train for the Mars flight, she was one of a crowd of worshipful
and willing girls--young actresses, models, dance students--the whole
gang dated. In the intervening years, she had made a name for herself
on world-wide tri-di--which would have disqualified her from Johnny’s
cynical viewpoint (“The higher they get, the easier they fall,” he was
fond of saying just then), except that he met her quite unsuspiciously
during her twice-a-week stints as dance-therapist for a group therapy
clinic of Kutler’s.

Oddly, she had remained just as worshipful, and just as willing. And
Johnny found, after a bit, that he was reassured by some special warmth
in her willingness; later he was fascinated by the calm pleasure she
took in knowing that a million people were watching her when she danced
on tri-di. Later still, when fascination and reassurance progressed far
enough, he found at least a partial answer, with her, to some of the
questions he was still asking himself about Johnny Wendt.


_Rockland, N. Y.--Thursday, June 23, 1977, 2_ A.M. (_E.D.S.T._)

She watched him straighten up and come back to the bed. There were two
women in her. One woman was glad because it would be all right now: he
wouldn’t drink any more tonight. The other woman, watching as he came
to her, was just glad....

He sat on the bed and pulled her against him with both hands. “Oh,
baby,” he said, and lowered his head to her breast. His hands moved up
her back to her shoulders, pulled down the straps of her gown. “Oh,
Lisa, Lisa,” he murmured against her skin. His lips moved down and
encountered the crumpled gown again. “What’s _that_ doing there?”

His head came up again, with the good smile, and he was still smiling
as his lips met hers, while his hands pulled the gown down and off her
hips.

When he was asleep again, she knew it really was going to be all right
this time. He lay on his side, a faint smile on his face still, his
breathing even, untroubled, one hand cupping her breast. He looked _so
young_....

Now, the lines smoothed from his face, he could almost have been the
same man she had first met five years, and a world, ago.

She lay quiet under his hand. _Oh, Johnny! If you could just._...

But she stopped the thought. _No pushing_, she reminded herself. _No
pulling. He’ll come through his own way._

But this time she didn’t believe it. It was taking too long. And the
truth _was_, it didn’t get better. It only got worse.

_Would it help if I left?_

That was the hardest part, to know if she herself did more good or more
harm....

She tried to lie still and the effort defeated itself. One by one,
the muscles in her leg, her arm, her back and neck, stiffened to
unsustainable tensions. She moved warily and he mumbled, his fingers
tightening. Then he came up a little out of sleep, muttered “Sorry,”
and rolled over, freeing her to move.

But now she was afraid that if she moved at all, the tears would spill
out, so she lay still again. Not till his breathing was quiet once
more did she start edging over, an inch at a time, to her side of the
bed. Then, holding herself balanced, as one might handle a bowl of hot
soup, she shifted her weight till her feet touched the floor and her
body was erect. She crossed the room, one silent padding footstep at a
time, nudged the door noiselessly closed behind her, went through the
shadowed living room to the kitchen, and closed another door.

_Coffee_, she thought. She put the percolator on, remembering he’d
offered her coffee to start with. But she’d thought that if she drank
with him, he wouldn’t drink more than she did. Not much more, anyhow....

_Well, it worked_, she thought, and added: _this time_.

The pot bubbled on the stove; Lisa sat on a stool and cried. No one
heard either sound.

After a while she got up and rinsed her face at the sink. She poured
her coffee, took it into the living room, and sat restlessly. Got up
and went to the bedroom, tiptoed in and got the book from her table.

It was a good thing he hadn’t looked to see what she was reading. She
had grabbed the first thing at hand when she woke up. She laughed
softly, remembering his righteous engineer’s horror the first time the
subject of ESP came up. Now he could joke about it, mostly.... _You
better watch out--my girl can read minds. She studies up on it_....

But in the ugly aftermath of the dream, if he had noticed, he would
have seized on it furiously.

Well, it had all worked out.

This time.

She opened the book and read, sipping at coffee, till she felt ready to
sleep again. Then she went back to bed.




PART TWO

_Thursday, June 23, 1977_


_New York City--1_ P.M. (_E.D.S.T._)

He was only ten minutes late. _Pretty good--for me_, he thought
ruefully. The image of Doc Bronski came alive again behind his eyes,
the pink-cheeked old man listening and nodding while a much younger
Phil Kutler talked importantly about his future plans. _Good!_ the old
doctor said. _Good!_ Then at the end, straight-faced: _Good! For you
it’s right. Only once a day you got to get someplace. The rest of the
time, your patients worry about being on time._...

Usually, he made sure to keep it that way; he did not ordinarily go out
for lunch. But on Thursdays, one to three was free and--for some reason
he had not yet examined--he had been very reluctant to have Lisa come
to the office.

Half-way down the block, he saw her in front of the restaurant. She
was wearing green, a startling sea-green with a soft full skirt that
seemed to float around her legs. She stood alone, very straight, with
the dancer’s solidity under her slenderness that always took him by
surprise. He noticed, too, that in her flat green sandals she somehow
had the posture of a woman in high heels; and that she stood without
any impatience; and that something about her kept the other people who
hurried heedless along the sidewalk, from bumping or brushing her.

_She’s a good waiter_, he thought.

Whatever had held her attention across the street released it. She
turned and saw him, took a step forward as he hurried up.

“I’m sorry,” he started. “You know how--” He saw her smile start. “You
didn’t have to wait out here. I had a table reserved.”

“I was enjoying it.” She glanced across the street. “They’re gone now.
There were two girls waiting for someone over there--just kids, they
looked like--and three boys came down from the loft building next door
here and kept watching them. Then one of them went across, and the
girls wouldn’t talk at first, and I guess they were mad at their dates
or whoever they’d been waiting for. Anyhow, they got together, and--”
She laughed, and took his arm. “--I’ll tell you this, you almost lost
_me_. The third boy looked so _lonesome_--”

They sat down and ordered drinks. “I ordered lunch before,” he told
her, “They make a good _cacciatore_ here, but you have to wait if you
don’t give them notice.”

“Fine!” She talked on, still glowing, about the girls across the street
and the ragged old man who had tipped his hat to her as he passed: the
way the whole city _tingled_ on this kind of June day.

She had always loved New York. And she didn’t get down much these
days. Like a kid, on a holiday, he thought--or more like a kid playing
hookey....

“Does Johnny know you’re out?” It started light, but by the time the
words were on his lips, he had to work at keeping it that way.

She laughed. She had a good laugh, but this time it had lost the
spontaneity of the sidewalk. “I’m not ... an escaped prisoner,” she
said. “Johnny thinks it’s great I’m doing a little work for a change.”

A few more minutes of holiday would have been nice, Phil thought
irritably. Not _escaped_, no....

She went on, “He just flew me down, and I had a recording date at the
Center. That’s what made me think of calling you--I knew I’d be in the
neighborhood.” The waiter set frosted martini glasses in front of them.
Lisa lifted her glass and held it toward Phil in a smiling toast. She
sipped slowly. “All right, mastermind, you’re way ahead of me. No, he
does _not_ know I’m out--” she set the glass back on the table with
care--“with _you_.”

Abruptly, the cloak of detached relaxation that had enveloped her, held
her apart from the sidewalk crowd, fell from her shoulders. It was,
perversely, like watching another woman take off a too-tight dress,
sighing out of girdle, stockings, brassière, into naked comfort. Lisa
seemed almost to vent the same sigh of relief as she stripped the
practiced, professional, surface of calm from the coiled tense energies
inside her.

“In fact, I almost called you to call it off,” she said. “After I
called yesterday, I realized Johnny wouldn’t--Well, I guess I was sort
of peeved. He was being silly about this morning. Oh Hell! I don’t have
to explain it to you.” The edge of brightness in her voice was sharp.

Phil leaned back in his chair, his hand twirling the stem of his glass
on the cocktail napkin, making wet circles. Across the table, Lisa sat
straight on her chair, her lips moving with taut animation, shoulders
tensing a little with each new sentence. “You know, when we first
started--seeing each other--he used to talk about you all the time:
‘Phil said this,’ and ‘Phil told me that’ and ‘The way Phil explains
it....’ It got to where I was actually jealous of you for a while
there....” She hesitated.

“Fair enough,” he smiled. “I was kind of jealous myself....”

“I bite,” she said. “Of whom?”

“‘And to which, and with what?’”

This time her laugh was genuine. “Hey, Doc, remember me? I’m not a
patient. I’m just your lunch date. The rule book says you have to
_answer_ my questions.”

“Well, I did. _Both_ of you, if you’ve got to know.”

She was embarrassed; he knew why, and let himself enjoy her confusion a
moment before he explained:

“First of all, I kicked myself six times around the block for letting
_anyone_ else walk away with you. And then I noticed this little cloud,
see? Absolutely no bigger than a man’s hand. You know what it was?
_Professional_ jealousy. My psychiatrist explained it all to me. I was
sore because you could get things out of Johnny that I couldn’t.” He
grinned. “And we _won’t_ go into anything about my choice of words,
either--”

_Or anything about why a girl who’s as miserably “in love” as you are,
should feel sorry for me for being single._... “Did you say a recording
date?” he went on aloud. “A new show?”

“Well, not exactly a _show_.” She tasted her chicken and nodded
approvingly. “They’re doing a tape series--Bartok--tri-di. We did the
first movement of that percussion and celeste thing this morning.”

“A series?”

“Well, I haven’t _committed_ myself after this one. I didn’t know--This
chicken is marvelous, Phil.”

“Was this the recording or just rehearsal?”

“Recording. I did most of my practice at home. Only had to come down a
couple of times.”

“Well,” he said neutrally, “it’ll be good to see a new Trovi tape. You
haven’t done much recently.”

She looked at him with brittle amusement. “That’s like saying, ‘Johnny
took a long trip.’ You know damn well I haven’t done anything for the
last year, almost. Since we moved up there.” She stopped, waited,
hoping he’d pick it up, give her an opening.

_Not yet_, he thought with faint annoyance, and fed her a question
instead about the morning’s work. He ate slowly, watching from under
half-lowered lids as she talked just a little too briskly about the
session: musicians; dancers; cameramen and their idiocies. The dark
shadows under her eyes and strained set of her mouth did not match the
bright narrative. She caught his eye, and her talk trailed off.

“Okay,” he said, “So you got over being jealous of me. And Johnny does
not know you called me. And you’re back at work. Maybe. _And_ you
haven’t been sleeping. So?”

“So--Well--Actually, it was sort of silly, I guess, calling you. I
was feeling kind of low, and I--well, Johnny was drinking a lot again
and--in spite of what I said before, I guess he didn’t like my taking
this job too well. He may have to face up to _something_ he won’t like,
soon, though ...” she added, half to herself. “Actually, things are
much better now. I almost called you up to call it off, and then I
thought it would be good to see you again anyhow. I’ll probably tell
Johnny when I get home.” But her face tensed again when she said it.
Then she broke into a smile: “Only, I think I might better say I just
bumped into you? If your conscience will let you back me up...?”

He nodded. Inside him a slot opened up, and like letters, the thoughts
that were not spoken slid safely into a waiting-room of his mind where
he could pick them up, open them and spell them out at his leisure.

“Phil, the truth is, he--The way it is now, he _hates_ you! He hates so
many--Oh, I’m _sorry_, Phil! Does everyone treat you like this? Like a
piece of furniture or something? As if you had no feelings?”

_Not everyone, kid. Just my patients._ “If I’m lucky they do,” he said,
laughing. “That’s how you can tell your friends from a psychiatrist.
Sure, Johnny hates me, Lee. He’s got reasons. How would you feel about
a doctor who told you what was wrong with you, and then wouldn’t cure
you?”

“_Wouldn’t?_ Oh. I guess he does feel that way.”

“I’m not sure he’s wrong, Lee. I’ve been over that file fifty times in
the last year if I’ve looked at it once. And I _still_ don’t know why
it fizzled. Which makes it pretty sure that the blind spot’s in _me_.”

“But nobody else got anywhere at all with it!”

“That’s just what I mean. He had some good solid frontline defenses.
I got through. Period. Then I got lost somehow. I’m the guy who’s
peddling road maps, see? And I didn’t have one for him. So he found
his own way out. Period and exclamation point.” He ate a forkful of
high-priced sawdust, and added, “Also crazy-mixed-up metaphors. But you
dig me, kid.”

_Only you don’t_, he realized with an unanticipated pang of dismay.
_You used to, but now you don’t. Lee, honey, can’t you think anything
any more but Johnny Wendt? Or see, or hear, or feel._

_Ah, cut the crap, Kutler!_ he told himself. Of course she couldn’t.
Wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. He knew that beforehand. He had it all planned for
them. _What the hell, Doc? You wrote the prescription yourself!_

_So open up. Take the nice medicine._


_Mexcity--12_ M. (_C.S.T._)

It was not excessively hot, for late June in Mexcity. But four blocks,
from the air-conditioned Government office to the cool stone walled
interior of the club left Chris sweat-sodden and near exhaustion. He
was a big man, with a powerful frame, who tended to run to flesh. He
was conscientious about exercise; he had to be, more than most of them.
They came up, mostly, for six months, a year--maybe six years. He had
gone up with the first crew to work on the Dome; he had every intention
of dying there--or farther out.

But meantime, he thought (as he thought every time he came down) he
ought to come Earthside more often; his muscles were in good condition,
and the regular centrifuge workout topside kept the giant gravity
down here from overcoming him. But his heart pumped too hard; his
blood rushed too much; and the unfiltered air out of doors clogged his
nostrils; the sun bursting out from behind clouds seared his eyeballs;
clouds hiding the sun obscured his vision. It was always too bright or
too dim, too damp or too dry, too cold or too hot, when you were used
to Dome-regulated atmosphere.

Today, it was--for him--steaming hot.

And, when he entered the cool lobby of the club, it was clammy cold.

He went up to his room, switched on the air conditioning and lay down.
After a while his heart stopped thumping, and the sweat on his neck and
back dried. He got up, peeled off the sticky clothes, called down for
ice cubes. A tall drink and a quick shower, and it was twelve-thirty.
He might still catch Harbridge for lunch.

The General was out, the Decagon switchboard said. He should be back by
two.

Chris left his name. “Please have him call me as soon as he gets back,”
he said.

It was a relief, in a way. He ordered lunch sent up, and ate in comfort
in the room, without having to venture out into the street again. As
he ate, he pulled out his notebook and pencil, and started figuring. A
small smile settled on his mouth, while his second cup of coffee cooled
in the pot. His pie sat forgotten on the back of the tray. Names and
figures and layouts and lists of equipment filled page after page,
as Dr. Christensen practiced the day-to-day magic of modern science:
fitting five pet projects into the money allotted for one. Twice, he
stopped to make calls out: the first to New York, the second to St.
Thomas.

He was smiling grimly over a column of figures when they buzzed back,
and he reached for it unthinkingly. He had already flicked the switch
when he thought of his rumpled shirtsleeves, and the messy lunch tray
still in view. Too late....

It wasn’t Harbridge anyhow; it was Kutler, from New York.

“Phil, for krissake! How’ve you been?”

“Mostly good. I got a message here to call you back--what brings you
down to Earth? I thought you took vows up there--?”

“Damn near.” He laughed. “Only thing I come down for is begging trips.
Say, what’s the chances of getting together while I’m here? I’ve got a
couple of ideas I’d like to toss around with you.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Couple of things. I’ll tell you, I’d just as lief not do it on the
phone. Any chance of getting you down here?”

The other man hesitated, looked down at something on his desk. “Over
the weekend, I guess,” he said. “What’s your schedule?”

Chris shook his head. “I have to be at the base tomorrow afternoon.”
But there was nothing really to keep him in Mexcity till then. He
didn’t mind traveling: flying was more comfortable a lot of ways than
sitting still, and he had enough vanity left to relish his VIP’s
privilege of a seat on the Mexcity-New York mail rocket--thirty-two
minutes, pad to cradle. “Suppose I make it up your way?” he suggested.
“Could we get together for a couple of hours? Tonight, maybe? Or
tomorrow?”

“Tonight would be better,” Kutler said. “I don’t see where I could
squeeze anything in at all during the day. Look--can you give me _any_
idea what’s on your mind?”

“Well, this much at least: I need a psycher to do a job for us. It’s
a big job. And I think you might be the right guy. There’s nothing
secret about it, really, but it just happens to be tied up sideways
with a Security problem, so--that’s all I can say on the phone.”

“I see.” He was thoughtful. “Then it has nothing to do with--our mutual
friend?”

“Friend? Oh--Johnny? No.”

“Have you been in touch with him lately?”

“No. What’s up?” He asked it casually enough, but in the time it
took to say the three words, a whole new set of possibilities and
probabilities opened up. The whole wild plan with Harbridge could be
thrown out ... maybe even the lab transfer bit wouldn’t matter ...
though that was going to be necessary anyhow ... unless, of course,
Kutler--or somebody--could solve the leave problem....

Slice it any way you liked, if Wendt was about to come out of his funk,
the whole picture changed--for the damsight better.

“I don’t know exactly,” the doctor said. “I was sort of hoping when
I got your message that you’d heard something. I just had lunch with
Lisa--”

“Lisa?”

“Trovi. The dancer. You know, she and Johnny are--engaged?”

“Oh. Yeah. I knew about it. Didn’t know her name.” He dug back in
memory. “I thought they were married by now?”

“Sort of.” Kutler smiled.

“Oh. Well, you’re in touch then?”

“Not really. I had lunch with Lisa, but that’s the first I’ve seen
either of them in six months. You know Johnny quit on the therapy? He
wouldn’t consider analysis, and we’d about had it with anything else.”

“Oh. Well how does it look now?”

“Offhand, bad. But I don’t know. I know Lee pretty well. She used to
work with me, you know? Dance and music stuff with a clinic group I
had for a while? She--well, just say, she’s not the panic type; but
she was pretty shook today. I figured things were just getting worse.
Then I got back and found your message, and thought maybe you’d heard
from him, and that got me wondering if whatever’s up with them could be
just--call it _crisis_. You follow?”

“Yeah.” _All the way. In fact, I’m way out front._ “And better slow
down, too. It could be nothing. But it _could_ be--”

He did not let himself pursue it further.

“... any chance of your seeing them while you’re down? I know you’re
busy as hell, Chris, but I can’t go myself; I’m the last one he’d
talk to right now. And I don’t know who else would even _know_ what
the difference was, if anything’s happened at all--one way or the
other. Lee’s a good kid, but I can’t rely altogether on what she says.
_You’re_ not in love with the guy.” He paused, and added: “This is pure
hunch, Chris. I haven’t got fact one to go on, but I’ve got a feeling,
that’s all. I think maybe this is the time that you could get through
to him.”

“Through, how?” he asked cautiously. Prayers don’t get answered like
that, on the phone.

“I wish I knew. I don’t. I couldn’t tell you where or what or how or
even who. I just think that something’s about to bust there. Could be
just _her_, and you’d be wasting your time. But--I think it’s a good
time for you to see Johnny. If you still want him back that is?”

“Yeah. We could use him.” _Want him? Jeeeeesus!_ “Okay, I’ll tell you
what. I’ll try calling him. See what happens.” He thought quickly.
“Suppose I get hold of him and call you back? See how his time stacks
up--if he’ll see me at all. Then you and I can work out some time to
get together.”

“Good. I’ll juggle my time if I have to, for this.”

“Right.”

After he switched off, he sat and thought for a while. Then he moved
the tray, combed his hair, got his jacket back on, and tried Jed again.
He got through this time.

“Say, don’t you get any phone messages there?” he demanded.

“Sure, but I never get to make any calls. There’s always one coming in.”

The general and the scientist grinned at each other.

“I take it you made out?” Harbridge said.

“_I_ didn’t. _You_ did,” Chris told him. “They were all ready to let me
out the back door with a pat on the head and a promise of a box of old
clothes for my little Mars-bugs as soon as they had some to spare. But
lab facilities down here for Earth-normal environment studies? Sorry!
So ... I told them, very sincerely, that I thought perhaps General
Harbridge could be persuaded to handle the Earthside part of the
project--and we sat down and talked.”

Jed looked very innocent. “You know,” he said, “sometimes I wonder what
we ever did to make them so--_touchy_ over there?”

“It’s a long story,” Chris said, and then, soberly: “Look, I still got
troubles. It worked out about the way we figured--some personnel money,
and maybe a bit for supplies. Okay, we can run some good studies on
the bugs down here, which we need to, but they won’t even consider
transferring the whole lab setup down till the September report.
_After_ elections, that means. It was a stone wall, Jed. We’re already
shut out.”

“Not _quite_,” Harbridge said. “But--” He didn’t have to finish it;
they’d been all over the ground the night before. “Well?” he said
finally. “What do you think? You want to try it the hard way?”

“I don’t know, Jed,” Chris said slowly. “It looked good last night,
but--Let’s say, if it looks necessary, a month from now would be soon
enough. Don’t you think?”

“Better,” the General said. “Silly season.”

“Yeah. Okay. Hell, I hope we don’t have to--I’ve got a new line to try,
anyhow.”

“Something good?”

“I don’t know. Phil Kutler just called me. You know--the psycher? I was
telling you about him last night?”

Jed nodded.

“He’s been following up on Johnny Wendt. Thought I ought to see him,
about now.” He saw Harbridge’s wary glint. “If there’s anything to it
...” he said prayerfully.

“Well, if you get Wendt, you won’t need--” He broke off again.

“What I was thinking--I’m going to call Johnny now. If I get anywhere,
I’ll let you know.” He smiled. “_Or_ if I don’t. Either way, I’ll talk
to you tomorrow before I take off.”

“Right. Good luck, Chris.”

“Thanks.”

He made several rapid calls, checking on the routine of the trip. Then
he built himself one more tall drink and switched on the phone.

“I want Rockland, New York,” he told the operator. “The residence of
Colonel John Wendt. I don’t know the number. It’s person to person for
Colonel Wendt....”


_Rockland--4_ P.M. (_E.D.S.T._)

The phone chime couldn’t compete with Beethoven. He didn’t even hear it
till it rang once in an interval. Then he tried _not_ to hear it. But
when the music began again, he was listening for it, and at the next
chime he got up and went inside, turned the volume down and switched
the phone onto audio only.

“Yes?” _Lisa!_ She was never this late....

“Colonel Wendt? Hold the line for Mexcity, please.”

Mexcity? Not Lisa, anyhow. _Colonel_ Wendt? Who the hell--? What did
Mexcity want with him anyhow, at this late date?

“Colonel Wendt?” The voice was familiar.

“Yes?”

“Johnny--hi! This is Chris.”

“I’ll be damned! I thought you were away up there.”

“Was. Will be. Tomorrow. Don’t you ever answer your phone? I’ve been
trying to get you for the last half hour.”

“What’s on your mind?”

A moment’s silence, after which Christensen’s voice came through just
a bit too loud and too jovial: “At the moment: dinner. What are you
people doing tonight? I thought maybe I could talk you into coming down
to New York for the evening. I’m planning to hop the mail rocket there
right away.”

“Anything in particular, Chris?” _You’re not calling me just for love,
ole bud!_

“Several things.” The voice was more normal.

Okay. Backslapping gambit rejected. “How about tomorrow?” Johnny said.
“I’m not sure I could, but--?” He let it dangle.

“I can’t tomorrow. Got to be in Denver by three.”

“Hate to miss seeing you,” Johnny said evenly. “Next time around,
maybe?” _Yeah, next century._ Perversely, he reached out and switched
on the video. After all, it wasn’t Chris’ fault. He’d been pretty
decent, all round.

“My God, you look comfortable!” Christensen said. “It’s miserable here!”

_So go back up where you belong._... “Yeah,” he said. “Hate to go into
town myself.” The perverse impulse swept him again. “Listen, why don’t
you come up here instead? Why don’t you eat with us? You know Lee,
don’t you?” _No, you don’t._

“Only from watching her. Matter of fact, I’d like to. If you really
mean it?”

“Right. You can pick up a heli in New York, fly right in here. Just
north of Nyack. Our strip is number seventeen. You can’t miss it.”

“Okay. If I have any trouble getting on the rocket, I’ll call you back.
Otherwise--let’s see--I guess I should make it about seven?”

“We won’t eat till eight, probably.”

“I’ll see you.”

“Right.”

He switched off, and snapped off the player angrily. Well, it was his
home and his dinner, after all. He didn’t have to listen to anything he
didn’t want to.

And where in Hell was Lisa?

After four, now.

He went outside and got the coffee cup from the grass. Took it in to
the kitchen and poured it down the sink. Scrubbed the cup by hand, and
filled it up again, with just coffee. Got out another tape, a new piano
boogie revival, and started the player again--loud.

He went into the work room and sat down at the drafting board, with
its half-finished sketch. Lisa would be in any minute now. He got up
and opened the door from the kitchen. Make her feel good to find him
working....

He stared at the sketch, trying to feel like a man who was working.
Then something hit him--the ghost of an idea. Or the memory of one?
There was a picture in back of his mind of what the sketch _should_ be.

The memory was of a time when the pictures were always there, waiting,
ready to go onto paper, into wire and contacts and complex machines.

This picture was not shiny-new, the way they used to be. This was
remembered, a legacy from himself. But it was sharp and clear. It was
good design. It would work.

He ripped the old sheet off the drawing board, pinned on a fresh one,
and started sketching.

The coffee got cold between sips. The boogie tape came to an end, and
began playing over. After a while, the kitchen door closed, or almost
did. He looked up. Lee was home. Going to start supper, he thought,
didn’t want to disturb him.

_Hah! That’s a good one!_ He looked at the drawing. What the hell had
he been trying to do? _What for?_

But he felt good.

He went out and watched her move, wifely, around the room. When she
came within reach, he grabbed her and pulled her down on his lap.
Laughing, she told him about the morning session, about the pickup
she’d watched on Sixty-third Street, the weird redhead salesgirl at
Best’s that afternoon.

Something nagged at his mind; then he remembered. It wouldn’t be one of
their good nights at home after all.

“Oh, I should have told you before, I guess. Pete Christensen called.
You know, Moon Lab guy? He’s coming for dinner--?”

“_Dinner?_” she pushed away, and stood up. “What _time_?”

“Seven-ish.” He looked at the clock. It was almost a quarter of. He
grinned. “Well,” he said, “I forgot. I’m sorry, babe.” Then he pulled
her back on his lap, and kissed her.


_Rockland_--9 P.M. (_E.D.S.T._)

“I heard about this place,” the big blond man said slowly, “But I don’t
think I really believed it before.”

_I like him_, she thought. And he _really_ liked the house. Lisa
piled the last of the dinner dishes into the conveyer, and followed
Christensen’s gaze out across the patio to the pink and purple glory of
the fading sun reflected in the river far below. She hadn’t seen any of
it this way for a while. The house, the river, the sheer brown cliff on
the other side that was the twin of the one on which their house stood.
The food, the furniture, the porch on which they sat. All this, through
the stranger’s eyes, re-acquired meaning.

Christensen was saying something, a question, about the conveyer.
Lisa opened her mouth, but Johnny was answering him. Well, that was
something: at least he could still talk about his own bright ideas.

The flashing hostility of the thought shocked her. I’m over-anxious,
she told herself. She was being foolish about the whole thing. He
just didn’t want company. He’d been working, and he didn’t want to be
interrupted, that’s all.

Just the same, she was glad Chris was there. If they were alone, no
matter how much his mind was on what he was doing, sooner or later
Johnny would have looked at her sharply, questioning. _Where’d you go,
babe? What took you so long?_

Sooner or later, she thought again. He still would ask: tonight or
tomorrow, or next year. Sooner or later....

_I won’t think about it. I won’t worry._

It had been easy enough not to mention Phil before. She had just talked
all around it. The sense of shock returned as she realized that was
why she’d gone shopping, why she had stayed so late. Luncheon was
incidental to him by this time; it was the afternoon that bothered him.

_I won’t think about it!_ She sat back in the chair, half-listening
to Johnny’s explanation, and concentrated on visualizing what was
happening behind the conveyer door. Soundless, sterile processing of
dirty dishes: along the perforated belt where floods of hot water
rinsed the food particles down the drain into the grinder; then into
the washer, where detergent foamed around them; then out again along
the belt, through the rinsing spouts and the drying jets, and at last
through the side opening of the long shelf in the kitchen, still neatly
racked, ready to use.

Lucky Lisa. _Lucky, lucky Lisa._ Nothing to do. The dinner cooks
itself, cleans up after itself. _Next week we put in the automatic
digester. Then there’ll be nothing left for Lisa to have to do except
sit and stew about Johnny. And Lisa._

She stood up. “The view is really better from the living room this
time of day,” she said. _The girl speaks her lines well_, she
thought idiotically, and watched the characters move to the new set,
rearranging themselves with just the sort of almost-right staging that
was inevitable without a really _good_ director.

The Successful Scientist said something to the Ex-Rocket Jockey.
Ex-Rocket Jockey replied, rather shortly.

Both look at Girl. S S smiles successfully. E-R J smiles X-ly.
(_Crookedly? I suppose_)

Girl: (Smiling girl-ly) “Mmmmmm? I was daydreaming.”

S S: “Just looking at your book here. I used to be fascinated with this
stuff myself, but I haven’t done any serious reading outside the job
since--I don’t know when.”

E-R J: (Points to Book) “_Serious?_ You too, Chris? Well, I’ll be
damned!”

S S: (Embarrassed, but genial) “Oh, I don’t know. If you’d brought back
a couple of telepaths, now, instead of just bugs, we might have got
somewhere.”

_Oh, God!_ she thought. _Oh my dear God!_ That did it. _Okay, here goes
nothing!_

       *       *       *       *       *

“It is fascinating,” Lisa said slowly. “They’ve done a lot of work on
it the last three or four years, you know.”

Chris shook his head. “I didn’t know. Anything really new?”

“This fellow--what’s his name?--Potter,” she went on, as Chris held the
book jacket up to the light. “He has a theory that all the different
kinds of psi powers that have been proved to exist so far--”

She offered the bait consciously, deliberately.

“--all boil down to some form of PK....”

“_Proved_ to exist?” Johnny asked coldly, taking the bait.

“All right, _demonstrated_?”

“Not to _me_.” He took the hook too.

“Well, they’ve run enough experiments to show at least--all right, to
_indicate_--”

It wasn’t hard to do. Easier than if he’d had a chance to sit there
reacting to the mention of the trip. Why in _hell_ hadn’t she
remembered beforehand that Dr. Christensen was the one who’d been in
charge of the whole trip? “Moon Lab” just meant some vague kind of
research to her. But of course--

If she _had_ connected, what good would it have done? It was too late
to stop him from coming.

“--to _indicate_ that there are people who are--well, _sensitive_--”

What was the book doing out there anyhow? She’d left it in the bedroom.

“--and others who can control--All right, who _seem_ to be able to
control--”

She saw his smile loosen up a little bit, and found she could breathe
again without thinking about it.

“--to control the motion of inanimate objects--”

_Damn!_ She’d done it herself. She’d left it--No she hadn’t. She’d left
it in the _kitchen_. Johnny must have picked it up during the day....
Then he’d been reading it himself?

“--‘non-physical’ isn’t the right word,” she said, still floundering
half-deliberately. “That would put the whole thing right back on a
mystical plane.”

“Which is a fine place for it.” Johnny stood up. “Your glass is empty,
Chris. Lee? You ready?” She shook her head. He went out to the kitchen
with the two empty glasses.

“You worked yourself into a hole,” Chris said, laughing, not knowing
what had happened, or what had almost happened--maybe--either.

“Back up about ten sentences, will you?” he asked. “You started to say
something about Potter’s theory?”

“Well, I haven’t finished the book,” she said. “Actually, I just got
started on it last night. I wouldn’t want to try to explain it.” Her
smile looked less nervous than it felt, she hoped. “Do you get down
often?” she asked, stalling until she could come up with something
better. If they could get onto something _safe_ before he came back....

“Not often enough, I’m beginning to think.” She liked the way he
smiled: he _meant_ it. And he meant what he said. All the time. “You
said something before about ‘PK,’ and I’ve been trying to remember--”

_Oh, no-o-o-o!_

“--I told you, it’s been years since I followed the literature on this.
PK is teleportation, isn’t it? Stuff like that?”

_All right_, she thought recklessly, _the_ hell _with it_! Let Johnny
have all the fits he wanted to. This man was really interested: he
_meant_ it. _And_ she liked him. And liked talking to him.

“Psychokinesis is what it actually stands for,” she said. “That’s
control of physical objects--Well, actually, any psi activity that
involves application of energy, rather than just perception.” Damn
if she was going to keep floundering, either. She wasn’t setting up
straw houses now. “And Potter’s approach basically is that perception
involves an energy transfer, too. Light rays have to strike the eye, or
sound waves hit your ear, before you see or hear. Even internally, the
message goes to the brain through a series of impulses that he claims
work like a radio condenser. I mean, he says the nerves don’t actually
touch, but energy stores up in one end until it sort of sparks to the
end of the next one. So--wait a minute, let me find it here.”

She reached for the book. He had been studying the back jacket. “This
man, Potter, is a neurologist,” he said thoughtfully. “Got interested
in this stuff from working on neural exchange process. You know, that’s
goddam interesting. Say, Johnny, this is right up your alley, you
know? Thanks.” He took the full glass. “I never thought of it that way
before, but if anyone ever _does_ crack this nut, I’ll bet it’s a cybe
man who does it!”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Johnny said drily. “Some of the squirrel tracks
they’re following now are no nuttier.”

The silence did not really last long. Christensen said mildly,
“Which set of tracks did you have in mind, John? Cybernetics or
parapsychology?”

“Take your pick. I was thinking of some of the commercialized, excuse
the expression, _robots_. But if you want to drag para- or any other
kind of psychology into it, that’s okay with me.”

_The X-smile again_, Lisa noted. _I ought to do something._ This could
get out of hand with no trouble at all. Everything she could think of
seemed too absurd. It was quite evident that neither of them wanted
coffee. Or music, or cards, or a look at the Moon.

       *       *       *       *       *

_What the hell am I doing here?_ He knew the answer to that one, too
well: there were dozens--or hundreds?--of men who could handle the job
he wanted Wendt for. Handle it better than John could, from the looks
of things. But none of them were named _Johnny Wendt: Space Hero_.

And he, Peter Christensen, didn’t owe anything to them, either.

_Oh, crap. You don’t need a new conscience, chum. You just need
headlines. Go fetch!_

Then he saw that the glass in the other man’s hand was empty again.

_Already?_ Things were worse than he’d thought....

“Hey, Johnny, wait up!” He drained the glass, and decided he’d been
moralizing too damn much. If he didn’t have to fly back tonight, he
wouldn’t mind tying one on himself. He followed his host to the kitchen.

“What are you working on, now?” He asked, then chuckled. “Or have you
got an idea-conveyor-and-processor to do your designing jobs too?”

The answering grin was almost like a guy he used to know named Johnny
Wendt. “Not yet. Matter of fact, I got into something today that’s
been half on my mind all evening. I keep forgetting to be sociable. We
don’t have much company here, you know....” He trailed off, and eyed
his drink. Then abruptly: “Got nine-tenths of something on the drawing
board,” he said, “if you want a look?”

“Sure. I’d like to.”

He turned to follow and saw Lisa, halfway through the door, stop
herself fluidly in midstride, and melt back into the living room.

_Smart girl_, he thought. He stepped into the study.

It was a good room, well-designed, like the rest of the house, arranged
for comfort and use as well as looks. And it was Johnny’s room,
beyond a doubt. If he’d been brought here blindfolded, Chris thought,
he’d have known this room belonged to John Wendt. But there was also
something that _didn’t_ fit: something you couldn’t quite put your
finger on. It bothered him.

He started for the drawing board, but Johnny waved him to the couch
instead. “Nothing worth looking at,” he said. “Not yet, anyhow.”

Chris sat down obediently. Anything he said was going to be the wrong
thing. Let Wendt keep the ball.

After a while, Johnny said, “Okay, let’s get it over with. _What_
didn’t you want to talk about on the phone?”

“I don’t know if you’d be interested,” Chris said slowly. “I just
finagled some dough for an increase in personnel. There’s a job I
thought you might do for us, but....” He waved a hand to include not
just the room, but the house and the river, and the life it stood for.
“Why should you?” he finished.

“Yeah. Why should I?”

More silence. Chris looked around still trying to pin down the elusive
wrongness of that room.

Then he got it.

There was a gilded football on a shelf from Johnny’s college days.
There were old books, and a couple of photographs on the wall that
couldn’t have any meaning except in one person’s memories. There were
new things, too. But there was nothing, nothing at all, in this room,
or anywhere in the house, to remind Johnny Wendt or anyone else that
the man who lived here had spent most of five years of his life off of
Earth: on the Moon, on Mars, inside the _Colombo_.

Involuntarily, Chris shivered, as a child shivers in the ghost-filled
dark. He stood up, feeling tired. He had to get up early tomorrow
morning. He ought to be leaving.

“Okay, so you changed your mind,” Johnny said. “What were you...? A-ah,
never mind. Skip it.” He picked up his glass. It was empty again. He
stared at it, then put it carefully down, still empty. “I’m sorry,
Chris,” he said suddenly. “I’m being damn rude. I get--jumpy. Sit down
for krissake, and tell me what’s on your mind. You came all the way up
here to see me. I can at least listen to what you want.”

“Okay,” Chris said. “But do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Get the jug.” He caught Wendt’s eye and held it. “Then we can _both_
settle down. All right?”

It was close. Johnny wavered, then grinned crookedly and went for the
bottle. _All right._ There wouldn’t have been much sense even in trying
to talk if Wendt was lushing so bad he couldn’t admit it. _All right_,
Chris thought: _Here goes nothin’...._

He talked steadily for half an hour. Wendt sat and listened, arms
folded across his chest, legs crossed, lips pressed in, his whole face
narrowed and closed. When he spoke at all, it was in monosyllables.
More likely, he would just grunt a reply to a question. But he listened.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Damn place has turned into a bio lab,” Chris said.

Johnny shrugged, didn’t smile. The man was a guest in his home; he’d
been childish enough already.

“Those damn bugs you brought back....”

Johnny lifted his glass to his mouth, barely sipped, put it down. _So I
brought ’em back. All right. We’ve made that point now. Let’s drop it,
hey, boy?_ He folded his arms across his chest, sat listening.

“Look, before I get into this any more--this is so new, some of it,
I mean, it hasn’t even been classified yet. But they’ll probably
top-secret it out of habit. For that matter, it might be pretty big. If
you’d rather _not_ hear--?”

“It’s okay with me,” Johnny said. “Who the hell would _I_ talk to?” And
cursed himself for an idiot. There went the last chance to get out from
under the whole damn fool thing gracefully. _Well_, he thought, _maybe
I like to suffer_ ... or maybe it was time to find out how bad it was
to sit through this kind of crap. Some day it had to get to where it
just didn’t make any difference. It wasn’t _his_ ball game now. He was
off the team. He was too old for it. If the kids still wanted to play,
why should it matter to him if they babbled about it?

_About time_, he decided, approvingly, biting his fingers into his
biceps across his chest.

“Okay. Well, you remember those freak results on the first chromosome
charts?”

He nodded. Doug had--_Hell with that bit_! Listen to the man....

“Well it got even freakier when we got some good clear micropics and
tried it again. Turns out all seven varieties had the _same damn
charts_--let alone the same crazy number of genes.”

“Yeah?” This time he allowed himself a small smile. It was getting just
too damn silly. He knew where the damn bugs came from, and what they
did, and they were no more related than--

_The Hell with it! Nobody’s asking you anything. Just listen, that’s
all you have to do--listen!_

After that he managed to sip and hear, hear and sip, and not think at
all, mostly.

“... maybe different parts of a cycle, or even mutated species of the
same bug? And we had just about decided we were dead wrong, when this
crazy new thing comes up--

“Understand, now, we had these things under twenty-four-hour-a-day
observation, cameras on the microscopes around the clock, and not a
damn one of ’em ever did anything except make more of the same. No
meiosis, no conjugation, nothing to account for the diploid chart or
make any use of it. No mutations--but, _none_, see? That’s about the
only thing that kept anybody interested.

“We figured at first maybe the lab is too clean. So we x-rayed a few
batches, and _still_ no mutations. Then some bright lad pops up with
figures showing that the increase in cell _deaths_ under radiation
corresponded to what you’d expect statistically for total of deaths
plus mutations in protozoa down here. So these damn things would rather
die than change--they’re just not _capable_ of adaptation. It says here.

“We had a couple of bio men around who thought this was the most
fascinating thing since the original rib job, and I was kind of tickled
at the idea of getting whatever those cells were using to resist
radiations with--or I was until those statistics popped up to show it
wasn’t resistance, it was just complete lack of flexibility.

“So one of the bio boys gets the bright notion of trying a culture
in Earth-normal atmosphere. I think he was chasing some notion about
mutations being a complex result of radiations and some elements in
the atmosphere. And the first reaction looked like high score for him,
because the damn bugs went wild. Not one friggin one of them stayed the
way it was. _Every single one_ changed at least slightly.

“So they started all over again, and when we ran off the first
rolls of film, we found out we were not only getting meiosis and
conjugation, but getting it between what were supposed to be different
species--which was what we’d figured all along. The only thing we
_weren’t_ getting was mutation!

“Johnny, every damn one of those changes could be charted on the maps!
And every damn one of ’em came out the way they were supposed to.
Some of ’em were wild but not wild, crazy--just wild, way-out. You’d
get a bacterium conjugating with an alga--or what we had figured for
bacteria and algae, and the one of the products mixing with one of the
water-retentive fungi, maybe, while the other one went into symbiosis
with an unchanged alga and wound up like a new lichen--oh, some of
those things mixed and matched seven or eight times around before they
were done. But it all settled down into a group of five different types
perfectly adapted to the environment they were in, and just as viable
in it as they’d been on Mars.”

It seemed to be time to say something again. Chris looked like it was
time for an answer. It was damn sure time to wrap the whole thing up.

“So?” he said. “What’s the scoop?”

“I’ve just told you essentially all we know so far. What I came down
for this trip was to dig up some extra dough for a big program on
it. Frankly, I’d hoped I could get all or most of it transferred to
Earthside Labs. I think I’ll be able to get that come fall. Right now,
it’s all upstairs, and if you feel the same way you did, I guess
there’s no point in asking--but let’s put it this way: I have a hunch
our best approach to this will be with the math and, if we can do it,
with analogs. I don’t think straight bio experimentation will ever
crack this--unless we can set up the labs on Mars.”

_All right, man, all right, get to it, will you? The answer is_ No!

“So the first thing I need is a hell of a good cybe man, and you--”

“Lots of good cybe men around,” Johnny broke in evenly.

“Yeah. You realize, that part could just as easily be done down here?
Christ, no reason you couldn’t work at home--don’t blame you not
wanting to swap a setup like this for--”

“Ready for a refill?” Johnny asked. “Wish I could help you out, Chris,
but I tell you, I’ve got my hands full right now. I--”

Chris was eyeing the bottle and glass in his hands. _Why so eager, son?
I thought_ I _was the lush_...? Then he got it. His hand tightened on
the bottle neck as he poured.... _I’ve got my hands full_, he’d said.

“Yeah,” he said out loud. He handed the glass back, and poured himself
one. “Yeah. Well--luck.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“... _really_ a pleasure. It’s a lovely place....”

_Too smooth, too polite._ Whatever he come for, he didn’t find, Lisa
thought. She was sorry.

“Too lovely, maybe,” she said suddenly. “I think sometimes we forget
we’re still part of the human race.”

Shock raced around the room, bouncing off each of them to boomerang on
the others.

Johnny’s grin was a social grimace. “Her trouble is just not having
things tough enough,” he said. “When we were still putting the place
together, she didn’t have a gripe in her. Now I think she’d be jealous
of the dishwasher.”

_Laugh_, she told herself. _Go ahead. The man made a funny._ Chris was
laughing: a polite laugh, too. Surely she ought to do as much.

“Frankly, I think it would get _me_ that way,” Chris said. “You know,
this is the only place I’ve ever been on Earth that has all the
comforts of home. And right now, I’d give anything to have, say, a
week, with nothing to do in a joint like this--Just lie around in the
sun and listen to music and boss the servos around. But I’d bet I’d
be half-nuts in three days--” He stopped short. “I’m sorry. I didn’t
mean....”

“Well, why don’t you stick around...?”

“We keep talking about taking a camping....”

They broke in at once, both broke off at once, and for some reason the
tension was gone.

“Well, any time you think you can stand a day or two of it,” Johnny
said, “just give us a couple days’ notice....”

It wasn’t what you’d call wild enthusiasm; but for Johnny, it was an
effusion.

“Thanks,” Chris said, and meant it. He _did_ understand. “I’ll take you
up on that one of these days. Right now--Look, how about turning that
around? It wouldn’t be as uncomfortable as camping out, I’m afraid,
but at least it’s _different_. Changed a lot since your time, too,
Johnny--You ever been up, Lee?”

She shook her head. She could feel the pinkness of her cheeks, and her
own quickened breathing. She tried to see Johnny’s face, but he moved
back a step into the shadow. She couldn’t even tell if her own feeling
was more excitement or apprehension.

“We’ll think it over,” Johnny said. “Might be an idea.” His tone was
completely flat.

“You understand,” Chris said, “This has nothing to do with what we
discussed? I’m talking about just a visit.”

“Carfare’s pretty high, isn’t it?”

“It’s on the company. The boss has some privileges.”

“Well, we’ll think it over.” And this time, she thought, he really
_meant_ it. He _would_ think about it.

_What did Chris say to him? What did it?_

       *       *       *       *       *

They stood outside together, and watched the heli lift. Johnny switched
off the landing lights, and the Moon jumped out of the background and
hung like a lantern right over the patio wall.

Lisa stared up with a new fascination. After a while she became aware
of Johnny’s eyes watching her, with mixed amusement and tenderness.

She moved closer to him. And broke the spell. “Nice to see Chris,” he
said abstractedly. “Maybe we ought to take him up on that some time--if
you want to, I mean. But I--well, Hell, I wish he’d picked some other
time to come. I was only half here tonight. Look, babe, you mind if I
sit up some? Got a little work I’ve been thinking about--design stuff.
I was working on while you were in town today.”

_Mind?_ “Go ahead,” she said, and made a face at him. “At least I’ll be
able to finish that book of mine without giving you bad dreams.”

_Mind?_ She watched him till he disappeared through the kitchen door,
reading the angularity of his shoulders, the swinging of his hands,
the forward thrust of his head, and delighting in what she read. _We
should see more people_, she thought. But Chris was special.

She got ready for bed slowly, and lay there a long time, with the book
open in front of her, but not really reading. _What a day!_ The dance
session--Kutler--Christensen--and maybe even a trip to the Moon! And on
top of it all, Johnny working again.

After a while, a sentence caught her attention, and she began reading.
It was after two when she finished the book, and turned out the light.
She fell asleep almost instantly, and dreamed of cute little fat
viruses, teaching her telepathy, so that she didn’t have to wait for
her baby to talk before she could communicate with it.

Her baby....


_Dollars Dome--10:30_ P.M. _(C.S.T.)_

Her name was Rita. She stood immobile behind the high counter, head
bent in a posture of reverie--almost of prayer--to the microscope
eyepiece.

His name was Thad. He was holding two culture plates which he had just
carried up from the Mars lab. He intended to set the plates down on a
rack at the end of the room. But when he saw her, he stopped.

Her new lab coat was spotless white, and she had pinned a stiff white
square of cloth around her head to cover her hair. The way she stood,
only the shoulders and collar of her coat showed; the folds of the
headcloth draped so that the coat and cloth framed her face with the
suggestion of a robed and cowled young nun.

She was not pretty. But the serenity of her fresh-skinned cheek,
emphasized by the furrows of concentration on her brow, gave her so
much the look of the eternal virgin that he could not, at first, do
anything but stand and stare.

He had seen her before, of course: in the cafeteria, several times;
on the Mall; at a party the week before; in the projection room,
yesterday. It was a month, at least, since she came up. They had been
introduced at the party, and again yesterday, watching some films. He
could not have seen her less than fifteen-twenty times, altogether. And
each time he had noted, without interest, only that she was new, quiet,
plain-looking; and of course goggle-eyed and stumble-footed, like all
newcomers.

Now he wondered how he could possibly have thought her _plain_; or
why, when they met, he had registered only her name, Rita Donovan, and
her background--a _summa cum_ type from Johns Hopkins. He had not been
concerned enough to learn if she were married or single, or otherwise
unattached.

It might have been half a minute that he stood watching her. Then he
walked on and set his culture plates down. Neither his stillness nor
his action penetrated the distant focus of her concentration. He walked
around back of her counter, and noticed she had damn good legs, too.

“Something good?” he asked.

She started, and looked up.

“_Good?_” She laughed. “Every time I see these things--They’re just
_fantastic_!”

“Right out of this world,” he reminded her, smiling.

“Oh, of course.” She flushed faintly and her laugh held a note of
embarrassment. “I guess I’ll get used to it too. Some day. But--”

“Not very damn likely you won’t, if you’re working up here,” he said.
“Not at the rate _these_ babies are going. We get to where it all
seems almost normal, downstairs--every once in a while, that is. Then
somebody comes up with something like Hendrickson’s idea on controlled
evolution, and you know you haven’t even scratched the surface yet!”

“Have you seen his films?” she asked eagerly.

“Not the whole thing. I caught part of the run this morning. They’re
showing ’em again at sixteen hundred.” He glanced at the big wall
chrono, pleasurably aware that until his eyes moved, the pink lingering
in her cheeks had been, in part at least, a (pleased?) response to the
way he was looking at her. (Yes, pleased, he was sure, when he looked
back.) There was an hour to kill before the showing. “Got anything
cooking you have to stick with?” he asked. “We’d have just about time
for some coffee before they start.”

She looked around carefully, checking. “I guess nothing special....”
Her hesitation was _not_ about leaving the lab; he was sure of it.

“I’ll help you check out the cameras,” he said, and headed for the far
end, brushing her arm as he passed. The intensity of joint awareness
startled--almost stopped--him. He debated suggesting his room for the
coffee: but only an hour....

“Why don’t we go up to my place for coffee?” _she_ said. The words
broke the bubble of tension surrounding the touch.

He grinned. “I’m with you,” he said fervently.

“What’s Hendrickson getting at anyhow?” she asked. “I didn’t hear
him the other night, but the way it looked in the _Abstracts_, he’s
hypothesizing what amounts to _intelligent_ choice when he says
‘controlled.’ Did you hear his talk?”

“I missed it too. There’s so damn _much_ all the time, you never know
which one to go to. But I got hold of him last night, and he won’t put
it that way of course, but it seemed to me that’s how it added up.”

They left the building and went outside into the bright glow of
“afternoon sunlight,” diffused from the dometop lights during the lunar
night.

“But that means you also have to accept the idea of--I mean, what does
the _deciding_?”

“Well, I guess that’s why he won’t use the word, ‘intelligence.’ He
keeps saying his theory is purely pragmatic--a description of behavior,
he says, not an explanation. So you can’t pin him down.” The most
fantastic thing of all, he thought contentedly, more startlingly even
than the stuff you worked on up here were the people you worked _with_.
She had taken off the white kerchief, and out in the “sunlight,” her
hair shone a rich reddish brown and her face glowed with something
quite other than the austere intensity in the lab.

They entered the dorm building, and she started up the stairs. “Wait
a minute!” he said. “Anyone showed you the _right_ way to go upstairs
here yet?”

She laughed. “You mean ‘giant steps’?”

“Yup. Race?”

“You’re on.” They both knelt to remove their shoes. “Three flights,”
she said, and they set off together, bounding up four, five, six steps
at a time under the light gravity of the Moon.


_Rockland--2_ A.M. _(E.D.S.T.)_

Across the patio, a glow of light from the opaqued bedroom wall showed
him Lisa was still up. He thought about that, and decided against it.
Too much of that. Too much liquor; too much Lisa. Too much mash, too
much mush. Half the drink was still in the glass. He stepped outside,
and slowly, carefully, quietly, let it trickle over the edge of the
tilted glass, till it was all gone, back to the soil. _Asses to ashes
and alcohol to earth._ He lit a cigarette, and looked up again at the
looming deceitful lure of the Moon. He wasn’t going there. He wasn’t
going. _Anywhere._ He’d done all his going. And all his coming. Yeah.
Too much.

He looked at the drawing board. The design that had seemed so good,
so _right_ in the afternoon now looked dead and clumsy. Hell with it.
Hell with--Damn him! _Damn him!_ Coming in here with his talk and his
problems and his five-year-old daydreams, throwing everything out of
whack. Tilting the machine.... Great big blond baby who didn’t know it
was too big to be out there. Nice safe little Moon base.

Hell, the Moon was part of Earth, didn’t they know that? Took all the
know-how they had to make out even there....

... And they wanted to go to Mars! All the big babies, like Chris, out
of the yard for the first time.... Stand on the curb screaming blue
murder to get across the street.

Well he’d been across the street. And back. Back for good. If they
wouldn’t listen to him, that was their tough luck.

What he needed was a drink.

He went back and filled his glass. The bedroom light was out. Good. For
once, there was nobody watching, waiting, listening, to see what he’d
do. Nobody...? He walked through the living room and pushed the door
open, suddenly, silently. She was asleep, sound asleep, sprawled on the
bed like a kid. She was smiling a little bit. She was beautiful. He
closed the door just as softly, and padded back to his work room.

_Work_ room! That was a laugh. He laughed. _Haw, haw!_ The sound came
out, too loud and not funny.

What does Johnny Wendt want with a work room? Used to work. Don’t got
to work now.

_What for?_

Money? Smile once for a whiskey ad. That’s money. Science? That was
a laugh, too, but he didn’t try it this time. Science is a big blond
bastard, fixing it for everybody to go the way Doug went.

_Which way? Which way did you go, Doug?_

_Doug, for krissake, where are you?_

_Come back, Doug._

_Doug, migod!_ And you stand on the dry dust with your suit all around
you to keep you safe in the thin air, and miles away, whichever way you
look, is nothing, nothing at all.

Better have another drink. Put the bottle down, now. Careful. Might
spill.




PART THREE

_Friday, June 24, 1977_


_Rockland--8:30_ A.M. _(E.D.S.T.)_

He woke with a twist in his neck and his shoulders and arms stiff and
sore. Faint sounds somewhere took on shape and meaning. Lisa, in the
kitchen. Breakfast. His stomach turned over, and settled down to hunger.

He’d decided to go to the Moon. _Why?_

_Who knows?_ He shrugged. _What’s the difference?_

He’d decided something; that was an accomplishment right there. Yeah,
big deal: go see ole buddy Chris and get yapped at some more. Okay,
he’d _decided_, hadn’t he? Give Lee a kick anyhow.

Lisa Goes To The Moon. He started to laugh, but he coughed and
half-choked instead. He was thinking of the magazines when he was a
kid. Too bad Lisa couldn’t wear one of those bubble-type outfits the
girls on the magazine covers had. That would go over big, in the Dome!
He could just see them, Chris’s crew of tame scientists, goggle-eyed.

Spent two damn years up there and never saw a babe worth looking at.
_All_ goggle-eyed.

This time the laugh almost came out right.

If it was a magazine story, though, Chris’s little Mars-bugs would
turn out to be secret-super-intelligences with invincible powers, from
Betelgeuse.

Or Arcturus.

That would be nice, he thought. Let it turn out poor old Doug was just
a rabbit mesmerized by these snakey protozoan _intelligences_. Pretty
soon they’d take the whole world over, too--except for The Hero, who’d
dash in and save everyone just in time.

Singing: “I’ll be glad when you’re dead, you amoeba, you.”

Lee was making breakfast. He wasn’t ready to see her yet. He found the
coffee jar, and made himself some, boiling scalding hot, turned the
outside wall to full light and transparency, and propped himself on the
couch with the hot coffee and the hot sun shining on him.

When he was ready to go out to the kitchen, he found her just finishing
her breakfast, wearing yellow shorts, _very_ short, and a bright
purple halter top, looking about sixteen years old.

“Hi, doll.” Grinning made his face feel cracked and a million years
old. “How come you look like that when I feel like this? I worked
late,” he said. “Lay down to think something out, and I fell asleep.”

“Sure,” she said.

He looked straight in her eyes for a moment, and remembered she wasn’t
really a kid. She was two months older than he was. He hated her for
knowing what he wouldn’t tell; and blessed her for not trying to make
him say it. He sat down and patted her hand.

“Hey, babe?”

“Hmmmm?”

“I seem to have made a decision.”

“Yes?” But there was something scared in her _eyes_.

“I have some recollection of deciding last night that we would go to
the Moon.”

She surprised him. Last night, he was sure she was all hopped up about
it. And even now, the scared look left her eyes. _Scared? Why? What
of?_ She looked pleased, all right. But she didn’t say a word.

“That is, if you still _want_ to go,” he said stiffly.

“I--well, yes, but--Let me think about it a little. All right?”

“Sure.” He stood up and went and looked in the warmer. Bacon and toast.
_You goddam lucky bastard_, he thought, _You’re so used to her doing
things your way, you think you have to get sore if she doesn’t climb
all over you and yell Hallelujah!_

He made a sandwich out of the bacon and toast, and went back to the
table.

“Whatever you want, baby,” he said softly.


_New York City--6:15_ P.M. _(E.D.S.T.)_

“Well, I’m sorry,” Kutler said. “I guess it was a bum hunch.”

“I don’t know. You weren’t too far off--I don’t think. But damn if I
knew how to get through. You’re sure there’s no way _you_--?”

The doctor shook his head. “I wish I could. I’ve tried a couple of
times. I’ll keep on trying. But--” He shrugged, and finished his drink.

Pete Christensen cleared his throat. “What do you say to some dinner?
This place serve any food?” _Damn it, the guy actually gives a damn!_
You didn’t find many like that any more.... _Any more_...? Damn fool
thought. Never was more than one in a million who did--outside his own
yard or his own pocketbook.

“Well, they serve it,” Kutler said. “Nobody in his right mind would
eat it. Tell you what--there’s a place down the street here--You like
Swedish cooking?”

“Grew up on it.”

The doctor nodded, pleased. “Okay, let’s get out of here.” He caught
a waiter, paid the check, and they walked down Lexington toward the
Swedish place, talking trivia about the city and how it changed. It
must have been seven-eight years, Chris thought, since he’d seen this
part of town; yet some blocks, you could go back twenty years after,
and nothing changed at all.

“I used to love this damn town,” he said, surprised, because it had
been so long since he had even thought about New York, let alone
_looked_ at it. Kutler was good for him; the man _cared_. It was a
little painful even to visualize all the things he seemed to care
about. Like a wheel hub, with another spoke reaching out every
part-turn. “I guess,” he said slowly, “I’ve put it all into one.” And
then thought, _That was dumb._ Then: _But he knows what I meant._

“Rockets only go one way at a time, don’t they?” the doctor said.

Chris cleared his throat.

“Here we are,” Phil said.

As soon as they’d ordered, Chris plunged in. “Here’s what I wanted
to see you about, Phil. You know, we’ve had a personnel problem up
there all along that’s a little unusual. I suppose you know the
background--I’m sure you do, because we fed you this stuff when you
worked with Wendt. Our psychogenic troubles?”

“Yeah. Fascinating stuff, too. I figured if you wanted me, it would be
something to do with that. But you want a good psychosomaticist, Chris,
there are a hell of a lot of ’em better than me. I’ve always been
interested, but it’s not really my field.”

“I don’t need just a good psychosomatics man,” Chris said. “We’ve
got the problem under control from the point of view of our people’s
health. Nothing to it. Every damn contract calls for one month Earth
rest leave after each working quarter. Three months up, one down.
Keeps ’em healthy as hell. Any good psychosomatics man will tell
you that’s the only answer, short of an all-out training program
that adds up to something like studying yoga, f’krissake!” He dipped
into heaven-scented pea soup, and broke crisp bread. “Phil, what I’m
after is someone who’ll look at it from the point of view of a new
environment that men damn well _can_ live in. _I_ do. Have, more than
ten years now. Some of the others could, if the contracts let ’em. I
don’t know how you feel about this. Maybe you’ll take the same stand
the others do: we’re asking for something ‘unnatural,’ and we have to
pay the price. I just had a hunch you might--feel differently.”

“Because of Johnny?” the doctor asked quietly.

“All right.” Chris let himself look at the other man for the first time
since he’d started his speech. “Because of Johnny. But I mean it a
couple of ways.”

“Relax, will you?” Phil looked as if he could take some of his own
advice, too. “Who’s kiddin’ whom? _I_ know I feel guilty about Johnny.
So what difference does it make if _you_ know it too? But that doesn’t
mean I’m going to throw up a good practice here and go tromping off to
Outer Space to offer myself up in his place.”

Chris finished the pea soup, looked at the other man, and laughed.
“Damn it, I’ve got to get down more often,” he said, and laughed again.
“I keep saying that. When I’m down. Now look: first of all, I said it
was a _couple_ of ways ‘because of Johnny.’ Sure, that was one of them.
The other is, you _did_ get _some_where with him. Or come to think
of it, that’s just _one_ other part of it. You got through to him;
nobody else could. That means, the way I see it, you maybe--speak our
language some? You don’t start with the idea that being off of Earth is
‘unnatural.’ Am I wrong?”

“I don’t think so,” Kutler said slowly. “Hadn’t really looked at it
that way. Maybe so--What’s the other bit?”

“Obvious. Just that you’ve had some experience with our kind of nut.”

“Oh _now_! Just because two guys have been to the same place, and both
come back sick doesn’t mean--” He stopped short. Chris grinned. “Yeah.
I see what you mean,” the doctor went on, slowly. “Nine times out of
ten, it does mean just that. Only,” he finished, “Johnny didn’t get
sick on the Moon.”

“Well, frankly, I didn’t mean it that strongly anyhow. You’re way ahead
of me, as usual. But--let’s just say, if I’ve got a sick horse, and I
can’t get a vet--because nobody’s invented veterinary medicine yet--I’m
damn well going to try to find a doctor who’s at least _worked_ on a
horse before.”

“Even if it died?”

“He’s not dead,” Chris said drily. “Far from it. You seen that layout
up there?”

“Not since it was finished.”

“Well, you’ve seen the girl.”

“Yeah.” Kutler looked at him levelly. “I saw her yesterday. He’s not
dead. Yet.”

“He’s sick. Okay. You _still_ know more about--horses--than a man who’s
never opened one up.” Kutler started to speak, but Chris went on. “At
least, _I_ think so. So here’s what I’d like to ask you to do--”

He opened his briefcase, and pulled out the folder of case histories
and medic reports. “Here’s the background stuff. If you can find time
to look it over, and you think you’re willing to consider the idea at
all, what I’d like to do is start sending my leave people in to see
you. Not for treatment,” he said hastily, as the doctor tried to stop
him again, “Just interviews, sort of. Get your own histories on them.
See what ideas you get. This thing is wide open, Phil. I don’t know if
what we need is a man on the job up there, or a consultant, or a whole
staff and program, or what the hell. I figure you can at least give us
a push the right way. Will you hire on as consultant for now on that
basis? Then if you think you’re not the right man, find us one. Or a
dozen. Or tell us what we need. Or tell us you can’t even do that. But
give it a whirl, will you? I don’t know where else to start with.”

Kutler hesitated, still. “How much time do you figure I’ll need for
that ‘month’?”

“You decide. Give it what you can. Take what time you need. Bill us
at whatever your hourly rates for government jobs are. We’re used
to cost-plus,” he added drily. “Don’t stint yourself on the expense
account. When you’ve got a yea or nay or maybe for me, let me hear it.”

The doctor was silent a moment, and Chris held his breath, almost.
He’d had the right hunch this time. If Kutler took it at all, he just
_might_ actually crack it--because if he took it, he’d kill himself
_trying_.

“I can at least look over the literature,” Phil said finally. He
grinned. “Which in English means, all right, so you’ve got me curious.
Or hooked?”

Chris passed over the envelope with the folder. He saw Phil’s eyebrows
go up.

“What’s this bit?” He was indicating the red-stamped TOP SECRET.

“Christ, I get to where I don’t even see it. Every damn thing we do
up there--But on this job, they mean it. Only reason I got funds for
anything as--way out?--as this was Security has fits about these people
going up and down all the time. Anything to keep ’em up on the farm,
the way they see it. Frankly,” he added, “that was another reason for
wanting you. You’re cleared already. God knows how long I’d wait before
they found another man they’d put their gold star on.”


_Acapulco--7:30_ P.M. _(C.S.T.)_

“What do you think?”

Brigadier General Jedro Arthur Harbridge, USA ASF, turned from the
bar cabinet in the study of his country home with an air of some
satisfaction. He carried two palest-gold martinis to the desk, handed
one ceremoniously to his Press Secretary.

“Hard to say,” Prentiss answered. “Thanks. Well--here’s luck!” He
sipped appreciatively. “Okay, you win. The Dutch gin _is_ better.” He
picked up the memo he’d been looking at while the General mixed drinks.
“I can’t see anything in here that will make headlines--that’s sure.”

“Okay.” Harbridge settled down in an anachronistically
solid-comfortable leather chair. “What _are_ you going to make ’em
with, then?”

Al Prentiss shrugged one gray dacron shoulder. “What’s the rush?”

_You wouldn’t understand, boy, if I spelled out every word!_ This
particular rush had started a _long_ time ago--for some people. For
others, including all or damn-near-all PR men, the General thought,
there _was_ no rush: just the crush of the crowd.

“That’s my problem,” he said heavily. “Now _your_ problem is getting
the Dome in the papers, and getting it in good.”

Prentiss studied his chief’s face, and nodded. “Okay. So let’s take it
from One. How much of this stuff has been released before?”

Harbridge frowned. “Just the general background. Nothing on the genetic
structure at any time. Seems to me, the only thing that went out was a
film made up from their lab micros, with a very basic sound-track--you
know, the little Mars whachahoosies in their natural habitat?--the
symbiosis stuff, or fission or fusion, or whatever these dingusses do
instead of screw--that kind of thing. That’s about a year ago, I guess,
little less. On the other hand, I think the only stuff mentioned here
that’s been officially classified is the chromosome chart stuff: or
anything that was done before June 1, come to think of it, unless it’s
been released. That was the last full regular report, and _they_ get
stamped before they’re read.”

“So I’m stupid,” said Prentiss, “but what’s such hot news about
chromosomes? We all got ’em.” He stood up abruptly. “Damn it, sir,
you just can’t make good copy out of what a bunch of amoebas do for
sex--even if they come from Mars.” He held the papers fanned out, and
looked at them with scorn.

Harbridge took the sheets, and held them in his lap. A slow smile
spread on his face. “All right, Al. I’ll give you a story to write. Two
of ’em. First one is the bugs. Just what’s in here, but no details.
Leave out the chromosomes: they might not be copy to you, lad, but
they’re hot, believe me. Now let’s see.”

He put his drink down, picked up the papers again, and reached for
a clipboard and pencil. Then he went through carefully checking and
crossing-out.

“Use this, you can quote this bit direct,” he said, as Prentiss came
around the desk to look over his shoulder. “‘... startling adaptation
syndrome, which does not conform so much to the concept of mutation as
of controlled evolution.’ Hey, you know this stuff is pretty jazzy,
Al. Come to think of it, we better leave out the last bit--What the
hell does he mean, ‘controlled’ evolution? Who’s doin’ the damn
controlling?--Never mind. Just make it, ‘does not conform entirely
to the usual concept of mutation.’ Leave out all this part about the
Earth-normal environment--that’s _really_ secret. Here, this bit won’t
hurt anything, ‘... genetic relationships between species ...’ and if
you just change this about capacity for cross-breeding to something
about experiments at cross-breeding--make it sound like Luther Burbank
or something--you follow all this?”

“From a distance,” Al Prentiss said dourly. “Or maybe through a glass,
darkly.”

“Okay. Now this chromosome chart bit I guess is pretty touchy too,
but there’s no reason we can’t say something like ‘unusual’ or
‘unanticipated’ chromosome count. What do you think?”

“I’d hate to say--_sir_. But if you mean, do I think I can write a
story out of this that sounds like telling something without actually
anything classified--sure. Just let me run home for my trusty old
bio notebook, so I know what I’m talking about, and I’ll whip right
out--one, two, three.”

The General put down the memo, stood up, and laughed. “In your own
unpleasant way, Al, you’re a good boy. Drink up, you’re too slow.” He
took the empty glasses back to the bar, and immersed himself once more
in his elaborate martini ritual.

“I take it,” Prentiss said thoughtfully, “that when I get this written,
you’d like to see it in print somewhere?”

“Probably.”

“I see. Following the same thought, I come up with the notion that
you’d want to see it--if you did--in some paper whose publisher does
not play golf with you?”

Harbridge nodded solemnly. “Not even the editor,” he said.

“Right. I assume then....”

The phone buzzer sounded. Harbridge lost all interest in the bar. He
picked up the phone, leaving his inscreen dead. “Hello.”

“Jed? Hi. Listen--”

“I’ve got company,” Harbridge said. “I think he’d rather not know who
called. What’s the word?”

“No dice. I spent five hours and had a lovely time. Nice wife. Or
whatever she is. But no dice. Stone cold dead, I’d say. You better take
the ball.”

“Okay. You know this can get rough?”

“I’ve got callouses.”

“You’re on, man.” He hung up, wondering just how sure young Prentiss
was as to Chris’ identity: and whether it mattered.

“In short,” said Prentiss smoothly, “I assume that once the thing’s
planted, we never _heard_ of it. Do I dig you, sir?”

“Right where I live,” said the General. “And, by the way--I _do_ want
to see it in print, for _sure_.”




PART FOUR

_June 28--August 4, 1977_


_Rockland--Tuesday, June 28_

For four days, she’d been waiting for Johnny to leave the house: leave
it long enough so she’d _know_ she had ten minutes’ time all alone.

It was hard to believe it could have gone that far; but when she
thought back, it must have been going on quite a while now. Unless they
went somewhere together, days--or weeks?--might go by till Johnny found
any reason to go even down the road.

They had built the house in the exact center of their own thirty-five
acres: no near neighbors to plague them--or to gossip with or play
bridge, or borrow lawn-mowers, or any one of the things that might take
a man ten minutes’ walk to the next house.

The place was provisioned and stocked for every possible need. They
marketed once a month--together.

On rare occasions, if the heli needed work Johnny did not want to do,
he’d fly down to Nyack; usually, she went along, anyhow, and they’d
have dinner out, take in a show, spend an evening pub-crawling,
something like that.

But the house had everything that he wanted; most of all, it had _her_.
Up till now, that knowledge by itself had been enough to allow her to
overlook, not-notice, or never-mind all the rest.

But now, for four days, she had wanted to make one single phone call
without him around: and there had never been a time she could be _sure_
he wouldn’t wake up, or pick up an extension from some other room,
or--or _some_thing.

The whole thing was ridiculous. Most of all, her own feeling about it
was all out of proportion. She kept telling herself that.

_Just pick up the damn phone and call!_ He was in the shower; how was
he going to hear her from there?

But, again, she jittered around until, just as she reached for the
switch, he came out.

_Damn!_

“Hi, babe.” He came over and kissed her. And at the touch, the easy
relaxation with which he had entered the room vanished. “What’s the
matter, babe?” He sat down and put his arms around her; tilted her face
up with one hand under her chin.

“Nothing,” she said unconvincingly, and tried to smile a response to
him. That was not very convincing either. She saw the small muscles
in his jaw tighten up, and start knotting. _Oh, God damn!_ “Probably
just--time of month, I guess,” she said.

He bought it. He grinned and patted her on the head sympathetically;
his face relaxed; he stood up with the confident nonchalance of
masculinity, not prey to nervous cyclic emotions, and went into the
kitchen. A moment later, he called back: “I’m going out and see what I
can do about that door handle.” The door slammed.

She saw him cross the back lawn toward the hangar. She watched till he
went inside. With her eyes still on the window, she switched on the
phone.

“May I speak to the doctor?” she asked the pert nurse who answered.

Dr. Aaronson looked harassed as usual, but his smile was beatific:
“Everything’s fine,” he said. “All down the line. Don’t give it a
thought. You ought to come in, say, oh, two-three weeks?”

She tried to look as she thought she ought to feel. “That’s wonderful,”
she said. “Look, I’ve got a problem.”

“Hmmm?” His eyes were watching something else off the screen. His
manner said clearly: _I already told you, you don’t have a problem._

“It’s just--well, is there any reason--” It sounded so _silly_, when
you came to ask it. “--reason I shouldn’t take a trip to the Moon?”

“How far--” he’d started to ask before she finished. His eyes swivelled
back sharply. “Well!” It was the first time she’d ever heard him laugh
out loud. “Well!” he said again, satisfied, “I thought I knew _all_ the
questions by now! Offhand, let’s see--I can’t see any reason not to, in
the shape you’re in. When did you plan to go?”

“I’m not sure--two or three weeks? A month, maybe?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll check up, but I don’t see why not.
Stop in for a checkup before you go.”

“Thanks. I will. I’m sorry if I interrupted you--”

“Nonsense. It was a pleasure, believe me. I think that’s the first
_new_ question anyone’s asked me in fifteen years.”

She switched off and sat there a minute, her eyes at last off the
window, her whole self composed for the first time in days.

He found her half-asleep in the sun at the edge of the pool, her orange
swimsuit with the tigerish black stripes a splash of color on pale
green tiles. She lifted her head and squinted at him from some faraway
place inside herself.

“Hi, handsome,” she said.

“Hello, babe.” He dropped into a chair, looking down at her. She was
okay now. She started lifting herself up from the tiles, backbone
first, as if someone had tied a rope around her torso, and was pulling
her up. He watched, fascinated; incredible, what she could do with
herself!

“How’s the water?” he asked lazily.

“Good.” It looked good too. He went inside for his trunks, and she
called after him to switch the player on.

“There’s a tape on already,” she said. “That new one you got.”

The soft beat of African drums was beginning when he came back out.
Lisa sprawled in the grass past the pool, and with each beat, she
raised herself higher, till as the tempo grew furious and swelled into
crashing crescendos she was moving swiftly in a whirling ecstasy of
liquid orange flame and streaked black shadow.

It was a long time since she had danced for him this way, he realized
abruptly. She danced by herself, or unselfconsciously in front of him,
all the time; but this was a performance--planned, staged, presented
for his pleasure. He sat back and let the poetry of her pervade all his
senses.

When the dance was done, she fell in a huddled heap at his feet, the
fingers of one hand outstretched to almost-grasp his toes. She lay so
still that he hardly dared breathe, while the memory of sound died.

Then she opened one eye, half-raised her head, grinned, and winked at
him.

“Swim?” she said.

“You’re on.”

As they climbed out of the pool, she asked, casually, as if were
something they’d just stopped talking about, “Still want to go to the
Moon?”

“Sure,” he said quickly. “Why don’t we make it a honeymoon trip?”

He saw the tautness begin in her face, and he had to do _some_thing:
“Christ!” he said, “What a tin-pan-alley bonanza. Song called ‘Do You
Want a Moon Honeymoon, Honey?’ We’ll make a million, babe!”

“Get a good old-fashioned Turkey In The Straw type tune for it,” she
came back, “and the callers can say, ‘Everybody rise an’ shine, for
_Moon Honeymoon, Honey_--’” But the troubled tension was still there.
And he could feel it stretching the skin on his own face now. “--On the
other hand,” she said, too lightly, “I always did want to live in sin
with a Man in the Moon.”

_Okay, let it go, the kid’s trying_.... “You mean you’d rather have the
wedding _after_ the honeymoon?” he persisted compulsively. “It’s kind
of--unconventional, Lee--” _Stop! For krissake, stop!_

“I never commit myself to more than one drastic action before four
P.M.,” she said primly.

_Commit yourself?_ Well, that was that. _Neatly done, babe_, he
thought. And then remembered that _he_ was the one who had started the
Moon bit.

Okay. Okay, they’d go. What the hell? The Moon was just part of the
Earth’s backyard, that’s all. Right across the street, nothing else.

Okay, they’d go.

“Okay, babe,” he said, stepping toward her. “But if you won’t have me,
I don’t know what I can do about it, except for _me_ to have you....”

    Rockland, N.Y.
    July 25, 1977

  Dear Chris--

  You guessed it, I suppose, as soon as you saw the envelope. (I
  suppose this is what they really mean by a ‘dilatory correspondence?’
  I’ve gotten to feel as if I’ve known you for years, just through
  exchanging delaying letters--)

  Turns out now we can’t do it on the 31st. Johnny got some sort of
  (hush-hush) job onto the drawing board today, and they’ve got to have
  it Aug. 3, he says. Has to take his first plans in Saturday, and then
  he could leave, if they like what he’s done, but he won’t go until he
  sees the final blueprints, so--

  Frankly, as you realized (from what you said in your note last week),
  I can’t really say I’m sorry to see him so wrapped up in new work.
  But must confess I am getting kind of wistful about the trip up too--

  Anyhow, I rearranged my own schedule as soon as he told me about this
  last night, and have now got things set so the recording series will
  be finished by Aug. 5--working all next week like mad--so that _I_
  won’t have any dates I can’t break, and I’ll be free to pick up and
  go any week after this coming one, any time Johnny can tear himself
  away from the drawing board.

  Did Phil finally make it? I know he’s been champing at the bit the
  past week or so, since he made up his mind to the trip.

  (Just phoned his office, found out he took off yesterday.)

  Tell him hello from us, and I hope the whole thing works out. He
  never said whether it would mean his staying up there or not, but
  I gather this trip is just a visit anyhow? Maybe we’ll make it up
  before he leaves--?

  _Do_ give him regards, anyhow.

    Very best, and from J.,
    Lisa

  P.S. Will assume any date after the 31st is okay, unless you let us
  know otherwise....

    L


_Mexcity--July 27, 1977_

“I guess they’re not going to pick up on it,” the General admitted.

“You can’t win _every_ time,” Prentiss said.

“I know. But how many battles lose a war? Any bright thoughts?”

“Only complicated ones.”

“Okay. Even not-so-bright. Something is better than nothing.”

“Well, it’s not _that_ complicated, I guess. Just tricky. Pick up on it
ourselves.”

“You mean plant it?” Harbridge was thoughtful. “No,” he said. “Too
risky. If we got caught out on the first plant, so we’re devious
bastards with something up our sleeves. If we didn’t do the first one,
and got caught on this, we’re not so devious, and it’s obvious we’re
out to get Christensen. If we got caught on both, it would smell real
funny--and too many people have good noses in this town--hey!”

“Something?”

“I think so. This thing is a windfall to anyone who’s after Chris’
hide. Or it ought to look that way, if they were just looking. I think
you did too good a job, Al. They just didn’t realize there was anything
there _shouldn’t_ have been in that article.” Which shows just how much
_any_one is worried about what goes on up there, he thought. Chris used
to keep an eye on his public relations, but he’s been out of touch too
much. Well, let’s give a push--“I think--let’s see, that Dartmouth
boy we got shoved at us, what’s his name?, Jennings? Yuh. He’s Andy
Jennings’ son?” Prentiss nodded. “Okay. That’s it. I _think_ this kid
is just dumb enough so if you clucked at him about the kind of leaks
that let important stuff like that get out, he’d be very likely to
go home and tell his pop. And in view of the fact that Andy Jennings
just bought himself a small interest worth a half million dollars in
Undersea, I think we might just get our work done for us.”

“You think Jennings can remember a whole sentence that long? I mean,
get home and tell it straight?”

“Well you better make it _very_ clear.” The General laughed.

Prentiss went out to find young Jennings, and Jed sat down to write to
Chris.


_Dollars Dome--July 28, 1977_

NESNETSIRHC .RD said the lettering on the translucent plastic door and
then, underneath it, ROTCERID HCRAESER. Nature’s own idiot, spelled
backwards, the Director thought. Peter Andrew Christensen, Big Brain.
If you’re so smart, why aren’t you a University President? Or Research
Director for General Atomics? Or a respectable dues-paid master
plumber, maybe?

Irritably, he flipped the reader switch and swung his chair ninety
degrees to the glowing screen beside his desk, where Lisa Trovi’s
ragged typing explained, as adequately as possible, why the visit had
to be postponed _again_. He flipped the frame, and got Jed Harbridge’s
carefully composed message on the screen. Might as well start writing
answers--get them on the shuttle back. He sat, thought about what to
tell Jed, and flipped back to Lisa’s note. Switched on the dictaphone,
and thought some more.

Knock on the door. “Come in!” The shadow behind the panel moved, and
the door opened. “Oh, Phil.” _Good._ He turned off both machines.

“Busy? I can come back....”

“You couldn’t have picked a better time. I’ve just been sitting here
stewing in my own juices--such as are left. Sit down. What’s on your
mind?”

“Questions, mostly.”

“Like...?”

“Like, to start with, what’s in _your_ mind?”

Chris grinned briefly. “You decided I’m a case too?”

“Sure. What of? If it’s all the same with you, I haven’t had an
agoraphobiac in a long time....”

“You know, I might’ve been better off that way.” He laughed. “What can
I do for you outside of that? I don’t suppose you’ve had time enough
yet to have any idea....”

“Pretty damn good idea,” Phil broke in cheerfully. “I’ll do you up a
proper report when I get back down, but I can tell you offhand now that
I think any kind of half-decent psych staff up here could solve most of
the problem, without half trying. In fact, the most interesting damn
thing about it isn’t the diseases, but the patients. They _don’t want_
to be sick. I’ve never seen a more co-operative group in my life. It’s
a headshrinker’s heaven, man!”

“That right?” Chris thought it over. “Well. Of course, I guess it helps
to start out with a high IQ level and--” He broke off at the doctor’s
amused headshake.

“Chris, if you asked me before I came up here I’d have said you
_couldn’t_ take a batch of human beings, selected for ability rather
than stability, and shut ’em up in an enclosed system where the
environment violates every bit of early conditioning, and expect any
thing but Trouble, with a capital T. You did it. Which proves only that
my preconceptions are as useless as yours or anybody else’s.”

“You think we’re in pretty good shape, then?”

“No. _Astonishingly_ good shape. I have never seen a group of human
beings working with such a high integration of aims and abilities;
or expressing their own emotions so satisfactorily, with so little
apparent hostility--or in such good physical shape, for the most part,
considering the unfamiliar conditions.”

“Well, of course, those rest-leaves have a lot to do with it,” Chris
conceded.

“I’ll bet. If it wasn’t for that, I couldn’t honestly even consider
taking the job. I’ve been counting noses, and I figure there are enough
of ’em ready to try giving up their leaves so I can count on a few
cases, anyhow....”

It finally penetrated. “Say! Do you mean you’ve decided?”

“I haven’t decided anything. I just want to know: where and how do I
apply for employment around here? And _which_ is more to the point?”

“You mean it?” The depression that had weighed on him for the
past week, and had hung so thickly in the air all morning that it
immobilized him, began to lift. “Damn it, that’s great! Never mind the
employment office, you’re hired! How much do you want and--?”

“Who-a-oa.... Like I said, first I want to know what I’m hired _for_.”

“How do you mean?” Chris asked slowly. “We went all through that to
start with...?”

“That was the official request. Now suppose we lay it on the line
for each other. I don’t think you’d sacrifice any work-time up here
just to solve the pro-tem personnel problem. And I frankly would not
be interested in giving up a fairly well-established and moderately
lucrative Earthside practice, just to solve your hiring problems.
You’ve got your own reasons, and I’ve got mine, but I think what we’re
both interested in is finding out how to make human beings tolerate
life off of Earth--here, or on Mars, or in a starship or any other
place. Do I read you right, friend?”

“Well--I’ll--be--damned!” He looked across the desk at the young doctor
with a new respect. “Am I all _that_ transparent?”

Phil smiled. “Let’s just say I’m a trained observer.”

“No, I mean it,” Chris said earnestly. “Does it all show right out
there on my face? I mean, I can see where you’d know what was going
on--but I’d hate to think of some of these Decagon jerks or the buggers
down in Accounting knowing everything I thought about--”

“Relax, man! No, it doesn’t show that much, Chris. Like I said, I’m a
trained observer, and--” He broke into laughter. “Don’t worry, Chris.
Unless you go around feeding the Decagon boys the same stories you gave
me, I doubt they’d be fretting about your intentions. You gave it away
when you dragged Johnny into it. Or rather, you got me hooked that
way, so it wasn’t too hard to figure maybe you _meant_ what you said.
I don’t know if I’d have read it the same way at all, if I didn’t have
this jazzy old Johnny-monkey on _my_ back--so to speak.”

Well, what in hell did you say to something like that? “Oh! By the
way--I have another note from Lisa today. Begins to look like they
won’t make it at all, the rate he’s stalling.” He had a sudden worried
thought. “I hope that wasn’t what you were counting on--?”

“Noooooo. Tell you the truth, I never figured that was better than an
outside chance. Last I heard, he still was flipping his lid if anyone
even _talked_ about space. I don’t know how he’d face up to the trip
out here.”

“Yeah, I know.” He was thinking of Lisa’s frantic efforts to control
the conversation that one night at their home--to keep away from
_any_thing that bothered John. He scowled. “As a matter of fact you
could’ve knocked me over with any handy feather when I got that first
letter from him, but I guess--dammit!” He cut himself off, and switched
on the reader speaker briefly.

“Note: If John Wendt comes up, he is to have sedation for full trip.
Copies to all Earth launch sites. Request special handling. Full
sedation, delivered as much as possible according to pre-Messenger
routine, without comment, as if still normal procedure. That’s all.

“Excuse me,” he said to the doctor. “I’ve been meaning to get that
notice out ever since he said he was coming. Didn’t want to forget it
again. I just don’t want to take any chances.”

“Good idea,” Phil nodded, then, explosively: “Damn it to hell anyhow!”

“That boy really is under your skin, hey?” He watched the doctor’s face
with interest; it was the first time he had seen the professional mask
completely gone.

“Well, hell, we were old buddies, and--That’s not it, though, really. I
used to be fond of Johnny, but I don’t think that’s even specially true
any more. It’s just--well, put it this way:

“Suppose a patient comes in and tells me he keeps imagining that he’s
chained to the floor of a dungeon and that a gorgeous babe comes in
every evening to give him a good time? Chances are, I’ll nod my head
like a wise old doctor and start explaining about erotic fantasies,
masochism, and all that. _But_--

“Supposing, for instance, this guy really _is_ getting chained up every
night, and this gorgeous doll really _is_ raping him each time? It’s
so damn unlikely, the guy might even think he was dreaming if it _did_
happen. Right?

“_Or_--supposing this fellow was sure enough imagining things, only
he wasn’t having erotic or masochistic fantasies at all? Like, let’s
say he works in a bicycle chain factory, and hates his job, and maybe
there’s a supervisor who’s a beautiful dish, and she’s always giving
him a hard time. So maybe his fantasies are fear and revenge instead?

“Okay, so this I’d find out a lot easier than I would anything about
the guy who’s really getting tied up. But that’s because everybody
talks about their jobs and bosses, on the couch or off it. So you take
Johnny Wendt, and Doug Laughlin for that matter, too. Here are two guys
who got psych-tested inside out and upside down before they left. They
also got all kinds of training and preparation for the things they
might encounter, and I’ve taken the trouble to find out--you probably
already know--that homosexuality was an eventuality the training
program prepared them to cope with. Plus, neither one of them showed
any appreciable tendency to panic over anything like that, if it _did_
happen.”

“Okay. I know all that,” Chris said. “It still happens to be what
_did_ happen. So, like with the guy who really gets the chains and
the babe, maybe there was something in the psychological--I don’t
know--atmosphere?--that we couldn’t prepare for and don’t know about,
and--Hell, whatever the reason was, at least you found out _what_
happened. _Why_ is something else.”

“Sure as hell is,” Kutler said wryly. “And maybe you’re right that what
Johnny--or rather, Johnny’s unconscious--thinks happened _did_ happen.
Only I don’t think so. I find it easier to think there was something
in the _physical_ environment which was just so completely different
and new and unprepared for that maybe neither one of them could even
perceive it fully; and to the half-assed extent that they were aware of
it at all, they interpreted it by association of some kind and--I just
wish to hell Laughlin hadn’t torn those pages out! If we knew what _he_
thought was the matter, it might--Well, hell, forget it. I just thought
you might like to know what’s pushin’ _me_.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” There ought to be something better to say, he thought.
“Tell you what: _you_ get the money for the next trip, and I’ll see to
it you get to go in person.”

Kutler shrugged and smiled. “It’s a deal. Meanwhile, suppose I start on
my elementary-school work up here? Your people have problems people on
Earth don’t have. Maybe they have nothing to do with Johnny’s troubles.
Or maybe they do. But the principle is the same. When you already know
five languages, the next three are easier to learn. If I find out what
one-sixth gravity and Dome atmosphere do to people, maybe I’m that much
closer to what one-third and a Mars atmosphere can do?”

“I take it,” Chris said slowly, “that what you mean is you want the
job, and you’ll do what you’re hired for, but with the understanding
that you expect to be free to do more than that, too?”

“Man, you dig me the most!”

“Okay. Let me lay it on the line now, and make sure we _both_ know what
goes on. When I first thought of you for the job, it was mainly because
I knew you were bugged about Johnny. Well so am I. But a different way.
Frankly, if we never find out what happened to Doug or to Johnny, it
don’t make no never mind for me--just _so_ we can get the next guys
back alive--and get ’em _there_, to start with.”

He stood up and walked around the desk; turned and went back and stood
at his own seat looking at the doctor across the desk top. “Listen,
Phil, you talk about me being ‘a case.’ Well, I am one, all right,
and I guess you know it as well as I do. Johnny was my friend. So was
Doug. But I’d send ’em again, even if I knew it would happen the same
way again--unless I knew some _better_ men to send. And I figure I
owe Johnny a whole lot now--but that comes second with me. If it came
first, I’d leave him alone, I guess.”

“I think you might do a lot more for Johnny by _not_ leaving him
alone,” Kutler broke in.

“Good. Only it’s still secondary. I’ve been busting a gut to get him
back on the job with us, but you know as well as I do _why_ I want him.
It all comes down to Congress, the Care and Feeding Of.”

“I know,” the doctor said slowly, “Okay, so while we’re showing our
cards, let me add this: that’s one of the reasons I want this job.
_Another_ one of the reasons. I know what you’re trying to do--but I
don’t want to see Johnny fouled up any more either.”

“Okay, so stick around and keep an eye on me. That’s all right too.
The way it is right now, Kutler, I can see a good chance of every damn
thing we’ve done so far going right swoosh down the drain for God only
knows how long--another ten, twenty, thirty years, maybe. Unless the
Reds make it, that is--”

“Yeah, that’s something else. What’s _with_ them over there? You’ve had
these bugs Johnny brought back and the other stuff to work on--I take
it the bugs get the most attention now?” Chris nodded. “So what are
they doing there? They run shuttles up and down, and from what I saw
coming up, and the scuttlebutt hither and yon, there’s enough espionage
going on to support a half dozen space programs. So what are they
_doing_?”

“I wish to hell I knew! About the only thing I’m pretty sure of is,
they haven’t got anything big going out soon. If they _did_--well,
frankly, I’d be the last to know. But the Decagon boys would know all
about it before the New Kremlin did, I’ll guarantee. Then maybe we’d
see some changes here too. _Maybe, hell!_ That’s the _only_ thing that
would get us off the ground again, the way it is now.”

“_A la_ Sputnik?”

Chris nodded. “_And_ Muttnik, _and_ Lunik, _and_ Mechta--and the
_Lenin_, for that matter. Frankly, Phil--” He hesitated. It was
tempting to talk to this man; it would be a damn big help to have
_someone_ to talk to. But--“I wonder if some of the big-scare reaction
to the whole _Lenin-Colombo_ bust wasn’t--encouraged a little? After
all, Johnny _did_ bring the ship back. It _went_ to Mars. It came
_back_. He’s alive, in one piece, sane--as much as anyone, I guess?”

Phil nodded, smiling.

“So why the big scare? The way it adds to me--bearing in mind that
I’m a wild-eyed scientist, see? Not a politico--” He grinned. “I keep
thinking, the _Colombo_ puts us one-up. As long as they don’t make
another move, we stay one-up. As far as the politicians go, that means
the Space Program has done its bit for God and country--for now,
anyhow. And meantime, for this new Undersea Corporation.... And the
Arctic Circle crowd has some big money behind it too. So why throw
away the taxpayers’ hard-earned loot on spaceships? No profits, no
porkbarrel, not even any damn propaganda value. See?”

“That figures,” Kutler said thoughtfully. “So?”

“So I don’t know. I’m just trying everything I have. Or can get.
Including--” He hovered on the brink of filling in the rest of the
picture, and decided against it. Not till he knew Phil Kutler a little
more. And not till Harbridge was fully committed. “Including you, and
Wendt, and the psych program and the bug research, and anything else I
can dream up that might either be some _real_ help, or might work to
push Congress the right way, or both.”

“But right now if you have to make a choice, what counts is the
propaganda end of it?”

“Frankly--yes.”

“Okay.” The doctor stood up. “I just like to know what I’m doing when I
do it. Where do I sign up?”

Chris stood too and held out his hand. “You just did. I’ll get the
contracts and stuff taken care of. When do you think you can start?”

“Hard to say for sure. As soon as possible--could be two weeks, could
be six. I can’t make the move till I get my patients settled with other
men. Call it three-four weeks, with moderate luck.”

“From when you go down?” Chris frowned. Add a week and a half, and it
was going to run right into September anyhow.

Kutler nodded. “Is it too late to catch the Messenger back this trip?”

He hadn’t thought of that. “No. The passenger shuttles don’t leave till
evening anyhow. But don’t you need more time--?”

“What for? I had my case histories before I came up, and I’d already
seen twenty-five per cent of your people. I’ve seen enough up here now
to know there’s a job to do, and I want to do it. The rest can wait.”

Chris nodded. _Damn it, I like this guy!_ He thought. Then he
remembered. He switched on the deskreader and flicked back to Lisa’s
letter. “Say, I almost forgot, Lee sent you all kinds of regards.”

       *       *       *       *       *

He was ridiculously conscious of Chris’ eyes on his face as he read,
and of his own determinedly neutral expression.

The note was typically Lisa: the wording, punctuation, even the typing,
held that quality of--what?--mock-effrontery?--that had drawn him so
strongly that day in front of the restaurant.

Then he got to the bottom, and smiled. Great little intriguer _she’d_
make--like real subtle messages, hey?

“I take it she thinks I should haul out of here before Buster gets on
board,” he murmured.

“Well, you thought so too, didn’t you?”

He nodded and glanced at the other man’s face. _Just what is it that
girl’s got?_ he wondered again. _And what difference does it make?
Never mind her ... what about him?_

“Looks like _some_thing’s going on with our boy, anyhow,” he said
carefully. “Maybe my hunch wasn’t all the way off after all. I’m glad
you got up there, Chris. Maybe you scared him back to work at least.”
_Unless she meant “sideboard” where she wrote “drawing board.”_

Chris switched off the screen. “That’s quite a gal,” he said--a shade
too casually.

“First time you met her?” Phil asked.

“Yup.” _Very_ casual now. “What’s with those two, Phil? I mean--” He
let it trail off.

Phil shrugged and refrained from smiling. “I guess the girl knows what
she wants,” he said noncommitally.

“I mean--well, hell, what’s the deal? How come he doesn’t break down
and propose?”

This time he let himself smile. “He does. Every day and twice on
Tuesdays, the way I hear it. _She’s_ the one who won’t play.”

Chris looked up sharply. “What the hell--?”

“Look, I’m not telling any stories out of school; I would have thought
you’d know that much anyhow. Don’t your people keep any tabs on Wendt
at all?”

“Not _my_ people,” the other man said bitterly. “Just Security. And
what they don’t tell _me_ would--would probably launch a thousand
spaceships, come right down to it. Hell, I wouldn’t even know as much
as I’ve told you if I didn’t take that trip Earthside last month.”

“Oh?” _Well, you’ve got some connection, then._... He caught himself
up, astonished at his own hostility. _Well, something new has been
added!_ Only it wasn’t new at all. The only thing was that Chris had
joined the club. Phil Kutler grinned inside himself, not pleasantly.
_Strange bedfellows_, he thought--_goddam strange!_


_Mexcity--Thursday, August 4_

The General dictated the last letter of the morning, dismissed his
secretary with a tired pleasantry, and buzzed Al Prentiss.

“You seen the papers yet?”

Prentiss was in a good mood--and a good thing, Harbridge thought. He
himself was beginning to think again wistfully about the pleasures of
retirement.

“Only the _Times_,” he said warily. He hoped Al’s good humor was not
the fine edge of battle. This would be a good day not to get clobbered
by anything.

“I’ll be right in.” _Click._ That’s the trouble with civilians,
Harbridge thought. No damn manners. Al came bursting in, three folded
newspapers under his arm, all early afternoon editions.

“Like a charm,” he said, spreading them to the marked articles.

    MOON DOME ADMINISTRATION
    SCOURGED BY CONGRESSMAN

    _McLafferty Will Investigate
    Dome Security Practices_

  Iquique, Aug. 4: Representative Ramon E. McLafferty (I., E. Ch.)
  announced today that he was in receipt of ‘evidence of incredible
  sloppiness’ in the handling of what ought to be Top-Secret space
  research projects at Moon Dome.

  The Congressman, who is newly appointed Chairman of the Security
  Subcommittee of the Joint Space Affairs Committee, declined to reveal
  his sources, but promised an ‘immediate and vigorous investigation.’
  Asked if his statement was connected in any way with his interview
  earlier today with Andrew Jennings, a close neighbor and friend
  of Rep. McLafferty in the northern mountains, the Industrialist
  Congressman refused to comment....

That was the gist of them all, except for one columnist’s item: “Ray
McLafferty will gain a lot of momentum for the Senatorial elections
this fall, if the Moon Dome hearings turn out half as popular as you’d
think. Not to mention a well-known neighbor of Ray’s who has what you
might call a small interest in persuading Congress that some of the
Space Research funds could be better applied under water....”

Harbridge chuckled. The day was not going to be so bad after all. “I
hope it doesn’t get _too_ rough,” he said.

“It’s what the man ordered,” Prentiss reminded him.

“I know. I just hope it doesn’t get too rough. I forgot about
McLafferty.”




PART FIVE

_August 24, 1977_


_Dollars Dome--6_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

They had buckled her into the comfortable safeness of the couch, and
she had swallowed a pill, and then vaguely felt the faint prick in her
arm.

There had been dreams and dreamy times and maybe-dreams which were
hard to sort out, but as she came more awake, she decided the
truly-half-awake times had been only the ones where she swallowed what
someone told her to, and float-walked to the toilet and back again.

She was very hungry. Somebody came and unstrapped her arms, and left
her to free herself after that from the rest of the fastenings. She sat
up stiffly, stood up on prickling feet, and stepped into the corridor.
A whitecoated young man looked horrified, came running at her.

“Sorry, Miss, I didn’t think you’d be up so quick.”

Vaguely, she recognized him--or his jacket?--as the one who’d
unfastened her. Then, with a rush of clarity, she saw it was Johnny
he’d been standing with down the corridor. She stepped forward and
whitejacket caught her arm.

“Steady--”

“I’m all right.” She took another step, and the prickling began to
ease. Johnny didn’t look any better than she felt.

“Home was never like this,” she muttered.

“Huh? Feeling rocky, babe?” His face was gray but he was a lot steadier
on his feet. “Takes getting used to,” he said, but he didn’t sound as
if it made much difference. He wasn’t even looking at her. He kept
staring at the couch behind him.

She stood still. _Getting my Moon legs_, she thought nervously, and
wished the damn whitejacket character would go away, or Johnny would
kiss her, or preferably both.

“Hello?” she said, smallvoiced, and put her hand on his arm.

“Hi, babe.” He turned and really looked at her this time, and
closed his other hand over hers. “Better yet? I was just looking at
this setup--didn’t get a chance when we boarded. It’s changed some
since--They’ve improved it a lot, but it seems to me there should
be something better than all this belt-and-buckle junk. There must
be some kind of synthetic fabric that would do the job,” he said
thoughtfully. “See, if you had--”

_If I had half a brain_, she thought, turning the mounting irritation
back on herself, _I’d have stopped to think_ I’m _not the one who needs
coddling this time!_

“--made up into a net--soft enough for comfort, but rigid--”

He was keeping his brain busy. _Fine. But what happens next?_

“--enough to hold shape on a frame, you could work the whole thing with
a pushbutton--”

The whitejacket type looked as impatient as she felt.

“--Give it a kind of dead man’s brake,” Johnny rattled on, impervious,
“so it won’t work during blast--”

Whitejacket gave her a pleading look. She took a deep breath. “Hey,”
she said. “Mister! You know which way to the Dome? I’m a stranger here
myself--”

He grinned, shook his head as if to wake himself up. “Sure. Right down
this aisle, lady. Step right through the double doorway to your right
... ea-ea-ea-zee does it. You are now breathing the fresh pure air
of Kansas City, imported direct to the Moon for the benefit of Dr.
Christensen’s walking talking researching exiles. Siberia was never
like this either. Well, how do you like it?”

_I don’t know_, she thought. _I’m too busy liking you._ She made
herself stand still, not look around. If she looked, if she seemed to
notice anything different, it would go away. _Oh, Johnny!_ she thought,
remembering suddenly, sharply, the man who had gone to Mars.

_But he’s still that way, lots of times_, she defended automatically,
even to herself; and told herself right back, _Sure he is--on Earth!_
But they weren’t on Earth: they were on the Moon, and Johnny hadn’t
even been able to listen to _talk_ about space for a year and a half
now without flipping his lid....

_Never mind_, she stopped herself. She didn’t have to understand it;
she could just be grateful for it.

“All right, snotty, _be_ blasé,” she said aloud. “Me, I’m a greenhorn.
I’m impressed.” And she was, too. Startling, how anything could be so
much like what you expected, but so much--what--so much more _real_.
Like seeing art-book reproductions of Degas’ dancers, and suddenly
finding yourself in front of a full-scale canvas, alive with the breath
and brush of the artist. And even now, all she was seeing was through
the protective refraction of the great air dome. She wondered if
visitors could ever get outside....

“Hey, babe, stop staring and come say hello to the nice man.”

She turned and smiled at Chris, with what she meant to be only a
sideways glance at Johnny. His face was open and relaxed and easy ... a
face she remembered from long long ago, and saw now only for fleeting
moments in great privacy and dim light. But even while she watched, it
disappeared under the familiar mask.

“You’ll have to excuse the lady,” he was saying to Chris. “It’s her
first experience as visiting firelady off the planet of her birth,
and....”

“I’m just Moon-struck,” she broke in. “Hello, Chris. I ... it ... well,
_thanks_ for asking us.”

“Believe me, it’s a pleasure to see you.” He reached out a big hand,
and took hers in it, then released her to shake hands with Johnny.
“Having any trouble walking? Good. Those shoe plates are supposed to
make just enough difference, but gravity and magnetism aren’t exactly
the same. Some people have trouble at first. Come on. Got some chow
waiting for you. Even the Moon has traditions. Banquet in the dining
room every time a ship comes in.”

They were walking across a curious concrete flooring, flecked with
sparkling bits of silvery stuff, away from the dome and wall, the great
air-lock “gate” through which they had entered, leaving the two tall
ships and the Moon-vista behind them as they approached the center of
the base.

The shiny bits in the floor must be the magnetizing element, she
decided, and became pleasantly aware of the difference Chris had
mentioned. She felt light, buoyant, fluidly effortless in all her
movements--but still her feet behaved as they were accustomed to
behaving under normal gravity.

“I guess the people who feel uncomfortable walking must be the ones
with feet out of proportion to their bodies,” she said thoughtfully,
remembering how the plates had been carefully trimmed to size and
attached to her shoes at the spaceport on Earth. “I mean, if your
feet were a little small, the surface wouldn’t give you quite as much
attraction as you needed to make it feel the same...?”

Chris nodded. “We have special plates made up with thicker soles for
overweight people, if they’re staying on. Although, once you get used
to the idea, it’s kind of fun not to use them at all.” He smiled. “You
see what kind of solitary pleasures a man is reduced to in a setup
like this? But I can’t very well go floating around the place where
the hired hands can see me, so I only do it when I’m alone in the
executive suite,” he added, to Johnny, and went on: “Listen, if you
folks would rather skip the love-feast today, we can have something
sent up to my place. Whatever you’d rather--?”

“Makes no difference,” Johnny said curtly. “Whatever you want. They’ll
be expecting you, won’t they?”

She heard the tightness in his voice, shot a quick unnecessary look at
his face, and did her duty: “Frankly, I _would_ appreciate it if it’s
not too much trouble,” she lied. “I’m ... kind of dazed.” _That_ was no
lie.

“Sure thing. Wait here a minute, will you?” Chris stepped off more
briskly in the direction they had been going, caught up with a group
a little way ahead, and spoke quickly to a tall gangling redhead in
shorts and a violent patterned shirt. The redhead glanced back at them,
nodded, and rejoined his group. Chris came back, smiling, and they
turned off the wide main “street,” down a side corridor, heading “out”
again now, toward a different part of the dome wall. A little later
they turned again, and lost sight of the outside, walking up a ramp
that led to another corridor, this one lined with doors. Chris paused
in front of the last door along the row, and pushed it open.

Lisa took one step inside and gasped. Her first impressions of the
room itself were vague. That didn’t matter. She was facing a full wall
section of the dome. From floor to ceiling, and perhaps eighteen feet
along the side, the clear plastic brought the incredible outside right
in with them.

She heard Chris laugh, and Johnny said, “Hey, babe, you’re obstructing
traffic.” She stepped forward to let them in, but never moved her eyes.
The only thing she thought about at all in that brief time of pure
perception was to wish that Chris would go away, so she could know if
Johnny was sharing her delight. Then Chris went away.

“’Scuse me. Check messages ’noffice,” he said. Or something like that.
He vanished through a side door, and she took her eyes off the outside
long enough to look to Johnny and reach out her hand. He stepped
closer, took her hand in his own, and stood next to her, seeing it with
her--but just for an instant; then he stepped away.

Awareness of his movements around the room intruded gradually on her
preoccupation. She turned, and found him studying the titles in a
bookshelf; looked around herself, and took in a low couch, table,
comfortable looking sling chair. Another table, writing height, in the
far side of the room, with a straight chair in front of it. Everything
else was built in: shelves, drawers, cupboards.

No pictures. She was beginning to approve of Pete Christensen. Anyone
who’d hang a picture on a wall in the same room with what she’d just
been looking at....

Dinner was the biggest surprise yet, because it was so normal--normal
for Earthside luxury, that is. It arrived, scant minutes after Chris
had mixed and served cocktails, on a hotel-type wheeled table, which
came up in a sort of oversized dumbwaiter. On a plastic cloth, plastic
dishes and earthenware containers held what was literally the banquet
Chris had promised: appetizer to mints, with all stops in between,
and roast beef featured in the middle. _Plus_ a wine she could not
identify, but found delightful.

“Our own brand,” Chris chuckled. “So was the ‘gin.’ For that matter,
damn near everything on the table is. I’m not sure offhand whether
the dishes were made here or not, but the ceramic stuff was. And the
plastic cloth. _And_ the roast beef.”

She had known about the hydroponics farm, and there was really nothing
startling, if you thought about it, at the idea that where man can grow
starch, he can, and will, also distill spirits. “Which tank do you grow
your beef in?” She asked skeptically.

“No tank,” he said, beaming. “That pink slice represents one of our
biggest scores to date, gal. Experiment in transporting animals _in
utero_. First viable one we got was a pig--wouldn’t you know it? But
we have practically a complete livestock farm here now, and we’ve got
the process down to where we--” He stopped, as if checking himself, and
then finished smoothly. “--we think we can pack up any kind of stock a
space traveler orders and ship it to him--anywhere, any time. Not bad,
hey? We’re fooling around with deepfreeze now--the embryos, I mean. No
luck so far, but--?”

His shrug, Lee thought, was magnificently eloquent: all around her,
in front of her, even being ingested inside her, was evidence of the
stubborn, determined, bull-headed damn dumb optimism of that shrug.
Pete Christensen had _made_ this station--fought for it, worked at it,
schemed on its behalf--_made_ it almost as literally as though he’d
built it with his hands, unaided.

“You still headin’ for the wild blue yonder, man?”

_Johnny._ Lisa looked once at his tight sardonic withdrawal and thought
with a shiver:

_He made_ that, _too_.


_Dollars Dome--7:30_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

_Half an hour_, Phil thought. He’d give it another half hour, then he’d
have to go up.

“You get so it seems normal,” he said in answer to the comment from one
of the three new all-alike young biochemists. _How do they turn ’em
out so same-all-over?_ Once upon a time, scientists at least had been
odd ducks, individualists--Okay, escapists; but _individuals_. Now...?
“It’s morning now, Moonwise. Just dawned yesterday. But at Moon-night,
all the difference is the blinds are down--that’s the effect. The dome
lights actually give you the same color and quality of light. You just
can’t see out, very far. You have to make your own day-and-night for
living purposes. That’s one of the tests you’ll be getting this week.
Find out what kind of routine or schedule looks best for each one of
you, and after a while ‘night’ is the time you go to your room to
sleep.” _You’ll get used to it before_ I _will, I bet_, he thought,
amused at the knowledgeable confidence he managed to convey.

_Half an hour, at the most._ God only knows which bit of fur Chris was
rubbing backwards now. _Or which way Lightning Boy will strike when ole
Doc Kutler shows! Well, might as well live dangerously--if there was no
safe way to do the job._...

He confirmed the opinion of another of the triplet fledglings that
the day-night bit might be behind some of the psychogenic systemic
malfunctions he’d been warned about.

“Damnedest industrial hazards popping up these days,” the third one
said. “Used to be in our line all you worried about was catching
malaria or getting too much roentgen. Now you sign a release about
asthma and psychosomatic hypertension before they’ll hire you.”

“Well, that’s really my job here,” Phil said. “I’m the chief
headshrinker in charge of eustachian tubes. The day-night thing makes
trouble, but nothing like what that inner ear of yours will try to do.
Not to mention all the things your involuntary reflex system has to
learn all over, and--”

“You know, I never thought of just how _many_ things low gravity and
rhythm disruption could do to a man!” Biochem No. 1 broke in, “Man,
_that_ could be fascinating!”

_Well, all right._ Phil started to feel better. At least one out of
three was not Cool Cat straight to the core. The lad had spoken out of
turn, and out of character. Phil made a mental approving note and fixed
the still-nameless face in his mind. Then he stood up.

“I’m going to have to run out on you for a while,” he apologized.
“Boss-man has super-visitors upstairs.” No. 1 grinned; the others
looked politely baffled. _Carrera_--that was his name.

“Scuttlebutt around St. Thom wasn’t so far off, I guess,” No. 2 said to
No. 3.

“Everyone was saying _Johnny Wendt_ would be on board,” No. 3
explained. “Who is it anyhow? Or do we get Classified Personnel up
here?”

_Johnny Wendt._ In emphasis. Even from this jerk....

“Everyone was right,” Phil said flatly. “He’s up with Dr. Christensen
now.”

“Oh?”

“Dammit!” said No. 2. “I _know_ I’d have recognized him. I’ll swear he
wasn’t on the Messenger.”

Phil shrugged. “Maybe they have private luxury compartments?” he said
with a suggestion of a leer. “He brought Lisa Trovi with him.” And
turned and went, knowing he had penetrated the professional boredom of
No.’s 1 and 2.

_Johnny Wendt!_

Maybe the boys back at the table were more jazzed up about Lee being
there--but they didn’t say her name in caps or italics. Well, he
thought, it was nice to know you weren’t the _only_ sucker in town. And
Christensen’s bulldoggish efforts for the first time to get Wendt’s
name back on the rolls made full _objective_ sense to Phil.

He tossed a mental apology at Chris. Amendment, rather. He’d actually
begun to think the director _cared_ about Wendt.

Or maybe he did; it wouldn’t matter, _if_ he did. He didn’t care enough
about _himself_ to make a centimeter’s difference if the blueprint was
the plan for space. Whether he cared or not, he _needed_ Wendt.

Phil started up the stairs to see the immovable object visiting the
irresistible force.

Plus, of course, Lisa.


_Dollars Dome--8_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

The big wheel drifted in a sunlit void. Cargo ships snuggled cozily
into the vast hub hold. Tiny toy-robots and toy-men who looked, in
outspace gear, more like the robots than the robots did, clung to the
outer shell, making their way in spiralling circuits around the great
rim and the hub, checking, repairing, resealing the scars of cosmic
dust and ultra-high-velocity pinpoint pebbles.

Inside the ion tubes, geiger-suited crews cleaned and inspected.
Fuel shuttles took their turns at the maw of the tanks. In the rim
living quarters, crew couches were stripped and sprayed, deodorized,
sanitized, and u-vee’d, covered with fresh plastic sheets. A team of
two went through inspecting straps and webbing, and buckles.

All the routine of the _Messenger’s_ two-day Moonside orbit went on
as it always did. Shuttles came and went from and to the three domes.
And as routinely as all the rest, magnetic tweezers plucked a thin
strip of microfilm from a minute wall hole; a piece of candy offered
and accepted was sucked till the candycoat came off the hard center--a
pellet precisely shaped and sized to tonguing into the cavity of a
false tooth; two men conversed about supplies and schedules, talking
fluently meanwhile with their hands.

The shuttles went in and out, and before most of the residents of
Dollars Dome knew who their guests were--or that they _had_ special
guests--the top man in every national delegation at World Dome, plus
Dr. Chen and his aides in Plato Crater, knew that _John Wendt_ had come
back.

They also knew that Wendt had refused to go back into space since his
first return from Mars--or that that was what the American government
_said_. Now he was brought up, with absolute secrecy--kept in his bunk
the whole way--as a prisoner? or for Security reasons? by choice?
_why?_--and that a “woman friend” had accompanied him: presumably the
American tri-di dancer, Trovi.

_Why?_

In at least sixteen different rooms in the three man-made Moon oases,
men sat silently asking themselves the same questions, or conferring
worriedly with other men about it.

In Dollars Dome, the word gradually spread too. And in Dr. Peter
Andrew Christensen’s living room, Trovi and Wendt sat sipping wine and
coffee, while the Director made small talk and speculated about those
sixteen--or more--rooms, and what was going on inside them all.

       *       *       *       *       *

“... still headin’ into the wild blue yonder?” It didn’t come out
light, the way he’d meant it to. He avoided Lee’s quick look.

“You seen any leopards change spots lately, John?” The bastard laughed
as if the joke was on himself. Sure.

_Yeah. This cat over here, man. Flyin’ tiger turned to pussy-cat.
Yeh-man!_

The self-made leopard looked like licking cream, rambling on to Lisa
about food again. “Food gets ridiculously important to us here,” he
said. “But the psych boys had that taped ahead of time. Found it in the
World War Two, with the sub service, and then they doubled it in spades
on the nuclear jobs. I guess they figure all of us for--what do they
call it?--oral regressives--anybody who’ll get into this kind of spot
at all. Anyhow, that’s one thing I never had to fight for. Johnny can
tell you, even at the beginning, before we really had the farm going,
we used to get beef and turkey sent up, even when there was no shipping
space for lab supplies! Lord, how that used to gripe me!” He stopped a
minute, to empty his wine glass. “Coffee?”

“Let me do it,” Lee said.

_Busy little bee, ain’t you just, baby?_

“Of course that was before we had the Messenger,” Chris was going
again. “Every ounce counted, ten times over then.”

“Yeah,” Johnny heard himself saying, his voice coming from somewhere
outside his volition, but inside himself: “We had pretty good chow
on. The. _Colombo._ Too.” That was how it came out. But how was
unimportant. From where? _Why?_

He tried to remember when he had last so much as completed a conscious
_thought_ about that travesty--let alone said a word about it--Except
_No_ or _Go to Hell_! Or like that. He tried to see Lee’s face without
her noticing. Tried to find something else to say, while they sat
waiting. Tried to think of some way for them to be on the shuttle
tomorrow when it took off again.

_Eight_ days, he thought. Eight whole long
twenty-four-hours-to-the-each old-fashioned Earth-type days. _My God!_

It had been a mistake to come. But he’d known that. _Old
Johnny-can’t-turn-down-a-dare_, he thought, with small amusement.

That wasn’t quite right, either. It took _three_ dares: Chris; then
Lisa; then that damfool McLafferty with his idiot committees. Good ole
Solidarity Wendt, all-out for ole buddy Chris. Yeah.

There was a little wine still in the bottle. He picked it up. “Lee?”

“No thanks,” she said. “I’m on coffee now.”

“Chris?”

“Just a drop--no, never mind,” Chris said. “I’ve got some brandy
someplace around--” But he made no move to get it. “I’ve got to get
some work done tonight yet. Always busy as hell around here when the
Messenger’s up,” he added, to Lee.

“How long does she stay in orbit?” Johnny asked, hoping it sounded idle.

“Two days. Starts back Friday morning, but for our purposes, it’s
Thursday night. Anything out of here has to get off the ground by
ten tomorrow at the latest, to make orbit. Then she’s back by next
Wednesday. One thing, at least, you don’t have to worry about late
trains when they run on orbit!”

_And when did I hear that joke the first time?_ Johnny thought, while
Lisa gave her nicest duty-laugh. _This party’s sure getting dead_, he
thought. _And guess who killed it? Hell!_

_Eight days. Okay._

_Eight days?_

He finished the wine.

       *       *       *       *       *

“By the way,” Chris said, leaning back, “I’ve been catching up on that
ESP stuff since I saw you that time, Lee. You know, I used to fool
around with it quite a bit back in school--the Rhine cards and all
that. But I lost touch.”

“Decided you couldn’t push rockets with wishes?” Johnny bit in.

“That’s about it,” said Chris equably. “Now I think maybe I should have
stood with it. I’m sure as hell not pushing ’em any _other_ way.”

“If spaceships were wishes,” Johnny said, and stood up. “It’s in there,
isn’t it?” He pointed to the bedroom door.

“Huh?” Chris double-took. “Oh, yeah, right through the bedroom.”

“Excuse me.” He went out and left the other two in brief uncomfortable
silence.

“You know,” Chris said after a moment. “Telepathy would be damn useful
sometimes, when you think of it.”

“It’s okay, Chris.” Lee smiled, with obvious effort, and stood up. No
matter where she sat or what she did, her eyes kept turning back to the
stark lithographic contrasts of the weird lunar landscape on the other
side of the curved wall. “It’s--”

... _a lot better than I was afraid of_.... Well, you didn’t say a
thing like that: not even to a beaming-father-type like Chris. _He’s
not married_, she realized suddenly. That was too bad; he was a man who
ought to have children. _Children!_

The landscape blurred, and she blinked hard and fast.

“... matter of fact,” he was saying, “Your man Potter seems to be
getting a lot of respect. Maybe we _will_ push ships with PK someday,
if he’s right. Telepathy would be a lot more help just now, though--I’d
give a pretty to know what they’re up to at Red Dome, and Intelligence
doesn’t come up with much. His idea on telepathy is that it amounts to
a semantic translation of a total set of somatic conditions, right?”

“That’s how I get it.” Outside, a shimmering blue-tailed beetle skimmed
in a long parabola through the sky. Somebody’s shuttle-ship. _That’s
how we looked, coming in!_ “Doesn’t sound too likely, though--I mean,
how many people would get the right message ever, if it depended first
on one of them being able to--well, _project_ his own nerve and muscle
sets to another, and then the other one having the right frame of
reference, semantically, to ‘read’ the somatic set? Like, it won’t do
us any good when we meet up with Jovians or the bug-eyed types from
Arcturus Three, will it?” _Keep it light_, that’s all. _Just keep it
light._

“Oh, I’m willing to let the Arcturians wait,” he laughed. “I just want
to know what the boys in Red Dome are dreaming up. Now if you just fill
me in on how to make your muscles feel like my muscles--come to think
of it, that’s up Kutler’s alley, isn’t it? Wonder if he’s up on this at
all?”

“Talking dirty again?” Johnny stood in the bedroom doorway looking from
her to Chris to her. “Kindly keep y’all’s muscles in different parts
of the room,” he said, with a grin that was not a grin at all. “Or,”
he went on, facing Chris, still with the smile that made the words an
official joke, “you will start feeling _my_ muscles.”

_Oh, Lord! Stop it, Johnny!_ please _stop_!

“How in hell did you two get around to the Phys Ed department?” he went
on. “I thought I left you up on thought-steam rocket ships?”

“Too rarefied,” Chris said. “They forgot to think us up some
atmosphere.”

“Oh? Oh, yes, when did Young Doctor Kutler join the party?”

“Well, he hasn’t yet. Matter of fact, I thought he’d be up here by now.
He took over as official greeter for me with the new people who came up
with you.”

“You mean,” Johnny said slowly, “Kutler is up here too?”

“Sure. Didn’t you know? Lee, _you_ knew...?”

_Yes. Yes, I did._ “Hmmm?” She made a great thing out of tearing
herself from the view. “Oh, is he here _now_? I knew he _had_ been up,
but--?”

Chris swallowed it. Not Johnny. Damn him, damn his eyes! He had no
right to know so much about her and so stupid-silly little about _him_.

“Sure, he’s on the payroll now. First time I ever did anything the
Security boys loved me for. We’ve had this problem of sending people on
leave one month out of every four. Plays hell with our schedules and
personnel problem, which didn’t bother them downstairs--but when they
started tightening up on Security, they got _damn_ bothered about all
these classified project people being Earthside on their own so much.
But if they stay up here, without that relief, they don’t last a year,
most of ’em. Every psychogenic trouble in the books--plus some Phil can
write his own book about it when he’s done. They--there he is. Come in.
Hi--we were talking about you.”

Phil came in, smiled quietly, nodded to Lisa, and crossed to where
Johnny stood, hand held out.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said.

“Is it?”

Phil dropped the hand Johnny had ignored.

She knew exactly what would happen next, and could not even start to
think how to avoid it. She was appalled, but in a way almost relieved,
to find she was not even going to _try_.

The two men stood two feet apart, face to face, for a hovering moment.
Then Phil turned, with a faint shrug. “How do you pick these guys you
hire, Chris? I swear, when you talk to a bunch of them, you’d think
they were all manufactured in the same--”

“_I_ hire?” Christensen started. “Hell of a lot _I_ have to do with....”

“I asked you something, Doc,” Johnny said at the same time, and reached
out and put his hand on Kutler’s shoulder, turning him back. “Are you
so damn sure it’s so good to see me?”

Kutler shook his shoulder sharply; Johnny’s grip tightened.

Lisa stood watching.

“For krissake, Wendt!” Chris stepped forward. “What did _he_ do?”

“Nothing,” Johnny said through almost clenched teeth. “Not a goddam
thing!” He didn’t look at Chris; just at Phil. He dropped his hand.
Neither one moved.

“So _you’re_ the bright boy who’s been making plans?” Johnny laughed, a
short ugly bark. “I should of known. Okay, boy, here I am. Still in my
head, more or less. You proved your point. Lightning didn’t strike. I
made the trip, and so what? What’s next on your list of magic tricks?”

“Oh, Christ, Wendt, forget it, will you?” Kutler said. “I didn’t ask
to get you here. I only work here.” He turned to Chris. “I’ll see you
later, I guess?” He turned to Lee. “I’m sorry.”

That was the cue, of course. Johnny took two steps forward and his arm
drew back. “Leave. Her. Out. Of. It,” he said. “You. Son. Of. A. Bitch.”

For one quick instant, the script almost went through to the end.
Something exploded in Phil Kutler’s eyes that Lisa had known must be
in the man--because he _was_ a man--but had never seen or heard in any
way. Then the doctor reached out again and drew back the male response.

“Okay,” he told Johnny mildly. “Have it _your_ way.” He turned and left.

The silence he left was like the death of sound after a thunderclap.
Johnny stood tense, his arm still half-set for a blow, until the door
closed. Then he dropped into the nearest chair, went loose all over,
and looked down at the floor.

“I guess I figured things a little wrong, Chris,” he said tiredly. “I
shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry as all hell.” After a moment he looked
up at Lisa, and then away. He said nothing to her. Dimly she knew
that--for the first time?--maybe not?--she had had nothing to offer him.

_Damn it, oh damn, damn, damn, oh damn it all!_

“Maybe it would be better if we went back down this trip,” Johnny said,
still to the floor.

“I’ll see if I can work it,” Chris said. Something in his voice made
her look closer. It was incredible, but it was true: Chris wasn’t
angry; not even disappointed, specially; he just knew it was no good.
Maybe he also knew it hurt Johnny even more than it did him to know it;
but he no longer cared. It wouldn’t work: that finished it. He went to
the cabinet, set a full bottle of Earthside brandy on the table, and
two glasses.

“Why don’t you two take this along to your place?” he said, casually as
though nothing had ended, nothing had even begun. “I’ll see what I can
do about shifting some schedules. We might have to try and get you onto
a UN ship, okay?”

Johnny nodded. “Thanks.” He stood up, started to pass the bottle up,
and couldn’t do it. Lee followed. _Damn it_, she thought, _this time he
wasn’t even drunk!_

He made up for it. He was drunk _and_ asleep when Chris phoned to the
room two hours later. “He’s sleeping,” Lee said softly.

“Oh? Well, listen, we’ve got a problem here. I can get _one_ bunk.
_Only_ one. UN ship’s full up, a bunch of VIP’s who won’t wait. And I
can’t squeeze out more than one here, this trip.”

She was silent. She looked at the square solid face in the screen, and
wished ... well, what was there _to_ wish?

“The only way I could do it, Lee, would be as Priority Emergency, and I
think that might make some--well, some unpleasant publicity.”

“It’s all right, Chris,” she said clearly. “Suppose Johnny takes this
one, and I’ll go next week, the way we planned.”

“Do you think that’s--a good idea?”

She smiled. Johnny was not going to think it was a good idea at all.
“It looks like the only thing we _can_ do, doesn’t it?” Well, Johnny
could think what he liked. “I--frankly, I’d just as lief stay the week,
if it won’t--Well, you’re the boss. Just, if you think that’s best,
it’s perfectly all right with me.”

She waited breathlessly. “Sure,” he said. “I just didn’t think you’d
want--I thought you might be uncomfortable staying by yourself.”

“No. I’ll tell Johnny when he wakes up,” she said.

“You send him to me,” Chris said. “I’ll tell him.” She did not
contradict.

After she hung up, she went to the outside wall and pulled back the
drapes that Johnny had drawn. Light flooded the room. She closed the
drapes again, and stood outside them, nose to the window like a kid at
a candy store.

Instead of being worried, or upset, or angry, or nervous, or anything
she _ought_ to be, she kept looking and wondering if people ever got
tired of a scene like that.




PART SIX

_August 25--September 2, 1977_


_Dollars Dome--Thursday, August 25_

“Yeah. Sure. If it’s all right with Lee, it’s okay.” _Sure, what the
Hell? Why shouldn’t I leave my girl behind? Give the other boys a
chance._... That was idiocy. Or was it? You couldn’t say Chris had
failed to _notice_ Lee. _Well, who does? You want a babe nobody else
wants, find yourself some old bag. Plenty of girls who’ll be overjoyed
to marry the great Wendt._ Plenty of ’em. Sure. For all he knew, this
time might have torn it with Lee anyhow. He stood up. “I’ll go see if I
can round her up and see what she thinks, okay?”

“Right. See you in half an hour? I’ve got to get the changes cleared
through soon as possible.”

“Right.” He went out of Admin and across the mall to the guest
residence. The place had changed since--well, sure it had, he was
thinking four years back and more. He hadn’t really _seen_ it when he
came through on the way back from--

_All right, leave it lay.... Forget it!_

She wasn’t in the room. He found her finally in the dining room,
drinking a glass of milk with a tableful of awed young scientists. If
he could laugh today, it would be funny--the way their eyes swiveled
after her when she got up to come to him. _Plus_ the double-take when
the whispered word went round the table about who it was she’d gone to.
_The great Wendt!_

Well, the great Wendt was getting sent home for being bad. And he
couldn’t have mama’s hand to hold, this trip.

“Chris says he can swing one berth, but that’s all,” he said. “The way
I see it, I’m a heel no matter what I do. You rather stay alone till
next trip, or what?”

“Well--what do you think?”

“I think--never mind, babe, you don’t _want_ to know that. I guess
there’s nothing to do but go along with it? Unless you think you’d be--”

“What?”

“I don’t know. It’s that ole sou’then gennulman training coming out.
You know what I mean.”

“_Here?_ Don’t be an idiot, darling. I’ll keep my chastity.”

Damnedest part of it was: she would, too.

“Okay, babe. I’ll go let him know.” But he stayed where he was. “Babe?”

“Hmmm?”

“Hell, I--I’m sorry, that’s all. I don’t know what the Hell...!”

“It’s okay, Johnny. Let it ride, huh?”

“Sure.”

But there was something missing. After he talked to Chris, he wandered
out, thinking he’d find her and see if there was anything he could do,
in the three hours he had, to help things. Then he knew what he really
meant by “help things,” and made sure he _didn’t_ find her.

_She_ wouldn’t stop him. But it wasn’t what she wanted. Or what he had
any right to ask.

Be a good thing if she did find someone else, he thought. He swallowed
the fury in his throat, and found the bar.


  TRIP TO MOON FOR PROCESS SERVER?

  DOME DIRECTOR SUBPOENAED

    _McLafferty Demands Christensen
    Testify at Special Hearing For
    Space Security Next Week_

  Mexcity, Aug. 25: Dr. Peter A. Christensen, Director of the
  All-Americas Laboratory for The Investigation of Extra-Territorial
  Phenomena, has been summoned to testify at a Special Hearing of
  the Security Subcommittee of the Joint Congressional Space Affairs
  Committee (SAC).

  The Subcommittee convened in special session yesterday to study
  evidence previously announced by Chairman Ramon E. McLafferty (I.,
  E. Ch.) as “seriously questioning the efficacy of Space Research
  Security.” The nature of the evidence has not yet been revealed.

  Special Hearings on the matter, which Rep. McLafferty describes as
  “most urgent,” will commence next week, in advance of the convening
  of Congress. Dr. Christensen was called upon by the Committee today
  to appear voluntarily for questioning in regard to Security measures
  in the Moon Dome.

  Queried on the procedure of the Subcommittee if the Moon Research
  Director should fail to comply with the request for voluntary
  appearance, Rep. McLafferty said that a subpoena definitely would be
  issued.

  “The Moon Dome is a territorial part of the Americas,” stated the
  East Chilean Industrialist, who is a candidate for Senator from
  Chile this fall. “If it is necessary to send a subpoena there,” he
  told a press conference this morning, “we will do so.” He added that
  he did not believe Dr. Christensen would fail to comply with the
  Subcommittee’s request.


_Dollars Dome--Sunday, August 28_

The Biochem labs occupied a complete “building”--a structural unit
shaped like a pie-slice with the first forkful already gone--a pumpkin
pie, possibly, or any fallen custard filling that would provide
for greater height at the outside than in the center. Eight such
buildings extended from the central Mall to the crater walls, rising by
stepped-back stories till the top two levels in each were single rows
of rooms facing the transparent dome wall above the crater. These were,
for the most part, living quarters, but in Bio even the top stories
were taken over for lab space by now.

Still, there was not room enough in the one building. The “Mars-bugs,”
which had occupied perhaps one cubic meter in their sample boxes on
the _Colombo_ twenty months earlier had been so carefully, prudently,
frequently, and multi-experimentally proliferated in the meantime
that a department which had once shared the single building with
two other sections had now--and recently, nearly half of the growth
having occurred in the past three months--overflowed into corners and
corridors all through the Dome.

There was a batch of cultures in Metallurgy being studied for
“evolution-mutation” response to various mineral environments. With the
assays and testing of (non-self-reproducing) Mars samples long finished
in that department, and its original function in connection with rocket
construction and propulsion become an economic dodo, the once-proudly
_in_organic chemists turned eagerly to working with bugs.

The hydroponics farm had suffered no such financial blight as had
Metals and Fuels and other non-maintenance projects; but efficiency
in the building known as the Farm had so minimized space requirements
during eleven years of steadily increased personnel _and_ improved
living standards, that one whole tank room was available--and thus put
to use--for “farming” experiments with bugs.

A section of Electronics was currently being cleared and remodeled for
the cybernetic approach to a theoretical understanding of “controlled
evolution” by construction of analog computers which might “act out”
the mathematics that had to date eluded all other efforts at analytical
understanding.

As a matter of fact, the bugs had already, in one sense, overflowed the
Dome itself. One farm-tank full had been “planted” in an open pavilion
outside the walls, roofed against meteors, but incompletely enclosed:
“The Shack” was the simplest way to conduct Moon-environment tests.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lisa followed Thad Bourgnese down ramp after ramp in the Bio building,
listening with half an ear as she was trailed through the upper
levels where the Earth-normal atmosphere work was done, down to
the glassed-off pressurized chambers near the crater floor where
experiments were conducted by space-suited scientists in Mars-normal,
or at least a half-dozen variant approximations of Mars-normal,
atmosphere.

This was the only building she had not previously toured at least
superficially; and Thad was seeing to it that her tour here was _not_
superficial at all. But by this time she was chronically half a day
behind herself, still absorbing mentally what she had seen in the
morning, while she tried to retain what was shown her in the afternoon
long enough to digest it that evening.

She hadn’t realized; she hadn’t even _begun_ to realize before
she came: she had known everything there was to know about Johnny
Wendt--except what mattered.

She knew the public hero, the lover, and the tortured man. From very
far and very near, especially from near--from inside-out almost--she
knew him better than, perhaps, she knew herself: certainly better than
_he_ knew himself. But now, in his absence, she was learning for the
first time in concrete specific terms just _who_ Johnny was--what he
had done--and _why_ so many people _gave_ a damn.

Nine-tenths of the research inside the Dome was directly connected
with what Johnny had brought back from Mars. Half of the total stemmed
directly from investigations initiated by either Wendt or Laughlin on
Mars, or by Johnny on the trip home.

The popular tag, _astronauts_, was misleadingly limited, and Johnny
had never done or said anything to correct the misconception for Lee.
The fact was, he and Doug had not been sent just to pilot a ship,
collect specimens, and carry them safely home. That job could have been
accomplished with robots; the justification for risking human life was
the requirement of trained human judgment. The two men had not just
picked samples: they had decided _what_ to pick; had run the first
tests and experiments on the spot; initiated whole lines of research;
and judged on the basis of their findings what was worth carrying home
and what was not.

They had worked hard for a year and more on Mars; and harder, perhaps,
training for ten long years before. Between them, they had contained
a practicing knowledge of the whole spectrum of analytical and
investigative sciences. Doug was the “biologist”--which, in that team,
meant doctor, farmer, organic chemist, cook, as well as the branches of
the life sciences; Johnny was “physicist,” which meant, in particular,
the whole range of cybernetics, from its application to neurology and
linguistics, to its most abstruse “big-brain” computing techniques.
As such, he was pilot and navigator, engineering crew, construction
and repair man, inorganic chemist, civil, mechanical, and electrical
engineer, nuclear physicist, and mathematician.

It had taken ten years of Academy and post-grad work, and then special
training on the Moon, to prepare these two, and a score of others for
the complex job. In the end, Johnny and Doug had seemed the best team
for the trip.

Lisa had known all this, but known it as one knows, for instance,
that the diameter of Earth is 7928 miles; now she was learning it
first-hand, as one knows the diameter of a plum is small enough to be
held inside one’s hand.

And it was awkward, always, because everyone--bar Chris and Phil--took
it for granted that she knew already.

Naturally, Johnny would have told her everything; naturally, she’d have
seen the slides and films, read the records, heard the stories over and
again.

But--naturally--she knew nothing, except what she had read in public
print, heard from Phil Kutler, or pieced together from Johnny’s
infrequent, oblique, and most often uncompleted references. If he even
owned any slides or pictures, Lisa did not know about it; she finally
had to ask to see the stereos of the Martian “city”--the crumbling
ruins of whatever civilization had once existed there. Then, when they
found out that she really never _had_ seen anything, they brought
the whole works out for her: Marscapes and space shots and all the
“Mars-bug” micro-shots that were not _too_ classified to show.

And all the time, wherever she went, whatever she did, right outside
and visible every time you crossed the mall, was the Beyond, the
still-unborn world of the Moon, and Space itself, the stuff of dreams
that ruled the whole life of a man like Peter Christensen--that _had_
ruled, guided, channelled Johnny’s life, until--

Till what? Till he went out too far? Till he woke up? Until the big
dream turned to a steady nightmare for some reason no one, Phil or
Chris, Johnny, or she herself, quite knew.

The strange thing was, the more she learned, the more she understood,
about the John Wendt she had never met, the harder it was to think of
going home to the sad travesty of the whole man who waited for her back
on Earth.

Well, not yet quite on Earth: it was now Sunday afternoon, and he would
be en route along the Belt from Perigee--or even spiraling downward in
the Earth bird by now. Since Thursday night, he would have been in the
same state of drugged calm in which they had both awakened just enough
to take nourishment and eliminate wastes, still half-unaware, all the
way up.

“Well, that’s about it....”

Lisa pulled herself out of her private world of worry and wonderment,
and followed Thad back up the ramps.

“About the only thing you haven’t seen yet is the Shack,” he was saying.

“Shack?”

“Outside,” he explained. “We figured the easiest way to study these
babies at Moon conditions was right out there on the Moon. You’ve
probably seen the Shack from your window. You’re in North Hall, aren’t
you?”

“Yesss ... oh, of course. I thought--” She giggled, realizing for the
first time how absurd the immediate assumption had been. “I thought it
was some kind of _guard_ house.”

Thad laughed and pushed the lounge room door open for her, leaned past
to hold it as she went through. He nodded to two men deep in discussion
near the door, waved to a group across the room. It was cheerful and
late-afternoon-feeling inside. A handsome red-haired girl detached
herself from a knot of white-coated technicians at the tea table and
approached them.

“Hi, Ree.” His voice held a special warmth that made Lisa look again,
more closely, at the girl. It was astonishing, really, how many of
these girl scientists were lovely women as well....

_Well! How quaint! Shades of great-granddad!_ ... but it was true, all
the same, she thought stubbornly. You just _didn’t_ see this particular
kind of--well, loved-loveliness--in most busy-brain career types on
Earth. But here, even the plain ones seemed to have that sort of
_glow_....

_So?_ There were at least as many men as women here, she reminded
herself--and no fluffy chicks to grab off the men from the brainy
types. So why shouldn’t they look loved-and-lovely? They _were_, that’s
all. As to wit, Thad’s voice just now....

_Oh, Johnny! Johnny, come back! Wherever you are, all the rest of you,
darling--come back!_

The three of them sat together, drinking hot tea and talking: the
dance, and biology, McLafferty and psychosomatic cures, the current
topics of gossip and news in the Dome--all but one, Lisa thought. None
of them mentioned John Wendt.

_He’s down by now, I guess._...

“What time does the rocket get down to Earth usually?” she asked.

“Oh, six, seven, eight, maybe nine--depends on the Belt and ionosphere
conditions, mostly.”

She nodded, sipped tea. It was nearly six now; he’d be on Relay, or on
the way down. What was he thinking? What had he been thinking...?

Nothing, of course. He’d been asleep all this time. Four days in her
life that had simply _not-been_ for him: it was a strange thought, and
an unpleasant one.

       *       *       *       *       *

She was up in her room, just done changing for dinner, when Chris
phoned, to tell her he’d received clearance on the Earth landing. “I
just wanted to let you know,” he said a bit awkwardly. “Everything’s
fine....”

“Johnny--?” She took a firm grip on the words this time: “Johnny was
all right? He wasn’t upset, or--anything?”

“He’s fine. Tell you the truth, Lee, I asked for a special call on it.
He came out of it fine. Calm. Sent word he’d meet you at Baja next
week.”

“Oh thank _God_!”

She had not meant that to be said aloud; she was not even _certain_
that she had. But the words stayed in her brain like a refrain for
hours afterward: _thank God, oh, thank God!_

“... told them I’d ask you, and see what you....”

“I’m sorry, Chris. I was wandering. I missed something.”

“The World Dome call.”

“Which World Dome call?”

“You _were_ wandering, gal. I was telling you, I had a call from the
UN Dome right after the one from Relay. They heard you were staying on
this week, and wanted to know if there was any chance of getting you to
give an evening performance before you go?”

“Performance? Here? On the _Moon_?”

“Well, I _said_ I didn’t know--Why not? I should think this place would
be a dancer’s dream?”

He was dead right, of course. And she was shocked that in five days
here she’d never even _thought_ of the things you could do dancing at
one-sixth gravity!

“I’d _love_ to, Chris, but--listen, I’ll try some stuff tonight and see
how it goes, okay? Can you let them know tomorrow morning?”

“Sure. It would be all rush-rush, anyhow. Not much difference tonight
or tomorrow. You had dinner yet?”

“I was just going. I told Thad I’d eat with him and that lovely
girl--Rita?”

“Rita Donovan?”

“That’s right. But if I’m going to practice, I think I’ll eat later.
Are you going down now?”

“I suppose so. Why?”

“Well, would you explain to Thad? Or what’s his room? I’ll call--”

“I’ll let him know. Now can _I_ ask a favor?”

“Any time, Chris.” He was such a _nice_ man....

“Frankly, I feel kind of foolish,” he said, with his slow smile, “but
Kutler’s been up here sounding off about your dancing, and tell you the
truth, I don’t usually take much time for that kind of thing on tri-di.
I--”

She let out a peal of delighted laughter. “_Doctor_ Christensen, are
you asking for a stage-door pass to watch rehearsal?”

“I guess that’s the size of it.” He actually looked sheepish...!

“Okay, but on one condition--”

“Yes?”

“Where’s the stage?”

He started to answer, and she interrupted. “I didn’t mean _the_ stage.
I meant a place for practice. All I need is floor and something to play
tapes on. Oh--can I get some stuff from the library now?”

“All the time,” he said. “Like the dining room. Library has to stay
open, around here. Everyone’s on such whacky schedules.”

“Well, good, I’ll change and go see what they’ve got. Suppose--how
about meeting me there? Then you can show me where to set up shop?”

“Great. Twenty minutes. I’ll see Thad on the way.”

“You’re a doll.” She switched off, humming the tune that had started
to run through her head as soon as she thought at all seriously about
dancing here. But _how_ could she not have thought of it once all this
time?

She shook her head, smiling, still humming, and changed to dance
leotards, added a full skirt, and slipped on soft dance shoes.

Before she left the room, she stood for a long moment looking through
the dome wall at the brilliant mid-day moonscape outside.

_If I ask to see the Shack, they’ll let me go out_, she thought; and
thought, afterwards, it was silly to _want_ to so much. But she would
ask.


_Mexcity--Monday, August 29, 9:30_ A.M. _(C.S.T.)_

The General refolded his morning paper, and set it neatly in its
accustomed upper left hand corner of his desk. He was pleased. By now
the gossip columnists would be in full cry; the afternoon papers would
be worth seeing.

From his briefcase, he took a flat envelope, and excerpted three
microfilms. He threw the first one on the desk reader, and glanced
through it again: Chris was too damn _involved_ with Wendt, he thought
worriedly. The message was somehow, almost intangibly, fuzzy; not
Chris’ usual clear-stated summary, anyhow. And somehow the man had
completely missed seeing the obvious newspaper advantages.

Prentiss had just about bust a gut getting the press release ready when
word came from Relay--and Chris hadn’t even thought to call him during
the week on it, so they could get set ahead.

Nobody (but _no_body, the General thought chuckling reminiscently) was
going to believe that Johnny Wendt had gone up to the Moon, in the
company of a beautiful dancer, both under strictest security to the
point of full-trip sedation, and come back, the same way, the same
_Messenger_ orbit, leaving the gal behind, for purely _personal_,
non-significant reasons.

He found it hard to believe himself. The more he thought about it,
the more the overtones--or undertones?--of the courier-message from
Christensen bothered him.

_Hell_, he decided: _It’s good copy. That’s all._

And what _could_ Chris be pulling?

It didn’t make sense enough to worry over.

So he stopped worrying.

The next film he had also seen at home the night before, but he
studied it carefully again. It was long: five single-spaced typed
pages, compactly written; and it contained the life history of
Ramon E. McLafferty, Congressman from East Chile, white hope of the
Industrialist Party, Chairman of the Space Security Subcommittee of the
Joint House-Senate Space Affairs Committee--former ranch hand, bookie,
stock yard “insurance”-protection boss, newspaper owner, fighting union
smasher, contractor for nearly 20% of the work on construction of the
_Messenger_, minority holder of Undersea Corp. stock, and probable next
junior Chilean Senator.

The General spent some time rereading, and reading again, the story
of Ray McLafferty’s rags-to-riches rise--plus an abstract of a
psychoanalytic report, and some dirty-edges peripheral track-trailing.
When he felt quite sure he had all the pertinent facts in his mind, he
took the film and placed it immediately in the special miniature safe
at the back of his bottom desk drawer.

The third film was a standard form from M.I., stamped across the top
with block-lettered TOP SECRET’s. This one Harbridge had gotten on his
way to work. It was, as it turned out, the most interesting document of
the three.

In one unsensationally worded paragraph, it stated conclusively that
definite evidence had finally been obtained regarding the Palisades
Query. There had been a physical transferral of subjects (ref. PQ
1579J-2z) on several occasions, first known being 9/12/76; most recent,
3/14/77; two known dates in between, and three suspected. Transferral
in small quantity, but sufficient for purpose of investigation by
instigators.

Which meant simply that on at least four occasions, small, but
significant, samples of Mars-bugs _had_ been successfully turned over
to agents of Red Dome, where said samples might now be assumed to
have flourished and multiplied, and to be under study at _least_ as
intensive as that at Playfair.

The General pursed his lips thoughtfully. He removed the film, and held
a match to the edge, dropped it into a metal bowl set with precision at
the right front edge of the desk top, watched it dissolve into smoke
and a small residue of chemical matter.

He repeated the procedure with Chris’s report, smiling as he thought
about Ray McLafferty:

_Lordy, what he’d give to see that damn paper!_

The smile was because there was no possibility that any such
information could get to the Congressman’s hands.


_Dollars Dome--Tuesday, August 30, 1977_

“I hate to stop and eat, even,” she said. Her cheeks were pink, and
her smile was one of pure sensual pleasure. You could see in the way
she walked that she was still feeling the wild pleasures of leaps and
pirouettes to soaring music, free from the weight of a lifetime on
Earth. “You know, I just can’t figure out why I never even _thought_ of
it till they asked!”

Phil smiled, and manufactured a leer. “Come let me show you my couch,”
he said. “We’ll find _out_ why.”

“Darling,” she said, “But I’m _hungry_.”

“Wellll--okay,” he said. “_After_ dinner.”

They laughed at each other, and impulsively, she reached for his hand
as they walked into the dining room. Damn if it wasn’t catching,
he thought with amusement, and yet with a sharpening edge of
concern--because it just didn’t _fit_. But when you looked at the
tables in here, the groups of two, four, five, six, eating and talking
and smiling....

It reminded him of something dim, in the background of memory....

He caught it: photographs, in his childhood, of Israeli and Russian
co-ops. Propaganda shots, of happy smiling healthy “free workers.”

But the scene here was not posed. It was for real. And it went on all
the time, all the hell over the slaphappy Dome. _And_ it was getting
more pronounced. He noticed it more than he had at first, in spite of
getting used to it. _And_ he thought it had started to show up in the
clinical picture too. Nothing conclusive yet, but--

“Hey?” She’d said something he missed.

“Just--I wish I was going to have time to _do_ that show.”

“Well, why not? Chris said something about them calling again today. If
you gave the word now, I’ll bet they’d get it set for tomorrow night?”

“_Tomorrow?_ Don’t be silly, dear. I’d need at _least_ four more--well,
maybe three days. But I’m just _starting_ to get an idea what I can do.
Phil, it’s like--like starting all over, say to learn ballet, _after_
you’ve been an expert in, say, African dance. It’s _that_ different!”

“Yeah? Well you could fool me, kid. I’m just ignorant enough to think
you looked damn good back there.”

They took their dinners to a table where Thad Bourgnese and the
Donovan girl and a couple of others were already seated. Thad jumped up
to move a chair for Lee next to his own. Phil pulled up his own chair
alongside Rita, watching her.

By every damn bit of experience he had with anyone he’d ever known,
this particular girl ought to flip her lid this time. Instead, she
turned and smiled and said, “She is just too beautiful to believe,
isn’t she?”

“Yeah.” Phil ate his soup, and kept his thoughts to himself. When Chris
joined them a few minutes later, and took Lisa’s other side, engaging
her in intense quiet-voiced conversation, he watched Thad from out of
the edge of his vision.

Bourgnese turned to Rita again. That was all. You’d have sworn no one
anywhere around the table had felt the least ruffle of irritation at
any point.

Phil was beginning to believe they _hadn’t_; for the first time,
he started mentally reviewing, _seriously_, some of the startling
improvements he’d seen in his hypertension cases. _It figures_, he
thought, reluctantly. _Damn if it don’t figure_....

“Phil!”

“Hmmm?” He looked past Rita and Thad to Lee’s rosy face.

“Remember what we were saying before?”

“Yeah?” _Which what? Which before?_

“Well,” she said, brimming with laughter, “Chris wants to know if I’d
be willing to give up my berth this week, so he can take it!”

“I got the official bit just now,” Chris told them all. “They want me
to testify next Tuesday. But, Lee, we can switch someone else, if you
think--”

“Oh, _no_. I mean, thanks, but--well, frankly, I was just telling Phil
when we came in, I wished I could have some more time for practicing.
Now I’ve got started, I’m just _flabbergasted_....”

       *       *       *       *       *

Later, he got her alone long enough to make sure she had not spoken
spur-of-the-moment, before she thought about Johnny.

She hadn’t.

“Chris said I could radiowire him this evening, and if he wants, he’ll
be able to call me, tonight or tomorrow. So we’re not announcing
anything about the performance yet. But he got a report that Johnny was
fine when he landed, and--oh, dammit, Phil, one week won’t _kill_ him.
One _more_ week, I mean. And when do you think I’ll ever get a chance
to do this stuff again?”

“Honey--_I’m_ not saying No.”

“I know.” She looked at him with such affection it almost hurt. “I’m
not arguing with you, either, dear--just with me. But you know--I’m
beginning to think maybe Johnny’s a lot tougher than we give him credit
for. _I_ think he’ll be okay.” She stepped away, turned back for a
moment. “Or maybe I want to find out if he is,” she added, and vanished
down the ramp to her practice room.


_St. Croix, U.S.A.A.--Friday, September 2, 1977_

The bar was cool and dim in the daytime, a good place to sit and look,
without the added haze and heat and too-bright light, into the anyhow
doubtful mirror of your mind. But as dusk dropped on the island, the
bar conversely brightened. With the evening’s coolness, it grew warmer
inside. At midnight, it had become a gaudy splotch of brilliance aburst
with noise, fragrance and stench, sweat and promises.

Light and color, odors and entreating bodies, these could be shut
out, he had learned quickly, simply by keeping his eyes on his glass,
and his glass full enough. But the noises--shrieking and murmuring,
laughter and shouts, the sound of glasses, of cards and rolling dice
and clicking wheels, of shuffling feet, pounding heels, of silver coins
and golden rum in swift exchange,--the bloodbeating rhythm of the
calypso band in back of the thousand sounds of passion and delight,
despair, forgetfulness, lust and seduction in the tropic night--these
could not be shut out, nor would he do so if he could. They built a
barrier over the darkness that shrouded the mirror of his soul.

Johnny sat where he had been since noon, in the carved wooden booth,
and the girl’s voice for some reason emerged by itself, separately,
from the sound of the room, drawing him back from the dazed withdrawal
with which he had countered the bar’s evening dawn.

He looked at her apprehensively: lovely kid. He shook his head: “No
thanks, doll. Thanks, but no thanks. Siddown. Have a drink.”

She sat.

She was young, very young. Her shoulders were bare, and the white
ruffles of her blouse on breast and arms gave her an oddly _pure_ look
in the cacophony of color in the midnight-bar. When she sat, the
cerise skirt and black lace ruffle of her petticoat were hidden; all he
could see was the blouse and bare skin above. Light spilled on golden
skin; the crimson of her lips was all the impact of color she made; all
the rest was black (hair and eyes), and white (blouse, teeth, eyes),
and glowing tan-gold. She might have been anything from a grown-up
twelve to well-preserved twenty-two--well-preserved, that is, for an
island girl of her trade. Johnny guessed seventeen.

While she drank rum-and-coke, and he sipped a fresh bourbon, he
gave the whole idea some serious thought. A lovely girl, certainly.
Clean-looking, too. He could check with Jake. Jake would know; Jake was
his buddy. Jake said, don’t take any babes up without checkin’ first.
Half of ’em’s sick, and most of the rest is thieves. Jest check with me
first. That’s what Jake said.

Jake was at the bar now. Johnny toyed with the thought of taking the
girl to the bar, and then maybe upstairs. The room upstairs was big and
dim, cool, quiet now at midnight as it had been in the bar when he came
in at noon. At noon the room was hot, and even through the blinds the
whiteness of high sun crept in.

The room was cool now: cool and quiet and all alone.

_Lisa_....

“What’s your name, doll?”

She told him, and it was hilariously funny, because it was Dolly, and
he’d called her _doll_ so she’d thought he knew all along, and the band
came and played _Dolly Dawn_. When they went to the bar, Jake nodded
and said Dolly was fine, Dolly be good for him. So he gave Dolly five
dollars, for being a good girl, and shook hands with Jake, and went up
alone to the dim cool aloneness where nobody knew or cared anything
anyhow he could sleep deep and no dreams.

But he remembered before he was all the way asleep that it was
Friday--_had_ been Friday--and tomorrow--today--he would have to leave
... back to where the world was and people who knew all about it ...
about everything.

When he woke up, the newspaper was under the door for him: he’d told
them when he came: no papers, no tri-di, no nothin’, till Saturday.
Bring me a paper on Saturday. And here it was.

They were all right. Jake, all of them, they were okay.

The headline was right on page one.

  _MOON LAB DIRECTOR WILL TESTIFY_

  _Christensen To Appear At SAC Hearing Tuesday_

  Mexcity, Sep. 2: Dr. Peter A. Christensen, Research Director of the
  U.S.A.A. Moon Laboratory, is en route to Earth today, to testify
  voluntarily for the McLafferty Committee, at a hearing next Tuesday,
  Sep. 6.

  The announcement of Dr. Christensen’s compliance with the request of
  the S.A.C. Security Subcommittee Chairman, Rep. Ramon E. McLafferty
  (I., E. Ch.) was made today by Brigadier General “Jed” Harbridge,
  Decagon Science and Space chief. The Moon Lab program, although under
  Congressional control primarily, is sponsored in part by the U.S.A.A.
  Space Academy, and associated Decagon Space Research units.

  There was no comment from Gen. Harbridge on the “evidence” McLafferty
  claims to have regarding Security leaks, and general laxity, at
  the Moon Dome. The official Decagon statement said only that Dr.
  Christensen boarded the Messenger satellite last night, and will
  appear, of his own volition, at the Tuesday hearing.

  Dr. Christensen’s decision followed an official request from the
  Subcommittee radioed to the Moon Tuesday. Acknowledgement of the
  message and compliance with the request was received Wednesday
  by Rep. McLafferty, it was learned at his office here today. Dr.
  Christensen will arrive on Earth Sunday, Sep. 4, at about 8 P.M.,
  at St. Thom Spaceport. The rocket, previously announced to land at
  Baja Spaceport, was rescheduled for St. Thom after receipt of Dr.
  Christensen’s message to the Decagon.

Johnny smiled wryly. Poor Chris--everything had looked so rosy to him
five years ago. They were really ganging up on the guy now. _Yeah--poor
Chris! Poor benighted bastard! Damn good thing_ ... but you couldn’t
help feeling sorry for the man. He meant well; he was a Hell of a good
guy.

_Just stupid, that’s all!_

Johnny shrugged, dropped the paper, picked it up and riffled through
for other news, feeling luxurious because he didn’t have to leave today
after all. The ship was coming to St. Thom. Twenty minutes away, was
all. Plenty of time, if he left on the six o’clock jitney tomorrow.
“About 8 P.M.” usually wound up to mean about midnight....

  TROVI TO DANCE ON MOON

_Well, well, we’re getting around, aren’t we?_

It was a good picture of her, one of the batch they had taken out at
the edge of the pool last September: Lee in Peter Pan costume, poised
on one toe, it seemed, right on the edge of the pool--about to take
off, you’d swear it.

  A new art-form will be born this Saturday night [it said
  underneath] when Lisa Trovi, world-renowned tri-di dancer, gives a
  precedent-making performance at the Moon’s World Dome. Miss Trovi has
  been on the Moon, at the U.S.A.A. Dome, since August 24, practicing
  for her appearance this Saturday.

  “It’s a completely new kind of dance,” Miss Trovi says. “I’m just
  beginning to realize what can be done in light gravity. It’s like
  changing from swimming in treacle to swimming in water.”

  The performance, scheduled for 8.30 P.M. (G.S.T.--3.30 P.M. C.S.T.)
  will be broadcast live if conditions permit. Tri-di tapes will be
  aired from New York at a later date.

_Saturday_....

But _this_ was Saturday. She wasn’t on the wheel. She wasn’t coming.

He realized only slowly that he was not surprised.

“Stands to reason,” he thought. He showered and went down for breakfast
of ham and eggs, pineapple juice, and good native rum at the bar.




PART SEVEN

_September 5-18, 1977_


_Acapulco--Monday evening, September 5._ “Still no dice?”

“Nothing. God knows where the damfool is.” Chris came back from the
telephone, sat down in the webbed chair, and stared without seeing at
an expanse of mountain, sun, water, and forest that would have demanded
the full attention of any man who did not live in daily view of heaven
itself.

“How bad _was_ it?” Harbridge asked.

“Not too. He had sense enough to suggest going back himself, before it
got worse. I just wish to hell _I_ hadn’t been such a fool. I should
have known--I’ll tell you, the one I feel sorry for is the girl. Lisa.
He doesn’t know what he’s--Hell, sure he does!” _I keep forgetting_, he
thought, ashamed. _Johnny’s entitled to anything he can get!_

“I don’t know what’s going to happen now,” he said thoughtfully. “If
he’s not home, he might not have gotten her wire either. Hell to pay if
he finds out from the papers, or--Well, let’s hope he took off on a bat
after he _did_ get the message. But I hope she’s heard from him.”

Harbridge was smiling with a sort of tolerant amusement. “Must be quite
a girl,” he said.

“Go to Hell,” said Chris amiably. Both men laughed, and turned their
attention to the less entertaining but more urgent business of the next
day’s testimony.

Chris was astonished, as always, at a glimpse into the workings of a
Harbridge operation. Jed had a list of the questions that he would
be asked. Jed also knew that McLafferty planned on parlaying the
week’s hearings into a trip to the Moon for himself. And he knew which
reporters would cover the day with what biasses.

“Reporters?” Chris was surprised. “Isn’t it on the air?”

“Nope.” Jed’s mouth wrinkled briefly in half-smile. “The Honorable
Congressman from East Chile says that he will not further endanger
the Security of the Americas by utilizing a hearing chamber in which
matters of utmost secrecy must be discussed as an open-air forum for
personal publicity. I quote,” he added, “from a rather extensive
article in the current _Time_.”

“Well, well. Whaddya know? This boy is not stupid.”

“Not even a little. Bear it in mind. Now; suppose we run through the
questions. Take the stand, Doctor.”

They went down the list. Occasionally, Jed would stop listening to make
a suggestion. Once he proposed a complete change of treatment. Mostly,
he nodded with satisfaction. “You’re really doing a job up there,
Chris,” he said when they finished. “Damn! It’s a pleasure to see
someone once in a while who knows what goes on in his own bailiwick.”
He went to the bar. “What’ll you have? Scotch?” He poured, shaking
his head. “Sometimes, lately, it gets to seem as if everyone has his
eye on the ball so hard that you’d swear they don’t know what team
they’re playing for. Or what game it is. I don’t think I know more
than a dozen men in Mexcity who actually _do_ their jobs--that’s not
true, either,” he stopped himself. “I know plenty of them--but they
work _for_ somebody. I meant men at the top. They’re so busy staying
there, somebody else has to ‘handle the details.’ Which means, do their
work for them, while they keep a weather-eye out on the lookout post.
Anyhow,” he said briskly, “Ray McLafferty _knows_ what he’s doing. He’s
no pushover, Chris.” He drank deeply, and walked over to where his
comrade-in-arms of twenty years’ battles sat.

“Listen, Chris, what I’m saying is: watch out for this guy. He’s
dangerous. Frankly, I think I might just have outsmarted myself this
time.”

“That’s not how you sounded an hour ago.” Chris twirled his glass in
his hand. He did not look up. He knew Jed Harbridge pretty well. There
was more coming. “I thought we had it made?”

“Here’s how I see it--as of right now. Ray’ll shoot the works on this
thing. It’s a sure ticket into the Senate for him, if he plays it
right. And he wants that seat _bad_. He’s aiming high. Frankly, I’m
with him. He’s smart and he works hard, and he’s got enough imagination
to see what that ass in Americas House couldn’t see if you painted it
out for him color by color. The day Ray gets in there--and I think
he’ll make it in twelve years, with any luck--we’ll _have_ a Space
program and we won’t ever have to go through this kind of friggin
corruption to get what we need again.”

“So? This is bad?” Chris put his glass down. He was beginning to
understand, and he did not like the way it felt, somewhere around the
middle of his belly.

“Maybe. For you. Play it tough tomorrow, Chris. But when he comes to
the Dome--I’d play it soft if I were you. He wants a Space program--but
he wants it under his thumb. If you’re _too_ tough-- Well, he’ll
probably be head of SAC next year.”

“I think I follow you, but I don’t know if I like the looks of the
terrain. I take it you mean, _we’re_ going to win, but _I_ just might
lose?”

“I didn’t figure it that way, Chris-- Well, hell, you know that. This
McLafferty is new; I underestimated him at first ... I still think
we can handle him. I just don’t want to see you go in there without
knowing everything.”

“Yeah. I know.” Chris stood up. “Guess I’ll try Johnny once more,
before I quit. Say--wasn’t there something about a subpoena for him?
Maybe he’s ducking--”

“Or maybe they’re keeping him tanked up and happy until the right day.
That’s one thing that does worry me, Chris. I hope you find the guy.”

“Yeah. Well, there’s nothing that he can say, really. Christ, he didn’t
even _see_ anything but the Dome. Had him kept under sedation the whole
way.” He stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Here’s how I figure
it, Jed. Like, I dragged Johnny up there because his name would help,
and I guess after I met the girl, I knew she’d push too, right with us.
She wants him back on his feet. She’s a smart chick. She knows he can’t
make it from flat on his fanny; he needs a job to do. So: I get the
guy up there. But I keep him knocked out all the way up. Why? Because
I knew damn well he’d flip sooner or later, and I wanted to be on hand
myself when he did. Hell, I don’t mean I thought it out that way, in so
many words--but I can see it easily enough from here.

“So Johnny’s my old buddy. Like you and me. Blood and sweat. And tears.
The whole routine. I didn’t give much of a damn what it did to _him_. I
got my newspaper story. If he’d cracked some other way from how he did,
I might even have got to him and got him back to work. Snake pit. You
know? But I wasn’t thinking about _him_.

“So if Johnny’s expendable, who gives a damn about _me_? Tell you the
truth, I’m getting old enough so I should maybe get back to Earth
anyhow.” _And get married...?_

The unbidden thought stopped him cold. “Don’t rush anything,” Jed said
drily. “You’re not quite fired yet.” His mouth wrinkled again in the
not-quite smile. “Why don’t you give this dish a job up there, man,
instead of trailing her back here?”

_That sonofabitch knows too_ damn _much!_

“Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you talk the boys up on the hill into
setting up an institute of the dance upstairs? Maybe a whole Art
Academy? They might go that a lot quicker than a manned flight again.”

When he got the operator again, he was surprised, and obscurely annoyed
with himself, to find he had to clear an adolescent lump from his
throat before he could give Johnny’s number.

And there was no answer, still.


_Dollars Dome--Monday, September 5, 5_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

The job itself was proving unexpectedly satisfying. Dr. Kutler brought
his last patient’s card up to date and sat back, swiveled his chair
around and pulled aside the shutters that closed off the Dome wall
during consultations. For the victims of the variety of ailments that
constituted what they had started to call “loony-sickness,” even the
sight of the alien land could interfere with the effort at therapy--no
matter how eager the patient was to be there, or how idealistically or
aesthetically pleased by the sight. When a man’s body is in rebellion
against the disruptive effects of just-too-much-difference in his
environment, it helps to minimize those differences--as much as
possible--while trying to cure the bodily disorder.

The basic cause of the internal “dyscommunication” which caused hearts
to pump overtime and reaching fingers to tremble and muscles to twitch
could not be shut out or turned off or even disguised. Low gravity was
the devil man had to fight--and conquer--on the Moon; and if he _could_
have turned it off for his patients, Phil would not have done so.

That was what quarterly leaves did. His job was to help them teach
their bodies to live _with_ the difference.

Some people could do it. To the doctor, that meant that most, if not
all, could _learn_. Chris had stayed healthy for eleven years of
almost-solid Moon residence. Johnny had no psychosomatic troubles
through two and a half years of low-grav and no-grav on the Mars
trip. There were at least a dozen others on the Dome staff who had
always regarded the required leaves as a nuisance, and had volunteered
eagerly for experimental work--more eagerly than usefully. The valuable
patients were those who _got_ sick.

The valuable doctor, however, stayed healthy. It was too soon to tell,
of course, about himself. Kutler knew his own weaknesses better than
most men do; but how predict strength or weakness against an unknown
assailant?

That didn’t hold all the way either-- He knew he could predict Lisa’s
immunity. The woman was so incredibly _in control_ of her own body.
He remembered her at World Dome, soaring like a new--better?--kind of
human ... a free creature....

He tried to dispose entirely of the idea gnawing him. It was so absurd
he should never, he thought, have allowed himself to think the idea
through verbally. But he had; and it sure as hell _wasn’t_ absurd from
his own point of view. _She_ was a teacher who could be trusted to put
her words into practice, to teach by doing.

_Okay, so it’s a great notion. Get yourself somebody.... Plenty of
dancers and physical therapists would love the chance._

He went to the intercom, dialed, and waited, No answer. He had almost
switched off when the screen suddenly lit.

“Oh, Phil--Hi!” She was breathless. “I just got in, heard the thing
buzzing. What’s up? Have you heard...?”

She stopped as he shook his head. “No. I called to see if you had. Got
in from _where_?”

“Thad Bourgnese took me out to the Shack. Phil, it’s so silly, but you
know I’m halfway in love with this place? I feel like a stinker, I
mean, I ought to be chewing my fingernails to get home, but I--well,
damn it, I’m _glad_ I couldn’t take the last trip down!”

Defiant, she was rather more lovely than usual, he decided. “Well,
fine,” he smiled. “I was just thinking about a job for you here.”

“_Here?_ Dancer-in-residence?” But before she laughed, a look of
surprised delight had fled across her face, and an expression of
chagrin had followed it so quickly it was unlikely any one but a
trained observer would have noticed the change from the first flush of
reaction to the laugh.

“Why not?” He did not follow it up; he was more than a little annoyed
with himself for having said anything to begin with. “Okay, kid,” he
said. “I was just checking in on you.”

“Right. I’ll see you, Phil, thanks for the call ... hey!” She reached
to the side of the screen, toward where the tube slot must be, “There’s
a message. I didn’t notice.” She tore open the radioletter, glanced at
the bottom, and nodded: “Johnny.” Then her face went white, and her
mouth started to open as if she’d been slapped in the face.

The screen went dead. “I’m sorry, Phil. ’Scuse me.” The audio clicked
off too.

_The bastard! The lousy lushin’ whining wailing nasty-minded bastard!_

Phil went to the couch, knelt in front of it, and beat clenched fists
against the padding till he felt his rage subside.

He got up, went to his desk, pulled out his own old-fashioned
typewriter, without which he could not think, and started typing.
When he got up, half an hour later, he was Dr. Kutler again--and even
Phil, plain Phil, had recognized that whatever Johnny wrote, it was in
response to the knowledge that his wife did not want to come home.

Because she _was_ his wife--whatever _she_ thought about it.

And she did _not_ want to leave, whether _she_ knew it or not.

And it was a hundred to one, at least, that Johnny had picked the
nastiest, hurtingest, angriest way to respond; but that was just
foolish--not vicious.

A man has a right to react when his girl--or his wife--stands him up.


                            CHRISTY TOPS McLFTY

                  _Moon Man Takes Decision Over Congress
                   Quizzer at SAC Subcommittee Hearing_

  Mexcity, Sep. 6: “Chris” Christensen, Research Director at U.S.A.A.’s
  Moon Dome, swapped questions and answers here today with Ray
  McLafferty, East Chile Congressman, whose chances of election to the
  Senate may hang on the outcome of the special hearings now being
  conducted by his SAC subcommittee on Space Security.

  Reporters present at the closed hearing agreed generally that the
  scientist won this round. In answer to Committee queries, he outlined
  a solid Security plan in operation now, and invited the whole
  committee to come and see for themselves what conditions were.

  Confronted with the till now mysterious “evidence” which initiated
  Rep. McLafferty’s interest in Moon Security--a news item on new
  research with “Mars-bugs,” which violated Top-Secret classification,
  according to Rep. McLafferty--Dr. Christensen said that the contents
  of the article had _not_ been classified, due to laxity in the SAC
  offices.

  The material, he explained--in spite of the obvious lack of interest
  of some Committee members--had been contained in a Special Report
  submitted by him to SAC for approval and financing on June 19 of
  this year: Dr. Christensen’s proposal at that time concerned the
  newly enlarged Biological Section, in charge of research on the
  Martian micro-organisms (“Mars-bugs”) brought back in the ill-starred
  _Colombo_ by Col. Johnny Wendt. The Moon Research Director requested
  permission to move the Department, bugs and all, to an Earth
  laboratory where Security would be maintained more effectively, and
  the expansions then under consideration might be effected with a
  great deal less expense.

  His report was “not accepted,” said Dr. Christensen. Instead, he was
  granted additional sums for personnel on the Moon. Apparently the
  original report was never “processed” officially in the SAC office at
  all, but Dr. Christensen testified that copies were made there, and
  that he saw one himself which had been typed in that office.

  The scientist added that some of the personnel funds had been applied
  to expansion of the psychiatric staff of the Dome, in an effort to
  solve the psychogenic problems that have made extended quarterly
  Earth leaves mandatory for Dome personnel. The statement anticipated
  queries from the Subcommittee regarding Security provisions during
  such leaves. Dr. Christensen said there was _no_ way to insure strict
  Security while the leave system was in operation.


_Rockland--Tuesday, September 6, 10_ P.M. (_E.D.S.T._)

Johnny set the heli down on the lawn gently, feeling his way almost by
touch, without the field lights. He switched off the ignition, and got
his bag out of the trunk space behind the seat. Picked up the pile of
newspapers, climbed to the ground.

Half way to the house, he heard the noise in the trees and stopped.

“Who’s there?”

“Colonel Wendt?”

“Who are you?”

A man, middle-sized, middle-aged, middle-anything, as far as the
moonlight revealed him, came from the trees.

“Colonel Wendt?” he said again.

“You’re on private property, mister.”

“You are Colonel John Wendt?”

“What’s it to you? I said you’re trespassing. Now--_get out_!”

“Colonel Wendt, I am a duly sworn deputy of....”

That was as much as he managed. Johnny dropped the bag and papers, and
swung with the same motion. The middling man went down like a ripped
sack of flour.

Johnny grinned. He rubbed his fist, pleased. _First damn time I’ve felt
half-alive_, he thought, _since_....

It was just as well not to think back that far.

He picked up the papers, grabbed the suitcase again, and let himself
into the house. He turned lights on, prowled through the rooms, looking
for--what? He wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, it wasn’t there. Everything
normal, just as they left it. Lee’s things still in the closet. _Well,
what did you think? That she’d teleport them out?_

He switched on the field lights, went back outside. The man was gone.
Johnny turned back sharply, went in and got the key, locked up behind
him this time when he came out. Went five steps and turned back,
unlocked the door, went into his den, and came out a few minutes later
with a gun full of bird shot. He held it conspicuously in plain sight
while he locked up again. Then he paced off the distance to the heli,
watching the trees to the right and left of the path closely.

“Don’t mind shooting anybody trespassing on my property,” he remarked
aloud.

He was out on the field when he heard the crackling twigs of the man’s
retreat. He smiled. Maybe instead of putting the ship up, he ought to
take off and....

A brawl wouldn’t solve anything.

But it sure as Hell would _feel_ good.

He flexed his shoulders, felt muscles tighten, and decided regretfully
that he’d better get back in the house and stay there.

He hangared the heli, locked the garage, and went back indoors. Then he
took the stack of newspapers and spread them on the coffee table in the
living room. They were full of it, all right.

                          CHRISTY TOPS McLFTY.
                           WENDT TO BE CALLED.
                     McLAFFERTY WILL GO TO MOON DOME
                 SCIENTIST LAYS BLAME FOR ‘LEAKS’ TO SAC

He read with particular interest one headed, DR. C. SAYS WENDT SEDATION
WAS S.O.P. SECURITY MEASURE, where he learned for the first time that
sedation for the trip was ordinarily limited to the self-powered
shuttle trips at each end: all other passengers on the shuttle that
carried him and Lisa to the Moon had been awake in the _Messenger_, and
all but himself, coming down. According to Chris, the precaution was
taken in his case to avert possible efforts by “any agents of other
powers” to get information they thought Col. Wendt might possess.

Chris also explained that his trip had been “only a visit,” but it
sounded so phony, no one would ever believe it. Again Johnny grinned;
Chris was always a scrapper, when they got him mad.

Damn, but a good old-fashioned street fight would make a new man out of
him....

And get him subpoenaed. He figured to stay in the house for a while.

One paper had pictures of Lisa’s appearance at World Dome on Saturday,
and a review, which mentioned the presence of Dr. Kutler among the
U.S.A.A. party at the performance. “Miss Trovi was escorted by Dr.
Thaddeus Bourgnese, Chief Biochemist at U.S.A.A. Dome,” it said right
afterwards.

_Well, whaddya know? We’re makin’ time, hey?_

He was startled at how calm he felt about it all.

When he found the wire from her in the facs chute, with last Tuesday’s
date on it, he did not want to open it. He almost threw it out. _Leave
well enough alone. It’s done, it’s over. Forget it._ He had already
told her so. His own wire would be in her hands by now.

He wound up putting the envelope, unopened, in his desk drawer.
Tomorrow, he could decide what to do with it.

He did not drink. He went to bed at midnight, cold sober. To his
surprise, he fell asleep without trouble, and slept well all night.


_Dollars Dome--Monday, September 5, 9:30_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

  _Okay babe if that’s how you want it. It was fun while it lasted,
  I guess. My least sincere congratulations to whoever--whoops,
  whomever--the lucky man may be._

  _Easy come, easy go, babe._

  _Better luck next round._

    _Johnny_

She must have read it through fifty times, looking for something, some
clue, somewhere in it, that would explain what it meant. Because it
_couldn’t_ mean what it said. That didn’t make sense.

She knew there were thirty-nine words in it. There’d been a movie
or book once called _Thirty-nine Steps_. A movie--she saw it at the
Museum. Thirty-nine steps to where? Out. Right out, obviously. But....

Why? Because it was _Johnny_, that’s why!

There just wasn’t any other reason to find.

The phone buzzed. Phil. She’d promised to call him back, hadn’t she?

“Hey, kid, you hungry yet?” he asked.

“N-nnoo. Thanks, Phil.”

“Well, how about a drink? A walk in the Mall? The way I feel tonight,
gal, I’ll even go dancing with you....”

She kept shaking her head, but she smiled.

“Phil, you’re sweet, but I think I better....”

“I think you better listen to Doctor. Turn on your screen?”

“Phil, honestly, I--”

“Let’s put it this way. _I’ll_ go have a drink. Then I’ll come pick
you up. We’ll do whatever you want to do. Or just sit and talk. But be
ready in fifteen minutes, or you’ll find out--” He made that improbable
leer of his. “--I ain’t like no lily myself. Hate to go banging doors
down, but”--he shrugged fatalistically “--sometimes, you know...? See
you. Fifteen minutes.” And he switched off before the seed of laughter
turned to tears or gave her voice enough to answer.

She tried to call back, but he wasn’t in, or didn’t answer. She washed
her face, and got dressed. She was just putting lipstick on when he
knocked.

She nodded casually at the envelope on the bed.

“May I?”

“Go ahead.”

She watched in the mirror while he read, saw pain flush his face and
retire, and the doctor face take over.

For a moment, she was certain that his pain was for her, and felt an
answering surge of--gratitude? Then she told herself not to be foolish;
Phil had plenty of reason for pain of his own when Johnny pulled one
like this.

They wound up in his office. Two days before lunar sundown, the view
from this side of the Dome was a sharp contrast in near light and far
dark; but even the still-lit portion of the Moon’s surface was without
glare, since the shadowless Dome itself filtered the rays of the
low-lying sun to give the moonscape from this window almost the look of
atmosphered land.

They sat in front of the window, with the inside lights off, and talked.

They talked all around it, brushing it lightly just once in a while.
She knew he would not push; but she also knew that she _had_ to talk to
him, now. He wanted to give her reassurance and friendship; but this
time she really needed advice.

He was rambling on about a theory of heart disease he had seen in a
journal of psychosomatic medicine, when the right moment came.

“Phil?” she broke in.

He stopped talking. That was all. No question, no look her way, even.
He knew she was ready.

“Phil, listen, this mess is--well, I don’t know if I mean it’s worse
than you think, or better? If I could just tell for sure what he really
wants--I mean--Phil, does he mean it? Or is he going to change his mind
next week, and come yell for mama?”

“You probably know the answer to that one better than I do.”

“I guess I already answered it,” she admitted.

Silence. Then:

“So I guess _I_ have to decide what I’ll do when he does?”

“Or you could just decide what to do _now_.”

“How do you mean--? Well, yes, I hadn’t thought of that.” She heard her
own short laugh, like that of a stranger. “I’ll have to have someplace
to go. And my things are all--well, that doesn’t matter. There’s plenty
of _money_,” she said angrily. “That helps, doesn’t it?”

“Where were you thinking of going?”

“Well, I _wasn’t_. I wasn’t _thinking_. And I kind of resent you making
me start now.”

Nothing. She looked at him. He was looking at her, smiling. An old
friend. He _knew_.

He didn’t know everything, though.

“Phil?”

“Hmmm?”

“Remember that time I had lunch with you, right about when Chris was
down?”

“Yes.”

“Remember I said Johnny might have to--to face up to something he
wouldn’t like?”

“Yes?”

“Well--I--I’m pregnant, Phil. I thought so then, but I wasn’t sure.”

_Well_, she thought gleefully, _I did it at last_! Phil Kutler had
jumped forward in his chair, just like any _normal_ man.

“You thought so in _June_?” He was absolutely _staring_! “How far along
_are_ you then?”

“Well--four and a half months or so, around there, I guess.”

“Stand up.”

She did.

“Yeah. I guess so,” he said, and sat back again. “It _could_ be--at
four-and-a-half--with _you_. I’ll be damned!” He was watching her
closely, and, she realized, with a warmth of affection that made all
the rest of the mess _much_ easier. “So?” he said. “For heaven’s sake,
sit down, Lee. I’ve had my look.” She sat. “Now: I guess that means
you--”

“It doesn’t mean anything one way or the other, Phil. It just means
that whatever the rest means is _more_ so, that’s all.” Here she was on
solid ground. _This_ part she’d thought out beforehand, and carefully.
“The thing is, Phil, that other time even, when I first _thought_ I
might be pregnant, I realized I couldn’t go through with it the way
things were.”

She saw his slight start, and smiled. “I don’t mean _that_. I meant
_marrying_ him. I--”

She had kept herself beautifully under control up to then, but suddenly
everything inside was clogging up. “I--” She stood up. She walked
around the room, sat down at last on the couch, behind his back. “I
decided,” she said carefully, “that unless things changed a _lot_ at
home, if it turned out I was, I would just leave, and not--I mean, not
even _tell_ him.”

“But you didn’t. Hold up! _Does he know or not?_”

She shook her head. “No.” She looked up at him, feeling awfully foolish
for some reason. But it made _sense_, it all made sense, this part of
it. She’d thought it all through, and through again. “Look, Phil, I
wasn’t just being--well, emotional. I really meant it that way. But
then, right at that time, Chris came down, and Johnny agreed to the
trip--and then he kept putting it off, all summer long, and every time
I thought, ‘He won’t do it after all,’ he’d set a date, and every
time it got close--well, you _know_.” She had to stop, and get the
clogged-up stuff clear inside again.

Phil just stood there. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she groped
for it with her hand, held on to it _hard_, and found she could talk
again.

“Don’t you _see_, Phil?” Her voice was a wail, but she didn’t care. Her
face was streaked with tears; it didn’t matter. “Don’t _you_ see? I--I
couldn’t let _Johnny’s_ child grow up with--oh _Hell_!--with _Johnny_
for a father. The way he’s been. _Could I?_”

“Oh, you poor kid!”

Lisa was silent a moment. Then: “This won’t stop me dancing, I think?”

“No ... no reason it should, for a while.”

She took a deep breath. “All right. I want the job, Phil ... and the
sooner I get started the better. Lisa Trovi, Famed Tri-Di Star, will
give an impromptu recital in just one hour....”


_Dollars Dome--Monday, September 5, 11_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

Mounting with the beat of the bongos, she climbed to the pinnacle
in step with the quickening pulse of the piano; then poised,
spread-winged, against the high-flying clarinet’s sharp sweetness.

The big wings rustled, swayed, started to move slowly back and
forth to the pounding measure of the muffled bass. Back on the drum
thump--forward on the twinkle of the cymbal--arms pumping faster,
stronger, with each beat, while the bass jumped the tempo and the
cymbals turned from tinkles to a crash.

The clarinet slid up and off the top of a final run; the piano faded
slowly to a hush; the bongos fell in line behind the bass and cymbals.
Then they stopped.

For one measure there was silence from them all. The single sound in
the crowded room was the flapping beat of the great gauze wings.

Drums crashed--like the surf, like thunder, like an earthquake, like a
bursting dam. With a final sweep of wing-width, Lisa leaped forward,
beating and fluttering, beating with the arm-wings, a-flutter in a mist
of multi-hued chiffon--leaped out and downward, turning and twisting
with the slowing slant of the widespread wings.

From the midstage high riser down to the floor, she floated like a
dragonfly, drifted like a leaf.

She landed like a bright bird fallen to earth, in a deep crouch. Then
with the final cymbal-clang she thrust upward, outstretched on toetips,
arms back and open, head proud and lifted, her whole face brilliant
with the afterglow of music, of dancing, of climbing, of flight down to
earth.

       *       *       *       *       *

They clustered around her, smiling and cheering. Somebody stayed at the
bongos, tapping out a light-mood intricate rhythm. Someone else went to
the piano, and began to mesh trills with the bongo jokes.

Two of the men lifted the dancer--veils, wings, and radiance--onto
their shoulders and paraded her around the practice room.

In the deep armchairs shoved back to the wall, three couples sat in
intertwined delight, watching, clapping, cheering the impromptu,
cakewalk-conga-line that followed the accolade around the room.

Two women went out quietly and returned with a wheeled cart of
sandwiches, cool bottles, frosted glasses, coffee and cakes. The men
put down the dancer and claimed their own girls from the cart. One pair
took over an armchair vacated by a dreamy couple who left the party,
holding each other’s waists with secret smiles.

Other pairs settled down, or wandered off. A crowd around the cart
sorted out into more couples, and at last left a mixed group, six or
eight, perhaps, standing and laughing and eating, drinking, unpaired
yet.

Lee gobbled shamelessly, suddenly famished. She sat alone in the midst
of the small group, watching, delighted, as the joy of her climb and
fall spread to all the rest.

The darkhaired doctor stood a pace apart, just outside the laughing
group, watching _her_. The hunger in his eyes found no matching thirst
in hers; it flickered, and died.

The group remaining settled down to shop talk. Lisa left; Phil went
with her. At the door of her room she turned and smiled that marvelous
marvelling radiance. “They felt it, Phil,” she said. “They felt it
_with_ me!”

He nodded and smiled back and watched her go in.


_Acapulco--Wednesday, September 7, 8_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

“Kutler? Sure.... Hi, Phil, what’s up?”

“How private is this wire?”

“Hardly at all.”

“Well--Did you call my friend?”

Kutler’s friend--Johnny? Chris couldn’t think who else it would be.
“Tried to. Been trying. Jerk doesn’t answer.”

“Figures. He wired. Yesterday, very negative,” Phil said. “Got his
information mixed up, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah. I can see how that would work. Well, he’ll get the source
material Sunday.”

“I don’t know. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m not sure
about sending it now?”

“Oh.” _Damn this open beam anyhow!_ “I don’t see,” he started
thoughtfully, and Phil added:

“I’m not the only one. In fact, it wasn’t my idea originally.”

“Oh?” _Oh!_ The fat was _really_ in now, then? “Well, whatever you
think,” he said reluctantly. “Damn, I wish I was up there!”

“Yeah. Look, there’s one other thing. That therapist I asked you to get
me.... I’ve got an application from--”

“Which therap--?”

“Good. I hoped you hadn’t done anything yet. I’ve got a hell of a good
applicant. _She’s worked with me before._ I just wondered if I could
hire on my own, or if it had to be done through Mexcity?”

“Wellll--I don’t know--” Then it all fell into place. “Look, Phil, I’ll
have to check on that,” he said. “I gather you want a fast answer?”

“I’m afraid we might lose this girl if it goes through channels; I
don’t know how long she can wait.”

“Will she wait till I get back up?”

“I’m sure she could do that much.”

“Right. I’ll check on it here, and we’ll get it worked out when I get
home.”

Chris talked a few more minutes with Bourgnese, about routine lab
affairs, and switched off. Across the room, Jed was waiting with raised
eyebrows. “What was _that_ bit?”

“Damn that open beam! I wish I could have had two minutes with Kutler
alone. Sounds like Wendt heard the news on his own--or didn’t like
her wire--or anything. I gather he flipped, anyhow, and either she
doesn’t want to go home, or Phil doesn’t think she should, or Johnny’s
threatened something, or--I don’t know. But that bit about the girl
who used to work for Phil--that’s how Johnny met Lee. She was doing
some kind of dance therapy with a group of Kutler’s. So I assume he’s
thinking of using her now. Up there. I don’t know...?”

“You _don’t_?” Jed was clearly amused.

“Okay, so you were kidding about a job for her up there, but how’s it
going to look--?”

“You’re slippin’, fella,” the General said. “Think it through, man,
think it through.”

  _Inside-Outside_: Like it’s a meteor shower of secrets from space
  all over town this week ... not to say out-of-town.... Those
  stories you heard about ex-Astronaut (Col.) Johnny Wendt chasing
  the subpoena server off the family acres with a ray gun might be
  slightly exaggerated.... Seems all Johnny did was pop him one, but
  the SAC boys are takin’ it hard anyhoo.... Be a leetle charitable,
  fellas: they tell me Johnny’s had a hard time lately. Not even one
  dancing girl left to his name.... And speaking of dancing girls,
  yummy Lisa Trovi, whose name has been linked with Wendt’s off and
  on, is still Mooning over us. Her name came off the downbound
  _Messenger_ passenger list at the last moment on Thursday for the
  second week in a row.... Kid just can’t get herself down to Earth,
  I guess, after the way she wowed ’em in World Dome.... Or it could
  be like “Chris” Christensen figures he needs a good hostess for Ray
  McLafferty’s visit next week?... Ragin’ Ray takes off Sunday week to
  make the Moon scene for a one-night stand, but he’s taking a bunch of
  the boys along to stay a week and have a good look at the Security
  plumbing.... Somebody complained about leaks.... Christensen goes up
  tomorrow. We put our dough on this boy, after hearing him softsell
  the subcommittee on Tuesday, to get things set up for Ray’s party in
  a week easy....

    _from the syndicated capitol
    gossip column, “Phlip Asides From Inside,”
    by Lenny Phlip, Mexcity, September 10, 1977_

    Moon Dome
    September 15, 1977

    Johnny dear--

  (“Dear John,” I guess, in reverse?)

  I’ve taken this much time to decide what to do, after getting your
  wire, partly because I had to wait for Chris to get back, to know
  if the suggestion Phil made would be all right--partly because I
  just couldn’t think too clearly at first, after your wire came--and
  partly, I have to admit, because I kept hoping I’d hear from you
  again.

  There doesn’t seem to be much point in hassling over anything. I know
  you’re capable of sending a message like that in anger, and then
  withdrawing it. But that’s the point--I know you’re also capable of
  withdrawing it, which is saying quite a--

  I said there was _no_ point in hassling, didn’t I? All that matters
  now is that I’ve finally decided you really meant it. You don’t want
  me to come back. I could hardly argue with that anyhow, but it’s also
  possible you’re right--so I’ve decided, for the time being, anyhow,
  to stay on up here. Phil needs an assistant to do the kind of dance
  and music work I used to do with his therapy group in N.Y. And--well,
  I like it here. As long as Chris is willing, I’ll stay put for the
  time being.

  If you want to get my stuff out, let me know and I’ll write Jeannie
  or Edna to come take care of it.

  Damn, I’m sorry it had to be this way. It’s _not_ what I wanted,
  Johnny--

    Love (still)
    Lisa.

  P.S. Only damn it, if you _do_ change your mind, or _have_ changed
  it, you idiot--don’t wire--_call_!

    TO: J. A. Harbridge
    FROM: P. A. Christensen
    DATE: September 15, 1977
    BY SPECIAL COURIER

  Attached regular news release will give you dope on Lee Trovi; also
  attaching copy her letter to J., and much good may it do you. Suggest
  you plant one of your own boys up here for this kind of job. I’m too
  old to learn bitch games.

  No more word from J. on this end. Any news? Please fastest whenever.
  K. wants to go downstairs, some notion in hand about personnel here
  makes him think maybe has new approach for J. I tend negative: only
  account probable subpoena if down. ?????

  Checkthru for visitors satisfactory. Place clean as a whistle. One
  problem: Shack outside Dome where Moon-normal work done last two
  months. _Wide_ open, actually. Alarms, etc., but--???

  Better leave up, posted guard, etc.? Or take down, risk mention by
  someone? Damfino. Advise--

  Earth news sounds like last week added up okay. Keep ’em crossed--

                                                                     PAC

  P.S. Kutler just buzzed me to ask could I get some confidential
  authoritative opinion on medical aspects of pregnancy, childbirth,
  here. That’s all he said. Draw own conclusions. I don’t want to.
  Couldn’t allow anyhow, I guess. Add: if subj married, why shd K. clam
  up? _Ouch!_ Please rush answer. pac

    TO: I. K. Trozhikov
    FROM: Chen L-T
    RE: Bio Project
    DATE: September 15, 1977
    TOP SECRET INFORMATION--FOR THE PARTY
    EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE ONLY

  Tests Alpha and Beta, Schedule Nine, concluded Sep. 13 and 15, with
  results as predicted (4.5% average margin of error). Test Gamma in
  progress; indications point to predicted results; expect terminate
  Sep. 18.

  Schedule Ten follows immediately, unless countermanded.

  Test results attached. Please rush computer results. Med. Off. G. N.
  Gregoriev suggests possible correlation with effects here noted in
  Para. 5-G, his report, Sep. 1. Computer data on tests to date may
  provide basis for broad theoretical approach.

    Chen

    (Attached)

    Dear Ilya,

  I trust the implications of this report will stagger you as they do
  me. Wish we had some better notion of how far _they_ have gotten in
  this line. (If anywhere; pragmatism has its drawbacks.) Also, how
  controllable is the effect--if it _does_ exist? Suspicion here (mine
  and Gregori’s, especially) is, if correct, they must soon know what
  we do and v.v. Or perhaps retroactively? (Think _that_ through!)

  Also: will you handle the Maria Harounian matter yourself? I feel
  some obligation, as she will not name the father, and symptoms have
  progressed to where Maria can not be held responsible for her own
  care immediately. Keep the quiz boys off her if you can, for a bit?
  She comes down next trip, I hope.

    Lian

       *       *       *       *       *

  ... Johnny’s been hittin’ the bistros just like in the old days
  before he began goin’ steady with his favorite dancing girl--who
  practically vanished from tri-di as well as the nite spots while they
  were makin’ it together.... Let that be a lesson, kids: don’t hide
  your light o’ love behind a bushel, or even a bushel of high-priced
  acres. If you don’t take her out to shine every once in a while,
  she’ll take off the first time some guy offers her the Moon....

    _from the syndicated capitol gossip column,
    “Phlip Asides From Inside,” by Lenny Phlip,
    Mexcity, September 18, 1977._




PART EIGHT

_September 21, 1977_


_Dollars Dome--4_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

He watched her face through the clear plastic of the pressure suit
helmet, and tried to identify the “waiting” look. She was too absorbed
to see him staring, but she wasn’t just thinking, or daydreaming.
Listening? That was how it looked, but not _quite_....

He touched helmets. “What do you hear that I don’t?” he asked.

Lee started slightly, like someone snapped out of daydream. “Hear?”
she asked. _Well, it was worth a try_, he thought. Maybe just plain
fantasizing, after all?

“_See_ is more like it,” she said. “I was looking at the design they
make. I guess I got half-hypnotized, following the lines.”

He looked. When he first looked, before he began watching her instead,
he had noticed only a small marble interweaving of ganglion-like ropes
of cells. Now the randomness of the arrangement was less apparent;
it _could_ hypnotize if you tried to follow the branchings-off and
connections between rope-colonies. There was a sense of _almost_-order--

He shook his head and looked away.

“Damn! You know I never really _looked_ at them before. They _do_ get
you....”

“Oh, they’re not all like that,” she said quickly. “Just the ones out
here. Every time you change the soil or air, _they_ change. One of the
tanks in Earth-normal, you’d think it was full of just _dirt_--they’re
just scattered through like regular Earth soil microorganisms. But
this Moon-type mutation links up this way, and Thad says--” That
was at least the twelfth time on the trip he had heard _Thad says_.
“--says the things that look kind of like nerves _are_ actually linked
up that way--I don’t mean, they’re really like _nerves_, but each
rope is a separate colony, and he thinks they might have some kind of
communication even, where two ropes connect. Either that or some kind
of symbiosis or syzygy or--”

“Thad says all _that_?” Phil broke in, laughing at the earnest-student
manner of her recitation.

“And _more_,” she retorted. “But now _you’ll_ never know--We better get
back, I guess. I’m supposed to make like respectable for tonight.” She
started laughing, and took a step away so helmet contact was broken.
He saw the laughter continue, but the sound broke off in the middle.
Inside the pressurized half-track, she opened the face-plate, still
chuckling. “It gets tougher to get dressed every day,” she said. “I
mean, work clothes are fine, but when I have to get _dressed_....”

“Well, take plenty of time,” he said, soberly. “I don’t know what the
honorable investigators would make of it if they knew, but it’s a sure
bet they’d smell headlines in it.”

“I’ll try to worry about it,” she said. “Phil, you know, it’s the
_damnedest_ thing--I suppose I’m in a jam. Or something. I mean, when I
think about it, it’s practically classic--the unwed mother bit, and my
man is sick-sick-sick--and probably half stoned besides--and here I am
taken in by the men in the Moon--maybe that’s what makes it seem like
lovely nonsense instead of Something Awful?”

“You’ve been pretty happy the last couple of weeks, kid?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, I have, Phil. And I mean what I was
saying--It seems like I _ought_ to be worried and troubled, but--I’m
_not_.” She looked away, and back again.

“Phil, I’m not even worried about Johnny. I don’t know what’s gotten
into me. I don’t mean I don’t _care_. _I do._ Just--it doesn’t _feel_
like anything’s wrong. We’re just apart for a while, that’s all.
I don’t mean that’s what I _think_, Phil, just what I--Oh, _you_
understand! You know, Thad says....”

“Does he?” Phil said meaningfully.

“Phil! You don’t think I--? Oh _no_!”

And he actually believed her. She seemed not _too_ startled, but just
enough--not _too_ scornful, just the right amount. And her laughter was
free.

“Okay,” he said. “I retract. But quit saying it or I’m just as likely
to start sulking.” He managed what he thought was a creditable smile.


_Dollars Dome--7_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

The dining room on arrival days always wore a bloom of festivity. The
only decorative extras available were the glowing white onion-lilies
provided, one for each table, by the farm section each week
(carefully cultivated in defiant evasion of the ubiquitous regulating
in-quintuplicate official schedules of production and supplies). But
the bright plastic table tops were somehow gayer, the lighting more
luminous, even the clatter of dishes and cutlery in some way more
cheerfully hungry, at Wednesday dinners.

The big difference of course was not in the place but the people: and
not just that they tended to dress a bit more than usual, laugh a bit
oftener, talk a bit freer, but that they were _there_, all together.

“Days” in the Dome were marked off by Mexcity’s Central Time; but
without external dark-and-light cycles to pattern the twenty-four
hours, the Dome worked round the clock, each person fitting his own
preferred schedule into the complex of work-to-be-done. Ordinarily,
only one section of the dining room was in use; and it was in use at
all hours, as groups came and went to and from their elected shifts.
But on Wednesdays, any one not absolutely required at his job was
fairly sure to attend seven P.M. dinner, after the shuttles came in.

This Wednesday night, in particular, the Dome was out in full force--in
party mood, party dress, party manners--to welcome Congressman Ramon
McLafferty and his picked crew of super-snoopers.

Dr. Kutler was seated with four of the congressional investigators
and three higher-echelon Dome scientists at a round table so close
to the speakers’ table that he was literally back-to-back with Lisa
Trovi. He confined his own part in the dinner talk to polite replies
and concentrated on his uneasy appraisal of the behavior of the Dome
people at large, and an amused, but equally uneasy, eavesdropping on
the exchanges between Lee and the visiting congressman.

Lisa’s attitude seemed to be in keeping with the peculiar response of
the Dome as a whole to the invasion: a sort of high faith that warm
welcome and willing liking were enough to absorb anything from outright
ill will to malicious fancy to simple self-interest.

That McLafferty fell short of sharing this feeling was evident. _He
knew_ the dinner, the gaiety, the enthusiasm that greeted him, were
put-up jobs; he accepted them gracefully as his due. And he maintained
this knowledge, based on experience, at least half the way through the
meal. By that time he was so thoroughly conscious of the deep sincerity
of Lee Trovi’s empathetic interest, that the stanchions of isolation
supporting his cynicism were sorely shaken. And when he rose to say the
expected few words after dinner, he was much too practiced an orator
to misinterpret the swell of applause that surrounded him for either
the patter of polite boredom, or the too-regular thumping of planned
demonstration.

Chris used the moment to lean across and say a single word in Lisa’s
ear. From where Phil sat, turned around, right behind her, the word
looked like, “Thanks.”

She turned to Chris, eyebrows raised, baffled.

He nodded toward McLafferty.

She cocked her head, shrugged bare shoulders: _What?_

He shook his head slightly. “Later,” he murmured, and sat back,
watching her and the speaker, his face carefully neutral. But Phil
thought he saw an echo of the same unease he felt himself.

Later, in one of the larger conference rooms, twenty-odd of the banquet
elite drank coffee and brandy and listened to newly-arrived music
tapes. McLafferty’s crew was staying a week, till the next orbit down;
but the congressman himself would leave tomorrow. Conscientiously using
his time, he made a point of speaking with everyone in the room, taking
notes occasionally with an air of apologetic industry. His manner was
briskly efficient, but leisurely--yet somehow it took hardly half an
hour’s time to cover the group, and permit him to drift over casually
to the circle of chairs where Lee and Phil sat together with Chris and
Thad Bourgnese.

“You know, you fellows really have got something here,” McLafferty’s
smile should have been engaging; somehow it was not. “One thing,” he
said, with a nod at Lee, and a sweep of the arm around the room, “You
certainly have the best-looking lady scientists _I’ve_ ever seen!”

Thad grinned. “I can see it now,” he said. “Headline: Congressman Gives
Lunar Ladies Blanket Clearance. Or: Selenite Scien_tistes_--hmmm--need
a verb with an _S_ and something about Security. Well--” He rose, made
a mock-bow to Lisa, who was laughing helplessly. “Beggin’ yer pardon,
mum, you bein’ Medic in any case, and not Lab Staff, present comp’ny
excepted an’ all that.”

It could have been nasty. It wasn’t ... perhaps because Lisa’s laughter
_included_ McLafferty? Or just that comment and reaction were both so
spontaneous? Phil couldn’t tell for sure.

Bourgnese excused himself, and went off in the general direction of
the redheaded Donovan girl, leaving the seat next to Lisa for the
congressman, who had passed with astonishing speed through startlement,
chagrin, mild amusement, and suspicion to sudden hilarious delight.

“One thing,” he said, regarding Lee with warm approval, “You folks
don’t scare easy.”

She blinked. “What are we supposed to be scared of?”

“Nothing,” he said. “_Absolutely_ nothing.”

And damn if it didn’t sound just like he meant it!


_Rio de Janeiro--12_ A.M. _(S.W.A.T.)_

It was the fourth club that night, and he was positive he had said
hello to all the same people at each one. He sat at a single table,
watching red and black and orange and blue-green female rumps writhe to
rhumba beat and wondered how they contrived to stock each joint with
The Crowd between the time he left one and arrived at the next.

No more pub stops, he told himself firmly. Next time he’d go direct,
maybe to _Los Gringos_, yes, that was a good bet--tourist trap kind of
place The Crowd wouldn’t be caught dead in. Go _straight_ there, find
out. If they were there anyhow, he’d _know_....

He could swear those jazzy bottoms out on the dance floor were
_exactly_ the same ones he’d watched all night.

He finished his drink, thought about another. Hell with it, make the
move _now_, catch ’em off balance. He got up and started to weave his
way through the full tables. The band had stopped. People were coming
off the floor.

Behind him, a voice he knew said high and clear, snide and cruel,
“Well, she always had a yen for Phil Kutler--”

_Gentlemen don’t slug lady bitches_, he told himself, carefully
unbunching the muscles in shoulder and upper arm. _Leave it lay, lad.
Don’t even look._ He knew he knew the voice, but he did not know
_whose_ it was: best to leave it that way.

He dodged past a couple of strangers, got blocked at the next table by
a crowd of six sitting down. The high vicious clearness followed him:

“But I’m not so sure that’s it. I can’t say _who_ told me, but it’s
someone I _usually listen_ to, and the way _he_ heard it, the reason
_Ray_ let that Moon scientist off so easily--”

It died away. Another voice, lower and less clear, urgent in undertone,
blocked it off. Johnny’s way was still stopped. He turned, not meaning
to; walked back past the table between without wanting to, went up to
the red-gown bitch who owned that voice.

The deeper, lower, one, the man at her side had been saying _his_ name.

He smiled, and he knew just how damned unpleasant that smile was.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I believe you were saying something about a
friend of mine?”

“Excuse me,” she said coldly. “I don’t believe--” She turned to the
white-jacketed man. “Darling, do you--?”

“Yes,” he said wearily. “Johnny Wendt, Linda Har--”

“Forget it,” Johnny said, suddenly sick of the whole thing. Why pick a
fight with a perfectly nice guy over a bitch, or a pair of them? “Skip
it. I’m sorry. I don’t want to know your friend. Should’ve cut out like
I started to. Teach her some manners, hey?”

He turned and started to edge his way past the table again.

“_Bob!_” The high clear vicious voice. _Yeah?_

He grinned. Nobody could say _he_ started this one. He tensed himself
for the hand that would touch his shoulder.

_Okay!_ He wheeled back, driving from the shoulder as he turned, with
great satisfaction.


_Dollars Dome--11:30_ P.M. _(C.S.T.)_

“Oh, I’m sure you _could_!” Lisa turned to Chris. “Where did Thad take
off to before? He usually works this shift, doesn’t he?”

“Usually,” Chris said--a little reluctantly? Phil wondered if the same
thought that had crossed his was in the Director’s mind? Thad had left
with Rita Donovan; hadn’t Lee noticed? It wasn’t like her to be so
tactless, if she had. And, he thought a bit grimly, it was unlikely she
had _not_ noticed. _Checking up?_ He felt almost ashamed of thinking it.

“I was just telling Ray I didn’t see why he couldn’t tour some of the
labs _now_, if he really wanted to. Thad would probably be in Bio
anyhow, and--”

“I imagine Dr. Christensen has a more formal tour ready for tomorrow,”
McLafferty broke in smoothly.

“Sort of,” Chris said easily. “But it wouldn’t make any difference
that I can see. I’m not sure Bourgnese is working tonight, but I’d be
glad to take you around myself any time. We don’t go much by the clock
around here.”

“That’s what I was telling him,” Lee said. “Ray was so startled when
we came up to daylight again, he asked how we were able to stay on a
regular schedule, and I was explaining how it worked.” She stopped and
laughed, a rippling silver sound that Phil recognized quickly as the
trained professional one. “_He_ said a place like this would suit him
fine, because as soon as he saw the sun, he thought it was morning,
and he was all ready to start a day’s work. So _I_ said, ‘Why not?’
and--there you are.”

Chris shook his admiringly. “You Mexcity types always flabbergast
me. If it was _really_ dawn, and he’d been at an all-night brawl, I’ll
bet he’d feel just the same way.”

“Company helps,” said the congressman. “Depends whom you’ve been with
all night.”

McLafferty didn’t see it. Probably even Chris didn’t. But Lee winced
under the import of the heavy compliment, and threw the briefest
pleading sort of glance at Phil.

_Well_, he thought. _Here we go on the white charger again._ He turned
to Chris.

“Why don’t you take Mr. McLafferty to see the farm?” he suggested. “You
know _that’s_ got to be working now--” All the Maintenance sections
would be. “He could see that stuff now, and the labs tomorrow.” To the
congressman he explained: “Wednesday night’s the one time the labs
run on skeleton staff. The big dinner throws everything out of whack
when the ship’s in.” With considerable satisfaction, and at pontifical
length, he made clear to the impatient visitor that the obviously
special-festive character of the earlier banquet was _not_ quite as
special as he’d undoubtedly thought, but a weekly, normal, occurrence.

“This is Saturday night in the Dome,” he wound up. “About the only
thing you’d see in the labs now would be tapes and cameras and people
tending them. But Maintenance runs all the time, of course. And I’d
think from your viewpoint, that part of the routine--that part of the
staff, for that matter--would be most--” He hesitated. “What would you
call it? Fruitful? Suggestive? Whatever it is, I’ll bet they’ve got the
most of it.” He turned to Lee, glanced up at the chrono above the Mall
fountain. “About time for us to get back to work--hey, kid?”

She took it smoothly. _And_ gratefully. “I guess so.” The gratitude
showed only in her look at him, not in her voice, which held just the
_right_ reluctance. “I don’t suppose--?” she said.

“I think the way they’re coming along, by next week they’ll be able to
handle the one session on their own,” he said. “Or with me. I blow a
mean tape, myself; I just don’t look as good as you tapping my foot to
the beat.”

McLafferty, without actually moving a foot, had somehow edged forward,
silently questioning.

“Jam session thing we’ve been trying for a group that’s had trouble
with schedule adjustment,” Phil explained, marveling at the inventive
capacity of the knight-errant. “Idea is to create a regular emotional
rhythm each day. Seems to be working out pretty well.... Oh, look, Lee,
if you want to cut out this once, I don’t suppose it would--”

“Don’t be silly,” she said firmly. Her smile was snakey-demure. “We
wouldn’t want the Investigating Committee to think I don’t earn my pay,
would we?”

“She thinks of everything, don’t she?” McLafferty said, smooth as ever.
“Tell you what, Chris--why don’t we have a look at your farm while they
get organized, and maybe stop in at this session afterwards--If you
don’t mind, Doc?”

Phil thought it over. “Don’t see why not. Sure. There’s no actual
therapy at this. I don’t think the group would mind. Come on, gal.
We’ve got about two minutes now. See you folks later--”

The two of them hurried off, not-hearing Chris calling after them:
“Hey, where _is_ this thing?”

“Let you know soon as we do,” Phil muttered.

It was really no problem. They rounded up ten eager listeners in the
dining room, and got set up in Lee’s practice room a good ten minutes
before the touring party found them.

And Lisa had no trouble getting two theoretical dormitory-mates to go
off with her afterwards. “You know,” she said sleepily, “I think this
works more for me than for you folks.”

“Night, kids,” Phil said. “Well, Mr. Mc....”

“Call me Mac,” he said grudgingly. It sounded just like, _Your round,
man! But don’t walk down any dark alleys_....




PART NINE

_September 25--October 3, 1977_


  Acapulco, Sunday, Sep. 25

  Dear Lee:

The General says he can get this to you with comparative privacy, which
seems like a good idea. Apparently I don’t mind broadcasting my nastier
moods; it’s just if an unaccustomed brief spell of humility comes over
me, I can’t stand to have anyone know I occasionally behave like a
civilized human.

_If_ I do, or am, which is probably open to doubt. Particularly after
my last radiowire to you.

Your reply caught up with me the first time the facs company had an
address for me, which was during a couple of refreshingly sober days
in the Rio jail--great place, by the way, clean, spartan, healthy as
all hell. Might have done better to have done worse (I took a poke at a
foul-mouthed ass in a night club) and been kept longer.

Anyhow, it seemed a bit late, and hardly the place, from which to
answer your PS. Hoppen Harbridge also located me there; he’d been
concerned because of the subpoena for me being withdrawn. Thought
maybe it had been served instead and I was being maybe too royally
entertained somewhere in private until T (for testimony) Day came. Man
seems as uneager for me to take the stand as I am, which gets _me_ a
bit concerned. (It will be no news to him when he reads this; I’ve
already told him so. I suppose I’d rather have him read it than him and
every other damn snoop or spy from how many? countries, which is what I
gather already happened to our previous by-radiowire exchanges.)

I seem to be rambling on, just possibly in an effort to avoid coming to
the point. Which is as follows:

I’d very much like to take you up on your implied invitation. I have
only recently learned how much I need you. I learned it, babe, from
Toronto down to Rio, with many stops in between. Or amend that: I
started in St. Croix, worked my way up to Toronto via home, and etc.
But in the process I learned a couple of other things, most important
of which is that there seems to be remarkably little of Johnny at home
these days--barring some mixed crap and fury, a bit of which I got rid
of in that Rio ginmill. Some more of which probably is creeping into
this letter, no matter which words I reach for.

So I need you; so what the hell do you need me for?

And is it just what a guy wants most, to _need_ a dame? _You don’t
need_ me. You’ve made it damn clear, and I, belatedly, bless you and
thank you for doing just that, doll. God help me, I do think you _love_
me. Or loved, as the case may be. It occurs to me that with effort and
application I might learn to do likewise in return. If I can’t I can at
least _stop needing_.

So tell ole Chris thanks from me--or Kutler, whoever _did_ mastermind
getting us up there. I might have gone on leeching on you the rest of
my life, or yours (which might have been shorter; how long could you
stand it anyhow?) if _something_ hadn’t happened to blast us apart long
enough for me to back off and get a good look at J. Wendt. The veritas
in vino is stronger proof in night clubs, maybe? Or were you watering
the stuff at home, babe?

The Gen. says 10 minutes, if I want to get this into the package. (10
minutes with or without time for him to read?) So--

I understand there is about to be a new subpoena for me. I’d enjoy
slugging the next guy, too, but am temporarily convinced it is better
not to do so off home property, and also better to stay off home
property myself for a bit, for many reasons, not all of them tactical.

(Speaking of tactics, it’s only fair to warn Harbridge, which I haven’t
directly, as yet, but will, that I am still on the other side of the
fence. My distaste for McL. happens to be stronger than my preference
for throwing spokes in space wheels. But Gen., if you think you are
harboring anything less than a viper in your bosom, be disillusioned.)

Anyhow, this is to let you know that my immediate future plans consist
of a knapsack, a couple of books which, if I bother to read them,
might bring me up to date in my supposed profession, and probably a
jug of honest tequila under a bough. The last is not part of the Grand
Reformation Plan, but should be mentioned as still the great likelihood.

In any case, I will have no address for a bit, so tell Kutler not
to try looking. Even Harbridge won’t know where I am. (The Gen’s
mysterious sources show that Kutler’s subpoena is already signed--like
my own--and will be going up same orbit as this.) As for you, babe,
stay put a while if you can. You’ll hear from me, soon as I know what
to say. Thanks for the chance to say anything. Apologies for what’s
been said--for a lot of things, for me, I guess. Convey same to Chris,
will you?

Listen, babe, I am one crazy-mixed-up bastard, as you have better cause
even than most to know--but for what it’s worth, I _do_--Hell, I can’t
even say that. Let me say, I do _want to love_ you. If I make the
grade, I’ll let you know. Meantime--

  Hell.

  Johnny

       *       *       *       *       *

  FROM: Christensen
  TO: Harbridge
  DATE: Sep. 29, 1977
  VIA SPECIAL COURIER

Seems I missed a few bits, while McL was here. Phil says I have gone
soft in the head like the rest of the Dome people. That’s _not_ what he
says, but how I read it. He’ll undoubtedly explain his notions to you,
and to you they might even make sense. You two boys should have a ball,
come to think of it. But I don’t know what I’ll do here on my own, so
don’t keep him away; I seem to _need_ a headshrinker for chief aide up
here. At least, it’s been working that way.

With that off my chest: McL’s boys have behaved themselves here. In
fact, they’ve been too damn nice (which is part of Phil’s theory),
probably. To hear them talk today, butter wouldn’t melt and all
that, but we’ll find out, I guess, when they hit dirt again. Can’t
give you anything to build specific suspicions on, because what
investigating they did seemed pretty damn routine and unenthusiastic
to me. Mostly, they goofed off seeing how far they could get with the
female personnel. Hope they got sent home happy, and appearances would
indicate as much. (But it worries Phil; I’m getting an education, man.
Always thought psychers were supposed to be _less_ puritanical than us
plain folks.)

Thanks for getting that letter to L. Big help. Phil will fill you in on
her too; he finally let me in on it. Hope you didn’t--sorry. Was about
to hope you didn’t really let Wendt out of sight, but I ought to know
better by now.

As you can see, I am confused by a lot of what’s going on. Will try to
get clearer by next week. Or am I missing some data?

  PAC


LUNA LAB LOVE NEST SAYS McLAFFERTY

Mexcity, Oct. 2: Scientific research is losing out to research in
the art of love among the elite inhabitants of the U.S. Moon Dome,
according to Rep. Ramon E. McLafferty, Chairman of the SAC Security
Subcommittee.

The Subcommittee, which has been conducting Special Hearings probing
Security leaks in the Space program, will turn its attention next
week to a “serious impairment of efficiency and morale prevalent
in the Research Center” at the U.S.A.A. Moon Dome, according to a
statement issued after Chairman McLafferty conferred with members of an
investigating team which returned from Moon Dome on today’s shuttles.
The Representative went to Baja California Spaceport earlier this
afternoon to meet with the investigators immediately on their arrival.

In a press release issued after the conference, the nature of the
alleged “impairment of efficiency and morale” was not specified, but
another paragraph stated that “the findings of the investigators
are such as to suggest a thoroughgoing congressional probe into the
personnel of the Moon Dome and the moral attitudes and practices
prevailing there.”

Questioned by reporters, Mr. McLafferty added that the testimony he
hoped to produce at the new hearings would be of such an “intimate
and personal” nature in “many cases” that not only will the hearings
not be live-televised (as was true for the Security hearings a few
weeks back), but may be closed to the press as well. If this should be
true, the Representative assured reporters that the entire proceedings
would be filmed, for subsequent release to the public, after editing
to “protect any innocent persons whose names may be brought in either
unintentionally or with malicious intent.”

Usually authoritative sources close to the congressman said, off
the record, that there was definite evidence in McLafferty’s hands
of “certain instances of loose living and certain unconventional
sexual arrangements” at the Moon Dome. Rep. McLafferty’s comment on
this was: “We certainly do not plan to level any specific charges at
this time.” He referred to “unbelievable” conditions reported by
his investigators, and added: “We certainly will probe the matter
thoroughly, and put an end to this sort of corruption, if it does
exist, before it can become a national disgrace.”

Queried as to whether hearings on the alleged immorality would be
conducted by his Security Subcommittee, or by the SAC itself, Rep.
McLafferty indicated that he felt the security leaks originally under
investigation by his team, and the new findings, were definitely
related to each other, and that the hearings would continue under the
aegis of the Subcommittee.

One witness scheduled to testify during the coming week should be
able to shed considerable light on “immoral practices” such as those
alleged. That is Dr. Philip Kutler, Staff Psychiatrist for the Moon
Dome, who was subpoenaed by the Subcommittee last week, and arrived
today on the same shuttle with the investigating team.

Reporters present at the shuttle landing at Baja California Spaceport
saw no signs of unfriendliness between Subcommittee investigators and
Dr. Kutler, but were unable to obtain any statement from the doctor.

Subpoenas for a number of other members of the Dome staff were issued
today, and shipped via Moon shuttle in the hands of a Dome staffer
returning from Earth leave who was sworn in as process server just
before takeoff time. An official list of those named in the subpoenas
will not be issued until after service on Wednesday evening (when the
shuttle arrives at Moon Dome), but among those named in authoritative
circles as probable witnesses were Research Director P. A. Christensen,
who testified two weeks ago on Security control; Dr. T. L. Bourgnese,
Biochem Chief at the Dome; Leonard Lakeland, Hydroponics Technician;
Dr. David Chernik, Medical Staff; a number of female staffers, whose
names were withheld, and quite possibly the newest female staff member,
tri-di dancer Lisa Trovi, whose appointment as Psychiatric Assistant
made headlines a short time ago. It was not known whether Miss Trovi
would be questioned about her own experiences at the Moon Dome or in
connection with Col. John Wendt, whom she accompanied to the Dome on
the mysterious visit six weeks ago about which the Subcommittee has
been eager to question him.

A new subpoena for Col. Wendt has also been issued, but since his
release last Saturday from Rio Detention House, where he served two
days of a twenty-day drunk-and-disorderly charge, Col. Wendt has
disappeared.


_Acapulco--Sunday, October 2, 11:30_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

Under grizzled hair, the General’s face was still strikingly young:
the tight-skinned smooth-jawed face of a man whose energies are never
at the ebb. A man capable of restraint and of control, conscious of
power, continually on the advance. A dangerous man, thought Kutler--a
man almost without weaknesses himself, and entirely without empathy for
weakness in others.

“Frankly, I think it’s damned important,” Phil said crisply. “You
know better than I do what shape he’s in right now. But I wouldn’t
want to be responsible for what he’ll do when he sees _this_ bloody
foolishness.” He rattled the folded newspaper in his hand.

“I’ll be just as frank,” Harbridge answered after a moment’s thoughtful
silence. “Of course Chris was right. I know where Wendt is, and I could
reach him for you. But it’s a risk I don’t think is warranted. We’re
in a position to--let me say, _prevent_ any wild behavior on his part.
Meantime, I’d as lief not--draw enemy fire?--by contacting him.”

That would be final. Phil had hoped for the admission of knowledge,
worked for it. Now he had it, and realized he had gained nothing.

“All right,” he said tiredly. “You’re the tactician.” He was suddenly
not so much angry as disgusted.

“Jed,” he said, and didn’t even realize till he was halfway through his
speech that the General’s first name had come naturally. “I understand
your hesitation about contacting Johnny.” _You don’t dare talk to him.
It would mess up all your thinking, wouldn’t it?_ “But in the event
that you should be in touch with him in the next few days--or have some
means of sending him a message--I think you might do him a favor to let
him know Lisa is pregnant.”

Harbridge had to repress a faint grin. So he had known all along. Phil
had counted on shock value in that one.

“I had the impression the lady did not want him to know?”

“The lady is of several minds in the matter. But I think it would be
easier if Johnny felt that she sent him the message before he reads or
hears it from some public source.”

The General thought that one over. He shook his head. “I can’t see it,
Phil. It don’t fit. What you said about Ray McLafferty and this whole
new pitch fits fine. But not throwing the girl to the wolves. What
would he get out of it?”

“Revenge?” Phil said, testing.

“Revenge?” Harbridge smiled indulgently. “This is politics, Kutler,
not couch games.” He thought a moment more. “And let’s say Ray isn’t
the man I think he is--Why take it out on _her_? You or Chris, I could
_maybe_ see. Why _her_?”

The man was good. Damn good. But from the outside only. Damn fine
analysis; no understanding ... no, that was wrong too ... no
compassion? ... no _insight_, no intuition.

_We’d make a great team--if we could stand each other._

Phil shrugged. “He’s not the only one to think about.”

“He’s the important one. He puts out the releases.” Harbridge looked
up sharply. “One thing maybe you left out? Ray’s not the guy to take
no for an answer. Not very easily. He’ll damn well see to it Trovi’s
protected. For now.”

“It may not be up to him.”

“What the hell are you driving at, Kutler?”

“He’s got a mess of subpoenas out. Including for her. People talk.
_She’s_ not much of a liar either. Or take me.” _And take special
note of the fine set of rattles while you’re at it._ “It may
sound quaint, but I have an aversion to perjury. So do some other
people--non-political types. Scientists. Like that.”

“You don’t think _he’s_ overlooked that? Why in hell do you suppose he
sacrificed coverage? He gives the press conferences.”

_I’m damned if I’ll spell it out for you. I warned you. That’s enough._

Phil shrugged again and let it drop.


_Acapulco--Monday, October 3, 7:30_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)

The General had been awake for fifteen minutes when the call came.
He was still in his pyjamas, sipping his second coffee and reading
through Chris’ message again, reviewing the talk with Dr. Kutler in his
mind; he had just realized that he had never gotten around to hearing
Kutler’s pet theories, when the call came. He took it where he was, in
the bedroom.

Wendt’s face was taut as his voice, but he was in control. He looked
surprisingly young, tanned, and healthy. Could be quite a guy, Jed
decided, if he stayed sober long enough.

“Saw this thing in the paper,” Wendt said, without preliminaries.
“What’s the scoop?”

“I can’t say for sure,” Jed told him. “And if I could, I wouldn’t on
the phone.”

“Anything to it?”

Harbridge shrugged. “You know more than I do. Last time I was up was to
pin eagles on you.”

“That’s right--_sir_. I damn near forgot, didn’t I--_sir_?”

“Come off it, Wendt. It was stupid enough, calling me. Don’t let’s play
games now.”

“No, _sir_. Sorry to have bothered you.”

Jed saw his arm tense; he’d be reaching for the switch. “Hold on,
John,” he said sharply. The damn fool call was made. Might as well get
some use out of it.

“Yes, sir?”

Harbridge sighed. All right, two could play that, if necessary. “I take
it you have decided to accept the subpoena?” he asked acidly.

“I have my heli right here--sir--to go get it with.”

Jed grinned. “At ease, will you, Wendt?” He saw the other man relax
imperceptibly, unwillingly. “Okay, as long as I know you’re a
law-abiding citizen, and not calling to ask for assistance in this
absurd evasive maneuver--” He allowed just the comers of his mouth to
twitch slightly. “--I can tell you this much. My own opinion is it’s a
personal spite feud. I think he’s got it in for Chris or Kutler or both
of them. I had a talk with Kutler last night and--”

“Excuse me, sir. Are these Dr. Kutler’s opinions you’re giving me, or
your own?”

“Both. Why?”

“I’m not sure I’d put my faith in his explanations.”

“They’re the only explanations I’ve had so far,” Jed said crisply.
“Maybe next week I’ll know more.”

“That’s what I actually called about,” Wendt said, dropping the
mocking-game altogether. “Do you, or will you, know which witnesses
will be subpoenaed for next week?”

“I don’t know now. You’ll probably see it in the papers same time I do.”

“I see.” His eyes made sure he didn’t believe a word of it. “I was
hoping there might be some way to have a word with--one of the people
whose names I saw mentioned.”

“Sure. Any time you get tired of hiding out, just drop by and I’ll
arrange a call for you. Glad to do anything I can. Stop by this
evening.” He glanced at the wall clock, visible in Wendt’s screen,
trying to remind him that by now they _knew_ where he was. He thought
he got an answering flicker.

“Well, I’m taking up too much of your time, General. Suppose I give you
a buzz tonight, anyhow?”

“If there’s anything _important_ on your mind, sure. But, John--”

“Yes?”

“I--wouldn’t pay too much attention to the news stories. You
understand?”

“I think so. I’ll buzz you. So long.”


_Balsas, Mexico--7:45_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)

He left the phone booth, stepped into the hovering ground car, and took
off on a cushion of air, silently. Inside fifteen minutes, he entered
the outskirts of Teloloapan, without incident. He parked the rented car
neatly on a residential sidestreet, and grabbed an airbus downtown. His
clothing would be least conspicuous in a working-class place. He found
a ginmill open for the go-to-work quickie trade, and settled down.

After a week of water and coke, the Mexican beer was biting and strong.
He drank slowly; he had a lot of thinking to do first, and over that
bridge there had to be room for some action still.

Meanwhile, there was plenty of time to think; and to drink--slowly. It
was too early to do anything else.

At nine o’clock, he began on the phone, trying to locate Phil Kutler.
Anyone else would have been better. But like the man said, his was the
only game in town.

By eleven, the operator had him convinced that the doctor was not
registered at any hotel in Mexcity; the only forwarding address at his
New York apartment was Moon Dome.

“Have you tried Decagon Information?” And why in Hell hadn’t he thought
of that _first_?

“Just one _mommmmment_....” And she was back--with Jed Harbridge’s
Acapulco phone. _Great!_

He went back to his booth, drank one more bottle of beer, and decided
to be logical this time. He walked down the length of the bar, toward
the sleepy-looking middle-aged Mexican who had perched on the bar stool
all morning.

“Listen, chum,” he said, without preamble, “I have to talk to the boss,
and it irritates him when I make public calls.”

The sleepy man looked at him sleepily. “Senor?”

“Oh come off it. Look, how about we take a walk? Get acquainted a
little?”

The sleepy man thought it over. A faint glint showed in his eyes. He
shrugged fatalistically, climbed down off the stool, threw a coin on
the bar, and followed Johnny into the street.

“I owe you congratulations anyhow,” Johnny said. “I sure as hell
thought I’d throw you this morning.”

The man, no longer sleepy, smiled. “It was nothing,” he said proudly.
“I have long experience.”

“Damn glad you do,” Johnny said, and meant it. “Look, I wasn’t kiddin’.
I want to call your boss. I tried this morning, and he didn’t like me
using a public phone, so we couldn’t say much. If you’ll just--”

“But _Senor_--” The man was clearly pained. “If I _could_, I would help
you gladly, but I have no means....”

“I’m not asking you to give me your junior G-man kit or wrist
radiophone or anything,” Johnny said patiently, “Hell, I don’t _want_
to know what kind of setup you’ve got. Put it this way. I’ll go back in
the bar. You get in touch. See what the man says. Tell him I want some
private talk, that’s all. Okay?”

The man opened his mouth. “But _Senor_--”

Johnny said, “Fine!” and slapped him briskly on the back. Walked back
into the bar, sat down, got one more bottle, and nursed it, like the
first three. He would make it last as long as he could. It was the last
one, either way. There was too much to do.

Just _what_ was to do, he wasn’t sure yet. The first step was Kutler.
After that he’d know. But for Kutler, he needed his wits.

If the sleepy man didn’t show by the time the bottle was gone, he’d
have to find some other way to get hold of Phil. Or make up his own
mind, without Phil.

But he was goddam tired of sitting around waiting--for nothing. It was
just about time to go get--

_What? What you goin’ to get, boy? What’s_ to _get?_

Good question. But it didn’t matter much. Just so long you could sit on
your ass, that’s all.

_Rather get knocked onto it, hey, boy?_

Not very damn likely!

_Tough guy! ????_

Maybe.

_Yeh. I remember. Did some fancy gettin’ and goin’ before, hey man?_

He stood up. Carried his bottle to the bar. Stood a moment indecisive.
Put the bottle down, waved to the barman and walked out. Find the
sleepy man ... find Harbridge ... find Kutler ... find Lee.

And there you were. Simple, when you came right down to it.

Let ’em have their spaceships and cootie-bugs and truth drugs and
politics and screw ’em all. Including the pall-bearers. Let ’em play
their games. Johnny Wendt didn’t care. Let ’em have anything they
wanted, except _one_ thing....

_The one thing is you, Lee. Lisa, Love, Lee, I want you._...

He strode out of the dim bar into the sunlight, arms swinging, teeth
white in laughter against the tan of his face. A sad-faced woman
in black gown and mantle scurried out of his way, crossing herself
fervently.

_Drunk or devil or what?_ he wondered. _What does she think I’ll do?
Damn fool dames don’t even know a crazy man from_--

_From what?_--

His laughter shouted in the street.

--_from a crazy-in-love man. That’s what!_

The woman peeked back around the edge of her veil, and her face looked
a little less sad.

_If I had a damn rose I’d throw it at her!_

He felt clean all over. Only _where_ in Hell was Sleepy keeping himself?


_Mexcity--Monday, October 3, 1:45_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

“For you--”

The congressman handed the desk phone to the doctor with as much
flourish as if it were a saber or pistol. Phil took it as cautiously.

“Yes?”

“Kutler? This is Jed Harbridge.”

“Oh?”

Then he realized there was no point in playing mum; McLafferty would be
recording it all, anyhow.

“Just wanted to let you know: I’ve got an urgent call for you here.”

There was still nothing to say but “Oh?” The more so, knowing Mac
_must_ be recording. Let Harbridge decide how much to say; he _knew_
his way around this rat race.

“If you’re not tied up for lunch, maybe you could get over now?”

Phil wished he knew his own way around better; which of these two had
sharper teeth? And which was more likely to stick in a fight? And how
do you decipher what a man tells you in the presence of the enemy?
And was it the enemy, anyhow? It was hard to see any real difference
of attitude between the general and the congressman, when you sat in
between them, as he literally was doing now.

“You say ‘urgent,’” he formulated carefully. “Does that mean immediate?
Or very important?”

“Some of both. It _can_ wait a little. Frankly, I think the immediacy
is more on _your_ end. Oh, look, I hate to sound cloak-and-dagger; it’s
nothing like that. A personal matter--what you were asking me last
night. I’ll be more specific if you like, but I assumed--”

“That’s all right, Jed,” he broke in. At this point, there was just one
thing he had to know. And he saw no reason not to ask. “I take it it’s
not from the Dome? You said ‘personal’.”

“That’s right.” Jed sounded relieved: presumably he, Phil, now knew
what it was all about. He saw no good reason to let Harbridge know that
he knew less than ever now. All the personal matters he could think of,
right now, were 250,000 miles away....

Except one. But he _knew_ Harbridge wasn’t about to let him talk to
John. And if he _was_, why call him _here_ to let him know? That wasn’t
it; and it wasn’t from Lisa. So it could wait.

“What time do you go out?” he asked.

“Twelve, twelve-thirty....”

“I’ll try to make it,” Phil said. “I think I can wind things up here
pretty soon?” He looked across the desk at McLafferty, who nodded,
shrugged, mouthed, _Any time_....

“Right. As soon as you can?”

“Right.”

He handed the phone back. “Seems something’s come up,” he said briskly.
“I want to catch Harbridge if I can before he goes out for lunch. So
let me jump in with both feet.” He smiled. “I’m not much good at the
ringaroundrosy you boys play, anyhow.”

“You do all right,” the congressman said ruefully.

“Thanks. I think. Look, is there still anything you want to ask me?
Before we do it in public, I mean?”

“Nothing awfully important. We’ve about covered the ground.”

“Okay. Then there’s something _I_ want to _tell_ you.” He saw the other
man brace himself almost imperceptibly, and smiled again. “Relax, man.
I didn’t say _tell you off_. I said _tell_. Like, information. What
you’re after. Pay dirt, man.”

McLafferty was mentally balancing on the balls of his feet, with both
arms up, guarding. _Change of pace_, Phil thought approvingly. _Always
works._ Reluctantly, he admitted he could probably get pretty good at
this kind of bull if he had to.

“Okay,” Mac said, on balance again. “This is the sure-enough assay
office. Let’s see what color your dirt is.”

“I assume anything I tell you here is confidential--I mean as far as
the press is concerned?”

“Well, I can’t give you a blanket _yes_ on that. Anything you tell me
that bears on the investigation, I can’t keep concealed....”

“I’m not asking that. Put it this way: I have a piece of information
I think will be of use to you, and certainly of interest at least. It
has nothing to do with anything that’s happened at the Dome--or in
connection with the Dome--except that the person it concerns happens to
be there.” He stood up, walked to the window. He wasn’t sure enough of
his ability to use his face. His voice he could play with skill; but
usually people weren’t watching him when he talked. “Frankly,” he said
to the window, “I’m telling you this because I believe you’ll feel, as
I do, that making it public would do no particular good to anyone, and
might do great damage to the person involved. It’s something that could
come out easily in the official inquiry, but--”

He had to turn back because this way _he_ couldn’t see the other man.

“--Look, I assume you record conversations here?”

Mac looked pleasantly neutral; made no reply.

“So I know I’m putting myself on a limb when I say this. But I’m hoping
that what I tell you will help you decide what questions to ask me
tomorrow--or which ones _not_ to ask.” He laughed, a bit nervously and
it took no effort to sound that way either. “I guess I better put it
on record, after that, that I’m not asking for preferential treatment
for myself or anyone else, but merely attempting to provide you with
certain background extraneous information which I believe will help you
to frame your questions in such a way as to protect innocent persons
from unnecessary publicity. Does that cover me?” He tried the laugh
again.

“Beautifully. Ever think of going into the law?” McLafferty’s manner
was warm, inviting.

“Often. I’ll return the compliment. _You_ ever think about
headshrinking?”

There was no perceptible difference in the warmth or sincerity of the
laugh. “As a matter of fact--often. From the other end of the couch.”

This man was much more his own type, as a matter of fact, than Jed
Harbridge was. But Jed’s type, too--Phil became aware of an unfamiliar
sensation of grave respect. The bland-looking man across the desk had
_both_ kinds of awareness. _Talk about dangerous men_....

“All right,” Phil said. “I’ve wasted enough time.”

“Just one thing,” Mac broke in.

“Yes?”

“You understand I have made no pledges of silence or secrecy?”

“I do.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“What I wanted to tell you is simply that Lisa Trovi is pregnant.”

It was heart warming to see it register. _Bland_, hey? About as bland,
behind the meringue face, as baked hot peppers....

“Man, you don’t think I can--?”

“About _six months_ pregnant,” Phil said. He waited for the meaning to
sink in, and added, “Well, five and a half.”

McLafferty smiled, but it was weak. “Wendt, I suppose?”

Phil shrugged. “The lady won’t say.” He managed to make it quite lewd.
Mac’s eyebrows shot up briefly.

“Well,” said the congressman, “I see what you mean. I’m not sure--”

_Busy brain whirring away_, thought Phil admiringly.

“--You understand, I’ll have to give this some careful thought.
Offhand, I don’t see how it really concerns this investigation, but--”

_But you see all that lovely black ink, don’t you, man?_

“--I’ll tell you one thing. I wish to Christ I could talk to Wendt.
This damfool hiding-out doesn’t accomplish anything.”

_Oh, no, Mac! Really! How much do you think you can do me for?_
And then, startled, he thought: _Well, whaddya know? Ole doc’s ego
acting up! At this stage yet_.... And finally, amused: _Got to see my
psychiatrist about_ that!

“Wish I could help you,” he said smoothly. “Frankly, I’d like to get
my hands on that boy myself.” He reached out his hand. “Well, I hope
you’ll see this thing the way I do, when you’ve thought it out. I
better haul out of here now. Can’t hold up the whole Decagon.”

The only thing that bothered him when he left was that he might
have underestimated Lisa’s effect--again. McLafferty ought to be
arrow-proof; but so should a lot of others. Who weren’t.


_Mexcity--Monday, October 3, 1:45_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

He parked right inside the Decagon lot, and to hell with them all. If
they tapped him now, they would, and that was that.

But he knew it was damned unlikely they’d have a paper waiting for him
here.

He had no trouble getting to Harbridge either. He showed the guards and
the secretaries the same thing: his face and a five-dollar bill. He was
upstairs in ten minutes flat, with the private secretary.

She was new. He said patiently, “Please just buzz and say, ‘Johnny’s
here.’ That’s all.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll have to have your full name.”

“Let’s say I’m his long-lost son. Johnny Harbridge, okay?” Why not just
_tell_ her? He didn’t know.

“Oh, Mr. Prentiss--I wonder if you could--”

Johnny looked at the smooth-young-man who had just entered. The
smooth-young-man looked at him, got noticeably ruffled around the
edges, and said, “Just a minute, Glory. You--er--What can I do for you,
Colonel? I’m Al Prentiss, the General’s Press Secretary.”

“Pleased to meet you, Al. I was trying to persuade the young lady that
the General would want to see me--since I’m here, I mean.”

“I imagine he would,” Prentiss said, deadpan. “If you’ll wait just a
_moment_, I’ll let him know....”

He went through a door across the room.

Johnny waited.

He got tired of waiting, and followed through the door.

Prentiss. Harbridge. Kutler.

“Well,” he said. “Old Home Day. All we need now is Chris.”

“All right, John,” Harbridge said wearily. “What are you trying to do?”

“Brace yourself,” Johnny said. “Especially you, Doc. Sit down. It’ll be
a shock.” He strode to the desk and looked straight at Harbridge. “I’m
trying to find out how I can get to the Moon.”

The General shook his head. “You do need Chris then. I can’t authorize
it.”

_You’re full of bull._ “Oh?” He turned to Phil. “All right. Who
authorizes trips down? You or Chris? I--don’t think the environment up
there is quite right for Lee.”

Phil shrugged. He was good at it. “Tell _her_,” he said.

Johnny looked from the doctor to the general and back again. No point
in crawling. Both men were set. He felt the inviting ache in his
shoulder, and set it aside. If he was sure Prentiss would stay out of
it.... He could clean up the other two without getting winded....

Good thing Prentiss was there. Just as well.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll _do_ that.”

He started out.

“Colonel Wendt?”

He turned, half-way. Bully-boy Prentiss. “Yeah?”

“I just thought I’d mention--the backroom boys think it’s pretty sure
she’s subpoenaed. That would mean she’d be down next trip anyhow.”

_Pacifier?_ He didn’t think so, somehow. The guy almost seemed human.

“Thanks,” he said. “I didn’t think of that.”


_New York--Monday, October 3, 7_ P.M. (_E.D.S.T._)

The city hadn’t changed; it was he who had.

Such a short time--and actually, very little had happened. _Very
little. Sure. You just went right out of this world._

So: two years later--damn near--the doctor gets around to knowing what
the man meant. Phil marveled, not for the first time, at the ease with
which we assume communication; fool ourselves into the oddly arrogant
delusion that we have heard, that we know, understand, even share, the
consciousness of our fellowman.

Phil Kutler walked the streets of the city he loved, and felt
_bruised_. Everywhere were barriers. Walls: not only of brick and stone
and wood, but walls of tougher, harder, more hurtful, flesh and blood
and emotion.

He wished, wished with all his heart, fervently, that someone in all
the millions of his city, could _hear him_ now--as he, finally, _heard_
Johnny Wendt....

“_Mars is heaven, that’s what_....”

As he had _heard_ Lisa--what was it? Four weeks--One month ago? It
seemed hardly possible--and _understood_ that her need was not his own
desire. Understood it, and still desired--hell, still _loved_!

It was, looking back on it, highly improbable. _I am not that big a
man_, he told himself soberly. And it was true. But he _had_ been.
Then. _There._

Maybe Johnny was right. Maybe men ought to stay where they acted like
men....

_No!_

_No, damn it, Johnny was wrong! As wrong as a man_ CAN _be_.
“_Something up there makes us love_,” he paraphrased nervously, and
admitted it frightened him, and stopped fearing it.

_If anyone was right, Doug was!_

He laughed. It was that simple. _Just that simple._ No one would ever
believe it, but he was deeply sure. He knew, because he was certain it
was exactly what _he_ would have done.

A stiff-backed, powder-caked claw-fingered female, rushing on
tight-toed stilt heels, miscalculated; a bony shoulder knifed his
bicep; a sharp elbow rose reflexively, caught him in the chest.

“Whyncha look wareyagone?” she shrieked.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. And wondered what Moon-change would
happen to _her_, if she could go too?

Wondered, more practically, if that odd feeling of kinship with
McLafferty meant the other man had felt it too? Smiled, thinking:
_All that work and sweat. And suppose the big oaf has turned into a
gentleman?_

It wouldn’t matter much. Actually, all the sweat had not been needed.
Johnny was already on his way.

_Damned rude of him not to wait for me to push_, Phil thought,
delighted.




PART TEN

_October 5-9, 1977_


_The Shack--Wednesday, October 5, 4_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

She switched off the half-track engine, and as the spotlight faded, the
world directly ahead of her blinked out.

She opened the cab door and stepped out into heaven. Above her, the
gorgeous enormous full Earth, gleaming blue-greenly against the black
velvet stardiamonded backdrop of everywhere--always out there.

And right ahead, now, the muted twin glows of the Shack itself and the
Shack guardhouse.

She flashed on her helmet lamp, picked her way over Moon crust to the
guardhouse. Looked in, exchanged smiles, and went on to the Shack.

She sat down in front of the tank, where the greyish-white ganglions
had long since ceased to show discrete patterns. Now they crowded
together, piled on each other, multiplied, multiplying. The daily
“watering” of a month ago would have been hopelessly inadequate now; a
steady trickle of nutrient fed the tank from a storage drum--and even
the daily ten gallons hardly seemed to account for the burgeoning of
the white cells.

Lisa looked. Watched. Stared. And _listened_.

A nagging thought stopped her. She switched on her radio.

“Jim?”

“That you, Miss Trovi?” From the guardhouse.

“Yes. I meant to ask--will you call me at six? I want to get back for
dinner tonight.”

“Sure thing.”

“Thanks.”

She switched off, and let herself drift into--what? where?--

Far out. Or far in? That used to be a joke, _so far out you’re in, so
far in you’re out, but it’s no joke, it’s not funny, it’s fun_.

_Swing on a star ... climb up a moonbeam_ ... featherlight, fearfree,
far sands of home.... _Hello!... Hello, I know you, don’t I?... Don’t
know your name, but ... funny-fun! ... the soul is familiar_....

Foolish to want a name. Baby has no name. What name for baby? _Doug,
we’ll call him Doug.... Hello, Doug_....

... and the well opened up again, great valentine lake of lovelygood,
lace-edged, beating heart, two hearts in three-quarter phase....

_Where are you? Hello? Hello?_

_Oh!_

“Oh. Oh, hi. Six _already_?”

“No,” Jim, the guard, was leaning over her, helmet to helmet. “They
been trying to call you from Dome, Miss Trovi. We kept gettin’ the call
on our sets, but you didn’t answer, so I figure your radio’s off, and
come in to tell you.”

“Oh. Thanks, Jim.”

She switched on the helmet set.

“Hello?”

“Lee! Thank God! You had us worried. Been trying to get you the last
twenty minutes!”

“Who’s that? Thad?”

“Yuh. Listen, we’ve a call for you. Earthside. Better hurry. We can’t
hold the frequency much longer.”

_Earthside?_

“Johnny!” She jumped up. “Hold it, Thad,” she said. “I’m on my way.”


_Mexcity--Wednesday, October 5, 5:35_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

“I’m sorry, Johnny. We’ve been doing our damnedest. She’s on her way
back now, but Relay will cut out in two minutes.”

The distant voice was Chris’, but yet not Chris. He couldn’t get
_through_, somehow.

“Okay,” he said. “Look, I don’t have to talk to her. Will you send her
down?”

“I’ll tell her you called. I’ll tell her you asked her to come. I can’t
_send_ her, Johnny.”

“Okay.” _Bastard! You’ll tell her--yeah! But what? What can you tell
her to be so sure she won’t want to come?_ “Okay. If that’s it, that’s
it.”

“I’ll tell her,” the voice named Chris said again.

“Hey! Chris! Listen!” He felt his throat tighten up, but the words
squeezed past. “Chris! If she--never mind if--Chris, can you make room
for me to come up Sunday? Maybe she ought to stay--”

“I don’t know--”

“We-are-sorry-to-interrupt-this-call-but-Relay-Station-has-passed-out-
of-range-This-is-a-recorded-message-We-are-sorry-to-interrupt--”

The sound cut out. Johnny turned from the mike, and saw Jed’s hand on
the switch.

“Well,” he said. “Thanks. I--appreciate everything.”

Harbridge took a single step forward. “All right, Johnny. I’m glad
we could get you through. Wish you’d connected better. But I imagine
she’ll be down Sunday. She _is_ on the subpoena list, you know, so--”

“She is?” He hadn’t even read that. He’d forgotten about it. The
headline was all he saw, really. “You--wouldn’t care to tell me where
Phil Kutler is?” he asked, feeling the ice in his gut again, just like
he felt it when he saw the paper, her name, and Phil’s picture.

  DANCER PREGNANT, SAYS MOON DOC

“No. No, I don’t think I’d care to tell you that, John. In fact--Al,
I think I hear your phone.” He looked meaningfully at the young man,
who undraped himself from the corner of the desk, mock-saluted, and
left. “Now let’s get something straight, John,” Harbridge said. “I got
your call through. That’s as far as I go. You had no damn business
coming in here again. If you had half a brain, you’d realize what it
means if they get you into that hearing room _now_. If you care about
Lisa at all--Well, that’s your affair. But you busting in here is _my_
business. This is the last time you do it. Try it again, and you’ll
find yourself in the jug before you’re halfway in the main door. You
follow me?”

“_All_ the way,” Johnny said. “Sir.”

“All right. I’m going to do one more thing for you, and then I’m
through. I wouldn’t do it for _you_; but it happens to be more
convenient for me this way. I’m going to get you the hell out of here
without any of the process servers who are outside by now getting hold
of you. After that, will you please, kindly, _get lost_?”

“I hear you talking,” Johnny said tightly. “I’m not sure I follow you
though.”

“You follow me all right. Come on.”

Johnny followed. There was nothing else he could do. What counted now
was Lisa, Lisa and nothing else. No one else. If he had to eat Jed
Harbridge’s crud, he could do that too. _And remember it too_--but for
now, he followed. He followed the General up to the private parking
roof, and accepted the loan of a heli, and took off.

For where?

Home seemed less unlikely than most other places.


_Dollars Dome--Thursday, October 6, 2_ P.M.

The woman was positively _glowing_ at him.

“You _do_ understand, Lee? I can’t take a chance on letting him come
up. Not now. Maybe in a month or so, if things quiet down. But one more
mess now--I’m sorry to put it that way, Lisa--”

“I _do_ understand, Chris.” She smiled impishly. “Anyhow, you wanted
publicity, didn’t you?”

“God help me, I did.” He looked at her suspiciously. “You know, I keep
feeling as if you’re just sitting there waiting for me to do a reverse
switch and tell you I’ve changed my mind and sure he can come.”

“Well, it would be nice. Do you think it would help if I
_concentrated_?”

“Concentrate any harder, and--I don’t know. I know I won’t change my
mind. If I _could_, I _would_ have, by now.”

“All right, then.” But she still sat, smiling.

“You sure you don’t want to go, after all?”

She shook her head. “I don’t _want_ to. And even if I did, it wouldn’t
be a good idea.” Her laughter poured out. “I can just see myself on
that witness stand!”

He winced. She stood up.

“It’s all right, dear. I’m not _going_ down. Tell them to come get me,
if they want me that much.”

He tried visualizing that one, and liked it. “I might just do that,” he
said, and then reluctantly: “About Johnny, Lee. What do you want me to
do?”

“Let him come up.”

_Damn you, woman! You know what I mean._ “Short of that,” he said
gruffly.

“Give him my love. Tell him I want him to come.”

“You don’t want to--well, send a letter or anything? I could deliver it
myself. Privacy--”

She hesitated. “No. No, I don’t think that’s the way. Oh, Chris, don’t
_worry_ so! If _I’m_ not worried, why should you be? It’s going to be
all right. _I know it._”

The worst part was: he believed her. You couldn’t _not_ believe, when
she was there with you. But--

“Have a good trip,” she said.

“Thanks. Take care of yourself, Lee.” She moved to the door with that
fantastic grace she seemed to have developed lately. “Oh, Lee--”

She turned back, smiling.

“If you don’t mind--I’d just as lief you stayed in Dome while I’m gone.
I’d hate to think of you out at the Shack--Well, like yesterday. It
bothers--”

“Oh, stop _worrying_, dear.” She turned, and was gone.


_Baja California Spaceport--Sunday, October 9, 5_ P.M. (_P.S.T._)

“No, she didn’t come this trip.”

“Well, what do you suggest, Dr. Christensen? Will you accept delivery,
or should we return to sender?”

“Can you tell me the name of the sender?”

“I suppose--I don’t see why not. Colonel Wendt.”

“I’ll take it,” he said decisively.

The Port Manager handed it over with relief. “All right. Will you see
the reporters now? They’ve been waiting....”


_Rockland--Sunday, October 9, 10_ P.M. (_E.D.S.T._)

He couldn’t see why he’d never thought of it before.

All the times he’d sat in this room and stared at that damn impregnable
glass wall, and never realized he had something so simple that
could--if not damage it, then at least--make an impression on it.

He got up from the couch and picked up the five darts from the floor.
Two others stuck to the curved surface of the giant window, both from
previous tries. He had been leaving them there, timing himself to see
how long it took to get them all up. But that didn’t work, because he
didn’t stick with the game. Now he got an absurd satisfaction out of
wrenching the two suction cups loose. He’d keep score the other way
instead--see how many _turns_ it took to get them all up.

At least it wouldn’t be too quick.

Not that it mattered; it was ten now; if she didn’t call soon, she
wasn’t going to. Unless the landings were _really_ late this time?

He dialed for the news, and sat back, not listening to all the headline
part. Landing times would come at the end.

The first shuttle had been scheduled for five-thirty, Central time.
That was two and a half hours now he’d sat waiting for the phone chime;
dialing for no-news; pacing the room up and down; opening the liquor
cabinet and closing it again; getting--and forgetting--five cups of hot
coffee from the bleak kitchen.

Somewhere along the way, he’d thought of the darts.

Given a near-impossible combination of luck and skill, you could make a
suction dart stick on curved glass one time in--how many? That’s what
was wrong with the first scoring system; this way he’d find out.

He threw all seven, one after another, as fast as he could. One caught,
clung, dropped. The others just bounced. The phone chimed.

_The phone!_

He reached for the switch, and the screen lit up, and--_damn it to
Hell, you fat bastard, where’s Lee?_--it was Chris!

“She didn’t come,” Johnny said.

Chris shook his head. “She asked me to give you a message.”

“Yeah? Okay, give it.”

“She _couldn’t come_.”

“No?”

“The doctor says....”

“_Which_ doctor? Ole buddy Phil?”

“No, the Medic. She’s not supposed to take the trip till--”

“You always were a bum liar, Chris. So she didn’t come. So?”

“All right, I’m a bum liar. If you want to know, I wouldn’t let her.
And you ought to have your head examined, for wanting her to. She’s
been subpoenaed.”

“Me too. If they get around to serving it.”

“Yeah, but her left isn’t as good as yours. Do you want to hear the
message or not?”

“Sure. Why not? What is it? Love and kisses?”

“As a matter of fact, that’s _exactly_ it.”

“Okay.” But he had seen Chris hesitate. There was more. He waited.

Chris waited.

“All right, spill it, will you? What’s the rest?”

“You turning mindreader too?” Chris said nastily.

“Leave it lay, man,” Johnny growled. “_What else did she say?_”

“She said for you to come up.”

“Okay. Got room next trip?”

Chris shook his head.

“The one after?”

Same bit.

“_No_ room, huh? She stays up, I stay down, right?”

Chris never said a word.

Johnny switched off and got out the bottle and picked up the darts, and
started keeping score by how many belts it took to get a dart up.

Damn things wouldn’t stick at all.




PART ELEVEN

_October 13-18, 1977_


_Dollars Dome--Thursday, October 13, 3:30_ P.M.

“It bothered Chris too,” she said.

“I’ll bet. And you can’t see why?” He watched her face with every bit
of intelligence and knowledge at his command. He found nothing there
but serenity--and some tenderness and amusement.

“Phil, what on Earth--well, all right, what in Space--could _happen_?
Am I supposed to be afraid of the dark?”

“Everything spooky spooks worse in the dark,” he said. “And kid, this
bit with you and the Shack has got spooky.”

“Well, I don’t know what I can say to that.” She stood up, smiling, but
a little impatient now.

“Lee--suppose I say you _can’t_ go?”

She did not seem to understand.

“Suppose I _forbid_ you to?”

“Phil!”

It was complete in itself. The one word said it all. _By whose
authority? With what right? For what reason? Darling--you’re fooling,
aren’t you?_

“Suppose I said _Chris_ forbade it?”

“You mean you want to know what I’d do if I were actually made to
believe I _couldn’t_ go?”

He nodded. She thought a moment.

“I’d try anyhow. Then if I _couldn’t_--I mean, _really_ couldn’t--” She
grinned. “--I wouldn’t.”

_What does she want me to do? Throw my arms around her and hold her
here?_ Maybe she did: it was a nice thought, anyhow.

Her smile changed, and he remembered, sharply, too vividly, that one
kiss the day she told him about--

The baby. _Johnny’s_ baby.

“Phil, I suppose this is the time to say it. You are the kindest, most
decent, most _loving_ human being I’ve ever known. Sometimes I wish it
was you who needed me.”

That was all. And it was enough. Of course that was the difference, and
he had, really, always understood, just as well as he did now.

But it mattered that she had told him. It mattered a great deal.

“Thank you, Lisa. I _do_ love you very much.” The words tasted good.
Fresh. _Pure._ He was glad he had said them. “I--almost wish I needed
you too.” _But I’d rather love you._

When she was gone, he sat and studied that one out. He didn’t get very
far. It was easy to analyze--simple masochistic crap. And/or false
superiority: _Better to love and not have than to be needful and get?_
Feed that to the pigs--or the bugs. It wasn’t for Kutler. Except it
was. So?

_So nothing. So live with it. Someday you go back to Earth and get
analyzed, lad. Till then, don’t try to understand. Relax and enjoy it._

Which was the damnedest part. He _did_ enjoy it.

He got that settled in his mind; then he tried conscientiously to worry
about Lee. She had gone to the Shack again, of course. She was out
there now, dreaming whatever she dreamed when she stared at the wild
growth there. It was _dangerous_--

He laughed. What in hell could be dangerous about it?

_Spooky things ... scared of the dark_.... And of course: _scared of
bugs_. Just that simple.

He stopped trying to worry.

_But what made her think he and Doug Laughlin were so much alike?_

He was curious; he dug Laughlin’s pre-trip psych profile out of the
files.

She wasn’t so wrong.


_Rockland--Friday, October 14, 5_ A.M. (_E.D.S.T._)

He wouldn’t be able to do it until all the darts stuck. He knew he
wouldn’t. But he knew when the darts stuck, he could. Easy. No sweat.
He knew just how, but....

_Won’ work till they stick, gotta all stick_....

He kept throwing. Took a lot of drinks to make one stick. Got to do it
soon, run out of drinks otherwise.

Damn bottle was empty. More in cellar, but cellar Hell of a ways,
besides he didn’t want. _Lousy stuff. Gets you nowhere._

He laughed.

_Man, I wen’ nowhe’.... This boy did that job.... Yessir, Johnny Wendt
went, went nowheah atall...._

Stupid business, two darts won’t stick. _All the other ones stick,
what’s matter with two?_

Maybe no-good darts?

He picked them up again and took them to the wall. Stuck one on, then
the other. _See? Stick fine. See?_

He almost cheated, but it was no good, it wouldn’t _work_ unless he
_threw_ them all and _made_ ’em stick.

He took the two off again and went back to the couch. Threw and picked
up and threw and picked up and threw and picked up and had to get
another bottle after all and threw and picked up and threw, and _there
you are_.

_You wouldn’t believe it, both ’fem stick ’tonce!_

He got up and went out the back door, feeling in his pocket for keys.
Somebody came up and asked him if he was Wendt, but he fooled ’em, just
said, “Man, I ain’t even come yet,” and kept going, to the garage.

He got in the car and _it_ Wendt. _Jus’ fine._

_Wendt, went, when it went, Wendt went straight into the damn glass
wall._

Tricky going for Wendt, but this man used to be crack pilot. Nerves of
steel--all that. Slambang into window-wall, crrr-aaa-ck, and slam on
brake, and _there you are_....

He climbed out and walked into the living room, feeling fine.

Not many guys could do that. _Not damn few very many._

_Crack-smash that damn wall and not touch a thing inside. Car right
outside where it ought to be. Johnny inside. Good. But no damn curved
glass wall. Seven damn darts and a couple of jugs, or a few maybe, and
the ole car, and there you are: no damn glass wall!_

He was tired. He lay down to sleep.


_Red Dome--Friday, October 14, 4:30_ A.M. (_S.S.T._)

They sat in a group around the woman, Maria. Nobody talked.

They sat for a long time in silence. Perhaps an hour, perhaps more.
Then Maria began to murmur. Nobody moved. The tape recorder ran, as it
had run, since they started. Only two of them in the group knew English
well, but all of them _listened_ with the same deep attention.

From time to time, someone came in and took over a seat from one of the
circled sitters. Maria stayed where she was, quite content.


_Rockland--Saturday, October 15_

Someone was screaming. It wasn’t Doug, because Doug wasn’t Doug now,
just a million little Dougs and his leg itched where the Dougs kept
biting, _damn! damn Lisa, Lisa wouldn’t scream, ice cream, whipped
cream, Lisa whip cream, lovely Lee, Lee, Lee...._

“_Leeeee!_”

He opened his eyes for one moment, saw the ceiling of the living
room, felt floor rug underneath, and heard his own voice screaming,
“_Leeeeee!_”

He closed his eyes, shut his mouth tight, moved convulsively, rolled
over, and lay on the floor a long time, sobbing without sound, dry
angry sobs that shook his frame and jarred his guts--but brought no
release, so after whatever time, long time, it was, he stood up, got
his balance, and walked steadily through the house into the kitchen.

Turned, went back through the living room and bedroom to the shower.
Shower first. He had a sour smell that sickened him.

He came out of the shower and blower and stood in the bedroom and
thought it would be nice to sleep. _One drink and go to sleep...?_

He put his shorts on, and a shirt, socks, shoes. Cup of coffee, maybe
... _might wake up_. He didn’t _want_ to sleep again. _Okay--coffee._
He started back through the living room to the kitchen. The house was a
wreck, and the floor was full of broken glass, but that....

He saw the car outside, and remembered....

There it was. _The damn window was busted!_

How in Hell had he managed _that?_

He could figure that out later. And clean things up later. Right now,
no time--first things first.

First thing was Lee. _Quick!_ before he was too late. _Too late
already, anyhow: too late for Doug, for ever, too late._

Too late for lots of things, too late for Johnny? Maybe, but if not too
late for Lee, then maybe...?

He remembered some more. He couldn’t go.

_Couldn’t_ go.

_Couldn’t?_

He took the word out, out of his aching head, and looked at it. Studied
it, turned it over, tried to turn it inside out, but there it was, all
the time, like a neon light:

c-o-u-l-d-n-apostrophe-t

Couldn’t.

He shook his head tiredly, but the letters danced behind his eyelids
even when he closed his eyes. He was very very tired. He took off his
jacket and went into the bedroom and took off his trousers and lay down.

When he awoke again, it was dusk. He knew exactly what he had to do. He
was cold sober, not hung over, fiercely hungry too. But he was afraid
it might already be too late to get things done today.

Which day? Friday? Saturday? _Sunday?_ Eating could wait.

He went to the phone, and flicked the switch, the operator thought
he was kidding, but she finally told him: Saturday. And almost eight
o’clock.

He went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich with two thick slabs
of rye bread and a stack of old dried-looking boiled ham slices from
the refrigerator. He was too hungry to care if it was dry or tasteless.

He took one large bite, wrapped the rest in a napkin, and shoved it in
his jacket pocket. He started out, then remembered seeing a quart of
milk when he got the ham. He went back, and drank all but an inch or so
of the milk, right from the wax container. _Then_ he went out, a little
worried, wondering if he’d done something to the heli too, that he
didn’t recall.

The funny thing was, he was so set on getting to someone from the
Committee, to tell them he’d take the subpoena now, that when the
little man in the brown suit stepped out from behind the hangar, and
served it on him he didn’t even think to be surprised. The only thing
that startled him was the big bass voice asking his name; it came from
such a _medium_ guy.

Afterwards, a hundred feet up and building speed, he was astonished at
the man still being there. He shook his head and grinned. “Guts!” he
said out loud to nobody, admiringly.

Later yet, over Philadelphia, he had to decide which way to go, and
realized he didn’t know where they were firing from this trip. It
occurred to him, hovering there, that he was not quite as clear-headed
as he felt he was. The sandwich was still in his pocket, for instance,
and he didn’t know where to go. Also, belatedly, he wondered if he’d
have any trouble with _this_ bunch about going up.

He kept on south. It would be either Andes or St. Thom, that much
he was sure of. Just beyond Wilmington he saw a field with service
stations and no traffic to speak of. He dropped, left the machine for
servicing whatever slipshod way the station did it, and went inside to
the phones.

_Senor_ McLafferty was not at home. He was in Mexcity, at a verrree
imporrrtant conferrrence.

“Can you tell me where to reach him?” Johnny asked urgently.

She was most sorrreee, but the number was one she was not allowed to
give.

“Can _you_ reach him?” There was no time for arguing.

Reluctantly: Yes, she could.

“All right, now listen. Call him _right away_. I’m at a pay phone, and
I haven’t got much time, and believe me, he wants to hear from me.
My name is John Wendt, you understand? The number here is Wilmington
Five-seven nine oh-eight jay six. Please ask him to call me _as quickly
as possible_. You got the name, now, John--”

“Yes, _Senor_. I _know_ the name.” He relaxed. He could see the
difference. She did know the name, and she would call McLafferty. He
flicked off, bought a soda, and sat down in the old metal chair out
front to wait for the call back.

It was midnight here. Ten, Central time. The rocket would blast at
eight ack emma Central, _latest_--seven, more likely--from wherever
they were shooting from. If the idiot congressman called back but
_fast_, and if it was St. Thom, he could make it. Andes was probably
impossible even now.


_Dollars Dome--Sunday, October 16, 4:35_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

Thad Bourgnese pursed his lips in a silent whistle, and passed the news
wire across the desk to Kutler. “Here we go again,” he said.

Phil glanced down the sheet rapidly. “Could be,” he said. “But I
wouldn’t put any money on _where_ we go. Or he goes. Or--”

“She goes? Obviously, friend: whither he goes. I mean, you’re the
doctor; you’ve noticed, I’m sure?”

“Only thing I’m not sure of,” Phil laughed, “is what you mean. Was it
the belly or the heart I was supposed to diagnose? On second thought,
that’s not the only thing I’m not sure of. It’s practically lost in the
multitude.”

“All right. Here’s another one for you. How in the name of all that’s
holy did he get on that ship? Last time I heard Chris on the subject,
J. Wendt wasn’t going to hit Moondirt again till death did them.”

“One of the many uncertainties I mentioned,” Phil said noncommitally.
“You never know. A lot can happen in a week Earthside. Or maybe Chris
was willing to take the risk if he was on the same trip....”

“The _trip_ wasn’t the problem. They could keep him under, like last
time. I dunno--the old man’s gettin’ soft, maybe--” He broke off.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he said, as Lisa pushed the door open. “What brings you
back from the Great Unknown so early and all of a glow?”

She gave him a smile-in-passing, but her question was for Phil. “Is he
coming _with Chris_?”

“Dunno, honey. They’re both coming. Hard to say whose idea it was or
who’s talking to whom.” Thad was right about that _all-of-a-glow_ bit.
_Pregnant women get that way_, he told himself, and now with Johnny
coming....

“Hold on, beautiful. Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s bad manners to
listen through keyholes? If we had a keyhole, I mean.”

“But I _wasn’t_--”

“They’re still running radiowire service, chum,” Phil stepped in. “Or
were, last I heard.” Odd, now it came time to accept the idea, admit
it, quit nibbling around the edges, how easy it was. Damn sight easier
than querying and wondering about things that just didn’t _fit_, any
other way. “Glad you stopped by, kid,” he said to Lee. “We’ve got to
get moving with the new program. Never catch you any more when you’re
not working or sleeping or out visiting your buggy buddies.”

“All right. But did you get the news report yet?” He nodded. “May I--?”
He passed it over.

She looked it through quickly and handed it back.

“Nothing you didn’t already know, hey?” Phil stood up, trying to look
brisk and efficient. “The more I think of it, the more I think we
better get that new program set up _now_. I have a feeling,” he said in
Thad’s direction, “I may be losing my chief assistant headshrinker a
little sooner than I expected.”

He hustled Lee out of the room ahead of him, and set a fast pace for
his office. He needed a little time to think, before he verbalized into
his conscious intellectual Gestalt the reality that so far existed for
him only in awareness.

And before the verbalizing, he had to determine--if he could--how much
_she_ knew.

He closed his office door, and switched on the Busy-light. No approach
like the obvious, he decided.

“Lee, how _did_ you know about Johnny?” he asked as soon as she was
settled in a chair.

“How--? Oh. I thought you really thought I got a wire.” She looked at
him almost warily. “I told you before, Phil, I _knew_ he’d come. When
it was time.”

“Just feminine intuition?”

He had intended the remark to be neutral and light. It came out harshly
sardonic.

Lisa sat forward, startled. “What do--” she started. She searched
Phil’s face for--what? He didn’t know. Then she withdrew: her eyes
turned inward; she sat back, not relaxed as before, but erect,
spring-coiled for some as-yet-undetermined action.

“No,” she said finally. “Not feminine intuition, Phil. How about just
_intuition_? The kind anyone can have?”

_Damn you!_ the outraged seeker within shrieked. _Bitch!_

She _knew_, and wouldn’t tell.

_But does she know she knows?_ The doctor was back. “All right, I’ll
buy that,” he said. “For now, anyhow.” He stood up and went to the
window. Looking out, because he couldn’t hurt her and see her hurt, he
said, “Let me ask you another one.”

“Yes?” She was all self-possessed again. That tender-amusement bit.
_Okay, kid, brace yourself; you’ll need it!_

“What makes you think Doug Laughlin was so much like me?” And he held
his breath. If he was wrong--or if she lied--he would never know which
it had been. The words flew from him, even as he tried to call them
back: once spoken, they wiped out all slower safer ways to know for
_sure_.

“Well, darling, there are so _many_--_Did_ I tell you that? I didn’t
mean to. It was such a wild thought--Come to think of it, maybe it _is_
‘feminine’ intuition, Phil. Maybe something to do with being pregnant,
or--something like that? Because I sure do a lot of it these days. I
never used to. Not as _much_, anyhow.... Maybe I’m just more relaxed,
so that I _know_ when I think something, or when I just--_feel_ it. I
mean, feel it’s _true_, so if I wasn’t watching, or rather, if I were
less _aware_ of what goes on inside me, I might think I was thinking,
or think I had _heard_ it or read it somewhere or actually _seen_ it.
You know.”

“I know,” he said. “I know very well. Because _I_ thought I _heard_ you
say that about Doug. And now you think you did. But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t?” It was honest bewilderment.... He was _almost_ sure it was.

“No, damn it, you _didn’t_! I _know_ you didn’t--because it just
happened, by pure stupid dumb good luck, that the recorder was on for
the whole conversation.

“_Which_ conversation?”

“The one that left me wondering why you should think that. I got out
the files on Doug, and decided you were pretty right. Then I remembered
something I’d thought about down in New York, and I wanted to make a
note of it while I remembered--an insight I thought I maybe had into
Doug’s walkout. Seemed more likely to be valid, after I checked some of
his reactions against my own. So I went to turn the tape on, and found
out it _was_ on, and just for kicks, played back everything we’d said,
meaning to wipe it off afterwards, and--you’d never said a word about
Doug and me. _Not one damn word!_”

He had turned as he spoke, flinging the words at her in passion. Now he
turned from her white face and looked out again.

“Phil--”

“Yes?”

He heard the faint female-rustling sound of her moving, but wouldn’t
look around. She came up beside him. She too looked out, standing at
his side.

“You know,” she said slowly, “It _could_ be that I’d mentioned it some
_other_ time? And you remembered it just then for some reason, and
_thought_ that’s when you heard it?”

He nodded. “Could be. When did you first think of it?”

Slowly: “I’m--not--sure.”

“But you think it was that day? Don’t you?”

“Not in your office. The first time I thought of it, it was
out--_there_.” With a tilt of her head she pointed to the Shack.

“You were out there just _now_, weren’t you?”

No answer.

“When you knew about Johnny?”

Nothing.

He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her and _make_ her face the
truth. He walked carefully away from her and sat down at his desk.

“I want to tell you about something, Lee. You may have come across some
accounts of this kind of thing yourself. It’s not too unusual. And
you’ve done some reading in this type of thing--”

“Never mind, Phil.” She came back from the window and sat facing him
again. “I know where you’re going. Clairvoyant and--_telepathic_
phenomena under hypnotism. Right?”

He nodded.

“You know any clear-cut case?”

He nodded again. “A couple. Clairvoyance. Not the other.” He picked up
a pencil, studied it curiously. Just a pencil. He put it down. “Let me
add this, Lee: every case I ever heard of that seemed reliably reported
and scientifically set up involved a performance _under hypnotic
command_. That is, with the help of suggestion. There are at least two
or three that seem clear of any suspicion of suggestion as to _what_ to
see. _Completely_ clear, I mean. But the subjects _were told to do it_.”


_Relay Station--Sunday, October 16, 5_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

Once upon a time, the great harbors of Earth used rocket beacons to
signal to ships entering and leaving port: ships that rounded the
globe, sometimes, under no other power than that of wind and water
waves. At the ports of Space, rocket fire moves the ships in and out;
waves of sound carried silently on waves of electrons convey the
signals now. Otherwise, harbors have always been much alike. Even four
hundred miles above ground, men sweat in their pressure suits; swear at
the intractable bulk of large masses (with or without “weight”); mill
in apparent confusion, behind which incredible achievements of order
and planned distribution move endlessly; roughhouse and rag and joke
with the blood-and-gut humor (and good humor) of haulers and movers and
handlers and drovers and drivers and sailors and truckers and spacers
and all men who gain their daily bread conquering space-mass-time with
their hands and backs.

Relay Station is many things. Most ports are. It’s Earth’s eye on the
sky and it’s the reflex nerve center of radio communication around the
Earth. It is also a tunnelled labyrinth of intrigue and espionage.
But first and foremost, it is Man’s greatest port to date. Every ship
of all nations that lifts off of Earth stops here for inspection and
servicing and then for safe-passage through the vicious rays of the
Vanallens, infinitely multitudinous scyllas and charybdises of the
Space odyssey.

From Relay, the Belt Balloons, air filled and skin-charged, each with
its central pit of a single shuttle ship, are flung up through the twin
belts of darting electrons, to meet the great wheel of the _Messenger_
in orbit at its 12,000-mile perihelion.

All passengers on U.S.A.A. ships have the option of sleeping through
the two first legs of the trip, till the shuttle is safely inside
the _Messenger_; but the more knowing ones come out of sedation at
Relay, in hopes of traveling close enough to other Balloons to see for
themselves the coruscating display of blue fire, as the wild electrons
of the Belts are dashed off the charged thin skins of the bulleting
spheres.

John Wendt had never seen the Belt Balloons. When he lived and trained
on the Moon, and took rare leaves on Earth, the _Messenger_, with its
ion drive and thermal exchange power plant, was still a drawing-board
dream. The thrice he had traveled by shuttle, via Balloon and the
_Messenger_, he had made the whole voyage under sedation.

His choice of minimum sleep this time out was not motivated by a desire
to see the Balloons. He had avoided exposure to Space talk, Space news,
Space views, so thoroughly in his twenty months on Earth that he did
not even _know_ there was anything worth seeing.

He simply meant to let Pete Christensen, and anybody else who noticed,
know that he _could_ make the trip. _Wide awake._

He was a little sorry when he learned that Chris was on the first
shuttle, the one that left ten minutes before Mac got him to the St.
Thom Port and through the snarl of red tape that wound him up on
Shuttle Two. But he assumed there would be communication between the
two boats, once on board the _Messenger_. Certainly, the Dome Director
would be free to go between shuttles, and certainly, he would be
apprised of the change in the passenger list at the first opportunity.

Johnny looked forward to seeing Chris when the time came. The shoe had
changed feet, and it fit one hell of a sight better.

He never did get to see Shuttle One crackling spectacularly through the
outer edge of the Big Belt, as Two’s balloon entered Little Belt; he
was much too sophisticated a Space traveler to crowd to the viewports
when the others did.


_Dollars Dome--Monday, October 17, 2_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

“That ought to fix you up now, Miss Trovi.” He fastened the buckle that
held the miniature set strapped to her suit, and said, “Now if you want
to just show me how you’d work it, make sure you got it right...?”

Lisa unstrapped the kit, took out the tape, put it back in, switched
the set to _record_, and turned it off again. “I’d better try it with
the helmet, don’t you think?” she said doubtfully.

“Sure. Good idea.” The big mechanic beamed down at her as if he had
personally built the whole combination, and not just the small machine.
But when he reached to help her adjust the wire trailing from the mike
in the headpiece, she shook her head and waved him off:

“I’ve got to be able to do it myself.”

It worked fine. She put three extra rolls of tape in her pocket,
thanked him, and left. The big man watched her go, shaking his head.

“Guts!” he said. “Damn but that babe has guts!” He went back into the
workshop and told his helper, “That bastard Wendt don’t come through,
I bet there ain’t a single man here wouldn’t marry her, the day before
the kid’s born, or the day after. And mop up the sonofabitch before
dinner besides.”

“One mistake, chum.” The helper was married. “You don’t know how easy
it is to get a divorce. Don’t just say _single_ men.”


_Red Dome--Tuesday, October 18, 9:25_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)

The Guards Lieutenant saluted with military precision, which was
worse than wasted on Dr. Chen. The Director was not even annoyed; the
irritation of acknowledging the salute never materialized, because the
necessity to do so failed to impress him. Dr. Chen could be exceedingly
single-minded on some occasions. He had a superior capacity for crisis
action.

He also had a crisis.

And he noted, with some detached part of his mind, that he was enjoying
it enormously.

It was a long time since there had been any real emergency or crisis in
the Dome.

This one was not in it either.

“Very well,” he said crisply. “You will please explain to me how she
contrived to leave?”

“She is a good pilot, Comrade Your Excellency. She holds all necessary
permits and licenses.”

“There are no permits or licenses to leave the Dome,” Chen said coldly,
“except express assignment from me.”

The young officer said nothing.

The Director considered the words that might best express his scorn and
contempt for the so-called Guard who had permitted Maria Harounian to
leave the Dome. Having considered them and relished them, he filed them
in his mind, and said to the dutiful Lieutenant, whose fault it was
_not_:

“I want Harounian found and returned to Dome immediately.”

He did not stress the words. He spoke almost softly. But his meaning
was deadly clear. “Organize a search,” he said. “A full search. I will
review your search plan in fifteen minutes. Excused.”

The lieutenant saluted again. Dr. Chen acknowledged with the faintest
possible nod.




PART TWELVE

_Wednesday, October 19, 1977_


_Messenger--7:45_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)

He came awake to vicious clarity. The long dreamless pill-induced sleep
had left him over-rested, too fresh, too thinking, conscious, and aware.

But this was Wednesday: the last day. He’d be in the Dome that night.
He was not absolutely sure he could make it. For the first Goddam time
in his life, he was not certain he would be able to come through.

Something strangely like exultation surged through him.

_And what in hell was that for?_ What was so special about not being
good enough?

He knew, but damned if he’d tell himself.

One thing he told himself, all right, at the beginning, and that was
still good. He got through Sunday and Monday and Tuesday; he could make
it through ten more hours and stick with it. Maybe he’d crack up and
go tell Chris off or open an air lock or any damn thing. But he wasn’t
drinking this trip. Not _this_ trip.

Whatever happened _after_ he got there, he’d _get_ there cold sober.
Then it was up to her....

Monday night was the worst. Monday night and Tuesday. He got through
that all right, he could make ten lousy hours. But he hadn’t had a
goddam drink yet, and he wasn’t going to. Not _this_ trip....

_Ten hours?_

The bastard was jeering at him. _So okay, laugh. Ten hours is pretty
damn long. Yeah._

He got up, and planned his time. _Breakfast._ That was as far as he
could get. _Lunch, later._ And all the time in between.

Sunday, and Monday morning he had seen the control rooms and comm rooms
and cargo shuttles and climbed around the massive ion engine. The heat
exchangers were old stuff; so was most of the rest. But he had looked
at everything, examined, inspected. He could handle this job himself if
he had to now. He didn’t have to. Basil would. Basil ... he’d trained
with Laughlin and Wendt, but wasn’t tapped for the _Colombo_ trip. So
now he was a Space ferry jockey....

_Good boy, Basil, he made the grade. Didn’t go too far out like we
did._...

Basil would brake into Zeroville orbit. _Should have started by now_,
he thought, _shouldn’t they?_ Then he _felt_ the difference, and knew
he’d been feeling it all along. Deceleration. Not much yet, but you
started easy with ions and let it build. No blast, no sweat.

Monday, after lunch, nothing to do except sit in the damn lounge and
watch them all lushin’ it up. Hell with that. Hell of a trip not to
drink on; nothing else to do. Half the victims got stoned first night
out and _stayed_ that way.

He spent Monday afternoon in the dining room, drinking coffee, watching
out the pretty picture window while the Moon came around and around,
bigger each time--if you happened to have micro-calipers to measure
with. He stared out long enough so he found out one thing: empty Space
didn’t bug him at all. He already knew that the birds were okay. He had
almost enjoyed it, going through the business end of the wheel with the
guys. It wasn’t _going_ that bugged him; it was _where_ the Hell you
went.

Which was just what he’d said all along. But now he _knew_. Chris had
kept him knocked out the whole trip up and back before; so _they_
hadn’t been so damn sure either...? Well, now _he_ was.

He sat there until Chris came in and saw him. Then he sat there long
enough to make sure Chris knew he was looking _out_. Then he swung down
to the crew lounge and found a poker game getting under way.

He was okay till the game broke up. After that, it was bad. That was
the only time he almost broke down. A couple of shots would’ve put him
to sleep at least. He spent the time from two in the morning till six,
when they started to serve breakfast, sitting in the damn dark dining
room, watching the Moon grow so slowly you didn’t know it, except that
you _knew_ it.

After people started to show up, it was better; he had to keep up some
front, when they were watching him.

Chris stayed out of his way; he stayed out of Chris’. He was
disappointed, some, but glad; Chris probably knew he came on as Mac’s
man. So that was that. No battles. Everybody knew what side they were
on. At least Mac and Chris knew. Johnny knew what side he was on, too,
but it wasn’t what _they_ thought.

_Turnabout, that’s all_, he thought with silent grim pleasure. _They
used me; now I use them. Let ’em all bleed._...

Tuesday was bad anyhow--bad all day long. If he’d had to stay awake
Tuesday night, he didn’t know--

The Medic asked him, did he want a sleeping pill. Well, Hell, plenty
of people took sleeping pills. Only now he was wide-awake, rested, and
much too clear in the head. _Maybe I should of stood out of bed...?_

_Ten hours_.... He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he
was sure of this much: he was _not_ going to drink; and he was
_not_--voluntarily, anyhow--_damn it, not without a fight_--going to
sleep out anything the rest of the passengers could take.


_Dollars Dome--11_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)

They stopped at the office to see if Thad had any news yet. He did; but
nothing special. If there had been any trouble, or anything out of the
way at all, on board the _Messenger_, it was not being broadcast.

“They probably kept him sedated anyhow,” Phil pointed out, as they
crossed the Mall to the Med Building where his office was.

She shook her head. “No. Not this time.”

“Oh?” He looked at her curiously. Under his eyes, she lost some of the
quiet certainty with which she had heard both Thad’s report and Phil’s
comment.

“I mean, I don’t _think_ so. I--” She flashed a quick smile. “--have a
_hunch_, let’s say.”

“Tell me more.”

“I will,” she said soberly. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,
Phil.”

But she said nothing more till they were in his office. Then she took
out two small rolls of sound tape, and handed them to him.

“I’d like you to hear these for yourself before I say anything,” she
told him. “I made them out at the Shack. One was Monday. The other’s
yesterday.”

He turned spools over in his hand dubiously.

“You care to give me any notion of what I’m listening to? Or for?”

“I thought perhaps you should just _hear_ them first, but--I guess
it’ll make more sense if I tell you this much first. After we talked
about that--telepathy bit, I got to thinking, and I realized I’d just
been _scared_ by the idea. Kind of foolish, I guess.... All this time
I’ve been going around telling people I believe in--or, well, that
I think there’s a lot of sense in some of the work they’ve done in
E.S.P.--Then as soon as something happens to _show me_, I back off and
say, ‘Oh, no, not for _me_, friend!’” She smiled wryly. Phil grinned.

“Honey, I told you to start with, this Shack stuff was spooky.
Something makes sense, that doesn’t necessarily make it _feel
sensible_. I still get shivers when I try to think what they mean by an
‘infinite universe.’ Stuff like that.”

“Maybe so. Anyhow, I think I’m over--” She stopped herself. “That’s not
true. I’m still scared as hell. But I’m scared of having a baby too,
and scared of what might happen tonight, when Johnny comes, and--I’m
scared of lots of things I know are _real_, and even know I’ll get
through all right.”

He cleared his throat. “Okay, kid. I hope you love me too. Now:--what’s
the bit with the tapes?”

“Well, I tried to think how I might be able to find out scientifi--I
guess, _experimentally_ is a better word? Anyhow, I thought if I got
a recorder fixed up so that I could talk what I was thinking out
there--at least _I’d_ find out what I _do_ think there--I told you, I’m
never positive afterwards just when I got some idea, or just where it
_came_ from--?”

He nodded.

“And then, if it turned out to have anything on it that we could
_check_.... Well, then I’d _know_. Or at least, we’d know there was
something worth working on. Well, you know what I mean.”

“I think so. Just one thing, Lee. You want me to play these, so I
gather you _do_ think there’s something--” He smiled. “--something
‘worth working on?’”

“I’d rather not say what _I_ think before--”

“I didn’t ask you to. I told you what _I_ think, right now. It’s just
that it’s the way you talk about the whole business that makes me
think so. So I play these tapes, see? And let’s say _I_ think there’s
something there--let’s say, at a minimum, something that needs to be
looked into more?” He paused. “Lee, you’re not forgetting that Johnny’s
coming? He’ll be here tonight. I don’t know what happens after that.
Neither do you. I just don’t see the news story on why he’s coming. Why
in hell would he come up here for McLafferty if he wouldn’t for you or
Chris?”

“Phil--” She put a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Listen first, will
you? I’ve heard them. _I know_ there’s _something_ that--well, just
listen, will you? We’ll talk later. But I haven’t forgotten about
Johnny, _believe_ me. That’s partly why I wanted to give you the
tapes now--_before_ he gets here. And partly why I guess I don’t want
to talk about it _right now_. I can’t decide anything much till he
comes anyhow. And--well, whatever happens, I’d like to think that--I
mean, let’s say I back out of the whole thing and go home and never
say bad words like ESP again--_If_ there’s anything in this thing, I
have a hunch it’s not _me_ especially. I just happen to be the one
it--_happened to_? That’s as good a way as any to put it. So--so shut
up and listen first, will you?”

“Right.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “One other thing, Lee--while
the saying’s still good. Don’t forget I made an offer?”

“I won’t,” she said. She stepped forward quickly inside his arm, kissed
him, and turned and left. “I’ve got a class for the next hour,” she
said at the door. “Then I’ll be in my room till about two or three.
After that, I’ll be out at the Shack, if you want to talk to me about
any of the stuff there.”


_Zeroville--11:15_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)

The morning had been all right.

He’d never had more than theoretical training on ion drive; there was
no working ship with one when the _Colombo_ took off. Now, roaming on
invitation between the rocket rooms and control centers, he began to
realize just what a monumental accomplishment the _Messenger_ was.
It was one thing to have the figures in your head: thrust and cost,
tonnage, performance, all that. But for John Wendt, at least, nothing
convinced but performance. The math told you what to expect--what your
chances were. After that, metal and plastic and power, and flesh and
blood and brains made it _work_.

If it worked, it was time to believe in it; not until then.

He spent the morning acquiring belief in the ion drive. He made a
point of not thinking ahead. But as the drive shut out, and the great
wheel, shorn of all velocity, slid onto the Zeroville coasting track,
he had no alternative. Eleven-fifteen. TOA Moon Dome announced for
seven-thirty. Eight hours, fifteen minutes.

Lunch, of course. Then what? There’d be nothing doing in crew quarters,
once the shuttles left--

_Sonofabitch!_

He wouldn’t be on the wheel; he’d be in the shuttle. In Shuttle Two:
out like a light. With all the other squares.

All passengers made the shuttle-leg under sedation. _All passengers_....

The speaker overhead came to life: “All passengers please board your
shuttles. Prepare for sedation.”

Johnny found Basil, and thanked him. “Nice of you to let me hang around
so much,” he said. “I’d have flipped my top sitting it out with the
damn riders the whole way.”

“Pleasure, Johnny. I mean it. Hell, it was good to see you again. I
don’t want to stick my nose where it ain’t wanted, but--like man, if
you’re gonna be around again--oh, crap, you know what I mean.”

“Thanks, Bass. Tell you the truth, I don’t know yet myself. But you got
no one to blame but yourself if they kick you out and give _me_ your
job. Hell--I felt so much like crew this trip, I forgot all about the
shuttle-leg, till they hollered just now.” The announcer barked again,
and started “Last call.”

Johnny took off down the shaft.

He had it _made_!


_Red Dome--3:50_ A.M. (_S.S.T._) (_2:30_ P.M. _C.S.T._)

“... helicopter sighted at base of hill 29.3 kilometres N. 17° E. from
Playfair Crater. Flight reconnaissance fully establishes identity
of vehicle. No indication of presence of pilot, M. Harounian. No
superficial evidence of forced landing. Ground search to be conducted
pending permission from U.S.A.A. authorities to conduct same within
50-kilometre zone.”

Dr. Chen tapped the stiff paper of the official report thoughtfully on
his desk. Then he switched on the phone, and asked for the S.U.A.R.
hostel at World Dome.

That seemed probably the best way to go about it. Besides which, Dr.
Christensen was not at Dollars Dome, and no second-in-command would
want to take responsibility for such a decision.


_Dollars Dome--4:30_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

Phil Kutler sat at his desk, with a dozen sheets of rapidly typed pages
spread out in front of him. He picked up one, glanced at it, put it
down, picked up another. He shook his head, marveling or disbelieving,
or just dazed: he wasn’t sure which.

On each page, he had collected what seemed to be associated bits from
the two tapes. Now he began stacking sheets, sorting them into two
piles. In one were the “weirdies”: what they _seemed_ to mean was not
even worth thinking about yet, he told himself firmly. The other stack
held more coherent and familiar bits which, however, seemed probable
“normal” thought ramblings. He picked up the next page:

“I will come, yes, I come ... I hear you call. I know it is time now
I will leave this place ... come to where love sends the call out ...
I too love, have warmth, I bring my breath with ... come now to know,
learn, tell, teach, exchange ... come with love to love....”

That was from Monday. From the Tuesday tape: “... came to us ... to me
... to us, _me-all_, came seeking, not knowing, almost, not-sure ...
came with openness, with warm-breathing ... came to find and to speak
and know....”

He put it with the others, then took it off. This one was worth at
least _asking_ about. He knew in advance what the answer would be.
No one had come to the Dome or the Shack; if they had, the whole
Dome would know it. But--it hung together too well. He set it aside,
separately. The next two went onto the stack. He pulled the remaining
page toward him, and sat staring at it.

“... each time around it’s closer, bigger ... need a damn microcaliper
to know it but true, it _is_ ... Lisa, Lee, love....”

It wasn’t till that bit came out near the end of the Monday tape that
Phil understood why she had waited till today to tell him, or why she
would not stay while he played them. Damn few things that would really
_embarrass_ Lee--but her own voice talking love-talk to her would be
one too much!

“... To you, just to you ... screw ’em all ... but I dammit I damn I
love you, you’re too damn good for me but if I still can I’ll get you
back ... round again, bigger, I can’t see the difference, but know ...
too damn many things don’t see, don’t have to not-know account of that.
Don’t see you either ... baby, babe, doll, _wait_ ... damn it hurts,
scared, Lee, you know?, damn, I’m _scared_ ... but I’m coming, babe,
here I come, _wait_!”

Also on Monday’s tape: “... bastard, but not so bad. Smart bastard
anyhow ... just for now, though ... up there, he’s the boss ... good
man, Goddammit, you like the guy or not, good man in his job, and he
knows not here, not know ... Mac-go-to-hell, who cares which one? Just
you kid, the rest of ’em drop dead all I care....”

The page was a full one. Tuesday’s sections included mentions of
someone named Bass, and a man called Kenny, and something about a
poker game, scraps on a smashed window, subpoena server, a bit about
“Mac”--McLafferty?

Well, _this_ page at least could be checked. He folded it, tucked it in
his jacket pocket, and left the office.

Downstairs, he turned, without quite planning to, in the direction of
the Ad Building. In the back of his mind was the question of whether to
speak to Thad about the tapes. He knew he wouldn’t; and with Chris on
his way back, it didn’t make sense, anyhow. But he was not quite ready
to see Lisa yet, and he very much wanted to talk to _some_one.

He’d kill some time with Thad, anyhow.

Better that way. His thoughts could work themselves out better on their
own, in their hidden places, than he could do by conscious effort.


_Dollars Dome--4:45_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

The suave exterior of the U.S. Envoy to World Dome, the Honorable
Andrew Kenneth Gahagan--a diplomat of the old school--appeared sadly
shaken on the phone screen: whether by emotion, bad radio transmission,
or creeping senility, Thad could not tell.

When he heard what the Honorable Gahagan had to say, he ruled out
the likelihood of poor transmission. The other two choices remained
equally possible, since the biochemist had no way of knowing just
_how_ serious, realistically speaking, a Red “invasion” of territorial
boundaries might be.

“It can’t wait two-three hours?” he asked. “Dr. Christensen will be
here at seven, and I think it should be authorized by him personally.”

“My own feeling in the matter,” said the Honorable Gahagan “is that it
should be authorized by Mexcity or not at all. I felt obliged, however,
to determine your attitudes before communicating with State on the
matter.”

Thad felt an almost irrepressible urge to say, _Oh, hell, tell ’em come
on over, if they’ll send their bio chief in the party_ ... or perhaps,
_You know, some of the babes there aren’t bad. Tell ’em to shoot us a
photo and we’ll look for ourselves_ ... or even just, _Oh, foof!_ He
exercised his will power to its fullest extent and said instead:

“Look, let me buzz you back in five minutes. I’ve got something here I
have to get out of the way, and then I’ll see what we can do about it.”

He switched off and said to Kutler, who had come in sometime during the
conversation, “You get that bit?”

“Just the tailend.”

“The Honorable is all worked up because the Reds have asked permission
to conduct a search for the pilot--girl pilot, I might add--of a
helicopter of theirs that seems to have landed in some kind of
trouble inside our zone. I wouldn’t’ve thought twice myself, but Old
Horsefeathers has me worried. And maybe with this whole Security
investigation bit--”

“Man, you don’t read the news. It’s sex they’re discovering now, not
Security,” Phil interjected.

“Oh. Well, maybe being as it’s a _girl_ pilot--Got it!” he said
suddenly. “What do you think of doing it this way? Tell ’em sure, and
we’ll help. Set it up so any search team is mixed? Then there can’t be
any snooping or anything. What do you think?”

“Sounds good to me,” Phil said. “It can’t wait till Chris comes, hey?”

“This babe has been missing about twelve hours, and they don’t know if
she’s hurt or in shock or anything.”

“Well, we can’t very well _refuse_ permission then. I guess the mixed
search is about the best bet.”

“Yeah.” He reached for the phone switch, hesitated, picked up a scrap
of paper from the desk. “Do me a favor, will you? Get a few guys to
run on out to this location right away and look over the plane. That’s
where it’s supposed to be. Meantime, I’ll tell Ole Mustachios what
the score is, and let--Nope. I’ll call Plato _first_, and then tell
Gahagan. That way he can’t stall.”

Phil nodded approvingly, took the paper, and started out. “Hey, Thad,”
he said first. “Lee’s out at the Shack. Suppose I get the squad to drop
me off there on the way, and bring her back in? You don’t need me for
anything around here?”

“No. Good idea. Glad you thought of it.”


_Dollars Dome--7:30_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

When he came out of it, Chris was standing next to the couch, watching
him. He got himself unbuckled, stood up, stretched. Chris watched, and
said nothing. Johnny straightened out, felt his feet steady under him,
and took a stance facing the other man, not more a foot away.

“All right, Johnny, you got here,” Chris said. “_Now_ what?”

“What I said to start with,” he replied evenly. “I want to see Lisa.
I hear by the newspapers--” _The hell with that crap! He didn’t ask_
why....

“_I_ see by the newscasts,” Chris picked up on it, “That you are here
as a ‘special investigator’ for Mr. McLafferty--whatever _that_ is.”

Johnny said nothing.

“Are the newscasts right?”

“Ask McLafferty.”

“You’re closer.”

“Listen, Chris. I came for Lee. You can make it easy or make it tough.
We used to be friends, so I tell you this once: I came for my girl. You
and Mac can both go to whatever kind of Hell they keep for guys like
you. And I’ll foul you up as cheerfully as him if you get in my way. I
came for my girl. The rest of your politicking fornicating foolishness
doesn’t concern me at all.”

Chris thought it over. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll cooperate with you in
anything Lee wants. Outside of that, I warn you, step out of line just
once, just by one toe, and--I’m the boss here. That’s all.”

“Okay. Now where’s my girl?”

“You know the room. If she’s not there, try Kutler.”


_Dollars Dome--7:50_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

“He’s pretty damn busy,” Bourgnese said. “If it’s something I can take
care of...?”

“You Number Two boy here?” Johnny demanded.

“You could put it that way,” the other man said coldly.

“Okay. I’ll put it that way. Can you authorize me a half-track?”

“You’re kiddin’!”

_Well, what in Hell is so special about wanting a car?_ “What are they,
made out of solid gold or something? Nobody but the Big Cheese can sign
’em out?”

“Look, before you flip completely, friend, leave me advise you that
there probably isn’t even a car in the Dome. If they’re not all out
already, they ought to be. And what makes you so damn eager to get in
on it?”

“In on what? I’m looking for Lisa.”

“Well, try Kutler if she’s not in her room. He brought her back in--”

“He’s not here and neither is she.”

“You _sure_ of that? He went out for her--Hell, it must’ve been
five-thirty or so--”

“I’m sure. She’s at the Shack.”

Bourgnese stared at him a moment.

“You tried the dining room and dance room and all that jazz? I _know_
he was bringing her right back.”

“Listen,” Johnny said, straining all his nerves for patience. “They’re
not here. They’re at the Shack. Hell, I don’t know where _he_ is, and I
don’t give a damn. But _she’s_ there.”

“How do you know?”

“How the Hell do you _think_ I--?” He stopped cold. How _did_ he know?
“They’re _both_ there,” he said, and knew it was true. “I don’t know
who the hell else is with them, but they’re both there.”

“Wait a minute,” Bourgnese went to the phone and called the Shack
Guardhouse. “Charlie! Is Miss Trovi still there?”

“Yeah. Her and the other babe and the Doc. Some half-track dropped him
off couple hours ago. They’re all in there.”

“Right. Thanks, Charlie.” He switched off and got Lock Supply.

“Give me the call number on Kutler’s suit.”

“Hold on. Here it is. Five-nine-cue-six-emm.”

“Thanks.” He switched off and on again, dialled the helmet radio
number. Nothing. “Damn!”

He turned back to Johnny. “Okay,” he said, “Let’s go.”

They strode rapidly across the Mall to Lock Supply. Bourgnese signed
out suits for both of them.

Johnny turned to Thad as the other man started away. “Thanks,” he said.
“I don’t know why in Hell you’re doing it. But _thanks_.”

“No,” Bourgnese said. “I guess you wouldn’t know why.”


_The Shack--8_ P.M.--_Phil Kutler_

The two women sat, one at each side of the tank, gazing into it. Lisa’s
voice droned as the tape wound from spool to spool:

“... but I-all did not know ... idea of unit-body discrete-person
too far back with memory haze ... and not-alike, even when ... but
_when_? how far back? ... so long I had been one-and-all ... recalled
haze-memory, but too much lost with no-need-to-know ... had to begin,
to learn, fresh, new ... too slow, too slow....”

“_He’s coming!_”

The words cracked like a whiplash in his helmet; he jumped back, out of
touch, put a hand to his face-plate in reflexive feeling for damage,
that _snap_ had been so sharply physical.

The plate was intact. Of course. He smiled foolishly, leaned toward her
again; found he had to _force_ himself to retouch helmets. That crack
had _hurt_.

“Johnny?” he asked.

No answer. Then out of the side of his eye he saw she was nodding her
head inside the helmet.

“Can you tell if anyone’s with him?”

Pause. “Somebody, yes ... not Chris ... Thad?”

That seemed likely.

“How is he--What kind of a mood--? I mean Johnny.”

She giggled. “_Fierce!_”

_Great!_ But _she_ didn’t sound worried. “That’s good?” he asked sourly.

“Depends....”

He backed off to look at her. The half-smile on her face was--in
Moonsuit and helmet, in a half-enclosed shack on the Moon’s friendless
face--absurd, ludicrous ... nothing short of outrageously funny with
its eternal-mysterious-female. _So laugh already!_ He didn’t. _Sure_,
he thought, _funny, like ... crazy, man ... but how would it look if
she smiled it for you?_ Then he realized she could probably hear _this_
as well--or more clearly than?--anything he said aloud through the
helmets. And then, with relief, but with bitterness too: _If she were
listening, that is_....

She wasn’t. She was listening only to one man, the man at the wheel
of the half-track, now visibly nearing at full speed across the Moon
dustcakes--coming for her.

And the half-smile was gone. A full, lovely smile now, and moist eyes
too. _What the hell is he saying?_

_None of your damn business!_

He started again. It was going to take getting used to: getting to know
when you had thought a thing for yourself, or had it thought _to_ you.
That one was himself--he thought.

He leaned forward again. “Does Maria know?”

“Of _course_. We were just thinking....” Then it happened again: a
sort of stereo-thought in his mind, coming from both, complete,
in-agreement, and did-he-agree? Was this the best way?

He nodded, straightened up, and walked through the door to wait outside.


_The Shack--8_ P.M.--_Thad Bourgnese_

“It ought to be Phil,” he said tensely. “I’ll try him again.” This time
the reply was immediate; nothing wrong with Doc’s suit then; he’d just
been switched off before.

_Switched off?_ The guy goes out to get Lisa, stays out himself
instead, and turns off his set. _Nice going_....

“Hi,” Phil said. “Johnny with you?”

“Yeah. What in hell are you doing out here? _And where’s Lee?_”

“Right inside. Waiting. Also, we have a guest.”

“_Guest?_” If that meant what he thought it did, this was one too much.
“Who’s the guest?”

“I hate to shout,” Phil said. “You dig me, man!”

_Yeah? I do, do I? Then what in the name of all-holy have you been
sitting out here for? The whole damn Dome goes out hunting, and_....

The half-track ground to a screeching halt. Wendt was out almost before
it stopped. Thad turned off the ignition and followed. He saw Johnny’s
taller figure march like incarnate doom on the man at the door.

“For krissakes, Phil,” he started, and would have said, _Let him in!_
but it was unnecessary. Kutler had moved before Wendt got there. Johnny
went through, and Phil stepped back in front of the door.

Thad walked up slowly. He was trying hard to hold onto the irritation
he _knew_ he should still feel.

“What gives?” he asked, and managed a frown.

“Lee said, just Johnny, first, please. That’s all.”

“_Just?_ What’s with your company?”

“She’ll be out.” Kutler’s calm ought to be infuriating. But all he felt
was: _Well, Phil’s got some sense; he must know what he’s doing_....

“You wouldn’t mind filling me in some?” he asked.

“Glad to. Turn off your radio. I don’t want to tell the whole world.”

The two men touched helmets, and Phil started talking. A moment later,
a bulky figure in an ill-fitting, clearly-marked, S.U.A.R. suit
came out of the Shack. The three of them headed for the pressurized
Guardhouse.


_The Shack--8_ P.M.--_Johnny Wendt_

He stepped through the doorway into dimness and a kind of--_warmth?_
In the center of the pavilion--that’s all it really was--a tank set on
the ground bubbled evilly around an enormous hump of moldy grey-white,
kneaded-looking, knobbed, and ridged.

Two suited figures sat, one on each side of the tank. As he entered,
the one at the far end arose, walked around the tank, came toward him.

_Lee?_

It wasn’t, of course. He would have known by her walk, and when she
came close enough, by her face.... But before he saw these things at
all, he _knew_ it wasn’t. Lee sat with her back to him. The other
woman--_Maria?_--smiled as she passed, and went out.

Lee sat where she was, back to him. But--

_Johnny, oh Johnny, my darling, my love!_

It was not in words. The thought of the words, the idea of speaking,
was there; and it seemed that he heard: but what was most real about
it came through without symbols, and surely without any sounds. It was
just--

_Warmth. Lisa-to-Johnny-warmth. Love._

Nothing to question or worry or doubt or solicit or yearn for or want
or need or define. Just love-as-is ... love-actuality ... love-known,
love-before, love-after ... a place to rest and be warm through inside
himself.

He had felt it before.

He had felt it and it had been false.

He had felt it, not Lisa-to-Johnny, but--

_No!_

If he screamed aloud, nobody knew it. _He_ didn’t know. His head ached,
either from the resounding scream inside the helmet, or else from the
need to scream, kept in his head.

_Doug, get out! Get out, damn it! Get out of here! Damn it, you’re
dead! Don’t you know you’re dead?_

The figure at the tank rose, and began to turn.

Johnny stood helpless, rooted. He would have fled if he could. But the
warm flood embraced him, caressed him, held him bound. Frightening,
enticing, beckoning, threatening, stiflingly suffocating, vibrantly
life-giving. And--

He had run from it before. He could run no more.

The figure turned toward him entirely, and stepped forward.

It was not Doug. Doug was dead.

It was Lee. _Lee, Lisa, Lisa-love, Lisa-loves-John_....

_Her_ walk.... _Her_ love.... _Her_ face, smiling up at him, close and
closer still, through the plastic helmet plate, tearfully?, lovingly,
_hers_.

_Lee!_

He reached out his arms.

She came into them--almost. His gauntletted hands gripped the backs of
her shoulders, and she looked up, laughing. The rigid fabric of his
suit was pressed against hers, and there they stood, each one behind
his own life-saving column of air inside the pressured suits, in a mad
caricature of embrace. Laughter broke loose inside him and bubbled
up. He bent his head; helmets touched; and their laughing mingled and
merged and grew whole. It raced into the current of love-warmth, and
pulled him with it, turning and twisting and sporting in cascading
torrents of lovely-Lisa-laughs-with-love....

How long they stood there in the wondrous half-embrace he did not know:
two enclosed islands inside their Moonsuits, making love through glass
walls by the side of a strange pool of--

He shuddered.

--of bubbling putrescence, of--

_A friend!_ she said sharply.

_Friend!?_ He looked at the tank and he shuddered again. Looked back
at his Lisa. “Hey, babe,” he said gently, his helmet against hers, “I
think we better get you--”

_Not yet!_ She smiled. But she hadn’t waited to hear what he said. And
she hadn’t opened her mouth when she spoke.

Nor had he--the first time.

_You know it’s true, darling_....

Her voice, yes, but voiceless.... Their helmets now were clear inches
apart. _Listen! she insisted._

_Monday afternoon_, she told him, reciting, _you sat in the Messenger
dining room and watched the Moon, and you thought you could see it
get bigger and bigger each time it went around, if you could have
microcalipers to measure with_....

_This morning, you watched every step of the ion blast_....

_Yesterday_....

It went on and on. It battered, without hurt; pushed, without tearing;
forced itself into his consciousness tenderly, gently, inexorably. It
_was_ true. It _worked_.

Like the ion engine--like anything--_it worked_! He saw it work, felt
it work, _knew_ it worked. So it was true.

_Why?_

_How?_

_I’ll show you, darling_.... He let her draw him back to the tank, and
sat down beside her.


_The Shack--8_ P.M.--_In the Guardhouse_

“You are Maria Harounian?” Bourgnese asked sternly.

“Yes.”

“You speak English?”

“Only few words.”

“You are from Red Dome--from the S.U.A.R. Dome?”

She nodded.

He turned to Kutler.

“How long has she been with you in there?”

“She was there when I got there; two hours, maybe? I don’t know if you
noticed, Thad. She’s--quite pregnant. You might ask her to sit.”

“All right. Would you like to sit down, Maria?”

She shook her head. “No-thank.” She smiled. When she smiled, her wide
blonde face looked remarkably like Lisa Trovi’s long dark-skinned face.

“You saw her enter the Shack?”

Some shuffling of feet. “Yes, sir.”

“And you permitted her to enter?”

“Well, yessir. Miss Trovi said--”

“You did not see fit to inform us in Dome?”

“Sir, Miss Trovi said this lady was with _her_. She took all
responsibility.”

“But you knew a search was being conducted for Miss Harounian?”

“Well, yes, but we didn’t know it was _her_. Miss Trovi came to the
door, and said, her and her friend going in to the Shack, let ’em know
if anyone tries to call....”

“You didn’t ask who her ‘friend’ was?” Thad shook his head,
incredulous. These men were _good_ guards. They knew their job.

“Well, no sir.”

“Sir--”

It was the Russian girl. “Yes?”

“Sir--she want us. Calling now.”

There was an odd sort of urgency in her voice, in her face, her whole
stance.

“Right!” The three of them started back to the Shack, with just one
small part of Thad’s mind still wondering why neither he nor the guards
had called Chris yet.

Inside the Shack, Lisa waited, with Johnny beside her. She smiled
a welcome to the Soviet girl; included the two men afterwards. She
beckoned Phil. “Start the tape? I’ll try to keep talking it.”


_Mars--April, 1975--Doug Laughlin_

The Earthman stood beneath a violet sky, on rusty sands, and turned,
inch by inch, slowly, feeling with all his ... something he had no word
for ... exactly as at home he might have felt with a moist finger for
the source of wind.

He made three complete turns before he stopped. He nodded, satisfied.
That was the way. It didn’t change. The tenth time in four days now,
and always the same.

He went into the ship, and entered the direction in the Log.

The brother-Earthman slept. The first one sat at the big book and
wrote. He covered two pages, and went back and read them through,
nodding. Then went back to what he had written before, and read that.
He nodded again.

He closed the book, and sat thinking. Then he stood up and went to the
bunk where the brother-Earthman slept. He reached out a hand and drew
it back again. Reached out and drew back. As if a wall stood between
them. It seemed like a wall: from the brother-Earthman there was a sort
of cloud of _No--Don’t touch!_

He backed off from the bunk, somewhat sadly. Got into his heat suit and
mask. Went down to the cargo hatch. Checked out a sand-cat. Started it
up. Stood out on the sands while the motor warmed in the dawn chill.
Made his inching turns again: nodded, deeply satisfied, _certain_ now.

In his mind, he went back inside to the brother-Earthman, walled in his
bunk with sleep and _No_. Stood there, thinking, and went back inside
and to the Log. Looked through the pages, four of them on which he had
written what at last he believed, what he was going to find out for
sure.

Wanted to leave what he said, but not leave information to follow with.
If he was mad, let one death be enough. Four pages, two sheets, and
each sheet somewhere on it had the destination. He thought:--

If he was right, explanations would follow. If he were wrong--what
difference _why_?

He tore out the sheets. Left the ship. Started out, to find the
Mars-people whose love-thoughts, greetings, warm yearnings and welcomes
came like a wind, like a breeze, like a flood of light, beam of
caresses, from a direction he now knew he knew....


_Mars--April, 1975--Martian_

_I-all waited, eager, sending out callings: joyous, rejoicing,
preparing reception; calling in airmakers, calling in watercells,
calling in; calling for the Earthman coming_....

... _I-all, a planet-wide oneness of readying: for new exchange,
learning, contact, emotion, give-and-take, take-and-give;
from/to/with/alongside/between/together with this unit-body of Earthman
approaching_....

... _I-all, ready now, knowing from last time, from
Earth-other-brothers who came in first great ship, knowing ahead this
time: air, water vapor--without these the Earth-bodies cannot survive;
old memories stirring, from before me-all, once on a time when the
I-we who lived before me-all were discrete bodies alive in a fluid of
water-air; back, distant-far back before the drying and thinning of
atmosphere_....

... _I-all, descended, evolved, changed, mutated, attenuated, substance
of sentience: broken to one-cells; joined in one-thinkingness;
stretched out to use all the sparse vapors spread round a planet;
combined, united, one-minded but many-celled--starch-makers,
water-bags, air-holders, carriers, sun-suckers, thought-senders,
soil-savers, moss-tenders, all of the others, all of the kinds of
me-us, one-cell and one-cell; and here in the dim place of safehold,
the grouped one-cells, planners and thoughtmakers fed, watered, warmed,
by my-our other-I’s, sending out callings for feeders, airers, for
heaters, waterers, all to send extras with carriers to the vault, to
tend the Earth-brother_....

       *       *       *       *       *

Doug would have been all right, except that he misjudged the distance.
If he had realized he’d have to go all the way to the old city to reach
It-Them, he would have done the whole thing differently. He’d have
told Wendt where he meant to go--if not why--and taken a heli. If he
realized, he would have lived.

If _They-It_ had realized--if the two Russians had come to It-Them
sooner after the crash, had lived a bit longer to tell more and learn
more, if They-It had been able to learn from the first two that for
Earth-bodies the life of the brain alone is not sufficient--If It-They
had understood the whole human mechanism, perhaps he’d have lived.

Whether the Martian (call it that; call it “it”, there is no
proper pronoun) could have summoned resources sufficient to keep
Doug alive--for years, as it would have been--until help came, the
Moon-Martian did not know. But the Martian had too little information
to plan ahead, and it took planning.

It _could_ have stopped him; _would_ have, had it known his supplies
would run out before he reached the vault, or that its own preparations
were foolishly inadequate. But the centuries--aeons? millennia?
How long, Moon-Martian also did not know--of one-ness, alone in
togetherness with all just oneself, the long-long loneliness had only
been outlined, sharp-edged, and identified, when the two Russians came
for so short a time.

Laughlin came closer, and it sent its call stronger and clearer, more
endearing. Laughlin’s cat sputtered and failed, and without thinking,
he strapped the spare oxy tank on his back and set out afoot.

He lived ten days inside the vault beneath what he and Johnny had
decided must have been a Martian bank, but had been built especially to
guard, preserve, tend, grow, the brain-centre of the planet-wide “body”
of the last Martian--the brain into which was poured the memory and
knowledge, skill and affections and hopes and dreams and lost beliefs
and yearnings and ideals of a race which could not in its own first
form survive the stripping of the atmosphere from the old planet.

He lived, intact, ten days; his brain, for which there was enough
starch, air, and water, stayed alive and able to communicate--how
long?--Moon-Martian did not know--a long time, too-long, till he was
sure the Martian knew _enough_ now for the next Earthmen; then he chose
not-to-live.

It was his choice to make. The Martian did not like it, but complied;
it had no choice.


_Wednesday, October 19, 1977, 10:15_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)

The two bulky figures entered the half-track, and the taller one sealed
the door behind them.

When he turned back to her, the woman had already opened the car’s oxy
valve, and removed her helmet.

Without taking his eyes from her face, he reached up and undid the
clasps on his, broke the gasket seal, and lifted the bowl off his head.
He stepped forward, and she took one step at the same time, meeting
him. For the first time in two months, they met each other’s lips.

He stripped off his gauntlets, and held her head in his hands, drinking
in the touch and look and scent and feel of her. From the neck down,
the limp pressure suits swathed them both in formless fabric armor; but
hands and heads were free to caress; a smile could be finger-traced as
well as seen; a murmured word was clear to a close ear.

For minutes, they stood close as the cloth barriers would let them be,
not thinking anything, not saying anything in words that mattered.
Then, still without words, he started the car, and they sat together,
his arm around her, her head on his chest, for all the world like two
wistful teenagers, while the ’track chugged torpidly back over the
black face of the old Moon, under the gleaming greenfaced glow of Earth.

Perhaps half way back, the words began. And then they tumbled out,
questions on both sides coming so eagerly that nothing could really
start to be answered.

It was a curious double-level conversation, too: because while
their spoken words explored the wide new world opened up by the
events at the Shack, the unspoken dialogue between them continued to
re-enforce itself, and re-create their private world of love and close
communication. The contact, once made, seemed quite able to function on
its own, independent of the--

--_whatever-it-was?_ Lisa, in snatches, told Johnny as much as she had
been able to figure out, with Thad’s help and Phil’s, about the growth
and differentiation of the Mars-bugs. The bubbling vat was a sort of
brain-center. It extended nerve-like networks to all other colonies
of bugs. Here on the Moon, where zealous “jailors” fed and tended the
“brain,” the network was just a sort of habit; on Mars, it served the
vital function of connecting the water-holders, the oxygen-makers,
the perceptors and proprioceptors and nutriment-synthesizers. The
adaptation-or-mutation puzzler which had first caught the attention of
the Dome scientists was not too different in nature from the sort of
“instinctive” decision that sets the sex and functions of each new-made
egg in an ant colony. All genes for each caste are present at birth;
the environment of the particular cell determines the final role of the
member. And the choice of environment for that cell? With a functioning
conscious brain, it was much easier to understand in the--Martian?
Moon-Martian? _The friend_, was the way Lee thought of it--than it was
in an ant colony.

She was telling him how Phil had forced her to recognize and experiment
with the _psi_ effects, when the call came. It came on the radio--but
that was one minute after they had reversed direction, and started back
toward the other half-track. It came first in Lee’s awareness.

In the middle of a sentence, she broke off, and at the same instant, in
the wordless sentence of love she was “speaking”, she stopped to say,
_They’re out of gas_.

Later, John realized that if she’d said it aloud, he _still_ would have
doubted. But in the inner dialogue there was no space for doubt or
disbelief. He heard it, knew it, and acted on it, long seconds before
they had switched on and warmed up their radio set, to call for help.

And by that time, he’d had the next thought.

He told Bourgnese, on the radio, that they were on their way, and asked
them to stay tuned in. Then he switched off and started to ask Lee if
she would try something--then knew she already knew, and before he
could tell her exactly what it was he wanted, felt the opening channel
between his own mind and the--_friend_--and switched on the set again.

“Bourgnese?”

“Right here.”

“Listen, this might be just for laughs, but give your buggy a try
again, will you?”

“Tonight I’ll try anything, man,” Thad said, and then, “She won’t
catch, John. We’re bone dry.”

“Forget the starter. Listen--just get in gear and _drive_. I mean--damn
it, this sounds nuts. _Pretend_ you’ve got gas. Like, try it once,
okay?”

“What can I lose?”

A moment’s wait, and an exclamation--hardly more than a _whoosh_
of air, but it contained all the bafflement, delight, suspicion,
excitement, and fascination that gave them the answer. Then, very
calmly: “Nice going, John. We’ll make it back, I guess.”

The new world of collaboration had started.




EPILOGUE

  _Dollars Dome, Thursday,
  October 20, 1977--2:30 A.M. (C.S.T.)_


In the conference room, Dr. Christensen sat at one end of the table;
Dr. Chen sat at the other. Down one side of the table were ranged the
U.S.A.A. staff, including Trovi, Kutler, Wendt, Bourgnese. Down the
other side were S.U.A.R. men in equal numbers--and Harounian.

The last of the tapes slid to an end, and turned itself off. There was
silence. Then Kutler rose and started to speak.

He explained in detail what he knew of the development of Lisa Trovi’s
ability.

He sat down, and the Soviet’s Gregoriev rose, and told a rather more
methodical and experimental tale of the discovery of Maria Harounian’s
talent. “We came to the conclusion, tentative, that the pregnancy might
be a factor,” he finished. “It now seems this is justified.”

Lisa whispered to Phil. He rose again. “Miss Trovi suggests that the
particular pregnancy that was operative was hers--only because the
child carried genes familiar to the--the Martian. She understands that
it might be possible for a mind which has not yet developed semantic
centers to--receive?--more readily. Thus, she believes her unborn child
and Miss Harounian’s might have been in contact more easily than two
adults.”

The first stir of reaction across the table subsided; there were nods
of slow agreement.

Bourgnese rose: “Begging the pardon of the two ladies,” he said, “I’d
like to call attention to another matter. It happens these two infants
were conceived prior to a certain--ah, noticeable change in--well, I’m
sure you gentlemen have all been aware of the furor in our press about
our--ah, _morals_, here? Of course, we don’t know how things are at
your Dome, but--?” He stood a moment, grinned, found two, then three
and four answering grins across the table. “My suggestion was that
perhaps the--emanations? _callings?_--from the--Martian--might have
been in part responsible for--shall we say?--an extraordinary goodwill
in the two Domes blessed with--Martian extensions?”

As he sat down, one of the Chinese delegates leaned forward. “I was
just thinking,” he said, without bothering to rise, “I wonder how good
this Martian is at PK?”

The words raced round the table, with the thought right behind. In a
moment, a babble of voices was following. After a short time, John
Wendt stood up.

The room quieted slowly. Slowly, and with precision, he told the story
of the fuelless half-track.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “It appears that we may have at hand a fuel--if
you call it that--which will make any kind of space travel more
practical. Excuse me; I am doing my best to understate. Assuming
this--fuel--does not exist, we now know--” He swallowed, opened his
mouth, cleared his throat. “Oh Hell. What I’m trying to say is: I’d
like to volunteer three of the crew for the next trip out--anywhere.”


                              --THE END--




Transcriber’s Note:


  Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but
minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed.

  Dates corrected as follows:
  page 106: Aug. 23. to Sep. 6.
  page 106: Aug. 21. to Sep. 4.


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