Part 24 (1/2)
Alone of his lonely race, he had touched and been touched, essayed to speak and been heard.
Reforming himself, he perceived that the nuclear portions of his being were still caught against the little planet by the solar wind-naturally, since the eversion had occurred at noon. It was no trouble to balance there on the standing wave.
He considered for a time, as his distributions stabilized. Then zestfully, for he was a joyful being, he let the radiance take him, swerved out and around to the haven of the planet's shadow. Here he hung idle his immense periphery feathered out to the nearby stars. He preened new structural resonances, tickled by wandering wavicles.
Then he began to scan the planetary surface, tasting, savoring the play of tiny structurances. But it was different now. Somewhere in his field gradients, impalpable residuals of the systems he had copied lingered on. An astronomer in the Andes found something like a burro on his plates of Beta Carinae and chewed out his darkroom aid. A Greek farmer saw the letters ELFA glimmering in Scorpio, and carried corn and laurel to a certain cave.
The planet turned, the continents pa.s.sed into the shadow where he hung, a lonely vastness slightly other than a vacuum. Playing his random scan, relis.h.i.+ng energic intricacies. Feeling in what was not a heart a huge and capricious yearning which built and faded erratically, now so fault that he let himself diffuse almost to where the currents would whirl him eternities away, now so strong that he focused to a point on one human creature alone for a moment in the open night.
Temptation grew, faded, grew in him again. Would he? Again?... He would. Which?... Water; they were often by water, he had found. But which? This one, who played ... was it music?... on the sh.o.r.e?
He was seeking, he recalled now, a communicator. The world turned, carried the music-maker away.
One who... spoke?... and was received, respoken. A linker. One-one? Or why not one-many? Was it possible? Restlessly, he drew a few pa.r.s.ecs of himself into the system, spelled D.O.D. in colliding photons, and began more intently to search for something to become.
-tumor. That's what scares me, Jack. Everything gets small. It's so real-Headaches? No, no headaches, why? No colored haloes on things, either. Personality change? I wouldn't know, would I? You be the judge, I don't think so. Except for the fear. Jack, I tell you, it's physical! The interaction starts, the rapport-that terrific feeling that we're really communicating-all those people, I'm with them. Agh, we don't have words for it. Do we? And then this other thing starts, this swelling-the bigness, I mean BIG, Jack. Big like bigger than houses, bigger than the sun maybe! Like the interaction feeds it, it's going to burst, it's going to kill everybody- All right, Jack. All right.
If you think so. I know it sounds crazy, that's why- Do you honestly? Do you think so?
That's true, I don't have headaches. I've heard that too. Maybe I- Yes, I know I can't quit now.
You're so right. But I have to take a day off, Jack. Cancel something. Cancel that Dartmouth thing, it's entropic anyway. Useless, I mean. We've got to take a day and hole up somewhere and rest. You're right, Jack. You fix it. Before we tackle Dallas.BIRTH OF A SALESMAN The heavy citizen swept by the kitten at the desk and bashed through the inner door. The door read: T. BENEDICT, X.C.G.C. Behind the desk, T. Benedict took his head out of his hands and rolled big, sorrowful blue eyes up at his visitor. The heavy man opened his mouth and the phone chimed.
”Exceegeecee,” said Benedict into the phone, flapping his hand at the fat man. ”Yeah, you need a clearance from us if your product is going to be s.h.i.+pped outplanet.... Yeah, you need it even if it's for outplanet goods processed here. If they've been touched in any way... That's right, Xeno-Cultural Gestalt Clearance. I know it's a horrible name, I didn't pick it. We'll send you the forms.... Now, wait a minute, the name may be silly, but the function, no. What are you s.h.i.+pping?... Monomolecular coated bearings? How are they packed?... I said, how are they packed? What kind of cartons? Spherical?
O.K., so you're s.h.i.+pping into the Deneb sector. Going through the Deneb Gamma transfer point, right?...
Well, look it up, you'll find it has to go through there. So, the minute those spheres of yours come rolling through the transfer, the whole Gamma station crew squats down on its operculi and n.o.body budges a tentacle, because spheres are religious effigies on Gamma, see? And the transmitter stays open at your expense per microsecond, and your product doesn't move until a local atheist relief squad-at triple pay, your expense-is brought in to move it, right? It's to prevent foul-ups like that that you're supposed to get our clearance on your prototype pack. Not after the s.h.i.+pment is sealed to go! Right?... I'll send you the forms, and you get your samples up here fast. We'll do what we can.”
Benedict cradled the still-squawking phone and turned his sad blue gaze on the fat man, who promptly exploded.
”That's the merde you gave me! How wonderful your clearances! Changes to make-the picture to take off the box-the color to be not pink, not red, some lobster on Capella gets itchy-everything you said, we did! And now look! Five thousand Hapichlor Underfin Gasators I have lying on Candlepower Seven, n.o.body will move them! For what do I pay my taxes? Incompetent! Parasite! Harrghh!”
T. Benedict closed his eyes, pulled his hand down his nose, and looked up again.
”Look, Mr. Marmot-”
”Marmon!”
”Mr. Marmon, our clearance isn't a guarantee. It can't protect you against unknown factors, only against those we know about. With transmitter s.h.i.+pping linking new cultures every week, we get new factors all the tune. The picture-label you had, the red lettering, those are known factors on your route.
Your product would have been severely damaged by nibbling on Capella if those cartons had gone through-that, we know. You'd have had a right to blame us if we'd let them go. But you shouldn't have trouble on Candlepower. We have a Candlepower native on our alien panel, he pa.s.sed your product.
There're only two possibilities: either it's a transport problem, malfunction or wage-strike, in which case it has nothing to do with us-or you've changed the product.”
”The product has been in no way changed. Look!” Marmon slammed a black cube and a crumpled message form onto the desk. Benedict read: ”Six cases acute depressive fugue among transfer crew. Relief crew affected, refuse handle. Held pending. You've changed the product.”
”I have NOT changed the product!”
”And they're all exactly alike? Every one?”
”Every single one to half-micromill tolerance. What do you think we make?”
”Who knows? But there's variance somewhere. Miss Boots!”
A kitten in an aqua lab coat toddled through the side door.
”Take this upstairs and get Freggle to vet it again. Tell him a s.h.i.+pment has been held up at Candlepower station, acute depressive effect.” They both watched her toddle out.”Now listen, Marner, we'll help you all we can. Either the sample you gave us isn't representative, or our Candlepower representative isn't representative, I mean, typical. It's cheaper to check your sample first, so get me some more of them-a gross, a couple gross at least. If you get them here today, I'll put them right through. That's step one. Meanwhile, you have a choice: either wait, in hopes we find something you can fix, or get on the horn and get an itinerant emergency crew down to Candlepower to run your s.h.i.+pment as is. My advice is to get the crew; whatever's wrong is apt to be tough to fix at this distance. Comprenday?
”But my costs! My costs! While you just sit there! Faker!”
”Markle, I'm helping you all I can-Yes, Miss Boots?”
On the intercom screen Miss Boots appeared to be replacing her wig.
”Mr. Freggleglegg has just faulted-I guess,” she said timidly.
”Get that product away from him!” yelled Benedict. ”Call Doc! Wait, Bootsie, sprinkle some sugar on him. Yeah, sugar, you'll see the can on his desk. On his feet, stupid, those green things, he metabolizes there in emergencies!”
Miss Boots dove off-screen.
”Well, Marvin, your product is the trouble, all right! Now! On your samples, first get me some of the originals -the ones we pa.s.sed. You have 'em? Good. And then get some from different batches up to the time you s.h.i.+pped, comprenday? I don't care how many, send plenty. We'll work on it here as soon as Freggle comes to. Method of approximation. Wait! Next, you write down everything-I mean every little thing-that's changed in your plant since that first batch. Different molds or dies, different plastic catalyst, different soldering flux, change in subcontractors, any and every-”
”He's kicking the sugar!” Miss Boots wailed from the screen.
”GET DOC, Bootsie!... All right, Marple. Series of samples, list of differences, schnell-schnell. Go!”
The fat man charged out. Benedict dropped his head into his hands while the intercom screen emitted gargles and flashes of aqua lab coat. His phone chimed just as the office door opened, revealing what appeared to be a red-haired gazelle in silver tights.
Benedict grabbed the phone, rolling startled eyes up at his visitor, whom he now perceived as a girl in silver peekaboos, carrying an orchid attache case. His eyes grew rounder, while the phone boomed busily at his ear.
Suddenly a gigantic maroon walrus rose into sight on the intercom screen, leaning on Miss Boots'
head. The gazelle-girl gasped.
”You O.K, Freggle!” Benedict demanded of the walrus. ”No, not you, 'scuse me. Go ahead.”
The walrus wavered off the screen, followed by a s.h.i.+ngle-haired man who made a thumb-and-finger O.K. sign at Benedict. Benedict nodded, still listening to the phone as he swiveled round to observe the effect of deep respiration on his visitor's silver contours.
”Got it,” he told the phone. ”I'll repeat. The Pansolar wine s.h.i.+pment can go through as routed, provided (a) they take the grape picture off so the Fomalhaut transfer crew won't think we're bottling their larvae. And (b), the bottles must not gurgle above thirteen thousand cps to stay below the mating range for amphibians running Pegasus Zeta Four. If the overtones can't be fixed he has to s.h.i.+p the long way via Algol. That right? Transcribed, will notify. Thanks, Tom.... 'Scuse me, Miss, what can I do for you?”
”I am Joanna Lovebody, Inc.,” the girl announced sweetly.
”How do, Miss uh, Inc.?”
”Well, Miss Krupp, actually.” She smiled. ”We at Joanna Lovebody are so thrilled because we now have our first extra-solar clientele! Yes, there is a new, enthusiastic demand for Joanna Lovebody Cremes on a romantic, alien world. And we understand, Mr. Benedict, that in order to s.h.i.+p our lovely Joanna Lovebody Cremes we need one of your little government permits?”Benedict pulled himself together. ”You do indeed, Miss Krupp. Tell me, what planet are you s.h.i.+pping to?”
”Sirloin Twelve.” She chuckled, generating a silver undulance. ”Such a quaint name.”
”Some survey crew got tired of tube food,” Benedict muttered, distractedly riffling his Locater.