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_.”