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._