Clans of the Alphane Moon (20 page)

“Okay,” Hentman said to Chuck, nodding. “I’ll give you the launch; you can drop down there and do anything foolish that appeals to you—I wash my hands of it. Of course I hope you come back, but if not—” He shrugged. “That’s the way these things go.”

“And take your slime mold with you when you leave,” Feld said to Chuck.

Half an hour later he had parked the launch in a thicket of skinny poplar-like trees and stood in the open air, smelling the wind and listening. He heard nothing. It was only a little world, and nothing much was happening on it; a council had voted, a clan maintained a defensive screen, a few people waited in fear and trembling but probably, as for example the Heebs of Gandhitown, most of the inhabitants shuffled through their psychotic daily routine without interruption.

“Am I insane?” he asked Lord Running Clam, who had slithered off a few dozen yards to a damper spot; the slime mold was aquatropic. “Is this the all-embracing worst thing, of all the possible worst things, that I could do?”

“‘Insane,’” the slime mold responded, “is, strictly speaking, a legal term. I consider you very foolish; I think Mary Rittersdorf will probably commit an act of ferocity and hostility toward you as soon as she sets
eyes on you. But maybe you want that. You’re tired. It’s been a long struggle. Those illegal stimulant drugs which I supplied you; they didn’t help. I think they only made you more despairing and weary.” It added, “Maybe you ought to go to Cotton Mather Estates.”

“What’s
that?
” Even the name made him draw back with aversion.

“The settlement of the Deps. Live with them there, in endless dark gloom.” The slime mold’s tone was mildly chiding.

“Thanks,” Chuck said ironically.

“Your wife is not near,” the slime mold decided. “At least I don’t pick up her thoughts. Let us move on.”

“Okay.” He plodded back toward the launch.

As the slime mold followed after him, in through the open hatch, it thought, “There is always the possibility, which you must consider, that Mary is dead.”

“Dead!” He stared at the slime mold, halting. “How?”

“As you told Mr. Hentman; there is a war being conducted here on this moon. There have been deaths, although fortunately very few as yet. But the potential here for violent death is enormous. The last we saw of Mary Rittersdorf involved the three mystics, the so-called Holy Triumvirate, and their nauseous psychotic projections in the sky. I suggest therefore that we take the launch to Gandhitown, where the prime mover of the triumvirate, Ignatz Ledebur, exists—and that is the proper word—amidst his customary squalor, among his cats, wives and children.”

“But Ledebur would never—”

“Psychosis is psychosis,” the slime mold pointed out. “And a fanatic can never really be trusted.”

“True,” Chuck said gratingly.

Shortly, they were on their way to Gandhitown.

“I really wonder,” the slime mold pondered, “what I hope for your sake; in some respects you would be so much better off if she were—”

“It’s my business,” Chuck interrupted.

“Sorry,” the slime mold thought contritely, but with somber overtones; it could not eradicate them from its musings.

The launch buzzed on with no further interchange between the two of them.

   Ignatz Ledebur, depositing a heap of cooked, aging spaghetti before his two black-face pet sheep, glanced up to see the launch descend to a landing in the road adjacent to his shack. He finished feeding the sheep, then walked leisurely back to his shack with the pan. Cats of all sorts followed hopefully.

Indoors, he dropped the pan among the encrusted dishes heaped in the sink, paused a moment to glance toward the woman asleep on the wooden planks which made up the dining table. He then picked up a cat, carried it with him outdoors once more. The arrival of the ship did not, of course, come as a surprise; he had already experienced a vision of it. He was not alarmed, but on the other hand he was scarcely complacent.

Two figures, one of them human, the other amorphous and yellow, emerged from the launch. They made their way with difficulty across the discarded trash toward Ledebur.

“You will be gratified to hear,” Ledebur said to them, by way of greeting, “that almost at this very moment Alphane warships are preparing to land here on our world.” He smiled, but the man facing him did not smile back. The yellow blob, of course, had nothing to smile with. “So your mission,” Ledebur said,
with a shade of perturbation, “has yielded successful results.” He did not enjoy the hostility which emanated from the man; he saw, with his mystical Psionic insight, the man’s anger glow in a red, ominous nimbus about his head.

“Where’s Mary Rittersdorf?” the man, Chuck Rittersdorf, said. “My wife. Do you know?” He turned to the Ganymedean slime mold beside him. “Does he know?”

The slime mold thought, “Yes, Mr. Rittersdorf.”

“Your wife,” Ignatz Ledebur said, nodding. “She was doing injurious things out there. Already she had killed one Mans and was—”

“If you don’t show me my wife,” Chuck Rittersdorf said to Ledebur, “I’m going to hack you to bits.” He took one step toward the saint.

Petting the cat which he held with agitation, Ledebur said, “I wish you’d come in and have a cup of tea.”

The next he knew he was lying supine on the ground; his ears rang and his head throbbed dully. With difficulty he managed to sit groggily up, wondering what had happened.

“Mr. Rittersdorf hit you,” the slime mold explained. “A glancing blow slightly above the cheekbone.”

“No more,” Ledebur said thickly. He tasted blood; spitting, he sat massaging his head. No vision had forewarned him of
this
, unfortunately. “She’s inside the house,” he said, then.

Passing by him Chuck Rittersdorf strode to the door, yanked it open, disappeared inside. Ledebur managed at last to drag himself upright; he stood unsteadily and then, dragging a little, followed.

Indoors, in the front room, he halted by the door, while cats, free to come and go, hopped and scampered and quarreled on all sides of him.

At the bed Chuck Rittersdorf bent over the sleeping woman. “Mary,” he said, “wake up.” He reached out, took hold of her bare, dangling arm, joggled her. “Get your clothes and get out of here. Come on!”

The woman in Ignatz Ledebur’s bed, who had replaced Elsie, gradually opened her eyes; she focused on Chuck’s face, then all at once blinked, became fully conscious. She sat reflexively up, then caught hold of the tumble of blankets, wound them about her, covering her small, high breasts.

The slime mold, circumspectly, had remained outdoors.

“Chuck,” Mary Rittersdorf said, in a low, steady voice, “I came to this house voluntarily. So I—”

He grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her from the bed; blankets fell and a coffee mug bounced and rolled, spilling its cold contents. Two cats who had gone under the bed rushed out in fright, bypassed Ignatz Ledebur in their haste to get away.

Smooth and slender and naked, Mary Rittersdorf faced her husband. “You don’t have a thing to say about what I do anymore,” she said. She reached for her clothes, picked up her blouse, then rummaged further, as self-possessed as could under the circumstances be expected. She began methodically, garment by garment, to dress; from the expression on her face she might have been entirely alone.

Chuck said, “Alphane ships control this area, now. The Manses are ready to lift their shield to let them in; it’s all been accomplished. While you were asleep in this—” He jerked his head toward Ignatz Ledebur. “This individual’s bed.”

“And you’re with them?” Mary asked frigidly as she buttoned her blouse. “Why, of course you are. The Alphanes have seized the moon and you’re going to live
here under them.” She finished dressing, began then to comb her hair at a reasonable, slow rate.

“If you’ll stay here,” Chuck said, “on Alpha III M2 and not return to Terra—”

“I am staying here,” Mary said. “I’ve already worked it out.” She indicated Ignatz Ledebur. “Not with him; this was only for a little while and he knew it. I wouldn’t live in Gandhitown—it’s not the place for me, not by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Where, then?”

Mary said, “I think Da Vinci Heights.”

“Why?” Incredulous, he stared at her.

“I’m not sure. I haven’t even seen it. But I admire the Manses; I even admire the one I killed. He never was afraid, even when he was running for his tank and knowing he wouldn’t make it. Never in my life have I seen anything resembling that, not ever.”

“The Manses,” Chuck said, “will never let you in.”

“Oh yes.” She nodded calmly. “They certainly will.”

Chuck turned questioningly to Ignatz Ledebur.

“They will,” Ledebur agreed. “Your wife is right.” Both of us, he realized, you and I; we’ve lost her. Nobody can claim this woman for long. It’s just not in her nature, in her biology. Turning, he mournfully left the shack, stepped outside, walked over to the spot at which the slime mold waited.

“I think you have showed Mr. Rittersdorf,” the slime mold thought to him, “the impossibility of what he is trying to do.”

“I suppose so,” Ledebur said, without an iota of enthusiasm.

Chuck appeared, pale and grim; he strode past Ledebur toward the launch. “Let’s go,” he said roughly to the slime mold over his shoulder.

The slime mold, as hastily as was physically possible,
followed after him. The two of them entered the launch; the hatch shut and the launch zooped up into the mid-morning sky.

For an interval Ignatz Ledebur watched it go, and then he re-entered the shack. He found Mary at the ice box searching for something out of which to fashion breakfast.

Together he and she prepared their morning meal.

“The Manses,” Ledebur pointed out, “are very brutal, in some ways.”

Mary laughed. “So what?” she said mockingly.

He had no answer to that. His saintliness and his visions did not help him there, not one bit.

   After a long time Chuck said, “Will this launch take us back to the Sol system and Terra?”

“Absolutely not,” Lord Running Clam said.

“Okay,” Chuck said, “I’ll locate a Terran warship parked in this region. I’m going back to Terra, accept whatever punitive litigation the authorities have in mind, and then work out an arrangement with Joan Trieste.”

The slime mold stated, “In view of the fact that the punitive litigation will consist of a request for the death penalty, any arrangement with Joan Trieste is unlikely.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Something you will balk at.”

Chuck said, “Tell me anyhow.” In view of his situation he could not turn anything down.

“You—ahem. This is awkward; I must put it properly. You must entice your wife into giving you a thorough battery of psychological tests.”

After a while he managed to say, “To find out which settlement I would fit best in?”

“Yes,” the slime mold said, but reluctantly. “That was the idea. This is not to say you’re psychotic; this is merely to determine the drift of your personality in the most general—”

“Suppose the tests show no drift, no neurosis, no latent psychosis, no character deformation, no psychopathic tendencies, in other words nothing? What do I do then?” Without unduly complimenting himself—at this point he was well beyond that—he had an inkling that was precisely what the tests would show. He did not belong in any of the settlements here on Alpha III M2; here he was a loner, an outcast, accompanied by no one even remotely resembling him.

“Your long-held urge to murder your wife,” the slime mold said, “may well be a symptom of an underlying emotional illness.” It tried to sound hopeful, but nonetheless it failed. “I still believe it’s worth a try,” it persisted.

Chuck said, “Suppose I founded one more settlement here.”

“A settlement composed of one person?”

“There must be occasional normals showing up here. People who work their way out of their derangements and possibly children who never developed them. As it stands here you’re classified as polymorphous schizophrenic until proved otherwise; that’s not right.” He had been giving this considerable thought, ever since it had first appeared that he might be required to remain on the moon. “They’ll come trickling in. Given time.”

“The gingerbread house in the woods of this moon,” the slime mold mused. “And you inside, waiting stealthily to trap whoever passes by. Especially the children.” It tittered. “Pardon me. I shouldn’t take this lightly; forgive me.”

Chuck said nothing; he merely piloted the launch upward.

“Will you try the tests?” the slime mold asked. “Before going off and founding your own settlement?”

“Okay,” Chuck said. That did not seem unreasonable to ask.

“Do you imagine, in view of your mutual hostility toward each other, that your wife can properly administer the tests?”

“I suppose so.” Scoring was routine, not interpretive.

The slime mold decided, “I will act as the intermediary between you and her; you will not have to confront each other again until the results are obtained.”

“Thanks,” Chuck said, with gratitude.

The slime mold said reflectively, “There is one other possibility which although admittedly farfetched might well be considered. It might yield a great harvest, although of course considerable time would be involved for that to come about.” It plunged through to the summation of its thought. “Perhaps you can induce Mary to take the tests, too.”

   The idea came to Chuck as a complete, shocking surprise. For one thing—his mind moved swiftly, analyzing and introspecting—he could not see the advantage in it whatever showed up. Because the inhabitants of the moon would not be receiving therapy; that had already been decided, and by his own actions. If Mary revealed herself in the tests—as well she might—as seriously disturbed, she would simply remain so, would continue as she was; no psychiatrist was about to enter and begin tinkering with her. So what did the slime mold mean by a “great harvest”?

The slime mold, receiving his rapid thoughts, explained,
“Suppose your wife did disclose by means of the testing process that she includes a severe streak of the manic in her makeup. This would be my lay analysis of her, and it evidently is her own as well. For her to recognize this, that she is, like Howard Straw or those wild tank drivers, a Mans, would be for her to face the fact that—”