10000 Light Years From Home Part 24
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, relishing 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 shipped 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 shipping?... Monomolecular coated bearings? How are they packed?... I said, how are they packed? What kind of cartons? Spherical?
O.K., so you're shipping 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 shipment 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 shipping 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 shipment 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 shipment 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 shipped, 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 shingle-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 shipment 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 ship 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 ship 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 shipping 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.
"Aha! Say, what do they do with face cream on Sirloin Twelve? Polish their chitin?"
"I beg your pardon? Oh, actually I believe they want to use it more as a cooking oil."
"Wonder what they cook? Well, this looks like a pretty easy route, Miss Kripp. Straight through the Sirius station, one transfer, right?"
"I believe so, Mr. Benedict. And I do hope we can get this little paper in a hurry, because we have rather an early date on our order."
"We'll try. Now, what does your cream look like? Are you shipping more than one kind, or all the same? Does it gurgle, or ripple, I mean rattle? How about odor? I imagine it's perfumed?"
"All just like this." She produced a gold and orchid jar from her attache case.
"Hm-m-m. No gurgle, no rattle-quite a smell though. You realize, Miss Krisp, that what might smell lovely to us often has very different, even harmful effects on alien life forms? I don't mean the Sirloin customers, evidently they know the product. I mean the transmitter crews on the Sirius station. Do you have any kind of vaportight wrap for this?"
The speak flashed on, revealing his receptionist engaged in blowing on her nail polish.
"There are, uh, three thousand and seventeen little black boxes here, Mr. Benedict. From Mr.
Marmon."
"Send 'em up to Jim right now quick, Jackie. Wait, transcribe this to go with: Jim, we have a product variation problem with these, on Candlepower. Gas somethings, variation unknown. Some will be O.K., some not, note serial numbers. Show them to Freggle but go very easy. Don't let him faint, start outside the door, comprenday? And Jim, make it fast. Client's hung up at station. I promised answers today.... Yes, 'scuse me, Miss Klasp?"
"It so happens, Mr. Benedict, that we do have a s.p.a.cewrap for our Joanna Lovebody Creme." She held up a golden egg. "Those lovely s.p.a.ce-girls have to keep their beauty glowing-fresh too, you know."
"Never been off-planet. Well, that's pretty but it doesn't look too practical. Miss Cameera!
Where's Cameera, Jackie?"
A very young kitten tiptoed in.
"Sweetie, you take these jars up to our Sirius representative. Mr. Splinx, you know."
"Oh, Mr. Benedict!" Her chin quivered. "Can't you send them up by the tube? You remember what happened last time!"
"Splinx won't open his tube since we sent him that Martian Mau-Mau kit. Cameera, honey, you'll be all right. Just stand about ten feet away. Tell him I want a verbal report as soon as he's satisfied, comprenday? And remember, no humming or whistling. And don't tap your feet."
Miss Cameera tiptoed out, slowly. "New girl," said Benedict. "Now what I had in mind, Miss Kling, is one of our all-null shipping packs. As a public service we've had some small sizes made up-" He was pulling plastic ovoids out of his desk. "If your product can be shipped in these it'll save you time. And money."
"What happened last time?" breathed Miss Krupp. "I mean, to your a.s.sistant?"
"Oh, just a little administrative misunderstanding, Miss Kupp. Different cultures, different ways.
Now look. If your cream checks out O.K. with Splinx, and you can use the approved pack, we can give you a provisional clearance today on the Sirius route and you can ship tomorrow. How's that?"
The phone chimed.
"Exceegeecee-what? Oh, no!" Benedict flung himself back in his chair. "Well, but that's not ourskin, the clinet's in the clear. That's Galactic Transfer's problem... O.K., sure I'll tell him. He can cover it. But it's not his fault, comprenday? O.K.-you just look those packs over, Miss Kreem, I'll be right with you. Jackie! Get me Murgatroyd, Terran Dynamics, will you?"
His intercom screen was flashing but no image appeared.
"Splinx here," intoned a deep woodwind voice. "I cannot see you, Mr. Benedict."
"Something's blocking your visuals," Benedict told the voice. "Wait-h.e.l.lo, Murgatroyd? This is Benedict over at Exceegeecee. Listen, on that shipment of power-packs through Nutmeat Nine, you know that fiber plate you have on the back? Can you cover it with an insulating layer from here in?... No, not your problem, your shipment got through fine. What happened, the crew on Nutmeat had some females standing around when your shipment came through and there's some kind of electrowhoosis effect-electrostatic, electroph.o.r.etic, whatever. Anyway it turns out those plates are very s.e.xy for Nutmeat Nine females. Not the males, we cleared them. The girls' feelers are charged different. So they got in the crates-you know they're teensy-and your machines arrived in the Icerock terminal with scads of these little girl mice plastered all over them. The Icerock crew are big herbivores and they got scared and stampeded. And Nutmeat is suing Galactic Transfer for involuntary concubinage and violation of the Narcotics Pact or something. Not your problem, absolutely not-those girls had no business being there. But I said we'd ask you if you could cover those plates. Just as a precautionary courtesy, comprenday? Great, thanks!... Yes, Mr. Splinx?"
The intercom screen had now cleared to reveal a large warty head featuring a single, benevolent-appearing eye.
"I woould say, ookay, friend Benedict," Splinx announced. "Boot the wrapper is noot vapoor-tight.
Noot at all. Hoowever, the fragrance is noot unattractive. Resembling perchance an eel-farm by moonlight."
"Not too attractive, I hope. Pilferage?"
"Perchance. Joost a little. Boot the woorkers will noot be soo chemoo-sensitive as I." He flicked his domed brow with a tentacle, elegantly.
"Thanks, Splinx. Well, there you are, Miss Ktess. Splinx means you have to use our wrapper. And seal it tight; when he says there may be pilferage, you'll lose half the shipment. That big squid thinks he can smell better because he's an aristocrat, but we don't find any difference. Insure them, too. Now, are you certain you've told me everything-about the product, I mean? This sample is exactly like them all?
It doesn't have any latent effects or qualities, say heat-generation for example?"
Miss Krupp reflected charmingly, studying her slim silver toes.
"No, Mr. Benedict. That's our standard Joanna Lovebody Creme, known to millions of delighted users."
"O.K. Here's your provisional clearance, signed. I've marked the pilferage warning, comprenday?
Hand this to Jackie outside, she'll have the wrappers sent over."
"Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Benedict!" Her hand lingered warmly in his. "I couldn't help noticing you speak French. How very recherche!"
Benedict beamed. "I want to thank you for your cooperation, Miss Klutch, I only wish all our clients were as gracious as you."
The phone chimed.
"Benedict here." He looked regretfully after the departing peekaboos. "Oh, h.e.l.lo, Mr. Bronk. Well, yes, I certainly did appreciate the offer Montgomery Roebuck made me. But as I told you, I think my job is here.... No, it isn't really the money, of course that's a lot more than the government pays me, about three times.... Yeah, the work sounds very attractive, Outplanet Sales Coordinator sounds great. It's just that I've been building up this department here and it's hard to quit. I'm sure you'll find somebody else....
Oh, sure, if I change my mind. Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Bronk, yeah, same to you. 'Bye."Benedict turned to his intercom screen, where a man in a lab coat was waiting.
"How're you coming with Freggle and those gas gizmos, Jim?"
"Just wanted to tell you, T.B., we've run through a couple of hundred of Marmon's samples, and we're not getting just two types. More like five. Neutral, acutely noxious, mildly euphoric, soporific, and something else he can't or won't describe. Funny thing is, I think I get a little of it myself. Does that remind you of anything?"
"Hm-m-m. Well, I suppose it's possible. Keep at it- skip the staff meeting. Thanks a lot, Jim."
"Oh, by the way, Freggle wants to register a complaint about the chow. Those last sturgeons were below par, he says, and the seaweed sauce stinks. He likes the Russian stuff better. Can we get him some?"
"He would, twice as expensive. Well, we'll see. It's spring now, maybe we can get local salad for the herbivores and use the savings for Freggle. But give him a pep talk. Keep the galaxy spinning, where would Candlepower be without the transmitter, tra-la-la.... Hey, what happened to your clothes? Not you, Jim, 'scuse me."
Miss Cameera had burst in through a side door, clutching the two cold-cream jars.