10000 Light Years From Home Part 25

"That awful Mr. Splinx, he got my kiltie."

"Teh, tch, Cameera sweetie, you know it's, not s.e.x with Splinx-at least, Doc says it's not.

Sometimes I wonder. Now look, you can't run around like that. Couldn't you get your skirtie-I mean, your skirt?"

"He threw it over the intercom and I couldn't go close!"

"I see. That figures. Well, get Jim to get it for you-he's on the floor."

"Oh Mr. Benedict, I couldn't talk to Mr. Eisenstein like this!"

"Huh? Oh, so." Benedict squinted at her. "Is Jim a married man? No, he's not. Here, take my lab coat and run along out now. Wait! On your way back get me another batch of standard small s.h.i.+pping packs from Supply, comprenday?"

Two men and a woman had come into the office. Benedict waved at them shouting "Jackie honey, get some sandwiches and coffee, will you? You folks eaten? Oh, any kind, it's all roast cardboard. Hal, you look like trouble. Shoot."

"T.B., I want to make sure you're briefed for that meeting with the Budget Bureau tomorrow. I'm afraid they're quite serious about a twenty percent cut on our alien panel."

"Gautama B. Buddha, how do they expect us to function without a full panel?" Benedict exploded, "What're we supposed to do for the public, guess? You know we only have a sixty percent coverage of current transferpoint life forms as it is.... Sorry, Hal, it's not your fault. What should I do?"

"Well, the inside story I get from Timmons over there is that they're getting pressure from this anti-alien organization. They keep yelling about hundreds of monsters being maintained in luxury at the taxpayer's expense. Seems somebody got hold of a food bill with caviar on it."

"That's be Freggle. What do I do?"

"Well, I've prepared two alternate proposals, which technically comply with their reduction. I won't go into them now, except that one complies money-wise, by adjusting the budget to get past the current fiscal year. After the elections, who can tell? The other complies by reduction of permanent personnel-wait, T.B.-while actually retaining them in various temporary and consultative slots.

Considering contract expiration dates, we can avoid actual loss of any panel members for five months. I'll be in to go over them with you before the meeting."

"Hal, you're a genius. Chester?"

"T.B., we have got to develop a little counter-pressure. Of course it's not my business, but I'd like to poll our s.h.i.+ppers and see if we can't work up a group who endorse our service."Benedict sighed. "Ver-ry ticklish, soliciting public support from inside the government. Well, maybe, Chester. But very easy. A poll, comprenday?"

"Understood, T.B. Now look, I have to warn you that the annual report is going to be a couple days late again."

"Again?"

"That computer foul-up we had last month really hurt. We've been working unpaid overtime to reconstruct, but there's still a lot of incomplete and miskeyed case actions. Frankly, T.B., one big trouble is right here in your office. We've cross-keyed your bank every way we can to catch the original records but that doesn't do any good if you don't turn it on. I know how you feel, but... by the way, it doesn't seem to be transcribing now."

Benedict wheeled around to his input transcriber bank, gave it a glare and slammed the switch to On.

"Dammit, how can I talk to human beings with that thing going? All right, I'll try, I'll try. Mavis, any woe from you?"

"Not really, T.B., just the usual. Two cases of nostalgic apathy, one case of addiction to lunar lichens, and some sort of psychic disturbance Dr. Morris hasn't been able to pin down yet with the Altairean. Doc says to tell you if you have to use Altair, call him first."

"Is he still able to function? Altair is getting new branch lines, we're bound to need him."

"He's all right, but Doc says, he has to get him in the mood first."

"How does he get him in the mood?"

"With movies. Old Westerns. The horses seem to perk him up. Only thing is, there mustn't be anything disturbing happening to a horse. Doc has been previewing them nights, he says he has saddle burns."

"Give him my love, Mavis. Tell him I have some June Lovebody Creme for his burns. And listen, ask him to do something about Splinx and this undressing business, will you? He got Cameera's skirt today.... That all, everybody? 'Bye."

"Don't forget you're speaking to that Alien Nutrition meeting tonight right after work, Boss," Jackie called through the open door as they trooped out. The phone chimed.

"Exceegeecee... oh, h.e.l.lo, Marmon. Got that list of differences?... Nothing but a turret lathe, eh?

Used on them all? Well, that shouldn't do it. Now tell me, have you figured personnel changes?... What?

Look, Marmot, I said everything. Don't you count people as anything? People. They handle the product, don't they?... I can't help your records. Are the people the same?....Well, try to look.... Yes, I have reasons. My reasons aren't definite, but they're good enough so you better look. I'll call you back in about an hour and maybe I can give you a better idea what to look for. But get those records so you can make sense when I call. Comprenday?"

He flicked the phone. In the momentary silence the transcriber bank hummed officiously. Benedict gave it a mean look, slammed the Off switch and rested his head in his hands. The phone chimed.

"Exceegeecee... yes. h.e.l.low Mr. Tomlinson. Sure I remember you, you s.h.i.+p those miniclimatrons way out past the Hub. Fifteen transfer points-indeed, I remember you, Mr. Tompkinson. Most complicated clearance we had since... What's the problem?... You've found a cheaper s.h.i.+pping route? I see-yes, you certainly do need a new clearance. How many transfer points this time- thirteen? That new Lost & Gone station?... Yeah, we have to clear your product for those life forms there-my problem is that we haven't been allocated a panel member for Lost & Gone yet. I believe they're pretty uh, recherchay, too, some kind of energy-matrix. No telling what your unit would do to them, or vice versa.... Yeah, I realize you're losing money every time you s.h.i.+p by the old route, but Mr. Thomason, the public hasn't given us the money to bring a native from there yet. If you don't want to wait, the best thing is a government test trial s.h.i.+pment at your expense. I'm sorry. We monitor the s.h.i.+pment and testingprocedure. We'll need a representative-I mean, an absolutely typical sample of your product.... We went over that before, Mr. Thomason. No changes?... Oh, a little change. You didn't notify us. You've been taking a chance, Mr. Thompkinson. Well, we'll catch it now, but that means a recheck of the whole route.... Yeah, we'll send you a cost sheet on the trial s.h.i.+pment to Lost & Gone tomorrow, say for ten units? If it goes through, yes, you can route them on to consumer, but we don't guarantee they'll go through. You could easily have trouble in your circuits with those energy-beings-probably need some nonconductive pack. You wouldn't want to work out a pack first, would you?... I thought not. Well, it's your risk, Mr. Tinkerson, I've warned you. We're not responsible for loss or damage, that's on record now. But we'll do everything we can.... Sorry you feel that way. Right."

As he flipped off, Benedict glanced guiltily at the dead transcriber bank and banged it to the On position.

Jim came to the speaker screen, holding one of Marmon's black boxes.

"T.B., I think we've got a series. Freggle got cooperative and we've pinned down the unknown and two more. Working with the serial numbers as chronology, sample of five hundred, it adds up thusly: neutral; mild euphoria, type A; boredom; mild euphoria, type B; intense s.e.x interest; intense dejection; intense homesickness. The last two types were what really threw Freggle, but the s.e.x one is no better-he won't touch it, just giggles. The homesickness type carries right through to the last number we tested.... Identification? Not too good. Probably young, maybe female by a slight edge. Earliest number that's neutral-AGB-4367-L2."

"Thanks Jim, thanks. That really helps. Jackie! Get me Marmot, I mean Marmon." He bounced his chair. "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Marmon? Benedict here. Got those lists? I think we've found your trouble. First, though, can you place the date of manufacture of a unit from its serial number? Well, roughly will help.

Now: what you have to look for is a new employee, out of town-maybe foreign-hired about the time when, let's see, AGB-4367-L2 went through. Got it?... This employee maybe female, less probably male, likely is young. At first she-or he-was happy and interested, then bored, that's normal. Then she-or he-fell deeply in love.... Mr. Marvin, I'm not joking.... Wait, let me finish. Anyway, this employee got rejected, see? Off-chance the loved one died or moved away, but chances are they rejected your employee. Employee goes into a deep depression, almost suicidal, then starts violently longing for home. Got it?... Why? Marble, where have you been? You've hired a transmitting telepath.

And this telepath is using your product as a K-object.... No, never mind that-the net effect is that every unit you process is impregnated with this emotional transmission, comprenday? Any life form that receives picks it up. That's what knocked over the Candlepower crews. This stuff carries a big jolt, you've got a strong sender somewhere in the works who's very, very unhappy. Probably young, doesn't know they're a Para. Comes from some place where there's no testing station.... How do you find her or him? Well, one small clue-it's evidently someone who handles every one of your products, at least all those you gave me.... Do? Get hold of them and send them over to the Para-P Bureau! They're wasted with you, for Pete's sake.... Well, if they don't want to go, and they have a contract, either get them fixed up love-wise, or keep them away from the product-and I mean far away. But I think you'll find they'll gladly s.h.i.+ft to Para-P when they find out; better pay. Matter of fact, you call Para-P, talk to Ilyitch there.

Tell him Benedict says you have a strong sender. They'll help you. Right?... I-l-y-i-t-c-h... No, I can't help you with that pile-up on Candlepower, Mr. Marvel. I told you, best thing is to get an itinerant crew down there to move it. Nonsensitives.... Well, I warned you that was the best course. Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, too. We try. Right?"

Benedict dropped his chin to his fist, scowling at the humming transcriber bank. Outside, the sky darkened. Quitting time, and he had that speech to make. The phone chimed.

"How do, Mr. Oldmayer. Benedict speaking.... Well, didn't my office send you the forms? It's simple, really, you just send the forms back with your sample packs and we check them through our alien panel according to your routing.... What special problem?... Yes, I'm afraid you do have to have a clearance, Mr. Oldenham, music is one of our more sensitive s.h.i.+pping problems. You get actual damagewith some life forms. It's a question of packaging.... I realize it's turned off, but you'd be surprised how things get accidentally activated in transit, especially with a long route like that.... Yeah, well, get hold of a good soundproofing firm and have them work out a m.u.f.fler. Maybe you don't have to do the whole box, just the audio part, right? And the power pickup, nonconductive, right?... I know it's a nuisance, Mr.

Oldershot, but that type of equipment can start picking up and sending suddenly and then there's h.e.l.l to pay. Conditions in transmission are for from Earth-normal, you know. We had a case where a beam-powered front-end-loader started operating spontaneously in the transit station on Piccolo Two, and they had to close the station for two years.... Well, you get the wrap designed and we'll be expecting you, right? 'Bye." As he clicked off, the aqua-clad form of Miss Boots tottered into the room, towing a loaded lab truck.

"Mr. Benedict, what'll I do with these three thousand gas-things we tested on Mr. Freggleglegg?"

"You can't leave 'em here, Boots, take 'em to Supply and tell Willi to make the owner pick 'em up.

Marmot. Do I have to hand-feed that man? You look beat, Bootsie. Some kind of day with Freggle, was it? Did Cameera get her skirt?"

Miss Boots nodded Wearily, towing out.

"Some days," Benedict muttered, rooting in his files. "Where's that dumb speech? Jackie!"

"We have to close up now, Mr. Benedict," his receptionist said from the doorway. "You know what Hal said about overtime."

"Right." Benedict grabbed a file and slammed his desk shut. "Turn off the lights, Jackie. Let's go...

holy entropy, what's that?"

In the darkened room a man's voice was singing Naked You. The next minute a soprano joined in with Love Me All Over.

"Light! What is it, Jackie! Help, lights!"

"Oh, Mr. Benedict, it's just the skin scream," Jackie told him, switching lights on. The room fell silent. "The Joanna Lovebody, see? It plays music. The one I have plays Yummy-Yummy-You, it's neat."

"What?" Benedict stared strickenly at the orchid jars on his desk.

"It does it when the light goes off at night and when it goes on again in the morning, to remind you.

My toothpaste does Kissing Day. What's the matter, Mr. Benedict?"

"Get that woman," Benedict roared. "Klapp, Krapp, Krotch-if she isn't at the office, fine her home! Don't leave till you get her, Jackie. Tell her that her permit is revoked. Canceled! VOID! I don't care if she's at the bottom of the ocean, Jackie get her. Oh, sweet suffering Jesus, why didn't she tell me?

I asked her. Why? Why?"

"But Mr. Benedict, I'm sure she thought you knew-I mean, they all do it. It's old."

"How would I know, I'm a bachelor." He groaned. "Jackie do you understand? Thousands of these things come whanging out of the transmitter all starting to play different tunes? Do you KNOW what Splinx does when he hears music? Why do you think we soundproof his room? Oh, oh, oh-"

They stared at each other; Jackie started backing out.

"Listen." Benedict swallowed.

"Yes, sir?"

"First thing tomorrow-I mean, after Miss Krudd- I want you to get hold of a man named Cronk, Bronk. At Montgomery Roebuck, something chief of something sales. Make me a lunch date with him, Jackie. Tell him I want to buy him lunch. Just as soon as possible."

"Yes sir."

Benedict stalked from the office, slamming light switches.

"A good lunch," he muttered. "I could use that-"Behind him the two jars of skin cream started to sing while the transcriber hummed efficiently.

MOTHER IN THE SKY WITH DIAMONDS.

"Signal coming in now, 'Spector."

The Coronis operator showed the pink of her tongue to the ugly man waiting in the Belt patrolboat, half a megamile downstream. All that icky old hair, too, she thought. Yick. She pulled in her tongue and said sweetly, "It's from -oh-Franchise Twelve."

The man in the patrolboat looked uglier. His name was s.p.a.ce Safety Inspector Gollem and his stomach hurt.

The news that a Company inspector was in pain would have delighted every mollysquatter from Deimos to the Rings. The only surprise would be the notion that Inspector Gollem had a stomach instead of a Company contract tape. Gollem? All the friends Gollem had could colonize a meson and he knew it.

His stomach was used to that, though. His stomach was even getting used to working for Coronis Mutual, and he still hoped it might manage to survive his boss, Quine.

What was murdering him by inches was the thing he had hidden out beyond Franchise Fourteen on the edge of Coronis sector.

He scowled at the screen where Quine's girl was logging in the grief for his next patrol. Having a live girl-girl for commo was supposed to be good for morale. It wasn't doing one thing for Gollem. He knew what he looked like and his stomach knew what the flash from Twelve could be.

When she threw it on the screen he saw it was a bogy complaint, all right. Ghost signals on their lines.

Oh, no. Not again.

Not when he had it all fixed.

Franchise Twelve was West Hem Chemicals, an itchy outfit with a jillabuck of cyborgs. They would send out a tracker if he didn't get over there soon. But how? He had just come that way, he was due upstream at Franchise One.

"Reverse patrol," he grunted. "Starting Franchise Fourteen. Purpose, uh, unscheduled recheck of aggregation shots in Eleven plus expedited service to West Hem. Allocate two units additional power."

She logged it in; it was all right with her if Gollem started with s.p.a.cerot.

He cut channel and coded in the new course, trying not to think about the extra power he would have to justify to Quine. If anyone ever got into his console and found the b.u.g.g.e.r bypa.s.s on his log he would be loading ore with electrodes in his ears.

He keyed his stomach a shot of Vageez and caught an error in his code which he corrected with no joy. Most Belters took naturally to the new cheap gee-c.u.mulator drive. Gollem loathed it. Sidling around arsy-versy instead of driving the can where you wanted to go. The old way, the real way.

I'm the last machine freak, he thought. A G.o.dlost dinosaur in s.p.a.ce...

But a dinosaur would have had more sense than to get messed up with a dead girl.

And Ragnarok.

His gee-sum index was wobbling up the scale, squeezing him retrograde in a field stress-node-he hoped. He slapped away a pod of the new biomonitor they had put in his boat and took a scan outside before his screens mushed. Always something to see in the Belts. This time it was a storm of little crescents trailing him, winking as the gravel tumbled.

In the sky with diamonds...

From Ragnarok's big ports you could see into naked s.p.a.ce. That was the way they liked it, once.His Iron b.u.t.terfly. He rubbed his beard, figuring: five hours to Ragnarok, after he checked the squatternest in Fourteen.

The weathersignal showed new data since he'd coded in the current field vortices and fronts. He tuned up, wondering what it must be like to live under weather made of gales of gas and liquid water. He had been raised on Luna.

The flash turned out to be a couple of rogue males coming in from Big J's...o...b..t. Jup stirred up a rock now and then. This pair read like escaped Trojans, estimated to node downstream in Sector Themis. Nothing in that volume except some new medbase. His opposite number there was a gigglehead named Kara who was probably too busy peddling mutant phage to notice them go by. A pity, Trojans were gas-rich.

Feeding time. He opened a pack of Ovipuff and tuned up his music. His music. Old human power music from the frontier tune. Not for Gollem, the new subliminal biomoans. He dug it hard, the righteous electronic decibels. Chomping the paste with big useless teeth, the cabin pounding.

I can't get no-satisFACTION!

The biomonitor was shrinking in its pods. Good. n.o.body asked you into Gollem's s.h.i.+p, you sucking symbiote.

The beat helped. He started through his exercises. Not to let himself go null-gee like Hara. Like them all now. s.p.a.cegrace? s.h.i.+t. His unfas.h.i.+onable body bucked and strained.

A gorilla, no wonder his own mother had taken one look and split. Two thousand light-years from home... what home for Gollem? Ask Quine, ask the Company. The Companies owned s.p.a.ce now.

It was time to brake into Fourteen.

Fourteen was its usual disorderly self, a giant sp.a.w.n of molly-bubbles hiding an aggregate of rock that had been warped into synch long before his time. The first colonists had done it with reaction engines. Tough. Now a kid with a gee-c.u.mulator could true an orbit.

Fourteen had more bubbles every time he pa.s.sed-and more kids. The tissue tanks that paid the franchise were still clear but elsewhere the bubbles were layers deep, the last ones tethered loose.