The Past Through Tomorrow (46 page)

The plumber was not encouraging. “New septic tank. New sile pipe. Pay you to get new fixtures at the same time. Fifteen, sixteen hundred dollars. Have to do some calculating.”

“That’s all right,” Allan told him. “Can you start today?”

The man laughed. “I can see plainly, Mister, that you don’t know what it is to get materials and labor these days. Next spring—soon as the frost is out of the ground.”

“That’s impossible, man. Never mind the cost. Get it done.”

The native shrugged. “Sorry not to oblige you. Good day.”

When he left, Jo exploded. “Allan, he doesn’t want to help us.”

“Well—maybe. I’ll try to get someone from Norwalk, or even from the City. You can’t trudge through the snow out to that Iron Maiden all winter.”

“I hope not.”

“You must not. You’ve already had one cold.” He stared morosely at the fire. “I suppose I brought it on by my misplaced sense of humor.”

“How?”

“Well, you know how we’ve been subjected to steady kidding ever since it got noised around that we were colonials. I haven’t minded much, but some of it rankled. You remember I went into the village by myself last Saturday?”

“Yes. What happened?”

“They started in on me in the barbershop. I let it ride at first, then the worm turned. I started talking about the Moon, sheer double-talk—corny old stuff like the vacuum worms and the petrified air. It was some time before they realized I was ribbing them—and when they did, nobody laughed. Our friend the rustic sanitary engineer was one of the group. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She kissed him. “If I have to tramp through the snow, it will cheer me that you gave them back some of their sass.”

The plumber from Norwalk was more helpful, but rain, and then sleet, slowed down the work. They both caught colds. On the ninth miserable day Allan was working at his desk when he heard Jo come in the back door, returning from a shopping trip. He turned back to his work, then presently became aware that she had not come in to say “hello.” He went to investigate.

He found her collapsed on a kitchen chair, crying quietly. “Darling,” he said urgently, “honey baby, whatever is the matter?”

She looked up. “I didn’t bead to led you doe.”

“Blow your nose. Then wipe your eyes. What do you mean, ‘you didn’t mean to let me know’. What happened?”

She let it out, punctuated with her handkerchief. First, the grocer had said he had no cleansing tissues; then, when she pointed to them, had stated that they were “sold”. Finally, he had mentioned “bringing outside labor into town and taking the bread out of the mouths of honest folk”.

Jo had blown up and had rehashed the incident of Allan and the barbershop wits. The grocer had simply grown more stiff. “‘Lady,’ he said to me, ‘I don’t know whether you and your husband have been to the Moon or not, and I don’t care. I don’t take much stock in such things. In any case, I don’t need your trade.’ Oh, Allan, I’m so unhappy.”

“Not as unhappy as he’s going to be! Where’s my hat?”

“Allan! You’re not leaving this house. I won’t have you fighting.”

“I won’t have him bullying you.”

“He won’t again. Oh my dear, I’ve tried so hard, but I can’t stay here any longer. It’s not just the villagers; it’s the cold and the cockroaches and always having a ninny nose. I’m tired out and my feet hurt all the time.” She started to cry again.

“There, there! We’ll leave, honey. We’ll go to Florida. I’ll finish my book while you lie in the sun.”

“Oh, I don’t want to go to Florida. I
want to go home!
”

“Huh? You mean—back to Luna City?”

“Yes. Oh, dearest, I know you don’t want to, but I can’t stand it any longer. It’s not just the dirt and the cold and the comic-strip plumbing—it’s not being understood. It wasn’t any better in New York. These groundhogs don’t know
anything
.”

He grinned at her. “Keep sending, kid; I’m on your frequency.”

“Allan!”

He nodded. “I found out I was a Loony at heart quite a while ago—but I was afraid to tell you. My feet hurt, too—and I’m damn sick of being treated like a freak. I’ve tried to be tolerant, but I can’t stand groundhogs. I miss the folks in dear old Luna. They’re civilized.”

She nodded. “I guess it’s prejudice, but I feel the same way.”

“It’s
not
prejudice. Let’s be honest. What does it take to get to Luna City?”

“A ticket.”

“Smarty pants. I don’t mean as a tourist; I mean to get a job there. You know the answer: Intelligence. It costs a lot to send a man to the Moon and more to keep him there. To pay off, he has to be worth a lot. High I.Q., good compatibility index, superior education—everything that makes a person pleasant and easy and interesting to have around. We’ve been spoiled; the ordinary human cussedness that groundhogs take for granted, we now find intolerable, because Loonies
are
different. The fact that Luna City is the most comfortable environment man ever built for himself is beside the point—it’s the people who count. Let’s go home.”

He went to the telephone—an old-fashioned, speech-only rig—and called the Foundation’s New York office. While he was waiting, truncheon-like “receiver” to his ear, she said, “Suppose they won’t have us?”

“That’s what worries me.” They knew that the Lunar companies rarely rehired personnel who had once quit; the physical examination was reputed to be much harder the second time.

“Hello…hello. Foundation? May I speak to the recruiting office?…hello—I
can’t
turn on my view plate; this instrument is a hangover from the dark ages. This is Allan MacRae, physical chemist, contract number 1340729. And my wife, Josephine MacRae, 1340730. We want to sign up again. I said we wanted to sign up again…okay, I’ll wait.”

“Pray, darling, pray!”

“I’m praying—How’s that! My appointment’s still vacant? Fine, fine! How about my wife?” He listened with a worried look; Jo held her breath. Then he cupped the speaker. “Hey, Jo—your job’s filled. They want to know if you’ll take an interim job as a junior accountant?”

“Tell ’em ‘yes!’”

“That’ll be fine. When can we take our exams? That’s fine, thanks. Good-by.” He hung up and turned to his wife. “Physical and psycho as soon as we like; professional exams waived.”

“What are we waiting for?”

“Nothing.” He dialed the Norwalk Copter Service. “Can you run us into Manhattan? Well, good grief, don’t you have radar? All right, all right, g‘—by!” He snorted. “Cabs all grounded by the weather. I’ll call New York and try to get a modern cab.”

Ninety minutes later they landed on top of Harriman Tower.

The psychologist was very cordial. “Might as well get this over before you have your chests thumped. Sit down. Tell me about yourselves.” He drew them out, nodding from time to time. “I see. Did you ever get the plumbing repaired?”

“Well, it was being fixed.”

“I can sympathize with your foot trouble, Mrs. MacRae; my arches always bother me here. That’s your real reason, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no!”

“Now, Mrs. MacRae—”

“Really it’s not—truly. I want people to talk to who know what I mean. All that’s really wrong with me is that I’m homesick for my own sort. I want to go home—and I’ve got to have this job to get there. I’ll steady down, I know I will.”

The doctor looked grave. “How about you, Mr. MacRae?”

“Well—it’s about the same story. I’ve been trying to write a book, but I can’t work. I’m homesick. I want to go back.”

Feldman suddenly smiled. “It won’t be too difficult.”

“You mean we’re in? If we pass the physical?”

“Never mind the physical—your discharge examinations are recent enough. Of course you’ll have to go out to Arizona for reconditioning and quarantine. You’re probably wondering why it seems so easy when it is supposed to be so hard. It’s really simple: We don’t want people lured back by the high pay. We do want people who will be happy and as permanent as possible—in short, we want people who think of Luna City as ‘home.’ Now that you’re ‘Moonstruck,’ we want you back.” He stood up and shoved out his hand.

Back in the Commodore that night, Jo was struck by a thought. “Allan—do you suppose we could get our own apartment back?”

“Why, I don’t know. We could send old lady Stone a radio.”

“Call her up instead, Allan. We can afford it.”

“All right! I will!”

It took about ten minutes to get the circuit through. Miss Stone’s face looked a trifle less grim when she recognized them.

“Miss Stone, we’re coming home!”

There was the usual three-second lag, then—“Yes, I know. It came over the tape about twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh. Say, Miss Stone, is our old apartment vacant?” They waited.

“I’ve held it; I knew you’d come back—after a bit. Welcome home, Loonies.”

When the screen cleared, Jo said, “What did she mean, Allan?”

“Looks like we’re in, kid. Members of the Lodge.”

“I guess so—oh, Allan, look!” She had stepped to the window; scudding clouds had just uncovered the Moon. It was three days old and
Mare Fecunditatis—the
roll of hair at the back of the Lady-in-the-Moon’s head—was cleared by the Sunrise line. Near the right-hand edge of that great, dark “sea” was a tiny spot, visible only to their inner eyes—Luna City.

The crescent hung, serene and silvery, over the tall buildings. “Darling, isn’t it beautiful?”

“Certainly is. It’ll be great to be back. Don’t get your nose all runny.”

“
GENERAL SERVICES
—Miss Cormet speaking!” She addressed the view screen with just the right balance between warm hospitable friendliness and impersonal efficiency. The screen flickered momentarily, then built up a stereo-picture of a dowager, fat and fretful, overdressed and underexercised.

“Oh, my dear,” said the image, “I’m
so
upset. I wonder if you
can
help me.”

“I’m sure we can,” Miss Cormet purred as she quickly estimated the cost of the woman’s gown and jewels (if real—she made a mental reservation) and decided that here was a client that could be profitable. “Now tell me your trouble. Your name first, if you please.” She touched a button on the horseshoe desk which enclosed her, a button marked CREDIT DEPARTMENT.

“But it’s all so
involved
,” the image insisted. “Peter
would
go and break his hip.” Miss Cormet immediately pressed the button marked MEDICAL. “I’ve
told
him that polo is dangerous. You’ve no idea, my dear, how a mother suffers. And just at this time, too. It’s
so
inconvenient—”

“You wish us to attend him? Where is he now?”

“Attend him? Why, how silly! The Memorial Hospital will do that. We’ve endowed them enough, I’m sure. It’s my dinner party I’m worried about. The Principessa will be so annoyed.”

The answer light from the Credit Department was blinking angrily. Miss Cormet headed her off. “Oh, I see. We’ll arrange it for you. Now, your name, please, and your address and present location.”

“But don’t you
know
my name?”

“One might guess,” Miss Cormet diplomatically evaded, “but General Services always, respects the privacy of its clients.”

“Oh, yes, of course. How considerate. I am Mrs. Peter van Hogbein Johnson.” Miss Cormet controlled her reaction. No need to consult the Credit Department for this one. But its transparency flashed at once, rating AAA—unlimited. “But I don’t see what you can
do
,” Mrs. Johnson continued. “I can’t be two places at once.”

“General Services likes difficult assignments,” Miss Cormet assured her. “Now—if you will let me have the details…”

She wheedled and nudged the woman into giving a fairly coherent story. Her son, Peter III, a slightly shopworn Peter Pan, whose features were familiar to Grace Cormet through years of stereogravure, dressed in every conceivable costume affected by the richly idle in their pastimes, had been so thoughtless as to pick the afternoon before his mother’s most important social function to bung himself up—seriously. Furthermore, he had been so thoughtless as to do so half a continent away from his mater.

Miss Cormet gathered that Mrs. Johnson’s technique for keeping her son safely under thumb required that she rush to his bedside at once, and, incidentally, to select his nurses. But her dinner party that evening represented the culmination of months of careful maneuvering. What was she to
do
?

Miss Cormet reflected to herself that the prosperity of General Services and her own very substantial income was based largely on the stupidity, lack of resourcefulness, and laziness of persons like this silly parasite, as she explained that General Services would see that her party was a smooth, social success while arranging for a portable full-length stereo screen to be installed in her drawing room in order that she might greet her guests and make her explanations while hurrying to her son’s side. Miss Cormet would see that a most adept social manager was placed in charge, one whose own position in society was irreproachable and whose connection with General Services was known to no one. With proper handling the disaster could be turned into a social triumph, enhancing Mrs. Johnson’s reputation as a clever hostess and as a devoted mother.

“A sky car will be at your door in twenty minutes,” she added, as she cut in the circuit marked TRANSPORTATION, “to take you to the rocket port. One of our young men will be with it to get additional details from you on the way to the port. A compartment for yourself and a berth for your maid will be reserved on the 16:45 rocket for Newark. You may rest easy now. General Services will do your worrying.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear. You’ve been such a help. You’ve no idea of the
responsibilities
a person in my position has.”

Miss Cormet cluck-clucked in professional sympathy while deciding that this particular old girl was good for still more fees. “You
do
look exhausted, madame,” she said anxiously. “Should I not have a masseuse accompany you on the trip? Is your health at all delicate? Perhaps a physician would be still better.”

“How thoughtful you are!”

“I’ll send both,” Miss Cormet decided, and switched off, with a faint regret that she had not suggested a specially chartered rocket. Special service, not listed in the master price schedule, was supplied on a cost-plus basis. In cases like this “plus” meant all the traffic would bear.