"-round trip excursion tickets which entitle the holder to visit every place of amusement in the Playground, with three days hotel accommodations, strictly high-gravity, every room centrifuged."
He switched it off: and turned to the telephone. "Connection-one one one zero."
"Special service," a husky contralto answered him presently.
"Gimme the Moon, please."
"Certainly. To whom do you wish to speak, Mr. -uh, Hamilton?"
"Hamilton is correct. I would like to talk to Blumenthal Peter. Try the manager's office at Diana's Playground."
There was a delay of several seconds before an image appeared on the screen. "Blumenthal speaking. That you, Felix? The image at this end is lousy. Ail streaked up with incidentals."
"Yeah, it's me. I called to ask about the play, Pete... what's the matter? Can't you hear me?"
The face of the image remained quiet for a long three seconds, then said suddenly, "Of course I can hear you. Don't forget the lag."
Hamilton looked sheepish. He had forgotten the lag-he always did. He found it difficult to remember, when staring right into a man's live features, that there would be a second and a half delay before that man-if on the Moon-could hear, another second and a half for his voice to travel back, three seconds lag in all. Three seconds lag seems inconsiderable but it is long enough to stride six paces, or fall forty-one metres.
He was glad there was no phone service to the minor planets; it would be maddening to wait ten minutes or so between sentences-easier to stat a letter. "Sorry," he said. "My mistake. How was the play? The crowds didn't look so good."
"Naturally the crowd was light. One shipload isn't Noah's Ark. But the play was okay. They had plenty of scrip and were anxious to spend. We reported to your agent."
"Sure. I'll get the report, but I wanted to know what gadgets were popular."
"Lost Comet went strong. And so did Eclipses."
"How about Claiming Race and Who's Your Baby?"
"Okay, but not too heavy. Astronomy is the angle for this dive. I told you that."
"Yes, I should have listened to you. Well, I'll figure out a revamp. You could change Claiming Race right now. Call it High Trajectory and rename the mobiles after some of the asteroids. Get it?"
"Right. We'll redecorate it in midnight blue and silver."
"That's right. I'll send a stat to confirm. That's all, I guess. I'm clearing."
"Wait a minute. I took a whirl at Lost Comet myself, Felix. That's a great game."
"How much did you drop?"
Blumenthal looked suspicious. "Why about eight hundred and fifty, if you must know. Why do you assume I lost? Isn't the game level?"
"Certainly it's level. But I designed that game myself, Pete. Don't forget that. It's strictly for suckers. You stay away from it."
"But look-I've figured out a way to beat it. I thought you ought to know."
"That's what you think. I know. There is no way to beat the game."
"Well-okay."
"Okay. Long life!"
"And kids."
As soon as the circuit was clear the phone resumed its ubiquitous demand. "Thirty minutes. Better look at me, Boss. I got troubles. Better-"
He removed a stat from the receiver; it shut up. "To Citizen Hamilton Felix 305-243 B47," it read, "Greetings. The District Moderator for Genetics presents his compliments and requests that Citizen Hamilton visit him at his office at ten hundred tomorrow." It was dated the previous evening and had an added notation requesting him to notify the moderator's office if it were not convenient to keep the appointment, refer to number such-and-so.
It lacked thirty minutes of ten hundred. He decided to comply with the request.
The Moderator's suite struck Hamilton as being rather less mechanized than most places of business, or perhaps more subtly so. It was staffed with humans where one expects auto-gadgets-the receptionist, for example. The staff was mostly female, some grave, some merry, but all were beautiful, very much alive, and obviously intelligent.
"The Moderator will see you now."
Hamilton stood up, chucked his cigaret into the nearest oubliette, and looked at her. "Do I disarm?"
"Not unless you wish. Come with me, please."
She ushered him as far as the door to the Moderator's private office, dilated it, and left him as he stepped through. "Good morning, sir!" a pleasant voice called out.
Hamilton found himself staring at the Moderator. "Good morning to you," he answered mechanically, then, "For the love o'-!" His right hand slid of its own volition toward his sidearm, hesitated, changed its mind, and stopped.
The Moderator was the gentleman whose dinner party had been disturbed by the incident of the wayward crab leg.
Hamilton recovered some of his poise. "Sir," he said stiffly, "this is not proper procedure. If you were not satisfied, you should have sent your next friend to wait on me."
The Moderator stared at. him, then laughed in a fashion that would have been rude in another man-but from him it was simply Jovian. "Believe me, sir, this is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. I had no idea that the gentleman who exchanged courtesies with me yesterday evening was the one I wished to see this morning. As for the little contretemps in the restaurant-frankly, I would not have made an issue of the matter, unless you had forced me to the limit. I have not drawn my tickler in public for many years. But I am forgetting my manners-sit down, sir. Make yourself comfortable. Will you smoke? May I pour you a drink?"
Hamilton settled himself. "If the Moderator pleases."
"My name is Mordan"-which Hamilton knew-"my friends call me Claude. And I would speak with you in friendship."
"You are most gentle-Claude."
"Not at all, Felix. Perhaps I have an ulterior motive. But tell me: what was that devil's toy you used on the cocky young brave? It amazed me."
Hamilton looked pleased and displayed his new weapon. Mordan looked it over. "Oh, yes," he said, "a simple heat engine burning a nitrate fuel. I think I have seen its pattern, have I not, on display at the Institution?"
Felix acknowledged the fact, a little crestfallen that Mordan was so little surprised at his toy. But Mordan made up for it by discussing in detail with, apparently, lively interest the characteristics and mechanism of the machine. "If I were a fighting man, I would like to have one like it," he concluded.
"I'll have one fashioned for you."
"No, no. You are kind, but I would have no use for it."
Hamilton chewed his lip. "I say... you'll pardon me... but isn't it indiscreet for a man who does no fighting to appear in public armed?"
Mordan smiled. "You misconstrue. Watch." He indicated the far wall. It was partly covered with a geometrical pattern, consisting of small circles, all the same size and set close together. Each circle had a small dot exactly in the center.
Mordan drew his weapon with easy swiftness, coming up, not down, on his target. His gun seemed simply to check itself at the top of its swing, before he returned it to his holster.
A light puff of smoke drifted up the face of the wall. There were three new circles, arranged in tangent trefoil. In the center of each was a small dot.
Hamilton said nothing. "Well?" inquired Mordan.
"I was thinking," Hamilton answered slowly, "that it is well for me that I was polite to you yesterday evening."
Mordan chuckled.
"Although we have never met," Mordan said, "you and the gene pattern you carry have naturally been of interest to me."
"I suppose so. I fall within the jurisdiction of your office."
"You misunderstand me. I cannot possibly take a personal interest in every one of the myriad "zygotes in this district. But it is my duty to conserve the best strains. I have been hoping for the past ten years that you would show up at the clinic, and ask for help in planning children."
Hamilton's face became completely expressionless. Mordan ignored it and went on. "Since you did not come in voluntarily for advice, I was forced to ask you to visit me. I want to ask you a question: Do you intend to have children any time soon?"