“We better talk DC,” came the voice. “It’s more private. Everyone in this part of the bus has been picking up on your thoughts, Ralph.”
He glanced around. How can you tell if a bopper’s watching you? One way, of course, is if he has his head turned around and has his vision sensors pointed at you. Most of the boppers around Ralph were still staring at him. There was going to be chaos at the spaceport when Cobb Anderson got off the ship.
“What does he look like?” came the silky signal from Ralph’s neighbor.
“By now, who knows?” Ralph pulsed back quietly. “The hollow in the museum is twenty-five years out of date. And humans all look alike anyway.”
“Not to me,” Ralph’s neighbor purred. “I design automated cosmetic kits for them.”
“That’s nice,” Ralph said. “Now could you take your hand off me? I’ve got some private projections to run.”
“Ok. But why don’t you look me up tomorrow afternoon? I’ve got enough parts for two scions. And I’d like to conjugate with you. My name is Cindy-Lou. Cubette 3412.”
“Maybe,” Ralph said, a little flattered at the offer. Anyone who had set up business contacts on Earth had to have something on the ball. The red plastic flickercladding that Vulcan had sold him must not look bad. Must not look bad at all. “I’ll try to come by after the riot.”
“What riot?”
“They’re going to tear down GAX. Or try to. He locked the workers out.”
“I’ll come, too! There should be lots of good pickings. And next week they’re going to wreck MEX, too, did you know?”
Ralph started in surprise. Wreck MEX, the museum? And what of all the brain-tapes MEX had so painstakingly acquired?
“They shouldn’t do that,” Ralph said. “This is getting out of hand!”
“Wreck them all!” Cindy-Lou said merrily. “Do you mind if I bring some friends tomorrow?”
“Go ahead. But leave me alone. I’ve got to think.”
The bus had drawn clear of Disky and had started across the empty lunar plain leading to the spaceport. Away from the buildings, the sun was bright, and everyone’s flickercladding became more mirror-like. Ralph mulled over the news about MEX. In a way it wouldn’t really affect Anderson. The main thing was to get his brain taped and to send the tape back down to Earth. Send it to Mr. Frostee. Then the Cobb software could take over his robot-remote double. It would be the best thing for the old man. From what Ralph heard, Anderson’s present hardware was about to give out.
The busload of boppers pulled up to the human’s dome at the edge of the spaceport. Signaling from high above, BEX announced that he would be landing in half an hour. Right on time. The whole trip, from Earth to space-station Ledge via shuttle, and from Ledge to the Moon via BEX, took just a shade over twenty-four hours.
An air-filled passenger tunnel came probing out from the dome, ready to cup the deep-space ship’s air-lock as soon as it landed. The cold vacuum of the Moon, so comfortable for the boppers, was deadly for humans. Conversely, the warm air inside the dome was lethal to the boppers.
No bopper could enter the humans’ dome without renting an auxiliary refrigeration unit to wheel around with him. The boppers kept the air in the dome as dry as possible to protect them from corrosion, but in order for the humans to survive, one did have to put up with an ambient temperature in excess of 290° K. And the humans called that “room temperature”! Without an extra refrigeration unit, a bopper’s super-conducting circuits would break down instantly in there.
Ralph shelled out the rental fee . . . tripled since last time . . . and entered the humans’ dome, wheeling his refrigerator in front of him. It was pretty crowded. He stationed himself close enough to the visa-checker to be able to hear the names of the passengers.
There were diggers scattered all around the waiting area . . . too many. They were all watching him. Ralph realized he should have let Vulcan disguise him more seriously. All he had done was to put on a flashing red coat. Some disguise!
9
The faces in the moon kept changing. An old woman with a bundle of sticks, a lady in a feather hat, the round face of a dreamy girl at the edge of life.
“Slowly, silently, now the Moon / Walks the night in her silver shoon,” Cobb quoted sententiously. “Some things never change, Sta-Hi.”
Sta-Hi leaned across Cobb to stare out the tiny quartz port-hole. As they drew closer the pockmarks grew, and the stubble of mountains along the Moon’s vast cheek became unmistakable. A syphilitic fop in pancake make-up. Sta-Hi fell back into his seat, lit a last joint. He was feeling paranoid.
“Did you ever flash,” he asked through a cloud of exquisitely detailed smoke, “that maybe those copies of us could be permanent? That this is all just to get us out of the way so Anderson2 and Sta-Hi2 can pose as humans?”
This was, at least in Sta-Hi’s case, a fairly correct assessment of the situation. But Cobb chose not to tell Sta-Hi this. Instead he blustered.
“That’s just ridiculous. Why would . . .”
“You know more about the boppers than I do, old man. Unless that was shit you were spouting about having helped design them.”
“Didn’t you learn about me in high-school, Sta-Hi?” Cobb asked sorrowfully. “Cobb Anderson who taught the robots how to bop? Don’t they teach that?”
“I was out a lot,” Sta-Hi said with a shrug. “But what if the boppers wanted two agents on Earth. They send down copies of us, and talk us into coming up here. As soon as we’re gone the copies start standing in for us and gathering information. Right?”
“Information about what?” Cobb snapped. “We weren’t leading real high security-clearance lives down there, Sta-Hi.”
“What I’m worried about is whether they’ll let us go back.” Sta-Hi went on, flicking invisible drops of tension off the tips of his fingers. “Maybe they want to do something with our bodies up here. Use them for hideous and inhuman experiments.” On the last phrase his voice tripped and broke into nervous laughter.
Cobb shook his head. “Dennis DeMentis. That’s what it says on your visa. And I’m . . . ?”
Sta-Hi fished out the papers from his pocket and handed them over. Cobb looked through them, sipping at his coffee. He’d been drunk at Ledge, but the stewardess had fixed him up with a shot of stimulants and B-vitamins. He hadn’t felt so clear-headed in months.
There was his visa. Smiling bearded face, born March 22, 1950, Graham DeMentis signed in his looping hand down at the bottom of the document.
“That’s the green stuff,” Sta-Hi remarked, looking over his shoulder.
“What is?”
Sta-Hi’s only answer was to press his lips together like a monkey and smack a few times. The stewardess moved down the aisle, her Velcro foot-coverings schnicking loose from the Velcro carpet at each step. Longish blonde hair free-falling around her face. “Please fasten your safety belts. We will be landing at spaceport Disky in six-oh-niner seconds.”
The rockets cut in and the ship trembled at the huge forces beneath it. The stewardess took Cobb’s empty cup and snapped up his table. “Please extinguish your smoking materials, sir.” This to Sta-Hi.
He handed her the roach, smiling and letting smoke trickle through his teeth and up at her.
“Get wiggly, baby.”
Her eyes flickered . . . Yes? No? . . . and then she flicked the roach into Cobb’s coffee cup and moved on.
“Now remember,” Cobb cautioned. “We play it like tourists at the spaceport. I gather that some of the boppers, the diggers, are out to stop us.”
The ship’s engines roared to a fever pitch. Little chunks of rock flew up from the landing field and there was silence. Cobb stared out the lens-like little port-hole. The Sea of Tranquility.