The Project Gutenberg eBook ofEs PercipiThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Es PercipiAuthor: Stephen MarloweIllustrator: W. E. TerryRelease date: November 1, 2021 [eBook #66646]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ES PERCIPI ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Es PercipiAuthor: Stephen MarloweIllustrator: W. E. TerryRelease date: November 1, 2021 [eBook #66646]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: Es Percipi
Author: Stephen MarloweIllustrator: W. E. Terry
Author: Stephen Marlowe
Illustrator: W. E. Terry
Release date: November 1, 2021 [eBook #66646]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ES PERCIPI ***
Es PercipiBy Stephen MarloweDiplomatic relations became strained whenthe Targoffian Ambassador started selling miracleproducts on Earth. Products that didn't exist!...[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced fromImagination Stories of Science and FantasyOctober 1955Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Diplomatic relations became strained whenthe Targoffian Ambassador started selling miracleproducts on Earth. Products that didn't exist!...
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced fromImagination Stories of Science and FantasyOctober 1955Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Nicholson ducked into the room and squinted myopically through contact lenses which made his eyes look watery and far away. "Better scram out the back way, boss," he said. "That dame from the Department of Health and Public Welfare is here again."
Bryan Channing allowed himself ten seconds of barely audible swearing. Finally, he said, "What does she expect me to do, snap my fingers and make the Ambassador from Targoff disappear?"
"It would be nice," Nicholson admitted.
"Unfortunately," Bryan Channing said for the fifth time that day, "our hands are tied. Sure, Earth can get along without Targoff. The galaxy would hardly know the difference if sub-space opened up a world-sized pocket tomorrow and swallowed Targoff and its sun."
"But," said Nicholson.
"Yes, but, I'll have to see the old battle-ax sooner or later, Nick. On your way out you might as well tell Julie to send her in."
"Oh, am I leaving?"
"You get the idea," said Bryan Channing. "You discovered Targoff, then dumped it in my lap. One of these days you better find us a planet which will make Health and P. W. happy. Now, beat it."
A moment after Nicholson had departed, the under-secretary of Health and Public Welfare opened the door with a well-manicured hand and followed it into Bryan Channing's office, which looked out on the East River and the dismantling job being done on the Queensboro Bridge through a solid wall of thermoglass.
"I don't smoke and I don't drink on duty," she said primly after Bryan Channing had made the necessary gestures and offerings. "There were twenty-two thousand divorces in the New York Metropolitan Area alone last week, Mr. Channing. I have figures for other locations, if you wish."
"Just let my secretary have them on your way out."
"Very well."
"Incidentally, I don't want to tell you your business, but the figure doesn't seem so alarmingly high."
"Perhaps. How would fifty thousand sound—for the first half of this week?"
"High," said Bryan Channing. "Go ahead."
"Deaths from malnutrition and disease continue at an even more alarming rate. These figures—" And the under-secretary began to remove a sheaf of papers from her briefcase.
"My secretary," Bryan Channing said again. "Can you pin these things directly on Qui Dor?"
"Qui Dor?"
"The Targoffian Ambassador."
"I can only go by his advertisements and what our field workers report after interviews. Qui Dor or whatever his name is, is to blame, it appears. Tell me, Mr. Channing, is it quite regular for a planetary Ambassador to—well, to go into business like that?"
"Yes and no," Bryan Channing told her, launching himself on his favorite subject. "We don't make the laws, m'am. Fifty different planetary cultures nurtured on fifty different sets of laws with a heritage as rich as our own Roman one—you don't merely stamp out all the existing laws and arbitrarily distribute a new code. All you can do is hope that in some fields at least there is a common meeting point for the planets."
"You've failed to answer my question."
"Sorry. The Lurane Ambassadors are primarily businessmen, out to make a buck for their planet, as the expression goes. The Specixes Ambassador is a glorified emcee trooping around with a bunch of acrobats, dancers and singers. There are no laws which would prohibit Qui Dor—"
"But he's threatening our entire way of life!" cried the under-secretary, no longer prim and diplomatically correct.
"Aren't you exaggerating the situation, m'am?" he asked politely. He wanted to say she was making a mountain not out of a mole hill but a pimple. He wanted to say a lot of things but never did, and realized that was one of the reasons ulcers ran so high in the Department of State. He would settle for some chianti, antipasto and chicken cacciatore with Ellen in their favorite Italian restaurant, but first he had to placate the emissary from Health and P. W. and keep Nicholson happy at the same time. It hardly seemed possible, for if he knew Nick, the myopic explorer-with-portfolio was eavesdropping on their conversation through the office intercom.
"You think it isn't serious, if our standard of living is threatened by—"
"Let's look at it another way. I mean, it's just not our problem. That's an internal problem for the Department of Health and Public Welfare to solve, m'am."
"You can tell the Targoffian Ambassador to get the hell off our planet. Excuse me."
Channing shook his head. "Even if I agreed with you, I couldn't do that. Wouldn't that be perfect grist for the propaganda mills on Sirius and Centauri, not to mention Deneb? Big Brother Earth goes around using all the little planets. Humans break off diplomatic relations with cultures which don't adhere to Earth standards—unless, of course, we could milk something out of them."
"You know that isn't true."
"I'm not standing in judgment on it. I'm merely saying how they would interpret it on Centauri and Sirius. Not to mention Deneb."
It was Channing's trump card. You didn't argue when someone mentioned Deneb like that. Deneb was thene plus ultraof dangerous interplanetary relations. If something were white on Earth, it was black on Deneb. Unfortunately, Channing knew, there was at least as much truth as fancy in what he said.
"How do the Denebians deal with Targoff?" the under-secretary demanded.
Channing lit his pipe and knew he was in for trouble. "They don't," he said. "Diplomatic relations are not maintained between Deneb and Targoff."
"May I ask you why not? You see, Deneb can get away with it, but we—"
"I'm surprised at you," Channing cut her off. "Earth can't sink to the Denebian level. We've got to set the example. We've got to be a shining light, a beacon, a...."
"Those speeches sound fine on television," the under-secretary said, "but I wasn't born yesterday, Mr. Channing. What are you going to do about this situation?"
"Nothing right now. The Secretary of State wants to let matters ride for the time being. The President...."
"I'm going to see the President, you know."
"Maybe it's best," Channing admitted. He was a thirty thousand dollar a year trouble-shooter for the Department of State, running smack-dab into a brick wall.
"You'll hear from me," warned the under-secretary. "You'll hear from the President. This is deplorable."
"Yes, m'am," said Channing, showing her to the door.
Half an hour later, Channing had wilted his whiskers with depilatory, staring all the while at his moody face with the slightly sagging jowls in a desk mirror and wishing he were in some other line of work. The achesonian epithet, it seemed, applied to State Department officials above the level of clerk who had the misfortune of dealing with touchy issues. If Health and P. W.'s Girl Friday had her way, Channing suspected, he would be an ogre by morning.
"Don't go near the living room," Ellen called from somewhere on the bedroom level of the house, "it's still wet. The maid quit, dear."
"Quit?" Channing hollered back. "What on Earth for?" He settled himself on a web-chair in the study, poured a martini from the decanter Ellen had prepared, and began to thumb through the impressive compilation of figures the under-secretary had left with Julie.
"She's getting married."
"What?" Channing gasped. "Fanny getting married? I don't believe it."
"Honest," said Ellen, entering the room. She was a little pretty woman, dressed in tight black torrero slacks and a fuzzy crimson sweater which Channing thought came from one of the Centauri planets. She was twenty-eight, half a dozen years younger than Channing, with short-cropped chestnut hair and the dimpled smile and attractive legs which aided and abetted a diplomat's career. She knew it and in the best modern fashion they made good use of it.
Ellen sipped from Channing's cocktail glass, poured another for each of them, pecked at his cheek with carmined lips and settled comfortably in his lap. "You see," she said, not looking at him, "someone from Qui Dor enterprises visited us on Monday."
"So now Fanny's getting married. I'll be damned. Say, you didn't take anything from them, did you?"
"You mean like a husband? No-o."
"I mean like anything. And stop kidding."
"Well, yes, I did. Everybody's trying it, dear. I had to. I didn't want to feel—left out."
Channing climbed to his feet, almost dumping his pretty wife on the floor. "All right," he said. "You tell me what you bought."
"You won't be mad?"
"I'm not saying."
"Then I won't tell you."
"Ellen—"
"Promise?"
"O.K. I promise."
Ellen skipped away from him toward the dining room. "Then come on inside and I'll show you."
Afterwards, he could have sworn that Ellen did no cooking. She merely reached into a cabinet adjacent to the electric range, (must get a radar range one of these days, he thought, especially with no more Fanny around and the servant situation being what it was) and came out with the platters, piping hot. "Hey," he'd said between mouthfuls of savory white meat which tasted like a rare Centaurian fowl he had eaten in that interplanetary restaurant on East 48th once, "this is all right." The dessert was Sirius, and brother, what they could do with those whipped toppings. And to finish it all off with the proper pleasant glow, Ellen had even managed to find a bottle of good old French brandy which must have been corked when Napoleon was a boy.
"The devil with Fanny," Channing declared, loosening his belt a notch. "I've got myself quite a cook. Say, if you don't want to tell me about that Qui Dor thing, honey...."
"Ha!" Ellen laughed triumphantly. "If that isn't just like a man. Give him something good to eat and he'll be licking the palm of your hand. But I said I'd show you. I already have."
"Huh?"
"You've eaten it. That's what the Qui Dor people sold me, that food cabinet. How to keep a husband, they said. You see, no one can cook that well, not in such variety. Mad at me, dear?"
"No," Channing admitted. "It was delicious, every bit of it." But he patted his slight paunch reflectively. "Sometimes food can be too good, though."
"Listen, big eyes. Qui Dor's food cabinet was made for guys like you. Are you full?"
"Lord, yes."
"There wasn't a single calorie in what you ate. Nor any vitamins, minerals or—"
"I've heard of that," Channing said incredulously. "But, but I've eaten. I know I have. I tasted it, all of it. I felt it going down. I feel full now. I couldn't eat another thing."
"I can't explain that, dear. You know the Targoffian Ambassador personally. Perhaps he can."
"But if there was no food value in any of that stuff, we still haven't eaten dinner."
"You're supposed to eat concentrates first, dear. I just wanted to surprise you, that's all. Well, how do you like it?"
"I want it out of this house tomorrow," said Channing, raising his voice.
"You don't have to holler at me."
"I'm sorry. But that cabinet goes."
"Why? Give me one good reason."
"Because—because it isn't natural. That's why. Not natural."
"And you're supposed to be the broad-minded whiz-kid of the State Department."
"I'm no kid any more."
"Well, that's what they called you. It never hurt anybody on Targoff, did it? This kind of thing?"
"I wouldn't know. I've never been there."
"What did Nicky say?"
"He said Targoff looks like the richest planet he's ever seen, but is really the poorest. He said they have nothing and seem to have everything. He said they don't admit it, though. As far as the Targoffians are concerned, they do have everything."
"Well, do they or don't they?"
"It depends on your point of view," Channing said. "Objectively, they have nothing. Subjectively, they have everything. Point is, the stuff isn't real."
"What do you mean, it isn't real?"
"Say, has Qui Dor or someone been lecturing you? You're really going off on the deep end about this Targoffian business, aren't you?"
"Not Qui Dor, an Earthman, Viennese, I think, working for him. You haven't answered me, dear. I said, what do you mean it isn't real?"
"Well, it—it doesn't exist. It's all in the mind, in the imagination."
"You just ate it. When you looked at it, the food was there. You could smell it and taste it and touch it—if it was hot it burned your hand, Bryan—and you had to chew it and swallow it. If you ate too fast it might even give you an upset stomach."
"But it wasn't real," Channing protested.
"Then what is real? Look at me."
"Um, pretty," said Channing.
"Stop that. Stop trying to change the subject. It's all well and good for you to talk about these things in the office, but you never want to talk about them with me. Touch me. Go on, touch me."
Feeling mildly ridiculous, Channing placed his big hand on the fuzzy red material covering his wife's shoulder. "So what does that prove?" he said.
"Stand up. Turn around."
He stood up, pushing the chair back. He turned around, facing the entrance to the living room.
"Where am I?"
"Where are you? Right behind me, of course. Sitting down at the table."
"How do you know?"
"I—I just know."
"Are you sure? Can you be sure?"
"I just saw you there, damnit!"
"But you don't see me here now, unless you have eyes in the back of your head, dear. How do you know I'm still here, unless you see me?"
"Because you didn't get up and go away, that's why. I would have heard you."
"How do you know? Maybe I'm only around when you look at me. When youperceiveme, dear. You understand?"
"No. Yes. I read all about the idealists in college, too. Berkeley, Hume...."
"The Qui Dor people say they have the right idea. To be is to be perceived. As soon as you stop perceiving me—or anything—it no longer exists. As soon as you see me again, here I am. If you carry it to extremes, the notion can lead to solipsism, but—"
"—but," Channing finished for her, "you can thank the good Lord that Bishop Berkeley was no pagan and saved himself and the rest of us from that way of thinking. Sure, to be is to be perceived. Maybe nothing does exist unless it's being perceived, but that's where God comes in. God is the constant conserver, he said. God is always looking at everything. So everything always exists."
"But the Targoffians are atheists, dear," Ellen pointed out with exasperating logic. "You may turn around now."
Channing turned around and glared at her.
"You see, it works. I don't know what you're getting so mad about."
"Then I'll tell you. What would happen if I went on eating meals like that for a couple of weeks."
"You'd lose weight, dear. You'd fit into that bathing suit I bought you for our third anniversary."
"I'm serious, damnit."
"You'd be awful hungry. You'd suffer from malnutrition. But the concentrates come along with the food cabinet."
"Forget about the food cabinet. You're going to get rid of it tomorrow. I want to ask you something else. Who did Fanny marry?"
"She didn't yet. She's getting married on Saturday, she said."
"My mistake," growled Channing. Ulcer potential was now following him home from the office. "Who is she going to marry?"
"Whom."
"Yes."
"Someone sent by the Qui Dor people."
"Will he be real?"
"We just went through all that."
"Will I be able to see him?"
"Yes."
"Anybody?"
"Of course. You see, he's real. Not only that, he'll be the ideal husband. At least, he'll be Fanny's ideal husband. You have a wide variety to choose from, they told me. You can even buy one whose temperament changes to suit yours day by day."
"There were fifty thousand divorces in New York so far this week," said Channing, "according to the under-secretary of Health and Public Welfare. Have you any idea why?"
"I guess people were shedding their spouses to marry the ideal mate before the price went up. Is there anything wrong with that?"
"I think so," Channing said. "I didn't think so before. I told the under-secretary not to get so upset. But I want you to answer one question. Will Fanny's husband be able to give her children?"
"No," Ellen conceded.
"You get rid of the food cabinet tomorrow."
Within a week, the brick wall became a nightmare. Health and Welfare met with State on the highest level. Health stood firm: something must be done about the situation. Health's figures were not only impressive, they were downright frightening. In Buenos Aires, where Latin tempers flared and, anyway, summer was approaching, one out of every two recent marriages and one out of three of older vintage could be expected to end in the divorce courts—if annulment did not get them first. In Paris, the shrugging French found the answer in multiple marriage, provided not more than one of the partners was a bona fide human being. In Russia it became illegal to talk of Qui Dor's creations: they did not exist.
State was equally firm: the cause of the situation could not at this time be removed. Health must find its own internal solution. The Denebian Ambassador began to pass snide remarks and send home delightful tidbits of propaganda—was it true that the wife of the President of United Amereurope had visited the attorney general's brother-in-law concerning the possibility of divorce?
The Council of International Security met with the President, who had been called home from his Martian vacation. Health was adamant; State left the conference with a won point but a red face. The Denebian Ambassador received a copy of the minutes of the special session and gloated. Some said Health had maliciously given the transcript to the saurian from Deneb. State marched into Bryan Channing's office with his red face and demanded a solution. Someone, said State, would have to resign.
"Which would solve nothing," Channing told his boss glumly.
"But we might get off the hook. What about that explorer, Nicholson?"
"He did his job," said Channing. "Just like I'm trying to do mine."
"The wolves are howling from both directions," pleaded State. "You've got to do something."
"That's the trouble. Both directions. If we get rid of Qui Dor and tell the Targoffians we no longer want to maintain diplomatic relations, Deneb howls and we lose prestige. If we leave Qui Dor alone, Health and Public Welfare raises a stink."
"Well, it's justified. Have you heard the latest?"
"About what?"
"About a state of emergency, Bryan. Places where the standard of living is high, it isn't too bad. But try telling 'em in India they have to buy and take food concentrates along with Qui Dor's stuff. They won't listen to you. They starve to death. They take Qui Dor's medication to get rid of disease and the symptoms disappear. But they're still sick and some of them die."
"Has anyone spoken to Qui Dor about this?" Channing wanted to know.
"Health wants to. We won't let 'em. State's job, I said. They told me, then do it. How can I do it, Bryan? What can I say? The only time I ever met this Qui Dor was when he presented his credentials. You know Qui Dor. You've talked with him. He'll feel more at ease with you—or possibly that Nicholson fellow."
"Afraid you'll have to count Nick out. He's not a diplomat. All he wants is to get back into space again. You know, it isn't a bad idea. I still have my explorer's rating. I could—"
"Don't even think of it. You came up through the ranks, Channing. A man doesn't go down the same way. He goes out. I don't like this business of giving ultimatums. We're all grown men here, but ... Channing. I want you to see Qui Dor. I want you to reason with him. Not the full treatment, you understand. Qui Dor stays. Deneb would have us spitted over an open fire, otherwise."
"Then what do you want me to do?"
"I'll leave it in your hands, but I want results. Is that clear? Whatever you do, do not offend Qui Dor. But placate the Department of Health and Public Welfare. I'm going down to India on official business, Channing. Do you have any questions?"
"Yes. How the devil can I make both of them happy?"
"Be diplomatic," said State, and took his leave, a worried, red-faced man with an over-sized brief case and round shoulders almost but not quite hidden by an expert job of tailoring.
"Julie," Channing called over the office intercom, "get me an appointment with Qui Dor, Targoffian Embassy, for tomorrow morning or as soon as possible. And is Nick out there listening?"
"Well ... yes."
"Tell him, pretty please, to take his spaceship somewhere and get lost."
"Aw, boss," said Nicholson over the intercom. But he was laughing.
Channing wasn't.
At least, Channing thought as he brought his copter down for an excellent landing on the asphalt airstrip around which his and a dozen other houses were situated in suburban Center Moriches, he could retain his sanity at home. It was decidedly upper middle class, this Center Moriches community, with half an acre of landscaped grounds for each house, a copter and a surface car for each family, and enough money floating around to keep everything, including the marble-walled swimming pools, in good repair.
There was something warm and secure about upper middle, anyway. The lower strata might need some of Qui Dor's goods, the highest might play with them extensively to show that it could but didn't need to, really. But upper middle was neither needy nor had the time for such conspicuous consumption. Mindful of its bootstrap beginnings, upper middle would ape what was above in such things as marble swimming pools and over-generous charity donations and hardly leave time for what Qui Dor had to offer. An occasional food cabinet and a little family squabble, Channing admitted to himself, could be tolerated. But when he remembered Ellen's thorough knowledge of Qui Dor and his Targoffian theories, it unnerved him.
The crabapple trees had shed most of their fruit on the back lawn, dotting the blue-green carpet of grass with brilliant red. The roses were out of bloom but protected next year's blossoms with thorny security. And best of all, thought Channing, breathing deep of everything, there was the chill of autumn on the air and the brittle gold of it in the fast-fading sunlight and the leaf-burning smell of it, so piquant he could almost taste it.
Ellen was not on the back lawn, not in the den, the living room, the basement, or the kitchen. Ellen was in one of the spare bedrooms.
Ellen had a baby.
"You're minding it until one of the neighbors returns," Channing suggested hopefully.
"Uh-uh. It's mine."
"Now wait a minute!"
"Shh, please." Ellen was burping the tiny infant who, wrapped in swaddling clothes and balanced shapelessly on her shoulder, was staring at Channing out of big, solemn eyes. The lips puckered, not all at once but slowly, building up a head of steam. Burp and frightened wail issued forth at the same instant.
"What do you mean, it's yours?" Channing demanded. But the facts were plain enough. The spare room had been converted to a nursery, all done in pink, with crib and bath-gadget and nightstand and a little pink diaper pail.
"Do you like the name Stephanie?" Ellen asked, gently placing the infant in her crib and cooing at her until the wail subsided.
Incredulously, Channing stepped across the threshold to have a closer look. Stephanie puckered and wailed again, drumming tiny legs under the swaddling clothes.
"You're frightening her," said Ellen.
"Will you please tell me what's going on here?"
"Only if you lower your voice."
"There," Channing told his wife in a furious whisper which made Stephanie shriek. "Now tell me."
"Dr. Lang said I couldn't have a baby for two more years. You know that. When I heard about the babies Qui Dor Enterprises were—"
"So now it's enterprises," Channing shouted. Stephanie drowned him out.
"She's pretty, isn't she?"
Stephanie's small, snub-nosed face was pink with fury. The mouth opened wide and hollered.
"I don't care if she's going to grow up and be Miss Universe. By the way, does—does she actually grow up?"
"What's the matter with you, Bryan Channing? Of course she grows up. She's real."
"As real as that food cabinet. How much did she cost?"
"I won't tell you while you're mad like that."
"Don't you see how fantastic this is?" Channing pleaded, "We can't go around with a fake baby."
"Fake? How dare you!"
"Yes, fake. How would you go about entering her in school when she's four years old, for instance?"
"We'll worry about that in four years, but don't you call Stephanie fake. Anyway, Qui Dor is selling so many babies, provisions will have have to be made."
"That's what the salesman told you. The Viennese."
"Yes. But if you had to clean up the mess she makes, you wouldn't call her fake."
"She goes," Channing said, pointing theatrically at the door, then regretting it. How did he ever get to be a diplomat, anyway?
Ellen ignored him. "You know, dear, I think she looks like you. I was able to select my own features and weight and everything. At birth she weighed six pounds. She's two weeks old now and already gained a pound."
"At birth? Two weeks?"
"Well, you know what I mean. She would have, if she—"
"Oh, then you admit it?" said Channing in triumph. "She isn't real."
"Well, she wasn't born like—like other babies. But she's real. You may hold her if you want."
"I don't want."
"Just to convince you."
"Let's not go through that again."
"You're shouting. You're making Stephanie cry. What's the matter with you, Bryan?"
"Nothing's the matter with me. My wife is going crazy. Here I'm supposed to put a stop to this sort of thing on a worldwide level, and my own wife betrays me."
"That Viennese had a good point, you know. I don't entirely agree with him, but he said a lot of women like babies and want children, but would rather not go through nine months of pregnancy and giving birth and all. Qui Dor Enterprises provide the baby."
"It's not real."
"Don't call Stephanie an it, I said. She is perfectly real. She is as real as you. You can touch her, feel her, smell her—try changing her diaper sometime, Bryan." Stephanie shrieked.
"You sure can hear her," Channing admitted. He explored the little bundle experimentally with a forefinger and was gratified when she did not howl.
"See, you like her."
"I do not like her. She doesn't exist." Channing backed away.
"For a twenty-first century man with a college education, sometimes you can be the stubbornest—"
"She's not even a mess of chemicals!" stormed Channing. "It wouldn't be so bad if they made her in a test-tube or something. She just—is. You don't even know how they do it. You can't even call her an artificial baby."
"I'll say you can't," Ellen told him, picking Stephanie up and engulfing her with protective arms. "She's a real one."
"She goes," Channing. "It goes, do you hear me?"
"Stop shouting."
"Well, it does."
"Is that so?" Now Ellen was shouting. "You better get that idea out of your head, Bryan. You can't boss me like that. Stephanie stays or ... or I don't."
"You're acting like a child."
"Am I? I'm not joking. Why don't we talk about it later, after I fix you dinner?"
"We'll talk about it now."
"I have nothing to say."
"I don't want to see her here tomorrow night."
"You're impossible. You're getting to be an ... ogre."
"In the office too," Channing said. "But I won't stand for it at home, understand?"
"Don't make a scene in front of the child."
"I'm not making a scene. She's no child."
"We'll talk about it later."
"Then talk to Stephanie," said Channing. "I'm going out."
"Goodbye. Don't slam the door."
They were behaving irrationally, Channing realized as he went for a spin in the copter, clearing the suburban traffic lanes and heading west toward the city. He was as much to blame as Ellen, but he couldn't let this thing get the better of him at home. If only he could explain to the Targoffian Ambassador that his business enterprises were playing hob with the socio-economic set-up on Earth not to mention Channing's own marital life. The thing that hurt almost as much as Channing's own troubles was the Denebian Ambassador. He could picture the saurian face gloating.
"Good morning, chief. You have an appointment with Qui Dor at the Targoffian Embassy, eleven hundred hours."
"Morning, Julie. Anything else?"
"You look tired."
He couldn't tell her he'd been sleeping in a hotel. A man gets used to suburban quiet. "One of those nights," he said.
"I'm afraid it's going to be one of those mornings, too, if you don't mind me saying so. Mrs. Delacourt is here."
"From Health and Public Welfare? Oh, no."
"Definitely yes. In your office, chief. And mad. Nick called and wants to see Qui Dor with you."
"Tell him nothing doing. Tell him I'll see him later. Sometimes I think it's all some kind of conspiracy between Nick and Qui Dor."
"You know Nick is only doing his job, chief. As an explorer with portfolio, he finds new planets and begins arranging diplomatic relations with them."
"With all the planets in the galaxy, why did he have to stumble on Targoff?"
"Ask Nick."
"Don't mind me, Julie. Just letting off steam." Channing pushed through the door marked UNDER SECRETARY FOR EXTRA-SOLAR AFFAIRS. Mrs. Delacourt paced back and forth like a fat lion which had learned to walk on its hind legs and grown soft in the process, but was still dangerous.
"State's out," she said, bristling. "I had to see someone."
"What's it about this time?" Channing demanded wearily. If he kept this up, he would be out of a job in record time. Of all the Cabinet portfolios, Health and P. W. was the one you had to bend over backwards to please. The Secretary was usually a bridge-partner and friend of the First Lady. Her assistant might have been the wife of a five-star general or at least a Congressman. Delacourt—anyway the name wasn't familiar. "I'm sorry," said Channing. "Bad night. Can I help you?"
"I doubt it, Mr. Channing. As you know, litigation moves swiftly these days. Are you aware of the case of Myers versus Myers?"
"No, m'am." Before you knew it, it might be Channing versus Channing.
"You should be. When Sylvanus Myers died, he left an estate valued at three million dollars. He cut the widow off with almost nothing and left the bulk of his wealth to his—uh, child."
"I'm afraid I don't see the connection."
"This child was purchased from Qui Dor. Child, indeed. Mrs. Sylvanus' attorneys brought suit, maintaining that since the Sylvanus child did not exist, he could not legally inherit the estate. Do you follow, Mr. Channing?"
And, after Channing lit his pipe and nodded: "They weighed the Myers baby. They examined him. They pointed out he had a set of unique fingerprints, like a person. They showed his retinal pattern was both distinct and unique, as well as his electro-encephalogram. Child psychologists tested him and found him normal in every way. He perspires and passes his water and—forgive me, Mr. Channing—defecates." Mrs. Delacourt took the whole thing as a personal insult, as if, in finding that the Myers child functioned normally, the doctors had somehow deflated not only the entire human race but Mrs. Delacourt as well.
Half listening and half wondering if he had presented the same ridiculous picture to Ellen the night before, Channing said, "Go on, Mrs. Delacourt."
"The Myers child had been born, created or made to exist in the State of New Jersey. The Myers child therefore was adjudged a citizen after his attorneys had invoked the Fourteenth Amendment. Do you understand what that means, Mr. Channing?"
"I guess it means the Myers child will get his inheritance."
"It means much more than that. It set a precedent. Qui Dor creations have equal rights before the law, Mr. Channing. They can sue, they can vote, they can hold office, they can—"
"I can't see the harm in that."
"It encourages more of them. If you leave a fortune and want it spent a certain way, the Qui Dor Enterprises will create precisely the individual you want as an heir. It encourages crime, Mr. Channing. The Qui Dor Enterprises can create an individual for you to commit a crime. He'll do the job, you'll return him, he'll cease to exist—"
"And you'd be guilty as an accessory."
Mrs. Delacourt shook her head. "No, you wouldn't. I have looked into the legality of the matter. That would be like admitting there were such things as pre-natal influence. The Qui Dor creation, whether child or full grown, is a citizen with all a citizen's rights, and since we don't recognize the possibility of pre-natal influence, we don't recognize the real criminal in such a case as an accessory."
"It's not the same thing."
"In the eyes of the law, I fear it is."
"But if you return a—a citizen to Qui Dor and the citizen ceases to exist because he's no longer needed for the job—it does work that way, doesn't it, Mrs. Delacourt?"
"Yes."
"Then you'd be guilty of murder, taking the life away from the Qui Dor creation, I mean. It's complicated."
"No, it isn't. It's simple. You'd be guilty of nothing.Esse es percipi, Mr. Channing. No one's been murdered. There's no corpse. No one exists."
"I give up," said Channing. "Mrs. Delacourt, I can sympathize with you. For personal reasons, I can understand your problem. But right now there isn't a thing I can do about it. However, I'm going to see Qui Dor this morning and possibly something can be arranged to your mutual satisfaction."
Mrs. Delacourt had hardly heard him. "Yetesseshould be more thanpercipi," she was mumbling. "There should be more to existing than merely being perceived, don't you think? It would all be so—so empty, so meaningless that way. They can make any legal decision they wish: I am more than something which is seen or touched or ... or tasted. Not merely myself, Mr. Channing. The people. All the people. You. Are you only the various qualities of sense, an image in my mind, an idea? Are you?"
"I don't know," Channing admitted.
"If you are, if we all are, it's a sinister plot against the people. Civilization is ruined. Qui Dor's creations shall surely take over. Why, before you know it, women will stop having babies. No pain, no nuisance, no chance of congenital illness."
"I know exactly what you mean," Channing declared ruefully. "I've got to see Qui Dor, though, Mrs. Delacourt."
"Call me and let me know. Oh, do call me and tell me you've sent him packing."
"Remember Deneb, m'am. I'll do my best."
A few moments later, a furious Nicholson telio'd Channing and informed him that the New York State Junior League was lobbying Congress to pass a law nullifying diplomatic relations with Targoff. That was the root of the evil, they said. The planet itself. We want nothing to do with them. We don't want our children associating with images. Channing swore in silent desperation. You couldn't argue with the Junior League. Qui Dor Enterprises was lowering the standard of living more and more every day, not maliciously, certainly, but lowering it nevertheless. Divorce, malnutrition, illness, crime, decreased birth rate, domestic squabbles....
Which immediately suggested a hopeful but abortive attempt at reconciliation with Ellen. Yes, she was busy. Of course she had kept Stephanie. What was the matter with him, anyway? He could hear the girl wailing, couldn't he? She was so helpless. She had to be cared for. Where was his sense of responsibility? Well, yes, she still loved him, but not if he were going to maintain his pig-headed attitude toward their daughter. What? Yes their daughter. He heard her. Click and fadeout of the picture of his wife, bunting in one hand and a squealing infant with obvious quiddity but questionable essence in the other.
Three quarters of an hour later he stormed into Qui Dor's office on the top floor of an old office building which had been converted into the Targoffian Embassy in the days before anyone anticipated anything but a casual interchange of cultural trivia between the Targoffians and Earthmen. He cooled his heels in the reception room, fighting back an impulse to ask the too-pretty, too-courteous, too-efficient receptionist if she were real. By the time he was admitted to Qui Dor's sanctum sanctorum he presented, at least on the surface, the unruffled appearance of a diplomat on a routine state call.
"Bryan Channing, is it not? You see, I have learned your language with no great difficulty."
In Channing's job, you had to forget human standards. The office was large, with a high-vaulted ceiling where the insulating space beneath the building's roof had been exposed. There were two or three comfortable chairs which would fit Channing. There was a big sign beyond Qui Dor's massive desk, blocking the window and the view of other skyscrapers. It said QUI DOR ENTERPRISES—WE SELL ANYTHING. It faced into the room, and with it as a back-drop, Qui Dor looked like anything but an interstellar ambassador.
Qui Dor was a dozen feet tall and neither reptilian nor mammalian. He defied classification in any terrestrial system, but with the feathery covering, hard, protruding, pointed lips and round, small, jet-black eyes, looked most nearly bird-like. The thin legs added to the illusion; the three sets of thin arms dispelled it.
"I haven't seen you since that day I showed you around the city after Nicholson introduced us," Channing began, settling himself comfortably in a chair and wishing he didn't have to stare at the sign behind Qui Dor's feathery back.
"You were a most gracious host, Mr. Channing. But now I suspect your visit is of an entirely different nature."
"Well, yes. Yes, it is."
"I see that you are in danger of falling from Scylla into Charybdis, as it is said in your literature. You needn't mince words with me. You understand, I have my informants." The black eyes twinkled merrily, the crest atop the long, narrow head stirred.
I'll bet they're from Deneb, Channing wanted to say. This was a pretty pickle, with the Denebians sitting somewhere out of sight and chuckling over the whole thing. Why couldn't Nick have been even more myopic—near-sighted enough to miss Targoff entirely?
"There is no limit to what I can give your people," said Qui Dor. "Next week we are opening a line of jewelry, as you may know. It is cheaper than what you can get in your mines."
South Africa, here comes disaster. "Artificial jewels?" demanded Channing.
"No, not artificial."
"Natural?"
"No."
"Real?"
"Decidedly. What is real, Mr. Channing?"
"Well—but suppose you tell me. You're the man who's livened interest in the British Empiricists after they'd been all but forgotten except by students of philosophy."
"What are you, Mr. Channing? That is, what makes you real?"
"Umm, let me see. The chemicals. Yes, the chemicals of which my body is composed. And a soul, whatever that is. If there is such a thing."
"But are you really chemicals? That is, are the chemicals real?"
"I don't follow you."
"Like everything else, these chemicals have qualities. In solids, they have size, shape, weight, bulk. Similar properties in liquid and gas. On a secondary scale, they have color, taste, odor. On a tertiary one, they can do things. They react. They behave as expected from a study of the primary and secondary qualities. Now do you follow me?"
"I think so."
"I'm sorry to begin our discussion this way. I feel I know what your problem is, but I'm starting at the beginning. Do you mind?"
"Not at all." Mrs. Delacourt would be very unhappy.
"Who is Mrs. Delacourt?"
"Eh?" Channing cried. "I didn't say anything."
"Your thoughts have such qualities too, Mr. Channing."
"You mean you can read my mind?"
"I can perceive it, as you can perceive color. To continue: we of Targoff maintain that no thing in itself is real. Things only have existence as their various qualities are perceived. When you leave this room, as far as I am concerned, you do not exist."
"A man named Hume went a step further than that," Channing told Qui Dor with a smile. "After disposing of the world in such summary fashion, he also disposed of you and me and everyone. The mind which perceived these qualities, he said, was nothing more than a collection—he used the word collocation, I think—of the qualities. So you have non-existent external things on the one hand and a non-existent mind on the other. The second nothing somehow gets images of the first nothing, and that's the sum total of the world."
"Interesting," said Qui Dor, ruffling his crest with a three-fingered hand, "but hardly practical. You see, Mr. Channing, our theories work. We can create your collocations of qualities to order. We can even give a man immortality."
"How can you do that?"
"Why, by recreating his qualities down to the last atomic detail when he dies."
"You wouldn't," said Channing.
"Not here, not yet. Someday, perhaps."
"I don't want to be blunt, but you're playing hob with the whole structure of our society."
Three sets of arms spread out before Channing in a very human gesture. "We call it progress, don't you see?"
"But that's interfering with the internal affairs of another planet."
"Is it? We're not foisting anything on you. What we sell is exactly as claimed. There is no compulsory—"
"But how many people can resist?"
"How manyshould, Mr. Channing?"
"How do we know what you're creating is real, or permanent? I'll tell you this, sir: you're in trouble if it's all an illusion."
"My dear Mr. Channing, I'm surprised at you. Your culture has created or accepted—or that strange combination of both which is the religious zeal—a First Principle, a Prime Mover, a deity culturally endowed with the ability to create. Your culture then supposes this deity did his creating once, long ago, and now is content to rest through all eternity. I say the first half of it is anthropomorphic wish-fulfillment. I say the second is a lack of cultural imagination."
"Are you calling yourself a deity?" Channing shuddered at the possibility. Along with Health and P. W. and Ellen, every church on Earth might soon be clamoring for his scalp.
"Yes and no. Why create—or accept—the godhood if you have the power yourself? No wish-fulfillment was involved. And we never stopped creating."
"Are you trying to tell me that you ... that you can actually, well, create things out of air?"
"Out of nothing, Mr. Channing. For we create nothing. We merely establish your Mr. Hume's collocation of qualities around any desired pattern. We do not admit the existence of the external world, so we are not bothered about creating parts of it. You understand?"
"How do you do it?"
"We do it."
"Where will you stop?"
Qui Dor made the shrugging gesture again. "I see that the problem is a domestic one for you as well. Here." He reached into a drawer of his desk and produced a diamond-studded tiara.
Channing touched it gingerly, as if the many-faceted gems might burn his fingers. "Was this there a minute ago?" he asked.
"It was there when I opened the drawer and looked for it. It is there now, when you are touching it. But put it back in the drawer, Mr. Channing."
Channing did so. Qui Dor shut the drawer.
"Now where is it?" the Targoffian Ambassador demanded.
"In the drawer."
"Indeed? How do you know?"
"Well, I—suppose I don't know."
"Open the drawer, if you please."
Channing did, and found the tiara. "See?"
"Yes, but what about when the drawer was shut? I admit, it's a difficult concept to grasp at once. You see, we of Targoff are not interested whether the tiara exists when someone is not actively perceiving it or not. It exists when existence becomes a necessary quality for it. It's a Monday, Wednesday, Friday concept, Mr. Channing. Your mind can grasp it only at times, and perhaps even then flittingly. Like the ontological proof for the existence of your God: by definition. He is an infinitely perfect Being. Since existence is one of the qualities of infinite perfection, He exists. Do I make myself clear?"
"No-o."
"Here. Take the tiara to your wife. My compliments. Things will work out for you, Mr. Channing."
"I came here to work out some compromise with you," Channing said, pocketing the tiara, then feeling foolish and placing it back on the desk, then deciding that would be quite undiplomatic and pocketing it again while Qui Dor's round eyes fairly sparkled. "Instead, I find myself being lectured on the philosophy behind the trouble. That doesn't help."
"You're confused, Mr. Channing. When I said things will work out for you, I meant it. More I cannot tell you, except to say the matter is entirely up to you. I should have said things can work out for you. I'm sorry if this sounds cryptic, but I can tell you no more. Incidentally, I'm sure your wife will like the tiara."
It did sound cryptic. Channing did not know if Qui Dor was sorry. Channing was sorry.
Maybe he'd be better off giving the tiara to Mrs. Delacourt.
When Channing could make only a negative report to Mrs. Delacourt, the wheels began their spinning. Health and P. W. tendered a frosty ultimatum which he was forced to ignore because he lacked policy-making authority. Someone bent the First Lady's ear, who in turn bent the President's. When State himself returned from India with a redder face but no answers, he received a verbal whipping and almost achesonian condemnation in the press. Clearly, he needed a scapegoat.
While State was being chastized by the President, the scapegoat was home in Center Moriches, determined to rescue something from the sinking ship of life. He'd effect a reconciliation with Ellen and they could debate the ultimate disposition of little Stephanie at some later date.
A savory aroma assailed his nostrils from the kitchen. He found Ellen there, scurrying from pot to pot, a determined look on her face, a stray lock of chestnut hair loose over one eye.
"Chicken cacciatore," he said, breathing deeply. "Hey now, we haven't had that at home in a long time."
"Too long," said Ellen, stirring the delicious contents of a large pot. "A girl can make mistakes, dear. Smell good?"
"Wonderful."
"I knew you'd listen to reason. I just knew it."
"Well, I'm a reasonable guy." What was she talking about? he wondered.
"That's why I married you. Taste?"
"No. I'll wait till it's on the table."
"Stephanie's gained another pound."
"That's—uh, fine."
"I must say, you don't seem as enthused about her as you did before."
"Before?"
"This morning."
He had been in his office all morning, taking the afternoon off to come home. "What did I say?" Funny, he did not remember calling her.
"You know what you said."
"Honest, I don't."
"Say, are you planning to renege or something?"
"Ellen, something's screwy. I don't remember calling you this morning."
"That's because you didn't, dear."
"But you said I said—"
"Are you trying to be funny?"
"No."
"You were here all morning. You weren't gone more than an hour when you came back."
"I—came back?"
"Of course."
"I did not."
"Are you trying to stand there and tell me we didn't have a long talk this morning in Stephanie's room? Are you trying to stand there and tell me we didn't decide to keep Stephanie and maybe even get her a little brother in a year or so?"
"What's got into you? I never said anything of the kind."
"Bryan Channing! If you're joking, I don't find it so funny."
"Neither do I. I'm not joking."
"I—I hate you...."
"One of us had better see the doctor," said Channing, placing his hands on Ellen's shoulders and bending forward to kiss the whisps of hair at the nape of her neck. "Maybe you'd like to go away to the country for a while."
"Don't you kiss me."
"What's the matter now?"
"You changed your mind. You're trying to lie your way out of it."
"I'll call Dr. Flint."
"You'll go out someplace and eat supper, you mean." Off the range came the pot of chicken cacciatore, its delightful contents landed into the garbage disposal unit.
"Ellen!"
But only a stiff back answered him, and presently even that disappeared when a sudden wail from the direction of the nursery summoned it, armed with bottle and burp-rag.
Nicholson met him in the waiting room of his office. "You sure went and put your foot in it," the explorer said.
"When did I do what?"
"Telling the Denebian Ambassador how Qui Dor was snafuing everything and why we couldn't do a thing about it. If they don't take away your explorer's papers too, you're always welcome on my ship, Bryan."
"I didn't even see the Denebian Ambassador."
"That's not what Julie says."
Julie looked up from her desk in exasperation. "You're still the boss, so maybe I shouldn't talk like this, but honestly chief, how could you?"
"Damnit! How could I what?"
"I almost fainted when that, that monster from Deneb walked in here. You always tell me to keep the intercom open when you have an important visitor and take everything down in shorthand. So I did. Then you walked out of your office with the Denebian Ambassador, smiling and practically holding hands—if you call what he's got a hand."
"I went home around midday. I never saw the gentleman from Deneb."
"You use the word gentleman loosely," said Nicholson. "And unadvisedly."
It was then that State stormed in, his face almost mauve. "Channing, pack your junk. You're fired."
"Now, wait a minute—"
"Miss Marshall here had the good sense to send me a transcript of your little meeting. Of all the achesonian gall...."
"Who, me?"
"Fired. Out. Now."
"But what am I supposed to have done?"
State pulled some papers from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Here, you rat. Try page three."
Channing took the papers and turned to the third page. He read:
CHANNING: Exactly what I was saying.
DENEBIAN AMBASSADOR: Then we ought to bide our time?
CHAN: Sure. Right now, Earth's becoming the laughingstock of the galaxy. And later on it will be worse.
D. A.: That's only conjecture, of course.
CHAN: But it makes sense. Not tomorrow or the day after that, but, say, in a hundred years, Earth will be finished. For one thing, the birth rate will drop off tremendously. People will stop working, because Qui Dor can give them anything they want.
D. A.: Then we'll make threatening gestures.
CHAN: Right. And Qui Dor will supply Earth with armaments.
D. A.: At the last moment, the armaments will vanish. Earth, committed to war with us, will be helpless.
CHAN: It's my understanding that notallof Qui Dor's creations will vanish when that happens.
D. A.: That is correct.
CHAN: Are we talking about the same thing?
D. A.: I think so. Would you like some lunch, Channing?
CHAN: Yes, but first I believe we ought to take a look at—
"Hold it!" Channing cried as State took the papers from him. "Let me see the rest of it."
"You've seen enough. Hell, you were right there. I thought I ought to tell you we're going to see the Attorney General about possible prosecution for espionage. Now get out of here."
State was still mauve when Channing left. Nick was shaking his head. Julie clucked her tongue, trying to dilute outrage with sympathy.
For Channing, it was all some senseless nightmare. First Ellen, then State, Julie and Nick. He took the slidestair down to the street and the brisk autumn air cleared the confusion from his head so that he knew; for the first time clearly, that he was out of a job and—temporarily at best—out of a wife. If Qui Dor had seen all this coming, Qui Dor had not mentioned it. But Channing suspected Qui Dor's ability to read minds depended on close range perception. Besides, Qui Dor had made it plain he would tell Channing nothing more than he had disclosed at their original interview.
Which left Channing one remaining avenue of information.
"Is the spacesuit adjusted satisfactory, sir?" The Denebian lacky said un-gramatically, his stentorian voice booming above the static of his own spacesuit radio.
"Yes," Channing told him.
The small saurian creature stood on a platform and dropped a plexi-glass helmet in place over Channing's head. Air hissed in and Channing asked: "Can you hear me?"
"Most assured, sir. The radio is fine."
Denebians breathed a mixture of methane and ammonia and looked enough like pint-sized dragons to make Channing wonder if there had even been some contact between the races in the obscure pages of pre-history.
"Sarchix will see you now."
Channing was led into an airlock in what had been the old Crowell-Collier building and was now the Denebian Embassy, a hermetically sealed skyscrapper in which most of the rooms and corridors reproduced the environmental conditions of the Denebian planet. Air was pumped from the little chamber; methane and ammonia took its place. When a light flashed red over a bolted door at the far end of the chamber, Channing opened it and walked through.
"Is anything wrong?" Sarchix demanded. The Denebian Ambassador was barely four feet tall, a chunky, fore-shortened dragon with diminutive arms, an outthrust snout, legs like thick, armor-plated columns and a balancing tail which trailed and tapered behind and was, Channing knew, a potent weapon. A dragon on Chinese New Year's Day or Tyrannosaurus Rex in miniature.
"Why should something be wrong?" Channing said as the Denebian waved an almost-atrophied forearm at a couch. At least, the arm looked atrophied. It wasn't. Channing had seen how dexterously the Denebian lacky had fastened the spacesuit helmet.
"Well, you visit me so soon after our meeting."
It was no conspiracy. Channing breathed a sigh of relief, reclined on the couch as was the Denebian custom, and said: "I merely want to go over some of our plans." The Denebian Ambassador and the Department of State could not be working together to drive Channing insane. And Ellen did not fit into the picture at all.
Somewhere, there was asecondBryan Channing.
"But we hardly have any plans, Channing. All we have to do is wait. You said so yourself. Your job is only to keep us informed."
"I have some bad news, then. I was fired."
"Eh?"
"That is, Bryan Channing was fired from his job today. His secretary overheard our conversation and sent a transcript of it to the Secretary of State."
"That is too bad," Sarchix admitted. "We could use a man in your position. Tell me, Channing, are you prepared to play the Channing role completely?"
"Yes. Yes, I am."
"Then we still have a chance. Let the secret out. There is a real Channing and anes percipiChanning. You have his appearance, his fingerprints, his memories. Reveal him as a traitor, a Qui Dor creation. Then you can have the game as well as the name."
"In other words—"
"In other words, two Bryan Channings are a nuisance, anyway. You would undoubtedly make a blunder sooner or later, or Channing himself will discover the fact. Beat him to the punch, find him in some awkward situation and prove your point. Of course he'll claim he's the real Channing. Naturally, he'll have Channing's memory and Channing's fingerprints, as you have. But if you can accuse him and prove your point, I daresay you'll find your job waiting for you again. Keep me abreast of all developments, Channing." Sarchix spoke English with hardly a trace of accent but with all the banal idiomatic expressions. "Say, it's a pretty good deal for you, anyway. I hear Channing's wife—your wife—is quite a looker by human standards."
"She is," said Channing, glowering. Thees percipiChanning had been contrite with Ellen. Regarding Stephanie, he had surrendered unconditionally. The dirty so-and-so might even have explored the art of love-making with her, especially if he knew all the little secrets Channing knew—which he did—and wanted to employ them to convince his brand new wife of his old status.
"Well, good luck to you, Channing," said the Denebian Ambassador. "By the way, you left your briefcase here after lunch."
Channing spotted a duplicate of his own briefcase on the floor near Sarchix's couch. He was about to retrieve it when a buzzer sounded and the Denebian Ambassador spoke into a microphone in the wall.
Channing could not understand the language and waited politely until the conversation had ended. He stooped for the briefcase.
"Wait a moment, if you please," Sarchix told him. "Bryan Channing has returned to get his briefcase."
"Oh," said Channing in desperation. "Oh."
"I was thinking precisely the same thing. If the second Channing has returned for his briefcase, then he was the Channing who visited me before. You see, he knew about the missing briefcase. You did not."
"That's ridiculous," Channing blurted. "I know who I am."
"Who are you?"
"I'm not Bryan Channing. I'm the copy. And I can prove it."
"Yes? How?"
"By telling you what's inside the briefcase." It was a gamble, Channing knew. But in all probability, the interior as well as the exterior of the case had been duplicated.
"But he knew, Channing. He knew. Well, we shall see. By now the airlock should have been adjusted for our atmosphere. There...."
The door opened. In walked Bryan Channing, face clearly visible in the plexi-glass of the helmet.
The two Channings stared at each other.
"My Lord!" cried the newcomer. "Have they madeanothercopy?"
"I'm the only copy," Channing said. "You're a fake. That is, you're real."
"He's lying," said the bona fide copy. "He must be Channing himself."
"Sure," said Channing. "So I barged in here to let Sarchix know I was aware of the copy. That doesn't make sense and you know it."
"Iknow whoIam, Channing. Therefore I know you're the real thing."
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
"One moment, please," the Denebian Ambassador said. "I think we can settle this."
"How?" said Channing.
"I will call Qui Dor."
"Since I'm a perfect copy," Channing pointed out glibly, "he won't be able to tell."
"Who's a perfect copy? I'm a perfect copy."
"True enough," said Sarchix. "He won't be able to tell by any examination. But he can will the copy out of existence, leaving the real Channing. Then he can make a new copy."
"He can do what?" the copy cried. "Nothing doing. If he wills me out of existence and makes a new one, it won't be the same thing. I won't be me. I'll cease to exist. I don't care about any new copy. I care about myself."
"You see," Channing said, "he's looking for excuses."
"It's all well and good for you to say that," the copy told Channing. "You have nothing to lose."
"Unfortunately," Sarchix explained, "you both stand to lose. The original copy will cease to be, as the Channing on my left has pointed out. But after the little experiment, Channing himself will have to be eliminated. Now, if the two of you will wait inside while I call Qui Dor...?"
They went into another room and paced together, five steps up and five back. They glared at each other. They made threatening gestures. Channing's brain was awhirl with ideas, all of them bad. The copy would cease to be. Channing would be destroyed. A new copy would take both their places. This was impossible. First he had to prove himself not himself. He had neither succeeded nor failed. Now he stood to lose, as the Denebian Ambassador had said, no matter which Channing he was.