Clans of the Alphane Moon Read Online Free PDF Page A

propagandistic services. But I have a number of contacts among the nine moons; given time—”
    “No thanks,” Chuck said roughly. “I just want to be left alone.” He had already endured enough assistance in job acquisition to last him a lifetime.
    “But, on my part, quite unlike your wife, I have no ulterior motive.” The slime mold ebbed closer. “Like most Terran males your sense of self-respect is bound up in your wage-earning capabilities, an area in which you have grave doubts as well as extreme guilts. I can do something for you… but it will take time. Presently I leave Terra and start back to my own moon. Suppose I pay you five hundred skins—US, of course—to come with me. Consider it a loan, if you want.”
    “What would I do on Ganymede?” Irritably, Chuck said, “Don’t you believe me either? I have a job; one I consider adequate—I don’t want to leave it.”
    “Subconsciously—”
    “Don’t read my subconscious back to me. And get out of here and leave me alone.” He turned his back on the slime mold.
    “I am afraid your suicidal drive will return—perhaps even before tonight.”
    “Let it.”
    The slime mold said, “There is only one thing that can help you, and my miserable job-offer is not it.”
    “What is it, then?”
    “A woman to replace your wife.”
    “Now you’re acting as a—”
    “Not at all. This is neither physically base nor ethereal; it is simply practical. You must find a woman who can accept you, love you, as you are; otherwise you’ll perish. Let me ponder this. And in the meantime, control yourself. Give me five hours. And remain here.” The slime mold flowed slowly under the door, through the crack and outside into the hall. Its thoughts dimmed. “As an importer, buyer and dealer I have many contacts with Terrans of all walks of life…” Then it was gone.
    Shakily, Chuck lit a cigarette. And walked away—a long distance away—from the window, to seat himself on the ancient Danish-style sofa. And wait.
    It was hard to know how to react to the slime mold’s charitable offer; he was both angered and touched—and, in addition, puzzled. Could the slime mold actually help him? It seemed impossible.
    He waited one hour.
    A knock sounded on the door of the conapt. It could not be the Ganymedean returning because a slime mold did not—could not—knock. Rising, Chuck went to the door and opened it.
    A Terran girl stood there.

THREE
    Although she had a thousand matters to attend to, all pertaining to her new non-paying job with the US Interplan Health & Welfare Department, Dr. Mary Rittersdorf took time off for a personal item. Once more she rode by jet cab to New York and the Fifth Avenue office of Jerry Feld, the producer of the Bunny Hentman show. A week ago she had given him a batch of the very latest—and best—CIA scripts which Chuck had written; it was now time to find out if her husband, or ex-husband, had a chance at the job.
    If Chuck wouldn’t seek better employment on his own she would. It was her duty, if for no other reason than that she and the children, for the next year at least, would be totally dependent on Chuck’s earnings.
    Let off on the roof field Mary descended by in-ramp to floor ninety, came to the glass door, hesitated, then allowed it to open and entered the outer office in which Mr. Feld’s receptionist—very pretty, with much make-up and a rather tight spider-silk sweater—sat. Mary felt annoyed at the girl; just because bras had become passé, did a girl with so pronounced a bosom have to cater to fashion? In this case practicality dictated a bra, and Mary stood at the deskfeeling herself flushing with disapproval. And artificial nipple-dilation; it was just too much.
    “Yes?” the receptionist said, glancing up through an ornate, stylish monocle. As she met Mary’s coldness her nipples deburgeoned slightly, as if scared into submission, frightened away.
    “I’d like to see Mr. Feld. I’m Dr. Mary Rittersdorf and