Clans of the Alphane Moon Read Online Free PDF

I don’t have much time; I have to leave for the TERPLAN lunar base at three P.M. New York time.” She made her voice as efficient—and demanding—as she knew how.
    After a series of bureaucratic actions on the receptionist’s part Mary was sent on in.
    At his imitation oak desk—no genuine oak had existed for a decade—Jerry Feld sat with a video tape projector, deep in his business tasks. “Just a moment, Dr. Rittersdorf.” He pointed to a chair; she seated herself, crossed her legs and lit a cigarette.
    On the miniature TV screen Bunny Hentman was doing an act in which he played a German industrialist; wearing a blue, double-breasted suit, he was explaining to his board of directors how the new autonomic plows which their cartel was producing could be used for war. Four plows would guide themselves, at news of hostilities, into a single unit; the unit was not a larger plow but a missile-launcher. In his heavy accent Bunny explained this, putting it as if it were a great achievement, and Feld chuckled.
    “I don’t have much time, Mr. Feld,” Mary said crisply.
    Reluctantly, Feld stopped the video tape and turned toward her. “I showed Bunny the scripts. He’s interested. Your husband’s wit is dry, moribund, but it’s authentic. It’s what once was—”
    “I know all this,” Mary said. “I’ve had to hear hisprogramming scripts for years; he always tried them out on me.” She smoked rapidly, feeling tense. “Well, do you think Bunny could use them?”
    “We’re nowhere,” Feld said, “until your husband sees Bunny; there’s no use your—”
    The office door opened and Bunny Hentman entered.
    This was the first time Mary had seen the famous TV comic in person and she felt curious; how did he differ from his public image? He was, she decided, a little shorter, quite a bit older, than on TV; he had a large bald area and he looked tired. In fact, in real life Bunny looked like a worried Central European junk dealer, in a rumpled suit, not quite well-shaved, thinning hair disarrayed, and—to cap the impression—smoking the shortened remains of a cigar. But his eyes. He had an alert and yet warm quality; she rose and stood facing him. Over TV the strength of his gaze did not register. This was not mere intelligence on Bunny’s part; this was more, a perception of—she did not know what. And—
    All about Bunny an aura hung, an aura of suffering. His face, his body, seemed sopped with it. Yes, she thought, that’s what shows in his eyes. Memory of pain. Pain that took place long ago, but which he has never forgotten—nor will he. He was made, put on this planet, to suffer; no wonder he’s a great comic. For Bunny comedy was a struggle, a fighting back against the reality of literal physical pain; it was a reaction formation of gigantic—and effective—stature.
    “Bun,” Jerry Feld said, “This is Dr. Mary Rittersdorf; her husband wrote those CIA robot programs I showed you last Thursday.”
    The comic held out his hand; Mary shook hands with him and said, “Mr. Hentman—”
    “Please,” the comic said. “That’s just my professional name. My real name, the one I was born with, is Lionsblood Regal. Naturally I had to change it; who goes into show biz calling himself Lionsblood Regal? You call me Lionsblood or just Blood; Jer here calls me Li-Reg—it’s a mark of intimacy.” He added, still holding onto her hand, “And if there is anything I like about a woman it’s intimacy.”
    “Li-Reg,” Feld said, “is your cable address; you’ve got it mixed up again.”
    “That’s so.” Hentman released Mary’s hand. “Well, Frau Doktor Rattenfänger—”
    “Rittersdorf,” Mary corrected.
    “Rattenfänger,” Feld said, “is German for rat-catcher. Look, Bun, don’t make a mistake like that again.”
    “Sorry,” the comic said. “Listen, Frau Doktor Rittelsdof. Please call me something nice; I can use it. I crave affection from pretty women; it’s the small boy in me.”