Read Online Clans of the Alphane Moon by Philip K. Dick - Free Book Online
Authors: Philip K. Dick
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one ingredient among many it—”
“Butt out,” Hentman said crossly to Mageboom. To Chuck he said, “I don’t like three-way conversations; can’t we go somewhere else?” He was visibly annoyed by Dan Mageboom… he appeared to sense something amiss.
In Chuck’s mind the slime mold’s thoughts again formed. “That splendid lovely girl, although as you noted lacking a nipple-dilation job, is entering the building, Mr. Rittersdorf, looking for you; I have already told her to come on up.”
Bunny Hentman, obviously also receiving the thoughts of the slime mold, groaned in despair. “Isn’t there any way we can talk? Now who the hell is
this
?” He turned to face the door, glaring at it.
“Miss Trieste won’t interfere with your conversation, Mr. Hentman,” Dan Mageboom said, and Chuck glanced at the simulacrum, surprised that it had an opinion about Joan. But it was on remote; he realized that all at once. Obviously this was not a programming; Petri was operating it from the CIA building in San Francisco.
The door opened and, hesitantly, Joan Trieste, wearing a gray sweater and dirndl, no stockings but thin high heels, stood there. “Am I bothering you, Chuck?” she asked. “Mr. Hentman,” she said, andflushed scarlet. “I’ve watched you hundreds of times—I think you’re the greatest comedian alive. You’re as great as Sid Caesar and all the great old-timers.” Her eyes bright, she came up to Bunny Hentman, stood close to him but carefully avoided touching him. “Are
you
a friend of Bunny Hentman?” she asked Chuck. “I wish you had told me.”
“We’re trying,” Hentman groaned, “to conduct a business deal. So I mean, how do we do it?” Perspiring freely he began to pace about the small living room. “I give up,” he announced. “I can’t sign you; it’s out of the question. You know too many people. Writers are supposed to be recluse types, living lonely type lives.”
Joan Trieste had not shut the conapt door and now, through the entrance, the slime mold slowly undulated. “Mr. Rittersdorf,” its thoughts came to Chuck, “I have an urgent matter to take up with you alone, in private. Could you cross the hall to my apt for a moment, please?”
Hentman turned his back, squealed in frustration, walked to the window and stood looking out.
Puzzled, Chuck accompanied the slime mold across the hall to its own conapt.
“Shut the door and come closer to me,” the slime mold said. “I don’t want the others to pick up my thoughts.”
Chuck did so.
“That person, Mr. Dan Mageboom,” the slime mold thought at low volume. “He is not a human being; he is a construct. There is no personality within him; an individual at some distance operates him. I thought I should warn you, since after all you are a neighbor of mine.”
“Thanks,” Chuck said, “but I already knew that.”But now he felt uneasy; it would not do to have the slime mold prying into his thoughts, in view of the direction they had taken recently. “Listen,” he began, but the slime mold anticipated him.
“I have already scanned that material in your mind,” it informed him. “Your hostility toward your wife, your murderous impulses. Everyone at some time or another has such impulses, and in any case it would be improper for me to discuss them with anyone else. Like a priest or a doctor, a telepath must—”
“Let’s not discuss it,” Chuck said. The slime mold’s knowledge of his intentions put a new light on them; perhaps he would be unwise to continue. If the prosecutor could bring Lord Running Clam into court—
“On Ganymede,” the slime mold declared, “vengeance is sanctified. If you do not believe me, have your attorney Mr. Nat Wilder look it up. In no way do I deplore the direction of your preoccupations; they’re infinitely preferable to the previous suicidal impulse, which is contrary to nature.”
Chuck started back out of the slime mold’s apt.
“Wait,” the slime mold said.
“Butt out,” Hentman said crossly to Mageboom. To Chuck he said, “I don’t like three-way conversations; can’t we go somewhere else?” He was visibly annoyed by Dan Mageboom… he appeared to sense something amiss.
In Chuck’s mind the slime mold’s thoughts again formed. “That splendid lovely girl, although as you noted lacking a nipple-dilation job, is entering the building, Mr. Rittersdorf, looking for you; I have already told her to come on up.”
Bunny Hentman, obviously also receiving the thoughts of the slime mold, groaned in despair. “Isn’t there any way we can talk? Now who the hell is
this
?” He turned to face the door, glaring at it.
“Miss Trieste won’t interfere with your conversation, Mr. Hentman,” Dan Mageboom said, and Chuck glanced at the simulacrum, surprised that it had an opinion about Joan. But it was on remote; he realized that all at once. Obviously this was not a programming; Petri was operating it from the CIA building in San Francisco.
The door opened and, hesitantly, Joan Trieste, wearing a gray sweater and dirndl, no stockings but thin high heels, stood there. “Am I bothering you, Chuck?” she asked. “Mr. Hentman,” she said, andflushed scarlet. “I’ve watched you hundreds of times—I think you’re the greatest comedian alive. You’re as great as Sid Caesar and all the great old-timers.” Her eyes bright, she came up to Bunny Hentman, stood close to him but carefully avoided touching him. “Are
you
a friend of Bunny Hentman?” she asked Chuck. “I wish you had told me.”
“We’re trying,” Hentman groaned, “to conduct a business deal. So I mean, how do we do it?” Perspiring freely he began to pace about the small living room. “I give up,” he announced. “I can’t sign you; it’s out of the question. You know too many people. Writers are supposed to be recluse types, living lonely type lives.”
Joan Trieste had not shut the conapt door and now, through the entrance, the slime mold slowly undulated. “Mr. Rittersdorf,” its thoughts came to Chuck, “I have an urgent matter to take up with you alone, in private. Could you cross the hall to my apt for a moment, please?”
Hentman turned his back, squealed in frustration, walked to the window and stood looking out.
Puzzled, Chuck accompanied the slime mold across the hall to its own conapt.
“Shut the door and come closer to me,” the slime mold said. “I don’t want the others to pick up my thoughts.”
Chuck did so.
“That person, Mr. Dan Mageboom,” the slime mold thought at low volume. “He is not a human being; he is a construct. There is no personality within him; an individual at some distance operates him. I thought I should warn you, since after all you are a neighbor of mine.”
“Thanks,” Chuck said, “but I already knew that.”But now he felt uneasy; it would not do to have the slime mold prying into his thoughts, in view of the direction they had taken recently. “Listen,” he began, but the slime mold anticipated him.
“I have already scanned that material in your mind,” it informed him. “Your hostility toward your wife, your murderous impulses. Everyone at some time or another has such impulses, and in any case it would be improper for me to discuss them with anyone else. Like a priest or a doctor, a telepath must—”
“Let’s not discuss it,” Chuck said. The slime mold’s knowledge of his intentions put a new light on them; perhaps he would be unwise to continue. If the prosecutor could bring Lord Running Clam into court—
“On Ganymede,” the slime mold declared, “vengeance is sanctified. If you do not believe me, have your attorney Mr. Nat Wilder look it up. In no way do I deplore the direction of your preoccupations; they’re infinitely preferable to the previous suicidal impulse, which is contrary to nature.”
Chuck started back out of the slime mold’s apt.
“Wait,” the slime mold said.
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