Clans of the Alphane Moon by Philip K. Dick Read Free Book Online Page B

a while, at least. Unless I get an emergency call. There’s usually one at around five o’clock, when the heavy commuter traffic starts. But until—”
    “Listen,” Chuck said brusquely.
    The three of them turned questioningly toward him.
    “If someone wants to kill himself,” Chuck said, “
you can’t stop him.
Maybe you can delay it. Maybe a Psi like Joan here can drag him back. But even if he’s delayed he’ll do it, and even if he’s brought back he’ll find a way to do it again. So leave me alone.” He felt tired. “I’ve got a four o’clock appointment with my attorney—I’ve got many things to do. I can’t stand around talking.”
    Looking at his watch Elwood said, “I’ll drive you to your lawyer’s. We can just make it.” He curtly motioned to Petri.
    To Joan, Chuck said, “Maybe I’ll see you again. Sometime.” He felt too weary to care one way or another. “Thanks,” he said, vaguely; he did not know precisely what he was thanking her for.
    With careful emphasis Joan said, “Lord Running Clam is in his room and he can pick up your thoughts; if you try to kill yourself again he’ll hear and interfere. So if you intend to do it—”
    “Okay,” Chuck said. “I won’t try it here.” He went to the door with Elwood and Petri, one of them on each side of him; Joan followed.
    As they passed out into the corridor he saw that the slime mold’s door was open; the huge yellow mound undulated slightly in greeting.
    “Thank you, too,” Chuck said, half-ironically, and then passed on with his two co-workers from the CIA.
    *  *  *
    As they drove by wheel to Nat Wilder’s office in San Francisco, Jack Elwood said, “This
Operation Fifty-minutes
—we’ve asked to be allowed to include a man in the initial landing party; a routine request which of course has been honored.” He glanced thoughtfully at Chuck. “I think we’ll use a simulacrum in this case.”
    Chuck Rittersdorf nodded vacantly. It was standard procedure to use a simulacrum in projects involving potentially hostile factions; the CIA had a low operating budget and did not like to lose its men.
    “In fact,” Elwood said, “the simulacrum—it was made for us by G. D. down in Palo Alto—is finished and at our office. If you’d care to view it.” He examined a small note pad which he brought from his coat pocket. “Name is Daniel Mageboom. Twenty-six years old. Anglo-Saxon. Graduated from Stanford with a master’s in poly sci. Taught for one year at San Jose State, then joined the CIA. That’s what we’ll tell the others in the project; only ourselves will know it’s a sim gathering data for us.” He concluded, “As yet we have not decided who to put in as determining guide for Dan Mageboom. Maybe Johnstone.”
    “That fool,” Chuck said. A sim could operate autonomously to some extent, but in an operation of this type too many decisions were required; left to itself Dan Mageboom would quickly reveal itself as a construct. It would walk and talk, but when time arrived for it to decide policy—then a good operator, seated in complete safety in Level One of the CIA building in San Francisco, took control.
    As they parked the wheel on the roof-field of Nat Wilder’s office building Elwood said reflectively, “Iwas thinking, Chuck, that you might like to handle Danny. Johnstone, as you say, isn’t the best.”
    Chuck glanced at him, taken by surprise. “Why? It’s not my job.” The CIA had a corps of men trained for simulacra animation.
    “As a favor to you,” Elwood said slowly, gazing off into the heavy afternoon airborne traffic that hung like a layer of smoke over the city. “So you could be with your wife, so to speak.”
    After a time Chuck said, “Absolutely no.”
    “Watch her, then.”
    “What for?” He felt baffled anger. And outrage.
    “Let’s be realistic,” Elwood said. “It’s obvious to CIA’s psych-men that you’re still in love with her. And we need a full-time operator for