Frederik Pohl: Jem

Being divorced was probably a plus quality. A man without much home life would be judged better able to concentrate on the job than someone mooning over wife and kids fifty light-years away. Dalehouse hadn’t wanted Polly to leave. But when she did pack up and go, he was quick to see that the divorce wasn’t all bad.

That night in the Aperitif Bar he ran into the blond woman again. He had gone to listen in on the headliners’ news conference, but the crowd at that end of the bar was pretty thick, and most of them seemed to be actual reporters he didn’t feel justified in shoving aside. Between their heads and cameras he caught glimpses of Sagan and Iosif Shklovskii sitting together in their life-support chairs at one end of the narrow room, having their picture taken, and passing smiling comments and an oxygen mask back and forth to each other. They rolled away toward the elevators, and most of the crowd followed them. Dalehouse opted for a drink and looked around the bar.

The blond was drinking Scotch with two small, dark, smiling men — no, he realized, she was drinking Scotch; they were drinking orange juice. The men got up and said good night while he was looking for a place to sit down, and he perceived the opportunity.

“Mind if I join you? I’m Danny Dalehouse, Michigan State,”

“Marge Menninger,” she said, and she didn’t mind his joining her at all. She didn’t mind letting him buy her another Scotch, and she didn’t mind buying him one back, and she didn’t mind going out for a stroll under the fat Bulgarian spring moon, and she didn’t mind going to his room to open his bottle of Bulgarian wine; and, altogether, the day when Danny Dalehouse first heard of Kung’s Star was a very successful and pleasurable one.

The next day, not quite so good.

It began well enough, in the early dawn. They woke in each other’s arms and made love again without changing position. It was too early to get anything to eat, so they shared the last of the bottle of wine as they showered and dressed. Then they decided to go for a walk.

It had rained a little during the night. The streets were wet. But the air was warm, and in the lovely rose glow of sunrise, the Maria-Theresa-yellow buildings were warm peach and friendly.

“The next thing I want to do,” said Dalehouse expansively, slipping an arm around Marge’s waist, “is take a look at Kung’s Star.”

Marge looked at him with a different kind of interest. “You’ve got funding for that?”

“Well” — coming down — “no. No, I guess not. MSU launched four tactrans last year, but we’ve never had a grant for a manned probe.”

She butted her head against his shoulder. “You’re more of an operator than you look.”

“What?”

“You don’t come on real strong, Danny-boy, but you know what you’re doing every minute, don’t you? Like last night. Those two Ay-rabs weren’t getting anywhere trying to put the make on me. Then you just eased right in.”

“I’m not sure I know what we’re talking about.”

“No?”

“No, not really.” But she didn’t seem about to clarify it, so he went back to what really interested him. “That planet sounds pretty great, Margie. Maybe even industry! Did you get that part? Traces of carbon monoxide and ozone.”

She objected thoughtfully, “There were no radio signals.”

“No. Doesn’t prove anything. They wouldn’t have heard any radio signals from Earth two hundred years ago, but there was a civilization there.”

She pursed her lips but didn’t answer. It occurred to him that something was troubling her, perhaps some female thing of the sort he had never considered himself very good at comprehending. He looked around for something to cheer her up and said, “Hey, look at those fellows.”

They were strolling past the Dimitrov Mausoleum. In spite of the hour, in spite of the fact that there was no other human being in sight, the two honor guards stood absolutely immobile in their antic musical-comedy uniforms, not even the tips of the long curled feathers on their helmets quivering.

Margie glanced, but whatever was on her mind, sightseeing was not part of it. “It would be at least a two-year hitch,” she said. “Would you really want to go?”

“I, uh, I think I’d miss you, Margie,” he said, misinterpreting her point.

Impatiently, “Ah, no crap. If you had the funding, would you go there?”

“Try me.”

“That Pak was so flaming pleased with himself. He’s probably already got it all lined up with Heir-of-Mao for the Peeps to send a manned probe there.”

“Well, that’s fine with me, too. I don’t want to go for political reasons. I don’t care what country meets the first civilized aliens; I just want to be there.”

“I care,” she said. She slipped free of him to light a cigarette.

Dalehouse stopped and watched her cup her hands around the lighter to shield it from the gentle morning breeze. They had had a good deal to drink and not very much sleep. He could feel a certain interior frailty as a consequence, but Marge Menninger seemed unaffected. This was the first time he had gone to bed with a woman without the exchange of several chapters of autobiography. He didn’t know her at all in his mind, only through his senses.

The other thing in Dalehouse’s thoughts was that in the 10:00 A.M. session he had a paper to give — “Preliminary Studies toward a First Contact with Subtechnological Sentients” — and he wanted enough time to add some comments about the planet of Kung’s Star.

He sneaked a glance at his watch: 7:30 — plenty of time. The city was still quiet. Somewhere out of sight he could hear the first tram of the morning. Far down the street where they walked he could see two city gendarmes strolling hand in hand, their batons swinging from the outside hand of each. Nothing else seemed to be happening in Sofia. It made him think of his own home in East Lansing at that same promising time of day and year, when the university was running at half-speed for the summer sessions and on decent mornings he walked or biked to his office to enjoy the peace. And, of course, since the divorce, to get out of his empty house.

To be sure, he reminded himself, Sofia was not in the least like East Lansing: flat and urban, where his home was hilly and carpeted with solid quarter-acre split-levels. And Marge Menninger was not in the least like absent Polly, who had been dark, tiny, quick, and easily bored. What exactly was Marge Menninger like? Dalehouse had not quite made up his mind. She seemed to be different people. Yesterday in the Great Hall of Culture and Science she had been another academic colleague; last night, exactly what every all-American boy would like to find in his bed. But who was she this morning? They weren’t strolling with their arms around each other’s waists anymore. Marge was a meter away and a little ahead of him, moving briskly, smoking with intensity, and staring straight ahead.

She seemed to reach a decision, and glanced at him. “Michigan State University, Institute of Extrasolar Biology. Daniel Dalehouse, B.A., M.S., Ph.D. I guess I didn’t tell you that I saw a preprint of your paper before I left Washington.”

“You did?” He was startled.

“Interesting paper. Makes me think you’re serious about wanting to go. Danny-boy, I might be able to help you.”

“Help me how?”

“With money, dear man. That’s all I’ve got to give. But I think I can give some to you. In case you didn’t notice my name tag when you were taking my clothes off, that’s what I do for a living. I’m with SERDCOM.”

“Praise COM from whom all blessings flow,” Danny said fervently; it was the annual grants from the Space Exploration, Research and Development Commission that kept Dalehouse’s institute green. “How come I’ve never seen you when I go to Washington with my begging bowl?”