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Read Ebook: Es Percipi by Marlowe Stephen Terry W E Illustrator
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Ebook has 589 lines and 15827 words, and 12 pages
"That's the trouble. Both directions. If we get rid of Qui Dor and tell the Targoffians we no longer want to maintain diplomatic relations, Deneb howls and we lose prestige. If we leave Qui Dor alone, Health and Public Welfare raises a stink."
"Well, it's justified. Have you heard the latest?"
"About what?"
"About a state of emergency, Bryan. Places where the standard of living is high, it isn't too bad. But try telling 'em in India they have to buy and take food concentrates along with Qui Dor's stuff. They won't listen to you. They starve to death. They take Qui Dor's medication to get rid of disease and the symptoms disappear. But they're still sick and some of them die."
"Has anyone spoken to Qui Dor about this?" Channing wanted to know.
"Health wants to. We won't let 'em. State's job, I said. They told me, then do it. How can I do it, Bryan? What can I say? The only time I ever met this Qui Dor was when he presented his credentials. You know Qui Dor. You've talked with him. He'll feel more at ease with you--or possibly that Nicholson fellow."
"Afraid you'll have to count Nick out. He's not a diplomat. All he wants is to get back into space again. You know, it isn't a bad idea. I still have my explorer's rating. I could--"
"Don't even think of it. You came up through the ranks, Channing. A man doesn't go down the same way. He goes out. I don't like this business of giving ultimatums. We're all grown men here, but ... Channing. I want you to see Qui Dor. I want you to reason with him. Not the full treatment, you understand. Qui Dor stays. Deneb would have us spitted over an open fire, otherwise."
"Then what do you want me to do?"
"I'll leave it in your hands, but I want results. Is that clear? Whatever you do, do not offend Qui Dor. But placate the Department of Health and Public Welfare. I'm going down to India on official business, Channing. Do you have any questions?"
"Yes. How the devil can I make both of them happy?"
"Be diplomatic," said State, and took his leave, a worried, red-faced man with an over-sized brief case and round shoulders almost but not quite hidden by an expert job of tailoring.
"Julie," Channing called over the office intercom, "get me an appointment with Qui Dor, Targoffian Embassy, for tomorrow morning or as soon as possible. And is Nick out there listening?"
"Well ... yes."
"Tell him, pretty please, to take his spaceship somewhere and get lost."
"Aw, boss," said Nicholson over the intercom. But he was laughing.
Channing wasn't.
At least, Channing thought as he brought his copter down for an excellent landing on the asphalt airstrip around which his and a dozen other houses were situated in suburban Center Moriches, he could retain his sanity at home. It was decidedly upper middle class, this Center Moriches community, with half an acre of landscaped grounds for each house, a copter and a surface car for each family, and enough money floating around to keep everything, including the marble-walled swimming pools, in good repair.
There was something warm and secure about upper middle, anyway. The lower strata might need some of Qui Dor's goods, the highest might play with them extensively to show that it could but didn't need to, really. But upper middle was neither needy nor had the time for such conspicuous consumption. Mindful of its bootstrap beginnings, upper middle would ape what was above in such things as marble swimming pools and over-generous charity donations and hardly leave time for what Qui Dor had to offer. An occasional food cabinet and a little family squabble, Channing admitted to himself, could be tolerated. But when he remembered Ellen's thorough knowledge of Qui Dor and his Targoffian theories, it unnerved him.
The crabapple trees had shed most of their fruit on the back lawn, dotting the blue-green carpet of grass with brilliant red. The roses were out of bloom but protected next year's blossoms with thorny security. And best of all, thought Channing, breathing deep of everything, there was the chill of autumn on the air and the brittle gold of it in the fast-fading sunlight and the leaf-burning smell of it, so piquant he could almost taste it.
Ellen was not on the back lawn, not in the den, the living room, the basement, or the kitchen. Ellen was in one of the spare bedrooms.
Ellen had a baby.
"You're minding it until one of the neighbors returns," Channing suggested hopefully.
"Uh-uh. It's mine."
"Now wait a minute!"
"Shh, please." Ellen was burping the tiny infant who, wrapped in swaddling clothes and balanced shapelessly on her shoulder, was staring at Channing out of big, solemn eyes. The lips puckered, not all at once but slowly, building up a head of steam. Burp and frightened wail issued forth at the same instant.
"What do you mean, it's yours?" Channing demanded. But the facts were plain enough. The spare room had been converted to a nursery, all done in pink, with crib and bath-gadget and nightstand and a little pink diaper pail.
"Do you like the name Stephanie?" Ellen asked, gently placing the infant in her crib and cooing at her until the wail subsided.
Incredulously, Channing stepped across the threshold to have a closer look. Stephanie puckered and wailed again, drumming tiny legs under the swaddling clothes.
"You're frightening her," said Ellen.
"Will you please tell me what's going on here?"
"Only if you lower your voice."
"There," Channing told his wife in a furious whisper which made Stephanie shriek. "Now tell me."
"Dr. Lang said I couldn't have a baby for two more years. You know that. When I heard about the babies Qui Dor Enterprises were--"
"So now it's enterprises," Channing shouted. Stephanie drowned him out.
"She's pretty, isn't she?"
Stephanie's small, snub-nosed face was pink with fury. The mouth opened wide and hollered.
"What's the matter with you, Bryan Channing? Of course she grows up. She's real."
"As real as that food cabinet. How much did she cost?"
"I won't tell you while you're mad like that."
"Don't you see how fantastic this is?" Channing pleaded, "We can't go around with a fake baby."
"Fake? How dare you!"
"Yes, fake. How would you go about entering her in school when she's four years old, for instance?"
"We'll worry about that in four years, but don't you call Stephanie fake. Anyway, Qui Dor is selling so many babies, provisions will have have to be made."
"That's what the salesman told you. The Viennese."
"Yes. But if you had to clean up the mess she makes, you wouldn't call her fake."
"She goes," Channing said, pointing theatrically at the door, then regretting it. How did he ever get to be a diplomat, anyway?
Ellen ignored him. "You know, dear, I think she looks like you. I was able to select my own features and weight and everything. At birth she weighed six pounds. She's two weeks old now and already gained a pound."
"At birth? Two weeks?"
"Well, you know what I mean. She would have, if she--"
"Oh, then you admit it?" said Channing in triumph. "She isn't real."
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