The doctor looked grave. How about you, Mr. MacRae?
Well it's about the same story. I've been trying to write a book, but I can't work. I'm homesick. I want to go back.
Feldman suddenly smiled. It won't be too difficult.
You mean we're in? If we pass the physical?
Never mind the physical your discharge examinations are recent enough. Of course you'll have to go out to Arizona for reconditioning and quarantine. You're probably wondering why it seems so easy when it is supposed to be so hard. It's really simple: We don't want people lured back by the high pay. We do want people who will be happy and as permanent as possible in short, we want people who think of Luna City as 'home.' Now that you're 'Moonstruck,' we want you back. He stood up and shoved out his hand.
Back in the Commodore that night, Jo was struck by a thought. Allan do you suppose we could get our own apartment back?
Why, I don't know. We could send old lady Stone a radio.
Call her up instead, Allan. We can afford it.
All right! I will!
It took about ten minutes to get the circuit through. Miss Stone's face looked a trifle less grim when she recognized them.
Miss Stone, we're coming home!
There was the usual three-second lag, then Yes, I know. It came over the tape about twenty minutes ago.
Oh. Say, Miss Stone, is our old apartment vacant? They waited.
I've held it; I knew you'd come back after a bit. Welcome home, Loonies.
When the screen cleared, Jo said, What did she mean, Allan?
Looks like we're in, kid. Members of the Lodge.
I guess so oh, Allan, look! She had stepped to the window; scudding clouds had just uncovered the Moon. It was three days old and Mare Fecunditatis the roll of hair at the back of the Lady-in-the-Moon's head was cleared by the Sunrise line. Near the right-hand edge of that great, dark sea was a tiny spot, visible only to their inner eyes Luna City.
The crescent hung, serene and silvery, over the tall buildings. Darling, isn't it beautiful?
Certainly is. It'll be great to be back. Don't get your nose all runny.
We Also Walk Dogs
General Services Miss Cormet speaking! She addressed the view screen with just the right balance between warm hospitable friendliness and impersonal efficiency. The screen flickered momentarily, then built up a stereo-picture of a dowager, fat and fretful, overdressed and underexercised.
Oh, my dear, said the image, I'm so upset. I wonder if you can help me.
I'm sure we can, Miss Cormet purred as she quickly estimated the cost of the woman's gown and jewels (if real she made a mental reservation) and decided that here was a client that could be profitable. Now tell me your trouble. Your name first, if you please. She touched a button on the horseshoe desk which enclosed her, a button marked CREDIT DEPARTMENT.
But it's all so involved, the image insisted. Peter would go and break his hip. Miss Cormet immediately pressed the button marked MEDICAL. I've told him that polo is dangerous. You've no idea, my dear, how a mother suffers. And just at this time, too. It's so inconvenient
You wish us to attend him? Where is he now?
Attend him? Why, how silly! The Memorial Hospital will do that. We've endowed them enough, I'm sure. It's my dinner party I'm worried about. The Principessa will be so annoyed.
The answer light from the Credit Department was blinking angrily. Miss Cormet headed her off. Oh, I see. We'll arrange it for you. Now, your name, please, and your address and present location.
But don't you know my name?
One might guess, Miss Cormet diplomatically evaded, but General Services always respects the privacy of its clients.
Oh, yes, of course. How considerate. I am Mrs. Peter van Hogbein Johnson. Miss Cormet controlled her reaction. No need to consult the Credit Department for this one. But its transparency flashed at once, rating AAA unlimited. But I don't see what you can do , Mrs. Johnson continued. I can't be two places at once.
General Services likes difficult assignments, Miss Cormet assured her. Now if you will let me have the details...
She wheedled and nudged the woman into giving a fairly coherent story. Her son, Peter III, a slightly shopworn Peter Pan, whose features were familiar to Grace Cormet through years of stereogravure, dressed in every conceivable costume affected by the richly idle in their pastimes, had been so thoughtless as to pick the afternoon before his mother's most important social function to bung himself up seriously. Furthermore, he had been so thoughtless as to do so half a continent away from his mater.
Miss Cormet gathered that Mrs. Johnson's technique for keeping her son safely under thumb required that she rush to his bedside at once, and, incidentally, to select his nurses. But her dinner party that evening represented the culmination of months of careful maneuvering. What was she to do?
Miss Cormet reflected to herself that the prosperity of General Services and her own very substantial income was based largely on the stupidity, lack of resourcefulness, and laziness of persons like this silly parasite, as she explained that General Services would see that her party was a smooth, social success while arranging for a portable full-length stereo screen to be installed in her drawing room in order that she might greet her guests and make her explanations while hurrying to her son's side. Miss Cormet would see that a most adept social manager was placed in charge, one whose own position in society was irreproachable and whose connection with General Services was known to no one. With proper handling the disaster could be turned into a social triumph, enhancing Mrs. Johnson's reputation as a clever hostess and as a devoted mother.
A sky car will be at your door in twenty minutes, she added, as she cut in the circuit marked TRANSPORTATION, to take you to the rocket port. One of our young men will be with it to get additional details from you on the way to the port. A compartment for yourself and a berth for your maid will be reserved on the 16:45 rocket for Newark. You may rest easy now. General Services will do your worrying.
Oh, thank you, my dear. You've been such a help. You've no idea of the responsibilities a person in my position has.
Miss Cormet cluck-clucked in professional sympathy while deciding that this particular old girl was good for still more fees. You do look exhausted, madame, she said anxiously. Should I not have a masseuse accompany you on the trip? Is your health at all delicate? Perhaps a physician would be still better.
How thoughtful you are!
I'll send both, Miss Cormet decided, and switched off, with a faint regret that she had not suggested a specially chartered rocket. Special service, not listed in the master price schedule, was supplied on a cost-plus basis. In cases like this plus meant all the traffic would bear.
She switched to EXECUTIVE; an alert-eyed young man filled the screen. Stand by for transcript, Steve, she said. Special service, triple-A. I've started the immediate service.
His eyebrows lifted. Triple-A bonuses?
Undoubtedly. Give this old battleaxe the works smoothly. And look the client's son is laid up in a hospital. Check on his nurses. If any one of them has even a shred of sex-appeal, fire her out and put a zombie in.
Gotcha, kid. Start the transcript.
She cleared her screen again; the available-for-service light in her booth turned automatically to green, then almost at once turned red again and a new figure built up in her screen.