"Hey!" cried Barnevelt, shyness dropping from him like a discarded cloak. "Why me? Why not you? Matter of fact you not only look like Igor, you can even imitate that foul Russian accent of his. It is you who should gaw, my frand…"
Marlowe waved a hand. "I'm too old for roughing it, just a mass of flab, and I never had any training at that sort…"
"Neither have I! And you said yourself the other day I was an impractical intellectual, so who am I to clear the dark places and let in the law?"
"You can work the Hayashi, and you yacht, don't you?"
"Oh, fool! Only on a friend's boat. You don't think I own a yacht on my pay, do you? Of course if you wanted to raise it…"
Marlowe shrugged. "It's the experience that counts, not how you got it. And being brought up on a farm you know about the simple life."
"But we had electricity and running…"
"Furthermore, all of us have dependents except George and you."
"I've got my mother," said Barnevelt, his naturally ruddy face turning a lobsterish red. References to his rural background always embarrassed him; for, while he preferred city life, he had never gotten over the feeling that to these born city slickers he was a figure of fun.
"Bunk!" said the acid voice of Mrs. Fischman. "We know all about your old lady, Dirk. Best thing for you would be to get away from her apron-strings."
"Look here, I don't see what business…"
"We'll pay her your salary while you're gone, if you like, so she won't starve. And if you put it over there'll be enough dividend to get you out of those debts she got you into."
"Enough," added Marlowe, "so you'll be able to afford a fancy duplex apartment with an Oriental manservant."
Tangaloa put in: "Don't you think he'd get more fun out of a French maid?"
Barnevelt, now scarlet, shut up. It was always a mistake to bring up his mother. On one hand he felt he ought to defend her, while on the other he feared they were right. If only his father, the Dutchman, hadn't died while he was still a boy…
"Besides," Marlowe went on, "I know my limitations, and I shouldn't be any better at Igor's job than he was at mine in New Haven."
"What's this?" said Thorpe. "Don't think I know that story."
Laing explained: "You know Igor's the world's worst public speaker, so Grant takes his place on the platform, using his films, just as Dirk ghost-writes his books and articles. For emergencies we procured a little mechanical speaker that looks like a flower on the lapel and made recordings of some lectures, written by Dirk and spoken by Grant. Then we trained Igor to stand there moving his mouth in synchronism with the speech coming out of the speaker."
"And then?"
"Then two years ago Grant got sick, and Igor undertook the job with this gadget. But when he stood up and started the speaker, the thing had gotten out of adjustment and played the same line over and over: '… happy to be here… happy to be here… happy to be here…', Like that. It ended with Igor dancing on the gadget and howling Russian curses."
While Thorpe laughed, Laing turned to Barnevelt. "It's a lot to ask, Dirk, but there's no way out. Besides, if you're Igor's ghost, don't you want your body back?"
Tangaloa, grinning like a large Polynesian Billiken, sang: "Bring back, bring back, oh bring back my body to me, to me!"
All laughed save Barnevelt.
"No," he said with the exaggerated firmness of a man who feels his inner defenses beginning to crumble, "I can make a perfectly good living on Earth without Igor Shtain Limited-better than I'm making now…"
"Wait," said Laing. "There's more to it. I had a talk with Tsukung of the Division of Investigation, and they're really worried about the janru racket. You know what it did to Dio, and you read about the Polhemus murder. The extract is so powerful you can hide a hundred doses in a tooth-cavity. It's diluted thousands of times over, and finally appears in perfumes with names like nuit d'amour and moment d'extase. But with the janru added they really do what the names imply. A woman can squirt herself with the stuff, and as soon as a man gets a whiff he goes clean daft and she can make him jump through hoops as if he were under Osirian pseudohypnosis.
"But that's not all. It only works when a female uses it on a male, and the way the stuff's getting spread around, Tsukung's afraid the women will completely dominate the men of the world in a couple of decades."
"That wouldn't be so bad," said Mrs. Fischman. "I could use some on that nogoodnik husband of mine."
"So," continued Laing, "you can save the male half of the human race from a fate worse than death—or at least a fate like the one your mother's been inflicting on you. Isn't that worth while?"
"Come to think of it," said Marlowe, "are we sure Dirk's mother hasn't been using it on him?"
Barnevelt shook his head vigorously. "It's just that she got the psychological jump on me long ago. But what do I get out of this? I'm a peasant slave already."
"You'd get away from her," said Laing.
Tangaloa said: "You don't want to see the women enslave the men, the way you Westerners used to do to your women, do you?"
"It'll make a man of you," said Marlowe. "Anybody your age who's never been married needs something drastic."
"It'll give you real experience to write about," said Mrs. Fischman.
"Better get in your adventures now, while you're young and unattached," said Thorpe. "If I had your chance…"
"We'll raise your salary," said Panagopolos. "And with your expense-account on Krishna, you can…"
"Think of all the screwy animals you'll see," said Tangaloa. "You're crazy about queer beasts."
"And," said Laing, "it's not as though we were asking you to go to Mars and live among those oversized insects with an oxygen-mask on your face. The natives look almost human."
"In fact, the females…" said Tangaloa, making curving motions in the air with his hands.
"Oh, hell, I'll go," said Barnevelt at last, knowing that they'd talk him around in the end. Anyway, hadn't he promised himself an adventure like this years ago when he was a boy on the farm in Chautauqua County? Served him right.
CHAPTER II
"George," said Barnevelt, "what do I do now? Increase my insurance?"
"Oh, it's all arranged," said Tangaloa. "I have reservations on the Eratosthenes leaving Mohave day after tomorrow."
Barnevelt stared. "You mean—you mean you actually had this all cooked up in advance?"
"Certainly. We knew you'd come round."
Although Barnevelt turned red and started to sputter, Tangaloa added calmly: "When can you be packed?"
"That depends. What do I bring, ear-muffs?"
"Just ordinary clothes for a couple of months. I've got the cameras and other special gear, and the rest we buy at Novorecife. No use paying freight on more luggage than we can help."
"Where's the Eratosthenes bound for? Pluto?"
"No, Neptune's now the staging-planet for the Cetic planets. The Amazonas takes us over the long jump to Krishna."
"What do I do about my mother?"
"Why, nothing!"
"But if she finds out she'll forbid the trip, and I can't defy her. That is, I can, but it never works."
Tangaloa grinned. "Tell her you're going on a cruise with that sailing friend of yours."
"Good. I'll say we're going to visit my great-grandmother Anderson in Baltimore. Matter of fact I'd better call Prescott. There's nothing like getting your lies straightened out in advance." He dialed his wrist-phone. "Harry? Dirk. Could you do me a favor?…"