The Golden Globe

"I guess there's nothing to talk about," Henry allowed.

"Henry, I need to get off-planet. Quietly."

"Well, that's the only sensible thing you've said so far. I think that's a good idea. Get away from him for a while." Henry knew John Valentine had been away for some time, and he'd heard something about his return. Where was it, Neptune? Out yonder somewhere. He was vague about places off Luna, which he had never left and never intended to. If God had intended man to go whooshing around in space, Henry felt He would have given us rockets in our butts.

"Well, I figure you can afford just about anyplace you want to go."

"Money's not the problem. I need to do it quietly. Even grown up, I'm too easy to recognize, and there's the computers and all."

"Computers?"

"I get on a spaceship, even with a disguise and an alias, there's reporters who've got programs looking out for me. People who like to be aware of my movements."

Like your father, Henry thought.

"Hard to move around when you're a goddam celebrity, huh?"

"You got that right."

As he worked, Henry thought about it. He didn't expect any results, because if Sparky, with his modern sophistication, couldn't figure a way around it, what was an old country doctor going to do? An old, phony country doctor.

But to his surprise, something kept tickling at the edges of his mind. He needed a drink, so he paused and took a deep swig from the office jug, which was likely to contain just about anything. There had been one memorable evening when...

He narrowed his eyes. He had something. Not what he'd been looking for, but something.

"You know, I recollected something a while back."

"If it's what I'm thinking of, don't reach for any scalpels," Sparky said.

"How's that?"

"I saw you starting to remember. About the jug."

"You doctored it, didn't you? That day your father almost killed you."

"I'm sorry, Henry. That was twenty years ago. I didn't know you then."

"Don't worry. I'm not pissed off." Sparky thought he might be if he knew exactly what had gone into the jug. It shows how wrong you can be. "That pop-skull was the damnedest stuff I ever drank. I lost three days. My spit turned blue. I saw things most drunks don't even dream about."

"I'm surprised it didn't kill you."

"Came damn near. I lost a kidney, and a liver." Henry shrugged. "Hell, I was due for a new liver, anyway. What I was wondering... do you remember what you put in the jug? You think you could do it again?"

Sparky said he could certainly try. And then Henry had it.

"Say, your dad told me one time about a brother. Maybe he could give you a hand. He isn't co

"Uncle Ed?"

"Yeah, used to be a big star. Ed..."

"Ed Ventura. His real name is Edwin Booth Valentine. He's my dad's younger brother."

"Well, maybe he can help."

"I don't see how. And I hardly know him. I haven't seen him in maybe twenty years or more."

"Then he ought to be all the more glad to see you."

The sign over the door said SENSUALIST COLLECTIVE. That's all. It was a plain, ordinary glass door and looked in on a plush reception room. Sparky could see several more doors in there, and comfortable couches, tables with huge arrangements of fresh flowers, ornate wallpaper, and big reproductions of works by classical artists of the heroic school. It reminded him of the lobby of a small, plush hotel, but the listing in the Yellow Screens had said only Retreat. Retirement home, more likely, Sparky thought. When his father had mentioned Uncle Ed at all, he said he was in retirement.

Retirement meant different things in different professions. With long life, the idea of packing it all in at sixty-five, seventy, or even a hundred didn't appeal to some people. On the other hand, plenty of people thought fifty years in the same job was quite a few years too many. Some shifted to new careers... and some tried, and found out they were no longer flexible enough to do so. Aging of the body had been pretty much under control for over a century, but aging of the mind was not always treatable medically, because it did not always have a physical cause. People got set in their ways. They forgot how to see the world freshly. They "retired," because it was either that, or continue in a job they could no longer stand.

Those without a strong work ethic greeted retirement gladly, and filled their days with all the fripperies they could afford. They dabbled in painting, they went on trips. They played games. It was all a lot like Florida in the twentieth, John Valentine had always said, with open contempt.

In the acting profession, retirement could be involuntary. If you'd never made it big, no one cared. You could play character parts forever. But if you were popular once, then lost it, everyone seemed to find you awkward to be around. No one offered you small parts; it was beneath you, even if you wanted the small parts. Something like that seemed to have happened to Uncle Ed. Sparky had given it some thought, himself. A lot had been riding on his appearance as Romeo. It went without saying that many critics would make a lot of "Little Sparky" going romantic. Hell, look what had happened to Shirley Temple, at one time the most profitable star in Hollywood. The business had not historically been kind to child actors.

Sparky pushed through the door and went to the house telephone. There was a list of tenants and near the bottom was Edwin Valentine. He pushed the button, and the telescreen displayed the words PLEASE WAIT.

Interesting, Sparky thought, Uncle Ed not listing himself as Ed Ventura. It was not as if he would be bothered by hordes of shrieking fans. A few nostalgia buffs, perhaps. There were stars like Greta Garbo, legendary after all these years, even after seeking anonymity. With most celebrities, however, thirty years after their heyday few could recall them. They were creatures of the moment, of the famous "fifteen minutes," even if their careers had stretched forty years, as Uncle Ed's had.

Sparky had seen most of the "Ed Ventura" films—after his father departed for Neptune, of course. While John Valentine was around none of his family would view such trash. They were unremarkable, standard star vehicles. Not a one had reached the status of classic. Today they were viewed mostly by film students. But they had been big hits in their day.

In Sparky's opinion, his Uncle Ed owed his acting success less to his mouth than to his chin. He had a good chin. Of course, these days anybody could have any chin they wanted, anyone could be beautiful, so there was no such thing as "glamorous," right? Wrong. There was a certain thing called charisma that no surgeon could transplant. There was an indefinable something called screen presence, and you either had it or you didn't. There was something even more elusive that movie analysts called "kinesthesia," which could be summed up as how one lives in one's body, how you inhabited that handsome head with that rugged chin. "Ed Ventura" had all of those. There was also something called acting talent, which he showed no evidence of in the films Sparky saw, but his father, in a candid moment, said Uncle Ed had that, too, if he chose to use it. He did not so choose. After all, talent had always been the least important aspect of stardom, and stardom was what Uncle Ed had wanted.

No more, apparently. Why else was he stowed away like a forgotten department store ma

"What do you want?"

Sparky was jerked back to the present by the gruff voice. He looked around, saw no one. The telescreen was still blank.

"I, uh—"

"What happened to your face?" Before Sparky could think of an answer the man went on, in a slightly different tone. "Ke