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“Jeez,” Munster protested, “you’re lucky; a human form is infinitely superior to a Blobel form—I ought to know. As a Blobel you have to creep along… you’re like a big jellyfish, no skeleton to keep you erect. And binary fission—it’s lousy, I say really lousy, compared to the Terran form of—you know. Reproduction.” He colored.
Dr. Jones ticked and stated, “For a period of about six hours your human forms overlap. And then for about one hour your Blobel forms overlap. So all in all, the two of you possess seven hours out of twenty-four in which you both possess identical forms. In my opinion—” It toyed with its pen and paper. “Seven hours is not too bad. If you follow my meaning.”
After a moment Miss Arrasmith said, “But Mr. Munster and I are natural enemies.”
“That was years ago,” Munster said.
“Correct,” Dr. Jones agreed. “True, Miss Arrasmith is basically a Blobel and you, Munster, are a Terran, but—” It gestured. “Both of you are outcasts in either civilization; both of you are stateless and hence gradually suffering a loss of ego-identity. I predict for both of you a gradual deterioration ending finally in severe mental illness. Unless you two can develop a rapprochement.” The analyst was silent, then.
Miss Arrasmith said softly, “I think we’re very lucky, Mr. Munster. As Dr. Jones said, we do overlap for seven hours a day… we can enjoy that time together, no longer in wretched isolation.” She smiled up hopefully at him, rearranging her coat. Certainly, she had a nice figure; the somewhat low-cut dress gave an ideal clue to that.
Studying her, Munster pondered.
“Give him time,” Dr. Jones told Miss Arrasmith. “My analysis of him is that he will see this correctly and do the right thing.”
Still rearranging her coat and dabbing at her large, dark eyes, Miss Arrasmith waited.
The phone in Dr. Jones’ office rang, a number of years later. He answered it in his customary way. “Please, sir or madam, deposit twenty dollars if you wish to speak to me.”
A tough male voice on the other end of the line said, “Listen, this is the UN Legal Office and we don’t deposit twenty dollars to talk to anybody. So trip that mechanism inside you, Jones.”
“Yes, sir,” Dr. Jones said, and with his right hand tripped the lever behind his ear that caused him to come on free.
“Back in 2037,” the UN legal expert said, “did you advise a couple to marry? A George Munster and a Vivian Arrasmith, now Mrs. Munster?”
“Why yes,” Dr. Jones said, after consulting his built-in memory banks.
“Had you investigated the legal ramifications of their issue?”
“Um well,” Dr. Jones said, “that’s not my worry.”
“You can be arraigned for advising any action contrary to UN law.”
“There’s no law prohibiting a Blobel and a Terran from marrying.”
The UN legal expert said, “All right, Doctor, I’ll settle for a look at their case histories.”
“Absolutely not,” Dr. Jones said. “That would be a breach of ethics.”
“We’ll get a writ and sequester them, then.”
“Go ahead.” Dr. Jones reached behind his ear to shut himself off.
“Wait. It may interest you to know that the Munsters now have four children. And, following the Mendelian Law, the offspring comprise a strict one, two, one ratio. One Blobel girl, one hybrid boy, one hybrid girl, one Terran girl. The legal problem arises in that the Blobel Supreme Council claims the pure-blooded Blobel girl as a citizen of Titan and also suggests that one of the two hybrids be donated to the Council’s jurisdiction.” The UN legal expert explained, “You see, the Munsters’ marriage is breaking up; they’re getting divorced and it’s sticky finding which laws obtain regarding them and their issue.”
“Yes,” Dr. Jones admitted, “I would think so. What has caused their marriage to break up?”
“I don’t know and don’t care. Possibly the fact that both adults and two of the four children rotate daily between being Blobels and Terrans; maybe the strain got to be too much. If you want to give them psychological advice, consult them. Goodbye.” The UN legal expert rang off.
Did I make a mistake, advising them to marry? Dr. Jones asked itself. I wonder if I shouldn ‘t look them up; I owe at least that to them.
Opening the Los Angeles phone book, it began thumbing through the Ms.
These had been six difficult years for the Munsters.
First, George had moved from San Francisco to Los Angeles; he and Vivian had set up a household in a condominium apartment with three instead of two rooms. Vivian, being in Terran form three-fourths of the time, had been able to obtain a job; right out in public she gave jet flight information at the Fifth Los Angeles Airport. George, however—
His pension comprised an amount only one-fourth that of his wife’s salary and he felt it keenly. To augment it, he had searched for a way of earning money at home. Finally in a magazine he had found this valuable ad:
So in 2038 he had bought his first pair of frogs imported from Jupiter and had begun raising them for swift profits, right in his own condominium apartment building, in a corner of the basement that Leopold, the partially-homeostatic janitor, let him use gratis.
But in the relatively feeble Terran gravity the frogs were capable of enormous leaps, and the basement proved too small for them; they ricocheted from wall to wall like green ping pong balls and soon died. Obviously it took more than a portion of the basement at QEK-604 Apartments to house a crop of the damned things, George realized.
And then, too, their first child had been born. It had turned out to be a pure-blooded Blobel; for twenty-four hours a day it consisted of a gelatinous mass and George found himself waiting in vain for it to switch over to a human form, even for a moment.
He faced Vivian defiantly in this matter, during a period when both of them were in human form.
“How can I consider it my child?” he asked her. “It’s—an alien life form to me.” He was discouraged and even horrified. “Dr. Jones should have foreseen this; maybe it’s your child—it looks just like you.”
Tears filled Vivian’s eyes. “You mean that insultingly.”
“Damn right I do. We fought you creatures—we used to consider you no better than Portuguese sting-rays.” Gloomily, he put on his coat. “I’m going down to Veterans of U
VUW Headquarters was a decrepit cement building in downtown Los Angeles left over from the twentieth century and sadly in need of paint. The VUW had little funds because most of its members were, like George Munster, living on UN pensions. However, there was a pool table and an old 3-D television set and a few dozen tapes of popular music and also a chess set. George generally drank his beer and played chess with his fellow members, either in human form or in Blobel form; this was one place in which both were accepted.
This particular evening he sat with Pete Ruggles, a fellow veteran who also had married a Blobel female, reverting, as Vivian did, to human form.
“Pete, I can’t go on. I’ve got a gelatinous blob for a child. My whole life I’ve wanted a kid, and now what have I got? Something that looks like it washed up on the beach.”
Sipping his beer—he too was in human form at the moment—Pete answered, “Criminy, George, I admit it’s a mess. But you must have known what you were getting into when you married her. And my God, according to Mendel’s Law, the next kid—”