The Computer Connection

“941939002.”

It clicked and then said, “Remove-message-in-well.”

I remove. It turned and scuttled. I opened the message and read: GUESS NOW EN ROUTE TO CERES WITH ME. SIGNED: POULOS.

I showed it to Jacy. He said, “You’d better follow them.”

Natoma had no passport, but Jim the Penman came over and forged a beauty. Jim says forgery is an entirely different proposition these days. No more penmanship; you have to know how to punch in ID symbols that will swindle computer checks. Jim knows how but he’s not telling. Professional secrets. Then again, he stammers, which may be the real reason.

We had a hell of a time putting down on Ceres, but the crew assured the passengers that this was par for the course. She’s the biggest of the asteroids, around 480 miles in diameter, spherical, and rotating every six hours. She spins so fast that lining up on the kinorep fu

When I say spherical, that was before I.G. Farben took over, and I wish I knew how much it cost them to lobby that goniffery through. I know they spent a fortune on scare programs. Ceres was an inferno; alien bacteria, radioactivity, strangling hydrocarbon chains, poisonous spores. By a spooky coincidence there was no more danger after the government thieves told I.G. Farben they could buy Ceres and good luck to them provided they paid their taxes in laundered cash.

No, it wasn’t a smooth ball any longer; it looked more like a mulberry. The Krauts had a hell of a lot of land to play with, so they abandoned the high-rise space-savers and built small in every possible style from quaint old Frank Lloyd Wright up to the controversial design firm of Bauhaus, Stonehenge, Reims y Socios.

Every building was under a bubble, of course, producing the mulberry effect. Ceres was odd and pretty with the changing light glittering on the domes, and a sitting duck for an attack, but I.G. Farben wasn’t worried. They knew that everybody knew that if anyone laid a hand on them they’d cut off all armaments to a peace-loving solar system, which would be a disaster for the seventeen current wars.

So they put us through customs without any fuss and a lot of laughs at my expense. They spoke Euro on Ceres and mine was sort of rusty. I pulled the most ridiculous boners, getting the French, German, and Italian all mixed up. They enjoyed it and coaxed me to go on talking, but when the Herr Douane Capo actually patted my cheek in delight I felt it had gone far enough. I shut up and simply kept repeating, “El Greco, bitte.”

I figured that ought to mean Poulos to them, but they were disconcerted. They shook their heads. I said, “Poulos, bitte,” and more head-shakes. “El Greco, Poulos Poulos, capo von E. Gay Farben.” One bright boy suddenly exclaimed, “Ah! Oui! Greco. Capisco, capisco,” and put us into a little shuttle shaped like half a melon, punched buttons on the control panel, stood back, and waved as we slid off. All the rest were waving and laughing. It reminded me of happy Rome before Mussolini-F.

We slid along transparent tu

The shuttle stopped in a mezzanine and we were handed out by an efficient young tech who pointed to a broad stair leading up. No need for elevators on Ceres, where gravity is so slight that you practically float. So we floated and bounced up the stairs, on our way to see the powerful Poulos Poulos and found ourselves on the main floor of the Greco department store. So much for bright boys.

I was all for leaving in disgust but Natoma took a quick survey and ran wild. Since it was such a joy to indulge her, I tailed along, grumbling now and then to make her feel guilty. It doubles the pleasure of buying when you feel a little guilty about it.

I’m not going to itemize everything Natoma bought. Let it go at this: luminous body paints, singing scents and cosmetics, disposables by the dozen, tech work clothes for men, “Be v. chic for womens next year, Glig,” body stockings transistorized to change color, “Old fashion come back, Glig,” gifts for the family, language textbooks — Spang, Euro, Afro, and XX self-taught. And enough luggage to hold it all.

She paid no attention to the dazzling display of synthetic jewels. It was then I learned that what I’d thought were cockamamy turquoise stones set in her headband and bracelets were really raw emeralds. I presented my passport to pay but when I saw the total I was amazed at how small it was. They told me that Ceres was a free port and begged me to keep quiet about it; they didn’t want a tourist invasion.

I promised, but in return asked to speak to the Chef du Magasin. She was a large lady, most cooperative and understanding when I explained my difficulty. She told me that Poulos was not known by name on Ceres; only as Der Directeur, the one title I hadn’t used. She escorted us down to the mezzanine, put us and our luggage into a shuttle, and punched buttons for us. “Auguri,” she called as we slid off. “Tante danke,” I called back and she burst out laughing. Evidently I’d goofed the Euro again. Later I remembered that I should have said, “Grazie sehr.”

It was a curious scene in the office of the Directeur. For a moment I thought I’d been there before. Then I realized I was remembering an atrium I’d seen reconstructed in Pompeii. Square marble pool center, marble columns around it with marble galleries behind, the walls done in Etruscan red. I explained haltingly to the receptionist on duty who we were and what I wanted. She tilted her head back and repeated the message in a clear, sharp E-flat. A door opened and a typically hostile Frog came out, looked me up and down, and snapped, “Oui?”

At this moment my excited Natoma could no longer resist the null-G. She plunged into the pool and more or less skimmed on the surface with incredible grace. She came to the edge and pulled herself up, streaming water and smiling like an enchanting Nereid. The Frog wilted and murmured, “Ah. Oui. Entre, per favore.” Then he shifted to XX. “What tongue do you prefer?” Don’t ask me how he knew that I preferred Early English.

The i

At that point I liked him, but I didn’t like his news.

“I am so sorry, M’sieur and Madam Curzon. The Director has not been here for a month and most certainly has not yet returned. I know nothing of your Dr. Guess and his cryocapsule. They have not arrived on Ceres, vero. What you look for is not here.”

“But the message, Mr. Boulogne.”

“May I see it, please?”

I handed him the gram. He examined it carefully, shrugged, and handed it back to me. “What am I to say? It has every appearance of the authentic but it was not sent from Ceres, I promise you.”

“Could they have arrived in secret and be hiding?”

“Impossible. And why hide?”

“Dr. Guess is involved in highly sensitive research.”

“That cryocapsule?”

“And its contents.”

“Which are?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you.”

“Germaphrodites,” Natoma said. I glared at her but she smiled reassuringly. “Truth always good, Glig. Secret bad.”