Speaking of coming, Eva and I have been working the computer overtime trying to discover the reason for the incredible sudden success of the Multiplier. I believe we have. It would have been transparently obvious to anyone who'd taken the time to check certain things these past several months. None of us were in condition, physical or mental, to take regular readings of anything recently.
Sese confirms our findings. La Difference, by the way, is more than nine-tenths Earthlike. It has a slightly higher gravity but otherwise is a paradise according to reports from below. No life higher than the lower invertebrates.
DAY 096-14:20
Jean-Jacques and Sese have brought the lander up to disgorge specimens and take on fresh supplies. Jean- Jacques took a couple of hours and finally identified those mysterious proteins. It was a relatively simple procedure, especially since he now had a good idea what to look for.
Really, I don't think that all those pheromones and aphrodisiacs were necessary.
Cute tower of power that she is, Sese made the right connections. She said that if we'd been told that the best theoretical way to operate the Multiplier was to, uh, try and multiply, self-consciousness might have defeated us before we could get started. Admittedly there were several among us who were less than ultra-liberal-minded on such matters, myself foremost among them.
Undistorted mental output engages the space-time distortion functioning of the Molenon Multiplier. That output peaks during the act of sex. Score one for the brain boys back home, but I'm still not entirely sure I like having been tricked into it. How do we measure velocity from now on? In light-years per orgasm?
This would all be funny if it weren't so wonderfully efficient.
Barnard IV is also inhabitable. I will not tell you what Eva and I named it, but the rest of the crew concurred. I am looking forward to seeing how the media cope with it.
Gentlemen, this is a hell of a way to run a starship.
We'll be returning home shortly, as soon as we've thoroughly finished our exploration here. Paul will play rugby again, after all.
The rest of us are going to do our damnedest to get him home in time for the playoffs . . .
PIPE DREAM
'Where do you get your ideas?' is the question most frequently asked of writers of fiction and of science- fiction writers in particular. The usual response is a joking one, particularly if the author is in a hurry. If he has time, he may reply thoughtfully.
Sometimes the response can be precise.
Too many years ago I found myself attending a science-fiction convention in downtown Los Angeles. The con was run by a wonderful gentleman name of Bill Crawford and featured s mix of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. In some ways it was a precursor of today's multimedia-oriented conventions. Bill was an old-timer, but he had a finger on the future's pulse.
One of the guests and a good friend of Bill's was a charming, lanky gentleman who strolled through the con with cool demeanor and well-used pipe. Walt Daugherty was among other things a photographer of some of film dom's greatest horror stars, Karlof and Chaney included. He had a mischievous sense of humor and genial nature that, when functioning in tandem, reminded one of Hitchcock's introductions to the stories on his television show.
The greatest problem one faces at such conventions is how to greet people one doesn't know well but repeatedly encounters in halls and function rooms. After a while 'hello,' 'howyadoin?' and 'what's new?' begin to pall. So it happened as I ran into Walt hour after hour.
The afternoon of the second day I entered the dealer's room only to bump into him again, this time in the process of lighting his pipe. Desperate not to appear either banal or impolite, I searched for a salutation and finally said, 'Hi, Walt. What're you smoking?'
Barely removin the pipe stem from his lips, he glanced down at me out of his left eye and declaimed with a properly Lugosian air, 'Ah, it's not what. It's whom. '
And that's where you get your ideas. Thanks, Walt.
It was the aroma of tobacco that first attracted her.
Delicate enough to demand notice, distinctive enough to bludgeon aside the mundane odor of cigarette and cigar, it was the first different thing she'd encountered all evening.
She'd hoped to meet someone at least slightly interesting at Norma's little get-together. Thus far, though, Norma's guest list had unswervingly reflected Norma's tastes. Emma'd only been fooling herself in hopes it would be otherwise.
There, there it was again. Open wood fires and honeysuckle. Really different, not bitter or sharp at all.
The vacuity of her excuse as she slipped away was matched only by the vacuousness of the young man she left, holding his half-drained martini and third or fourth proposition. But the tall football player didn't need sympathy. He shrugged off the brush-off, immediately corralled another of Norma's friends. Soon he was plying her with the same draglines, blunt-hooked, presenting the first line like an uncirculated coin, newly minted. Option call at the line of scrimmage.
The owner of the pipe was surprise number two. He looked as out of place at the party as a Mozart concerto. Instead of a girl on his lap, he cradled a fat book. He'd isolated himself in a nearly-empty corner of the sunken living room.
She put a hand on the back of his high-backed easy chair.
'Hi,' she said. He looked up.
'Hello.' Absently spoken, then back to the book.
Her interest grew. Might be playing indifferent deliberately . . . but she didn't think so. If he was interested, he sure faked otherwise well. And men did not usually dismiss Emma with an unconcerned hello. Nor did they pass over her face with a casual glance and totally avoid the interesting subcranial territory completely. She was piqued.
There was an unclaimed footstool nearby. She pulled it up next to the bookcase, sat down facing him. He didn't look up.
Well tanned, no beard or mustache (another anomaly). Dark wavy hair tinged with gray at the sharp bottom of modest sideburns. Might even be over forty. Sharp, blunt jaw, but otherwise his features were small, almost childlike. Even so, there was something just a little frightening about him.
She didn't scare easily.
'I couldn't help noticing your tobacco.'
'Hmmm?' He glanced up again.
'Your tobacco. Noticing it.'
'Oh, really?' He looked pleased, took the pipe out of his mouth, and admired it. 'It's a special blend. Made for me. I'm glad you like it.' He peered at her with evident amusement. 'I suppose next you're going to tell me you love the smell of a man's pipe.'
'As a matter of fact, usually I can't stand it. That's what makes yours nice. Sweet.'
'Thanks again.' Was that a faint accent, professionally concealed?
He almost seemed prepared to return to his book. A moment's hesitation, then he shut it with a snap of displaced air. Back it slipped into its notch in the bookcase. She eyed the spine.
'Dьrer. You like Dьrer, then?'
'Not as art. But I do like the feel of a new book.' He gestured negligently at the bookcase. 'These are all new books.' A little smile turned up the corners of his mouth.
'It says '1962' on the spine of that one,' she observed.
'Well, not new, then. Say 'unused.' No, I'm not crazy about Dьrer as an artist. But his work has some real value from a medical history standpoint.'
Emma sat back on the footstool and clasped a knee with both hands. This had the intended effect of raising
