Joker Moon

by George R. R. Martin

  I really wanted to see a newspaper, however. Wasn’t sure how I would arrange that.

  We had just sat down and eaten perhaps two bites each when Malachi Schwartz materialized. He was wearing a fresh suit several shades lighter than yesterday’s. It occurred to me that the weather in Charleston might be uncomfortable, not that I had many clothing options. “Good, you’ve had your meal,” he said, prematurely. “Come with me.”

  With Schwartz as our escort, Ridley and I were allowed into the rest of the house.

  Which consisted of a spectacular dining room just beyond the kitchen, an enormous foyer and staircase, and what appeared to be a living room the size of a small village. The ground floor clearly contained other rooms, too, and I could only imagine what the upper floors were like.

  Notably, it appeared that every entrance had been modified—widened. There was a pungent odor in the house, too, a mixture of turpentine and something unidentifiable.

  As we toured, Schwartz insisted on telling us all about the paint and furniture and wallpaper and history of these rooms. I don’t remember much of it, but the terms Queen Anne and antebellum were mentioned frequently.

  He did not discuss the improvements.

  I had other priorities, saying, as quietly as possible, “Any news about us?”

  “Oh, a considerable amount,” Schwartz said, then damned if he didn’t resume his travelogue.

  I may have stepped in front of him at that moment. “I need to know.”

  He raised his head. “Let’s just say that you are sought … but not in this area.”

  “Neal’s still in a coma.”

  “At latest reports.”

  “I’m facing felony assault charges, and I’m more than a little worried about what happens if he dies. I can’t just disappear, and I can’t stay here forever, either!” This nugget of worry translated to this: I needed to meet Master Theodorus and get to whatever it was I was supposed to be getting to.

  “I have just commenced my legal efforts on your behalf, Mr. Mitchell. All part of the Witherspoon service. You are, however temporarily, family. And as for your departure date—”

  He didn’t finish that sentence. Never did, in fact, because we all heard—

  “Malachi, is that Mr. Mitchell?”

  Our attention turned to the staircase, another example of recent renovation, with the left half rebuilt into a series of steps more suitable to a giant—there were probably six as opposed to a couple of dozen on the classic, dare I say nat, side.

  And down the stairs came a tallish woman of about forty, with flowing dark hair, green eyes, and a manner I instantly judged to be regal in spite of her mundane clothing—a short-sleeved white blouse and tight pants that my mother called pedal pushers, displaying a trim, even athletic figure. “I’m Alice Witherspoon,” she said, extending her hand and walking toward me in sneakers. Her voice was throaty, relaxed, with a hint of the South.

  Schwartz made a half-hearted attempt to interpose himself between us, but Alice glided past him like Ginger Rogers. I choked out my name; Ridley, his eyes gone saucerlike, did the same, with even less savoir faire.

  “Let me just thank you both for taking time out of your busy schedules to help out with Theodorus. He is such a fan of all this space-flying, and to have you two here in the house—”

  “I didn’t fly,” Ridley said, rediscovering his voice.

  Alice simply laughed and touched Ridley on the shoulder; I could feel the jolt of sensual electricity from two feet away. “Let’s not be burdened by technicalities.” She turned to me. “Let’s say hello to Theodorus. Just give me one moment.…”

  She turned and seemed to glide up the nat side of the stairs. I had to ask: “Does she know about our situation?”

  “It has been my experience, in all the years I’ve worked for her, that Mrs. Witherspoon knows everything.”

  “She must be very tolerant.”

  “She loves her son.” And here Schwartz acknowledged the situation. “The house, as you might have noticed, has been … modified to accommodate the needs of Master Theodorus.”

  “I noticed.”

  “He is a pleasant young man, but personal interactions may require … forbearance.”

  “I have grown up in the wild card world, Mr. Schwartz. And my presentations have exposed me to humans of all shapes, sizes, and abilities.”

  “I do hope so.”

  “Where is Mr. Witherspoon? I look forward to thanking him.”

  “In Washington at present.”

  “And where do you lurk, Mr. Schwartz? Do you have an office somewhere, a practice?”

  I had pricked a nerve. “I have an office in the city proper, though I make use of Mr. Witherspoon’s office here, in his absence.”

  Aha, I thought. Mr. Malachi Schwartz was both unsure of his status with the Witherspoons and maneuvering frantically to solidify it.

  He went ahead of us up the stairs. As we followed, I glanced at Ridley, who looked unusually nervous.

  I was distracted by another presence—a young girl from the billowy dress and slim figure, though crimson-colored and bald. Her manner was elfin, if polite, since she stopped in her tracks and literally bowed to us. She had a notebook of some kind pressed to her chest.

  “Her name is Mathilde,” Schwartz said. And he offered nothing else.

  Alice Witherspoon was waiting for us at the top. “We had to remodel everything up here, and some of it is still new, so apologies!”

  She escorted us toward the room at the end of the hallway, stopping in an open doorway twice as wide and at least two feet higher than one might expect.

  As we got there, I noted the odor again. I should note that I am quite sensitive to smells—and this was pre–wild card. It wasn’t unpleasant, more musty and moist, like a swamp, but distinctive.

  “Theodorus, may I present Cash Mitchell and Ridley Hough.”

  A teenaged male voice said, from inside, “Hey, cool!”

  Then, like a TV variety show hostess, Alice stepped aside, allowing us to enter.

  I would like to say that the first thing I noted were the models hanging from the ceilings, so much like my own room back in Solvang twenty-five years in the past. Instead of JB-1s or Mustangs or Nazi Focke-Wulfs, however, there was a Hornet, a Takisian Baby, and, surprise, a Soviet Sever from the late 1950s, and to my even greater surprise, the linked X-11A and its mother ship from the awful accident in 1958.

  Maybe I did register those before turning to Theodorus himself. Though he was impossible to miss—in fact, his sheer physical presence may have overwhelmed me.

  I don’t believe that Malachi Schwartz’s description of Theodorus Witherspoon as a “snaillike centaur” was sufficient. Technically, yes: the boy’s body had the shape and appearance of a snail perhaps a hundred times larger than it ought to be. In a poor light, or let’s just say in a severely cropped image, the young man might have presented as nat-ish human … head, two arms, and upper torso, that is.

  From sternum south and rearward, it was a different story: he was pretty much a giant snail who, it was obviously apparent, moved as a snail might, propelled by a foot. Taller than me by more than two feet, and even a foot taller than Ridley, who stands six feet four when he doesn’t slouch. I put his weight at half a ton.

  There was no bed in a normal sense, but rather some kind of rack with a hammock. He would have filled a normal bedroom to bursting.

  “My lord.” That was from Ridley, in a voice so soft that only I could hear it. I hoped.

  Theodorus was wearing a custom jersey of some size emblazoned with the logo of a team—baseball, football, I couldn’t have told you—called the Pilots.

  And he held out a hand. I shook, feeling a near-crushing grab, which was understandable, given Theodorus’s mass. I must not have hidden a reflexive grimace, though, because he said, “Sorry.” I thought I saw him blush in shame, a wildly unlikely reaction.

  I kept telling myself, He’s fifteen.

  “
Theo has been so looking forward to having you here, Mr. Mitchell.”

  Talking to Alice Witherspoon was the easiest thing I have ever done. “We’re glad to be here, and please, everyone call me ‘Cash.’” I turned to Theodorus. “You.”

  “Okay.”

  I gestured toward the spaceship models. “You really are a fan. I don’t think I’ve ever seen models of a couple of these.”

  Alice Witherspoon beamed and touched Theodorus’s shoulder. It’s possible I was the first person to ever compliment the collection.

  Then there was an awkward moment when none of us knew what to do or say next. I could almost feel Ridley vibrating next to me. Finally I said, “So, Theodorus, do you want to see Quicksilver?”

  The kid had a great smile.

  For Theodorus, even the simplest journey out of his room was a major operation. But Alice Witherspoon demonstrated leadership and familiarity with the maneuvers. “I’ll take Theodorus to the elevator while you gentlemen go to your spaceship.”

  What was clear, from her tone, was that she did not want us offering assistance. Which made sense, both for Theodorus’s pride and for the simple reason that we weren’t going to be part of such extractions for more than a few days.

  As Ridley, Schwartz, and I headed toward Quicksilver, the money man addressed my partner. “And what is your role?”

  “I, uh, move things around.”

  “In that case, we will summon you when such assistance is required. Though your help in removing the tarp would be welcome.”

  Ridley blinked at Schwartz, then looked at me, and shrugged. “Fine.” He did help pull off the tarp, not that it required two people.

  Once Ridley and I had it stowed, and we grew aware of Theodorus and Alice’s approach, Ridley said, “Mind if I go into town?”

  “Sure. I guess you’re not needed at the moment.” Ever practical, I then said, “Do you need a ride?”

  “Nah, I’ll walk. Or hitch.”

  Then I knew he was steamed: Ridley hated to walk. But he was so eager to be elsewhere that he jogged around the east side of the house. Which left me to turn on Schwartz. “Why did you do that?”

  “It’s obvious to me, and therefore obvious to Mrs. Witherspoon and Theodorus, that Mr. Hough shares the prejudices of most Americans when it comes to jokers.”

  “He never acts like it.”

  “My dear Mr. Mitchell, he acted like nothing but.” He raised his hand to prevent further protests, an unnecessary gesture since Theodorus and Alice had arrived.

  “Wow,” Theodorus said. I had had the foolish notion that he might be able to go inside Quicksilver, but his sheer bulk made it unlikely that he would even be able to peer far inside.

  But he gave it a good walk around, and was tall enough to touch the skin—only after an inquisitive look and affirmation from me.

  “It looks a lot like Baby,” he said.

  “It should; it’s a knockoff in a lot of ways. Less alive.”

  “Smaller.”

  “Is it? I’ve never actually been close to Baby.”

  “I got a ride in her a couple of years ago. Dr. Tachyon brought her here for an afternoon.”

  My mouth must have fallen open. I somehow closed it and said, “Sorry to be such a low-rent following act.”

  “He was pretty weird. I already like you better.”

  I was amused at the notion of a giant centaur-snail describing the humanoid (if eccentrically styled) Takisian as “pretty weird”—ah, teenagers. “Thank you. Uh, too bad we can’t grow spaceships like her.”

  “Someday, maybe.”

  Alice stood back, arms crossed, indulgent and, let’s face it, a bit skeptical as I ran through my well-worn spiel about Quicksilver’s origins, features, and my own modest abilities.

  Even as I talked, I began to realize that I might have been hasty in signing up for the Witherspoon gig. I didn’t have three weeks’ worth of material. I didn’t have more than maybe two hours. And there was the fresh challenge of being more interesting than a Takisian.

  Just then Theodorus completed his orbit. “Can I ask you something, Cash?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell me how you managed to fake that landing on the Moon.”

  I opened my mouth to utter my usual snappy reply, but didn’t, perhaps because I saw Alice step forward, her face flushing with anger. “Henry Theodorus Witherspoon! You apologize right this instant!”

  No apology required. I saw the look on Theodorus’s face:

  He really was a joker.

  And so it began.

  We, that is, all the players, agreed that I would spend two hours with Theodorus in the mornings and two in the afternoons, leaving him free for medical tests (still ongoing) and for other visiting instructors. (I learned that I was the latest in a series, which made sense, since Theodorus was incapable of attending school.)

  That first morning we spent talking about Quicksilver and, yes, the Moon flight. (Once Alice saw that Theodorus and I had genuine interests in common, she departed, taking a reluctant Schwartz with her.)

  After ninety minutes, the rain commenced and we were driven inside. No retainers emerged from the house to offer assistance or take me elsewhere, so I simply followed Theodorus to his elevator.

  “Whatever happened to Eva-Lynne?” he asked, almost shyly.

  “Well, we got married not long after the flight.”

  The trip to the second story took an unusually long time. I would later learn that the elevator was a custom model because it required twice the standard weight limit.

  “Are you still married?”

  “We split up ten years ago.” In fact, the marriage ended as swiftly as it began, but he didn’t need the gory details.

  “Do you ever see her?”

  “Not for years.” And there I was, talking about Eva-Lynne with a fifteen-year-old. “Why do you want to know?”

  By now we were back in his room and he was, in his clumsy, massive fashion, turning toward two chests of drawers that had been stacked one on the other. From the top of the lower one he pulled out an autograph book. “Most of these are Pilots,” he said. “Our Triple-A baseball team.” Which explained the jersey. He flipped to the middle. “But here I have space pilots. My parents got me General Sampson. He works for one of our companies.”

  By golly he did—“BGen Michael R. Sampson” in the general’s copybook hand, under the inscription, “Ad Astra!”

  Theodorus produced a pen. “Would you sign this for me?”

  Neal would probably not believe this, but I have given a number of autographs over the years, though usually to children who had been urged forward by enlightened parents.

  This felt different. Before I could even make my fingers write my name, I wanted to create something memorable. What struck me was this: “Looking forward to YOUR Moon trip!”

  The moment I handed the book to Theodorus I wanted it back. Idiot. This poor kid could barely go out the front door of his own home—he may have flown in a Takisian spaceship, but how many of those would he have access to? He couldn’t fit in an airplane.

  And the look that passed across his face said it, too.

  “What I mean is—”

  Then he smiled as he put the book away. “You mean, don’t stop dreaming, no matter what, right?”

  “I think that’s better.”

  “Now all I need is Eva-Lynne for completion.” I may have let my ignorance show. He added, “It’s what autograph collectors say when you have the whole team.”

  “Ah. You would not only be complete, you would be unique. I don’t think Eva-Lynne ever signed anything.”

  That afternoon I took Theodorus through the whole history of human efforts in space, from the largely fruitless attempts in the late 1940s and early 1950s to reengineer Takisian technology—which was only, what, five hundred years more advanced?

  Then to the first human attempts to go beyond the atmosphere by the Soviets and the United States, largely piggybacking on missil
e development programs. I was able to share wicked stories about the colorful pilot Al Dearborn, survivor of the disastrous X-11A incident. Theodorus loved that.

  I skipped the whole tawdry business of the Rosenbergs, the traitors who gave the Soviets what little we had learned about Baby. Nor did I touch on borderline events like the U-2 spy plane, since it was on a mission triggered by the whole Rosenberg affair. Besides, I needed to leave some stories for Day Two.

  I went into great detail on the Hornet spaceplane flights of the 1960s and 1970s—because Theodorus knew enough to drag details out of me. And those vehicles were descendants of Quicksilver. The last few years had seen tremendous strides in human space exploration, but they presented difficulties, since half of the activity was in the Soviet Union and not well publicized. And the half that was American was frequently outright classified.

  Now, I had spent some free time collecting all the information I could on the Soviet efforts—even learned to read Cyrillic and puzzle out space-related documents. I couldn’t speak Russian beyond a phrase or two.

  But simple diligence had allowed me to be familiar with the spacecraft and their capabilities, to recognize the program managers and pilots, and to have some awareness of what was launched when, and what happened.

  Here I will admit that Theodorus was my equal, if not superior. After all, he had a model of the Soviet Almaz hanging from his ceiling. It was too high for me to really judge. “Is there any way I could hold that?”

  I clocked his hesitation, and understood it. I used to build airplane models. “You don’t have to—”

  “Oh, God, Mr. Mitchell, you’re the only person in the world who would actually recognize it.”

  “Outside of Russia.”

  “Well, yeah.” He giggled. “Can you reach it?”

  I tried but, not being the tallest person in any room, just couldn’t touch it.

  Theodorus looked around his room. There was no furniture beyond a desk that was clearly nailed down and not movable, and not within reach of the model, plus the giant rack of a custom “bed” and a hemispherical frame that served as a chair.