The Metallic Muse

by Lloyd Biggle Jr

  “We only discuss these cases with the adopting parents.”

  “They’re both dead.”

  “I see. Would you fill out this card, please?”

  She dropped the card into a slot, and less than a minute later it flipped out of a delivery chute. Stamped across its face in bright red letters were the words, “File Negative.”

  “Evidently no such records were kept,” the girl said. “Sorry.”

  The blonde had finished her song, and she was moving about the Martian Room, chatting with the guests and acting as an informal hostess. Sandler sat at an out-of-the-way table half concealed behind a bushy, fern-like plant, and the blonde walked past without seeing him, glanced hack, and turned toward his table.

  “You look lonely,” she said, sliding into the opposite chair.

  Sandler smiled. The music was playing softly in the background, some of the exotic plants gave off pleasing scents, and he had just finished a delicious terrestrial steak. But if the baffling emptiness he felt could be called loneliness, she was right.

  “You’re a spacer, aren’t you?”

  “Yep. Here today, light years away tomorrow. A poor insurance risk, a poor matrimonial risk, and in the eyes of the politicians, a generally poor citizen.”

  “According to the politicians, you aren’t a good citizen, unless you vote the right way.”

  “Maybe that’s it. I’m always in space on Election Day. Have some dessert with me?”

  “That’s nice of you, but no, thank you. I’ll have some coffee, though, if you don’t mind.”

  Sandler touched a button and gave the order. Seconds later a server rolled across the room and gently attached itself to his table.

  Sandler served the coffee. While they drank it he studied the girl, and she met his gaze effortlessly and without embarrassment. She was considerably older than he thought—thirty, at least. Her blonde hair had dark overtones that suggested it might be natural and a brilliant, almost bluish sheen that denied it. He tossed that problem aside. A man could go crazy speculating about a woman’s hair.

  “I heard you sing that song last night,” he said. “Do you like it?”

  “Everyone likes it. I sing it four or five times a night.” “It’s an idiotic song,” Sandler said. “Some of the words are nonsense.” “The words are beautiful.”

  Sandler chanted in a mocking singsong, “Home is a light across the night of love enshrined. Home is the smart of tears and a heart of faith left behind. Explain that please.”

  “Feelings can’t be explained. You’ve never had a home.”

  “You’re right. I haven’t. I can hardly remember my life before I was adopted—I was too young. I never got along with my foster parents, so I ran away to space when I was sixteen.”

  “That’s odd,” she said. She plucked a handkerchief from her bosom, blew her nose loudly, and added, “Dammit!” “Something wrong?”

  “I had a man. Government worker, fairly high up and doing well. We were going to get married and raise a big family. Then this song came along, and all of a sudden he had to go home. Only he didn’t have any home. Like you, he was adopted, and he never knew where he came from. But he was determined to go, and off he went. I haven’t heard from him since.”

  “If he was a government worker, maybe he was able to find out where he came from.”

  “I don’t think he even tried. At least, when he left he didn’t know where he was going.”

  “You should have gone with him.”

  “He wanted me to, but that song does things to me, too. I’m from Earth, from a small town on the other side of the planet, and do you know what I’m going to do? I’m leaving this place at the end of the month and going home. I’m going to buy a little restaurant and marry some local man if there are any available and make a home for as many children as I can have.”

  “The words are idiotic,” Sandler said. “It must be the melody.”

  “Odd that it doesn’t do anything to you. I thought it affected everyone.”

  “It brought me back to Earth. I thought I was coming home, but this planet isn’t home. Not to me. At the Ministry of Public Welfare, today, I tried to find out where I came from. They say they have no record of it.”

  “They’re lying, then. The government has records of everything.”

  “Are you certain about that?”

  “Positive. I haven’t lived in Galaxia for ten years without learning a thing or two about the government. Complain to your congressman.”

  “Congress isn’t in session. Besides, spacers don’t have congressmen.”

  “Complain to one of the congressmen-at-large. Tell him you’re a traveling salesman, or something.”

  “I might do that,” Sandler said. “Thanks. And good luck with the restaurant. And the large family.”

  She nodded and moved on to the next table. Sandler waited until he heard her sing the “Homing Song” one more time before he went up to his room.

  As a spacer, Sandler considered the popular concepts of night and day to be awkward frames of reference. His living habits were adapted to duty time and free time, and during his free time he slept when he felt like it and generally conducted his life to suit his own convenience.

  It irritated him to have his habits imposed upon by such an arbitrary thing as a planet’s period of revolution. The dusters—as spacers referred to non-spacers—were always making appointments for times when Sandler preferred to sleep, and offices and stores were only too frequently closed when he felt like transacting business.

  When he arrived at the Congressional Office Building he was mildly irked, but in no way surprised, to find no humans present except a score of weary custodians who were charting the routes of their robot cleaners by flickering lights of control panels. He waited, got into conversation with the clerks as they arrived, and so charmed half a dozen young ladies that appointments with any of fifty congressmen were his for the asking.

  Congressman Ringlow, a big, blustery, man-of-the-people type, inclined his shaggy head at Sandler and pointed at a chair. “Mr. Sandler? T. J. Sandler?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Thomas Jefferson Sandler?”

  “The third.”

  “I knew your father.”

  “My foster father,” Sandler said. “I knew him, too— vaguely.”

  The congressman stiffened. “He was a close friend of mine,” he announced haughtily. “I remember talking to him about you just after you ran away. He was very disappointed with you.”

  “We disappointed each other.”

  “Yes. Well, I suppose there are two sides to any disagreement. What can I do for you?”

  “I was at the Ministry of Public Welfare, yesterday trying to find out a few things. Such as where I came from originally and who my real parents are. I was told that no record was kept of this information.”

  “I can understand your wanting to know, but I can’t very well help you if there’s no record.”

  “I’ve been reliably informed—” He smiled, remembering the singer’s confident assertion. “I’ve been reliably formed that the government always keeps records. I feel that I’m entitled to that information, and I resent being lied to.”

  The congressman stiffened again. “Here! That’s rather strong language.”

  “I’m beginning to feel rather strongly about this.”

  The congressman got to his feet and strode to the window. “Your father—foster father—was a decent person,” he said thoughtfully, speaking with his back to Sandler. “I think he’d have wanted you to have that information if you wanted it. I’ll see what I can do.”

  ‘Thank you. You can reach me at the Terra-Central Hotel. Or leave a message there if I’m not in.”

  The message was waiting when Sandler got back to the hotel. Congressman Ringlow had checked with the Ministry of Public Welfare. No records had been kept on the background of a child placed for adoption by the ministry. This was a long-established governmental po
licy, pursued in the best interest of all concerned. The congressman expressed his regrets.

  Sandler took an air cab out to the space port, reported at the offices of Interplanetary Transport, and presented his resignation. He collected his back pay and pay for accumulated leave time, and withdrew his retirement and savings funds. He converted most of this small fortune into Inter-galactic travelers’ checks, which could be cashed anywhere in the galaxy with no identification other than a reasonable number of fingers to match the ten fingerprints on each check.

  From the space port he flew directly to the Ministry of Public Welfare. He demanded a personal interview with the minister. After a series of awkward interviews with underlings, during which he became increasingly adamant, he obtained an appointment with the third assistant to the fourth sub-minister. He was shown into the office of a long-faced young man who squinted timidly at Sandler through bulging contact lenses. His pale countenance had a comical look of near-fright.

  “It seems,” he said shyly, examining a piece of paper, ‘that you made a certain inquiry at the information desk yesterday.”

  “I did.”

  “You did not accept the information that was furnished.

  You went to Congressman Ringlow and asked him to obtain further information for you,” “I did.”

  “And you still aren’t convinced that we don’t have the information you want.”

  “I am not. Until I am convinced, you’re going to continue to hear from me.”

  “I have this for you,” the official said. “It’s a photograph of your record card. This card represents the ministry’s complete record on any adoption case. You will find here all the information that is available with regard to your background. We’ve had so many queries of late— many quite as persistent as yours—that we’ve decided to supply similar photographs to any person requesting one.

  Sandler took the photograph and glanced over it quickly: Medical report on the child, description, fingerprints, report on the foster parents, notes on follow-up investigations. A crisp notation on his running away at the age of (approximately) sixteen. End of record.

  “Satisfied now?” the official asked hopefully.

  “I’ll be perfectly satisfied after I’ve compared this with the original.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible. No unauthorized person can be permitted—”

  Sandler’s hand was in his pocket. He moved it slowly and revealed the bulging muzzle of a flame pistol. The official’s eyes widened and his throat made gurgling noises.

  Sandler spoke softly. “You have a master file screen on the wall. I’d hate to have to use this. At such close range there wouldn’t be much left of you but your head and two legs. It would probably make me sick. Are you going to dial the file number, or shall I?”

  “There’s nothing there you don’t already have.”

  “Then there can’t be any harm in showing it to me. Photographs are very easily tampered with, and I don’t like this blank space in the upper right corner. Dial.”

  The official dialed. In his nervousness he got the wrong card and had to dial again. Sandler made a quick comparison and turned, grinning triumphantly. “Just alike, you say? Look in the right-hand corner. ‘Source One eighty seven.’ What does that mean?”

  The official quickly darkened the screen. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “It refers to the world of my origin, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked at the flame pistol and added, “It might.”

  “There’ll be a list of planetary sources somewhere. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know. The ministry hasn’t handled any adoptions for years, and I don’t know anything about them.”

  Sandler decided to believe him. “Why all the secrecy about this?”

  “I don’t make policy. I just follow orders.”

  “A lucky thing for you.” He pocketed the pistol. “Now listen—I’m not going to tell anyone where I got this information as long as you don’t mention it. If you make a complaint, I’ll say I bribed you for it. Is that clear?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Get away from your desk.”

  Sandler found the recorder and erased their conversation. “If anyone asks you,” he said, “you forgot to turn it on. I thank you for your cooperation.”

  He rode the ramp back to the parking lot. No alarm sounded. A few minutes later he was back at his hotel. He rented a private pool, floated lazily in the water staring at the brilliant designs in the tiled ceiling, and sang lustily. “From far I come, a drifting scum upon the void. No home have I, no world to cry, nor asteroid.”

  He wanted to go home. He was going home. The far-reaching, all-powerful, omniscient galactic government was stubbornly opposed to his so much as knowing where that home might be. He formulated several crucial questions, and he began to make plans to shake some satisfactory answers out of responsible officials. By the neck, if necessary.

  The blonde sang a different song in the Martian Room that night, and afterward she stopped at Sandler’s table and said glumly, “Heard the news?”

  “What news is that?”

  “Ministry of Public Welfare. Censorship Department. The ‘Homing Song’ is bad for public morale. Further performances prohibited.”

  “How could that song harm anyone?”

  “It couldn’t, unless it’s bad to make people want to go home. And since it isn’t, I figure there’s something about it that might harm the government.”

  Sandler nodded thoughtfully. It was of a pattern, along with the ministry’s refusal to give him the information he wanted. “What would happen if you sang the song?” he asked.

  “It would cost me a month’s pay, at least. I could even get into trouble for telling you this. The censorship is supposed to be kept confidential. The government seems to think the song will run off and hide if professional performers stop singing it.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Everyone in the galaxy knows it by this time.”

  “Try that argument on a governmental edict.”

  “What would happen if the public demanded the song? I mean, supposing your audience started calling for it the next time you’re on?”

  “I still couldn’t sing it. But it would be fun!”

  “We’ll try it and see what happens.”

  As she moved onto the stage for her next song, he called out, ” ‘Homing Song’!”

  A murmur of approval rippled about the room. The blonde ignored it, and as she started her song, Sandler called out again. The other guests began to chant, ” ‘Homing Song’!” and drowned out the music.

  Sandler sat back to enjoy the confusion, felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and found himself staring at the credentials of a government public investigator. He paid his check and followed along meekly.

  Outside the door he faced the burly officer and demanded, “What’s the charge?”

  “Disturbing the peace. Endangering public morale.”

  “You’ll have some fun proving that, fellow, with everyone in the place doing the same thing.”

  “Ill prove it.” He patted his pocket. “I have a recording. You started the disturbance.”

  “If you can convince a judge that it was a disturbance.”

  At Police Central Sandler was registered and passed along to the night court. The white-haired judge listened to the charges, had the evidence played, and question the investigator incredulously.

  “You say the Censorship Department has prohibited this song, but the public has not been informed. The defendant certainly could not have known that he was asking the singer to do something unlawful. There is no indication that the hotel guests or its management regarded his actions as a public disturbance. The evidence points to the contrary.” He paused. “I doubt that the courts will uphold the censorship order against the ‘Homing Song,’ but I see no need to concern myself with that question now. Case dismissed.”

  “I intend to appeal the dismissal,” the
investigator said haughtily.

  “The law states that you may make such an appeal at your discretion. I shall schedule a hearing for ten tomorrow morning before Judge Corming, and I recommend that in the meantime you give some consideration to the meaning of the word ‘discretion.’ “

  As a final insult to the investigator, he fixed bond at ten credits. Sandler posted the bond, caught a ground cab, and then dismissed it two blocks from the station. He strolled slowly along Vega Boulevard and several times stopped to look cautiously behind him.

  The investigator’s presence in the Martian Room had been no accident. His arrest on the flimsiest of pretexts had been no accident. The government wanted him out of the way, and if Judge Corming refused to cooperate the case would be appealed further, or the police would fabricate new charges. If he didn’t want to spend the next few years trying to break rocks with a light hammer on a low-gravity satellite, he’d have to move cautiously.

  He heard strains of music, entered a small cafe, downed two drinks, and lost his newly acquired caution. He turned to the musicians and shouted, ” ‘Homing Song’!”

  A near riot followed, but Sandler did not wait to see the outcome. He hurried off into the night, taking his patronage to another cafe, and to a stylish restaurant, and to a smoke-filled tavern, and with identical results. By the time he got back to his hotel, two dozen eating and drinking places along Vega Boulevard were rocking to the chant, ” ‘Homing Song’!”, police cars were swooping down from all directions, and Sandler was in a mildly intoxicated condition.

  From his hotel room window, he looked down at the clusters of police cars and tried to make out what was happening. Above him the sky was clear, the stars bright and coldly distant.

  “Somewhere out there is where I belong,” he told himself. “And I’m going there. It may be only a dump of a planet, but it’s mine.”

  A moonlet drear

  With atmosphere

  Is sacred ground.

  The barren loam

  Of any home

  Is flower-crowned.

  An air car darted across the face of the hotel building, slowed abruptly, and dropped past his window. He threw himself to the floor as a heavy flame gun burned the air above him, wrecked his bed, and bored into the far wall. He dove for his baggage and came up with his own pistol, but the air car was already out of sight.