PLATINUM POHL

by Frederik Pohl

  He sat down, poured himself a drink and promptly forgot it was there. He was thinking. Something was trying to reach the surface of his mind. Something perfectly obvious, which he all the same couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was rather annoying.

  He found himself drowsily thinking of airfish.

  Damn, he thought grouchily, his body’s late tenant hadn’t even troubled to give it a decent night’s sleep! But he didn’t want to sleep, not now. It was still only early evening. He supposed the Chester A. Arthur Day Dinner was still a must, but there were hours yet before that … .

  He got up, poured the untasted drink into the sink and set out. There was one thing he could try to help Madeleine. It probably wouldn’t work. But nothing else would either, so that was no reason for not trying it.

  The mayor’s mansion was ablaze with light; something was going on.

  Pulcher trudged up the long, circling driveway in slush that kept splattering his ankles. He tapped gingerly on the door.

  The butler took his name doubtfully, and isolated Pulcher in a contagion-free sitting room while he went off to see if the mayor would care to admit such a person. He came back looking incredulous. The mayor would.

  Mayor Swinburne was a healthy, lean man of medium height, showing only by his thinning hair that he was in his middle forties. Pulcher said, “Mr. Mayor, I guess you know who I am. I represent the six kids who were accused of kidnaping your son.”

  “Not accused, Mr. Pulcher. Convicted. And I didn’t know you still represented them.”

  “I see you know the score. All right. Maybe, in a legal sense, I don’t represent them anymore. But I’d like to make some representations on their behalf to you tonight—entirely unofficially.” He gave the mayor a crisply worded, brief outline of what had happened in the case, how he had rented, what he had found as a renter, why he had missed the hearing. “You see, sir, the Tourist Agency doesn’t give its renters even ordinary courtesy. They’re just bodies, nothing else. I can’t blame those kids. Now that I’ve rented myself, I’ll have to say that I wouldn’t blame anybody who did anything to avoid it.”

  The mayor said dangerously, “Mr. Pulcher, I don’t have to remind you that what’s left of our economy depends heavily on the Tourist Agency for income. Also that some of our finest citizens are among its shareholders.”

  “Including yourself, Mr. Mayor. Right.” Pulcher nodded. “But the management may not be reflecting your wishes. I’ll go farther. I think, sir, that every contract the Tourist Agency holds with a renter ought to be voided as against public policy. Renting out your body for a purpose which well may be in violation of law—which, going by experience, nine times out of ten does involve a violation of law—is the same thing as contracting to perform any other illegal act. The contract simply cannot be enforced. The common law gives us a great many precedents on this point, and—”

  “Please, Mr. Pulcher. I’m not a judge. If you feel so strongly, why not take it to court?”

  Pulcher sank back into his chair, deflated. “There isn’t time,” he admitted. “And besides, it’s too late for that to help the six persons I’m interested in. They’ve already been driven into an even more illegal act, in order to escape renting. I’m only trying to explain it to you, sir, because you are their only hope. You can pardon them.”

  The mayor’s face turned beet red. “Executive clemency, from me? For them?”

  “They didn’t hurt your boy.”

  “No, they did not,” the mayor agreed. “And I’m sure that Mrs. Gaultry, at least, would not willingly have done so. But can you say the same of the others? Could she have prevented it?” He stood up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pulcher. The answer is no. Now you must excuse me.”

  Pulcher hesitated, then accepted the dismissal. There wasn’t anything else to do.

  He walked somberly down the hall toward the entrance, hardly noticing that guests were beginning to arrive. Apparently the mayor was offering cocktails to a select few. He recognized some of the faces—Lew Yoder, the County Tax Assessor, for one; probably the mayor was having some of the whiter-collared politicians in for drinks before making the obligatory appearance at Dickon’s fund-raising dinner. Pulcher looked up long enough to nod grayly at Yoder and walked on.

  “Charley Dickon! What the devil are you doing here like that?”

  Pulcher jerked upright. Dickon here? He looked around.

  But Dickon was not in sight. Only Yoder was coming down the corridor toward him; oddly, Yoder was looking straight at him! And it had been Yoder’s voice.

  Yoder’s face froze.

  The expression on Yoder’s face was an odd one but not unfamiliar to Milo Pulcher. He had seen it once before that day. It was the identical expression he had seen on the face of that young punk who had replaced him in court, Donley.

  Yoder said awkwardly, “Oh, Milo, it’s you. Hello. I, uh, thought you were Charley Dickon.”

  Pulcher felt the hairs at the back of his neck tingle. Something was odd here. Very odd. “It’s a perfectly natural mistake,” he said. “I’m six feet tall and Charley’s five feet three. I’m thirty-one years old. He’s fifty. I’m dark and he’s almost bald. I don’t know how anybody ever tells us apart anyway.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” Yoder blustered.

  Pulcher looked at him thoughtfully for a second.

  “You’re lucky,” he admitted. “I’m not sure I know. But I hope to find out.”

  5

  Some things never change. Across the entrance to The New Metropolitan Cafe & Men’s Grille a long scarlet banner carried the words:

  VOTE THE STRAIGHT TICKET

  Big poster portraits of the mayor and Committeeman Dickon flanked the door itself. A squat little soundtruck parked outside the door blared ancient marches of the sort that political conventions had suffered through for more than two centuries back on Earth. It was an absolutely conventional political fund-raising dinner; it would have the absolutely conventional embalmed roast beef, the one conventionally free watery Manhattan at each place, and the conventionally boring after-dinner speeches. (Except for one.) Milo Pulcher, stamping about in the slush outside the entrance, looked up at the constellations visible from Altair Nine and wondered if those same stars were looking down on just such another thousand dinners all over the Galaxy. Politics went on, wherever you were. The constellations would be different, of course; the Squirrel and the Nut were all local stars and would have no shape at all from any other system. But—

  He caught sight of the tall thin figure he was waiting for and stepped out into the stream of small-time political workers, ignoring their greetings. “Judge, I’m glad you came.”

  Judge Pegrim said frostily, “I gave you my word, Milo. But you’ve got a lot to answer to me for if this is a false alarm. I don’t ordinarily attend partisan political affairs.”

  “It isn’t an ordinary affair, Judge.” Pulcher conducted him into the room and sat him at the table he had prepared. Once it had held place cards for four election-board workers from the warehouse district, who now buzzed from table to table angrily; Pulcher had filched their cards. The judge was grumbling:

  “It doesn’t comport well with the bench to attend this sort of thing, Milo. I don’t like it.”

  “I know, Judge. You’re an honest man. That’s why I wanted you here.”

  “Mmm.” Pulcher left him before the Mmm could develop into a question. He had fended off enough questions since the thoughtful half hour he had spent pacing back and forth in front of the mayor’s mansion. He didn’t want to fend off any more. As he skirted the tables, heading for the private room where he had left his special guests, Charley Dickon caught his arm.

  “Hey, Milo! I see you got the judge out. Good boy! He’s just what we needed to make this dinner complete.”

  “You have no idea how complete,” said Pulcher pleasantly, and walked away. He didn’t look back. There was another fine potential question-source; and the committeeman’s would b
e even more difficult to answer than the judge’s. Besides, he wanted to see Madeleine.

  The girl and her five accomplices were where he had left them. The private bar where they were sitting was never used for affairs like this. You couldn’t see the floor from it. Still, you could hear well enough, and that was more important.

  The boys were showing nervousness in their separate ways. Although they had been convicted hardly more than a day, had been sentenced only a few hours, they had fallen quickly into the convict habit. Being out on bail so abruptly was a surprise. They hadn’t expected it. It made them nervous. Young Foltis was jittering about, muttering to himself. The Hopgood boy was slumped despondently in a corner, blowing smoke rings. Jimmy Lasser was making a castle out of sugar cubes.

  Only Madeleine was relaxed.

  As Pulcher came in she looked up calmly. “Is everything all right?” He crossed his fingers and nodded. “Don’t worry,” she said. Pulcher blinked. Don’t worry. It should have been he who was saying that to her, not the other way around. It came to him that there was only one possible reason for her calm confidence.

  She trusted him.

  But he couldn’t stay. The ballroom was full now, and irritable banquet waiters were crashing plates down in front of the loyal Party workers. He had a couple of last-minute things to attend to. He carefully avoided the eye of Judge Pegrim, militantly alone at the table by the speaker’s dais, and walked quickly across the room to Jimmy Lasser’s father. He said without preamble: “Do you want to help your son?”

  Tim Lasser snarled, “You cheap shyster! You wouldn’t even show up for the trial! Where do you get the nerve to ask me a question like that?”

  “Shut up. I asked you something.”

  Lasser hesitated, then read something in Pulcher’s eyes. “Well, of course I do,” he grumbled.

  “Then tell me something. It won’t sound important. But it is. How many rifles did you sell in the past year?”

  Lasser looked puzzled, but he said, “Not many. Maybe half a dozen. Business is lousy all over, you know, since the Icicle Works closed.”

  “And in a normal year?”

  “Oh, three or four hundred. It’s a big tourist item. You see, they need cold-shot rifles for hunting the fish. A regular bullet’ll set them on nre—touches off the hydrogen. I’m the only sporting-goods merchant in town that carries them, and—say, what does that have to do with Jimmy?”

  Pulcher took a deep breath. “Stick around and you’ll find out. Meanwhile, think about what you just told me. If rifles are a tourist item, why did closing the Icicle Works hurt your sales?” He left.

  But not quickly enough. Charley Dickon scuttled over and clutched his arm, his face furious. “Hey, Milo, what the hell! I just heard from Sam Apfel—the bondsman—that you got that whole bunch out of jail again on bail. How come?”

  “They’re my clients, Charley.”

  “Don’t give me that! How’d you get them out when they’re convicted, anyway?”

  “I’m going to appeal the case,” Pulcher said gently.

  “You don’t have a leg to stand on. Why would Pegrim grant bail anyhow?”

  Pulcher pointed to Judge Pegrim’s solitary table. “Ask him,” he invited, and broke away.

  He was burning a great many bridges behind him, he knew. It was an exhilarating feeling. Chancy but tingly; he decided he liked it. There was just one job to do. As soon as he was clear of the scowling but stopped committeeman, he walked by a circular route to the dais. Dickon was walking back to his table, turned away from the dais; Pulcher’s chance would never be better. “Hello, Pop,” he said.

  Pop Craig looked up over his glasses. “Oh, Milo. I’ve been going over the list. You think I got everybody? Charley wanted me to introduce all the block captains and anybody else important. You know anybody important that ain’t on this list?”

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you, Pop. Charley said for you to give me a few minutes. I want to say a few words.”

  Craig said agitatedly, “Aw, Milo, if you make a speech they’re all gonna want to make speeches! What do you want to make a speech for? You’re no candidate.”

  Pulcher winked mysteriously. “What about next year?” he asked archly, with a lying inference.

  “Oh. Oh-ho.” Pop Craig nodded and returned to his list, mumbling. “Well. In that case, I guess I can fit you in after the block captains, or maybe after the man from the sheriff’s office—” But Pulcher wasn’t listening. Pulcher was already on his way back to the little private bar.

  Man had conquered all of space within nearly fifty light-years of dull, yellow old Sol, but out in that main ballroom political hacks were talking of long-dead presidents of almost forgotten countries centuries in the past. Pulcher was content to listen—to allow the sounds to vibrate his eardrums, at least, for the words made little sense to him. If, indeed, there was any content of sense to a political speech in the first place. But they were soothing.

  Also they kept his six fledglings from bothering him with questions. Madeleine sat quietly by his shoulder, quite relaxed still and smelling faintly, pleasantly, of some floral aroma. It was, all in all, as pleasant a place to be as Pulcher could remember in his recent past. It was too bad that he would have to go out of it soon … .

  Very soon.

  The featured guest had droned through his platitudes. The visiting celebrities had said their few words each. Pop Craig’s voluminous old voice took over again. “And now I wanta introduce some of the fine Party workers from our local districts. There’s Keith Ciccarelli from the Hillside area. Keith, stand up and take a bow!” Dutiful applause. “And here’s Mary Beth Whitehurst, head of the Women’s Club from Riverview!” Dutiful applause—and a whistle. Surely the whistle was sardonic; Mary Beth was fat and would never again see fifty. There were more names.

  Pulcher felt it coming the moment before Pop Craig reached his own name. He was on his way to the dais even before Craig droned out: “That fine young attorney and loyal Party man—the kind of young fellow our Party needs—Milo Pulcher!”

  Dutiful applause again. That was habit, but Pulcher felt the whispering question that fluttered around the room.

  He didn’t give the question a chance to grow. He glanced once at the five hundred loyal Party faces staring up at him and began to speak. “Mr. President. Mr. Mayor. Justice Pegrim. Honored guests. Ladies and gentlemen.” That was protocol. He paused. “What I have to say to you tonight is in the way of a compliment. It’s a surprise for an old friend, sitting right here. That old friend is—Charley Dickon.” He threw the name at them. It was a special political sort of delivery; a tone of voice that commanded: Clap now. They clapped. That was important, because it made it difficult for Charley to think of an excuse to interrupt him—as soon as Charley realized he ought to, which would be shortly.

  “Way out here, on the bleak frontier of interstellar space, we live isolated lives, ladies and gentlemen.” There were whispers, he could hear them. The words were more or less right, but he didn’t have the right political accent; the audience knew there was something wrong. The true politician would have said: This fine, growing frontier in the midst of interstellar space’s greatest constellations. He couldn’t help it; he would have to rely on velocity now to get him through. “How isolated, we sometimes need to reflect. We have trade relations through the Icicle Works—now closed. We have tourists in both directions, through the Tourist Agency. We have ultrawave messages—also through the Tourist Agency. And that’s about all.

  “That’s a very thin link, ladies and gentlemen. Very thin. And I’m here to tell you tonight that it would be even thinner if it weren’t for my old friend there—yes, Committeeman Charley Dickon!” He punched the name again, and got the applause—but it was puzzled and died away early.

  “The fact of the matter, ladies and gentlemen, is that just about every tourist that’s come to Altair Nine this past year is the personal responsibility of Charley Dickon. Who have these tourists bee
n? They haven’t been businessmen—there’s no business. They haven’t been hunters. Ask Phil Lasser, over there; he hasn’t sold enough fishing equipment to put in your eye. Ask yourselves, for that matter. How many of you have seen airfish right over the city? Do you know why? Because they aren’t being hunted anymore! There aren’t any tourists to hunt them.”

  The time had come to give it to them straight. “The fact of the matter, ladies and gentlemen, is that the tourists we’ve had haven’t been tourists at all. They’ve been natives, from right here on Altair Nine. Some of them are right in this room! I know that, because I rented myself for a few days—and do you know who took my body? Why, Charley did. Charley himself!” He was watching Lew Yoder out of the corner of his eye. The assessor’s face turned gray; he seemed to shrink. Pulcher enjoyed the sight, though. After all, he had a certain debt to Lew Yoder; it was Yoder’s slip of the tongue that had finally started him thinking on the right track. He went on hastily: “And what it all adds up to, ladies and gentlemen, is that Charley Dickon, and a handful of his friends in high places—most of them right here in this room—have cut off communication between Altair Nine and the rest of the Galaxy!”

  That did it.

  There were yells, and the loudest yell came from Charley Dickon. “Throw him out! Arrest him! Craig, get the sergeant-at-arms! I say I don’t have to sit here and listen to this maniac!”

  “And I say you do,” boomed the cold courtroom voice of Judge Pegrim. The judge stood up. “Go on, Pulcher!” he ordered. “I came here tonight to hear what you have to say. It may be wrong. It may be right. I propose to hear all of it before I make up my mind.”