A bewhiskered savant named Professor Calculus explained, “The immense weight of the dangling bridge—in essence, a technological beanstalk or celestial ascenseur—must be counterbalanced by an equal weight outside the gravity shell of our planet, midway between Earth and Moon, at roughly the three-hundred-and-thirty-seven-kilometre mark. Practically speaking, the bridge will be suspended from this anchor outside our atmosphere, and simply tethered to the soil at either end.”
“How do we create this anchor in the ether?” asked the President.
“We propose to launch by numerous rockets many millions of tonnes of magnetically charged material, all aimed at the desired nexus in the void. The multiple impacts will agglomerate naturally into the desired anchor. Then we will harpoon the anchor with a titanic cable fired from a super-cannon, the other end of which will remain fastened here, and use that cable as the armature to build upward. Once this leg of the bridge is constructed, building downward to the Moon will be trivial.”
Mr. Ponto now intervened, exclaiming, “Superb! And I offer a sophistication. We shall construct upon this anchor planetoid an elegant space casino, just like the successful underwater one that punctuates the mid-Atlantic train tunnel. Baccarat and faro beneath the Milky Way! We’ll make a fortune!”
And so, with the bridge and its refinements firmly conceptualized, construction began.
Never before in the history of the race had such titanic assemblages of men, material and energy been seen! The continent of Helenia was the focal point of tributaries of labour and materials from all quarters of the globe. Around the clock swarmed hordes of workers, stockpiling the steel plates and girders that would form the shell of the interplanetary tube, launching rocket upon rocket full of magnetite, coordinating the building processes.
Within several weeks, the anchor was complete, and the cable secured. Construction of the space-tube and its interior workings began immediately.
Throughout the gargantuan project, only four individuals knew the truth of the matter and appreciated the urgency behind the construction. President Ponto, Mr. Ponto, Jungle Alli and Hélène formed a secret cabal, a quartet of conspirators who alone amongst billions of souls realized that the whole planet was now in a race with the machinations of the Cat Women. Would humanity reach the Moon and stymie the Cat Women before terrestrial society tore itself apart?
For the tumult and tension between the sexes were increasing. Incidents proliferated and grew in brutality, as the perverted ideoneme of gender rancour disseminated itself through all levels of society, a virus cut loose from its original Cat Women source. Small riots and pogroms, both anti-male and anti-female, broke out daily, everywhere.
Luckily, Hélène and Jungle Alli maintained their sanity, thanks to their mutual innoculations of closeness, as well as frequent booster shots from President Ponto. Hélène’s sharp wits and vast practical experience—she had dabbled in almost every profession under the sun, before settling down as Philippe’s wife—contributed much to the whole enterprise.
Six months into the project, the midway point in the bridge construction had been reached, and the moment of the casino’s official opening loomed. But the ceremonies were actually a sham, to maintain the façade of innocent commercialism.
At the base of the space-ascenseur, President Ponto snipped a red ribbon, to much acclaim, his actions broadcast across the globe via the telephonoscope. He stepped aboard the car that occupied the interior of the space-tube. Hélène and Jungle Alli accompanied him. (Mr. Ponto was already at the casino, overseeing inaugural preparations and hundreds of workers who were preparing against the day when, God willing, the casino could function as intended in a world at peace.) The doors closed, and the car shot upwards inside the tube with remarkable speed.
Inside the private car, with its padded velvet couches, gilt trim, muralled walls and well-appointed wet bar, the trio fortified themselves against any further mental attacks by the Cat Women.
Within only half an hour, the capsule docked at the space casino. Its occupants barely had time to rearrange their clothing from the rigours of the passage before they were greeted by a boisterous string quartet in formal wear, and the smiling face of Mr. Ponto.
“Quite classy, Rafe,” said Jungle Alli in her natal English. “Even if it is a little premature. Now where’s the champagne?”
But this night of exclusive glittering gaiety was to be short-lived. Their welcome was a mere diverting moment of ceremony. Already the capacious capsule of the space-ascenseur was busy shuttling dozens of additional workers at a go to the anchor planetoid. For the past six months, rockets had been delivering tonnes of components for the next stage of the bridge. Protected from the cold and vacuum of interplanetary space by special suits of gutta-percha and vitrine, the workers were already forging the next leg of the link between the incompatible orbs.
For the next several months, the quartet of conspirators resided at the casino, its only patrons, supervising the construction. The task was wearisome, but the knowledge of how vital their mission was granted them endless strength. Reports came hourly by telephonoscope of the accelerating turmoil back on the home world.
Due to the increased experience of the workers, and a skimping in certain ornamental details, the second half of the space bridge took only three months to complete.
Came the day when Jungle Alli and her three comrades, clad in their own anti-vacuum coveralls and bolstered by a squad of Niam-Niams, stepped out onto the lunar surface.
Now would the Cat Women find the battle brought to their very doorstep!
“All right, you may remove your helmets.”
All the members of the Earth party, which consisted of Philippe, Rafael and Hélène, as well as the several savages, followed Jungle Alli’s instructions, taking cautious breaths of the atmosphere found in the lunar caverns. As they doffed their suits, their movements were weirdly acrobatic and butterfly-like in the reduced lunar gravity.
Leaving a pair of Niam-Niams to guard the discarded suits, Jungle Alli said, “Follow me.”
Leading the way through the luminescent lunar grottoes, the piratical mercenary soon brought her charges within sight of their goal.
The decayed city of the Cat Women, older than Ninevah and Tyre combined, a chunky set of fallen towers resembling a child’s tumbled blocks.
Jungle Alli addressed her comrades. “Remember, the Cat Women can outmanoeuvre us by their powers of teleportation. But they are not supernatural. Our firearms even out the fight. And I believe if we can remove their leader, Alpha, from the equation, then the rest of them will collapse.”
“Very well,” said President Ponto. “Lead on, Alice.”
Within minutes, the Earthlings found themselves crossing a broad plaza and entering a palatial building. They had not gone far before they found their way blocked by a living Cat Woman!
“I am Omega,” said the alluring, dark-haired female, in every respect a sister to the afore-seen Alpha. “What do you humans want here?”
“Bring us to see Alpha. Our business is with her.”
“She and the others are—are busy.”
“Of course they are. Sending their evil thoughts into the innocent minds of our women!”
Quicker than a python, Jungle Alli had the blade of her machete against Omega’s throat. “You might be able to vanish before my reflexes cause my muscles to slice, but I doubt it. You’ll materialize in safety, perhaps—but with a severed artery! Now, lead us to Alpha!”
For whatever reason, Omega did not vanish, but complied. Perhaps she too chafed under the rule of the all-dominant Alpha….
The remaining seven Cat Women occupied couches in a large, column-dotted, temple-like room, looking like the Sleepers of Epheseus while they directed their malevolent thoughts Earthward. As the newcomers entered, Alpha instantly roused herself from slumber and stood.
“So,” said the head Cat Woman, “you have decided to visit us at home, Alice Bradley! Forgive my ungraciousness as a
hostess, but I cannot offer you any refreshments.”
“We don’t want any. We only demand justice. You will cease your assaults on Earth’s females, or—”
“Or what? We will spontaneously relocate in the next second to a different part of the Moon, where you will never find us. And soon, your society will tear itself apart under our renewed attacks.”
Jungle Alli pondered this boast, before saying, “This struggle is all about seeing which of our two races is superior, and deserves to inherit the Earth. Why not determine the same judgement between you and me alone?”
Alpha looked tantalized by the prospect. “You mean, individual combat?”
“I do.”
“Very well, I accept. Rid yourself of weapons.”
Jungle Alli swiftly complied. “And you will promise not to employ your powers of vanishment.”
“Agreed.”
Before commencing combat, Jungle Alli solicited a kiss from both Hélène and Philippe. Thus armed with their fond endorsement, she advanced on her foe.
The two women, each formidable in her own way, circled each other like wrestlers, looking for openings. Jungle Alli was sinuous as a snake, while Alpha, the larger of the two, resembled a panther.
At last they closed, with wordless grunts and exclamations. Grappling hand to hand, they struggled for mastery.
Jungle Alli was tossed to the lunar pavement first. Falling upon her stunned prey, Alpha was surprised to find Jungle Alli wriggling out of her grip and soon riding the Cat Woman’s back! Alpha punched backwards, ramming knuckles into Jungle Alli’s cheekbones, and causing her to loosen her hold. The women separated, regained their feet and faced off again.
For a seemingly interminable time the two women fought, enacting a strange barbaric scene among the sleeping forms of the Cat Women—still pulsing out their deadly ideonemes—and the cheering figures of the wholesome Earth people. The battle inevitably took its toll: Alpha’s long hair had come undone and disarrayed, while Jungle Alli’s shorter pelt was plastered to her skull with sweat. The clothing of both women was ripped, revealing lush bruised flesh. Their mutual panting sounded in the hall like the chuffing of some struggling engine.
The two resting apart for a moment, Alpha said, “You are a vigorous specimen, Alice Bradley. If all Earth women were like you, they might deserve to live!”
Falling into English, Jungle Alli replied, “We won’t go on without our menfolks. You bitches have been deprived too long to know what you’re missing!”
“Men!” spat Alpha. “Here’s what all males deserve!”
With that, the leader of the Cat Women impulsively teleported over to Philippe and began to strangle him with her otherworldly strength! His face purpling, the President of Helenia seemed doomed!
But then Alpha shrieked, and blood began to flow from her mouth! She released Philippe and fell to the floor, dying as she hit the tiles.
Hélène stepped away from the body of the Cat Woman, Jungle Alli’s red-dripping machete in her hand.
Jungle Alli surged to the side of Hélène, and began to comfort the stunned woman with petting and reassurances. But Hélène did not seem as distraught as one might have expected. She straightened her back, her eyes shining, and said, “So much for female supremacy!”
But whether Hélène was derogating Alpha or praising herself was unclear.
Around the Earthlings, the six sleepers began to stir. Omega, who had stood on the sidelines till this moment, now mentally apprised her sisters of what had just transpired. The remaining Cat Women appeared directionless and disinclined to carry the battle further.
Massaging his throat, his voice something of a croak, President Ponto, supported by his father, said, “Our crisis seems at an end now, thanks to the efforts of my own wife and Miss Bradley. It remains only for us to carry the good news back to a waiting planet.”
“You folks’ll be heading back without me, I reckon,” said Jungle Alli unexpectedly.
“But why?”
“I’ve plumb run out of lands to explore back home. Here I’ve got a whole new world to investigate. I need to see this place before there’s a Bon Marché in every crater.”
“But won’t you be lonely?” asked Hélène.
Jungle Alli eyed the surviving Cat Women with a certain possessive passion.
“Oh,” she said, grinning, “I figure I can do without the company of mankind for a little while.”
MURDER IN GEEKTOPIA
Max Moritz is the moniker on my NC license, and, yes, I’ve heard all the obvious allusive wisecracks already.
“Funny, you don’t look Prankish.”
“I heard you keep all your cats in jam jars.”
“What strength monofilament you use for chickens?”
“Did your Mama stick dirks in her bush?”
But of course I haven’t let smartmouth cracks like those bug me since I was twelve years old, and just finishing my third-level synergetics course at GBS Ideotorium Number 521. (Our school motto that year, picked by the students of course: “A fool’s brain digests philosophy into folly, science into superstition, and art into pedantry. Hence University education.” From one of my favourite Shaw and Raymond pictonovels, Major Barbara versus Ming the Merciless.)
And of course after I left GBSI Number 521 that year for my extended wanderjahr before declaring my major and minor passions, I fell in with a variety of older people who politely resisted the impulse to joke about my name.
Except when they didn’t.
But that’s just the Geek Way, anyplace you go.
Still, I wasn’t about to change Moritz to something else. Family pride, and all that. Would’ve killed my mother, who had worked hard with my Pop (and alone after his death) to make the family business a success. Moritz Cosplay was known worldwide for its staging of large-scale (ten thousand players and up) recreational scenarios, everything from US Civil War to Barsoom to Fruits Basket, and Mom—Helena Moritz—regarded our surname as a valuable trademark, to be proudly displayed at all times, for maximum publicity value.
Not that I was part of the firm any longer—not since five years ago, when I had told Mom, with much trepidation, that I was leaving for a different trade.
Mom was in her office, solido-conferencing with the head of some big hotel chain and negotiating for better rates for her clients, when I finally got up the courage to inform her of my decision. I waited till she flicked off the solido, and then said, “Mom, I’m switching jobs.”
She looked at me coolly with that gesture familiar from my childhood, as if she were peering over the rims of her reading glasses. But she hadn’t worn eyeglasses since 1963, when she had gotten laser-eye surgery to correct her far-sightedness. Then out the glasses went, faster than Clark Kent had gotten rid of his in Action Comics #2036. (But Lois Lang still didn’t recognize Clark as Superman, since Clark grew a moustache at the same time, which was really a very small shapeshifting organism, a cousin of Proty’s, who could attach and detach from the Kryptonian’s upper lip at will to help preserve Supe’s secret identity.)
Anyway, I had made my decision and announcement and wasn’t about to quail under a little parental glare.
“What’re you planning on doing?” Mom asked.
“I’ve just gotten my NC license. I’ve been studying in secret for the past six months.”
“You? A nick carter? Max, I respect your intelligence highly, but it’s just not the Sherlock-Holmes-Father-Brown-Lincoln-Powell variety. You had trouble finding clean socks in your sock drawer until you were ten.”
“I aced the exam.”
Mom looked slightly impressed, but still had an objection or two. “What about the physical angle? You’re hardly a slan in the strength department. What if you get mixed up with some roughnecks?”
“Roughnecks? Shazam, Mom! What century are you living in? There hasn’t been any real prevalence of ‘roughnecks’ in the general population since before I was born. At GBSI Five-twenty-one, one of the patternmast
ers spent half a day trying to explain what a ‘bully’ was. The incidence of sociopathic violence and aggressive behaviour has been dropping at a rate of 1.5 percent ever since President Hearst’s first term—and that was nearly three-quarters-of-a-century ago.”
“Still, the world isn’t perfect yet. There’s bad people out there who wouldn’t hesitate—”
“Mom, I also got my concealed weapons licence.”
Mom had a technical interest in weapons, after hosting so many SCA tournaments and live-action RPG events. “Really? What did you train on?”
“Nothing fancy. Just a standard blaster.”
I didn’t tell Mom that I had picked a blaster because on wide-angle setting the geyser of charged particles from the mini-cyclotron in the gun’s handle totally compensated for my lack of aiming abilities. But I suspected she knew anyhow.
Mom got up from her chair and gave me a big hug. “Well, all right, Max, if this is really what you’ve got your heart set on. Just go out there and uphold the Moritz name.”
So that’s how, on August 16, 1970 (Hugo Gernsback’s eighty-sixth birthday, by coincidence; I recall watching the national celebration via public spy-ray), I moved out of the family home and hung up my shingle in a cheap office on McCay Street in Centropolis.
Now, five years later, after a somewhat slow start, I had a flourishing little business, mostly in the area of thwarting industrial espionage.
All Mom’s fears about me getting into danger had failed to come true.
Until the morning Polly Jean Hornbine walked through the door.
Business was slow that day. I had just unexpectedly solved a case for ERB Industries faster than I had anticipated. (The employee dropping spoilers on the ansible-net about ERBI’s new line of Tarzan toys had been a drone in the shipping department.) So I had no new work immediately lined up.
I was sitting in my office, reading the latest copy of Global Heritage magazine. I had always been interested in history, but didn’t have much Copious Spare Time these days to indulge in any deep reading. So the light-and-glossy coverage of GH provided a fast-food substitute.
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