The Metallic Muse (13 page)

Mr. Minister: “You’re an important woman this morning, Mrs. Sandler. You’re the five millionth mother to adopt a child through the Ministry of Public Welfare.”

Mrs. Sandler: “I still think his ears are pointed.”

The Doctor: “No more than yours are.”

Mrs. Sandler: “Well, I suppose I’ll have to take him. I’ve waited three years, and I expected to wait two or three years more. He’ll have to do. But I hate getting one so old. They always have so many nasty habits that have to be broken—or so I’ve been told. If one could only get them when they’re babies, then they could be brought up properly.”

Mr. Minister (horrified): “What’s that? You wanted a baby?”

Mrs. Sandler: “Of course I wanted a baby, but I knew I couldn’t get one.”

Mr. Minister: “If she wanted a baby, why didn’t you get her a baby?”

The Doctor: “If she wanted a baby, why didn’t she-have one herself?”

Mrs. Sandler: “I didn’t come here to be insulted!”

Mr. Minister: “Why didn’t you get her a baby?”

The Doctor: “There aren’t any within light years of here—not for adoption. We tried babies once, and the mortality rate was horrifying. So now we don’t take a child until it’s two or three.”

Mr. Minister: “Well, if that’s the way it has to be— we’ve kept the visiscope men waiting long enough, I guess. These films will be run all over the galaxy, you know. Does the boy know his lines?”

Nurse: “He knows them perfectly.”

Mr. Minister: “Say your lines, boy.”

The boy: “Won’t!”

Mr. Minister (whispering): “Now get this, brat. We’re going in there in front of the cameras, and you’re going do exactly what the nurse has told you, or I’ll bat your ears off! That better be clear!”

Eyes half-closed, Sandler stared vacantly at the stage. Had he really stood there as a boy and chanted his lines like a very small robot? Had he ridden the hall ramp beside the tall, unfriendly woman, cringing at the coldness of her hand on his? Had he stood in the parking pavilion beside the shining air car and looked back at the building’s odd windows and thought, “Like sticking your finger into an arnel cake?”

A song unwound itself slowly in his mind, a lament of saddened beauty that had brought him halfway across the galaxy, home to Earth where he had no home.

Home is a sigh

For a color of sky,

And a will to return.

“For a color of sky,” he mused. Not the pale blue sky of Earth, nor the infinite shades of blue and lavender and green and yellow and red that he had seen in his tireless treks across space. A blue sky that was not blue. A touch of green in the sunset, a touch of pink at the dawn and bright promise of the day to come.

He rode the ramp to the end of the hallway and stopped at an information desk. The young lady in charge smiled encouragingly, and Sandler said, “I have a problem. I was an adopted child, and I’d like to find out who my real parents were and where I come from.”

Her smile faded. “You were adopted through the Ministry of Public Welfare?”

“Yes. Right here in this building.”

“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 policy, 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.”