The Moon Moth and Other Stories (12 page)

They removed their mantles and run-shoes, sliding skillfully past each other. Iugenae pivoted into the bathroom and there was room for both Ted and Ravelin to sit down. The house was rather small for the three of them; they could well have used another twelve square feet, but rather than pay exorbitant rent, they preferred to save the money with an eye toward Iugenae’s future.

Ted sighed in satisfaction, stretching his legs luxuriously under Ravelin’s chair. “Ullward’s ranch notwithstanding, it’s nice to be home.”

Iugenae backed out of the bathroom.

Ravelin looked up. “It’s time for your pill, dear.”

Iugenae screwed up her face. “Oh, Mama! Why do I have to take pills? I feel perfectly well.”

“They’re good for you, dear.”

Iugenae sullenly took a pill from the dispenser. “Runy says you make us take pills to keep us from growing up.”

Ted and Ravelin exchanged glances.

“Just take your pill,” said Ravelin, “and never mind what Runy says.”

“But how is it that I’m 38 and Ermara Burk’s only 32 and she’s got a figure and I’m like a slat?”

“No arguments, dear. Take your pill.”

Ted jumped to his feet. “Here, Babykin, sit down.”

Iugenae protested, but Ted held up his hand. “I’ll sit in the niche. I’ve got a few calls that I have to make.”

He sidled past Ravelin, seated himself in the niche in front of the communication screen. The illusion-pane behind him was custom-built—Ravelin, in fact, had designed it herself. It simulated a merry little bandit’s den, the walls draped in red and yellow silk, a bowl of fruit on the rustic table, a guitar on the bench, a copper teakettle simmering on the countertop stove. The pane had been rather expensive, but when anyone communicated with the Seehoes, it was the first thing they saw, and here the house-proud Ravelin had refused to stint.

Before Ted could make his call, the signal light flashed. He answered; the screen opened to display his friend Loren Aigle, apparently sitting in an airy arched rotunda, against a background of fleecy clouds—an illusion which Ravelin had instantly recognized as an inexpensive stock effect.

Loren and Elme, his wife, were anxious to hear of the Seehoes’ visit to the Ullward ranch. Ted described the afternoon in detail. “Space, space and more space! Isolation pure and simple! Absolute privacy! You can hardly imagine it! A fortune in illusion-panes.”

“Nice,” said Loren Aigle. “I’ll tell you one you’ll find hard to believe. Today I registered a whole planet to a man.” Loren worked in the Certification Bureau of the Extraterrestrial Properties Agency.

Ted was puzzled and uncomprehending. “A whole planet? How so?”

Loren explained. “He’s a free-lance spaceman. Still a few left.”

“But what’s he planning to do with an entire planet?”

“Live there, he claims.”

“Alone?”

Loren nodded. “I had quite a chat with him. Earth is all very well, he says, but he prefers the privacy of his own planet. Can you imagine that?”

“Frankly, no! I can’t imagine the fourth dimension either. What a marvel, though!”

The conversation ended and the screen faded. Ted swung around to his wife. “Did you hear that?”

Ravelin nodded; she had heard but not heeded. She was reading the menu supplied by the catering firm to which they subscribed. “We won’t want anything heavy after that lunch. They’ve got simulated synthetic algae again.”

Ted grunted. “It’s never as good as the genuine synthetic.”

“But it’s cheaper and we’ve all had an enormous lunch.”

“Don’t worry about me, Mom!” sang Iugenae. “I’m going out with Runy.”

“Oh, you are, are you? And where are you going, may I ask?”

“A ride around the world. We’re catching the seven o’clock shuttle, so I’ve got to hurry.”

“Come right home afterward,” said Ravelin severely. “Don’t go anywhere else.”

“For heaven’s sake, Mother, you’d think I was going to elope or something.”

“Mind what I say, Miss Puss. I was a girl once myself. Have you taken your medicine?”

“Yes, I’ve taken my medicine.”

Iugenae departed; Ted slipped back into the niche. “Who are you calling now?” asked Ravelin.

“Lamster Ullward. I want to thank him for going to so much trouble for us.”

Ravelin agreed that an algae-and-margarine call was no more than polite.

Ted called, expressed his thanks, then—almost as an afterthought—chanced to mention the man who owned a planet.

“An entire planet?” inquired Ullward. “It must be inhabited.”

“No, I understand not, Lamster Ullward. Think of it! Think of the privacy!”

“Privacy!” exclaimed Ullward bluffly. “My dear fellow, what do you call this?”

“Oh, naturally, Lamster Ullward—you have a real showplace.”

“The planet must be very primitive,” Ullward reflected. “An engaging idea, of course—if you like that kind of thing. Who is this man?”

“I don’t know, Lamster Ullward. I could find out, if you like.”

“No, no, don’t bother. I’m not particularly interested. Just an idle thought.” Ullward laughed his hearty laugh. “Poor man. Probably lives in a dome.”

“That’s possible, of course, Lamster Ullward. Well, thanks again, and good night.”

The spaceman’s name was Kennes Mail. He was short and thin, tough as synthetic herring, brown as toasted yeast. He had a close-cropped pad of gray hair, a keen, if ingenuous, blue gaze. He showed a courteous interest in Ullward’s ranch, but Ullward thought his recurrent use of the word ‘clever’ rather tactless.

As they returned to the house, Ullward paused to admire his oak tree.

“It’s absolutely genuine, Lamster Mail! A living tree, survival of past ages! Do you have trees as fine as that on your planet?”

Kennes Mail smiled. “Lamster Ullward, that’s just a shrub. Let’s sit somewhere and I’ll show you photographs.”

Ullward had already mentioned his interest in acquiring extraterrestrial property; Mail, admitting that he needed money, had given him to understand that some sort of deal might be arranged. They sat at a table; Mail opened his case. Ullward switched on the wall-screen.

“First I’ll show you a map,” said Mail. He selected a rod, dropped it into the table socket. On the wall appeared a world projection: oceans; an enormous equatorial landmass named Gaea; the smaller subcontinents Atalanta, Persephone, Alcyone. A box of descriptive information read:

MAIL’S PLANET

Claim registered and endorsed at Extraterrestrial
Properties Agency

Mail pointed to a spot on the eastern shore of Gaea. “I live here. Just got a rough camp at present. I need money to do a bit better for myself. I’m willing to lease off one of the smaller continents, or, if you prefer, a section of Gaea, say from Murky Mountains west to the ocean.”

Ullward, with a cheerful smile, shook his head. “No sections for me, Lamster Mail. I want to buy the world outright. You set your price; if it’s within reason, I’ll write a check.”

Mail glanced at him sidewise. “You haven’t even seen the photographs.”

“True.” In a businesslike voice, Ullward said, “By all means, the photographs.”

Mail touched the projection button. Landscapes of an unfamiliar wild beauty appeared on the screen. There were mountain crags and roaring rivers, snow-powdered forests, ocean dawns and prairie sunsets, green hillsides, meadows spattered with blossoms, beaches white as milk.

“Very pleasant,” said Ullward. “Quite nice.” He pulled out his checkbook. “What’s your price?”

Mail chuckled and shook his head. “I won’t sell. I’m willing to lease off a section—providing my price is met and my rules are agreed to.”

Ullward sat with compressed lips. He gave his head a quick little jerk. Mail started to rise to his feet.

“No, no,” said Ullward hastily. “I was merely thinking…Let’s look at the map again.”

Mail returned the map to the screen. Ullward made careful inspection of the various continents, inquired as to physiography, climate, flora and fauna.

Finally he made his decision. “I’ll lease Gaea.”

“No, Lamster Ullward!” declared Mail. “I’m reserving this entire area—from Murky Mountains and the Calliope River east. This western section is open. It’s maybe a little smaller than Atalanta or Persephone, but the climate is warmer.”

“There aren’t any mountains on the western section,” Ullward protested. “Only these insignificant Rock Castle Crags.”

“They’re not so insignificant,” said Mail. “You’ve also got the Purple Bird Hills, and down here in the south is Mount Cairasco—a live volcano. What more do you need?”

Ullward glanced across his ranch. “I’m in the habit of thinking big.”

“West Gaea is a pretty big chunk of property.”

“Very well,” said Ullward. “What are your terms?”

“So far as money goes, I’m not greedy,” Mail said. “For a twenty-year lease: two hundred thousand a year, the first five years in advance.”

Ullward made a startled protest. “Great guns, Lamster Mail! That’s almost half my income!”

Mail shrugged. “I’m not trying to get rich. I want to build a lodge for myself. It costs money. If you can’t afford it, I’ll have to speak to someone who can.”

Ullward said in a nettled voice, “I can afford it, certainly—but my entire ranch here cost less than a million.”

“Well, either you want it or you don’t,” said Mail. “I’ll tell you my rules, then you can make up your mind.”

“What rules?” demanded Ullward, his face growing red.

“They’re simple and their only purpose is to maintain privacy for both of us. First, you have to stay on your own property. No excursions hither and yon on my property. Second, no subleasing. Third, no residents except yourself, your family and your servants. I don’t want any artists’ colony springing up, nor any wild noisy resort atmosphere. Naturally you’re entitled to bring out your guests, but they’ve got to keep to your property just like yourself.”

He looked sidewise at Ullward’s glum face. “I’m not trying to be tough, Lamster Ullward. Good fences make good neighbors, and it’s better that we have the understanding now than hard words and beam-gun evictions later.”

“Let me see the photographs again,” said Ullward. “Show me West Gaea.”

He looked, heaved a deep sigh. “Very well. I agree.”

The construction crew had departed. Ullward was alone on West Gaea. He walked around the new lodge, taking deep breaths of pure quiet air, thrilling to the absolute solitude and privacy. The lodge had cost a fortune, but how many other people of Earth owned—leased, rather—anything to compare with this?

He walked out on the front terrace, gazed proudly across miles—genuine unsimulated miles—of landscape. For his home site, he had selected a shelf in the foothills of the Ullward Range (as he had renamed the Purple Bird Hills). In front spread a great golden savannah dotted with blue-green trees; behind rose a tall gray cliff.

A stream rushed down a cleft in the rock, leaping, splashing, cooling the air, finally flowing into a beautiful clear pool, beside which Ullward had erected a cabana of red, green and brown plastic. At the base of the cliff and in crevices grew clumps of spiky blue cactus, lush green bushes covered with red trumpet-flowers, a thick-leafed white plant holding up a stalk clustered with white bubbles.

Solitude! The real thing! No thumping of factories, no roar of traffic two feet from one’s bed. One arm outstretched, the other pressed to his chest, Ullward performed a stately little jig of triumph on the terrace. Had he been able, he might have turned a cartwheel. When a person has complete privacy, absolutely nothing is forbidden!

Ullward took a final turn up and down the terrace, made a last appreciative survey of the horizon. The sun was sinking through banks of fire-fringed clouds. Marvelous depth of color, a tonal brilliance to be matched only in the very best illusion-panes!

He entered the lodge, made a selection from the nutrition locker. After a leisurely meal, he returned to the lounge. He stood thinking for a moment, then went out upon the terrace, strolled up and down. Wonderful! The night was full of stars, hanging like blurred white lamps, almost as he had always imagined them.

After ten minutes of admiring the stars, he returned into the lodge. Now what? The wall-screen, with its assortment of recorded programs. Snug and comfortable, Ullward watched the performance of a recent musical comedy.

Real luxury, he told himself. Pity he couldn’t invite his friends out to spend the evening. Unfortunately impossible, considering the inconvenient duration of the trip between Mail’s Planet and Earth. However—only three days until the arrival of his first guest. She was Elf Intry, a young woman who had been more than friendly with Ullward on Earth. When Elf arrived, Ullward would broach a subject which he had been mulling over for several months—indeed, ever since he had first learned of Mail’s Planet.

Elf Intry arrived early in the afternoon, coming down to Mail’s Planet in a capsule discharged from the weekly Outer Ring Express packet. A woman of normally good disposition, she greeted Ullward in a seethe of indignation. “Just who is that brute around the other side of the planet? I thought you had absolute privacy here!”

“That’s just old Mail,” said Ullward evasively. “What’s wrong?”

“The fool on the packet set me the wrong coordinates and the capsule came down on a beach. I noticed a house and then I saw a naked man jumping rope behind some bushes. I thought it was you, of course. I went over and said ‘Boo!’ You should have heard the language he used!” She shook her head. “I don’t see why you allow such a boor on your planet.”