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the old truths, the maxims which had once been sufficient no longer were. The
machines were everywhere, and there were ghosts in the machines, and whole new
worlds to understand. To _perceive._ Some of those worlds might be in this
dumb crystal in front of him, but how could he know?
The crystal was mute.
Schollander blinked. What was that? Something...
He turned, but the two technicians had not moved. One, in fact, seemed to be
snoring softly. And it hadn't been that kind of movement. No, more like a
glint of reflections from the sudden surfacing of a great fish. Great fish?
What was he thinking of?
He turned back to Levin's tank. Nothing moved there, either, and nothing
would. Of course not. He was tired. Just a trick of eyes exhausted from
tension and lack of sleep.
Of course it was.
So why did he feel, as he walked slowly away, that something -- some_one_, had
answered his unspoken question? That a long, slow, infinitely humorous voice
had whispered deep inside his brain, and said --
_We're all here, Bobby. All the worlds, inside and outside, all here._
His lips thinned out, pressed together. He shook his head, as if trying to
shake away the errant, disturbing thought. But there had been more, hadn't
there?
Hadn't the voice also said... _Come in and play, Bobby. Come play in our
worlds._
Hadn't it also said _that?_
In fact, Schollander did finally get some sleep, a few restless hours plagued
with vaguely threatening but unremembered dreams.
The heebie-jeebies, he supposed, only natural in view of his new
responsibilities. One of which sat across the desk from him in what had quite
recently been Eaton Vance's office.
Bobby glanced down at the sheet of hardcopy which lay on his otherwise empty
desktop. "Mr. Henry Carpenter," he said at last, and looked up, his eyes
questioning.
"That's right," the tall, gangling man agreed.
"Well, Mr. Carpenter -- "
"Call me Henry," the man interjected comfortably. "Everybody does."
The man seemed preternaturally relaxed. Merely being in the same room with him
made Schollander feel secure, almost cozy. It was an odd feeling, and one he
wasn't entirely sure he trusted.
"Well, uh, Henry, I just want to thank you -- "
The older man raised one big, wrinkled hand, palm out, and shook his head. "No
need," he said, "I just done what anybody would do."
The man liked to interrupt him. Schollander tried again to finish a sentence.
"Hardly anybody, Mr. -- Henry. To tackle an armed man like that, and -- "
Henry Carpenter shook his head. "Just luck, was all. The right place at the
right time. You know?"
"Goddamn it, Mr. Carpenter, would you let me finish a sentence?"
Carpenter's sudden grin was completely engaging. "Why, I got you pissed off.
I'm sorry. I don't mean to. My wife, Madge, she says
I flap my mouth too much, and I guess I do. You go right ahead, Mr.
Schollander, say your piece. And you call me anything you want to."
Schollander felt as if somebody had just poured a bucket of warm honey over
his head. This hillbilly was somehow weaving a web around him, a web of utter
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relaxation. There was no way he could help but like Henry.
Schollander stared at the piece of paper a moment, feeling the heat of
embarrassment in his cheeks, while he gathered his wits.
Either Henry Carpenter was exactly what he seemed, or he was an insanely great
con man. The sheet of paper, skimpy of any real information, was no help.
Schollander looked up again. Carpenter nodded encouragingly but didn't say
anything, and Schollander felt like a fool all over again.
"It was a brave thing," Bobby finished lamely.
Carpenter shook his head. "Not really. That villain never saw me coming. Never
had a chance. And I was too late anyway, right?
That's the bad part, what happened to Mr. Wier. And you, of course."
Schollander had almost forgotten about his shoulder wound. It was nearly
healed, only a few darkened areas that itched occasionally remaining to remind
him of those short, terrible seconds that had changed his life forever.
And this man had played a part in all that.
"I'm okay now, thanks," Schollander replied. "Mr. Carpenter, whatever you say,
it was still a fine piece of courage. We here on
Luna -- " Schollander paused, realizing suddenly how pompous he sounded, then
swallowed and continued on. "Well, you're a Lunie now too, of course. Anyway,
I -- all of us -- thank you. You've done Luna a great service."
"That poor man," Carpenter said dolefully. "Terrible."
Schollander took a deep breath. "If there's anything I -- we -- can do to
repay you..."
"Don't need no reward," Carpenter replied. "Not for doing what any decent man
would do, given the circumstances. But -- " and now his blue eyes twinkled --
"the wife, Madge, you know, she's after me to try to get a bigger place. On
earth, space ain't at a such a premium, but I know here on the moon -- uh,
Luna -- things are different. So if it's a problem, well, you just tell me and
we'll forget about it."
"No problem at all," Schollander said. "Somebody will come by later today,
take you to your new quarters. One bedroom or two?"
"Oh, one. Madge and me, one bed's all we need. Thank God."
Schollander nodded. The two men chatted a few moments more, and then
Schollander rattled the sheet of hardcopy, signifying the interview was ended.
Henry Carpenter understood at once, stood, and thrust his big hand forward.
They shook. Schollander thought that Carpenter's grip was like being enfolded
with soft, warm, dry wood. The kind of handshake you d accept in lieu of any
written contract.
But after Carpenter had gone, he wasn't sure. Not so sure at all.
"Auntie, can you come in now?" he said.
A moment later his door opened, and Elaine Markowitz limped slowly into the
room. Her body was old and sagging, but her eyes were alive with malicious
merriment.
"Well," she said happily. "Did he do it?"
"Do what?"
"Did that sonofabitch," she said patiently, "con you like he seems to have
everybody else?"
He stared at her as she lurched slowly to the chair Hank Carpenter had just
vacated. Her wrinkled features tensed at the evident pain her movements caused
her, but something that flashed from her blue eyes warned him to remain in his
seat. Elaine Markowitz, in her 104th year, required no help. She sat down
suddenly and fanned herself with a thin sheaf of printouts. After she had
caught her breath, Schollander said, "Auntie, why don't you use your chair?"
She glared at him. "What? I don't fit into your picture of a little old lady?"
One again he felt confusion, as he groped for the right answer. What was this
ability older folks had to put him perpetually on the defensive?
"Crawl if you want," he said finally.
"Did I make little Bobby mad?" Her raddled lips curved in a wicked grin.
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"Oh, Auntie, shut up. Did you treat my grandfather this way?"
"No. But I did your father."
Suddenly distracted from the matter at hand, he said curiously, "Why? What was
the difference?"
"Your grandad was already one tough sonofabitch when I met him. Your dad had
to grow into it. Just like you." Her reedy, irritating voice was complacent.
"Auntie, you are the most annoying, disagreeable -- "
Her smile grew wider. "Funny, all the men in your family seem to feel that
way."
He shook his head. "Forget it. I'm not going to win a spitting match with you
anyway."
She nodded. "Not yet, at least."
He started to reply, thought better of it, and shook his head again. "You
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