was unwilling to grant me my customary honorarium . . . that is correct. Now, please, the birth date and hour?” She mumbled them, and I wondered briefly about the problem Astron must have with women who shaded their years. “So . . . Venus in the house of Mars . . . Mercury ascendant in the trine . . .” “What’s that?” she asked with shrill suspicion. “I know quite a bit about the Great Art and I never heard that before.” Blandly: “Madam must realize that a Moon observatory makes possible many things of which she has never heard before. It is possible by lunar observation to refine the Great Art to a point unattainable in the days when observations were made perforce through the thick and muddled air of Earth.” “Oh-oh, of course. I’ve heard that, of course. Please go on, Dr. Astron. Will I be able to look through your telescope and see my planets?” “Later, madam. So … Mercury ascendant in the trine, the planet of strife and chicanery, yet quartered with Jupiter, the giver of fortune, so . . .” The “reading” lasted perhaps half an hour, and there were two more like it that followed, and then there was silence. I actually dozed off until a voice called me. The desk had been heaved back again and Astron’s head was silhouetted against the rectangular opening. “Come on out,” he said. “It’s safe for twelve hours.” I climbed out stiffly and noted that the observatory dome had been opaqued. “You’re Groby,” he stated. “Yes,” I said, dead-pan. “We got a report on you by courier aboard the Ricardo. God knows what you’re up to; it’s too much for me.” I noticed that his hand was in his pocket. “You turn up in Chlorella, you’re a natural-born copysmith, you’re transferred to New York, you get kidnaped in front of the Met-in earnest or by prearrangement-you kill a girl and disappear-and now you’re on the Moon. God knows what you’re up to. It’s too much for me. A Central Committee member will be here shortly to try and figure you out. Is there anything you’d care to say? Like confessing that you’re an agent provocateur? Or subject to manic-depressive psychosis?”
I said nothing. “Very well,” he said. Somewhere a door opened and closed. “That will be she,” he told me. And my wife Kathy walked into the observatory.
thirteen “Mitch,” she said dazedly. “My God, Mitch.” She laughed, with a note of hysteria. “You wouldn’t wait, would you? You wouldn’t stay on ice.” The astrologer took the gun out of his pocket and asked her: “Is there-?” “No, Warren. It’s all right. I know him. You can leave us alone. Please.” He left us alone. Kathy dropped into a chair, trembling. I couldn’t move. My wife was a kingpin Consie. I had thought I’d known her, and I’d been wrong. She had lied to me continuously and I had never known it. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” I asked flatly. She visibly took hold of herself. “Shocked?” she asked. “You, a star-class copysmith consorting with a Consie? Afraid it’ll get out and do you no good businesswise?” She forced a mocking smile that broke down as I looked at her. “Damn it,” she flared, “all I ever asked from you after I came to my senses was for you to get out of my life and stay out. The biggest mistake I ever made was keeping Taunton from killing you.” “You had Runstead shanghai me?” “Like a fool. What in God’s name are you doing here? What are these wild-man stunts of yours? Why can’t you leave me alone?” She was screaming by then. Kathy a Consie. Runstead a Consie. Deciding what was best for poor Mitch and doing it. Taunton deciding what was best for poor Mitch and doing it. Moving me this way and that across the chessboard.
“Pawn queens,” I said, and picked her up and slapped her. The staring intensity left her eyes and she looked merely surprised. “Get what’s-his-name in here,” I said. “Mitch, what are you up to?” She sounded like herself. “Get him in here.” “You can’t order me-” “You!” I yelled. “The witch-doctor!” He came running, right into my fist. Kathy was on my back, a clawing wildcat, as I went through his pockets. I found the gun-a wicked .25 UHV machine pistol-and shoved her to the floor. She looked up at me in astonishment, mechanically rubbing a bruised hip. “You’re a mean son of a bitch,” she said wonderingly. “All of a sudden,” I agreed. “Does Fowler Schocken know you’re on the Moon?” “No,” she said, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. “You’re lying.” “My little lie-detector,” she crooned jeeringly. “My little fire-eating copysmith-” “Level with me,” I said, “or you get this thing across the face.” “Good God,” she said. “You mean it.” She put her hand to her face slowly, looking at the gun. “I’m glad that’s settled. Does Fowler Schocken know you’re on the Moon?” “Not exactly,” she said, still watching the gun. “He did advise me to make the trip-to help me get over my bereavement.” “Call him. Get him here.” She didn’t say anything or move to the phone. “Listen,” I said. “This is Groby talking. Groby’s been slugged, knifed, robbed, and kidnaped. He saw the only friend he had in the world poisoned a few hours ago. He’s been played with by a lady sadist who knew her anatomy lessons. He killed her for it and he was glad of it. He’s so deep in hock to Chlorella that he’ll never get out. He’s wanted for femicide and CB. The woman he thought he was in love with turned out to be a lying fanatic and a bitch. Groby has nothing to lose. I can put a burst through the dome up there and we’ll all suck space. I can walk out into the street, give myself up, and tell exactly what I know. They won’t believe me but they’ll investigate to make sure, and sooner or later they’ll get corroboration- after I’ve been brainburned, but that doesn’t matter. I’ve nothing to lose.”