Part 1

Es Percipi

By Stephen Marlowe

Diplomatic relations became strained when the Targoffian Ambassador started selling miracle products on Earth. Products that didn't exist!...

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy October 1955 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Nicholson ducked into the room and squinted myopically through contact lenses which made his eyes look watery and far away. "Better scram out the back way, boss," he said. "That dame from the Department of Health and Public Welfare is here again."

Bryan Channing allowed himself ten seconds of barely audible swearing. Finally, he said, "What does she expect me to do, snap my fingers and make the Ambassador from Targoff disappear?"

"It would be nice," Nicholson admitted.

"Unfortunately," Bryan Channing said for the fifth time that day, "our hands are tied. Sure, Earth can get along without Targoff. The galaxy would hardly know the difference if sub-space opened up a world-sized pocket tomorrow and swallowed Targoff and its sun."

"But," said Nicholson.

"Yes, but, I'll have to see the old battle-ax sooner or later, Nick. On your way out you might as well tell Julie to send her in."

"Oh, am I leaving?"

"You get the idea," said Bryan Channing. "You discovered Targoff, then dumped it in my lap. One of these days you better find us a planet which will make Health and P. W. happy. Now, beat it."

A moment after Nicholson had departed, the under-secretary of Health and Public Welfare opened the door with a well-manicured hand and followed it into Bryan Channing's office, which looked out on the East River and the dismantling job being done on the Queensboro Bridge through a solid wall of thermoglass.

"I don't smoke and I don't drink on duty," she said primly after Bryan Channing had made the necessary gestures and offerings. "There were twenty-two thousand divorces in the New York Metropolitan Area alone last week, Mr. Channing. I have figures for other locations, if you wish."

"Just let my secretary have them on your way out."

"Very well."

"Incidentally, I don't want to tell you your business, but the figure doesn't seem so alarmingly high."

"Perhaps. How would fifty thousand sound--for the first half of this week?"

"High," said Bryan Channing. "Go ahead."

"Deaths from malnutrition and disease continue at an even more alarming rate. These figures--" And the under-secretary began to remove a sheaf of papers from her briefcase.

"My secretary," Bryan Channing said again. "Can you pin these things directly on Qui Dor?"

"Qui Dor?"

"The Targoffian Ambassador."

"I can only go by his advertisements and what our field workers report after interviews. Qui Dor or whatever his name is, is to blame, it appears. Tell me, Mr. Channing, is it quite regular for a planetary Ambassador to--well, to go into business like that?"

"Yes and no," Bryan Channing told her, launching himself on his favorite subject. "We don't make the laws, m'am. Fifty different planetary cultures nurtured on fifty different sets of laws with a heritage as rich as our own Roman one--you don't merely stamp out all the existing laws and arbitrarily distribute a new code. All you can do is hope that in some fields at least there is a common meeting point for the planets."

"You've failed to answer my question."

"Sorry. The Lurane Ambassadors are primarily businessmen, out to make a buck for their planet, as the expression goes. The Specixes Ambassador is a glorified emcee trooping around with a bunch of acrobats, dancers and singers. There are no laws which would prohibit Qui Dor--"

"But he's threatening our entire way of life!" cried the under-secretary, no longer prim and diplomatically correct.

"Aren't you exaggerating the situation, m'am?" he asked politely. He wanted to say she was making a mountain not out of a mole hill but a pimple. He wanted to say a lot of things but never did, and realized that was one of the reasons ulcers ran so high in the Department of State. He would settle for some chianti, antipasto and chicken cacciatore with Ellen in their favorite Italian restaurant, but first he had to placate the emissary from Health and P. W. and keep Nicholson happy at the same time. It hardly seemed possible, for if he knew Nick, the myopic explorer-with-portfolio was eavesdropping on their conversation through the office intercom.

"You think it isn't serious, if our standard of living is threatened by--"

"Let's look at it another way. I mean, it's just not our problem. That's an internal problem for the Department of Health and Public Welfare to solve, m'am."

"You can tell the Targoffian Ambassador to get the hell off our planet. Excuse me."

* * * * *

Channing shook his head. "Even if I agreed with you, I couldn't do that. Wouldn't that be perfect grist for the propaganda mills on Sirius and Centauri, not to mention Deneb? Big Brother Earth goes around using all the little planets. Humans break off diplomatic relations with cultures which don't adhere to Earth standards--unless, of course, we could milk something out of them."

"You know that isn't true."

"I'm not standing in judgment on it. I'm merely saying how they would interpret it on Centauri and Sirius. Not to mention Deneb."

It was Channing's trump card. You didn't argue when someone mentioned Deneb like that. Deneb was the _ne plus ultra_ of dangerous interplanetary relations. If something were white on Earth, it was black on Deneb. Unfortunately, Channing knew, there was at least as much truth as fancy in what he said.

"How do the Denebians deal with Targoff?" the under-secretary demanded.

Channing lit his pipe and knew he was in for trouble. "They don't," he said. "Diplomatic relations are not maintained between Deneb and Targoff."

"May I ask you why not? You see, Deneb can get away with it, but we--"

"I'm surprised at you," Channing cut her off. "Earth can't sink to the Denebian level. We've got to set the example. We've got to be a shining light, a beacon, a...."

"Those speeches sound fine on television," the under-secretary said, "but I wasn't born yesterday, Mr. Channing. What are you going to do about this situation?"

"Nothing right now. The Secretary of State wants to let matters ride for the time being. The President...."

"I'm going to see the President, you know."

"Maybe it's best," Channing admitted. He was a thirty thousand dollar a year trouble-shooter for the Department of State, running smack-dab into a brick wall.

"You'll hear from me," warned the under-secretary. "You'll hear from the President. This is deplorable."

"Yes, m'am," said Channing, showing her to the door.

Half an hour later, Channing had wilted his whiskers with depilatory, staring all the while at his moody face with the slightly sagging jowls in a desk mirror and wishing he were in some other line of work. The achesonian epithet, it seemed, applied to State Department officials above the level of clerk who had the misfortune of dealing with touchy issues. If Health and P. W.'s Girl Friday had her way, Channing suspected, he would be an ogre by morning.

* * * * *

"Don't go near the living room," Ellen called from somewhere on the bedroom level of the house, "it's still wet. The maid quit, dear."

"Quit?" Channing hollered back. "What on Earth for?" He settled himself on a web-chair in the study, poured a martini from the decanter Ellen had prepared, and began to thumb through the impressive compilation of figures the under-secretary had left with Julie.

"She's getting married."

"What?" Channing gasped. "Fanny getting married? I don't believe it."

"Honest," said Ellen, entering the room. She was a little pretty woman, dressed in tight black torrero slacks and a fuzzy crimson sweater which Channing thought came from one of the Centauri planets. She was twenty-eight, half a dozen years younger than Channing, with short-cropped chestnut hair and the dimpled smile and attractive legs which aided and abetted a diplomat's career. She knew it and in the best modern fashion they made good use of it.

Ellen sipped from Channing's cocktail glass, poured another for each of them, pecked at his cheek with carmined lips and settled comfortably in his lap. "You see," she said, not looking at him, "someone from Qui Dor enterprises visited us on Monday."

"So now Fanny's getting married. I'll be damned. Say, you didn't take anything from them, did you?"

"You mean like a husband? No-o."

"I mean like anything. And stop kidding."

"Well, yes, I did. Everybody's trying it, dear. I had to. I didn't want to feel--left out."

Channing climbed to his feet, almost dumping his pretty wife on the floor. "All right," he said. "You tell me what you bought."

"You won't be mad?"

"I'm not saying."

"Then I won't tell you."

"Ellen--"

"Promise?"

"O.K. I promise."

Ellen skipped away from him toward the dining room. "Then come on inside and I'll show you."

* * * * *

Afterwards, he could have sworn that Ellen did no cooking. She merely reached into a cabinet adjacent to the electric range, (must get a radar range one of these days, he thought, especially with no more Fanny around and the servant situation being what it was) and came out with the platters, piping hot. "Hey," he'd said between mouthfuls of savory white meat which tasted like a rare Centaurian fowl he had eaten in that interplanetary restaurant on East 48th once, "this is all right." The dessert was Sirius, and brother, what they could do with those whipped toppings. And to finish it all off with the proper pleasant glow, Ellen had even managed to find a bottle of good old French brandy which must have been corked when Napoleon was a boy.

"The devil with Fanny," Channing declared, loosening his belt a notch. "I've got myself quite a cook. Say, if you don't want to tell me about that Qui Dor thing, honey...."

"Ha!" Ellen laughed triumphantly. "If that isn't just like a man. Give him something good to eat and he'll be licking the palm of your hand. But I said I'd show you. I already have."

"Huh?"

"You've eaten it. That's what the Qui Dor people sold me, that food cabinet. How to keep a husband, they said. You see, no one can cook that well, not in such variety. Mad at me, dear?"

"No," Channing admitted. "It was delicious, every bit of it." But he patted his slight paunch reflectively. "Sometimes food can be too good, though."

"Listen, big eyes. Qui Dor's food cabinet was made for guys like you. Are you full?"

"Lord, yes."

"There wasn't a single calorie in what you ate. Nor any vitamins, minerals or--"

"I've heard of that," Channing said incredulously. "But, but I've eaten. I know I have. I tasted it, all of it. I felt it going down. I feel full now. I couldn't eat another thing."

"I can't explain that, dear. You know the Targoffian Ambassador personally. Perhaps he can."

"But if there was no food value in any of that stuff, we still haven't eaten dinner."

"You're supposed to eat concentrates first, dear. I just wanted to surprise you, that's all. Well, how do you like it?"

"I want it out of this house tomorrow," said Channing, raising his voice.

"You don't have to holler at me."

"I'm sorry. But that cabinet goes."

"Why? Give me one good reason."

"Because--because it isn't natural. That's why. Not natural."

"And you're supposed to be the broad-minded whiz-kid of the State Department."

"I'm no kid any more."

"Well, that's what they called you. It never hurt anybody on Targoff, did it? This kind of thing?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never been there."

"What did Nicky say?"

"He said Targoff looks like the richest planet he's ever seen, but is really the poorest. He said they have nothing and seem to have everything. He said they don't admit it, though. As far as the Targoffians are concerned, they do have everything."

"Well, do they or don't they?"

"It depends on your point of view," Channing said. "Objectively, they have nothing. Subjectively, they have everything. Point is, the stuff isn't real."

"What do you mean, it isn't real?"

"Say, has Qui Dor or someone been lecturing you? You're really going off on the deep end about this Targoffian business, aren't you?"

"Not Qui Dor, an Earthman, Viennese, I think, working for him. You haven't answered me, dear. I said, what do you mean it isn't real?"

"Well, it--it doesn't exist. It's all in the mind, in the imagination."

"You just ate it. When you looked at it, the food was there. You could smell it and taste it and touch it--if it was hot it burned your hand, Bryan--and you had to chew it and swallow it. If you ate too fast it might even give you an upset stomach."

"But it wasn't real," Channing protested.

"Then what is real? Look at me."

"Um, pretty," said Channing.

"Stop that. Stop trying to change the subject. It's all well and good for you to talk about these things in the office, but you never want to talk about them with me. Touch me. Go on, touch me."

* * * * *

Feeling mildly ridiculous, Channing placed his big hand on the fuzzy red material covering his wife's shoulder. "So what does that prove?" he said.

"Stand up. Turn around."

He stood up, pushing the chair back. He turned around, facing the entrance to the living room.

"Where am I?"

"Where are you? Right behind me, of course. Sitting down at the table."

"How do you know?"

"I--I just know."

"Are you sure? Can you be sure?"

"I just saw you there, damnit!"

"But you don't see me here now, unless you have eyes in the back of your head, dear. How do you know I'm still here, unless you see me?"

"Because you didn't get up and go away, that's why. I would have heard you."

"How do you know? Maybe I'm only around when you look at me. When you _perceive_ me, dear. You understand?"

"No. Yes. I read all about the idealists in college, too. Berkeley, Hume...."

"The Qui Dor people say they have the right idea. To be is to be perceived. As soon as you stop perceiving me--or anything--it no longer exists. As soon as you see me again, here I am. If you carry it to extremes, the notion can lead to solipsism, but--"

"--but," Channing finished for her, "you can thank the good Lord that Bishop Berkeley was no pagan and saved himself and the rest of us from that way of thinking. Sure, to be is to be perceived. Maybe nothing does exist unless it's being perceived, but that's where God comes in. God is the constant conserver, he said. God is always looking at everything. So everything always exists."

"But the Targoffians are atheists, dear," Ellen pointed out with exasperating logic. "You may turn around now."

Channing turned around and glared at her.

"You see, it works. I don't know what you're getting so mad about."

"Then I'll tell you. What would happen if I went on eating meals like that for a couple of weeks."

"You'd lose weight, dear. You'd fit into that bathing suit I bought you for our third anniversary."

"I'm serious, damnit."

"You'd be awful hungry. You'd suffer from malnutrition. But the concentrates come along with the food cabinet."

"Forget about the food cabinet. You're going to get rid of it tomorrow. I want to ask you something else. Who did Fanny marry?"

"She didn't yet. She's getting married on Saturday, she said."

"My mistake," growled Channing. Ulcer potential was now following him home from the office. "Who is she going to marry?"

"Whom."

"Yes."

"Someone sent by the Qui Dor people."

"Will he be real?"

"We just went through all that."

"Will I be able to see him?"

"Yes."

"Anybody?"

"Of course. You see, he's real. Not only that, he'll be the ideal husband. At least, he'll be Fanny's ideal husband. You have a wide variety to choose from, they told me. You can even buy one whose temperament changes to suit yours day by day."

"There were fifty thousand divorces in New York so far this week," said Channing, "according to the under-secretary of Health and Public Welfare. Have you any idea why?"

"I guess people were shedding their spouses to marry the ideal mate before the price went up. Is there anything wrong with that?"

"I think so," Channing said. "I didn't think so before. I told the under-secretary not to get so upset. But I want you to answer one question. Will Fanny's husband be able to give her children?"

"No," Ellen conceded.

"You get rid of the food cabinet tomorrow."

* * * * *

Within a week, the brick wall became a nightmare. Health and Welfare met with State on the highest level. Health stood firm: something must be done about the situation. Health's figures were not only impressive, they were downright frightening. In Buenos Aires, where Latin tempers flared and, anyway, summer was approaching, one out of every two recent marriages and one out of three of older vintage could be expected to end in the divorce courts--if annulment did not get them first. In Paris, the shrugging French found the answer in multiple marriage, provided not more than one of the partners was a bona fide human being. In Russia it became illegal to talk of Qui Dor's creations: they did not exist.

State was equally firm: the cause of the situation could not at this time be removed. Health must find its own internal solution. The Denebian Ambassador began to pass snide remarks and send home delightful tidbits of propaganda--was it true that the wife of the President of United Amereurope had visited the attorney general's brother-in-law concerning the possibility of divorce?

The Council of International Security met with the President, who had been called home from his Martian vacation. Health was adamant; State left the conference with a won point but a red face. The Denebian Ambassador received a copy of the minutes of the special session and gloated. Some said Health had maliciously given the transcript to the saurian from Deneb. State marched into Bryan Channing's office with his red face and demanded a solution. Someone, said State, would have to resign.

"Which would solve nothing," Channing told his boss glumly.

"But we might get off the hook. What about that explorer, Nicholson?"

"He did his job," said Channing. "Just like I'm trying to do mine."

"The wolves are howling from both directions," pleaded State. "You've got to do something."

"That's the trouble. Both directions. If we get rid of Qui Dor and tell the Targoffians we no longer want to maintain diplomatic relations, Deneb howls and we lose prestige. If we leave Qui Dor alone, Health and Public Welfare raises a stink."

"Well, it's justified. Have you heard the latest?"

"About what?"

"About a state of emergency, Bryan. Places where the standard of living is high, it isn't too bad. But try telling 'em in India they have to buy and take food concentrates along with Qui Dor's stuff. They won't listen to you. They starve to death. They take Qui Dor's medication to get rid of disease and the symptoms disappear. But they're still sick and some of them die."

"Has anyone spoken to Qui Dor about this?" Channing wanted to know.

"Health wants to. We won't let 'em. State's job, I said. They told me, then do it. How can I do it, Bryan? What can I say? The only time I ever met this Qui Dor was when he presented his credentials. You know Qui Dor. You've talked with him. He'll feel more at ease with you--or possibly that Nicholson fellow."

"Afraid you'll have to count Nick out. He's not a diplomat. All he wants is to get back into space again. You know, it isn't a bad idea. I still have my explorer's rating. I could--"

"Don't even think of it. You came up through the ranks, Channing. A man doesn't go down the same way. He goes out. I don't like this business of giving ultimatums. We're all grown men here, but ... Channing. I want you to see Qui Dor. I want you to reason with him. Not the full treatment, you understand. Qui Dor stays. Deneb would have us spitted over an open fire, otherwise."

"Then what do you want me to do?"

"I'll leave it in your hands, but I want results. Is that clear? Whatever you do, do not offend Qui Dor. But placate the Department of Health and Public Welfare. I'm going down to India on official business, Channing. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes. How the devil can I make both of them happy?"

"Be diplomatic," said State, and took his leave, a worried, red-faced man with an over-sized brief case and round shoulders almost but not quite hidden by an expert job of tailoring.

"Julie," Channing called over the office intercom, "get me an appointment with Qui Dor, Targoffian Embassy, for tomorrow morning or as soon as possible. And is Nick out there listening?"

"Well ... yes."

"Tell him, pretty please, to take his spaceship somewhere and get lost."

"Aw, boss," said Nicholson over the intercom. But he was laughing.

Channing wasn't.

* * * * *

At least, Channing thought as he brought his copter down for an excellent landing on the asphalt airstrip around which his and a dozen other houses were situated in suburban Center Moriches, he could retain his sanity at home. It was decidedly upper middle class, this Center Moriches community, with half an acre of landscaped grounds for each house, a copter and a surface car for each family, and enough money floating around to keep everything, including the marble-walled swimming pools, in good repair.

There was something warm and secure about upper middle, anyway. The lower strata might need some of Qui Dor's goods, the highest might play with them extensively to show that it could but didn't need to, really. But upper middle was neither needy nor had the time for such conspicuous consumption. Mindful of its bootstrap beginnings, upper middle would ape what was above in such things as marble swimming pools and over-generous charity donations and hardly leave time for what Qui Dor had to offer. An occasional food cabinet and a little family squabble, Channing admitted to himself, could be tolerated. But when he remembered Ellen's thorough knowledge of Qui Dor and his Targoffian theories, it unnerved him.

The crabapple trees had shed most of their fruit on the back lawn, dotting the blue-green carpet of grass with brilliant red. The roses were out of bloom but protected next year's blossoms with thorny security. And best of all, thought Channing, breathing deep of everything, there was the chill of autumn on the air and the brittle gold of it in the fast-fading sunlight and the leaf-burning smell of it, so piquant he could almost taste it.

Ellen was not on the back lawn, not in the den, the living room, the basement, or the kitchen. Ellen was in one of the spare bedrooms.

Ellen had a baby.

* * * * *

"You're minding it until one of the neighbors returns," Channing suggested hopefully.

"Uh-uh. It's mine."

"Now wait a minute!"

"Shh, please." Ellen was burping the tiny infant who, wrapped in swaddling clothes and balanced shapelessly on her shoulder, was staring at Channing out of big, solemn eyes. The lips puckered, not all at once but slowly, building up a head of steam. Burp and frightened wail issued forth at the same instant.

"What do you mean, it's yours?" Channing demanded. But the facts were plain enough. The spare room had been converted to a nursery, all done in pink, with crib and bath-gadget and nightstand and a little pink diaper pail.

"Do you like the name Stephanie?" Ellen asked, gently placing the infant in her crib and cooing at her until the wail subsided.

Incredulously, Channing stepped across the threshold to have a closer look. Stephanie puckered and wailed again, drumming tiny legs under the swaddling clothes.

"You're frightening her," said Ellen.

"Will you please tell me what's going on here?"

"Only if you lower your voice."