by Julian Livingston Copyright - 1996, All Rights Reserved, Julian Livingston
Time for a leisurely breakfast of a couple of fiber cookies. Next, my morning freshup - swiping my densely freckled face with a shaving cloth, then rubbing the cloth lightly over my red hair. Finally, my favorite. Arms outstretched, I pressed buttons on each cuff until the fragrant air shower fully ballooned the khaki jump suit. It doesn't hurt to dress like an archeologist when you're doing genealogy. Arms akimbo, I checked my lean explorer's image in the mirror as the last of the air shower escaped. Shaved, pressed, clean, and ready, I stepped to the exit flap, unzipped and walked out of my fully furnished hyper-residence, taking a deep breath in the cool earth dawn. Jasper Catalan, precision genealogist, on a mission for a martian client and at your service, so to say.
Rezipping, I collapsed the hyper-residence into a leg pouch and took out a transport cube, a Mars rental. I hadn't wanted to leave any rental information, either sleeping or traveling, traceable here on earth. One might think it's difficult to be a precision genealogist, but I live for the challenge of getting everything perfect.
In a clear area I decompressed the latest style grey hover from the cube, opened the door, and sat. The early morning fuzzies were making my thoughts go in too many directions. My brain wondered, what is the importance of genealogy? Then it thought, want to take a girl out? The connection appeared as if by magic. Check to see if she's on your proscribed list of relatives. I shook my head. What are natural laws to me, Fixit-Jasper, jack-of-all-trades? TAKE HER OUT ANYWAY! Wait a minute! I've got to keep focus. No room for mistakes now. I chuckled softly, back in character.
The hover seat seemed a trifle big since we martians are a bit smallish. That's us - red headed, light skinned, little people. Earthlings think we all look alike. A stupid idea of course, but we did come from a limited gene pool, mostly one ship load of smallish people, perfect for the weight limited rocket voyages of sixty-one years ago.
Period music to accompany a genealogist - Rachmaninoff's own performance of his Fourth Concerto dramatically synchronized to my liftoff. My mouth curled in distaste. There were so few attractive sound artifacts of earth's pre-omnidata period. I touched the lower windshield's shadow display, replacing that bombastic introduction with the calm beginning of Stravinsky's "Le Sacre." My chin lifted thoughtfully. How could people stand those times? From my perspective of 2141 a.d. it was hard to imagine the struggles of the primitives of the pre-omnidata period. Supposedly, every waking moment of everybody has been recorded since 2083 a.d., three years after opening the martian frontier. In fact, there are no interesting genealogical problems after 2083 a.d. I accelerated the hover to the west, gaining altitude.
If one wants to hold up their head on Mars, their ancestor's omnidata records have to prove their ancestor's worth. For martians this is serious business. Discovery of even a drunkard in the closet can mean ostracism to the point of family extinction. Most earthlings don't even wonder what their ancestors did. They don't care. I even have heard some don't have their omnidata recorders on all the time. Naughty big earthlings. I touched the bank-left shadow button, turned toward Louisville, and the mysterious Folsein Club, that last musty repository for the ancestral legions of the ancient heartland. I began edging the hover's speed upward.
My client's problem was not a present era search problem, it was that difficult pre-martian period from 1900 a.d. to 1990 a.d., for which nothing but crumbling paper records are available. My personal bugaboo was touching paper records and covering them with my genetically marked pheromones. If there is any suspicion about a document, officials subpoena it and find out who has been touching it by the smell. Because of this technology there's very little capability to alter paper records, but one can steal and destroy them.
In this particular case, there might be a better way; graft my client's, Mr. McBryndy's, earth records onto some other family tree with a precision theft. I would have to keep my eyes open for an opportunity like that. Records that just neatly dovetailed into some nice family were great. I could probably get a bundle for that. Dangerously close to the ground and the hover well above the speed limit, my mind began playing with the anticipated credits soon to enter my account. Thank goodness, I could generate my own omnidata records if some public servant took me to task. I sure wouldn't want a speeding arrest on my permanent file.
The guard at the Folsein Club ran my bogus entry card through the time recorder, then looked at me long and hard, commenting, "Are you really a member? You look like a martian."
Oh, my. Surely my expensive khaki jumpsuit outfitting left a better impression than that. While waiting on my card to clear he looked at a bank of security displays. I couldn't see anything over his shoulder but an occasional librarian. The card reader beeped acceptance. I guess that showed him, so I blustered.
"I am not a martian! Martians all know their genealogy. What would I be doing here?" I said with total confidence. "Just because I have red hair and I'm not as tall as you, it doesn't mean that I'm some kind of. . .." He interrupted with an impatient gesture. Actually, my card would tolerate a casual background check, and I was much much taller than the average martian. Since my feet were out of sight I slowly edged up on my toes to extend my height.
"Oh yes sir," he said. "No reason to get excited, sir. Your dues are paid. Please place any marking devices in a locker before you enter." He glanced again at the bank of security displays. Paper palaces are always worried about somebody's damned marking devices. I haven't carried a marking device since elementary school. He handed me my card, and I was careful not to touch anything else.
"No marking devices," I snarled in what I hoped was a convincing irritation and stomped inside without waiting for an invitation. They're so afraid someone will write on their precious documents. My plans were far more ominous. As I walked up the stairs I deliberately reverted to calmness. The dark woodgrained walls of the Folsein Club seemed to encircle me in a friendly welcome. I always like these places until the sneezing starts. And that guard - he was only an earthling. What did he matter? Get excited? It takes more than verbal abuse by an earthling to get me excited. I wiped my nose carefully.
Finally, I was upstairs, standing in front of Ms. Upworth, or was it Ms. Uptight? It was Up-something with greying red hair in a tight bun, her compulsive glances constantly searching the room. I found her deliciously attractive with her freckles and grey-outlined red lips to match her grey-streaked hair. Her executive-sized, oval wire-framed glasses magnified her pale blue irises to a breathtaking size as they bounced from researcher to researcher looking for contraband marking devices. I told her I needed to see the records for Mr. Charles McBryndy, circa 1970 a.d. He was the horrible alcoholic ancestor of my client.
She double checked my membership card against a personal list, then asked if my ancestor's name was spelled "M.c.B.r.i.n.d.y" or "M.c.B.r.y.n.d.y?" Some earthlings, like Ms. Upworth, have a capacity for extreme precision about things they don't really give one damn about. I understood focused precision completely, but I never could stand pointless precision.
When I replied, "Either works at times, but it's more often, M.c.B.R.A.N.D.Y," in a tiresome manner, her attractive mouth became very pursed.
She said, in an admonishing tone, "I understand Mr. Catalan. You have my sympathy. Many of my ancestors of that period were poor spellers as well."
I almost popped out of character with my enthusiasm. "Oh no it wasn't that at all. My McBrandy was a heavy drinker." At least I managed to deliver the line like it was a shocker even to me, capping the statement with a punctuating sneeze. This caused her lips to narrow to an attractive point.
"I see. That's too bad. I presume you are referring to alcohol, not water." She carefully wrote the three possible spellings on a slip of paper in parenthetically numbered, alphabetic order and handed them to a pale, dough-faced page with sweat-musty clothing. Ms. Upworth managed a smile, gave a curt nod, and began surveying the room again. Soon the slug with the odorous shirt and I were alone in the stacks.
"I'll handle the records if you don't mind," he grated, pulling down a crumbling, ancient volume with a sweaty hand. Good, I certainly don't want to touch them, I thought. I felt like sneezing again.
"Could you hold them where I can see them?" I asked, "but not too close?" It seemed like a reasonable request.
He looked at me curiously. "You're not photographing them are you? This stuff is all copyrighted." I suppose he was referring to the possibility of my omnidata recording them. Of course, he couldn't see the tiny flashing light that indicated to me that I was recording everything that came in front of my eyes. I smiled slightly.
"No, of course not. I'll just tell you when to make copies."
He seemed satisfied. "That's why we don't allow martians in our club. They run their omnidatas all the time. It's their religion you know. They must be able to prove to their minister that they've never done anything wrong."
"Really? I didn't know that." True. No one should know that because it was another earthling lie. It wasn't a question of religion at all, but rather, social obligation. I felt a tad angry all at once but then calmness ruled. Thank goodness martian social rules don't apply to fixits. I can do anything I want if I get away with it. He located a page of biographical data but it was irrelevant. I shook my head and he turned a few pages. The next entry was also unrelated and so on to the end of the book.
"There is one more reference." He returned the book and selected another. "What about this?" This was it! McBrandy, McBrindy, McBryndy with the right dates and countless children going off into all kinds of families. This was great, but it was too complicated to swing a re-graft; it was going to have to be a simple theft. And this irritating page was watching me much too carefully to pull even that unnoticed.
"Please copy that one," I said mildly. "And what about the government records for this man?" I had a plan but I needed to make sure.
"They're in another stack," he said.
"Can't you bring them here? I need to compare with this." He looked at me like I was some kind of an idiot. I felt a small resentment building. The club would function better if this employee was dealt with.
"You will need to go to the copy machine and pick up your copies if you have to make those kinds of comparisons." Dammit, I couldn't care less about copies as long as there were absolutely none left.
"Can't you just bring one to the other?" I suggested. I needed to remove both references. This was not going to my satisfaction. He was suspicious for some reason, pushing me into a corner.
Watching me carefully, he said, "I suppose we could take this book to the government records. That way you do not have to be left alone with anything." Good thinking - it made no difference to me which record was carried to which location.
"Fine alternative," I said faking a grateful tone. He carried the book and walked some distance through the corridors to the other spot where he pulled down a box which he unlocked. Another complication, but at least there were no security cameras on us. I mustn't touch any of this stuff - the pheromone problem, not the sneezing. He left the open box on the table in front of us.
"Why don't you put the box back in its slot so we can have the whole table to lay everything out," I asked.
"Nonsense, there's plenty of room. Besides I might forget which box they came from." Stupid lout, but what can one do?
I said carefully, "After what I pay for dues here, this is the kind of treatment you give me. You're telling me 'nonsense?'" The whole mission was becoming irritating. I had tried everything to make it pleasant, but there was no other way. Pointing behind him, I said, "Not everybody is treated this way. Look down there." He turned, allowing me to jump up, martian style, and place an armlock on his neck which I quickly twisted far beyond where it was intended to rotate. He fell without a sound as his spine separated. I quickly withdrew the collapsed hyper-residence from its leg pouch and dezipped it right in the hallway. Then I pulled him inside along with the book and the papers from the box. Once inside I pulled off his shoes and removed his socks. Holding the socks by the ankles I came outside, fully zipped the hyper-residence and contents, then stuffed it back in its pouch. Next, I pulled the socks over my hands like mittens, and pushed the empty box back in its slot. That certainly doused the box with the page's pheromones. No one in sight, so I reerected the hyper-residence long enough to toss the socks inside, then collapsed it again. All clear here, but I still had a problem.
Quickly returning to Ms. Upworth, I said, "The page has discovered a difficulty. A book and a document are missing." She didn't take that very well. I rather liked her so I bettered the statement. "Appear to be missing, that is." I smiled widely, trying to reflect my confidence in her ability to put things right. She rose with a grim look, an attractive figure of a woman, never-the-less. It must have been her clothing picking up dust; I sneezed again. She was too upset over the missing material to notice.
"Where is he? I can't remember us ever misplacing anything."
"I'll be happy to show you." I glanced around but no researchers were paying attention to our conversation. Only a pesky surveillance camera above her desk seemed to be watching.
"No need. Just tell me and stay here," she ordered. I was forced to take charge. "This way. Sorry, I don't remember the corridor number." She hesitated then followed. I proceeded until I thought there were no surveillance cameras on us. Suddenly, I turned and walked into her, knocking her to the floor. She certainly had a pleasurable amount of frontal flesh. I'm afraid my eyes were looking down that front with an improper stare. Strangely, she smiled. As I kept on staring, I sneezed twice. It was definitely dust; her smile wavered as she glanced down. She probably was beginning to think I was some sort of a creep, but I was waiting for a surveillance camera that I had almost failed to notice to rotate away.
"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry," I said loudly, at last seeming to come to my senses long enough to hold out a helping hand. As I pulled her to her feet I suddenly embraced her and pressed the base of her skull rendering her unconscious. Thank goodness I didn't have to spoil her looks. She was so nice. It was the work of an instant to add her gently to the hyper-residence, reset her glasses, zip the flap, and place the residence in my leg pouch. I kept on the move, arriving at the side entrance where I had first entered. It really hadn't taken very long at all, but I was getting upset at all the busy-busy activity this trivial theft was taking.
The guard was waiting for me. "Hold on now, I saw everything." Oh my. "We can't allow these goings on in the Folsein Club. I was just calling the head of security." A tiny thrill at the unexpected hit the pit of my stomach as he reached for the com. Had he observed me doing those terrible things? Savory excitement in the offing.
Out of curiosity, rather than taking immediate action, I asked, "What are you talking about?" His hand paused, delaying my decision.
"I saw you staring down Ms. Upworth's clothing. What were doing to her on the floor? I'm going to have to detain you until she clears you for departure." Ah, actually he had seen very little. But it was unfortunate there were so few people coming into the Folsein Club that he had nothing to do but think of ways to harass a small person with red hair. Some people are such bullies.
"Give me your card. I should suspend your membership until your records can be investigated." He had crossed the line. As he ran my card through the time recorder, he suddenly turned back and looked at me again. I was caught in the middle of a martian attack posture.
He said, "What ever are you doing down there on the floor?" Of course, due to our size, there are no weaponless frontal attacks on standing earthmen, and we are not permitted to leave individuals behind who have seen any element of our surprise attack. This was turning into a problem. Loved it.
I pointed at the screen behind him and said, "There comes my friend, Ms. Upworth, now." He glanced backward, and I launched vigorously. My leg, crooked around his neck and yielded a satisfying spinal separation as I pulled my ankle inward. He followed his fellow employees into the pouch, but I kept his uniform hat which I placed on my head, then seated myself behind the desk, exhibiting a small welcoming smile. Thank my earthling ancestors, I have a large head for such a tiny person.
I didn't have long to wait. An elderly gentlemen came in the door, and I had him run his own card through the recorder. I still wasn't touching anything that was going to stay at the club. Then an elderly woman exited the elevator, and I instructed her to run her own card through. She did this quite capably and I allowed her to depart. That should confuse any investigator about what time the guard vanished. There were a couple of more persons that came through and so I had the last one set the time recorder closer to the front of the desk. Maybe a few more would just do their own cards without being asked. When the most recent visitor had vanished up the stairs, I pushed through the door with my hip, dezipped the transport cube into a small, common ground car, and drove off toward Chicago and my connection to Mars. Mr. Catalan, precision genealogist, exits the scene, looking from a distant surveillance camera like the guard in a uniform hat.
North of Louisville, above the Ohio River, I came to a farm I had visited on other occasions. I stopped and entered a barn on the side of a deep valley and pressed the air shower buttons on the jump suit. That got rid of the smell of those awful socks from the dough-faced page, then changed my clothing to impeccable tourist wear. Next, I threw my explorer outfit, acquired cap, and the bogus Folsein Club entry card on top of my unconscious victims in the hyper-residence, and recollapsed it to its pouch. I placed a package of antique hologram cases, purchased on a previous trip, in my outer pocket, then cleared my omnidata memory of today's input and read in a prepared replacement file. Now, Samuel Famrook, a bogus antique collector, had spent the day shopping for hologram cases in Madison, Indiana. Samuel even had a dated sales slip for the cases, printed as a precaution on my personal sales slip printer before I left Mars.
I walked behind the barn, toward an ancient well, thinking to dispose of the collapsed hyper-residence in deep water. It's depressing sometimes when the precision work doesn't go well for the bystanders, but when I need to get something fixed for a client that's what I take to heart. I have to believe that some of the bystanders deserve what happens; they just have so many defects, like that smelly page, or that busybody of a guard. But then again, there was the attractive Ms. Upworth. That was too bad I had interrupted her day. She seemed like she was having fun. I held the hyper-residence over the well and prepared to let go. The thought of disposing of the gorgeous Ms. Upworth was a little too much, and tears formed in my eyes. I felt simply had to do something - make some small effort on her behalf. I reopened the hyper-residence to find she had regained consciousness.
"Look what you've done, you imbecile. You've thrown your filthy socks among these priceless documents." 'Imbecile' didn't bother me in the least, but she seemed not to notice the dead bodies of two of her compatriots. I wondered if she realized she could be next. There was that disturbing profound attention to unfocused, pointless detail again.
"You're absolutely right," I said, took in the hugely magnified, heart rending blue eyes, glanced longingly down the heaving bosom, then zipped and collapsed the hyper-residence. As I stood there thinking, two sneezes occured, and that finished it. I dropped the hyper-residence into the well.
Documented now as one Samuel Famrook, I reformed the ground car into a hover, and took off slowly into the afternoon, lifting my chin dramatically at the bombastic opening of the Rachmaninoff Fourth Piano Concerto that seemed to be a permanent feature of these rental hovers. I suppose my tear dampened eyes were a bit incongruous above a beatific, satisfied smile.