Robert A Heinlein - Job,A Comedy of Justice

JOB: A Comedy of Justice

Robert A. Heinlein

Behold, happy is the man whom God correcteth:

Therefore despise not thou the chastening of

The Almighty.

Job 5:17

Chapter 1

When thou walkest through the fire,

thou shalt not be burned.

Isaiah 43:2

THE FIRE pit was about twenty-five feet long by ten feet wide, and perhaps

two feet deep. The fire had been burning for hours. The bed of coals gave off

a blast of heat almost unbearable even back where I was seated, fifteen feet

from the side of the pit, in the second row of tourists.

I had given up my front-row seat to one of the ladies from the ship, delighted

to accept the shielding offered by her well-fed carcass. I was tempted to

move still farther back... but I did want to see the fire walkers close up. How

often does one get to view a miracle?

‚It’s a hoax,’ the Well-Traveled Man said. ‚You’ll see.’

‚Not really a hoax, Gerald,’ the Authority-on-Everything denied. ‚Just

somewhat less than we were led to expect. It won’t be the whole village -

probably none of the hula dancers and certainly not those children. One or

two of the young men, with calluses on their feet as thick as cowhide, and

hopped up on opium or some native drug, will go down the pit at a dead run.

The villagers will cheer and our kanaka friend there who is translating for us

will strongly suggest that we should tip each of the fire walkers, over and

above what we’ve paid for the luau and the dancing and this show.

‚Not a complete hoax,’ he went on. ‚The shore excursion brochure listed a

„demonstration of fire walking“. That’s what we’ll get. Never mind the talk

about a whole village of fire walkers. Not in the contract. ‚The Authority

looked smug.

‚Mass hypnosis,’ the Professional Bore announced.

I was tempted to ask for an explanation of ‚mass hypnosis’- but nobody

wanted to hear from me; I was junior - not necessarily in years but in the

cruise ship Konge Knut. That’s how it is in cruise ships: Anyone who has

been in the vessel since port of departure is senior to, anyone who joins the

ship later. The Medes and the Persians laid down this law and nothing can

change it. I had flown down in the Count Von Zeppelin, at Papeete I would fly

home in the Admiral Moffett, so I was forever junior and should keep quiet

while my betters pontificated’.

Cruise ships have the best food and, all too often, the worst conversation in

the world. Despite this I was enjoying the islands; even the Mystic and the

Amateur Astrologer and the Parlor Freudian and the Numerologist did not

trouble me, as I did not listen.

‚They do it through the fourth dimension,’ the Mystic

announced. ‚Isn’t that true, Gwendolyn!’

‚Quite true, dear,’ the Numerologist agreed. ‚Oh, here they come now! It will

be an odd number, you’ll see.’

‚You’re so learned, dear.’

‚Humph,’ said the Skeptic.

The native who was assisting our ship’s excursion host raised his arms and

spread his palms for silence. ‚Please, will you all listen! Mauruuru roa. Thank

you very much. The high priest and priestess will now pray the Gods to make

the fire safe for the villagers. I ask you to remember that this is a religious

ceremony, very ancient; please behave as you would in your own church.

Because -‚

An extremely old kanaka interrupted; he and the translator exchanged words

in a language not known to me Polynesian, I assumed; it had the right liquid

flow to it. The younger kanaka turned back to us.

‚The high priest tells me that some of the children are making their first walk

through fire today, including that baby over there in her mother’s arms. He

asks all of you to keep perfectly silent during the prayers, to insure the safety

of the children. Let me add that I am a Catholic. At this point I always ask our

Holy Mother Mary to watch over our children - and I ask all of you to pray for

them in your own way. Or at least keep silent and think good thoughts for

them. If the high priest is not satisfied that there is a reverent attitude, he

won’t let the children enter the fire - I’ve even known him to cancel the entire

ceremony.

‚There you have it, Gerald,’ said the Authority-on-Everything in a third-

balcony whisper. ‚The build-up. Now the switch, and they’ll blame it on us.’

He snorted.

The Authority - his name was Cheevers - had been annoying me ever since I

had joined the ship. I leaned forward and said quietly into his ear, ‚If those

children walk through the fire, do you have the guts to do likewise?’

Let this be a lesson to you. Learn by my bad example. Never let an oaf cause

you to lose your judgement. Some seconds later I found that my challenge

had been turned against me and. -somehow! - all three, the Authority, the

Skeptic, and the Well-Traveled Man, had each bet me a hundred that I would

not dare walk the fire pit, stipulating that the children walked first.

Then the translator was shushing us again and the priest and priestess

stepped down into the fire pit and everybody kept very quiet and I suppose

some of us prayed. I know I did. I found myself reciting what popped into my

mind:

‚Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep-‚

Somehow it seemed appropriate.

The priest and the priestess did not walk through the fire; they did-something

quietly more spectacular and (it seemed to me) far more dangerous. They

simply stood in the fire pit, barefooted, and prayed for several minutes. I

could see their lips move. Every so often the old priest sprinkled something

into the pit. Whatever it was, as it struck the coals it burst into sparkles.

I tried to see what they were standing on, coals or rocks, but I could not tell...

and could not guess which would be worse. Yet this old woman, skinny as

gnawed bones, stood there quietly, face placid, and with no precautions other

than having tucked up her lava-lava so that it was almost a diaper.

Apparently she fretted about burning her clothes but not about burning her

legs.

Three men with poles had been straightening out the burning logs, making

sure that the bed of the pit was a firm and fairly even footing for the fire

walkers. I took a deep interest in this, as I expected to be walking in. that pit

in a few minutes - if I didn’t cave in and forfeit the bet. It seemed to me that

they were making it possible to walk the length of the fire pit on rocks rather

than burning coals. I hoped so!

Then I wondered what difference it would make recalling sun-scorched

sidewalks that had blistered my bare feet when I was a boy in Kansas. That

fire had to be at least seven hundred degrees; those rocks had been soaking

in that fire for several hours. At such temperatures was there any real choice

between frying pan and fire?

I Meanwhile the voice of reason was whispering in my ear that forfeiting three

hundred was not much of a price to pay to get out of this bind... or would I

rather walk the rest of my life on two barbecued stumps?

Would it help if I took an aspirin?

The three men finished fiddling with the burning logs and went to the end of

the pit at our left; the rest of the villagers gathered behind them - including

those darned kids! What were their parents thinking about, letting them risk

something like this? Why weren’t they in school where they belonged?

The three fire tenders led off, walking single file down the center of the fire,

not hurrying, not dallying. The rest of the men of the village followed them, a*

slow, steady procession. Then came the women, including the young mother

with a baby on her hip.

When the blast of heat struck the infant, it started to cry. Without varying her

steady pace, its mother swung it up and gave it suck; the baby shut up.

The children followed, from pubescent girls and adolescent boys down to the

kindergarten level. Last was a little girl (nine? eight?) who was leading her

round-eyed little, brother by, the hand. He seemed to be about four and was

dressed only in his skin.

I looked at this kid and knew with mournful certainty that I was about to be

served up rare; I could no longer back out. Once the baby boy stumbled; his

sister kept him from falling. He went on then, short sturdy steps. At the far

end someone reached down and lifted him out.

And it was my turn.

The translator said to me, ‚You understand that the Polynesia Tourist Bureau

takes no responsibility for your safety? That fire can burn you, it can kill you.

These people can walk it safely because they have faith.’

I assured him that I had faith, while wondering how I could be such a

barefaced liar. I signed a release he presented.

All too soon I was standing at one end of the pit, with my trousers rolled up to

my knees. My shoes and socks and hat and wallet were at the far end,

waiting on a stool. That was my goal, my prize - if I didn’t make it, would they

cast lots for them? Or would they ship them to my next of kin?

He was saying: ‚Go right down the middle. Don’t hurry but don’t stand still.’

The high priest spoke up; my mentor listened, then said, ‚He says not to run,

even if your feet burn. Because you might stumble and fall down. Then you

might never get up. He means you might die. I must add that you probably

would not die - unless you breathed flame. But you would certainly be terribly

burned. So don’t hurry and don’t fall down. Now see that flat rock under you?

That’s your first step. Que le bon Dieu vous garde. Good luck.’

‚Thanks.’ I glanced over at the Authority-on-Everything, who was smiling

ghoulishly, if ghouls smile. I gave him a mendaciously jaunty wave and

stepped down.

I had taken three steps before I realized that I didn’t feel anything at all. Then

I did feel something: scared. Scared silly and wishing I were in Peoria. Or

even Philadelphia. Instead of alone in this vast smoldering waste. The far

end of the pit was a city block away. Maybe farther. But I kept plodding

toward it while hoping that this numb paralysis would not cause me to

collapse before reaching it.

I felt smothered and discovered that I had been holding my breath. So I

gasped - and regretted it. Over a fire pit that vast there is blistering gas and

smoke and carbon dioxide and carbon monoxide and something that may be

Satan’s halitosis, but not enough oxygen to matter.’ I chopped off that gasp

with my eyes watering and my throat raw and tried to estimate whether or not

I could reach the end without breathing.

Heaven help me, I could not see the far end! The smoke had billowed up and

my eyes would barely open and would not focus. So I pushed on, while trying

to remember the formula by which one made a deathbed confession and

then slid into Heaven on a technicality.

Maybe there wasn’t any such formula. My feet felt odd and my knees were

becoming unglued...

‚Feeling better, Mr Graham?’

I was lying on grass and looking up into a friendly, brown face. ‚I guess so,’ I

answered. ‚What happened? Did I walk it?’

‚Certainly you walked it. Beautifully. But you fainted right at the end. We were

standing by and grabbed you, hauled you out. But you tell me what

happened. Did you get your lungs full of smoke?’

‚Maybe. Am I burned?’

‚No. Oh, you may form one blister on your right foot. But you held the thought

perfectly. All but that faint, which must have been caused by smoke.’

‚I guess so.’ I sat up with his help. ‚Can you hand me my shoes

and socks? Where is everybody?’

‚The bus left. The high priest took your pulse and checked your breathing but

he wouldn’t let anyone disturb you. If you force a man to wake up when his

spirit is still walking about, the spirit may not come back in. So he believes

and no one dares argue with him.’

‚I won’t argue with him; I feel fine. Rested. But how do I get back to the ship?’

Five miles of tropical paradise would get tedious after the first mile. On foot.

Especially as my feet seemed to have swelled a bit. For which they, had

ample excuse.

‚The bus will come back to take the villagers to the boat that takes them back

to the island they live on. It then could take you to your ship. But we can do

better. My cousin has an automobile. He wil take you.’

‚Good. How much will he charge me?’ Taxis in Polynesia are always

outrageous, especially when the drivers have you at their mercy, of which

they have none. But it occurred to me that I could afford to be robbed as I

was bound to show a profit on this jape. Three hundred minus one taxi fare. I

picked up my hat. ‚Where’s my wallet?’

‚Your wallet?’

‚My billfold. I left it in my hat. Where is it? This isn’t funny; my money was in

it. And my cards.’

‚Your money? Oh! Votre portefeuille. I am sorry; my English is not perfect.

The officer from your ship, your excursion guide, took care of it.’

‚That was kind of him. But how am I to pay your cousin? I don’t have a franc

on me.’

We got that straightened out. The ship’s excursion escort, realising that he

would be leaving me strapped in rescuing my billfold, had prepaid my ride

back to the ship. My kanaka friend took me to his cousin’s car and introduced

me to his cousin - not too effectively, as the cousin’s English was limited to

‚Okay, Chief!’ and I never did get his name straight.

‚His automobile was a triumph of baling wire and faith. We went roaring back

to the dock at full throttle, frightening chickens and easily outrunning baby

goats. I did not pay much attention as I was bemused by something that had

happened just before we left. The villagers were waiting for their bus to

return; we walked right through them. Or started to. I got kissed. I got kissed

by all of them. I had already seen the Polynesian habit of kissing where we

would just shake hands, but this was the first time it had happened to me.

My friend explained it to me: ‚You walked through their fire, so you are an

honorary member of their village. They want to kill a pig for you. Hold a feast

in your honor.’

I tried to answer in kind while explaining that I had to return home across the

great water but I would return someday, God willing. Eventually we got away.

But that was not what had me most bemused. Any unbiased judge would

have to admit that I am reasonably sophisticated. I am aware that some

places do not have America’s high moral standards and are careless about

indecent exposure. I know that Polynesian women used to run around naked

from the waist up until civilization came along - shucks, I read the National

Geographic.

But I never expected to see it.

Before I made my fire walk the villagers were dressed just as you would

expect: grass skirts but with the women’s bosoms covered.

But when they kissed me hello-goodbye they were not. Not covered, I mean.

Just like the National Geographic.

Now I appreciate feminine beauty. Those delightful differences, seen under

proper circumstances with the shades decently drawn, can be dazzling. But

forty-odd (no, even) of them are intimidating. I saw more human feminine

busts than I had ever seen before, total and cumulative, in my entire life. The

Methodist Episcopal Society for Temperance and Morals would have been

shocked right out of their wits.

With adequate warning I am sure that I could have enjoyed the experience.

As it was, it was too new, too much, too fast. I could appreciate it only in

retrospect.

Our tropical Rolls-Royce crunched to a stop with the aid of hand brake, foot

brake, and first-gear compression; I looked up from bemused euphoria. My

driver announced, ‚Okay, Chief!’

I said, ‚That’s not my ship.’

‚Okay, Chief?’

‚You’ve taken me to the wrong dock. Uh, it looks like the right dock but it’s the

wrong ship.’ Of that I was certain. M.V. Konge Knut has white sides and

superstructure and a rakish false funnel. This ship was mostly red with four

tall black stacks. Steam, it had to be - not a motor vessel. As well as years

out of date. ‚No. No!’

‚Okay, Chief. Votre vapeur! Voila!’

‚Non!’

‚Okay, Chief.’ He got out, came around and opened the door on the

passenger Side, grabbed my arm, and pulled.

I’m in fairly good shape, but his arm had been toughened by swimming,

climbing for coconuts, hauling in fishnets, and pulling tourists who don’t want

to go out of cars. I got out.

He jumped back in, called out, ‚Okay, Chief! Merci bien! Au ‚voir!’ and was

gone.

I went, Hobson’s choice, up the gangway of the strange vessel to learn, if

possible, what had become of the Konge Knut. As I stepped aboard, the

petty officer on gangway watch saluted and said, ‚Afternoon, sir. Mr Graham,

Mr Nielsen left a package for you. One moment -‚He lifted the lid of his watch

desk, took out a large manila envelope. ‚Here you are, sir.’

The package had written on it: A. L. Graham, cabin C109. I opened it, found

a well-worn wallet.

‚Is everything in order, Mr Graham?’

‚Yes, thank you. Will you tell Mr Nielsen that I received it? And give him my

thanks.’

‚Certainly, sir.’

I noted that this was D deck, went up one flight to find cabin C109.

All was not quite in order. My name is not ‚Graham’.

Chapter 2

The thing that hath been, it is that which

shall be, and that which is done is that

which shall be done, and there is

no new thing under the sun.

Ecclesiastes 1:9

THANK HEAVEN ships use a consistent numbering system. Stateroom C109

was where it should be: on C deck, starboard side forward, between C107

and C111; I reached it without having to speak to anyone. I tried the door; it

was locked - Mr Graham apparently believed the warnings pursers give

about locking doors, especially in port.

The key, I thought glumly, is in Mr Graham’s pants pocket. But where is Mr

Graham? About to catch me snooping at his door? Or is the trying my door

while I am trying his door?

There is a small but not zero chance that a given key will fit a strange lock. I

had in my own pocket my room key from the Konge Knut. I tried it.

Well, it was worth trying. I stood there, wondering whether to sneeze or drop

dead, when I heard a sweet voice behind me:

‚Oh, Mr Graham!’

A young and pretty woman in a maid’s costume - Correction: stewardess’

uniform. She came bustling toward me, took a pass key that was chained to

her belt, opened C109, while saying, ‚Margrethe asked me to watch for you.

She told me that you had left your cabin key on your desk. She let it stay but

told me to watch for you and let you in.’

‚That’s most kind, of you, Miss, uh-‚

‚I’m Astrid. I have the matching rooms on the port side, so Marga and I cover

for each other. She’s gone ashore this afternoon.’ She held the door for me.

‚Will that be all, sir?’

I thanked her, she left. I latched and bolted the door, collapsed in a chair and

gave way to the shakes.

Ten minutes later I stood up, went into the bathroom, put cold water on my

face and eyes. I had not solved anything and had not wholly calmed down,

but my nerves were no longer snapping like a flag in a high wind. I had been

holding myself in ever since I had begun to suspect that something was

seriously wrong, which was - when? When nothing seemed quite right at the

fire pit? Later? Well, with utter certainty when I saw one 20,000-ton ship

substituted for another.

My father used to tell me, ‚Alex, there is nothing wrong with being scared...

as long as you don’t let it affect you until the danger is over. Being hysterical

is okay, too... afterwards and in private. Tears are not unmanly... in the

bathroom with the door locked. The difference between a coward and a

brave man is mostly a matter of timing.’

I’m not the man my father was but I try to follow his advice. If you can learn

not to jump when the firecracker goes off - or whatever the surprise is - you

stand a good chance of being able to hang tight until the emergency is over.

This emergency was not over but I had benefited by the catharsis of a good

case of shakes. Now I could take stock.

Hypotheses:

a) Something preposterous has happened to the world around me, or

b) Something preposterous has happened to Alex Hergensheimer’s mind; he

should be locked up and sedated.

I could not think of a third hypothesis; those two seemed to cover all bases.

The second hypothesis I need not waste time on. If, I were raising snakes in

my hat, eventually other people would notice and come around with a

straitjacket and put me in a nice padded room.

So let’s assume that I am sane (or nearly so; being a little bit crazy is helpful).

If I am okay, then the world is .out of joint. Let’s take stock.

That wallet. Not mine. Most wallets are generally similar to each other and

this one was much like mine. But carry a wallet for a few years and it fits you;

it is distinctly yours. I had known at once that this one was not mine. But I did

not want to say so to a ship’s petty officer who insisted on, ‚recognizing’ me

as ‚Mr Graham’.

I took out Graham’s wallet and opened it.

Several hundred francs - count it later.

Eighty-five dollars in paper - legal tender of ‚The United States of North

America’.

A driver’s license issued to A. L. Graham.

There were more items but I came across a window occupied by a typed

notice, one that stopped me cold:

Anyone finding this wallet may keep any money in it as a reward if he will be

so kind as to return the wallet to A. L. Graham, cabin C109, S.S. KONGE

KNUT, Danish American Line, or to any purser or agent of the line. Thank

you. A.L.G.

So now I knew what had happened to the Konge Knut; she had undergone a

sea change.

Or had I? Was there truly a changed world and therefore a changed ship? Or

were there two worlds and had I somehow walked through fire into the

second one? Were there indeed two men and had they swapped destinies?

Or had Alex Hergensheimer metamorphized into Alec Graham while M. V.

Konge Knut changed into S. S. Konge Knut? (While the North American

Union melted into the United States of North America?)

Good questions. I’m glad you brought them up. Now, class, are

there any more questions

When I was in middle school there was a spate of magazines publishing

fantastic, stories, not alone ghost stories but weird yarns of every sort. Magic

ships plying the ether to, other stars. Strange inventions. Trips to the centre

of the earth. Other ‚dimensions’. Flying machines. Power from burning atoms.

Monsters created in secret laboratories.

Robert A Heinlein - Job, A Comedy of Justice

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: