Robert A Heinlein - Between Planets

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BETWEEN PLANETS -- Robert A. Heinlein -- (1951)

NEW MEXICO

"EASY, boy, easy."

Don Harvey reined in the fat little cow pony. Ordinarily Lazy lived up to his

name; today he seemed to want to go places. Don hardly blamed him. It was such

a day as comes only to New Mexico, with sky scrubbed clean by a passing

shower, the ground already dry but with a piece of rainbow still hanging in

the distance. The sky was too blue, the buttes too rosy, and the far reaches

too sharp to be quite convincing. Incredible peace hung over the land and with

it a breathless expectancy of something wonderful about to happen.

"We've got all day," he cautioned Lazy, "so don't get yourself in a lather.

That's a stiff climb ahead." Don was riding alone because he had decked out

Lazy in a magnificent Mexican saddle his parents had ordered sent to him for

his birthday. It was a beautiful thing, as gaudy with silver as an Indian

buck, but it was as out of place at the ranch school he attended as formal

clothes at a branding -- a point which his parents had not realized. Don was

proud of it, but the other boys rode plain stock saddles; they kidded him

unmercifully and had turned "Donald James Harvey" into "Don Jaime" when he

first appeared with it.

Lazy suddenly shied. Don glanced around, spotted the cause, whipped out his

gun, and fired. He then dismounted, throwing the reins forward so that Lazy

would stand, and examined his work. In the shadow of a rock a fair-sized

snake, seven rattles on its tail, was still twitching. Its head lay by it,

burned off. Don decided not to save the rattles; had he pinpointed the head he

would have taken it in to show his marksmanship. As it was, he had been

forced, to slice sidewise with the beam before he got it. If he brought in a

snake killed in such a clumsy fashion someone would be sure to ask him why he

hadn't used a garden hose.

He let it lie and remounted while talking to Lazy. "Just a no-good old

sidewinder," he said reassuringly. "More scared of you than you were of it."

He clucked and they started off. A few hundred yards further on Lazy shied

again, not from a snake this time but from an unexpected noise. Don pulled him

in and spoke severely. "You bird-brained butterball! When are you going to

learn not to jump when the telephone rings?"

Lazy twitched his shoulder muscles and snorted. Don reached for the pommel,

removed the phone, and answered.

"Mobile 6-J-233309, Don Harvey speaking."

"Mr. Reeves, Don," came back the voice of -- the headmaster of Ranchito

Alegre. "Where are you?"

"Headed up Peddler's Grave Mesa, sir."

"Get home as quickly as you can."

"Uh, what's up, sir?"

"Radiogram from your parents. I'll send the copter out for you if the cook is

back-with someone to bring your horse in."

Don hesitated. He didn't want just anybody to ride Lazy, like as not getting

him overheated and failing to cool him off. On the other hand a radio from his

folks could not help but be important. His parents were on Mars and his mother

wrote regularly, every ship-but radiograms, other than Christmas and birthday

greetings, were almost unheard of.

"I'll hurry, sir."

"Right!" Mr. Reeves switched off. Don turned Lazy and headed back down the

trail. Lazy seemed disappointed and looked back accusingly.

As it turned out, they were only a half-mile from the school when the ranch

copter spotted them. Don waved it off and took Lazy on in himself. Despite his

curiosity he delayed to wipe down the pony and water it before he went in. Mr.

Reeves was waiting in his office and motioned for him to come in. He handed

Don the message.

It read: DEAR SON, PASSAGE RESERVED FOR YOU VALKYRIE CIRCUM-TERRA TWELVE APRIL

LOVE MOTHER AND DAD.

Don blinked at it, having trouble taking in the simple facts. "But that's

right away"

"Yes. You weren't expecting it?"

Don thought it over. He had halfway expected to go home-if one could call it

going home when he had never set foot on Mars-at the end of the school year.

If they had arranged his passage for the Vanderdecken three months from

now..."Uh, not exactly. I can't figure out why they would send for me before

the end of the term."

Mr. Reeves fitted his fingertips carefully together. "I'd say that it was

obvious."

Don looked startled. "You mean? Mr. Reeves, you don't really think there is

going to be trouble, do you?"

The headmaster answered gravely, "Don, I'm not a prophet. But it is my guess

that your parents are sufficiently worried that they want you out of a

potential war zone as quickly as possible."

He was still having trouble readjusting. Wars were something you studied, not

something that actually happened. Of course his class in contemporary history

had kept track of the current crisis in colonial affairs, but, even so, it had

seemed something far away, even for one as widely traveled as himself-a matter

for diplomats and politicians, not something real.

"Look, Mr. Reeves, they may be jumpy but I'm not. I'd like to send a radio

telling them that I'll be along on the next ship, as soon as school is out."

Mr. Reeves shook his head. "No. I can't let you go against your parents'

explicit instructions. In the second place, ah -- " The headmaster seemed to

have difficulty in choosing his words. " -- that is to say, Donald, in the

event of war, you might find your position here, shall we call it,

uncomfortable?"

A bleak wind seemed to have found its way into the office. Don felt lonely and

older than he should feel. "Why?" he asked gruffly.

Mr. Reeves studied his fingernails. "Are you quite sure where your loyalties

lie?" he said slowly.

Don forced himself to think about it. His father had been born on Earth; his

mother was a second-generation Venus colonial. But neither planet was truly

their home; they had met and married on Luna and had pursued their researches

in planetology in many sectors of the solar system. Don himself had been born

out in space and his birth certificate, issued by the Federation, had left the

question of his nationality open. He could claim dual citizenship by parental

derivation. He did not think of himself as a Venus colonial; it had been so

long since his family had last visited Venus that the place had grown unreal

in his mind. On the other hand he had been eleven years old before he had ever

rested his eyes on the lovely hills of Earth.

"I'm a citizen of the System," he said harshly.

"Mmmm -- " said the headmaster. "That's a fine phrase and perhaps someday it

will mean something. In the meantime, speaking as a friend, I agree with your

parents. Mars is likely to be neutral territory; you'll be safe there. Again,

speaking as your friend-things may get a little rough here for anyone whose

loyalty is not perfectly clear."

"Nobody has any business questioning my loyalty under the law, I count as

native born!"

The man did not answer. Don burst out, "The whole thing is silly! If the

Federation wasn't trying to bleed Venus white there wouldn't be any war talk."

Reeves stood up. "That will be all, Don. I'm not going to argue politics with

you."

"It's true! Read Chamberlain's Theory of Colonial Expansion!"

Reeves seemed startled. "Where did you lay hands on that book? Not in the

school library."

Don did not answer. His father had sent it to him but had cautioned him not to

let it be seen; it was one of the suppressed books-on Earth, at least. Reeves

went on, "Don, have you been dealing with a booklegger?"

Don remained silent. "Answer me!"

Presently Reeves took a deep breath and said, "Never mind. Go up to your room

and pack. The copter will take you to Albuquerque at one o'clock."

"Yes, sir." He had started to leave when the headmaster called him back.

"Just a moment. In the heat of our, uh, discussion I almost forgot that there

was a second message for you."

"Oh?" Don accepted the slip; it said: DEAR SON, BE SURE TO SAY GOODBYE TO

UNCLE DUDLEY BEFORE YOU LEAVE -- MOTHER.

This second message surprised him in some ways even more than the first; he

had trouble realizing that his mother must mean Dr. Dudley Jefferson-a friend

of his parents but no relation, and a person of no importance in his own life.

But Reeves seemed not to see anything odd in the message, so he stuck it in

his Levis and left the room.

Long as he had been earthbound he approached packing with a true spaceman's

spirit. He knew that his passage would entitle him to only fifty pounds of

free lift; he started discarding right and left. Shortly he had two piles, a

very small one on his own bed-indispensable clothing, a few capsules of

microfilm, his slide rule, a stylus, and a vreetha, a flutelike Martian

instrument which he had not played in a long time as his schoolmates had

objected. On his roommate's bed was a much larger pile of discards.

He picked up the vreetha, tried a couple of runs, and put it on the larger

pile. Taking a Martian product to Mars was coal to Newcastle. His roommate,

Jack Moreau, came in as he did so. "What in time goes on? House cleaning?"

"Leaving."

Jack dug a finger into his ear. "I must be getting deaf. I could have sworn

you said you were leaving."

"I am." Don stopped and explained, showing Jack the message from his parents.

Jack looked distressed. "I don't like this. Of course I knew this was our last

year, but I didn't figure on you jumping the gun. I probably won't sleep

without your snores to soothe me. What's the rush?"

"I don't know. I really don't. The Head says that my folks have war jitters

and want to drag their little darling to safety. But that's silly, don't you

think? I mean, people are too civilized to go to war today."

Jack did not answer. Don waited, then said sharply, "You agree, don't you?

There won't be any war."

Jack answered slowly, "Could be. Or maybe not."

"Oh, come off it!"

His roommate answered, "Want me to help you pack?"

"There isn't anything to pack."

"How about all that stuff?"

"That's yours, if you want it. Pick it over, then call in the others and let

them take what they like."

"Huh? Gee, Don, I don't want your stuff. I'll pack it and ship it after you."

"Ever ship anything 'tween planets? It's not worth it."

"Then sell it. Tell you what, we'll hold an auction right after supper."

Don shook his head. "No time. I'm leaving at one o'clock."

"What? You're really blitzing me, kid. I don't like this."

"Can't be helped." He turned back to his sorting.

Several of his friends drifted in to say goodbye. Don himself had not spread

the news and he did not suppose that the headmaster would have talked, yet

somehow the grapevine had spread the word. He invited them to help themselves

to the plunder, subject to Jack's prior claim.

Presently he noticed that none of them asked why he was leaving. It bothered

him more than if they had talked about it. He wanted to tell someone, anyone,

that it was ridiculous to doubt his loyalty-and anyhow there wasn't going to

be a war.

Rupe Salter, a boy from another wing, stuck his head in, looked over the

preparations. "Running out, eh? I heard you were and thought I'd check up."

"I'm leaving, if that's what you mean."

"That's what I said. See here, `Don Jaime,' how about that circus saddle of

yours? I'll take it off your hands if the price is right."

"It's not for sale."

"Huh? No horses where you're going. Make me a price."

"It belongs to Jack here."

"And it's still not for sale," Moreau answered promptly.

"Like that, eh? Suit yourself." Salter went on blandly, "Another thing you

willed that nag of yours yet?"

The boys' mounts, with few exceptions, were owned by the school, but it was a

cherished and long-standing privilege of a boy graduating to "will" his

temporary ownership to a boy of his choice. Don looked up sharply; until that

moment he had not thought about Lazy. He realized with sudden grief that he

could not take the little fat clown with him-nor had he made any arrangements

for his welfare. "The matter is settled," he answered, added to himself: as

far as you are concerned.

"Who gets him? I could make it worth your while. He's not much of a horse, but

I want to get rid of the goat I've had to put up with."

"It's settled."

"Be sensible. I can see the Head and get him anyhow. Willing a horse is a

graduating privilege and you're ducking out ahead of time."

"Get out."

Salter grinned. "Touchy, aren't you? Just like all fogeaters, too touchy to

know what's good for you. Well, you're going to be taught a lesson some day

soon."

Don, already on edge, was too angry to trust himself to speak. "Fogeater,"

used to describe a man from cloudwrapped Venus, was merely ragging, no worse

than "Limey" or "Yank" -- unless the tone of voice and context made it, as

now, a deliberate insult. The others looked at him, half expecting action.

Jack got up hastily from the bed and went toward Salter. "Get going, Salty.

We're too busy to monkey around with you." Salter looked at Don, then back at

Jack, shrugged and said, "I'm too busy to hang around here...but not too busy,

if you have anything in mind."

The noon bell pealed from the mess hall; it broke the tension. Several boys

started for the door; Salter moved out with them. Don hung back. Jack said,

"Come on-beans!"

"Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"How about you taking over Lazy?"

"Gee, Don? I'd like to accommodate you-but what would I do with Lady Maude?"

"Uh, I guess so. What'll I do?"

"Let me see -- " Jack's face brightened. "You know that kid Squinty Morris?

The new kid from Manitoba? He hasn't got a permanent yet; he's been taking his

rotation with the goats. He'd treat Lazy right; I know, I let him try Maudie

once. He's got gentle hands."

Don looked relieved. "Will you fix it for me? And see Mr. Reeves?"

"Huh? You can see him at lunch; come on."

"I'm not going to lunch. I'm not hungry. And I don't much want to talk to the

Head about it."

"Why not?"

"Well, I don't know. When he called me in this morning he didn't seem

exactly...friendly."

"What did he say?"

"It wasn't his words; it was his manner. Maybe I am touchy-but I sort of

thought he was glad to see me go."

Don expected Jack to object, convince him that he was wrong. Instead he was

silent for a moment, then said quietly, 'Don't take it too hard, Don. The Head

is probably edgy too. You know he's got his orders?"

"Huh? What orders?"

"You knew he was a reserve officer, didn't you? He put in for orders and got

'em, effective at end of term. Mrs. Reeves is taking over the school for the

duration."

Don, already overstrained, felt his head whirling. For the duration? How could

anyone say that when there wasn't any such thing?

"'Sfact," Jack went on. "I got it straight from cookie." He paused, then went

on, "See here, old son-we're pals, aren't we?"

"Huh? Sure, sure!"

"Then give it to me straight: are you actually going to Mars? Or are you

heading for Venus to sign up?"

"Whatever gave you that notion?"

"Skip it, then. Believe me; it wouldn't make any difference between us. My old

man says that when it's time to be counted, the important thing is to be man

enough to stand up." He looked at Don's face, then went on, "What you do about

it is up to you. You know I've got a birthday coming up next month?"

"Huh? Yes, so you have."

"Come then, I'm going to sign up for pilot training. That's why I wanted to

know what you planned to do."

"Oh."

"But it doesn't make any difference-not between us. Anyhow, you're going to

Mars."

"Yes. Yes, that's right."

"Good!" Jack glanced at his watch. "I've got to run-or they'll throw my chow

to the pigs. Sure you're not coming?"

"Sure."

"See you." He dashed out.

Don stood for a moment, rearranging his ideas. Old Jack must be taking this

seriously-giving up Yale for pilot training. But he was wrong-he had to be

wrong.

Presently he went out to the corral.

Lazy answered his call, then started searching his pockets for sugar. "Sorry,

old fellow," he said sadly, "not even a carrot. I forgot." He stood with his

face to the horse's cheek and scratched the beast's ears. He talked to it in

low tones, explaining as carefully as if Lazy could understand all the

difficult words.

"So that's how it is," he concluded. "I've got to go away and they won't let

me take you with me." He thought back to the day their association had begun.

Lazy had been hardly more than a colt, but Don had been frightened of him. He

seemed huge, dangerous, and probably carnivorous. He had -- never seen a horse

before coming to Earth; Lazy was the first he had ever seen close up.

Suddenly he choked, could talk no further. He flung his arms around the

horse's neck and leaked tears.

Lazy nickered softly, knowing that something was wrong, and tried to nuzzle

him. Don raised his head. "Goodbye, boy. Take care of yourself." He turned

abruptly and ran toward the dormitories.

"MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN"

THE SCHOOL copter dumped him down at the Albuquerque field. He had to hurry to

catch his rocket, as traffic control had required them to swing wide around

Sandia Weapons Center. When he weighed in he ran into another new security

wrinkle. "Got a camera in that stuff, son?" the weighmaster had inquired as he

passed over his bags.

"No. Why?"

"Because we'll fog your film when we fluoroscope, that's why." Apparently X-

ray failed to show any bombs hidden in his underwear; his bags were handed

back and he went aboard-the winged-rocket Santa Fe Trail, shuttling between

the Southwest and New Chicago. Inside, he fastened his safety belts, snuggled

down into the cushions, and waited.

At first the noise of the blast-off bothered him more than the pressure. But

the noise dopplered away as they passed the speed of sound while the

acceleration grew worse; he blacked out.

He came to as the ship went into free flight, arching in a high parabola over

the plains. At once he felt great relief no longer to have unbearable weight

racking his rib cage, straining his heart, turning his muscles to water-but,

before he could enjoy the blessed relief, he was aware of a new sensation; his

stomach was trying to crawl up his gullet.

At first he was alarmed, being unable to account for the unexpected and

unbearably unpleasant sensation. Then he had a sudden wild suspicion could it?

Oh, no! It couldn't be...not space sickness, not to him. Why, he had been born

in free fall; space nausea was for Earth crawlers, groundhogs!

But the suspicion grew to certainty; years of easy living on a planet had worn

out his immunity. With secret embarrassment he conceded that he certainly was

acting like a groundhog. It had not occurred to him to ask for an antinausea

shot before blast-off, though he had walked past the counter plainly marked

with a red cross.

Shortly his secret embarrassment became public; he had barely time to get at

the plastic container provided for the purpose. Thereafter he felt better,

although weak, and listened half-heartedly to the canned description coming

out of the loudspeaker of the country over which they were falling. Presently,

near Kansas City, the sky turned from black back to purple again, the air

foils took hold, and the passengers again felt weight as the rocket continued

glider fashion on a long, screaming approach to New Chicago. Don folded his

couch into a chair and sat up.

Twenty minutes later, as the field came up to meet them, rocket units in the

nose were triggered by radar and the Santa F6 Trail braked to a landing. The

entire trip had taken less time than the copter jaunt from the school to

Alburquerque -- something less than an hour for the same route eastward that

the covered wagons had made westward in eighty days, with luck. The local

rocket landed on a field just outside the city, next door to the enormous

field, still slightly radioactive, which was both the main spaceport of the

planet and the former site of Old Chicago.

Don hung back and let a Navajo family disembark ahead of him, then followed

the squaw out. A movable slideway had crawled out to the ship; he stepped on

it and let it carry him into the station. Once inside he was confused by the

bustling size of the place, level after level, above and below ground. Gary

Station served not merely the Santa Fe Trail, the Route 66, and other local

rockets shuttling to the Southwest; it served a dozen other local lines, as

well as ocean hoppers, freight tubes, and space ships operating between Earth

and Circum-Terra Station-and thence to Luna, Venus, Mars, and the Jovian

moons; it was the spinal cord of a more-than-world-wide empire.

Tuned as he was to the wide and empty New Mexico desert and, before that, to

the wider wastes of space, Don felt oppressed and irritated by the noisy

swarming mass. He felt the loss of dignity that comes from men behaving like

ants, even though his feeling was not thought out in words. Still, it had to

be faced-he spotted the triple globes of Interplanet Lines and followed

glowing arrows to its reservation office.

An uninterested clerk assured him that the office had no record of his

reservation in the Valkyrie. Patiently Don explained that the reservation had

been made from Mars and displayed the radiogram from his parents. Annoyed into

activity the clerk finally consented to phone Circum-Terra; the satellite

station confirmed the reservation. The clerk signed off and turned back to

Don. "Okay, you can pay for it here."

Don had a sinking feeling. "I thought it was already paid for?" He had on him

his father's letter-of-credit but it was not enough to cover passage to Mars.

"Huh? They didn't say anything about it being prepaid."

At Don's insistence the clerk again phoned the space station. Yes, the passage

was prepaid since it had been placed from the other end; didn't the clerk know

his tariff book? Thwarted on all sides, the clerk grudgingly issued Don a

ticket to couch 64, Rocket Ship Glory Road, lifting from Earth for Circum-

Terra at 9:03:57 the following morning.

"Got your security clearance?"

"Huh? What's that?"

The clerk appeared to gloat at what was a legitimate opportunity to decline to

do business after all. He withdrew the ticket. "Don't you bother to follow the

news? Give me your ID."

Reluctantly Don passed over his identity card; the clerk stuck it in a stat

machine and handed it back. "Now your thumb prints."

Don impressed them and said, "Is that all? Can I have my ticket?"

" `Is that all?' he says Be here about an hour early tomorrow morning. You can

pick up your ticket then-provided the I.B.I. says you can." '

The clerk turned away. Don, feeling forlorn, did likewise. He did not know

quite what to do next. He had told Headmaster Reeves that he would stay

overnight at the Hilton Caravansary, that being the hotel his family had

stopped at 18 years earlier and the only one he knew by name. On the other

hand he had to attempt to locate Dr. Jefferson "Uncle Dudley" -- since his

mother had made such a point of it. It was still early afternoon; he decided

to check his bags and start looking.

Bags disposed of, he found an empty communication booth and looked up the

doctor's code, punched it into the machine. The doctor's phone regretted

politely that Dr. Jefferson was not at home and requested him to leave a

message. He was dictating it when a warm voice interrupted: "I'm at home to

you, Donald. Where are you, lad?" The view screen cut in and he found himself

looking at the somewhat familiar features of Dr. Dudley Jefferson.

"Oh I'm at the station, Doctor-Gary Station. I just got in."

"Then grab a cab and come here at once."

"Uh, I don't want to put you to any trouble, Doctor. I called because mother

said to say goodbye to you." Privately he had hoped that Dr. Jefferson would

be too busy to waste time on him. Much as he disapproved of cities he did not

want to spend his last night on Earth exchanging politeness with a family

friend; he wanted to stir around and find out just what the modern Babylon did

have to offer in the way of diversion. His letter-of-credit was burning a hole

in his pocket; he wanted to bleed it a bit.

"No trouble. See you in a few minutes. Meanwhile I'll pick out a fatted calf

and butcher it. By the way, did you receive a package from me?" The doctor

looked suddenly intent.

"A package? No."

Dr. Jefferson muttered something about the mail service. Don said, "Maybe it

will catch up with me. Was it important?"

"Uh, never mind; we'll speak of it later. You left a forwarding address?"

"Yes, sir-the Caravansary."

"Well-whip up the horses and see how quickly you can get here. Open sky"

"And safe grounding, sir." They both switched off. Don left the booth and

looked around for a cab stand. The station seemed more jammed than ever, with

uniforms much in evidence, not only those of pilots and other ship personnel

but military uniforms of many corps-and always the ubiquitous security police.

Don fought his way through the crowd, down a ramp, along a slidewalk tunnel,

and finally found what he wanted. There was a queue waiting for cabs; he

joined it.

Beside the queue was sprawled the big, ungainly saurian form of a Venerian

"dragon." When Don progressed in line until he was beside it, he politely

whistled a greeting.

The dragon swiveled one fluttering eyestalk in his direction. Strapped to the

"chest" of the creature, between its forelegs and immediately below and in

reach of its handling tendrils, was a small box, a voder. The tendrils writhed

over the keys and the Venerian answered him, via mechanical voder speech,

rather than by whistling in his own language. "Greetings to you also, young

sir. It is pleasant indeed, among strangers, to hear the sounds one heard in

the egg." Don noted with delight that the outlander had a distinctly Cockney

accent in the use of his machine.

He whistled his thanks and a hope that the dragon might die pleasantly.

The Venerian thanked him, again with the voder, and added, "Charming as is

your accent, will you do me the favor of using your own speech that I may

practice it?"

Don suspected that his modulation was so atrocious that the Venerian could

hardly understand it; he lapsed at once into human words. "My name is Don

Harvey," he replied and whistled once more-but just to give his own Venerian

name, "Mist on the Waters"; it had been selected by his mother and he saw

nothing funny about it.

Nor did the dragon. He whistled for the first time, naming himself, and added

via voder, "I am called `Sir Isaac Newton.' " Don understood that the

Venerian, in so tagging himself, was following the common dragon custom of

borrowing as a name of convenience the name of some earthhuman admired by the

borrower.

Don wanted to ask "Sir Isaac Newton" if by chance he knew Don's mother's

family, but the queue was moving up and the dragon was lying still; he was

forced to move along to keep from losing his place in line. The Venerian

followed him with one oscillating eye and whistled that he hoped that Don,

too, might die pleasantly.

There was an interruption in the flow of autocabs to the stand; a manoperated

flatbed truck drew up and let down a ramp. The dragon reared up on six sturdy

legs and climbed aboard. Don whistled a farewell-and became suddenly and

unpleasantly aware that a security policeman was giving him undivided

attention. He was glad to crawl into his autocab and close the cover.

He dialed the address and settled back. The little car lurched forward,

climbed a ramp, threaded through a freight tunnel, and mounted an elevator. At

first Don tried to keep track of where it was taking him but the tortured

convolutions of the ant hill called "New Chicago" would have made a topologist

dyspeptic; he gave up. The robot cab seemed to know where it was going and, no

doubt, the master machine from which it received its signals knew. Don spent

the rest of the trip fretting over the fact that his ticket had not yet been

turned over to him, over the unwelcome attention of the security policeman,

and, finally, about the package from Dr. Jefferson. The last did not worry

him; it simply annoyed him to have mail go astray. He hoped that Mr. Reeves

would realize that any mail not forwarded by this afternoon would have to

follow him all the way to Mars.

Then he thought about "Sir Isaac." It was nice to run across somebody from

home.

Dr. Jefferson's apartment turned out to be far underground in an expensive

quarter of the city. Don almost failed to arrive; the cab had paused at the

apartment door but when he tried to get out the door would not open. This

reminded him that he must first pay the fare shown in the meter-only to

discover that he had pulled the bumpkin trick of engaging a robot vehicle

without having coins on him to feed the meter. He was sure that the little

car, clever as it was, would not even deign to sniff at his letter-of-credit.

He was expecting disconsolately to be carted by the machine off to the nearest

police station when he was rescued by the appearance of Dr. Jefferson.

The doctor gave him coins to pay the shot and ushered him in. "Think nothing

of it, my boy; it happens to me about once a week. The local desk sergeant

keeps a drawer full of hard money just to buy me out of hock from our

mechanical masters. I pay him off once a quarter, cumshaw additional. Sit

down. Sherry?"

"Er, no, thank you, sir."

"Coffee, then. Cream and sugar at your elbow. What do you hear from your

parents?"

"Why, the usual things. Both well and working hard and all that." Don looked

around him as he spoke. The room was large, comfortable, even luxurious,

although books spilling lavishly and untidily over shelves and tables and even

chairs masked its true richness. What appeared to be a real fire burned in one

corner. Through an open door he could see several more rooms. He made a high,

and grossly inadequate, mental estimate of the cost of such an establishment

in New Chicago.

Facing them was a view window which should have looked into the bowels of the

city; instead it reflected a mountain stream and fir trees. A trout broke

water as he watched.

"I'm sure they are working hard," his host answered. "They always do. Your

father is attempting to seek out, in one short lifetime, secrets that have

been piling up for millions of years. Impossible-but he makes a good stab at

it. Son, do you realize that when your father started his career we hadn't

even dreamed that the first system empire ever existed?" He added

thoughtfully, "If it was the first." He went on, "Now we have felt out the

ruins on the floor of two oceans-and tied them in with records from four other

planets. Of course your father didn't do it all, or even most of it-but his

work has been indispensable. Your father is a great man, Donald -- and so is

your mother. When I speak of either one I really mean the team. Help yourself

to sandwiches."

Don said, "Thank you," and did so, thereby avoiding a direct answer. He was

warmly pleased to hear his parents praised but it did not seem to be quite the

thing to agree heartily.

But the doctor was capable of carrying on the conversation unassisted. "Of

course we may never know all the answers. How was the noblest planet of them

all, the home of empire, broken and dispersed into space junk? Your father

spent four years in the Asteroid Belt-you were along, weren't you? -- and

never found a firm answer to that. Was it a paired planet, like Earth-Luna,

and broken up by tidal strains? Or was it blown up?"

"Blown up?" Don protested. "But that's theoretically impossible-isn't it?"

Dr. Jefferson brushed it aside. "Everything is theoretically impossible, until

it's done. One could write a history of science in reverse by assembling the

solemn pronouncements of highest authority about what could not be done and

could never happen. Studied any mathematical philosophy, Don? Familiar with

infinite universe sheafs and open-ended postulate systems?"

"Uh, I'm afraid not, sir."

"Simple idea and very tempting. The notion that everything is possible and I

mean everything-and everything has happened. Everything. One universe in which

you accepted that wine and got drunk as a skunk. Another in which the fifth

planet never broke up. Another in which atomic power and nuclear weapons are

as impossible as our ancestors thought they were. That last one might have its

points, for sissies at least. Like me."

He stood up. "Don't eat too many sandwiches. I'm going to take you out to a

restaurant where there will be food, among other things...and such food as

Zeus promised the gods-and failed to deliver."

"I don't want to take up too much of your time, sir." Don was still hoping to

get out on the town by himself. He had a dismaying vision of dinner in some

stuffy rich man's club, followed by an evening of highfalutin talk. And it was

his last night on Earth.

"Time? What is time? Each hour ahead is as fresh as was the one we just used.

You registered at the Caravansary?"

"No, sir, I just checked my bags at the station."

"Good. You'll stay here tonight; we'll send for your luggage later." Dr.

Jefferson's manner changed slightly. "But your mail was to be sent to the

hotel?"

"That's right."

Don was surprised to see that Dr. Jefferson looked distinctly worried. "Well,

we'll check into that later. That package I sent to you-would it be forwarded

promptly?"

"I really don't know, sir. Ordinarily the mail comes in twice a day. If it

came in after I left, it would ordinarily wait over until morning. But if the

headmaster thought about it, he might have it sent into town special so that I

would get it before up-ship tomorrow morning."

"Mean to say there isn't a tube into the school?"

"No, sir, the cook brings in the morning mail when he shops and the afternoon

mail is chuted in by the Roswell copter bus."

"A desert island! Well...we'll check around midnight. If it hasn't arrived

then-never mind." Nevertheless he seemed perturbed and hardly spoke during

their ride to dinner.

The restaurant was misnamed The Back Room and there was no sign out to

indicate its location; it was simply one of many doors in a side tunnel.

Nevertheless many people seemed to know where it was and to be anxious to get

in, only to be thwarted by a stern-faced dignitary guarding a velvet rope.

This ambassador recognized Dr. Jefferson and sent for the maitre d'hotel. The

doctor made a gesture understood by headwaiters throughout history, the rope

was dropped, and they were conducted in royal progress to a ringside table.

Don was bug-eyed at the size of the bribe. Thus he was ready with the proper

facial expression when he caught sight of their waitress.

His reaction to her was simple; she was, it seemed to him, the most beautiful

sight he had ever seen, both in person and in costume. Dr. Jefferson caught

his expression and chuckled. "Don't use up your enthusiasm, son. The ones we

have paid to see will be out there." He waved at the floor. "Cocktail first?"

Don said that he didn't believe so, thank you.

"Suit yourself. You are man high and a single taste of the flesh-pots wouldn't

do you any permanent harm. But suppose you let me order dinner for us?" Don

agreed. While Dr. Jefferson was consulting with the captive princess over the

menu, Don looked around. The room simulated outdoors in the late evening;

stars were just appearing overhead. A high brick wall ran around the room,

hiding the non-existent middle distance and patching in the floor to the false

sky. Apple trees hung over the wall and stirred in the breeze. An old-

fashioned well with a well sweep stood beyond the tables on the far side of

the room; Don saw another "captive princess" go to it, operate the sweep, and

remove a silver pail containing a wrapped bottle.

At the ringside opposite them a table had been removed to make room for a

large transparent plastic capsule on wheels. Don had never seen one but he

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BETWEENPLANETS--RobertA.Heinlein--(1951)INEWMEXICO"EASY,boy,easy."DonHarveyreinedinthefatlittlecowpony.OrdinarilyLazyliveduptohisname;todayheseemedtowanttogoplaces.Donhardlyblamedhim.ItwassuchadayascomesonlytoNewMexico,withskyscrubbedcleanbyapassingshower,thegroundalreadydrybutwithapieceofrainbowsti...

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Robert A Heinlein - Between Planets

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