Robert A Heinlein - Double Star

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Chapter 1

If a man walks in dressed like a hick and acting as if he owned the place, he's a spaceman.

It is a logical necessity. His profession makes him feel like boss of all creation; when he sets foot

dirtside he is slumming among the peasants. As for his sartorial inelegance, a man who is in uniform

nine tenths of the time and is more used to deep space than to civilization can hardly be expected to

know how to dress properly. He is a sucker for the alleged tailors who swarm around every spaceport

peddling "ground outfits."

I could see that this big-boned fellow had been dressed by Omar the Tentmaker-padded shoulders

that were too big to start with, shorts cut so that they crawled up his hairy thighs as he sat down, a

ruffled chemise that might have looked well on a cow.

But I kept my opinion to myself and bought him a drink with my last half-Imperial, considering it

an investment, spacemen being the way they are about money. "Hot jets!" I said as we touched glasses.

He gave me a quick glance.

That was my initial mistake in dealing with Dak Broadbent. Instead of answering, "Clear space!"

or, "Safe grounding!" as he should have, he looked me over and said softly, "A nice sentiment, but to the

wrong man. I've never been out."

That was another good place to keep my mouth shut. Spacemen did not often come to the bar of

Casa Mañana; it was not their Sort of hotel and it's miles from the port. When one shows up in ground

clothes, seeks a dark corner of the bar, and objects to being called a spaceman, that's his business. I had

picked that spot myself so that I could see without being seen-I owed a little money here and there at the

time, nothing important but embarrassing. I should have assumed that he had his reasons, too, and

respected them.

But my vocal cords lived their own life, wild and free. "Don't give me that, shipmate," I replied. "If

you're a ground hog, I'm Mayor of Tycho City. I'll wager you've done more drinking on Mars," I added,

noticing the cautious way he lifted his glass, a dead giveaway of low-gravity habits, "than you've ever

done on Earth."

"Keep your voice down!" he cut in without moving his lips. "What makes you sure that I am a

voyageur? You don't know me."

"Sorry," I said. "You can be anything you like. But I've got eyes. You gave yourself away the

minute you walked in."

He said something under his breath. "How?"

"Don't let it worry you. I doubt if anyone else noticed. But I see things other people don't see." I

handed him my card, a little smugly perhaps. There is only one Lorenzo Smythe, the One-Man Stock

Company. Yes, I'm "The Great Lorenzo"-stereo, canned opera, legit-"Pantomimist and Mimicry Artist

Extraordinary."

He read my card and dropped it into a sleeve pocket-which annoyed me; those cards had cost me

money-genuine imitation hand engraving. "I see your point," he said quietly, "but what was wrong with

the way I behaved?"

"I'll show you," I said. "I'll walk to the door like a ground hog and come back the way you walk.

Watch." I did so, making the trip back in a slightly exaggerated version of his walk to allow for his

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untrained eye-feet sliding softly along the floor as if it were deck plates, weight carried forward and

balanced from the hips, hands a trifle forward and clear of the body, ready to grasp.

There are a dozen other details which can't be set down in words; the point is you have to be a

spaceman when you do it, with a spaceman's alert body and unconscious balance-you have to live it. A

city man blunders along on smooth floors all his life, steady floors with Earth-normal gravity, and will

trip over a cigarette paper, like as not. Not so a spaceman.

"See what I mean?" I asked, slipping back into my seat.

"I'm afraid I do," he admitted suurly. "Did I walk like that?"

"Yes."

"Hmmm... Maybe I should take lessons from you."

"You could do worse," I admitted.

He sat there looking me over, then started to speak-changed his mind and wiggled a finger at the

bartender to refill our glasses. When the drinks came, he paid for them, drank his, and slid out of his seat

all in one smooth motion. "Wait for me," he said quietly.

With a drink he had bought sitting in front of me I could not refuse. Nor did I want to; he interested

me. I liked him, even on ten minutes' acquaintance; he was the sort of big ugly-handsome galoot that

women go for and men take orders from.

He threaded his way gracefully through the room and passed a table of four Martians near the door.

I didn't like Martians. I did not fancy having a thing that looks like a tree trunk topped off by a sun

helmet claiming the privileges of a man. I did not like the way they grew pseudo limbs; it reminded me

of snakes crawling out of their holes. I did not like the fact that they could look all directions at once

without turning their heads-if they had had heads, which of course they don't. And I could not stand their

smell!

Nobody could accuse me of race prejudice. I didn't care what a man's color, race, or religion was.

But men were men, whereas Martians were things. They weren't even animals to my way of thinking. I'd

rather have had a wart hog around me any day. Permitting them in restaurants and bars used by men

struck me as outrageous. But there was the Treaty, of course, so what could I do?

These four had not been there when I came in, or I would have whiffed them. For that matter, they

certainly could not have been there a few moments earlier when I had walked to the door and back. Now

there they were, standing on their pedestals around a table, pretending to be people. I had not even heard

the air conditioning speed up.

The free drink in front of me did not attract me; I simply wanted my host to come back so that I

could leave politely. It suddenly occurred to me that he had glanced over that way just before he had left

so hastily and I wondered if the Martians had anything to do with it. I looked over at them, trying to see

if they were paying attention to our table-but how could you tell what a Martian was looking at or what

it was thinking? That was another thing I didn't like about them.

I sat there for several minutes fiddling with my drink and wondering what had happened to my

spaceman friend. I had hoped that his hospitality might extend to dinner and, if we became sufficiently

simpatico, possibly even to a small temporary loan. My other prospects were-I admit it!-slender. The last

two times I had tried to call my agent his autosecretary had simply recorded the message, and unless I

deposited coins in the door, my room would not open to me that night . . . That was how low my

fortunes had ebbed: reduced to sleeping in a coin-operated cubicle.

In the midst of my melancholy ponderings a waiter touched me on the elbow. "Call for you, sir."

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"Eh? Very well, friend, will you fetch an instrument to the table?"

"Sorry, sir, but I can't transfer it. Booth 12 in the lobby."

"Oh. Thank you," I answered, making it as warm as possible since I was unable to tip him. I swung

wide around the Martians as I went Out.

I soon saw why the call had not been brought to the table; No. 12 was a maximum-security booth,

sight, sound, and scramble. The tank showed no image and did not clear even after the door locked

behind me. It remained milky until I sat down and placed my face within pickup, then the opalescent

clouds melted away and I found myself looking at my spaceman friend.

"Sorry to walk out on you," he said quickly, "but I was in a hurry. I want you to come at once to

Room 2106 of the Eisenhower."

He offered no explanation. The Eisenhower is just as unlikely a hotel for spacemen as Casa

Mañana. I could smell trouble. You don't pick up a stranger in a bar and then insist that he come to a

hotel room-well, not one of the same sex, at least.

"Why?" I asked.

The spaceman got that look peculiar to men who are used to being obeyed without question; I

studied it with professional interest-it's not the same as anger; it is more like a thundercloud just before a

storm. Then he got himself in hand and answered quietly, "Lorenzo, there is no time to explain. Are you

open to a job?"

"Do you mean a professional engagement?" I answered slowly. For a horrid instant I suspected that

he was offering me . . . Well, you know-a job. Thus far I had kept my professional pride intact, despite

the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

"Oh, professional, of course!" he answered quickly. "This requires the best actor we can get."

I did not let my relief show in my face. It was true that J was ready for any professional work-I

would gladly have played the balcony in Romeo and Juliet-but it does not do to be eager. "What is the

nature of the engagement?" I asked. "My calendar is rather full."

He brushed it aside. "I can't explain over the phone. Perhaps you don't know it, but any scrambler

circuit can be unscrambled- with the proper equipment. Shag over here fast!"

He was eager; therefore I could afford not to be eager. "Now really," I protested, "what do you

think I am? A bellman? Or an untried juvenile anxious for the privilege of carrying a spear? I am

Lorenzo!" I threw up my chin and looked offended. "What is your offer?"

"Uh. . . Damn it, I can't go into it over the phone. How much do you get?"

"Eh? You are asking my professional salary?"

"Yes, yes!"

"For a single appearance? Or by the week? Or an option contract?"

"Never mind. What do you get by the day?"

"My minimum fee for a one-evening date is one hundred Imperials." This was simple truth. Oh, I

have been coerced at times into paying some scandalous kickbacks, but the voucher never read less than

my proper fee. A man has his standards. I'd rather starve.

"Very well," he answered quickly, "one hundred Imperials in cash, laid in your hand the minute you

show up here. But hurry!"

"Eh?" I realized with sudden dismay that I could as easily have said two hundred, or even two fifty.

"But I have not agreed to accept the engagement."

"Never mind that! We'll talk it over when you get here. The hundred is yours even if you turn us

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down. If you accept-well, call it bonus, over and above your salary. Now will you sign off and get over

here?"

I bowed. "Certainly, sir. Have patience."

Fortunately the Eisenhower is not too far from the Casa, for I did not even have a minimum for

tube fare. However, although the art of strolling is almost lost, I savor it-and it gave me time to collect

my thoughts. I was no fool; I was aware that when another man is too anxious to force money on one, it

is time to examine the cards, for there is almost certainly something illegal, or dangerous, or both,

involved in the matter. I was not unduly fussy about legality qua legality; I agreed with the Bard that the

Law is often an idiot. But in the main I had stayed on the right side of the Street.

But presently I realized that I had insufficient facts, so I put it out of my mind, threw my cape over

my right shoulder, and strode along, enjoying the mild autumn weather and the rich and varied odors of

the metropolis. On arrival I decided to forego the main entrance and took a bounce tube from the sub-

basement to the twenty-first floor, I having at the time a vague feeling that this was not the place to let

my public recognize me. My voyageur friend let me in. "You took long enough," he snapped.

"Indeed?" I let it go at that and looked around me. It was an expensive suite, as I had expected, but

it was littered and there were at least a dozen used glasses and as many coffee cups scattered here and

there; it took no skill to see that I was merely the latest of many visitors. Sprawled on a couch, scowling

at me, was another man, whom I tabbed tentatively as a spaceman. I glanced inquiringly but no

introduction was offered.

"Well, you're here, at least. Let's get down to business."

"Surely. Which brings to mind," I added, "there was mention of a bonus, or retainer."

"Oh, yes." He turned to the man on the couch. "Jock, pay him."

"For what?"

"Pay him!"

I now knew which one was boss-although, as I was to learn, there was usually little doubt when

Dak Broadbent was in a room. The other fellow stood up quickly, still scowling, and counted Out to me

a fifty and five tens. I tucked it away casually without checking it and said, "I am at your disposal,

gentlemen."

The big man chewed his lip. "First, I want your solemn oath not even to talk in your sleep about

this job."

"If my simple word is not good, is my oath better?" I glanced at the smaller man, slouched again on

the couch. "I don't believe we have met. I am Lorenzo."

He glanced at me, looked away. My barroom acquaintance said hastily, "Names don't matter in

this."

"No? Before my revered father died he made me promise him three things: first, never to mix

whisky with anything but water; second, always to ignore anonymous letters; and lastly, never to talk

with a stranger who refuses to give his name. Good day, sirs." I turned toward the door, their hundred

Imperials warm in my pocket.

"Hold it!" I paused. He went on, "You are perfectly right. My name is-"

"Skipper!"

"Stow it, Jock. I'm Dak Broadbent; that's Jacques Dubois glaring at us. We're both voyageurs-

master pilots, all classes, any acceleration."

I bowed. "Lorenzo Smythe," I said modestly, "jongleur and artist-care of The Lambs Club." I made

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a mental note to pay my dues.

"Good. Jock, try smiling for a change. Lorenzo, you agree to keep our business secret?"

"Under the rose. This is a discussion between gentlemen."

"Whether you take the job or not?"

"Whether we reach agreement or not. I am human, but, short of illegal methods of questioning,

your confidences are sale with me."

"I am well aware of what neodexocaine will do to a man's forebrain, Lorenzo. We don't expect the

impossible."

"Dak," Dubois said urgently, "this is a mistake. We should at least--"

"Shut up, Jock. I want no hypnotists around at this point. Lorenzo, we want you to do an

impersonation job. It has to be so perfect that no one-I mean no one-will ever know it took place. Can

you do that sort of a job?"

I frowned. "The first question is not 'Can I?' but 'Will I?' What are the circumstances?"

"Uh, we'll go into details later. Roughly, it is the ordinary doubling job for a well-known public

figure. The difference is that the impersonation will have to be so perfect as to fool people who know

him well and must see him close up. It won't be just reviewing a parade from a grandstand, or pinning

medals on girl scouts." He looked at me shrewdly. "It will take a real artist."

"No," I said at once.

"Huh? You don't know anything about the job yet. If your conscience is bothering you, let me

assure you that you will not be working against the interests of the man you will impersonate-nor against

anyone's legitimate interests. This is a job that really needs to be done."

"No."

"Well, for Pete's sake, why? You don't even know how much we will pay."

"Pay is no object," I said firmly. "I am an actor, not a double."

"I don't understand you. There are lots of actors picking up spare money making public appearances

for celebrities."

"I regard them as prostitutes, not colleagues. Let me make myself clear. Does an author respect a

ghost writer? Would you respect a painter who allowed another man to sign his work-for money?

Possibly the spirit of the artist is foreign to you, sir, yet perhaps I may put it in terms germane to your

own profession. Would you, simply for money, be content to pilot a ship while some other man, not

possessing your high art, wore the uniform, received the credit, was publicly acclaimed as the Master?

Would you?"

Dubois snorted. "How much money?"

Broadbent frowned at him. "I think I understand your objection."

"To the artist, sir, kudos comes first. Money is merely the mundane means whereby he is enabled to

create his art."

"Hmm. . . All right, so you won't do it just for money. Would you do it for other reasons? If you felt

that it had to be done and you were the only one who could do it successfully?"

"I concede the possibility; I cannot imagine the circumstances."

"You won't have to imagine them; we'll explain them to you."

Dubois jumped up off the couch. "Now see here, Dak, you can't--"

"Cut it, Jock! He has to know."

"He doesn't have to know now-and here. And you haven't any right to jeopardize everybody else by

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telling him. You don't know a thing about him."

"It's a calculated risk." Broadbent turned back to me.

Dubois grabbed his arm, swung him around. "Calculated risk be damned! Dak, I've strung along

with you in the past~-but this time before I'll let you shoot off your face, well, one or the other of us isn't

going to be in any shape to talk."

Broadbent looked startled, then grinned coldly down at Dubois. "Think you're up to it, Jock old

son?"

Dubois glared up at him, did not flinch. Broadbent was a head taller and outweighed him by twenty

kilos. I found myself for the first time liking Dubois; I am always touched by the gallant audacity of a

kitten, the fighting heart of a bantam cock, or the willingness of a little mart to die in his tracks rather

than knuckle under...And, while I did not expect Broadbent to kill him, I did think that I was about to see

Dubois used as a dust rag.

I had no thought of interfering. Every man is entitled to elect the time and manner of his own

destruction.

I could see tension grow. Then suddenly l3roadbent laughed and clapped Dubois on the shoulder.

"Good for you, Jock!" He turned to me and said quietly, "Will you excuse us a few moments? My friend

and I must make heap big smoke."

The suite was equipped with a hush corner, enclosing the autograph and the phone. Broadbent took

Dubois by the arm and led him over there; they stood and talked urgently.

Sometimes such facilities in public places like hotels are not all that they might be; the sound waves

fail to cancel out completely. But the Eisenhower is a luxury house and in this case, at least, the

equipment worked perfectly; I could see their lips move but I could hear no sound.

But I could indeed see their lips move. Broadbent's face was toward me and Dubois I could glimpse

in a wall mirror. When I was performing in my famous mentalist act, I found out why my father had

beaten my tail until I learned the silent language of lips-in my mentalist act I always performed in a

brightly lighted hail and made use of spectacles which-but never mind; I could read lips.

Dubois was saying: "Dak, you bloody, stupid, unprintable, illegal and highly improbable obscenity,

do you want us both to wind up counting rocks on Titan? This conceited pipsqueak will spill his guts."

I almost missed Broadbent's answer. Conceited indeed! Aside from a cold appreciation of my own

genius I felt that I was a modest man.

Broadbent: ". . . doesn't matter if the game is crooked when it's the only game in town. Jock, there

is nobody else we can use."

Dubois: "All right, then get Doc Scortia over here, hypnotize him, and shoot him the happy juice.

But don't tell him the score- not until he's conditioned, not while we are still on dirt."

Broadbent: "Uh, Scortia himself told me that we could not depend on hypno and drugs, not for

the performance we need.

We've got to have his co-operation, his intelligent co-operation."

Dubois snorted. "What intelligence? Look at him. Ever see a rooster strutting through a barnyard?

Sure, he's the right size and shape and his skull looks a good bit like the Chief-but there is nothing

behind it. He'll lose his nerve, blow his top, and give the whole thing away. He can't play the part-he's

just a ham actor!"

If the immortal Caruso had been charged with singing off key, he could not have been more

affronted than I. But I trust I justified my claim to the mantle of Burbage and Booth at that moment; I

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went on buffing my nails and ignored it-merely noting that I would someday make friend Dubois both

laugh and cry within the span of twenty seconds. I waited a few moments more, then stood up and

approached the hush corner. When they saw that I intended to enter it, they both shut up. I said quietly,

"Never mind, gentlemen, I have changed my mind."

Dubois looked relieved. "You don't want the job."

"I mean that I accept the engagement. You need not make explanations. I have been assured by

friend Broadbent that the work is such as not to trouble my conscience-and I trust him. He has assured

rue that he needs an actor. But the business affairs of the producer are not my concern. I accept."

Dubois looked angry, but shut up. I expected Broadbent to look pleased and relieved; instead he

looked worried. "All right," he agreed, "let's get on with it. Lorenzo, I don't know exactly how long we

will need you. No more than a few days, I'm certain-and you will be on display only an hour or so once

or twice in that time."

"That does not matter as long as I have time to study the role- the impersonation. But

approximately how many days will you

need me? I should notify my agent."

"Oh no! Don't do that."

"Well-how long? As much as a week?"

"It will be less than that-or we're sunk."

"Never mind. Will a hundred Imperials a day suit you?"

I hesitated, recalling how easily he had met my minimum just to interview me-and decided this was

a time to be gracious. I waved it aside. "Let's not speak of such things. No doubt you will present me

with an honorarium consonant with the worth of my performance."

"All right, all right." Broadbent turned away impatiently. "Jock, call the field. Then call Langston

and tell him we're starting Plan Mardi Gras. Synchronize with him. Lorenzo . . ." He motioned for me to

follow and strode into the bath. He opened a small case and demanded, "Can you do anything with this

junk?"

"Junk" it was-the sort of overpriced and unprofessional makeup kit that is sold over the counter to

stage-struck youngsters. I stared at it with mild disgust. "Do I understand, sir, that you expect me to start

an impersonation now? Without time for study?"

"Huh? No, no, no! I want you to change your face-on the outside chance that someone might

recognize you as we leave here.

That's possible, isn't it?"

I answered stiffly that being recognized in public was a burden that all celebrities were forced to

carry. I did not add that it was certain that countless people would recognize The Great Lorenzo in any

public place.

"Okay. So change your phiz so it's not yours." He left abruptly.

I sighed and looked over the child's toys he had handed me, no doubt thinking they were the

working tools of my profession- grease paints suitable for clowns, reeking spirit gum, crepe hair which

seemed to have been raveled from Aunt Maggie's parlor carpet. Not an ounce of Silicoflesh, no electric

brushes, no modern amenities of any sort. But a true artist can do wonders with a burnt match, or

oddments such as one might find in a kitchen- and his own genius. I arranged the lights and let myself

fall into creative reverie.

There are several ways to keep a well-known face from being recognized. The simplest is

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misdirection. Place a man in uniform and his face is not likely to be noticed-do you recall the lace of the

last policeman you encountered? Could you identify him if you saw him next in mufti? On the same

principle is the attentiongoing special feature. Equip a man with an enormous nose, disfigured perhaps

with acne rosacea; the vulgar will stare in fascination at the nose itself, the polite will turn away-but

neither will see the face.

I decided against this primitive maneuver because I judged that my employer wished me not to be

noticed at all rather than remembered for an odd feature without being recognized. This is much more

difficult; anyone can be conspicuous but it takes real skill not to be noticed. I needed a face as

commonplace, as impossible to remember as the true face of the immortal Alec Guinness. Unfortunately

my aristocratic features are entirely too distinguished, too handsome-a regrettable handicap for a

character actor. As my father used to say, "Larry, you are too damned pretty! If you don't get off your

lazy duff and learn the business, you are going to spend fifteen years as a juvenile, under the mistaken

impression that you are an actor-then wind up selling candy in the lobby. 'Stupid' and 'pretty' are the two

worst vices in show business-and you're both."

Then he would take off his belt and stimulate my brain. Father was a practical psychologist and

believed that warming the glutei maximi with a strap drew excess blood away from a boy's brain. While

the theory may have been shaky, the results justified the method; by the time I was fifteen I could stand

on my head on a slack wire and quote page after page of Shakespeare and Shaw-or steal a scene simply

by lighting a cigarette.

I was deep in the mood of creation when Broadbent stuck his face in. "Good grief!" he snapped.

"Haven't you done anything yet?"

I stared coldly. "I assumed that you wanted my best creative work-which cannot be hurried. Would

you expect a cordon bleu to compound a new sauce on the back of a galloping horse?"

"Horses be damned!" He glanced at his watch finger. "You have six more minutes. If you can't do

anything in that length of time, we'll just have to take our chances."

Well! Of course I prefer to have plenty of time-but I had understudied my father in his quick-

change creation, The Assassination of Hu•ey Long, fifteen parts in seven minutes-and had once played it

in nine seconds less time than he did. "Stay where you are!" I snapped back at him. "I'll be with you at

once." I then put on "Benny Grey," the colorless handy man who does the murders in The House with

No Doors-two quick strokes to put dispirited lines into my cheeks from nose to mouth corners, a mere

suggestion of bags under my eyes, and Factor's #5 sallow over all, taking not more than twenty seconds

for everything-I could have done it in my sleep; House ran on boards for ninety-two performances

before they recorded it.

Then I faced Broadbent and he gasped. "Good God! I don't believe it."

I stayed in "Benny Grey" and did not smile acknowledgment. What l3roadbent could not realize

was that the grease paint really was not necessary. It makes it easier, of course, but I had used a touch of

it primarily because he expected it; being one of the yokels, he naturally assumed that make-up consisted

of paint and powder.

He continued to stare at me. "Look here," he said in a hushed voice, "could you do something like

that for me? In a hurry?"

I was about to say no when I realized that it presented an interesting professional challenge, I had

been tempted to say that if my father had started in on him at five he might be ready now to sell cotton

candy at a punkin' doin's, but I thought better of it. "You simply want to be sure that you will not be

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recognized?" I asked.

"Yes, yes! Can you paint me up, or give me a false nose, or something?"

I shook my head. "No matter what we did with make-up, it would simply make you look like a

child dressed up for Trick or Treat. You can't act and you can never learn, at your age. We won't touch

your face."

"Huh? But with this beak on me-"

"Attend me. Anything I could do to that lordly nose would just call attention to it, I assure you.

Would it suffice if an acquaintance looked at you and said, 'Say, that big fellow reminds me of Dak

Broadbent. It's not Dak, of course, but looks a little like him.' Eh?"

"Huh? I suppose so. As long as he was sure it wasn't me. I'm supposed to be on. . . Well, I'm not

supposed to be on Earth just now."

"He'll be quite sure it is not you, because we'll change your walk. That's the most distinctive thing

about you. If your walk is wrong, it cannot possibly be you-so it must be some other big boned, broad-

shouldered man who looks a bit like you."

"Okay, show me how to walk."

"No, you could never learn it. I'll force you to walk the way I want you to."

"How?"

'We'll put a handful of pebbles or the equivalent in the toes of your boots. That will force you back

on your heels and make you stand up straight. It will be impossible for you to sneak along in that

catfooted spaceman's crouch. Mmrn 11 slap some tape across your shoulder blades to remind you to

keep your shoulders back, too. That will do it."

"You think they wont recognize me just because I'll walk differently?"

"Certain. An acquaintance won't know why he is sure it is not you, but the very fact that the

conviction is subconscious and unanalyzed will put it beyond reach of doubt. Oh, I'll do a little

something to your face, just to make you feel easier-but it isn't necessary."

We went back into the living room of the suite. I was still being "Benny Grey" of course; once I put

on a role it takes a conscious effort of will to go back to being myself. Dubois was busy at the phone; he

looked up, saw me, and his jaw dropped. He hurried out of the hush locus and demanded, "Who's he?

And where's that actor fellow?" After his first glance at me, he had looked away and not bothered to

look back-"Benny Grey" is such a tired, negligible little guy that there is no point in looking at him.

"What actor fellow?" I answered in Benny's flat, colorless tones. It brought Dubois' eyes back to

me. Re looked at me, started to look away, his eyes snapped back, then he looked at my clothes.

Broadbent guffawed and clapped him on the shoulder.

"And you said he couldn't act!" He added sharply, "Did you get them all, Jock?"

"Yes." Dubois looked back at me, looked perplexed, and looked away.

"Okay. We've got to be out of here in four minutes. Let's see how fast you can get me fixed up,

Lorenzo."

Dak had one boot off, his blouse off, and his chemise pulled up so that I could tape his shoulders

when the light over the door came on and the buzzer sounded. He froze. "Jock? We expecting anybody?"

"Probably Langston. He said he was going to try to get over here before we left." Dubois started for

the door.

"It might not be him. It might be--" 1 did not get to hear Broadbent say who he thought it might be

as Dubois dilated the door. Framed in the doorway, looking like a nightmare toadstool, was a Martian.

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For an agony-stretched second I could see nothing but the Martian. I did not see the human

standing behind him, nor did I notice the life wand tile Martian cradled in his pseudo limb.

Then the Martian flowed inside, the man with him stepped in behind him, and the door relaxed. The

Martian squeaked, "Good afternoon, gentlemen. Going somewhere?"

I was frozen, dazed, by acute xenophobia. Dak was handicapped by disarranged clothing. But little

Jock Dubois acted with a simple heroism that made him my beloved brother even as he died . . . He

flung himself at that life wand. Right at it-he made no attempt to evade it.

He must have been dead, a hole burned through his belly you could poke a fist through, before he

hit the floor. But he hung on and the pseudo limb stretched like taffy-then snapped, broken off a few

inches from the monster's neck, and poor Jock still had the life wand cradled in his dead arms.

The human who had followed that stinking, reeking thing into the room had to step to one side

before he could get in a shot- and he made a mistake. He should have shot Dak first, then me. Instead he

wasted his first one on Jock and he never got a second one, as Dak shot him neatly in the face. I had not

even known Dak was armed.

Deprived of his weapon, the Martian did not attempt to escape. Dak bounced to his feet, slid up to

him, and said, "Ah, Rrringriil. I see you."

"1 see you, Captain Dak Broadhent," the Martian squeaked, then added, "you will tell my nest?"

"I will tell your nest, Rrringriil."

"I thank you, Captain Dak Broadbent."

Dak reached out a long bony finger and poked it into the eye nearest him, shoving it on home until

his knuckles were jammed against the brain case. He pulled it out and his finger was slimed with green

ichor. The creature's pseudo limbs crawled back into its trunk in reflex spasm but the dead thing

continued to stand firm on its base. Dak hurried into the bath; 1 heard him washing his hands. I stayed

where I was, almost as frozen by shock as the late Rrringriil.

Dak came out, wiping his hands on his shirt, and said, "We'll have to clean this up. There isn't much

time." He could have been speaking of a spilled drink.

I tried to make clear in one jumbled sentence that I wanted no part of it, that we ought to call the

cops, that I wanted to get away from there before the cops came, that he knew what he could do with his

crazy impersonation job, and that I planned to sprout wings and fly out the window, flak brushed it all

aside. "Don't jitter, Lorenzo. We're on minus minutes now. Help me get the bodies into the bathroom."

"Huh? Good God, man! Let's just lock up and run for it. Maybe they will never connect us with it."

"Probably they wouldn't," he agreed, "since neither one of us is supposed to be here. But they

would be able to see that Rrringriil had killed Jock-and we can't have that. Not now we can't."

"Huh?"

"We can't afford a news story about a Martian killing a human. So shut up and help me."

I shut up and helped him. It steadied me to recall that "Benny Grey" had been the worst of sadistic

psychopaths, who had enjoyed dismembering his victims. I let "Benny Grey" drag the two human bodies

into the bath while Dak took the life wand and sliced Rrringriil into pieces small enough to handle. He

was careful to make the first cut below the brain case so the job was not messy, but I could not help him

with it-it seemed to me that a dead Martian stank even worse than a live one.

The oubliette was concealed in a panel in the bath just beyond the bidet; if it had not been marked

with the usual radiation trefoil it would have been hard to find. After we had shoved the chunks of

Rrringriil down it (I managed to get my spunk up enough to help), Dak tackled the messier problem of

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Robert A Heinlein - Double Star

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