GULF

THE FIRST-QUARTER ROCKET from Moonbase put him
down at Pied-a-Terre. The name he was traveling
under began—by foresight—with the letter "A"; he
was through port inspection and into the shuttle tube
to the city ahead of the throng. Once in the tube car
he went to the men's washroom and locked himself
in.

Quickly he buckled on the safety belt he found
there, snapped its hooks to the wall fixtures, and
leaned over awkwardly to remove a razor from his
bag. The surge caught him in that position; despite
the safety belt he bumped his head—and swore. He
straightened up and plugged in the razor. His mous-
tache vanished; he shortened his sideburns, trimmed
the comers of his eyebrows, and brushed them up.

He towelled his hair vigorously to remove the oil
that had sleeked it down, combed it loosely into a
wavy mane. The car was now riding in a smooth,
unaccelerated 300 mph; he let himself out of the
safety belt without unhooking it from the walls and,
3

4               Robert A. Heinlein

working very rapidly, peeled off his moonsuit, took
from his bag and put on a tweedy casual outfit suited
to outdoors on Earth and quite unsuited to Moon
Colony's air-conditioned corridors.

His slippers he replaced with walking shoes from
the bag; he stood up. Joel Abner, commercial trav-
eler, had disappeared; in his place was Captain Jo-
seph Gilead, explorer, lecturer, and writer. Of both
names he was the sole user; neither was his birth
name.

He slashed the moonsuit to ribbons and flushed it
down the water closet, added "Joel Abner's" identifi-
cation card; then peeled a plastic skin off his travel
bag and let the bits follow the rest- The bag was now
pearl grey and rough, instead of dark brown and
smooth. The slippers bothered him; he was afraid
they might stop up the car's plumbing. He contented
himself with burying them in the waste receptacle.

The acceleration warning sounded as he was doing
this; he barely had time to get back into the belt.
But, as the car plunged into the solenoid field and
surged to a stop, nothing remained of Joel Abner but
some unmarked underclothing, very ordinary toilet
articles, and nearly two dozen spools of microfilm
equally appropriate—until examined—to a commercial
traveler or a lecturer-writer. He planned not to let
them be examined as long as he was alive.

He waited in the washroom until he was sure of
being last man out of the car, then went forward in-
to the next car, left by its exit, and headed for the lift
to the ground level.

"New Age Hotel, sir," a voice pleaded near his
ear. He felt a hand fumbling at the grip of his travel
bag.

He repressed a reflex to defend the bag and looked
the speaker over. At first glance he seemed an under-
sized adolescent in a smart uniform and a pillbox
cap. Further inspection showed premature wrinkles
and the features of a man at least forty. The eyes

GULP                5

were glazed. A pituitary case, he thought to himself,
and on the hop as well. "New Age Hotel," the run-
ner repeated. "Best mechanos in town, chief. There's
a discount if you're just down from the moon."

Captain Gilead, when in town as Captain Gilead,
always stayed at the old Savoy. But the notion of
going to the New Age appealed to him; in that in-
credibly huge, busy, and ultramodern hostelry he
might remain unnoticed until he had had time to do
what had to be done.

He disliked mightily the idea of letting go his bag.
Nevertheless it would be out of character not to let
the runner carry the bag; it would call attention to
himself—and the bag. He decided that this unhealthy
runt could not outrun him even if he himself were on
crutches; it would suffice to keep an eye on the bag.

"Lead on, comrade," he answered heartily, sur-
rendering the bag. There had been no hesitation at
all; he had let go the bag even as the hotel runner
reached for it.

"Okay, chief." The runner was first man into an
empty uft; he went to the back of the car and set the
bag down beside him. Gilead placed himself so that
his foot rested firmly against his bag and faced for-
ward as other travelers crowded in. The car started.

Tlie lift was jammed; Gilead was subjected to body
pressures on every side—but he noticed an addi-
tional, unusual, and uncalled-for pressure behind him.

His right hand moved suddenly and clamped down
on a skinny wrist and a hand clutching something.
Gilead made no further movement, nor did the owner
of the hand attempt to draw away or make any objec-
tion. They remained so until the car reached the
surface. When the passengers had spilled out he
reached behind him with his left hand, recovered his
bag and dragged the wrist and its owner out of the
car.

It was, of course, the runner; the object in his fist
was Gilead's wallet. "You durn near lost that. chief,"

6              Robert A. Heinlein

the runner announced with no show of embarrass-
ment. "It was falling out of your pocket."

Gilead liberated the wallet and stuffed it into an
inner pocket. "Fell right through the zipper," he
answered cheerfully. "Well, let's find a cop.'

The runt tried to pull away, "You got nothing on
me!"

Gilead considered the defense. In truth, he had
nothing. His wallet was already out of sight. As to
witnesses, the other lift passengers were already
gone—nor had they seen anything. The lift itself was
automatic. He was simply a man in the odd position
of detaining another citizen by the wrist. And Gilead
himself did not want to talk to the police.

He let go that wrist. "On your way, comrade.
We'll call it quits."

The runner did not move. "How about my tip?"

Gilead was beginning to like this rascal. Locating a
loose half credit in his change pocket he flipped it at
the runner, who grabbed it out of the air but still
didn't leave. "I'll take your bag now. Gimme."

"No, thanks, chum. I can find your delightful inn
without further help. One side, please."

"Oh, yeah? How about my commission? I gotta
carry your bag. else how they gonna know I brung
you in? Gimme."

Gilead was delighted with the creature's unabashed
insistence. He found a two-credit piece and passed it
over. "There's your cumshaw. Now beat it, before I
kick your tail up around your shoulders."

"You and who else?"

Gilead chuckled and moved away down the con-
course toward the station entrance to the New Age
Hotel. His subconscious sentries informed him im-
mediately that the runner had not gone back toward
the lift as expected, but was keeping abreast him in
the crowd. He considered this. The runner might
very well be what he appeared to be, common city

GULF                7

riffraff who combined casual thievery with his overt
occupation. On the other hand—

He decided to unload. He stepped suddenly off
the sidewalk into the entrance of a drugstore and
stopped Just inside the door to buy a newspaper.
While his copy was being printed, he scooped up,
apparently as an afterthought, three standard pneumo
mailing tubes. As he paid for them he palmed a pad
of gummed address labels.

A glance at the mirrored wall showed him that his
shadow had hesitated outside but was still watching
him. Gilead went on back to the shop's soda fountain
and slipped into an unoccupied booth. Although the
floor show was going on—a remarkably shapely ec-
dysiast was working down toward her last string of
beads—he drew the booth's curtain.

Shortly the call light over the booth flashed dis-
creetly; he called, "Come in!" A pretty and very
young waitress came inside the curtain. Her plastic
costume covered without concealing.

She glanced around. "Lonely?"

"No, thanks, I'm tired." v

"How about a redhead, thenP'Real cute—"

"I really am tired. Bring me two bottles of beer,
unopened, and some pretzels."

"Suit yourself, sport." She left.

With speed he opened the travel bag, selected
nine spools of microfilm, and loaded them into the
three mailing tubes, the tubes being of the common
three-spool size. Gilead then took the filched pad of
address labels, addressed the top one to "Raymond
Calhoun, P. 0. Box 1060, Chicago" and commenced
to draw with great care in the rectangle reserved for
electric-eye sorter. The address he shaped in arbi-
trary symbols was intended not to be read, but to be
scanned automatically. The hand-written address was
merely a precaution, in case a robot sorter should
reject his hand-drawn symbols as being imperfect

8               Robert A. Heinlein

and thereby turn the tube over to a human postal
clerk for readdressing.

He worked fast, but with the care of an engraver.
The waitress returned before he had finished. The
call light warned him; he covered the label with his
elbow and kept it covered.

She glanced at the mailing tubes as she put down
the beer and a bowl of pretzels. "Want me to mail
those?"

He had another instant of split-second indecision.
When he had stepped out of the tube car he had
been reasonably sure, first, that the persona of Joel
Abner, commercial traveler, had not been penetrated,
and, second, that the transition from Abner to Gilead
had been accomplished without arousing suspicion.
The pocket-picking episode had not alarmed him,
but had caused him to reclassify those two proposi-
tions from calculated certainties to unproved vari-
ables. He had proceeded to test them at once; they
were now calculated certainties again—of the oppo-
site sort. Ever since he had spotted his erstwhile
porter, the New Age runner, as standing outside this
same drugstore bis subconscious had been clanging
like a burglar alarm-
It was clear not only that he had been spotted but
that they were organized with a completeness and
shrewdness he had not believed possible.

But it was mathematically probable to the point of
certainty that they were not operating through this
girl. They had no way of knowing that he would
choose to turn aside into this particular drugstore.
That she could be used by them he was sure—and
she had been out of sight since his first contact with
her. But she was clearly not bright enough, despite
her alleycat sophistication, to be approached, sub-
verted, instructed and indoctrinated to the point where
she could seize an unexpected opportunity, all in a
space of time merely adequate to fetch two bottles of

GULF                9

beer. No, this girl was simply after a tip. Therefore
she was safe,

But her costume offered no possibility of concealing
three mailing tubes, nor would she be safe crossing
the concourse to the post office. He had no wish that
she be found tomorrow morning dead in a ditch.

"No," he answered immediately. "I have to pass
the post office anyway. But it was a kind thought.
Here." He gave her a half credit.

"Thanks." She waited and stared meaningfully at
the beer. He fumbled again in his change pocket,
found only a few bits, reached for his wallet and took
out a five-pluton note.

'Take it out of this."

She handed him back three singles and some
change. He pushed the change toward her, then
waited, frozen, while she picked it up and left. Only
then did he hold the wallet closer to his eyes.

It was not his wallet.

He should have noticed it before, he told himself.
Even though there had been only a second from the
time he had taken it from?' the runner's clutched
fingers until he had concealed it'in a front pocket, he
should have known it—known it and forced the run-
ner to disgorge, even if he had had to skin him alive.

But why was he sure that it was not his wallet? It
was the proper size and shape, the proper weight
and feel—real ostrich skin in these days of synthet-
ics. There was the weathered ink stain which had
resulted from carrying a leaky stylus in the same
pocket. There was a V-shaped scratch on the front
which had happened so long ago he did not recall the
circumstances.

Yet it was not his wallet.

He opened it again. There was the proper amount
of money, there were what seemed to be his Explor-
ers' Club card and his other identity cards, there was
a dog-eared flat-photo of a mare he had once owned.
Yet the more the evidence showed that it was his,

10 Robert A. Heinlein

the more certain he became that it was not his.
These things were forgeries; they did not feel right.

There was one way to find out. He flipped a switch
provided by a thoughtful management; the booth;

became dark. He took out his penknife and carefully
slit a seam back of the billfold pocket. He dipped a
finger into a secret pocket thus disclosed and felt
around; the space was empty—nor in this case had
the duplication of his own wallet been quite perfect;

the space should have been lined, but his fingers
encountered rough leather.

He switched the light back on, put the wallet
away, and resumed his interrupted drawing. Tlie loss
of the card which should have been in the concealed
pocket was annoying, certainly awkward, and con-
ceivably disastrous, but he did not judge that the
information on it was jeopardized by the loss of the
wallet. The card was quite featureless unless exam-
ined by black light; if exposed to visible Ught—by
some one taking the real wallet apart, for example—it
had the disconcerting quality of bursting explosively
into flame.

He continued to work, his mind busy with the
wider problem of why they had taken so much trou-
ble to try to keep him from knowing that his wallet
was being stolen—and the still wider and more dis-
concerting question of why they had bothered with
his wallet. Finished, he stuffed the remainder of the
pad of address labels into a crack between cushions
in the booth, palmed the label he had prepared,
picked up the bag and the three mailing tubes. One
tube he kept separate from the others by a finger.

No attacK would take place, he judged, in the drug
store. The crowded concourse between himself and
the post office he would ordinarily have considered
equally safe—but not today. A large crowd of people,
he knew, are equal to so many trees as witnesses if
the dice were loaded with any sort of a diversion.

He slanted across the bordering slidewalk and

GULF                11

headed directly across the middle toward the post
office, keeping as far from other people as he could
manage. He had become aware of two men converg-
ing on him when the expected diversion took place.

It was a blinding light and a loud explosion, fol-
lowed by screams and startled shouts. The source of
the explosion he could imagine; the screams and
shouts were doubtless furnished free by the public.
Being braced, not for this, but for anything, he re-
frained even from turning his head.

The two men closed rapidly, as on cue.

Most creatures and almost all humans fight only
when pushed. This can lose them decisive advan-
tage. The two men made no aggressive move of any
sort, other than to come close to Gilead—nor did
they ever attack.

Gilead kicked the first of them in the knee cap,
using the side of his foot, a much more certain stroke
than with the toe. He swung with his travel bag
against the other at the same time, not hurting him
but bothering him, spoiling his timing. Gilead fol-
lowed it with a heavy kick to the man's stomach.

The man whose knee cap he )iad ruined was on
the pavement, but still active—reaching for some-
thing, a gun or a knife. Gilead kicked him in the
head and stepped over him, continued toward the
post office.

Slow march—slow march all the way! He must not
give the appearance of running away; he must be the
perfect respectable citizen, going about his lawful
occasions.

The post office came close, and still no tap on the
shoulder, no denouncing shout, no hurrying foot-
steps. He reached the post office, was inside. The
opposition's diversion had worked, perfectly—but for
Gilead, not for them,

There was a short queue at the addressing ma-
chine. Gilead joined it, took out his stylus and wrote

12 Robert A. Heirdein

addresses on the tubes while standing. A man joined
the queue almost at once; Gilead made no effort to
keep him from seeing what address he was writing; it
was "Captain Joseph Gilead, the Explorers' Club,
New York." When it came his turn to use the symlwl
printing machine he still made no effort to conceal
what keys he was punching—and die symbol address
matched the address he had written on each tube.

He worked somewhat awkwardly as the previously
prepared gummed label was still concealed in his left
palm.

He went from the addressing machine to the mail-
ing receivers; the man who had been behind him in
line followed him without pretending to address
anything.

Thwonk! and the first tube was away with a muted
implosion of compressed air. Thwonk! again and the
second was gone—and at the same time Cilead
grasped the last one in his left hand, sticking the
gummed label down firmly over the address he had
just printed on it- Without looking at it he made sure
by touch that it was in place, all comers sealed, then
thwonk! it joined its mates.

Gilead turned suddenly and trod heavily on the
feet of the man crowded close behind him. "WupsI
pardon me," he said happily and turned away. He
was feeling very cheerful; not only had he turned his
dangerous charge over into the care of a mindless,
utterly reliable, automatic machine which could not
be coerced, bribed, drugged, nor subverted by any
other means and in whose complexities the tube
would be perfectly hidden until it reached a destina-
tion known only to Gilead, but also he had just
stepped on the corns of one of the opposition.

On the steps of the post office he paused beside a
policeman who was picking his teeth and staring out
at a cluster of people and an ambulance in the mid-
dle of the concourse. "What's up?" Gilead demanded.

The cop shifted his toothpick. "First some damn

GULF

13

tool sets off fireworks," he answered, "then two guys
get in a fight and blame near ruin each other."

"My goodness!" Gilead commented and set off
diagonally toward the New Age Hotel.

He looked around for his pick-pocket friend in the
lobby, did not see him. Gilead strongly doubted if
the runt were on the hotel's staff. He signed in as
Captain Gilead, ordered a suite appropriate to the
persona he was wearing, and let himself be con-
ducted to the lift.

Gilead encountered the runner coming down just
as he and his bellman were about to go up. "Hi,
Shorty!" he called out while deciding not to eat
anything in this hotel. "How's business?"

The runt looked startled, then passed him without
answering, his eyes blank. It was not likely, Gilead
considered, that the runt would be used after being
detected; therefore some sort of drop box, call sta-
tion, or headquarters of the opposition was actually
inside the hotel. Very well, that would save every-
body a lot of useless commuting—and there would
be fun for all!

In the meantime he wanted a bath.

In his suite he tipped the bellman who continued
to linger.

"Want some company?"

"No, thanks, I'm a hermit."

"Try this then." The bellman inserted Gilead's
room key in the stereo panel, fiddled with the con-
trols, the entire wall lighted up and faded away. A
svelte blonde creature, backed by a chorus line,
seemed about to leap into Gilead's lap. "That's not a
tape," the bellman went on, "that's a live transmis-
sion direct from the Tivoli. We got the best equip-
ment in town."

"So you have," Gilead agreed, and pulled out his
key. The picture blanked; the music stopped. "But I

14 Robert A. Heiniein

want a bath, so get out—now that you've spent four
credits of my money."

The bellman shrugged and left. Gilead threw off
his clothes and stepped into the 'fresher. Twenty
minutes later, shaved from ear to toe, scrubbed,
soaked, sprayed, pummeled, rubbed, scented, pow-
dered, and feeling ten years younger, he stepped
out. His clothes were gone.

His bag was still there; he looked it over. It seemed
okay, itself and contents. There were the proper
number of microfilm spools—not that it mattered.
Only three of the spools mattered and they were
already in the mail. The rest were just shrubbery,
copies of his own public lectures. Nevertheless he
examined one of them, unspooling a few frames.

It was one of his own lectures all right—but not
one he had had with him. It was one of his published
transcriptions, available in any large book store. "Pix-
ies everywhere," he remarked and put it back. Such
attention to detail was admirable.

"Boom service!"

The service panel lighted up. "Yes, sir?"

"My clothes are missing. Chase 'em up for me."

"The valet has them, sir."

"I didn't order valet service. Get 'em back."

The girl's voice and face were replaced, after a
slight delay, by those of a man. "It is not necessary
to order valet service here, sir. 'A New Age guest
receives the best.' "

"Okay, get 'em back—chop, chop! I've got a date
with the Queen of Sheba."

"Very good, sir." The image faded.

With wry humor he reviewed his situation. He
had already made the possibly fatal error of underes-
timating his opponent through—he now knew—vis-
ualizing that opponent in the unimpressive person of
"the runt." Thus he had allowed himself to be di-
verted; he should have gone anywhere rather than to
the New Age, even to the old Savoy, although that

GULF                15

hotel, being a known stamping ground of Captain
Gilead, was probably as thoroughy booby-trapped by
now as this palatial dive.

He must not assume that he had more than a few
more minutes to live. Therefore he must use those
few minutes to tell his boss the destination of the
three important spools of microfilm. Thereafter, if he
still were alive, he must replenish his cash to give
him facilities for action—the amount of money in
"his" wallet, even if it were returned, was useless for
any major action. Thirdly, he must report in, close
the present assignment, and be assigned to his pres-
ent antagonists as a case in themselves, quite aside
from the matter of the microfilm.

Not that he intended to drop Runt & Company
even if not assigned to them. True artists were
scarce—nailing him down by such a simple device as
stealing his pants! He loved them for it and wanted
to see more of them, as violently as possible.

Even as the image on the room service panel
faded he was punching the scrambled keys on the
room's communicator desk. It.was possible—certain—
that the scramble code he used. would be repeated
elsewhere in the hotel and the supposed privacy
attained by scrambling thereby breached at once.
This did not matter; he would have his boss discon-
nect and call back with a different scramble from the
other end. To be sure, the call code of the station to
which he was reporting would thereby be breached,
but it was more than worthwhile to expend and
discard one relay station to get this message through.

Scramble pattern set up, he coded—not New Wash-
ington, but the relay station he had selected. A girl's
face showed on the screen. "New Age service, sir-
Were you scrambling?"

"Yes."

"I am veree sorree, sir. The scrambling circuits are
being repaired, I can scramble for you from the main
board."

16 Robert A. Heinlein

"No, thanks, I'll call in clear."

"I yam ve-ree sor-ree, sir."

There was one clear-code he could use—to be
used only for crash priority. This was crash priority.
Very weU—

He punched the keys again without scrambling
and waited. The same girl's face appeared presently.
"I am verree soiree, sir; that code does not reply.
May I help you?"

"You might send up a carrier pigeon." He cleared
the board.

Tlie cold breath on the back of his neck was stronger
now; he decided to do what he could to make it
awkward to kill him just yet. He reached back into
his mind and coded in clear the Star-Times.

No answer.

He tried the Clarion—again no answer.

No point in beating his head against it; they did
not intend to let him talk outside to anyone. He rang
for a bellman, sat down in an easy chair, switched it
to "shallow massage," and luxuriated happily in the
chair's tender embrace. No doubt about it; the New
Age did have the best mechanos in town—his bath
had been wonderful; this chair was superb. Both the
recent austerities of Moon Colony and the probability
that this would be his last massage added to his
pleasure.

The door dilated and a bellman came in—about
his own size, Gilead noted. The man's eyebrows
went up a fraction of an inch on seeing Gilead's
oyster-naked condition. "You want company?"

Gilead stood up and moved toward him. "No,
dearie," he said grinning, "I want you"—at which he
sank three stiffened fingers in the man's solar plexus.

As the man grunted and went down Gilead chopped
him in the side of the neck with the edge of his
hand.

The shoulders of the jacket were too narrow and
the shoes too large; nevertheless two minutes later

GULF                17

"Captain Gilead" had followed "Joel Abner" to obliv-
ion and Joe, temporary and free-lance bellman, let
himself out of the room. He regretted not being able
to leave a tip with his predecessor.

He sauntered past the passengers lifts, firmly mis-
directed a guest who had stopped him, and found
the service elevator. By it was a door to the "quick
drop." He opened it, reached out and grasped a
waiting pulley belt, and, without stopping to belt
himself into it, contenting himself with hanging on,
he stepped off the edge. In less time than it would
have taken him to parachute the drop he was picking
himself up off the cushions in the hotel basement
and reflecting that lunar gravitation surely played
hob with a man's leg muscles.

He left the drop room and started out in an arbi-
trary direction, but walking as if he were on business
and belonged where he was—any exit would do and
he would find one eventually.

He wandered in and out of the enormous pantry,
then found the freight door through which the pan-
try was supplied.

When he was thirty feet from it, it closed and an
alarm sounded. He turned back.

He encountered two policemen in one of the many
corridors under the giant hotel and attempted to
brush on past them- One of them stared at him, then
caught his arm. "Captain Gilead—"

Gilead tried to squirm away, but without showing
any skill in the attempt. "What's the idea?"

"You are Captain Gilead."

"And you're my Aunt Sadie. Let go of my arm,
copper."

Tne policeman fumbled in his pocket with his
other hand, pulled out a notebook, Cilead noted that
the other officer had moved a safe ten feet away and
had a Markheim gun trained on him.

"You, Captain Gilead," the first officer droned,
"are charged on a sworn complaint with offering a

18 Robert A. Heinlein

counterfeit five-pluton note at or about thirteen hours
this date at the Grand Concourse drugstore in this
city. You are cautioned to come peacefully and are
advised that you need not speak at this time. Come
along."

The charge might or might not have something to
it, thought Gilead; he had not examined closely the
money in the substituted wallet. He did not mind
being booked, now that the microfilm was out of his
possession; to be in an ordinary police station with
nothing more sinister to cope with than crooked cops
and dumb desk sergeants would be easy street com-
pared with Runt & Company searching for him.

On the other hand the situation was too pat, un-
less the police had arrived close on his heels and
found the stripped bellman, gotten his story and
started searching.

The second policeman kept his distance and did
not lower the Markheim gun. That made other con-
sideration academic. "Okay, I'll go," he protested.
"You don't have to twist my arm that way. *

They went up to the weather level and out to the
street—and not once did the second cop drop his
guard. Gilead relaxed and waited. A police car was
balanced at the curb. Gilead stopped. "I'll walk," he
said. "The nearest station is just around the comer. I
want to be booked in my own precinct."

He felt a teeth-chattering chill as the blast from
the Markheim hit him; he pitched forward on his
face.

He was coming to, but still could not coordinate,
as they lifted him out of the car. By the time he
found himself being hatf-carried, half-marched down
a long corridor he was almost himself again, but with
a gap in his memory. He was shoved through a door
which clanged behind him. He steadied himself and
looked around.

"Greetings, friend," a resonant voice called out.
"Drag up a chair by the fire."

GULF                19

Gilead blinked, deliberately slowed himself down,
and breathed deeply. His healthy body was fighting
off the effects of the Markheim bolt; he was almost
himself.

The room was a cell, old-fashioned, almost primi-
tive. The front of the cell and the door were steel
bars; the walls were concrete. Its only furniture,
a long wooden bench, was occupied by the man who
had spoken. He was fiftyish, of ponderous frame,
heavy features set in a shrewd, good-natured expres-
sion. He was lying back on the bench, head pillowed
on his hands, in animal ease. Gilead had seen him
before.

"Hello, Dr. Baldwin."

The man sat up with a flowing economy of motion
that moved his bulk as little as possible. "I'm not Dr.
Baldwin—I'm not Doctor anything, though my name
is Baldwin." He stared at Gilead. "But I know you—
seen some of your lectures,"

Gilead cocked an eyebrow. "A man would seem
naked around the Association of Theoretical Physi-
cists without a doctor's degree—and you were at
their last meeting."

Baldwin chuckled boomingly. "That accounts for
it—that has to be my cousin on my father's side,
Hartley M.—stuffy citizen Hartley. I'll have to try to
take the curse off the family name, now that I've met
you. Captain." He stuck out a huge hand. "Gregory
Baldwin, 'Kettle Belly' to my friends. New and used
helicopters is as close as I come to theoretical phys-
ics. 'Kettle Belly Baldwin, King of the Kopters'—you
must have seen my advertising."

"Now that you mention it, I have."

Baldwin pulled out a card. "Here. If you ever
need one, 111 give you a ten percent off for knowing
old Hartley, Matter of fact, I can do right well by
you in a year-old Curtiss, a family car without a mark
on it."

Gilead accepted the card and sat down. "Not at

20 Robert A. Heinlein

the moment, thanks. You seem to have an odd sort
of office, Mr. Baldwin."

Baldwin chuckled again. "In the course of a long
life these things happen. Captain. I won't ask you
why you are here or what you are doing in that
monkey suit. Call me Kettle Belly."

"Okay." Gilead got up and went to the door. Op-
posite the cell was a blank wall; there was no one in
sight. He whistled and shouted—no answer.

"What's itching you, Captain?" Baldwin asked
gently.

Gilead turned. His cellmate had dealt a solitaire
hand on the bench and was calmly playing.

"I've got to raise the turnkey and send for a lawyer."

"Don't fret about it. Let's play some cards." He
reached in a pocket. "I've got a second deck; how
about some Russian bank?"

"No, thanks. I've got to get out of here." He
shouted again—still no answer.

"Don't waste your lung power. Captain," Baldwin
advised him. "They'll come when it suits them and
not a second before. I know. Come play with me; it
passes the time." Baldwin appeared to be shuffling
the two decks; Gilead could see that he was actually
stacking the cards. The deception amused him; he
decided to play—since the truth of Baldwin's advice
was so evident.

"If you don't like Russian bank," Kettle Belly went
on, "here is a game I learned as a kid." He paused
and stared into Gilead's eyes. "It's instructive as well
as entertaining, yet it's simple, once you catch on to
it." He started dealing out the cards. "It makes a
better game with two decks, because the black cards
don't mean anything- Just the twenty-six red cards in
each deck count—with the heart suit coming first.
Each card scores according to its position in that
sequence, the ace of hearts is one and the king of
hearts counts thirteen; the ace of diamonds is next
at fourteen and so on. Savvy?"

GULF               21

"Yes"

"And the blacks don't count. They're blanks . . .
spaces. Ready to play?"

"What are the rules?"

"We'll deal out one hand for free; you'll learn
faster as you see it. Then, when you've caught on,
I'll play you for a half interest in the atomics trust—or
ten bits in cash." He resumed dealing, laying the
cards out rapidly in columns, five to a row. He
paused, finished. "It's my deal, so it's your count.
See what you get."

It was evident that Baldwin's stacking had brought
the red cards into groups, yet there was no evident
advantage to it, nor was the count especially high—
nor low. Gilead stared at it, trying to figure out the
man's game. The cheating, as cheating seemed too
bold to be probable.

Suddenly the cards jumped at him, arranged them-
selves in a meaningful array. He read:

XTHXY
CANXX
XXXSE -
HEARX •

xusxx

The fact that there were only two fives-of-hearts
available had affected the spelling but the meaning
was clear. Gilead reached for the cards. "I'll try one.
I can beat that score." He dipped into the tips be-
longing to the suit's owner. "Ten bits it is."

Baldwin covered it. Gilead shuffled, making even
less attempt to cover up than had Baldwin. He dealt:

WHATS

xxxxx

XYOUR

GAMEX

XXXXX

Baldwin shoved the money toward him and anted
again. "Okay, my turn for revenge." He laid out:

22

Robert A. Heinlein

XXIMX
XONXX
YOURX

xxxxx

XSIDE

"I win again," Gilead announced gleefully. "Ante
up." He grabbed the cards and manipulated them:

YEAHX

XXXXX

PROVE

XXITX

XXXXX

Baldwin counted and said, "You're too smart for
me. Gimme the cards." He produced another ten-bit
piece and dealt again:

XXILX

HELPX

XXYOU

XGETX

OUTXX
"I should have cut the cards," Gilead complained,
pushing the money over. "Let's double the bets."
Baldwin grunted and Gilead dealt again:

XNUTS

IMXXX

SAFER

XXINX

XGAOL
"I broke your luck," Baldwin gloated. "We'll dou-
ble it again?"

XUXRX

XNUTS

THISX

NOXXX

XJAIL
The deal shifted:

KEEPX

XTALK

INGXX

GULF                23

XXXXX
XBUDX

Baldwin answered:

THISX
XXXXX

XXNEW
AGEXX
XHOTL

As he stacked the cards again Gilead considered
these new factors. He was prepared to believe that
he was hidden somewhere in the New Age Hotel; in
fact the counterproposition that his opponents had
permitted two ordinary cops to take him away to a
normal city jail was most unlikely—unless they had
the jail as fully under control as they quite evidently
had the hotel. Nevertheless the point was not proven.
As for Baldwin, he might be on Gilead's side; more
probably he was planted as an agent provocateur—or
he might be working for himself.

The permutations added up to six situations, only
one of which made it desirable to accept Baldwin's
offer for help in a Jail break—said situation being the
least likely of the six.

Nevertheless, though he considered Baldwin a liar,
net, he tentatively decided to accept. A static situation
brought him no advantage; a dynamic situation—any
dynamic situation—he might turn to his advantage. But
more data were needed. "These cards are sticky as
candy," he complained. "You letting your money ride?"
"Suits." Gilead dealt again:

XXXXX
WHYXX
AMXXX
XXXXI
XHERE
"You have the damnedest luck," Baldwin commented:

FILMS
ESCAP
BFORE

24 Robert A. Heinlein

XUXXX

KRACK

Gilead swept up the cards, was about to "shuffle,"
when Baldwin said, "Oh oh, school's out." Footsteps
could be heard in the passage. "Good luck, boy,"
Baldwin added.

Baldwin knew about the films, but had not used
any of the dozen ways to identify himself as part of
Gilead's own organization. Therefore he was planted
by the opposition, or he was a third factor.

More important, the fact that Baldwin knew about
the films proved his assertion that this was not a jail.
It followed with bitter certainty that he, Gilead.
stood no computable chance of getting out alive. The
footsteps approaching the cell could be ticking off the
last seconds of his life.

He knew now that he should have found means to
report the destination of the films before going to the
New Age. But Humpty Dumpty was off the wall,
entropy always increases—but the films must be
delivered.

The footsteps were quite close.

Baldwin might get out alive.

But who was Baldwin?

All the while he was "shuffling" the cards. The
action was not final; he had only to give them one
true shuffle to destroy the message being set up in
them. A spider settled from the ceiling, landed on
the other man's hand. Baldwin, instead of knocking
it off and crushing it, most carefully reached his arm
out toward the wall and encouraged it to lower itself
to the floor. "Better stay out of the way, shorty," he
said gently, "or one of the big boys is likely to step
on you."

The incident, small as it was, determined Gilead's
decision—and with it, the fate of a planet. He stood
up and handed the stacked deck to Baldwin. "I owe
you exactly ten-sixty," he said carefully. "Be sure to
remember it—I'll see who our visitors are."

GULF                25

The footsteps had stopped outside the cell door.

There were two of then, dressed neither as police
nor as guards; the masquerade was over. One stood
well back, covering the maneuver with a Markheim,
the other unlocked the door. "Back against the wall,
Fatso," he ordered. "Gilead, out you come. And take
it easy, or. after we freeze you, I'll knock out your
teeth just for fun."

Baldwin shuffled back against the wall; Gilead came
out slowly. He watched for any opening but the
leader backed away from him without once getting
between him and the man with the Markheim. "Ahead
of us and take it slow," he was ordered. He com-
plied, helpless under the precautions, unable to run,
unable to fight.

Baldwin went back to the bench when they had
gone. He dealt out the cards as if playing solitaire,
swept them up again, and continued to deal himself
solitaire hands. Presently he "shuffled" the cards
back to the exact order Gilead had left them in and
pocketed them.

The message had read; XTELLXFBSXPOBOXD
EBTXXXCHI.

His two guards marched Gilead into a room and
locked the door behind him, leaving themselves out-
side. He found himself in a large window overlook-
ing the city and a reach of the river; balancing it on
the left hung a solid portraying a lunar landscape in
convincing color and depth. In front of him was a
rich but not ostentatious executive desk.

The lower part of his mind took in these details;

his attention could be centered only on the person
who sat at that desk. She was old but not senile, frail
but not helpless. Her eyes were very much alive,
her expression serene. Her translucent, well-groomed
hands were busy with a frame of embroidery.

On the desk in front of her were two pneumo
mailing tubes, a pair of slippers, and some tattered,
soiled remnants of cloth and plastic.

26 Robert A. HeinUin

She looked up. "How do you do. Captain Gilead?"
she said in a thin, sweet soprano suitable for singing
hymns.

Gilead bowed. "Well, thank you—and you, Mrs.
Keithley?"

"You know me, I see."

"Madame would be famous if only for her charities."

"You are kind. Captain, I will not waste your time.
I had hoped that we could release you without fuss,
but—" She indicated the two tubes in front of her.
"—you can see for yourself that we must deal with
you further."

"So?"

"Come, now. Captain. You mailed three tubes.
These two are only dummies, and the third did not
reach its apparent destination. It is possible that it
was badly addressed and has been rejected by the
sorting machines. If so, we shall have it in due
course. But it seems much more likely that you
found some way to change its address—likely to the
point of pragmatic certainty."

"Or possibly I corrupted your servant."

She shook her head slightly. "We examined him
quite thoroughly before—"

"Before he died?"

"Please, Captain, let's not change the subject. I
must know where you sent that other tube. You
cannot be hypnotized by ordinary means; you have
an acquired immunity to hypnotic drugs. Your toler-
ance for pain extends beyond the threshold of uncon-
sciousness. All of these things have already been
proved, else you would not be in the job you are in;

I shall not put either of us to the inconvenience of
proving them again. Yet I must have that tube. What
is your price?"

"You assume that I have a price."

She smiled. "If the old saw has any exceptions,
history does not record them- Be reasonable, Cap-
tain. Despite your admitted immunity to ordinary

GULF                27

forms of examination, there are ways of breaking
down—of changing—a man's character so that he
becomes really quite pliant under examination . . .
ways that we learned from the commissars- But those
ways take time and a woman my age has no time to
waste-"

Gilead lied convincingly, "It's not your age, ma'am;

it is the fact that you know that you must obtain that
tube at once or you will never get it." He was
hoping—more than that, he was wUling—that Bald-
win would have sense enough to examine the cards
for one last message . . . and act on it. If Baldwin
failed and he, Gilead, died, the tube would eventu-
ally come to rest in a dead-letter office and would in
time be destroyed.

"You are probably right. Nevertheless, Captain, I
will go ahead with the Mindszenty technique if you
insist upon it. What do you say to ten million pluto-
nium credits?"

Gilead believed her first statement. He reviewed
in his mind the means by which a man bound hand
and foot, or worse, could kill himself unassisted. *Ten
million plutons and a knife''in my back?" he an-
swered. "Let's be practical."

"Convincing assurance would be given before you
need talk."

"Even so, it is not my price. After all, you are
worth at least five hundred million plutons."

She leaned forward. "I like you. Captain. You are a
man of strength. I am an old woman, without heirs.
Suppose you became my partner—and my successor?"

'Pie in the sky,"

"No, no! I mean it. My age and sex do not permit
me actively to serve myself; I must rely on others.
Captain, I am very tired of inefficient tools, of men
who can let things be spirited away right from under
their noses. Imagine!" She made a little gesture of
exasperation, clutching her hand into a claw. "You
and I could go far. Captain. I need you."

28 Robert A. Heirdein

"But I do not need you, madame. And I won't
have you."

She made no answer, but touched a control on her
desk. A door on the left dilated; two men and a girl
came in. The girl Gilead recognized as the waitress
from the Grand Concourse Drug Store- They had
stripped her bare, which seemed to him an unneces-
sary indignity since her working uniform could not
possibly have concealed a weapon.

The girl, once inside, promptly blew her top, pro-
testing, screaming, using language unusual to her
age and sex—an hysterical, thalamic outburst of vol-
canic proportions.

"Quiet, child!"

The girl stopped in midstream, looked with sur-
prise at Mrs. Keithley, and shut up. Nor did she
start again, but stood there, looking even younger
than she was and somewhat aware of and put off
stride by her nakedness. She was covered now with
goose flesh, one tear cut a white line down her
dust-smeared face, stopped at her lip. She licked at
it and sniffled.

"You were out of observation once. Captain," Mrs.
Keithley went on, "during which time this person saw
you twice. Therefore we will examine her."

Gilead shook his head. "She knows no more than a
goldfish. But go ahead—five minutes of hypno will
convince you.'

"Oh, no. Captain! Hypno is sometimes fallible; if
she is a member of your bureau, it is certain to be
fallible." She signalled to one of the men attending
the girl; he went to a cupboard and opened it. "I am
old-fashioned," the old woman went on. "I trust sim-
ple mechanical means much more than I do the
cleverest of clinical procedures."

Gilead saw the implements that the man was re-
moving from cupboard and started forward. "Stop
that!" he commanded. "You can't do that—"

He bumped his nose quite hard.

GULF                29

The man paid him no attention. Mrs. Keithley
said, "Forgive me, Captain. I should have told you
that this room is not one room, but two. The parti-
tion is merely glass, but very special glass—I use the
room for difficult interviews. There is no need to
hurt yourself by trying to reach us."

"Just a moment!"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Your time is already running out. Let the girl and
me go free now. You are aware that there are several
hundred men searching this city for me even now—
and that they will not stop until they have taken it
apart panel by panel."

"I think not. A man answering your description to
the last factor caught the South Africa rocket twenty
minutes after you registered at the New Age hotel.
He was carrying your very own identifications. He
will not reach South Africa, but the manner of his
disappearance will point to desertion rather than ac-
cident or suicide."

Gilead dropped the matter. "What do you plan to
gain by abusing this child? You have all she knows;

certainly you do not believe that we could afford to
trust in such as she?"

Mrs. Keithley pursed her lips. "Frankly, I do not
expect to learn anything from her. I may learn some-
thing from you."

"I see."

The leader of the two men looked questioningly at
his mistress; she motioned him to go ahead. The girl
stared blankly at him, plainly unaware of the uses of
the equipment he had gotten out. He and his part-
ner got busy.

Shortly the girl screamed, continued to scream for
a few moments in a high ululation. Then it stopped as
she fainted.

They roused her and stood her up again. She
stood, swaying and staring stupidly at her poor hands,
forever damaged even for the futile purposes to which

30 Robert A. Heinlein

she had been capable of putting them. Blood spread
down her wrists and dripped on a plastic tarpaulin,
placed there earlier by the second of the two men.

Gilead did nothing and said nothing. Knowing as
he did that the tube he was protecting contained
matters measured in millions of lives, the problem of
the girl, as a problem, did not even arise. It dis-
turbed a deep and very ancient part of his brain, but
almost automatically he cut that part off and lived for
the time in his forebrain.

Consciously he memorized the faces, skulls, and
figures of the two men and filed the data under
"personal." Thereafter he unobtrusively gave his at-
tention to the scene out the window. He had been
noting it all through the interview but he wanted to
give it explicit thought. He recast what he saw in
terms of what it would look like had be been able to
look squarely out the window and decided that he
was on the ninety-first floor of the New Age hotel
and approximately one hundred and thirty meters
from the north end. He filed this under "professional."

When the girl died, Mrs. Keithley left the room
without speaking to him. The men gathered up what
was left in the tarpaulin and followed her. Presently
the two guards returned and, using the same fool-
proof methods, took him back to his cell.

As soon as the guards had gone and Kettle Belly
was free to leave his position against the wall he
came forward and pounded Gilead on the shoulders.
"Hi, boyl I'm sure glad to see you—I was scared I
would never lay eyes on you again. How was it?
Pretty rough?"

"No, they didn't hurt me; they just asked some
questions."

"You're lucky. Some of those crazy damn cops play
mean when they get you alone in a back room. Did
they let you call your lawyer?"

"No."

GULF               31

"Then they ain't through with you. You want to
watch it, kid."

Gilead sat down on the bench. "The hell with
them. Want to play some more cards?"

"Don't mind if I do. I feel lucky." Baldwin pulled
out the double deck, riffled through it. Gilead took
them and did the same. Good! they were in the
order he had left them in. He ran his thumb across
the edges again—yes, even the black nulls were
unchanged in sequence; apparently Kettle Belly had
simply stuck them in his pocket without examining
them, without suspecting that a last message had
been written in to them. He felt sure that Baldwin
would not have left the message set up if he had read
it. Since he found himself still alive, he was much
relieved to think this.

He gave the cards one true shuffle, then started
stacking them. His first lay-out read:

xxxxx

ESCAP
XXATX
XXXXX,

XONCE .

"Gotcha that time!" Baldwin crowed. "Ante up;"
DIDXX
XYOUX
XXXXX

xxxxx

CRACK
"Let it ride," announced Gilead and took the deal;

XXNOX

BUTXX

XXXXX

XLETS

XXGOX
"You're too demed lucky to live," complained Bald-
win. "Look—we'll leave the bets doubled and dou-
ble the lay-out. I want a fair chance to get my money
back."

32 Robert A. Heinlein

His next lay-out read:

xxxxx

XTHXN
XXXXX
THXYX
NEEDX

xxxux

ALIVX
XXXXX

PLAYX
XXXUP

"Didn't do you much good, did it?" Gilead com-
mented, took the cards and started arranging them.

"There's something mighty funny about a man that
wins all the time," Baldwin grumbled. He watched
Gilead narrowly. Suddenly his hand shot out, grabbed
Gilead's wrist- "I thought so," he yelled. "A goddam
card sharp—"

Gilead shook his hand off. "Why, you obscene fat
slug!"

"Caught you! Caught you?" Kettle Belly reclaimed
his hold, grabbed the other wrist as well. They
struggled and rolled to the floor.

Gilead discovered two things: this awkward, bulky
man was an artist at every form of dirty fighting and
he could simulate it convincingly without damaging
his partner. His nerve holds were an inch off the
nerve; his kneeings were to thigh muscle rather than
to the crotch.

Baldwin tried for a chancery strangle; Gilead let
him take it. The big man settled the flat of his
forearm against the point of Gilead's chin rather than
against his Adam's apple and proceeded to "strangle"
him.

There were running footsteps in the corridor.

Gilead caught a glimpse of the guards as they
reached the door- They stopped momentarily; the
bell of the Markheim was too big to use through the
steel grating, the charge would be screened and

GULF               33

grounded. Apparently they did not have pacifier
bombs with them, for they hesitated. Then the leader
quickly unlocked the door, while the man with the
Markheim dropped back to the cover position.

Baldwin ignored them, while continuing his stream
of profanity and abuse at Cilead. He let the first man
almost reach them before he suddenly said in Gile-
ad's ear, "Close your eyes!" At which he broke just
as suddenly.

Gilead sensed an incredibly dazzling flash of light
even through his eyelids. Almost on top of it he
heard a muffled crack; he opened his eyes and saw
that the first man was down, his head twisted at a
grotesque angle.

The man with the Markheim was shaking his head;

the muzzle of his weapon weaved around. Baldwin
was charging him in a waddle, back and knees bent
until he was hardly three feet tall. The blinded guard
could hear him, let fly a charge in the direction of
the noise; it passed over Baldwin.

Baldwin was on him; the two went down. There
was another cracking noise of ruptured bone and
another dead man. Baldwin stood up, grasping the
Markheim, keeping it pointed down the corridor.
"How are your eyes, kid?" he called out anxiously.

"They're all right."

"Then come take this chiller." Gilead moved up,
took the Markheim. Baldwin ran to the dead end of
the corridor where a window looked out over the
city- The window did not open; there was no "copter
step" beyond it. It was merely a straight drop. He
came running back.

Gilead was shuffling possibilities in his mind. Events
had moved by Baldwin's plan, not by his. As a result
of his visit to Mrs. Keithley's "interview room" he
was oriented in space. The corridor ahead and a turn
to the left should bring him to the quick-drop shaft.
Once in the basement and armed with a Markheim,
he felt sure that he could fight his way out—with

34 Robert A. Heinlein

Baldwin in trail if the man would follow. If not—
well, there was too much at stake.

Baldwin was into the cell and out again almost at
once. "Come along!" Gilead snapped. A head showed
at the bend in the corridor; he let fly at it and the
owner of the head passed out on the floor.

"Out of my way, kid!" Baldwin answered. He was
carrying the heavy bench on which they had "played"
cards. He started up the corridor with it, toward the
sealed window, gaining speed remarkably as he went.

His makeshift battering ram struck the window
heavily. The plastic bulged, ruptured, and snapped
like a soap bubble. The bench went on through,
disappeared from sight, while Baldwin teetered on
hands and knees, a thousand feet of nothingness
under his chin.

"Kid!" he yelled. "Close inl Fall back!"

Gilead backed towards him, firing twice more as
he did so. He still did not see how Baldwin planned
to get out but the big man had demonstrated that he
had resourcefulness—and resources.

Baldwin was whistling through his fingers and
waving. In violation of all city traffic rules a helicop-
ter separated itself from the late afternoon throng,
cut through a lane, and approached the window. It
hovered just far enough away to keep from fouling its
blades. The driver opened the door, a line snaked
across and Kettle Belly caught it. With great speed
he made it fast to the window's polarizer knob, then
grabbed the Markheim. "You first," he snapped.
"Hurry!"

Gilead dropped to his knees and grasped the line;

the driver immediately increased his tip speed and
tilted his rotor; the line tautened. Gilead let it take
his weight, then swarmed across it. The driver gave
him a hand up while controlling his craft like a
highschool horse with his other hand.

The 'copter bucked; Gilead turned and saw Bald-
win coming across, a fat spider on a web. As he

GULF                35

himself helped the big man in, the driver reached
down and cut the line. The ship bucked again and
slid away-

There were already men standing in the broken
window. "Get lost, Steve!" Baldwin ordered. The
driver gave his tip jets another notch and tilted the
rotor still more; the 'copter swooped away. He eased
it into the traffic stream and inquired, "Where to?"

"Set her for home—and tell the other boys to go
home, too. No—you've got your hands full; I'll tell
them!" Baldwin crowded up into the other pilot's seat,
slipped on phones and settled a quiet-mike over his
mouth. The driver adjusted his car to the traffic, set
up a combination on his pilot, then settled back and
opened a picture magazine.

Shortly Baldwin took off the phones and came
back to the passenger compartment. 'Takes a lot of
'copters to be sure you have one cruising by when
you need it," he said conversationally. "Fortunately,
I've got a lot of 'em. Oh, by the way, this is Steve
Halliday. Steve, meet Joe—Joe, what is your last
name?"                    ^.

"Greene," answered Gilead.

"Howdy," said the driver and let his eyes go back
to his magazine.

Gilead considered the situation. He was not sure
that it had been improved. Kettle Belly, whatever he
was, was more than a used 'copter dealer—and he
knew about the films. This boy Steve looked like a
harmless young extrovert but, then. Kettle Belly
himself looked like a lunk. He considered trying to
overpower both of them, remembered Kettle Belly's
virtuosity in rough-and-tumble fighting, and decided
against it. Perhaps Kettle Belly really was on his
side, completely and utterly. He heard rumors that
the Department used more than one echelon of op-
eratives and he had no way of being sure that he
himself was at the top level.

Robert A. Heinlein

36

"Kettle Belly," he went on, "could you set me
down at the airport first? I'm in one hell of a hurry."

Baldwin looked him over. "Sure, if you say so. But
I thought you would want to swap those duds? You're
as conspicuous as a preacher at a stag party. And how
are you fixed for cash?"

With his fingers Gilead counted the change that
had come with the suit. A man without cash had one
arm in a sling. "How long would it take?"

"Ten minutes extra, maybe."

Gilead thought again about Kettle Belly's fighting
ability and decided that there was no way for a fish in
water to get any wetter. "Okay." He settled back and
relaxed completely.

Presently he turned again to Baldwin. "By the way,
how did you manage to sneak in that dazzle bomb?"

Kettle Belly chuckled. "I'm a large man, Joe; there's
an awful lot of me to search." He laughed again.
"You'd be amazed at where I had that hidden."

Gilead changed the subject. "How did you happen
to be there in the first place?"

Baldwin sobered. "That's a long and complicated
story. Come back some day when you're not in such
a rush and I'll tell you all about it."

"I'll do that—soon."

"Good. Maybe I can sell you that used Curtiss at
the same time."

The pilot alarm sounded; the driver put down his
magazine and settled the craft on the roof of Bald-
win's establishment.

Baldwin was as good as his word. He took Gilead
to his office, sent for clothes—which showed up with
great speed—and handed Gilead a wad of bills suit-
able to stuff a pillow. "You can mail it back," he said.

"I'll bring it back in person," promised Gilead.

"Good. Be careful out on the street. Some of our
friends are sure to be around."

"I'll be careful." He left, as casually as if he had

GULF                37

called there on business, but feeling less sure of
himself than usual. Baldwin himself remained a mys-
tery and, in his business, Gilead could not afford
mysteries.

There was a public phone booth in the lobby of
Baldwin's building. Gilead went in, scrambled, then
coded a different relay station from the one he had
attempted to use before. He gave his booth's code
and instructed the operator to scramble back. In a
matter of minutes he was talking to his chief in New
Washington.

"Joe! Where the hell have you been?"

"Later, boss—get this." In departmental oral code
as an added precaution, he told his chief that the
films were in post office box 1060, Chicago, and
insisted that they be picked up by a major force at
once.

His chief turned away from the view plate, then
returned, "Okay, it's done- Now what happened to
you?"

"Later, boss, later. I think I've got some friends
outside who are anxious to rassle with me. Keep me
here and I may get a hole in my head."

"Okay—but head right back here. I want a fall
report; I'll wait here for you."

"Right." He switched off.

He left the booth light-heartedly, with the feeling
of satisfaction that comes from a hard job successfully
finished. He rather hoped that some of his "friends'
would show up; he felt like kicking somebody who
needed kicking.

But they disappointed him. He boarded the transcon-
tinental rocket without alarms and slept all the way
to New Washington.

He reached the Federal Bureau of Security by one
of many concealed routes and went to his boss's
office. After scan and voice check he was let in. Bonn
looked up and scowled.

Gilead ignored the expression; Bonn usually scowled.

38 Robert A. HeirUein

"Agent Joseph Briggs, three-four-oh-nine-seven-two,
reporting back from assignment, sir," he said evenly.

Bonn switched a desk control to "recording" and
another to "covert," "You are, eh? Why, thumb-
fingered idiot! How do you dare to show your face
around here?"

"Easy now, boss—what's the trouble?"

Bonn famed incoherently for a time, then said,
"Briggs, twelve star men covered that pickup—and
the box was empty. Post office box ten-sixty, Chi-
cago, indeed! Where are those films? Was it a coverup?
Have you got them with you?"

Gilead-Briggs restrained his surprise. "No. I mailed
them at the Grand Concourse post office to the ad-
dress you just named." He added, "The machine
may have kicked them out; I was forced to letter by
hand the machine symbols."

Bonn looked suddenly hopeful. He touched an-
other control and said, "Carruthersi On that Briggs
matter: Check the rejection stations for that rout-
ing." He thought and then added, "Then try a rejec-
tion sequence on the assumption that the first symbol
was acceptable to the machine but mistaken. Also for
each of the other symbols; run diem simultaneously—
crash priority for all agents and staff. After that try
combinations of symbols taken two at a time, then
three at a time, and so on." He switched off.

'The total of that series you just set up is every
postal address in the continent," Briggs suggested
mildly. "It can't be done."

"It s got to be done! Man, have you any idea of the
importance of those films you were guarding?"

"Yes. The director at Moon Base told me what I
was carrying."

"You don t act as if you did. You've lost the most
valuable thing this or any other government can
possess—the absolute weapon. Yet you stand there
blinking at me as if you had mislaid a pack of
cigarettes."

GULF                39

"Weapon?" objected Briggs. "I wouldn't call the
nova effect that, unless you class suicide as a weapon.
And I don't concede that I've lost it. As an agent
acting alone and charged primarily with keeping it
out of die hands of others, I used the best means
available in an emergency to protect it. That is well
within the limits of my authority. I was spotted, by
some means—"

"You shouldn't have been spotted!"

"Granted. But I was. I was unsupported and my
estimate of the situation did not include a probability
of staying alive. Therefore I had to protect my charge
by some means which did not depend on my staying
alive."

"But you did stay alive—you're here."

"Not my doing nor yours, I assure you. I should
have been covered. It was your order, you will re-
member, that I act alone."

Bonn looked sullen. "That was necessary."

"So? In any case, I don't see what all the shooting
is about. Either the films show up, or they are lost
and will be destroyed as unclaimed mail. So I go
back to the Moon and get another set of prints."

Bonn chewed his lip. "You can't do that."

"Why not?"

Bonn hesitated a long time. "There were just two
sets. You had the originals, which were to be placed
in a vault in the Archives—and the others were to be
destroyed at once when the originals were known
to be secure."

"Yes? What's the hitch?"

"You don't see the importance of the procedure.
Every working paper, every file, every record was
destroyed when these films were made. Every tech-
nician, every assistant, received hypno. The inten-
tion was not only to protect the results of the research
but to wipe out the very fact that the research had
taken place. There aren't a dozen people in the

40 Robert A. Heinlein

system who even know of the existence of the nova
effect."

Briggs had his own opinions on this point, based
on recent experience, but he kept still about them.
Bonn went on, "The Secretary has been after me
steadily to let him know when the originals were
secured. He has been quite insistent, quite critical.
When you called in, I told him that the films were
safe and that he would have them in a few minutes."

"Well?"

"Don't you see. you fool—he gave the order at
once to destroy the other copies."

Briggs whistled. "Jumped the gun, didn't he?"

"That's not the way he'll figure it—mind you, the
President was pressuring him. He'll say that Z jumped
the gun."

"And so you did."

"No. you jumped the gun. You told me the films
were in that box."

"Hardly. I said I had sent them there."

"No, you didn't."

"Get out the tape and play it back."

"There is no tape—by the President's own order
no records are kept on this operation."

"So? Then why are you recording now?"

"Because," Bonn answered sharply, "some one is
going to pay for this and it is not going to be me."

"Meaning," Briggs said slowly, "that it is going to
be me."

"I didn't say that. It might be the Secretary."

"If his head rolls, so will yours. No, both of you
are figuring on using me. Before you plan on that,
hadn't you better hear my report? It might affect
your plans. I've got news for you, boss."

Bonn drummed the desk. "Go ahead. It had better
be good."

In a passionless monotone Briggs recited all events
as recorded by sharp memory from receipt of the

GULF                41

films on the Moon to the present moment. Bonn
listened impatiently.

Finished, Briggs waited. Bonn got up and strode
around the room. Finally he stopped and said. "Briggs,
I never heard such a fantastic pack of lies in my life.
A fat man who plays cards! A wallet that wasn't your
wallet—your clothes stolen! And Mrs. Keithley—Mrs.
Keithley! Don't you know that she is one of the
strongest supporters of the Administration?"

Briggs said nothing. Bonn went on, "Now I'll tell
you what actually did happen. Up to the time you
grounded at Pied-a-Terre your report is correct, but—"

"How do you know?"

"Because you were covered, naturally. You don't
think I would trust this to one man, do you?"

"Why didn't you tell me? I could have hollered for
help and saved all this."

Bonn brushed it aside. "You engaged a runner,
dismissed him, went in that drugstore, came out and
went to the post office. There was no fight in the
concourse for the simple reason that no one was
following you. At the post office you mailed three
tubes, one of which may or mav not have contained
the films. You went from there to the New Age
hotel, left it twenty minutes later and caught the
transrocket for Cape Town. You—"

"Just a moment," objected Briggs. "How could I
have done that and still be here now?"

"Eh?" For a moment Bonn seemed stumped. "That's
just a detail; you were positively identified. For that
matter, it would have been a far, fair better thing for
you if you had stayed on that rocket. In fact—" The
bureau chief got a far-away look in his eyes. "—you'll
be better off for the time being if we assume officially
that you did stay on that rocket. You are in a bad spot,
Briggs, a very bad spot. You did not muff this
assignment—you sold out!"

Briggs looked at him levelly. "You are preferring
charges?"

42 Robert A. Heinlein

"Not just now. That is why it is best to assume that
you stayed on that rocket—until matters settle down,
clarify."

Briggs did not need a graph to show him what
solution would come out when "matters clarified."
He took from a pocket a memo pad, scribbled on it
briefly, and handed it to Bonn.

It read: "I resign my appointment effective imme-
diately." He had added signature, thumbprmt. date,
and hour.

"So long, boss," he added. He turned slightly, as if
to go.

Bonn yelled, "Stop! Briggs, you are under arrest."
He reached toward his desk.

Briggs cuffed him in the windpipe, added one to
the pit of Bonn's stomach. He slowed down then and
carefully made sure that Bonn would remain out for
a satisfactory period. Examination of Bonn's desk
produced a knockout kit; he added a two-hour hypo-
dermic, placing it inconspicuously beside a mole near
the man's backbone. He wiped the needle, restored
everything to its proper place, removed the current
record from the desk and wiped the tape of all men-
tion of himself, including door check. He left the
desk set to "covert" and "do not disturb" and left by
another of the concealed routes to the Bureau.

He went to the rocket port, bought a ticket, unre-
served, for the first ship to Chicago. There was twenty
minutes to wait; he made a couple of minor pur-
chases from clerks rather than from machines, letting
his face be seen. When the Chicago ship was called
he crowded forward with the rest.

At the inner gate, just short of the weighing-in
platform, he became part of the crowd present to see
passengers off, rather than a passenger himself. He
waved at some one in the line leaving the weighing
station beyond the gate, smiled, called out a good-by,
and let the crowd carry him back from the gate as it
closed. He peeled off from the crowd at the men's

GULF                43

washroom. When he came out there were several
hasty but effective changes in his appearance.

More important, his manner was different.

A short, illicit transaction in a saloon near a hiring
hall provided the work card he needed; fifty-five
minutes later he was headed across country as Jack
Gillespie, loader and helper-driver on a diesel freighter,

Could his addressing of the pneumo tube have
been bad enough to cause the automatic postal ma-
chines to reject it? He let the picture of the label, as
it had been when he had completed it, build in his
mind until it was as sharp as the countryside flowing
past him. No, his lettering of the symbols had been
perfect and correct; the machines would accept it.

Could the machine have kicked out the tube for
another cause, say a turned-up edge of the gummed
label? Yes, but the written label was sufficient to
enable a postal clerk to get it back in the groove.
One such delay did not exceed ten minutes, even
during the rush hour. Even with five such delays
the tube would have reached Chicago more than one
hour before he reported to Bonn by phone.

Suppose the gummed label had peeled off en-
tirely; in such case the tube would have gone to the
same destination as the two cover-up tubes.

In which case Mrs. Keithley would have gotten it,
since she had been able to intercept or receive the
other two.

Therefore the tube had reached the Chicago post
office box.

Therefore Kettle Belly had read the message in
the stacked cards, had given instructions to some one
in Chicago, had done so while at the helicopter's
radio. After an event, "possible" and "true" are equiv-
alent ideas, whereas "probable" becomes a measure
of one's ignorance. To call a conclusion "improbable"
after the event was self-confusing amphigory.

Therefore Kettle Belly Baldwin had the films—a
conclusion he had reached in Bonn's office.

44 Robert A. Heinlein

Two hundred miles from New Washington he
worked up an argument with the top driver and got
himself fired. From a local booth in the town where
he dropped he scrambled through to Baldwin's busi-
ness office. "Tell him I'm a man who owes him
money."

Shortly the big man's face built up on the screen.
"Hi, kid! How's tricks?"

"I'm fired."

"I thought you would be."

"Worse than that—I'm wanted."

"Naturally."

"I'd like to talk with you,"

"Swell. Where are you?"

Gilead told him.

"You're clean?"

"For a few hours, at least."

"Go to the local air port. Steve will pick you up."

Steve did so, nodded a greeting, jumped his craft
into the air, set his pilot, and went back to his
reading. When the ship settled down on course,
Gilead noted it and asked, "Where are we going?"

"The boss's ranch. Didn't he tell you?"

"No." Gilead knew it was possible that he was
being taken for a one-way ride. True, Baldwin had
enabled him to escape an otherwise pragmatically
certain death—it was certain that Mrs. Keithley had
not intended to let him stay alive longer than suited
her uses, else she would not have had the girl
killed in his presence. Until he had arived at Bonn's
office, he had assumed that Baldwin had saved him
because he knew something that Baldwin most ur-
gently wanted to know—whereas now it looked as if
Baldwin had saved him for altruistic reasons.

Gilead conceded the existence in this world of
altruistic reasons, but was inclined not to treat them
as "least hypothesis" until all other possible hypothe-
ses had been eliminated; Baldwin might have had his
own reasons for wishing him to live long enough to

GULF                45

report to New Washington and nevertheless be pleased
to wipe him out now that he was a wanted man
whose demise would cause no comment.

Baldwin might even be a partner in these dark
matters of Mrs. Keithley. In some ways that was the
simplest explanation though it left other factors unex-
plained. In any case Baldwin was a key actor—and
he had the films. The risk was necessary.

Gilead did not worry about it. The factors known
to him were chalked up on the blackboard of his
mind, there to remain until enough variables be-
come constants to permit a solution by logic. The
ride was very pleasant.

Steve put him down on the lawn of a large ram-
bling ranch house, introduced him to a motherly old
party named Mrs. Garver, and took off. "Make your-
self at home, Joe," she told him, "Your room is the
last one in the east wing—shower across from it,
Supper in ten minutes."

He thanked her and took the suggestion, getting
back to the living room with a minute or two to
spare. Several others, a dozen or more of both sexes,
were there. The place seemed to. be a sort of a dude
ranch—not entirely dude, as he had seen Herefords
on the spread as Steve and he were landing-

The other guests seemed to take his arrival as a
matter of course. No one asked why he was there.
One of the women introduced herself as Thalia Wagner
and then took him around the group. Ma Garver
came in swinging a dinner bell as this was going on
and they all filed into a long, low dining room.
Gilead could not remember when he had had so
good a meal in such amusing company.

After eleven hours of sleep, his first real rest in
several days, he came fully, suddenly awake at a
group of sounds his subconscious could not immedi-
ately classify and refused to discount. He opened
his eyes, swept the room with them, and was at once

46 Robert A. Heinlein

out of bed, crouching on the side away from the
door-
There were hurrying footsteps moving past his
bedroom door. There were two voices, one male,
one female, outside the door; the female was Thalia
Wagner, the man he could not place.

Male: "tsamaeq?"

Female: "ntSt"

Male: "zutntst-."

Female: "tpbit" New Jersey."

These are not precisely the sounds that Gilead
heard, first because of the limitations of phonetic
symbols, and second because his ears were not used
to the sounds. Hearing is a function of the brain, not
of the ear; his brain, sophisticated as it was, never-
theless insisted on forcing the sounds that reached
his ears into familiar pockets rather than stop to
create new ones.

Thalia Wagner identified, he relaxed and stood up.
Thalia was part of the unknown situation he accepted
in coming here; a stranger known to her he must
accept also. The new unknowns, including the odd
language, he filed under "pending" and put aside.

The clothes he had had were gone, but his money—
Baldwin's money, rather—was where his clothes had
been and with it his work card as Jack Gillespie and
his few personal articles. By them some one had laid
out a fresh pair of walking shorts and new sneakers,
in his size.

He noted, with almost shocking surprise, that some
one had been able to serve him thus without waking
him.

He put on his shorts and shoes and went out.
Thalia and her companion had left while he dressed.
No one was about and he found the dining room
empty, but three places were set, including his own
of supper, and hot dishes and facilities were on the
sideboard. He selected baked ham and hot rolls,
fried four eggs, poured coffee. Twenty minutes later,

GULF                47

warmly replenished and still alone, he stepped out
on the veranda.

It was a beautiful day. He was drinking it in and
eyeing with friendly interest a desert lark when a
young woman came around the side of the house.
She was dressed much as he was, allowing for differ-
ence in sex, and she was comely, though not annoy-
ingly so. "Good morning," he said.

She stopped, put her hands on her hips, and looked
him up and down. "Well!" she said. "Why doesn't
somebody tell me these things?"

Then she added, "Are you married?"

"No."

"I'm shopping around. Object: matrimony. Let's
get acquainted."

"I'm a hard man to marry. I've been avoiding it for
years."

"They're all hard to marry." she said bitterly.
"There's a new colt down at the corral. Come on."

They went. The colt's name was War Conqueror of
Baldwin; hers was Gail. After proper protocol with
mare and son they left. "Unless you have pressing
engagements," said Gail, "now is a salubrious time to
go swimming."

"If salubrious means what I think it does, yes."

The spot was shaded by cottonwoods, the bottom
was sandy; for a while he felt like a boy again, with
all such matters as lies and nova effects and death
and violence away in some improbable, remote di-
mension. After a long while he pulled himself up on
the bank and said, "Gail, what does 'tsumaeq' mean?"

"Come again?" she answered. "I had water in my
ear."

He repeated all of the conversation he had heard.
She looked incredulous, then laughed. "You didn't
hear that, Joe, you just didn't." She added "You got
the 'New Jersey,' part right."

"But I did."

"Say it again."

48 Robert A. Heinlein

He did so, more carefully, and giving a fair imita-
tion of the speakers' accents.

Gail chortled. "I got the gist of it that time. That
Thalia; someday some strong man is going to wring
her neck."

"But what does it mean?"

Gail gave him a long, sidewise look. "If you ever
find out, I really will marry you, in spite of your

protests."

Some one was whistling from the hill top. "Joe! Joe
Greene—the boss wants you."

"Gotta go," he said to Gail. "G'bye."

"See you later," she corrected him.

Baldwin was waiting in a study as comfortable as
himself. "Hi, Joe," he greeted him. "Grab a seatful
of chair. They been treating you right?"

"Yes, indeed. Do you always set as good a table as
I've enjoyed so far?"

Baldwin patted his middle. "How do you think I
came by my nickname?"

"Kettle Belly, I'd like a lot of explanations."

"Joe, I'm right sorry you lost your job. If I'd had
my druthers, it wouldn't have been the way it was."

"Are you working with Mrs. Keithley?"

"No. I'm against her."

"I'd like to believe that, but I've no reason to—
yet. What were you doing where I found you?"

'They had grabbed me—Mrs. Keithley and her

boys."

"They just happened to grab you—and just hap-
pened to stuff you in the same cell with me—and
you just happened to know about the films I was
supposed to be guarding—and you just happened to
have a double deck of cards in your pocket? Now,
really!"

"If I hadn't had the cards, we would have found
some other way to talk," Kettle Belly said mildly.
"Wouldn't we, now?"

GULF                49

"Yes. Granted."

"I didn't mean to suggest that the set up was an
accident. We had you covered from Moon Base;

when you were grabbed—or rather as soon as you let
them suck you into the New Age, I saw to it that
they grabbed me too; I figured I might have a chance
to lend you a hand, once I was inside." He added, "I
kinda let them think that I was an FBS man, too."

"I see. Then it was just luck that they locked us up
together."

"Not luck," Kettle Belly objected. "Luck is a bo-
nus that follows careful planning—it's never free.
There was a computable probability that they would
put us together in hopes of finding out what they
wanted to know. We hit the jackpot because we paid
for the chance. If we hadn't, I would have had to
crush out of that cell and look for you—but I had to
be inside to do it."

"Who is Mrs. Keithley?"

"Other than what she is publicly, I take it. She is
the queen bee—or the black widow—of a gang. 'Gang'
is a poor word—power group, maybe. One of several
such groups, more or less tied together where their
interests don't cross. Between them they divvy up
the country for whatever they want like two cats
splitting a gopher."

Gilead nodded; he knew what Baldwin meant,
though he had not known that the enormously re-
spected Mrs. Keithley was in such matters—not un-
til his nose had been rubbed in the fact. "And what
are you. Kettle Belly?"

"Now, Joe—I like you and I'm truly sorry you're
in a jam. You led wrong a couple of times and I was
obliged to trump, as the stakes were high. See here,
I feel that I owe you something; what do you say to
this: we'll fix you up with a brand-new personality.
vacuum tight—even new fingerprints if you want
them. Pick any spot on the globe you like and any
occupation; we'll supply all the money you need to

50 Robert A. Heinlein

start over—or money enough to retire and play with
the cuties the rest of your life. What do you say?"

"No." There was no hesitation.

"You've no close relatives, no intimate trends. Think
about it. I can't put you back in your job; this is the
best I can do."

"I've thought about it. The devil with the job, I
want to finish my case! You're the key to it."

"Reconsider, Joe. This is your chance to get out of
affairs of state and lead a normal, happy life."

" 'Happy,' he says!"

"Well, safe, anyhow. If you insist on going further
your life expectancy becomes extremely problem-
atical. "

"I don't recall ever having tried to play safe."

"You're the doctor, Joe. In that case—" A speaker
on Baldwin's desk uttered: "cenie B h(4g rylp."

Baldwin answered, "nu," and sauntered quickly to
the fireplace. An early-moming fire still smouldered
in it. He grasped the mantel piece, pulled it toward
him. The entire masonry assembly, hearth, mantel,
and grate, came toward him, leaving an arch in the
wall. "Duck down stairs, Joe," he said. "It's a raid."

"A real priest's hole!"

"Yeah, corny, ain't it? This joint has more bolt
holes than a rabbit's nest—and booby-trapped, too.
Too many gadgets, if you ask me." He went back to
his desk, opened a drawer, removed three film spools
and dropped them in a pocket.

Gilead was about to go down the staircase; seeing
the spools, he stopped. "Go ahead, Joe," Baldwin
said urgently. "You're covered and outnumbered.
With this raid showing up we wouldn't have time to
fiddle; we'd just have to kill you."

They stopped in a room well underground, an-
other study much like the one above, though lacking
sunlight and view. Baldwin said something in the
odd language to the mike on the desk, was answered.

GULF                 51

Gilead experimented with the idea that the lingo
might be reversed English, discarded the notion.

"As I was saying," Baldwin went on, "if you are
dead set on knowing all the answers—"

"Just a moment. What about this raid?"

"Just the government boys. They won't be rough
and not too thorough. Ma Garver can handle them.
We won't have to hurt anybody as long as they don't
use penetration radar."

Gilead smiled wryly at the disparagement of his
own former service. "And if they do?"

"That gimmick over there squeals like a pig, if it's
touched by penetration frequencies. Even then we're
safe against anything short of an A-bomb. They won't
do that; they want the films, not a hole in the
ground. Which reminds me—here, catch."

Gilead found himself suddenly in possession of the
films which were at the root of the matter. He
unspooled a few frames and made certain that they
were indeed the right films. He sat still and consid-
ered how he might get off this limb and back to the
ground without dropping the eggs. The speaker again
uttered something; Baldwin did .not answer it but
said, "We won't be down here long."

"Bonn seems to have decided to check my report."
Some of his—former—comrades were upstairs. If he
did Baldwin in, could he locate the inside control for
the door?

"Bonn is a poor sort. He'll check me—but not too
thoroughly; I'm rich. He won't check Mrs. Keithley
at all; she's too rich. He thinks with his political
ambitions instead of his head. His late predecessor
was a better man—he was one of us."

Gilead's tentative plans underwent an abrupt re-
versal. His oath had been to a government; his per-
sonal loyalty had been given to his former boss.
"Prove that last remark and I shall be much inter-
ested. "

"No, you'll come to leam that it's true—if you still

52 Robert A. Heinlein

insist on knowing the answers. Through checking
those films, Joe? Toss 'em back."

Gilead did not do so. "I suppose you have made

copies in any case?"

"Wasn't necessary; I looked at them. Don't get
ideas, Joe; you're washed up with the FBS, even if
you brought the films and my head back on a platter.
You slugged your boss—remember?"

Gilead remembered that he had not told Baldwin
so. He began to believe that Baldwin did have men
inside the FBS, whether his late bureau chief had
been one of them or not.

"I would at least be allowed to resign with a clear
record. I know Bonn—officially he would be happy to
forget it." He was simply stalling for time, waiting
for Baldwin to oner an opening.

"Chuck them back, Joe. I don't want to rassle.
One of us might get killed—both of us, if you won
the first round. You can't prove your case, because I
can prove I was home teasing the cat. I sold 'copters
to two very respectable citizens at the exact time you
would claim I was somewhere else." He listened
again to the speaker, answered it in the same
gibberish.

Gilead's mind evaluated his own tactical situation
to the same answer that Baldwin had expressed. Not
being given to wishful thinking he at once tossed the
films to Baldwin.

"Thanks, Joe." He went to a small oubliette set in
the wall, switched if to full power, put the films in
the hopper, waited a few seconds, and switched it
off. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."

Gilead permitted his eyebrows to climb. "Kettle
Belly, you've managed to surprise me."

"How?"

"I thought you wanted to keep the nova effect as a
means to power."

"Nuts! Scalping a man is a hell of a poor way to

GULF                53

cure him of dandruff. Joe, how much do you know
about the nova effect?"

"Not much. I know it's a sort of atom bomb powerful
enough to scare the pants off anybody who gets to
thinking about it."

"It's not a bomb. It's not a weapon. It's a means of
destroying a planet and everything on it complete-
ly—by turning that planet into a nova. If that's a
weapon, military or political, then I'm Samson and
you're Delilah.

"But I'm not Samson," he went on, "and I don't
propose to pull down the Temple—nor let anybody
else do so. There are moral lice around who would
do just that, if anybody tried to keep them from
having their own way. Mrs. Keithley is one such.
Your boy friend Bonn is another such, if only he had
the guts and the savvy—which he ain't. I'm bent on
frustrating such people. Wl   do you know about
ballistics, Joe?"

"Grammar school stuff."

"Inexcusable ignorance." The speaker sounded
again; he answered it without lyeaking his flow. "The
problem of three bodies still lacks a neat general
solution, but there are several special solutions—the
asteroids that chase Jupiter in Jupiter's own orbit at
the sixty degree position, for example. And there's
the straight-line solution—you've heard of the aster-
oid 'Earth-Anti'?"

"That's the chunk of rock that is always on the
other side of the Sun, where we never see it."

"That's right—only it ain't there any more. It's
been novaed."

Gilead, normally immune to surprise, had been
subjected to one too many. "Huh? I thought this
nova effect was theory?"

"Nope. If you had had time to scan through the
films you would have seen pictures of it. It's a pluto-
nium, lithium, and heavy water deal, with some
flourishes we won't discuss. It adds up to the match

54 Robert A. Heinlein

that can set afire a world. It did—a little world flared
up and was gone.

"Nobody saw it happen. No one on Earth could
see it, for it was behind the Sun. It couldn't have
been seen from Moon Colony; the Sun still blanked
it off from there—visualize the geometry. All that
ever saw it were a battery of cameras in a robot ship.
All who knew about it were the scientists who rigged
it—and aU of them were with us, except the direc-
tor- If he had been, too, you would never have been
in this mix up,"

"Dr. Finnley?"

"Yep. A nice guy, but a mind like a pretzel. A
'political' scientist, second-rate ability. He doesn't
matter; our boys will ride herd on him until he's
pensioned off. But we couldn't keep him from re-
porting and sending the films down. So I had to grab
'em and destroy them."

"Why didn't you simply save them? All other
considerations aside, they are unique in science."

"The human race doesn't need that bit of science,
not this millenium. I saved all that mattered, Joe—in
my head."

"You are your cousin Hartley, aren't you?"

"Of course. But I'm also Kettle Belly Baldwin, and
several other guys."

"You can be Lady Godiva, for all of me."

"As Hartley, I was entitled to those films, Joe. It
was my project. I instigated it, through my boys."

"I never credited Finnley with it. I'm not a physi-
cist, but he obviously isn't up to it."

"Sure, sure. I was attempting to prove that an
artificial nova could not be created; the political—the
racial—importance of establishing the point is obvi-
ous. It backfired on me—so we had to go into emer-
gency action."

"Perhaps you should have left well enough alone."

"No. It s better to know the worst; now we can be
alert for it, divert research away from it." The speaker

GULF                55

growled again; Baldwin went on. "There may be a
divine destiny, Joe, unlikely as it seems, that makes
really dangerous secrets too difficult to be broached
until intelligence reaches the point where it can cope
with them—if said intelligence has the will and me
good intentions. Ma Garver says to come up now."

They headed for the stairs. "I'm surprised that you
leave it up to an old gal like Ma to take charge during
an emergency."

"She's competent, I assure you. But I was running
things—you heard me."

"Oh."

They settled down again in die above-surface study.
"I give you one more chance to back out, Joe. It
doesn't matter that you know all about the films,
since they are gone and you can't prove anything—
but beyond that—you realize that if you come in
with us, are told what is going on, you will be killed
deader than a duck at the first suspicious move?"

Gilead did; he knew in fact that he was already
beyond the point of no return. With the destruction
of the films went his last chance of rehabilitating his
former main persona. This gave him no worry; the
matter was done. He had become aware that from
the time he had admitted that he understood the
first message this man had offered him concealed in a
double deck of cards he had no longer been a free
actor, his moves had been constrained by moves
made by Baldwin. Yet there was no help for it; his
future lay here or nowhere.

"I know it; go ahead."

"I know what your mental reservations are, Joe;

you are simply accepting risk; not promising loyalty."

"Yes—but why are you considering taking a chance
on me?"

Baldwin was more serious in manner than he usu-
ally allowed himself to be. '*You're an able man, Joe.
You have the savvy and the moral courage to do what

56

Robert A. Heinlein

is reasonable in an odd situation rather than what is
conventional."

'That's why you want me?"

"Partly that. Partly because I like the way you
catch on to a new card game." He grinned. "And
even partly because Gail likes the way you behave
with a colt."

"Gail? What's she got to do with it?"

"She reported on you to me about five minutes
ago, during the raid."

"Hmm—go ahead."

"You've been warned." For a moment Baldwin
looked almost sheepish. "I want you to take what I
say next at its face value, Joe—don't laugh."

"Okay."

"You asked what I was. I'm sort of the executive
secretary of this branch of an organization of super-
men."

"I thought so."

"Eh? How long have you known?"

"Things added up. The card game, your reaction
time. I knew it when you destroyed the films.'*

"Joe, what is a superman?"

Gilead did not answer.

"Very well, let's chuck the term," Baldwin went
on. "It's been overused and misused and beat up
until it has mostly comic connotations. I used it for
shock value and I didn't shock you. The term
'supermen' has come to have a fairy tale meaning,
conjuring up pictures of x-ray eyes, odd sense or-
^ns, double hearts, uncuttable skin, steel muscles—an
adolescent's dream of the dragon-killing hero. Tripe,
of course. Joe, what is a man? What is man that
makes him more than an animal? Settle that and
we'll take a crack at denning a superman—or New
Man, konw novis, who must displace homo sapiens—is
displacing him—because he is better able to survive
than is homo sap. I'm not trying to define myself, I'll
leave it up to my associates and the inexorable pro-

GULF                57

cesses of time as to whether or not I am a superman,
a member of the new species of man—same test to
apply to you."

"Me?"

"You. You show disturbing symptoms of being homo
novis, Joe, in a sloppy, ignorant, untrained fashion.
Not likely, but you just might be one of the breed.
Now—what is man? What is the one thing he can do
better than animals which is so strong a survival
factor that it outweighs all the things that animals of
one sort or another can do much better than he
can?"

"He can think,"

"I fed you that answer; no prize for it. Okay, you
pass yourself off a man; let's see you do something,
What is the one possible conceivable factor—or fac-
tors, if you prefer—which the hypothetical superman
could have, by mutation or magic or any means, and
which could be added to this advantage which man
already has and which has enabled him to dominate
this planet against the unceasing opposition of a mil-
lion other species of fauna? ,§ome factor that would
make the domination of man by his successor, as
inevitable as your domination over a hound dog?
Think, Joe. What is the necessary direction of evolu-
tion to the next dominant species?"

Giiead engaged in contemplation for what was for
him a long time. There were so many lovely attri-
butes that a man might have: to be able to see both
like a telescope and microscope, to see the insides of
things, to see throughout the spectrum, to have hear-
ing of the same order, to be immune to disease, to
grow a new arm or leg, to fly through the air without
bothering with silly gadgets like helicopters or jets,
to walk unharmed the ocean bottom, to work without
tiring—

Yet the eagle could fly and he was nearly extinct,
even though his eyesight was better than man's. A
dog has better smell and hearing; seals swim better,

58

Robert A. Heinlein

balance better, and furthermore can store oxygen.
Bats can survive where men would starve or die of
hardship; they are smart and pesky hard to kill. Rats

could—

Wait! Could tougher, smarter rats displace man?
No, it Just wasn't in them; too small a brain.

"To be able to think better," Gilead answered

almost instantly.
"Hand the man a cigar! Supermen are superthinkers;

anything else is a side issue. I'll allow the possibility
ofsuper-somethings which might exterminate or dom-
inate mankind other than by outsmarting him in his
own racket—thought. But I deny that it is possible
for a man to conceive in discrete terms what such a
super-something would be or how this something
would win out. New Man will beat out homo sap in
homo sap's own specialty—rational thought, the abil-
ity to recognize data, store them, integrate them,
evaluate correctly the result, and arrive at a correct
decision. That is how man got to be champion; the
creature who can do it better is the coming cham-
pion. Sure, there are other survival factors, good
health, good sense organs, fast reflexes, but they
aren't even comparable, as the long, rough history of
mankind has proved over and over—Marat in his
bath, Roosevelt in his wheelchair, Caesar with his
epilepsy and his bad stomach. Nelson with one eye
and one arm, blind Milton; when the chips are down
it's brain that wins, not the body's tools.'

"Stop a moment," said Gilead. "How about

E.s.p.r

Baldwin shrugged. "I'm not sneering at extra-sensory
perception any more than I would at exceptional
eyesight—E.S.P. is not in the same league with the
ability to think correctly. E.S.P. is a grab bag name
for the means other than the known sense organs by
which the brain may gather data—but the trick that
pays off with first prize is to make use of that data, to
reason about it. If you would like a telepathic hook

GULF                59

up to Shanghai, I can arrange it; we've got operators
at both ends—but you can get whatever data you
might happen to need from Shanghai by phone with
less trouble, less chance of a bad connection, and
less danger of somebody listening in. Telepaths can't
pick up a radio message; it's not the same wave
band."

"What wave band is it?"

"Later, later. You've got a lot to leam."

"I wasn't thinking especially of telepathy. I was
thinking of all parapsychological phenomena."

"Same reasoning. Appellation would be nice, if
telekinetics had gotten that far—which it ain't. But a
pick-up truck moves things handily enough. Televi-
sion in the hands of an intelligent man counts for
more than clairvoyance in a moron. Quit wasting my
time, Joe."

"Sorry."

"We defined thinking as integrating data and arriv-
ing at correct answers. Look around you. Most peo-
ple do that stunt just well enough to get to the
corner store and back without breaking a leg. If the
average man thinks at all, he^ does silly things like
generalizing from a single datum. He uses one-valued
logics. If he is exceptionally bright, he may use two-
valued, 'either-or' logic to arrive at his wrong an-
swers. If he is hungry, hurt, or personally interested
in the answer, he can't use any sort of logic and will
discard an observed fact as blithely as he will stake
his life on a piece of wishful thinking. He uses the
technical miracles created by superior men without
wonder nor surprise, as a kitten accepts a bowl of
milk. Far from aspiring to higher reasoning, he is not
even aware that higher reasoning exists. He classes
his own mental process as being of the same sort as
the genius of an Einstein. Man is not a rational
animal; he is a rationalizing animal.

"For explanations of a universe that confuses him
he seizes onto numerology, astrology, hysterical reli-

60 Robert A. Heinlein

gions, and other fancy ways to go crazy. Having
accepted such glorified nonsense, facts make no im-
pression on him, even if at the cost of his own life.
Joe, one of the hardest things to believe is the abys-
mal depth of human stupidity.

"That is why there is always room at the top, why
a man with just a leetle more on the ball can so easily
become governor, millionaire, or college president—
and why homo sap is sure to be displaced by New
Man, because there is so much room for improve-
ment and evolution never stops.

"Here and there among ordinary men ^s a rare
individual who really thinks, can and does use logic
in at least one field—he's often as stupid as the rest
outside his study or laboratory—but he can think, if
he's not disturbed or sick or frightened. This rare
individual is responsible for aU the progress made by
the race; the others reluctantly adopt his results.
Much as the ordinary man dislikes and distrusts and
persecutes the process of thinking he is forced to
accept the results occasionally, because thinking is
efficient compared with his own maunderings. He
may still plant his corn in the dark of the Moon but
he will plant better corn developed by better men
than he.

"Still rarer is the man who thinks habitually, who
applies reason, rather than habit pattern, to aU his
activity. Unless he masques himself, his is a danger-
ous life; he is regarded as queer, untrustworthy,
subversive of pubhc morals; he is a pink monkey
among brown monkeys—a fatal mistake. Unless the
pink monkey can dye himself brown before he is
caught.

"The brown monkey's instinct to kill is correct;

such men are dangerous to all monkey customs.

"Rarest of all is the man who can and does reason
at all times, quickly, accurately, inclusively, despite
hope or fear or bodily distress, without egocentric
bias or thahnic disturbance, with correct memory,

GULF                61

with clear distinction between fact, assumption, and
non-fact. Such men exist, Joe; they are 'New Man*
—human in all respects, indistinguishable in appear-
ance or under the scalpel from homo sap, yet as
unlike him in action as the Sun is unlike a single
candle."

Gilead said, "Are you that sort?"

"You will continue to form your own opinions."

"And you think I may be, too?"

"Could be. I'll have more data in a few days."

Gilead laughed until the tears came. "Kettle Belly,
if I'm the future hope of the race, they had better
send in the second team quick. Sure I'm brighter
than most of the jerks I run into, but, as you say, the
competition isn't stiff. But I haven't any sublime
aspirations. I've got as lecherous an eye as the next
man. I enjoy wasting time over a glass of beer. I Just
don't feel like a superman."

"Speaking of beer, let's have some." Baldwin got
up and obtained two cans of the brew. "Remember
that Mowgli felt like a wolf. Being a New Man does
not divorce you from human^ sympathies and plea-
sures. There have been New Men all through his-
tory; I doubt if most of them suspected that their
difference entitled them to call themselves a different
breed. Then they went ahead and bred with the
daughters of men, diffusing their talents through the
racial organism, preventing them from effectuating
until chance brought the genetic factors together
again."

"Then I take it that New Man is not a special
mutation?"

"Huh? Who isn't a mutation, Joe? All of us are a
collection of millions of mutations. Around the globe
hundreds of mutations have taken place in our hu-
man germ plasm while we have been sitting here.
No, homo novis didn't come about because great
grandfather stood too close to a cyclotron; homo novis
was not even a separate breed until he became aware

62 Robert A. Heinlein

of himself, organized, and decided to hang on to
what his genes had handed him. You could mix New
Man back into the race today and lose him; he's
merely a variation becoming a species. A million
years from now is another matter; I venture to pre-
dict that New Man, of that year and model, won't be
able to interbreed with homo sap—no viable off-
spring."

"You don't expect present man—homo sapiens—to
disappear?"

"Not necessarily. The dog adapted to man. Proba-
bly more dogs now than in umpteen B.C.—and
better fed."

"And man would be New Man's dog."

"Again not necessarily. Consider the cat."

'The idea is to skim the cream of the race's germ
plasm and keep it biologically separate until the two
races are permanently distinct. You chaps sound like
a bunch of stinkers. Kettle Belly."

"Monkey talk,"

"Perhaps. The new race would necessarily run
things—"

"Do you expect New Man to decide grave matters
by counting common man's runny noses?"

"No, that was my point. Postulating such a new
race, the result is inevitable. Kettle Belly, I confess
to a monkey prejudice in favor of democracy, human
dignity, and freedom. It goes beyond logic; it is the
kind of a world I like. In my job I have jungled with
the outcasts of society, snared their slumgullion. Stu-
pid they may be, bad they are not—I have no wish
to see them become domestic animals."

For the first time the big man showed concern.
His persona as "King of the Kopsters," master mer-
chandiser, slipped away; he sat in brooding majesty,
a lonely and unhappy figure. "I know, Joe. They are
of us; their little dignities, their nobilities, are not
lessened by their sorry state. Yet it must be."

GULF               63

"Why? New Man will come—granted. But why
hurry the process?"

"Ask yourself." He swept a hand toward the
oubliette. 'Ten minutes ago you and I saved this
planet, all our race. It's the hour of the knife. Some
one must be on guard if the race is to live; there is
no one but us. To guard effectively we New Men
must be organized, must never fumble any crisis like
this—and must increase our numbers. We are few
now, Joe; as the crises increase, we must increase to
meet them. Eventually—and it's a dead race with
time—we must take over and make certain that baby
never plays with matches."

He stopped and brooded. "I confess to that same
affection for democracy, Joe. But it's like yearning
for the Santa Claus you believed in as a child. For a
hundred and fifty years or so democracy, or some-
thing like it, could flourish safely. The issues were
such as to be settled without disaster by the votes of
common men, befogged and ignorant as they were.
But now, if the race is simply to stay alive, political
decisions depend on real knowledge of such things as
nuclear physics, planetary ecology, genetic theory,
even system mechanics. They aren't up to it, Joe.
With goodness and more will than they possess less
than one in a thousand could stay awake over one
page of nuclear physics; they can't learn what they
must know."

Gilead brushed it aside. "It's up to us to brief
them. Their hearts are all right; tell them the score—
they'll come down with the right answers."

"No, Joe. We've tried it; it does not work. As you
say, most of them are good, the way a dog can be
noble and good. Yet there are bad ones—Mrs.
Keithley and company and more like her. Reason is
poor propaganda when opposed by the yammering,
unceasing lies of shrewd and evil and self-serving
men. The little man has no way to judge and the

64 Robert A. Heinlein

shoddy lies are packaged more attractively. There is
no way to offer color to a colorblind man, nor is there
any way for us to give the man of imperfect brain
the canny skill to distinguish a lie from a truth.

"No, Joe. The gulf between us and them is nar-
row, but it is very deep. We cannot close it."

"I wish," said Gilead, "that you wouldn't class me
with your 'New Man', I feel more at home on the
other side."

"You will decide for yourself which side you are
on, as each of us has done."

Gilead forced a change in subject. Ordinarily im-
mune to thalamic disturbance this issue upset him;

his brain followed Baldwin's argument and assured
him that it was true; his inclinations fought it. He
was confronted with the sharpest of all tragedy; two
equally noble and valid rights, utterly opposed. "What
do you people do, aside from stealing films?"

"Mmm—many things." Baldwin relaxed, looked
again like a jovial sharp businessman. "Where a push
here and a touch there will keep things from going to
pot, we apply the pressure, by many and devious
means. And we scout for suitable material and bring it
into the fold when we can—we've had our eye on
you for ten years."

;;So?"

"Yep. That is a prime enterprise. Through public
data we eliminate all but about one tenth of one per
cent; that thousandth individual we watch. And then
there are our horticultural societies." He grinned.

"Finish your joke."

"We weed people."

"Sorry, I'm slow today."

"Joe, didn't you ever feel a yen to wipe out some
evil, obscene, rotten jerk who infected everything he
touched, yet was immune to legal action? We treat
them as cancers; we excise them from die body
social. We keep a 'Better Dead' list; when a man is

GULF                65

clearly morally bankrupt we close his account at the
first opportunity."

Gilead smiled. "If you were sure what you were
doing, it could be fun."

"We are always sure, though our methods would
be no good in a monkey law court. Take Mrs.
Keithley—is there doubt in your mind?"

"None."

"Why don't you have her indicted? Don't bother
to answer. For example, two weeks from tonight
there will be giant pow-wow of the new, rejuve-
nated, bigger-and-better-than-ever Ku Klux Klan on
a mountain top down Carolina way- When the fun is
at its height, when they are mouthing obscenities,
working each other up to the pogrom spirit, an act of
God is going to wipe out the whole kit and kaboodle.
Very sad."

"Could I get in on that?"

"You aren t even a cadet as yet." Baldwin went on.
"There is the project to increase our numbers, but
that is thousand-year program; you'd need a perpet-
ual calendar to check it. More important is keeping
matches away from baby. Joe, it's been eighty-five
years since we beheaded the ?ast commissar: have
you wondered why so little basic progress in science
has been made in that time?"

"Eh? There have been a lot of changes."

"Minor adaptations—some spectacular, almost none
of them basic. Of course there was very little prog-
ress made under communism; a totalitarian political
religion is incompatible with free investigation. Let
me digress: the communist interregnum was respon-
sible for the New Men getting together and organiz-
ing. Most New Men are scientists, for obvious reasons.
When the commissars started ruling on natural laws
by political criteria—Lysenko-ism and similar non-
sense—it did not sit well; a lot of us went under-
ground.

"I'll skip the details. It brought us together, gave

66 Robert A. HeirUein

us practice in underground activity, and gave a back-
log of new research, carried out underground. Some
of it was obviously dangerous; we decided to hang
onto it for a while. Since then such secret knowledge
has grown, for we never give out an item until it has
been scrutinized for social hazards. Since much of it
is dangerous and since very few indeed outside our
organization are capable of real original thinking,
basic science has been almost at a—pubucl—standstill.

"We hadn't expected to have to do it that way. We
helped to see to it that the new constitution was
liberal and—we thought—workable. But the new Re-
public turned out to be an even poorer thing than
the old. The evil ethic of communism had corrupted,
even after the form was gone. We held oS. Now we
know that we must hold off until we can revise the
whole society."

"Kettle Belly," Joe said slowly, "you speak as if
you had been on the spot. How old are you?"

"I'll tell you when you are the age I am now. A
man has lived long enough when he no longer longs
to live. I ain't there yet. Joe, I must have your
answer, or this must be continued in our next."

"You had it at the beginning—but, see here. Ket-
tle Belly, there is one job I want promised to me."

"Which is?"

"I want to kill Mrs. Keithley."

"Keep your pants on. When you're trained, and if
she's stiU alive then, youll be used for that purpose—"

"Thanks!"

"—provided you are the proper tool for it." Bald-
win turned toward the mike, called out, "Gail!" and
added one word in the strange tongue.

Gail showed up promptly. "Joe," said Baldwin,
"when this young lady gets through with you, you
will be able to sing, whistle, chew gum, play chess,
hold your breath, and fly a kite simultaneously—and
all this while riding a bicycle under water. Take him,
sis, he's all yours."

GULF
Gail rubbed her hands. "Oh, boyl"

67

"First we must teach you to see and to hear, then
to remember, then to speak, and then to think."

Joe looked at her. "What's this I'm doing with my
mouth at this moment?"

"It's not talking, it's a sort of grunting. Furthermore
English is not structurally suited to thinking. Shut
up and listen."

In their underground classroom Gail had available
several types of apparatus to record and manipulate
light and sound. She commenced throwing groups of
figures on a screen, in flashes. "What was it, Joe?"

"Nine-six-oh-seven-two—That was as far as I got."

"It was up there a full thousandth of a second.
Why did you get only the left hand side of the
group?"

"That's all the farther I had read."

"Look at all of it. Don't make an effort of will; just
look at it." She flashed another number.

Joe's memory was naturally good; his intelligence
was high—just how high he did not yet know. Un-
convinced that the drill was useful, he relaxed and
played along. Soon he was beginning to grasp a
nine-digit array as a single gestatt; Gail reduced die
flash time.

"What is this magic lantern gimmick?" he inquired.

"It's a Renshaw tachistoscope. Back to work."

Around World War II Dr. Samuel Renshaw at the
Ohio State University was proving that most people
are about one-fifth efficient in using their capacities to
see, hear, taste, feel and remember. His research
was swallowed in the morass of communist pseudo-
science that obtained after World War III, but, after
his death, his findings were preserved underground.
Gail did not expose Gilead to the odd language he
had heard until he had been rather thoroughly
Renshawed.

However, from the time of his interview with Bald-

68 Robert A. Heinlein

win the other persons at the ranch used it in his
presence- Sometimes someone—usually Ma Carver—
would translate, sometimes not. He was flattered to
feel accepted, but gravelled to know that it was at
the lowest cadetship. He was a child among adults.

Gail started teaching him to hear by speaking to
him single words from the odd language, requiring
him to repeat them back. "No, Joe. Watch.' This
time when she spoke the word it appeared on the
screen in sound analysis, by a means basically like
one long used to show the deaf-and-dumb their speech
mistakes. "Now you try it."

He did, the two arrays hung side by side. "How's
that, teacher?" he said triumphantly.

terrible, by several decimal places. You held the
final guttural too long—" She pointed. "—the middle
vowel was formed with your tongue too high and you
pitched it too low and you failed to let the pitch rise.
And six other things. You couldn't possibly have
been understood. I heard what you said, but it was
gibberish. Try again. And don't call me 'teacher.' "

"Yes, ma'am," he answered solemnly.

She shifted the controls; he tried again. This time
his analysis array was laid down on top of hers;

where the two matched, they cancelled. Where they
did not match, his errors stood out in contrasting
colors. The screen looked like a sun burst.

"Try again, Joe." She repeated the word without
letting it affect the display.

"Confound it, if you would tell me what the words
mean instead of treating me the way Milton treated
his daughters about Latin, I could remember them
easier."

She shrugged. "I can't, Joe. You must leam to
hear and to speak first. Speedtalk is a flexible lan-
guage; the same word is not likely to recur. This
practice word means: The far horizons draw no
nearer.' That's not much help, is it?"

The definition seemed improbable, but he was

GULF                69

learning not to doubt her. He was not used to women
who were always two jumps ahead of him. He ordi-
narily felt sorry for the poor little helpless cuddly
creatures; this one he often wanted to slug. He won-
dered if this response were what the romancers meant
by "love"; he decided that it couldn't be.

"Try again, Joe." Speedtalk was a structurally dif-
ferent speech from any the race had ever used. Long
before, Ogden and Richards bad shown that eight
hundred and fifty words were sufficient vocabulary to
express anything that could be expressed by "nor-
mal" human vocabularies, with the aid of a handful of
special words—a hundred odd—for each special field,
such as horse racing or ballistics. About the same
time phoneticians had analyzed all human tongues
into about a hundred-odd sounds, represented by
the letters of a general phonetic alphabet.

On these two propositions Speedtalk was based.

To be sure, the phonetic alphabet was much less
in number than the words in Basic English. But the
letters representing sound in the phonetic alphabet
were each capable ofvariation.several different ways—
length, stress, pitch, rising, falling. The more trained
an ear was the larger the number of possible varia-
tions; there was no limit to variations, but, without
much refinement of accepted phonetic practice, it
was possible to establish a one-to-one relationship
with Basic English so that one phonetic symbol was
equivalent to an entire word in a "normal" lan-
guage, one Speedtalk word was equal to an entire
sentence. The language consequently was learned by
letter units rather than by word units—but each
word was spoken and listened to as a single struc-
tured gestalt.

But Speedtalk was not "shorthand" Basic English.
"Normal" languages, having their roots in days of
superstition and ignorance, have in them inherently
and unescapably wrong structures of mistaken ideas

ttoDert A. tteinlein

about the universe. One can think logically in English
only by extreme effort so bad it is as a mental tool.
For example, the verb "to be" in English has twenty-
one distinct meanings, every single one of which is
false-to-fact.

A symbolic structure, invented instead of accepted
without question, can be made similar in structure to
the real-world to which it refers. The structure of
Speedtalk did not contain the hidden errors of En-
glish; it was structured as much like the real world
as the New Men could make it. For example, it did
not contain the unreal distinction between nouns and
verbs found in most other languages. The world—
the continuum known to science and including all
human activity—does not contain "noun things" and
"verb things"; it contains space-time events and rela-
tionships between them. The advantage for achiev-
ing truth, or something more nearly like truth, was
similar to the advantage of keeping account books in
Arabic numerals rather than Roman.

All other languages made scientific, multi-valued
logic almost impossible to achieve; in Speedtalk it
was as difficult not to be logical. Compare die pellu-
cid Boolean logic with the obscurities of the Aristo-
telean logic it supplanted.

Paradoxes are verbal, do not exist in the real
world—and Speedtalk did not have such built into it.
Who shaves the Spanish Barber? Answer: follow him
around and see. In the syntax of Speedtalk the para-
dox of the Spanish Barber could not even be ex-
pressed, save as a self-evident error.

But Joe Greene-Gilead-Briggs could not learn it
until he had learned to hear, by learning to speak.
He slaved away; the screen continued to remain
lighted with his errors.

Came finally a time when Joe's pronunciation of a
sentence-word blanked out Gail's sample; the screen
turned dark. He felt more triumph over that than
anything be could remember.

GULF                71

His delight was short. By a circuit Gail had thought-
fully added somedays earlier the machine answered
with a flourish of trumpets, loud applause, and then
added in a cooing voice, "Mama's good boyl"

He turned to her. "Woman, you spoke of matri-
mony. If you ever do manage to marry me, I'll beat
you.'

"I haven't made up my mind about you yet," she
answered evenly. "Now try this word, Joe—"

Baldwin showed up that evening called him aside.
"Joel C'mere. Listen, lover boy, you keep your animal
nature out of your work, or Ili have to find you a new
teacher."

"T*   .    *'

But—

"You heard me. Take her swimming, take her
riding, after hours you are on your own. Work time—
strictly business. I ve got plans for you; I want you to
get smarted up."

"She complained about me?"

"Don't be silly. It's my business to know what's
going on."

"Hmm. Kettle Belly, what is this shopping-for-a"
husband she kids about? Is she serious, or is it just
intended to rattle me?"

**Ask her. Not that it matters, as you won't have
any choice if she means it. She has the calm persis-
tence of the law of gravitation."

"Ouch! I had had the impression that the 'New
Men' did not bother with marriage and such like, as
you put it, 'monkey customs.' "

"Some do, some don't. Me, I've been married
quite a piece, but I mind a mousy little member of
our lodge who had had nine kids by nine fathers—all
wonderful genius-plus kids. On the other hand I can
point out one with eleven kids—Thalia Wagner—who
has never so much as looked at another man. Ge-
niuses make their own rules in such matters, Joe;

they always have. Here are some established statisti-
cal fects about genius, as shown by Armatoe's work—"

72 Robert A. Heinlein

He ticked them off. "Geniuses are usually long lived.
They are not modest, not honestly so. They have
infinite capacity for taking pains. They are emotion-
ally indifferent to accepted codes of morals—they
make their own rules. You seem to have the stigmata,
by the way."

'Thanks for nothing. Maybe I should have a new
teacher, is there anyone else available who can do
it."

"Any of us can do it, just as anybody handy teaches
a baby to talk. She's actually a biochemist, when she
has time for it."

"When she has time?"

"Be careful of that Idd, son. Her real profession is
the same as yours—honorable hatchet man. She's
killed upwards of three hundred people." Kettle Belly
grinned- "If you want to switch teachers, just drop
me a wink."

Gilead-Greene hastily changed the subject. "You
were speaking of work for me; how about Mrs.
Keithley? Is she still alive?"

"Yes, blast her."

"Remember, I've got dibs on her."

"You may have to go to the Moon to get her. She's
reported to be building a vacation home there. Old
age seems to be telling on her; you had better get on
with your home work if you want a crack at her."
Moon Colony even then was a center of geriatrics for
the rich. The low gravity was easy on their hearts,
made them feel young—and possibly extended their
lives.

"Okay, I will."

Instead of asking for a new teacher Joe took a
highly polished apple to their next session. Gail ate
it, leaving him very little core, and put him harder to
work than ever. While perfecting his hearing and
pronunciation, she started him on the basic thousand-
tetter vocabulary by forcing him to start to talk sim-
ple three and four-letter sentences, and by answering

GULF                73

him in different word-sentences using the same pho-
netic letters. Some of the vowel and consonant se-
quences were very difficult to pronounce.

Master them he did- He had been used to doing
most things easier than could those around him; now
he was in very fast company. He stretched himself
and began to achieve part of his own large latent
capacity. When he began to catch some of the dinner-
table conversation and to reply in simple Speedtalk—
being forbidden by Gail to answer in English—she
started him on the ancillary vocabularies.

An economical language cannot be limited to a
thousand words; although almost every idea can be
expressed somehow in a short vocabulary, higher
orders of abstraction are convenient. For technical
words Speedtalk employed an open expansion of sixty
of the thousand-odd phonetic letters. They were the
letters ordinarily used as numerals; by preceding a
number with a letter used for no other purpose, the
symbol was designated as having a word value.

New Men numbered to the base sixty—three times
four times five, a convenient, easily factored system,
most economical, i. e., the symbol "100" identified
the number described in English as thirty-six hun-
dred—yet permitting quick, in-the-head translation
from common notation to Speedtalk figures and vice
versa.

By using these figures, each prefaced by the
indicator—a voiceless Welsh or Burmese "1"—a pool
of 215,999 words (one less than the cube of sixty)
were available for specialized meaning without using
more than four letters including the indicator. Most
of them could be pronounced as one syllable. These
had not the stark simplicity of basic Speedtalk;

nevertheless words such as "ichthyophagous" and
"constitutionality" were thus compressed to mono-
syllables. Such shortcuts can best be appreciated by
anyone who has heard a long speech in Cantonese
translated into a short speech in English. Yet English

74 Robert A. Heinlein

is not the most terse of "normal" languages—and
expanded Speedtalk is many times more economical
than the briefest of "normal" tongues.

By adding one more letter (sixty to the fourth
power) just short of thirteen nuflion words could be
added if needed—and most of them could still be
pronounced as one syllable.

When Joe discovered that Gail expected him to
leam a couple of hundred thousand new words in a
matter of days, he balked. "Damn it. Fancy Pants, I
am not a superman. I'm in here by mistake."

"Your opinion is worthless; I think you can do it.
Now listen."

"Suppose I flunk; does that put me safely off your
list of possible victims?"

"If you flunk, I wouldn't have you on toast. In-
stead I'd tear your head off and stuff it down your
throat. But you won't flunk; I know. However," she
added, "I'm not sure you would be a satisfactory
husband; you argue too much."

He made a brief and bitter remark in Speedtalk;

she answered with one word which described his
shortcomings in detail. They got to work.

Joe was mistaken; he learned the expanded vocab-
ulary as fast as he heard it. He had a latent eidetic
memory; the Renshawing process now enabled him
to use it fully. And his mental processes, always fast,
had become faster than he knew.

The ability to leam Speedtalk at all is proof of
supernormal intelligence; the use of it by such
intelligence renders that mind efficient. Even before
World War II Alfred Korzybski had shown that hu-
man thought was performed, when done efficiently,
only in symbols; the notion of "pure" thought, free of
abstracted speech symbols, was merely fantasy. The
brain was so constructed as to work without symbols
only on the animal level; to speak of "reasoning"
without symbols was to speak nonsense.

CULF                75

Speedtalk did not merely speed up communica-
tion—by its structures it made thought more logical;

by its economy it made thought processes enormously
fester, since it takes almost as long to think a word
as it does to speak it.

Korzybsld's monumental work went fallow during
the communist interregnum; DOS Kapitcd is a childish
piece of work, when analyzed by semantics, so the
politburo suppressed semantics—and replaced it by
ersatz under me same name, as Lysenkoism replaced
the science of genetics.

Having Speedtalk to help him leam more Speedtalk,
Joe learned very rapidly. The Renshawing had con-
tinued; he was now able to grasp a gestalt or configu-
ration in many senses at once, grasp it, remember it,
reason about it with great speed.

Living time is not calendar time; a man's life is the
thought that flows through his brain. Any man capa-
ble of learning Speedtalk had an association time at
least three times as fast as an ordinary man. Speedtalk
itself enabled him to manipulate symbols approxi-
mately seven times as fast as English symbols could
be manipulated. Seven times three is twenty-one; a
new man had an effective life time of at least sixteen
hundred years, reckoned in flow of ideas.

They had time to become encyclopedic synthe-
sists, something denied any ordinary man by the
straitjacket of his sort of time.

When Joe had learned to talk. to read and write
and cipher, Gail turned him over to others for his
real education. But before she checked him out she
played him several dirty tricks.

For three days she forbade him to eat. When it
was evident that he could think and keep his temper
despite low blood-sugar count, despite hunger re-
flex. she added sleeplessness and pain—intense, long,
continued, and varied pain. She tried subtly to goad
him into irrational action; he remained bedrock steady,

76 Robert A. Heinlein

his mind clicking away at any assigned task as depend-
ably as an electronic computer.

"Who's not a superman?" she asked at the end of
their last session.

"Yes, teacher."

"Come here, lug." She grabbed him by the ears,
kissed him soundly. "So long." He did not see her
again for many weeks.

His tutor in E.S,P. was an ineffectual-looking lit-
tle man who had taken the protective coloration of
the name Weems. Joe was not very good at produc-
ing E.S.P. phenomena. Clairvoyance he did not
appear to have. He was better at precognition, but
he did not improve with practice. He was best at
telekinesis; he could have made a soft living with
dice. But, as Kettle Belly had pointed out, from
affecting the roll of dice to moving tons of freight was
quite a gap—and one possibly not worth bridging.

"It may have other uses, however," Weems had
said softly, lapsing into English. "Consider what might
be done if one could influence the probability that a
neutron would reach a particular nucleus—or change
the statistical probability in a mass."

Gilead let it ride; it was an outrageous thought.

At telepathy he was erratic to exasperation. He
called the Rhine cards once without a miss, then had
poor scores for three weeks. More highly structured
communication seemed quite beyond him, until one
day without apparent cause but during an attempt to
call the cards by telepathy, he found himself hooked
in with Weems for all of ten seconds—time enough
for a thousand words by Speedtalk standards.

—it comes out us speech!

—why not? thought is speech.

—how do we do it?

—if ice knew it would not be so unreliable, as it is,
some can do it by volition, some by accident, and
some never seem to be able to do it. we do know this:

GULF                77

while thought may not be of the physical world in
any fashion we can now define and manipulate, it is
similar to events in continuum in its quantal nature.
You are now studying the extension of the quantum
concept to all features of the continuum, you know
the chronon, the mensum, and the viton, as quanta,
as weU as the action units of quanta such as the
photon. The continuum has not only structure but
texture in all its features. The least unit of thought
we term the psychon.

—define it. put salt on its tail.

—some day, some day. I can tell you this; the
fastest possible rate of thought is one psychon per
chronon; this is a basic, universal constant.

—how close do we come to that?

—less than sixty-to-the-minus-third-power of the
possibility.

—! ! ! ! ! !

—better creatures than ourselves will foUow us.
We pick pebbles at a boundless ocean.

—what can we do to improve it?

—gather our pebbles with serene minds.
Gilead paused for a long split second of thought.
—can psychons be destroyed?

—citons may be transferred, psychons are—

The connection was suddenly destroyed. "As I was
saying," Weems went on quietly, "psychons are as
yet beyond our comprehension in many respects.
Theory indicates that they may not be destroyed,
that thought, like action, is persistent. Whether or
not such theory, if true, means that personal identity
is also persistent must remain an open question. See
the daily papers—a few hundred years from now—or
a few hundred thousand." He stood up.

"I'm anxious to try tomorrow's session, Doc,"
Gilead-Greene almost bubbled. "Maybe—"

"I'm finished with you."

"But, Doctor Weems, that connection was clear as
a phone hook-up. Perhaps tomorrow—"

78 Robert A. Heinlein

"We have established that your talent is erratic.
We have no way to train it to dependability. Time is
too short to waste, mine and yours." Lapsing sud-
denly into English, he added, "No."

Gilead left.

During his training in other fields Joe was exposed
to many things best described as impressive gadgets.
There was an integrating pantograph, a factory-in-a-
box, which the New Men planned to turn over to
ordinary men as soon as the social system was no
longer dominated by economic wolves. It could and
did reproduce almost any prototype placed on its
stage, requiring thereto only materials and power.
Its power came from a little nucleonics motor the
size of Joe's thumb; its theory played hob with con-
ventional notions of entropy. One put in "sausage";

one got out "pig."

Latent in it was the shape of an economic system
as different from the current one as the assembly-
line economy differed from the family-shop system—
and in such a system lay possibilities of human freedom
and dignity missing for centuries, if they had ever
existed.

In the meantime New Men rarely bought more
than one of anything—a pattern. Or they made a
pattern.

Another useful but hardly wonderful gadget was
a dictaphone-typewriter-printing-press combination.
The machine's analysers recognized each of the
thousand-odd phonetic symbols; there was a typebar
for each sound. It produced one or many copies.
Much of Gilead's education came from pages printed
by this gadget, saving the precious time of others.

The arrangement, classification, and accessibility
of knowledge remains in all ages the most pressing
problem. With the New Men, complete and organ-
ized memory licked most of the problem and ren-
dered record keeping, most reading and writing—and

GULF                  79

most especially the time-destroying trouble of re-
reading—unnecessary. The autoscriber gadget, com-
bined with a "librarian" machine that could "hear"
that portion of Speedtalk built into it as a filing
system, covered most of the rest of the problem.
New Men were not cluttered with endless bits of
paper. They never wrote memoranda.

The area under the ranch was crowded with tech-
nological wonders, all newer than next week. Incred-
ibly tiny manipulators for micrurgy of all sorts, surgical,
chemical, biological manipulation, oddities of cyber-
netics only less complex than the human brain—the
list is too long to describe. Joe did not study all of
them; an encyclopedic synthesist is concerned with
structured shapes of knowledge; he cannot, even
with Speedtalk, study details in every field.

Early in his education, when it was clear that he
had had the potential to finish the course, plastic
surgery was started to give him a new identity and
basic appearance. His height was reduced by three
inches; his skull was somewhat changed; his com-
plexion was permanently darkened. Gail picked the
facial appearance he was given; he did not object. He
rather liked it; it seemed to fit his new inner
personality.

With a new face, a new brain, and-a new outlook,
he was almost in fact a new man. Before he had been
a natural genius; now he was a trained genius.

"Joe, how about some riding?"

"Suits."

"I want to give War Conqueror some gentle exer-
cise. He's responding to the saddle; I don't want him
to forget."

"Right with you."

Kettle Belly and Gilead-Greene rode out from the
ranch buildings. Baldwin let the young horse settle
to a walk and began to talk. "I figure you are about

80 Robert A. Heinlein

ready for work, son." Even in Speedtalk Kettle Bel-
ly's speech retained his own flavor.

"I suppose so, but I still have those mental
reservations."

"Not sure we are on the side of the angels?"

"I'm sure you mean to be. It's evident that the
organization selects for good will and humane inten-
tions quite as carefully as for ability. I wasn't sure at
one time—"

"Yes?"

"That candidate who came here about six months
ago, the one who broke his neck in a riding accident."

"Oh, yesi Very sad."

"Very opportune, you mean. Kettle Belly,"

"Damn it, Joe, if a bad apple gets in this far, we
can't let him out." Baldwin reverted to English for
swearing purposes; he maintained that it had "more
juice,"

"I know it. That's why I'm sure about the quality
of our people."

"So it's 'our people' now?"

"Yes. But I'm not sure we are on the right track."

"What's your notion of the right track?"

"We should come out of hiding and teach the
ordinary man what he can leam of what we know.
He could leam a lot of it and could use it. Properly
briefed and trained, he could run his affairs pretty
well. He would gladly kick out the no-goods who ride
on his shoulders, if only he knew how. We could
show him. That would be more to the point than this
business of spot assassination, now and then, here
and there—mind you, I don't object to lolling any
man who merits killing; I simply say it's inefficient.
No doubt we would have to continue to guard against
such crises as the one that brought you and me
together, but, in the main, people could run their
own affairs if we would just stop pretending that we
are so scared we can't mix with people, come out of
our hole, and lend a hand."

GULF               81

Baldwin reined up. "Don't say that I don't mix
with the common people, Joe; I sell used 'copters for
a living. You can t get any commoner. And don't
imply that my heart is not with them. We are not
like them, but we are tied to them by the strongest
bond of all, for we are all, each every one, sickening
with the same certainly fetal disease—we are alive.

"As for our killings, you don't understand the prin-
ciples of assassination as a political weapon. Read—"
He named a Speedtalk library designation. "If I were
knocked off, our organization wouldn't even hiccup,
1 but organizations for bad purposes are different. They
are personal empires; if you pick the time and the
method, you can destroy such an organization by
killing one man—the parts that remain will be almost
harmless until assimilated by another leader—then
you kill him. It is not inefficient; it's quite efficient, if
planned with the brain and not with the emotions.

"As for keeping ourselves separate, we are about
like the U-235 in U-238, not effective unless sepa-
rated out. There have been potential New Men in
every generation, but they were spread too thin.

"As for keeping our existence secret, it is utterly
necessary if we are to survive and increase. There is
nothing so dangerous as being the Chosen People—
and in the minority. One group was persecuted for
two thousand years merely for making the claim."

He again shifted to English to swear. "Damn it,
Joe, face up to it. This world is run the way my great
aunt Susie flies a 'copter. Speedtalk or no Speedtalk,
common man can't learn to cope with modern prob-
lems. No use to talk about the unused potential of
his brain, he has not got the will to learn what he
would have to know. We can't fit him out with new
genes, so we have to lead him by the hand to keep
him from killing himself—and us. We can give him
personal liberty, we can give him autonomy in most
things, we can give him a great measure of personal

82 Robert A. Heinlein

dignity—and we will, because we believe that indi-
vidual freedom, at all levels, is the direction of evo-
lution, of maximum survival value. But we can't let
him fiddle with issues of racial life and death; he ain't
up to it.

"No help for it. Each shape of society develops its
own ethic. We are shaping this the way we are
inexorably forced to, by the logic of events. We think
we are shaping it toward survival."

"Are we?" mused Greene-Gilead.

"Remains to be seen. Survivors survive. We'll
know—Wup! Meeting's adjourned."

The radio on Baldwin's pommel was shrilling his
personal emergency call. He listened, then spoke
one sharp word in Speedtalk. "Back to the house,
Joe!" He wheeled and was away. Joe's mount came
of less selected stock; he was forced to follow.

Baldwin sent for Joe soon after he got back. Joe
went in; Gail was already there,

Baldwin's face was without expression. He said in
English, "I've work for you, Joe, work you won't
have any doubt about. Mrs. Keithley."

"Good."

"Not good." Baldwin shifted to Speedtalk. "We
have been caught flat-footed. Either the second set
of films was never destroyed, or there was a third
set. We do not know; the man who could tell us is
dead. But Mrs. Keithley obtained a set and has been
using them.

*This is the situation. The 'fuse' of the nova effect
has been installed in the New Age hotel. It has been
sealed off and can be triggered only by radio signal
from the Moon—her signal. The 'fuse' has been rigged
so that any attempt to break in, as long as the firing
circuit is still armed, will trigger it and set it off.
Even an attempt to examine it by penetration wave-
lengths will set it off. Speaking as a physicist, it is my
considered opinion that no plan for tackling the 'nova'

GULF

83

fuse bomb itself will work unless the arming circuit is
first broken on the Moon and that no attempt should
be made to get at the fuse before then, because of ex-
treme danger to the entire planet.

'The arming circuit and the radio relay to the
Earthside trigger is located on the Moon in a build-
ing inside her private dome. The triggering control
she keeps with her. From the same control she can
disarm the arming circuit temporarily; it is a combi-
nation dead-man switch and time-clock arrangement.
It can be set to disarm for a maximum of twelve
hours, to let her sleep, or possibly to permit her to
order rearrangements. Unless it is switched off any
attempt to enter the building in which the arming
circuit is housed will also trigger the 'Nova' bomb
circuit. While it is disarmed, the housing on the
Moon may be broached by force but this will set off
alarms which will warn her to rearm and then to
trigger at once. The set up is such that the following
sequence of events must take place:

"First, she must be killed, and the circuit disarmed.

"Second, the building housing the arming circuit
and radio relay to the trigger must be broken open
and the circuits destroyed before the time clock can
rearm and trigger- This must be done with speed,
not only because of guards, but because her surviv-
ing lieutenants will attempt to seize power by
possessing themselves of the controls.

"Third, as soon as word is received on Earth that
the arming circuit is destroyed, the New Age will be
attacked in force and the 'Nova' bomb destroyed.

"Fourth, as soon as the bomb is destroyed, a gen-
eral round up must be made of all persons techni-
cally capable of setting up the 'Nova' effect from
plans. This alert must be maintained until it is cer-
tain that no plans remain in existence, including the
third set of films, and further established by hypno
that no competent person possesses sufficient knowl-

84 Robert A. Heinlein

edge to set it up without plans. This alert may com-
promise our secret status; the risk must be taken.

"Any questions?"

"Kettle Belly," said Joe, "doesn't she know that if
the Earth becomes a nova, the Moon will be swal-
lowed up in the disaster?"

"Crater walls shield her dome from line-of-sight
with Earth; apparently she believes she is safe. Evil
is essentially stupid, Joe; despite her brilliance, she
believes what she wishes to believe. Or it may be
that she is willing to risk her own death against the
tempting prize of absolute power. Her plan is to
proclaim power with some pious nonsense about being
high priestess of peace—a euphemism for Empress of
Earth. It is a typical paranoid deviation; the proof of
the craziness lies in the fact that the physical ar-
rangements make it certain—if we do not intervene—
that Earth will be destroyed automatically a few hours
after her death; a thing that could happen any time—
and a compelling reason for all speed. No one has
ever quite managed to conquer all of Earth, not even
the commissars. Apparently she wishes not only to
conquer it, but wants to destroy it after she is gone,
lest anyone else ever manage to do so again. Any
more questions?"

He went on. "The plan is this;

'"You two will go to the Moon to become domestic
servants to Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Copley, a rich,
elderly couple living at the Elysian Rest Homes,
Moon Colony. They are of us. Shortly they will
decide to return to Earth; you two will decide to
remain, you like it. You will advertise, offering to
work for anyone who will post your return bond.
About this time Mrs. Keithley wiil have lost, through
circumstances that will be arranged, two or more of
her servants; she will probably hire you, since do-
mestic service is the scarcest commodity on the Moon.
If not, a variation will be arranged for you.

GULF                85

"When you are inside her dome, youll maneuver
yourselves into positions to carry out your assign-
ments. When both of you are so placed, you will
carry out procedures one and two with speed.

"A person named McGinty, already inside her
dome, will help you in communication. He is not
one of us but is our agent, a telepath. His ability
does not extend past that. Your communication hook
up will probably be, Gail to McGinty by telepathy,
McGinty to Joe by concealed radio."

Joe glanced at Gail; it was the first that he had
known that she was a telepath. Baldwin went on,
"Gail will kill Mrs. Keithley; Joe will break into the
housing and destroy the circuits. Are you ready to

go?"

Joe was about to suggest swapping the assignments
when Gait answered, "Ready"; he echoed her.

"Good. Joe, you will carry your assumed I.Q. at
about 85, Gail at 95; she will appear to be the domi-,
nant member of a married couple—" Gail grinned at
Joe. "—but you, Joe, will be in charge. Your person-
alities and histories are now being made up and will
be ready with your identifications. Let me say again
that the greatest of speed is necessary; government
security forces here may attempt a fool-hardy attack
on the New Age hotel. We shall prevent or delay
such efforts, but act with speed. Good luck."

Operation Black Widow, first phase, went off as
planned. Eleven days later Joe and Gail were inside
Mrs. Keithley's dome on the moon and sharing a
room in the servants' quarters. Gail glanced around
when first they entered it and said in Speedtalk,
"Now you'll have to marry me; I'm compromised."

"Shut that up, idiot! Some one might hear you."

"Pooh! They'd just think I had asthma. Don't you
think it's noble of me, Joe, to sacrifice my girlish
reputation for home and country?"

"What reputation?"

86 Robert A. Heinlein

"Come closer so I can slug you."

Even the servants' quarter were luxurious. The
dome was a sybarite's dream. The floor of it was
gardened in real beauty save where Mrs, Keithley's
mansion stood. Opposite it, across a little lake—
certainly the only lake on the Moon—was the build-
ing housing the circuits; it was disguised as a little
Doric Grecian shrine.

the dome itself was edge-lighted fifteen hours out
of each twenty-four, shutting out the black sky and
the harsh stars. At "night" the lighting was gradually
withdrawn.

McGinty was a gardener and obviously enjoyed his
work. Gail established contact with him, got out of
him what little he knew. Joe left him alone save for
contacts in character.

There was a staff of over two hundred, having its
own social hierarchy, from engineers for dome and
equipment, Mrs. Keithley's private pilot, and so on
down to gardeners' helpers. Joe and Gail were mid-
way, being inside servants. Gail made herself popu-
lar as the harmlessly flirtatious but always helpful
and sympathetic wife of a meek and older husband.
She had been a beauty parlor operator, so it seemed,
before she "married" and had great skill in massaging
aching backs and stiff necks, relieving headaches and
inducing sleep. She was always ready to demonstrate.

Her duties as a maid had not yet brought her into
dose contact with their employer. Joe, however, had
acquired the job of removing all potted plants to the
"outdoors" during "night"; Mrs. Keitfaley, according
to Mr. James, the butler, believed that plants should
be outdoors at "night." Joe was thus in a position to
get outside the house when the dome was dark; he
had already reached the point where the night guard
at the Grecian temple would sometimes get Joe to
"jigger" for him while the guard snatched a forbid-
den cigarette.

GULF                87

McGinty had been able to supply one more impor-
tant fact: in addition to the guard at the temple
building, and the locks and armor plate of the build-
ing itself, the arming circuit was booby-trapped. Even
if it were inoperative as an arming circuit for the
'Nova' bomb on Earth, it itself would blow up if
tampered with. Gail and Joe discussed it in their
room, Gail sitting on his lap like an affectionate wife,
her lips close to his left ear. "Perhaps you could wreck
it from the door, without exposing yourself."

"I've got to be sure. There is certainly some way of
switching that gimmick off. She has to provide for
possible repairs or replacements."

"Where would it be?"

"Just one place that matches the pattern of the rest
of her planning. Right under her hand, along with
die disarming switch and the trigger switch." He
rubbed his other ear; it contained his short-range
radio hook-up to McGinty and itched almost con-
stantly.

"Hmm—then there's just one thing to be done; I'll
have to wring it out of her before I kill her."

"Well see."

Just before dinner the following "evening" she
found him in their room. "It worked, Joe, it worked!"

"What worked?"

"She fell for the bait. She heard from her secretary
about my skill as a masseuse; I -was ordered up for a
demonstration this afternoon. Now I am under strict
instructions to come to her tonight and rub her to
sleep."

"It's tonight,' then."

McGinty waited in his room, behind a locked door.

Joe stalled in the back hall, spinning out endlessly a

dull tale to Mr. James.

A voice in his ear said, "She's in her room now."
"—and that's how my brother got married to two

88 Robert A. Heinlein

women at once," Joe concluded. "Sheer bad luck. I
better get these plants outside before the missus
happens to ask about *em."

'I suppose you had. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mr. James." He picked up two of the
pots and waddled out.

He put them down outside and heard, "She says
she's started to massage. She's spotted the radio
switching unit; it's on the belt that the old gal keeps
at her bedside table when she's not wearing it."

'Tell her to kill her and grab it."

"She says she wants to make her tell how to
unswiteh the booby-trap gimmick first."

"Tell her not to delay.'

Suddenly, inside his head, clear and sweet as a
bell as if they were her own spoken tones, he heard
her.—Joe, I can hear you. can you hear me?

—yes, yes! Aloud he added, "Stand by the phones
anyhow, Mac."

—it wont he long. I have her in intense pain;

she'll crack soon.

—hurt her plenty! He began to run toward the
temple building.—Gad, are you still shopping for a
husband?

—I've found him.

—marry me and I'U beat you every Saturday night.

—the man who can beat me hasn't been born.

—I'd like to try. He slowed down before he came
near the guard's station. "Hi, Jim!"

—it's a deal.

"Well, if it taint Joey boy! Got a match?"

"Here." He reached out a hand—then, as the
guard fell. he eased him to the ground and made
sure that he would stay out.—GaU! It's got to be
now!

The voice in his head came back in great conster-
nation:—/oe/ She was too tough, she wouldn't crack.
She's dead!

GULF                89

—good! get that belt, break the arming circuit,
then see what else you find. I'm going to break in.
He went toward the door of the temple.

—it's disarmed, Joe. I could spot it; it has a time
set on it. I can't tell about the others, they aren't
marked and they all look alike.

He took from his pocket a small item provided by
Baldwin's careful planning.—twist them all from where
they are to the other way. You'll probably hit it.

—oh, Joe, I hope so!

He had placed the item against the lock; the metal
around it turned red and now was melting away. An
alarm clanged somewhere.

Gail's voice came again in his head; there was
urgency in it but no fear:—Joe! they're beating on
the door. I'm trapped.

—McCinty! be our witness! He went on:—I, Jo-
seph, take thee. Gad, to be my lawfully wedded
wife—

He was answered in tranquil rhythm:—I, Gad,
take thee, Joseph, to be my lawfully wedded hus-
band—                 ^

—to have and to hold, he went on.

—to have and to hold, my beloved!

—for better, for worse—

——for better, for worse—Her voice in his head was
singing . . . —till death do us part. I've got it open,
darling, I am going in.

—tut death do us part! They are breaking down
the bedroom door, Joseph my dearest.

—hang on! I'm almost through here.

—they have broken it down, Joe. They are coming
toward me. Good-bye my darling! I am very happy.
Abruptly her "voice ' stopped.

He was facing the box that housed the disarming
circuit, alarms clanging in his ears; he took from his
pocket another gadget and tried it.

The blast that shattered the box caught him full in
the chest.

90            Robert A. Heinldn

*    *    *
The letters on the metal marker read:

TO THE MEMORY OF
MR. AND MRS. JOSEPH GREENE
WHO, NEAR THIS SPOT,
DIED FOR ALL THEIR FELLOW MEN

ELSEWHEN

Excerpt from the Evening, STANDARD:

SOUGHT SAVANT EVADES POLICE
City Hall Scandal Looms

Professor Arthur Frost, wanted for questioning in
connection with the mysterious disappearance from his
home of five of his students, escaped today from under
the noses of a squad of police sent to arrest him. Police
Sergeant Izowski claimed that Frost disappeared from
tfie interior of the Black Maria under conditions which
leave the police puzzled. District Attorney Kames la-
beled Izowsld's story as preposterous and promised the
fullest possible investigation.

"But, Chief, I didn't leave him alone for a second!"
"Nuts!" answered the Chief of Police. "You claim
'f  you put Frost in the Wagon, stopped with one foot

t                        93

94 Robert A. Heinlein

on the tailboard to write in your notebook, and when
you looked up he was gone. D'yuh expect the Grand
Jury to believe that? D'yuh expect me to believe
that?"

"Honest, Chief," persisted Izowski, "I just stopped
to write down—"

"Write down what?"

"Something he said. I said to him, 'Look, Doc,
why don't you tell us where you hid 'em? You know
we're bound to dig 'em up in time.' And he just gives
me a funny faraway look, and says, Time—ah, time
. . . yes, you could dig them up, in Time.' I thought
it was an important admission and stops to write it
down. But I was standing in the only door he could
use to get out of the Wagon. You know, I ain't little;

I kinda fill up a door."

"That's all you do," commented the Chief bitterly.
"Izowski, you were either drunk, or crazy—or some-
body got to you. The way you tell it, it's impossible!"

Izowski was honest, nor was he drunk, nor crazy.

Four days earlier Doctor Frost's class in specu-
lative metaphysics had met as usual for their Fri-
day evening seminar at the professor's home. Frost
was saying, "And why not? Why shouldn't time be
a fifth as well as a fourth dimension?"

Howard Jenkins, hard-headed engineering stu-
dent, answered, "No harm in speculating, I sup-
pose, but the question is meaningless."

"Why?" Frost's tones were deceptively mild.

"No question is meaningless," interrupted Helen
Fisher.

"Oh, yeah? How high is up?"

"Let him answer," meditated Frost.

"I will," agreed Jenkins. "Human beings are
constituted to perceive three spatial dimensions
and one time dimension. Whether there are more
of either is meaningless to us for there is no possi-

ELSEWHEN             95

ble way for us to know—ever. Such speculation is
a harmless waste of time."

"So?" said Frost. "Ever run across J. W. Dunne's
theory of serial universe with serial time? And
he's an engineer, like yourself. And don't forget
Ouspensky. He regarded time as multi-dimensional."

"Just a second, Professor," put in Robert Monroe.
"I've seen their writings—but I still think Jenkins
offered a legitimate objection. How can the question
mean anything to us if we aren't built to perceive
more dimensions? It's like in mathematics—you can
invent any mathematics you like, on any set of axi-
oms, but unless it can be used to describe some sort
of phenomena, it's just so much hot air."

Fairly put," conceded Frost. "I'll give a fair an-
swer. Scientific belief is based on observation, either
one's own or that of a competent observer. I believe
in a two-dimensional time because I have actually
observed it."

The clock ticked on for several seconds.

Jenkins said, "But that is impossible. Professor.
You aren't built to observe two time dimensions."

"Easy, there ..." answered Frost. "I am built to
perceive them one at a time—and so are you. I'll tell
you about it, but before I do so, I must explain the
theory of time I was forced to evolve in order to
account for my experience. Most people think of
time as a track that they run on from birth to death
as inexorably as a train follows its rails—they feel
instinctively that time follows a straight line, the past
lying behind, the future lying in front. Now I have
reason to believe—to know—that time is analogous
to a surface rather than a line, and a rolling hilly
surface at that. Think of this track we follow over the
surface of time as a winding road cut through hills.
Every little way the road branches and the branches
follow side canyons. At these branches the crucial
decisions of your life take place. You can turn right
or left into entirely different futures. Occasionally

96 Robert A. Heinlein

there is a switchback where one can scramble up or
down a bank and skip over a few thousand or million
years—if you don't have your eyes so fixed on the
road that you miss the short cut.

"Once in a while another road crosses yours. Nei-
ther its past nor its future has any connection what-
soever with the world we know. If you happened to
take that turn you might find yourself on another
planet in another space-time with nothing left of you
or your world but the continuity of your ego.

"Or, if you have the necessary intellectual strength
and courage, you may leave the roads, or paths of
high probability, and strike out over the hills of
possible time, cutting through the roads as you come
to them, following them for a little way, even follow-
ing them backwards, with the past ahead of you, and
the future behind you. Or you might roam around
the hilltops doing nothing but the extremely improb-
able. I can not imagine what that would be like—
perhaps a bit like Alice-through-the-Looking-Glass.

"Now as to my evidence— When I was eighteen I
had a decision to make. My father suffered financial
reverses and I decided to quit college. Eventually I
went into business for myself, and, to make a long
story short, in nineteen-fifty-eight I was convicted of
fraud and went to prison."

Martha Ross interrupted. "Nineteen-fifty-eight, Doc-
tor? You mean forty-eight?"

"No, Miss Ross. I am speaking of events that did
not take place on this time track."

"Ohi" She looked blank, then muttered, "With the
Lord all things are possible."

"While in prison I had time to regret my mistakes.
I realized that I had never been cut out for a busi-
ness career, and I earnestly wished that I had stayed
in school many years before. Prison has a peculiar
effect on a man's mind. I drifted further and further
away from reality, and lived more and more in an
introspective world of my own. One night, in a way

ELSEWHEN             97

not then clear to me, my ego left my cell, went back
along the time track, and I awoke in my room at my
college fraternity house.

"This time I was wiser— Instead of leaving school,
I found part-time work, graduated, continued as a
graduate fellow, and eventually arrived where you
now see me." He paused and glanced around.

"Doctor," asked young Monroe, "can you give us
any idea as to how the stunt was done?"

'Yes, I can," Frost assented- "I worked on that
problem for many years, trying to recapture the con-
ditions. Recently I have succeeded and have made
several excursions into possibility."

Up to this time the third woman, Estelle Martin,
had made no comment, although she had listened
with close attention. Now she leaned forward and
spoke in an intense whisper.

"Tell us how, Professor FrostI"

"The means is simple. The key lies in convincing
the subconscious mind that it can be done—"

"Then the Berkeleian idealism is proved!"

"In a way. Miss Martin. To one who believes in
Bishop Berkeley's philosophy the infinite possibili-
ties of two-dimensional time offer proof that the mind
creates its own world, but a Spencerian determinist,
such as good friend Howard Jenkins, would never
leave the road of maximum probability. To him the
world would be mechanistic and real. An orthodox
free-will Christian, such as Miss Ross, would have
her choice of several of the side roads, but would
probably remain in a physical environment similar to
Howard's.

"I have perfected a technique which will enable
others to travel about in the pattern of times as I
have done. I have the apparatus ready and any who
wish can try it. That is the real reason why these
Friday evening meetings have been held in my
home—so that when the time came you all might try

Robert A. Heinlein

98

it, if you wished." He got up and went to a cabinet at

the end of die room.
"You mean we could go tonight. Doctor?"
"Yes, indeed. The process is one of hypnotism and
suggestion. Neither is necessary, but that is the
quickest way of teaching the sub-conscious to break
out of its groove and go where it pleases. I use a
revolving ball to tire the conscious mind into hypno-
sis. During that period the subject listens to a re-
cording which suggests the time-road to be followed,
whereupon he does. It is as simple as that. Do any of

you care to try it?"

"Is it likely to be dangerous. Doctor?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "The process isn't—
just a deep sleep and a phonograph record- But the
world of the time track you visit will be as real as the
world of this time track. You are all over twenty-one.
I am not urging you, I am merely offering you the

opportunity."

Monroe stood up. "I'm going, Doctor."
"Good! Sit here and use these earphones. Anyone

else?"

"Count me in." It was Helen Fisher.

Estelle Martin joined them. Howard Jenkins went
hastily to her side. "Are you going to try this business?"

"Most certainly."

He turned to Frost. "I'm in. Doc."

Martha Ross finally joined the others. Frost seated
them where they could wear the ear-phones and

then asked,

"You will remember the different types of things
you could do; branch off into a different world, skip
over into the past or the future, or cut straight through
the maze of probable tracks on a path of extreme
improbability. I have records for all of those."

Monroe was first again. "I'll take a right angle turn

and a brand new world."

Estelle did not hesitate. "I want to— How did you

ELSEWHEN             99

put it?—climb up a bank to a higher road somewhere
in the future."

"I'll try that, too." It was Jenkins.

"Ill take the remote-possibilities track," put in
Helen Fisher.

"That takes care of everybody but Miss Ross,"
commented the professor. "I'm afraid you will have
to take a branch path in probability. Does that suit
you?"

She nodded. "I was going to ask for it."

"That's fine. All of these records contain the sug-
gestion for you to return to this room two hours from
now, figured along this time track. Put on your ear-
phones. The records run thirty minutes. I'll start
them and the ball together."

He swung a glittering many-faceted sphere from a
hook in the ceiling, started it whirling, and turned a
small spotlight on it. Then he turned off the other
lights, and started all the records by throwing a
master switch. The scintillating ball twirled round
and round, slowed and reversed and twirled back
again. Doctor Frost turned Jlis eyes away to keep
from being fascinated by it. Presently he slipped out
into the hall for a smoke. Half an hour passed and
there came the single note of a gong. He hurried
back and switched on the light.

Four of the five had disappeared.

The remaining figure was Howard Jenkins, who
opened his eyes and blinked at the light. "Well,
Doctor, I guess it didn't work."

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "No? Look around
you."

The younger man glanced about him. "Where are
the others?"

"Where? Anywhere," replied Frost, with a shrug,
"and way when."

Jenkins jerked off his ear-phones and jumped to
his feet. "Doctor, what have you done to EsteUe?"

Robert A. Heinlein

100

Frost gently disengaged a hand from his sleeve. "I
haven't done anything, Howard. She's out on an-
other time track."

"But I meant to go with her!"

"And I tried to send you with her."

"But why didn't I go?"

"I can't say—probably the suggestion wasn't strong
enough to overcome your skepticism. But don't be
alarmed, son—we expect her back in a couple of

hours, you know."

"Don't be alarmed!—that's easy to say. I didn't
want her to try this damn fool stunt in the first place,
but I knew I couldn't change her mind, so I wanted
to go along to look out for her—she's so impractical!
But see here, Doc—where are their bodies? I thought
we would just stay here in the room in a trance."

"Apparently you didn't understand me. These other
time tracks are real, as real as this one we are in.
Their whole beings have gone off on other tracks, as
if they had turned down a side street."

"But that's impossible—it contradicts the law of
the conservation of energy!"

"You must recognize a fact when you see one—
they are gone. Besides, it doesn't contradict the law;

it simply extends it to include the total universe."

Jenkins rubbed a hand over his face. "I suppose
so. But in that case, anything can happen to her—
she could even be kiUed out there. And I can't do a
damn thing about it. Oh, I wish we had never seen

this damned seminar!"

The professor placed an arm around his shoulders.
"Since you can't help her, why not calm down? Be-
sides, you have no reason to believe that she is in
any danger. Why borrow trouble? Let's go out to the
kitchen and open a bottle of beer while we wait for
them." He gently urged him toward the door.

After a couple of beers and a few cigarettes, Jenkins
was somewhat calmed down. The professor made
conversation.

ELSEWHEN             101




"How did you happen to sign up for this course,
Howard?"

"It was the only course I could take with Estelle."

"I thought so. I let you take it for reasons of my
own. I knew you weren't interested in speculative
philosophy, but I thought that your hard-headed ma-
terialism would hold down some of the loose think-
ing that is likely to go on in such a class. You've been
a help to me. Take Helen Fisher for example. She is
prone to reason brilliantly from insufficient data. You
help to keep her down to earth."

"To be frank. Doctor Frost, I could never see the
need for all this high-falutin discussion. I like facts."

"But you engineers are as bad as metaphysicians—
you ignore any fact that you can't weigh in scales. If
you can't bite it, it's not real. You believe in a
mechanistic, deterministic universe, and ignore the
facts of human consciousness, human will, and hu-
man freedom of choice—facts that you have directly
experienced."

'But those things can be explained in terms of
reflexes."

The professor spread his Rands. "You sound just
like Martha Ross—she can explain anything in terms
of Bible-belt fundamentalism. Why don't both of you
admit that there a few things you don't understand?"
He paused and cocked his head. "Did you hear
something?"

"I think I did."

"Let's check. It's early, but perhaps one of them is
back."

They hurried to the study, where they were con-
fronted by an incredible and awe-inspiring sight.

Floating in the air near the fireplace was a figure
robed in white and shining with a soft mother-of-
pearl radiance. While they stood hesitant at the door,
the figure turned its face to them and they saw that it
had the face of Martha Ross, cleansed and purified to
an unhuman majesty. Then it spoke.

102 Robert A. Heinlein

"Peace be unto you, my brothers." A wave of
peace and lovingldndness flowed over them like a
mother's blessing. The figure approached them, and
they saw, curving from its shoulders, the long, white,
sweeping wings of a classical angel. Frost cursed
under his breath in a dispassionate monotone.

"Do not be afraid, I have come back, as you asked
me to. To explain and to help you."

The Doctor found his voice. "Are you Martha Ross?"

"I answer to that name."

"What happened after you put on the ear-phones?"

"Nothing. I slept for a while. When I woke, I went
home."

"Nothing else? How do you explain your appear-
ance?"

"My appearance is what you earthly children ex-
pect of the Lord's Redeemed. In the course of time I
served as a missionary in South America. There it
was required of me that I give up my mortal me in
the service of the Lord. And so I entered the Eternal
City."

"You went to Heaven?"

"These many eons I have sat at the foot of the
Golden Throne and sung hosannas to His name."

Jenkins interrupted them. "Tell me, Martha—or
Saint Martha—Where is Estelle? Have you seen her?"

The figure turned slowly and faced him. "Fear
not."

"But tell me where she is!"

"It is not needful."

"That's no help," he answered bitterly.

"I will help you. Listen to me; Love the Lord thy
God with all thy heart, and Love thy neighbor as
thyself. That is all you need to know."

Howard remained silent, at a loss for an answer,
but unsatisfied. Presently the figure spoke again. "I
must go. God's blessing on you." It flickered and was
gone.

ELSEWHEN             103

The professor touched the young man's arm. "Let's
get some fresh air." He led Jenkins, mute and unre-
sisting, out into the garden. They walked for some
minutes in silence. Finally Howard asked a question,

"Did we see an angel in there?"

"I think so, Howard."

"But that's insane!"

*There are millions of people who wouldn't think
so—unusual certainly, but not insane."

"But it's contrary to all modem beliefs—Heaven—
Hell—a personal God—Resurrection. Everything I've
believed in must be wrong, or I've gone screwy."

"Not necessarily—not even probably. I doubt very
much if you will ever see Heaven or Hell. YouTI
follow a time track in accordance with your nature."

"But she seemed real."

"She was real. I suspect that the conventional
hereafter is real to any one who believes in it whole-
heartedly, as Martha evidently did, but I expect you
to follow a pattern in accordance with die beliefs of
an agnostic—except in one respect; when you die,
you won't die all over, no matter how intensely you
may claim to expect to. It is an emotional impossibil-
ity for any man to believe in his own death. That sort
of self-annihilation can't be done. Youll have a here-
after, but it will be one appropriate to a materialist."

But Howard was not listening. He pulled at his
under lip and frowned. "Say, doc, why wouldn't
Martha tell me what happened to Estelle? That was a
dirty trick."

"I doubt if she knew, my boy. Martha followed a
time track only slightly different from that we are in;

Estelle chose to explore one far in the past. or in the
distant future. For all practical purposes, each is
non-existent to the other."

They heard a call from the house, a clear contralto
voice, "Doctorl Doctor Frost!"

Jenkins whirled around. "That's Estellel" They ran

104 Robert A. Heinlein

back into the house, the Doctor endeavoring man-
fully to keep up.

But it was not Estelle. Standing in the hallway was
Helen Fisher, her sweater torn and dirty, her stock-
ings missing, and a barely-healed scar puckering one
cheek. Frost stopped and surveyed her. "Are you all
right, child?" he demanded.

She grinned boyishly. "I'm okay. You should see
the other guy."

Tell us about it."

"In a minute. How about a cup of coffee for the
prodigal? And I wouldn't turn up my nose at scram-
bled eggs and some—lots—of toast. Meals are in-
clined to be irregular where I've been."

"Yes, indeed. Right away." answered Frost, "but
where have you been?"

"Let a gal eat, please," she begged. "I won't hold
out on you. What is Howard looking so sour about?"

The professor whispered an explanation. She gave
Jenkins a compassionate glance. "Oh, she hasn't? I
thought I'd be the last man in; I was away so long.
What day is this?"

Frost glanced at his wrist watch. "You're right on
time; it's just eleven o'clock."

"The hell you say! Oh, excuse me. Doctor. *Cur-
iouser and curiouser, said Alice.' All in a couple of
hours. Just for the record, I was gone several weeks
at least.'*

When her third cup of coffee had washed down
the last of the toast, she began:

"When I woke up I was falling upstairs—through a
nightmare, several nightmares. Don't ask me to de-
scribe that—nobody could. That went on for a week,
maybe, then things started to come into focus. I
don't know in just what order things happened, but
when I first started to notice clearly I was standing in
a little barren valley. It was cold, and the air was
thin and acrid. It burned my throat. There were two

ELSEWHEN             105

suns in the sky, one big and reddish, the other
smaller and too bright to look at."

'Two suns!" exclaimed Howard. "That's not pos-
sible—binary stars don't have planets."

She looked at him. "Have it your own way—I was
there. Just as I was taking this all in, something
whizzed overhead and I ducked. That was the last I
saw of that place.

"I slowed down next back on earth—at least it
looked like it—and in a city. It was a big and compli-
cated city. I was in trafficway with a lot of fast-
moving traffic. I stepped out and tried to flag one of
the vehicles—a long crawling caterpillar thing with
about fifty wheels—when I caught sight of what was
driving it and dodged back in a hurry. It wasn't a
man and it wasn't an animal either—not one I've
ever seen or heard of. It wasn't a bird, or a fish, nor
an insect. The god that thought up the inhabitants of
that city doesn't deserve worship. I don't know what
they were, but they crawled and they crept and they
stank. Ugh!"

"I slunk around holes in ithat place," she contin-
ued, "for a couple of weeks before I recovered the
trick of jumping the time track. I was desperate, for I
thought that the suggestion to return to now hadn't
worked. I couldn't find much to eat and I was light-
headed part of the time. I drank out of what I sus-
pect was their drainage system, but there was nobody
to ask and I didn't want to know. I was thirsty."

"Did you see any human beings?"

"I'm not sure. I saw some shapes that might have
been men squatting in a circle down in the tunnels
under the city, but something frightened them, and
they scurried away before I could get close enough
to look."




"What else happened there?"

"Nothing. I found the trick again that same night
and got away from there as fast as I could-1 am afraid

106 Robert A. Heinlein

I lost the scientific spirit. Professor—I didn't care
how the other half lived.

'This time I had better luck. I was on earth again,
but in pleasant rolling hills, like the Blue Ridge
Mountains. It was summer, and very lovely. I found
a little stream and took off my clothes and bathed. It
was wonderful. After I had found some ripe berries,
I lay down in the sun and went to sleep.

"I woke wide awake with a start. Someone was
bending over me. It was a man, but no beauty. He
was a Neanderthal. I should have run, but I tried to
grab my clothes first, so he grabbed me. I was led
back into camp, a Sabine woman, with my new spring
sports outfit tucked fetchingly under one arm.

"I wasn't so bad off. It was the Old Man who had
found me, and he seemed to regard me as a strange
pet, about on a par with the dogs that snarled around
the bone heap, rather than as a member of his harem.
I fed well enough, if you aren't fussy—I wasn't nissy
after living in the bowels of that awful city.

"The Neanderthal isn't a bad fellow at heart, rather
good-natured, although inclined to play rough. That's
how I got this." She fingered the scar on her cheek,
"I had about decided to stay a while and study them,
when one day I made a mistake. It was a chilly
morning, and I put on my clothes for the first time
since I had arrived. One of the young bucks saw me,
and I guess it aroused his romantic nature. The Old
Man was away at the time and there was no one to
stop him.

' He grabbed me before I knew what was happen-
ing and tried to show his affection. Have you ever
been nuzzled by a cave man, Howard? They have
halitosis, not to mention B.O. I was too startled to
concentrate on the time trick, or else I would have
slipped right out into space-time and left him clutch-
ing air."

Doctor Frost was aghast. "Dear God, child! What
did you do?"

ELSEWHEN             107

"I finally showed him a jiu jitsu trick I learned in
Phys. Ed. II, then I ran like hell and skinned up a
tree. I counted up to a hundred and tried to be calm.
Pretty soon I was shooting upstairs in a nightmare
again and very happy to be doing it."

"Then you came back here?"

"Not by a whole lot—worse luck! I landed in this
present all right, and apparently along this time di-
mension, but there was plenty that was wrong about
it- I was standing on the south side of Forty-second
street in New York. I knew where I was for the first
thing I noticed was the big lighted letters that chase
around the TIMES building and spell out news flashes.
It was running backwards. I was trying to figure out
•DETROIT BEAT TO HITS NINE GET YANKEES'
when I saw two cops close to me running as hard as
they could—backwards, away from me." Doctor Frost
smothered an ejaculation. "What did you say?"

"Reversed entropy—you entered the track back-
wards—your time arrow was pointing backwards."

"I figured that out, when I had time to think about
it. Just then I was too busy. I was in a clearing in the
crowd, but the ring of people-was closing in on me,
all running backwards. The cops'disappeared in the
crowd, and the crowd ran right up to me, stopped,
and started to scream. Just as that happened, the
traffic lights changed, cars charged out from both
directions, driving backwards. It was too much for
little Helen. I fainted.

"Following that I seemed to slant through a lot of
places—"

"Just a second," Howard interrupted, "just what
happened before that? I thought I savvied entropy,
but that got me licked."

"Well," explained Frost, "the easiest way to ex-
plain it is to say that she was travelling backwards in
time. Her future was their past, and vice versa. I'm
glad she got out in a hurry. I'm not sure that human
metabolism can be maintained in such conditions."

108 Robert A. Heinlein

"Hmm— Go ahead, Helen."

"This slanting through the axes would have been
startling, if I hadn't been emotionally exhausted. I
sat back and watched it, like a movie. I think Salva-
dor Dali wrote the script. I saw landscapes heave
and shift like a stormy sea. People melted into
plants—I think my own body changed at times, but I
can't be sure. Once I found myself in a place that
was all insides, instead of outsides. Some of the
things we'll skip—I don't believe them myself.

"Then I slowed down in a place that must have
had an extra spatial dimension. Everything looked
three dimensional to me, but they changed their
shapes when I thought about them. I found I could
look inside solid objects simply by wanting to. When
I tired of prying into the intimate secrets of rocks
and plants, I took a look at myself, and it worked Just
as well. I know more about anatomy and physiology
now than an M.D. It's fun to watch your heart beat—
kind o'cute.

"But my appendix was swollen and inflamed. I
found I could reach in and touch it—it was tender.
I've had trouble with it so I decided to perform an
emergency operation, I nipped it off with my nails.
It didn't hurt at all, bled a couple of drops and closed
right up."

"Good Heavens, child! You might have gotten peri-
tonitis and died."

"I don't think so. I believe that ultra-violet was
pouring all through me and killing the bugs. I had a
fever for a while, but I think what caused it was a
bad case of internal sunburn.

"I forgot to mention that I couldn't walk around in
this place, for I couldn't seem to touch anything but
myself. I sliced right through anything I tried to get
a purchase on. Pretty soon I quit trying and relaxed.
It was comfortable and I went into a warm happy
dope, like a hibernating bear.

"After a long time—a long, long time, I went

ELSEWHEN             109

sound asleep and came to in your big easy-chair.
That's all."

Helen answered Howard's anxious inquiries by
telling him that she had seen nothing of Estelle.
"But why don't you calm down and wait? She isn't
really overdue."

They were interrupted by the opening of the door
from the hallway. A short wiry figure in a hooded
brown tunic and tight brown breeches strode into
the room.

"Where's Doctor Frost? Oh—Doctor, I need helpl"

It was Monroe, but changed almost beyond recog-
nition. He had been short and slender before, but
was now barely five feet tall, and stocky, with power-
fill shoulder muscles. The brown costume with its
peaked hood, or helmet, gave him a strong resem-
blance to the popular notion of gnome.

Frost hurried to hin. "What is it, Robert? How can
I help?"

"This first." Monroe hunched forward for inspec-
tion of his left upper arm. The fabric was tattered
and charred, exposing an ugly^bum. "He just grazed
me, but it had better be fixed. If I am to save the
arm."

Frost examined it without touching it. "We must
rush you to a hospital."

"No time. I've got to get back. They need me—
and the help I can bring."

The Doctor shook his head. "You've got to have
treatment. Bob. Even if there is strong need for you
to go back wherever you have been, you are in a
different time track now. Time lost here isn't neces-
sarily lost there."

Monroe cut him short. "I think this world and my
world have connected time rates. I must hurry."

Helen Fisher placed herself between them. "Let
me see that arm. Bob. Hm—pretty nasty, but I think
I can fix it. Professor, put a kettle on the fire with

110 Robert A. Heinlein

about a cup of water in it. As soon as it boils, chuck
in a handful of tea leaves."

She rummaged through the kitchen cutlery drawer,
found a pair of shears, and did a neat job of cutting
away the sleeve and cleaning the burned flesh for
dressing. Monroe talked as she worked.

"Howard, I want you to do me a favor. Get a
pencil and paper and take down a list. I want a flock
of things to take back—all of them things that you
can pick up at the fraternity house. You'll have to go
for me—I'd be thrown out with my present appear-
ance— What's the matter? Don't you want to?'

Helen hurriedly explained Howard's preoccupa-
tion. He listened sympathetically. "Oh! Say, that's
tough lines, old man." His brow wrinkled- "But look—
You can't do Estelle any good by waiting here, and I
really do need your help for the next half hour. Will
you do it?"

Jenkins reluctantly agreed. Monroe continued,

"Fine! I do appreciate it. Co to my room first and
gather up my reference books on math—also my
slide rule. You'll find an India-paper radio manuaf,
too. I want that. And I want your twenty-inch log-log
duplex slide rule, as well. You can have my Rabelais
and the DroU Stories. I want your Marks' Mechani-
cal Engineers Handbook, and any other technical
reference books that you have and I haven't. Take
anything you like in exchange.

"Then go up to Stinky Beanfield's room, and get
his Military Engineers Handbook, his Chemical
Warfare, and his texts on ballistics and ordnance.
Yes, and Miller's Chemistry of Explosives, if he has
one. If not, pick up one from some other of the
R.O.T.C. boys; it's important." Helen was deftly
applying a poultice to his arm. He winced as the tea
leaves, still warm, touched his seared flesh, but went
ahead.

"Stinky keeps his service automatic in his upper
bureau drawer. Swipe it, or talk him out of it. Bring

ELSEWHEN             111

as much ammunition as you can find—I'll write out a
bill of sale for my car for you to leave for him. Now
get going. I'll tell Doc all about it, and he can tell
you later. Here. Take my car." He fumbled at his
thigh, then looked annoyed. "Cripes! I don't have
my keys."

Helen came to the rescue. "Take mine- The keys
are in my bag on the hall table."

Howard got up. "OK, I'll do my damndest. If I get
flung in the can, bring me cigarettes." He went out.

Helen put the finishing touches on the bandages.
'There! I think that will do. How does it feel?"

He flexed his arm cautiously. "Okay. It's a neat
job. kid. It takes the sting out,"

"I believe it will heal if you keep tannin solution
on it. Can you get tea leaves where you are going?"

"Yes, and tannic acid, too. I'll be all right. Now
you deserve an explanation. Professor, do you have a
cigaret on you? I could use some of that cofiee, too."

"Surely, Robert." Frost hastened to serve him.

Monroe accepted a light and began,

"It's all pretty cock-eyed. When I came out of the
sleep, I found myself, dressed as I am now and
looking as I now look, marching down a long, deep
fosse. I was one of a column of threes in a military
detachment. The odd part about it is that I felt
perfectly natural. I knew where I was and why I was
there—and who I was. I don't mean Robert Monroe;

my name over there is Igor." Monroe pronounced
the gutteral deep in his throat and trilled the "r." "I
hadn't forgotten Monroe; it was more as if I had
suddenly remembered him. I had one identity and
two pasts. It was something like waking up from a
clearly remembered dream, only the dream was per-
fectly real. I knew Monroe was real, just as I knew
Igor was real.

"My world is much like earth; a bit smaller, but
much the same surface gravity. Men like myself are
the dominant race, and we are about as civilized as

112 Robert A. Heinlein

you folks, but our culture has followed a difficult
course- We live underground about half the time.
Our homes are there and a lot of our industry. You
see it's warm underground in our world, and not
entirely dark. There is a mild radioactivity; it doesn't
harm us.

"Nevertheless we are a surface-evolved race, and
can't be healthy nor happy if we stay underground all
the time. Now there is a war on and we've been
driven underground for eight or nine months. The
war is going against us. As it stands now, we have
lost control of the surface and my race is being
reduced to the status of hunted vermin,

"You see, we aren't fighting human beings. I don't
know just what it is we are fighting—maybe beings
from outer space. We don't know. They attacked us
several places at once from great flying rings the like
of which we had never seen. They burned us down
without warning. Many of us escaped underground
where they haven't followed us. They don't operate
at night either—seem to need sunlight to be active.
So it's a stalemate—or was until they started gassing
our tunnels.

"We've never captured one and consequently don't
know what makes them tick. We examined a ring
that crashed, but didn't leam much. There was noth-
ing inside that even vaguely resembled animal life,
nor was there anything to support animal life. I mean
there were no food supplies, nor sanitary arrange-
ments. Opinion is divided between the idea that the
one we examined was remotely controlled and the
idea that the enemy are some sort of non-protoplasmic
intelligence, perhaps force patterns, or something
equally odd.

"Our principal weapon is a beam which creates a
stasis in the ether, and freezes 'em solid. Or rather it
should, but it will destroy all life and prevent molar
action—but the rings are simply put temporarily out
of control. Unless we can keep a beam on a ring right

ELSEWHEN             113

to the moment it crashes, it recovers and gets away.
Then its pals come and bum out our position.

"We've had better luck with mining their surface
camps, and blowing them up at night. We're accom-
plished sappers, of course. But we need better weap-
ons. That's what I sent Howard after. I've got two
ideas. If the enemy are simply some sort of intelli-
gent force patterns, or something like that, radio
may be the answer. We might be able to fill up the
ether with static and jam them right out of existence.
If they are too tough for that, perhaps some good
old-fashioned anti-aircraft fire might make them say
'Uncle.' In any case there is a lot of technology here
that we don't have, and which may have the answer.
I wish I had time to pass on some of our stuff in
return for what I'm taking with me."

"You are determined to go back, Robert?"

"Certainly. It's where I belong. I've no family
here. I don t know how to make you see it. Doc, but
those are my people—that is my world. I suppose if
conditions were reversed, I'd feel differently.'

"I see," said Helen, "you're fighting for the wife
and kids."                  "

He turned a weary face toward her. "Not exactly.
I'm a bachelor over there, but I do have a family to
think about; my sister is in command of the attack
unit I'm in. Oh, yes, the women are in it—they're
little and tough, like you, Helen."

She touched his arm lightly. "How did you pick up
this?"

"That bum? You remember we were on the march.
We were retreating down that ditch from a surface
raid. I thought we had made good our escape when
all of a sudden a ring swooped down on us. Most of
the detachment scattered, but I'm a junior techni-
cian armed with the stasis ray. I tried to get my
equipment unlimbered to fight back, but I was burned
down before I could finish. Luckily it barely grazed
me. Several of the others were fried. I don't know

114 Robert A. Heinlein

yet whether or not Sis got hers. That's one of the
reasons why I'm in a hurry.

"One of the other techs who wasn't hit got his gear
set up and covered our retreat. I was dragged under-
ground and taken to a dressing station. The medicos
were about to work on me when I passed out and
came to in the Professor's study."

The doorbell rang and the Professor got up to
answer it. Helen and Robert followed him. It was
Howard, bearing spoils.

"Did you get everything?" Robert asked anxiously.

"I think so. Stinky was in, but I managed to bor-
row his books. The gun was harder, but I telephoned
a friend of mine and had him call back and ask for
Stinky. While he was out of the room, I lifted it.
Now I'm a criminal—government property, too."

"You're a pal, Howard. After you hear the explana-
tion, youll agree that it was worth doing. Won't he,
Helen?"

"Absolutely!"

"Well, I hope you're right," he answered dubi-
ously. "I brought along something else, just in case.
Here it is." He handed Robert a book.

"Aerodynamics and Principles of Aircraft Con-
struction," Robert read aloud. "My God, yes! Thanks,
Howard."

In a few minutes, Monroe had his belongings as-
sembled and fastened to his person. He had an-
nounced that he was ready when the Professor checked
him:

"One moment, Robert. How do you know that
these books will go with you?"

"Why not? That's why I'm fastening them to me."

"Did your earthly clothing go through the first
time?"

"Noo—" His brow furrowed. "Good grief. Doc,
what can I do? I couldn't possibly memorize what I
need to know."

"I don't know. Son. Let's think about it a bit." He

ELSEWHEN             115

broke off and stared at the ceiling. Helen touched his
hand.

"Perhaps I can help. Professor."

"In what way, Helen?"

"Apparently I don't metamorphize when I change
time tracks, I had the same clothes with me every-
where I went. Why couldn't I ferry this stuff over for
Bob?"

"Hm, perhaps you could."

"No, I couldn't let you do that," interposed Mon-
roe. "You might get killed or badly hurt.'
^      "I'll chance it.'

|      "I've got an idea," put in Jenkins. "Couldn't Doc-
t.    tor Frost set his instructions so that Helen would go
over and come right back? How about it. Doc?"

"Mmm, yes, perhaps." But Helen held up a hand.

"No good. The boodle might come bouncing back
with me. I'll go over without any return instructions.
I like the sound of this world of Bob's anyway. I may
stay there. Cut out the chivalry. Bob. One of the
i'   things I liked about your world was the notion of
}    treating men and women ali^e. Get unstuck from
that stuff and start hanging it on me. I'm going."

She looked like a Christmas tree when the dozen-
odd books had been tied to various parts of her solid
little figure, the automatic pistol strapped on, and
the two slide rules, one long and one short, stuck in
the pistol belt,

Howard fondled the large slide rule before he
fastened it on. "Take good care of this slipstick,
Bob," he said, "I gave up smoking for six months to
pay for it."

Frost seated the two side by side on the sofa in the
study. Helen slipped a hand into Bob's. When the
shining ball had been made to spin. Frost motioned
for Jenkins to leave, closed the door after him and
switched out the light. Then he started repeating
hypnotic suggestions in a monotone.

Ten minutes later he felt a slight swish of air and

116 Robert A. Heinlein

ceased. He snapped the light switch. The sofa was
empty, even of books.

Frost and Jenkins kept an uneasy vigil while await-
ing Estelle's return. Jenkins wandered nervously
around the study, examining objects that didn't in-
terest him and smoking countless cigarets. The Pro-
fessor sat quietly in his easy chair, simulating a
freedom from anxiety that he did not feel. They
conversed in desultory fashion.

"One thing I don't see," observed Jenkins, "is why
in the world Helen could go a dozen places and not
change, and Bob goes just one place and comes back
almost unrecognizable—shorter, heavier, decked out
in outlandish clothes. What happened to his ordinary
clothes anyhow? How do you explain those things,
Professor?"

"Eh? I don't explain them—I merely observe them.
I think perhaps he changed, while Helen didn't,
because Helen was just a visitor to the places she
went to, whereas Monroe belonged over there—as
witness he fitted into the pattern of that world. Per-
haps the Great Architect intended for him to cross
over."

"Huh? Good heavens, Doctor, surely you don't
believe in divine predestination!"

"Perhaps not in those terms. But, Howard, you
mechanistic skeptics make me tired. Your naive abil-
ity to believe that things 'jest growed' approaches
childishness. According a you a fortuitous accident of
entropy produced Beethoven's Ninth Symphony."

"I think that's unfair. Doctor. You certainly don't
expect a man to believe in things that run contrary to
his good sense without offering him any reasonable
explanation."

Frost snorted. "I certainly do—if he has observed
it with his own eyes and ears, or gets it from a source
known to be credible. A fact doesn't have to be
understood to be true. Sure, any reasonable mind

ELSEWHEN             117

wants explanations, but it's silly to reject facts that
don't fit your philosophy.

"Now these events tonight, which you are so anx-
ious to rationalize in orthodox terms, famish a clue
to a lot of things that scientists have been rejecting
because they couldn't explain them. Have you ever
heard the tale of the man who walked around the
horses? No? Around 1810 Benjamin Bathurst, British
Ambassador to Austria, arrived in his carriage at an
inn in Perleberg, Germany. He had his valet and
secretary with him. They drove into the lighted court-
yard of the inn. Bathurst got out, and, in the pres-
ence of bystanders and his two attaches, walked around
the horses. He hasn't been seen since."

"What happened?"

"Nobody knows. I think he was preoccupied and
inadvertently wandered into another time track. But
there are literally hundreds of similar cases, way too
many to laugh off. The two-time-dimensions theory
accounts for most of them. But I suspect that there
are other as-yet-undreamed-of natural principles op-
erating in some of the rejected cases."

Howard stopped pacing and pulled at his lower
hp. "Maybe so. Doctor. I'm too upset to think. Look
here—it's one o'clock. Oughtn't she to be back by
now?"

"Fm afraid so. Son."

"You mean she's not coming back."

"It doesn't look like it."

The younger man gave a broken cry and collapsed
on the sofa. His shoulders heaved. Presently he calmed
down a little. Frost saw his lips move and suspected
that he was praying. Then he showed a drawn face to
the Doctor.

"Isn't there anything we can do?"

"That's hard to answer, Howard. We don't know
where she's gone; all we do know is that she left here
under hypnotic suggestion to cross over into some
other loop of the past or future."

Robert A. Heinlein

118

"Can't we go after her the same way and trace

her?"

"I don't know. I haven't had any experience with
such a job."

"I've got to do something or I'll go nuts."

"Take it easy, son. Let me think about it." He
smoked in silence while Howard controlled an im-
pulse to scream, break furniture, anything!

Frost knocked the ash off his cigar and placed it
carefully in a tray. "I can think of one chance. It's a
remote one."

"Anything!"

"I'm going to listen to the record that Estelle
heard, and cross over. I'll do it wide awake, while
concentrating on her. Perhaps I can establish some
rapport, some extra-sensory connection, that will serve
to guide me to her." Frost went immediately about
his preparations as he spoke. "I want you to remain
in the room when I go so that you will really believe
that it can be done."

In silence Howard watched him don the head-
phones. The Professor stood still, eyes closed. He
remained so for nearly fifteen minutes, then took a
short step forward. The ear-phones clattered to the
floor. He was gone.

Frost felt himself drift off into the timeless limbo
which precedes transition. He noticed again that it
was exactly like the floating sensation that ushers in
normal sleep, and wondered idly, for the hundredth
time, whether or not the dreams of sleep were real
experiences. He was inclined to think they were.
Then he recalled his mission with a guilty start, and
concentrated hard on Estelle.

He was walking along a road, white in the sun-
shine. Before him were the gates of a city. The
gateman stared at his odd attire, but let him pass.
He hurried down the broad tree-lined avenue which
(he knew) led from the space port to Capitol Hill. He
turned aside into the Way of me Gods and continued

ELSEWHEN             119

until he reached the Grove of the Priestesses. There
he found the house which he sought, its marble walls
pink in the sun, its fountains tinkling in the morning
breeze. He turned in.

The ancient janitor, nodding in the sun, admitted
him to the house. The slender maidservant, barely
nubile, ushered him into the inner chamber, where
her mistress raised herself on one elbow and re-
garded her visitor through languid eyes. Frost ad-
dressed her,

"It is time to return, Estelle."

Her eyesbrows showed her surprise. "You speak a
strange and barbarous tongue, old man, and yet,
here is a mystery, for I know it. What do you wish of
me?"

Frost spoke impatiently. "Estelle, I say it is time
to return!"

"Return? What idle talk is this? Return where?
And my name is Star-Light, not Ess Tell. Who are
you, and from where do you come?" She searched
his face, then pointed a slender finger at him. "I
know you nowl You are out of my dreams. You were
a Master and instructed me in the ancient wisdom."

"Estelle, do you remember a youth in those
dreams?"

"That odd name again! Yes, there was a youth. He
was sweet—sweet and straight and tall like pine on
the mountain. I have dreamed of him often," She
swung about with a flash of long white limbs. "What
of this youth?"

"He waits for you. It is time to return."

"Return!—There is no return to the place of
dreams!"

"I can lead you there."

"What blasphemy is this? Are you a priest, that
you should practice magic? Why should a sacred
courtesan go to the place of dreams?"

"There is no magic in it. He is heartsick at your
loss. I will lead you back to him."

120 Robert A. Heinlein

She hesitated, doubt in her eyes, then she replied,
"Suppose you could; why should I leave my honor-
able sacred station for the cold nothingness of that

dream?"

He answered her gently, "What does your heart
tell you, Estelle?"

She stared at him, eyes wide, and seemed about to
burst into tears. Then she flung herself across the
couch, and showed him her back. A muffled voice

answered him,

"Be off with you! There is no youth, except in my
dreams. I'll seek him there!"

She made no further reply to his importunities.
Presently he ceased trying and left with a heavy
heart.

Howard seized him by the arm as he returned.
"Well, Professor? Well? Did you find her?"

Frost dropped wearily into his chair. "Yes, I found
her."

"Was she all right? Why didn't she come back with
you?"

"She was perfectly well, but I couldn't persuade
her to return."

Howard looked as if he had been slapped across
the mouth. "Didn't you tell her I wanted her to
come back?"

"I did, but she didn't believe me."

"Not believe you?"

"You see she's forgotten most of this life, Howard.
She thinks you are simply a dream."

"But that's not possible!"

Frost looked more weary than ever. "Don't you
think it is about time you stopped using that term,
son?"

Instead of replying he answered, "Doctor, you
must take me to her!" Frost looked dubious.

"Can't you do it?"

ELSEWHEN             121

"Perhaps I could, if you have gotten over your
disbelief, but still—"

"Disbelief^—I've been forced to believe. Let's get
busy."

Frost did not move. "I'm not sure that I agree.
Howard, conditions are quite different where Estelle
has gone. It suits her, but I'm not sure that it would
be a kindness to take you through to her."
"Why not? Doesn't she want to see me?"
"Yes—I think she does. I'm sure she would wel-
come you, but conditions are very different."

"I don't give a damn what the conditions are. Let's
go."

Frost got up. "Very well. It shall be as you wish."
He seated Jenkins in the easy chair and held the
young man's eyes with his gaze. He spoke slowly in
calm, unmodulated tones-
Frost assisted Howard to his feet and brushed him
off. Howard laughed and wiped the white dust of the
road from his hands.

"Quite a tumble. Master. I feel as if some lout had
pulled a stool from under me."

"I shouldn't have had you sit down."
"I guess not." He pulled a'large multi-flanged
pistol from his belt and examined it. "Lucky the
safety catch was set on my blaster or we might have
been picking ourselves out of the stratosphere. Shall
we be on our way?"

Frost looked his companion over; helmet, short
military kilt, short sword and accoutrements slapping
at his thighs. He blinked and answered, "Yes. Yes, of
course."

As they swung into the city gates. Frost inquired,
'Do you know where you are headed?"
"Yes, certaintiy. To Star-Light's villa in the Grove."
"And you know what to expect there?"
"Oh, you mean our discussion. I know the customs
here. Master, and am quite undismayed, I assure
you. Star-Light and I understand each other. She's

122 Robert A. Heinlein

one of these 'Out of sight, out of mind' girls. Now
that I'm back from Ultima Thule, she'll give up the
priesthood and we'll settle down and raise a lot of fat
babies."

"Ultima Thule? Do you remember my study?"

"Of course I do—and Robert and Helen and all
the rest."

"Is that what you meant by Ultima Thule?"

"Not exactly. I can't explain it. Master. I'm a prac-
tical military man. I'll leave such things to you priests
and teachers."

They paused in front of Estelle's house. "Coming
in, Master?"

"No, I think not. I must be getting back."

"You know best." Howard clapped him on the
shoulder. "You have been a true friend. Master. Our
first brat shall be named for you."

"Thank you, Howard. Good-bye, and good luck to
both of you."

"And to you." He entered the house with a confi-
dent stride.

Frost walked slowly back toward the gates, his
mind preoccupied with myriad thoughts. There
seemed to be no end to the permutations and combi-
nations; either of matter, or of mind. Martha, Rob-
ert, Helen—now Howard and Estelle. It should be
possible to derive a theory that would cover them
all.

As he mused, his heel caught on a loose paving
block and he stumbled across his easy chair.

The absence of the five students was going to be
hard to explain. Frost knew—so he said nothing to
anyone. The weekend passed before anyone took the
absences seriously. On Monday a policeman came to
his house, asking questions.

His answers were not illuminating, for he had
reasonably refrained from trying to tell the true story.
The District Attorney smelled a serious crime, kid-

ELSEWHEN             123

napping or perhaps a mass murder. Or maybe one of
these love cults—you can never tell about these
professors!

He caused a warrant to be issued Tuesday morn-
ing, Sergeant Izowski was sent to pick him up.

The professor came quietly and entered the black
wagon without protest, "Look, Doc," said the ser-
geant, encouraged by his docile manner, "why don't
you tell us where you hid 'em? You know we're
bound to dig them up in time."

Frost turned, looked him in the eyes, and smiled,
"Time," he said softly, "ah, time . . . yes, you could
dig them up, in Time." He then got into the wagon
and sat down quietly, closed his eyes, and placed his
mind in the necessary calm receptive condition.

The sergeant placed one foot on the tailboard,
braced his bulk in the only door, and drew out his
notebook. When he finished writing he looked up.

Professor Frost was gone.

Frost had intended to look up Howard and Es-
telle. Inadvertently he let his mind dwell on Helen
and Robert at the crucial moment. When he "landed"
it was not in the world of the future he had visited
twice before. He did not know where he was—on
earth apparently, somewhere and somewhen.

It was wooded rolling country, like the hills of
southern Missouri, or New Jersey. Frost had not
sufficient knowledge of botany to be able to tell
whether the species of trees he saw around him were
familiar or not. But he was given no time to study
the matter.

He heard a shout, an answering shout. Human
figures came bursting out of the trees in a ragged
line. He thought that they were attacking him, looked
wildly around for shelter, and found none. But they
kept on past him, ignoring him, except that the one
who passed closest to him glanced at him hastily, and
shouted something. Then he, too, was gone.

124 Robert A. Heinlein

Frost was left standing, bewildered, in the small
natural clearing in which he had landed.

Before he had had time to integrate these events
one of the fleeing figures reappeared and yelled to
him, accompanying the words with a gesture un-
mistakable—he was to come along.

Frost hesitated. The figure ran toward and hit him
with a clean tackle. The next few seconds were very
confused, but he pulled himself together sufficiently
to realize that he was seeing the world upside down;

the stranger was carrying him at a strong dogtrot,
thrown over one shoulder.

Bushes whipped at his face, then the way led
downward for several yards, and he was dumped
casually to the ground. He sat up and rubbed himself.

He found himself in a tunnel which ran upwards to
daylight and downward the Lord knew where. Fig-
ures milled around him but ignored him. Two of
them were setting up some apparatus between the
group and the mouth of the tunnel. They worked
with extreme urgency, completing what they were
doing in seconds, and stepped back. Frost heard a
soft gentle hum.

The mouth of the tunnel became slightly cloudy.
He soon saw why—the apparatus was spinning a web
from wall to wall, blocking the exit. The web became
less tenuous, translucent, opaque. The hum per-
sisted for minutes thereafter and the strange ma-
chine continued to weave and thicken the web. One
of the figures glanced at its belt, spoke one word in
the tone of command, and the humming ceased.

Frost could feel relief spread over the group like a
warm glow. He felt it himself and relaxed, knowing
intuitively that some acute danger had been averted.

The member of the group who had given the order
to shut off the machine turned around, happened to
see Frost, and approached him, asking some ques-
tions in a sweet but peremptory soprano. Frost was
suddenly aware of three things; the leader was a

ELSEWHEN             125

woman, it was the leader who had rescued him, and
the costume and general appearance of these people
matched that of the transformed Robert Monroe.

A smile spread over his face. Everything was going
to be all right!

The question was repeated with marked impatience.
Frost felt that an answer was required, though he did
not understand the language and was sure that she
could not possibly know English. Nevertheless—

"Madame," he said in English, getting to his feet
and giving her a courtly bow, "I do not know your
language and do not understand your question, but I
suspect that you have saved my life. I am grateful."

She seemed puzzled and somewhat annoyed, and
demanded something else—at least Frost thought it
was a different question; he could not be sure. This
was getting nowhere. The language difficulty was
almost insuperable, he realized. It might take days,
weeks, months to overcome it. In the meantime
these people were busy with a war, and would be in
no frame of mind to bother with a useless incoherent
stranger.

He did not want to be turned out on the surface.

How annoying, he thought, how stupidly annoy-
ing! Probably Monroe and Helen were somewhere
around, but he could die of old age and never find
them. They might be anywhere on the planet. How
would an American, dumped down in Tibet, make
himself understood if his only possible interpreter
were in South America? Or whereabouts unknown?
How would he make the Tibetans understand that
there even was an interpreter? Botheration!

Still, he must make a try. What was it Monroe had
said his name was here? Egan—no, Igor. That was
it—Igor.

"Igor," he said.

The leader cocked her head. "Igor?" she said,

Frost nodded vigorously. "Igor."

126 Robert A. Heinlein

She turned and called out, "Igor!" giving it the
marked gutteral, the liquid "r" that Monroe had
given it. A man came forward. The professor looked
eagerly at him, but he was a stranger, like the rest.
The leader pointed to the man and stated, "Igor."

This is growing complicated, thought Frost, appar-
ently Igor is a common name here—too common.
Then he had a sudden idea:

If Monroe and Helen got through, their badly-
needed chattels might have made them prominent.
"Igor," he said, "Helen Fisher."

The leader was attentive at once, her face alive.
"Elen Feesher?" she repeated.

"Yes, yes—Helen Fisher."

She stood quiet, thinking. It was plain that the
words meant something to her. She clapped her
hands together and spoke, commandingly. Two men
stepped forward. She addressed them rapidly for
several moments.

The two men stepped up to Frost, each taking an
arm- They started to lead him away. Frost held back
for a moment and said over his shoulder, "Helen
Fisher?"

" 'Elen Feesher'!" the leader assured him. He had
to be content with that.

Two hours passed, more or less. He had not been
mistreated and the room in which they had placed
him was comfortable but it was a cell—at least the
door was fastened. Perhaps he had said the wrong
thing, perhaps those syllables meant something quite
different here from a simple proper name.

The room in which he found himself was bare and
lighted only by a dim glow from the walls, as had all
of this underground world which he had seen so far.
He was growing tired of the place and was wonder-
ing whether or not it would do any good to set up a
commotion when he heard someone at the door.

The door slid back; he saw the leader, a smile on

ELSEWHEN             127

her rather grim, middle-aged features. She spoke in
her own tongue, then added, "Igor. . . Ellenfeesher."

He followed her.

Glowing passageways, busy squares where he was
subjected to curious stares, an elevator which startled
him by dropping suddenly when he was not aware
that it was an elevator, and finally a capsule-like
vehicle in which they were sealed airtight and which
went somewhere very fast indeed to judge by the
sudden surge of weight when it started and again
when it stopped—through them all he followed his
guide, not understanding and lacking means of in-
quiring. He tried to relax and enjoy the passing
moment, as his companion seemed to bear him no
ill-will, though her manner was brusque—that of a
person accustomed to giving orders and not in the
habit of encouraging casual intimacy.

They arrived at a door which she opened and
strode in. Frost followed and was almost knocked off
his feet by a figure which charged into him and
grasped him with both arms. "Doctor! Doctor Frost!"

It was Helen Fisher, dresser in the costume worn
by both sexes here. Behind her. stood Robert—or
Igor, his gnome-like face widened with a grin.

He detached Helen's arms gently. "My dear." he
said inanely, "imagine finding you here."

"Imagine finding you here," she retorted. "Why,
professor—you're crying!"

"Oh, no, not at all," he said hastily, and turned to
Monroe. "It's good to see you, too, Robert."

"That goes double for me. Doc," Monroe agreed.

The leader said something to Monroe. He an-
swered her rapidly in their tongue and turned to
Frost. "Doctor, this is my elder sister, Margri, Actoon
Margri—Major Margri, you might translate it roughly,"

"She has been very kind to me," said Frost, and
bowed to her, acknowledging the introduction. Margri
clapped her hands smartly together at the waist and
ducked her head, features impassive.

128 Robert A. Heinlein

"She gave the salute of equals," explained Robert-
Igor. "I translated the title doctor as best I could
which causes her to assume that your rank is the
same as hers."

"What should I do?"

"Return it."

Frost did so. but awkwardly.

Doctor Frost brought his erstwhile students up to
"date"—using a term which does not apply, since
they were on a different time axis. His predicament
with the civil authorities brought a cry of dismay
from Helen. "Why, you poor thingi How awful of
them!"

"Oh, I wouldn't say so," protested Frost. "It was
reasonable so far as they knew. But I'm afraid I can't
go back."

"You don't need to," Igor assured him. "You're
more than welcome here."

"Perhaps I can help out in your war."

"Perhaps—but you've already done more than any-
one here by what you've enabled me to do. We are
working on it now." He swung his arm in a gesture
which took in the whole room.

Igor had been detached from combat duty and
assigned to staff work, in order to make available
earth techniques. Helen was helping. "Nobody be-
lieves my story but my sister," he admitted, "But
I've been able to show them enough for them to
realize that what I've got is important, so they've
given me a free hand and are practically hanging
over my shoulder, waiting to see what we can pro-
duce. I've already got them started on a jet fighter
and attack rockets to arm it."

Frost expressed surprise. How could so much be
done so fast? Were the time rates different? Had
Helen and Igor crossed over many weeks before,
figured along this axis?

No, he was told, but Igor's countrymen, though

ELSEWHEN             129

lacking many earth techniques, were far ahead of
earth in manufacturing skill. They used a single gen-
eral type of machine to manufacture almost anything.
They fed into it a plan which Igor called for want of a
better term the blueprints—it was in fact, a careful
scale model of the device to be manufactured; the
machine retooled itself and produced the artifact.
One of them was, at that moment, moulding the
bodies of fighting planes out of plastic, all in one
piece and in one operation.

"We are going to arm these jobs with both the
stasis ray and rockets," said Igor. "Freeze 'em and
then shoot the damn things down while they are out
of control."

They talked a few minutes, but Frost could see
that Igor was getting fidgety. He guessed the reason.
and asked to be excused. Igor seized on the sugges-
tion. "We will see you a little later," he said with
relief. "I'll have some one dig up quarters for you.
We are pretty rushed. War work—I know you'll
understand."

Frost fell asleep that night planning how he could
help his two young friends, and their friends, in their
struggle.

But it did not work out that way. His education
had been academic rather than practical; he discov-
ered that the reference books which Igor and Helen
had brought along were so much Greek to him—
worse, for he understood Greek. He was accorded all
honor and a comfortable living because of Igor's affir-
mation that he had been the indispensable agent
whereby this planet had received the invaluable new
weapons, but he soon realized that for the job at
hand he was useless, not even fit to act as an
interpreter.

He was a harmless nuisance, a pensioner—and he
knew it.

And underground life got on his nerves. The

130 Robert A. Heirdein

everpreseirt light bothered him. He had an unrea-
soned fear of radioactivity, born of ignorance, and
Igor's reassurances did not stifle the fear. The war
depressed him. He was not temperamentally cut out
to stand up under the nervous tension of war. His
helplessness to aid in the war effort, his lack of
companionship, and his idleness all worked to in-
crease the malaise.

He wandered into Igor and Helen's workroom one
day, hoping for a moment's chat, if they were not too
busy. They were not. Igor was pacing up and down,
Helen followed them with worried eyes.

He cleared his throat- "Uh—I say, something the
matter?"

Igor nodded, answered, "Quite a lot," and dropped
back into his preoccupation.

"It's like this," said Helen. "In spite of the new
weapons, things are still going against us. Igor is
trying to figure out what to try next."

"Oh, I see. Sorry." He started to leave.

"Don't go. Sit down." He did so, and started mull-
ing the matter over in his mind. It was annoying,
very annoying!

"I'm afraid I'm not much use to you." he said at
last to Helen. "Too bad Howard Jenkins isn't here."

"I don't suppose it matters," she answered, "We
have the cream of modern earth engineering in these
books."

"I don't mean that. I mean Howard himself, as he
is where he's gone. They had a little gadget there in
the future called a blaster. I gathered that it was a
very powerful weapon indeed."

Igor caught some of this and whirled around. "What
was it? How did it work?"

"Why, really," said Frost, "I can't say. I'm not up
on such things, you know. I gathered that it was sort
of a disintegrating ray."

"Can you sketch it? Think, man, think!"

Frost tried. Presently he stopped and said, "I'm

ELSEWHEN             131

afraid this isn't any good. I don't remember clearly
and anyhow I don't know anything about the inside
of it."

Igor sighed, sat down, and ran his hand through
his hair.

After some minutes of gloomy silence, Helen said,
"Couldn't we go get it?"

"Eh? How's that? How would you find him?"

"Could you find him. Professor?"

Frost sat up. "I don't know," he said slowly, "—but
I'll try!"

There was the city. Yes, and there was the same
gate he had passed through once before. He hurried
on.

Star Light was glad to see him, but not particularly
surprised. Frost wondered if anything could surprise
this dreamy girl. But Howard more than made up for
her lack of enthusiasm. He pounded Frost's back
hard enough to cause pleurisy. "Welcome home,
Master! Welcome homel I didn't know whether or
not you would ever come, but we are ready for you.
I had a room built for you an4 you alone, in case you
ever showed up. What do you think of that? You are
to live with us, you know. No sense in ever going
back to that grubby school."

Frost thanked him, but added, "I came on busi-
ness. I need your help, urgently."

"You do? Well, tell me, man, tell me!"

Frost explained. "So you see, I've got to take the
secret of your blaster back to them. They need it.
They must have it."

"And they shall have it," agreed Howard.

Some time later the problem looked more compli-
cated. Try as he would Frost was simply not able to
soak up the technical knowledge necessary to be able
to take the secret back. The pedagogical problem
presented was as great as if an untutored savage
were to be asked to comprehend radio engineering

132 Robert A. Heinlein

sufficiently to explain to engineers unfamiliar with
radio how to build a major station. And Frost was by
no means sure that he could take a blaster with him
through the country of Time.

"Well," said Howard at last, "I shall simply have
to go with you."

Star Ught, who had listened quietly, showed her
first acute interest. "Darling! You must not—"

"Stop it," said Howard, his chin set stubbornly.
"This is a matter of obligation and duty. You keep
out of it."

Frost felt the acute embarrassment one always
feels when forced to overhear a husband and wife
having a difference of opinion.

When they were ready. Frost took Howard by the
wrist. "Look me in the eyes," he said, "You remem-
ber how we did it before?"

Howard was trembling. "I remember. Master, do
you think you can do it—and not lose me?"

"I hope so," said Frost, "now relax."

They got back to the chamber from which Frost
had started, a circumstance which Frost greeted with
relief. It would have been awkward to have to cross
half a planet to find his friends. He was not sure yet
just how the spatial dimensions fitted into the time
dimensions. Someday he would have to study the
matter, work out an hypothesis and try to check it.

Igor and Howard wasted little time on social amen-
ities. They were deep into engineering matters be-
fore Helen had finished greeting the professor.

At long last— "There," said Howard, "I guess that
covers everything. I'll leave my blaster for a model.
Any more questions?"

"No," said Igor, "I understand it, and I've got
every word you've said recorded. I wonder if you
know what this means to us, old man? It unquestion-
ably will win the war for us."

"I can guess," said Howard. "This little gadget is

ELSEWHEN             133

the mainstay of our systemwide pax. Ready, Doctor.
I'm getting kinda anxious,"

"But you're not going, Doctor?" cried Helen. It
was both a question and a protest.

"I've got to guide him back," said Frost.

"Yes," Howard confirmed, "but he is staying to
live with us. Aren't you. Master?"

"Oh, no!" It was Helen again.

Igor put an arm around her. "Don't coax him," he
told her. "You know he has not been happy here- I
gather that Howard's home would suit him better. If
so, he's earned it."

Helen thought about it, then came up to Frost,
placed both hands on his shoulders, and kissed him,
standing on tiptoe to do so. "Goodbye, Doc," she
said in a choky voice, "or anyhow, au revoir!"

He reached up and patted one of her hands.

Frost lay in the sun, letting the rays soak into his
old bones. It was certainly pleasant here. He missed
Helen and Igor a little, but he suspected that they
did not really miss him. And- life with Howard and
Star Light was more to his liking. Officially he was
tutor to their children, if and when. Actually he was
just as lazy and useless as he had always wanted to be,
with time on his hands. Time . . . Time.

There was just one thing that he would liked to
have known: What did Sergeant Izowsld say when he
looked up and saw that the police wagon was empty?
Probably thought it was impossible.

It did not matter. He was too lazy and sleepy to
care. Time enough for a little nap before lunch. Time
enough . . .

Time.

LOST
LEGACY

CHAPTER ONE
"Ye Have Eyes to See With!"

"HI-YAH, BUTCHER!" Doctor Philip Huxley put down
the dice cup he had been fiddling with as he spoke,
and shoved out a chair with his foot. "Sit down."

The man addressed ostentatiously ignored the sal-
utation while handing a yellow sucker and soggy felt
hat to the Faculty Clubroom attendant, but accepted
the chair. His first words were to the negro attendant.

"Did you hear that, Pete? A witch doctor, passing
himself off as a psychologist, has the effrontery to
refer to me—to me, a licensed physician and sur-
geon, as a butcher." His voice was filled with gentle
reproach.

"Don't let him kid you, Pete. If Doctor Cobum
ever got you into an operating theatre, he'd open up
your head just to see what makes you tick. He'd use
your skull to make an ashtray."

The colored man grinned as he wiped the table,
but said nothing.

Coburn clucked and shook his head. "That from a

137

138 Robert A. Hdnlein

witch doctor. Still looking for the Little Man Who
Wasn't There, Phil?"

"If you mean parapsychology, yes."

"How's the racket coming?"

"Pretty good. I've got one less lecture this semes-
ter, which is just as well—I get awfully tired of
explaining to the wide-eyed innocents how little we
really know about what goes on inside their think-
tanks. I'd rather do research."

"Who wouldn't? Struck any pay dirt lately?"

"Some. I'm having a lot of fun with a law student
just now, chap named Valdez."

Cobum lifted his brows. "So? E.S.P.?"

"Kinda. He's sort of a clairvoyant; if he can see one
side of an object, he can see the other side, too."

"Nuts!"

" 'If you're so smart, why ain't you rich?' I've tried
him out under carefully controlled conditions, and
he can do it—see around corners."

"Hmmmm—well, as my Grandfather Stonebender
used to say, 'God has more aces up his sleeve than
were ever dealt in the game.' He would be a menace
at stud poker."

"Matter of fact, he made his stake for law school as
a professional gambler."

"Found out how he does it?"

"No, damn it." Huxley drummed on the table top,
a worried look on his face- "If I just had a little
money for research I might get enough data to make
this sort of thing significant. Look at what Rhine
accomplished at Duke."

"Well, why don't you holler? Go before the Board
and bite 'em in the ear for it. Tell 'em how you're
going to make Western University famous."

Huxley looked still more morose, "Fat chance. I
talked with my dean and he wouldn't even let me
take it up with the President. Scared that the old
fathead will clamp down on the department even
more than he has. You see, officially, we are sup-

LOST LEGACY             139

posed to be behaviorists. Any suggestion that there
might be something to consciousness that can't be
explained in terms of physiology and mechanics is
about as welcome as a Saint Bernard in a telephone
booth."

The telephone signal glowed red back of the atten-
dant's counter. He switched off the newscast and
answered the call. "Hello . . . Yes, ma'am, he is, I'll
call him. Telephone for you, Doctuh Cobum."

"Switch it over here." Cobum turned the tele-
phone panel at the table around so that it faced him,
as he did so it lighted up with the face of a young
woman. He picked up the handset. "What is it? ...
What's that? How long ago did it happen? . . . Who
made the diagnosis? . . . Read that over again . . .
Let me see the chart." He inspected its image re-
flected in the panel, then added, "Very well. I'll be
right over. Prepare the patient for operating." He
switched off the instrument and turned to Huxley.
"Got to go, Phil—emergency."

"What sort?"

"It'll interest you. Trephining. Maybe some cere-
bral excision. Car accident. Come along and watch
it, if you have time." He was putting on his slicker as
he spoke. He turned and swung out the west door
with a long, loose-limbed stride. Huxley grabbed his
own raincoat and hurried to catch up with him.

"How come," he asked as he came abreast, "they
had to search for you?"

"Left my pocketphone in my other suit," Cobum
returned briefly. "On purpose—I wanted a little peace
and quiet. No luck."

They worked north and west through the arcades
and passages that connected the Union with the Sci-
ence group, ignoring the moving walkways as being
too slow. But when they came to the conveyor sub-
way under Third Avenue opposite the Pottenger Med-
ical School, they found it flooded, its machinery stalled,
and were forced to detour west to the Fairfax Ave-

140 Robert A. Heinlein

nue conveyor. Coburn cursed impartially the engi-
neers and the planning commission for the fact that
spring brings torrential rains to Southern California,
Chamber of Commerce or no.

They got rid of their wet clothes in the Physicians'
Room and moved on to the gowning room for sur-
gery. An orderly helped Huxley into white trousers
and cotton shoe covers, and they moved to the next
room to scrub. Cobum invited Huxley to scrub also
in order that he might watch the operation close up.
For three minutes by the little sand glass they scrubbed
away with strong green soap, then stepped through
a door and were gowned and gloved by silent, effi-
cient nurses. Huxley felt rather silly to be helped on
with his clothes by a nurse who had to stand on
tip-toe to get the sleeves high enough. They were
ushered through the glass door into surgery III,
rubber-covered hands held out, as if holding a skein
of yam.

The patient was already in place on the table, head
raised up and skull clamped immobile. Someone
snapped a switch and a merciless circle of blue-white
lights beat down on the only portion of him that was
exposed, the right side of his skull. Cobum glanced
quickly around the room, Huxley following his
glance—light green walls, two operating nurses,
gowned, masked, and hooded into sexlessness, a *dirty'
nurse, busy with something in the comer, the anes-
thetist, the instruments that told Cobum the state of
the patient's heart action and respiration.

A nurse held the chart for the surgeon to read. At
a word from Cobum, the anesthetist uncovered the
patient's face for a moment. Lean brown face, acquiline
nose, closed sunken eyes. Huxley repressed an ex-
clamation. Coburn raised his eyebrows at Huxley.

"What's the trouble?"

"It's Juan Valdez!"

"Who's he?"

LOST LEGACY             141

"The one I was telling you about—the law student
with the trick eyes."

"Hmm—Well, his trick eyes didn't see around
enough comers this time. He's lucky to be alive.
You'll see better, Phil, if you stand over there."

Coburn changed to impersonal efficiency, ignored
Huxley's presence and concentrated the whole of his
able intellect on the damaged flesh before him. The
skull had been crushed, or punched, apparently by
coming into violent contact with some hard object
with moderately sharp edges. The wound lay above
the right ear, and was, superficially, two inches, or
more, across. It was impossible, before exploration,
to tell just how much damage had been suffered by
the bony structure and the grey matter behind.

Undoubtedly there was some damage to the brain
itself. The wound had been cleaned up on the surface
and the area around it shaved and painted. The
trauma showed up as a definite hole in the cranium.
It was bleeding slightly and was partly filled with a
curiously nauseating conglomerate of clotted purple
blood, white tissue, grey tissue, pale yellow tissue.

The surgeon's lean slender fingers, unhuman in
their pale orange coverings, moved gently, deftly in
the wound, as if imbued with a separate life and
intelligence of their own. Destroyed tissue, too freshly
dead for the component cells to realize it, was cleared
away—chipped fragments of bone, lacerated mater
dura, the grey cortical tissue of the cerebrum itself.

Huxley became fascinated by the minuscule drama,
lost track of time, and of the sequence of events. He
remembered terse orders for assistance, "Clamp!"
"Retractor!" "Sponge!" The sound of the tiny saw, a
muffled whine, then the toothtingling grind it made
in cutting through solid living bone. Gently a spatu-
late instrument was used to straighten out the tor-
tured convolutions. Incredible and unreal, he watched
a scalpel whittle at the door of the mind, shave the
thin wall of reason.

142 Robert A. Heinlein

Three times a nurse wiped sweat from the sur-
geon's face.

Wax performed its function. Vitallium alloy re-
placed bone, dressing shut out infection. Huxley had
watched uncounted operations, but felt again that
almost insupportable sense of relief and triumph that
comes when the surgeon turns away, and begins
stripping off his gloves as he heads for the gowning
room.

When Huxley joined Cobum, the surgeon had
doused his mask and cap, and was feeling under his
gown for cigarets. He looked entirely human again.
He grinned at Huxley and inquired,

"Well, how did you like iti'

"Swell. It was the first time I was able to watch
that type of thing so closely. You can't see so well
from behind the glass, you know. Is he going to be
all right?"

Cobum's expression changed. "He is a friend of
yours, isn't he? That had slipped my mind for the
moment. Sorry. Hell be all right, I'm pretty sure.
He's young and strong, and he came through the
operation very nicely. You can come see for yourself
in a couple of days.'

"You excised quite a lot of the speech center,
didn't you? Will he be able to talk when he gets
well? Isn't he likely to have aphasia, or some other
speech disorder?"

"Speech center? Why, I wasn't even close to the
speech centers."

"Huh?"

"Put a rock in your right hand, Phil, so you'll know
it next time. You're turned around a hundred and
eighty degrees. I was working in the right cerebral
lobe, not the left lobe."

Huxley looked puzzled, spread both hands out in
front of him, glanced from one to the other, then his
face cleared and he laughed. "You're right. You know,
I have the damndest time with that. I never can

LOST LEGACY             143

remember which way to deal in a bridge game. But
wait a minute—I had it so firmly fixed in my mind
that you were on the left side in the speech centers
that I am confased. What do you think the result will
be on his neurophysiology?"

"Nothing—if past experience is any criterion. What
I took away he'll never miss. I was working in terra
incognito, pal—No Man's Land. If that portion of the
brain that I was in has any function, the best physiol-
ogists haven't been able to prove it."

CHAPTER TWO
Three Blind Mice

BRRRINNG!

Joan Freeman reached out blindly with one hand
and shut off the alarm clock, her eyes jammed shut
in the vain belief that she could remain asleep if she
did. Her mind wondered. Sunday. Don't have to get
up early on Sunday. Then why had she set the
alarm? She remembered suddenly and rolled out of
bed, warm feet on a floor cold in the morning air.
Her pajamas landed on that floor as she landed in the
shower, yelled, turned the shower to warm, then
back to cold again.

The last item from the refrigerator had gone into a
basket, and a thermos jug was filled by the time she
beard the sound of a car on the hill outside, the
crunch of tires on granite in the driveway. She hur-
riedly pulled on short boots, snapped the loops of
her jodphurs under them, and looked at herself in
the mirror. Not bad, she thought. Not Miss America,
but she wouldn't frighten any children.

A banging at the door was echoed by the doorbell,
and a baritone voice, "Joan! Are you decent?"

"Practically. Come on in, Phil."

Huxley, in slacks and polo shirt, was followed by

144 Robert A. Heinlein

another figure. He turned to him. "Joan, this is Ben
Cobum, Doctor Ben Coburn. Doctor Cobum, Miss
Freeman."

"Awfully nice of you to let me come. Miss Free-
man."

"Not at all, Doctor. Phil had told me so much
about you that I have been anxious to meet you."
The conventionalities flowed with the ease of all
long-established tribal taboo.

"Call him Ben, Joan, It's good for his ego."

While Joan and Phil loaded the car Coburn looked
over the young woman's studio house. A single large
room, panelled in knotty pine and dominated by a
friendly field-stone fireplace set about with untidy
bookcases, gave evidence of her personality. He had
stepped through open french doors into a tiny patio,
paved with mossy bricks and fitted with a barbecue
pit and a little fishpond, brilliant in the morning
sunlight, when he heard himself called.

"Doc! Stir your stumps! Time's awastin'!"

He glanced again around the patio, and rejoined
the others at the car. "I like your house. Miss Free-
man. Why should we bother to leave Beachwood
Drive when Griffith Park can't be any pleasanter?"

"That's easy. If you stay at home, it's not a picnic—
it's just breakfast. My name's Joan."

"May I put in a request for 'just breakfast' here
some morning—Joan?"

"Lay offo' that mug, Joan," advised Phil in a stage
whisper. "His intentions ain't honorable."

Joan straightened up the remains of what had re-
cently been a proper-sized meal. She chucked into
the fire three well-picked bones to which thick sirloin
steaks were no longer attached, added some dis-
carded wrapping paper and one lonely roll. She shook
the thermos jug. It gurgled slightly. "Anybody want
some more grapefruit juice?" she called.

LOST LEGACY             145

"Any more coffee?" asked Coburn, then continued
to Huxley, "His special talents are gone completely?"

"Plenty," Joan replied. "Serve yourselves."

The Doctor filled his own cup and Huxley's. Phil
answered, "Gone entirely, I'm reasonably certain. I
thought it might be hysterical shock from the opera-
tion, but I tried him under hypnosis, and the results
were still negative—completely. Joan, you're some
cook. Will you adopt me?'

"You're over twenty-one."

"I could easily have him certified as incompetent,"
volunteered Cobum.

"Single women aren't favored for adoption."

"Marry me, and it will be all right—we can both
adopt him and you can cook for all of us."

"Well, I won't say that I won't and I won't say that
I will, but I will say that it's the best offer I've had
today. What were you guys talking about?"

"Make him put it in writing. Joan. We were talk-
ing about Valdez."

"Oh! You were going to run those last tests yester-
day, weren't you? How did you come out?"

"Absolutely negative insofar as. his special clairvoy-
ance was concerned. It's gone."

"Hmm—How about the control tests?"

"The Humm-Wadsworth Temperament Test showed
exactly the same profile as before the accident, within
the inherent limits of accuracy of the technique. His
intelligence quotient came within the technique limit,
too. Association tests didn't show anything either. By
all the accepted standards of neuropsychology he is
the same individual, except in two respects; he's
minus a chunk of his cortex, and he is no longer able
to see around comers. Oh, yes, and he's annoyed at
losing that ability."

After a pause she answered, "That's pretty conclu-
sive, isn't it?"

Huxley turned to Coburn. "What do you think,
Ben?"

146 Robert A. Heinlein

"Well, I don't know. You are trying to get me to
admit that that piece of grey matter I cut out of his
head gave him the ability to see in a fashion not
possible to normal sense organs and not accounted
for by orthodox medical theory, aren't you?"

"I'm not trying to make you admit anything. I'm
trying to find out something."

"Well, since you put it that way, I would say if we
stipulate that all your primary data were obtained
with care under properly controlled conditions—"
"They were."

"—and that you have exercised even greater care
in obtaining your negative secondary data—"

"I have. Damn it, I tried for three weeks under all
conceivable conditions."

"Then we have the inescapable conclusions, first—"
He ticked them off on his fingers. "—that this subject
could see without the intervention of physical sense
organs; and second, that this unusual, to put it mildly,
ability was in some way related to a portion of his
cerebrum in the dexter lobe."

"Bravo!" This was Joan's contribution.
"Thanks, Ben," acknowledged Phil. "I had reached
the same conclusions, of course, but it's very encour-
aging to have someone else agree with me,"
"Well, now that you are there, where are you?"
"I don't know exactly. Let me put it this way; I got
into psychology for the same reason a person joins a
church—because he feels an overpowering need to
understand himself and the world around him. When
I was a young student, I thought modern psychology
could tell me the answers, but I soon found out that
the best psychologists didn't know a damn thing
about the real core of the matter. Oh, I am not
disparaging the work that has been done; it was
badly needed and has been very useful in its way.
None of 'em know what life is, what thought is.
whether free will is a reality or an illusion, or whether
that last question means anything. The best of 'em

LOST LEGACY             147

admit their ignorance; the worst of them make
dogmatic assertions that are obvious absurdities—for
example some of the mechanistic behaviorists that
think just because Pavlov could condition a dog to
drool at the sound of a bell that, therefore, they
knew all about how Paderewsld made music!"

Joan, who had been lying quietly in the shade of
the big liveoaks and listening, spoke up. "Ben, you
are a brain surgeon, aren't you?"

"One of the best," certified Phil.

"You've seen a lot of brains, furthermore you've
seen 'em while they were alive, which is more than
most psychologists have. What do you believe thought
is? What do you think makes us tick?"

He grinned at her. "You've got me, kid. I don't
pretend to know. It's not my business; I'm just a
tinker."

She sat up. "Give me a cigaret, Phil. I've arrived
just where Phil is, but by a different road. My father
wanted me to study law. I soon found out that I was
more interested in the principles behind law and I
changed over to the School *of Philosophy. But phi-
losophy wasn't the answer. There really isn't any-
thing to philosophy. Did you ever eat that cotton
candy they sell at fairs? Well, philosophy is like
that—it looks as if it were really something, and it's
awfully pretty, and it tastes sweet, but when you go
to bite it you can't get your teeth into it, and when
you try to swallow, there isn't anything there. Philos-
ophy is word-chasing, as significant as a puppy chas-
ing its tail.

"I was about to get my Ph.D. in the School of
Philosophy, when I chucked it and came to the sci-
ence division and started taking courses in psychol-
ogy. I thought that if I was a good little girl and
patient, all would be revealed to me. Well, Phil has
told us what that leads to. I began to think about
studying medicine, or biology. You just gave the

148 Robert A. Heinlein

show away on that. Maybe it was a mistake to teach
women to read and write."

Ben laughed. "This seems to be experience meet-
ing at the village church; I might as well make my
confession. I guess most medical men start out with a
desire to know all about man and what makes him
tick, but it's a big field, the final answers are elusive
and there is always so much work that needs to be
done right now, that we quit worrying about the final
problems. I'm as interested as I ever was in knowing
what life, and thought, and so forth, really are, but I
have to have an attack of insomnia to find time to
worry about them. Phil, are you seriously proposing
to tackle such things?"

"In a way, yes. I've been gathering data on all
sorts of phenomena that run contrary to orthodox
psychological theory—all the junk that goes under
the general name of metapsychics—telepathy, clair-
voyance, so-called psychic manifestations, clair-
audience, levitation, yoga stuff, stigmata, anything of
that sort I can find."

"Don't you find that most of that stuff can be
explained in an ordinary fashion?"

'Quite a lot of it, sure. Then you can strain ortho-
dox theory all out of shape and ignore the statistical
laws of probability to account for most of the rest.
Then by attributing anything that is left over to
charlatanism, credulity, and self-hypnosis, and refuse
to investigate it, you can go peacefully back to sleep."
"Occam's razor," murmured Joan.
;;Huh?"

"William of Occam's Razor. It's a name for a prin-
ciple in logic; whenever two hypotheses both cover
the facts, use the simpler of the two. When a con-
ventional scientist has to strain his orthodox theories
all out of shape, 'til they resemble something thought
up by Rube Gpldberg, to account for unorthodox
phenomena, he's ignoring the principle of Occam's
Razor. It's simpler to draw up a new hypothesis to

LOST LEGACY             149

cover all the facts than to strain an old one that was
never intended to cover the non-conforming data.
But scientists are more attached to their theories
than they are to their wives and families."

"My," said Phil admiringly, "to think that that
came out from under a permanent wave."

"If you'll hold him, Ben, I'll beat him with this
here thermos jug."

"I apologize. You're absolutely right, darling. I
decided to forget about theories, to treat these out-
cast phenomena like any ordinary data, and to see
where it landed me."

"What sort of stuff," put in Ben, "have you dug
up, Phil?"

"Quite a variety, some verified, some mere rumor,
a little of it carefully checked under laboratory condi-
tions, like Valdez. Of course, you've heard of all the
stunts attributed to Yoga. Very little of it has been
duplicated in the Western Hemisphere, which counts
against it; nevertheless a lot of odd stuff in India has
been reported by competent, cool-minded observers—
telepathy, accurate soothsaying, clairvoyance, fire walk-
ing, and so forth,"

"Why do you include fire walking in metapsychics?"

"On the chance that the mind can control the body
and other material objects in some esoteric fashion."

"Hmm."

"Is the idea any more marvelous than the fact that
you can cause your hand to scratch your head? We
haven't any more idea of the actual workings of voli-
tion on matter in one case than in the other. Take
the Tierra del Fuegans. They slept on the ground,
naked, even in zero weather. Now the body can't
make any such adjustment in its economy. It hasn't
the machinery; any physiologist will tell you so. A
naked human being caught outdoors in zero weather
must exercise, or die. But the Tierra del Fuegans
didn't know about metabolic rates and such. They
just slept—nice, and warm, and cozy."

150

Robert A. Heinlein

"So far you haven't mentioned anything close to
home. If you are going to allow that much latitude,
my Grandfather Stonebender had much more won-
derful experiences."

"I'm coming to them. Don't forget Valdez."
"What's this about Ben's grandfather?" asked Joan.
"Joan, don't ever boast about anything in Ben's

presence. YouTI find that his Grandfather Stonebender

did it faster, easier, and better."

A look of more-m-sorrow-than-in-anger shone out
of Coburn's pale blue eyes. "Why, Phil, I'm sur-
prised at you. If I weren't a Stonebender myself, and
tolerant, I'd be inclined to resent that remark. But
your apology is accepted."

"Well, to bring matters closer home, besides Val-
dez, there was a man in my home town, Springfield,
Missouri, who had a clock in his head."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he knew the exact time without looking at
a clock. If your watch disagreed with him, your
watch was wrong. Besides that, he was a lightning
calculator—knew the answer instantly to the most
complicated problems in arithmetic you cared to put
to him. In other ways he was feeble-minded."

Ben nodded. "It's a common phenomenon—idiots
savant."

"But giving it a name doesn't explain it. Besides
which, while a number of the people with erratic
talents are feeble-minded, not all of them are. I
believe that by far the greater per cent of them are
not, but that we rarely hear of them because the
intelligent ones are smart enough to know that they
would be annoyed by the crowd, possibly perse-
cuted, if they let the rest of us suspect that they were
different."

Ben nodded again. "You got something there, Phil.
Go ahead."

*There have been a lot of these people with im-
possible talents who were not subnormal in other

LOST LEGACY             151

ways and who were right close to home. Boris Sidis,
for example—"

"He was that child prodigy, wasn't he? I thought
he played out?"

"Maybe. Personally, I think he grew cagy and
decided not to let the other monkeys know that he
was different. In any case he had a lot of remarkable
talents, in intensity, if not in kind. He must have
been able to read a page of print just by glancing at
it, and he undoubtedly had complete memory. Speak-
ing of complete memory, how about Blind Tom, the
negro pianist who could play any piece of music he
had ever heard once? Nearer home, there was this
boy right here in Los Angeles County not so very
many years ago who could play ping-pong blind-
folded, or anything else, for which normal people
require eyes. I checked him myself, and he could do
it. And there was the 'Instantaneous Echo.' "

"You never told me about him, Phil," commented
Joan. "What could he do?"

"He could talk along with you, using your words
and intonations, in any language whether he knew
the language or not. And he'would keep pace with
you so accurately that anyone listening wouldn't be
able to tell the two of you apart. He could imitate
your speech and words as immediately, as accurately,
and as effortlessly as your shadow follows the move-
ments of your body."

"Pretty fancy, what? And rather difficult to explain
by behaviorist theory. Ever run across any cases of
levitation, Phil?"

"Not of human beings. However I have seen a
local medium—a nice kid, non-professional, used to
live next door to me—make articles of furniture in
my own house rise up off the floor and float. I was
cold sober. It either happened or I was hypnotized;

have it your own way. Speaking of levitating, you
know the story they tell about Nijinsky?"

"Which one?"

152 Robert A. Heinldn

"About him floating. There are thousands of peo-
ple here and in Europe (unless they died in the
Collapse) who testify that in Le Spectre de la Rose he
used to leap up into the air, pause for a while, then
come down when he got ready. Call it mass halluci-
nation—I didn't see it."

"Occam's Razor again," said Joan.

"So?"

"Mass hallucination is harder to explain than one
man floating in the air for a few seconds. Mass hallu-
cination not proved—mustn't infer it to get rid of a
troublesome fact. It's comparable to the "There aint
no sech animal' of the yokel who saw the rhinoceros
for the first time,"

"Maybe so. Any other sort of trick stuff you want
to hear about, Ben? I got a million of'em."

"How about forerunners, and telepathy?"

"Well, telepathy is positively proved, though still
unexplained, by Dr. Rhine's experiments. Of course
a lot of people had observed it before then, with
such frequency as to make questioning it unreason-
able. Mark Twain, for example. He wrote about it
fifty years before Rhine, with documentation and
circumstantial 'detail. He wasn't a scientist, but he
had hard common sense and shouldn't have been
ignored. Upton Sinclair, too. Forerunners are a little
harder. Every one has heard dozens of stories of
hunches that came true, but they are hard to follow
up in most cases. You might try J. W. Dunne's
Experiment with Time for a scientific record under
controlled conditions of forerunners in dreams."

"Where does all this get you, Phil? You aren't Just
collecting Believe-it-or-nots?"

"No, but I had to assemble a pile of data—you
ought to look over my notebooks—before I could
formulate a working hypothesis. I have one now."

"Well?"

"You gave it to me—by operating on Valdez. I had
begun to suspect sometime ago that these people

LOST LEGACY             153

with odd and apparently impossible mental and phys-
ical abilities were no different from the rest of us in
any sense of abnormality, but that they had stumbled
on potentialities inherent in all of us. Tell me. when
you had Valdez' cranium open did you notice any-
thing abnormal in its appearance?"

"No. Aside from the wound, it presented no spe-
cial features."

"Very well. Yet when you excised that damaged
portion, he no longer possessed his strange clairvoy-
ant power. You took that chunk of his brain out of an
uncharted area—no known function. Now it is a pri-
mary datum of psychology and physiology that large
areas of the brain have no known function. It doesn't
seem reasonable that the most highly developed and
highly specialized part of the body should have large
areas with no function; it is more reasonable to as-
sume that the functions are unknown. And yet men
have had large pieces of their cortices cut out with-
out any apparent loss in their mental powers—as
long as the areas controlling the normal functions of
the body were left untouched.

"Now in this one case, Valdez, we have estab-
lished a direct connection between an uncharted area
of the brain and an odd talent, to wit, clairvoyance.
My working hypothesis comes directly from that: All
normal people are potentially able to exercise all (or
possibly most) of the odd talents we have referred
to—telepathy, clairvoyance, special mathematical abil-
ity, special control over the body and its functions,
and so forth. The potential ability to do these things
is lodged in the unassigned areas of the brain."

Cobum pursed his lips. "Mmm—I don't know. If
we all have these wonderful abilities, which isn't
proved, how is it that we don't seem able to use
them?"

"I haven't proved anything—yet. This is a working
hypothesis. But let me give you an analogy. These
abilities aren't like sight, hearing, and touch which

154 Robert A. Heinlein

we can't avoid using from birth; they are more like
the ability to talk, which has its own special centers
in the brain from birth, but which has to be trained
into being. Do you think a child raised exclusively by
deaf-mutes would ever leam to talk? Of course not.
To outward appearance he would be a deaf-mute."

"I give up," conceded Cobum. "You set up an
hypothesis and made it plausible. But how are you
going to check it? I don't see any place to get hold of
it. It's a very pretty speculation, but without a work-
ing procedure, it's just fantasy."

Huxley rolled over and stared unhappily up through
the branches. "That's the rub. I've lost my best wild
talent case. I don't know where to begin."

"But, Phil," protested Joan, "You want normal
subjects, and then try to develop special abilities in
them- I think it's wonderful. When do we start?"

"When do we start what?"

"On me, of course. Take that ability to do lightning
calculations, for example. If you could develop that
in me, you'd be a magician. I got bogged down in
first year algebra. I don't know the multiplication
tables even now!"

CHAPTER THREE
"Every Man His Own Genius"

"SHALL WE GET BUSY?" asked Phil.

"Oh, let's not," Joan objected. "Let's drink our
coffee in peace and let dinner settle. We haven't
seen Ben for two weeks, I want to hear what he's
been doing up in San Francisco."

"Thanks, darling," the doctor answered, "but I'd
much rather hear about the Mad Scientist and his
Trilby."

'Trilby, hell," Huxley protested, "She's as inde-

LOST LEGACY             155

pendent as a hog on ice- However, we've got some-
thing to show you this time, Doc."

"Really? That's good. What?"

"Well, as you know, we didn't make much prog-
ress for the first couple of months. It was all up hill.
Joan developed a fair telepathic ability, but it was
erratic and unreliable. As for mathematical ability,
she had learned her multiplication tables, but as for
being a lightning calculator, she was a washout."

Joan jumped up, crossed between the men and
the fireplace, and entered her tiny Pullman kitchen.
"I've got to scrape these dishes and put them to soak
before the ants get at 'em. Talk loud, so I can hear
you,"

"What can Joan do now, Phil?"

"I'm not going to tell you. You wait and see. Joan!
Where's the card table?"

"Back of the couch. No need to shout. I can hear
plainly since I got my Foxy Grandma Stream-lined
Ear Trumpet."

"Okay, wench, I found it. Cards in the usual place?"

"Yes, I'll be with you itt-a moment." She reap-
peared whisking off a giddy kitchen apron, and sat
down on the couch, hugging her knees. "The Great
Gaga, the Ghoul of Hollywood is ready- Sees all,
knows all, and tells a damsight more. Fortunetelling,
teethpulling, and refined entertainment for the en-
tire family."

"Cut out the clowning. We'll start out with a little
straight telepathy. Throw every thing else out of
gear. Shuffle the cards, Ben."

Coburn did so. "Now what?"

"Deal 'em off, one at a time, letting you and me
see 'em, but not Joan. Call 'em off, kid."

Ben dealt them out slowly. Joan commenced to
recite in a sing-song voice, "Seven of diamonds; jack
of hearts; ace of hearts; three of spades; ten of dia-
monds; six of clubs; nine of spades; eight of clubs—"

156 Robert A. Heinlein

"Ben, that's the first time I've ever seen you look
amazed."

"Right through the deck without a mistake. Grand-
father Stonebender couldn't have done better."

"That's high praise, chum. Let's try a variation.
Ill sit out this one. Don't let me see them. I don't
know how it will work, as we never worked with
anyone else. Try it."

A few minutes later Coburn put down the last
card. "Perfect! Not a mistake."

Joan got up and came over to the table. "How
come this deck has two tens of hearts in it?" She
rimed through the deck, and pulled out one card.
"Oh! You thought the seventh card was the ten of
hearts; it was the ten of diamonds. See?"

"I guess I did," Ben admitted. "I'm sorry I threw
you a curve. The light isn't any too good."

"Joan prefers artistic lighting effects to saving her
eyes," explained Phil. "I'm glad it happened; it shows
she was using telepathy, not clairvoyance. Now for a
spot of mathematics. We'll skip the usual stunts like
cube roots, instantaneous addition, logarithms of hy-
perbolic functions, and stuff. Take my word for it;

she can do 'em. You can try her later on those simple
tricks. Here's a little honey I shot in my own kitchen.
It involves fast reading, complete memory, handling
of unbelievable number of permutations and combi-
nations, and mathematical investigation of alterna-
tives. You play solitaire, Ben?"

"Sure."

"I want you to shuffle the cards thoroughly, then
lay out a Canfield solitaire, dealing from left to right,
then play it out, three cards at a time, going through
the deck again and again, until you are stuck and
can't go any farther."
"Okay. What's the gag?"

"After you have shuffled and cut, I want you to
riffle the cards through once, holding them up so

LOST LEGACY             157

that Joan gets a quick glimpse of the index on each
card. Then wait a moment."

Silently he did what he had been asked to do. Joan
checked him. "You'll have to do it again, Ben. I saw
only fifty-one cards."

"Two of them must have stuck together. I'll do it
more carefully." He repeated it.

"Fifty-two that time. That's fine."

"Are you ready, Joan?"

"Yes, Phil. Take it down; hearts to the six, dia-
monds to the four, spades to the deuce, no clubs."

Cobum looked incredulous. "Do you mean that is
the way this game is going to come out?"

"Try it and see."

He dealt the cards out from left to right, then
played the game out slowly. Joan stopped him at one
point. "No, play the king of hearts' stack into that
space, rather than the king of spades. The king of
spades play would have gotten the ace of clubs out,
but three less hearts would play out if you did so."
Cobum made no comment, but did as she told him
to do. Twice more she stopped him and indicated a
different choice of alternatives.

The game played out exactly as she had predicted.

Coburn ran his hand through his hair and stared at
the cards. "Joan," he said meekly, "does your head
ever ache?"

"Not from doing that stuff. It doesn't seem to be
an effort at all."

"You know," put in Phil, seriously, "there isn't any
real reason why it should be a strain. So far as we
know, thinking requires no expenditure of energy at
all. A person ought to be able to think straight and
accurately with no effort- I've a notion that it is faulty
thinking that makes headaches."

"But how in the devil does she do it, Phil? It
makes my head ache just to try to imagine tjie size of
that problem, if it were worked out longnand by
conventional mathematics."

158 Robert A. Heinlein

"I don't know how she does it. Neither does she."

"Then how did she leam to do it?"

"We'll take that up later. First, I want to show you
our piece de resistance"

"I can't take much more. I'm groggy now."

"You'll like this."

"Wait a minute, Phil. I want to try one of my own.
How fast can Joan read?"

"As fast as she can see."

"Hmm—". The doctor hauled a sheaf of typewrit-
ten pages out of his inside coat pocket. "I've got the
second draft of a paper I've been working on. Let's
try Joan on a page of it. Okay, Joan?"

He separated an inner page from the rest and
handed it to her. She glanced at it and handed it
back at once. He looked puzzled and said:

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Check me as I read back." She started
in a rapid singsong, " 'page four. —now according to
Cunningham, fifth edition, page 547: "Another strand
of fibres, videlicet, the fasciculus spinocerebellaris
(posterior), prolonged upwards in the lateral fumiculus
of the medulla spinallis, gradually leaves this portion
of the medulla oblongata. This tract lies on the sur-
face, and is—"

"That's enough, Joan, hold it. God knows how you
did it, but you read and memorized that page of
technical junk in a split second." He grinned slyly.
"But your pronunciation was a bit spotty. Grandfa-
ther Stonebender's would have been perfect."

"What can you expect? I don't know what half of
the words mean."

"Joan. how did you leam to do all this stuff?"

"Truthfully, Doctor, I don't know. It's something
like learning to ride a bicycle—you take one spill
after another, then one day you get on and just ride
away, easy as you please. And in a week you are
riding without handle-bars and trying stunts. It's been

LOST LEGACY             159

like that—I knew what I wanted to do, and one day I
could. Come on, Phil's getting impatient."

Ben maintained a puzzled silence and permitted
Phil to lead him to a little desk in the comer. "Joan,
can we use any drawer? OK. Ben, pick out a drawer
in this desk, remove any articles you wish, add any-
thing you wish. Then, without looking into the drawer,
stir up the contents and remove a few articles and
drop them into another drawer. I want to eliminate
the possibility of telepathy."

"Phil, don't worry about my housekeeping. My
large staff of secretaries will be only too happy to
straighten out that desk after you get through playing
with it."

"Don't stand in the way of science, little one.
Besides," he added, glancing into a drawer, "this
desk obviously hasn't been straightened for at least
six months. A little more stirring up won't hurt it,"

"Humph! What can you expect when I spend all
my time learning parlor tricks for you? Besides, I
know where everything is."

"That's just what I am afraid of, and why I want
Ben to introduce a little more of the random ele-
ment—if possible. Go ahead, Ben."

When the doctor had complied and closed the
drawer, Phil continued, "Better use pencil and paper
on this one, Joan. First list everything you see in the
drawer, then draw a little sketch to show approxi-
mate locations and arrangement."

"OK." She sat down at the desk and commenced
to write rapidly:

One large black leather handbag

Six-inch ruler

Ben stopped her. "Wait a minute. This is all wrong.
I would have noticed anything as big as a handbag. '

She wrinkled her brow. "Which drawer did you
say?"

The second on the right."

"I thought you said the top drawer."

160 Robert A. Heinlein

"Well, perhaps I did."

She started again;

Brass paper knife

Six assorted pencils and a red pencil

Thirteen rubber bands

Pearl-handled penknife

"That must be your knife, Ben. It's very pretty;

why haven't I seen it before?"

"I bought it in San Francisco. Good God, girl. You
haven't seen it yet."

One paper of matches, advertising the Sir Francis
Drake Hotel

Eight letters and two bills

Two ticket stubs, the Follies Burlesque Theatre—
"Doctor, I'm surprised at you."

"Get on with your knitting."

"Provided you promise to take me the next time
you go."

One fever thermometer with a pocket clip

Art gum and a typewriter eraser

Three keys, assorted

One lipstick. Max Factor #3

A scratch pad and some file cards, used on one
side

One small brown paper sack containing one pair
stockings, size nine, shade Creole.—"I'd forgotten
that I had bought them; I searched all through the
house for a decent pair this morning."

"Why didn't you just use your X-ray eyes, Mrs.
Houdini?"

She looked startled. "Do you know, it just didn't
occur to me. I haven't gotten around to trying to use
this stuff yet."

"Anything else in the drawer?"

"Nothing but a box of notepaper. Just a sec: I'll
make the sketch." She sketched busily for a couple of
minutes, her tongue between her teeth, her eyes
darting from the paper toward the closed drawer and
back again. Ben inquired,

LOST LEGACY             161

"Do you have to look in the direction of the drawer
to see inside it?"

"No, but it helps. It makes me dizzy to see a thing
when I am looking away from it."

The contents and arrangement of the drawer were
checked and found to be exactly as Joan had stated
they were. Doctor Cobum sat quietly, making no
comment, when they had finished. Phil, slightly irked
at his lack of demonstrativeness, spoke to him.

"Well, Ben, what did you think of it? How did you
like it?"

"You know what I thought of it. You've proved
your theory up to the hilt—but I'm thinking about
the implications, some of the possibilities. I think
we've just been handed die greatest boon a surgeon
ever had to work with. Joan, can you see inside a
human body?"

"I don't know. I've never—"

"Look at me."

She stared at him for a silent moment- "Why—
why, I can see your heart beat! I can see—"

"Phil, can you teach me to'see the way she does?"

Huxley rubbed his nose. "I don't know. Maybe—"

Joan bent over the big chair in which the doctor
was seated. "Won't he go under, Phil?"

"Hell, no. I've tried everything but tapping his
skull with a bungstarter. I don't believe there's any
brain there to hypnotize."

"Don't be pettish. Let's try again. How do you
feel, Ben?"

"All right, but wide awake."

"I'm going out of the room this time. Maybe I'm a
distracting factor. Now be a good boy and go sleepy-
bye." She left them.

Five minutes later Huxley called out to her, "Come
on back in, kid. He's under."

She came in and looked at Cobum where he lay

162 Robert A. Heinlein

sprawled in her big easy chair, quiet, eyes half closed.
* Ready for me?" she asked, turning to Huxley.

"Yes. Get ready." She lay down on the couch.
"You know what I want; get in rapport with Ben as
soon as you go under. Need any persuasion to get to
sleep?"

"No."

'*Very well. then—Sleep!"

She became quiet, lax.

"Are you under, Joan?"

"Yes, Phil."

"Can you reach Ben's mind?"

A short pause: "Yes."

"What do you find?"

"Nothing. It's like an empty room, but friendly.
Wait a moment—he greeted me."

"Just a greeting. It wasn't in words."

"Can you hear me, Ben?"

"Sure, Phil."

"You two are together?"

"Yes. Yes, indeed."

"Listen to me, both of you. I want you to wake up
slowly, remaining in rapport. Then Joan is to teach
Ben how to perceive that which is not seen. Can you
do it?"

"Yes, Phil, we can." It was as if one voice had
spoken.

CHAPTER FOUR
Holiday

"FRANKLY, MR. HUXLEY, I can't understand your
noncooperative attitude." The President of Western
University let the stare from his slightly bulging eyes
rest on the second button of Phil's vest. "You have
been given every faculty for sound useful research
along lines of proven worth. Your program of in-

LOST LEGACY             163

structing has been kept light in order that you might
make use of your undoubted ability. You have been
acting chairman of your sub-department this past
semester. Yet instead of profiting by your unusual
opportunities, you have, by your own admission,
been, shall we say, frittering away your time in the
childish pursuit of old wives' tales and silly supersti-
tions, Bless me, man, I don't understand it!"

Phil answered, with controlled exasperation, "But
Doctor Brinckley, if you would permit me to show
you—"

The president interposed a palm. "Please, Mr.
Huxley. It is not necessary to go over that ground
again. One more thing, it has come to my attention
that you have been interfering in the affairs of the
medical school."

"The medical school! I haven't set foot inside it in
weeks."

"It has come to me from unquestioned authority
that you have influenced Doctor Cobum to disregard
the advice of the staff diagnosticians in performing
surgical operations—the best diagnosticians, let me
add, on the West Coast."

Huxley maintained his voice at toneless politeness.
"Let us suppose for the moment that I have influ-
enced Doctor Cobum—I do not concede the point—
has there been any case in which Cobum's refusal to
follow diagnosis has failed to be justified by the sub-
sequent history of the case?"

"That is beside the point. The point is—I can't
have my staff from one school interfering in the
anairs of another school. You see the justice of that, I
am sure."

"I do not admit that I have interfered. In fact, I
deny it."

"I am afraid I shall have to be the judge of that."
Brinckley rose from his desk and came around to
where Huxley stood. "Now Mr. Huxley—may I call
you Philip? I like to have my juniors in our institu-

164 Robert A, Heinlein

tion think of me as a friend. I want to give you the
same advice that I would give to my son. The semes-
ter will be over in a day or two. I think you need a
vacation. The Board has made some little difficulty
over renewing your contract inasmuch as you have
not yet completed your doctorate. I took the liberty
of assuring them that you would submit a suitable
thesis this coming academic year—and I feel sure
that you can if you will only devote your efforts to
sound, constructive work. You take your vacation,
and when you come back you can outline your pro-
posed thesis to me. I am quite sure the Board will
make no difficulty about your contract then."

"I had intended to write up the results of my
current research for my thesis."

Brinckley's brows raised in polite surprise. "Re-
ally? But that is out of the question, my boy, as you
know. You do need a vacation. Good-bye then; if I
do not see you again before commencement, let me
wish you a pleasant holiday now."

When a stout door separated him from the presi-
dent, Huxley dropped his pretense of good manners
and hurried across the campus, ignoring students and
professors alike. He found Ben and Joan waiting for
him at their favorite bench, looking across the La
Brea Tar Pits toward Wilshire Boulevard.

He flopped down on the seat beside them. Nei-
ther of the men spoke, but Joan was unable to con-
trol her impatience. "Well, Phil? What did the old
fossil have to say?"

"Gimme a cigaret." Ben handed him a pack and
waited. "He didn't say much—j'ust threatened me with
the loss of my job and the ruination of my academic
reputation if I didn't knuckle under and be his tame
dog—all in the politest of terms of course."

"But Phil, didn't you offer to bring me in and show
him the progress you had already made?"

LOST LEGACY             165

"I didn't bring your name into it; it was useless.
He knew who you were well enough—he made a
sidelong reference to the inadvisability of young in-
structors seeing female students socially except un-
der formal, fully chaperoned conditions—talked about
the high moral tone of the university, and our obliga-
tion to the public!"

"Why, the dirty minded old so-and-so! I'll tear
him apart for that!"

"Take it easy, Joan." Ben Cobum's voice was mild
and thoughtful. "Just how did he threaten you, Phil?"

"He refused to renew my contract at this time. He
intends to keep me on tenterhooks all summer, then
if I come back in the fall and make a noise like a
rabbit, he might renew—if he feels like it. Damn
him! The thing that got me the sorest was a sugges-
tion that I was slipping and needed a rest."

"What are you going to do?"

"Look for a job, I guess. I've got to eat."

Teaching job?"

"I suppose so, Ben."

"Your chances aren't very^good, are they, without
a formal release from Western;* They can blacklist
you pretty effectively. You've actually got about as
much freedom in the matter as a professional ball-
player."

Phil looked glum and said nothing. Joan sighed
and looked out across the marshy depression sur-
rounding the tar pits. Then she smiled and said, "We
could lure old Picklepuss down here and push him in."

Both men smiled but did not answer. Joan mut-
tered to herself something about sissies. Ben ad-
dressed Phil. "You know, Phil, the old boy's idea
about a vacation wasn't too stupid; I could do with
one myself."

"Anything in particular in mind?"

"Why, yes, more or less. I've been out here seven
years and never really seen the state. I'd like to start
out and drive, with no particular destination in mind,

166 Robert A. Heirdein

Then we could go on up past Sacramento and into
northern California. They say it's magnificent coun-
try up there. We could take in the High Sierras and
the Big Trees on the way back."

"That certainly sounds inviting."

"You could take along your research notes and we
could talk about your ideas as we drove. If you
decided you wanted to write up some phase, we
could just lay over while you did it."

Phil stuck out his hand. "It's a deal, Ben. When
do we start?"

"As soon as the term closes."

"Let's see—we ought to be able to get underway
late Friday afternoon then. Which car will we use,
yours or mine?"

"My coupe ought to be about right. It has lots of
baggage space."

Joan, who had followed the conversation with in-
terest, broke in on them. "Why use your car, Ben?
Three people can't be comfortable in a coupe."

"Three people? Wha' d'yu mean, three people?
You aren't going, bright eyes."

"So? That's what you think. You can't get rid of me
at this point; I'm the laboratory case. Oh no, you
can't leave me behind."

"But Joan, this is a stag affair."

"Oh, so you want to get rid of me?"

"Now Joan, we didn't say that. It just would look
like the devil for you to be barging about the country
with a couple of men—"

"Sissies! Tissyprissles! Pantywaists! Worried about
your reputations."

"No, we're not. We're worried about yours."

"It won't wash. No girl who lives alone has any
reputation. She can be as pure as Ivory soap and the
cats on the campus, both sexes, will take her to
pieces anyway. What are you so scared of? We aren't
going to cross any state lines."

Cobum and Huxley exchanged the secret look that

LOST LEGACY             167

men employ when confronted by the persistence of
an unreasonable woman.

"Look out, Joan!" A big red Santa Fe bus took the
shoulder on the opposite side of the highway and
slithered past. Joan switched the tail of the grey
sedan around an oil tanker truck and trailer on their
own side of the road before replying. When she did,
she turned her head to speak directly to Phil who
was riding in the back seat.

"What's the matter, Phil?"

"You darn near brought us into a head on collision
with about twenty tons of the Santa Fe's best rolling
stock!"

"Don't be nervous; I've been driving since I was
sixteen and I've never had an accident.'

"I'm not surprised; you'll never have but one.
Anyhow," Phil went on, "can't you keep your eyes
on the road? That's not too much to ask, is it?"

"I don't need to watch the road. Look." She turned
her head far around and showed him that her eyes
were jammed shut. The needle of the speedometer
hovered around ninety.

"Joan! Pleasel"

She opened her eyes and faced front once more.
"But I don't have to look in order to see. You taught
me that yourself, Smarty. Don't you remember?"

"Yes, yes, but I never thought you'd apply it to
driving a earl"

'*Why not? I'm the safest driver you ever saw; I
can see everything that's on the road, even around a
blind curve. If I need to, I read the other drivers'
minds to see what they are going to do next."

"She's right, Phil. The few times I've paid atten-
tion to her driving she's been doing just exactly what
I would have done in the same circumstances. That's
why I haven't been nervous."

"All right. All right," Phil answered, "but would
you two supermen keep in mind that there is a

168 Robert A. Hdnlein

slightly nervous ordinary mortal in the back seat who
can't see around comers?"

"I'll be good," said Joan soberly. "I didn't mean to
scare you, Phil."

"I'm interested," resumed Ben, "in what you said
about not looking toward anything you wanted to
see. I can't do it too satisfactorily. I remember once
you said it made you dizzy to look away and still use
direct perception."

"It used to, Ben, but I got over it, and so will you.
It's just a matter of breaking old habits. To me, every
direction is in 'front*—all around and up and down. I
can focus my attention in any direction, or two or
three directions at once. I can even pick a point of
away from where I am physically, and look at the
other side of things—but that is harder."

"You two make me feel like the mother of the
Ugly Duckling," said Phil bitterly. "Will you still
think of me kindly when you have passed beyond
human communication?"

"Poor Phil!" exclaimed Joan, with sincere sympa-
thy in her voice. "You taught us, but no one has
bothered to teach you. Tell you what, Ben, let's stop
tonight at an auto camp—pick a nice quiet one on
the outskirts of Sacramento—and spend a couple of
days doing for Phil what he has done for us."

"Okay by me. It's a good idea."

"That's mighty white of you, pardner," Phil con-
ceded, but it was obvious that he was pleased and
mollified. "After you get through with me will I be
able to drive a car on two wheels, too?"

"Why not leam to levitate?" Ben suggested. "It's
simpler—less expensive and nothing to get out of
order."

"Maybe we will some day," returned Phil, quite
seriously, "there's no telling where this line of investi-
gation may lead."

"Yeah, you're right," Ben answered him with equal
sobriety. "I'm getting so that I can believe seven

LOST LEGACY             169

impossible things before breakfast. What were you
saying just before we passed that oil tanker?"

"I was just trying to lay before you an idea I've
been mulling over in my mind the past several weeks.
It's a big idea, so big that I can hardly believe it
myself,"

"Well, spill it."

Phil commenced checking points off on his fingers.
"We've proved, or tended to prove, that the normal
human mind has powers previously unsuspected,
haven't we?"

"Tentatively—yes. It looks that way."

"Powers way beyond any that the race as a whole
makes regular use of."

"Yes, surely. Go on."

"And we have reason to believe that these powers
exist, have their being, by virtue of certain areas of
the brain to which functions were not previously
assigned by physiologists? That is to say, they have
organic basis, just as the eye and the sight centers in
the brain are the organic basis for normal sight?"

"Yes, of course."

"You can trace the evolution of any organ from a
simple beginning to a complex, highly developed
form. The organ develops through use. In an evolu-
tionary sense function begets organ."

"Yes. That's elementary."

"Don't you see what that implies?"

Cobum looked puzzled, then a look of comprehen-
sion spread over his face. Phil continued, with de-
light in his voice, "You see it, too?" The conclusion is
inescapable: there must have been a time when the
entire race used these strange powers as easily as
they heard, or saw, or smelled. And there must have
been a long, long period—hundreds of thousands,
probably millions of years—during which these pow-
ers were developed as a race. Individuals couldn t do
it, any more than I could grow wings. It had to be
done racially, over a long period of time. Mutation

170 Robert A. Heinlein

theory is no use either—mutation goes by little jumps,
with use confirming the change. No indeed—these
strange powers are vestigial—hangovers from a time
when the whole race had 'em and used 'em."

Phil stopped talking, and Ben did not answer him,
but sat in a brown study while some ten miles spun
past. Joan started to speak once, then thought better
of it. Finally Ben commenced to speak slowly.

"I can't see any fault in your reasoning. It's not
reasonable to assume that whole areas of the brain
with complex functions 'jest growed.' But, brother,
you've sure raised hell with modem anthropology."

"That worried me when I first got the notion, and
that's why I kept my mouth shut. Do you know
anything about anthropology?"

"Nothing except the casual glance that any medical
student gets."

"Neither did I, but I had quite a lot of respect for
it. Professor Whoosistwitchell would reconstruct one
of our great grand-daddies from his collar bone and
his store teem and deliver a long dissertation on his
most intimate habits, and I would swallow it, hook,
line, and sinker, and be much impressed. But I
began to read up on the subject. Do you know what
I found?"

"Go ahead."

"In the first place there isn't a distinguished an-
thropologist in the world but what you'll find one
equally distinguished who will call him a diamond-
studded liar. They can't agree on the simplest ele-
ments of their alleged science. In the second place,
there isn't a corporal's guard of really decent exhibits
to back up their assertions about the ancestry of
mankind. I never saw so much stew from one oys-
ter. They write book after book and what have they
got to go on?—The Dawson Man. the Peldn Man,
the Heidelberg Man and a couple of others. And
those aren't complete skeletons, a damaged skull, a
couple of teeth, maybe another bone or two."

LOST LEGACY             171

"Oh now, Phil, there were lots of specimens found
ofCro-Magnon men."

"Yes, but they were true men. I'm talking about
submen, our evolutionary predecessors. You see, I
was trying to prove myself wrong. If man's ascent
had been a long steady climb, submen into savages,
savages to barbarians, barbarians perfecting their cul-
tures into civilization ... all this with only minor
setbacks of a few centuries, or a few thousand years
at the most . . . and with our present culture the
highest the race had ever reached ... If all that was
true, then my idea was wrong.

"You follow me, don't you? The internal evidence
of the brain proves that mankind, sometime in its
lost history, climbed to heights undreamed of today.
In some fashion the race slipped back. And this
happened so long ago that we have found no record
of it anywhere. These brutish submen, that the an-
thropologists set such store by, can't be our ances-
tors; they are too new, too primitive, too young.
They are too recent; they allow for no time for the
race to develop these abilities whose existence we
have proved. Either anthropology is all wet, or Joan
can't do the things we have seen her do."

The center of the controversy said nothing. She sat
at the wheel, as the big car sped along, her eyes
closed against the slanting rays of the setting sun,
seeing the road with an inner impossible sight.

Five days were spent in coaching Huxley and a
sixth on the open road. Sacramento lay far behind
them. For the past hour Mount Shasta had been
visible from time to time through openings in the
trees. Phil brought the car to a stop on a view point
built out from the pavement of U.S. Highway 99.
He turned to his passengers. "All out, troops," he
said. "Catch a slice of scenery."

The three stood and stared over the canyon of the
Sacramento River at Mount Shasta, thirty miles away.

172 Robert A. Heinlein

It was sweater weather and the air was as clear as a
child's gaze. The peak was framed by two of the
great fir trees which marched down the side of the
canyon. Snow still lay on the slopes of the cone and
straggled down as far as the timberline.

Joan muttered something. Ben turned his head.
"What did you say, Joan?"

"Me? Nothing—I was saying over a bit of poetry to
myself."

"What was it?"

"Tietjens' Most Sacred Mountain:

" 'Space and the twelve clean winds are here;

And with them broods eternity—a swift white peace,
a presence manifest.

The rhythm ceases here. Time has no place. This is
the end that has no end.' "

Phil cleared his throat and self-consciously broke
the silence. "I think I see what you mean."

Joan faced them. "Boys," she stated, "I am going
to climb Mount Shasta."

Ben studied her dispassionately. "Joan," he pro-
nounced, "You are full of hop."

"I mean it. I didn't say you were going to—I said I
was."

"But we are responsible for your safety and welfare—
and I for one don't relish the thought of a fourteen-
thousand foot climb."

"You are not responsible for my safety; I'm a free
citizen. Anyhow a climb wouldn't hurt you any; it
would help to get rid of some of that fat you've been
storing up against winter."

"Why,' inquired Phil, "are you so determined so
suddenly to make this climb?"

"It's really not a sudden decision, Phil. Ever since
we left Los Angeles I've had a recurring dream that I
was climbing, climbing, up to some high place . . .
and that I was very happy because of it. Today I
know that it was Shasta I was climbing."

"How do you know it?*'

LOST LEGACY             173

"I know it."

"Ben, what do you think?"

The doctor picked up a granite pebble and shied it
out in the general direction of the river. He waited
for it to come to rest several hundred feet down the
slope. "I guess," he said, "we'd better buy some
hobnailed boots."

Phil paused and the two behind him on the narrow
path were forced to stop, too. "Joan," he asked, with
a worried tone, "is this the way we came?"

They huddled together, icy wind cutting at their
faces like rusty razor blades and gusts of snow eddy-
ing about them and stinging their eyes, while Joan
considered her answer. "I think so," she ventured at
last, "but even with my eyes closed this snow makes
everything look different."

"That's my trouble, too. I guess we pulled a boner
when we decided against a guide . . . but who would
have thought that a beautiful summer day could end
up in a snow storm?"

Ben stamped his feet and clapped his hands to-
gether. "Let s get going," he ur^ed. "Even if this is
the right road, we've got the worst of it ahead of us
before we reach the rest cabin. Don't forget that
stretch of glacier we crossed,"

"I wish I could forget it," Phil answered him so-
berly, "I don't fancy the prospect of crossing it in this
nasty weather."

"Neither do I, but if we stay here we freeze."

With Ben now in the lead they resumed their cau-
tious progress, heads averted to the wind, eyes half
closed. Ben checked them again after a couple of
hundred yards. "Careful, gang," he warned, "the
path is almost gone here, and it s slippery." He went
forward a few steps. "It's rather—" They heard him
make a violent effort to recover his balance, then fall
heavily.

"Ben! Ben!" Phil called out, "are you all right?"

174 Robert A. Heinlein

"I guess so," he gasped, "I gave my left leg an
awful bang. Be careful.'

They saw that he was on the ground, hanging part
way over the edge of the path. Cautiously they
approached until they were alongside him- "Lend
me a hand, Phil. Easy, now."

Phil helped him wiggle back onto the path. "Can
you stand up?"

"I'm afraid not. My left leg gave me the devil
when I had to move just now. Take a look at it, Phil.
No, don't bother to take the boot off; look right
through it."

"Of course. I forgot." Phil studied the limb for a
moment. "It's pretty bad, fella—a fracture of the shin
bone about four inches below the knee."

Cobum whistled a couple of bars of Suwannee
River, then said, "Isn't that just too, too lovely?
Simple or compound fracture, Phil?"

"Seems like a clean break, Ben."

"Not that it matters much one way or the other
just now. What do we do next?"

Joan answered him. "We must build a litter and
get you down the mountain!"

"Spoken like a true girl scout, kid. Have you fig-
ured how you and Phil can maneuver a litter, with
me in it, over that stretch of ice?"

"We'll have to—somehow." But her voice lacked
confidence.

"It won't work, kid. You two will have to straighten
me out and bed me down, then go on down the
mountain and stir out a rescue party with proper
equipment. Ill get some sleep while you're gone. I'd
appreciate it if you'd leave me some cigarets."

"No!" Joan protested. "We won't leave you here
alone."

Phil added his objections. "Your plan is as bad as
Joan's, Ben. It's all very well to talk about sleeping
until we get back, but you know as well as I do that

LOST LEGACY             175

you would die of exposure if you spent a night like
this on the ground with no protection."

"111 just have to chance it. What better plan can
you suggest?"

"Wait a minute. Let me think," He sat down on
the ledge beside his friend and pulled at his left ear.
"This is the best I can figure out: We'll have to get
you to some place that is a little more sheltered, and
build a fire to keep you warm. Joan can stay with you
and keep the fire going while I go down after help."

'That's all right," put in Joan, "except that I will
be the one to go after help. You couldn't find your
way in the dark and the snow, Phil. You know your-
self that your direct perception isn't reliable as yet—
you'd get lost."

Both men protested. "Joan, you're not going to
start off alone."—"We can't permit that, Joan,"

"That's a lot of gallant nonsense. Of course I'm
going."

"No." It was a duet.

"Then we all stay here tonight, and huddle around
a fire. Ill go down in the morning."

"That might do," Ben conceded, "if—"

"Good evening, friends." A tall, elderly man stood
on the ledge behind them. Steady blue eyes re-
garded them from under shaggy white eyebrows. He
was smooth shaven but a mane of white hair matched
the eyebrows. Joan thought he looked like Mark
Twain.

Cobum recovered first. "Good evening," he an-
swered, "if it is a good evening—which I doubt."

The stranger smiled with his eyes. "My name is
Ambrose, ma'am. But your friend is in need of some
assistance. If you will permit me, sir—" He knelt
down and examined Ben's leg, without removing the
boot. Presently he raised his head. **This will be
somewhat painful. I suggest, son, that you go to
sleep." Ben smiled at him, closed his eyes, and gave

176 Robert A. Heinlein

evidence by his slow, regular breathing that he was
asleep.

The man who called himself Ambrose slipped away
into the shadows. Joan tried to follow him with per-
ception, but this she found curiously hard to do. He
returned in a few minutes with several straight sticks
which he broke to a uniform length of about twenty
inches. These he proceeded to bind firmly to Ben's
left shin with a roll of cloth which he had removed
from his trouser pocket.

When he was satisfied that the primitive splint was
firm, he picked Coburn up in his arms, handling the
not inconsiderable mass as if it were a child. "Come,"
he said.

They followed him without a word, back the way
they had come, single file through the hurrying
snowflakes. Five hundred yards, six hundred yards,
then he took a turn that had not been on the path
followed by Joan and the two men, and strode
confidently away in the gloom. Joan noticed that he
was wearing a light cotton shirt with neither coat nor
sweater, and wondered that he had come so far with
so little protection against the weather. He spoke to
her over his shoulder,

"I like cold weather, ma'am."

He walked between two large boulders, appar-
ently disappeared into the side of the mountain.
They followed him and found themselves in a pas-
sageway which led diagonally into the living rock.
They turned a corner and were in an octagonal living
room, high ceilinged and panelled in some mellow,
light-colored wood. It was softly illuminated by indi-
rect lighting, but possessed no windows. One side of
the octagon was a fireplace with a generous hearth
in which a wood fire burned hospitably. There was
no covering on the flagged floor, but it was warm to
the feet.

The old man paused with his burden and indicated
the comfortable fittings of the room—three couches,

LOST LEGACY             177

old-fashioned heavy chairs, a chaise longue—with a
nod. "Be seated, friends, and make yourselves com-
fortable. I must see that your companion is taken
care of. then we will find refreshment for you." He
went out through a door opposite the one by which
they had entered, still carrying Coburn in his arms.

Phu looked at Joan and Joan looked at Phil. "Well,"
he said, "what do you make of it?"

"I think we've found a 'home from home.' This is
pretty swell."

"What do we do next?"

"I'm going to pull that chaise longue up to the fire,
take off my boots, and get my feet warm and my
clothes dry."

When Ambrose returned ten minutes later he found
them blissfully toasting their tired feet before the
fire. He was bearing a tray from which he served
them big steaming bowls of onion soup, hard rolls,
apple pie, and strong black tea. While doing so he
stated, "Your friend is resting. There is no need to
see him until tomorrow. When you have eaten, you
will find sleeping rooms in, the passageway, with
what you need for your immediate comfort." He
indicated the door from which he had just come. "No
chance to mistake them; they are the lighted rooms
immediately at hand. I bid you goodnight now." He
picked up the tray and turned to leave.

"Oh, I say," began Phil hesitantly, "This is awfully
good of you. Mister, uh—"

"You are very welcome, sir- Bierce is my name.
Ambrose Bierce. Goodnight." And he was gone.

CHAPTER FIVE
"—Through a Class, Darkly"

WHEN PHIL ENTERED the living room the next mom-
ing he found a small table set with a very sound
breakfast for three. While he was lifting plate covers
and wondering whether good manners required him
to wait until joined by others, Joan entered the room.
He looked up.

"Oh! It's you. Good morning, and stuff. They set a
proper table here. Look." He lifted a plate cover.
"Did you sleep well?"

"Like a corpse." She joined his investigations. "They
do understand food, don't they? When do we start?"

"When number three gets here, I guess. Those
aren't the clothes you had on last night."

"Like it?" She turned around slowly with a swaying
mannequin walk. She had on a pearl grey gown that
dropped to her toes. It was high waisted; two silver
cords crossed between her breasts and encircled her
waist, making a girdle. She was shod in silver san-
dals. There was an air of ancient days about the
whole costume.

"It's swell. Why is it a girl always looks prettier in
simple clothes?"

"Simple—hmmf! If you can buy this for three hun-
dred dollars on Wilshire Boulevard, I'd like to have
the address of the shop."

"Hello, troops." Ben stood in the doorway. They
both stared at him. "What's the trouble?"

Phil ran his eye down Ben's frame. "How's your
leg, Ben?"

"I wanted to ask you about that. How long have I
been out? The leg's all well. Wasn't it broken after
all?"

178

LOST LEGACY             179

"How about it, Phil?" Joan seconded. "You exam-
ined it—I didn't."

Phil pulled his ear. "It was broken—or I've gone
completely screwy. Let's have a look at it."

Ben was dressed in pajamas and bathrobe. He slid
up the pajama leg, and exposed a shin that was pink
and healthy. He pounded it with his fist. "See that?
Not even a bruise."

"Hmm—You haven't been out long, Ben. Just since
last night. Maybe ten or eleven hours."

"Huh?"

"That's right."

"Impossible."

"Maybe so. Let's eat breakfast."

They ate in thoughtful silence, each under press-
ing necessity of taking stock and reaching some rea-
sonable reorientation. Toward the end of the meal
they all happened to look up at once. Phil broke the
silence

"Weil. . . How about it?"

"I've just doped it out," volunteered Joan. "We all
died in the snow storm and went to Heaven. Pass
the marmalade, will you, please?"

"That can't be right," objected Phil, as he com-
plied, "else Ben wouldn't be here. He led a sinful
life. But seriously, things have happened which re-
quire explanation. Let's tick 'em off: One; Ben breaks
a leg last night, it's all healed this morning."

"Wait a minute—are we sure he broke his leg?"

"I'm sure. Furthermore, our host acted as if he
thought so too—else why did he bother to carry
him? Two; our host has direct perception, or an
uncanny knowledge of the mountainside."

"Speaking of direct perception," said Joan, "have
either of you tried to look around you and size up the
place?"

"No, why?"—"Neither have I."

"Don't bother to. I tried, and it can't be done. I
can't perceive past the walls of the room."

180 Robert A. Heinlein

"Hmm—we'll put that down as point three. Four,
our host says that his name is Ambrose Bierce. Does
he mean that he is the Ambrose Bierce? You know
who Ambrose Bierce was, Joan?"

"Of course I do—I got eddication. He disappeared
sometime before I was bom."

"That's right—at the time of the outbreak of the
first World War. If this is the same man, he must be
over a hundred years old."

"He didn't look that old by forty years."

"Well, we'll put it down for what it's worth. Point
five;—We'll make this one an omnibus point—why
does our host live up here? How come this strange
mixture of luxury hotel and cuff dwellers cave any-
how? How can one old man run such a joint? Say,
have either of you seen anyone else around the place?"

"I haven't," said Ben. "Someone woke me, but I
think it was Ambrose."

"I have," offered Joan. "It was a woman who woke
me. She offered me this dress."

"Mrs. Bierce, maybe?"

"I don't think so—she wasn't more than thirty-
five. I didn't really get acquainted—she was gone
before I was wide awake."

Phil looked from Joan to Ben. "Well, what have
we got? Add it up and give us an answer."

"Good morning, young friends!" It was Bierce,
standing in the doorway, his rich, virile voice re-
sounding around the many-sided room. The three
started as if caught doing something improper.

Coburn recovered first. He stood up and bowed.
"Good morning, sir. I believe that you saved my life.
I hope to be able to show my gratitude."

Bierce bowed formally. "What service I did I en-
joyed doing, sir. I hope that you are all rested?"

"Yes, thank you, and pleasantly filled from your
table."

"That is good. Now, if I may join you, we can
discuss what you wish to do next. Is it your pleasure

LOST LEGACY             181

to leave, or may we hope to have your company for a
while longer?"

"I suppose," said Joan, rather nervously, "that we
should get started down as soon as possible. How is
the weather?"

"The weather is fair, but you are welcome to re-
main here as long as you like. Perhaps you would
like to see the rest of our home and meet the other
members of our household?"

"Oh, I think that would be lovely!"

"It will be my pleasure, ma'am."

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Bierce—" Phil leaned
forward a little, his face and manner serious. "—we
are quite anxious to see more of your place here and
to know more about you. We were speaking of it
when you came in."

"Curiosity is natural and healthy. Please ask any
question you wish."

"Well—" Phil plunged in. "Ben had a broken leg
last night. Or didn't he? It's well this morning."

"He did indeed have a broken leg. It was healed
in the night."

Coburn cleared his throat "Mr, Bierce, my name
is Coburn. I am a physician and surgeon, but my
knowledge does not extend to such healing as that.
Will you tell me more about it?"

"Certainly. You are familiar with regeneration as
practiced by the lower life forms. The principle used
is the same, but it is consciously controlled by the
will and the rate of healing is accelerated. I placed
you in hypnosis last night, then surrendered control
to one of our surgeons who directed your mind in
exerting its own powers to heal its body."

Cobum looked baffled. Bierce continued, "There
is really nothing startling about it. The mind and will
have always the possibility of complete domination
over the body. Our operator simply directs your will
to master its body. The technique is simple; you may
learn it, if you wish. I assure you that to learn it is

182 Robert A. Heirdein

easier than to explain it in our cumbersome and
imperfect language. I spoke of mind and will as if
they were separate. Language forced me to that ri-
diculous misstatement. There is neither mind, nor
will, as entities; there is only—" His voice stopped.
Ben felt a blow within his mind like the shock of a
sixteen inch rifle, yet it was painless and gentle.
What ever it was, it was as alive as a hummingbird,
or a struggling kitten, yet it was calm and untroubled.

He saw Joan nodding her head in agreement, her
eyes on Bierce.

Bierce went on in his gentle, resonant voice. "Was
there any other matter troubling any one of you?"

"Why, yes, Mr. Bierce," replied Joan, "several
things. What is this place where we are?"

"It is my home, and the home of several of my
friends. You will understand more about us as you
become better acquainted with us."

'Thank you. It is difficult for me to understand
how such a community could exist on this mountain-
top without its being a matter of common knowledge."

"We have taken certain precautions, ma'am, to
avoid notoriety. Our reasons, and the precautions
they inspired will become evident to you."

"One more question; this is rather personal; you
may ignore it if you like. Are you the Ambrose
Bierce who disappeared a good many years ago?"

"I am. I first came up here in 1880 in search of a
cure for asthma. I retired here in 1914 because I
wished to avoid direct contact with the tragic world
events which I saw coming and was powerless to
stop." He spoke with some reluctance, as if the
subject were distasteful, and turned the conversation.
"Perhaps you would like to meet some of my friends
now?"

The apartments extended for a hundred yards along
the face of the mountain and for unmeasured dis-
tances into the mountain. The thirty-odd persons in

LOST LEGACY             183

residence were far from crowded; there were many
rooms not in use. In the course of the morning
Bierce introduced them to most of the inhabitants.

They seemed to be of all sorts and ages and of
several nationalities. Most of them were occupied in
one way, or another, usually with some form of re-
search, or with creative art. At least Bierce assured
them in several cases that research was in progress—
cases in which no apparatus, no recording device,
nothing was evident to indicate scientific research.

Once they were introduced to a group of three,
two women and a man, who were surrounded by the
physical evidence of their work—biological research.
But the circumstances were still confusing; two of
the trio sat quietly by, doing nothing, while the third
labored at a bench. Bierce explained that they were
doing some delicate experiments in the possibility of
activating artificial colloids. Ben inquired,

"Are me other two observing the work?"

Bierce shook his head. "Oh, no. They are all three
engaged actively in the work, but at this particular
stage they find it expedient to let three brains m
rapport direct one set of hands."

Rapport, it developed, was the usual method of
collaboration. Bierce had led them into a room occu-
pied by six persons. One or two of them looked up
and nodded, but did not speak. Bierce motioned for
the three to come away. They were engaged in a
particularly difficult piece of reconstruction; it would
not be polite to disturb them."

"But Mr. Bierce," Phil commented, "two of them
were playing chess.*'

"Yes. They did not need that part of their brains,
so they left it out of rapport. Nevertheless they were
very busy."

It was easier to see what the creative artists were
doing. In two instances, however, their methods were
startling. Bierce had taken them to the studio of a
little gnome of a man, a painter in oil, who was

184 Robert A. Heinlein

introduced simply as Charles. He seemed glad to see
them and chatted vivaciously, without ceasing his
work. He was doing, with meticulous realism but
with a highly romantic effect, a study of a young girl
dancing, a wood nymph, against a pine forest back-
ground.

The young people each made appropriate appre-
ciative comments. Cobum commented that it was
remarkable that he should be able to be so accurate
in his anatomical detail without the aid of a model.

"But I have a model," he answered. "She was here
last week. See?" He glanced toward the empty mod-
el's throne. Cobum and his companions followed the
glance, and saw, poised on the throne, a young girl,
obviously the model for the picture, frozen in the
action of the painting. She was as real as bread and
butter.

Charles glanced away. The model's throne was
again vacant.

The second instance was not so dramatic, but still
less comprehensible. They had met, and chatted with,
a Mrs. Draper, a comfortable, matronly soul, who
knitted and rocked as they talked. After they had left
her Phil inquired about her.

"She is possibly our most able and talented artist,"
Bierce told him.

"In what field?"

Bierce's shaggy eyebrows came together as he chose
his words. "I don't believe I can tell you adequately
at this time. She composes moods—arranges emo-
tional patterns in harmonic sequences. It's our most
advanced and our most completely human form of
art, and yet, until you have experienced it, it is very
difficult for me to tell you about it."

"How is it possible to arrange emotions?"

"Your great grandfather no doubt thought it im-
possible to record music. We have a technique for it.
You will understand later."

"Is Mrs. Draper the only one who does this?"

LOST LEGACY             185

"Oh, no. Most of us try our hand at it. It's our
favorite art form. I work at it myself but my efforts
aren't popular—too gloomy."

The three talked it over that night in the living
room they had first entered. This suite had been set
aside for their use, and Bierce had left them with the
simple statement that he would call on them on the
morrow.

They felt a pressing necessity to exchange views,
and yet each was reluctant to express opinion. Phil
broke the silence.

"What kind of people are these? They make me
feel as if I were a child who had wandered in where
adults were working, but that they were too polite to
put me out."

"Speaking of working—there's something odd about
the way they work. I don't mean what it is they
do—that's odd, too, but it's something else, some-
thing about their attitude, or the tempo at which
they work."

"I know what you mean, Ben," Joan agreed, "they
are busy all the time, and yet they act as if they had
all eternity to finish it. Bierce was like that when he
was strapping up your leg. They never hurry." She
turned to Phil. "What are you frowning about?"

"I don't know. There is something else we haven't
mentioned yet. They have a lot of special talents,
sure, but we three know something about special
talents—that ought not to confuse us. But there is
something else about them that is different."

The other two agreed with him but could offer no
help. Sometime later Joan said that she was going to
bed and left the room. The two men stayed for a last
cigaret.

Joan stuck her head back in the room. "I know
what it is that is so different about these people," she
anounced,—"They are so alive."

CHAPTER SIX
Ichabod!

PHILIP HUXLEY WENT TO BED and to sleep as usual.
From there on nothing was usual.

He became aware that he was inhabiting another's
body, thinking with another's mind. The Other was
aware of Huxley, but did not share Huxley's thoughts.

The Other was at home, a home never experi-
enced by Huxley, yet familiar. It was on Earth,
incredibly beautiful, each tree and shrub fitting into
the landscape as if placed there in the harmonic
scheme of an artist. The house grew out of the
ground.

The Other left the house with his wife and pre-
pared to leave for the capital of the planet. Huxley
thought of the destination as a "capital" yet he knew
that the idea of government imposed by force was
foreign to the nature of these people. The "capital"
was merely the accustomed meeting place of the
group whose advice was followed in matters affecting
the entire race.

The Other and his wife, accompanied by Huxley's
awareness, stepped into the garden, shot straight up
into the air, and sped over the countryside, flying
hand in hand. The country was green, fertile, park-
like, dotted with occasional buildings, but nowhere
did Huxley see the jammed masses of a city.

They passed rapidly over a large body of water,
perhaps as large as the modern Mediterranean, and
landed in a clearing in a grove of olive trees.

The Young Men—so Huxley thought of them—
demanded a sweeping change in custom, first, that
the ancient knowledge should henceforth be the re-
ward of ability rather than common birthright, and
186

LOST LEGACY             187

second, that the greater should rule the lesser. Loki
urged their case, his arrogant face upthrust and
crowned with bright red hair. He spoke in words, a
method which disturbed Huxley's host, teleoathic
rapport being the natural method of mature discus-
sion. But Loki had closed his mind to it.

Jove answered him, speaking for all:

"My son, your words seem vain and without seri-
ous meaning. We can not tell your true meaning, for
you and your brothers have decided to shut your
minds to us. You ask that the ancient knowledge be
made the reward of ability. Has it not always been
so? Does our cousin, the ape, fly through the air? Is
not the infant soul bound by hunger, and sleep, and
the ills of the flesh? Can the oriole level the moun-
tain with his glance? The powers of our kind that set
us apart from the younger spirits on this planet are
now exercised by those who possess die ability, and
none other. How can we make that so which is
already so?

"You demand that the greater shall rule the lesser.
Is it not so now? Has it not^always been so? Are you
ordered about by the babe at.the breast? Does the
waving of the grass cause the wind? What dominion
do you desire other than over yourself? Do you wish
to tell your brother when to sleep and when to eat?
If so, to what purpose?"

Vulcan broke in while the old man was still speak-
ing. Huxley felt a stir of shocked repugnance go
through the council at this open disregard of good
manners.

"Enough of this playing with words. We know
what we want; you know what we want. We are
determined to take it, council or no. We are sick of
this sheeplike existence. We are tired of this sham
equality. We intend to put on end to it. We are the
strong and the able, the natural leaders of mankind.
The rest shall follow us and serve us, as is the natural
order of things."

188 Robert A. Heinlein

Jove's eyes rested thoughtfully on Vulcan's crooked
leg. "You should let me heal that twisted limb, my
son."

"No one can heal my limb!"

"No. No one but yourself. And until you heal the
twist in your mind, you can not heal the twist in your
limb."

"There is no twist in my mind!"

'Then heal your limb."

The young man stirred uneasily. They could see
that Vulcan was making a fool of himself. Mercury
separated himself from die group and came forward.

"Hear me. Father. We do not purpose warring
with you. Rather it is our intention to add to your
glory. Declare yourself king under the sun. Let us
be your legates to extend your rule to every creature
that walks, or crawls, or swims. Let us create for you
the pageantry of dominion, the glory of conquest.
Let us conserve the ancient knowledge for those who
understand it, and provide instead for lesser beings
the drama they need. There is no reason why every
way should be open to everyone. Rather, if the many
serve the few, then will our combined efforts speed
us faster on our way, to the profit of master and
servant alike. Lead us. Father! Be our King!"

Slowly the elder man shook his head. "Not so.
There is no knowledge, other than knowledge of
oneself, and that should be free to every man who
has the wit to learn. There is no power, other than
the power to rule oneself, and that can be neither
given, nor taken away. As for the poetry of empire,
that has all been done before. There is no need to do
it again. If such romance amuses you, enjoy it in the
records—there is no need to bloody the planet again."

"That is the final word of the council. Father?"

"That is our final word." He stood up and gathered
his robe about him, signifying that the session had
ended. Mercury shrugged his shoulders and joined
his fellows.

LOST LEGACY             189

There was one more session of the council—the
last—called to decide what to do about the ultima-
tum of the Young Men. Not every member of the
council thought alike; they were as diverse as any
group of human beings. They were human beings—
not supermen. Some held out for opposing the Young
Men with all the forces at their command—translate
them to another dimension, wipe their minds clean,
even crush them by major force.

But to use force on the Young Men was contrary to
their whole philosophy. "Free will is the primary
good of the Cosmos. Shall we degrade, destroy, afl
that we have worked for by subverting the will of
even one man?"

Huxley became aware that these Elders had no
need to remain on Earth. They were anxious to
move on to another place, the nature of which es-
caped Huxley, save that it was not of the time and
space he knew.

The issue was this: Had they done what they could
to help the incompletely developed balance of the
race? Were they justified in abdicating?

The decision was yes, bu't a female member of the
council, whose name, it seemed to Huxley, was
Demeter, argued that records should be left to help
those who survived the inevitable collapse. "It is
true that each member of the race must make him-
self strong, must make himself wise. We cannot make
them wise. Yet, after famine and war and hatred
have stalked the earth, should there not be a mes-
sage, telling them of their heritage?"

The council agreed, and Huxley's host, recorder
for the council, was ordered to prepare records and
to leave them for those who would come after. Jove
added an injunction:

"Bind the force patterns so that they shall not
dissipate while this planet endures. Place them where
they will outlast any local convulsions of the crust, so
that some at least will carry down through time."

190 Robert A. Heinlein

So ended that dream. But Huxley did not wake—he
started at once to dream another dream, not through
the eyes of another, but rather as if he watched a
stereo-movie, every scene of which was familiar to
him.

The first dream, for all its tragic content, had not
affected him tragically; but throughout the second
dream he was oppressed by a feeling of heartbreak
and overpowering weariness.

After the abdication of the Elders, the Young Men
carried out their purpose, they established their rule.
By fire and sword, searing rays and esoteric forces,
chicanery and deception. Convinced of their destiny
to rule, they convinced themselves that the end jus-
tified the means.

The end was empire—Mu, mightiest of empires
and mother of empires.

Huxley saw her in her prime and felt almost that
the Young Men had been right—for she was glori-
ous! The heart-choking magnificence filled his eyes
with tears; he mourned for the glory, the beautiful
breathtaking glory that was hers, and is no more.

Gargantuan silent liners in her skies, broadbeamed
vessels at her wharves, loaded with grain and hides
and spices, procession of priest and acolyte and hum-
ble believer, pomp and pageantry of power—he saw
her intricate patterns of beauty and mourned her
passing.

But in her swelling power there was decay. Inevi-
tably Atlantis, her richest colony, grew to political
maturity and was irked by subordinate status. Schism
and apostasy, disaffection and treason, brought harsh
retaliation—and new rebellion.

Rebellions rose, were crushed. At last one rose
that was not crushed. In less than a month two-thirds
of the people of the globe were dead; the remainder
were racked by disease and hunger, and left with
germ plasm damaged by the forces they had loosed.

But priests still held the ancient knowledge.

LOST LEGACY             191

Not priests secure in mind and proud of their
trust, but priests hunted and fearful, who had seen
their hierarchy totter. There were such priests on
both sides—and they unchained forces compared with
which the previous fighting had been gentle.

The forces disturbed the isostatic balance of the
earth's crust.

Mu shuddered and sank some two thousand feet-
Tidal waves met at her middle, broke back, surged
twice around the globe, climbed the Chinese plains,
lapped the feet of Alta Himalaya.

Atlantis shook and rumbled and split for three
days before the water covered it. A few escaped by
air, to land on ground still wet with the ooze of
exposed seabottom, or on peaks high enough to fend
off the tidal waves. There they had still to wring a
living from the bare soil, with minds unused to prim-
itive art—but some survived.

Of Mu there was not a trace. As for AUantis, a
few islands, mountaintops short days before, marked
the spot. Waters rolled over the twin Towers of
the Sun and fish swam through the gardens of the
viceroy.

The woebegone feeling which had pursued Huxley
now overwhelmed him. He seemed to hear a voice
in his head:

"Woe! Cursed be Lokil Cursed be Venus! Cursed
be Vulcan! Thrice cursed am I, their apostate ser-
vant, Orab, Archpriest of the Isles of the Blessed.
Woe is me! Even as I curse I long for Mu, mighty
and sinful. Twenty-one years ago, seeking a place to
die, on this mountaintop I stumbled on this record
of the mighty ones who were before us. Twenty-one
years I have labored to make the record complete,
searching the dim recesses of my mind for knowl-
edge long unused, roaming the other planes for knowl-
edge I never had. Now in the eight hundred and
ninety-second year of my life, and of the destruction

192 Robert A. Heinlein

of Mu the three hundred and fifth, I, Orab, return to
my fathers."

Huxley was very happy to wake up-

CHAPTER SEVEN

"The Fathers Have Eaten Sour Crapes,
and the Children's Teeth Are Set on Edge"

BEN WAS IN THE LIVING ROOM when Phil came in to
breakfast. Joan arrived almost on Phil's heels. There
were shadows under her eyes and she looked un-
happy. Ben spoke in a tone that was almost surly,

'What's troubling you, Joan? You look like the
wrath to come."

"Please, Ben," she answered, in a tired voice,
"don't heckle me. I've had bad dreams all night."

"That so? Sorry—but if you think you had bad
dreams all night, you should have seen the cute little
nightmares I've been riding."

Phil looked at the two of them, "Listen—have you
both had odd dreams all night?"

"Wasn't that what we were just saying?" Ben
sounded exasperated.

"What did you dream about?"

Neither one answered him.

"Wait a minute. I had some very strange dreams
myself." He pulled his notebook out of a pocket and
tore out three sheets. "I want to find out something.
Will you each write down what your dreams were
about, before anyone says anything more? Here's a
pencil, Joan."

They balked a little, but complied.

"Read them aloud, Joan."

She picked up Ben's slip and read, " 'I dreamed
that your theory about the degeneracy of the human
race was perfectly correct.' "

LOST LEGACY             193

She put it down and picked up Phil's slip. " 'dreamt
that I was present at me Twiught of the Gods, and
that I saw die destruction of Mu and Atlantis.' "

There was dead silence as she took the last slip,
her own.

"My dream was about how the people destroyed
themselves by rebelling against Odin."

Ben was first to commit himself. "Anyone of those
slips could have applied to my dreams." Joan nod-
ded. Phil got up again, went out, and returned at
once with his diary. He opened it and handed it to
Joan.

"Kid, will you read that aloud—starting with 'June
sixteenth'?"

She read it through slowly, without looking up
from the pages. Phil waited until she had finished
and closed the book before speaking. "Well," he
said, "well?"

Ben crushed out a cigaret which had burned down
to his fingers. "It's a remarkably accurate description
of my dream, except that the elder you call Jove, I
thought of as Ahuramazda." ^

"And I thought Loki was Lucifer."

"You're both right," agreed Phil. "I don't remem-
ber any spoken names for any of them. It just seemed
that I knew what their names were."

"Me, too."

"Say," interjected Ben, "we are talking as if these
dreams were real—as if we had all been to the same
movie."

Phil turned on him. "Well, what do you think?"

"Oh, the same as you do, I guess. I'm stumped.
Does anybody mind if I eat breakfast—or drink some
coffee, at least?"

Bierce came in before they had a chance to talk it
over after breakfast—by tacit consent they had held
their tongues during a sketchy meal.

"Good morning, ma'am. Good morning, gentle-
men."

194 Robert A. Heinlein

"Good morning, Mr. Bierce."

"I see," he said, searching their faces, "that none
of you look very happy this morning. That is not
surprising; no one does immediately after experienc-
ing the records."

Ben pushed back his chair and leaned across the
table at Bierce. "Those dreams were deliberately
arranged for us?**

"Yes, indeed—but we were sure that you were
ready to profit by them. But I have come to ask you
to interview the Senior. If you can hold your ques-
tions for him, it will be simpler."

"The Senior?"

"You haven't met him as yet. It is the way we refer
to the one we Judge best fitted to coordinate our
activities."

Ephraim Howe had the hills of New England in
his face, lean gnarled cabinet-maker's hands. He was
not young. There was courtly grace in his lanky
figure. Everything about him—the twinkle in his
pale blue eyes, the clasp of his hand, his drawl—
bespoke integrity.

"Sit yourselves down," he said, "I'll come straight
to the point"—he called it 'pint.' "You've been ex-
posed to a lot of curious things and you've a right to
know why. You've seen the Ancient Records now—
part of 'em. 111 tell you how this institution came
about, what it's for, and why you are going to be
asked to join us.

"Wait a minute. Waaaait a minute," he added,
holding up a hand. "Don't say anything just yet..."

When Fra Junipero Serra first laid eyes on Mount
Shasta in 1781, the Indians told him it was a holy
place, only for medicine men. He assured them that
he was a medicine man, serving a greater Master,
and to keep face, dragged his sick, frail old body up
to the snow line, where he slept before returning.

LOST LEGACY             195

The dream he had there—of the Garden of Eden.
the Sin, the Fall, and the Deluge—convinced him
that it was indeed a holy place. He returned to San
Francisco, planning to found a mission at Shasta, But
there was too much for one old man to do—so many
souls to save, so many mouths to feed. He surrendered
his soul to rest two years later, but laid an injunction
on a fellow monk to carry out his intention.

It is recorded that this friar left the northernmost
mission in 1785 and did not return.

The Indians fed the holy man who lived on the
mountain until 1843, by which time he had gathered
about him a group of neophytes, three Indians, a
Russian, a Yankee mountainman. The Russian car-
ried on after the death of the friar until joined by a
Chinese, fled from his indenture. The Chinese made
more progress in a few weeks than the Russian had
in half of a lifetime; the Russian gladly surrendered
first place to him.

The Chinese was still there over a hundred years
later, though long since retired from administration.
He tutored in esthetics and humor.

"And this establishment ^as just one purpose,"
continued Ephraim Howe. "We aim to see to it that
Mu and Adantis don't happen again. Everything that
the Young Men stood for, we are against.

"We see the history of the world as a series of
crises in a conflict between two opposing philoso-
phies. Ours is based on the notion that life, con-
sciousness, intelligence, ego is the important thing in
the world." For an instant only he touched them
telepathically; they felt again the vibrantly alive thing
that Ambrose Bierce had showed them and been
unable to define in words. "That puts us in conflict
with every force that tends to destroy, deaden, de-
grade the human spirit, or to make it act contrary to
its nature. We see another crisis approaching; we
need recruits. You've been selected.

"This crisis has been growing on us since Napo-

196 Robert A. Heirdein

leon. Europe has gone, and Asia—surrendered to
authoritarianism, nonsense like the 'leader princi-
ple,' totalitarianism, all the bonds placed on liberty
which treat men as so many economic and political
units with no importance as individuals. No dignity
—do what you're told, believe what you are told,
and shut your mouth! Workers, soldiers, breeding
units . . .

"If that were the object of life, there would have
been no point in including consciousness in the scheme
at all!

"This continent," Howe went on, "has been a ref-
uge of freedom, a place where the soul could grow.
But the forces that killed enlightenment in the rest
of the world are spreading here. Little by little they
have whittled away at human liberty and human
dignity. A repressive law, a bullying school board, a
blind dogma to be accepted under pain of perse-
cution—doctrines that will shackle men and put blind-
ers on their eyes so that they will never regain their
lost heritage.

"We need help to fight it-"

Huxley stood up. "You can count on us."

Before Joan and Coburn could speak the Senior
interposed- "Don't answer yet. Go back to your cham-
bers and think about it. Sleep on it. We'll talk again."

CHAPTER EIGHT
"Precept Upon Precept . . ."

HAD THE PLACE ON MOUNT SHASTA been a university
and possessed a catalog (which it did not), the courses
offered therein might have included the following;

TELEPATHY. Basic course required of all students not
qualified by examination. Practical instruction up

LOST LEGACY             197

to and including rapport. Prerequisite in all de-
partments. Laboratory.

RATIOCINATION, I, ll. III. iv. R.I. Memory. R.II. per-
ception; clairvoyance, clairaudience, discretion of
mass, -time, -and-space, non-mathematical relation,
order, and structure, harmonic form and interval.
R.III. Dual and parallel thought processes. Detach-
ment.
R.IV. Meditation (seminar)

AUTOKINETICS. Discrete kinesthesia. Endocrine con-
trol with esp. application to the affective senses
and to suppression of fatigue, regeneration, trans-
formation (clinical aspects of lycanthropy), sex de-
termination, inversion, autoanaesthesia, rejuve-
nation.

TELEKINETICS. Life-mass-space-time continua. Pre-
requisite; autokinetics. Teleportation and general
action at a distance. Projection, Dynamics. Statics.
Orientation.

HISTORY. Courses by arrangement. Special discus-
sions of psychometry with reference to telepathic
records, and of metempsychosis. Evaluation is a
prerequisite for all courses in this department.

HUMAN ESTHETICS. Seminar. Autokinetics and tech-
nique of telepathic recording (psychometry) a
prerequisite.

HUMAN ETHICS. Seminar. Given concurrently with all
other courses. Consult with instructor.

Perhaps some of the value of the instruction would
have been lost had it been broken up into disjointed
courses as outlined above. In any case the adepts on
Mount Shasta could and did instruct in all these
subjects. Huxley, Coburn, and Joan Freeman learned
from tutors who led them to teach themselves, and
they took it as an eel seeks the sea, with a sense of
returning home after a long absence.

All three made rapid progress; being possessed of
rudimentary perception and some knowledge of te-

198 Robert A. Hdnlein

lepathy, their instructors could teach them directly.
First they learned to control their bodies. They re-
gained the control over each function, each muscle,
each tissue, each gland, that a man should possess,
but has largely forgotten—save a few obscure stu-
dents in the far east. There was a deep, welling
delight in willing the body to obey and having it
comply. They became intimately aware of their bod-
ies, but their bodies no longer tyrannized them.
Fatigue, hunger, cold, pain—these things no longer
drove them, but rather were simply useful signals
that a good engine needed attention.

Nor did the engine need as much attention as
before; the body was driven by a mind that knew
precisely both the capacity and its limitations. Fur-
thermore, through understanding their bodies, they
were enabled to increase those capacities to their full
potential. A week of sustained activity, without rest,
or food, or water, was as easy as a morning's work
had been. As for mental labor, it did not cease at all,
save when they willed it—despite sleep, digestive
languor, ennui, external stimuli, or muscular activity.

The greatest delight was levitation.

To fly through the air, to hang suspended in the
quiet heart of a cloud, to sleep, like Mohamet, float-
ing between ceiling and floor—these were sensuous
delights unexpected, and never before experienced,
except in dreams, dimly. Joan in particular drank
this new joy with lusty abandon. Once she remained
away two days, never setting foot to ground, sharing
the sky and wind and swallow, the icy air of the
heights smoothing her bright body. She dove and
soared, looped and spiralled, and dropped, a dead
weight, knees drawn up to forehead, from strato-
sphere to treetop.

During the night she paced a transcontinental plane,
flying unseen above it for a thousand miles. When
she grew bored with this, she pressed her face for a
moment against the one lighted port of the plane,

LOST LEGACY             199

and looked inside. The startled wholesale merchant
who stared back into her eyes thought that he had
been vouchsafed a glimpse of an angel. He went
promptly from the airport of his destination to the
office of his lawyer, who drew up for him a will
establishing scholarships for divinity students.

Huxley found it difficult to learn to levitate. His
inquiring mind demanded a reason why the will
should apparently be able to set at naught the inexo-
rable "law" of gravitation, and his doubt dissipated
his volition. His tutor reasoned with him patiently.

"You know that intangible will can affect the course
of mass in the continuum; you experience it when-
ever you move your hand. Are you powerless to
move your hand because you can not give a full
rational explanation of the mystery? Life has power
to affect matter; you know that—you have experi-
enced it directly. It is a fact. Now there is no why'
about any fact in the unlimited sense in which you
ask the question. There it stands, serene, demon-
strating itself. One may observe relations between
facts, the relations being other facts, but to pursue
those relations back to final meanings is not possible
to a mind which is itself relative. First you tell me
why you are . . .then I will tell you why levitation is
possible.

"Now come," he continued, "place yourself in rap-
port with me, and try to feel how I do, as I levitate."

Phil tried again. "I don't get it," he concluded
miserably.

"Look down."

Phil did so, gasped, and fell three feet to the floor.
That night he joined Ben and Joan in a flight over
the High Sierras.

Their tutor enjoyed with quiet amusement the
zest with which they entered into the sport made
possible by the newly acquired mastery of their bod-
ies. He knew that their pleasure was natural and
healthy, suited to their stage of development, and he

200 Robert A. Heinlein

knew that they would soon learn, of themselves, its
relative worth, and then be ready to turn their minds
to more serious work.

"Oh, no. Brother Junipero wasn't the only man to
stumble on the records," Charles assured them, talk-
ing as he painted. "You must have noticed how high
places have significance in the religions of every
race. Some of them must be repositories of the an-
cient records."

"Don't you know for certain?"'asked Phil.

"Indeed yes, in many cases—Alta Himalaya, for
example. I was speaking of what an intelligent man
might infer from matters of common knowledge. Con-
sider how many mountains are of prime importance
in as many different religions. Mount Olympus, Po-
pocatepetl, Mauna Loa, Everest, Sinai, Tai Shan,
Ararat, Fujiyama, several places in the Andes. And
in every religion there are accounts of a teacher
bringing back inspired messages from high places—
Gautama, Jesus, Joseph Smith, Confucius, Moses.
They all come down from high places and tell stories
of creation, and downfall, and redemption.

"Of all the old accounts the best is found in Gene-
sis. Making allowance for the fact that it was first
written in the language of uncivilized nomads, it is
an exact, careful account."

Huxley poked Coburn in the ribs. "How do you
like that, my skeptical friend?" Then to Charles,
"Ben has been a devout atheist since he first found
out that Santa Claus wore false whiskers; it hurts him
to have his fondest doubts overturned."

Coburn grinned, unperturbed. "Take it easy, son.
I can express my own doubts, unassisted. You've
brought to mind another matter, Charles. Some of
these mountains don't seem old enough to have been
used for the ancient records—Shasta, for example.
It's volcanic and seems a little new for the purpose."

Charles went rapidly ahead with his painting as he

LOST LEGACY             201

replied. "You are right. It seems likely that Orab
made copies of the original record which he found,
and placed the copies with his supplement on several
high places around the globe. And it is possible that
others after Orab, but long before our time, read the
records and moved them for safekeeping. The copy
that Junipero Serra found may have been here a
mere twenty thousand years, or so."

CHAPTER NINE
Fledglings Fly

"WE COULD HANG ABOUND HERE for fifty years, learn-
ing new things, but in the mean time we wouldn't be
getting anywhere. I, for one, am ready to go back."
Phil crushed out a cigaret and looked around at his
two friends.

Cobum pursed his lips and slowly nodded his
head. "I feel the same way, Phil. There is no limit to
what we could leam here, of course, but there comes
a time when you just have to use some of the things
you learn, or it just boils up inside. I think we had
better tell the Senior, and get about doing it,"

Joan nodded vigorously. "Uh huh. I think so, too.
There's work to be done, and the place to do it is
Western U.—not up here in Never-Never land. Boy,
I can hardly wait to see old Brinckley's face when we
get through with him!"

Huxley sought out the mind of Ephraim Howe.
The other two waited for him to confer, courteously
refraining from attempting to enter the telepathic
conversation. "He says he had been expecting to
hear from us, and that he intends to make it a full
conference. He'll meet us here."

"Full conference? Everybody on the mountain?"

"Everybody—on the mountain, or not. I gather

202 Robert A. Heinlein

it's customary when new members decide what their
work will be."

"Whew!" exclaimed Joan, "that gives me stage
fright Just to think about it. Who's going to speak for
us? It won't be little Joan."

"How about you, Ben?"

"Well . . . if you wish."

"Take over,"

They meshed into rapport. As long as they re-
mained so, Ben's voice would express the combined
thought of the trio. Ephraim Howe entered alone,
but they were aware that he was in rapport with, and
spokesman for, not only the adepts on the mountain-
side, but also the two-hundred-odd fall-geniuses scat-
tered about the country.

The conference commenced with direct mind-to-
mind exchange:

—"We feel that it is time we were at work. We
have not learned all that there is to learn, it is true;

nevertheless, we need to use our present knowledge."

—"That is well and entirely as it should he, Benja-
min. You have learned all that we can teach you at
this time. Now you must take what you have learned
out into the world, and use it, in order that knowl-
edge may mature into wisdom."

—"Not only for that reason do we wish to leave,
but for another more urgent. As you yourself have
taught us, the crisis approaches. We want to fight
it."

—"How do you propose to fight the forces bring-
ing on the crisis?"

—"Well . . ." Ben did not use the word, but the
delay in his thought produced the impression. "As
we see it, in order to make men free, free so that
they may develop as men and not as animals; it is
necessary that we undo what the Young Men did.
The Young Men refused to permit any but their own
select few to share in the racial heritage of ancient
knowledge. For men again to become free and strong

LOST LEGACY             203

and independent it is necessary to return to each
man his ancient knowledge and his ancient powers"

—"That is true; what do you intend to do about
it?"

—"We wtB. go out and teU about it. We all three
are in the educational system; we can make ourselves
heard—I, in the medical school at Western; Phil and
Joan in the department of psychology. With the train-
ing you have given us we can overturn the tradi-
tional ideas in short order. We can start a renaissance
in education that will prepare the way for everyone
to receive the wisdom that you, our elders, can offer
them."

—"Do you think that it will be as simple as that?"

—"Why not? Oh, we don't expect it to be simple.
We know that we wiU run head on into some of the
most cherished misconceptions of everyone, hut we
can use that very fact to help. It will be spectacular;

we can get publicity through it that will call attenr
tion to our work. You have taught us enough that we
can prove that we are right. For example—suppose
we put on a public demonstration of levitation, and
proved before thousands of'people that human mind
could do the things we know it can? Suppose we said
that anyone could leam such things who first learned
the techniques of telepathy? Why, in a year, or two,
the whole nation could be taught telepathy, and be
ready for the reading of the records, and all that
that implies!"

Howe's mind was silent for several long minutes—no
message reached them. The three stirred uneasily
under his thoughtful, sober gaze. Finally,

—"If it were as simple as that, would we not have
done it before?"

It was the turn of the three to be silent. Howe
continued kindly,—"Speak up, my children. Do not
be afraid. Tell us your thoughts freely. You will not
offend us."

The thought that Coburn sent in answer was

204 Robert A. Heinlein

hesitant—"It is difficult . . . Many of you are very
old, and we know that aU of you are wise. Neverthe-
less, it seems to us, in our youth, that you have
waited overly long in acting. We feel—we feel that
you have allowed the pursuit of understanding to sap
your will to action. From our standpoint, you have
waited from year to year, perfecting an organization
that will never he perfected, whUe the storm that
overturns the world is gathering its force."

Tie elders pondered before Ephraim Howe an-
swered.—"It may be that you are right, dearly be-
loved children, yet it does not seem so to us. We have
not attempted to place the ancient knowledge in the
hands of all men because few are ready for it. It is
no more safe in childish minds than matches in child-
ish hands.

—"And yet . . . you may be right. Mark Twain
thought so, and was given permission to tell all that
he had learned. He did so, writing so that anyone
ready for the knowledge could understand. No one
did. In desperation he set forth specifically how to
become telepathic. Still no one took him seriously.
The more seriously he spoke, the more his readers
laughed. He died embittered.

—"We would not have you believe that we have
done nothing. This republic, with its uncommon em-
phasis on personal freedom and human dignity, would
not have endured as long as it has had we not
helped. We chose Lincoln. Oliver Wendell Holmes
was one of us. Walt Whitman was our beloved brother.
In a thousand ways we have supplied help, when
needed, to avert a setback toward slavery and
darkness."

The thought paused, then continued.—"Vet each
must act as he sees it. It is still your decision to do
this?"

Ben spoke aloud, in a steady voice, "It isl"

—"So let it be! Do you remember the history of
Salem?"

LOST LEGACY             205

—"Salem? Where the witchcraft trials were held?
. . . Do you mean to warn us that we may be perse-
cuted as witches?"

—"No. There are no laws against witchcraft to-
day, of course. It would be better if there were. We
hold no monopoly on the power of knowledge; do not
expect an easy victory. Beware of those who hold
some portion of the ancient knowledge and use it to a
base purpose—witches . . . black magicians!"

The conference concluded and rapport loosed,
Ephraim Howe shook hands solemnly all around and
bade them goodby.

"I envy you kids," he said, "going off like Jack the
Giant Killer to tackle the whole educational system.
You've got your work cut out for you. Do you re-
member what Mark Twain said? 'God made an idiot
for practice, then he made a school board.' Still, I'd
like to come along."

"Why don't you, sir?"

"Eh? No, Wouldn't do. I don't really believe in
your plan. F'r instance—it was frequently a tempta-
tion during the years I spent peddlin' hardware in
the State of Maine to show^ people better ways of
doing things. But I didn't do if; people are used to
paring knives and ice cream freezers, and they won't
thank you to show them how to get along without
them, just by the power of the mind. Not all.at once,
anyhow. They'd read you out of meetin'—and lynch
you, too, most probably.

"Still, I'll be tceepmg an eye on you."

Joan reached up and kissed him good-bye. They
left.

CHAPTER TEN

Lion's Mouth

PHIL PICKED HIS LARGEST CLASS to make the demon-
stration which was to get the newspapers interested
in them.

They had played safe to the extent of getting back
to Los Angeles and started with the fall semester
before giving anyone cause to suspect that they pos-
sessed powers out of ordinary. Joan had been bound
over not to levitate, not to indulge in practical jokes
involving control over inanimate objects, not to star-
tle strangers with weird abilities of any sort. She had
accepted the injunctions meekly, so meekly that
Cobum claimed to be worried.

"It's not normal," he objected. "She can't grow up
as fast as all that. Let me see your tongue, my dear.'

"Pooh." she answered, displaying that member in
a most undiagnostic manner, "Master Ling said I was
further advanced along the Way than either one of
you."

" The heathen Chinee is peculiar.' He was proba-
bly just encouraging you to grow up. Seriously, Phil,
hadn't we better put her into a deep hypnosis and
scoot her back up the mountain for diagnosis and
readjustment?"

"Ben Coburn, you cast an eye in my direction and
111 bung it out!"

Phil built up to his key demonstration with care.
His lectures were sufficiently innocuous that he could
afford to have his head of department drop in with-
out fear of reprimand or interference. But the com-
bined effect was to prepare the students emotionally
for what was to come. Carefully selected assignments
for collateral reading heightened his chances.

206

LOST LEGACY             207

"Hypnosis is a subject but vaguely understood,"
he began his lecture on the selected day, "and for-
merly classed with witchcraft, magic, and so forth, as
a silly superstition. But it is a commonplace thing
today and easily demonstrated. Consequently the
most conservative psychologists must recognize its
existence and try to observe its characteristics." He
went on cheerfully uttering bromides and common-
places, while he sized up the emotional attitude of
the class.

When he felt that they were ready to accept the
ordinary phenomena of hypnosis without surprise,
he called Joan, who had attended for the purpose, up
to the front of the room. She went easily into a state
of light hypnosis. They ran quickly through the small
change of hypnotic phenomena—catalepsy, compul-
sion, post-hypnotic suggestion—while he kept up a
running chatter about the relation between the minds
of the operator and the subject, the possibility of
direct telepathic control, the Rhine experiments, and
similar matters, orthodox in themselves, but close to
the borderline of heterodox thought.

Then he offered to attempt to reach the mind of
the subject telepathically.

Each student was invited to write something on a
slip of paper. A volunteer floor committee collected
the slips, and handed them to Huxley one at a time.
He solemnly went through the hocus-pocus of glanc-
ing at each one, while Joan read them off as his eyes
rested on them. She stumbled convincingly once or
twice.—"Nice work, kid."—"Thanks, pal. Can't I
pep it up a little?"—"None of your bright ideas. Just
keep on as you are. They're eating out of our hands
now."

By such easy stages he led them around to the
idea that mind and will could exercise control over
the body much more complete than that ordinarily
encountered. He passed lightly over the tales of

208 Robert A. Heinlein

Hindu holy men who could lift themselves up into
the air and even travel from place to place.

"We have an exceptional opportunity to put such
tales to practical test," he told them. "The subject
believes fully any statement made by the operator, I
shall tell Miss Freeman that she is to exert her will
power, and rise up off the floor. It is certain that she
will believe that she can do it. Her will will be in an
optimum condition to carry out the order, if it can be
done. Miss Freeman!"

"Yes, Mr. Huxley."

"Exert your will. Rise up in the air!"

Joan rose straight up into the air, some six feet—
until her head nearfy touched the high ceiling.
—"How'm doin,' pal?"—Swell, kid, you're wowin
'em. Look at 'em stare!"

At that moment Brinckley burst into the room,
rage in his eyes.

"Mr. Huxley, you have broken your word to me,
and disgraced this university!" It was some ten min-
utes after the fiasco ending the demonstration. Hux-
ley faced the president in Brincldey's private office.

"I made you no promise. I have not disgraced the
school," Phil answered with equal pugnacity.

"You have indulged in cheap tricks of fake magic
to bring your department into disrepute."

"So I'm a faker, am I? You stiff-necked old fossil—
explain this one!" Huxley levitated himself until he
floated three feet above the rug.

"Explain what?" To Huxley's amazement Brinckley
seemed unaware that anything unusual was going
on. He continued to stare at the point where Phil's
head had been. His manner showed nothing but a
slight puzzlement and annoyance at Huxley's appar-
ently irrelevant remark.

Was it possible that the doddering old fool was so
completely self-deluded that he could not observe
anything that ran counter to his own preconceptions

LOST LEGACY             209

even when it happened directly under his eyes? Phil
reached out with his mind and attempted to see what
went on inside Brincldey's head. He got one of the
major surprises of his life. He expected to find the
floundering mental processes of near senility; he found
. . . cold calculation, keen ability, set in a matrix of
pure evil that sickened him.

It was just a glimpse, then he was cast out with a
wrench that numbed his brain. Brinckley had discov-
ered his spying and thrown up his defences—the
hard defences of a disciplined mind.

Phil dropped back to the floor, and left the room,
without a word, nor a backward glance.

From THE WESTERN STUDENT, October 3rd:

PSYCH PROF FIRED FOR FRAUD

. . . students' accounts varied, but all agreed that
it had been a fine show. Fullback 'Buzz' Arnold
told your reporter, "I hated to see it happen; Prof
Huxley is a nice guy and he certainly put on a
clever skit with some good deadpan acting. I could
see how it was done, of course—rit was the same the
Great Arturo used in his turn at the Orpheum last
spring. But I can see Doctor Brincldey's view-
point; you can't permit monkey shines at a serious
center of learning."

President Brinckley gave the STUDENT the
following official statement: "It is with real regret
that I announce the termination of Mr. Huxley's
association with the institution—for the good of
the University. Mr. Huxley had been repeatedly
warned as to where his steps were leading him.
He is a young man of considerable ability. Let us
devoutly hope that this experience will serve as a
lesson to him in whatever line of endeavor ..."

Cobum handed the paper back to Huxley. "You
know what happened to me?" he inquired.

210 Robert A. Heinlein

"Something new?"

"Invited to resign ... No publicity—just a gentle
hint. My patients got well too fast; I'd quit using
surgery, you know.'

"How perfectly stinking!" This from Joan.

"Well, Ben considered, "I don't blame the medi-
cal director; Brinckley forced his hand. I guess we
underrated the old cuss."

"Rather! Ben, he's every bit as capable as any one
of us, and as for his motives—-I gag when I think
about it."

"And I thought he was just a were-mouse," grieved
Joan. "We should have pushed him into the tar pits
last spring. I told you to. What do we do now?"

"Go right ahead." Phil's reply was grim. "Well
turn the situation to our own advantage; we've got-
ten some publicity—we'll use it."

"What's the gag?"

"Levitation again. It's the most spectacular thing
we've got for a crowd. Call in the papers, and tell 'em
that we will publicly demonstrate levitation at noon
tomorrow in Pershing Square."

"Won't the papers fight shy of sticking their necks
out on anything that sounds as fishy as that?"

"Probably they would, but here's how we'll handle
that: Make the whole thing just a touch screwball
and give 'em plenty of funny angles to write up.
Then they can treat it as a feature rather than as
straight news. The lid's off, Joan—you can do any-
thing you like; the screwier the better. Let's get
going, troops—1*11 call the News Service. Ben, you
and Joan split up the dailies between you."

The reporters were interested, certainly. They were
interested in Joan's obvious good looks, cynically
amused by Phil's flowing tie and bombastic claims,
and seriously impressed by his taste in whiskey.
They began to take notice when Cobum courteously
poured drinks for them without bothering to touch
the bottle.

LOST LEGACY             211

But when Joan floated around the room while Phil
rode a non-existent bicycle across the ceiling, they
balked. "Honest, doc," as one of them put it, "we've
got to eat—you don't expect us to go back and tell a
city editor anything like this. Come clean; is it the
whiskey, or just plain hypnotism?"

"Put it any way you like, gentlemen. Just be sure
that you say that we will do it all over again in
Pershing Square at noon tomorrow."

Phil's diatribe against Brinckley came as an anti-
climax to the demonstration, but the reporters oblig-
ingly noted it.

Joan got ready for bed that night with a feeling of
vague depression. The exhilaration of entertaining
the newspaper boys had worn off. Ben had proposed
supper and dancing to mark their last night of private
life, but it had not been a success. To start with, they
had blown a tire while coming down a steep curve on
Beachwood Drive, and Phil's gray sedan had rolled
over and over. They would have all been seriously
injured had it not been for the automatic body con-
trol which they possessed.

When Phil examined the wreck, he expressed puz-
zlement as to its cause. "Those tires were perfectly
all right," he maintained. "I had examined them all
the way through this morning." But he insisted on
continuing with their evening of relaxation.

The floor show seemed dull, the jokes crude and
callous, after the light, sensitive humor they had
learned to enjoy through association with Master
Ling. The ponies in the chorus were young and
beautiful—Joan had enjoyed watching them, but she
made the mistake of reaching out to touch their
minds. The incongruity of the vapid, insensitive spir-
its she found—in almost every instance—added to
her malaise.

She was relieved when the floor show ended and
Ben asked her to dance. Both of the men were good

212 Robert A. Heinlein

dancers, especially Cobum, and she fitted herself
into his arms contentedly. Her pleasure didn't last; a
drunken couple bumped into them repeatedly. The
man was quarrelsome, the woman shrilly vitriolic.
Joan asked her escorts to take her home.

These things bothered her as she prepared for
bed. Joan, who had never known acute physical fear
in her life, feared just one thing—the corrosive, dirty
emotions of the poor in spirit. Malice, envy, spite,
the snide insults of twisted, petty minds; these things
could hurt her, just by being in her presence, even if
she were not the direct object of the attack. She was
not yet sufficiently mature to have acquired a smooth
armor of indifference to the opinions of the unworthy.

After a summer in the company of men of good
will, the incident with the drunken couple dismayed
her. She felt dirtied by the contact. Worse still, she
felt an oudander, a stranger in a strange land.

She awakened sometime in the night with the
sense of loneliness increased to overwhelming pro-
portions, She was acutely aware of the three-million-
odd living beings around her, but the whole city
seemed alive only with malignant entities, jealous of
her, anxious to drag her down to their own ignoble
status. This attack on her spirit, this attempt to de-
spoil the sanctity of her inner being, assumed an
almost corporate nature. It seemed to her that it was
nibbling at the edges of her mind, snuffling at her
defences.

Terrified, she called out to Ben and Phil. There
was no answer; her mind could not find them.

The filthy thing that threatened her was aware of
her failure; she could feel it leer. In open panic she
called to the Senior,

No answer. This time the thing spoke—"That way,
too, is closed."

As hysteria claimed her, as her last defences crum-
bled, she was caught in the arms of a stronger spirit,

LOST LEGACY             213

whose calm, untroubled goodness encysted her against
the evil thing that stalked her.

"Ling!" she cried, "Master Ling!" before racking
sobs claimed her.

She felt the quiet, reassuring humor of his smile
while the fingers of his mind reached out and smoothed
away the tensions of her fear. Presently she slept.

His mind stayed with her all through the night,
and talked with her, until she awakened.

Ben and Phil listened to her account of the previ-
ous night with worried faces. "That settles it, Phil
decided. "We've been too careless. From now on
until this thing is finished, we stay in rapport day
and night, awake and asleep. As a matter of fact, I
had a bad time of it myself last night, though nothing
equal to what happened to Joan.'

"So did I, Phil. What happened to you?"

"Nothing very much—just a long series of night-
mares in which I kept losing confidence in my ability
to do any of the things we learned on Shasta. What
about you?"

"Same sort of thing, with variations. I operated all
night long, and all of my patients died on the table.
Not very pleasant—but something else happened that
wasn't a dream. You know I still use an ofd-fashioned
straight-razor; I was shaving away, paying no atten-
tion to it, when it jumped in my hand and cut a bi^
gash in my throat. See? It's not entirely healed yet.'
He indicated a thin red line which ran diagonally
down the right side of his neck.

"Why, Beni" squealed Joan, "you might have been

killed."

'That's what I thought," he agreed dryly.
"You know, kids," Phil said slowly, "these things

aren't accidental—"
"Open up in there!" The order was bawled from

the other side of the door. As one mind, their senses

of direct perception jumped through solid oak and

214 Robert A. Heinlein

examined the speaker. Plainciothes did not conceal
the profession of the over-size individual waiting there,
even had they not been able to see the gold shield
on his vest. A somewhat smaller, but equally offi-
cious, man waited with him.

Ben opened the door and inquired gently, "What
do you want?"

The larger man attempted to come in. Cobum did
not move.

"I asked you your business."

"Smart guy, eh? I'm from police headquarters.
You Huxley?"

"No."

"Coburn?" Ben nodded.

"Youll do. That Huxley behind you? Don't either
of you ever stay home? Been here all night?"

"No," said Cobum frostily, "not that it is any of
your business."

"I'll decide about that. I want to talk to you two.
I'm from the bunco squad. What's this game you
were giving the boys yesterday?"

"No game, as you call it. Come down to Pershing
Square at noon today, and see for yourself."

"You won't be doing anything in Pershing Square
today. Bud."

"Why not?"

"Park Commission's orders."

"What authority?"

"Huh?"

"By what act, or ordinance, do they deny the right
of private citizens to make peaceful use of a public
place? Who is that with your*

The smaller man identified himself. "Name's Fer-
guson, D.A.'s office. I want your pal Huxley on a
criminal hbel complaint. I want you two's witnesses."

Ben's stare became colder, if possible. "Do either
of you.'* he inquired, in gently snubbing tones, "have
a warrant?"

They looked at each other and failed to reply. Ben

LOST LEGACY             215

continued, "Then it is hardly profitable to continue
this conversation, is it?" and closed the door in their
faces.

He turned around to his companions and grinned.
"Well, they are closing in. Let's see what the
papers gave us."

They found just one story. It said nothing about
their proposed demonstration, but related that Doc-
tor Brinekley had sworn a complaint charging Phil
with criminal libel. "That's the first time I ever heard
of four metropolitan papers refusing a juicy news
story," was Ben's comment, "what are you going to
do about Brinckley's charge?"

"Nothing," Phil told him, "except possibly libel
him again. If he goes through with it. it will be a
beautiful opportunity to prove our claims in court.
Which reminds me—we don't want our plans inter-
fered with today; those bird dogs may be back with
warrants most any time. Where'll we hide out?"

On Ben's suggestion they spent the morning bur-
ied in the downtown public library. At five minutes
to twelve, they flagged a taxi, and rode to Pershing
Square.

They stepped out of the cab into the arms of six
sturdy policemen.

—"Ben, Phil, how much longer do I have to put
up with this?"

—"Steady, kid. Don't get upset."

—"I'm not, hut why should we stay pinched when
we can duck out anytime?"

—"That's the point; we can escape anytime. We've
never been arrested before; let's see what it's like."

They were gathered that night late around the
fireplace in Joan's house. Escape had presented no
difficulties, but they had waited until an hour when
the jail was quiet to prove that stone walls do not a

216 Robert A. Heinlein

prison make for a person adept in the powers of the
mind.

Ben was speaking. "I'd say we had enough data to
draw a curve now."

"Which is?"

"You state it."

"All right. We came down from Shasta thinking
that all we had to overcome was stupidity, ignorance,
and a normal amount of human contrariness and
cussedness. Now we know better. Any attempt to
place the essentials of the ancient knowledge in the
hands of the common people is met by a deter-
mined, organized effort to prevent it, and to destroy,
or disable the one who tries it."

"It's worse than that," amended Ben, "I spent our
rest in the clink looking over the city. I wondered
why the district attorney should take such an interest
in us, so I took a look into his mind. I found out who
his boss was, and took a look at his mind. What I
found there interested me so much that I had to run
up to the state capital and see what made things tick
there. That took me back to Spring Street and the
financial district. Believe it or not, from there I had
to look up some of the most sacred cows in the
community—clergymen, clubwomen, business lead-
ers, and stuff." He paused.

"Well, what about it? Don't tell me everybody is
out of step but Willie—I'll break down and cry."

"No—that was the odd part about it. Nearly all of
these heavyweights were good Joes, people you'd
like to know. But usually—not always, but usually—
the good Joes were dominated by someone they
trusted, someone who had helped them to get where
they were, and these dominants were not good Joes,
to state it gently. I couldn't get into all of their
minds, but where I was able to get in, I found the
same sort of thing that Phil found in Brinckley—cold
calculated awareness that their power lay in keeping
the people in ignorance."

LOST LEGACY             217

Joan shivered. "That's a sweet picture you paint,
Ben—just the right thing for a bed-time story. What's
our next move?"

"What do you suggest?"

"Me? I haven't reached any conclusion. Maybe we
should take on these tough babies one at a time, and
smear 'em."

"How about you, Phil?"

"I haven't anything better to offer. We'll have to
plan a shrewd campaign, however."

"Well, I do have something to suggest myself."

"Let's have it."

"Admit that we blindly took on more than we
could handle. Go back to Shasta and ask for help."

"Why, Ben!" Joan's dismay was matched by Phil's
unhappy face- Ben went on stubbornly, "Sure, I know
it's grovelling, but pride is too expensive and the job
is too—"

He broke off when he noticed Joan's expression.
"What is it kid?"

"We'll have to make some decision quickly—that
is a police car that just stopped out in front."

Ben turned back to Phil. '"What'11 it be; stay and
fight, or go back for re-inforcements?"

"Oh, you're right. I've known it ever since I got a
look at Brinckley's mind—but I hated to admit it."

The three stepped out into the patio, joined hands,
and shot straight up into the air.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
"A Little Child Shall Lead Them."

"WELCOME HOME!" Ephraim Howe met them when
they landed. "Glad to have you back." He led them
into his own private apartment. "Rest yourselves
while I stir up the fire a mite." He chucked a wedge
of pinewood into the wide grate, pulled his homely

218 Robert A. Heinlein

old rocking chair around so that it faced both the fire
and his guests, and settled down. "Now suppose you
tell me all about it. No, I'm not hooked in with the
others—you can make a full report to the council
when you're ready."

"As a matter of fact, don't you already know every-
thing that happened to us, Mr. Howe?" Phil looked
directly at the Senior as he spoke.

"No, I truly don't. We let you go at it your own
way, with Ling keeping an eye out to see that you
didn't get hurt. He has made no report to me."

"Very well, sir." They took turns telling him all
that had happened to them, occasionally letting him
see directly through their minds the events they had
taken part in.

When they were through Howe gave them his
quizzical smile and inquired, "So you've come around
to the viewpoint of the council?"

"No, sir!" It was Phil who answered him. "We are
more convinced of the need for positive, immediate
action than we were when we left—but we are con-
vinced, too, that we aren't strong enough nor wise
enough to handle it alone. We've come back to ask
for help, and to urge the council to abandon its
policy of teaching only those who show that they are
ready, and, instead, to reach out and teach as many
minds as can accept your teachings.

"You see, sir, our antagonists don't wait. They are
active all the time. They've won in Asia, they are in
the ascendancy in Europe, they may win here in
America, while we wait for an opportunity."

"Have you any method to suggest for tackling the
problem?"

"No, that's why we came back. When we tried to
teach others what we knew, we were stopped."

"That's the rub," Howe agreed. "I've been pretty
much of your opinion for a good many years, but it is
hard to do. What we have to give can't be printed in
a book, nor broadcast over the air. It must be passed

LOST LEGACY             219

directly from mind to mind, wherever we find a
mind ready to receive it."

They finished the discussion without finding a solu-
tion. Howe told them not to worry. "Go along," he
said, "and spend a few weeks in meditation and
rapport. When you get an idea that looks as if it
might work, bring it in and we'll call the council
together to consider it."

"But, Senior," Joan protested for the trio, "you
see—Well. we had hoped to have the advice of the
council in working out a plan. We don't know where
to start, else we wouldn't have come back."

He shook his head. "You are the newest of the
brethren, the youngest, the least experienced. Those
are your virtues, not your disabilities. The very fact
that you have not spent years of this life in thinking
in terms of eons and races gives you an advantage.
Too broad a viewpoint, too philosophical an outlook
paralyzes the will. I want you three to consider it
alone."

They did as he asked. For weeks they discussed it
in rapport as a single mind, hammered at it m spo-
ken conversation, meditated its ramifications. They
roamed the nation with their minds, examining the
human spirits that lay behind political and social
action. With the aid of the archives they learned the
techniques by which the brotherhood of adepts had
interceded in the past when freedom of thought and
action in America had been threatened. They pro-
posed and rejected dozens of schemes.

"We should go into politics," Phil told the other
two, "as our brothers did in the past. If we had a
Secretary of Education, appointed from among the
elders, he could found a national academy in which
freedom of thought would really prevail, and it could
be the source from which the ancient knowledge
could spread."

Joan put in an objection.

220 Robert A. Heinlein

"Suppose you lose the election?"

"Huh?"

"Even with all the special powers that the adepts
have, it *ud be quite a chore to line up delegates for
a national convention to get our candidate nomi-
nated, then get him elected in the face of all the
political machines, pressure groups, newspapers, fa-
vorite sons, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

"And remember this, the opposition can fight as
dirty as it pleases, but we have to fight fair, or we
defeat our own aims."

Ben nodded. "I am afraid she is right, Phil. But
you are absolutely right in one thing; this is a prob-
lem of education." He stopped to meditate, his mind
turned inward.

Presently he resumed. "I wonder if we have been
tackling this Job from the right end? We've been
thinking of reeducating adults, already set in their
ways. How about the children? They haven't crystal-
lized; wouldn't they be easier to teach?"

Joan sat up, her eyes bright. "Ben, you've got it!"

Phil shook his head doggedly. "No. I hate to throw
cold water, but there is no way to go about it.
Children are constantly in the care of adults; we
couldn't get to them. Don't think for a moment that
you could get past local school boards; they are the
tightest little oligarchies in the whole political system."

They were sitting in a group of pine trees on the
lower slopes of Mount Shasta. A little group of hu-
man figures came into view below them and climbed
steadily toward the spot where the three rested. The
discussion was suspended until the group moved
beyond earshot. The trio watched them with casual,
friendly interest.

They were all boys, ten to fifteen years old, except
the leader, who bore his sixteen years with the seri-
ous dignity befitting one who is responsible for the
safety and wellbeing of younger charges. They were
dressed in khaki shorts and shirts, campaign hats,

LOST LEGACY

221

neckerchiefs embroidered with a conifer and the in-
signia ALPINE PATROL, TROOP I. Each carried a
staff and a knapsack.

As the procession came abreast of the adults, the
patrol leader gave them a wave in greeting, the
merit badges on his sleeve flashing in the sun. The
three waved back and watched them trudge out of
sight up the slope.

Phil watched them with a faraway look- "Those
were the good old days," he said; "I almost envy
them."

"Were you one?" Ben said, his eyes still on the
boys. "I remember how proud I was the day I got
my merit badge in first aid."

"Born to be a doctor, eh, Ben?" commented Joan,
her eyes maternal, approving. "I didn't—say!"

"What's up?"

"Phil! That's your answer! That's how to reach the
children in spite of parents and school boards."

She snapped into telepathic contact, her ideas spill-
ing excitedly into their minds. They went into rap-
port and ironed out the details. After a time Ben
nodded and spoke aloud.

"It might work," he said, "let's go back and talk it
over with Ephraim."

"Senator Moulton, these are the young people I
was telling you about." Almost in awe, Joan fooked at
the face of the little white-haired, old man whose
name had become a synonym for integrity. She felt
the same impulse to fold her hands across her middle
and bow which Master Ling inspired. She noted that
Ben and Phil were having trouble not to seem gawky
and coltish.

Ephraim Howe continued, "I have gone into their
scheme and I think it is practical. If you do too, the
council will go ahead with it. But it largely depends
on you."

The Senator took them to himself with a smile, the

222 Robert A. Heinlein

smile that had softened the hearts of two generations
of hard politicians. "Tell me about it," he invited.

They did so—how they had tried and failed at
Western University, how they had cudgeled their
brains for a way, how a party of boys on a hike up the
mountain had given them an inspiration. "You see,
Senator, if we could Just get enough boys up here all
at once, boys too young to have been corrupted by
their environment, and already trained, as these boys
are, in the ideals of the ancients—human dignity,
helpfulness, self-reliance, kindness, all those things
set forth in their code—if we could get even five
thousand such boys up here all at once, we could
train them in telepathy, and how to impart telepathy
to others.

"Once they were taught, and sent back to their
homes, each one would be a center for spreading the
knowledge. The antagonists could never stop it; it
would be too wide spread, epidemic. In a few years
every child in the country would be telepathic. and
they would even teach their elders—those that haven't
grown too calloused to leam.

"And once a human being is telepathic, we can
lead him along the path of the ancient wisdom!"

Moulton was nodding, and talking to himself. "Yes.
Yes indeed. It could be done. Fortunately Shasta is a
national park. Let me see, who is on that committee?
It would take a joint resolution and a small appropri-
ation. Ephraim, old friend, I am afraid I shall have to
practice a little logrolling to accomplish this, will you
forgive me?"

Howe grinned broadly.

"Oh, I mean it," Moulton continued, "people are
so cynical, so harsh, about political expediency—even
some of our brothers. Let me see, this will take
about two years, I think, before the first camp can be
held—"

"As long as that?" Joan was disappointed.

"Oh, yes, my dear. There are two bills to get

LOST LEGACY             223

before Congress, and much arranging to do to get
them passed in the face of a full legislative calendar.
There are arrangements to be made with the railroads
and bus companies to give the boys special rates so
that they can afford to come. We must start a public-
ity campaign to make the idea popular. Then there
must be time for as many of our brothers as possible
to get into the administration of the movement in
order that the camp executives may be liberally in-
terspersed with adepts. Fortunately I am a national
trustee of the organization. Yes, I can manage it in
two years' time, I believe."

"Good heavens!" protested Phil; "why wouldn't it
be more to the point to teleport them here, teach
them, and teleport them back?"

"You do not know what you are saying, my son.
Can we abolish force by using it? Every step must be
voluntary, accomplished by reason and persuasion.
Each human being must free himself; freedom can-
not be thrust on him. Besides, is two years long to
wait to accomplish a job that has been waiting since
the Deluge?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Do not be. Your youtmul impatience has made it
possible to do the job at all."

CHAPTER TWELVE
"Ye Shall Know the Truth—"

ON THE LOWER SLOPES of Mount Shasta, down near
McCloud, the camp grew up. When the last of the
spring snow was still hiding in the deeper gullies and
on the north sides of ridges, U.S. Army Quartermas-
ter trucks came lumbering over a road built the
previous fall by the army engineers. Pyramid tents
were broken out and were staked down in rows on
the bosom of a gently rolling alp. Cook shacks, an

224 Robert A. Heinlein

infirmary, a headquarters building took shape. Camp
Mark Twain was changing from blueprint to actuality.

Senator Moulton, his toga laid aside for breeches,
leggings, khaki shirt, and a hat marked CAMP DI-
RECTOR, puttered around the field, encouraging,
making decisions for the straw bosses, and searching,
ever searching the minds of all who came into or
near the camp for any purpose. Did anyone suspect?
Had anyone slipped in who might be associated with
partial adepts who opposed the real purpose of the
camp? Too late to let anything slip now—too late,
and too much at stake.

In the middle west, in the deep south, in New
York City and New England, in the mountains and
on the coast, boys were packing suitcases, buying
special Shasta Camp roundtrip tickets, talking about
it with their envious contemporaries.

And all over the country the antagonists of human
liberty, of human dignity—the racketeers, the crooked
political figures, the shysters, the dealers in phony
religions, the sweat-shoppers, the petty authoritari-
ans, all of the key figures among the traffickers in
human misery and human oppression, themselves
somewhat adept in the arts of the mind and acutely
aware of the danger of free knowledge—all of this
unholy breed stirred uneasily and wondered what
was taking place. Moulton had never been associated
with anything but ill for them; Mount Shasta was one
place they had never been able to touch—they hated
the very name of the place. They recalled old stories,
and shivered.

They shivered, but they acted,

Special transcontinental buses loaded with the cho-
sen boys—could the driver be corrupted? Could his
mind be taken over? Could tires, or engine, be tam-
pered with? Trains were taken over by the young-
sters. Could a switch be thrown? Could the drinking
water be polluted?

Other eyes watched. A trainload of boys moved

LOST LEGACY             225

westward; in it, or flying over it, his direct percep-
tion blanketing the surrounding territory, and check-
ing the motives of every mind within miles of his
charges, was stationed at least one adept whose sin-
gle duty it was to see that those boys reached Shasta
safely.

Probably some of the boys would never have
reached there had not the opponents of human free-
dom been caught off balance, doubtful, unorganized.
For vice has this defect; it cannot be truly intelligent.
Its very motives are its weakness. The attempts made
to prevent the boys reaching Shasta were scattered
and abortive. The adepts had taken the offensive for
once, and their moves were faster and more ration-
ally conceived than their antagonists'.

Once in camp a tight screen surrounded the whole
of Mount Shasta National Park. The Senior detailed
adepts to point patrol night and day to watch with
every sense at their command for mean or malignant
spirits. The camp itself was purged. Two of the coun-
cilors, and some twenty of the boys, were sent home
when examination showed them to be damaged souls.
The boys were not informed of their deformity, but
plausible excuses were found for the necessary action.

The camp resembled superficially a thousand other
such camps. The courses in woodcraft were the same.
The courts of honor met as usual to examine candi-
dates. There were the usual sings around the camp-
fire in the evening, the same setting-up exercises
before breakfast. The slightly greater emphasis on
the oath and the law of the organization was not
noticeable.

Each one of the boys made at least one overnight
hike in the course of the camp. In groups of fifteen
or twenty they would set out in the morning in
company of a councilor. That each councilor super-
vising such hikes was an adept was not evident, but
it so happened. Each boy carried his blanket roll,

226 Robert A. Heinlein

and knapsack of rations, his canteen, knife, compass,
and hand axe.

They camped that night on the bank of a mountain
stream, fed by the glaciers, whose rush sounded in
their ears as they ate supper.

Phil started out with such a group one morning
during the first week of the camp. He worked around
the mountain to the east in order to keep well away
from the usual tourist haunts.

After supper they sat around the campfire. Phil
told them stories of the holy men of the east and
their reputed powers, and of Saint Francis and the
birds. He was in the middle of one of his yams when a
figure appeared within the circle of firelight.

Or rather figures. They saw an old man, in clothes
that Davy Crockett might have worn, flanked by two
beasts, on his left side a mountain lion, who purred
when he saw the fire, on his right a buck of three
points, whose soft brown eyes stared calmly into
theirs.

Some of the boys were alarmed at first, but Phil
told them quietly to widen their circle and make
room for the strangers. They sat in decent silence for
a while, the boys getting used to the presence of the
animals. In time one of the boys timidly stroked the
big cat, who responded by rolling over and presenting
his soft belly. The boy looked up at the old man and
asked,

"What is his name. Mister—"

"Ephraim. His name is Freedom."

"My, but he's tame! How do you get him to be so
tame?"

"He reads my thoughts and trusts me. Most things
are friendly when they know you—and most people."

The boy puzzled for moment. "How can he read
your thoughts?"

"It's simple. You can read his, too. Would you like
to leam how?"

"Jimmy!"

LOST LEGACY             227

"Just look into my eyes for a moment. There! Now
look into his."

"Why—Why—I really believe I can!"

—"Of course you can. And mine too. I'm not talking
out loud. Had you noticed?"

—"Why, so you're not. I'm reading your thoughts!"

—"And I'm reading yours. Easy, isn't it?"
With Phil's help Howe had them all conversing by
thought transference inside an hour. Then to calm
them down he told them stories for another hour,
stories that constituted an important part of their
curriculum. He helped Phil get them to sleep, then
left, the animals following after him.

The next morning Phil was confronted at once by a
young sceptic, "Say, did I dream all that about an old
man and a puma and a deer?"

—"Did you?"

—"You're doing it now!"

—"Certainly I am. And so are you. Now go tell the
other hoys the same thing."

Before they got back to camp, he advised them not
to speak about it to any other of the boys who had
not as yet had their overnight hike, but that they test
their new powers by trying it on any boy who had
had his first all-night hike.

All was well until one of the boys had to return
home in answer to a message that his father was ill.
The elders would not wipe his mind clean of his new
knowledge; instead they kept careful track of him. In
time he talked, and the word reached the antagonists
almost at once. Howe ordered the precautions of the
telepathic patrol redoubled,

The patrol was able to keep out malicious persons,
but it was not numerous enough to keep everything
out. Forest fire broke out on the windward side of
the camp late one night. No human being had been
close to the spot; telekinetics was the evident method.

But what control over matter from a distance can

228 Robert A. Heinlein

do, it can also undo. Moulton squeezed the flame out
with his will, refused it permisson to bum, bade its
vibrations to stop.

For the time being the enemy appeared to cease
attempts to do the boys physical harm. But the en-
emy had not given up. Phil received a frantic call
from one of the younger boys to come at once to the
tent the boy lived in; his patrol leader was very sick.
Phil found the lad in a state of hysteria, and being
restrained from doing himself an injury by the other
boys in the tent. He had tried to cut his throat with
his jack knife and had gone berserk when one of the
other boys had grabbed his hand.

Phil took in the situation quickly and put in a call
to Ben.

—"Ben! Come at once. I need you."

Ben did so, zipping through the air and flying in
through the door of the tent almost before Phil had
time to lay the boy on his cot and start forcing him
into a trance. The lad's startled tent mates did not
have time to decide that Dr. Ben had been flying
before he was standing in a normal fashion alongside
their councilor.

Ben greeted him with tight communication, shut-
ting the boys out of the circuit.—"What's up?"

—"They've gotten to him . . . and damn near
wrecked him."

—"How?"

—"Preyed on his mind. Tried to make him suicide.
But I tranced back the hookup. Who do you think
tried to do him in?—Brinckley!"

—"No!"

—"Definitely. You take over here; I'm going after
Brinckley. Tell the Senior to have a watch put on aU
the boys who have been trained to be sensitive to
telepathy, I'm afraid that any of them may be gotten
at before we can teach them how to defend them-

Losr LEGACY             229

selves." With that he was gone, leaving the boys half
convinced oflevitation.

He had not gone very far, was still gathering speed,
when he heard a welcome voice in his head,

—"Phil! Phil! Wait for me."

He slowed down for a few seconds. A smaller
figure flashed alongside his and grasped his hand.
"It's a good thing I stay hooked in with you two.
You'd have gone off to tackle that dirty old so-and-so
without me."

He tried to maintain his dignity. "If I had thought
that you should be along on this job, I'd have called
you, Joan."

"Nonsense! And also fiddlesticks! You might get
hurt, tackling him all alone. Besides, I'm going to
push him into the tar pits."

He sighed and gave up. "Joan. my dear, you are a
bloodthirsty wench with ten thousand incarnations to
go before you reach beatitude."

"I don't want to reach beatitude; I want to do old
Brinckley in."

"Come along, then. Let's make some speed."

They were south of the Tehachapi by now and
rapidly approaching Los Angeles. They flitted over
the Sierra Madre range, shot across San Femando
Valley, clipped the top of Mount Hollywood, and
landed on the lawn of the President's Residence at
Western University. Brincldey saw, or felt, them com-
ing and tried to run for it, but Phil grappled with
him.

He shot one thought to Joan. —"You stay out of
this, kid, unless 1 you for help."

Brinckley did not give up easily. His mind reached
out and tried to engulf Phil's. Huxley felt himself
slipping, giving way before the evil onslaught. It
seemed as though he were being dragged down,
drowned, in filthy quicksand.

But he steadied himself and fought back.

230 Robert A. Heinlein

When Phil had finished that which was immedi-
ately necessary with Brincldey, he stood up and wiped
his hands, as if to cleanse himself of the spiritual
slime he had embraced- "Let's get going," he said to
Joan, "we're pushed for time."

"What did you do to him, Phil?" She stared with
fascinated disgust at the thing on the ground.

"Little enough. I placed him in stasis. I've got to
save him for use—for a time. Up you go, girl. Out of
here—before we're noticed."

Up they shot, with Brinckley's body swept along
behind by tight telekmetic bond. They stopped above
the clouds. Brinckley floated beside them, starfished,
eyes popping, mouth loose, his smooth pink face
expressionless. —"Ben!" Huxley was sending, "Eph-
raim Howe! Ambrose! To me! To me! Hurry!"

—"Coming, Phil!" came Coburn's answer.

—"I hear." The strong calm thought held the qual-
ity of the Senior. "What is it, son? Tell me."

—"Not time!" snapped Phil. "Yourself, Senior, and
all others that can. Rendezvous! Hurry!"

—"We come" The thought was still calm, unhur-
ried. But there were two ragged holes in the roof of
Moulton's tent. Moulton and Howe were already out
of sight of Camp Mark Twain,

Slashing, slicing through the air they came, the
handful of adepts who guarded the fire. From five
hundred miles to the north they came, racing pi-
geons hurrying home. Camp councilors, two-thirds
of the small group of camp matrons, some few from
scattered points on the continent, they came in re-
sponse to Huxley's call for help and the Senior's
unprecedented tocsin. A housewife turned out the
fire in the oven and disappeared into the sky. A taxi
driver stopped his car and left his fares without a
word. Research groups on Shasta broke their tight
rapport, abandoned their beloved work, and came—
fast!

LOST LEGACY             231

"And now, Philip?" Howe spoke orally as he ar-
rested his trajectory and hung beside Huxley.

Huxley flung a hand toward Brinckley. "He has
what we need to know to strike nowl Where's Master
Ling?"

"He and Mrs. Draper guard the Camp."

"I need him. Can she do it alone?"

Clear and mellow, her voice rang in his head from
half a state away. —"/ can!"

—"The tortoise flies." The second thought held
the quality of deathless merriment which was the
unmistakable characteristic of the ancient Chinese.

Joan felt a soft touch at her mind, then Master
Ling was among them, seated carefully tailor-fashion
on nothingness. "I attend; my body follows," he an-
nounced. "Can we not proceed?"

Whereupon Joan realized that he had borrowed
the faculties other mind to project himself into their
presence more quickly than he could levitate the
distance. She felt unreasonably nattered by the
attention.

Huxley commenced at once. "Through his mind—"
He indicated Brincldey, *T have learned of many
others with whom there can be no truce. We must
search them out, deal with them at once, before they
can rally from what has happened to him. But I need
help. Master, will you extend the present and exam-
ine him?"

Ling had tutored them in discrimination of time
and perception of the present, taught them to stand
off and perceive duration from eternity. But he was
incredibly more able than his pupils. He could split
the beat of a fly's wing into a thousand discrete
instants, or grasp a millenium as a single flash of
experience. His discrimination of time and space was
bound neither by his metabolic rate nor by his molar
dimensions.

Now he poked gingerly at Brinckley's brain like
one who seeks a lost jewel in garbage. He felt out

232 Robert A. Heinlein

the man's memory patterns and viewed his life as
one picture. Joan, with amazement, saw his ever-
present smile give way to a frown of distaste. His
mind had been left open to any who cared to watch.
She peered through his mind, then cut off. If there
were that many truly vicious spirits in the world,
she preferred to encounter them one at a time, as
necessary, not experience them all at once.

Master Ling's body joined the group, melted into
his projection.

Huxley, Howe, Moulton, and Bierce followed the
Chinese's delicate work with close attention. Howe's
face was bleakly impassive; Moulton's face, aged to
androgynous sensitivity, moved from side to side
while he clucked disapproval of such wickedness.
Bierce looked more like Mark Twain than ever. Twain
in an implacable, lowering rage.

Master Ling looked up. "Yes, yes," said Moulton,
"I suppose we must act, Ephraim."

"We have no choice," Huxley stated, with a com-
pletely unconscious disregard of precedent. "Will
you assign the tasks. Senior?"

Howe glanced sharply at him. "No, Philip. No. Go
ahead. Carry on."

Huxley checked himself in surprise for the briefest
instant, then took his cue. "You'll help me. Master
Ling. Ben!"

"Waiting!"

He meshed mind to mind, had Ling show him his
opponent and the data he needed. —"Got it? Need
any help?"

—"Grandfather Stonebender is enough"

—"Okay. Nip off and attend to it."

—"Chalk it up.' He was gone, a rush of air in his
wake.

—"This one is yours. Senator Moulton."

—"I know." And Moulton was gone.
By ones and twos he gave them their assignments,
and off they went to do that which must be done.

LOST LEGACY             233

There was no argument. Many of them had been
aware long before Huxley was that a day of action
must inevitably come to pass. but they had waited
with quiet serenity, busy with the work at hand, till
time should incubate the seed.

In a windowless study of a mansion on Long Is-
land, soundproofed, cleverly locked and guarded,
ornately furnished, a group of Bve was met—three
men, one woman, and a thing in a wheel chair. It
glared at the other four in black fury, glared without
eyes, for its forehead dropped unbroken to its cheek-
bones, a smooth sallow expanse.

A lap robe, tucked loosely across the chair masked,
but did not hide, the tact that the creature had no

legs.

It gripped the arms of the chair. "Must I do all the
thinking for you fools?" it asked in a sweet gentle
voice. "You, Arthurson—you let Moulton slip that
Shasta Bill past the Senate. Moron." The epithet was

uttered caressingly.

Arthurson shifted in his chair. "I examined his
mind. The bill was harmless. It was a swap on the
Missouri Valley deal. I told you'-"

"You examined his mind, eh? Hmm—he led you
on a personally conducted tour. you fool. A Shasta
bill! When will you mindless idiots learn that no
good ever came out of Shasta?" It smiled approvingly.

"Well, how was I to know? I thought a camp near
the mountain might confuse . . . them."

"Mindless idiot. The time will come when I will
find you dispensable." The thing did not wait for the
threat to sink in, but continued, "Enough of that
now. We must move to repair the damage. They are
on the offensive now. Agnes—"

"Yes." The woman answered.

"Your preaching has got to pick up—"

"I've done my best."

"Not good enough. I've got to have a wave of

234 Robert A. Heinlein

religious hysteria that will wash out the Bill of Rights—
before the Shasta camp breaks up for the summer.
We will have to act fast before that time and we can't
be hampered by a lot oflegalisms."

"It can't be done."

"Shut up. It can be done. Your temple will receive
endowments this week which you are to use for
countrywide television hookups. At the proper time
you will discover a new messiah."

"Who?"

"Brother Artemis."

"That combelt pipsqueak? Where do I come in on
this?"

"You'll get yours. But you can't head this move-
ment; the country won't take a woman in the top
spot. The two of you will lead a march on Washing-
ton and take over. The Sons of '76 will fill out your
ranks and do the street fighting. Weems, that's your
Job."

The man addressed demurred- "It will take three,
maybe four months to indoctrinate them."

"You have three weeks. It would be well not to
fail."

The last of the three men broke his silence. "What's
the hurry. Chief? Seems to me that you are getting
yourself in a panic over a few kids."

"I'll be the judge. Now you are to time an epi-
demic of strikes to tie the country up tight at the
time of the march on Washington."

"I'll need some incidents."

"You'll get them. You worry about the unions; I'll
take care of the Merchants' and Commerce League
myself. You give me one small strike tomorrow. Get
your pickets out and I wilt have four or five of them
shot. The publicity will be ready. Agnes, you preach
a sermon about it."

"Slanted which way?"

It rolled its non-existent eyes up to the ceiling.

LOST LEGACY             235

"Must I think of everything? It's elementary. Use
your minds."

The last man to speak laid down his cigar carefully
and said, "What's the real rush. Chief?"

"I've told you."

"No, you haven't. You've kept your mind closed
and haven't let us read your thoughts once. You've
known about the Shasta camp for months. Why this
sudden excitement? You aren't slipping, are you?
Come on, spill it. You can't expect us to follow if you
are slipping."

The eyeless one looked him over carefully. "Han-
SOD," he said, in still sweeter tones, "you have been
feeling your size for months. Would you care to
match your strength with mine?"

The other looked at his cigar. "I don't mind if I
do."

"You will. But not tonight. I haven't time to select
and train new lieutenants. Therefore I will tell you
what the urgency is. I can't raise Brinckley. He's
fallen out of communication. There is not time—"

"You are correct," said a new voice. "There is not
time."

The five Jerked puppetiike to face its source.
Standing side by side in the study were Ephraim
Howe and Joan Freeman.

Howe looked at the thing. "I've waited for this
meeting," he said cheerfully, "and I've saved you for
myself.'

The creature got out of its wheelchair and moved
through the air at Howe. Its height and position gave
an unpleasant sensation that it walked on invisible
legs. Howe signalled to Joan—"It starts. Can you
hold the others, my clear?"

—"I think so."

—"Now!" Howe brought to bear everything he
had learned in one hundred and thirty busy years,
concentrated on the single problem of telekinetic

236 Robert A. Heinlein

control. He avoided, refused contact with the mind
of the evil thing before him and turned his attention
to destroying its physical envelope.

The thing stopped.

Slowly, slowly, like a deepsea diver caught in an
implosion, like an orange in a squeezer, the spatial
limits in which it existed were reduced. A spherical
locus in space enclosed it, diminished.

The thing was drawn in and in. The ungrown
stumps of its legs folded against its thick torso. The
head ducked down against the chest to escape the
unrelenting pressure. For a single instant it gath-
ered its enormous perverted power and fought back.
Joan was disconcerted, momentarily nauseated, by
the backwash of evil.

But Howe withstood it without change of expres-
sion; the sphere shrank again.

The eyeless skull split. At once, the sphere shrank
to the least possible dimension. A twenty-inch ball
hung in the air, a ball whose repulsive superficial
details did not invite examination.

Howe held the harmless, disgusting mess in place
with a fraction of his mind, and inquired—"Are you
all right, my dear?"

—'Te-y, Senior. Master Ling helped me once when
I needed it."

—"That I anticipated. Now for the others." Speak-
ing aloud he said, "Which do you prefer: To join
your leader, or to forget what you know?" He grasped
air with his fingers and made a squeezing gesture,

The man with the cigar screamed.

"I take that to be an answer," said Howe. "Very
well, Joan, pass them to me, one at a time."

He operated subtly on their minds, smoothing out
the patterns of colloidal gradients established by their
corporal experience.

A few minutes later (he room contained four sane
but infant adults—and a gory mess on the rug.

LOST LEGACY             237

Coburn stepped into a room to which he had not
been invited. "School's out, boys." he announced
cheerfully. He pointed a finger at one occupant.
"That goes for you." Flame crackled from his finger
tip, lapped over his adversary. "Yes, and for you."
The flames spouted forth a second time. "And for
you." A third received his final cleansing.

Brother Artemis, "God's Angry Man," faced the
television pick-up. "And if these things be not true,"
he thundered, "then may the Lord strike me down

dead!"

The coroner's verdict of heart failure did not fully
account for the charred condition of his remains.

A political rally adjourned early because the prin-
cipal speaker failed to show up. An anonymous beg-
gar was found collapsed over his pencils and chewing
gum. A director of nineteen major corporatons caused
his secretary to have hysterics by breaking off in the
midst of dictating to converse with the empty air
before lapsing into cheerful idiocy. A celebrated ste-
reo and television star disappeared- Obituary stories
were hastily dug out and completed for seven mem-
bers of Congress, several judges, and two governors.

The usual evening sing at Camp Mark Twain took
place that night without the presence of Camp Di-
rector Moulton. He was attending a full conference
of the adepts, assembled all in the flesh for the first
time in many years.

Joan looked around as she entered the hall. "Where
is Master Ling?" she inquired of Howe.

He studied her face for a moment. For the first
time since she had first met him nearly two years
before she thought he seemed momentarily at a loss.
"My dear," he said gently, "you must have realized
that Master Ling remained with us, not for his own
benefit, but for ours. The crisis for which he waited

238 Robert A. Heinlein

has been met; the rest of the work we must do

alone."

A hand went to her throat. "You .,. you mean ... ?"
"He was very old and very weary. He had kept his

heart beating, his body functioning, by continuous

control for these past forty-odd years."

"But why did he not renew and regenerate?"
"He did not wish it. We could not expect him to

remain here indefinitely after he had grown up."
"No." She bit her trembling lip. "No. That is true.

We are children and he has other things to do ...

but—Oh, Ling! Ling! Master Ling!" She buried her

head on Howe's shoulder.

—"Why are you weeping. Little Flower?"
Her head jerked up.—"Master Ling!"

—"Can that not be which has been? Is there past
or future? Have you learned my lessons so poorly?
Am I not now with you, as always?" She felt in the
thought the vibrant timeless merriment, the gusto
for living which was the hallmark of the gentle
Chinese.

With a part of her mind she squeezed Howe's
hand. "Sorry," she said. "I was wrong." She relaxed
as Ling had taught her, let her consciousness flow in
the revery which encompasses time in a single death-
less now.

Howe, seeing that she was at peace, turned his
attention to the meeting.

He reached out with his mind and gathered them
together into the telepathic network of full confer-
ence.—"I think that you all know why we meet," he
thought.—"/ have served my time; we enter another
and more active period when other qualities than
mine are needed. I have culled you to consider and
pass on my selection of a successor."

Huxley was finding the thought messages curi-
ously difficult to follow. I must be exhausted from
the effort, he thought to himself.

But Howe was thinking aloud again.—"So be it;

LOST LEGACY             239

we are agreed." He looked at Huxley. "Philip, wiU
you accept the trust?"

"What?!!"

"You are Senior now—by common consent."

"But. . . but ... I am not ready."

"We think so," answered Howe evenly. "Your tal-
ents are needed now. You will grow under responsi-
bility."

—"Chin up, pal!" It was Coburn, in private
message.

—"It's all right, PhU." Joan, that time.

For an instant he seemed to hear Ling's dry chuckle,
his calm acceptance.

"I will try!* he answered.

On the last day of camp Joan sat with Mrs. Draper
on a terrace of the Home on Shasta, overlooking the
valley. She sighed. Mrs. Draper looked up from her
knitting and smiled. "Are you sad that the camp is
over?"

"Oh, no! I'm glad it is."

"What is it, then?"

"I was just thinking . . . we go to all this effort and
trouble to put on this camp. Then we have to fight to
keep it safe. Tomorrow those Boys go home—then
they must be watched, each one of them, while they
grow strong enough to protect themselves against all
the evil things there are still in the world. Next year
there will be another crop of boys, and then another,
and then another. Isn't there any end to it?"

"Certainly there is an end to it. Don't you remem-
ber, in the ancient records, what became of the
elders? When we have done what there is for us to
do here, we move on to where there is more to do.
The human race was not meant to stay here forever."

"It still seems endless."

"It does, when you think of it that way, my dear.
The way to make it seem short and interesting is to
think about what you are going to do next. For
example, what are you going to do next?"

240 Robert A, Heinlein

"Me?" Joan looked perplexed. Her face cleared.
"Why . . . why I'm going to get married!"

"I thought so." Mrs. Draper's needles clicked away.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"—and the Truth Shall Make You Free!"

THE GLOBE STILL SWUNG ABOUND THE SUN. The Sea-

sons came and the seasons went. The sun still shone
on the mountainsides, the hills were green, and the
valleys lush. The river sought the bosom of the sea,
then rode the cloud, and found the hills as rain. The
cattle cropped in the brown plains, the fox stalked
the hare through the brush. The tides answered the
sway of the moon, and the gulls picked at the wet
sand in the wake of the tide. The earth was fair and
the earth was mil; it teemed with life, swarmed with
life, overflowed with life—a stream in spate.

Nowhere was man.

Seek the high hills; search him in the plains. Hunt
for his spoor in the green jungles; call for him; shout
for him. Follow where he has been in the bowels of
earth; plumb the dim deeps of the sea.

Man is gone; his house stands empty; the door
open.

A great ape, with a brain too big for his need and a
spirit that troubled him, left his tribe and sought the
quiet of the high place that lay above the jungle. He
climbed it, hour after hour, urged on by a need that
he half understood. He reached a resting place, high
above the green trees of his home, higher than any
of his tribe had ever climbed. There he found a broad
fiat stone, warm in the sun. He lay down upon it and
slept.

But his sleep was troubled. He dreamed strange

LOST LEGACY             241

dreams, unlike anything he knew. They woke him
and left him with an aching head,

It would be many generations before one of his
line could understand what was left there by those
who had departed.

JERRY WAS

AMAN

DONT BLAME THE MARTIANS. The human race would
have developed plasto-biology in any case.

Look at the older registered Kennel Club breeds—
glandular giants like the St. Bernard and the Great
Dane, silly little atrocities" like the Chihuahua and
the Pekingese. Consider fancy'goldfish.

The damage was done when Dr. Morgan produced
new breeds of fruit flies by kicking around their
chromosomes with X-ray. After that, the third gener-
ation of the Hiroshima survivors did not teach us
anything new; those luckless monstrosities merely
publicized standard genetic knowledge.

Mr. and Mrs. Bronson van Vogel did not have
social reform in mind when they went to the Phoenix
Breeding Ranch; Mr. van Vogel simply wanted to
buy a Pegasus. He had mentioned it at breakfast.
"Are you tied up this morning, my dear?"

"Not especially. Why?"

"I'd like to run out to Arizona and order a Pegasus
designed."

245

246 Robert A. Heinlein

"A Pegasus? A flying horse? Why, my sweet?"

He grinned. "Just for fun. Pudgy Dodge was around
the Club yesterday with a six-legged dachshund—must
have been over a yard long. It was clever, but he
swanked so much I want to give him something to
stare at. Imagine, Martha—me landing on the Club
'copter platform on a winged horse. That'll snap his
eyes back!"

She turned her eyes from the Jersey shore to look
indulgently at her husband. She was not fooled; this
would be expensive. But Brownie was such a dear!
"When do we start?"

They landed two hours earlier than they started.
The airsign read, in letters fifty feet high:

PHOENIX BREEDING RANCH
Controlled Genetics—licensed Labor Contractors

" 'Labor Contractors'?" she read, "I thought this
place was used just to burbank new animals?"

"They both design and produce," he explained
importantly. "They distribute through the mother
corporation 'Workers.' You ought to know; you own a
big chunk of Workers common."

"You mean I own a bunch of apes? Really?"

"Perhaps I didn't tell you. Haskell and I—" He
leaned forward and informed the field that he would
land manually; he was a bit proud of his piloting.

He switched off the robot and added, briefly as his
attention was taken up by heading the ship down,
"Haskell and I have been plowing your General Atom-
ics dividends back into Workers, Inc. Good diversi-
fication—sbll plenty of dirty work for the anthro-
poids to do." He slapped the keys; the scream of the
nose jets stopped conversation.

Bronson had called the manager in flight; they
were met—not with red carpet, canopy, and foot-
men, though the manager strove to give that impres-
sion. "Mr. van Vogel? And Mrs. van Vogel! We are

JERBY WAS A MAN           247

honored indeed!" He ushered them into a tiny, luxu-
rious unicar; they jeeped oS the field, up a ramp,
and into the lobby of the administration building!
The manager, Mr. Blakesly, did not relax until he
had seated them around a fountain in the lounge of
his offices, struck cigarettes for them, and provided
tall, cool drinks.

Bronson van Vogel was bored by the attention, as
it was obviously inspired by his wife's Dun & Brad-
street rating (ten stars, a sunburst, and heavenly
music). He preferred people who could convince
him that he had invented the Briggs fortune, instead
of marrying it.

"This is business Blakesly. I've an order for you."

"So? Well, our facilities are at your disposal. What
would you like, sir?"

"I want you to make me a Pegasus."

"A Pegasus? A flying horse?"

"Exactly."

Blakesly pursed his lips. "You seriously want a
horse that will fly? An animal like the mythical
Pegasus?"

"Yes, yes—that's what I said."

"You embarrass me, Mr. van Vogel. I assume you
want a unique gift for your lady. How about a midget
elephant, twenty inches high, perfectly housebro-
ken, and able to read and write? He holds the stylus
in his trunk—very cunning."

"Does he talk?" demanded Mrs. van Vogel.

"Well, now, my dear lady, his voice box, you
know—and his tongue—he was not designed for
speech. If you insist on it, I will see what our
plasticians can do."

"Now, Martha—"

"You can have your Pegasus, Brownie, but I think
I may want this toy elephant. May I see him?"

"Most surely. Hartstonet'

The air answered Blakesly. "Yes, boss?"

"Bring Napoleon to my lounge."

248 Robert A. Heinlein

"Right away, sir."

"Now about your Pegasus, Mr. van Vogel ... I
see difficulties but I need expert advice. Dr. Cargrew
is the real heart of this organization, the most emi-
nent bio-designer—of terrestrial origin, of course—on
the world today." He raised his voice to actuate
relays. "Dr. Cargrew!"

"What is it, Mr. Blakesly?"

"Doctor, will you favor me by coming to my office?"

"I'm busy. Later."

Mr. Blakesly excused himself, went into his inner
office, then returned to say that Dr. Cargrew would
be in shortly. In the mean time Napoleon showed
up. The proportions of his noble ancestors had been
preserved in miniature; he looked like a statuette of
an elephant, come amazingly to life.

He took three measured steps into the lounge,
then saluted them each with his trunk. In saluting
Mrs. van Vogel he dropped on his knees as well.

"Oh, how cute!" she gurgled. "Come here. Napo-
leon."

The elephant looked at Blakesly, who nodded.
Napoleon ambled over and laid his trunk across her
lap. She scratched his ears; he moaned contentedly.

"Show the lady how you can write," ordered
Blakesly. "Fetch your things from my room."

Napoleon waited while she finished treating a par-
ticularly satisfying itch, then oozed away to return
shortly with several sheets of heavy white paper and
an oversize pencil. He spread a sheet in front of Mrs.
van Vogel. held it down daintily with a fore foot,
grasped the pencil with his trunk finger, and printed
in large, shaky letters, "I LIKE YOU."

"The darlingi" She dropped to her knees and put
her arms around his neck. "I simply must have him.
How much is he?"

"Napoleon is part of a limited edition of six,"
Blakesly said carefully. "Do you want an exclusive
model, or may the others be sold?"

JERRY WAS A MAN            249

"Oh, I don't care. I just want Nappie. Can I write
him a note?"

"Certainly, Mrs. van Vogel. Print large letters and
use Basic English. Napoleon knows most of it. His
price, nonexclusive is $350,000. That includes five
years salary for his attending veterinary."

"Give the gentleman a check. Brownie," she said
over her shoulder.

"But Martha—"

"Don't be tiresome. Brownie." She turned back to
her pet and began printing. She hardly looked up
when Dr. Cargrew came in.

Cargrew was a chilly figure in white overalls and
skull cap. He shook hands brusquely, struck a ciga-
rette and sat down. Blakesly explained-

Cargrew shook his head. "It s a physical imposs-
ibility."

Van Vogel stood up. "I can see," he said distantly,
"That I should have taken my custom to NuLife
Laboratories, I came here because we have a finan-
cial interest in this firm and because I was naive
enough to believe the claims of your advertisements."

"Siddown, young man!" Gargrew ordered. "Take
your trade to those thumb-fingered idiots if you wish—
but I warn you they couldn't grow wings on a grass-
hopper. First you listen to me.

"We can grow anything and make it live. I can
make you a living thing—I won't call it an animal—
the size and shape of that table over there. It wouldn't
be good for anything, but it would be alive. It would
ingest food, use chemical energy, give off excretions,
and display irritability. But it would be a silly piece
of manipulation. Mechanically a table and an animal
are two different things. Their functions are differ-
ent, so their shapes are different. Now I can make
you a winged horse—"

"You just said you couldn't."

"Don't interrupt. I can make a winged horse that
will look just like the pictures in the fairy stories. If

250 Robert A. Heinlein

you want to pay for it; we'll make it—we're in busi-
ness. But it won't be able to fly."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not built for flying. The ancient who
dreamed up that myth knew nothing about aerody-
namics and still less about biology. He stuck wings
on a horse, just stuck them on, thumb tacks and
glue. But that doesn't make a flying machine. Re-
member, son, that an animal is a machine, primarily
a heat engine with a control system to operate levers
and hydraulic systems, according to definite engi-
neering laws. You savvy aerodynamics?"

"Well, I'm a pilot."

"Hummph! Well, try to understand this. A horse
hasn't got the heat engine for flight. He's a haybumer
and that's not efficient. We might mess around with
a horse's insides so that he could live on a diet of
nothing but sugar and then he might have enough
energy to fly short distances. But he still would not
look like the mythical Pegasus. To anchor his flying
muscles he would need a breast bone maybe ten feet
long. He might have to have as much as eighty feet
wing spread. Folded, his wings would cover him like
a tent. You're up against the cube-square disadvan-
tage."

"Huh?'

Cargrew gestured impatiently- "Lift goes by the
square of a given dimension; dead load by the cube
of the same dimension, other things being equal. I
might be able to make you a Pegasus the size of a cat
without distorting the proportions too much."

"No, I want one I can ride. I don't mind the wing
spread and I'll put up with the big breast bone.
When can I have him?"

Cargrew looked disgusted, shrugged, and replied,
"I'll have to consult with B'na Kreeth." He whistled
and chirped; a portion of the wall facing them dis-
solved and they found themselves looking into a

JERRY WAS A MAN            251

laboratory. A Martian, life-size, showed in the fore-
part of the three-dimensional picture.

When the creature chirlupped back at Cargrew,
Mrs. van Vogel looked up, then quickly looked away.
She knew it was silly but she simply could not stand
the sight of Martians—and the ones who had modi-
fied themselves to a semi-manlike form disgusted her
the most.

After they had twittered and gestured at each other
for a minute or two Cargrew turned back to van
Vogel. "B'na says that you should forget it; it would
take too long. He wants to know how you'd like a
fine unicorn, or a pair, guaranteed to breed true?"

"Unicorns are old hat. How long would the Pegasus
taker

After another squeaky-door conversation Cargrew
answered, "Ten years probably, sixteen years on the
guarantee."

"Ten years? That's ridiculous!"

Cargrew looked shirty. "1 thought it would take
fifty, but if B*na says that he can do it three to five
generations, then he can do it. B'na is the finest
bio-micrurgist in two planets. His chromosome sur-
gery is unequalled. After all, young man, natural
processes would take upwards of a million years to
achieve the same result, if it were achieved at all. Do
you expect to be able to buy miracles?"

Van Vogel had the grace to look sheepish. "Excuse
me. Doctor. Let's forget it. Ten years really is too
long. How about the other possibility? You said you
could make a picture-book Pegasus, as long as I did
not insist on flight. Could I ride him? On the ground?"

"Oh, certainly. No good for polo, but you could
ride him."

"Ill settle for that. Ask Benny creeth, or what ever
his name is, how long it would take."

The Martian had faded out of the screens. "I don't
need to ask him," Cargrew asserted. "This is my
job—purely manipulation. B'na's collaboration is re-

252 Robert A. Heinlein

quired only for rearrangement and transplanting of
genes—true genetic work. I can let you have the
beast in eighteen months."

"Can't you do better than that?"

"What do you expect, man? It takes eleven months
to grow a new-born colt. I want one month of design
and planning. The embryo will be removed on the
fourth day and will be developed in an extra-uterine
capsule. Ill operate ten or twelve times during ges-
tation, grafting and budding and other things you've
heard of. One year from now we'll have a baby colt,
with wings. Thereafter 111 deliver to you a six-months-
old Pegasus."

"Ill take it."

Cargrew made some notes, then read, "One alate
horse, not capable of flight and not to breed true.
Basic breed your choice—I suggest a Palomino, or an
Arabian. Wings designed after a condor, in white.
Simulated pin feathers with a grafted fringe of quill
feathers, or reasonable facsimile." He passed the
sheet over. "Initial that and we'll start in advance of
formal contract."

"It's a deal," agreed van Vogel. "What is the fee?"
He placed his monogram under Cargrew's.

Cargrew made further notes and handed them to
Blakesly—estimates of professional man-hours, tech-
nician man-hours, purchases, and overhead. He had
padded the figures to subsidize his collateral research
but even he raised his eyebrows at the dollars-and-
cents interpretation Blakesly put on the data. "That
will be an even two million dollars."

Van Vogel hesitated; his wife had looked up at the
mention of money. But she turned her attention
back to the scholarly elephant.

Blakesly added hastily, "That is for an exclusive
creation, of course."

"Naturally," Van Vogel agreed briskly, and added
die figure to the memorandum.

Van Vogel was ready to return, but his wife insisted

JERRY WAS A MAN          253

on seeing the "apes," as she termed the anthropoid
workers. The discovery that she owned a consider-
able share in these subhuman creatures had intrigued
her. Blakesly eagerly suggested a trip through the
laboratories in which the workers were developed
from true apes.

They were arranged in seven buildings, the seven
"Days of Creation.' "First Day" was a large building
occupied by Cargrew, his staff, his operating rooms,
incubators, and laboratories. Martha van Vogel stared
in horrified fascination at living organs and even
complete embryos, living artificial lives sustained by
clever glass and metal recirculating systems and ex-
quisite automatic machinery.

She could not appreciate the techniques; it seemed
depressing. She had about decided against plasto-
biology when Napoleon, by tugging at her skirts,
reminded her that it produced good things as well as
horrors.

The building "Second Day" they did not enter; it
was occupied by B'na Kreeth and his racial colleagues.
"We could not stay alive in it, you understand,"
Blakesly explained. Van Vogel nodded; his wife hur-
ried on—she wanted no Martians, even behind
plastiglass.

From there on the buildings were for develop-
ment and production of commercial workers. "Third
Day" was used for the development of variations in
the anthropoids to meet constantly changing labor
requirements. "Fourth Day" was a very large build-
ing devoted entirely to production-line incubators for
commercial types of anthropoids. Blakesly explained
that they had dispensed with normal birth. "The
policy permits exact control of forced variations, such
as for size, and saves hundreds of thousands of worker-
hours on the part of the female anthropoids."

Martha van Vogel was delighted with "Fifth Day,"
the anthropoid kindergarten where the little tykes
learned to talk and were conditioned to the social

254            Robert A. Heinlein

patterns necessary to their station in life. They worked
at simple tasks such as sorting buttons and digging
holes in sand piles, with pieces of candy given as

incentives for fast and accurate work.

"Six Day" completed the anthropoids' educations.
Each learned the particular sub-trade it would prac-
tice, cleaning, digging, and especially agricultural semi-
skills such as weeding, thinning, and picking. "One
Nisei farmer working three neo-chimpanzees can grow
as many vegetables as a dozen old-style farm hands,"
Blakesly asserted. "They really Uke to work—when

we get through with them."
They admired the almost incredibly heavy tasks

done by modified gorillas and stopped to gaze at the
little neo-Capuchins doing high picking on prop trees,
then moved on toward "Seventh Day."

This building was used for the radioactive muta-
tion of genes and therefore located some distance
away from the others. They had to walk, as the
sidewalk was being repaired; the detour took them
past workers' pens and barracks. Some of the anthro-
poids crowded up to the wire and began calling to
them: "Sigret! Sigretl Preese, Missy! Preese, Boss!

Sigret!"
"What are they saying?" Martha van Vogel inquired.

"They are asking for cigarettes," Blakesly answered
in annoyed tones. "They know better, but they are
like children. Here—111 put a stop to it." He stepped
up to the wire and shouted to an elderly male, "Heyl

Strawboss!"
The worker addressed wore, in addition to the

usual short canvas Idit, a bedraggled arm band. He
turned and shuffled toward the fence. "Strawboss,"
ordered Blakesly, "get those Joes away from here."
"Okay, Boss," the old fellow acknowledged and
started cuffing those nearest him. "Scram, you Joes!

Scram!"
"But I have some cigarettes," protested Mrs. van

Vogel, "and I would gladly have given them some."

JERRY WAS A MAN           255

"It doesn't do to pamper them," the Manager told
her. "They have been taught that luxuries come only
from work. I must apologize for my poor children;

those in these pens are getting old and forgetting
their manners."

She did not answer but moved further along the
fence to where one old neo-chimp was pressed up
against the wire, staring at them with soft, tragic
eyes, like a child at a bakery window. He had taken
no part in the jostling demand for tobacco and had
been let alone by the strawboss. "Would you like a
cigarette?" she asked him.

"Preese, Missy."

She struck one which he accepted with fumbling
grace, took a long, lung-filling drag, let the smoke
trickle out his nostrils, and said shyly, "Sankoo, Missy.
Me Jerry."

"How do you do. Jerry?"

"Howdy, Missy." He bobbed down, bending his
knees, ducking his head, and clasping his hands to
his chest, all in one movement.

"Come along, Martha." Her husband and Blakesly
had moved in behind her.

"In a moment," she answered. "Brownie, meet my
friend Jerry. Doesn't he look just like Uncle Albert?
Except that he looks so sad. Why are you unhappy,

Jerry?"

"They don't understand abstract ideas," put in

Blakesly.

But Jerry surprised him. "Jerry sad," he announced
in tones so doleful that Martha van Vogel did not
know whether to laugh or to cry.

"Why, Jerry?" she asked gently. "Why are you so

sad?"
"No work," he stated. "No sigret. No candy. No

work."

"These are all old workers who have passed their
usefulness," Blakesly repeated. "Idleness upsets them,
but we have nothing for them to do."

256 Robert A. Heinlein

"WellI" she said. "Then why don't you have them
sort buttons, or something like that, such as the baby
ones do?"

"They wouldn't even do that properly," Blakesly
answered her. "These workers are senile."

"Jerry isn't senile! You heard him talk."

"Well, perhaps not. Just a moment." He turned to
the apeman, who was squatting down in order to
scratch Napoleon's head with a long forefinger thrust
through the fence. "You, Joe! Come here."

Blakesly felt around the worker's hairy neck and
located a thin steel chain to which was attached a
small metal tag. He studied it. "You're right," he
admitted. "He's not really over age, but his eyes are
bad. I remember the lot—cataracts as a result of an
unfortunate linked mutation." He shrugged.

"But that's no reason to let him grieve his heart
out in idleness."

"Really, Mrs. van Vogel, you should not upset
yourself about it. They don't stay in these pens long—-
only a few days at the most."

"Oh," she answered, somewhat mollified, "you have
some other place to retire them to, then. Do you
give them something to do there? You should—Jerry
wants to work. Don't you. Jerry?"

The neo-chimp had been struggling to follow the
conversation. He caught the last idea and grinned.
"Jerry work! Sure Mike! Good worker." He flexed his
fingers, then made fists, displaying fully opposed
thumbs.

Mr- Blakesly seemed somewhat nonplused. "Re-
ally, Mrs. van Vogel, there is no need. You see—"
He stopped.

Van Vogel had been listening irritably. His wife's
enthusiasms annoyed him, unless they were also his
own. Furthermore he was beginning to blame Blakesly
for his own recent extravagance and had a premoni-
tion that his wife would find some way to make him
pay, very sweetly, for his indulgence.

JERRY WAS A MAN            257

Being annoyed with both of them, he chucked in
the perfect wrong remark. "Don't be silly, Martha.
They don't retire them; they liquidate them."

It took a little time for the idea to soak in, but
when it did she was furious. "Why . . . why—I never
heard of such a thingi You ought to be ashamed. You
. . . you would shoot your own grandmother."

"Mrs. van Vogel—please!"

"Don't 'Mrs, van Vogel' mel It's got to stop—you
hear me?" She looked around at the death pens, at
the milling hundreds of old workers therein. "It's
horrible. You work them until they can't work any-
more, then you take away their little comforts, and
you dispose of them. I wonder you don't eat them!"

"They do," her husband said brutally. "Dog food."

"What! Well, we'll put a stop to that!"

"Mrs. van Vogel," Blakesly pleaded. "Let me
explain."

"Hummph! Go ahead. It had better be good."

"Well, it's like this—" His eye fell on Jerry, stand-
ing with worried expression at the fence. "Scram,
Joe!" Jerry shuffled away.

"Wait, Jerry!" Mrs. van Vogel called out. Jerry
paused uncertainly. "Tell him to come back,' she
ordered Blakesly.

The Manager bit his lip, then called out, "Come
back here."

He was beginning definitely to dislike Mrs. van
Vogel, despite his automatic tendency to genuflect in
the presence of a high credit rating. To be told how
to run his own business—well, now, indeed! "Mrs.
van Vogel, I admire your humanitarian spirit but you
don't understand the situation. We understand our
workers and do what is best for them. They die
painlessly before their disabilities can trouble them.
They live happy lives, happier than yours or mine.
We trim off the bad part of their lives, nothing more.
And don't forget, these poor beasts would never
have been born had we not arranged it."

258 Robert A. Heinlein

She shook her head. "Fiddlesticksl You'll be quot-
ing the Bible at me next. There will be no more of it,
Mr. Blakesly. I shall hold you personally responsible."

Blakesly looked bleak. "My responsibilities are to
the directors,"

"You think so?" She opened her purse and snatched
out her telephone. So great was her agitation that
she did not bother to call through, but signalled the
local relay operator instead. "Phoenix? Get me Great
New York Murray Hill 9Q-4004, Mr. Haskell. Priority
—star subscriber 777. Make it quick." She stood
there, tapping her foot and glaring, until her busi-
ness manager answered. "Haskell? This is Martha
van Vogel. How much Workers, Incorporated, com-
mon do I own? No, no, never mind that—what per-
cent? . . . so? Well, it's not enough. I want 51% by
tomorrow morning ... all right, get proxies for the
rest but get it ... I didn't ask you what it would
cost; I said to get it. Get busy." She disconnected
abruptly and turned to her husband. "We're leaving,
Brownie, and we are taking Jerry with us. Mr.
Blakesly, will you kindly have him taken out of that
pen? Give him a check for the amount. Brownie."

"Now, Martha—"

"My mind is made up. Brownie."

Mr. Blakesly cleared his throat. It was going to be
pleasant to thwart this woman. "The workers are
never sold, I'm sorry. It's a matter of policy."

'*Very well then, I'll take a permanent lease."

"This worker has been removed from the labor
market. He is not for lease."

"Am I going to have more trouble with you?"

"If you please, Madamel This worker is not avail-
able under any terms—but, as a courtesy to you, I
am willing to transfer to you indentures for him,
gratis. I want you to know that the policies of this
firm are formed from a very real concern for the
welfare of our charges as well as from the standpoint
of good business practice. We therefore reserve the

JERRY WAS A MAN            259

right to inspect at any time to assure ourselves that
you are taking proper care of this worker." There, he
told himself savagely, that will stop her clock!

"Of course. Thank you, Mr. Blakesly. You are
most gracious."

The trip back to Great New York was not jolly.
Napoleon hated it and let it be known. Jerry was
patient but airsick. By the time they grounded the
van Vogels were not on speaking terms.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. van Vogel. The shares were sim-
ply not available. We should have had proxy on the
O'Toole block but someone tied them up an hour
before I reached them."

"Blakesly."

"Undoubtedly. You should not have tipped him
off; you gave him time to warn his employers."

"Don't waste time telling me what mistakes I made
yesterday. What are you going to do today?"

"My dear Mrs. van Vogel, what can I do? I'll carry
out any instructions you care to give."

"Don't talk nonsense. You are supposed to be
smarter than I am, that's why I pay you to do my
thinking for me."

Mr. Haskell looked helpless.

His principal struck a cigarette so hard she broke
it. "Why isn t Weinberg here?"

"Really, Mrs. van Vogel, there are no special legal
aspects. You want the stock; we can't buy it nor bind
it. Therefore—"

"I pay Weinberg to know the legal angles. Get

him."

Weinberg was leaving his office; Haskell caught
him on a chase-me circuit. "Sidney," Haskell called
out. "Come to my office, will you? Oscar Haskell."

"Sorry. How about four o'clock?"

"Sidney, I want you—nowl" cut in the client's
voice. "This is Martha van Vogel."

The little man shrugged helplessly. "Right away,"

260 Robert A. Heinlein

he agreed. That woman—why hadn't he retired on
his one hundred and twenty-fifth birthday, as his
wife had urged him to?

Ten minutes later he was listening to Haskell's
explanations and his client's interruptions. When they
had finished he spread his hands. "What do you
expect, Mrs. van Vogel? These workers are chattels.
You have not been able to buy the property rights
involved; you are stopped. But I don't see what you
are worked up about. They gave you the worker
whose life you wanted preserved."

She spoke forcefully under her breath, then an-
swered him- "That's not important. What is one worker
among millions? I want to stop this killing, all of it."

Weinberg shook his head. "If you were able to
prove that their methods of disposing of these beasts
were inhumane, or that they were negligent of their
physical welfare before destroying them, or that the
destruction was wanton—"

"Wanton? It certain is!"

"Probably not in a legal sense, my dear lady. There
was a case, Julius Hartman et al. vs. Hartman Es-
tate, 1972, I believe, in which a permanent injunc-
tion was granted against carrying out a term of the
will which called for the destruction of a valuable
collection of Persian cats. But in order to use that
theory you would have to show that these creatures,
when superannuated, are notwithstanding more valu-
able alive than dead. You cannot compel a person to
maintain chattels at a loss."

"See here, Sidney, I didn't get you over here to
tell me how this can't be done. If what I want isn't
legal, then get a law passed."

Weinberg looked at Haskell, who looked embar-
rassed and answered, "Well, the fact of the matter is,
Mrs. van Vogel, that we have agreed with the other
members of the Commonwealth Association not to
subsidize any legislation during the incumbency of
the present administration."

JERRY WAS A MAN

261

"How ridiculous! Why?"

"The Legislative Guild has brought out a new
fair-practices code which we consider quite unfair, a
sliding scale which penalizes the well-to-do—all very
nice sounding, with special provisions for nominal
fees for veterans' private bills and such things—but
in fact the code is confiscatory. Even the Briggs
Foundation can hardly afford to take a proper inter-
est in public affairs under this so-called code."

"Hmmph! A fine day when legislators join unions—
they are professional men. Bribes should be compet-
itive, Get an injunction."

"Mrs. van Vogel," protested Weinberg, "how can
you expect me to get an injunction against an organi-
zation which has no legal existence? In a legal sense,
there is no Legislative Guild, Just as the practice of
assisting legislation by subsidy has itself no legal
existence."

"And babies come under cabbage leaves. Quit stall-
ing me, gentlemen. What are you going to do?"

Weinberg spoke when he saw that Haskell did not
intend to. "Mrs. van Vogel, I think we should retain
a special shyster."

"I don't employ shysters, even—I don't understand
the way they mink, I am a simple housewife, Sidney."

Mr. Weinberg flinched at her self-designation while
noting that he must not let her find out that the
salary of his own staff shyster was charged to her
payroll. As convention required, he maintained the
front of a simple, barefoot solicitor, but he had found
out long ago that Martha van Vogel's problems re-
quired an occasional dose of the more exotic branch
of the law. "The man I have in mind is a creative
artist," he insisted. "It is no more necessary to un-
derstand him than it is to understand the composer
in order to appreciate a symphony. I do recommend
that you talk with him, at least."

"Oh, very well! Get him up here."

"Here? My dear lady!" Haskell was shocked at the

262 Robert A. Heirdein

suggestion; Weinberg looked amazed. "It would not
only cause any action you bring to be thrown out of
court if it were known that you had consulted this
man, but it would prejudice any Briggs enterprise
for years."

Mrs. van Vogel shrugged. "You men. I never will
understand the way you think. Why shouldn't one
consult a shyster as openly as one consults an
astrologer?"

James Roderick McCoy was not a large man, but
he seemed large. He managed to dominate even so
large a room as Mrs. van Vogel's salon. His business
card read;

J. R. M c C 0 Y

"THE REAL MCCOY"

Licensed Shyster—Fixing, Special Contacts,
Angles. All Work Guaranteed.

TELEPHONE SKYLINE 9-8M4554
Ask for MAC

The number given was the pool room of the noto-
rious Three Planets Club. He wasted no time on
offices and kept his files in his head—the only safe
place for them.

He was sitting on the floor, attempting to teach
Jerry to shoot craps, while Mrs. van Vogel explained
her problem. "What do you think, Mr. McCoy? Could
we approach it through the SPCA? My public rela-
tions staff could give it a build up."

McCoy got to his feet. "Jerry's eyes aren't so bad;

he caught me trying to palm box cars off on him as a
natural. No," he continued, "the SPCA angle is no
good. It's what 'Workers' will expect. They'll be ready
to prove that the anthropoids actually enjoy being
killed off."

JERRY WAS A MAN            263

Jerry rattled the dice hopefully. "That's all. Jerry.
Scram."

"Okay, Boss." The ape man got to his feet and
went to the big stereo which filled a comer of the
room. Napoleon ambled after him and switched it
on. Jerry punched a selector button and got a blues
singer. Napoleon immediately punched another, then
another and another until he got a loud but popular
band. He stood there, beating out the rhythm with
his trunk.

Jerry looked pained and switched it back to his
blues singer. Napoleon stubbornly reached out with
his prehensile nose and switched it off.

Jerry used a swear word.

"Boys!" called out Mrs. van Vogel. "Quit squab-
bling. Jerry, let Nappie play what he wants to. You
can play the stereo when Nappie has to take his
nap.

"Okay, Missy Boss."

McCoy was interested. "Jerry likes music?"

"Like it? He loves it. He's been learning to sing."

"Huh? This I gotta hear."

"Certainly. Nappie—turn off the stereo." The ele-
phant complied but managed to look put upon. "Now
Jerry—']m^e Bells.' " She led him in it:

"Jingie beUs, jingle bells, jingle all the day—", and
he followed,

"Jinger hez, jinger bez, jinger awrah day;

Oh, wot fun tiz to ride in one-hoss open sray."

He was flat, he was terrible. He looked ridiculous,
patting out the time with one splay foot. But it was
singing.

"Say, that's fast!" McCoy commented. "Too bad
Nappie can't talk—we'd have a duet."

Jerry looked puzzled. "Nappie talk good," he stated.
He bent over the elephant and spoke to him. Napo-
leon grunted and moaned back at him. "See, Boss?"
Jerry said triumphantly.

"What did he say?"

264 Robert A. Heinlein

"He say, 'Can Nappie pray stereo now?* "

"Very well. Jerry,' Mrs. van Vogel interceded.
The ape man spoke to his chum in whispers. Napo-
leon squealed and did not turn on the stereo.

"Jerry!" said his mistress. "I said nothing of the
sort; he does not have to play your blues singer.
Come away, Jerry. Nappie—play what you want to."

"You mean he tried to cheat?" McCoy inquired
with interest.

"He certainly did."

"Hmm—Jerry's got the makings of a real citizen,
Shave him and put shoes on him and he'd get by all
right in the precinct I grew up in." He stared at the
anthropoid. Jerry stared back, puzzled but patient.
Mrs. van Vogel had thrown away the dirty canvas kilt
which was both his badge of servitude and a conces-
sion to propriety and had replaced it with a kilt in
the bright Cameron war plaid, complete to sporan,
and topped off with a Glengarry.

"Do you suppose he could learn to play the bag-
pipes?" McCoy asked. "I'm beginning to get an angle."

"Why, I don't know. What s your idea?"

McCoy squatted down cross-legged and began prac-
ticing rolls with his dice. "Never mind," he answered
when it suited him, "that angle's no good. But we're
getting there." He rolled four naturals, one after the
other. "You say Jerry still belongs to the Corporation?"

"In a titular sense, yes. I doubt if they will ever
try to repossess him."

"I wish they would try." He scooped up the dice
and stood up. "It's in the bag, Sis. Forget it. I'll want
to talk to your publicity man but you can quit worry-
ing about it."

Of course Mrs. van Vogel should have knocked
before entering her husband's room—but then she
would not have overheard what he was saying, nor to
whom.

"That's right," she heard him say, "we haven't any

JERRY WAS A MAN            265

further need for him. Take him away, the sooner the
better. Just be sure the men you send have a signed
order directing us to turn him over."

She was not apprehensive, as she did not under-
stand the conversation, but merely curious. She looked
over her husband's shoulder at the video screen.

There she saw Blakesly's face. His voice was saying,
"Very well, Mr. van Vogel, the anthropoid will be
picked up tomorrow."

She strode up to the screen. "Just a minute, Mr.
Blakesly—" then, to her husband, "Brownie, what in
the world do you think you are doing?"

The expression she surprised on his face was not
one he had ever let her see before. "Why don't you
knock?"

"Maybe it's a good thing I didn't. Brownie, did I
hear you right. Were you telling Mr. Blakesly to pick
up Jerry?" She turned to the screen. "Was that it,
Mr. Blakesly?"

"That is correct, Mrs. van Vogel. And I must say I
find this confusion most—"

"Stow it." She turned back. "Brownie, what have
you to say for yourself?"

"Martha, you are being preposterous. Between
that elephant and that ape this place is a zoo. I
actually caught your precious Jerry smoking my spe-
cial, personal cigars today . . . not to mention the
fact that both of them play the stereo all day long
until a man can't get a moment's peace. I certainly
don't have to stand for such things in my own house."

"Whose house. Brownie?"

'That's beside the point. I will not stand for—"

"Never mind." She turned to the screen. "My
husband seems to have lost his taste for exotic ani-
mals, Mr. Blakesly. Cancel the order for a Pegasus."

"Martha!"

"Sauce for the goose. Brownie- I'll pay for your
whims; I'm damned if I'll pay for your tantrums. The

266 Robert A. Heinlein

contract is cancelled, Mr. Blakesly. Mr. Haskell will
arrange the details."

Blakesly shrugged. "Your capricious behavior will
cost you, of course. The penalties—"

"I said Mr. Haskell would arrange the details. One
more thing. Mister Manager Blakesly—have you done
as I told you to?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean—are those poor creatures
stil alive and well?"

"That is not your business." He had, in fact, sus-
pended the killings, the directors had not wanted to
take any chances until they saw what the Briggs trust
could manage, but Blakesly would not give her the
satisfaction of knowing.

She looked at him as if he were a skipped divi-
dend. "It's not, eh? Well, bear this in mind, you
cold-blooded little pipsqueak: I'm holding you per-
sonally responsible. If just one of them dies from
anything, I II have your skin for a rug." She flipped
off the connection and turned to her husband.
"Brownie—"

"It's useless to say anything," he cut in, in the cold
voice he normally used to bring her to heel. "I shall
be at the Club. Good-bye!"

"That's just what I was going to suggest."

"What?"

"I'll have your clothes sent over. Do you have
anything else in this house?"

He stared at her, "Don't talk like a fool, Martha."

"I'm not talking like a fool." She looked him up
and down. "My, but you are handsome. Brownie. I
guess I was a fool to think I could buy a big hunk of
man with a checkbook. I guess a girl gets them free,
or she doesn't get them at all. Thanks for the lesson."
She turned and slammed out of the room and into
her own suite.

Five minutes later, makeup repaired and nerves
steadied by a few whin's of Fly-Right, she called the

JERRY WAS A MAN            267

pool room of the Three Planets Club. McCoy came
to the screen carrying a cue. "Oh, it's you, sugar
puss. Well, snap it up—I've got four bits on mis
game."

"This is business."

"Okay, okay—spill it."

She told him the essentials. "I'm sorry about can-
celling the flying horse contract, Mr. McCoy. I hope
it won't make your job any harder. I'm afraid I lost
my temper,"

"Fine. Go lose it again."

"Huh!"

"You're barrelling down the groove, kid. Call
Blakesly up again. Bawl him out. Tell him to keep
his bailiffs away from you, or youll stuff 'em and use
them for hat racks. Dare him to take Jerry away from
you."

"I don't understand you."

"You don't have to, girlie. Remember this; You
can't have a bull fight until you get the bull mad
enough to fight. Have Weinberg get a temporary
injunction restraining Workers, Incorporated, from
reclaiming Jerry. Have your boss press agent give
me a buzz. Then you call in the newsboys and tell
them what you think of Blakesly. Make it nasty. Tell
them you intend to put a stop to this wholesale
murder if it takes every cent you've got."

"Well ... all right. Will you come to see me
before I talk to mem?"

"Nope—gotta get back to my game. Tomorrow,
maybe. Don't fret about having cancelled that silly
winged-horse deal. I always did think your old man
was weak in the head, and it's saved you a nice piece
of change. You'll need it when I send in my bill.
Boy, am I going to clip you! Bye now."

The bright letters trailed around the sides of the
Times Building: "WORLD'S RICHEST WOMAN
PUTS UP FIGHT FOR APE MAN." On the giant

268 Robert A. Heinlein

video screen above showed a transcribe of Jerry, in
his ridiculous Highland chief outfit. A small army of
police surrounded the Briggs town house, while Mrs.
van Vogel informed anyone who would listen, in-
cluding several news services, that she would defend
Jerry personally and to the death.

The public relations office of Workers, Incorpo-
rated, denied any intention of seizing Jerry; the de-
nial got nowhere.

In the meantime technicians installed extra audio
and video circuits in the largest courtroom in town,
for one Jerry (no surname), described as a legal,
permanent resident of these United States, had asked
for a permanent injunction against the corporate per-
son "Workers," its officers, employees, successors,
or assignees, forbidding it to do him any physical
harm and in particular forbidding it to kill him.

Through his attorney, the honorable and distin-
guished and stuffily respectable Augustus Pomfrey,
Jerry brought the action in his own name.

Martha van Vogel sat in the court room as a spec-
tator only, but she was surrounded by secretaries,
guards, maid, publicity men, and yes men, and had
one television camera trained on her alone. She was
nervous. McCoy had insisted on briefing Pomfrey
through Weinberg, to keep Pomfrey from knowing
that he was being helped by a shyster. She had her
own opinion of Pomfrey—

The McCoy had insisted that Jerry not wear his
beautiful new kilt but had dressed him in faded
dungaree trousers and jacket. It seemed poor theater
to her.

Jerry himself worried her. He seemed confused by
the lights and the noise and the crowd, about to go
to pieces.

And McCoy had refused to go to the trial with her.
He had told her that it was quite impossible, that his
mere presence would alienate the court, and Wein-

JERRY WAS A MAN          269

berg had backed him up. MenI Their minds were
devious—they seemed to like twisted ways of doing
things. It confirmed her opinion that men should not
be allowed to vote.

But she felt lost without the immediate presence
of McCoy's easy self-confidence. Away from him, she
wondered why she had ever trusted such an impor-
tant matter to an irresponsible, jumping jack, bird-
brained clown as McCoy. She chewed her nails and
wished he were present.

The panel of attorneys appearing for Worker's In-
corporated, began by moving that the action be dis-
missed without trial, on the theory that Jerry was a
chattel of the corporation, an integral part of it, and
no more able to sue than the thumb can sue the
brain.

The honorable Augustus Pomfrey looked every inch
the statesman as he bowed to the court and to his
opponents. "It is indeed strange," he began, "to hear
the second-hand voice of a legal fiction, a soulless,
imaginary quantity called a corporate 'person,' argue
that a flesh-and-blood creature, a being of hopes and
longings and passions, has not legal existence. I see
here beside me my poor cousin Jerry." He patted
Jerry on the shoulder; the ape man, needing reassur-
ance, slid a hand into his. It went over well.

"But when I look for this abstract fancy 'Workers,'
what do I find? Nothing—some words on paper,
some signed bits of foolscap—"

"If the Court please, a question," put in the oppo-
sition chief attorney, "does the learned counsel con-
tend that a limited liability stock company cannot
own property?"

"Will the counsel reply?" directed the judge.

'Thank you. My esteemed colleague has set up a
straw man; I contended only that the question as to
whether Jerry is a chattel of Workers, Incorporated,
is immaterial, nonessential, irrelevant. I am part of
the corporate city of Great New York. Does that

270 Robert A. Heinlein

deny me my civil rights as a person of flesh and
blood? In fact it does not even rob me of my right to
sue that civic corporation of which I am a part, if, in
my opinion, I am wronged by it. We are met today
in the mellow light of equity, rather than in the cold
and narrow confines of law. It seemed a fit time to
dwell on the strange absurdities we live by, where-
under a nonentity of paper and legal fiction could
deny the existence of mis our poor cousin. I ask that
the learned attorneys for the corporation stipulate
that Jerry does, in fact, exist, and let us get on with
the action."

They huddled; the answer was "No."

"Very well- My client asked to be examined in
order that the court may determine his status and
being."

"Objectioni This anthropoid cannot be examined;

he is a mere part and chattel of the respondent."

"That is what we are about to determine," the
judge answered dryly. "Objection overruled."

"Go sit in that chair. Jerry."

"Objection! This beast cannot take an oath—it is
beyond his comprehension."

"What have you to say to that. Counsel?"

"If it pleases the Court," answered Pomfrey, "the
simplest thing to do is to put him in the chair and
find out."

"Let him take the stand. The clerk will administer
the oath." Martha van Vogel gripped the arms other
chair; McCoy had spent a full week training him for
this. Would the poor thing blow up without McCoy
to guide him?

The clerk droned through the oath; Jerry looked
puzzled but patient.

"Your honor," said Pomfrey, "when young chil-
dren must give testimony, it is customary to permit a
Hide leeway in the wording, to fit their mental at-
tainments. May I be permitted?" He walked up to
Jerry.

JERRY WAS A MAN

271

"Jerry, my boy, are you a good worker?"

"Sure mike! Jerry good worker!"

"Maybe bad worker, huh? Lazy. Hide from straw-
boss."

"No, no, no! Jerry good worker. Dig. Weed. Not
dig up vegetaber. Dig up weed. Work hard."

"You will see," Pomfrey addressed the court, "that
my client has very definite ideas of what is true and
what is false. Now let us attempt to find out whether
or not he has moral values which require him to tell
the truth. Jerry—"

"Yes, Boss."

Pomfrey spread his hand in front of the anthro-
poid's face. ' How many fingers do you see?"

Jerry reached out and ticked them off. "One—two—
sree—four, uh—five."

"Six fingers. Jerry."

"Five, Boss."

"Six fingers. Jerry. I give you cigarette. Six."

"Five, Boss. Jerry not cheat."

Pomfrey spread his hands. "Will the court accept
him?"

The court did. Martha van Vogel sighed. Jerry
could not count very well and she had been afraid
that be would forget his lines and accept the bribe.
But he had been promised all the cigarettes he wanted
and chocolate as well if he would remember to insist
that five was five.

"I suggest," Pomfrey went on, "that the matter has
been established. Jerry is an entity; if he can be
accepted as a witness, then surely he may have his
day in court. Even a dog may have his day in court.
Will my esteemed colleagues stipulate?"

Workers, Incorporated, through its battery of law-
yers, agreed—just in time, for me judge was begin-
ning to cloud up. He had been much impressed by
the little performance.

The tide was with him; Pomfrey used it. "If it
please the court and if the counsels for the respon-

272 Robert A. Heinlein

dent will permit, we can shorten these proceedings. I
will state the theory under which relief is sought and
then, by a few questions, it may be settled one way
or another. I ask that it be stipulated that it was the
intention of Workers, Incorporated, through its ser-
vants, to take the life of my client."

Stipulation was refused.

"So? Then I ask that the court take judicial notice
of the well known fact that these anthropoid workers
are destroyed when they no longer show a profit;

thereafter I will call witnesses, starting with Horace
Blakesly, to show that Jerry was and presumably is
under such sentence of death."

Another hurried huddle resulted in the stipulation
that Jerry had, indeed, been scheduled for euthanasia.

"Then," said Pomfrey, "I will state my theory.
Jerry is not an animal, but a man. It is not legal to
kill him—it is murder."

First there was silence, then the crowd gasped.
People had grown used to animals that talked and
worked, but they were no more prepared to think of
them as persons, humans, men, than were the haughty
Roman citizens prepared to concede human feelings
to their barbarian slaves.

Pomfrey let them have it while they were still
groggy. "What is a man? A collection of living cells
and tissues? A legal fiction, like this corporate 'per-
son* that would take poor Jerry's life? No, a man is
none of these things. A man is a collection of hopes
and fears, of human longings, of aspirations greater
than himself—more than the clay from which he
came; less than the Creator which lifted him up from
the clay. Jerry has been taken from his jungle and
made something more than the poor creatures who
were his ancestors, even as you and I. We ask that
this Court recognize his manhood."

The opposing attorneys saw that the Court was
moved, they drove in fast. An anthropoid, they con-

JERRY WAS A MAN            273

tended, could not be a man because he lacked hu-
man shape and human intelligence. Pomfrey called
his first witness—Master B'na Kreeth.

The Martian's normal bad temper had not been
improved by being forced to wait around for three
days in a travel tank, to say nothing of the indignity
of having to interrupt his researches to take part in
the childish pow-wows of terrestrials.

There was further delay to irritate him while
Pomfrey forced the corporation attorneys to accept
B'na as an expert witness. They wanted to refuse but
could not—he was their own Director of Research.
He also held voting control of all Martian-held Work-
ers' stock, a fact unmentioned but hampering.

More delay while an interpreter was brought in to
help administer the oath—B na Kreeth, self-centered
as all Martians, had never bothered to leam English.

He twittered and chirped in answer to the demand
that he tell the truth, the whole truth, and so forth;

the interpreter looked pained. "He says he can't do
it," he informed the judge.

Pomfrey asked for exact tsanslation.

The interpreter looked uneasily at the Judge. "He
says that if he told the whole truth you fools—not
'fools' exactly; it's a Martian word meaning a sort of
headless worm—would not understand it. *

The court discussed the idea of contempt briefly.
When die Martian understood that he was about to
be forced to remain in a travel tank for thirty days he
came down off his high horse and agreed to tell the
truth as adequately as was possible; he was accepted
as a witness.

"Are you a man?" demanded Pomfrey.

"Under your laws and by your standards I

am a

man.

nmn •

"By what theory? Your body is unlike ours; you
cannot even live in our air. You do not speak our
language; your ideas are alien to us. How can you be
a man?'

274 Robert A. Heinlein

The Martian answered carefully: "I quote from the
Terra-Martian Treaty, which you must accept as
supreme law. 'AU members of the Great Race, while
sojourning on the Third Planet^ shaft haw aS. the
rights and prerogatives of the native dominant race
of the Third Planet.' This clause has been interpreted
by the Bi-Planet Tribunal to mean that members of
the Great Race are 'men whatever that may be."

"Why do you refer to your sort as the 'Great
Race'?"

"Because of our superior intelligence."

"Superior to men?"

"We are men."

"Superior to the intelligence of earth men?"

"That is self-evident."

"Just as we are superior in intelligence to this poor
creature Jerry?"

"That is not self-evident."

"Finished with the witness," announced Pomfrey.
The opposition counsels should have left bad enough
alone; instead they tried to get B'na Kreeth to define
the difference in intelligence between humans and
worker-anthropoids. Master B'na explained meticu-
lously that cultural differences masked the intrinsic
differences, if any, and that, in any case, both anthro-
poids and men made so little use of their respective
potential intelligences that it was really too early to
tell which race would turn out to be the superior
race in the Third Planet.

He had just begun to discuss how a truly superior
race could be bred by combining the best features of
anthropoids and men when he was hastily asked to
"stand down."

"May it please the Court," said Pomfrey, "we have
not advanced the theory; we have merely disposed of
respondent's contention that a particular shape and a
particular degree of intelligence are necessary to man-
hood. I now ask that the petitioner be recalled to the

JERRY WAS A MAN          275

stand that the court may determine whether he is, in
truth, human."

"If the learned court please—" The battery of law-
yers had been in a huddle ever since B'na Kreeth's
travel tank had been removed from the room; the
chief counsel now spoke.

"The object of the petition appears to be to protect
the life of this chattel. There is no need to draw out
these proceedings; respondent stipulates that this
chattel will be allowed to die a natural death in the
hands of its present custodian and moves that the
action be dismissed."

"What do you say to that?" the Court asked
Pomfrey.

Pomfrey visibly gathered his toga about him. "We
ask not for cold charity from this corporation, but for
the justice of the court. We ask that Jerry's humanity
be established as a matter of law. Not for him to
vote, nor to hold property, nor to be relieved of
special police regulations appropriate to his group—
but we do ask that he be adjudged at least as human
as that aquarium monstrosity just removed from this
court room!"

The judge turned to Jerry. "Is that what you want,
Jerry?"

Jerry looked uneasily at Pomfrey, then said, "Okay,
Boss."

"Come up to the chair."

"One moment—" The opposition chief counsel
seemed flurried. "I ask the Court to consider that a
ruling in this matter may affect a long established
commercial practice necessary to the economic life
of—"

"Objection!" Pomfrey was on his feet, bristling.
"Never have I heard a more outrageous attempt to
prejudice a decision. My esteemed colleague might
as well ask the Court to decide a murder case from
political considerations. I protest—"

276            Robert A. Heinlein

"Never mind," said the court. "The suggestion will
be ignored. Proceed with your witness."

Pomfrey bowed. "We are exploring the meaning of
this strange thing called 'manhood.' We have seen
(hat it is not a matter of shape, nor race, nor planet
of birth, nor ofacutenessofmind. Truly, it cannot be
defined, yet it may be experienced. It can reach
from heart to heart, from spirit to spirit." He turned
to Jerry. "Jerry—will you sing your new song for the
judge?"

"Sure mike." Jerry looked uneasily up at the whir-
ring cameras, the mikes, and the ikes, then cleared
his throat:

"Way down upon de Suwannee Ribber

Far, far away;

Dere s where my heart is turning ebber—"

The applause scared him out of his wits; the bang-
ing of the gavel frightened him still more—but it
mattered not; the issue was no longer in doubt- Jerry
was a man.