Between Planets

by Robert A. Heinlein

  He was about to ask further questions when the lights came on and the little car started to purr. Dr. Jefferson said, “Here we go!” leaned over the board and quickly dialed a destination. The autocab moved forward. Don started to speak but the doctor shook his head.

  The car threaded its way through several tunnels, down a ramp and stopped in a large underground square. Dr. Jefferson paid it off and led Don through the square and to a passenger elevator. The square was jammed and one could sense the crowd’s frenetic mood resulting from the space raid alarm. They had to shove their way through a mass of people gathered around a public telescreen in the center of the square. Don was glad to get on the elevator, even though it too was packed.

  Dr. Jefferson’s immediate destination was another cab stand in a square several levels higher. They got into a cab and moved away; this one they rode for several minutes, then changed cabs again. Don was completely confused and could not have told whether they were north, south, high, low, east, or west. The doctor glanced at his watch as they left the last autocab and said, “We’ve killed enough time. Here.” He indicated a communication booth near them.

  Don went in and phoned the Caravansary. Was there any mail being held for him? No, there was not. He explained that he was not registered at the hotel; the clerk looked again. No, sorry sir.

  Don came out and told Dr. Jefferson. The doctor chewed his lip. “Son, I’ve made a bad error in judgment.” He glanced around; there was no one near them. “And I’ve wasted time.”

  “Can I help, sir?”

  “Eh? Yes, I think you can—I’m sure you can.” He paused to think. “We’ll go back to my apartment. We must. But we won’t stay there. We’ll find some other hotel—not the Caravansary—and I’m afraid we must work all night. Are you up to it?”

  “Oh, certainly!”

  “I’ve some ‘borrowed-time’ pills; they’ll help. See here Don, whatever happens, you are to catch that ship tomorrow. Understand?”

  Don agreed. He intended to catch the ship in any case and could not conceive of a reason for missing it. Privately he was beginning to wonder if Dr. Jefferson were quite right in his head.

  “Good. We’ll walk; it’s not far.”

  A half mile of tunnels and a descent by elevator got them there. As they turned into the tunnel in which the doctor’s apartment was located, he glanced up and down it; it was empty. They crossed rapidly and the doctor let them in. Two strange men were seated in the living room.

  Dr. Jefferson glanced at them, said, “Good evening, gentlemen,” and turned back to his guest. “Good night, Don. It’s been very pleasant seeing you and be sure to remember me to your parents.” He grasped Don’s hand and firmly urged him out the door.

  The two men stood up. One of them said, “It took you a long time to get home, Doctor.”

  “I’d forgotten the appointment, gentlemen. Now, goodbye, Don—I don’t want you to be late.”

  The last remark was accompanied by increased pressure on Don’s hand. He answered, “Uh—good night, Doctor. And thanks.”

  He turned to leave, but the man who had spoken moved quickly between him and the door. “Just a moment, please.”

  Dr. Jefferson answered, “Really, gentlemen, there is no reason to delay this boy. Let him go along so that we may get down to our business.”

  The man did not answer directly but called out, “Elkins! King!” Two more men appeared from a back room of the apartment. The man who seemed to be in charge said to them, “Take the youngster back to the bedroom. Close the door.”

  “Come along, buddy.”

  Don, who had been keeping his mouth shut and trying to sort out the confusing new developments, got angry. He had more than a suspicion that these men were security police even though they were not in uniform, but he had been brought up to believe that honest citizens had nothing to fear. “Wait a minute!” he protested. “I’m not going any place. What’s the idea?”

  The man who had told him to come along moved closer and took his arm. Don shook it off. The leader stopped any further action by his men with a very slight gesture. “Don Harvey—”

  “Huh? Yes?”

  “I could give you a number of answers to that. One of them is this—” He displayed a badge in the palm of his hand. “—but that might be faked. Or, if I cared to take time, I could satisfy you with stamped pieces of paper, all proper and legalistic and signed with important names.” Don noticed that his voice was gentle and cultured.

  “But it happens that I am tired and in a hurry and don’t want to be bothered playing word games with young punks. So let it stand that there are four of us all armed. So—will you go quietly, or would you rather be slapped around a bit and dragged?”

  Don was about to answer with school-game bravado; Dr. Jefferson cut in. “Do as they ask you, Donald!”

  He closed his mouth and followed the subordinate on back. The man led him into the bedroom and closed the door. “Sit down,” he said pleasantly. Don did not move. His guard came up, placed a palm against his chest and pushed. Don sat down.

  The man touched a button at the bed’s control panel, causing it to lift to the reading position, then lay down. He appeared to go to sleep, but every time Don looked at him the man’s eyes met his. Don strained his ears, trying to hear what was going on in the front room, but he need not have bothered; the room, being a sleeping room, was fully soundproof.

  So he sat there and fidgeted, trying to make sense out of preposterous things that had happened to him. He recalled almost with unbelief that it had been only this morning that Lazy and he had started out to climb Peddler’s Grave. He wondered what Lazy was doing now and whether the greedy little rascal missed him.

  Probably not, he admitted mournfully.

  He slid a glance at the guard, while wondering whether or not, if he gathered himself together, drawing his feet as far under him as he could—

  The guard shook his head. “Don’t do it,” he advised.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t try to jump me. You might hurry me and then you might get hurt—bad.” The man appeared to go back to sleep.

  Don slumped into apathy. Even if he did manage to jump this one, slug him maybe, there were three more out front. And suppose he got away from them? A strange city, where they had everything organized, everything under control—where would he run to?

  Once he had come across the stable cat playing with a mouse. He had watched for a moment, fascinated even though his sympathies were with the mouse, before he had stepped forward and put the poor beastie out of its misery. The cat had never once let the mouse scamper further than pounce range. Now he was the mouse—

  “Up you come!”

  Don jumped to his feet, startled and having trouble placing himself. “I wish I had your easy conscience,” the guard said admiringly. “It’s a real gift to be able to catch forty winks any time. Come on; the boss wants you.”

  Don preceded him back into the living room; there was no one there but the mate of the man who had guarded him. Don turned and said, “Where is Dr. Jefferson?”

  “Never mind,” his guard replied. “The lieutenant hates to be kept waiting.” He started on out the door.

  Don hung back. The second guard casually took him by the arm; he felt a stabbing pain clear to his shoulder and went along.

  Outside they had a manually-operated car larger than the robot cabs. The second guard slipped into the driver’s seat; the other urged Don into the passenger compartment. There he sat down and started to turn—and found that he could not. He was unable even to raise his hands. Any attempt to move, to do anything other than sit and breathe, felt like struggling against the weight of too many blankets. “Take it easy,” the guard advised. “You can pull a ligament fighting that field. And it does not do any good.”

  Don had to prove to himself that the man was right. Whatever the invisible bonds were, the harder he strained against them the tighter they bound him. On the other hand when he
relaxed and rested he could not even feel them. “Where are you taking me?” he demanded.

  “Don’t you know? The city I.B.I. office, of course.”

  “What for? I haven’t done anything!”

  “In that case, you won’t have to stay long.”

  The car pulled up inside a large garaging room; the three got out and waited in front of a door; Don had a feeling that they were being looked over. Shortly the door opened; they went inside.

  The place had the odor of bureaucracy. They went down a long corridor past endless offices filled with clerks, desks, transtypers, filing machines, whirring card sorters. A lift bounced them to another level; they went on through more corridors and stopped at an office door. “Inside,” said the first guard. Don went in; the door slid shut behind him with the guards outside.

  “Sit down, Don.” It was the leader of the group of four, now in the uniform of security officer and seated at a horseshoe desk.

  Don said, “Where is Dr. Jefferson? What did you do with him?”

  “Sit down, I said.” Don did not move; the lieutenant went on, “Why make it hard for yourself? You know where you are; you know that I could have you restrained in any way that suited me—some of them quite unpleasant. Will you sit down, please, and save us both trouble?”

  Don sat down and immediately said, “I want to see a lawyer.”

  The lieutenant shook his head slowly, looking like a tired and gentle school teacher. “Young fellow, you’ve been reading too many romantic novels. Now if you had studied the dynamics of history instead, you would realize that the logic of legalism alternates with the logic of force in a pattern dependent on the characteristics of the culture. Each culture evokes its own basic logic. You follow me?”

  Don hesitated; the other went on, “No matter. The point is, your request for a lawyer comes about two hundred years too late to be meaningful. The verbalisms lag behind the facts. Nevertheless, you shall have a lawyer—or a lollipop, whichever you prefer, after I am through questioning you. If I were you, I’d take the lollipop. More nourishing.”

  “I won’t talk without a lawyer,” Don answered firmly.

  “No? I’m sorry. Don, in setting up your interview I budgeted eleven minutes for nonsense. You have used up four already—no; five. When the eleven minutes are gone and you find yourself spitting out teeth, remember that I bore you no malice. Now about this matter of whether or not you will talk; there are several ways of making a man talk and each method has its fans who swear by it. Drugs, for example—nitrous oxide, scopolamine, sodium pentothal, not to mention some of the new, more subtle, and relatively non-toxic developments. Even alcohols have been used with great success by intelligence operatives. I don’t like drugs; they affect the intellect and clutter up an interview with data of no use to me. You’d be amazed at the amount of rubbish that can collect in the human brain, Don, if you had had to listen to it—as I have.

  “And there is hypnosis and its many variations. There is also the artificial stimulation of an unbearable need, as with morphine addiction. Finally there is old-fashioned force—pain. Why, I know an artist—I believe he is in the building now—who can successfully question the most recalcitrant case, in minimum time and using only his bare hands. Then, of course, under that category, is the extremely ancient switch in which the force, or pain, is not applied to the person being examined but to a second person whom he cannot bear to see hurt, such as a wife, or son, or daughter. Offhand, that method would seem difficult to use on you, as your only close relatives are not on this planet.” The security officer glanced at his watch and added, “Only thirty seconds of nonsense still available, Don. Shall we start?”

  “Huh? Wait a minute! You used up the time; I’ve hardly said a word.”

  “I haven’t time to be fair. Sorry. However,” he went on, “the apparent objection to the last method does not apply in your case. During the short time you were unconscious at Dr. Jefferson’s apartment we were able to determine that there actually was available a—person who meets the requirements. You will talk freely rather than let this person be hurt.”

  “Huh?”

  “A stock pony named ‘Lazy.’”

  The suggestion caught him completely off guard; he was stunned by it. The man went quickly on, “If you insist, we will adjourn for three hours or so and I will have your horse shipped here. It might be interesting, as I don’t believe the method has ever been used with a horse before. I understand that their ears are rather sensitive. On the other hand I feel bound to tell you that, if we go to the trouble of bringing him here, we won’t send him back but will simply send him to the stockyards to be butchered. Horses are an anachronism in New Chicago, don’t you think?”

  Don’s head was whirling too much to make a proper answer, or even to follow all of the horrid implications of the comments. Finally he burst out, “You can’t! You wouldn’t!”

  “Time’s up, Don.”

  Don took a deep breath, collapsed. “Go ahead,” he said dully. “Ask your questions.”

  The lieutenant took a film spool from his desk, fed it into a projector which faced back toward him. “Your name, please.”

  “Donald James Harvey.”

  “And your Venerian name?”

  Don whistled “Mist on the Waters.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “In the Outward Bound, in trajectory between Luna and Ganymede.” The questions went on and on. Don’s inquisitor appeared to have all the answers already displayed in front of him; once or twice he had Don elaborate or corrected him on some minor point. After reviewing his entire past life he required Don to give a detailed account of the events starting with his receiving the message from his parents to take passage on the Valkyrie for Mars.

  The only thing Don left out was Dr. Jefferson’s remarks about the package. He waited nervously, expecting to be hauled up short about it. But if the security policeman knew of the package, he gave no sign of it. “Dr. Jefferson seemed to think that this so-called security operative was following you? Or him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he knew.”

  “‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth,’” the lieutenant quoted. “Tell me exactly what you did after you left The Back Room.”

  “Was that man following me?” Don asked. “So help me, I had never laid eyes on that dragon before; I was just passing the time of day, being polite.”

  “I’m sure you were. But I’ll ask the questions. Go ahead.”

  “Well, we changed cabs twice—or maybe three times. I don’t know just where we went; I don’t know the city and was all turned around. But eventually we came back to Dr. Jefferson’s apartment.” He omitted mention of the call to the Caravansary; again, if his questioner was aware of the omission, he gave no sign of it.

  The lieutenant said, “Well, that seems to bring us up to date.” He switched off the projector and sat staring at nothing for some minutes. “Son, there is no doubt in my mind but what you are potentially disloyal.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Never mind the guff. There’s nothing in your background to make you loyal. But that is nothing to get excited about; a person in my position has to be practical. You are planning to leave for Mars tomorrow morning?”

  “I sure am.”

  “Good. I don’t see how you could have been up to much mischief at your age, isolated as you were out on that ranch. But you fell into bad company. Don’t miss that ship; if you are still here tomorrow I might have to revise my opinions.”

  The lieutenant stood up and so did Don. “I’ll certainly catch it!” Don agreed, then stopped. “Unless—”

  “Unless what?” the lieutenant said sharply.

  “Well, they held up my ticket for security clearance,” Don blurted out.

  “They did, eh? A routine matter; I’ll take care of it. You can leave now. Open sky!”

  Don did not make the conventional answer. The man said, “Don’t be sulky. It would have been simp
ler to have beaten the living daylights out of you, then questioned you. But I didn’t; I have a son about your age myself. And I never intended to hurt your horse—happens I like horses; I’m a country boy originally. No hard feelings?”

  “Uh, I guess not.”

  The lieutenant put out his hand; Don found himself accepting it—he even found himself liking the man. He decided to chance one more question. “Could I say goodbye to Dr. Jefferson?”

  The man’s expression changed. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Why not? You’d be watching me, wouldn’t you?”

  The officer hesitated. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t know. Dr. Jefferson was a man in very poor health. He got excited, suffered an attack and died of heart failure, earlier tonight.”

  Don simply stared. “Brace up!” the man said sharply. “It happens to all of us.” He pressed a button on his desk a guard came in and was told to take Don out. He was led out by another route but he was too bemused to notice it. Dr. Jefferson dead? It did not seem possible. A man so alive, so obviously in love with life—He was dumped out into a major public tunnel while still thinking about it.

  Suddenly he recalled a phrase he had heard in class from his biology teacher, “‘In the end, all forms of death can be classed as heart failure.’” Don held up his right hand, stared at it. He would wash it as quickly as he could.

  IV

  The Glory Road

  HE STILL had things to do; he could not stand there all night. First, he supposed that he had better go back to the station and pick up his bags. He fumbled in his pouch for his claim check while he worried about just how he would get there; he still did not have hard money with which to pay off an autocab.

  He failed to find the claim check. Presently he removed everything from the pouch. Everything else was there; his letter of credit; his identification card, the messages from his parents, a flat photo of Lazy, his birth certificate, odds and ends—but no claim check. He remembered putting it there.