Between Planets

by Robert A. Heinlein

  The final warning sounded over the announcing system; a hoarse voice followed it with, “All hands! Strap down! Stand by for lift—” The order was followed by a transcription of the brassy strains of Le Compte’s Raise Ship! Don’s pulse quickened; excitement mounted in him. He felt ecstatically happy, eager to be back in space again, back where he belonged. The bad, confusing things of the past day washed out of his mind; even the ranch and Lazy grew dim.

  So timed was the transcribed music that the rocket-blast effect of the final chorus merged into the real blast of the ship’s tubes; the Glory Road stirred and lifted…then threw herself away into the open sky.

  V

  Circum-Terra

  THE WEIGHT of acceleration was no worse than it had been the day before in the Santa Fé Trail but the drive persisted for more than five minutes, minutes that seemed like an endless hour. After they passed the speed of sound the compartment was relatively quiet. Don made a great effort and managed to turn his head a little. “Sir Isaac Newton’s” great bulk was flattened to the deck, making Don think unpleasantly of a lizard crushed into a road. His eyestalks drooped like limp asparagus. He looked dead.

  Don strained for breath and called out, “Are you all right?”

  The Venerian did not stir. His voder instrument was covered by the sagging folds of his neck; it seemed unlikely that his tendrils could have managed the delicate touch required for its keys even had it been free. Nor did he reply in his own whistling speech.

  Don wanted to go to him, but he was as immobilized by the blast weight as is the bottommost player in a football pile up. He forced his head back where it belonged a so that he might breathe less painfully and waited.

  When the blast died away his stomach gave one protesting flip-flop, then quieted down; either the anti-nausea shot had worked or he had his space balance again—or both. Without waiting for permission from the control room he quickly unstrapped and hurried to the Venerian. He steadied himself in the air, holding with one hand to the steel bands restraining his companion.

  The dragon was no longer crushed to the deckplates; only the steel hoops kept him from floating around the compartment. Behind him his giant tail waved loosely, brushing the ship’s plates and knocking off paint chips.

  The eyestalks were still limp and each eye filmed over. The dragon stirred only in the meaningless motion of string in water; there was nothing to show that he was alive. Don clenched a fist and pounded on the creature’s flat skull. “Can you hear me? Are you all right?”

  All he got out of it was a bruised hand; Sir Isaac made no response. Don hung for a moment, wondering what to do. That his acquaintance was in a bad way he felt sure, but his training in first aid did not extend to Venerian pseudo-saurians. He dug back into his childhood memories, trying to think of something.

  The same ship’s officer who had rearranged the berthing appeared at the forward or “upper” hatch, floating head “down.” “All okay this deck?” he inquired perfunctorily and started to back out.

  “No!” Don shouted. “Case of blast shock.”

  “Huh?” The officer swam on into the compartment and looked at the other passenger. He swore unimaginatively and looked worried. “This is beyond me; I never carried one before. How the deuce do you give artificial respiration to a thing as big as that?”

  “You don’t,” Don told him. “His lungs are completely enclosed in his armor box.”

  “He looks dead. I think he’s stopped breathing.”

  A memory floated to the top in Don’s mind; he snatched it. “Got a cigarette?”

  “Huh? Don’t bother me! Anyhow the smoking lamp is out.”

  “You don’t understand,” Don persisted. “If you’ve got one, light it. You can blow smoke at his nostril plate and see whether or not he’s breathing.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe it’s a good idea.” The spaceman got out a cigarette and struck it.

  “But be careful,” Don went on. “They can’t stand nicotine. One big puff and then put it out.”

  “Maybe it’s not such a good idea,” the ship’s officer objected. “Say, you sound like a Venus colonial?”

  Don hesitated, then answered, “I’m a Federation citizen.” It seemed like a poor time to discuss politics. He moved over to the dragon’s chin, braced his feet against the deckplates and shoved, thus exposing the Venerian’s nostril plate, which was located under the creature’s head in the folds of his neck. Don could not have managed it, save that they were in free fall, making the bulky mass weightless.

  The man blew smoke at the exposed opening. It eddied forward, then some of it curled inside; the dragon was still alive.

  Still very much alive. Every eyestalk sprang to rigid attention; he lifted his chin, carrying Don with it, then he sneezed. The blast struck Don where he floated loosely and turned him over and over. He threshed in the air for a moment before catching a handhold on the hatch ladder.

  The ship’s officer was rubbing one wrist. “The beggar clipped me,” he complained. “I won’t try that again soon. Well, I guess he’ll be all right.”

  Sir Isaac whistled mournfully; Don answered him. The spaceman looked at him. “You savvy that stuff?”

  “Some.”

  “Well, tell him to use his squawk box. I don’t!”

  Don said, “Sir Isaac—use your voder.”

  The Venerian tried to comply. His tentacles hunted around, found the keys of the artificial voice box, and touched them. No sounds came out. The dragon turned an eye at Don and whistled a series of phrases.

  “He regrets to say that its spirit has departed,” Don interpreted.

  The ship’s officer sighed. “I wonder why I ever left the grocery business? Well, if we can get it unlatched from him, I’ll see if ‘Sparks’ can fix it.”

  “Let me,” said Don and squirmed into the space between the dragon’s head and the deckplates. The voder case, he found, was secured to four rings riveted to the Venerian’s skin plates. He could not seem to find the combination; the dragon’s tendrils fluttered over his hands, moved them gently out of the way, unfastened the box, and handed it to him. He wiggled out and gave it to the man. “Looks like he kind of slept on it,” he commented.

  “A mess,” the other agreed. “Well, tell him I’ll have them fix it if possible and that I’m glad he wasn’t hurt.”

  “Tell him yourself; he understands English.”

  “Eh? Oh, of course, of course.” He faced the Venerian who immediately set up a long shrilling. “What’s he say?”

  Don listened. “He says he appreciates your good wishes but that he is sorry to have to disagree; he is unwell. He says that he urgently requires—” Don stopped and looked puzzled, then whistled the Venerian equivalent of “Say that again, please?”

  Sir Isaac answered him; Don went on, “He says he’s just got to have some sugar syrup.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “I’ll be—How much?”

  There was another exchange of whistles; Don answered, “Uh, he says he needs at least a quarter of a—there isn’t any word for it; it’s an amount about equal to half a barrel, I’d say.”

  “You mean he wants half a barrel of waffle juice?”

  “No, no, a quarter of that—an eighth of a barrel. What would that come to in gallons?”

  “I wouldn’t attempt it without a slipstick; I’m confused. I don’t even know that we have any on board.” Sir Isaac set up more frantic whistling. “But if we don’t, I’ll have the cook whip up some. Tell him to hold everything and take it easy.” He scowled at the dragon, then left quite suddenly.

  Don attached himself to one of the steel straps and asked, “How are you feeling now?”

  The dragon replied apologetically to the effect that he needed to return to the egg for the moment. Don shut up and waited.

  The captain himself showed up to attend the sick passenger. The ship, being in free trajectory for the satellite space station, would not require h
is presence in the control room until well past noon, New Chicago time; he was free to move around the ship. He arrived in company with the ship’s doctor and followed by a man herding a metal tank.

  The two conferred over the dragon, at first ignoring Don’s presence. However neither of them knew the piping speech of the dragon tribe; they were forced to turn to Don. Through him Sir Isaac again insisted that he required sugar solution, as a stimulant. The captain looked worried. “I’ve read somewhere that sugar gets them drunk the same as alcohol does us.”

  Don again translated for the Venerian; what he had asked for was simply a medicinal dose.

  The captain turned to the medical officer. “How about it, surgeon?”

  The doctor stared at the bulkhead. “Captain, this is as far outside my duties as tap dancing.”

  “Confound it, man, I asked for your official opinion!”

  The medical officer faced him. “Very well, sir—I would say that if this passenger should die, you having refused him something he had asked for, it would look very, very bad indeed.”

  The captain bit his lip. “As you say, sir. But I’ll be switched if I want several tons of intoxicated dragon banging around in my ship. Administer the dose.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “You, sir.”

  The ship being in free fall it was quite impossible to pour out the syrup and let the Venerian lick it up, nor was he physically equipped to use the “baby bottle” drinking bladder used by humans when weightless. But that had been anticipated; the tank containing the syrup was a type used in the galley to handle soup or coffee in free fall. It had a hand pump and an attachable hose.

  It was decided, Sir Isaac concurring, to place the end of the hose well down the dragon’s throat. But nobody seemed to want the job. Granted that Draco Veneris Wilsonii is a civilized race, to stick one’s head and shoulders between those rows of teeth seemed to be inviting a breach in foreign relations.

  Don volunteered for the job and was sorry when they took him up on it. He trusted Sir Isaac but recalled times when Lazy had stepped on his foot quite unintentionally. He hoped that the dragon had no unfortunate involuntary reflexes; apologies are no use to a corpse.

  While he kept the end of the hose firmly in place he held his breath and was glad that he had taken that anti-nausea injection. Sir Isaac did not have halitosis, as dragons go, but dragons go rather far in that direction. The job done, he was happy to back out.

  Sir Isaac thanked them all, via Don, and assured them that he would now recover rapidly. He seemed to fall asleep in the midst of whistling. The ship’s doctor peeled one eyestalk and shined a hand torch at it. “The stuff has hit him, I think. We’ll let him be and hope for the best.”

  They all left. Don looked his friend over, decided that there was no point in sitting up with him, and followed them. The compartment had no view port; he wanted at least one good look at Earth while they were still close by. He found what he sought three decks forward.

  They were still only fifteen thousand miles out; Don had to crowd in close to the view port to see all of Earth at one time. It was, he had to admit, a mighty pretty planet; he was a little bit sorry to be leaving it. Hanging there against velvet black and pinpoint stars, drenched in sunlight so bright it hurt your eyes, it almost took your breath away.

  The sunrise line had swung far into the Pacific past Hawaii, and North America was spread out to his gaze. Storm blanketed the Pacific Northwest, but the Midwest was fairly clear and the Southwest was sharp. He could make out where New Chicago was with ease; he could see the Grand Canyon and from it he could almost figure out where the range had to be. He was sure that with a small telescope he could have spotted it.

  He gave up his place at last. He was soaking in the pleasant melancholy of mild homesickness and the comments of some of the other passengers were beginning to annoy him—not the cheerful inanities of tourists but the know-it-all remarks of self-appointed old timers, making their second trip out. He headed back to his own compartment.

  He was startled to hear his name called. He turned and the ship’s officer he had met before floated up to him. He had with him Sir Isaac’s voder. “You seem to be chummy with that over-educated crocodile you’re bunking with; how about taking this to him?”

  “Why, certainly.”

  “The radio officer says it needs an overhaul but at least it’s working again.” Don accepted it and went aft. The dragon seemed to be sleeping, then one eye waved at him and Sir Isaac whistled a salutation.

  “I’ve got your voice box,” Don told him. “Want me to fasten it on for you?”

  Sir Isaac politely refused. Don handed the instrument to the fidgeting tendrils and the dragon arranged it to suit him. He then ran over the keys as a check, producing sounds like frightened ducks. Satisfied, he began to speak in English: “I am enriched by the debt you have placed upon me.”

  “It was nothing,” Don answered. “I ran into the mate a couple of decks forward and be asked me to fetch it along.”

  “I do not refer to this artificial voice, but to your ready help when I was in distress and peril. Without your quick wit, your willingness to share mud with an untested stranger, and—in passing—your knowledge of the true speech, I might have lost my chance to attain the happy death.”

  “Shucks,” Don answered, feeling somewhat pink, “it was a pleasure.” He noticed that the dragon’s speech was slow and somewhat slurred, as if his tentacles lacked their customary dexterity. Besides that, Sir Isaac’s talk was more a pedantic than ever and much more Cockney-flavored—the voder was mixing aspirates with abandon and turning the theta sound into “f”; Don felt sure that the Earthman who had taught him to speak must have been born in earshot of Bow Bells.

  He noticed as well that his friend could not seem to make up his mind which eye he wanted to use on him. He kept waggling one after another at Don, as if seeking one which would let him focus better. Don wondered if Sir Isaac had overestimated the proper size of a medicinal dose.

  “Permit me,” the Venerian went on, still with ponderous dignity, “to judge the worth of the service you have done me.” He changed the subject. “This word ‘shucks’—I do not recognize the use you made of it. Husks of plants?”

  Don struggled to explain how little and how much “shucks” could mean. The dragon thought it over and tapped out an answer. “I believe that I gain a portion of understanding. The semantic content of this word is emotional and variable, rather than orderly and descriptive. Its referent is the state of one’s spirits?”

  “That’s it,” Don said happily. “It means just what you want it to mean. It’s the way you say it.”

  “Shucks,” the dragon said experimentally. “Shucks. I seem to be getting the feel of it. A delightful word. Shucks.” He went on, “The delicate nuances of speech must be learned from the living users thereof. Perhaps I may return the favor by helping you in some small wise with your already great mastery of the speech of my people? Shucks.”

  This confirmed Don’s suspicion that his own whistling had become so villainous that it might do for popcorn vending but not for regular communication. “I certainly would appreciate a chance to brush up,” he answered. “I haven’t had a chance to speak ‘true speech’ for years—not since I was a kid. I was taught by a historian who was working with my father on the (whistled) ruins. Perhaps you know him? His name was ‘Professor Charles Darwin.’” Don added the whistled or true version of the Venerian scholar’s name.

  “You ask me if I know (whistled)? He is my brother; his grandmother, nine times removed, and my grandmother, seven times removed, were the same egg. Shucks!” He added, “A learned person, for one so young.”

  Don was a bit taken aback to hear “Professor Darwin” described as “young”; as a child he had classed him and the ruins as being about the same age. He now had to remind himself that Sir Isaac might see it differently. “Say that’s nice!” he answered. “I wonder if you knew my parents? Dr. Jonas Harvey and Dr
. Cynthia Harvey?”

  The dragon turned all eyes on him. “You are their egg? I have not had the honor of meeting them but all civilized persons know of them and their work. I am no longer surprised at your own excellence. Shucks!”

  Don felt both embarrassment and pleasure. Not knowing what to say he suggested that Sir Isaac coach him for a while in “true speech,” a suggestion to which the dragon readily assented. They were still so engaged when the warning signal sounded and a voice from the control room sang, out, “Strap down for acceleration! Prepare to match trajectories!”

  Don placed his hands against his friend’s armored sides and shoved himself back to his couch. He paused there and said, “Are you going to be all right?”

  The dragon made a sound which Don construed as a hiccup cup, and tapped out, “I feel sure of it. This time I am fortified.”

  “I hope so. Say—you don’t want to bung up your voder again. Want me to take care of it?”

  “If you will, please.”

  Don went back and got it, then fastened it to his bags. He had barely time to fasten his safety belts when the first surge of acceleration hit them. It was not so bad, this time, neither as many gravities as the blast-off from Earth nor of as long duration, for they were not breaking free of Earth’s crushing grip but merely adjusting trajectories—modifying the outer end of the Glory Road’s elliptical path to make it agree perfectly with the circular orbit of Circum-Terra, the cross-roads station in space which was their destination.

  The captain gave them one long powerful shove, waited, then blasted twice more for short intervals—without, Don noted, finding it necessary to invert and blast back. He nodded approval. Good piloting!—the captain knew his vectors. The bullhorn sang out, “Contact! Unstrap at will. Prepare to disembark.”

  Don returned the voder to Sir Isaac, then lost track of him, for the dragon again had to be taken aft to be transferred through the cargo hatch. Don whistled goodbye and went forward, towing his bags behind him, to go out through the passenger tube.