Between Planets

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Huh? Why, thanks!”

  “Don’t thank me. It can’t go out for a couple of weeks and you don’t have to pay until we are ready to send it.”

  “Two weeks? Why?”

  “Because Mars is right smacko back of the Sun now; it wouldn’t punch through. We’ll have to wait on the swing.”

  “Well, what’s the matter with relay?”

  “There’s a war on—or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “Oh—” Don felt foolish.

  “We’re still accepting private messages both ways on the Terra-Venus channel—subject to paraphrase and censoring—but we couldn’t guarantee that your message would be relayed from Terra to Mars. Or could you instruct someone on Earth to pay for the second transmission?”

  “Uh—I’m afraid not.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well. They might not relay it for you even if you could get someone to foot the bill. The Federation censors might kill it. So give me that traffic and I’ll file it. You can pay for it later.” She glanced at the message. “Looks like you sort of ran into hard luck. How old are you—” She glanced again at the form. “—Don Harvey?”

  Don told her.

  “Hmmm…you look older. I’m older than you are; I guess that makes me your grandmother. If you need any more advice, just stop in and ask Grandmother Isobel—Isobel Costello.”

  “Uh, thanks, Isobel.”

  “Not at all. Usual I.T.&T. service.” She gave him a warm smile. Don left feeling somewhat confused.

  The bank was near the center of the island; Don remembered having passed it. The sign on the glass read: BANK OF AMERICA & HONGKONG. Over this had been stuck strips of masking tape and under it was another sign handwritten in whitewash: New London Trust & Investment Company. Don went in, picked the shortest queue, and presently explained his wants. The teller hooked a thumb toward a desk back of a rail. “See him.”

  At the desk was seated an elderly Chinese dressed in a long black gown. As Don approached he stood up, bowed, and said, “May I help you, sir?”

  Don again explained and laid his wad of bills on the banker’s desk. The man looked at it without touching it. “I am so sorry—”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You are past the date when one may legally exchange Federation currency for money of the Republic.”

  “But I haven’t had a chance to before! I just got in.”

  “I am very sorry. I do not make the regulations.”

  “But what am I to do?”

  The banker closed his eyes, then opened them. “In this imperfect world one must have money. Have you something to offer as security?”

  “Uh, I guess not. Just my clothes and these bags.”

  “No jewelry?”

  “Well, I’ve got a ring but I don’t suppose it’s worth much.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Don took off the ring Dr. Jefferson had mailed to him and handed it over. The Chinese stuck a watchmaker’s loop in his eye and examined it. “I’m afraid you are right. Not even true amber—merely plastic. Still—a symbol of security will bind the honest man quite as much as chains. I’ll advance fifty credits on it.”

  Don took the ring back and hesitated. The ring could not possibly be worth a tenth of that sum…and his stomach was reminding him that flesh has its insistent demands. Still—his mother had spent at least twice that amount to make sure that this ring reached him (or the paper it had been wrapped in, he corrected himself) and Dr. Jefferson had died in a fashion somehow connected with this same bauble.

  He put it back on his finger. “That wouldn’t be fair. I guess I had better find a job.”

  “A man of pride. There is always work to be found in a new and growing city; good luck. When you have found employment come back and we can arrange an advance against your wages.” The banker reached into the folds of his gown, pulled out a single credit note. “But eat first—a full belly steadies the judgment. Do me the honor of accepting this as our welcome to the newcomer.”

  His pride said no; his stomach said YES! Don took it and said, “Uh, thanks! That’s awfully kind of you. I’ll pay it back, first chance.”

  “Instead, pay it forward to some other brother who needs it.” The banker touched a button on his desk, then stood up.

  Don said goodbye and left.

  There was a man loitering at the door of the bank. He let Don get a step or two ahead, then followed him, but Don paid him no attention, being very busy with his own worries. It was slowly beginning to grow on him that the bottom had dropped out of his world and that there might be no way to put it back together. He had lived in security all his life; he had never experienced emotionally, in his own person, the basic historical fact that mankind lives always by the skin of its teeth, sometimes winning but more often losing—and dying.

  But never quitting. In a hundred yards of muddy street he began to grow up, take stock of his situation. He was more than a hundred million miles from where he meant to be. He had no way at once to let his parents know where be was, nor was it a simple matter of waiting two weeks—he was flat broke, unable to pay the high tariff.

  Broke, hungry, and no place to sleep…no friends, not even an acquaintance—unless, he recalled, you counted “Sir Isaac,” but, for all he knew, his dragon friend might be on the other side of the planet. Certainly not close enough at hand to affect the ham-and-eggs problem!

  He decided to settle that problem at once by spending the note the banker had given him. He recalled a restaurant a short distance back and stopped suddenly, whereupon a man jostled him.

  Don said, “Excuse me,” and noted that the man was another Chinese—noted it without surprise as nearly half of the contract labor shipped in during the early days of the Venerian colonies had been Orientals. It did seem to him that the man’s face was familiar—a fellow passenger in the Nautilus? Then he recalled that he had seen him at the dock at the foot of the street.

  “My fault,” the man answered. “I should look where I’m going. Sorry I bumped you.” He smiled most charmingly.

  “No harm done,” Don replied, “but it was my fault. I suddenly decided to turn around and go back.”

  “Back to the bank?”

  “Huh?”

  “None of my business, but I saw you coming out of the bank.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Don answered, “I wasn’t going back to the bank. I’m looking for a restaurant and I remembered seeing one back there.”

  The man glanced at his bags. “Just get in?”

  “Just down in the Nautilus.”

  “You don’t want that restaurant—not unless you have money to throw away. It’s strictly a tourist trap.”

  Don thought about the single credit note in his pocket and worried. “Uh, where can a chap get a bite to eat? A good, cheap restaurant?”

  The man took his arm. “I’ll show you. A place down by the water, run by a cousin of mine.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “Not at all. I was about to refresh the inner man myself. By the way, my name is Johnny Ling.”

  “Glad to know you, Mr. Ling. I’m Don Harvey.”

  The restaurant was in a blind alley off the foot of Buchanan Street. Its sign advertised TWO WORLDS DINING ROOM—Tables for Ladies—WELCOME SPACEMEN. Three move-overs were hanging around the entrance, sniffing the odors and pressing their twitching noses against the screen door. Johnny Ling pushed them aside and ushered Don in.

  A fat Cantonese stood behind the counter, presiding over both range and cash register. Ling called out, “Hi Charlie!”

  The fat man answered, “Hello, Johnny,” then broke into fluent cursing, mixing Cantonese, English, Portuguese, and whistle speech impartially. One of the move-overs had managed to slip in when the door was opened and was making a beeline for the pie rack, his little hooves clicking on the floor. Moving very fast despite his size the man called Charlie headed him off, took him by the ear and marched him out. Still curs
ing, Charlie returned to the pie rack, picked out half a pie that had seen better times and returned to the door. He tossed the pie to the fauns, who scrambled for it, bleating and whimpering.

  “If you didn’t feed them, Charlie,” commented Ling, “they wouldn’t hang around.”

  “You damn mind your own business!”

  Several customers were eating at the counter; they paid no attention to the incident. Ling moved closer to the cook and said, “Back room empty?”

  Charlie nodded and turned his back. Ling led Don through a swinging door; they ended up in a booth in the back of the building. Don sat down and picked up a menu, wondering what he could get that would stretch his one credit as far as possible. Ling took it from him. “Let me order for you. Charlie really is a number-one cook.”

  “But—”

  “You are my guest. No, don’t argue. I insist.” Charlie showed up at that point, stepping silently through the booth’s curtain. He and Ling exchanged remarks in a rapid singsong; he went away, returning shortly with crisp, hot egg rolls. The aroma was wonderful and Don’s stomach put a stop to his protests.

  The egg rolls were followed by a main dish which Don could not place. It was Chinese cooking but it certainly was not the chop suey of the trade. Don thought that he could identify Venerian vegetables out of his childhood in it but he could not be sure. Whatever it was, it was just what he needed; he began to feel a warm glow of content and ceased to be worried about anything.

  While he ate he found that he was telling Ling his life history with emphasis on recent events that had landed him unexpectedly on Venus. The man was easy to talk to and it did not seem polite simply to sit, wolfing his host’s food and saying nothing.

  Ling sat back presently and wiped his mouth. “You’ve certainly had an odd time of it, Don. What are you going to do now?”

  Don frowned. “I wish I knew. I’ve got to find a job of some sort and a place to sleep. After that I’ve got to scrape up, or save up, or borrow, enough money to send word to my folks. They’ll be worried.”

  “You brought some money with you?”

  “Huh? Oh, sure, but it’s Federation money. I can’t spend it.”

  “And Uncle Tom wouldn’t change it for you. He’s a flinty hearted old so-and-so in spite of his smiles. He’s still a pawnbroker at bottom.”

  “‘Uncle Tom?’ The banker is your uncle?”

  “Eh? Oh, no, no—just a manner of speaking. He set up a hock shop here a long time ago. Prospectors would come in and pawn their Geiger counters. Next time out he’d grub-stake ’em. Pretty soon he owned half the hot pits around here and was a banker. But we still call him ‘Uncle Tom.’”

  Don had a vague feeling that Ling was too anxious to deny the relationship but he did not pursue the thought as it did not matter to him. Ling was continuing, “You know, Don, the bank isn’t the only place where you can change Federation money.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ling dipped his forefinger in a puddle of water on the table top and traced out the universal credit sign. “Of course, it’s the only legal place. Would that worry you?”

  “Well…”

  “It isn’t as if there were anything wrong about changing it. It’s an arbitrary law and they didn’t ask you when they passed it. After all, it’s your money. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “It’s your money and you can do what you please with it. But this talk is strictly on the quiet—you understand that?”

  Don didn’t say anything; Ling went on, “Now just speaking hypothetically—how much Federation money do you have?”

  “Uh, about five hundred credits.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  Don hesitated. Ling said sharply, “Come on. Don’t you trust me? After all it’s just so much waste paper.”

  Don got out his money. Ling looked at it and took out his wallet, started counting out bills. “Some of those big bills will be hard to move,” he commented. “Suppose we say fifteen per cent.” The money he laid down looked exactly like that Don had placed on the table except that each note had been overprinted with VENUS REPUBLIC.

  Don did a rapid calculation. Fifteen per cent of what he had came to seventy-five credits, more or less—not even half what he needed to pay for a radiogram to Mars. He picked up his money and started putting it back into his wallet.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s no use to me. I told you I needed a hundred eighty-seven fifty to pay for my radiogram.”

  “Well—twenty per cent. And I’m doing you a favor because you’re a youngster in trouble.”

  Twenty per cent was still only a hundred credits. “No.”

  “Be reasonable! I can’t move it at more than a point or two over that; I might take a loss. Commercial money draws eight per cent now, the way things are booming. This stuff has to go into hiding, losing eight per cent every year. If the war goes on very long, it’s a net loss. What do you expect?”

  Fiscal theory was over Don’s head; he simply knew that anything less than the price of a message to Mars did not interest him. He shook his head.

  Ling shrugged and gathered up his money. “It’s your loss. Say, that’s a handsome ring you’re wearing.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How much money do you say you needed?”

  Don repeated it. “You see, I’ve just got to get word to my family. I don’t really need money for anything else; I can work.”

  “Mind if I look at that ring?”

  Don did not want to pass it over but there seemed no way to avoid it without being rude. Ling slipped it on; it was quite loose on his bony finger. “Just my size. And it’s got my initial, too.”

  “Huh?”

  “My milk name, ‘Henry.’ I’ll tell you, Don, I’d really like to help you out. Suppose we say twenty per cent on your money and I’ll take the ring for the balance of what you need to send your ’gram. Okay?”

  Don could not have told why he refused. But be was beginning to dislike Ling, beginning to regret being obligated to him for a meal. The sudden switch aroused his stubborn streak. “It’s a family keepsake,” he answered. “Not for sale.”

  “Eh? You’re in no position to be sentimental. The ring is worth more here than it is on Earth—but I’m still offering you much more than it’s worth. Don’t be a fool!”

  “I know you are,” Don answered, “and I don’t understand why you are. In any case the ring is not for sale. Give it back to me.”

  “And suppose I don’t?”

  Don took a deep breath. “Why then,” he said slowly, “I suppose I’ll have to fight you for it.”

  Ling looked at him for a moment, then took off the ring and dropped it on the table. He then walked out of the booth without saying anything more.

  Don stared after him and tried to figure it out. He was still wondering when the curtain was pushed aside and the restaurant keeper came in. He dropped a chit on the table. “One and six,” he said stolidly.

  “Didn’t Mr. Ling pay for it? He invited me to have dinner with him.”

  “One and six,” Charlie repeated. “You ate. You pay.”

  Don stood up. “Where do you wash dishes around here? I might as well get started.”

  IX

  “Bone” Money

  BEFORE the evening was over the job of washing dishes for his dinner developed into a fixed arrangement. The salary was small—Don calculated that it would take him roughly forever to save enough money to send a radiogram to his parents—but it included three meals a day of Charlie’s superlative cooking. Charlie himself seemed a very decent sort under his gruffness. He expressed a complicated and most disparaging opinion of Johnny Ling, using the same highly spiced lingua franca that he had used on the move-overs. He also denied any relationship to Ling while attributing to Ling other relationships which were on the face of them improbable.

  After the last customer was gone and the last dish dried Charlie made up a pal
let for Don on the floor of the back room in which Don had dined. As Don undressed and crawled into bed he remembered that he should have phoned the space port security office and told them his address. Tomorrow would do, he thought sleepily; anyhow the restaurant had no phone.

  He woke up in darkness with a feeling of oppression. For a terrified moment he thought someone was holding him down and trying to rob him. As he came wider awake he realized where he was and what was causing the oppressed feeling—move-overs. There were two of them in bed with him; one was snuggled up to his back and was holding onto his shoulders; the other was cradled in his lap, spoon-fashion. Both were snoring gently. Someone had undoubtedly left a door open for a moment and they had sneaked in.

  Don chuckled to himself. It was impossible to be angry with the affectionate little creatures. He scratched the one in front of him between its horns and said, “Look, kids, this is my bed. Now get out of here before I get tough.”

  They both bleated and snuggled closer. Don got up, got each of them by an ear and evicted them through the curtain. “Now stay out!”

  They were back in bed before he was.

  Don thought about it and gave up. The back room had no door that could be closed. As for chucking them outside the building, the place was dark and still strange to him and he was not sure of the locations of light switches. Nor did he want to wake Charlie. After all there was no harm in bedding down with a move-over; they were cleanly little things, no worse than having a dog curl up against one—better, for dogs harbor fleas. “Move over,” he ordered, unintentionally renaming them, “and give me some room.”

  He did not go at once to sleep; the dream that had awakened him still troubled him. He sat up, fumbled in the dark, and found his money, which he tucked under him. He then remembered the ring, and, feeling somewhat foolish, he pulled on a sock and stuffed the ring far down into the sock.

  Presently all three of them were snoring.

  He was awakened by a frightened bleating in his ear. The next few moments were quite confused. He sat up, whispered, “Pipe down!” and started to smack his bedmate, when he felt his wrist grasped by a hand—not the thumbless little paw of a move-over, but a human hand.