Between Planets

by Robert A. Heinlein

  The table had been set in accordance with human customs. True, the soup was in the coffee cup and the soup plate contained coffee, but Don was in no mood to care about such details—they were both hot. So was the sour bread toast and the scrambled eggs—shell eggs, if he was a judge.

  He spread his wet clothes on the warm, tiled floor, hastily patted them smooth, drew up the chair and fell to. “As you say, Skipper,” he muttered, “we never had it so good.”

  There was a foam mattress on the floor of another bay of the same room; Don did not need to look to see that it was Greenie general issue (officers). There was no bedframe and no blankets, but neither was necessary. Knowing that he would not be disturbed nor expected to put in an appearance until it suited him, he spread himself out on it after dinner. He was very tired, he now realized, and he certainly had much to think about.

  The reappearance of Sir Isaac caused buried memories to lift their heads, fresh and demanding. He thought again of his school, wondered where his roommate was. Had he joined up on the other side? He hoped not…yet knew in his heart that Jack had. You did what you had to do, judging it from where you were. Jack wasn’t his enemy, couldn’t be. Good old Jack! He hoped strongly that the wild chances of war would never bring them face to face.

  He wondered if Lazy still remembered him.

  He saw again Old Charlie’s face, suddenly blasted out of human shape…and again his heart raged with the thought. Well, he had paid back for Old Charlie, with interest. He grieved again for Isobel.

  Finally he wondered about the orders, all the way from HQ, that had sent him to Sir Isaac. Was there actually a military job here? Or had Sir Isaac simply found out where he was and sent for him? The last seemed more likely; HQ would regard a request from a prince of the Egg as a military “must”, dragons being as important as they were to operations.

  He scratched the scar on his left arm and fell asleep.

  Breakfast was as satisfactory as supper. This time there was no mystery about its appearance; it was wheeled in by a young dragon—Don knew that she was young as her rear pair of eyestalks were still buds; she could not have been more than a Venus century old. Don whistled his thanks; she answered politely and left.

  Don wondered if Sir Isaac employed human servants; the cooking puzzled him—dragons simply do not cook. They prefer their fodder fresh, with a little of the bottom mud still clinging to it, for flavor. He could imagine a dragon boiling an egg the proper length of time, the time having been stated, but his imagination boggled at anything more complicated. Human cookery is an esoteric and strictly racial art.

  His puzzlement did not keep him from enjoying breakfast.

  After breakfast, his self-confidence shored up by clean and reasonably neat clothes, he braced himself for the ordeal of meeting Sir Isaac’s numerous family. Used as he was to acting as a “true speech” interpreter, the prospect of so much ceremoniousness in which he himself would be expected to play a central and imaginative part made him nervous. He hoped that he would be able to carry it off in a fashion that would reflect honor on his parents and not embarrass his sponsor.

  He had shaved sketchily, having no mirror, and was ready to make his sortie, when he heard his name called. It surprised him, as he knew that he should not have been disturbed—being a guest freshly arrived—even if he chose to stay in his chambers for a week, or a month—or forever.

  Sir Isaac lumbered in. “My dear boy, will you forgive an old man in a hurry for treating you with the informality ordinarily used only with one’s own children?”

  “Why, certainly, Sir Isaac.” Don was still puzzled. If Sir Isaac were a dragon in a hurry, he was the first one in history.

  “If you are refreshed, then please come with me.” Don did so, reflecting that they must have had him under observation; Sir Isaac’s entrance was too timely. The old dragon led him out of his chambers, down a passage, and into a room which might have been considered cozy by dragon standards; it was less than a hundred feet across.

  Don decided that it must be Sir Isaac’s study, as there were roll upon roll of ribbon books racked on the walls and the usual sort of rotating bench set at the height of his handling tentacles. Above the racks on one wall was what Don judged to be a mural, but it looked like meaningless daubs to him; the three colors in the infrared which dragons see and we do not produced the usual confusion. On second thought he decided that it might actually be meaningless; certainly a lot of human art did not seem to mean anything.

  But the point which he noticed most and wondered about was that the room contained not one but two chairs meant for humans.

  Sir Isaac invited him to sit down. Don did so and found that the chair was of the best powered furniture; it felt out his size and shape and conformed to it. He found out at once for whom the other terrestrial chair was intended; a man strode in—fiftyish, lean and hard in the belly, wiry grey hair around a bald pate. He had an abrupt manner and gave the impression that his orders were always obeyed. “Morning, gentlemen!” He turned to Don. “You’re Don Harvey. My name’s Phipps—Montgomery Phipps.” He spoke as if that were sufficient explanation. “You’ve grown some. Last time I saw you I walloped your britches for biting my thumb.”

  Don felt put off by the man’s top-sergeant air. He supposed that it was some acquaintance of his parents whom he had met in the dim reaches of his childhood, but he could not place him. “Did I have reason to bite it?” he asked.

  “Eh?” The man suddenly gave a barking laugh. “I suppose that is a matter of opinion. But we were even; I spanked you properly.” He turned to Sir Isaac. “Is Malath going to be here?”

  “He told me that he would make the effort. He should be along shortly.”

  Phipps threw himself in the other chair and drummed on the arms of it. “Well, I suppose we must wait, though I don’t see the need of his attending. There has been much too much delay now—we should have had this meeting last night.”

  Sir Isaac managed to drag a shocked tone out of his voder. “Last night? With a guest newly arrived?”

  Phipps shrugged. “Never mind.” He turned back to Don. “How did you like your dinner, son?”

  “Very much.”

  “My wife cooked it. She’s busy in the lab now, but you’ll meet her later. Top flight chemist—in or out of the kitchen.”

  “I’d like to thank her,” Don said sincerely. “Did you say ‘lab’?”

  “Eh? Yes, yes—quite a place. You’ll see it later. Some of the best talent on Venus here. The Federation’s loss is our gain.”

  The questions that immediately popped into Don’s mind were held up; someone—something—was coming in. Don’s eyes widened when he saw that it was a Martian’s “pram”—the self-propelled personal environment without which a Martian cannot live either on Earth or Venus. The little car wheeled in and joined the circle; the figure inside raised itself to a sitting position with the aid of its powered artificial exoskeleton, tried feebly to spread its pseudowings and spoke, its thin, tired voice amplified through a speaking system. “Malath da Thon greets you, my friends.”

  Phipps stood up. “Malath old boy, you should be back in your tank. You’ll kill yourself exerting like this.”

  “I shall live as long as is necessary.”

  “Here’s the Harvey kid. Looks like his old man, doesn’t he?”

  Sir Isaac, shocked by such casualness, intervened with a formal introduction. Don tried feverishly to recall more than two words of High Martian, gave up and let it go with, “I’m glad to know you, sir.”

  “The honor is mine,” answered the tired voice. “‘A tall father casts a long shadow.’”

  Don wondered what to answer while reflecting that the rowdy lack of manners of the move-overs had its points. Phipps broke in with, “Well, let’s get down to business before Malath wears himself out. Sir Isaac?”

  “Very well. Donald, you know that you are welcome in my house.”

  “Uh—why, yes, Sir Isaac, thank you.”


  “You know that I urged you to visit me before I knew aught of you but your parentage and your own good spirit.”

  “Yes, sir, you asked me to look you up. And I tried to, I really did—but I didn’t know where you had landed. I was just getting organized to do a little detective work on it when the Greenies landed. I’m sorry.” Don felt vaguely uncomfortable, knowing that he had put the matter off until he had a favor to ask.

  “And I tried to find you, Donald—and was caught by the same mischance. Most recently, by rumors that are carried on the mist, did I discover where you were and what you were doing.” Sir Isaac paused as if he found the choice of words difficult. “Knowing that this house is yours, knowing that you were welcome in any case, can you forgive me when you discover you were summoned also for a most practical reason?”

  Don decided that this called for “true speech.” “‘How can the eyes offend the tail? Or father offend son?’ What can I do to help, Sir Isaac? I had already gathered that something was up.”

  “How shall I begin? Should I speak of your Cyrus Buchanan who died far from his people, yet died happily since he had made us his people, too? Or should I speak of the strange and complicated customs of your own people wherein you sometimes—or so it appears to us—cause the jaw to bite its own leg? Or should I discuss directly the events that have happened here since first you and I shared mud in the sky?”

  Phipps stirred uneasily. “Let me handle it, Sir Isaac. Remember that this young man and I are of the same race. We won’t have to beat around the bush; I can put it up to him in two words. It isn’t complicated.”

  Sir Isaac lowered his massive head. “As you wish, my friend.”

  Phipps turned to Don. “Young fellow, you didn’t know it, but when your parents called you home to Mars, you were a courier with a message.”

  Don looked at him sharply. “But I did know it.” His mind raced ahead, adjusting himself to this new situation.

  “You did? Well, that’s fine! Let’s have it, then.”

  “Have what?”

  “The ring—the ring, of course. Give it to us.”

  XV

  “Judge Not According to the Appearance”

  JOHN VII:24

  “WAIT a minute,” Don protested. “You’re mixed up. I know what ring you mean, all right, but it wasn’t the ring; it was the paper that it was wrapped in. And the I.B.I. got that.”

  Phipps looked perplexed, then laughed. “They did, eh? Then they made the same mistake you did. But it’s the ring itself that is important. Let’s have it.”

  “You must be mistaken,” Don answered slowly. “Or maybe we aren’t talking about the same ring.” He thought about it. “It’s possible that the I.B.I. swapped rings before the package ever reached me. But it’s a dead cinch that the ring that was delivered to me couldn’t have contained a message. It was transparent plastic—styrene, probably—and there wasn’t even a fly speck in it. No message. No way to hide a message.”

  Phipps shrugged impatiently. “Don’t quibble with me as to whether or not a message could be concealed in the ring—it’s the right ring; be sure of that. The I.B.I. didn’t switch rings—we know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Confound it, boy! Your function was to deliver the ring, that’s all. You let us worry about the message in it.”

  Don was beginning to feel sure that when his younger self had bitten Phipps’ thumb, he must have been justified. “Wait a minute! I was to deliver the ring, yes—that is what Dr. Jefferson—you know who he is?”

  “I knew who he was. I’ve never met him.”

  “That’s what Dr. Jefferson wanted. He’s dead, or so they told me. In any case I can’t consult him. But he was very specific about to whom I was to deliver it—to my father. Not to you.”

  Phipps pounded the arm of the chair. “I know it, I know it! If things had gone properly, you would have delivered it to your father and we would have been saved no end of trouble. But those eager lads in New London had to—Never mind. The rebellion occurring when it did caused you to wind up here instead of on Mars. I’m trying to pick up the pieces. You can’t deliver it to your father, but you can get the same result by turning it over to me. Your father and I are working toward the same end.”

  Don hesitated before answering, “I don’t wish to be rude—but you ought to give some proof of that.”

  Sir Isaac produced with his voder a sound exactly like a man clearing his throat. “Ahem!” They both turned their heads toward him. “Perhaps,” he went on, “I should enter the discussion. I have known Donald, if I may say so, more recently, my dear Phipps.”

  “Well—go ahead.”

  Sir Isaac turned most of his eyes on Don. “My dear Donald, do you trust me?”

  “Uh, I think so, Sir Isaac—but it seems to me that I am obligated to insist on proof. It isn’t my ring.”

  “Yes, you have reason. Then let us consider what would be proof. If I say—”

  Don interrupted, feeling that the whole matter was out of hand. “I’m sorry I let this grow into an argument. You see, it does not matter.”

  “Eh?”

  “Well, you see, I don’t have the ring any longer. It’s gone.”

  There was a dead silence for a long minute. Then Phipps said, “I think Malath has fainted.”

  There was scurrying excitement while the Martian’s cart was removed to his chambers, tension until it was reported that he was floating in his very special bed and resting comfortably. The conference resumed with three members. Phipps glowered at Don. “It’s your fault, you know. What you said took the heart out of him.”

  “Me? I don’t understand.”

  “He was a courier, too—he was stranded here the same way you were. He has the other half of the message—of the message you lost. And you removed the last possible chance he has of getting home before high gravity kills him. He’s a sick man—and you jerked the rug out from under him.”

  Donald said, “But—”

  Sir Isaac interrupted. “Donald is not at fault. The young should be blamed only with just cause and after deliberation, lest the family sorrow.”

  Phipps glanced at the dragon, then back at Don. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and bad tempered. What’s done is done. The important point is: what happened to the ring? Is there any possibility of locating it?”

  Don looked unhappy. “I’m afraid not.” He explained rapidly about the attempt to get the ring from him and how he had had no proper place to protect it. “I didn’t know that it was really important but I was determined to carry out Dr. Jefferson’s wishes—maybe I’m sort of stubborn at times. So I did the best I could think of to do; I turned it over to a friend for safekeeping. I figured that was best because no one would think of looking for it in the hands of a person who wouldn’t be expected to have it.”

  “Sound enough,” agreed Phipps, “but to whom did you give it?”

  “A young lady.” Don’s features contorted. “I think she was killed when the Greenies attacked.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I’m fairly certain. I’ve been doing work that gives me opportunities to ask and nobody has laid eyes on her since the attack. I’m sure she’s dead.”

  “You could be wrong. What was her name?”

  “Isobel Costello. Her father managed the I.T.&T. branch.”

  Phipps looked utterly astounded, then lay back in his chair and roared. Presently he wiped his eyes and said, “Did you hear that, Sir Isaac? Did you hear that? Talk about the Blue Bird in your own back yard! Talk about Grandma’s spectacles!”

  Don looked from one to the other. “What do you mean?” he asked in offended tones.

  “What do I mean? Why, son, Jim Costello and his daughter have been right here since two days after the attack.” He jumped out of his chair. “Don’t move! Stay where you are—I’ll be right back.”

  And he was back quickly. “I always have trouble with those funny house phones of yours, Sir Ike,” he comp
lained. “But they’re coming.” He sat down and heaved a sigh. “Some days I’m tempted to turn myself in as an idiot.”

  Phipps shut up, save for a suppressed chuckle or two. Sir Isaac seemed to be contemplating his non-existent navel. Don was preoccupied with turbulent thoughts, relief too great to be pleasure. Isobel alive!

  Presently, calm somewhat restored, he spoke up. “Look, isn’t it about time somebody told me what this is all about?”

  Sir Isaac lifted his head and his tendrils played over the keys. “Your pardon, dear boy. I was thinking of something else. Long, long ago when my race was young and when your race had not yet—”

  Phipps cut in. “Excuse me, old boy, but I can brief it and you can fill him in on the details later.” He assumed assent and turned to Don. “Harvey, there is an organization—a cabal, a conspiracy, a secret lodge call it what you like—we just call it ‘The Organization’. I’m a member, so is Sir Isaac, so is old Malath—and so are both of your parents. And so was Dr. Jefferson. It’s made up mostly of scientists but it is not limited to them; the one thing we all have in common is a belief in the dignity and natural worth of free intelligence. In many different ways we have fought—and fought unsuccessfully, I should add—against the historical imperative of the last two centuries—the withering away of individual freedom under larger and even more pervasive organizations, both governmental and quasi-governmental.

  “On Earth our group derives from dozens of sources, way back in history—associations of scientists fighting against secrecy and the straitjacketing of thought, artists fighting against censorship, legal aid societies, many other organizations, most of them unsuccessful, and some downright stupid. About a century ago all such things were pushed underground; the weak sisters dropped out, the talkative got themselves arrested and liquidated—and the remnants consolidated.