Have Space Suit—Will Travel

by Robert A. Heinlein

  (“Not so hasty, dear. Let me shed this.”) The Mother Thing stepped out of her harness, shook herself in ripples, folded the flying gear like an umbrella and hung it over an arm. (“You’re looking fit, Kip.”)

  “I feel fine, Mother Thing! Gee, it’s nice to have you back.”

  (“I wished to be back when you got out of bed. However, your therapists have kept me advised every minute.” ) She put a little hand against my chest, growing a bit to do so, and placed her eyes almost against my face plate. (“You are well?”)

  “I couldn’t be better.”

  “He really is, Mother Thing!”

  (“Good. You agree that you are well, I sense that you are, Peewee is sure that you are and, most important, your leader therapist assures me that you are. We’ll leave at once.”)

  “What?” I asked. “Where, Mother Thing?”

  She turned to Peewee. (“Haven’t you told him, dear?”)

  “Gee, Mother Thing, I haven’t had a chance.”

  (“Very well.”) She turned to me. (“Dear Kip, we must now attend a gathering. Questions will be asked and answered, decisions will be made.”) She spoke to us both. (“Are you ready to leave?”)

  “Now?” said Peewee. “Why, I guess so—except that I’ve got to get Madame Pompadour.”

  (“Fetch her, then. And you, Kip?”)

  “Uh—” I couldn’t remember whether I had put my watch back on after I washed and I couldn’t tell because I can’t feel it through Oscar’s thick hide. I told her so.

  (“Very well. You children run to your rooms while I have a ship fetched. Meet me here and don’t stop to admire flowers.”)

  We went down by ramp. I said, “Peewee, you’ve been holding out on me again.”

  “Why, I have not!”

  “What do you call it?”

  “Kip—please listen! I was told not to tell you while you were ill. The Mother Thing was very firm about it. You were not to be disturbed—that’s what she said!—while you were growing well.”

  “Why should I feel disturbed? What is all this? What gathering? What questions?”

  “Well…the gathering is sort of a court. A criminal court, you might say.”

  “Huh?” I took a quick look at my conscience. But I hadn’t had any chance to do anything wrong—I had been helpless as a baby up to two hours ago. That left Peewee. “Runt,” I said sternly, “what have you done now?”

  “Me? Nothing.”

  “Think hard.”

  “No, Kip. Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at breakfast! But Daddy says never to break any news until after his second cup of coffee and I thought how nice it would be to take a little walk before we had any worries and I was going to tell you—”

  “Make it march.”

  “—as soon as we came down. I haven’t done anything. But there’s old Wormface.”

  “What? I thought he was dead.”

  “Maybe so, maybe not. But, as the Mother Thing says, there are still questions to be asked, decisions to be made. He’s up for the limit, is my guess.”

  I thought about it as we wound our way through strange apartments toward the air lock that led to our Earth-conditioned rooms. High crimes and misdemeanors…skulduggery in the spaceways—yes, Wormface was probably in for it. If the Vegans could catch him. “Had caught him” apparently, since they were going to try him. “But where do we come in? As witnesses?”

  “I suppose you could call it that.”

  What happened to Wormface was no skin off my nose—and it would be a chance to find out more about the Vegans. Especially if the court was some distance away, so that we would travel and see the country.

  “But that isn’t all,” Peewee went on worriedly.

  “What else?”

  She sighed. “This is why I wanted us to have a nice sight-see first. Uh…”

  “Don’t chew on it. Spit it out.”

  “Well…we have to be tried, too.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe ‘examined’ is the word. I don’t know. But I know this: we can’t go home until we’ve been judged.”

  “But what have we done?” I burst out.

  “I don’t know!”

  My thoughts were boiling. “Are you sure they’ll let us go home then?”

  “The Mother Thing refuses to talk about it.”

  I stopped and took her arm. “What it amounts to,” I said bitterly, “is that we are under arrest. Aren’t we?”

  “Yes—” She added almost in a sob, “But, Kip, I told you she was a cop!”

  “Great stuff. We pull her chestnuts out of the fire—and now we’re arrested—and going to be tried—and we don’t even know why! Nice place, Vega Five. ‘The natives are friendly.’” They had nursed me—as we nurse a gangster in order to hang him.

  “But, Kip—” Peewee was crying openly now. “I’m sure it’ll be all right. She may be a cop—but she’s still the Mother Thing.”

  “Is she? I wonder.” Peewee’s manner contradicted her words. She was not one to worry over nothing. Quite the contrary.

  My watch was on the washstand. I ungasketed to put it in an inside pocket. When I came out, Peewee was doing the same with Madame Pompadour. “Here,” I said, “I’ll take her with me. I’ve got more room.”

  “No, thank you,” Peewee answered bleakly. “I need her with me. Especially now.”

  “Uh, Peewee, where is this court? This city? Or another one?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? No, I guess I didn’t. It’s not on this planet.”

  “I thought this was the only inhabited—”

  “It’s not a planet around Vega. Another star. Not even in the Galaxy.”

  “Say that again?”

  “It’s somewhere in the Lesser Magellanic Cloud.”

  Chapter 10

  I didn’t put up a fight—a hundred and sixty trillion miles from nowhere, I mean. But I didn’t speak to the Mother Thing as I got into her ship.

  It was shaped like an old-fashioned beehive and it looked barely big enough to jump us to the space port. Peewee and I crowded together on the floor, the Mother Thing curled up in front and twiddled a shiny rack like an abacus; we took off, straight up.

  In a few minutes my anger grew from sullenness to a reckless need to settle it. “Mother Thing!”

  (“One moment, dear. Let me get us out of atmosphere.”) She pushed something, the ship quivered and steadied.

  “Mother Thing,” I repeated.

  (“Wait until I lower us, Kip.”)

  I had to wait. It’s as silly to disturb a pilot as it is to snatch the wheel of a car. The little ship took a buffeting; the upper winds must have been dillies. But she could pilot.

  Presently there was a gentle bump and I figured we must be at the space port. The Mother Thing turned her head. (“All right, Kip. I sense your fear and resentment. Will it help to say that you two are in no danger? That I would protect you with my body? As you protected mine?”)

  “Yes, but—”

  (“Then let be. It is easier to show than it is to explain. Don’t clamp your helmet. This planet’s air is like your own.”)

  “Huh? You mean we’re there?”

  “I told you,” Peewee said at my elbow. “Just poof! and you’re there.”

  I didn’t answer. I was trying to guess how far we were from home.

  (“Come, children.”)

  It was midday when we left; it was night as we disembarked. The ship rested on a platform that stretched out of sight. Stars in front of me were in unfamiliar constellations; slaunchwise down the sky was a thin curdling which I spotted as the Milky Way. So Peewee had her wires crossed—we were far from home but still in the Galaxy—perhaps we had simply switched to the night side of Vega Five.

  I heard Peewee gasp and turned around.

  I didn’t have strength to gasp.

  Dominating that whole side of the sky was a great whirlpool of millions, maybe billions, of stars.

  You’ve seen pictures of the Great Ne
bula in Andromeda?—a giant spiral of two curving arms, seen at an angle. Of all the lovely things in the sky it is the most beautiful. This was like that.

  Only we weren’t seeing a photograph nor even by telescope; we were so close (if “close” is the word) that it stretched across the sky twice as long as the Big Dipper as seen from home—so close that I saw the thickening at the center, two great branches coiling around and overtaking each other. We saw it from an angle so that it appeared elliptical, just as M31 in Andromeda does; you could feel its depth, you could see its shape.

  Then I knew I was a long way from home. That was home, up there, lost in billions of crowded stars.

  It was some time before I noticed another double spiral on my right, almost as wide-flung but rather lopsided and not nearly as brilliant—a pale ghost of our own gorgeous Galaxy. It slowly penetrated that this second one must be the Greater Magellanic Cloud—if we were in the Lesser and if that fiery whirlpool was our own Galaxy. What I had thought was “The Milky Way” was simply a milky way, the Lesser Cloud from inside.

  I turned and looked at it again. It had the right shape, a roadway around the sky, but it was pale skim milk compared with our own, about as our Milky Way looks on a murky night. I didn’t know how it should look, since I’d never seen the Magellanic Clouds; I’ve never been south of the Rio Grande. But I did know that each cloud is a galaxy in its own right, but smaller than ours and grouped with us.

  I looked again at our blazing spiral and was homesick in a way I hadn’t been since I was six.

  Peewee was huddling to the Mother Thing for comfort. She made herself taller and put an arm around Peewee. (“There, there, dear! I felt the same way when I was very young and saw it for the first time.”)

  “Mother Thing?” Peewee said timidly. “Where is home?”

  (“See the right half of it, dear, where the outer arm trails into nothingness? We came from a point two-thirds the way out from the center.”

  “No, no! Not Vega. I want to know where the Sun is!”

  (“Oh, your star. But, dear, at this distance it is the same.”)

  We learned how far it is from the Sun to the planet Lanador—167,000 light-years. The Mother Thing couldn’t tell us directly as she did not know how much time we meant by a “year”—how long it takes Terra to go around the Sun (a figure she might have used once or not at all and as worth remembering as the price of peanuts in Perth). But she did know the distance from Vega to the Sun and told us the distance from Lanador to Vega with that as a yardstick—six thousand one hundred and ninety times as great. 6190 times 27 light-years gives 167,000 light-years. She courteously gave it in powers of ten the way we figure, instead of using factorial five (1 X 2 X 3 X 4 X 5 equals 120) which is how Vegans figure. 167,000 light-years is 9.82 X 1017 miles. Round off 9.82 and call it ten. Then—

  1,000,000,000,000,000,000 miles

  —is the distance from Vega to Lanador (or from the Sun to Lanador; Vega and the Sun are back-fence neighbors on this scale.)

  A thousand million billion miles.

  I refuse to have anything to do with such a preposterous figure. It may be “short” as cosmic distances go, but there comes a time when the circuit breakers in your skull trip out from overload.

  The platform we were on was the roof of an enormous triangular building, miles on a side. We saw that triangle repeated in many places and always with a two-armed spiral in each corner. It was the design the Mother Thing wore as jewelry.

  It is the symbol for “Three Galaxies, One Law.”

  I’ll lump here things I learned in driblets: The Three Galaxies are like our Federated Free Nations, or the United Nations before that, or the League of Nations still earlier; Lanador houses their offices and courts and files—the League’s capital, the way the FFN is in New York and the League of Nations used to be in Switzerland. The cause is historical; the people of Lanador are the Old Race; that’s where civilization began.

  The Three Galaxies are an island group, like Hawaii State, they haven’t any other close neighbors. Civilization spread through the Lesser Cloud, then through the Greater Cloud and is seeping slowly through our own Galaxy—that is taking longer; there are fifteen or twenty times as many stars in our Galaxy as in the other two.

  When I began to get these things straight I wasn’t quite as sore. The Mother Thing was a very important person at home but here she was a minor official—all she could do was bring us in. Still, I wasn’t more than coolly polite for a while—she might have looked the other way while we beat it for home.

  They housed us in that enormous building in a part you could call a “transients’ hotel,” although “detention barracks” or “jail” is closer. I can’t complain about accommodations but I was getting confoundedly tired of being locked up every time I arrived in a new place. A robot met us and took us down inside—there are robots wherever you turn on Lanador. I don’t mean things looking like the Tin Woodman; I mean machines that do things for you, such as this one which led us to our rooms, then hung around like a bellhop expecting a tip. It was a three-wheeled cart with a big basket on top, for luggage if we had any. It met us, whistled to the Mother Thing in Vegan and led us away, down a lift and through a wide and endlessly long corridor.

  I was given “my” room again—a fake of a fake, with all errors left in and new ones added. The sight of it was not reassuring; it shrieked that they planned to keep us there as long as—well, as long as they chose.

  But the room was complete even to a rack for Oscar and a bathroom outside. Just beyond “my” room was a fake of another kind—a copy of that Arabian Nights horror Peewee had occupied on Vega Five. Peewee seemed delighted, so I didn’t point out the implications.

  The Mother Thing hovered around while we got out of space suits. (“Do you think you will be comfortable?”)

  “Oh, sure,” I agreed unenthusiastically.

  (“If you want food or anything, just say so. It will come.”)

  “So? Is there a telephone somewhere?”

  (“Simply speak your wishes. You will be heard.”)

  I didn’t doubt her—but I was almost as tired of rooms that were bugged as of being locked up; a person ought to have privacy.

  “I’m hungry now,” Peewee commented. “I had an early breakfast.”

  We were in her room. A purple drapery drew back, a light glowed in the wall. In about two minutes a section of wall disappeared; a slab at table height stuck out like a tongue. On it were dishes and silverware, cold cuts, fruit, bread, butter, and a mug of steaming cocoa. Peewee clapped and squealed. I looked at it with less enthusiasm.

  (“You see?”) the Mother Thing went on with a smile in her voice. (“Ask for what you need. If you need me, I’ll come. But I must go now.”)

  “Oh, please don’t go, Mother Thing.”

  (“I must, Peewee dear. But I will see you soon. By the bye, there are two more of your people here.”)

  “Huh?” I put in. “Who? Where?”

  (“Next door.”) She was gone with gliding swiftness; the bellhop speeded up to stay ahead of her.

  I spun around. “Did you hear that?”

  “I certainly did!”

  “Well—you eat if you want to; I’m going to look for those other humans.”

  “Hey! Wait for me!”

  “I thought you wanted to eat.”

  “Well…” Peewee looked at the food. “Just a sec.” She hastily buttered two slices of bread and handed one to me. I was not in that much of a hurry; I ate it. Peewee gobbled hers, took a gulp from the mug and offered it to me. “Want some?”

  It wasn’t quite cocoa; there was a meaty flavor, too. But it was good. I handed it back and she finished it. “Now I can fight wildcats. Let’s go, Kip.”

  “Next door” was through the foyer of our three-room suite and fifteen yards down the corridor, where we came to a door arch. I kept Peewee back and glanced in cautiously.

  It was a diorama, a fake scene.

  This one was b
etter than you see in museums. I was looking through a bush at a small clearing in wild country. It ended in a limestone bank. I could see overcast sky and a cave mouth in the rocks. The ground was wet, as if from rain.

  A cave man hunkered down close to the cave. He was gnawing the carcass of a small animal, possibly a squirrel.

  Peewee tried to shove past me; I stopped her. The cave man did not appear to notice us which struck me as a good idea. His legs looked short but I think he weighed twice what I do and he was muscled like a weight lifter, with short, hairy forearms and knotty biceps and calves. His head was huge, bigger than mine and longer, but his forehead and chin weren’t much. His teeth were large and yellow and a front one was broken. I heard bones crunching.

  In a museum I would have expected a card reading “Neanderthal Man—circa Last Ice Age.” But wax dummies of extinct breeds don’t crack bones.

  Peewee protested, “Hey, let me look.”

  He heard. Peewee stared at him, he stared toward us. Peewee squealed; he whirled and ran into the cave, waddling but making time.

  I grabbed Peewee. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “Wait a minute,” she said calmly. “He won’t come out in a hurry.” She tried to push the bush aside.

  “Peewee!”

  “Try this,” she suggested. Her hand was shoving air. “They’ve got him penned.”

  I tried it. Something transparent blocked the arch. I could push it a little but not more than an inch. “Plastic?” I suggested. “Like Lucite but springier?”

  “Mmm…” said Peewee. “More like the helmet of my suit. Tougher, though—and I’ll bet light passes only one way. I don’t think he saw us.”

  “Okay, let’s get back to our rooms. Maybe we can lock them.”

  She went on feeling that barrier. “Peewee!” I said sharply. “You’re not listening.”

  “What were you doing talking,” she answered reasonably, “when I wasn’t listening?”

  “Peewee! This is no time to be difficult.”

  “You sound like Daddy. He dropped that rat he was eating—he might come back.”

  “If he does, you won’t be here, because I’m about to drag you—and if you bite, I’ll bite back. I warn you.”