Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Pete put another drink down in front of Barnes. He drained it and said: “Set up another one, Pete. They can’t. It’s a theoretical impossibility. They’ll freeze — or they’ll roast — or they’ll starve. But they’ll never get there."

  “Maybe so."

  “No maybe about it. They’re crazy. Hurry up with that drink, Pete. Have one yourself."

  “Coming up. Don’t mind if I do, thanks." Pete mixed the cocktail, drew a glass of beer, and joined them.

  “Pete, here, is a wise man," Barnes said confidentially. “You don’t catch him monkeying around with any trips to the stars. Columbus — Pfui! Columbus was a dope. He shoulda stood in bed."

  The bartender shook his head. “You got me wrong, Mr. Barnes. If it wasn’t for men like Columbus, we wouldn’t be here today — now, would we? I’m just not the explorer type. But I’m a believer. I got nothing against the Pegasus expedition."

  “You don’t approve of them taking kids on it, do you?"

  “Well … there were kids on the Mayflower, so they tell me."’

  “It’s not the same thing." Barnes looked at Nolan, then back to the bartender. “If the Lord had intended us to go to the stars, he would have equipped us with jet propulsion. Fix me another drink, Pete."

  “You’ve had about enough for a while, Mr. Barnes."

  The troubled fat man seemed about to argue, thought better of it. “I’m going up to the Sky Room and find somebody that’ll dance with me," he announced. “G’night." He swayed softly toward the elevator.

  Nolan watched him leave. “Poor old Barnes." He shrugged. “I guess you and I are hard-hearted, Pete."

  “No. I believe in progress, that’s all. I remember my old man wanted a law passed about flying machines, keep 'em from breaking their fool necks. Claimed nobody ever could fly, and the government should put a stop to it. He was wrong. I’m not the adventurous type myself but I’ve seen enough people to know they’ll try anything once, and that’s how progress is made."

  “You don’t look old enough to remember when men couldn’t fly."

  “I’ve been around a long time. Ten years in this one spot."

  “Ten years, eh? Don’t you ever get a hankering for a job that’ll let you breathe a little fresh air?"

  “Nope. I didn’t get any fresh air when I served drinks on Forty-second Street and I don’t miss it now. I like it here. Always something new going on here, first the atom laboratories and then the big observatory and now the Starship. But that’s not the real reason. I like it here. It’s my home. Watch this."

  He picked up a brandy inhaler, a great fragile crystal globe, spun it and threw it, straight up, toward the ceiling. It rose slowly and gracefully, paused for a long reluctant wait at the top of its rise, then settled slowly, slowly, like a diver in a slow-motion movie. Pete watched it float past his nose, then reached out with thumb and forefinger, nipped it easily by the stem, and returned it to the rack.

  “See that," he said. “One-sixth gravity. When I was tending bar on earth my bunions gave me the dickens all the time. Here I weigh only thirty-five pounds. I like it on the Moon."

  Jerry Was A Man

  Thrilling Wonder Stories, October 1947

  Don’t blame the Martians. The human race would have developed plasto-biology in any case.

  Look at the older registered Kennel Club breeds — glandular giants like the St. Bernard and the Great Dane, silly little atrocities" like the Chihuahua and the Pekingese. Consider fancy goldfish.

  The damage was done when Dr. Morgan produced new breeds of fruit flies by kicking around their chromosomes with X-ray. After that, the third generation of the Hiroshima survivors did not teach us anything new; those luckless monstrosities merely publicized standard genetic knowledge.

  Mr. and Mrs. Bronson van Vogel did not have social reform in mind when they went to the Phoenix Breeding Ranch; Mr. van Vogel simply wanted to buy a Pegasus. He had mentioned it at breakfast. “Are you tied up this morning, my dear?"

  “Not especially. Why?"

  “I’d like to run out to Arizona and order a Pegasus designed."

  “A Pegasus? A flying horse? Why, my sweet?"

  He grinned. “Just for fun. Pudgy Dodge was around the Club yesterday with a six-legged dachshund — must have been over a yard long. It was clever, but he swanked so much I want to give him something to stare at. Imagine, Martha — me landing on the Club 'copter platform on a winged horse. That’ll snap his eyes back!"

  She turned her eyes from the Jersey shore to look indulgently at her husband.

  She was not fooled; this would be expensive. But Brownie was such a dear! “When do we start?"

  They landed two hours earlier than they started. The airsign read, in letters fifty feet high:

  PHOENIX BREEDING RANCH

  Controlled Genetics — licensed Labor Contractors

  " 'Labor Contractors’?" she read, “I thought this place was used just to burbank new animals?"

  “They both design and produce," he explained importantly. “They distribute through the mother corporation 'Workers.’ You ought to know; you own a big chunk of Workers common."

  “You mean I own a bunch of apes? Really?"

  “Perhaps I didn’t tell you. Haskell and I —" He leaned forward and informed the field that he would land manually; he was a bit proud of his piloting.

  He switched off the robot and added, briefly as his attention was taken up by heading the ship down, “Haskell and I have been plowing your General Atomics dividends back into Workers, Inc. Good diversification — still plenty of dirty work for the anthropoids to do." He slapped the keys; the scream of the nose jets stopped conversation.

  Bronson had called the manager in flight; they were met — not with red carpet, canopy, and footmen, though the manager strove to give that impression. “Mr. van Vogel? And Mrs. van Vogel! We are honored indeed!" He ushered them into a tiny, luxurious unicar; they jeeped off the field, up a ramp, and into the lobby of the administration building! The manager, Mr. Blakesly, did not relax until he had seated them around a fountain in the lounge of his offices, struck cigarettes for them, and provided tall, cool drinks.

  Bronson van Vogel was bored by the attention, as it was obviously inspired by his wife’s Dun Bradstreet rating (ten stars, a sunburst, and heavenly music).

  He preferred people who could convince him that he had invented the Briggs fortune, instead of marrying it.

  “This is business Blakesly. I’ve an order for you."

  “So? Well, our facilities are at your disposal. What would you like, sir?"

  “I want you to make me a Pegasus."

  “A Pegasus? A flying horse?"

  “Exactly."

  Blakesly pursed his lips. “You seriously want a horse that will fly? An animal like the mythical Pegasus?"

  “Yes, yes — that’s what I said."

  “You embarrass me, Mr. van Vogel. I assume you want a unique gift for your lady.

  How about a midget elephant, twenty inches high, perfectly housebroken, and able to read and write? He holds the stylus in his trunk — very cunning."

  “Does he talk?" demanded Mrs. van Vogel.

  “Well, now, my dear lady, his voice box, you know — and his tongue — he was not designed for speech. If you insist on it, I will see what our plasticians can do."

  “Now, Martha —"

  “You can have your Pegasus, Brownie, but I think I may want this toy elephant. May I see him?"

  “Most surely. Hartstone!"

  The air answered Blakesly. “Yes, boss?"

  “Bring Napoleon to my lounge."

  “Right away, sir."

  “Now about your Pegasus, Mr. van Vogel … I see difficulties but I need expert advice. Dr. Cargrew is the real heart of this organization, the most eminent bio-designer — of terrestrial origin, of course — on the world today." He raised his voice to actuate relays. “Dr. Cargrew!"

  “What is it, Mr. Blakesly?"

  “Doctor, wi
ll you favor me by coming to my office?"

  “I’m busy. Later."

  Mr. Blakesly excused himself, went into his inner office, then returned to say that Dr. Cargrew would be in shortly. In the mean time Napoleon showed up. The proportions of his noble ancestors had been preserved in miniature; he looked like a statuette of an elephant, come amazingly to life.

  He took three measured steps into the lounge, then saluted them each with his trunk. In saluting Mrs. van Vogel he dropped on his knees as well.

  “Oh, how cute!" she gurgled. “Come here. Napoleon."

  The elephant looked at Blakesly, who nodded. Napoleon ambled over and laid his trunk across her lap. She scratched his ears; he moaned contentedly.

  “Show the lady how you can write," ordered Blakesly. “Fetch your things from my room."

  Napoleon waited while she finished treating a particularly satisfying itch, then oozed away to return shortly with several sheets of heavy white paper and an oversize pencil. He spread a sheet in front of Mrs. van Vogel. held it down daintily with a fore foot, grasped the pencil with his trunk finger, and printed in large, shaky letters, “I LIKE YOU."

  “The darling!" She dropped to her knees and put her arms around his neck. “I simply must have him. How much is he?"

  “Napoleon is part of a limited edition of six," Blakesly said carefully. “Do you want an exclusive model, or may the others be sold?"

  “Oh, I don’t care. I just want Nappie. Can I write him a note?"

  “Certainly, Mrs. van Vogel. Print large letters and use Basic English. Napoleon knows most of it. His price, nonexclusive is $350,000. That includes five years salary for his attending veterinary."

  “Give the gentleman a check. Brownie," she said over her shoulder.

  “But Martha —"

  “Don’t be tiresome. Brownie." She turned back to her pet and began printing. She hardly looked up when Dr. Cargrew came in.

  Cargrew was a chilly figure in white overalls and skull cap. He shook hands brusquely, struck a cigarette and sat down. Blakesly explained —

  Cargrew shook his head. “It s a physical impossibility."

  Van Vogel stood up. “I can see," he said distantly, “That I should have taken my custom to NuLife Laboratories, I came here because we have a financial interest in this firm and because I was naive enough to believe the claims of your advertisements."

  “Siddown, young man!" Gargrew ordered. “Take your trade to those thumb-fingered idiots if you wish — but I warn you they couldn’t grow wings on a grasshopper. First you listen to me.

  “We can grow anything and make it live. I can make you a living thing — I won’t call it an animal — the size and shape of that table over there. It wouldn’t be good for anything, but it would be alive. It would ingest food, use chemical energy, give off excretions, and display irritability. But it would be a silly piece of manipulation. Mechanically a table and an animal are two different things. Their functions are different, so their shapes are different. Now I can make you a winged horse —"

  “You just said you couldn’t."

  “Don’t interrupt. I can make a winged horse that will look just like the pictures in the fairy stories. If you want to pay for it; we’ll make it — we’re in business. But it won’t be able to fly."

  “Why not?"

  “Because it’s not built for flying. The ancient who dreamed up that myth knew nothing about aerodynamics and still less about biology. He stuck wings on a horse, just stuck them on, thumb tacks and glue. But that doesn’t make a flying machine. Remember, son, that an animal is a machine, primarily a heat engine with a control system to operate levers and hydraulic systems, according to definite engineering laws. You savvy aerodynamics?"

  “Well, I’m a pilot."

  “Hummph! Well, try to understand this. A horse hasn’t got the heat engine for flight. He’s a hayburner and that’s not efficient. We might mess around with a horse’s insides so that he could live on a diet of nothing but sugar and then he might have enough energy to fly short distances. But he still would not look like the mythical Pegasus. To anchor his flying muscles he would need a breast bone maybe ten feet long. He might have to have as much as eighty feet wing spread. Folded, his wings would cover him like a tent. You’re up against the cube-square disadvantage."

  “Huh?’

  Cargrew gestured impatiently — “Lift goes by the square of a given dimension; dead load by the cube of the same dimension, other things being equal. I might be able to make you a Pegasus the size of a cat without distorting the proportions too much."

  “No, I want one I can ride. I don’t mind the wing spread and I’ll put up with the big breast bone. When can I have him?"

  Cargrew looked disgusted, shrugged, and replied, “I’ll have to consult with B’na Kreeth." He whistled and chirped; a portion of the wall facing them dissolved and they found themselves looking into a laboratory. A Martian, life-size, showed in the fore — part of the three-dimensional picture.

  When the creature chirlupped back at Cargrew, Mrs. van Vogel looked up, then quickly looked away. She knew it was silly but she simply could not stand the sight of Martians — and the ones who had modified themselves to a semi-manlike form disgusted her the most.

  After they had twittered and gestured at each other for a minute or two Cargrew turned back to van Vogel. “B’na says that you should forget it; it would take too long. He wants to know how you’d like a fine unicorn, or a pair, guaranteed to breed true?"

  “Unicorns are old hat. How long would the Pegasus take?"

  After another squeaky-door conversation Cargrew answered, “Ten years probably, sixteen years on the guarantee."

  “Ten years? That’s ridiculous!"

  Cargrew looked shirty. “I thought it would take fifty, but if B’na says that he can do it three to five generations, then he can do it. B’na is the finest bio-micrurgist in two planets. His chromosome surgery is unequalled. After all, young man, natural processes would take upwards of a million years to achieve the same result, if it were achieved at all. Do you expect to be able to buy miracles?"

  Van Vogel had the grace to look sheepish. “Excuse me. Doctor. Let’s forget it. Ten years really is too long. How about the other possibility? You said you could make a picture-book Pegasus, as long as I did not insist on flight. Could I ride him? On the ground?"

  “Oh, certainly. No good for polo, but you could ride him."

  “I’ll settle for that. Ask Benny creeth, or what ever his name is, how long it would take."

  The Martian had faded out of the screens. “I don’t need to ask him," Cargrew asserted. “This is my job — purely manipulation. B’na’s collaboration is required only for rearrangement and transplanting of genes — true genetic work. I can let you have the beast in eighteen months."

  “Can’t you do better than that?"

  “What do you expect, man? It takes eleven months to grow a newborn colt. I want one month of design and planning. The embryo will be removed on the fourth day and will be developed in an extra-uterine capsule. I’ll operate ten or twelve times during gestation, grafting and budding and other things you’ve heard of. One year from now we’ll have a baby colt, with wings. Thereafter I’ll deliver to you a six-months-old Pegasus."

  “I’ll take it."

  Cargrew made some notes, then read, “One alate horse, not capable of flight and not to breed true. Basic breed your choice — I suggest a Palomino, or an Arabian.

  Wings designed after a condor, in white. Simulated pin feathers with a grafted fringe of quill feathers, or reasonable facsimile." He passed the sheet over.

  “Initial that and we’ll start in advance of formal contract."

  “It’s a deal," agreed van Vogel. “What is the fee?" He placed his monogram under Cargrew’s.

  Cargrew made further notes and handed them to Blakesly — estimates of professional man-hours, technician man-hours, purchases, and overhead. He had padded the figures to subsidize his collateral resea
rch but even he raised his eyebrows at the dollars-and-cents interpretation Blakesly put on the data. “That will be an even two million dollars."

  Van Vogel hesitated; his wife had looked up at the mention of money. But she turned her attention back to the scholarly elephant.

  Blakesly added hastily, “That is for an exclusive creation, of course."

  “Naturally," Van Vogel agreed briskly, and added the figure to the memorandum.

  Van Vogel was ready to return, but his wife insisted on seeing the “apes," as she termed the anthropoid workers. The discovery that she owned a considerable share in these subhuman creatures had intrigued her. Blakesly eagerly suggested a trip through the laboratories in which the workers were developed from true apes.

  They were arranged in seven buildings, the seven “Days of Creation.’ “First Day" was a large building occupied by Cargrew, his staff, his operating rooms, incubators, and laboratories. Martha van Vogel stared in horrified fascination at living organs and even complete embryos, living artificial lives sustained by clever glass and metal recirculating systems and exquisite automatic machinery.

  She could not appreciate the techniques; it seemed depressing. She had about decided against plasto-biology when Napoleon, by tugging at her skirts, reminded her that it produced good things as well as horrors.

  The building “Second Day" they did not enter; it was occupied by B’na Kreeth and his racial colleagues. “We could not stay alive in it, you understand," Blakesly explained. Van Vogel nodded; his wife hurried on — she wanted no Martians, even behind plastiglass.

  From there on the buildings were for development and production of commercial workers. “Third Day" was used for the development of variations in the anthropoids to meet constantly changing labor requirements. “Fourth Day" was a very large building devoted entirely to production-line incubators for commercial types of anthropoids. Blakesly explained that they had dispensed with normal birth. “The policy permits exact control of forced variations, such as for size, and saves hundreds of thousands of worker-hours on the part of the female anthropoids."