Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Mrs. Vaughn found Venus bearable but she was homesick much of the time.

  Charlie, once he was over first the worry and then the delight of waking Nixie, found Venus interesting, less strange than he had expected, and from time to time he was homesick. But before long he was no longer homesick; Venus was home. He knew now what he wanted to be: a pioneer. When he was grown he would head south, deep into the unmapped jungle, carve out a plantation.

  The jungle was the greatest single fact about Venus. The colony lived on the bountiful produce of the jungle. The land on which Borealis sat, buildings and spaceport, had been torn away from the hungry jungle only by flaming it dead, stabilizing the muck with gel-forming chemicals, and poisoning the land thus claimed — then flaming, cutting, or poisoning any hardy survivor that pushed its green nose up through the captured soil.

  The Vaughn family lived in a large apartment building which sat on land newly captured. Facing their front door, a mere hundred feet away across scorched and poisoned soil, a great shaggy dark-green wall loomed higher than the buffer space between. But the mindless jungle never gave up. The vines, attracted by light — their lives were spent competing for light energy — felt their way into the open space, tired to fill it. They grew with incredible speed. One day after breakfast Mr. Vaughn tried to go out his own front door, found his way hampered. While they had slept a vine had grown across the hundred-foot belt, supporting itself by tendrils against the dead soil, and had started up the front of the building.

  The police patrol of the city were armed with flame guns and spent most of their time cutting back such hardy intruders. While they had power to enforce the law, they rarely made an arrest. Borealis was a city almost free of crime; the humans were too busy fighting nature in the raw to require much attention from policemen.

  But the jungle was friend as well as enemy. Its lusty life offered food for millions and billions of humans in place of the few thousands already on Venus. Under the jungle lay beds of peat, still farther down were thick coal seams representing millions of years of lush jungle growth, and pools of oil waiting to be tapped. Aerial survey by jet-copter in the volcanic regions promised uranium and thorium when man could cut his way through and get at it. The planet offered unlimited wealth. But it did not offer it to sissies.

  Charlie quickly bumped his nose into one respect in which Venus was not for sissies. His father placed him in school, he was assigned to a grade taught by Mr. deSoto. The school room was not attractive — “grim" was the word Charlie used, but he was not surprised, as most buildings in Borealis were unattractive, being constructed either of spongy logs or of lignin panels made from jungle growth.

  But the school itself was “grim." Charlie had been humiliated by being placed one grade lower than he had expected; now he found that the lessons were stiff and that Mr. deSoto did not have the talent, or perhaps the wish to make them fun. Resentfully, Charlie loafed.

  After three weeks Mr. deSoto kept him in after school. “Charlie, what’s wrong?"

  “Huh? I mean, 'Sir?"

  “You know what I mean. You’ve been in my class nearly a month. You haven’t learned anything. Don’t you want to?"

  “What? Why, sure I do."

  “Surely’ in that usage, not 'sure.’ Very well, so you want to learn; why haven’t you?"

  Charlie stood silent. He wanted to tell Mr. deSoto what a swell place Horace Mann Junior High School had been, with its teams and its band and its student plays and its student council (this crazy school didn’t even have a student council!), and its study projects picked by the kids themselves, and the Spring Outburst and Sneak Day … and — oh, shucks!

  But Mr. deSoto was speaking. “Where did you last go to school, Charlie?"

  Charlie stared. Didn’t the teacher even bother to read his transcript? But he told him and added, “I was a year farther along there. I guess I’m bored, having to repeat."

  “I think you are, too, but I don’t agree that you are repeating. They had an eighteen-year Jaw there, didn’t they?"

  “Sir?"

  “You were required to attend school until you were eighteen Earth-years old?"

  “Oh, that! Sure. I mean 'surely.’ Everybody goes to school until he’s eighteen. That’s to 'discourage juvenile delinquency," he quoted.

  “I wonder. Nobody ever flunked, I suppose."

  “Sir?"

  “Failed. Nobody ever got tossed out of school or left back for failing his studies?"

  “Of course not, Mr. deSoto. You have to keep age groups together, or they don’t develop socially as they should."

  “Who told you that?"

  “Why, everybody knows that. I’ve been hearing that ever since I was in kindergarten. That’s what education is for — social development."

  Mr. deSoto leaned back, rubbed his nose. Presently he said slowly; “Charlie, this isn’t that kind of a school at all."

  Charlie waited. He was annoyed at not being invited to sit down and was wondering what would happen if he sat down anyway.

  “In the first place we don’t have the eighteen-year rule. You can quit school today. You know how to read. Your handwriting is sloppy but it will do. You are quick in arithmetic. You can’t spell worth a hoot, but that’s your misfortune; the city fathers don’t care whether you learn to spell or not. You’ve got all the education the City of Borealis feels obliged to give you. If you want to take a flame gun and start carving out your chunk of the jungle, nobody is standing in your way. I can write a note to the Board of Education, telling them that Charles Vaughn, Jr. has gone as far as he ever will. You needn’t come back tomorrow."

  Charlie gulped. He had never heard of anyone being dropped from school for anything less than a knife fight. It was unthinkable — what would his folks say?

  “On the other hand," Mr. deSoto went on, “Venus needs educated citizens. We’ll keep anybody as long as they keep learning. The city will even send you back to Earth for advanced training if you are worth it, because we need scientists and engineers … and more teachers. But this is a struggling new community and it doesn’t have a penny to waste on kids who won’t study. We do flunk them in this school. If you don’t study, we’ll lop you off so fast you’ll think you’ve been trimmed with a flame gun. We’re not running the sort of overgrown kindergarten you were in. It’s up to you. Buckle down and learn … or get out. So go home and talk it over with your folks."

  Charlie was stunned. “Uh … Mr. deSoto? Are you going to talk to my father?"

  “What? Heavens, no! You are their responsibility, not mine. I don’t care what you do. That’s all. Go home."

  Charlie went home, slowly. He did not talk it over with his parents. Instead he went back to school and studied. In a few weeks he discovered that even algebra could be interesting … and that old Frozen Face was an interesting teacher when Charlie had studied hard enough to know what the man was talking about.

  Mr. deSoto never mentioned the matter again.

  Getting back in the Scouts was more fun but even Scouting held surprises. Mr. Qu’an, Scoutmaster of Troop Four, welcomed him heartily. “Glad to have-you, Chuck. It makes me feel good when a Scout among the new citizens comes forward and says be wants to pick up the Scouting trail again." He looked over the letter Charlie had brought with him. “A good record — Star Scout at your age. Keep at it and you’ll be a Double Star … both Earth and Venus."

  “You mean," Charlie said slowly, “that I’m not a Star Scout here?"

  “Eh? Not at all." Mr. Qu’an touched the badge on Charlie’s jacket. “You won that fairly and a Court of Honor has certified you. You’ll always be a Star Scout, just as a pilot is entitled to wear his comet after he’s too old to herd a space ship. But let’s be practical. Ever been out in the jungle?"

  “Not yet, sir. But I always was good at woodcraft."

  “Mmm … Ever camped in the Florida Everglades?"

  “Well … no sir."

  “No matter. I simply wanted to point out t
hat while the Everglades are jungle, they are an open desert compared with the jungle here. And the coral snakes and water moccasins in the Everglades are harmless little pets alongside some of the things here. Have you seen our dragonflies yet?"

  “Well, a dead one, at school."

  “That’s the best way to see them. When you see a live one, better see it first, … if it’s a female and ready to lay eggs."

  “Uh, I know about them. If you fight them off, they won’t sting."

  “Which is why you had better see them first."

  “Mr. Qu’an? Are they really that big?"

  “I’ve seen thirty-six-inch wing spreads. What I’m trying to say, Chuck, is that a lot of men have died learning the tricks of this jungle. If you are as smart as a Star Scout is supposed to be, you won’t assume that you know what these poor fellows didn’t. You’ll wear that badge … but you’ll class yourself in your mind as a tenderfoot ,all over again, and you won’t be in a hurry about promoting yourself."

  Charlie swallowed it. “Yes, sir. I’ll try."

  “Good. We use the buddy system — you take care of your buddy and he takes care of you. I’ll team you with Hans Kuppenheimer. Hans is only a Second Class Scout, but don’t let that fool you. He was born here and he lives in the bush, on his father’s plantation. He’s the best jungle rat in the troop."

  Charlie said nothing, but resolved to become a real jungle rat himself, fast. Being under the wing of a Scout who was merely second class did not appeal to him.

  But Hans turned out to be easy to get along with. He was quiet, shorter but stockier than Charlie, neither unfriendly nor chummy; he simply accepted the assignment to look after Charlie. But he startled Charlie by answering, when asked, that he was twenty-three years old.

  It left Charlie speechless long enough for him to realize that Hans, born here, meant Venus years, each only two hundred twenty-five Earth days. Charlie decided that Hans was about his own age, which seemed reasonable. Time had been a subject which had confused Charlie ever since his arrival. The Venus day was only seven minutes different from that of Earth — he had merely had to have his wristwatch adjusted. But the day itself had not meant what it used to mean, because day and night at the north pole of Venus looked alike, a soft twilight.

  There were only eight months in the year, exactly four weeks in each month, and an occasional odd 'Year Day" to even things off. Worse still, the time of year didn’t mean anything; there were no seasons, just one endless hot, damp summer. It was always the same time of-day, always the same time of year; only clock and calendar kept it from being the land that time forgot. Charlie never quite got used to it.

  If Nixie found the timelessness of Venus strange he never mentioned it. On Earth he had slept at night simply because Charlie did so, and, as for seasons, he had never cared much for winter anyhow. He enjoyed getting back into the Scouts even more than Charlie had, because he was welcome at every meeting. Some of the Scouts born on Earth had once had dogs; now none of them had — and Nixie was at once mascot of the troop. He was petted almost to exhaustion the first time Charlie brought him to a meeting, until Mr. Qu’an pointed out that the dog had to have some peace … then squatted down and petted Nixie himself. “Nixie," he said musingly, “a nixie is a water sprite, isn’t it?"

  “Uh, I believe it does mean that," Charlie admitted, “but that isn’t how he got his name."

  “So?"

  “Well, I was going to name him 'Champ,’ but when he was a puppy I had to say 'Nix’ to so many things he did that he got to thinking it was his name — and then it was."

  “Mmm … more logical than most names. And even the classical meaning is appropriate in a wet place like this. What’s this on his collar? I see … you’ve decorated him with your old tenderfoot badge."

  “No, sir," Charlie corrected. “That’s his badge."

  “Eh?"

  “Nixie is a Scout, too. The fellows in my troop back Earthside voted him into the troop. They gave him that. So Nixie is a Scout."

  Mr. Qu’an raised his eyebrows and smiled. One of the boys said, “That’s about the craziest yet. A dog can’t be a Scout."

  Charlie had doubts himself; nevertheless he was about to answer indignantly when the Scoutmaster cut smoothly in front of him. “What leads you to say that, Al!?"

  “Huh? Well, gosh! It’s not according to Scout regulations."

  “It isn’t? I admit it is a new idea, but I can’t recall what rule it breaks. Who brought a Handbook tonight?" The Scribe supplied one; Mr. Qu’an passed it over to Alf Rheinhardt. “Dig in, Alf. Find the rule."

  Charlie diffidently produced Nixie’s letter of transfer. He had brought it, but had not given it to the Scribe. Mr. Qu’an read it, nodded and said, “Looks okay." He passed the letter along to others and said, “Well, Al!?"

  “In the first place, it says here that you have to be twelve years old to join — Earth years, that is, 'cause that’s where the Handbook was printed. Is that dog that old? I doubt it."

  Mr. Qu’an shook his head. “If I were sitting on a Court of Honor, I’d rule that the regulation did not apply. A dog grows up faster than a boy."

  “Well, if you insist on joking — and Scouting is no joke to me — that’s the point: a dog can’t be a Scout, because he’s a dog."

  “Scouting is no joke to me either, Alf — though I don’t see any reason not to have fun as we go. But I wasn’t joking. A candidate comes along with a letter of transfer, all regular and proper. Seems to me you should go mighty slow before you refuse to respect an official act of another troop. All you’ve said is that Nixie is a dog. Well, didn’t I see somewhere — last month’s Boys’ Life, I think — that the Boy Scouts of Mars had asked one of the Martian chiefs to serve on their planetary Grand Council?"

  “But that’s not the same thing!"

  “Nothing ever is. But if a Martian — who is certainly not a human being — can hold the highest office in Scouting, I can’t see how Nixie is disqualified simply because he’s a dog. Seems to me you’ll have to show that he can’t or won’t do the things that a Tenderfoot Scout should do."

  “Uh …" Alf grinned knowingly. “Let’s hear him explain the Scout Oath."

  Mr. Qu’an turned to Charlie. “Can Nixie speak English?"

  “What? Why, no, sir — but he understands it pretty well."

  The Scoutmaster turned back to Alf. “Then the 'handicapped’ rule applies, Alf — we never insist that a Scout do something he can’t do. If you were crippled or blind, we would change the rules to fit you. Nixie can’t talk words … so if you want to quiz him about the Scout Oath, you’ll have to bark. That’s fair, isn’t it, boys?"

  The shouts of approval didn’t sit well with Alf. He answered sullenly, “Well, at least he has to follow the Scout Law — every Scout has to do that."

  “Yes," agreed the Scoutmaster soberly. “The Scout Law is the essence of Scouting. If you don’t obey it, you aren’t a Scout, no matter how many merit badges you wear. Well, Charlie? Shall we examine Nixie in Scout Law?"

  Charlie bit his lip. He was sorry that he hadn’t taken that badge off Nixie’s collar. It was mighty nice that the fellows back home had voted Nixie into the troop… but with this smart Aleck trying to make something of it — Why did there always have to be one in every troop who tried to take the fun Out of life?

  He answered reluctantly, “All right."

  “Give me the Handbook. Is Nixie trustworthy?"

  “Sure he is!"

  “How?"

  “Well … he doesn’t get on furniture even if you’re not watching him … and he won’t touch food unless he’s told to, and uh …"

  “I think that’s enough. Is he loyal?"

  “He’s loyal to me."

  “Mmm … good enough. Helpful?"

  “Uh, there isn’t a whole lot he can do, I guess. He used to fetch newspapers in — but he can’t do that here. He’ll fetch anything you ask him to, if he understands what it is.

  " 'F
riendly’ — well, obviously. 'Courteous’ — we’ll pass him on that, seeing what he has put up with tonight. Kind?"

  “He’ll let a baby try to pull his tail off, or step on his face, and never snap or growl. Uh, he did used to be kind of rough on cats, but I taught him better."

  “Obedient?"

  “Want to see?" Charlie put him through hand signal orders, ending with standing at attention and saluting. The applause made Nixie tremble but he held it until Charlie signaled “At ease."

  “Take note of that, Alf," Mr. Qu’an said drily, “next time I have to speak to you twice. 'Cheerful’ — we can skip that; I’m sure his grin isn’t faked. 'Thrifty’ — well, we can hardly expect him to have a savings account."

  “He buries bones."

  “Mmm, I suppose that’s the canine equivalent. Brave?"

  “I think he is. I’ve seen him tackle a dog three times his size — and chase it out of our yard, too, back home — back Earthside."

  “Clean?"

  “Smell him. He had a bath just yesterday. And he’s perfectly housebroken."

  “All that is left is 'Reverent’ — and I don’t intend to try to discuss that with him. I rule that Nixie is at least a reverent as the rapscallions I’ve heard cussing around here when they didn’t think I was listening. How about it, boys? Does he pass?"

  Nixie was voted into Troop Four in his tenderfoot status unanimously … Alfred Rheinhardt, Tenderfoot abstaining.

  After the meeting the troop treasurer Buttonhole Charlie. “You want to pay your dues now, Chuck?"

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, sure — I brought some money."

  “Good." The other Scout accepted payment. “Here’s your receipt."

  “Just mark it down in your book."

  “Take it. No tickee, no washee. I’m nasty about it — that’s why they made me treasurer. Now about Nixie — You pay? Or do I speak to him?"

  The other boy was not smiling and Charlie could not decide whether or not he was joking. He decided to play it just as soberly. “I settle for Nixie. You see, he doesn’t have pockets." He dug down in his diminishing resources, managed to piece out enough to pay the small amount for Nixie. “Here."