Grumbles From the Grave

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "Yes."

  "Wide awake? You've got to do your act, right now. Make it loud and make it good."

  "Check."

  "Help me up on the perch. Can your sore arm take it?"

  She nodded, slid quickly off the bed and took position at the door, hands ready. I grabbed her hands, bounced to her shoulders, steadied, and she grabbed my calves as I let go her hands—and then I was up on the perch, over the door. I waved her on.

  Poddy went running out the door, screaming, "Mrs. Grew! MRS. GREW! Help, help! My brother!" She did make it good.

  And came running back in almost at once with Mrs. Grew puffing after her.

  I landed on Gruesome's shoulders, knocking her to the floor and knocking her gun out of her hand. I twisted and snapped her neck before she could catch her breath.

  Pod was right on the ball, I have to give her credit. She had that gun before it stopped sliding. Then she held it, looking dazed.

  I took it carefully from her. "Grab your purse. We go, right now! Stick close behind me."

  Jojo was loose, I had cut it too fine. He was in the living room, looking, I guess, to see what the noise was about. I shot him.

  Then I looked for the air car while keeping the gun ready for the driver. No sign of either one—and I didn't know whether to groan or cheer. I was all keyed up to shoot him but maybe he would have shot me first. But a car would have been mighty welcome compared with heading into the bush.

  I almost changed my plan at that point and maybe I should have. Kept together, I mean, and headed straight north for the ring road.

  It was the gun that decided me. Poddy could protect herself with it—and I would just be darn careful what I stepped on or in. I handed it to her and told her to move slowly and carefully until there was more light—but get going!

  She was wobbling the gun around. "But, Brother, I've never shot anybody!"

  "Well, you can if you have to."

  "I guess so."

  "Nothing to it. Just point it at 'em and press the button. Better use both hands. And don't shoot unless you really need to."

  "All right."

  I smacked her behind. "Now get going. See you later."

  And I got going. I looked behind once, but she was already vanished in the smog. I put a little distance between me and the house, just in case, then concentrated on approximating course west.

  And I got lost. That's all. I needed that tracker but I had figured I could get along without it and Pod had to have it. I got hopelessly lost. There wasn't breeze enough for me to tell anything by wetting my finger and that polarized light trick for finding the Sun is harder than you would think. Hours after I should have reached the ring road I was still skirting boggy places and open water and trying to keep from being somebody's lunch.

  And suddenly there was the most dazzling light possible and I went down flat and stayed there with my eyes buried in my arm and started to count.

  I wasn't hurt at all. The blast wave covered me with mud and the noise was pretty rough but I was well outside the real trouble. Maybe half an hour later I was picked up by a cop car.

  Certainly, I should have disarmed that bomb. I had intended to, if everything went well; it was just meant to be a "Samson in the Temple" stunt if things turned out dry. A last resort.

  Maybe I should have stopped to disarm it as soon as I broke old Gruesome's neck—and maybe Jojo would have caught both of us if I had and him still with a happy-dust hangover. Anyhow I didn't and then I was very busy shooting Jojo and deciding what to do and telling Poddy how to use that gun and getting her started. I didn't think about the bomb until I was several hundred meters from the house—and I certainly didn't want to go back then, even if I could have found it again in the smog, which is doubtful.

  But apparently Poddy did just that. Went back to the house, I mean. She was found later that day, about a kilometer from the house, outside the circle of total destruction—but caught by the blast.

  With a live baby fairy in her arms—her body had protected it; it doesn't appear to have been hurt at all.

  That's why I think she went back to the house. I don't know that this baby fairy is the one she called "Ariel." It might have been one that she picked up in the bush. But that doesn't seem at all likely; a wild one would have clawed her and its parents would have torn her to pieces.

  I think she intended to save that baby fairy all along and decided not to mention it to me. It is just the kind of sentimental stunt that Poddy would do. She knew I was going to have to kill the adult—and she never said a word against that; Pod could always be sensible when absolutely necessary.

  Then in the excitement of breaking out she forgot to grab it, just as I forgot to disarm the bomb after we no longer needed it. So she went back for it.

  And lost the inertial tracker, somehow. At least it wasn't found on her or near her. Between the gun and her purse and the baby fairy and the tracker she must have dropped it in a bog. Must be, because she had plenty of time to go back and still get far away from the house. She should have been ten kilometers away by then, so she must have lost the tracker fairly soon and walked in a circle.

  I told Uncle Tom all about it and was ready to tell the Corporation people, Mr. Cunha and so forth, and take my medicine. But Uncle told me to keep my mouth shut. He agreed that I had fubbed it, mighty dry indeed—but so had he—and so had everybody. He was gentle with me. I wish he had hit me.

  I'm sorry about Poddy. She gave me some trouble from time to time, with her bossy ways and her illogical ideas—but just the same I'm sorry.

  I wish I knew how to cry.

  Her little recorder was still in her purse and part of the tape could be read. Doesn't mean much, though; she doesn't tell what she did, she was babbling, sort of:

  "—very dark where I'm going. No man is an island, complete in himself. Remember that, Clarkie. Oh, I'm sorry I fubbed it but remember that; it's important. They all have to be cuddled sometimes. My shoulder— Saint Podkayne! Saint Podkayne, are you listening? UnkaTom, Mother, Daddy—is anybody listening? Do listen, please, because this is important. I love—"

  It cuts off there. So we don't know whom she loved.

  Everybody maybe.

  Mr. Cunha made them hold the Tricorn and now Uncle Tom and I are on our way again. The baby fairy is still alive and Dr. Torland says it doesn't have radiation sickness. I call it "Ariel" and I guess I'll be taking care of it a long time; they say these fairies live as long as we do. It is taking to shipboard life all right but it gets lonely and has to be held and cuddled or it cries.

  APPENDIX C

  HEINLEIN RETROSPECTIVE

  OCTOBER 6, 1988

  Trip report-October 30, 1988

  On the evening of October 6, 1988, I received on Robert's behalf, the NASA Distinguished Public Service Medal, following a small dinner party given that evening. There were approximately 700 people present for the ceremony, and the presentation was made by Dr. Noel Hinners, Associate Deputy Administrator (Institution) of NASA.

  The Description and Criteria of NASA Honor Awards reads: "NASA Distinguished Public Service Medal (DPSM) is granted to any individual who is not an employee of the Federal Government or was not an employee during the period in which the service was performed. The award is granted only to individuals whose meritorious contributions produced results which measurably improved, expedited, or clarified administrative procedures, scientific progress, work methods, manufacturing techniques, personnel practices, public information service, and other efforts related to the accomplishment of the mission of NASA."

  The citation itself reads:

  The National Aeronautics and Space Administration

  Awards to

  ROBERT ANSON HEINLEIN

  the

  NASA

  DISTINGUISHED PUBLIC SERVICE MEDAL

  In recognition of his meritorious service to the Nation and mankind in advocating and promoting the exploration of space. Through dozens of superbly written novels an
d essays and his epoch-making movie Destination Moon, he helped inspire the Nation to take its first step into space and on to the moon. Even after his death, his books live on as testimony to a man of purpose and vision, a man dedicated to encouraging others to dream, explore, and achieve.

  Signed and sealed at Washington, D.C.

  this sixth day of October

  Nineteen Hundred and Eighty-Eight.

  /s/James C. Fletcher

  Administrator, NASA.

  The medal itself can be described as a sunburst, with a globe in the center, on a ribbon with a wide center strip in navy blue, with two lighter blue stripes on the sides, and a golden strip in the center of the lighter blue. There are two buttonhole ornaments to be worn with civilian dress; one is a copy of the medal, the other a dark blue button, with the gold and light blue used as a sunburst on that background. (I've seen Croix de Guerre holders use those ribbon buttonhole ornaments on their lapels.)

  After thanking Dr. Hinners for the honor, I used Robert's "This I Believe" credo for my talk. I had tried to write a speech, then remembered this talk of Robert's and thought it would be appropriate for this occasion. So I sent the record to Ward Botsford in New York, and he put it onto tape for me. Transcribed, it is below. (Ward told me that it was lucky I had not tried to tape it myself, as it might have ruined the only copy in existence, I believe.)

  I told the audience how this particular piece of writing had come into being, and that it seemed to me to be appropriate to this occasion, and I had consulted several people about my feeling, and they had said— "Go ahead. It's the perfect thing to do."

  THIS I BELIEVE

  I am not going to talk about religious beliefs but about matters so obvious that it has gone out of style to mention them. I believe in my neighbors. I know their faults, and I know that their virtues far outweigh their faults.

  Take Father Michael down our road a piece. I'm not of his creed, but I know that goodness and charity and lovingkindness shine in his daily actions. I believe in Father Mike. If I'm in trouble, I'll go to him.

  My next-door neighbor is a veterinary doctor. Doc will get out of bed after a hard day to help a stray cat. No fee—no prospect of a fee—I believe in Doc.

  I believe in my townspeople. You can knock on any door in our town saying, "I'm hungry," and you will be fed. Our town is no exception. I've found the same ready charity everywhere. But for the one who says, "To heck with you—I got mine," there are a hundred, a thousand who will say, "Sure, pal, sit down."

  I know that despite all warnings against hitchhikers I can step to the highway, thumb for a ride and in a few minutes a car or a truck will stop and someone will say, "Climb in Mac—how far you going?"

  I believe in my fellow citizens. Our headlines are splashed with crime yet for every criminal there are 10,000 honest, decent, kindly men. If it were not so, no child would live to grow up. Business could not go on from day to day. Decency is not news. It is buried in the obituaries, but it is a force stronger than crime. I believe in the patient gallantry of nurses and the tedious sacrifices of teachers. I believe in the unseen and unending fight against desperate odds that goes on quietly in almost every home in the land.

  I believe in the honest craft of workmen. Take a look around you. There never were enough bosses to check up on all that work. From Independence Hall to the Grand Coulee Dam, these things were built level and square by craftsmen who were honest in their bones.

  I believe that almost all politicians are honest . . . there are hundreds of politicians, low paid or not paid at all doing their level best without thanks or glory to make our system work. If this were not true we would never have gotten past the thirteen colonies.

  I believe in Rodger Young. You and I are free today because of endless unnamed heroes from Valley Forge to the Yalu River. I believe in—I am proud to belong to—the United States. Despite shortcomings from lynchings to bad faith in high places, our nation has had the most decent and kindly internal practices and foreign policies to be found anywhere in history.

  And finally, I believe in my whole race. Yellow, white, black, red, brown. In the honesty, courage, intelligence, durability, and goodness of the overwhelming majority of my brothers and sisters everywhere on this planet. I am proud to be a human being. I believe that we have come this far by the skin of our teeth. That we always make it just by the skin of our teeth, but that we will make it. Survive. Endure. I believe that this hairless embryo with the aching, oversize brain case and the opposable thumb, this animal barely up from the apes will endure. Will endure longer than his home planet—will spread out to the stars and beyond, carrying with him his honesty and his insatiable curiosity, his unlimited courage and his noble essential decency.

  This I believe with all my heart.

  Robert's talk got a standing ovation. I don't take credit for that; it was his speech, his ideas.

  There were other speakers, too. Jerry Pournelle gave some reminiscences of Robert; Catherine and L. Sprague de Camp did much the same thing. Tom Clancy told how Robert's work had taught him to write. Captain Jon McBride (an astronaut) gave credit to Robert for his early work on spaceflight; Dr. Charles Sheffield told how Robert was not an American writer, but a British one . . . and Tetsu Yano, all the way from Tokyo, talked about his work in translating Robert's work—weeping at the end for Robert's loss.

  Then there was a showing of Destination Moon.

  The entire evening (with the exception of the motion picture) was videotaped, and I am very anxious to obtain a copy. It has been said that if enough people write in to ask how to obtain tapes for their own use, they might be sold by NASA.

  Among those present were Robert's oldest friend, Rear Admiral Cal Laning; Rear Admiral and Mrs. J. Galbraith; and Woodie Teague, who came all the way from Colorado Springs. I had all those over to the hotel for a drink afterwards. (And a few others, too.)

  The following evening, Eleanor Wood, Jim Baen, and I went out to the Kondo's new home in Columbia, MD for a party. A very nice party, with lots of old friends there. Next day, Eleanor and I went up to NY, and I saw more old friends—took Margo Fischer to lunch on Sunday-she's now 87, I think, and each time I see her, I think to myself it might be the last time.

  Spent the rest of the weekend and a couple of days of the following week up in the country with Eleanor and her kids; the fall colors were on display, and it was lovely.

  Arrived home with a king-sized case of jet lag, got Pixel out of the kennel, and now we've settled down for the winter. No rain so far, but I do hope there will be!—we're on water restrictions now, and it could get a lot worse, if we don't get a lot of rain here.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY (In order of publication)

  FICTION

  "Life-Line," Astounding Science Fiction, August 1939. Reprinted in The Man Who Sold The Moon, Baen Books.

  "Misfit," Astounding Science Fiction, November 1939. Reprinted in The Past Through Tomorrow, Ace Books.

  "Requiem," Astounding Science Fiction, January 1940. Reprinted in The Past Through Tomorrow, Ace Books.

  "If This Goes On—," Astounding Science Fiction, February, March 1940. Reprinted in The Past Through Tomorrow, Ace Books.

  " 'Let There Be Light,' " Super Science Stories, May, 1940 (under pseudonym Lyle Monroe). Reprinted in The Man Who Sold The Moon, Baen Books.

  "The Roads Must Roll," Astounding Science Fiction, June 1940. Reprinted in The Man Who Sold The Moon, Baen Books.

  "Coventry," Astounding Science Fiction, July 1940. Reprinted in The Past Through Tomorrow, Ace Books.

  "Blowups Happen," Astounding Science Fiction, September 1940. Reprinted in The Man Who Sold The Moon, Baen Books.

  "The Devil Makes the Law," Unknown, September 1940, (under pseudonym Anson MacDonald). Reprinted as "Magic, Inc.," in Waldo And Magic Inc., Del Rey Books.

  "Sixth Column," Astounding Science Fiction, January, February, March 1941 (under pseudonym Anson MacDonald). Reprinted by Baen Books.

  " '—And He Built a Cro
oked House—,' " Astounding Science Fiction, February 1941.

  "Logic of Empire," Astounding Science Fiction, March 1941. Reprinted in The Green Hills of Earth, Baen Books.

  "Beyond Doubt," Astonishing Stories, April 1941 (under pseudonym Lyle Monroe and Elma Wentz).

  "They," Unknown, April 1941.

  "Universe," Astounding Science Fiction, May 1941. Reprinted in Orphans Of The Sky, Ace Books.

  "Solution Unsatisfactory," Astounding Science Fiction, May 1941 (under pseudonym Anson MacDonald). Reprinted in Expanded Universe, Ace Books.

  " '—We Also Walk Dogs,' " Astounding Science Fiction, July 1941 (under pseudonyn Anson MacDonald). Reprinted in The Past Through Tomorrow, Ace Books.

  Methuselah's Children, Astounding Science Fiction, July, August, September, 1941.

  "Elsewhere" ("Elsewhen"), Astounding Science Fiction, September 1941 (under pseudonym Caleb Saunders). Reprinted in Assignment In Eternity, Baen Books.

  "By His Bootstraps," Astounding Science Fiction, October 1941 (under pseudonym Anson MacDonald). Reprinted in The Menace From Earth, Baen Books.

  "Commonsense," Astounding Science Fiction, October 1941. Reprinted in Orphans Of The Sky, Ace Books.

  "Lost Legion" ("Lost Legacy"), Super Science Stories, November 1941 (under pseudonym Lyle Monroe). Reprinted in Assignment In Eternity, Baen Books.

  " 'My Object All Sublime,' " Future, February 1942.

  "Goldfish Bowl," Astounding Science Fiction, March 1942 (under pseudonym Anson MacDonald). Reprinted in The Menace From Earth, Baen Books.

  "Pied Piper," Astonishing Stories, March 1942 (under pseudonym Lyle Monroe).

  Beyond This Horizon, Astounding Science Fiction, April, May 1942 (under pseudonym Anson MacDonald). Reprinted by New American Library.

  "Waldo," Astounding Science Fiction, August 1942 (under pseudonym Anson MacDonald). Reprinted in Waldo And Magic Inc., Del Rey Books.

  "The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag," Unknown Worlds, October 1942 (under pseudonym John Riverside).

  "The Green Hills of Earth," Saturday Evening Post, February 8, 1947. Reprinted in The Green Hills Of Earth, Baen Books.