Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One

by Short Story Anthology

  Further, and he watched me narrowly, I didn't seem to be afraid of the cylinders. It was probably this which gave the clincher.

  "I'll coöperate," he agreed meekly.

  * * * * *

  For three days there was nothing. The Swami seemed coöperative enough. He called me a couple times a day and reported that the cylinders just lay around his room. I didn't know what to tell him. I recommended he read biographies of famous mediums. I recommended fasting, and breathing, and contemplating self. He seemed dubious, but said he'd try it.

  On the morning of the third day, Sara called me on the intercom and told me there was another Army lieutenant in her office, and another charac ... another gentleman. I opened my door and went out to Sara's office to greet them. My first glimpse told me Sara had been right the first time. He was a character.

  The new lieutenant was no more than the standard output from the same production line as Lieutenant Murphy, but the wizened little old man he had in tow was from a different and much rarer matrix. As fast as I had moved, I was none too soon. The character reached over and tilted up Sara's chin as I was coming through the door.

  "Now you're a healthy young wench," he said with a leer. "What are you doing tonight, baby?" The guy was at least eighty years old.

  "Hey, you, pop!" I exclaimed in anger. "Be your age!"

  He turned around and looked me up and down.

  "I'm younger, that way, than you are, right now!" he snapped.

  A disturbance in the outer office kept me from thinking up a retort. There were some subdued screams, some scuffling of heavy shoes, the sounds of some running feet as applicants got away. The outer door to Sara's office was flung open.

  Framed in the doorway, breast high, floated the Swami!

  * * * * *

  He was sitting, cross-legged, on a hotel bathmat. From both front corners, where they had been attached by loops of twine, there peeked Auerbach cylinders. Two more rear cylinders were grasped in Lieutenant Murphy's strong hands. He was propelling the Swami along, mid air, in Atlantic City Boardwalk style.

  The Swami looked down at us with aloof disdain, then his eyes focused on the old man. His glance wavered; he threw a startled and fearful look at the cylinders holding up his bathmat. They did not fall. A vast relief overspread his face, and he drew himself erect with more disdain than ever. The old man was not so aloof.

  "Harry Glotz!" he exclaimed. "Why you ... you faker! What are you doing in that getup?"

  The Swami took a casual turn about the room, leaning to one side on his magic carpet as if banking an airplane.

  "Peasant!" He spat the word out and motioned grandly toward the door. Lieutenant Murphy pushed him through.

  "Why, that no good bum!" the old man shouted at me. "That no-good from nowhere! I'll fix him! Thinks he's something, does he? I'll show him! Anything he can do I can do better!"

  His rage got the better of him. He rushed through the door, shaking both fists above his white head, shouting imprecations, threats, and pleading to be shown how the trick was done, all in the same breath. The new lieutenant cast a stricken look at us and then sped after his charge.

  "Looks as if we're finally in production," I said to Sara.

  "That's only the second one," she said mournfully. "When you get all six of them, this joint's sure going to be jumping!"

  I looked out of her window at the steel and concrete walls of the factory. They were solid, real, secure; they were a symbol of reality, the old reality a man could understand.

  "I hope you don't mean that literally, Sara," I answered dubiously.

  THE END

  ROBERT A. HEINLEIN

  1907 – 1988

  Robert Heinlein began to publish science fiction in 1939 with "Lifeline" for Astounding Science Fiction, a magazine whose Golden Age he would profoundly shape. His pre-eminence from 1940 to 1960 was both earned and unassailable. For half a century he was the father — loved, resisted and emulated — of the dominant American form of the genre.

  Heinlein was intelligent, aggressive, collegial, competent, highly inventive and prolific — by 1942 he had published almost 30 stories, including three novels. In 1947 he expanded his career — and the potential reach of genre science fiction as a marketable literature — by publishing in "slick" magazines such as Saturday Evening Post. He concurrently created the first US juvenile science fiction novel, Rocket Ship Galileo (1947), to reflect the new levels of characterization, style and scientific plausibility now expected in the field. Subsequent novels, among them Starman Jones (1953), The Star Beast (1954), Time for the Stars (1956), Citizen of the Galaxy (1957) and Have Space Suit — Will Travel (1958), now rank among the very best juvenile science fiction ever written.

  Heinlein's adult fiction was equally important, with Double Star(1956), about a failed actor who impersonates a galactic politician, winning a Hugo award. But it was with Starship Troopers(1959) that Heinlein gave full reign to his voice (and opinions). A tale of interstellar war, it won a 1960 Hugo, but also gained him the reputation of being a militarist, even a "fascist."

  His next novel, Stranger in a Strange Land (1961), which won him another Hugo, is even more radical: Valentine Smith, a human raised on Mars, returns to Earth armed with his innocence and the psionic powers bequeathed to him by the Martians. After being tutored by a surrogate-father, he begins a transformation into a messianic figure.

  The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (1966), which also won a Hugo, described a revolution among Moon-colonists, with many historical parallels to the American Revolution. It is of value partly because it shows the nature of Heinlein's political views very clearly. Rather than being a fascist, he was a right-wing anarchist or "libertarian," much influenced by Social Darwinism.

  Heinlein was Guest of Honor at three World Science Fiction Conventions, and in 1975 received the first Grand Master Nebula Award. His works remain constantly in print, and he has been repeatedly voted "best all-time author" in science fiction readers' polls. His death in 1988 was deeply felt.

  The Menace from Earth, by Robert Heinlein

  My name is Holly Jones and I'm fifteen. I'm very intelligent but it doesn't show, because I look like an underdone angel. Insipid.

  I was born right here in Luna City, which seems to surprise Earthside types. Actually, I'm third generation; my grandparents pioneered in Site One, where the Memorial is. I live with my parents in Artemis Apartments, the new co-op in Pressure Five, eight hundred feet down near City Hall. But I'm not there much; I'm too busy.

  Mornings I attend Tech High and afternoons I study or go flying with Jeff Hardesty—he's my partner—or whenever a tourist ship is in I guide groundhogs. This day the Gripsholm grounded at noon so I went straight from school to American Express.

  The first gaggle of tourists was trickling in from Quarantine but I didn't push forward as Mr. Dorcas, the manager, knows I'm the best. Guiding is just temporary (I'm really a spaceship designer), but if you're doing a job you ought to do it well.

  Mr. Dorcas spotted me. "Holly! Here, please. Miss Brentwood, Holly Jones will be your guide."

  "'Holly,'" she repeated. "What a quaint name. Are you really a guide, dear?"

  I'm tolerant of groundhogs—some of my best friends are from Earth. As Daddy says, being born on Luna is luck, not judgment, and most people Earthside are stuck there. After all, Jesus and Guatama Buddha and Dr. Einstein were all groundhogs.

  But they can be irritating. If high school kids weren't guides, whom could they hire? "My license says so," I said briskly and looked her over the way she was looking me over.

  Her face was sort of familiar and I thought perhaps I had seen her picture in those society things you see in Earthside magazines—one of the rich playgirls we get too many of. She was almost loathsomely lovely . . . nylon skin, soft, wavy, silver-blond hair, basic specs about 35-24-34 and enough this and that to make me feel like a matchstick drawing, a low, intimate voice and everything necessary to make plainer females think about pacts with
the Devil. But I did not feel apprehensive; she was a groundhog and groundhogs don't count.

  "All city guides are girls," Mr. Dorcas explained. "Holly is very competent."

  "Oh, I'm sure," she answered quickly and went into tourist routine number one: surprise that a guide was needed just to find her hotel, amazement at no taxicabs, same for no porters, and raised eyebrows at the prospect of two girls walking alone through "an underground city."

  Mr. Dorcas was patient, ending with: "Miss Brentwood, Luna City is the only metropolis in the Solar System where a woman is really safe—no dark alleys, no deserted neighborhoods, no criminal element."

  I didn't listen; I just held out my tariff card for Mr. Dorcas to stamp and picked up her bags. Guides shouldn't carry bags and most tourists are delighted to experience the fact that their thirty-pound allowance weighs only five pounds. But I wanted to get her moving.

  We were in the tunnel outside and me with a foot on the slidebelt when she stopped. "I forgot! I want a city map."

  "None available."

  "Really?"

  "There's only one. That's why you need a guide."

  "But why don't they supply them? Or would that throw you guides out of work?"

  See? "You think guiding is makework? Miss Brentwood, labor is so scarce they'd hire monkeys if they could."

  "Then why not print maps?"

  "Because Luna City isn't flat like—" I almost said, "—groundhog cities," but I caught myself.

  "—like Earthside cities," I went on. "All you saw from space was the meteor shield. Underneath it spreads out and goes down for miles in a dozen pressure zones."

  "Yes, I know, but why not a map for each level?"

  Groundhogs always say, "Yes, I know, but—"

  "I can show you the one city map. It's a stereo tank twenty feet high and even so all you see clearly are big things like the Hall of the Mountain King and hydroponics farms and the Bats' Cave."

  "'The Bat's Cave,'" she repeated. "That's where they fly, isn't it?"

  "Yes, that's where we fly."

  "Oh, I want to see it!"

  "OK. It first . . . or the city map?"

  She decided to go to her hotel first. The regular route to the Zurich is to slide up and west through Gray's Tunnel past the Martian Embassy, get off at the Mormon Temple, and take a pressure lock down to Diana Boulevard. But I know all the shortcuts; we got off at Macy-Gimbel Upper to go down their personnel hoist. I thought she would enjoy it.

  But when I told her to grab a hand grip as it dropped past her, she peered down the shaft and edged back. "You're joking."

  I was about to take her back the regular way when a neighbor of ours came down the hoist. I said, "Hello, Mrs. Greenberg," and she called back, "Hi, Holly. How are your folks?"

  Susie Greenberg is more than plump. She was hanging by one hand with young David tucked in her other arm and holding the Daily Lunatic, reading as she dropped. Miss Brentwood stared, bit her lip, and said, "How do I do it?"

  I said, "Oh, use both hands; I'll take the bags." I tied the handles together with my hanky and went first.

  She was shaking when we got to the bottom. "Goodness, Holly, how do you stand it? Don't you get homesick?"

  Tourist question number six . . . I said, "I've been to Earth," and let it drop. Two years ago Mother made me visit my aunt in Omaha and I was miserable—hot and cold and dirty and beset by creepy-crawlies. I weighed a ton and I ached and my aunt was always chivvying me to go outdoors and exercise when all I wanted was to crawl into a tub and be quietly wretched. And I had hay fever. Probably you've never heard of hay fever—you don't die but you wish you could.

  I was supposed to go to a girls' boarding school but I phoned Daddy and told him I was desperate and he let me come home. What groundhogs can't understand is that they live in savagery. But groundhogs are groundhogs and loonies are loonies and never the twain shall meet.

  Like all the best hotels the Zurich is in Pressure One on the west side so that it can have a view of Earth. I helped Miss Brentwood register with the roboclerk and found her room; it had its own port. She went straight to it, began staring at Earth and going ooh! and ahh!

  I glanced past her and saw that it was a few minutes past thirteen; sunset sliced straight down the tip of India—early enough to snag another client. "Will that be all, Miss Brentwood?"

  Instead of answering she said in an awed voice, "Holly, isn't that the most beautiful sight you ever saw?"

  "It's nice," I agreed. The view on that side is monotonous except for Earth hanging in the sky—but Earth is what tourists always look at even though they've just left it. Still, Earth is pretty. The changing weather is interesting if you don't have to be in it. Did you ever endure a summer in Omaha?

  "It's gorgeous," she whispered.

  "Sure," I agreed. "Do you want to go somewhere? Or will you sign my card?"

  "What? Excuse me, I was daydreaming. No, not right now—yes, I do! Holly, I want to go out there! I must! Is there time? How much longer will it be light?"

  "Huh? It's two days to sunset."

  She looked startled. "How quaint. Holly, can you get us space suits? I've got to go outside."

  I didn't wince—I'm used to tourist talk. I suppose a pressure suit looked like a space suit to them. I simply said, "We girls aren't licensed outside. But I can phone a friend."

  Jeff Hardesty is my partner in spaceship designing, so I throw business his way. Jeff is eighteen and already in Goddard Institute, but I'm pushing hard to catch up so that we can set up offices for our firm: "Jones & Hardesty, Spaceship Engineers." I'm very bright in mathematics, which is everything in space engineering, so I'll get my degree pretty fast. Meanwhile we design ships anyhow.

  I didn't tell Miss Brentwood this, as tourists think a girl my age can't possibly be a spaceship designer.

  Jeff has arranged his classes to let him guide on Tuesdays and Thursdays; he waits at West City Lock and studies between clients. I reached him on the lockmaster's phone. Jeff grinned and said, "Hi, Scale Model."

  "Hi, Penalty Weight. Free to take a client?"

  "Well, I was supposed to guide a family party, but they're late."

  "Cancel them. Miss Brentwood . . . step into pickup, please. This is Mr. Hardesty."

  Jeff's eyes widened and I felt uneasy. But it did not occur to me that Jeff could be attracted by a groundhog . . . even though it is conceded that men are robot slaves of their body chemistry in such matters. I knew she was exceptionally decorative, but it was unthinkable that Jeff could be captivated by any groundhog, no matter how well designed. They don't speak our language!

  I am not romantic about Jeff; we are simply partners. But anything that affects Jones & Hardesty affects me.

  When we joined him at West Lock he almost stepped on his tongue in a disgusting display of adolescent rut. I was ashamed of him and, for the first time, apprehensive. Why are males so childish?

  Miss Brentwood didn't seem to mind his behavior. Jeff is a big hulk; suited up for outside he looks like a Frost giant from Das Rheingold; she smiled up at him and thanked him for changing his schedule. He looked even sillier and told her it was a pleasure.

  I keep my pressure suit at West Lock so that when I switch a client to Jeff he can invite me to come along for the walk. This time he hardly spoke to me after that platinum menace was in sight. But I helped her pick out a suit and took her into the dressing room and fitted it. Those rental suits take careful adjusting or they will pinch you in tender places once out in vacuum . . . besides those things about them that one girl ought to explain to another.

  When I came out with her, not wearing my own, Jeff didn't even ask why I hadn't suited up—he took her arm and started toward the lock. I had to butt in to get her to sign my tariff card.

  The days that followed were the longest in my life. I saw Jeff only once . . . on the slidebelt in Diana boulevard, going the other way. She was with him.

  Though I saw him but once, I knew what was going on
. He was cutting classes and three nights running he took her to the Earthview Room of the Duncan Hines. None of my business!—I hope she had more luck teaching him to dance than I had. Jeff is a free citizen and if he wanted to make an utter fool of himself neglecting school and losing sleep over an upholstered groundhog that was his business.

  But he should not have neglected the firm's business!

  Jones & Hardesty had a tremendous backlog because we were designing Starship Prometheus. This project we had been slaving over for a year, flying not more than twice a week in order to devote time to it—and that's a sacrifice.

  Of course you can't build a starship today, because of the power plant. But Daddy thinks that there will soon be a technological break-through and mass-conversion power plants will be built—which means starships. Daddy ought to know—he's Luna Chief Engineer for Space Lanes and Fermi Lecturer at Goddard Institute. So Jeff and I are designing a self-supporting interstellar ship on that assumption: quarters, auxiliaries, surgery, labs—everything.

  Daddy thinks it's just practice but Mother knows better—Mother is a mathematical chemist for General Synthetics of Luna and is nearly as smart as I am. She realizes that Jones & Hardesty plans to be ready with a finished proposal while other designers are still floundering.

  Which was why I was furious with Jeff for wasting time over this creature. We had been working every possible chance. Jeff would show up after dinner, we would finish our homework, then get down to real work, the Prometheus . . . checking each other's computations, fighting bitterly over details, and having a wonderful time. But the very day I introduced him to Ariel Brentwood, he failed to appear. I had finished my lessons and was wondering whether to start or wait for him—we were making a radical change in power plant shielding—when his mother phoned me. "Jeff asked me to call you, dear. He's having dinner with a tourist client and can't come over."

  Mrs. Hardesty was watching me so I looked puzzled and said, "Jeff thought I was expecting him? He has his dates mixed." I don't think she believed me; she agreed too quickly.