Dr. Howes turned out to have an Sc.D in physics, rather than an M.D. There were no science-fiction fans at the gathering, but a number of people Ginny later characterized as “very odd.”17 The setup looked like a doctor’s (medical doctor’s) waiting room. People disappeared for a while into the back rooms, and then reappeared after being audited by Dr. Howes. When van Vogt finally appeared, he spoke briefly with Robert and Ginny and told them that Dr. Howes was the only Dianetics “Clear” in the world.
Van Vogt himself Heinlein found rather less “nervy” than he was before the war, more self-assured18—much the same results John Campbell had reported of Ron Hubbard—as a result of his exposure to Dianetics.
He is peddling Ron’s newest twist, “Scientology” (sic!) but tends to disparage Ron himself—which same seems to be true of the whole group, i.e., Ron is a jerk, Ron is a nut—but nevertheless he is the prophet of the One True Faith.
Me, I smiled, I did not argue, I asked questions—I listened to horse manure with a straight face.19
Robert Moore Williams went home with the Heinleins for more shop talk. He had been through the Dianetics mill himself a couple of years before, and thought it based on hypnotism—“powerful and exceeding dangerous.”20 Robert had kept his promise to Ginny not to take up Dianetics for five years. “I never have been exactly sold on Dianetics,” he told Campbell—
—not that I was “agin” it; I just tried to keep an open mind until I had enough data, data which was impossible to gather here. Ron’s book certainly was not adequate basis for judgment. I think you probably realize now that Ron’s book was so poorly written from a standpoint of scientific method as to be (although interesting) impossible to evaluate. But I was very pleased to see the orthodox psychiatrists and most especially the psychoanalysts given the hot foot. Whether or not Ron was right, the orthodox practitioners are most certainly wrong …21
Such events as he had just attended offered very little attraction for him.
And in any case, he had other matters to attend to. He pulled the old manuscript for The Man from Mars out of his files for another attempt to write through his block, after he replied to Rip van Ronkel that he would join in a suit against George Pal. He was shocked and distressed by van Ronkel’s news that their agent, Lou Schor, had obtained—and later sold—a 10 percent interest in the action on Destination Moon, points gross: Schor could not possibly have bought the interest in the production—he was hard up at the time and borrowing money himself. Nor could he have earned that in any legitimate way; it was clearly a conflict of interest and unethical conduct for an agent.22
But there was little that could be done about it—and as Irving Pichel pointed out, it was Rathvon who had the money—and Rathvon, in a perfectly legal arrangement with Pal, had no duty to them. Moreover, what Pal had done was something approaching “standard practice” in the industry. Hard on them, but there was nothing for them to enforce—and the amount in controversy might not be enough to justify the expenses of a lawsuit. Pichel felt sure they would see something from Pal eventually, even without suing.
Pichel was gradually being “frozen out” of the Hollywood filmmaking community, for his liberal activities in the 1930s, before he began directing. Fortunately, he had been offered a professorship at UCLA in the wake of his successful biopic, Martin Luther, for a German production company. Pichel was a casualty of the Hollywood blacklists—a clear warning to Robert, who had “then-liberal-now-subversive” politics in his own past.
Nor was the arbitration with Shasta going well. Doubleday would pick up the contract for the third Future History book, Blassingame told him, only if Shasta could be gotten entirely out of the picture. Blassingame had retained a new lawyer, and Heinlein was shocked that the lawyer thought their case “iffy” on the merits and that they ought to settle.
Heinlein instructed Blassingame to drop the negotiations with Doubleday while he figured out what to do about Shasta. He had originally wanted just to rescind the contract and walk away. His own lawyer in Colorado Springs thought he would probably be able to make that stick. But it was becoming clear that the simplest way to unblock the secondary (paperback) sales was to give in.
On June 17 he executed the contract with Shasta for the third Future History book, about a Second American Revolution against the American theocracy Mark Twain had predicted,23 the human race then picking up where it had left off in its journey out to the stars. Korshak came to Colorado Springs for a personal visit, and they all went out to dinner at a hotel—Ginny not wanting Korshak in their home.24 Korshak convinced Heinlein that he was capable of turning a new leaf—which Heinlein was willing to believe, since it only worked in Korshak’s best interests. And the new contract had termination provisions he considered adequate.
The new Shasta book gave an excuse to put The Man from Mars away; the writing was not going well: Fifteen thousand words into his manuscript, “I am as confused as the characters,” he told Irving Pichel. “But that is a standard complaint at this stage. Perhaps I can work it out.”25 His local friend and SF writer–colleague Stan Mullen gave him a “pep talk” about the project, so he went back to work on it for a short time,26 even though something about it was evidently not quite right, and he ground to a halt again.
He went to work on the Shasta book revisions.
“Coventry” didn’t need any substantial revisions; nor did “Misfit.” But the cornerstone of the book, “If This Goes On—,” was too dated, too pulpish to fit with the others. Heinlein added a subplot about John Lyle’s discovery of the founding documents of the first American Revolution, got rid of his pulp heroine, introduced a more “realistic” sex interest for Lyle, and in general added more than twenty thousand words, bringing it up to fifty-five thousand words. He also allowed his revolutionaries an effective doubt about the idea of brainwashing the electorate, even though their motives were pure. Now he evidently felt it belonged in the same universe as “The Man Who Sold the Moon.”
Shasta wasn’t thrilled with his suggested title for the book, A Hymn Before Battle, and neither was NAL. Heinlein suggested other titles—Revolt in Paradise or Revolt in 3000 A.D.—and they didn’t fly, either. Somehow, between the two of them, Ted Dikty, the editor for Shasta, settled with Truman Talley at NAL on Revolt in 2100—a title Robert could not understand at all, since there was nothing in the book that took place in 2100 A.D.
The summer resort rush was in full swing in July, making writing difficult, between the houseguests and visitors. Heinlein had three sets of houseguests expected within a three-week period—the McComases, his old high school principal, Otto DuBach (who was spending his retirement traveling around visiting people he had known earlier), and his parents on their circle tour of family. They were coming in later than scheduled, since they had doubled back for a second visit with Rex in D.C., where he was teaching electronics at West Point.
Their new schedule was particularly inconvenient as Heinlein also had a deadline of July 31 to revise some stories for a new collection for Fantasy Press, Assignment in Eternity.
Heinlein gave a large garden party for his Colorado Springs friends and acquaintances (including visitors Mick and Annette McComas)27 on the Fourth of July that year, and he wired the garden for sound and laid in a fully-stocked bar for the occasion, with champagne and brandy and lemons for Ginny’s favorite cocktail, the French 75.
Robert’s father and mother arrived in the middle of July, and Mr. Dubach joined them on the 27th. They also invited T. O. Johnston, another Centralian who was working as publicity director at the nearby Broadmoor resort-hotel, and a photo duly commemorating the reunion appeared in the Colorado Springs Gazette-Telegraph on July 30. Ginny was not in this photograph: She was suffering from an attack of poison ivy at the time. On a side trip to Seven Falls, Robert was recognized—a local celebrity!—by the boy parking his car. He was secretly pleased that this happened in front of his parents;28 he always felt his father regarded his writing career as not quite somethin
g a gentleman would do: Rex and Larry were the “good sons.” He was the black sheep.29
Heinlein’s father’s disposition had not improved by being nearly catatonic for more than fifteen years.30 He and Bam bickered continuously—very unpleasant in the confines of the small house. In particular, Rex wanted Bam to see about getting an old-age pension from the government. Of course, she was not eligible for it: She had never been employed by anyone who might give a pension—or Social Security for that matter.
But Dad nagged her about it so continuously and painfully while they were here that Ginny and I decided to take action at once. We are now sending them (and have been since the month of July) $40 a month, made out to Mother and somewhat jokingly referred to as “Mother’s Old Age Pension.” …31
The others could chip in if they wished; Robert and Ginny didn’t want to cut anyone out.
Robert’s parents finally left on the first or second of August, and he and Ginny breathed a sigh of relief as they passed them on to Louise in Albuquerque. His father’s bread-and-butter note dated August 5 was rather salty.32
Over the summer, Seaman had found a distributor for the film made from the TV show pilot Heinlein had written, Project Moonbase, and the movie was released by the Lippert organization in August 1953,33 to unfavorable reviews. The Hollywood Reporter covered it on August 28, 1953:
Project Moonbase makes a pitch for the juvenile science-fiction market, but its complete ineptitude will make it an object for derision even from the Saturday matinee kid audience. A depressing combination of inane story, atrocious acting and amateurish direction, this Lippert release will have trouble getting bookings in the most product-starved situations.34
Bad news from Hollywood (even if not entirely unexpected) was met by good news oveseas—and at home. Blassingame’s effective work lining up foreign editions of the juveniles was no longer being siphoned off by building. They had briefly considered using their hard-won expertise to build another home to rent out, but joining the landlord class did not appeal.35 Heinlein has said that he conceived the idea of a trip around the world and convinced Ginny, around the middle of June, by being stubborn—but not too stubborn. “I am going around the world. You are going with me because I need to keep you in sight where I can watch you and keep you out of trouble.”36 Within a few days of his parents’ leaving, Heinlein had told Blassingame about the trip; by August 19, Ginny wrote for both of them to the Department of the Navy seeking permission to travel internationally.
After that it was passports, visas, inoculations that sometimes left him queasy and almost always incapacitated Ginny for a day or more, and wardrobe and luggage. Robert was dismayed by Ginny’s idea of the proper amount of luggage for a six-month trip: “I notice that she is planning to wear a different evening dress every night however, and she has bought me a white tuxedo. I think she has herself mixed up with the Duchess of Windsor—probably progressive delusions. I’ll lead her home on a leash.”37 Also significant was the ever-problematical matter of travel arrangements. Most of the initial struggle fell to Ginny—only natural and entirely appropriate, since it was two of her crotchets that were making it so complicated:
… Ginny is opposed to flying, an attitude she picked up from too many years testing airplane materials, and she did not want to go too close to the Iron Curtain. That last is regrettable, as my next older brother [Rex] is in Zurich and my eldest brother [Larry] is in Heidelberg. But I hope to see them next year, maybe, and catch a little European culture out of bottles.38
Heinlein probably intended from the first to get a travel book out of the experience (not just general background that might go into anything). He helped with the arrangements between writing sessions, but a multitude of obstacles came up: American President Lines cheerfully returned their deposit, telling them their world tours were fully booked up two years in advance. Their travel agent, Mrs. Feyock, showed them how to book each leg of their trip independently—which gave them a lot of freedom to stop and explore, not bound by the schedule of a package tour. It was a project only possible because travel agents at that time were paid on a commission basis by the hotels and transport agencies they booked.
But the problem they could not overcome, singly or working together, was transportation for the last leg of their trip: There simply was no available transportation of any sort from New Zealand to anywhere on the North American continent. Robert and Ginny decided to keep their stay in New Zealand open-ended while they worked out arrangements on the spot. As late as October 24, when Robert gave Blassingame their schedule, he noted they had no fixed schedule after arriving in Singapore on January 29, 1954.
Heinlein mounted a full-scale attack on his piled-up backlog of work to make the trip financially possible. The major task was his annual boys’ book for Scribner, which had to be finished by the time they were scheduled to leave. He had a “Swiftian fantasy” in mind this time—an animal story with a science-fiction twist, in which nothing is as it seems. Casting it as a thinly disguised science–fantasy would let him play “fast and loose with scientific orthodoxy.”39 An overgrown alien pet turns a village upside down and then embroils the entire Terran Federation in a conflict that could turn into interstellar war.
He started writing The Star Lummox on August 26 and promptly ran into a snag: It was too static, with not enough action or conflict. Ginny came up with a fresh way of starting the story, jumping directly into action and conflict, and that unblocked his progress. He was able, even with interruptions, to finish the entire seventy-five-thousand-word book by September 26 and invite his local lawyer over to dinner to check on the authenticity of the courtroom scene.
The Star Lummox started out a romp, but turned out to be his last visualization of the peaceful world-state ideal of his socialist youth. By 1953, America itself was becoming an empire, and not without growing pains. Pundits in the current-events magazines solemnly discussed the transformation of the American democracy on the world stage, and some of this very adult agonizing over the fate of democracy Heinlein poured into his Swiftian animal story.
When the manuscript for The Star Lummox was professionally typed, he turned it over to Blassingame, along with an itinerary and full Power of Attorney to use for any business decisions necessary while they were out of the country. He also forwarded copies of their wills and had the instruction added to contact Blassingame in case of emergency. Lucky Herzberger’s parents, Dr. and Mrs. Knowles, had volunteered to house-sit and take care of Pixie, so he wouldn’t have to be kenneled.
One last item was included in his instructions to Blassingame:
You may possibly hear from a Dr. Phineas Bernstein of this city, telling you that he expects to have an “article” ready for delivery about such-and-such a date—in which case get in touch with us by fastest means. We have instituted proceedings to adopt a child; the “article” will be a baby.40
The Heinleins shipped half their luggage ahead to their port of embarcation, New Orleans, but at the last minute they received a wire saying that the Gulf Shipper would be delayed an additional three days, so they canceled their airline reservations and booked a Pullman car instead, for a leisurely two-day train trip by way of Fort Worth. Even though the railway station was cold the evening of November 12, a crowd of friends came to see them off—including most of the staff of the travel agency (a world trip was an exciting project for them), and they received parting gifts of candy and Ginny’s favorite green cymbidium orchids. They arrived in New Orleans on Sunday morning, and “We began to dig our graves with our teeth, wide and deep, a process likely to continue for 40,000 miles.”41
Two days of genteel carousing in New Orleans nightclubs capped off their five months’ of exhausting work. When they boarded the Gulf Shipper on the morning of November 17, 1953, and she warped away from the dock around ten o’clock in the morning, they were ready to collapse. Heinlein mustered the energy to follow from the deck the afternoon’s cautious progress out of the ever-changing Mississippi Delta
under the direction of a special pilot whose sole duty it was to get the freighter out into the Gulf of Mexico—a process like something out of Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi.
Then they went to bed.
8
WORLD TRAVELERS
“I recall quite well,” Ginny later remarked, “that the first long sea voyage we made together it took Robert five days to get the gumption to load a camera!”1 The Gulf Shipper was a passenger-freighter, with excellent, though not luxurious, accommodations. The Heinleins began making shipboard friends, and Robert took the opportunity to show off Ginny’s talent and good nature, offering her barbering skills to the entire crew—all forty-seven of them. It took her all of one day, but netted them a fifth of Scotch whisky.
The ship made for the Atlantic side of the Panama Canal, an approach familiar to Robert through many transits while in the Navy, but not to Ginny. Seeing the operation of the locks, raising the whole ship eighty-five feet in a concrete box, to float out into Gatun Lake, was as fascinating and awe-inspiring for her as it still was for him, and the reverse process, lowering in the Miraflores Locks to the Pacific, was just as impressive.
Their first real port of call was Buenaventura, Colombia. It rained almost continuously while they were in port—Buenaventura gets 350 inches of rainfall each year. Nothing dried out—ever. Heinlein developed a bad case of athlete’s foot overnight, and his portable typewriter froze up, rusted to immobility.2
Robert A. Heinlein, In Dialogue with His Century, Volume 2 Page 12