Robert A. Heinlein, In Dialogue with His Century, Volume 2

by William H. Patterson, Jr.

  But anyone who takes that book as answers is cheating himself. It is an invitation to think—not to believe.2

  That letter might have helped give shape to Heinlein’s thinking about the new book—most likely what not to do with his men-like-gods theme—as he began pulling what amounted finally to eight hundred of the three-by-five index cards of ideas he had collected over the years.

  What makes a god, ultimately, is the power of choice. Taboos are about things that human beings overwhelmingly desire to do—or would ordinarily wander into just because of the circumstances of living—unless they were sternly prohibited by custom internalized so intensely that people enforce their own mental “cages.”

  But adults don’t need mental cages. Adults choose their behavior, sanely based on their circumstances, taking direct and full responsibility for their own acts.

  Taboos are for emotional children. “One of Robert’s ambitions was to break every taboo,” Ginny later said.3

  In addition to “The Man Who Was Too Lazy to Fail,” Heinlein had some novella-length stories to tell, as well as “Da Capo,” which had grown into a novel-sized return to the world of 1912 or thereabouts, his own golden age, when he was five. He carpentered all these stories together by setting up a Tale of the Thousand Nights and a Night, with the ironic twist of Lazarus Long (in the Scheherezade role) telling stories to entertain the Caliph of the then Howard Families—in exchange for the privilege of dying.

  Heinlein did one other piece of professional writing before he actually got the book under way—his first, except for the aborted libretto, in two and a half years. Arthur C. Clarke and Chesley Bonestell were collaborating on a big picture book about the “Grand Tour” of the solar system NASA had proposed for a robotic spacecraft mission when all the planets were on the same side of the sun at the same time and would actually line up in the 1980s. Clarke was writing the travelogue and Bonestell was painting the images for Beyond Jupiter: The Worlds of the Grand Tour—and Little, Brown, their publisher, wanted an introduction from Heinlein.4

  He was then able to start writing his book on March 13, 1972—Lazarus Long: Being the Memoirs of a Survivor. Heinlein was no longer able to work sixteen-hour days, but he spent the time he needed to, to get it exactly right—and did not stop until he wrote “The End,” 119 days later, on his sixty-fifth birthday. The collection of aphorisms he called “the notebooks of Lazarus Long” involved particularly finicky work, reworking the sayings he had collected over the years as they occurred to him, to get the phrasing just right. He split the collection in two and placed half on either side of the centerpiece of the book, to give the reader a gently comic break from the pathos of his story about adorable Dora.5 “He did not hurry it—” Ginny later remarked, “tomorrow was good enough. But no one really ever knew about that careful work. He tried to make it look easy…”6

  The book was more of a virtuoso turn than anything Heinlein had done before—some of the finest pure writing he had ever done, and full of clever tricks: The opening of the book, for example, was an almost word-for-word retelling of a passage from Caleb Catlum’s America (Vincent McHugh, 1936), one of the books he had used in the 1930s and 1940s as a compatibility touchstone for new acquaintances. There was a section of blank verse tucked away in prose form at the start of one chapter—a trick he had picked up from James Branch Cabell.7 The “Dora” story—“The Tale of the Adopted Daughter”—is tremendously affecting.

  Oddly, the more Heinlein engaged with the science-fiction genre, the more his last two books had turned out like “mainstream” fiction, as the SF fans called it. Heinlein had always kept up with what was being published currently in general fiction, and his writing came more and more to bridge between general fiction and the specialized conventions of science fiction. This one had migrated over to that corner of literature occupied by Izaak Walton and Laurence Sterne—and nowadays by John Barth and Philip Roth. During the 1960s, the “death of the novel” had become an issue in literary criticism, and some critics thought that the satire—or as critic Northrop Frye termed it, the “anatomy” (after Robert Burton’s 1621 Anatomy of Melancholy)—might be the next prestige literary form. Stranger in a Strange Land (1961) had been part of the satire/anatomy movement in literature (and note that Burton’s Anatomy was Jubal Harshaw’s favorite book), flanked by Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 (1961) and Giles, Goat Boy by John Barth (1966)—as had Glory Road (1963) and Farnham’s Freehold (1964). Lazarus Long returned to the anatomy form to organize its complex structure—while remaining core science fiction with its extension of the Future History twenty-three hundred years into the future.

  The interlocking structure of the book was so complex he started his first cut on the manuscript while Ginny read the draft. In three weeks of concentrated work, Heinlein cut the book from 960 to 850 manuscript pages and changed the title to the “punchier” Time Enough for Love. Once the book was sent to a professional typist, he and Ginny took the vacation they both had been needing for some time. An opportunity fell into their hands for an interestingly different sea cruise.

  Richard C. Hoagland was an energetic young man, a former science advisor for CBS at the time of the Apollo 11 coverage. At the end of July in 1972, Hoagland was promoting a Caribbean cruise in December to see the last of the Apollo missions launched. Apollo had achieved its purposes, and it was time to move on to the next goals—a permanent orbital station, a permanent lunar colony—perhaps a manned mission to Mars. This last Apollo launch would also be special because it was to be the only night launch in the program. Hoagland wanted to get a stellar group of scientists and journalists, science-fiction writers, and fans together, standing off the Florida coast when that Saturn V lifted off in the dark of night, the whole event surrounded by a seminar on space flight.

  It was a grand idea—inspirational, educational, and in itself newsworthy. Arthur Clarke and Isaac Asimov both supported the venture, Asimov with a small cash investment. Hoagland wanted Heinlein as a speaker/lecturer, but Robert and Ginny decided to invest in the project, providing two thousand dollars in seed capital on September 6, 1972. After the launch, Statendam would go on to several ports in the Caribbean—and they would wind up in New York for Christmas and be on hand for the contract negotiations for the new book.

  Early in August, Blassingame forwarded a letter from the Superintendent of the U.S. Naval Academy, Vice Admiral Mack, asking Robert to speak in April 1973 to the entire Brigade of Midshipmen plus faculty for the third annual series of public figure lectures inaugurated in honor of James Forrestal, the wartime Secretary of the Navy.

  There could not be greater personal validation—particularly when Robert discovered that the Superintendent did not seem to be aware he was an Academy alumnus:8 The request had come purely because of his status as a public figure. He said nothing,9 but when the Admiral’s assistant, C. M. Walter, wrote asking for a photo and bio, the cat was out of the bag. Heinlein regularized the situation by becoming a Life Member of the USNA Alumni Association.

  Some of the luster wore off for him when he asked what subject they wanted him to talk about, and Commander Walter suggested he talk about how science fiction had changed over the years and its impact on the country.10 Heinlein was “inside” the genre, and perhaps he could not appreciate what was plain to outsiders: Science fiction’s conversation about technology of the future had become the vocabulary for how to think about science and technology in the now. Science fiction had even become an instrument of policy—probably why Herman Kahn had asked Heinlein to participate in his think-tank scenarios.

  But still, Robert was not satisfied with the prospect of speaking only in his capacity as a professional clown. He would do as they asked—but he had a few miscellaneous observations to make in the leftover bits of time.

  Robert and Ginny flew to New York, boarding Statendam on December 4. Holland America had put an announcement of the cruise in the Travel section of the November 19 New York Times, touting “a series of symposiums
chaired by Capt. Edgar Mitchell,11 and featuring such speakers as authors Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, and Norman Mailer.”12

  It does not seem to have done the trick: There were, indeed, scientists and journalists and science-fiction writers aboard, but the ship was largely empty—only 100 paying passengers on a ship meant for 650. The conference administration was not as well organized as the ship: Meetings were called and canceled at a moment’s notice, panelists were often unprepared, and the quality of the discussions ranged from incisive to whimsical.

  Robert and Ginny socialized as much as possible, renewing acquaintance with friends and colleagues—Isaac Asimov, Marvin Minsky, Fred and Carol Pohl, Ben Bova,13 Theodore Sturgeon and his wife. Television personality Hugh Downs was there acting as master of ceremonies.14 Heinlein was granted courtesy of the bridge as an old Navy man. He was fascinated by the improvements in navigation technology since his day—since his last major cruises—particularly the real-time photoprints of weather satellite views.15

  Norman Mailer and Katherine Anne Porter were on board as literary celebrities. Mailer had written a very arresting coverage of the Apollo 11 trip in 1969 and he was covering the last Apollo as well. He seemed also to have the same kind of remarkable memory Robert had, as he greeted Ginny by name, recalling them from a casual meeting years ago.16 Unfortunately, some of the things he had to say were a little “out there”: The Apollo missions might be disturbing the delicate vibrations of the “thanatosphere,”17 he said, out beyond the biosphere. The reporters lapped up the drivel, and the New York Times report of the trip called him the “star” of the cruise—aside from the launch itself. When Mailer said that NASA had managed to make the most exciting event in human history boring, he may have had a point—but he did come down on the side of the angels: “I believe finally and fundamentally in the need and the necessity for us to voyage into space, for I think it is part of our human design, part of our inner imperative.”18

  Porter had been commissioned by Playboy to cover the night launch—somewhat unfortunately, as the journalists could not pass up unpleasantly whimsical references to her 1962 bestseller, Ship of Fools. Porter and Heinlein were distantly related through Daniel Boone, but the eighty-two-year-old writer was standoffish, and the fact that she had in her day been both a Communist sympathizer and a personal friend of Hermann Goering was not a combination that might have encouraged fraternization.

  But they had the launch, and it was a glorious thing—“incomparably beautiful at night,” Heinlein called it.19 On December 6, Statendam anchored seven miles off Cape Kennedy. The launch was delayed two hours, but at 12:33 A.M. on the 7th, the flame flickered silently and illuminated from within the clouds of vapor venting from the launch vehicle, in flashes of brilliant white and orange. Slowly and silently it rose in the sky. “The lift off was every bit as fascinating as it had been for [Apollo] 11, but much much more spectacular! It was as if the sun had risen at midnight, but in the west, not in the east.”20 The Saturn V glowed golden and “lighting the night into a copper-colored semi-day,”21 “making droplets of vapor glow like trillions of tiny stars.”22

  A full minute later, the roar of the rocket engine reached the ship like a physical blow, making Statendam’s hull drum with the sheer energy of it.23 Porter talked about the experience in a newspaper interview: “I came out of a world so primitive you can scarcely imagine it. We barely had gaslight in New Orleans when I was a girl. When I saw them take off I wanted with all my soul to be going with them.”24 Amen. They had the earthbound next-best thing that evening in the ship’s theater: a showing of 2001: A Space Odyssey.25

  The next day, Statendam lifted anchor and made for the Caribbean part of the cruise. Several new passengers and participants had joined the ship in Florida, and they picked up more in St. Thomas—including, particularly, astronomer Carl Sagan, with his wife Linda. Sagan brought with him poster-sized blow-ups of the photos that had just come in from the Mariner 9 mission that was mapping the surface of Mars for the first time.

  Heinlein was scheduled to give an interview for Canadian television at the same time as Sagan’s lecture, so Ginny went ahead to catch the first half. Heinlein joined her midway into the lecture, and they had a chance to talk with Sagan afterwards.

  Things sorted themselves out socially on the ship. Ginny, who had the perspective of a passenger rather than a program participant, pointed out that the speakers tended to stick together in tight social groups, which meant that the paid attendees rarely got a chance to meet them. So Robert announced a mixer at about the halfway point of the cruise and undertook to make it happen, taking on the host role and breaking up the tight knots of speakers-speaking-only-to-speakers, and introducing the celebrities directly to the paying passengers. The atmosphere on board the ship changed as of that impromptu mixer, and the thing became an emotional success for everyone.26

  With the launch behind them, the ship went on to San Juan, Puerto Rico, which was their principal Caribbean stopover. The seminars wobbled chaotically on. Heinlein’s talk had been postponed until the 11th—the day the Challenger lunar module was to separate from the America command module in lunar orbit and land at Taurus-Littrow. His talk—listed in the program as “The Apollo Flights Viewed Historically”—was scheduled to start at 2:30 P.M., during the radio coverage of the descent, and he was asked while he was making his way to the platform to keep his presentation down to fifteen minutes. He had a prepared presentation timed for thirty to forty minutes: He had to cut and paste in his mind as he finished mounting the stairs to the podium. Small wonder Isaac Asimov characterized his talk as “wandering.”27 They broke for the radio coverage of the touchdown, and resumed afterwards.

  Statendam made its way back up the Atlantic coast, docking in New York on December 13. The new book manuscript had not reached Blassingame’s office yet, though the university copier in Santa Cruz had mailed it out on the 10th. The Heinleins were planning to be in New York for at least a couple of weeks, because they had found a gala way to go home: The P&O lines had a brand-new vessel on its maiden voyage in January, Spirit of London, for the Florida-to-San-Francisco route, going through the Panama Canal.

  Challenger lifted off from Taurus-Littrow on December 14. It was scheduled to splash down in the Pacific on December 19—two days after the first copy of Time Enough for Love arrived in Blassingame’s office. This book was so large—and, the editors agreed, so tightly written28 that it could not realistically be cut—that they would have to issue it at an uncompetitive price. But Walter Minton, who was always eager to experiment with the newest technical methods, thought they could use computerized typesetting to keep the costs under control.

  The immediate business concluded, Robert and Ginny then spent the remainder of their two weeks on the East Coast enjoying the decadent diversions offered by the Big Apple and environs (loosely defined), including a relaxed day with the Trottiers on the river in South Carolina and Christmas in New York. As Christmas presents, Ginny fed his recent interest in the immediate pre–World War I era by giving him a 1910 Sears catalog and a book about old—really old—cars.

  In January they flew to Florida to catch the Spirit of London on its maiden voyage. Ginny was fascinated by the side jets that moved this brand-new ship sideways out of its slip. Robert was pleased with the ship’s exceptional stability—and the same state-of-the-art navigation technology he had seen on Statendam.

  The Spirit of London’s route took her through the Panama Canal. They had a little rough weather coming up the West Coast. Robert didn’t succumb to seasickness, but he did pick up a case of the London flu. After clearing customs, Ginny got Robert bundled into a car and drove straight home, to a dismaying stack of mail and a dead garden (there had been a solid freeze, rare for the area, while they were away). Ginny promptly came down with the flu as well.

  Heinlein had additional cause to be miserable when the galleys came from Putnam’s: They were carbon copies, very odd, smudged and difficult to work with, an
d between the computer typesetting and a raft of errors added by a copy editor, Heinlein had to ask for page proofs to work with them at all. For this book he had to work very carefully. Clean manuscript, no revisions at all once it was in type, even though a limited number of revisions were permitted by contract. He studied Skillin & Gay’s Words into Type and Putnam’s house style sheet so he could anticipate the copy editor’s objections and mark any variance from house style with “stet.” When he was done with the galleys, they were the cleanest set he had ever seen.29

  In February Heinlein began assembling his notes for the Forrestal lecture he had to give in two months. He had set himself a difficult task this time, because he did intend to comply with Cmdr. Walter’s suggestion and talk about life as a freelance writer—but he had some things to get off his chest, some important ideas that had been percolating for decades.

  In Starship Troopers (1959), he had tried to articulate the learning curve for a teenaged boy who went from mouthing platitudes to understanding deep within himself why his values might require of him that “last full measure of devotion.” His “dead serious (but incomplete) inquiry into why men fight”30 had used a style of argument he had probably picked up from Philip Wylie’s wartime Generation of Vipers and An Essay on Morals (1947)31—one that starts with a factual observation instead of moral or religious explanations.32

  Heinlein had gotten letter after letter from servicemen—in all the services—telling him they had found Starship Troopers personally very meaningful, that he had articulated something of what they felt emotionally about duty and personal honor and could not articulate for themselves. In the last few years, this mail had been taking a dismaying turn, of disillusionment. Robert traced this first to the demoralizing effects on the country as a whole of the undeclared and maddeningly inconsistently prosecuted “war”/“police action” in Vietnam—but also to the “liberalizing” going on now in the armed forces. He would give any help he could to these earnest young people, to help them recapture their sense of purpose and proportion.