The Counterfeit Heinlein

by Laurence M. Janifer

  But the ancients, though full to the bung with the learning we now call Classical, were not really very accomplished at simple thought. Instead, they had luck—which accounted for survivors of the Clean Slate War—and Survivalists—which didn’t, much.

  Our Norman was a Survivalist. He had died in his armored hole. We now think he had had a heart attack, after having lived down there for about two years. I think I might have had one, or an attack of something, possibly suicide, after less time than that. Nor was this the end of his troubles.

  His air-machinery was temperature and humidity-controlled, of course. The humidity control went out about three months after Norman died. The air became very, very dry.

  When the pie was opened—nearly three hundred years later, because Uta, whatever it was back then, is a fairly isolated place now, and though there are always archaeological search teams, there are not all that many, nor are they all that well-funded—when the pie was opened, there was Norman, dry as a mummy and almost as well preserved. And there were his artifacts, also fairly well preserved, considering, by the unlivable climate inside Norman’s armored hole—though he’d tried, with some success, to do some extra preserving of some artifacts. Not sensibly—that would have been too much to ask of Norman W. Nechs, or probably of any Survivalist—but with great, even showy, dedication.

  One of those artifacts, according to the discoverers, was a manuscript, nicely sealed in a mostly-nitrogen atmosphere, in a large, vacuum-sealed barrel of sorts, by Robert Anson Heinlein. It was entitled The Stone Pillow.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WORD GOT OUT very, very quickly. There are a lot of Heinlein fans, whatever fashionable critics say, and a high percentage of them know about The Stone Pillow. It is one of the unwritten stories of Heinlein’s Future History. If you know about this, you can skip the next few paragraphs, and pick things up at the space, or the beep, or the sunburst, however you’re getting this report. For the others:

  Unwritten, anyhow, until Norman’s carefully preserved manuscript turned up in his armored hole. There were three stories listed in old charts of the Future History that had never been written—The Sound of His Wings, The Stone Pillow and Word Edgewise—but apparently Heinlein had actually written at least the middle one. Why it had never been published nobody knew, and the suggestion that it was too lousy for publication was never made. It was, after all, Heinlein, and “too lousy” did not occur. Even “lousy” occurred only once or twice in the entire Collected Works, as far as we know today, and there is not much agreement about where, or even whether, to paste that label.

  The Future History—well, there were a lot of these, though Heinlein’s may have been the first, not only before the Clean Slate War but before World War II, which takes us all the way into antiquity. None were accurate, but accuracy was never the point—the point was to create a framework to put stories in, so that the stories meant a little more all together than they could one at a time. World-building, which is what a lot of science-fiction seems to have been, takes place in three dimensions of space and one of time, and Future Histories use up the time dimension most thoroughly.

  In Heinlein’s, there was a period in which the United States, his model for society, fell into a dark age, under the rule of a religious crank called the Prophet, Nehemiah Scudder. The Stone Pillow was supposed to tell the story of some of the rebels and martyrs fighting Scudder and his successors, and that was all anybody knew about it until Norman’s little keepsake turned up.

  It turned out to be the story of Duncan BenDurrell, a convert to the fighting faith of Diaspora Judaism and second-in-command of a religio-political rebel army fighting the current Prophet, third of that title, in a wild and uncitified area of what was, in Heinlein’s own time, Oregon.

  * * * *

  It was at that point, as I was spinning all this out for little Robbin Tress, that the Master interrupted me.

  “You have never actually seen the manuscript you speak of, have you, Gerald?” he said in that rasp of his.

  I shook my head.

  “Let me, then, recite a brief passage,” he said. “It was really a remarkable forgery, in its way—this will show you why, very briefly. Quite typical of early-middle Heinlein, and quite persuasive.”

  Robbin was sitting wide-eyed, one bite of cake held forgotten between two fingers. I felt that way myself—forgery or not, I felt as if I were going to get a quick glimpse of a Heinlein story I had never read before. I had to remind myself to start breathing again, at least long enough to say: “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Even Master Higsbee’s rasp of a voice couldn’t spoil the effects. I’ll give it to you straight, though—the way it would have looked in print, starting (I checked, much later) with page 94 of the manuscript.

  * * * *

  94

  believe a word of it. But he frowned angrily, and he thought he looked fairly convincing doing it. He owed that much to the Dias, and he delivered it.

  “That may be so,” Joshua said. “But whatever you think of him, you must admit Duncan has been acting suspiciously.”

  “I’ll admit no such thing,” Frad said. “Duncan BenDurrell may not be an honorable man—as you and I understand honor, Excellency—but that’s no cause for suspicion. The Prophet Himself tells us that there are not sufficient honorable men in an entire city to save it from destruction, though only ten be needed. Discourses, 3:13.”

  Joshua stirred uneasily, swinging a leg as he shifted a little on the rickety Judgment Seat. “I say BenDurrell—and the name alone stinks in an honest man’s nose—is in league with destruction, friend Frad. And I say destruction should be his portion, as the Prophet suggests for unbelievers—Originations 4:10.”

  Outside the Summer Palace, a group of celebrators began to shout songs and hymns as they wove drunkenly past. Frad felt it wise to throw a glance of irritation at the open window, and Joshua shook his head and clucked disapproval.

  “Such displays should be coventried,” he said, and Frad shook his own head. It was possible, he knew, safely to disagree on such a point.

  “Do not attempt to be more pious than the Prophet himself requires,” he said. “It is said that all men need at times to unbend—Discourses 2:2—and who are we to judge their lives? BenDurrell is of an unfortunate heritage, Excellency, but that is all that can reasonably be said against him.”

  “We are appointed to judge,” Joshua said mildly.

  “So? Who was it made the appointment, Excellency?”

  Joshua smiled. “God has made it,” he said serenely. “God, through His First Prophet and through that Prophet’s successors. What would you, then?”

  “I will not pick a quarrel with Him,” Frad said, “nor His First Prophet, nor that First Prophet’s successors either. But it has never been clear to me that the proof of such an assertion is beyond any cavil.”

  “Then search yourself until you find that clarity,” Joshua said, and a hint of sternness came into his voice. “You sail too close to the wind of heresy, Frad Golden.”

  Frad shrugged. “It’s of no importance,” he said. “But, in these difficult times, we must avoid even the appearance of injustice.”

  Joshua stirred a little on the Judgment Seat. “No one will worry about appearances, Frad Golden,” he said. “BenDurrell is nothing, less than nothing. No one will bother himself over one man’s fate.”

  “But BenDurrell is just that, Excellency,” Frad said, as gently as possible. Joshua might listen to reason—the possibility existed—but it would not do to anger him. Duncan would not be well served by the casting-out or imprisonment of Frad Golden.

  “‘Just that’? He is nothing, and less than nothing.”

  “He is one man, Excellency, as you have said,” Frad went on. “And like every man, he is the one for whom the First Prophet came, as He Himself said—Generations 7:33. He is the one for whom sacrifices were made, in the days of the beginning. We are taught that every man has such value that he, alone, might be the cause of
all the work of the First Prophet, and all the mercies of God Himself. One man, Lord—as valuable as any one man in all this world. As valuable, one might say—so we are taught, an you read it aright—as the Prophet himself.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHEN THE MASTER’S rasp stopped, the place was very quiet. Little Robbin Tress whispered: “Wow. Gee, Master Higsbee—gee, Sir—wow, I wish it were real. I mean I wish it were a real Heinlein story.” And then, dreamily: “Maybe, someplace, it is.”

  “It might be so,” the Master said. His voice sounded tired, but no more tired than usual. If asked, he’d have told you, extensively, how worn and ancient he was, and how much the recital had taken out of him. So I didn’t ask.

  Robbin offered to help with cleaning up, but the Master knew how I feel about household chores generally and dishwashing in particular, and managed to persuade her that my refusal was serious, and not ill-tempered in the least. We spent a few minutes in reminiscence—Robbin had once been a help about a Fairy Godfrog, of all the damned things, and the Master remembered some odd consulting he’d done for me here and there (and all the reasons why I shouldn’t have had to consult him, but could very well have figured matters out on my own)—and then, with both parties readying graceful goodbyes, it happened again.

  This time, the damn nuisance didn’t miss.

  Of course, this time he wasn’t shooting at me. In fact, we none of us heard the shot, for which I was and am profoundly grateful; that one sound would have tossed Robbin back five years and more in her own progress, and, which seemed almost as important somehow, would have been the occasion for endless complaining from Master Higsbee.

  Six or seven minutes later, we were finishing up goodbye-and-reply routines, of which Robbin had a full set (the Master’s version was of course short and simple) when my phone blipped, and they stood frozen at the door, the way people will, while I went and answered it.

  B’russ’r B’dige’s sweet high tenor asked me if I were me, and on getting confirmation gave me the news. I said I would be right the Hell there, hung up, and began to shoo my guests out before I had a chance to think.

  Then I stopped shooing them, and instead began telling them what had happened. “That was B’russ’r B’dige. Somebody has just shot Ramsay Leake and knocked him off his tenth-floor balcony. B’russ’r thinks it’s connected. I’m going down to the Leake place—want to come along?”

  The Master took one quick look at Robbin Tress. “I think not, Gerald,” he said slowly. “We will have to catch up later—of course you will provide. But Robbin should be home.”

  The girl was absolutely crestfallen. She was actually wringing her hands, something I don’t seem to see much. “I’m so sorry, Sir,” she told me earnestly. “But it is a strain, and they tell me I have to be careful about strain. In a little while when I’m better, I won’t have to be so careful maybe, but right now I do, Sir, and I am sorry but I think I do have to go home, if Master Higsbee will help me get there.”

  She did have enough spirit left, or something, to bat her eyelids at the Master a little, and stifle a small giggle. To his credit, he let both pass as friends, not even asking for recognition codes.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll check in with one of you as soon as I can, and as soon as I know anything. But let’s shut up shop in a hurry—I’d like to get there while the scene is still a scene.”

  The Master nodded. Robbin was still agreeing we should hurry when he bundled her into their waiting closed car and took off, and by that time I was flagging a passing taxi and giving him directions to VT.

  Which was, of course, the name of Ramsay Leake’s modest estate—Leake being a computer-simulations expert. If you don’t recognize the allusion, that’s because it is rather a Classical tag; back before the Clean Slate War, computer people on early comm networks used to speak of RT and VT—Real Time, or life every day, everywhere, and Virtual Time, or life on the comm net. The differences were beginning to be appreciated, apparently, right from the start of comm networking, and Leake had reached back to the ancients for his estate name, as a neat enough challenge to those differences, and one I found instantly admirable. Unfortunately, I couldn’t compliment him on it, not any more.

  He was right there—what was left of him. But there wasn’t enough left to compliment—after a ten-story fall, there was barely enough left to recognize. Ravenal has 0.97 Standard gravity, but the 0.03 difference didn’t seem to amount to much in practical terms just then; Leake was just as jellied by the impact as he’d have been if he’d come down somewhere in ancient Oregon, or Uta.

  VT had been a ten-story tower, round and rather thin, sticking straight up and surrounded by terrace-railings every two stories from the fourth on up. The word that sprang to mind, out of ancient literature, was “minaret”. A fascinating building, and about one hundred times as imaginative as your average Ravenal structure of any sort at all. Oh, why not—a thousand times. Easily.

  B’russ’r was there, too, some distance from the minaret, chatting politely with a police official I’d met briefly, a Detective-Major Hyman Gross. I climbed out of my taxi and ambled over to join them, perhaps thirty feet from the body, where a small army of techs was at work taking photographs, measurements, readings and anything else not nailed down. As I came within earshot, Gross was saying: “I respect your abilities. Hell, anybody respects your abilities, Mr. B’dige. But this isn’t even a large coincidence. Sort of thing that happens all the damn time, I mean to say.”

  B’russ’r only nodded at the man patiently.

  “It is not the coincidence of the weapon that concerns me,” he said. “It is the coincidence of the occupation—not, I think you will agree, a small matter. My conclusion is a consequence—”

  “Of information upload, I know,” I said. “Hello, B’russ’r. Major Gross.”

  The Major gave me a stare. For Gross, this was a large undertaking: he had a red round face, even redder up where most of his hair had once been, and big, big eyes that bugged out as far as I’ve ever seen a human being’s. He focused those exopthalmic things on me and said: “You too, Knave? What is this now, a plot? Are you ganging up on me now?” in a wheezy, wine-soaked little baritone.

  “Perhaps Knave appreciates the situation,” B’russ’r said.

  “I might,” I put in, “if I knew what it was. Leake fell from his tenth-floor balcony. How in the name of the original preSpace Gross do you know he was shot first? The shape he’s in, that ought to take a careful autopsy.”

  “The shot was seen and heard,” B’russ’r said. “This time, we have witnesses.”

  Gross snorted. “What do you mean, this time?” he said. “If you truly want to tie this death here to the Berigot shootings five years ago, you had a job lot of witnesses then. We all of us did.”

  B’russ’r stirred his wings a bit, forth and back. Confusion, and enlightenment—the Berigot equivalent of Aha. “I see,” he said. “There has been a misunderstanding. It is not the shootings I wish to connect, Major Gross. It is the theft.”

  “Theft?” Gross said. “And just by the way, Knave, who the Hell is this ‘original preSpace Gross’? Relative of yours? Some long-forgot relative of mine, perhaps?”

  B’russ’r nodded a little sidewise at me, and I shrugged. Translated: “Do you mind if I supply the data?” “Not at all, go right ahead.” Berigot are very polite, even a tad ritualistic, about information transfer. Naturally, I suppose.

  “The Gross referred to,” he told the Major, “is the author of Modern Criminal Investigation, a much-used police textbook just preSpace. Not only historically noted, but at times still quite helpful; his differentiation of some burned corpses from fight victims remains classic.” He bowed just a trifle. “Not perhaps a subject of study in today’s academies,” he said. “As for the theft—”

  He went on to describe, very sketchily, the Heinlein-forgery situation. Gross nodded. “And you believe this death here is connected?” he said at last. “Why? What would
connect this Leake with an old manuscript?”

  “Leake,” B’russ’r said, “would have helped to fake it. The conclusion is, if not certain, surely irresistible.”

  Gross said: “Why would you say irresistible? Why would you come to any conclusion at all, for heaven’s sake? Look, Mr. B’dige, you mention occupations. Well, this Leake was a computer-simulations expert. Whatever your old manuscript might be, it wasn’t a computer simulation. When it was written new, perhaps there were people who didn’t even have computers.”

  B’russ’r cleared his throat—something a Beri never does, except to imitate humans. I’d been wondering when he’d get around to it, and now he had. “B’russ’r, please,” he told Gross. “It is true that B’dige is a name. But like most names placed in second position, for Berigot, it is functional, not personal. Simply B’russ’r, please.”

  “Not personal?” Gross said.

  I nodded sidewise at B’russ’r, and he shrugged back at me. “That second name,” I told Gross, “is a little bit like ‘Teacher,’ say, or ‘Driver’—and a little bit like ‘redhead’ or ‘shorty.’ It describes a function or an attribute of some sort, not a person. The name a Beri uses is his name—the first part. The second part is more of a title, or a nickname—at nay rate, functional, not personal.”

  Gross nodded. I have no idea to this day whether he’d got it. But he did say: “Good for it, then: B’russ’r. All right with you?” and B’russ’r nodded very politely.

  “Thank you,” he said. “And as for your question—the manuscript was, in a way, a computer simulation. Such a simulation must have been used to create the effect of the forgery; at the detailed level at which it was constructed, there would be no other way.”