Citizen of the Galaxy

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "Yes, sir," Thorby repeated dully.

  Nothing and nobody— He had a blinding image of an old, old nightmare . . . standing on the block, hearing an auctioneer chant his description, while cold eyes stared at him. But he pulled himself together and was merely quiet the rest of the day. It was not until the compartment was dark that he bit his pillow and whispered brokenly, "Pop . . . oh, Pop!"

  The Guards uniform covered Thorby's legs, but in the showers the tattoo on his left thigh could be noticed. When this happened, Thorby explained without embarrassment what it signified. Responses varied from curiosity, through half-disbelief, to awed surprise that here was a man who had been through it—capture, sale, servitude, and miraculously, free again. Most civilians did not realize that slavery still existed; Guardsmen knew better.

  No one was nasty about it.

  But the day after the null report on identification Thorby encountered "Decibel" Peebie in the showers. Thorby did not speak; they had not spoken much since Thorby had been moved out from under Peebie, even though they sat at the same table. But now Peebie spoke. "Hi, Trader!"

  "Hi." Thorby started to bathe.

  "What's on your leg? Dirt?"

  "Where?"

  "On your thigh. Hold still. Let's see."

  "Keep your hands to yourself!"

  "Don't be so touchy. Turn around to the light. What is it?"

  "It's a slaver's mark," Thorby explained curtly.

  "No foolin'? So you're a slave?"

  "I used to be."

  "They put chains on you? Make you kiss your master's foot?"

  "Don't be silly!"

  "Look who's talking! You know what, Trader boy? I heard about that mark—and I think you had it tattooed yourself. To make big talk. Like that one about how you blasted a bandit ship."

  Thorby cut his shower short and got out.

  At dinner Thorby was helping himself from a bowl of mashed potatoes. He heard Peebie call out something but his ears filtered out "Decibel's" endless noise.

  Peebie repeated it. "Hey, Slave! Pass the potatoes! You know who I mean! Dig the dirt out of your ears!"

  Thorby passed him the potatoes, bowl and all, in a flat trajectory, open face of the bowl plus potatoes making perfect contact with the open face of Decibel.

  The charge against Thorby was "Assaulting a Superior Officer, the Ship then being in Space in a Condition of Combat Readiness." Peebie appeared as complaining witness.

  Colonel Brisby stared over the mast desk and his jaw muscles worked. He listened to Peebie's account: "I asked him to pass the potatoes . . . and he hit me in the face with them."

  "That was all?"

  "Well, sir, maybe I didn't say please. But that's no reason—"

  "Never mind the conclusions. The fight go any farther?"

  "No, sir. They separated us."

  "Very well. Baslim, what have you to say for yourself?"

  "Nothing, sir."

  "Is that what happened?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Brisby stopped to think, while his jaw muscles twitched. He felt angry, an emotion he did not permit himself at mast—he felt let down. Still, there must be more to it.

  Instead of passing sentence he said, "Step aside. Colonel Stancke—"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "There were other men present. I want to hear from them."

  "I have them standing by, sir."

  "Very well."

  Thorby was convicted—three days bread & water, solitary, sentence suspended, thirty days probation; acting rank stricken.

  Decibel Peebie was convicted (court trial waived when Brisby pointed out how the book could be thrown at him) of "Inciting to Riot, specification: using derogatory language with reference to another Guardsman's Race, Religion, Birthplace, or Condition previous to entering Service, the Ship then being etc."— sentence three days B & W, sol., suspended, reduction one grade, ninety days probation in ref. B & W, sol., only.

  The Colonel and Vice Colonel went back to Brisby's office. Brisby was looking glum; mast upset him at best. Stancke said, "Too bad you had to clip the Baslim kid. I think he was justified."

  "Of course he was. But 'Inciting to riot' is no excuse for riot. Nothing is."

  "Sure, you had to. But I don't like that Peebie character. I'm going to make a careful study of his efficiency marks."

  "Do that. But, confound it, Stinky—I have a feeling I started the fight myself."

  "Huh?"

  "Two days ago I had to tell Baslim that we hadn't been able to identify him. He walked out in a state of shock. I should have listened to my psych officer. The lad has scars that make him irresponsible under the right—I mean the 'wrong'—stimulus. I'm glad it was mashed potatoes and not a knife."

  "Oh, come now, boss! Mashed potatoes are hardly a deadly weapon."

  "You weren't here when he got the bad news. Not knowing who he is hurts him."

  Stancke's pudgy face pouted in thought. "Boss? How old was this kid when he was captured?"

  "Eh? Kris thinks he was about four."

  "Skipper, that backwoods place where you were born: at what age were you fingerprinted, blood-typed, retina-photographed and so forth?"

  "Why, when I started school."

  "Me, too. I'll bet they wait that long most places."

  Brisby blinked. "That's why they wouldn't have anything on him!"

  "Maybe. But on Riff they take identity on a baby before he leaves the delivery room."

  "My people, too. But—"

  "Sure, sure! It's common practice. But how?"

  Brisby looked blank, then banged the desk. "Footprints! And we didn't send them in." He slapped the talkie. "Eddie! Get Baslim here on the double!"

  Thorby was glumly removing the chevron he had worn by courtesy for so short a time. He was scared by the peremptory order; it boded ill. But he hurried. Colonel Brisby glared at him. "Baslim, take off your shoes!"

  "Sir?"

  "Take off your shoes!"

  Brisby's despatch questioning failure to identify and supplying BuPers with footprints was answered in forty-eight hours. It reached the Hydra as she made her final approach to Ultima Thule. Colonel Brisby decoded it when the ship had been secured dirtside.

  It read: "—GUARDSMAN THORBY BASLIM IDENTIFIED MISSING PERSON THOR BRADLEY RUDBEK TERRA NOT HEKATE TRANSFER RUDBEK FASTEST MILORCOM TERRA DISCHARGE ARRIVAL NEXTKIN NOTIFIED REPEAT FASTEST CHFBUPERS."

  Brisby was chuckling. "Colonel Baslim is never wrong. Dead or alive, he's never wrong!"

  "Boss . . ."

  "Huh?"

  "Read it again. Notice who he is."

  Brisby reread the despatch. Then he said in a hushed voice, "Why do things like this always happen to Hydra?" He strode over and snatched the door. "Eddie!"

  Thorby was on beautiful Ultima Thule for two hours and twenty-seven minutes; what he saw of the famous scenery after coming three hundred light-years was the field between the Hydra and Guard Mail Courier Ariel. Three weeks later he was on Terra. He felt dizzy.

  CHAPTER 17

  Lovely Terra, Mother of Worlds! What poet, whether or not he has been privileged to visit her, has not tried to express the homesick longing of men for mankind's birthplace . . . her cool green hills, cloud-graced skies, restless oceans, her warm maternal charm.

  Thorby's first sight of legendary Earth was by view screen of G.M.C. Ariel. Guard Captain N'Gangi, skipper of the mail ship, stepped up the gain and pointed out arrow-sharp shadows of the Egyptian Pyramids. Thorby didn't realize the historical significance and was looking in the wrong place. But he enjoyed seeing a planet from space; he had never been thus privileged before.

  Thorby had a dull time in the Ariel. The mail ship, all legs and tiny payload, carried a crew of three engineers and three astrogators, all of whom were usually on watch or asleep. He started off badly because Captain N'Gangi had been annoyed by a "hold for passenger" despatch from the Hydra—mail ships don't like to hold; the mail must go through.

  But Thorby be
haved himself, served the precooked meals, and spent his time ploughing through the library (a drawer under the skipper's bunk); by the time they approached Sol the commanding officer was over his pique . . . to have the feeling brought back by orders to land at Galactic Enterprises' field instead of Guard Base. But N'Gangi shook hands as he gave Thorby his discharge and the paymaster's draft.

  Instead of scrambling down a rope ladder (mail couriers have no hoists), Thorby found that a lift came up to get him. It leveled off opposite the hatch and offered easy exit. A man in spaceport uniform of Galactic Enterprises met him. "Mr. Rudbek?"

  "That's me—I guess."

  "This way, Mr. Rudbek, if you please."

  The elevator took them below ground and into a beautiful lounge. Thorby, mussed and none too clean from weeks in a crowded steel box, was uneasy. He looked around.

  Eight or ten people were there, two of whom were a grey-haired, self-assured man and a young woman. Each was dressed in more than a year's pay for a Guardsman. Thorby did not realize this in the case of the man but his Trader's eye spotted it in the female; it took money to look that demurely provocative.

  In his opinion the effect was damaged by her high-fashion hairdo, a rising structure of green blending to gold. He blinked at the cut of her clothes; he had seen fine ladies in Jubbulpore where the climate favored clothing only for decoration, but the choice in skin display seemed different here. Thorby realized uneasily that he was again going to have to get used to new customs.

  The important-looking man met him as he got out of the lift. "Thor! Welcome home, lad!" He grabbed Thorby's hand. "I'm John Weemsby. Many is the time I've bounced you on my knee. Call me Uncle Jack. And this is your cousin Leda."

  The girl with green hair placed hands on Thorby's shoulders and kissed him. He did not return it; he was much too startled. She said, "It's wonderful to have you home, Thor."

  "Uh, thanks."

  "And now you must greet your grandparents," Weemsby announced. "Professor Bradley . . . and your Grandmother Bradley."

  Bradley was older than Weemsby, slight and erect, a paunch, neatly trimmed beard; he was dressed like Weemsby in daytime formal jacket, padded tights and short cape, but not as richly. The woman had a sweet face and alert blue eyes; her clothing did not resemble that of Leda but seemed to suit her. She pecked Thorby on the cheek and said gently, "It's like having my son come home."

  The elderly man shook hands vigorously. "It's a miracle, son! You look just like our boy—your father. Doesn't he, dear?"

  "He does!"

  There was chitchat which Thorby answered as well as he could. He was confused and terribly self-conscious; it was more embarrassing to meet these strangers who claimed him as their blood than it had been to be adopted into Sisu. These old people—they were his grandparents? Thorby couldn't believe it even though he supposed they were.

  To his relief the man—Weemsby?—who claimed to be his Uncle Jack said with polite authority, "We had better go. I'll bet this boy is tired. So I'll take him home. Eh?"

  The Bradleys murmured agreement; the party moved toward the exit. Others in the room, all men none of whom had been introduced, went with them. In the corridor they stepped on a glideway which picked up speed until walls were whizzing past. It slowed as they neared the end—miles away, Thorby judged—and was stationary for them to step off.

  This place was public; the ceiling was high and the walls were lost in crowds; Thorby recognized the flavor of a transport station. The silent men with them moved into blocking positions and their party proceeded in a direct line regardless of others. Several persons tried to break through and one man managed it. He shoved a microphone at Thorby and said rapidly, "Mr. Rudbek, what is your opinion of the—"

  A guard grabbed him. Mr. Weemsby said quickly, "Later, later! Call my office; you'll get the story."

  Lenses were trained on them, but from high up and far away. They moved inio another passageway, a gate closed behind them. Its glideway deposited them at an elevator which took them to a small enclosed airport. A craft was waiting and beyond it a smaller one, both sleek, smooth, flattened ellipsoids. Weemsby stopped. "You'll be all right?" he asked Mrs. Bradley.

  "Oh, surely," answered Professor Bradley.

  "The car was satisfactory?"

  "Excellent. A nice hop—and, I'm sure, a good one back."

  "Then we'll say good-by. I'll call you—when he's had a chance to get oriented. You understand?"

  "Oh, surely. We'll be waiting." Thorby got a peck from his grandmother, a clap on the shoulder from his grandfather. Then he embarked with Weemsby and Leda in the larger car. Its skipper saluted Mr. Weemsby, then saluted Thorby—Thorby managed to return it.

  Mr. Weemsby paused in the central passage. "Why don't you kids go forward and enjoy the hop? I've got calls waiting."

  "Certainly, Daddy."

  "You'll excuse me, Thor? Business goes on—it's back to the mines for Uncle Jack."

  "Of course . . . Uncle Jack."

  Leda led him forward and they sat down in a transparent bubble on the forward surface. The car rose straight up until they were several thousand feet high. It made a traffic-circle sweep over a desert plain, then headed north toward mountains.

  "Comfy?" asked Leda.

  "Quite. Uh, except that I'm dirty and mussed."

  "There's a shower abaft the lounge. But we'll be home shortly—so why not enjoy the trip?"

  "All right." Thorby did not want to miss any of fabulous Terra. It looked, he decided, like Hekate—no, more like Woolamurra, except that he had never seen so many buildings. The mountains—

  He looked again. "What's that white stuff? Alum?"

  Leda looked. "Why, that's snow. Those are the Sangre de Cristos."

  " 'Snow,' " Thorby repeated. "That's frozen water."

  "You haven't seen snow before?"

  "I've heard of it. It's not what I expected."

  "It is frozen water—and yet it isn't exactly; it's more feathery." She reminded herself of Daddy's warning; she must not show surprise at anything.

  "You know," she offered, "I think I'll teach you to ski."

  Many miles and some minutes were used explaining what skiing was and why people did it. Thorby filed it away as something he might try, more likely not. Leda said that a broken leg was "all that could happen." This is fun? Besides, she had mentioned how cold it could be. In Thorby's mind cold was linked with hunger, beatings, and fear. "Maybe I could learn," he said dubiously, "but I doubt it."

  "Oh, sure you can!" She changed the subject. "Forgive my curiosity, Thor, but there is a faint accent in your speech."

  "I didn't know I had an accent—"

  "I didn't mean to be rude."

  "You weren't. I suppose I picked it up in Jubbulpore. That's where I lived longest."

  " 'Jubbulpore' . . . let me think. That's—"

  "Capital of the Nine Worlds."

  "Oh, yes! One of our colonies, isn't it?"

  Thorby wondered what the Sargon would think of that. "Uh, not exactly. It is a sovereign empire now—their tradition is that they were never anything else. They don't like to admit that they derive from Terra."

  "What an odd point of view."

  A steward came forward with drinks and dainty nibbling foods. Thor accepted a frosted tumbler and sipped cautiously. Leda continued, "What were you doing there, Thor? Going to school?"

  Thorby thought of Pop's patient teaching, decided that was not what she meant. "I was begging."

  "What?"

  "I was a beggar."

  "Excuse me?"

  "A beggar. A licensed mendicant. A person who asks for alms."

  "That's what I thought you said," she answered. "I know what a beggar is; I've read books. But—excuse me, Thor; I'm just a home girl—I was startled."

  She was not a "home girl"; she was a sophisticated woman adjusted to her environment. Since her mother's death she had been her father's hostess and could converse with people from other planets with
aplomb, handling small talk of a large dinner party with gracious efficiency in three languages. Leda could ride, dance, sing, swim, ski, supervise a household, do arithmetic slowly, read and write if necessary, and make the proper responses. She was an intelligent, pretty, well-intentioned woman, culturally equivalent to a superior female head-hunter—able, adjusted and skilled.

  But this strange lost-found cousin was a new bird to her. She said hesitantly, "Excuse my ignorance, but we don't have anything like that on Earth. I have trouble visualizing it. Was it terribly unpleasant?"

  Thorby's mind flew back; he was squatting in lotus seat in the great Plaza with Pop sprawled beside him, talking. "It was the happiest time of my life," he said simply.

  "Oh." It was all she could manage.

  But Daddy had left them so that she could get to work. Asking a man about himself never failed. "How does one get started, Thor? I wouldn't know where to begin."

  "I was taught. You see, I was up for sale and—" He thought of trying to explain Pop, decided to let it wait. "—an old beggar bought me."

  " 'Bought' you?"

  "I was a slave."

  Leda felt as if she had stepped off into water over her head. Had he said "cannibal," "vampire," or "warlock" she would have been no more shocked. She came up, mentally gasping. "Thor—if I have been rude, I'm sorry—but we all are curious about the time—goodness! it's been over fifteen years—that you have been missing. But if you don't want to answer, just say so. You were a nice little boy and I was fond of you—please don't slap me down if I ask the wrong question."

  "You don't believe me?"

  "How could I? There haven't been slaves for centuries."

  Thorby wished that he had never had to leave the Hydra, and gave up. He had learned in the Guard that the slave trade was something many fraki in the inner worlds simply hadn't heard of. "You knew me when I was little?"

  "Oh, yes!"

  "Why can't I remember you? I can't remember anything back before I was a—I can't remember Terra."

  She smiled. "I'm three years older than you. When I saw you last, I was six—so I remember—and you were three, so you've forgotten."