Citizen of the Galaxy

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "Oh." Thorby decided that here was a chance to find out his own age. "How old are you now?"

  She smiled wryly. "Now I'm the same age you are—and I'll stay that age until I'm married. Turn about, Thorby—when you ask the wrong question, I shan't be offended. You don't ask a lady her age on Terra; you assume that she is younger than she is."

  "So?" Thorby pondered this curious custom. Among People a female claimed the highest age she could, for status.

  "So. For example, your mother was a lovely lady but I never knew her age. Perhaps she was twenty-five when I knew her, perhaps forty."

  "You knew my parents?"

  "Oh, yes! Uncle Creighton was a darling with a boomy voice. He used to give me handfuls of dollars to buy candy sticks and balloons with my own sweaty little hand." She frowned. "But I can't remember his face. Isn't that silly? Never mind, Thor; tell me anything you want to. I'd be happy to hear anything you don't mind telling."

  "I don't mind," Thorby answered, "but, while I must have been captured, I don't remember it. As far as I remember, I never had parents; I was a slave, several places and masters—until I reached Jubbulpore. Then I was sold again and it was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me."

  Leda lost her company smile. She said in a still voice, "You really mean it. Or do you?"

  Thorby suffered the ancient annoyance of the returned traveler. "If you think that slavery has been abolished . . . well, it's a big galaxy. Shall I roll up my trouser leg and show you?"

  "Show me what, Thor?"

  "My slave's mark. The tattoo a factor uses to identify merchandise." He rolled up his left trouser. "See? The date is my manumission—it's Sargonese, a sort of Sanskrit; I don't suppose you can read it."

  She stared, round-eyed. "How horrible! How perfectly horrible!"

  He covered it. "Depends on your master. But it's not good."

  "But why doesn't somebody do something?"

  He shrugged. "It's a long way off."

  "But—" She stopped as her father came out.

  "Hi, kids. Enjoying the hop, Thor?"

  "Yes, sir. The scenery is wonderful."

  "The Rockies aren't a patch on the Himalayas. But our Tetons are pretty wonderful . . . and there they are. We'll be home soon." He pointed. "See? There's Rudbek."

  "That city is named Rudbek?"

  "It used to be Johnson's Hole, or some such, when it was a village. But I wasn't speaking of Rudbek City; I meant our home—your home—'Rudbek.' You can see the tower above the lake . . . with the Grand Tetons behind it. Most magnificent setting in the world. You're Rudbek of Rudbek at Rudbek . . . 'Rudbek Cubed,' your father called it . . . but he married into the name and wasn't impressed by it. I like it; it has a rolling thunder, and it's good to have a Rudbek back in residence."

  Thorby wallowed in his bath, from needle shower, through hot pool whose sides and bottom massaged him with a thousand fingers, to lukewarm swimming plunge that turned cooler while he was in it. He was cautious in the last, having never learned to swim.

  And he had never had a valet. He had noticed that Rudbek had dozens of people in it—not many for its enormous size, but he began to realize that most of them were servants. This impressed him not as much as it might have; he knew how many, many slaves staffed any rich household on Jubbul; he did not know that a living servant on Terra was the peak of ostentatious waste, greater than sedan chairs on Jubbul, much greater than the lavish hospitality at Gatherings. He simply knew that valets made him nervous and now he had a squad of three. Thorby refused to let anyone bathe him; he gave in to being shaved because the available razor was a classic straight-edge and his own would not work on Rudbek's power supply. Otherwise he merely accepted advice about unfamiliar clothing.

  The clothing waiting for him in wardrobe loads did not fit perfectly; the chief valet snipped and rewelded, muttering apologies. He had Thorby attired, ruffled jabot to tights, when a footman appeared. "Mr. Weemsby sends greetings to Rudbek and asks that he come to the great hall."

  Thorby memorized the route as he followed.

  Uncle Jack, in midnight and scarlet, was waiting with Leda, who was wearing . . . Thorby was at loss; colors kept changing and some of it was hardly there. But she looked well. Her hair was now iridescent. He spotted among her jewels a bauble from Finster and wondered if it had shipped in Sisu—why, it was possible that he had listed it himself!

  Uncle Jack said jovially, "There you are, lad! Refreshed? We won't wear you out, just a family dinner."

  The dinner included twelve people and started with a reception in the great hall, drinks, appetizers, passed by soft-footed servants, music, while others were presented. "Rudbek of Rudbek, Lady Wilkes—your Aunt Jennifer, lad, come from New Zealand to welcome you"—"Rudbek of Rudbek, Judge Bruder and Mrs. Bruder—Judge is Chief Counsel," and so on. Thorby memorized names, linked them with faces, thinking that it was like the Family—except that relationship titles were not precise definitions; he had trouble estimating status. He did not know which of eighty-odd relations "cousin" meant with respect to Leda, though he supposed that she must be a first cross-cousin, since Uncle Jack had a surname not Rudbek; so he thought of her as taboo—which would have dismayed her.

  He did realize that he must be in the sept of a wealthy family. But what his status was nobody mentioned, nor could he figure out status of others. Two of the youngest women dropped him curtseys. He thought the first had stumbled and tried to help her. But when the second did it, he answered by pressing his palms together.

  The older women seemed to expect him to treat them with respect. Judge Bruder he could not classify. He hadn't been introduced as a relative—yet this was a family dinner. He fixed Thorby with an appraising eye and barked, "Glad to have you back, young man! There should be a Rudbek at Rudbek. Your holiday has caused trouble—hasn't it, John?"

  "More than a bit," agreed Uncle Jack, "but we'll get straightened out. No hurry. Give the lad a chance to find himself."

  "Surely, surely. Thumb in the dike."

  Thorby wondered what a dike was, but Leda came up and placed her hand on his elbow. She steered him to the banquet hall; others followed. Thorby sat at one end of a long table with Uncle Jack at the other; Aunt Jennifer was on Thorby's right and Leda on his left. Aunt Jennifer started asking questions and supplying answers. He admitted that he had just left the Guard, she had trouble understanding that he had not been an officer; he let it ride and mentioned nothing about Jubbulpore—Leda had made him wary of the subject. It did not matter; he asked a question about New Zealand and received a guidebook lecture.

  Then Leda turned from Judge Bruder and spoke to Thorby; Aunt Jennifer turned to the man on her right.

  The tableware was in part strange, especially chop tongs and skewers. But spoons were spoons and forks were forks; by keeping his eye on Leda he got by. Food was served formally, but he had seen Grandmother so served; table manners were not great trouble to a man coached by Fritz's sharp-tongued kindness.

  Not until the end was he stumped. The Butler-in-Chief presented him with an enormous goblet, splashed wetness in it and waited. Leda said softly, "Taste it, nod, and put it down." He did so; as the butler moved away, she whispered, "Don't drink it, it's bottled lightning. By the way, I told Daddy, 'No toasts.' "

  At last the meal was over. Leda again cued him. "Stand up." He did and everyone followed.

  The "family dinner" was just a beginning. Uncle Jack was in evidence only at dinners, and not always then. He excused his absences with, "Someone has to keep the fires burning. Business won't wait." As a trader Thorby understood that Business was Business, but he looked forward to a long talk with Uncle Jack, instead of so much social life. Leda was helpful but not informative. "Daddy is awfully busy. Different companies and things. It's too complicated for me. Let's hurry; the others are waiting."

  Others were always waiting. Dancing, skiing—Thorby loved the flying sensation but considered it a chancy way to travel, particularly when he fetched u
p in a snow bank, having barely missed a tree—card parties, dinners with young people at which he took one end of the table and Leda the other, more dancing, hops to Yellowstone to feed the bears, midnight suppers, garden parties. Although Rudbek estate lay in the lap of the Tetons with snow around it, the house had an enormous tropical garden under a dome so pellucid that Thorby did not realize it was there until Leda had him touch it. Leda's friends were fun and Thorby gradually became sophisticated in small talk. The young men called him "Thor" instead of "Rudbek" and called Leda "Slugger." They treated him with familiar respect, and showed interest in the fact that he had been in the Guard and had visited many worlds, but they did not press personal questions. Thorby volunteered little, having learned his lesson.

  But he began to tire of fun. A Gathering was wonderful but a working man expects to work.

  The matter came to a head. A dozen of them were skiing and Thorby was alone on the practice slope. A man glided down and snowplowed to a stop. People hopped in and out at the estate's field day and night; this newcomer was Joel de la Croix.

  "Hi, Thor."

  "Hi, Joe."

  "I've been wanting to speak to you. I've an idea I would like to discuss, after you take over. Can I arrange to see you, without being baffled by forty-'leven secretaries?"

  "When I take over?"

  "Or later, at your convenience. I want to talk to the boss; after all, you're the heir. I don't want to discuss it with Weemsby . . . even if he would see me." Joel looked anxious. "All I want is ten minutes. Say five if I don't interest you at once. 'Rudbek's promise.' Eh?"

  Thorby tried to translate. Take over? Heir? He answered carefully, "I don't want to make any promises now, Joel."

  De la Croix shrugged. "Okay. But think about it. I can prove it's a moneymaker."

  "I'll think about it," Thorby agreed. He started looking for Leda. He got her alone and told her what Joel had said.

  She frowned slightly. "It probably wouldn't hurt, since you aren't promising anything. Joel is a brilliant engineer. But better ask Daddy."

  "That's not what I meant. What did he mean: 'take over'?"

  "Why, you will, eventually."

  "Take over what?"

  "Everything. After all, you're Rudbek of Rudbek."

  "What do you mean by 'everything'?"

  "Why, why—" She swept an arm at mountain and lake, at Rudbek City beyond. "All of it. Rudbek. Lots of things. Things personally yours, like your sheep station in Australia and the house in Majorca. And business things. Rudbek Associates is many things—here and other planets. I couldn't begin to describe them. But they're yours, or maybe 'ours' for the whole family is in it. But you are the Rudbek of Rudbek. As Joel said, the heir."

  Thorby looked at her, while his lips grew dry. He licked them and said, "Why wasn't I told?"

  She looked distressed. "Thor dear! We've let you take your time. Daddy didn't want to worry you."

  "Well," he said, "I'm worried now. I had better talk to Uncle Jack."

  John Weemsby was at dinner but so were many guests. As they were leaving Weemsby motioned Thorby aside. "Leda tells me you're fretting."

  "Not exactly. I want to know some things."

  "You shall—I was hoping that you would tire of your vacation. Let's go to my study."

  They went there; Weemsby dismissed his second-shift secretary and said, "Now what do you want to know?"

  "I want to know," Thorby said slowly, "what it means to be 'Rudbek of Rudbek.' "

  Weemsby spread his hands. "Everything . . . and nothing. You are titular head of the business, now that your father is dead . . . if he is."

  "Is there any doubt?"

  "I suppose not. Yet you turned up."

  "Supposing he is dead, what am I? Leda seems to think I own just about everything. What did she mean?"

  Weemsby smiled. "You know girls. No head for business. The ownership of our enterprises is spread around—most of it is in our employees. But, if your parents are dead, you come into stock in Rudbek Associates, which in turn has an interest in—sometimes a controlling interest—in other things. I couldn't describe it now. I'll have the legal staff do it—I'm a practical man, too busy making decisions to worry about who owns every share. But that reminds me . . . you haven't had a chance to spend much money, but you might want to." Weemsby opened a drawer, took out a pad. "There's a megabuck. Let me know if you run short."

  Thorby thumbed through it. Terran currency did not bother him: a hundred dollars to the credit—which he thought of as five loaves of bread, a trick the Supercargo taught him—a thousand credits to the super-credit, a thousand supercredits to the megabuck. So simple that the People translated other currencies into it, for accounting.

  But each sheet was ten thousand credits . . . and there were a hundred sheets. "Did I . . . inherit this?"

  "Oh, that's just spending money—checks, really. You convert them at dispensers in stores or banks. You know how?"

  "No."

  "Don't get a thumbprint on the sensitized area until you insert it in the dispenser. Have Leda show you—if that girl could make money the way she spends it, neither you nor I would have to work. But," Weemsby added, "since we do, let's do a little." He took out a folder and spread papers. "Although this isn't hard. Just sign at the bottom of each, put your thumbprint by it, and I'll call Beth in to notarize. Here, we can open each one to the last page. I had better hold 'em—the consarned things curl up."

  Weemsby held one for Thorby's signature. Thorby hesitated, then instead of signing, reached for the document. Weemsby held on. "What's the trouble?"

  "If I'm going to sign, I ought to read it." He was thinking of something Grandmother used to be downright boring about.

  Weemsby shrugged. "They are routine matters that Judge Bruder prepared for you." Weemsby placed the document on the others, tidied the stack, and closed the folder. "These papers tell me to do what I have to do anyway. Somebody has to do the chores."

  "Why do I have to sign?"

  "This is a safety measure."

  "I don't understand."

  Weemsby sighed. "The fact is, you don't understand business. No one expects you to; you haven't had any chance to learn. But that's why I have to keep slaving away; business won't wait." He hesitated. "Here's the simplest way to put it. When your father and mother went on a second honeymoon, they had to appoint someone to act while they were gone. I was the natural choice, since I was their business manager and your grandfather's before that—he died before they went away. So I was stuck with it while they went jaunting. Oh, I'm not complaining; it's not a favor one would refuse a member of the family. Unfortunately they did not come back, so I was left holding the baby.

  "But now you are back and we must make sure everything is orderly. First it is necessary for your parents to be declared legally dead—that must be done before you can inherit. That will take a while. So here I am, your business manager, too—manager for all the family—and I don't have anything from you telling me to act. These papers do that."

  Thorby scratched his cheek. "If I haven't inherited yet, why do you need anything from me?"

  Weemsby smiled. "I asked that myself. Judge Bruder thinks it is best to tie down all possibilities. Now since you are of legal age—"

  " 'Legal age'?" Thorby had never heard the term; among the People, a man was old enough for whatever he could do.

  Weemsby explained. "So, since the day you passed your eighteenth birthday, you have been of legal age, which simplifies things—it means you don't have to become a ward of a court. We have your parents' authorization; now we add yours—and then it doesn't matter how long it takes the courts to decide that your parents are dead, or to settle their wills. Judge Bruder and I and the others who have to do the work can carry on without interruption. A time gap is avoided . . . one that might cost the business many megabucks. Now do you understand?"

  "I think so."

  "Good. Let's get it done." Weemsby started to open the folder.
<
br />   Grandmother always said to read before signing— then think it over. "Uncle Jack, I want to read them."

  "You wouldn't understand them."

  "Probably not." Thorby picked up the folder. "But I've got to learn."

  Weemsby reached for the folder. "It isn't necessary."

  Thorby felt a surge of obstinacy. "Didn't you say Judge Bruder prepared these for me?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I want to take them to my apartment and try to understand them. If I'm 'Rudbek of Rudbek' I ought to know what I'm doing."

  Weemsby hesitated, then shrugged. "Go ahead. You'll find that I'm simply trying to do for you what I have always been doing."

  "But I still ought to understand what I'm doing."

  "Very well! Goodnight."

  Thorby read till he fell asleep. The language was baffling but the papers did seem to be what Uncle Jack said they were—instructions to John Weemsby to continue the routine business of a complex setup. He fell asleep full of terms like "full power of attorney," "all manners of business," "receive and pay monies," "revocable only by mutual consent," "waiver of personal appearance," "full faith and credence," and "voting proxy in all stockholding and/or directorial meetings, special or annual."

  As he dozed off it occurred to him that he had not asked to see the authorizations given by his parents.

  Sometime during the night he seemed to hear Grandmother's impatient voice: "—then think it over! If you don't understand it, and the laws under which it will be executed, then don't sign it!—no matter how much profit may appear to be in store. Too lazy and too eager can ruin a trader."

  He stirred restlessly.

  CHAPTER 18

  Hardly anyone came down for breakfast in Rudbek. But breakfast in bed was not in Thorby's training; he ate alone in the garden, luxuriating in hot mountain sunshine and lush tropical flowers while enjoying the snowy wonderland around him. Snow fascinated him—he had never dreamed that anything could be so beautiful.

  But the following morning Weemsby came into the garden only moments after Thorby sat down. A chair was placed under Weemsby; a servant quickly laid a place. He said, "Just coffee. Good morning, Thor."