The Past Through Tomorrow

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Pemberton let it sink in, then said, “I’ll tell Kelly.”

  “Wait a minute, Jake. Try this. Start from scratch.”

  “Huh?”

  “Treat it as a brand-new problem. Forget about the orbit on your tape.

  With your present course, speed, and position, compute the cheapest orbit to match with Terminal’s. Pick a new groove.”

  Pemberton felt foolish. “I never thought of that.”

  “Of course not. With the ship’s little one-lung calculator it’d take you three weeks to solve it. You set to record?”

  “Sure.”

  “Here’s your data.” Weinstein started calling it off.

  When they had checked it, Jake said, “That’ll get me there?”

  “Maybe. If the data you gave me is up to your limit of accuracy; if you can follow instructions as exactly as a robot, if you can blast off and make contact so precisely that you don’t need side corrections, then you might squeeze home. Maybe. Good luck, anyhow.” The wavering reception muffled their goodbyes.

  Jake signaled Kelly. “Don’t jettison, Captain. Have your passengers strap down. Stand by to blast. Minus fourteen minutes.”

  “Very well, Pilot.”

  The new departure made and checked, he again had time to spare. He took out his unfinished letter, read it, then tore it up.

  “Dearest Phyllis,” he started again, “I’ve been doing some hard thinking this trip and have decided that I’ve just been stubborn. What am I doing way out here? I like my home. I like to see my wife.

  “Why should I risk my neck and your peace of mind to herd junk through the sky? Why hang around a telephone waiting to chaperon fatheads to the Moon—numbskulls who couldn’t pilot a rowboat and should have stayed at home in the first place?

  “Money, of course. I’ve been afraid to risk a change. I won’t find another job that will pay half as well, but, if you are game, I’ll ground myself and we’ll start over. All my love,

  “Jake”

  He put it away and went to sleep, to dream that an entire troop of Junior Rocketeers had been quartered in his control room.

  The close-up view of the Moon is second only to the spaceside view of the Earth as ‘a tourist attraction; nevertheless Pemberton insisted that all passengers strap down during the swing around to Terminal. With precious little fuel for the matching maneuver, he refused to hobble his movements to please sightseers.

  Around the bulge of the Moon, Terminal came into sight—by radar only, for the ship was tail foremost. After each short braking blast Pemberton caught a new radar fix, then compared his approach with a curve he had plotted from Weinstein’s figures—with one eye on the time, another on the ‘scope, a third on the plot, and a fourth on his fuel gages.

  “Well, Jake?” Kelly fretted. “Do we make it?”

  “How should I know? You be ready to dump.” They had agreed on liquid oxygen as the cargo to dump, since it could be let boil out through the outer valves, without handling.

  “Don’t say it, Jake.”

  “Damn it—I won’t if I don’t have to.” He was fingering his controls again; the blast chopped off his words. When it stopped, the radio maneuvering circuit was calling him.

  “Flying Dutchman, Pilot speaking,” Jake shouted back.

  “Terminal Control—Supro reports you short on fuel.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t approach. Match speeds outside us. We’ll send a transfer ship to refuel you and pick up passengers.”

  “I think I can make it.”

  “Don’t try it. Wait for refueling.”

  “Quit telling me how to pilot my ship!” Pemberton switched off the circuit, then stared at the board, whistling morosely. Kelly filled in the words in his mind: “Casey said to the fireman, ‘Boy, you better jump, cause two locomotives are agoing to bump!’”

  “You going in the slip anyhow, Jake?”

  “Mmm—no, blast it. I can’t take a chance of caving in the side of Terminal, not with passengers aboard. But I’m not going to match speeds fifty miles outside and wait for a piggyback.”

  He aimed for a near miss just outside Terminal’s orbit, conning by instinct, for Weinstein’s figures meant nothing by now. His aim was good; he did not have to waste his hoarded fuel on last minute side corrections to keep from hitting Terminal. When at last he was sure of sliding safely on past if unchecked, he braked once more. Then, as he started to cut off the power, the jets coughed, sputtered, and quit.

  The Flying Dutchman floated in space, five hundred yards outside Terminal, speeds matched.

  Jake switched on the radio. “Terminal—stand by for my line. I’ll warp her in.”

  He had filed his report, showered, and was headed for the post office to radiostat his letter, when the bullhorn summoned him to the Commodore-Pilot’s office. Oh, oh, he told himself, Schacht has kicked the Brass—I wonder just how much stock that bliffy owns? And there’s that other matter—getting snotty with Control.

  He reported stiffly. “First Pilot Pemberton, sir.”

  Commodore Soames looked up. “Pemberton—oh, yes. You hold two ratings, space-to-space and airless-landing.”

  Let’s not stall around, Jake told himself. Aloud he said, “I have no excuses for anything this last trip. If the Commodore does not approve the way I run my control room, he may have my resignation.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I,, well—don’t you have a passenger complaint on me?”

  “Oh, that!” Soames brushed it aside. “Yes, he’s been here. But I have Kelly’s report, too—and your chief jetman’s, and a special from Supra-New York. That was crack piloting, Pemberton.”

  “You mean there’s no beef from the Company?”

  “When have I failed to back up my pilots? You were perfectly right; I would have stuffed him out the air lock. Let’s get down to business: You’re on the space-to-space board, but I want to send a special to Luna City. Will you take it, as a favor to me?”

  Pemberton hesitated; Soames went on, “That oxygen you saved is for the Cosmic Research Project. They blew the seals on the north tunnel and lost tons of the stuff. The work is stopped—about $130,000 a day in overhead, wages, and penalties. The Gremlin is here, but no pilot until the Moonbat gets in—except you. Well?”

  “But I—look, Commodore, you can’t risk people’s necks on a jet landing of mine. I’m rusty; I need a refresher and a check-out.”

  “No passengers, no crew, no captain—your neck alone.”

  “I’ll take her.”

  Twenty-eight minutes later, with the ugly, powerful hull of the Gremlin around him, he blasted away. One strong shove to kill her orbital speed and let her fall toward the Moon, then no more worries until it came time to “ride ‘er down on her tail”.

  He felt good—until he hauled out two letters, the one he had failed to send, and one from Phyllis, delivered at Terminal.

  The letter from Phyllis was affectionate—and superficial. She did not mention his sudden departure; she ignored his profession completely. The letter was a model of correctness, but it worried him.

  He tore up both letters and started another. It said, in part: “—never said so outright, but you resent my job.

  “I have to work to support us. You’ve got a job, too. It’s an old, old job that women have been doing a long time—crossing the plains in covered wagons, waiting for ships to come back from China, or waiting around a mine head after an explosion—kiss him goodbye with a smile, take care of him at home.

  “You married a spaceman, so part of your job is to accept my job cheerfully. I think you can do it, when you realize it. I hope so, for the way things have been going won’t do for either of us.

  Believe me, I love you.

  Jake”

  He brooded on it until time to bend the ship down for his approach. From twenty miles altitude down to one mile he let the robot brake her, then shifted to manual while still falling slowly. A perfect airless-landing
would be the reverse of the take-off of a war rocket-free fall, then one long blast of the jets, ending with the ship stopped dead as she touches the ground. In practice a pilot must feel his way down, not too slowly; a ship could burn all the fuel this side of Venus fighting gravity too long.

  Forty seconds later, falling a little more than 140 miles per hour, he picked up in his periscopes the thousand-foot static towers. At 300 feet he blasted five gravities for more than a second, cut it, and caught her with a one-sixth gravity, Moon-normal blast. Slowly he eased this off, feeling happy.

  The Gremlin hovered, her bright jet splashing the soil of the Moon, then settled with dignity to land without a jar.

  The ground crew took over; a sealed runabout jeeped Pemberton to the tunnel entrance. Inside Luna City, he found himself paged before he finished filing his report. When he took the call, Soames smiled at him from the viewplate. “I saw that landing from the field pick-up, Pemberton. You don’t need a refresher course.”

  Jake blushed. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Unless you are dead set on space-to-space, I can use you on the regular Luna City run. Quarters here or Luna City? Want it?”

  He heard himself saying, “Luna City. I’ll take it.”

  He tore up his third letter as he walked into Luna City post office. At the telephone desk he spoke to a blonde in a blue moonsuit. “Get me Mrs. Jake Pemberton, Suburb six-four-oh-three, Dodge City, Kansas, please.” She looked him over. “You pilots sure spend money.”

  “Sometimes phone calls are cheap. Hurry it, will you?”

  Phyllis was trying to phrase the letter she felt she should have written before. It was easier to say in writing that she was not complaining of loneliness nor lack of fun, but that she could not stand the strain of worrying about his safety. But then she found herself quite unable to state the logical conclusion. Was she prepared to face giving him up entirely if he would not give up space? She truly did not know… the phone call was a welcome interruption.

  The viewplate stayed blank. “Long distance,” came a thin voice. “Luna City calling.”

  Fear jerked at her heart. “Phyllis Pemberton speaking.”

  An interminable delay—she knew it took nearly three seconds’ for radio waves to make the Earth-Moon round trip, but she did not remember it and it would not have reassured her. All she could see was a broken home, herself a widow, and Jake, beloved Jake, dead in space.

  “Mrs. Jake Pemberton?”

  “Yes, yes! Go ahead.” Another wait—had she sent him away in a bad temper, reckless, his judgment affected? Had he died out there, remembering only that she fussed at him for leaving her to go to work? Had she failed him when he needed her? She knew that her Jake could not be tied to apron strings; men—grown-up men, not mammas’ boys—had to break away from mother’s apron strings. Then why had she tried to tie him to hers?—she had known better; her own mother had warned her not to try it.

  She prayed.

  Then another voice, one that weakened her knees with relief: “That you, honey?”

  “Yes, darling, yes! What are you doing on the Moon?”

  “It’s a long story. At a dollar a second it will keep. What I want to know is—are you willing to come to Luna City?”

  It was Jake’s turn to suffer from the inevitable lag in reply. He wondered if Phyllis were stalling, unable to make up her mind. At last he heard her say, “Of course, darling. When do I leave?”

  “When—say, don’t you even want to know why?”

  She started to say that it did not matter, then said, “Yes, tell me.” The lag was still present but neither of them cared. He told her the news, then added, “Run over to the Springs and get Olga Pierce to straighten out the red tape for you. Need my help to pack?”

  She thought rapidly. Had he meant to come back anyhow, he would not have asked. “No. I can manage.”

  “Good girl. I’ll radiostat you a long letter about what to bring and so forth. I love you. ‘Bye now!”

  “Oh, I love you, too. Goodbye, darling.”

  Pemberton came out of the booth whistling. Good girl, Phyllis. Staunch. He wondered why he had ever doubted her.

  Requiem

  On a high hill in Samoa there is a grave. Inscribed on the marker are these words:

  “Under the wide and starry sky

  Dig the grave and let me lie

  Glad did I live and gladly die

  And I laid me down with a will!

  “This be the verse you grave for me:

  ‘Here he lies where he longed to be,

  Home is the sailor, home from the sea,

  And the hunter home from the hill.’“

  These lines appear another place—scrawled on a shipping tag torn from a compressed-air container, and pinned to the ground with a knife.

  It wasn’t much of a fair, as fairs go. The trottin‘ races didn’t promise much excitement, even though several entries claimed the blood of the immortal Dan Patch. The tents and concession booths barely covered the circus grounds, and the pitchmen seemed discouraged.

  D. D. Harriman’s chauffeur could not see any reason for stopping. They were due in Kansas City for a directors’ meeting, that is to say, Harriman was. The chauffeur had private reasons for promptness, reasons involving darktown society on Eighteenth Street. But the Boss not only stopped, but hung around.

  Bunting and a canvas arch made the entrance to a large enclosure beyond the race track. Red and gold letters announced:

  This way to the

  MOON ROCKET!!!!

  See it in actual flight!

  Public Demonstration Flights

  Twice Daily

  This is the ACTUAL TYPE used by the

  First Man to Reach the MOON!!!

  YOU can ride in it!!—$50.00

  A boy, nine or ten years old, hung around the entrance and stared at the Posters.

  “Want to see the ship, son?”

  The kid’s eyes shone. “Gee, mister. I sure would.”

  “So would I. Come on.” Harriman paid out a dollar for two pink tickets which entitled them to enter the enclosure and examine the rocket ship. The kid took his and ran on ahead with the single-mindedness of youth. Harriman looked over the stubby curved lines of the ovoid body. He noted with a professional eye that she was a single-jet type with fractional controls around her midriff. He squinted through his glasses at the name painted in gold on the carnival red of the body, Care Free. He paid another quarter to enter the control cabin.

  When his eyes had adjusted to the gloom caused by the strong ray filters of the ports he let them rest lovingly on the keys of the console and the semi-circle of dials above. Each beloved gadget was in its proper place. He knew them—graven in his heart.

  While he mused over the instrument board, with the warm liquid of content soaking through his body, the pilot entered and touched his arm.

  “Sorry, sir. We’ve got to cast loose for the flight.”

  “Eh?” Harriman started, then looked at the speaker. Handsome devil, with a good skull and strong shoulders—reckless eyes and a self-indulgent mouth, but a firm chin. “Oh, excuse me, Captain.”

  “Quite all right.”

  “Oh, I say, Captain, er, uh—”

  “Mclntyre.”

  “Captain Mclntyre, could you take a passenger this trip?” The old man leaned eagerly toward him.

  “Why, yes, if you wish. Come along with me.” He ushered Harriman into a shed marked OFFICE which stood near the gate. “Passenger for a check over, doc.”

  Harriman looked startled but permitted the medico to run a stethoscope over his thin chest, and to strap a rubber bandage around his arm. Presently he unstrapped it, glanced at Mclntyre, and shook his head.

  “No go, doc?”

  “That’s right, Captain.”

  Harriman looked from face to face. “My heart’s all right—that’s just a flutter.”

  The physician’s brows shot up. “Is it? But it’s not just your heart; at your age your
bones are brittle, too brittle to risk a take-off.”

  “Sorry, sir,” added the pilot, “but the Bates County Fair Association pays the doctor here to see to it that I don’t take anyone up who might be hurt by the acceleration.”

  The old man’s shoulders drooped miserably. “I rather expected it.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Mclntyre turned to go, but Harriman followed him out.

  “Excuse me, Captain—”

  “Yes?”

  “Could you and your, uh, engineer have dinner with me after your flight?”

  The pilot looked at him quizzically. “I don’t see why not. Thanks.”

  “Captain Mclntyre, it is difficult for me to see why anyone would quit the Earth-Moon run.” Fried chicken and hot biscuits in a private dining room of the best hotel the little town of Butler afforded, three-star Hennessey and Corona-Coronas had produced a friendly atmosphere in which three men could talk freely.

  “Well, I didn’t like it.”

  “Aw, don’t give him that, Mac—you know damn well it was Rule G that got you.” Mclntyre’s mechanic poured himself another brandy as he spoke.

  Mclntyre looked sullen. “Well, what if I did take a couple o‘ drinks? Anyhow, I could have squared that—it was the damn persnickety regulations that got me fed up. Who are you to talk?—Smuggler!”

  “Sure I smuggled! Who wouldn’t with all those beautiful rocks just aching to be taken back to Earth. I had a diamond once as big as… But if I hadn’t been caught I’d be in Luna City tonight. And so would you, you drunken blaster… with the boys buying us drinks, and the girls smiling and making suggestions…” He put his face down and began to weep quietly.

  Mclntyre shook him. “He’s drunk.”

  “Never mind.” Harriman interposed a hand. ‘Tell me, are you really satisfied not to be on the run any more?”

  Mclntyre chewed his lip. “No—he’s right of course. This barnstorming isn’t what it’s all cracked up to be. We’ve been hopping junk at every pumpkin doin’s up and down the Mississippi valley—sleeping in tourist camps, and eating at greaseburners. Half the time the sheriff has an attachment on the ship, the other half the Society for the Prevention of Something or Other gets an injunction to keep us on the ground. It’s no sort of a life for a rocket man.”