The Past Through Tomorrow

by Robert A. Heinlein

  That’s about all there is to it. I nearly bashed in my helmet getting out of there, but I was dragging the runt after me. He was limp as a cat and his face was funny. Mr. Perrin and Dr. Evans were all over me as I came out, pounding me on the back and shouting. “Is he dead, Mr. Perrin?” I asked, when I could get my breath. “He looks awful bad.”

  Mr. Perrin looked him over. “No… I can see a pulse in his throat. Shock and exposure, but this suit was specially built—we’ll get him back fast.” He picked the runt up in his arms and I took out after him.

  Ten minutes later the runt was wrapped in blankets and drinking hot cocoa. I had some, too. Everybody was talking at once and Mother was crying again, but she looked normal and Dad had filled out.

  He tried to write out a check for Mr. Perrin, but he brushed it off. “I don’t need any reward; your boy found him. You can do me just one favor—”

  “Yes?” Dad was all honey.

  “Stay off the Moon. You don’t belong here; you’re not the pioneer type.”

  Dad took it. “I’ve already promised my wife that,” he said without batting an eye. “You needn’t worry.”

  I followed Mr. Perrin as he left and said to him privately, “Mr. Perrin—I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be back, if you don’t mind.”

  He shook hands with me and said, “I know you will, Shorty.”

  “It’s Great to Be Back!”

  “HURRY UP, ALLAN!” Home—back to Earth again! Her heart was pounding.

  “Just a second.” She fidgeted while her husband checked over a bare apartment. Earth-Moon freight rates made it silly to ship their belongings; except for the bag he carried, they had converted everything to cash. Satisfied, he joined her at the lift; they went on up to the administration level and there to a door marked: LUNA CITY COMMUNITY ASSOCIATION—Anna Stone, Service Manager.

  Miss Stone accepted their apartment keys grimly. “Mr. and Mrs. MacRae. So you’re actually leaving us?”

  Josephine bristled. “Think we’d change our minds?”

  The manager shrugged. “No. I knew nearly three years ago that you would go back—from your complaints.”

  “From my comp—Miss Stone, I’ve been as patient about the incredible inconveniences of this, this pressurized rabbit warren as anyone. I don’t blame you personally, but—”

  “Take it easy, Jo!” her husband cautioned her.

  Josephine flushed. “Sorry, Miss Stone.”

  “Never mind. We just see things differently. I was here when Luna City was three air-sealed Quonset huts connected by tunnels you crawled through, on your knees.” She stuck out a square hand. “I hope you enjoy being groundhogs again, I honestly do. Hot jets, good luck, and a safe landing.”

  Back in the lift, Josephine sputtered. “ ‘Groundhogs’ indeed! Just because we prefer our native planet, where a person can draw a breath of fresh air—”

  “You use the term,” Allan pointed out.

  “But I use it about people who’ve never been off Terra.”

  “We’ve both said more than once that we wished we had had sense enough never to have left Earth. We’re groundhogs at heart, Jo.”

  “Yes, but— Oh, Allan, you’re being obnoxious. This is the happiest day of my life. Aren’t you glad to be going home? Aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am. It’ll be great to be back. Horseback riding. skiing.”

  “And opera. Real, live grand opera. Allan, we’ve simply got to have a week or two in Manhattan before we go to the country.”

  “I thought you wanted to feel rain on your face.”

  “I want that, too. I want it all at once and I can’t wait. Oh, darling, it’s like getting out of jail.” She clung to him.

  He unwound her as the lift stopped. “Don’t blubber.”

  “Allan, you’re a beast,” she said dreamily. “I’m so happy.”

  They stopped again, in bankers’ row. The clerk in the National City Bank office had their transfer of account ready. “Going home, eh? Just sign there, and your print. I envy you. Hunting, fishing.”

  “Surf bathing is more my style. And sailing.”

  “I,” said Jo, “simply want to see green trees and blue sky.”

  The clerk nodded. “I know what you mean. It’s long ago and far away. Well, have fun. Are you taking three months or six?”

  “We’re not coming back,” Allan stated flatly. “Three years of living like a fish in an aquarium is enough.”

  “So?” The clerk shoved the papers toward him and added without expression, “Well—hot jets.”

  “Thanks.” They went on up to the subsurface level and took the crosstown slidewalk out to the rocket port. The slidewalk tunnel broke the surface at one point, becoming a pressurized shed; a view window on the west looked out on the surface of the Moon—and, beyond the hills, the Earth.

  The sight of it, great and green and bountiful, against the black lunar sky and harsh, unwinking stars, brought quick tears to Jo’s eyes. Home—that lovely planet was hers! Allan looked at it more casually, noting the Greenwich. The sunrise line had just touched South America—must be about eight-twenty; better hurry.

  They stepped off the slidewalk into the arms of some of their friends, waiting to see them off. “Hey—where have you lugs been? The Gremlin blasts off in seven minutes.”

  “But we aren’t going in it,” MacRae answered. “No, siree.”

  “What? Not going? Did you change your minds?”

  Josephine laughed. “Pay no attention to him, Jack. We’re going in the express instead; we swapped reservations. So we’ve got twenty minutes yet.”

  “Well! A couple of rich tourists, eh?”

  “Oh, the extra fare isn’t so much and I didn’t want to make two changes and spend a week in space when we could be home in two days.” She rubbed her bare middle significantly.

  “She can’t take free flight, Jack,” her husband explained.

  “Well, neither ,can I—I was sick the whole trip out. Still, I don’t think you’ll be sick, Jo; you’re used to Moon weight now.”

  “Maybe,” she agreed, “but there is a lot of difference between one-sixth gravity and no gravity.”

  Jack Crail’s wife cut in. “Josephine MacRae, are you going to risk your life in an atomic-powered ship?”

  “Why not, darling? You work in an atomics laboratory.”

  “Hummph! In the laboratory we take precautions. The Commerce Commission should never have licensed the expresses. I may be old-fashioned, but I’ll go back the way I came, via Terminal and Supra-New York, in good old reliable fuel-rockets.”

  “Don’t try to scare her, Emma,” Crail objected. “They’ve worked the bugs out of those ships.”

  “Not to my satisfaction. I—”

  “Never mind,” Allan interrupted her. “The matter is settled, and we’ve still got to get over to the express launching site. Good-by, everybody! Thanks for the send-off. It’s been grand knowing you. If you come back to God’s country, look us up.”

  “Good-by, kids!”

  “Good-by, Jo—good-by, Allan.”

  “Give my regards to Broadway!”

  “So long—be sure to write.”

  “Good-by.”

  “Aloha—hot jets!” They showed their tickets, entered the air lock, and climbed into the pressurized shuttle between Leyport proper and the express launching site. “Hang on, folks,” the shuttle operator called back over his shoulder; Jo and Allan hurriedly settled into the cushions. The lock opened; the tunnel ahead was airless. Five minutes later they were climbing out twenty miles away, beyond the hills that shielded the lid of Luna City from the radioactive splash of the express ships.

  In the Sparrowhawk they shared a compartment with a missionary family. The Reverend Doctor Simmons felt obliged to explain why he was traveling in luxury. “It’s for the child,” he told them, as his wife strapped the baby girl into a small acceleration couch rigged stretcher-fashion between her parents’ couches. “Since she’s never b
een in space, we daren’t take a chance of her being sick for days on end.” They all strapped down at the warning siren. Jo felt her heart begin to pound. At last… at long last!

  The jets took hold, mashing them into the cushions. Jo had not known she could feel so heavy. This was worse, much worse, than the trip out. The baby cried as long as acceleration lasted, in wordless terror and discomfort.

  After an interminable time they were suddenly weightless, as the ship went into free flight. When the terrible binding weight was free of her chest, Jo’s heart felt as light as her body. Allan threw off his upper strap and sat up. “How do you feel, kid?”

  “Oh, I feel fine!” Jo unstrapped and faced him. Then she hiccoughed. “That is, I think I do.”

  Five minutes later she was not in doubt; she merely wished to die. Allan swam out of the compartment and located the ship’s surgeon, who gave her an injection. Allan waited until she had succumbed to the drug, then left for the lounge to try his own cure for spacesickness—Mothersill’s Seasick Remedy washed down with champagne. Presently he had to admit that these two sovereign remedies did not work for him—or perhaps he should not have mixed them.

  Little Gloria Simmons was not spacesick. She thought being weightless was fun, and went bouncing off floorplate, overhead, and bulkhead like a dimpled balloon. Jo feebly considered strangling the child, if she floated within reach—but it was too much effort.

  Deceleration, logy as it made them feel, was welcome relief after nausea— except to little Gloria. She cried again, in fear and hurt, while her mother tried to explain. Her father prayed.

  After a long, long time came a slight jar and the sound of the siren. Jo managed to raise her head. “What’s the matter? Is there an accident?”

  “I don’t think so. I think we’ve landed.”

  “We can’t have! We’re still braking—I’m heavy as lead.” Allan grinned feebly. “So am I. Earth gravity—remember?” The baby continued to cry.

  They said good-by to the missionary family, as Mrs. Simmons decided to wait for a stewardess from the skyport. The MacRaes staggered out of the ship, supporting each other. “It can’t be just the gravity,” Jo protested, her feet caught in invisible quicksand. “I’ve taken Earth-normal acceleration in the centrifuge at the ‘Y’, back home—I mean back in Luna City. We’re weak from spacesickness.”

  Allan steadied himself. “That’s it. We haven’t eaten anything for two days.”

  “Allan—didn’t you eat anything either?”

  “No. Not permanently, so to speak. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “How about dinner at Kean’s Chophouse?”

  “Wonderful. Oh, Allan, we’re back!” Her tears started again.

  They glimpsed the Simmonses once more, after chuting down the Hudson Valley and into Grand Central Station. While they were waiting at the tube dock for their bag, Jo saw the Reverend Doctor climb heavily out of the next tube capsule, carrying his daughter and followed by his wife. He set the child down carefully. Gloria stood for a moment, trembling on her pudgy legs, then collapsed to the dock. She lay there, crying thinly.

  A spaceman—pilot, by his uniform—stopped and looked pityingly at the child. “Born in the Moon?” he asked.

  “Why yes, she was, sir.” Simmons’ courtesy transcended his troubles.

  “Pick her up and carry her. She’ll have to learn to walk all over again.” The spaceman shook his head sadly and glided away. Simmons looked still more troubled, then sat down on the dock beside his child, careless of the dirt.

  Jo felt too weak to help. She looked around for Allan, but he was busy; their bag had arrived. It was placed at his feet and he started to pick it up, and then felt suddenly silly. It seemed nailed to the dock. He knew what was in it, rolls of microfilm and colorfilm, a few souvenirs, toilet articles, various irreplaceables—fifty pounds of mass. It couldn’t weigh what it seemed to.

  But it did. He had forgotten what fifty pounds weigh on Earth.

  “Porter, mister?” The speaker was grey-haired and thin, but he scooped up the bag quite casually. Allan called out, “Come along, Jo,” and followed him, feeling foolish. The porter slowed to match Allan’s labored steps.

  “Just down from the Moon?” he asked.

  “Why, yes.”

  “Got a reservation?”

  “No.”

  “You stick with me. I’ve got a friend on the desk at the Commodore.” He led them to the Concourse slidewalk and thence to the hotel.

  They were too weary to dine out; Allan had dinner sent to their room. Afterward, Jo fell asleep in a hot tub and he had trouble getting her out—she liked the support the water gave her. But he persuaded her that a rubber-foam mattress was nearly as good. They got to sleep very early.

  She woke up, struggling, about four in the morning. “Allan. Allan!”

  “Huh? What’s the matter?” His hand fumbled at the light switch.

  “Uh… nothing I guess. I dreamed I was back in the ship. The jets had run away with her. Allan, what makes it so stuffy in here? I’ve got a splitting headache.”

  “Huh? It can’t be stuffy. This joint is air-conditioned.” He sniffed the air. “I’ve got a headache, too,” he admitted.

  “Well, do something. Open a window.”

  He stumbled out of bed, shivered when the outer air hit him, and hurried back under the covers. He was wondering whether he could get to sleep with the roar of the city pouring in through the window when his wife spoke again. “Allan?”

  “Yes. What is it?”

  “Honey, I’m cold. May I crawl in with you?”

  “Sure.”

  The sunlight streamed in the window, warm and mellow. When it touched his eyes, he woke and found his wife awake beside him. She sighed and snuggled. “Oh, darling, look! Blue sky—we’re home. I’d forgotten how lovely it is.”

  “It’s great to be back, all right. How do you feel?”

  “Much better. How are you?”

  “Okay, I guess.” He pushed off the covers.

  Jo squealed and jerked them back. “Don’t do that!”

  “Huh?”

  “Mamma’s great big boy is going to climb out and close that window while mamma stays here under the covers.”

  “Well—all right.” He could walk more easily than the night before—but it was good to get back into bed. Once there, he faced the telephone and shouted at it, “Service!”

  “Order, please,” it answered in a sweet contralto.

  “Orange juice and coffee for two—extra coffee—six eggs, scrambled medium, and whole-wheat toast. And send up a Times, and the Saturday Evening Post.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Thank you.” The delivery cupboard buzzed while he was shaving. He answered it and served Jo breakfast in bed. Breakfast over, he laid down his newspaper and said, “Can you pull your nose out of that magazine?”

  “Glad to. The darn thing is too big and heavy to hold.”

  “Why don’t you have the stat edition mailed to you from Luna City? Wouldn’t cost more than eight or nine times as much.”

  “Don’t be silly. What’s on your mind?”

  “How about climbing out of that frowsty little nest and going with me to shop for clothes?”

  “Unh-uh. No, I am not going outdoors in a moonsuit.”

  “ ‘Fraid of being stared at? Getting prudish in your old age?”

  “No, me lord, I simply refuse to expose myself to the outer air in six ounces of nylon and a pair of sandals. I want some warm clothes first.” She squirmed further down under the covers.

  “The Perfect Pioneer Woman. Going to have fitters sent up?”

  “We can’t afford that. Look—you’re going anyway. Buy me just any old rag so long as it’s warm.”

  MacRae looked stubborn. “I’ve tried shopping for you before.”

  “Just this once—please. Run over to Saks and pick out a street dress in a blue wool jersey, size ten. And a pair of nylons.”
r />   “Well—all right.”

  “That’s a lamb. I won’t be loafing. I’ve a list as long as your arm of people I’ve promised to call up, look up, have lunch with.”

  He attended to his own shopping first; his sensible shorts and singlet seemed as warm as a straw hat in a snow storm. It was not really cold and was quite balmy in the sun, but it seemed cold to a man used to a never-failing seventy-two degrees. He tried to stay underground, or stuck to the roofed-over section of Fifth Avenue.

  He suspected that the salesmen had outfitted him in clothes that made him look like a yokel. But they were warm. They were also heavy; they added to the pain across his chest and made him walk even more unsteadily. He wondered how long it would be before he got his ground-legs.

  A motherly saleswoman took care of Jo’s order and sold him a warm cape for her as well. He headed back, stumbling under his packages, and trying futilely to flag a ground-taxi. Everyone seemed in such a hurry! Once he was nearly knocked down by a teen-aged boy who said, “Watch it, Gramps!” and rushed off, before he could answer.

  He got back, aching all over and thinking about a hot bath. He did not get it; Jo had a visitor. “Mrs. Appleby, my husband—Allan, this is Emma Crail’s mother.”

  “Oh, how do you do, Doctor—or should it be ‘Professor’?”

  “Mister—”

  “—when I heard you were in town I just couldn’t wait to hear all about my poor darling. How is she? Is she thin? Does she look well? These modern girls—I’ve told her time and again that she must get out of doors—I walk in the Park every day—and look at me. She sent me a picture—I have it here somewhere; at least I think I have—and she doesn’t look a bit well, undernourished. Those synthetic foods—”

  “She doesn’t eat synthetic foods, Mrs. Appleby.”

  “—must be quite impossible, I’m sure, not to mention the taste. What were you saying?”

  “Your daughter doesn’t live on synthetic foods,” Allan repeated. “Fresh fruits and vegetables are one thing we have almost too much of in Luna City. The air-conditioning plant, you know.”

  “That’s just what I was saying. I confess I don’t see just how you get food out of air-conditioning machinery on the Moon—”