Robert A. Heinlein. Between Planets. A Puke (TM) Audiobook

Robert A. Heinlein. Between Planets.
ACE BOOKS.
A Division of Charter Communications Inc.
1120 Avenue of the Americas.
New York, N. Y. 10036.
BETWEEN PLANETS.
Copyright, 1951, by McCall Corporation and Robert A. Heinlein Scanned by BAX. Proofed by FRENCHIE.
For Scott and KENT.
A condensed version under the title Planets in Combat appeared in three parts in Blue Book Magazine.
Printed in U.S.A.

Robert “A.” Heinlein. Between Planets.

One. New Mexico.
“EASY, boy, easy.”
Don Harvey reined in the fat little cow pony. Ordinarily Lazy lived up to his name; today he seemed to want to go places. Don hardly blamed him. It was such a day as comes only to New Mexico, with sky scrubbed clean by a passing shower, the ground already dry but with a piece of rainbow still hanging in the distance. The sky was too blue, the buttes too rosy, and the far reaches too sharp to be quite convincing. Incredible peace hung over the land and with it a breathless expectancy of something wonderful about to happen.
“We’ve got all day,” he cautioned Lazy, “so don’t get yourself in a lather. That’s a stiff climb ahead.” Don was riding alone because he had decked out Lazy in a magnificent Mexican saddle his parents had ordered sent to him for his birthday. It was a beautiful thing, as gaudy with silver as an Indian buck, but it was as out of place at the ranch school he attended as formal clothes at a branding, a point which his parents had not realized. Don was proud of it, but the other boys rode plain stock saddles; they kidded him unmercifully and had turned “Donald James Harvey” into “Don Jaime” when he first appeared with it.
Lazy suddenly shied. Don glanced around, spotted the cause, whipped out his gun, and fired. He then dismounted, throwing the reins forward so that Lazy would stand, and examined his work. In the shadow of a rock a fair-sized snake, seven rattles on its tail, was still twitching. Its head lay by it, burned off. Don decided not to save the rattles; had he pinpointed the head he would have taken it in to show his marksmanship. As it was, he had been forced, to slice sidewise with the beam before he got it. If he brought in a snake killed in such a clumsy fashion someone would be sure to ask him why he hadn’t used a garden hose.
He let it lie and remounted while talking to Lazy. “Just a no-good old sidewinder,” he said reassuringly. “More scared of you than you were of it.”
He clucked and they started off. A few hundred yards further on Lazy shied again, not from a snake this time but from an unexpected noise. Don pulled him in and spoke severely. “You bird-brained butterball! When are you going to learn not to jump when the telephone rings?”
Lazy twitched his shoulder muscles and snorted. Don reached for the pommel, removed the phone, and answered.
“Mobile 6-J-233309, Don Harvey speaking.”
“Mister Reeves, Don,” came back the voice of the headmaster of Ranchito Alegre.
“Where are you?”
“Headed up Peddler’s Grave Mesa, sir.”
“Get home as quickly as you can.”
“Uh, what’s up, sir?”
“Radiogram from your parents. I’ll send the copter out for you if the cook is back-with someone to bring your horse in.”
Don hesitated. He didn’t want just anybody to ride Lazy, like as not getting him overheated and failing to cool him off. On the other hand a radio from his folks could not help but be important. His parents were on Mars and his mother wrote regularly, every ship-but radiograms, other than Christmas and birthday greetings, were almost unheard of.
“I’ll hurry, sir.”
“Right!” Mister Reeves switched off. Don turned Lazy and headed back down the trail. Lazy seemed disappointed and looked back accusingly.
As it turned out, they were only a half-mile from the school when the ranch copter spotted them. Don waved it off and took Lazy on in himself. Despite his curiosity he delayed to wipe down the pony and water it before he went in. Mister Reeves was waiting in his office and motioned for him to come in. He handed Don the message.
It read: DEAR SON, PASSAGE RESERVED FOR YOU VALKYRIE CIRCUM-TERRA TWELVE APRIL LOVE MOTHER AND DAD.
Don blinked at it, having trouble taking in the simple facts. “But that’s right away”
“Yes. You weren’t expecting it?”
Don thought it over. He had halfway expected to go home-if one could call it going home when he had never set foot on Mars-at the end of the school year. If they had arranged his passage for the Vanderdecken three months from now. “Uh, not exactly. I can’t figure out why they would send for me before the end of the term.”
Mister Reeves fitted his fingertips carefully together. “I’d say that it was obvious.”
Don looked startled. “You mean? Mister Reeves, you don’t really think there is going to be trouble, do you?”
The headmaster answered gravely, “Don, I’m not a prophet. But it is my guess that your parents are sufficiently worried that they want you out of a potential war zone as quickly as possible.”
He was still having trouble readjusting. Wars were something you studied, not something that actually happened. Of course his class in contemporary history had kept track of the current crisis in colonial affairs, but, even so, it had seemed something far away, even for one as widely traveled as himself-a matter for diplomats and politicians, not something real.
“Look, Mister Reeves, they may be jumpy but I’m not. I’d like to send a radio telling them that I’ll be along on the next ship, as soon as school is out.”
Mister Reeves shook his head. “No, I can’t let you go against your parents’ explicit instructions. In the second place, ah.” The headmaster seemed to have difficulty in choosing his words. “That is to say, Donald, in the event of war, you might find your position here, shall we call it, uncomfortable?”
A bleak wind seemed to have found its way into the office. Don felt lonely and older than he should feel. “Why?” he asked gruffly.
Mister Reeves studied his fingernails. “Are you quite sure where your loyalties lie?” he said slowly.
Don forced himself to think about it. His father had been born on Earth; his mother was a second-generation Venus colonial. But neither planet was truly their home; they had met and married on Luna and had pursued their researches in planetology in many sectors of the solar system. Don himself had been born out in space and his birth certificate, issued by the Federation, had left the question of his nationality open. He could claim dual citizenship by parental derivation. He did not think of himself as a Venus colonial; it had been so long since his family had last visited Venus that the place had grown unreal in his mind. On the other hand he had been eleven years old before he had ever rested his eyes on the lovely hills of Earth.
“I’m a citizen of the System,” he said harshly.
“Hum said the headmaster. “That’s a fine phrase and perhaps someday it will mean something. In the meantime, speaking as a friend, I agree with your parents. Mars is likely to be neutral territory; you’ll be safe there. Again, speaking as your friend-things may get a little rough here for anyone whose loyalty is not perfectly clear.”
“Nobody has any business questioning my loyalty under the law, I count as native born!”
The man did not answer. Don burst out, “The whole thing is silly! If the Federation wasn’t trying to bleed Venus white there wouldn’t be any war talk.”
Reeves stood up. “That will be all, Don. I’m not going to argue politics with you.”
“It’s true! Read Chamberlain’s Theory of Colonial Expansion!”
Reeves seemed startled. “Where did you lay hands on that book? Not in the school library.”
Don did not answer. His father had sent it to him but had cautioned him not to let it be seen; it was one of the suppressed books-on Earth, at least. Reeves went on, “Don, have you been dealing with a book legger?”
Don remained silent. “Answer me!”
Presently Reeves took a deep breath and said, “Never mind. Go up to your room and pack. The copter will take you to Albuquerque at one o’clock.”
“Yes, sir.” He had started to leave when the headmaster called him back.
“Just a moment. In the heat of our, uh, discussion I almost forgot that there was a second message for you.”
“Oh?” Don accepted the slip; it said:
DEAR SON, BE SURE TO SAY GOODBYE TO UNCLE DUDLEY BEFORE YOU LEAVE.
MOTHER.
This second message surprised him in some ways even more than the first; he had trouble realizing that his mother must mean Doctor Dudley Jefferson-a friend of his parents but no relation, and a person of no importance in his own life. But Reeves seemed not to see anything odd in the message, so he stuck it in his Levis and left the room.
Long as he had been earthbound he approached packing with a true spaceman’s spirit. He knew that his passage would entitle him to only fifty pounds of free lift; he started discarding right and left. Shortly he had two piles, a very small one on his own bed-indispensable clothing, a few capsules of microfilm, his slide rule, a stylus, and a vreetha, a flutelike Martian instrument which he had not played in a long time as his schoolmates had objected. On his roommate’s bed was a much larger pile of discards.
He picked up the vreetha, tried a couple of runs, and put it on the larger pile. Taking a Martian product to Mars was coal to Newcastle. His roommate, Jack Moreau, came in as he did so.
“What in time goes on? House cleaning?”
“Leaving.”
Jack dug a finger into his ear. “I must be getting deaf. I could have sworn you said you were leaving.”
“I am.” Don stopped and explained, showing Jack the message from his parents.
Jack looked distressed. “I don’t like this. Of course I knew this was our last year, but I didn’t figure on you jumping the gun. I probably won’t sleep without your snores to soothe me.
What’s the rush?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. The Head says that my folks have war jitters and want to drag their little darling to safety. But that’s silly, don’t you think? I mean, people are too civilized to go to war today.”
Jack did not answer. Don waited, then said sharply, “You agree, don’t you? There won’t be any war.”
Jack answered slowly, “Could be. Or maybe not.”
“Oh, come off it!”
His roommate answered, “Want me to help you pack?”
“There isn’t anything to pack.”
“How about all that stuff?”
“That’s yours, if you want it. Pick it over, then call in the others and let them take what they like.”
“Huh? Gee, Don, I don’t want your stuff. I’ll pack it and ship it after you.”
“Ever ship anything ‘tween planets? It’s not worth it.”
“Then sell it. Tell you what, we’ll hold an auction right after supper.”
Don shook his head. “No time. I’m leaving at one o’clock.”
“What? You’re really blitzing me, kid. I don’t like this.”
“Can’t be helped.” He turned back to his sorting.
Several of his friends drifted in to say goodbye. Don himself had not spread the news and he did not suppose that the headmaster would have talked, yet somehow the grapevine had spread the word. He invited them to help themselves to the plunder, subject to Jack’s prior claim.
Presently he noticed that none of them asked why he was leaving. It bothered him more than if they had talked about it. He wanted to tell someone, anyone, that it was ridiculous to doubt his loyalty-and anyhow there wasn’t going to be a war.
Rupe Salter, a boy from another wing, stuck his head in, looked over the preparations. “Running out, eh? I heard you were and thought I’d checkup.”
“I’m leaving, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I said. See here, `Don Jaime,’ how about that circus saddle of yours? I’ll take it off your hands if the price is right.”
“It’s not for sale.”
“Huh? No horses where you’re going. Make me a price.”
“It belongs to Jack here.”
“And it’s still not for sale,” Moreau answered promptly.
“Like that, eh? Suit yourself.” Salter went on blandly, “Another thing you willed that nag of yours yet?”
The boys’ mounts, with few exceptions, were owned by the school, but it was a cherished and long-standing privilege of a boy graduating to “will” his temporary ownership to a boy of hischoice. Don looked up sharply; until that moment he had not thought about Lazy. He realized with sudden grief that he could not take the little fat clown with him-nor had he made any arrangements for his welfare. “The matter is settled,” he answered, added to himself: as far as you are concerned.
“Who gets him? I could make it worth your while. He’s not much of a horse, but I want to get rid of the goat I’ve had to put up with.”
“It’s settled.”
“Be sensible. I can see the Head and get him anyhow. Willing a horse is a graduating privilege and you’re ducking out ahead of time.”
“Get out.”
Salter grinned. “Touchy, aren’t you? Just like all fogeaters, too touchy to know what’s good for you. Well, you’re going to be taught a lesson someday soon.”
Don, already on edge, was too angry to trust himself to speak. “Fogeater,” used to describe a man from cloud wrapped Venus, was merely ragging, no worse than “Limey” or “Yank”, unless the tone of voice and context made it, as now, a deliberate insult. The others looked at him, half expecting action.
Jack got up hastily from the bed and went toward Salter. “Get going, Salty. We’re too busy to monkey around with you.” Salter looked at Don, then back at Jack, shrugged and said, “I’m too busy to hang around here. But not too busy, if you have anything in mind.”
The noon bell pealed from the mess hall; it broke the tension. Several boys started for the door; Salter moved out with them. Don hung back. Jack said, “Come on-beans!”
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“How about you taking over Lazy?”
“Gee, Don? I’d like to accommodate you-but what would I do with Lady Maude?”
“Uh, I guess so. What’ll I do?”
“Let me see.” Jack’s face brightened. “You know that kid Squinty Morris? The new kid from Manitoba? He hasn’t got a permanent yet; he’s been taking his rotation with the goats. He’d treat Lazy right; I know, I let him try Maudie once. He’s got gentle hands.”
Don looked relieved. “Will you fix it for me? And see Mister Reeves?”
“Huh? You can see him at lunch; come on.”
“I’m not going to lunch. I’m not hungry. And I don’t much want to talk to the Head about it.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I don’t know. When he called me in this morning he didn’t seem exactly, friendly.”
“What did he say?”
“It wasn’t his words; it was his manner. Maybe I am touchy-but I sort of thought he was glad to see me go.”
Don expected Jack to object, convince him that he was wrong. Instead he was silent for a moment, then said quietly, ‘Don’t take it too hard, Don. The Head is probably edgy too. You know he’s got his orders?”
“Huh? What orders?”
“You knew he was a reserve officer, didn’t you? He put in for orders and got ‘em, effective at end of term. Missus. Reeves is taking over the school for the duration.”
Don, already overstrained, felt his head whirling. For the duration? How could anyone say that when there wasn’t any such thing?
“‘Sfact,” Jack went on. “I got it straight from cookie.” He paused, then went on, “See here, old son-we’re pals, aren’t we?”
“Huh? Sure, sure!”
“Then give it to me straight: are you actually going to Mars? Or are you heading for Venus to sign up?”
“Whatever gave you that notion?”
“Skip it, then. Believe me; it wouldn’t make any difference between us. My old man says that when it’s time to be counted, the important thing is to be man enough to stand up.” He looked at Don’s face, then went on, “What you do about it is up to you. You know I’ve got a birthday coming up next month?”
“Huh? Yes, so you have.”
“Come then, I’m going to sign up for pilot training. That’s why I wanted to know what you planned to do.”
“Oh.”
“But it doesn’t make any difference-not between us. Anyhow, you’re going to Mars.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s right.”
“Good!” Jack glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to run-or they’ll throw my chow to the pigs. Sure you’re not coming?”
“Sure.”
“See you.” He dashed out.
Don stood for a moment, rearranging his ideas. Old Jack must be taking this seriously-giving up Yale for pilot training. But he was wrong-he had to be wrong.
Presently he went out to the corral.
Lazy answered his call, then started searching his pockets for sugar. “Sorry, old fellow,” he said sadly, “not even a carrot. I forgot.” He stood with his face to the horse’s cheek and scratched the beast’s ears. He talked to it in low tones, explaining as carefully as if Lazy could understand all the difficult words.
“So that’s how it is,” he concluded. “I’ve got to go away and they won’t let me take you with me.” He thought back to the day their association had begun. Lazy had been hardly more than a colt, but Don had been frightened of him. He seemed huge, dangerous, and probably carnivorous. He had never seen a horse before coming to Earth; Lazy was the first he had ever seen close up.
Suddenly he choked, could talk no further. He flung his arms around the horse’s neck and leaked tears.
Lazy nickered softly, knowing that something was wrong, and tried to nuzzle him. Don raised his head. “Goodbye, boy. Take care of yourself.” He turned abruptly and ran toward the dormitories.

Two. “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin”.
THE SCHOOL copter dumped him down at the Albuquerque field. He had to hurry to catch his rocket, as traffic control had required them to swing wide around Sandia Weapons Center.
When he weighed in he ran into another new security wrinkle. “Got a camera in that stuff, son?” the weighmaster had inquired as he passed over his bags.
“No, why?”
“Because we’ll fog your film when we fluoroscope, that’s why.” Apparently X-ray failed to show any bombs hidden in his underwear; his bags were handed back and he went aboard-the winged-rocket Santa Fe Trail, shuttling between the Southwest and New Chicago. Inside, he fastened his safety belts, snuggled down into the cushions, and waited.
At first the noise of the blast-off bothered him more than the pressure. But the noise dopplered away as they passed the speed of sound while the acceleration grew worse; he blacked out.
He came to as the ship went into free flight, arching in a high parabola over the plains. At once he felt great relief no longer to have unbearable weight racking his rib cage, straining his heart, turning his muscles to water-but, before he could enjoy the blessed relief, he was aware of a new sensation; his stomach was trying to crawl up his gullet.
At first he was alarmed, being unable to account for the unexpected and unbearably unpleasant sensation. Then he had a sudden wild suspicion could it? Oh, no! It couldn’t be, not space sickness, not to him. Why, he had been born in free fall; space nausea was for Earth crawlers, groundhogs!
But the suspicion grew to certainty; years of easy living on a planet had worn out his immunity. With secret embarrassment he conceded that he certainly was acting like a groundhog. It had not occurred to him to ask for an anti-nausea shot before blast-off, though he had walked past the counter plainly marked with a red cross.
Shortly his secret embarrassment became public; he had barely time to get at the plastic container provided for the purpose. Thereafter he felt better, although weak, and listened halfheartedly to the canned description coming out of the loudspeaker of the country over which they were falling. Presently, near Kansas City, the sky turned from black back to purple again, the air foils took hold, and the passengers again felt weight as the rocket continued glider fashion on a long, screaming approach to New Chicago. Don folded his couch into a chair and sat up.
Twenty minutes later, as the field came up to meet them, rocket units in the nose were triggered by radar and the Santa Fe Trail braked to a landing. The entire trip had taken less time than the copter jaunt from the school to Alburquerque, something less than an hour for the same route eastward that the covered wagons had made westward in eighty days, with luck.
The local rocket landed on a field just outside the city, next door to the enormous field, still slightly radioactive, which was both the main spaceport of the planet and the former site of Old Chicago.
Don hung back and let a Navajo family disembark ahead of him, then followed the squaw out. A movable slideway had crawled out to the ship; he stepped on it and let it carry him into the station. Once inside he was confused by the bustling size of the place, level after level, above and below ground. Gary Station served not merely the Santa Fe Trail, the Route 66, and other local rockets shuttling to the Southwest; it served a dozen other local lines, as well as ocean hoppers, freight tubes, and space ships operating between Earth and Circum-Terra Station-and thence to Luna, Venus, Mars, and the Jovian moons; it was the spinal cord of a more-than-world-wide empire.
Tuned as he was to the wide and empty New Mexico desert and, before that, to the wider wastes of space, Don felt oppressed and irritated by the noisy swarming mass. He felt the lossof dignity that comes from men behaving like ants, even though his feeling was not thought out in words. Still, it had to be faced-he spotted the triple globes of Interplanet Lines and followed glowing arrows to its reservation office.
An uninterested clerk assured him that the office had no record of his reservation in the Valkyrie. Patiently Don explained that the reservation had been made from Mars and displayed the radiogram from his parents. Annoyed into activity the clerk finally consented to phone Circum-Terra; the satellite station confirmed the reservation. The clerk signed off and turned back to Don. “Okay, you can pay for it here.”
Don had a sinking feeling. “I thought it was already paid for?” He had on him his father’s letter-of-credit but it was not enough to cover passage to Mars.
“Huh? They didn’t say anything about it being prepaid.”
At Don’s insistence the clerk again phoned the space station. Yes, the passage was prepaid since it had been placed from the other end; didn’t the clerk know his tariff book? Thwarted on all sides, the clerk grudgingly issued Don a ticket to couch 64, Rocket Ship Glory Road, lifting from Earth for Circum-Terra at nine oh three fifty seven the following morning.
“Got your security clearance?”
“Huh? What’s that?”
The clerk appeared to gloat at what was a legitimate opportunity to decline to do business after all. He withdrew the ticket. “Don’t you bother to follow the news? Give me your ID.”
Reluctantly Don passed over his identity card; the clerk stuck it in a stat machine and handed it back. “Now your thumb prints.”
Don impressed them and said, “Is that all? Can I have my ticket?”
“Is that all? He says Be here about an hour early tomorrow morning. You can pick up your ticket then-provided the I.B.I. says you can.”
The clerk turned away. Don, feeling forlorn, did likewise. He did not know quite what to do next. He had told Headmaster Reeves that he would stay overnight at the Hilton Caravansary, that being the hotel his family had stopped at 18 years earlier and the only one he knew by name. On the other hand he had to attempt to locate Doctor Jefferson “Uncle Dudley”, since his mother had made such a point of it. It was still early afternoon; he decided to check his bags and start looking.
Bags disposed of, he found an empty communication booth and looked up the doctor’s code, punched it into the machine. The doctor’s phone regretted politely that Doctor Jefferson was not at home and requested him to leave a message. He was dictating it when a warm voice interrupted: “I’m at home to you, Donald. Where are you, lad?” The view screen cut in and he found himself looking at the somewhat familiar features of Doctor Dudley Jefferson.
“Oh I’m at the station, Doctor-Gary Station. I just got in.”
“Then grab a cab and come here at once.”
“Uh, I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Doctor. I called because mother said to say goodbye to you.” Privately he had hoped that Doctor Jefferson would be too busy to waste time on him.
Much as he disapproved of cities he did not want to spend his last night on Earth exchanging politeness with a family friend; he wanted to stir around and find out just what the modern Babylon did have to offer in the way of diversion. His letter-of-credit was burning a hole in his pocket; he wanted to bleed it a bit.
“No trouble. See you in a few minutes. Meanwhile I’ll pick out a fatted calf and butcher it. By the way, did you receive a package from me?” The doctor looked suddenly intent.
“A package? No”
Doctor Jefferson muttered something about the mail service. Don said, “Maybe it will catch up with me. Was it important?”
“Uh, never mind; we’ll speak of it later. You left a forwarding address?”
“Yes, sir-the Caravansary.”
“Well-whip up the horses and see how quickly you can get here. Open sky”
“And safe grounding, sir.” They both switched off. Don left the booth and looked around for a cab stand. The station seemed more jammed than ever, with uniforms much in evidence, not only those of pilots and other ship personnel but military uniforms of many corps-and always the ubiquitous security police. Don fought his way through the crowd, down a ramp, along a slidewalk tunnel, and finally found what he wanted. There was a queue waiting for cabs; he joined it.
Beside the queue was sprawled the big, ungainly saurian form of a Venerian “dragon.” When Don progressed in line until he was beside it, he politely whistled a greeting.
The dragon swiveled one fluttering eyestalk in his direction. Strapped to the “chest” of the creature, between its forelegs and immediately below and in reach of its handling tendrils, wasa small box, a voder. The tendrils writhed over the keys and the Venerian answered him, via mechanical voder speech, rather than by whistling in his own language. “Greetings to you also, young sir. It is pleasant indeed, among strangers, to hear the sounds one heard in the egg.” Don noted with delight that the outlander had a distinctly Cockney accent in the use of his machine.
He whistled his thanks and a hope that the dragon might die pleasantly.
The Venerian thanked him, again with the voder, and added, “Charming as is your accent, will you do me the favor of using your own speech that I may practice it?”
Don suspected that his modulation was so atrocious that the Venerian could hardly understand it; he lapsed at once into human words. “My name is Don Harvey,” he replied and whistled once more-but just to give his own Venerian name, “Mist on the Waters”; it had been selected by his mother and he saw nothing funny about it.
Nor did the dragon. He whistled for the first time, naming himself, and added via voder, “I am called `Sir Isaac Newton.’ ” Don understood that the Venerian, in so tagging himself, was following the common dragon custom of borrowing as a name of convenience the name of some earth human admired by the borrower.
Don wanted to ask “Sir Isaac Newton” if by chance he knew Don’s mother’s family, but the queue was moving up and the dragon was lying still; he was forced to move along to keep from losing his place in line. The Venerian followed him with one oscillating eye and whistled that he hoped that Don, too, might die pleasantly.
There was an interruption in the flow of autocabs to the stand; a man operated flatbed truck drew up and let down a ramp. The dragon reared up on six sturdy legs and climbed aboard.
Don whistled a farewell-and became suddenly and unpleasantly aware that a security policeman was giving him undivided attention. He was glad to crawl into his autocab and close the cover.
He dialed the address and settled back. The little car lurched forward, climbed a ramp, threaded through a freight tunnel, and mounted an elevator. At first Don tried to keep track of where it was taking him but the tortured convolutions of the ant hill called “New Chicago” would have made a topologist dyspeptic; he gave up. The robot cab seemed to know where it was going and, no doubt, the master machine from which it received its signals knew. Don spent the rest of the trip fretting over the fact that his ticket had not yet been turned over to him, over the unwelcome attention of the security policeman, and, finally, about the package from Doctor Jefferson. The last did not worry him; it simply annoyed him to have mail go astray. He hoped that Mister Reeves would realize that any mail not forwarded by this afternoon would have to follow him all the way to Mars.
Then he thought about “Sir Isaac.” It was nice to run across somebody from home.
Doctor Jefferson’s apartment turned out to be far underground in an expensive quarter of the city. Don almost failed to arrive; the cab had paused at the apartment door but when he tried to get out the door would not open. This reminded him that he must first pay the fare shown in the meter-only to discover that he had pulled the bumpkin trick of engaging a robot vehicle without having coins on him to feed the meter. He was sure that the little car, clever as it was, would not even deign to sniff at his letter-of-credit. He was expecting disconsolately to be carted by the machine off to the nearest police station when he was rescued by the appearance of Doctor Jefferson.
The doctor gave him coins to pay the shot and ushered him in. “Think nothing of it, my boy; it happens to me about once a week. The local desk sergeant keeps a drawer full of hard money just to buy me out of hock from our mechanical masters. I pay him off once a quarter, cumshaw additional. Sit down. Sherry?”
“Er, no, thank you, sir.”
“Coffee, then. Cream and sugar at your elbow. What do you hear from your parents?”
“Why, the usual things. Both well and working hard and all that.” Don looked around him as he spoke. The room was large, comfortable, even luxurious, although books spilling lavishly and untidily over shelves and tables and even chairs masked its true richness. What appeared to be a real fire burned in one corner. Through an open door he could see several more rooms. He made a high, and grossly inadequate, mental estimate of the cost of such an establishment in New Chicago.
Facing them was a view window which should have looked into the bowels of the city; instead it reflected a mountain stream and fir trees. A trout broke water as he watched.
“I’m sure they are working hard,” his host answered. “They always do. Your father is attempting to seek out, in one short lifetime, secrets that have been piling up for millions of years.
Impossible-but he makes a good stab at it. Son, do you realize that when your father started his career we hadn’t even dreamed that the first system empire ever existed?” He added thoughtfully, “If it was the first.” He went on, “Now we have felt out the ruins on the floor of two oceans-and tied them in with records from four other planets. Of course your father didn’t do it all, or even most of it-but his work has been indispensable. Your father is a great man, Donald, and so is your mother. When I speak of either one I really mean the team. Help yourself to sandwiches.”
Don said, “Thank you,” and did so, thereby avoiding a direct answer. He was warmly pleased to hear his parents praised but it did not seem to be quite the thing to agree heartily.
But the doctor was capable of carrying on the conversation unassisted. “Of course we may never know all the answers. How was the noblest planet of them all, the home of empire, broken and dispersed into space junk? Your father spent four years in the Asteroid Belt-you were along, weren’t you? And never found a firm answer to that. Was it a paired planet, like Earth-Luna, and broken up by tidal strains? Or was it blown up?”
“Blown up?” Don protested. “But that’s theoretically impossible, isn’t it?”
Doctor Jefferson brushed it aside. “Everything is theoretically impossible, until it’s done. One could write a history of science in reverse by assembling the solemn pronouncements of highest authority about what could not be done and could never happen. Studied any mathematical philosophy, Don? Familiar with infinite universe sheafs and open-ended postulate systems?”
“Uh, I’m afraid not, sir.”
“Simple idea and very tempting. The notion that everything is possible and I mean everything-and everything has happened. Everything. One universe in which you accepted that wine and got drunk as a skunk. Another in which the fifth planet never broke up. Another in which atomic power and nuclear weapons are as impossible as our ancestors thought they were. That last one might have its points, for sissies at least. Like me.”
He stood up. “Don’t eat too many sandwiches. I’m going to take you out to a restaurant where there will be food, among other things, and such food as Zeus promised the gods-and failed to deliver.”
“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, sir.” Don was still hoping to get out on the town by himself. He had a dismaying vision of dinner in some stuffy rich man’s club, followed by an evening of highfalutin talk. And it was his last night on Earth.
“Time? What is time? Each hour ahead is as fresh as was the one we just used. You registered at the Caravansary?”
“No, sir, I just checked my bags at the station.”
“Good. You’ll stay here tonight; we’ll send for your luggage later.” Doctor Jefferson’s manner changed slightly. “But your mail was to be sent to the hotel?”
“That’s right.”
Don was surprised to see that Doctor Jefferson looked distinctly worried. “Well, we’ll check into that later. That package I sent to you-would it be forwarded promptly?”
“I really don’t know, sir. Ordinarily the mail comes in twice a day. If it came in after I left, it would ordinarily wait over until morning. But if the headmaster thought about it, he might have it sent into town special so that I would get it before up-ship tomorrow morning.”
“Mean to say there isn’t a tube into the school?”
“No, sir, the cook brings in the morning mail when he shops and the afternoon mail is chuted in by the Roswell copter bus.”
“A desert island! Well, we’ll check around midnight. If it hasn’t arrived then-never mind.” Nevertheless he seemed perturbed and hardly spoke during their ride to dinner.
The restaurant was misnamed The Back Room and there was no sign out to indicate its location; it was simply one of many doors in a side tunnel. Nevertheless many people seemed to know where it was and to be anxious to get in, only to be thwarted by a stern-faced dignitary guarding a velvet rope. This ambassador recognized Doctor Jefferson and sent for the maitre d’hotel. The doctor made a gesture understood by headwaiters throughout history, the rope was dropped, and they were conducted in royal progress to a ringside table. Don was bug eyed at the size of the bribe. Thus he was ready with the proper facial expression when he caught sight of their waitress.
His reaction to her was simple; she was, it seemed to him, the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, both in person and in costume. Doctor Jefferson caught his expression and chuckled.
“Don’t use up your enthusiasm, son. The ones we have paid to see will be out there.” He waved at the floor. “Cocktail first?”
Don said that he didn’t believe so, thank you.
“Suit yourself. You are man high and a single taste of the flesh-pots wouldn’t do you any permanent harm. But suppose you let me order dinner for us?” Don agreed. While Doctor Jefferson was consulting with the captive princess over the menu, Don looked around. The room simulated outdoors in the late evening; stars were just appearing overhead. A high brick wall ran around the room, hiding the non-existent middle distance and patching in the floor to the false sky. Apple trees hung over the wall and stirred in the breeze. An old-fashioned well with a well sweep stood beyond the tables on the far side of the room; Don saw another “captive princess” go to it, operate the sweep, and remove a silver pail containing a wrapped bottle.
At the ringside opposite them a table had been removed to make room for a large transparent plastic capsule on wheels. Don had never seen one but he recognized its function; it was a Martian’s “perambulator,” a portable air-conditioning unit to provide the rare, cold air necessary to a Martian aborigine. The occupant could be seen dimly, his frail body supported by a metal articulated servo framework to assist him in coping with the robust gravity of the third planet. His pseudo wings drooped sadly and he did not move. Don felt sorry for him.
As a youngster he had met Martians on Luna, but Luna’s feeble field was less than that of Mars; it did not turn them into cripples, paralyzed by a gravity field too painful for their evolutionary pattern. It was both difficult and dangerous for a Martian to risk coming to Earth; Don wondered what had induced this one. A diplomatic mission, perhaps?
Doctor Jefferson dismissed the waitress, looked up and noticed him staring at the Martian. Don said, “I was just wondering why he would come here. Not to eat, surely.”
“Probably wants to watch the animals feeding. That’s part of my own reason, Don. Take a good look around you; you’ll never see the like again.”
“No, I guess not-not on Mars.”
“That’s not what I mean. Sodom and Gomorrah, lad, rotten at the core and skidding toward the pit. These our actors, as I foretold you, are melted into air and so forth. Perhaps even `the great globe itself.’ I tally too much. Enjoy it; it won’t last long.”
Don looked puzzled. “Doctor Jefferson, do you like living here?”
“Me? I’m as decadent as the city I infest; it’s my natural element. But that doesn’t keep me from telling a hawk from a handsaw.”
The orchestra, which had been playing softly from nowhere in particular, stopped suddenly and the sound system announced “News flash!” At the same time the darkening sky overhead turned black and lighted letters started marching across it. The voice over the sound system read aloud the words streaming across the ceiling:
BERMUDA: OFFICIAL: THE DEPARTMENT OF COLONIAL AFFAIRS HAS JUST ANNOUNCED THAT THE PROVISIONAL COMMITTEE OF THE VENUS COLONIES HAS REJECTED OUR NOTE. A SOURCE CLOSE TO THE FEDERATION CHAIRMAN SAYS THAT THIS IS AN EXPECTED DEVELOPMENT AND NO CAUSE FOR ALARM.
The lights went up and the music resumed. Doctor Jefferson’s lips were stretched back in a mirthless grip. “How appropriate!” he commented. “How timely! The handwriting on the wall.”
Don started to blurt out a comment, but was distracted by the start of the show. The stage floor by them had sunk out of sight, unnoticed, during the news flash. Now from the pit thus created came a drifting, floating cloud lighted from within with purple and flame and rose. The cloud melted away and Don could see that the stage was back in place and peopled with dancers. There was a mountain in the stage background.
Doctor Jefferson had been right; the ones worth staring at were on the stage, not serving the tables. Don’s attention was so taken that he did not notice that food had been placed in front of him. His host touched his elbow. “Eat something, before you faint.”
“Huh? Oh, yes, sir!” He did so, busily and with good appetite but with his eyes on the entertainers. There was one man in the cast, portraying Tannhauser, but Don did not know and did not care whom he represented; he noticed him only when he got in the way. Similarly, he had finished two thirds of what was placed before him without noticing what he was eating.
Doctor Jefferson said, “Like it?”
Don did a double take and realized that the doctor was speaking of food, not of the dancers. “Oh, yes! It’s awfully good.” He examined his plate. “But what is it?”
“Don’t you recognize it? Baked baby gregarian.”
It took a couple of seconds for Don to place in his mind just what a gregarian was. As a small child he had seen hundreds of the little satyr-like bipeds-faunas gregariaus veneris Smythii-but he did not at first associate the common commercial name with the friendly, silly creatures he and his playmates, along with all other Venus colonials, had always called “move-overs” because of their chronic habit of crowding up against one, shouldering, nuzzling, sitting on one’s feet, and in other ways displaying their insatiable appetite for physical affection.
Eat a baby, move-over? He felt like a cannibal and for the second time in one day started to behave like a groundhog in space. He gulped and controlled himself but could not touch another bite.
He looked back at the stage. Venusberg disappeared, giving way to a tired-eyed man who kept up a rapid fire of jokes while juggling flaming torches. Don was not amused; he let his gaze wander around the room. Three tables away a man met his eyes, then looked casually away. Don thought about it, then looked the man over carefully and decided that he recognized him. “Doctor Jefferson?”
“Yes, Don?”
“Do you happen to know a Venus dragon who calls himself `Sir Isaac Newton’?” Don added the whistled version of the Venerian’s true name.
“Don’t!” the older man said sharply.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t advertise your background unnecessarily, not at this time. Why do you ask about this, uh, `Sir Isaac Newton’?” He kept his voice low with his lips barely moving.
Donald told him about the casual meeting at Gary Station. “When I got through I was dead sure that a security cop was watching me. And now that same man is sitting over there, only now he’s not in uniform.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think I’m sure.”
“Hum, you might be mistaken. Or he might simply be here in his off hours-though a security policeman should not be, not on his pay. See here, pay no further attention to him and don’t speak of him again. And don’t speak of that dragon, nor of anything else Venetian. Just appear to be having a good time. But pay careful attention to anything I say.”
Don tried to carry out the instructions, but it was hard to keep his mind on gaiety. Even when the dancers reappeared he felt himself wanting to turn and stare at the man who had dampened the party. The plate of baked gregarian was removed and Doctor Jefferson ordered something for him called a “Mount Etna.” It was actually shaped like a volcano and a plume of steam came out of the tip. He dipped a spoon into it, found that it was fire and ice, assaulting his palate with conflicting sensations. He wondered how anyone could eat it. Out of politeness he cautiously tried another bite. Presently he found that he had eaten all of it and was sorry there was not more.
At the break in the stage acts Don tried to ask Doctor Jefferson what he really thought about the war scare. The; doctor firmly turned the talk around to his parents’ work and branched out to the past and future of the System. “Don’t fret yourself about the present, son. Troubles, merely troubles-necessary preliminaries to the consolidation of the System. In five hundred years the historians will hardly notice it. There will be the Second Empire-six planets by then.”
“Six? You don’t honestly think well ever be able to do anything with Jupiter and Saturn? Oh-you mean the Jovian moons.”
“No, I mean six primary planets. We’ll move Pluto and Neptune in close by the fire and we’ll drag Mercury back and let it cool off.”
The idea of moving planets startled Don. It sounded wildly impossible, but he let it rest, since his host was a man who maintained that everything and anything was possible. “The race needs a lot of room,” Doctor Jefferson went on. “After all, Mars and Venus have their own intelligent races; we can’t crowd them much more without genocide-and it’s not dead certain which way the genocide would work, even with the Martians. But the reconstruction of this system is just engineering, nothing to what else we’ll do. Half a millennium from now there will be more Earth-humans outside this system than in it; we’ll be swarming around every G-type star in this neighborhood. Do you know what I would do if I were your age, Don? I’d get me a berth in the Pathfinder.”
Don nodded. “I’d like that.” The Pathfinder, star ship intended for a one-way trip, had been building on, and near, Luna since before he was born. Soon she would go. All or nearly all of Don’s generation had at least dreamed about leaving with her.
“Of course,” added his host, “you would have to have a bride.” He pointed to the stage which was again filling. “Take that blonde down there. She’s a likely looking lassie-healthy at least.”
Don smiled and felt worldly. “She might not hanker after pioneering. She looks happy as she is.”
“Can’t tell till you ask her. Here.” Doctor Jefferson summoned the maitre d’hotel; money changed hands. Presently the blonde came to their table but did not sit down. She was a tom-tom singer and she proceeded to boom into Don’s ears, with the help of the orchestra, sentiments that would have embarrassed him even if expressed privately. He ceased to feel worldly, felt quite warm in the face instead and confirmed his resolution not to take this female to the stars. Nevertheless he enjoyed it.
The stage was just clearing when the lights blinked once and the sound system again brayed forth: “Space raid warning! Space raid warning!” All lights went out.

Three. Hunted.
For an infinitely long moment there was utter blackness and silence without even the muted whir of the blowers. Then a tiny light appeared in the middle of the stage, illuminating the features of the starring comic. He drawled in an intentionally ridiculous nasal voice, “The next sound you hear will be. The Tromp of Doom!” He giggled and went on briskly, “Just sit quiet, folks, and hang on to your money-some of the help are relatives of the management. This is just a drill. Anyhow, we have a hundred feet of concrete overhead-and a darn sight thicker mortgage. Now, to get you into the mood for the next act which is mine, the next round of drinks is on the house.” He leaned forward and called out, “Gertie! Drag up that stuff we couldn’t unload New Year’s Eve.”
Don felt the tension ease around the room and he himself relaxed. He was doubly startled when a hand closed around his wrist. “Quiet!” whispered Doctor Jefferson into his ear.
Don let himself be led away in the darkness. The doctor apparently knew, or remembered, the layout; they got out of the room without bumping into tables and with only one unimportant brush with someone in the dark. They seemed to be going down a long hall, black as the inside of coal, then turned a corner and stopped.
“But you can’t go out sir,” Don heard a voice say. Doctor Jefferson spoke quietly, his words too low to catch. Something rustled; they moved forward again, through a doorway, and turned left.
They proceeded along this tunnel-Don felt sure that it was the public tunnel just outside the restaurant though it seemed to have turned ninety degrees in the dark. Doctor Jefferson still dragged him along by the wrist without speaking. They turned again and went down steps.
There were other people about, though not many. Once someone grabbed Don in the dark; he struck out wildly, smashed his fist into something flabby and heard a muffled grunt. The doctor merely pulled him along the faster.
The doctor stopped at last, seemed to be feeling around in the dark. There came a feminine squeal out of the blackness. The doctor drew back hastily and moved on a few feet, stopped again. “Here,” he said at last. “Climb in.” He pulled Don forward and placed his hand on something; Don felt around and decided that it was a parked autocab, its top open. He climbed in and Doctor Jefferson got in behind, closing the top after him. “Now we can talk,” he said calmly. “Someone beat us to that first one. But we can’t go anywhere until the power comes on again.”
Don was suddenly aware that he was shaking with excitement. When he could trust himself to speak he said, “Doctor-is this actually an attack?”
“I doubt it mightily,” the man answered. “It’s almost certainly a drill-I hope. But it gave us just the opportunity that I had been looking for to get away quietly.”
Don chewed this over. Jefferson went on, “What are you fretting about? The check? I have an account there.”
It had not occurred to Don that they were walking out on the check. He said so and added, “You mean that security policeman I thought I recognized?”
“Unfortunately.”
“But, I think I must have made a mistake. Oh, it looked like the same man, all right, but I don’t see how it would have been humanly possible for him to have followed me even if he popped into the next cab. I distinctly remember that at least once my cab was the only cab on an elevator. That tears it. If it was the same cop, it was an accident; he wasn’t looking for me.”
“Perhaps he was looking for me.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. As to following you-Don, do you know how these autocabs work?”
“Well-in general.”
“If that security cop wanted to tail you, he would not get into the next cab. He would call in and report the number of your cab. That number would be monitored in the control-net board at once. Unless you reached your destination before the monitoring started, they would read the code of your destination right out of the machine. Where upon another security officer would be watching for your arrival. It carries on from there. When I rang for an auto cab my circuit would already be monitored, and the cab that answered the ring likewise. Consequently the first cop was already seated at a table in The Back Room before we arrived. That was their one slip, using a man you had seen but we can forgive that as they are overworked at present.
“But why would they want me? Even if they think I’m uh, disloyal, I’m not that important.”
Doctor Jefferson hesitated, then said, “Don, I don’t know how long we will be able to talk. We can talk freely for the moment because they are just as limited by the power shutdown as we are. But once the power comes on we can no larger talk and I have a good deal to say. We can’t talk, even here, after the power comes on.”
“Why not?”
“The public isn’t supposed to know, but each of these cabs has a microphone in it. The control frequency for the cab itself can carry speech modulation without interfering with the operation of the vehicle. So we are not safe once power is restored. Yes, I know; it’s a shameful set up. I didn’t dare talk in the restaurant, even with the orchestra playing. They could have had a shotgun mike trained on us.
“Now, listen carefully. We must locate that package I mailed to you, we must. I want you to deliver it to your father, or rather, what’s in it. Point number two: you must catch that shuttle rocket tomorrow morning, even if the heavens fall. Point number three: you won’t stay with me tonight, after all. I’m sorry but I think it is best so. Number four: when the power comes on, we will ride around for a while, talking of nothing in particular and never mentioning names. Presently I will see to it that we end up near a public common booth and you will call the Caravansary. If the package is there, you will leave me, go back to the Station, get your bags, then go to the hotel, register and pick up your mail. Tomorrow morning you will get your ship and leave. Don’t call me. Do you understand all that?”
‘Uh, I think so, sir.” Don waited, then blurted out, “But why? Maybe I’m talking out of turn, but it seems to me I ought to know why we are doing this.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, what’s in the package?”
“You will see. You can open it, examine it, and decide for yourself. If you decide not to deliver it, that’s your privilege. As for the rest-what are your political convictions, Don?”
“Why, that’s rather hard to say, sir.”
“Hum, mine weren’t too clear at your age either. Let’s put it this way: would you be willing to string along with your parents for the time being? Until you form your own?”
“Why, of course!”
“Did it seem a bit odd to you that your mother insisted that you look me up? Don’t be shy-I know that a young fellow arriving in the big town doesn’t look up semi-strangers through choice.
Now-she must have considered it important for you to see me. Eh?”
“I guess she must have.”
“Will you let it stand at that? What you don’t know, you can’t tell-and can’t get you into trouble.”
Don thought it over. The doctor’s words seemed to make sense, yet it went mightily against the grain to be asked to do something mysterious without knowing all the whys and wherefore. On the other hand, had he simply received the package, he undoubtedly would have delivered it to his father without thinking much about it.
He was about to ask further questions when the lights came on and the little car started to purr. Doctor Jefferson said, “Here we go!” leaned over the board and quickly dialed a destination.
The autocab moved forward. Don started to speak but the doctor shook his head.
The car threaded its way through several tunnels, down a ramp and stopped in a large underground square. Doctor Jefferson paid it off and led Don through the square and to a passenger elevator. The square was jammed and one could sense the crowd’s frenetic mood resulting from the space raid alarm. They had to shove their way through a mass of people gathered around a public telescreen in the center of the square. Don was glad to get on the elevator, even though it too was packed.
Doctor Jefferson’s immediate destination was another cab stand in a square several levels higher. They got into a cab and moved away; this one they rode for several minutes, then changed cabs again. Don was completely confused and could not have told whether they were north, south, high, low, east, or west. The doctor glanced at his watch as they left the last autocab and said, “We’ve killed enough time. Here.” He indicated a communication booth near them.
Don went in and phoned the Carvansary. Was there any mail being held for him? No, there was not. He explained that he was not registered at the hotel; the clerk looked again. No, sorry sir.
Don came out and told Doctor Jefferson. The doctor chewed his lip. “Son, I’ve made a bad error in judgment.” He glanced around; there was no one near them. “And I’ve wasted time.”
“Can I help, sir?”
“Eh? Yes, I think you can-I’m sure you can.” He paused to think. “We’ll go back to my apartment. We must. But we won’t stay there. We’ll find some other hotel-not the Caravansary-and I’m afraid we must work all night. Are you up to it?”
“Oh, certainly!”
“I’ve some `borrowed-time’ pills; they’ll help. See here Don, whatever happens, you are to catch that ship tomorrow. Understand?”
Don agreed. He intended to catch the ship in any case and could not conceive of a reason for missing it. Privately he was beginning to wonder if Doctor Jefferson were quite right in his head.
“Good. We’ll walk; it’s not far.”
A half-mile of tunnels and a descent by elevator got them there. As they turned into the tunnel in which the doctor’s apartment was located, he glanced up and down it; it was empty. They crossed rapidly and the doctor let them in. Two strange men were seated in the living room.
Doctor Jefferson glanced at them, said, “Good evening, gentlemen,” and turned back to his guest. “Good night, Don. It’s been very pleasant seeing you and be sure to remember me to your parents.” He grasped Don’s hand and firmly urged him out the door.
The two men stood up. One of them said, “It took you a long time to get home, Doctor.”
“I’d forgotten the appointment, gentlemen. Now, goodbye, Don-I don’t want you to be late.”
The last remark was accompanied by increased pressure on Don’s hand. He answered, “Uh-good night, Doctor. And thanks.”
He turned to leave, but the man who had spoken moved quickly between him and the door. “Just a moment, please.”
Doctor Jefferson answered, “Really, gentlemen, there is no reason to delay this boy. Let him go along so that we may get down to our business.”
The man did not answer directly but called out, “Elkins! King!” Two more men appeared from a back room of the apartment. The man who seemed to be in charge said to them, “Take the youngster back to the bedroom. Close the door.”
“Come along, buddy.”
Don, who had been keeping his mouth shut and trying to sort out the confusing new developments, got angry. He had more than a suspicion that these men were security police even though they were not in uniform, but he had been brought up to believe that honest citizens had nothing to fear. “Wait a minute!” he protested. “I’m not going any place. What’s the idea?”
The man who had told him to come along moved closer and took his arm. Don shook it off. The leader stopped any further action by his men with a very slight gesture. “Don Harvey.“
“Huh? Yes?”
“I could give you a number of answers to that. One of them is this.” He displayed a badge in the palm of his hand. “But that might be faked. Or, if I cared to take time, I could satisfy you with stamped pieces of paper, all proper and legalistic and signed with important names.” Don noticed that his voice was gentle and cultured.
“But it happens that I am tired and in a hurry and don’t want to be bothered playing word games with young punks. So let it stand that there are four of us all armed. So-will you go quietly, or would you rather be slapped around a bit and dragged?”
Don was about to answer with school-game bravado; Doctor Jefferson cut in. “Do as they ask you, Donald!”
He closed his mouth and followed the subordinate on back. The man led him into the bedroom and closed the door. “Sit down,” he said pleasantly. Don did not move. His guard came up, placed a palm against his chest and pushed. Don sat down.
The man touched a button at the bed’s control panel, causing it to lift to the reading position, then lay down. He appeared to go to sleep, but every time Don looked at him the man’s eyesmet his. Don strained his ears, trying to hear what was going on in the front room, but he need not have bothered; the room, being a sleeping room, was fully soundproof.
So he sat there and fidgeted, trying to make sense out of preposterous things that had happened to him. He recalled almost with unbelief that it had been only this morning that Lazy and he had started out to climb Peddler’s Grave. He wondered what Lazy was doing now and whether the greedy little rascal missed him.
Probably not, he admitted mournfully.
He slid a glance at the guard, while wondering whether or not, if he gathered himself together, drawing his feet as far under him as he could.
The guard shook his head. “Don’t do it,” he advised.
“Don’t to what?”
“Don’t try to jump me. You might hurry me and then you might get hurt bad.” The man appeared to go back to sleep.
Don slumped into apathy. Even if he did manage to jump this one, slug him maybe, there were three more out front. And suppose he got away from them? A strange city, where they had everything organized, everything under control, where would he run to?
Once he had come across the stable cat playing with a mouse. He had watched for a moment, fascinated even though his sympathies were with the mouse, before he had stepped forward and put the poor beastie out of its misery. The cat had never once let the mouse scamper further than pounce range. Now he was the mouse.
“Up you come!”
Don jumped to his feet, startled and having trouble placing himself. “I wish I had your easy conscience,” the guard said admiringly. “It’s a real gift to be able to catch forty winks any time.
Come on; the boss wants you.”
Don preceded him back into the living room; there was no one there but the mate of the man who had guarded him. Don turned and said, “Where is Doctor Jefferson?”
“Never mind,” his guard replied. “The lieutenant hates to be kept waiting.” He started on out the door.
Don hung back. The second guard casually took him by the arm; he felt a stabbing pain clear to his shoulder and went along.
Outside they had a manually-operated car larger than the robot cabs. The second guard slipped into the driver’s seat; the other urged Don into the passenger compartment. There he sat down and started to turn-and found that he could not. He was unable even to raise his hands. Any attempt to move, to do anything other than sit and breathe, felt like struggling against the weight of too many blankets. “Take it easy,” the guard advised. “You can pull a ligament fighting that field. And it does not do any good.”
Don had to prove to himself that the man was right. Whatever the invisible bonds were, the harder he strained against them the tighter they bound him. On the other hand when he relaxed and rested he could not even feel them. “Where are you taking me?” he demanded.
“Don’t you know? The city I.B.I. office, of course.”
“What for? I haven’t done anything!”
“In that case, you won’t have to stay long.”
The car pulled up inside a large garaging room; the three got out and waited in front of a door; Don had a feeling that they were being looked over. Shortly the door opened; they went inside.
The place had the odor of bureaucracy. They went down a long corridor past endless offices filled with clerks, desks, transtypers, filing machines, whirring card sorters. A lift bounced them to another level; they went on through more corridors and stopped at an office door. “Inside,” said the first guard. Don went in; the door slid shut behind him with the guards outside.
“Sit down, Don.” It was the leader of the group of four, now in the uniform of security officer and seated at a horseshoe desk.
Don said, “Where is Doctor Jefferson? What did you do with him?”
“Sit down, I said.” Don did not move; the lieutenant went on, “Why make it hard for yourself? You know where you are; you know that I could have you restrained in any way that suited me some of them quite unpleasant. Will you sit down, please, and save us both trouble?”
Don sat down and immediately said, “I want to see a lawyer.”
The lieutenant shook his head slowly, looking like a tired and gentle school teacher. “Young fellow, you’ve been reading too many romantic novels. Now if you had studied the dynamics of history instead, you would realize that the logic of legalism alternates with the logic of force in a pattern dependent on the characteristics of the culture. Each culture evokes its own basic logic. You follow me?”
Don hesitated; the other went on, “No matter. The point is, your request for a lawyer comes about two hundred years too late to be meaningful. The verbalisms lag behind the facts.
Nevertheless, you shall have a lawyer or a lollipop, whichever you prefer, after I am through questioning you. If I were you, I’d take the lollipop. More nourishing.
“I won’t talk without a lawyer,” Don answered firmly.
“No? I’m sorry. Don, in setting up your interview I budgeted eleven minutes for nonsense. You have used up four already, no, five. When the eleven minutes are gone and you find yourself spitting out teeth, remember that I bore you no malice. Now about this matter of whether or not you will talk; there are several ways of making a man talk and each method has its fans who swear by it. Drugs, for example, nitrous oxide, scopolamine, sodium pentothal, not to mention some of the new, more subtle, and relatively non-toxic developments. Even alcohols have been used with great success by intelligence operatives. I don’t like drugs; they affect the intellect and clutter up an interview with data of no use to me. You’d be amazed at the amount of rubbish that can collect in the human brain, Don, if you had had to listen to it-as I have.
“And there is