Short Stories By Robert Heinlein A Puke (TM) Audiobook

Beyond Doubt. Astonishing Stories. April 1941 as "Lyle Monroe and Elma Wentz".
Bulletin Board.
Delilah and the Space-Rigger.
Gentlemen Be Seated.
It’s great to be back.
Let there be light.
Magic Inc.
Water is for washing.
Reformatted for Machine Text, 2023 PukeOnAPlate.

BEYOND DOUBT,
By Robert Anson Heinlein,
SAVANT SOLVES SECRET OF EASTER ISLAND IMAGES.
According to Professor J Howard Erlenmeyer, director of the Archeological Society’s Easter Island Expedition.
Professor Erlenmeyer was quoted as saying, “There can no longer be any possible doubt as to the significance of the giant monolithic images which are found in Easter Island. When one considers the primary place held by religious matters in all primitive cultures, and compares the design of these images with artifacts used in the rites of present day Polynesian tribes, the conclusion is inescapable that these images have a deep esoteric religious significance. Beyond doubt, their large size, their grotesque exaggeration of human form, and the seemingly aimless, but actually systematic, distribution gives evidence of the use for which they were carved, to wit; the worship of.”
WARM, and incredibly golden, the late afternoon sun flooded the white-and-green city of Nuria, gilding its maze of circular criss-crossed streets. The Towers of the Guardians, rising high above the lushly verdant hills gleamed like translucent ivory. The hum from the domed buildings of the business district was muted while merchants rested in the cool shade of luxuriant, moistly green trees, drank refreshing okrada, and gazed out at the great hook-prowed green-and-crimson ships riding at anchor in the harbor-ships from Hindos, from Cathay, and from the far-flung colonies of Atlantis.
In all the broad continent of Mu there was no city more richly beautiful than Muria, capital of the province of Lac.
But despite the smiling radiance of sun, and sea, and sky, there was an undercurrent of atmospheric tenseness, as though the air itself were a tight coil about to be sprung, as though a small spark would set off a cosmic explosion.
Through the city moved the sibilant whispering of a name-the name was everywhere, uttered in loathing and fear, or in high hope, according to the affiliations of the utterer-but in any mouth the name had the potency of thunder.
The name was Talus.
Talus, apostle of the common herd; Talus, on whose throbbing words hung the hopes of a million eager citizens; Talus, candidate for governor of the province of Lac.
In the heart of the tenement district, near the smelly waterfront, between a narrow side street and a garbage alley was the editorial office of Mu Regenerate, campaign organ of the Talus-for-Governor organization. The office was as quiet as the rest of Nuria, but with the quiet of a spent cyclone. The floor was littered with twisted scraps of parchment, overturned furniture, and empty beer flagons. Three young men were seated about a great, round, battered table in attitudes that spoke their gloom. One of them was staring cynically at an enormous poster which dominated one wall of the room. It was a portrait of a tall, majestic man with a long, curling white beard. He wore a green toga. One hand was raised in a gesture of benediction. Over the poster, under the crimson-and-purple of crossed Murian banners, was the legend:
TALUS FOR GOVERNOR!
The one who stared at the poster let go an unconscious sigh. One of his companions looked up from scratching at a sheet of parchment with a stubby stylus. “What’s eating on you, Robar?”
THE one addressed waved a hand at the wall. “I was just looking at our white hope. Ain’t he beautiful? Tell me, Dolph, how can anyone look so noble, and be so dumb?”
“God knows. It beats me.”
“That’s not quite fair, fellows,” put in the third, “the old boy ain’t really dumb; he’s just unworldly. You’ve got to admit that the Plan is the most constructive piece of statesmanship this country has seen in a generation.”
Robar turned weary eyes on him. “Sure. Sure. And he’d make a good governor, too. I won’t dispute that; if I didn’t think the Plan would work, would I be here, living from hand to mouth and breaking my heart on this bloody campaign? Oh, he’s noble all right. Sometimes he’s so noble it gags me. What I mean is: Did you ever work for a candidate that was so bullheaded stupid about how to get votes and win an election?”
“Well, no”
“What gets me, Clevum,” Robar went on, “is that he could be elected so easily. He’s got everything; a good sound platform that you can stir people up with, the correct background, a grand way of speaking, and the most beautiful appearance that a candidate ever had. Compared with Old Bat Ears, he’s a natural. It ought to be just one-two-three. But Bat Ears will be re-elected, sure as shootin’.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” mourned Clevum. “We’re going to take such a shellacking as nobody ever saw. I thought for a while that we would make the grade, but now, did you see what the King’s Men said about him this morning?”
“That dirty little sheet. What was it?”
“Besides some nasty cracks about Atlantis gold, they accused him of planning to destroy the Murian home and defile the sanctity of Murian womanhood. They called upon every red-blooded one hundred per cent Murian to send this subversive monster back where he came from. Oh, it stank! But the yokels were eating it up.”
“Sure they do. That’s just what I mean. The governor’s gang slings mud all the time, but if we sling any mud about governor Vortus, Talus throws a fit. His idea of a news story is a nifty little number about comparative statistics of farm taxes in the provinces of Mu. What are you drawing now, Dolph?”
“This.” He held up a ghoulish caricature of Governor Vortus himself, with his long face, thin lips, and high brow, atop of which rested the tall crimson governor’s cap. Enormous ears gave this sinister face the appearance of a vulture about to take flight. Beneath the cartoon was the simple caption:
BAT EARS FOR GOVERNOR.
“There!” exclaimed Robar, “that’s what this campaign needs. Humor! If we could plaster that cartoon on the front page of Mu Regenerate and stick one under the door of every voter in the province, it‘d be a landslide. One look at that mug and they’d laugh themselves sick-and vote for our boy Talus!”
HE held the sketch at arm’s length and studied it, frowning: Presently he locked up. “Listen, dopes. Why not do it? Give me one last edition with some guts in it. Are you game?”
Clevum looked worried. “Well, I don’t know. What are you going to use for money? Besides, even if Oric would crack loose from the dough, how would we get an edition of that size distributed that well? And even if we did get it done, it might boomerang on us-the opposition would have the time and money to answer it.”
Robar looked disgusted. “That’s what a guy gets for having ideas in this campaign-nothing but objections, objections!”
“Wait a minute, Robar,” Dolph interposed. “Clevum’s kicks have some sense to them, but maybe you got something. The idea is to make Joe Citizen laugh at Vortus, isn’t it? Well, why not fix up some dodgers of my cartoon and hand ‘em out at the polling places on election day?”
Robar drummed on the table as he considered this. “Umm, no, it wouldn’t do. Vortus’ goon squads would beat the hell out of our workers and highjack our literature.”
“Well, then how about painting some big banners with old Bat Ears on them? We could stick them up near each polling place where the voters couldn’t fail to see them.”
“Same trouble. The goon squads would have them down before the polls open.”
“Do you know what, fellows,” put in Clevum, “what we need is something big enough to be seen and too solid for Governor’s plug-uglies to wreck. Big stone statues about two stories high would be about right.”
Robar looked more pained than ever. “Clevum, il you can’t be helpful, why not keep quiet? Sure, statues would be fine-if we had forty years and ten million simoleons.”
“Just think, Robar.” Dolph jibed, with an irritating smile, “if your mother had entered you for the priesthood, you could integrate all the statues you want-no worry, no trouble, no expense.”
“Yeah, wise guy, but in that case I wouldn’t be in politics-Say!”
” ‘S trouble?”
“Integration! Suppose we could integrate enough statues of old Picklepuss.“
“How?”
“Do you know Kondor?”
“The moth-eaten old duck that hangs around the Whirling Whale?”
“That’s him. I’ll bet he could do it!”
“That old stumblebum? Why, he’s no adept; he’s just a cheap unlicensed sorcerer. Reading palms in saloons and a little jackleg horoscopy is about all he’s good for. He can’t even mix a potent love philter. I know; I’ve tried him.”
“Don’t be too damn certain you know all about him. He got all tanked up one night and told me the story of his life. He used to be a priest back in Egypt.”
“Then why isn’t he now?”
“That’s the point. He didn’t get along with the high priest. One night he got drunk and integrated a statue of the high priest right where it would show up best and too big to be missed-only he stuck the head of the high priest on the body of an animal.”
“Whew!”
“Naturally when he sobered up the next morning and saw what he had done all he could do was to run for it. He shipped on a freighter in the Red Sea and that’s how come he’s here.”
Clevum’s face had been growing longer and longer all during the discussion. He finally managed to get in an objection. “I don’t suppose you two red hots have stopped to think about the penalty for unlawful use of priestly secrets?”
“Oh, shut up, Clevum. If we win the election, Talus’ll square it. If we lose the election. Well, if we lose, Mu won’t be big enough to hold us whether we pull this stunt or not.”
ORIC was hard to convince. As a politician he was always affable; as campaign manager for Talus, and consequently employer of Robar, Dolph, and Clevum, the boys had sometimes found him elusive, even though chummy.
“Ummm, well, I don’t know.” He had said, “I’m afraid Talus wouldn’t like it.”
“Would he need to know until it’s all done?”
“Now, boys, really, ah, you wouldn’t want me to keep him in ignorance.”
“But Oric, you know perfectly well that we are going to lose unless we do something, and do it quick.”
“Now, Robar, you are too pessimistic.” Oric’s pop eyes radiated synthetic confidence.
“How about that straw poll? We didn’t look so good; we were losing two to one in the back country.”
“Well, perhaps you are right, my boy.” Oric laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “But suppose we do lose this election; Mu wasn’t built in a day. And I want you to know that we appreciate the hard, unsparing work that you boys have done, regardless of the outcome. Talus won’t forget it, and neither shall, uh, I, It’s young men like you three who give me confidence in the future of Mu.”
“We don’t want appreciation; we want to win this election.”
“Oh, to be sure! To be sure! So do we all-none more than myself. Uh-how much did you say this scheme of yours would cost?”
“The integration won’t cost much. We can offer Kondor a contingent fee and cut him in on a spot of patronage. Mostly we’ll need to keep him supplied with wine. The big item will be getting the statues to the polling places. We had planned on straight commercial apportation.”
“Well, now, that will be expensive.”
“Dolph called the temple and got a price.”
“Good heavens, you haven’t told the priests what you plan to do?”
“No, sir. He just specified tonnage and distances.”
“What was the bid?”
Robar told him. Oric looked as if his first born were being ravaged by wolves. “Out of the question, out of the question entirely,” he protested.
But Robar pressed the matter. “Sure it’s expensive, but it’s not half as expensive as a campaign that is just good enough to lose. Besides-I know the priesthood isn’t supposed to be political, but isn’t it possible with your connections for you to find one who would do it on the side for a smaller price, or even on credit? It’s a safe thing for him; if we go through with this we’ll win-it’s a cinch.”
Oric looked really interested for the first time. “You might be right. Mum, yes.” He fitted the tips of his fingers carefully together. “You boys go ahead with this. Get the statues made. Let me worry about the arrangements for apportation.” He started to leave, a preoccupied look on his face.
“Just a minute,” Robar called out, “we’ll need some money to oil up old Kondor.”
Oric paused. “Oh, yes, yes. How stupid of me.” He pulled out three silver pieces and handed them to Robar. “Cash, and no records, eh?” He winked.
“While you’re about it, sir,” added Clevum, “how about my salary? My landlady’s getting awful temperamental.”
Oric seemed surprised. “Oh, haven’t I paid you yet?” He fumbled at his robes. “You’ve been very patient; most patriotic. You know how it is-so many details on my mind, and some of our sponsors haven’t been prompt about meeting their pledges.” He handed Clevum one piece of silver. “See me the first of the week, my boy. Don’t let me forget it.” He hurried out.
THE three picked their way down the narrow crowded street, teeming with vendors, sailors, children, animals, while expertly dodging refuse of one kind or another, which was unceremoniously tossed from balconies. The Whirling Whale tavern was apparent by its ripe, gamey odor some little distance before one came to it. They found Kondor draped over the bar, trying as usual to cadge a drink from the seafaring patrons.
He accepted their invitation to drink with them with alacrity. Robar allowed several measures of beer to mellow the old man before he brought the conversation around to the subject. Kondor drew himself up with drunken dignity in answer to a direct question.
“Can I integrate simulacra? My son you are looking at the man who created the Sphinx.” He hiccoughed politely.
“But can you still do it, here and now?” Robar pressed him, and added, “For a fee, of course.”
Kondor glanced cautiously around. “Careful, my son. Someone might be listening. Do you want original integration, or simply re-integration?”
“What’s the difference?”
Kondor rolled his eyes up, and inquired of the ceiling, “What do they teach in these modern schools? Full integration requires much power, for one must disturb the very heart of the
aether itself; re-integration is simply a re-arrangement of the atoms in a predetermined pattern. If you want stone statues, any waste stone will do.”
“Re-integration, I guess. Now here’s the proposition.”
“THAT will be enough for the first run. Have the porters desist.” Kondor turned away and buried his nose in a crumbling roll of parchment, his rheumy eyes scanning faded hieroglyphs. They were assembled in an abandoned gravel pit on the rear of a plantation belonging to Dolph’s uncle. They had obtained the use of the pit without argument, for, as Robar had reasonably pointed out, if the old gentleman did not know that his land was being used for illicit purposes, he could not possibly have any objection.
Their numbers had been augmented by six red-skinned porters from the Land of the Inca-porters who were not only strong and untiring but possessed the desirable virtue ofspeaking no Murian. The porters had filled the curious ventless hopper with grey gravel and waited impassively for more toil to do. Kondor put the parchment away somewhere in the folds of his disreputable robe, and removed from the same mysterious recesses a tiny instrument of polished silver.
“Your pattern, son.”
Dolph produced a small waxen image, modeled from his cartoon of Bat Ears. Kondor placed it in front of him, and stared through the silver instrument at it. He was apparently satisfied with what he saw, for he commenced humming to himself in a tuneless monotone, his bald head weaving back and forth in time.
Some fifty lengths away, on a stone pedestal, a wraith took shape. First was an image carved of smoke. The smoke solidified, became translucent. It thickened, curdled. Kondor ceased his humming and surveyed his work. Thrice as high as a man stood an image of Bat Ears, good honest stone throughout. “Clevum, my son,” he said, as he examined the statue, “will you be so good as to hand me that jug?” The gravel hopper was empty.
ORIC called on them two days before the election. Robar was disconcerted to find that he had brought with him a stranger who was led around through the dozens of rows of giant statues. Robar drew Oric to one side before he left, and asked in a whisper, “Who is this chap?”
Oric smiled reassuringly. “Oh, he’s all right. Just one of the boys-a friend of mine.”
“But can he be trusted? I don’t remember seeing him around campaign headquarters.”
“Oh, sure! By the way, you boys are to be congratulated on the job of work you’ve done here. Well, I must be running on, I’ll drop in on you again.”
“Just a minute, Oric. Are you all set on the apportation?”
“Oh, yes. Yes indeed. They’ll all be distributed around to the polling places in plenty of time-every statue.”
“When are you going to do it?”
“Why don’t you let me worry about those details, Robar?”
“Well, you are the boss, but I still think I ought to know when to be ready for the apportation.”
“Oh, well, if you feel that way, shall we say, ah, midnight before election day?”
“That’s fine. We’ll be ready.”
ROBAR watched the approach of the midnight before election with a feeling of relief. Kondor’s work was all complete, the ludicrous statues were lined up, row on row, two for every polling place in the province of Lac, and Kondor himself was busy getting reacquainted with the wine jug. He had almost sobered up during the sustained effort of creating the statues.
Robar gazed with satisfaction at the images. “I wish I could see the Governor’s face when he first catches sight of one of these babies. Nobody could possibly mistake who they were. Dolph, you’re a genius; I never saw anything sillier looking in my life.”
“That’s high praise, pal,” Dolph answered. “Isn’t it about time the priest was getting here? I’ll feel easier when we see our little dollies flying through the air on their way to the polling places.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. Oric told me positively that the priest would be here in plenty of time. Besides, apportation is fast. Even the images intended for the back country and the far northern peninsula will get there in a few minutes-once he gets to work.”
But as the night wore on it became increasingly evident that something was wrong. Robar returned from his thirteenth trip to the highway with a report of no one in sight on the road from the city.
“What’ll we do?” Clevum asked.
“I don’t know. Something’s gone wrong; that’s sure.”
“Well, we’ve got to do something. Let’s go back to the temple and try to locate him.”
“We can’t do that; we don’t know what priest Oric hired. We’ll have to find Oric.”
They left Kondor to guard the statues and hurried back into town. They found Oric just leaving campaign headquarters. With him was the visitor he had brought with him two days before. He seemed surprised to see them. “Hello, boys. Finished with the job so soon?”
“He never showed up,” Robar panted.
“Never showed up? Well, imagine that! Are you sure?”
“Of course we’re sure; we were there!”
“Look,” put in Dolph, “what is the name of the priest you hired to do this job? We want to go up to the temple and find him.”
“His name? Oh, no, don’t do that. You might cause all sorts of complications. I’ll go to the temple myself.”
“We’ll go with you.”
“That isn’t necessary,” he told them testily. “You go on back to the gravel pit, and be sure everything is ready.”
“Good grief, Oric, everything has been ready for hours. Why not take Clevum along with you to show the priest the way?”
“I’ll see to that. Now get along with you.”
Reluctantly they did as they were ordered. They made the trip back in moody silence. As they approached their destination Clevum spoke up, “You know, fellows.”
“Well? Spill it.”
“That fellow that was with Oric-wasn’t he the guy he had out here, showing him around?”
“Yes; why?”
“I’ve been trying to place him. I remember now. I saw him two weeks ago, coming out of Governor Vortus’ campaign office.”
AFTER a moment of stunned silence Robar said bitterly, “Sold out. There’s no doubt about it; Oric has sold us out.”
“Well, what do we do about it?”
“What can we do?”
“Blamed if I know.”
“Wait a minute, fellows,”’ came Clevum’s pleading voice, “Kondor used to be a priest. Maybe he can do apportation.”
“Say! There’s a chance! Let’s get going.”
But Kondor was dead to the world.
They shook him. They poured water in his face. They walked him up and down. Finally they got him sober enough to answer questions.
Robar tackled him. “Listen, pop, this is important; Can you perform apportation?”
“Huh? Me? Why, of course. How else did we build the pyramids?”
“Never mind the pyramids. Can you move these statues here tonight?”
Kondor fixed his interrogator with a bloodshot eye. “My son, the great Arcane laws are the same for all time and space. What was done in Egypt in the Golden Age can be done in
Mu tonight.”
Dolph put in a word. “Good grief, pop, why didn’t you tell us this before.”
The reply was dignified and logical. “No one asked me.”
KONDOR set about his task at once, but with such slowness that the boys felt they would scream just to watch him. First, he drew a large circle in the dust. “This is the house of darkness,” he announced solemnly, and added the crescent of Astarte. Then he drew another large circle tangent to the first. “And this is the house of light.” He added the sign of the sun god.
When he was done, he walked widdershins about the whole three times the wrong way. His feet nearly betrayed him twice, but he recovered, and continued his progress. At the end of the third lap he hopped to the center of the house of darkness and stood facing the house of light.
The first statue on the left in the front row quivered on its base, then rose into the air and shot over the horizon to the east.
The three young men burst out with a single cheer, and tears streamed down Robar’s face.
Another statue rose up. It was just poised for flight when old Kondor hiccoughed. It fell, a dead weight, back to its base, and broke into two pieces. Kondor turned his head.
“I am truly sorry,” he announced; “I shall be more careful with the others.”
And try he did-but the liquor was regaining its hold. He wove to and fro on his feet, his aim with the images growing more and more erratic. Stone figures flew in every direction, but none travelled any great distance. One group of six flew off together and landed with a high splash in the harbor. At last, with more than three fourths of the images still untouched he sank gently to his knees, keeled over, and remained motionless.
Dolph ran up to him, and shook him. There was no response. He peeled back one of Kondor’s eyelids and examined the pupil. “It’s no good,” he admitted. “He won’t come to for hours.”
Robar gazed heartbrokenly at the shambles around him. There they are, he thought, worthless! Nobody will ever see them-just so much left over campaign material, wasted! My biggest idea!
Clevum broke the uncomfortable silence. “Sometimes,” he said, “I think what this country needs is a good earthquake.”
“The worship of their major deity.
Beyond doubt, while errors are sometimes made in archeology, this is one case in which no chance of error exists. The statues are clearly religious in significance. With that sure footing on which to rest the careful scientist may deduce with assurance the purpose of.”

THE BULLETIN BOARD.
Our campus is not a giant, factory-size job with a particle accelerator and a two-hundred-man football squad, but it's chummy. The chummiest thing about it is the bulletin board in Old Main. You may find a stray glove fastened up with a thumbtack, or you can pick up a baby-sitting job if a married veteran doesn't beat you to it. Or you can buy a car cheap if you tow it from where it gave up. There are items like: "Will the person who removed a windbreaker from the Library please return same and receive a punch in the nose?"
But the main interest is the next four sections, "A To-G," "H-To-L," "M-To-T," and "U-to-Z," for they are what we use in place of the U.S. Postal "Service" at enormous saving in postage.
Everybody inspects his section before class in the morning. If there's nothing for you, at least you can see who does get mail and sometimes from whom. You'll look again at lunch time and before going home. A person with a busy social life will check the board six or seven times.
Mine isn't that busy but I frequently find a note from Cliff. He knows I like to, so he indulges me. It’s fun to get mail on the board.
There was a girl I used to run across because we were both in "H-to-L", Gabrielle Lamont. I would say hello and she would say hello and there it stopped. Gabrielle was a sad one, not a total termite, but dampish. Her face had the usual features but she let them live their own lives, not even lipstick. She skinned her hair back and her clothes looked as if they had been bought in France. Not Paris, just France. There's a difference.
Which they probably were. Her father is in Modern Languages and he sent her three years to school in France. It did something. I don't think she ever had a date.
We both had eight o'clocks and she would check "H-to-L" every morning when I did and then go quietly away. There was never a note for her.
Until this one morning. Georgia Lammers, who is purely carnivorous, took a note off the board as Gabrielle came up. I heard this soft little voice say, "Excuse me. That's mine."
Georgia said, "Huh? Don't be silly!"
Gabrielle looked scared but she put out her hand. "Read the name, please. You've made a mistake."
Georgia snatched the note away. She is a junior and wouldn't bother to speak to me if Daddy weren't on the staff, but I'm not afraid of her. "Do it," I insisted. "Let's see the name."
Georgia stuck the envelope in my face and snapped, "Read it yourself, snoopy!"
"Gabrielle Lamont," I read Out loud. "Hand it over, Georgia."
"What?" she yelped, and looked at it. Her cheeks got very red.
"Hand it over," I repeated.
"Well!" said Georgia. "Anybody can make a mistake!" She flung the note at Gabrielle and flounced off.
Gabrielle picked it up. "Thanks," she whispered.
"Usual Yellow Cab Service," I said. "A pleasure", which it was. Georgia Lammers is popular in a cheap, plunging-neckline way, but not with me. She acts as if she had invented sex.
Gabrielle started getting mail every day some in envelopes, some just with a thumbtack shoved through folds. I wondered who it was; but every time I saw Gabrielle she was alone. I decided it must be someone her father did not like so they had to use notes to arrange secret dates. I told Cliff so, but he said I had an uncontrolled romantic imagination.
Gabrielle got eleven notes that week and, I got only four, all from Cliff. I pointed this out and he said I did not appreciate my blessings and he was going to ration me to three a week.
Men are exasperating.
I came up one morning as Gabriehle was taking down a note; this time Georgia Lammers was there. As Gabrielle left I said sweetly, "Nothing for you, Georgia? Too bad. Or was it Gabrielle's turn to swipe your note?"
Georgia sniffed and went into the Registrar's office, where she is a part-time clerk. I thought no more about it until after five, when I was waiting in Old Main for Daddy, intending to ride home with him.
There was nothing on "H-To-L" for me, or for Gabrielle, or Georgia. Nobody was around so I sat down on the Senior Bench and rested my feet.
I jumped when I heard someone behind me, but it was only Gabrielle. She's a freshman, too, and anyhow she wouldn't tell. But I didn't sit down again, our senior committee thinks up fantastic punishments for ignoring their sacred privileges.
A good thing I didn't, Georgia came out Of the office then. But she did not notice me. She went straight to "H-To-L" and unpinned a note. I thought: Maureen, your memory is slipping; there was nothing for her a minute ago.
Georgia turned and saw me. She flushed and said, "What are you staring at?"
"Sorry," I said. "I didn't think there was a note for you, I just looked at the board."
She started to flare up, then she put on a catty smile. "Want to read it?"
"Heavens, no!"
"Go ahead!" She shoved it at me. "It's very interesting."
Puzzled, I took it. It was a blank sheet, nothing but creases and thumb tack holes. "Somebody is playing jokes on you," I said.
"Not on me."
I turned it over. The address read: "Miss Gabrielle Lamont."
It finally soaked in that the address should have been "Georgia Lammers." Or should have been for Georgia to touch it. I said, "This note isn't yours. You have no right to it."
"What note?" "This note."
"I don't see any note. I see a blank sheet of paper."
"But. Look, you thought it was a note to Gabrielle. And you took it down anyway."
Her smile got nastier. "No, I knew it wasn't a note. That's the point."
"Huh?"
She explained and I wanted to scratch her. Poor little Gabrielle had been sending notes to herself, just to get mail when everybody else did, and Georgia had caught on. Both girls had campus jobs which kept them late; Georgia had seen Gabrielle come in late a week earlier, look around, and pin up a note. Being a sneak, she had ducked out to find out to whom Gabrielle was writing, only to find that it was addressed to Gabrielle herself.
Poor Gabby! No wonder I had never seen her with anyone. There wasn't anyone.
Georgia licked her lips. "Isn't it a scream? That snip trying to make us think she's popular? I should write a real note on this, let her know that her public isn't fooled."
"Don't you dare!"
"Oh, don't be dull!" She pinned it up, putting the tack back in-the same holes. "I'll let the joke ride until I think of something good."
I grabbed her arm, "Don't you touch her notes again or I'll."
She shook me off. "You'll what? Tell her that you know her notes are phony? I can just see you!"
"I'll tell the Dean, that's what! I'll tell the Dean you've been opening Gabrielle's notes."
"Oh, yes? You looked at it, too."
"But you handed it to me!"
"Did I? My word against yours, sweetie pie."
"But."
"And if you talk, the whole campus will know about Gabrielle's fake notes. Think it over." She marched off.
I was so quiet on the way home that Daddy said, "Smatter, Puddin'? Flunk a quiz?"
I assured him that my academic status was satisfactory. "Then why the mourning?"
Before Daddy let me register he had warned me that the First Law of the Jungle for a professor's child was not to be a pipeline to the faculty. "But, Daddy, you're a professor."
"Student stuff, eh? Better sweat it out alone. Good. Luck."
I did not tell Mother either, because with Mother free speech is not just a theory. I did nothing but worry. Poor Gabrielle! She took her "note" down next morning, looking pleased, and I wanted to cry. Then I saw the smirk on Georgia Lammers' face and I felt like murder and mayhem. There was another "note" Friday and I wanted to shout to her not to touch it. I didn't dare. It was like a time bomb, watching Gabrielle's pitiful make believe and knowing that Georgia meant to wreck it as soon as she thought up something nasty enough.
I was in the Registrar's office Monday, not to see Georgia, though I couldn't avoid her, but because I am a freshman reporter for the Campus Crier. One of my chores is, getting up the "Happy Birthday" column. I thumbed through the files, noting dates from the coming Friday through the following Thursday. Gabrielle's name turned up for Friday and I decided to send her a birthday card, via the bulletin board, so for once she would have real mail. Next I listed Bun Peterson's name; her birthday was the same as Gabrielle's. Bun is president of the Student Council and head cheerleader and honorary football captain; it seemed a shame she had to have Gabrielle's birthday as well. I decided to get Gabrielle a really nice card, with a hanky.
As I finished Georgia picked up my list and said, "Who's getting senile?”
I said, "You are," and took it back.
She said, "Don't get too big for your beanie, freshman." She went on, "Going to the party for Bun Peterson?" Then added, "Oh, I forgot, it's upper classmen only."
I looked her in the eye. "A double choc malt against a used candy bar you aren't either!"
She didn't answer and I swaggered out.
It was a busy week. Junior sprained his arm, Mother was away two days and I kept house, the cat had to be wormed, and I typed a term paper for Cliff. I didn't think about Gabrielle until late Friday when I stopped by the board on the chance that there might be a note from Cliff. There wasn't, but there was another of Gabnelle's notes, in an envelope with her name typed. I realized with a shock that I had forgotten her birthday card.
I was wondering whether to get one and let her find it Monday, when I heard a pisst! It was Georgia Lammers, motioning me to come to the office. Curiosity got me; I went. She pulled me inside; there was no one else in the outer office. "Keep back," she whispered. "If she sees anyone, she may not stop. She's due now, it's after five."
I shook her off. "Who?"
"Gabrielle, of course. Shut up!"
"Huh?" I said. "She's already been there. Her note for Monday is up."
"A lot you know! Hush!" She crowded me into the corner, then peeked out.
"Quit shoving!" I said and looked out.
Gabrielle was pinning something up, her back to us. She saw the envelope with her name, took it down, and hurried away.
I turned to Georgia. "If you've monkeyed with one of her notes, I will go to the Dean."
"Go ahead, see how far it gets you."
"Did you touch that note?"
"Sure I did, I wrote it. What's wrong with that?" She had me; anybody can send anyone a note. "Well, what did you say?"
"What business is it of yours? Still," she went on, "I'll tell you. It's too good to keep." She dug a paper out of her purse. It was a typewritten rough draft, full of x-outs and inserts; it read:
Dear Gabrielle,
Today is Bun Peterson's birthday, and we are giving her the finest surprise party this school has ever seen. We would like to invite everybody, but we can't, and you have been picked as one of the girls to represent the freshman class. We are gathering in groups and will descend on her in a body. Your group will meet at seven o'clock in the Snack Shoppe. Put on your best bib and tucker, and don't breathe a word to anyone!
The Committee.
"It's a shabby trick," I said, "to invite her to another girl's party on her own birthday. You knew it was her birthday."
"What of it?"
"It's mean, but just like you. How did you get them to invite her? You aren't on the committee, are you?"
She stared, then laughed. "She's not invited to anything."
"Huh? You mean there's no party? But there is. "Oh, sure, there's a party for Bun Peterson. But that little snip won't be there. That's the joke."
It finally sank in. Gabrielle would go to the Snack Shoppe and wait, and wait, and wait, while the party she thought she had been invited to went on without her. "That strikes you as funny?" I said.
"That's just the beginning," this Lammers person answered. "About eight-thirty, when she is beginning to wonder 'Wha Hoppen?' a messenger will bring another note. It will be blank paper, just like those she sends to herself, then she'll know." She giggled and wet her lips. "The little fake will have her comeuppance."
I started after her and she ducked back of the counter. "You're not allowed back here!" she yelped.
I stopped. "You'll have to come out some time. Then we'll find Gabrielle and you will tell her the truth, all of it!"
"Tell her yourself!" she snapped. Two boys drifted in and the Registrar came out of the inner office and Georgia became briskly official. I left.
Cliff was waiting at "H-To-L"; I was never so glad to see him.
"Well," Cliff said a bit later, "phone her. Tell her she's been had and not to go to the Snack Shoppe."
"But, Cliff, I can't! That would be almost as cruel as the way Georgia planned it. Look, can't you get somebody to take her to Bun's party?" Cliff wrinkled his forehead. "I don't see how."
"Cliff, you've got to!"
"Puddin', today is Gabnelte's birthday, too. Right?"
"Yes, yes, that's what makes it so mean." "You don't want to send her to Bun's party. What we do is give her a surprise party of her own. Simple."
I stared with open-mouthed adoration. "Cliff, you're a genius."
"No," he, said modestly, "just highly intelligent and with a heart of gold. Let's get busy, chica."
First I phoned Mother. She said, "Tonight, Maureen? I like to entertain your friends but" I cut in with a quick up-to-date. Presently she said, "I'll check the deep freeze. Sommers Market may still be open. How about turkey legs and creamed mushrooms on toast?"
"And ice cream," I added. "Birthday parties need ice cream."
"But the cake? I'm short on time."
"Uh, we'll get the cake."
As I hung up Cliff came out of the other booth. "I got the Downbeat Campus Combo," he announced.
"Oh, Cliff, an orchestra!"
"If you can call those refugees from a juke box that."
"But how will we pay for it?"
"Don't ask, it was a promotion. They bid on Bun's party and got left, So they listened to reason. But I'm not doing well on guests, baby."
"You called your house?"
"Yes. A lot of the boys have other plans."
"You call again and tell those free loaders that they will never eat another Dagwood in my house if they are not there, on time, and each with a present. No excuses. This is total war."
"Aye aye, sir!"
We went to Helen Hunt's Tasty Pastry Shoppe. Mr.
Helen Hunt was just closing but he let us in. No birthday cake. Not a baker in the place until four the next morning, sorry. I spotted a three-tier wedding cake. "Is that a prop?"
"Frankly, that's a disappointment. My wife and I each entered the same order."
“You're stuck with it?”
"Oh, we may get a wedding cake order unexpectedly."
"Eight dollars," I said.
He looked at the cake. "Ten dollars", then added, "Cash."
I looked at Cliff. He looked at me. I opened my purse and he got out his wallet. We had six fifty-seven. Mr. Helen Hunt stared at the ceiling. Cliff sighed and unpinned his fraternity pin from my blouse, handed it over, and Mr Helen Hunt dropped it into the cash register.
He took the little bride-and-groom off the cake, set candles around each tier, then fetched an icing gun. "What name?"
"Gabrielle," I replied. "No, make it 'Gabby', G, A, double-B, Y."
I called Madame O'Toole from there. Madame bends hair for half the girls on the campus. She lives back of her beauty salon and agreed to be panting and ready at seven-fifteen. Fast driving let Cliff drop me at six-ten. Junior was stringing Christmas tree lights across the front porch and Daddy was moving furniture. Mother was swooshing like a restless tornado, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. I kissed Daddy but Mother wouldn't hold still.
I made three calls while the tub was filling, then dunked, put my face on, and inserted myself into my almost-strapless formal. Cliff honked at five minutes to seven; he looked swell in a tuxedo a little too small and the darling had two gardenia corsages, one for me and one for Gabrielle. We roared away toward the Snack Shoppe, hitting on all three.
We got there at seven-fifteen. I looked in and saw
Gabrielle at a rear table, looking forlorn and nursing a half-empty coke. She was in a long dress which was not too bad but she, had tried to hse makeup and did not know how. Her lipstick was smeared, crooked, and the wrong color, and she had done awful things with rouge and powder. Underneath she was scared green.
I walked in. "Hello, Gabby."
She tried to smile. "Oh, hello, Maureen."
"Ready to go? We're from the committee."
"Uh. I don't know. I don't feel well. I'd better go home."
"Nonsense! Come on. We'll be late." We got on each side and hustled her out to Cliff's open-air special.
"Where is the party?" Gabrielle asked nervously.
"Don't be nosy. It's a surprise." Which it was.
Cliff pulled up at Madame O'Toole's before she could ask more questions. Gabrielle looked puzzled but her will to resist was gone. Inside I said to Madame O'Toole, "You have seventeen minutes."
Madame looked her over like a pile of wet clay. "Two hours is what I need."
"Twenty minutes," I conceded. "Can you do it?" Over the phone I had told her that she had to create Cleopatra herself, starting from zip.
She pursed her lips and looked the kid over again. "We'll see. Come along, child."
Gabrielle looked dazed. "But Maureen."
"Hush," I said firmly. "Do exactly what Madame tells you."
Madame led her away. While we waited Cliff called the Deke house and the senior dorm and stirred out five more men and two couples. It was thirty minutes before they reappeared, and I nearly fainted.
Madame was wasted here. She belonged at the court of Louis Quinze.
And so did Gabrielle.
At first I thought she was wearing no makeup. Then I, saw that it had been put on so skillfully that you thought it had grown there. Her eyes were eight times as big as they had been and looked like pools of secret sorrow, if you know, a woman who has lived her hair was still brushed straight back but Madame had done it over. What had been a bun was now a chignon, "bun" wasn't the word. Her cheekbones were higher, too. And Madame had done. Something to the dress.
It clung more and seemed more low-cut. Riding high on her shoulder was the corsage and her skin blended into the petals.
Instead of the beads she had been wearing there was a single strand of pearls, resting where pearls love to rest. They must have been Madame's very own. They looked real.
Cliff gasped so I poked him to remind him not to touch. Gabrielle smiled timidly. "Do I look all right?"
I said, "Sister, Conover would shoot Powers for your contract. Madame, you're wonderful! Let's go; kids. We're late."
You can't talk when Cliff is driving, which was good. We got there at twenty past eight; our block was jammed and our house stood out in colored lights. Junior was on guard; he ducked inside. Cliff took our coats I gave Gabrielle a shove and said, "Go on in."
As she appeared in the living room the Downbeat boys bit it and they all sang:
"Happy birthday, dear Gabby!
"Happy birthday to you!"
And then I was almost sorry, for the poor baby covered her face and sobbed.
And so did I. Everybody began laughing and talking and shouting and the Downbeat Combo went into dance music, not good but solid, and I knew the party would do. Mother and I smuggled Gabby upstairs and I fixed my face and Mother shook Gabby and told her to stop crying. Gabby stopped and Mother did a perfect job fixing what damage had been done. I didn't know Mother owned mascara but I am always finding Out new things about Mother.
So we went back down. Cliff showed up with a strange man and said, "Mademoiselle Lamont, permettez-moi de vous presenter M'sieur Jean Allard," which was more French than I knew he had.
Jean Allard was an exchange student that one of the boys had brought along. He was slender and dark and he fastened himself to Gabby, his English was spotty and here was a woman that spoke his language… that and Madame O'Toole's handiwork. Be had competition; most of the stags seemed to want to get close to the new-model Gabby.
I sighed with relief and slipped out to the kitchen, being suddenly aware that I had missed dinner, a disaster for one of my metabolism. Daddy was there in an apron; he gave me a turkey leg. I ate that and a few other things that wouldn't fit on the plates.
Then I went back and danced with Cliff and some of the stags that had gotten crowded out around Gabby. When the orchestra took ten it turned Out that Johnny Allard could play piano, and he and Gabby sang French songs, the kind that sound naughty, what with the eye-rolling, but probably aren't. Then we all sang Alouette which is more my speed.
Gabby was gaining a reputation as a woman of the world. I heard one ex-Boy Scout say, "You've really seen the Folies Bergere?"
Gabby looked puzzled and said, "Why not?"
He said, "Gee!" while his eyebrows crowded his scalp.
Finally we brought out the cake and everybody sang "Happy Birthday" again and Mother had to repair Gabby's face a second time. But by now Gabby could have washed her face and it wouldn't have mattered.
Professor Lamont arrived while we were killing the ice cream and cake. Daddy's doing. He and Jean Allard talked French, then I heard Jean ask him, in schoolbook
English, for permission to call on his daughter. Doctor Lamont agreed in the same stilted fashion.
I blinked. Cliff never asked Daddy; he just started eating at our house, off and on.
Around midnight Doctor Lamont took his daughter home, loaded with swag. At the last minute I remembered to run upstairs and wrap up a new pair of nylons that would never fit.
Gabby but she could exchange them. So Gabby cried again and clung to me and got incoherent in two languages and I cried some, too. Finally everybody left and Cliff and Daddy and I tidied up the place, sort of. When I hit the bed, I died.
Cliff showed up next morning. We gloated over the party, at least I did. Presently he said, "What about Georgia?"
I said, "Huh?"
He said, "You can't leave it at this. It ought to be poisoned needles, or boiling lava, but the police are narrow-minded."
"Any ideas?"
He pulled out the bill for the cake. "I'd like to see her pay this."
"So would I! But how in the world?"
Cliff explained, then we composed the letter together, like this:
Dear Georgia,
Yesterday was Gabrielle Lamont's birthday, and we gave her the finest party this school has ever seen. Too bad you were hanging around the Snack Shoppe while the fun was going on. But we know you would like to give her a present anyway, you can still pay for the cake.
Put on your best bib and tucker and trot around to Helen Hunt's. It was a surprise party, so don't breathe a word to anyone! Nor shall we.
The Committee.
P S. On second thought it will be-more fun if you don't pay for the cake!
It wasn't anonymous; the bill had our names on it and we pinned it to the letter. I bet Cliff two hamburgers that she wouldn't knuckle under. I was wrong. Half an hour after it was delivered Helen Hunt phoned to say that Cliff could have his pin back, the mortgage was lifted.
Monday morning I was at the board earlier than either Cliff or Gabby. Gabby's poor little "note" was still pinned up, where she had put it Friday. I wondered what she would do; start pretending all over again?
I spotted her coming up the steps, walking alone and lonely, same as always, and again I wondered if it had done any good. Then somebody shouted, "Hey, Gabby! Wait a minute."
She stopped and two boys joined her.
I watched her and then Cliff growled at my back, "Why the sniffles? Got a cold?"
I said, "Oh, Cliffy Give me your hanky and don't ask silly questions."

Delilah and the Space-Rigger.
Audiobook Dedicated to Ryan Kinel.

SURE, WE HAD TROUBLE building Space Station One-but the trouble was people.
Not that building a station twenty-two thousand three hundred miles out in space is a breeze. It was an engineering feat bigger than the Panama Canal or the Pyramids-or even the Susquehanna Power Pile. But “Tiny” Larsen built her and a job Tiny tackles gets built.
I first saw Tiny playing guard on a semi-pro team, working his way through Oppenheimer Tech. He worked summers for me thereafter till he graduated. He stayed in construction and eventually I went to work for him.
Tiny wouldn’t touch a job unless he was satisfied with the engineering. The Station had jobs designed into it that called for six-armed monkeys instead of grown men in space suits. Tiny spotted such boners; not a ton of material went into the sky until the specs and drawings suited him.
But it was people that gave us the headaches. We bad a sprinkling of married men, but the rest were wild kids, attracted by high pay and adventure. Some were busted spacemen. Some were specialists, like electricians and instrument men. About half were deep-sea divers, used to working in pressure suits. There were sandhogs and riggers and welders and ship fitters and two circus acrobats.
We fired four of them for being drunk on the job; Tiny had to break one stiff’s arm before he would stay fired. What worried us was where did they get it? Turned out a ship fitter had rigged a heatless still, using the vacuum around us. He was making vodka from potatoes swiped from the commissary. I hated to let him go, but he was too smart.
Since we were falling free in a 24-hour circular orbit, with everything weightless and floating, you’d think that shooting craps was impossible. But a radioman named Peters figured a dodge to substitute steel dice and a magnetic field. He also eliminated the element of chance, so we fired him.
We planned to ship him back in the next supply ship, the R S Half Moon. I was in Tiny’s office when she blasted to match our orbit. Tiny swam to the view port “Send for Peters, Dad,” he said, “and give him the old heave ho. Who’s his relief?”
“Party named G Brooks McNye,” I told him.
A line came snaking over from the ship. Tiny said, “I don’t believe she’s matched.” He buzzed the radio shack for the ship’s motion relative to the Station. The answer didn’t please him and he told them to call the Half Moon.
Tiny waited until the screen showed the rocket ship.
C.O. “Good morning, Captain. Why have you placed a line on us?”
“For cargo, naturally. Get your hopheads over here. I want to blast off before we enter the shadow.” The Station spent about an hour and a quarter each day passing through Earth’s shadow; we worked two eleven-hour shifts and skipped the dark period, to avoid rigging lights and heating suits.
Tiny shook his head. “Not until you’ve matched course and speed with us.”
“I am matched!”
“Not to specification, by my instruments.”
“Have a heart, Tiny! I’m short on maneuvering fuel. If I juggle this entire ship to make a minor correction on a few lousy tons of cargo, I’ll be so late I’ll have to put down on a secondary field. I may even have to make a dead-stick landing.” In those days all ships had landing wings.
“Look, Captain,” Tiny said sharply, “the only purpose of your lift was to match orbits for those same few lousy tons. I don’t care if you land in Little America on a pogo stick. The first load here was placed with loving care in the proper orbit, and I’m making every other load match. Get that covered wagon into the groove.”
“Very well, Superintendent!” Captain Shields said stiffly. “Don’t be sore, Don,” Tiny said softly. “By the way, you’ve got a passenger for me?”
“Oh, yes, so I have!” Shields’ face broke out in a grin.
“Well, keep him aboard until we unload. Maybe we can beat the shadow yet.”
“Fine, fine! After all, why should I add to your troubles?” The skipper switched off, leaving my boss looking puzzled.
We didn’t have time to wonder at his words. Shields whipped his ship around on gyros, blasted a second or two, and put her dead in space with us pronto-and used very little fuel, despite his bellyaching. I grabbed every man we could spare and managed to get the cargo clear before we swung into Earth’s shadow. Weightlessness is an unbelievable advantage in handling freight; we gutted the Half Moon-by hand, mind you-in fifty-four minutes.
The stuff was oxygen tanks, loaded, and aluminum mirrors to shield them, panels of outer skin-sandwich stuff of titanium alloy sheet with foamed glass filling-and cases of jato units to spin the living quarters. Once it was all out and snapped to our cargo line I sent the men back by the same line-I won’t let a man work outside without a line no matter how space happy he figures he is. Then I told Shields to send over the passenger and cast off.
This little guy came out the ship’s air lock, and hooked on to the ship’s line. Handling himself like he was used to space, he set his feet and dived, straight along the stretched line, his snap hook running free. I hurried back and motioned him to follow me. Tiny, the new man, and I reached the air locks together.
Besides the usual cargo lock we had three Kwikloks. A Kwiklok is an Iron Maiden without spikes; it fits a man in a suit, leaving just a few pints of air to scavenge, and cycles automatically.
A big time saver in changing shifts. I passed through the middle-sized one; Tiny, of course, used the big one. Without hesitation the new man pulled himself into the small one.
We went into Tiny’s office. Tiny strapped down, and pushed his helmet back. “Well, McNye,” he said. “Glad to have you with us.”
The new radio tech opened his helmet. I heard a low, pleasant voice answer, “Thank you.”
I stared and didn’t say anything. From where I was I could see that the radio tech was wearing a hair ribbon.
I thought Tiny would explode. He didn’t need to see the hair ribbon; with the helmet up it was clear that the new “man” was as female as Venus deMilo. Tiny sputtered, then he was unstrapped and diving for the view port. “Dad!” he yelled. “Get the radio shack. Stop that ship!”
But the Half Moon was already a ball of fire in the distance. Tiny looked dazed. “Dad,” he said, “who else knows about this?”
“Nobody, so far as I know.”
He thought a bit. “We’ve got to keep her out of sight.
That’s it-we keep her locked up and out of sight until the next ship matches in.” He didn’t look at her.
“What in the world are you talking about?” McNye’s voice was higher and no longer pleasant.
Tiny glared. “You, that’s what. What are you-a stowaway?’
“Don’t be silly! I’m G B McNye, electronics engineer. Don’t you have my papers?”
Tiny turned to me. “Dad, this is your fault. How in Chr, pardon me, Miss. How did you let them send you a woman? Didn’t you even read the advance report on her?”
“Me?” I said. “Now see here, you big squarehead! Those forms don’t show sex; the Fair Employment Commission won’t allow it except where it’s pertinent to the job.”
“You’re telling me it’s not pertinent to the job here?”
“Not by job classification it ain’t. There’s lots of female radio and radar men, back Earthside.”
“This isn’t Earthside.” He had something. He was thinking of those two-legged wolves swarming over the job outside. And G B McNye was pretty. Maybe eight months of no women at all affected my judgment, but she would pass.
“I’ve even heard of female rocket pilots,” I added, for spite.
“I don’t care if you’ve heard of female archangels; I’ll have no women here!”
“Just a minute!” If I was riled, she was plain sore. “You’re the construction superintendent, are you not?”
“Yes,” Tiny admitted.
“Very well, then, how do you know what sex I am?’
“Are you trying to deny that you are a woman?”
“Hardly! I’m proud of it. But officially you don’t know what sex G. Brooks McNye is. That’s why I use ‘G’ instead of Gloria. I don’t ask favors.”
Tiny grunted. “You won’t get any. I don’t know how you sneaked in, but get this, McNye, or Gloria, or whatever. You’re fired. You go back on the next ship. Meanwhile we’ll try to keep the men from knowing we’ve got a woman aboard.”
I could see her count ten. “May I speak,” she said finally, “or does your Captain Bligh act extend to that, too?”
“Say your say.”
“I didn’t sneak in. I am on the permanent staff of the Station, Chief Communications Engineer. I took this vacancy myself to get to know the equipment while it was being installed. I’ll live here eventually; I see no reason not to start now.”
Tiny waved it away. “There’ll be men and women both here someday. Even kids. Right now it’s stag and it’ll stay that way.”
“We’ll see. Anyhow, you can’t fire me; radio personnel don’t work for you.” She had a point; communicators and some other specialists were lent to the contractors, Five Companies, Incorporated, by Harriman Enterprises.
Tiny snorted. “Maybe I can’t fire you; I can send you home. Requisitioned personnel must be satisfactory to the contractor, meaning me. Paragraph seven, clause M; I wrote that clause myself.”
“Then you know that if requisitioned personnel are refused without cause the contractor bears the replacement cost.”
“I’ll risk paying your fare home, but I won’t have you here.”
“You are most unreasonable!”
“Perhaps, but I’ll decide what’s good for the job. I’d rather have a dope peddler than have a woman sniffing around my boys!”
She gasped. Tiny knew he had said too much; he added, “Sorry, Miss. But that’s it. You’ll’ stay under cover until I can get rid of you.”
Before she could speak I cut in. “Tiny-look behind you!” Staring in the port was one of the riggers, his eyes bugged out. Three or four more floated up and joined him.
Then Tiny zoomed up to the port and they scattered like minnows. He scared them almost out of their suits; I thought he was going to shove his fists through the quartz.
He came back looking whipped. “Miss,” he said, pointing, “Wait in my room.” When she was gone he added, “Dad, what’ll we do?”
I said, “I thought you had made up your mind, Tiny.”
“I have,” he answered peevishly. “Ask the Chief Inspector to come in, will you?”
That showed how far gone he was. The inspection gang belonged to Harriman Enterprises, not to us, and Tiny rated them mere nuisances. Besides, Tiny was an Oppenheimer graduate; Dalrymple was from M I T.
He came in, brash and cheerful. “Good morning, Superintendent. Morning, Mister Witherspoon. What can I do for you?”
Glumly, Tiny told the story. Dalrymple looked smug. “She’s right, old man. You can send her back and even specify a male relief. But I can hardly endorse ‘for proper cause’ now, can I?”
“Damnation. Dalrymple, we can’t have a woman around here!”
“A moot point. Not covered by contract, y’know.”
“If your office hadn’t sent us a crooked gambler as her predecessor I wouldn’t be in this am!”
“There, there! Remember the old blood pressure. Suppose we leave the endorsement open and arbitrate the cost. That’s fair, eh?”
“I suppose so. Thanks.”
“Not at all. But consider this: when you rushed Peters off before interviewing the newcomer, you cut yourself down to one operator. Hammond can’t stand watch twenty-four hours a day.”
“He can sleep in the shack. The alarm will wake him.”
“I can’t accept that. The home office and ships’ frequencies must be guarded at all times. Harriman Enterprises has supplied a qualified operator; I am afraid you must use her for the time being.”
Tiny will always cooperate with the inevitable; he said quietly, “Dad, she’ll take first shift. Better put the married men on that shift.”
Then he called her in. “Go to the radio shack and start makee-learnee, so that Hammond can go off watch soon. Mind what he tells you. He’s a good man.”
“I know,” she said briskly. “I trained him.”
Tiny bit his lip. The C.I. said, “The Superintendent doesn’t bother with trivia-I’m Robert Dalrymple, Chief Inspector. He probably didn’t introduce his assistant either, Mister Witherspoon.”
“Call me Dad,” I said.
She smiled and said, “Howdy, Dad.” I felt warm clear through. She went on to Dalrymple, “Odd that we haven’t met before.”
Tiny butted in. “McNye, you’ll sleep in my room-“
She raised her eyebrows; he went on angrily, “Oh, I’ll get my stuff out-at once. And get this: keep the door locked, off shift.’
“You’re darn tootin’ I will!”
Tiny blushed.
I was too busy to see much of Miss Gloria. There was cargo to stow, the new tanks to install and shield. That left the most worrisome task of all: putting spin on the living quarters. Even the optimists didn’t expect much interplanetary traffic for some years; nevertheless Harriman Enterprises wanted to get some activities moved in and paying rent against their enormous investment.
I T and T had leased space for a microwave relay station several million a year from television alone. The Weather Bureau was itching to set up its hemispheric integrating station; Palomar Observatory had a concession (Harriman Enterprises donated that space); the Security Council had, some hush-hush project; Fermi Physical Labs and Kettering Institute each had space-a dozen tenants wanted to move in now, or sooner, even if we never completed accommodations for tourists and travelers.
There were time bonuses in it for Five Companies, Incorporated-and their help. So we were in a hurry to get spin on the quarters.
People who have never been out have trouble getting through their heads-at least I had-that there is no feeling of weight, no up and down, in a free orbit in space. There’s Earth, round and beautiful, only twenty-odd thousand miles away, close enough to brush your sleeve. You know it’s pulling you towards it. Yet you feel no weight, absolutely none. You float.
Floating is fine for some types of work, but when it’s time to eat, or play cards, or bathe, it’s good to feel weight on your feet. Your dinner stays quiet and you feel more natural.
You’ve seen pictures of the Station, a huge cylinder, like a bass drum, with ships’ nose pockets dimpling its sides. Imagine a snare drum, spinning around inside the bass drum; that’s the living quarters, with centrifugal force pinch-hitting for gravity. We could have spun the whole Station but you can’t berth a ship against a whirling dervish.
So we built a spinning part for creature comfort and an outer, stationary part for docking, tanks, storerooms, and the like. You pass from one to the other at the hub. When Miss Gloria joined us the inner part was closed in and pressurized, but the rest was a skeleton of girders.
Mighty pretty though, a great network of shiny struts and ties against black sky and stars-titanium alloy 1403, light, strong, and non-corrodible.
Heinlein:
https://rumble.com/v406mdz-index-of-robert-heinlein-audiobooks..html