The Rolling Stones. AKA Space Family Stone. ROBERT A. HEINLEIN 1952 A Puke (TM) Audiobook

The Rolling Stones. AKA Space Family Stone.
ROBERT A. HEINLEIN 1952
Reformatted for Machine Text, PukeOnAPlate 2023.
Contents
I, THE UNHEAVENLY TWINS
II, A CASE FOR DRAMATIC LICENSE
III, THE SECOND-HAND MARKET
IV, ASPECTS OF DOMESTIC ENGINEERING
V, BICYCLES AND BLAST-OFF
VI, BALLISIICS AND BUSTER
VII, IN THE GRAVITY WELL
VIII, THE MIGHTY BOOM
IX, ASSETS RECOVERABLE
X, PHOBOS PORT
XI, “WELCOME TO MARS!”
XII, FREE ENTERPRISE
XIII, CAVEAT VENDOR
XIV, FLAT CATS FACTORIAL
XV, “INTER JOVEM ET MARTEM PLANETAM INTERPOSUI”
XVI, ROCK CITY
XVII, FLAT CATS FINANCIAL
XVIII, THE WORM IN THE MUD
XIX, THE ENDLESS TRAIL

The Rolling Stones.
ROBERT HEINLEIN 1952.

One.
THE UNHEAVENLY TWINS.
The two brothers stood looking the old wreck over. “Junk,” decided Castor.
“Not junk,” objected Pollux. “A jalopy, granted. A heap any way you look at it. A clunker possibly. But not junk.”
“You're an optimist, Junior.” Both boys were fifteen; Castor was twenty minutes older than his brother.
“I’m a believer, Grandpa, and you had better be, too. Let me point out that we don't have money enough for anything better. Scared to gun it?”
Castor stared up the side of the ship. “Not at all, because that thing will never again rise high enough to crash. We want a ship that will take us out to the Asteroids, right? This superannuated pogo stick wouldn't even take us to Earth.”
“It will when I get through hopping it up, with your thumb-fingered help. Let's look through it and see what it needs.”
Castor glanced at the sky. “It’s getting late.” He looked not at the Sun making long shadows on the lunar plain, but at Earth, reading the time from the sunset line now moving across the Pacific.
“Look, Grandpa, are we buying a ship or are we getting to supper on time?”
Castor shrugged. “As you say, Junior.” He lowered his antenna, then started swarming up the rope ladder left there for the accommodation of prospective customers. He used his hands only and despite his cumbersome vacuum suit his movements were easy and graceful. Pollux swarmed after him. Castor cheered up a bit when they reached the control room. The ship had not been stripped for salvage as completely as had many of the ships on the lot. True, the ballistic computer was missing but the rest of the astrogation instruments were in place and the controls to the power room seemed to be complete. The space-battered old hulk was not a wreck, but merely obsolete. A hasty look at the power room seemed to confirm this.
Ten minutes later Castor, still mindful of supper, herded Pollux down the ladder. When Castor reached the ground Pollux said, “Well?”
“Let me do the talking.”
The sales office of the lot was a bubble dome nearly a mile away; they moved toward it with the easy, fast lope of old Moon hands. The office airlock was marked by a huge sign:
DEALER DAN THE SPACESHIP MAN CRAFT OF ALL TYPES. SCRAP METAL.
SPARE PARTS FUELING AND SERVICE (AEC License Number 739024)
They cycled through the lock and unclamped each other's helmets. The outer office was crossed by a railing; back of it sat a girl receptionist. She was watching a newscast while buffing her nails. She spoke without taking her eyes off the TV tank:
“We're not buying anything, boys, nor hiring anybody.”
Castor said, “You sell spaceships?”
She looked up. “Not often enough.”
“Then tell your boss we want to see him.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Whom do you think you are kidding, sonny boy? Mister Ekizian is a busy man.”
Pollux said to Castor, “Let's go over to the Hungarian, Cas. These people don't mean business.”
“Maybe you're right.”
The girl looked from one to the other, shrugged, and flipped a switch. “Mister Ekizan, there are a couple of Boy Scouts out here who say they want to buy a spaceship. Do you want to bother with them?”
A deep voice responded, “And why not? We got ships to sell.” Shortly a bald-headed, portly man, dressed in a cigar and a wrinkled moonsuit came out of the inner office and rested his hands on the rail. He looked them over shrewdly but his voice was jovial. “You wanted to see me?”
“You're the owner?” asked Castor.
“Dealer Dan Ekizian, the man himself. What's on your mind, boys? Time is money.”
“Your secretary told you,” Castor said ungraciously. “Spaceships.”
Dealer Dan took his cigar out of his mouth and examined it. “Really? What would you boys want with a spaceship?”
Pollux muttered something; Castor said, “Do you usually do business out here?” He glanced at the girl.
Ekizan followed his glance. “My mistake. Come inside.” He opened the gate for them, led them into his office, and seated them. He ceremoniously offered them cigars; the boys refused politely. “Now out with it kids. Let's not joke.”
Castor repeated, “Spaceships.”
He pursed his lips. “A luxury liner, maybe? I haven't got one on the field at the moment but I can always broker a deal.”
Pollux stood up. “He's making fun of us, Cas. Let's go see the Hungarian.”
“Wait a moment Pol. Mister Ekizian, you've got a heap out there on the south side of the field, a class Seven, model ninety three Detroiter. What's your scrap metal price on her and what does she mass?”
The dealer looked surprised. “That sweet little job? Why, I couldn't afford to let that go as scrap. And anyhow, even at scrap that would come to a lot of money. If it is metal you boys want, I got it. Just tell me how much and what sort.”
“We were talking about that Detroiter.”
“I don't believe I've met you boys before?”
“Sorry, sir. I'm Castor Stone. This is my brother Pollux.”
“Glad to meet you, Mister Stone. Stone, Stone? Any relation to, The "Unheavenly Twins", that's it.”
“Smile when you say that,” said Pollux.
“Shut up, Pol. We're the Stone twins.”
“The frost proof rebreather valve, you invented it, didn't you?”
“That's right.”
“Say, I got one in my own suit. A good gimmick, you boys are quite the mechanics.” He looked them over again. “Maybe you were really serious about a ship.”
“Of course we were.”
“Hum, you're not looking for scrap; you want something to get around it. I've got just the job for you, a General Motors Jumpbug, practically new. It's been out on one grubstake job to a couple of thorium prospectors and I had to reclaim it. The hold ain't even radioactive.”
“Not interested.”
“Better look at it. Automatic landing and three hops takes you right around the equator. Just the thing for a couple of lively, active boys.”
“About that Detroiter, what's your scrap price?”
Ekizian looked hurt. “That's a deep space vessel, son, It's no use to you, as a ship. And I can't let it go for scrap; that's a clean job. It was a family yacht, never been pushed over six g, never had an emergency landing. It's got hundreds of millions of miles still in it. I couldn't let you scrap that ship, even if you were to pay me the factory price. It would be a shame. I love ships. Now take this Jumpbug.”
“You can't sell that Detroiter as anything but scrap,” Castor answered. “It's been sitting there two years that I know of. If you had hoped to sell her as a ship you wouldn't have salvaged the computer. She's pitted, her tubes are no good, and an overhaul would cost more than she's worth. Now what's her scrap price?”
Dealer Dan rocked back and forth in his chair; he seemed to be suffering. “Scrap that ship? Just fuel her up and she's ready to go, Venus, Mars, even the Jovian satellites.”
“What's your cash price?”
“Cash?”
“Cash.”
Ekizian hesitated, then mentioned a price. Castor stood up and said, “You were right, Pollux. Let's go see the Hungarian.”
The dealer looked pained. “If I were to write it off for my own use, I couldn't cut that price, not in fairness to my partners.”
“Come on, Pol.”
“Look, boys, I can't let you go over to the Hungarian's. He'll cheat you.”
Pollux looked savage. “Maybe he'll do it politely.”
“Shut up, Poll!” Castor went on, “Sorry, Mister Ekizian, my brother isn't housebroken. But we can't do business.” He stood up.
“Wait a minute. That's a good valve you boys thought up. I use it; I feel I owe you something.” He named another and lower sum.
“Sorry. We can't afford it.” He started to follow Pollux out.
”Wait!” Ekizian mentioned a third price. “Cash,” he added.
“Of course. And you pay the sales tax?”
“Well, for a cash deal, yes.”
“Good.”
“Sit down, gentlemen. I'll call in my girl and we'll state the papers.”
“No hurry,” answered Castor. “We've still got to see what the Hungarian has on his lot, and the government salvage lot, too.”
“Huh? That price doesn't stand unless you deal right now. Dealer Dan, they call me. I got no time to waste dickering twice.”
“Nor have we. See you tomorrow. If it hasn't sold we can take up where we left off.”
“If you expect me to hold that price, I'll have to have a nominal option payment.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn't expect you to pass up a sale for us. If you can sell it by tomorrow, we wouldn't think of standing in your way. Come on, Pol.”
Ekizian shrugged. “Been nice meeting you, boys.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As they closed the lock behind them and waited for it to cycle, Pollux said “You should have paid him an option.”
His brother looked at him. “You're retarded, Junior.”
On leaving Dealer Dan's office the boys headed for the spaceport, intending to catch the passenger tube back to the city, fifty miles west of the port. They had less than thirty minutes if they were to get home for supper on time, unimportant in itself but Castor disliked starting a family debate on the defensive over a side issue. He kept hurrying Pollux along.
Their route took them through the grounds of General Synthetics Corporation, square miles of giant cracking plants, sun screens, condensers, fractionating columns, all sorts of huge machinery to take advantage of the burning heat, the bitter cold, and the endless vacuum for industrial chemical engineering purposes, a Dantesque jungle of unlikely shapes. The boys paid no attention to it; they were used to it. They hurried down the company road in the flying leaps the Moon's low gravity permitted, making twenty miles an hour. Half way to the port they were overtaken by a company tractor; Pollux flagged it down.
As he ground to a stop, the driver spoke to them via his cab radio: “What do you want?”
“Are you meeting the Terra shuttle?”
“Subject to the whims of fate, yes.”
“It's Jefferson,” said Pollux. “Hey, Jeff, it's Cas and Pol. Drop us at the tube station, will you?”
“Climb on the rack. Mind the volcano, come up the usual way.” As they did so he went on, “What brings you two carrot-topped accident-prones to this far reach of culture?”
Castor hesitated and glanced at Pollux. They had known Jefferson James for some time, having bowled against him in the city league. He was an old Moon hand but not a native, having come to Luna before they were born to gather color for a novel. The novel was still unfinished.
Pollux nodded. Castor said, “Jeff, can you keep a secret?”
“Certainly, but permit me to point out that these radios are not directional. See your attorney before admitting any criminal act or intention.”
Castor looked around; aside from two tractor trucks in the distance no one seemed to be in line-of-sight. “We're going into business.”
“When were you out of it?”
“This is a new line, interplanetary trade. We're going to buy our own ship and run it ourselves.”
The driver whistled. “Remind me to sell Four-Planet Export short. When does this blitz take place?”
“We're shopping for a ship now. Know of a good buy?”
“I'll alert my spies.” He shut up, being busy thereafter with the heavier traffic near the spaceport. Presently he said, “Here's your stop.” As the boys climbed down from the rack of the truck he added, “If you need a crewman, keep me in mind.”
“Okay, Jeff. And thanks for the lift.”
Despite the lift they were late. A squad of marine M.P.s heading into the city on duty pre-empted the first tube car; by the time the next arrived the ship from Earth had grounded and its passengers took priority. Thereafter they got tangled with the changing shift from the synthetics plant. It was well past suppertime when they arrived at their family's apartment a half mile down inside Luna city Mister Stone looked up as they came in. “Well! the star boarders,” he announced. He was sitting with a small recorder in his lap, a throat mike clipped to his neck.
“Dad, it was unavoidable,” Castor began. “We.”
“It always is,” his father cut in. “Never mind the details. Your dinner is in the cozy. I wanted to send it back but your mother went soft and didn't let me.”
Doctor Stone looked up from the far end of the living room, where she was modelling a head of their older sister, Meade. “Correction,” she said.
“Your father went soft; I would have let you starve. Meade, quit turning your head.”
“Check,” announced their four-year old brother and got up from the floor where he had been playing chess with their grand mother. He ran towards them. “Hey, Cas, Pol, where you been? Did you go to the port? Why didn't you take me? Did you bring me anything?”
Castor swung him up by his heels and held him upside down. “Yes. No, maybe. And why should we? Here, Pol, catch.” He sailed the child through the air; his twin reached out and caught him, still by the heels.
“Check yourself,” announced Grandmother, “and mate in three moves. Shouldn't let your social life distract you from your game, Lowell.”
The youngster looked back at the board from his upside down position. “Wrong, Hazel. Now I let you take my queen, then, Blammie!”
His grandmother looked again at the board. “Huh? Wait a minute, suppose I refuse your queen, then. Why, the little scamp! He's trapped me again.”
Meade said, “Shouldn't let him beat you so often, Hazel. It's not good for him.”
“Meade, for the ninth time, quit turning your head!”
“Sorry, Mother. Let's take a rest.”
Grandmother snorted. “You don't think I let him beat me on purpose, do you? You play him; I am giving up the game for good.”
Meade answered just as her mother spoke; at the same time Pollux chucked the boy back at Castor. “You take him. I want to eat.”
The child squealed. Mister Stone shouted, “QUIET!”
“And stay quiet,” he went on, while unfastening the throat mike. “How is a man to make a living in all this racket? This episode has to be done over completely, sent to New York tomorrow, shot, canned, distributed, and on the channels by the end of the week. It's not possible.”
“Then don't do it,” Doctor Stone answered serenely. “Or work in your room, it's soundproof.”
Mister Stone turned to his wife. “My dear, I've explained a thousand times that I can't work in there by myself. I get no stimulation. I fall asleep.”
Castor said, “How's it going, Dad? Rough?”
“Well, now that you ask me, the villains are way ahead and I don't see a chance for our heroes.”
“I thought of a gimmick while Pol and I were out. You have this young kid you introduced into the story slide into the control room while everybody is asleep. They don't suspect him, see?, he's too young so they haven't put him in irons. Once in the control room. “Castor stopped and looked crestfallen. “No, it won't do; he's too young to handle the ship. He wouldn't know how.”
“Why do you say that?” his father objected. “All I have to do is to plant that he has had a chance to, let me see.“ He stopped; his face went blank. “No,” he said presently.
“No good, huh?”
“Eh? What? It smells, but I think I can use it. Stevenson did something like it in Treasure Island, and I think he got it from Homer. Let's see; if we.“ He again went into his trance.
Pollux had opened the warming cupboard Castor dropped his baby brother on the floor and accepted a dinner pack from his twin. He opened it.
“Meat pie again,” he stated bleakly and sniffed it. “Synthetic, too.”
“Say that over again and louder,” his sister urged him. “I've been trying for weeks to get Mother to subscribe to another restaurant.”
“Don't talk, Meade,” Doctor Stone answered. “I'm modelling your mouth.”
Grandmother Stone snorted. “You youngsters have it too easy. When I came to the Moon there was a time when we had nothing but soya beans and coffee powder for three months.”
Meade answered, “Hazel, the last time you told us about that it was two months and it was tea instead of coffee.”
“Young lady, who's telling this lie? You, or me?” Hazel stood up and came over to her twin grandsons. “What were you two doing on Dan Ekizian's lot?”
Castor looked at Pollux, who looked back. Castor said cautiously, “Who told you that we were there?”
“Don't try to kid your grandmother. When you have been on.”
The entire family joined her in chorus: “On the Moon as long as I have!”
Hazel sniffed. “Sometimes I wonder why I married!”
Her son said, “Don't try to answer that question,” then continued to his sons, “Well, what were you doing there?”
Castor consulted Pollux by eye, then answered, “Well, Dad, it's like this.”
His father nodded. “Your best flights of imagination always start that way. Attend carefully, everybody.”
“Well, you know that money you are holding for us?”
“What about it?”
“Three per cent isn't very much.”
Mister Stone shook his head vigorously. “I will not invest your royalties in some wildcat stock. Financial genius may have skipped my generation but when I turn that money over to you, it will be intact.”
“That's just it. It worries you. You could turn it over to us now and quit worrying about it.”
“No, you are too young.”
“We weren't too young to earn it.”
His mother snickered. “They got you, Roger. Come here and I'll see if I can staunch the blood.”
Doctor Stone said serenely, “Don't heckle Roger when he is coping with the twins, Mother. Meade, turn a little to the left.”
Mister Stone answered, “You've got a point there, Cas. But you may still be too young to hang on to it. What is this leading up to?”
Castor signalled with his eyes; Pollux took over. “Dad, we've got a really swell chance to take that money and put it to work. Not a wildcat stock, not a stock at all. We'll have every penny right where we can see it, right where we could cash in on it at any time. And in the meantime we'll be making lots more money.”
“Hum, how?”
“We buy a ship and put it to work.”
His father opened his mouth; Castor cut in swiftly, “We can pick up a Detroiter Seven cheap and overhaul it ourselves; we won't be out a cent for wages.”
Pollux filled in without a break. “You've said yourself, Dad, that we are both born mechanics; we've got the hands for it.”
Castor went on. “We'd treat it like a baby because it would be our own.”
Pollux: “We've both got both certificates, control and power. We wouldn't need any crew.”
Castor: “No overhead, that's the beauty of it.”
Pollux: “So we carry trade goods out to the Asteroids and we bring back a load of high-grade. We can't lose.”
Castor: “Four hundred percent, maybe five hundred.”
Pollux: “More like six hundred.”
Castor: “And no worries for you.”
Pollux: “And we'd be out of your hair.”
Castor: “Not late for dinner.”
Pollux had his mouth open when his father again yelled, “QUIET!” He went on, “Edith, bring the barrel. This time we use it.” Mister Stone had a theory, often expressed, that boys should be raised in a barrel and fed through the bunghole. The barrel had no physical existence.
Doctor Stone said, “Yes, dear,” and went on modelling.
Grandmother Stone said, “Don't waste your money on a Detroiter. They're unstable; the gyro system is no good. Wouldn't have one as a gift. Get a Douglas.”
Mister Stone turned to his mother. “Hazel, if you are going to encourage the boys in this nonsense.”
“Not at all! Not at all! Merely intellectual discussion. Now with a Douglas they could make some money. A Douglas has a very favorable.”
“Hazel!”
His mother broke off, then said thoughtfully, as if to herself, “I know there is free speech on the Moon: I wrote it into the charter myself.”
Roger Stone turned back to his sons. “See here, boys, when the Chamber of Commerce decided to include pilot training in their Youth-Welfare program I was all for it. I even favored it when they decided to issue junior licenses to anybody who graduated high in the course. When you two got your jets I was proud as could be. It's a young man's game; they license commercial pilots at eighteen and.”
“And they retire them at thirty,” added Castor. “We haven't any time to waste. We'll be too old for the game before you know it.”
“Pipe down. I'll do the talking for a bit. If you think I'm going to draw that money out of the bank and let you two young yahoos go gallivanting around the system in a pile of sky junk that will probably blow the first time you go over two g's, you had better try another think. Besides, you're going down to Earth for school next September.”
“We've been to Earth,” answered Castor.
“We didn't like it,” added Pollux.
“Too dirty.”
“Likewise too noisy.”
“Groundhogs everywhere,” Castor finished.
Mister Stone brushed it aside. “Two weeks you were there, not time enough to find out what the place is like. You'll love it, once you get used to it.
Learn to ride horseback, play baseball, see the Ocean”
“A lot of impure water,” Castor answered.
“Horses are to eat.”
“Take baseball,” Castor continued. “It's not practical. How can you figure a one-g trajectory and place your hand at the point of contact in the free flight time between bases? We're not miracle men.”
“I played it.”
“But you grew up in a one-g field; you've got a distorted notion of physics. Anyhow, why would we want to learn to play baseball? When we come back, we wouldn't be able to play it here. Why, you might crack your helmet”
Mister Stone shook his head. “Games aren't the point. Play base-ball or not, as suits you. But you should get an education.”
“What does Luna City Technical lack that we need? And if so, why? After all, Dad, you were on the Board of Education.”
“I was not; I was mayor.”
“Which made you a member ex-officio, Hazel told us.”
Mister Stone glanced at his mother; she was looking elsewhere. He went on, “Tech is a good school, of its sort, but we don't pretend to offer everything at Tech. After all, the Moon is still an outpost, a frontier.”
“But you said,” Pollux interrupted, “in your retiring speech as mayor, that Luna City was the Athens of the future and the hope of the new age.”
“Poetic license. Tech is still not Harvard. Don't you boys want to see the world's great works of art? Don't you want to study the world's great literature?”
“We've read lvanhoe,” said Castor.
“And we don't want to read The Mill on the Floss,” added Pollux.
“We prefer your stuff.”
“My stuff? My stuff isn't literature. It's more of an animated comic strip.”
“We like it,” Castor said firmly.
His father took a deep breath. “Thank you. Which reminds me that I still have a full episode to sweat out tonight, so I will cut this discussion short.
In the first place you can't touch the money without my thumbprint, from now on I am going to wear gloves. In the second place both of you are too young for an unlimited license.”
“You could get us a waiver for out-system. When we got back we'd probably be old enough for unlimited.”
“You're too young!”
Castor said, “Why, Dad, not half an hour ago you accepted a gimmick from me in which you were going to have an eleven-year-old kid driving a ship.”
“I'll raise his age!”
“It'll ruin your gimmick.”
“Confound it! That's just fiction, and poor fiction at that. It's hokum, dreamed up to sell merchandise.” He suddenly looked suspiciously at his son.
“Cas, you planted that gimmick on me. Just to give yourself an argument in favor of this hair-brained scheme, didn't you?”
Castor looked pious. “Why, Father, how could you think such a thing?”
“Don't Father me! I can tell a hawk from a Hanshaw.”
“Anybody can,” Grandmother Hazel commented. “The Hawk class is a purely commercial type while the Hanshaw runabout is a sport job. Come to think about it, boys, a Hanshaw might be better than a Douglas. I like its fractional controls and.”
“Hazel!” snapped her son. “Quit encouraging the boys. And quit showing off. You're not the only engineer in the family.”
“I'm the only good one,” she answered smugly.
“Oh, yes? Nobody ever complained about my work.”
“Then why did you quit?”
“You know why. Fiddle with finicky figures for months on end, and what have you got? A repair dock. Or a stamping mill. And who cares?”
“So you aren't an engineer. You're merely a man who knows engineering.”
“What about yourself? You didn't stick with it.”
“No,” she admitted, “but my reasons were different. I saw three big, hairy, male men promoted over my head and not one of them could do a partial integration without a pencil. Presently I figured out that the Atomic Energy Commission had a bias on the subject of women no matter what the civil service rules said. So I took a job dealing blackjack. Luna City didn't offer much choice in those days, and I had you to support.”
The argument seemed about to die out; Castor judged it was time to mix it up again. “Hazel, do you really think we should get a Hanshaw? I'm not sure we can afford it.”
“Well, now, you really need a third crewman for a.”
“Do you want to buy in?”
“Mister Stone interrupted. “Hazel, I will not stand by and let you encourage this. I'm putting my foot down.”
“You look silly standing there on one foot. Don't try to bring me up, Roger. At ninety-five my habits are fairly well set.”
“Ninety-five indeed! Last week you were eighty-five.”
“It's been a hard week. Back to our muttons, why don't you buy in with them? You could go along and keep them out of trouble.”
“What? Me?” Mister Stone took a deep breath.
“(A) a marine guard couldn't keep these two junior-model Napoleons out of trouble. I know; I’ve tried.
(B) I do not like a Hanshaw; they are fuel hogs.
(C) I have to turn out three episodes a week of The Scourge of the Spaceways, including one which must be taped tonight, if this family will ever quiet down!”
“Roger,” his mother answered. “Trouble in this family is like water for fish. And nobody asked you to buy a Hanshaw, As to your third point, give me a blank spool and I'll dictate the next three episodes tonight while I'm brushing my hair.” Hazel's hair was still thick and quite red. So far, no one had caught her dyeing it. “It's about time you broke that contract anyway; you've won your bet.”
Her son winced. Two years before he had let himself be trapped into a bet that he could write better stuff than was being channeled up from Earth, and had gotten himself caught in a quicksand of fat checks and options. “I can't afford to quit,” he said feebly.
“What good is money if you don't have time to spend it? Give me that spool and the box.”
“You can't write it.”
“Want to bet?”
Her son backed down; no one yet had won a bet with Hazel.
“That's beside the point I'm a family man; I've got Edith and Buster and Meade to think about, too.”
Meade turned her head again. “If you're thinking about me, Daddy, I'd like to go. Why, I've never been any place, except that one trip to Venus and twice to New York.”
“Hold still. Meade,” Doctor Stone said quietly. She went on to her husband, “You know, Roger, I was thinking just the other day how cramped this apartment is. And we haven't been any place, as Meade says, since we got back from Venus.”
Mister Stone stared. “You too? Edith, this apartment is bigger than any ship compartment; you know that.”
“Yes, but a ship seems bigger. In free fall one gets so much more use out of the room.”
“My dear, do I understand that you are supporting this junket?”
“Oh, not at all! I was speaking in general terms. But you do sleep better aboard ship. You never snore in free fall.”
“I do not snore!”
Doctor Stone did not answer. Hazel snickered. Pollux caught Castor's eye and Castor nodded; the two slipped quietly away to their own room. It was a lot of trouble to get mother involved in a family argument, but worth the effort; nothing important was ever decided until she joined in.
Meade tapped on their door a little later; Castor let her in and looked her over; she was dressed in the height of fashion for the American Old West. “Square dancing again, huh?”
“Eliminations tonight. Look here, Cas, even if Daddy breaks loose from the money you two might be stymied by being underage for an unlimited license, right?”
“We figure on a waiver.” They had also discussed blasting off without a waiver, but it did not seem the time to mention it.
“But you might not get it. Just bear in mind that I will be eighteen next week. Bye now!”
“Good night.”
When she had gone Pollux said, “That's silly. She hasn't even taken her limited license.”
“No, but she's had astrogation in school and we could coach her.”
“Cas, you're crazy. We can't drag her all around the system; girls are a nuisance.”
“You've got that wrong, Junior. You mean "sisters", girls are okay.”
Pollux considered this. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”
“I'm always right.”
“Oh, so? How about the time you tried to use liquid air to.”
“Let's not be petty!”
Grandmother Hazel stuck her head in next. “Just a quick battle report, boys. Your father is groggy but still fighting gamely.”
“Is he going to let us use the money?”
“Doesn't look like it, as now. Tell me, how much did Ekizian ask you for that Detroiter?”
Castor told her; she whistled. “The gonoph,” she said softly. “That unblushing groundhog, I'll have his license lifted.”
“Oh, we didn't agree to pay it.”
“Don't sign with him at all unless I'm at your elbow. I know where the body is buried.”
“Okay. Look, Hazel, you really think a Detroiter Seven is unstable?”
She wrinkled her brow. “Its gyros are too light for the ship's moment of inertia. I hate a ship that wobbles. If we could pick up a war-surplus triple duo gyro system, cheap, you would have something. I'll inquire around.”
It was much later when Mister Stone looked in. “Still awake, boys?”
“Oh, sure, come in.”
“About that matter we were discussing tonight.”
Pollux said, “Do we get the money?”
Castor dug him in the ribs but it was too late. Their father said, “I told you that was out. But I wanted to ask you: did you, when you were shopping around today, happen to ask, us, about any larger ships?”
Castor looked blank. “Why, no sir. We couldn't afford anything larger could we, Pol?”
“Gee, no! Why do you ask, Dad?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all! Uh, good night.”
He left. The twins turned to each other and solemnly shook hands.

One.
A CASE FOR DRAMATIC LICENSE.
At breakfast the next morning, “morning” by Greenwich time, of course; it was still late afternoon by local sun time and would be for a couple of days, the Stone family acted out the episode Hazel had dictated the night before of Mister Stone's marathon adventure serial. Grandma Hazel had stuck the spool of dictation into the autotyper as soon as she had gotten up; there was a typed copy for each of them. Even Buster had a small side to read and Hazel played several parts, crouching and jumping around and shifting her voice from rusty bass to soprano.
Everybody got into the act, everybody but Mister Stone; he listened with a dour try-to-make-me-laugh expression.
Hazel finished her grand cliff-hanging finale by knocking over her coffee. She plucked the cup out of the air and had a napkin under the brown flood before it could reach the floor under the urge of the Moon's leisurely field. “Well?” she said breathlessly to her son, while still panting from the Galactic Overlord's frantic attempts to escape a just fate. “How about it? Isn't that a dilly? Did we scare the dickens out of 'em or didn't we?”
Roger Stone did not answer; he merely held his nose. Hazel looked amazed. “You didn't like it? Why, Roger, I do believe you're jealous. To think I would raise a son with spirit so mean that he would be envious of his own mother!”
Buster spoke up. “I liked it. Let's do that part over where I shoot the space pirate.” He pointed a finger and made a buzzing noise. “Whee! Blood all over the bulkheads!”
“There's your answer, Roger. Your public. If Buster likes it, you're in.”
“I thought it was exciting,” Meade put in. “What was wrong with it, Daddy?”
“Yes,” agreed Hazel belligerently. “Go ahead. Tell us.”
“Very well. In the first place, spaceships do not make hundred-and eighty-degree turns.”
“This one does!”
“In the second place, what in blazes is this "Galactic Overlord" nonsense? When did he creep in?”
“Oh, that! Son, your show was dying on its feet, so I gave it a transfusion.”
“But "Galactic Overlords", now, really! It's not only preposterous: it's been used over and over again.”
“Is that bad? Next week I'm going to equip Hamlet with atomic propulsion and stir it in with The Comedy of Errors. I suppose you think Shakespeare will sue me?”
“He will if he can stop spinning.” Roger Stone shrugged 'I'll send it in. There's no time left to do another one and the contract doesn't say it has to be good: it just says I have to deliver it. They'll rewrite it in New York anyway.”
His mother answered, “Even money says your fan mail is up twenty-five per cent on this episode.”
“No, thank you. I don't want you wearing yourself out writing fan mail, not at your age.”
“What's wrong with my age? I used to paddle you twice a week and I can still do it. Come on; put up your dukes!”
“Too soon after breakfast.”
“Sissy! Pick your way of dying, Marquis of Queensbury, dockside, or kill-quick.”
“Send around your seconds; let's do this properly. In the meantime.” He turned to his sons. “Boys, have you any plans for today?”
Castor glanced at his brother, then said cautiously, “well, we were thinking of doing a little more shopping for ships.
“I'll go with you.”
Pollux looked up sharply. “You mean we get the money?” His brother glared at him. Their father answered, “No, your money stays in the bank where it belongs.”
“Then why bother to shop?” He got an elbow in the ribs for this remark.
“I'm interested in seeing what the market has to offer,” Mister Stone answered. “Coming, Edith?”
Doctor Stone answered, “I trust your judgement, my dear.”
Hazel gulped more coffee and stood lip. “I'm coming along.”
Buster bounced down out of his chair. “Me, too!”
Doctor Stone stopped him. “No, dear. Finish your oatmeal.”
“No! I'm going, too. Can't I, Grandma Hazel?”
Hazel considered it. Riding herd on the child outside the pressurised city was a full-time chore; he was not old enough to be trusted to handle his vacuum-suit controls properly. On this occasion she wanted to be free to give her full attention to other matters. “I'm afraid not, Lowell. Tell you what, sugar, I'll keep my phone open and we'll play chess while I'm away.”
“It's no fun to play chess by telephone. I can't tell what you are thinking.”
Hazel stared at him. “So that's it? I've suspected it for some time. Maybe I can win a game once. No, don't start whimpering, or I'll take your slide rule away from you for a week.” The child thought it over, shrugged, and his face became placid. Hazel turned to her son. “Do you suppose he really does hear thoughts?”
Her son looked at his least son. “I'm afraid to find out.” He sighed and added, “Why couldn't I have been born into a nice, normal, stupid family? Your fault, Hazel.”
“His mother patted his arm. “Don't fret, Roger. You pull down the average.”
“Humph! Give me that spool. I'd better shoot it off to New York before I lose my nerve.”
Hazel fetched it; Mister Stone took it to the apartment phone, punched in the code for RCA New York with the combination set for high speed transcription relay. As he slipped the spool into its socket he added, “I shouldn't do this. In addition to that "Galactic Overlord" nonsense, Hazel, you messed up the continuity by killing off four of my standard characters.”
Hazel kept her eye on the spool; it had started to revolve. “Don't worry about it. I've got it all worked out. You'll see.”
“Eh? What do you mean? Are you intending to write more episodes? I'm tempted to go limp and let you struggle with it, I'm sick of it and it would serve you right. Galactic Overlords indeed!”
His mother continued to watch the spinning spool in the telephone. At high speed relay the thirty-minute spool zipped through in thirty seconds.
Shortly it went spung! and popped up out of the socket; Hazel breathed relief. The episode was now either in New York, or was being held automatically in the Luna City telephone exchange, waiting for a break in the live Luna-to-Earth traffic. In either case it was out of reach, as impossible to recall as an angry word.
“Certainly I plan to do more episodes,” she told him. “Exactly seven, in fact.”
“Huh! Why seven?”
“Haven't you figured out why I am killing off characters? Seven episodes is the end of this quarter and a new option date. This time they won't pick up your option because every last one of the characters will be dead and the story will be over. I'm taking you off the hook, son.”
“What? Hazel, you can't do that! Adventure serials never end.”
“Does it say so in your contract?”
“No, but.”
“You've been grousing about how you wanted to get off this golden treadmill. You would never have the courage to do it yourself, so your loving mother has come to the rescue. You're a free man again, Roger.”
“But.” His face relaxed. “I suppose you're right. Though I would prefer to commit suicide, even literary suicide, in my own way and at my own time. Hum, see here, Hazel, when do you plan to kill off John Sterling?”
“Him? Why, Our Hero has to last until the final episode, naturally. He and the Galactic Overlord do each other in at the very end. Slow music.”
“Yes. Yes, surely, that's the way it would have to be. But you can't do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I insist on writing that scene myself. I've hated that mealy-mouthed Galahad ever since I thought him up. I'm not going to let anyone else have the fun of killing him; he's mine!”
His mother bowed. “Your honour, sir.”
Mister Stone's face brightened; he reached for his pouch and slung it over his shoulder. “And now let's look at some space-ships!”
“Geronimo!”
As the four left the apartment and stepped on the slide-way that would take them to the pressure lift to the surface Pollux said to his grandmother, “Hazel, what does "Geronimo" mean?”
“Ancient Druid phrase meaning "Let's get out of here even if we have to walk." So pick up your feet.”

Three.
THE SECOND-HAND MARKET.
They stopped at the Locker Rooms at East Lock and suited up. As usual, Hazel unbelted her gun and strapped it to her vacuum suit. None of the others was armed; aside from civic guards and military police no one went armed in Luna City at this late date except a few of the very old-timers like Hazel herself. Castor said, “Hazel, why do you bother with that?”
“To assert my right. Besides, I might meet a rattlesnake.”
“Rattlesnakes? On the Moon? Now, Hazel!”
“’Now, Hazel’” yourself. More rattlesnakes walking around on their hind legs than ever wriggled in the dust. Anyhow, do you remember the reason the White Knight gave Alice for keeping a mouse trap on his horse?”
“Uh, not exactly.”
“Look it up when we get home. You kids are ignorant Give me a hand with this helmet.”
The conversation stopped, as Buster was calling his grandmother and insisting that they start their game. Castor could read her lips through her helmet; when he had his own helmet in place and his suit radio switched on he could hear them arguing about which had the white men last game.
Hazel was preoccupied thereafter as Buster, with the chess board in front of him, was intentionally hurrying the moves, whereas Hazel was kept busy visualising the board.
They had to wait at the lock for a load of tourists, just arrived in the morning shuttle from Earth, to spill out. One of two women passengers stopped and stared at them. “Thelma,” she said to her companion, “that little man, he's wearing a gun.”
The other woman urged her along. “Don't take notice,” she said. “It's not polite.” She went on, changing the subject 'I wonder where we can buy souvenir turtles around here? I promised Herbert.”
Hazel turned and glared at them; Mister Stone took her arm and urged her into the now empty lock. She continued to fume as the lock cycled.
“Groundhogs! Souvenir turtles indeed!”
“Mind your blood pressure, Hazel,” her son advised.
“You mind yours.” She looked up at him and suddenly grinned. “I should ha' drilled her, podnuh, like this.” She made a fast draw to demonstrate, then, before returning the weapon to its holster, opened the charge chamber and removed a cough drop. This she inserted through the pass valve of her helmet and caught it on her tongue. Sucking it, she continued. “Just the same, son, that did it. Your mind may not be made up; mine is. Luna is getting to be like any other ant hill. I'm going out somewhere to find elbow room, about a quarter of a billion miles of it.”
“How about your pension?”
“Pension be hanged! I got along all right before I had it, Hazel, along with the other remaining Founding Fathers, and mothers, of the lunar colony, had been awarded a lifetime pension from a grateful city. This might be for a long period, despite her age, as the normal human life span under the biologically easy conditions of the Moon's low gravity had yet to be determined; the Luna city geriatrics clinic regularly revised the estimate upwards.
She continued, “How about you? Are you going to stay here, like a sardine in a can? Better grab your chance, son, before they run you for office again. Oueen to king's bishop three, Lowell.”
“We'll see. Pressure is down; let's get moving.”
Castor and Pollux carefully stayed out of the discussion; things were shaping up.
As well as Dealer Dan's lot, the government salvage yard and that of the Bankrupt Hungarian were, of course, close by the spaceport.
The Hungarian's lot sported an ancient sun-tarnished sign:
BARGAINS! BARGAINS! BARGAINS! GOING OUT OF BUSINESS.
But there were no bargains there, as Mister Stone decided in ten minutes and Hazel in five. The government salvage yard held mostly robot freighters without living quarters, one-trip ships, the interplanetary equivalent of discarded packing cases, and obsolete military craft unsuited for most private uses. They ended up at Ekizian's lot.
Pollux headed at once for the ship he and his brother had picked out. His father immediately called him back 'Hey,” Pol! What's your hurry?”
“Don't you want to see our ship?”
“Your ship? Are you still laboring under the fancy that I am going to let you two refugees from a correction school buy that Deiroiter?”
“Huh? Then what did we come out here for?”
“I want to look at some ships. But I am not interested in a Detroiter Seven.”
Pollux said, “Huh! See here, Dad, we aren't going to settle for a jumpbug. We need a, “The rest of his protest was cut off as Castor reached over and switched off his walkie-talkie; Castor picked it up:
“What sort of a ship, Dad? Pol and I have looked over most of these heaps, one time or another.”
“Well, nothing fancy. A conservative family job. Let's look at that Hanshaw up ahead.”
Hazel said, “I thought you said Hanshaws were fuel hogs, Roger?”
“True, but they are very comfortable. You can't have everything.”
“Why not?”
Pollux had switched his radio back on immediately. He put in, “Dad, we don't want a runabout. No cargo space.” Castor reached again for his belt switch; he shut up.
But Mister Stone answered him. “Forget about cargo space. You two boys would lose your shirts if you attempted to compete with the sharp traders running around the system. I'm looking for a ship that will let the family make an occasional pleasure trip; I'm not in the market for a commercial freighter.”
Pollux shut up; they all went to the Hanshaw Mister Stone had pointed out and swarmed up into her control room. Hazel used both hands and feet in climbing the rope ladder but was only a little behind her descendants. Once they were in the ship she went down the hatch into the power room; the others looked over the control roof and the living quarters, combined in one compartment. The upper or bow end was the control station with couches for pilot and co-pilot. The lower or after end had two more acceleration couches for passengers, all four couches were reversible, for the ship could be tumbled in flight, caused to spin end over end to give the ship artificial 'gravity' through centrifugal force, in which case the forward direction would be 'down', just the opposite of the 'down' of flight under power.
Pollux looked over these arrangements with distaste. The notion of cluttering up a ship with gadgetry to coddle the tender stomachs of groundhogs disgusted him. No wonder Hanshaws were fuel hogs! But his father thought differently. He was happily stretched out in the pilot's couch, fingering the controls. “This baby might do,” he announced, “if the price is right.”
Castor said, “I thought you wanted this for the family, “I do.”
“Be pretty cramped in here once you rigged extra couches. Edith won't like that.”
“You let me worry, about your mother. Anyhow, there are enough couches now.
“With only four? How do you figure?”
“Me, your mother, your grandmother, and Buster. If Meade is along we'll rig something for the baby. By which you may conclude that I am really serious about you two juvenile delinquents finishing your schooling. Now don't blow your safeties!, I have it in mind that you two can use this crate to run around in after you finish school. Or even during vacations, once you get your unlimited licenses. Fair enough?”
The twins gave him the worst sort of argument to answer; neither of them said anything. Their expressions said everything that was necessary.
Their father went on, “See here, I'm trying to be fair and I'm trying to. be generous. But how many boys your age do you know, or have even heard of, who have their own ship? None, right? You should get it through your heads that you are not supermen.”
Castor grabbed at it. “How do you know that we are not "supermen"?”
Pollux followed through with, “Conjecture, pure conjecture.” Before Mister Stone could think of an effective answer his mother poked her head up the power room hatch. Her expression seemed to say she had whiffed a very bad odor. Mister Stone said, “What's the trouble, Hazel? Power plant on the blink?”
“"On the blink", he says! Why, I wouldn't lift this clunker at two gravities.”
“What's the matter with it?”
“I never saw a more disgracefully abused, No, I won't tell you. Inspect it yourself; you don't trust my engineering ability.”
“Now see here, Hazel, I've never told you I don't trust your engineering.”
“No, but you don't. Don't try to sweet-talk me; I know. So check the power room yourself. Pretend I haven't seen it.”
Her son turned away and headed for the outer door, saying huffily, “I've never suggested that you did not know power plants. If you are talking about that Gantry design, that was ten years ago; by now you should have forgiven me for being right about it.”
To the surprise of the twins Hazel did not continue the argument but followed her son docilely into the air lock. Mister Stone started down the rope ladder; Castor pulled his grandmother aside, switched off both her radio and pushed his helmet into contact with hers so that he might speak with her in private. “Hazel, what was wrong with the power plant? Pol and I went through this ship last week, I didn't spot anything too bad.”
Hazel look at him pityingly. “You've been losing sleep lately? It's obvious, only four couches.”
“Oh.” Castor switched on his radio and silently followed his brother and father to the ground.
Etched on the stern of the next ship they visited was Cherub, Roma, Terra, and she actually was of the Carlotti Motors Angel series, though she resembled very little the giant Archangels, She was short, barely a hundred fifty feet high, and slender, and she was at least twenty years old. Mister Stone had been reluctant to inspect her. “She's too big for us,” he protested, “and I'm not looking for a cargo ship.”
“Too big how?” Hazel asked '"Too big" is a financial term, not a matter of size. And with her cargo hold empty, think how lively she'll be. I like a ship that jumps when I twist its tail, and so do you.”
“Hum, yes,” he admitted. “Well, I suppose it doesn't cost anything to look her over.”
“You're talking saner every day, son.” Hazel reached for the rope ladder.
The ship was old and old-fashioned and she had plied many a lonely million miles of space, but, thanks to the preservative qualities of the Moon's airless waste, she had not grown older since the last time her jets had blasted. She had simply slumbered timelessly, waiting for someone to come along and appreciate her sleeping beauty. Her air had been salvaged; there was no dust in her compartments. Many of her auxiliary fittings had been stripped and sold, but she herself was bright and clean and spaceworthy.
The light Hazel could see in her son's eyes she judged to be love at first sight. She hung back and signalled the twins to keep quiet. The open airlock had let them into the living quarters; a galley-saloon, two little staterooms, and a bunkroom. The control room was separate, above them, and was a combined conn and comm. Roger Stone immediately climbed into it.
Below the quarters was the cargo space and below that the power room. The little ship was a passenger-carrying freighter, conversely a passenger ship with cargo space; it was this dual nature which had landed her, an unwanted orphan, in Dealer Dan's second-hand lot. Too slow when carrying cargo to compete with the express liners, she could carry too few passengers to make money without a load of freight. Although of sound construction she did not fit into the fiercely competitive business world.
The twins elected to go on down into the power room. Hazel poked around the living quarters, nodded approvingly at the galley, finally climbed up into the control room. There she found her son stretched out in the pilot's couch and fingering the controls. Hazel promptly swung herself into the copilot's couch, settled down in the bare rack, the pneumatic pads were missing, and turned her head toward Roger Stone. She called out “All stations manned and ready, Captain!”
He looked at her and grinned. “Stand by to raise ship!”
She answered, “Board green! Clear from tower! Ready for count off!”
“Minus thirty! Twenty-nine, twenty-eight.” He broke off and added sheepishly, “It does feel good.”
“You're dern tootin' it does. Let's grab ourselves a chunk of it before we're too old. This city life is getting us covered with moss.”
Roger Stone swung his long legs out of the pilot's couch. “Um, maybe we should. Yes, we really should.”
Hazel's booted feet hit the deck plates by his. “That's my boy! I'll raise you up to man size yet. Let's go see what the twins have taken apart.”
The twins were still in the power room. Roger went down first; he said to Castor, “Well, son, how does it look? Will she raise high enough to crash?”
Castor wrinkled his forehead. “We haven't found anything wrong, exactly, but they've taken her boost units out. The pile is just a shell.”
Hazel said, “What do you expect? For 'em to leave "hot" stuff sitting in a decommissioned ship? In time the whole stern would be radioactive, even if somebody didn't steal it.
Her son answered, “Quit showing off, Hazel, Cas knows that. We'll check the log data and get a metallurgical report later, if we ever talk business.”
Hazel answered, “King's knight to queen bishop five. What's the matter, Roger? Cold feet?”
“No, I like this ship, but I don't know that I can pay for her. And even if she were a gift, it will cost a fortune to overhaul her and get her ready for space.”
“Pooh! I'll run the overhaul myself, with Cas and Pol to do the dirty work. Won't cost you anything but dockage. As for the price, we'll burn that bridge when we come to it.”
“I'll supervise the overhaul, myself.”
“Want to fight? Let's go down and find out just what inflated notions Dan Ekizian has this time. And remember, let me do the talking.”
“Now wait a minute, I never said I was going to buy this bucket.”
“Who said you were? But it doesn't cost anything to dicker. I can make Dan see reason.”
Dealer Dan Ekizian was glad to see them, doubly so when he found that they were interested, not in the Detroiter Seven, but in a larger, more expensive ship. At Hazel's insistence she and Ekizian went into his inner office alone to discuss prices. Mister Stone let her get away with it, knowing that his mother drove a merciless bargain. The twins and he waited outside for quite a while; presently Mister Ekizian called his office girl in.
She came out a few minutes later, to be followed shortly by Ekizian and Hazel. “It's all settled,” she announced, looking smug.
The dealer smiled grudgingly around his cigar. “Your mother is a very smart woman, Mister Mayor.”
“Take it easy!” Roger Stone protested. “You are both mixed up in your timing. I'm no longer mayor, thank heaven, and nothing is settled yet. What are the terms?”
Ekizian glanced at Hazel, who pursed her lips. “Well, now, son,” she said slowly, “it's like this. I'm too old a woman to fiddle around. I might die in bed, waiting for you to consider all sides of the question. So I bought it.”
“You?”
“For all practical purposes. It's a syndicate. Dan puts up the ship; I wangle the cargo, and the boys and I take the stuff out to the Asteroids for a fat profit. I've always wanted to be a skipper.”
Castor and Pollux had been lounging in the background, listening and watching faces. At Hazel's announcement Pollux started to speak; Castor caught his eye and shook his head. Mister Stone said explosively, “That's preposterous! I won't let you do it”
“I'm of age, son.”
“Mister Ekizian, you must be out of your mind.”
The dealer took his cigar and stared at the end of it. “Business is business.”
“Well, at least you won't get my boys mixed up in it. That's out!”
“Hum,” said Hazel. “Maybe. Maybe not. Let's ask them.”
“They're not of age.”
“No, not quite. But suppose they went into court and asked that I be appointed their guardian?”
Mister Stone listened to this quietly, then turned to his sons.
“Cas, Pol, did you frame this with your grandmother?”
Pollux answered, “No, sir.”
“Would you do what she suggests?”
Castor answered, “Now, Dad, you know we wouldn't like to do anything like that.”
“But would you do it, eh?”
“I didn't say so, sir.”
“Hum.“ Mister Stone turned back. “This is pure blackmail, and I won't stand for it. Mister Ekizian, you knew that I came in here to bid on that ship. You knew that my mother was to bargain for it as my agent. You both knew that, but you made a deal behind my back. Now either you set that so-called deal aside and we start over, or I haul both of you down to the Better Business Bureau.
Hazel was expressionless; Mister Ekizan examined his rings.
“There's something in what you say, Mister Stone. Suppose we go inside and talk it over?”
“I think we had better.”
Hazel followed them in and plucked at her son's sleeve before he had a chance to start any dung. “Roger? You really want to buy this ship?”
“I do.”
She pointed to papers spread on Ekizian's desk. “Then just sign right there and stamp your thumb.”
He picked up the papers instead. They contained no suggestion of the deal Hazel had outlined; instead they conveyed to him all right, title and interest in the vessel he had just inspected, and at a price much lower than he had been prepared to pay. He did some hasty mental arithmetic and concluded that Hazel had not only gotten the ship at scrapmetal prices but also must have bulldozed Ekizian into discounting the price by what it would have cost him to cut the ship up into pieces for salvage.
In dead silence he reached for Mister Ekizian's desk stylus, signed his name, then carefully affixed his thumb print. He looked up and caught his mother's eye. “Hazel, there is no honesty in you and you'll come to a bad end.”
She smiled. “Roger, you do say the sweetest things.”
Mister Ekizian sighed. “As I said, Mister Stone, your mother is a very smart woman. I offered her a partnership.”
“Then there was a deal?”
Oh, no, no, not that deal, I offered her a partnership in the lot.”
“But I didn't take it.” Hazel added. “I want elbow room.”
Roger Stone grinned and shrugged, stood up. “Well, anyway, who's skipper now?”
“You are, Captain.”
As they came out both twins said, “Dad, did you buy it?”
Hazel answered, “Don't call him "Dad", he prefers to be calledCaptai.”
“Oh.”
“Likewise "Oh",” Pol repeated.
Doctor Stone's only comment was, “Yes, dear, I gave them notice on the lease.” Meade was almost incoherent; Lowell was incoherent After dinner Hazel and the twins took Meade and the baby out to see their ship; Doctor Stone, who had shown no excitement even during the Great Meteor Shower, stayed home with her husband. He spent the time making lists of things that must be attended to, both in the city and on the ship itself, before they could leave. He finished by making a list that read as follows:
Myself, skipper Castor, first officer and pilot Meade, second officer and asst. cook Hazel, chief engineer Pollux, assistant engineer and relief pilot Edith, ship's surgeon and cook Buster, “supercargo.”
He stared at it for a while, then said softly to himself, “Something tells me this isn't going to work.”

Four.
ASPECTS OF DOMESTIC ENGINEERING.
Mister Stone did not show his ship's organisation bill to the rest of the family; he knew in his heart that the twins were coming along, but he was not ready to concede it publicly. The subject was not mentioned while they were overhauling the ship and getting it ready for space.
The twins did most of the work with Hazel supervising and their father, from time to time, arguing with her about her engineering decisions. When this happened the twins usually went ahead and did it in the way they thought it ought to be done. Neither of them had much confidence in the skill and knowledge of their elders; along with their great natural talent for mechanics and their general brilliance went a cocksure, half-baked conceit which led them to think that they knew a great deal more than they did.
This anarchistic and unstable condition came to a head over the overhaul of the intermediate injector sequence. Mister Stone had decreed, with Hazel concurring, that all parts which could be disassembled would so be, interior surfaces inspected, tolerances checked, and gaskets replaced with new ones. The intermediate sequence in this model was at comparatively low pressure; the gasketing was of silicone-silica laminate rather than wrung metal.
Spare gaskets were not available in Luna city, but had to be ordered up from Earth; this Mister Stone had done. But the old gaskets appeared to be in perfect condition, as Pollux pointed when they opened the sequence. “Hazel, why don't we put these back in? They look brand new.”
His grandmother took one of the gaskets, looked it over, flexed it, and handed it back. “Lots of life left in it; that's sure. Keep it for a spare.”
Castor said, “That wasn't what Pol said. The new gaskets have to be flown from Rome to Pikes Peak, then jumped here. Might be three days, or it might be a week. And we can't do another thing until we get this mess cleaned up.”
“You can work in the control room. Your father wants all new parts on everything that wears out.”
“Oh, bother! Dad goes too much by the book; you've said so yourself.”
Hazel looked up at her grandson, bulky in his pressure suit. “Listen, runt, your father is an A-one engineer. I'm privileged to criticise him; you aren't.”
Pollux cut in hastily, “Just a Sec, Hazel, let's keep personalities out of this. I want your unbiased professional opinion; are those gaskets fit to put back in, or aren't they? Cross your heart and shame the devil.”
“Well. I say they are fit to use. You can tell your father I said so. He ought to be here any minute now; I expect he will agree.” She straightened up. “I've got to go.”
Mister Stone failed to show up when expected. The twins fiddled around, doing a little preliminarv work on the preheater. Finally Pollux said, “What time is it?”
“Past four.”
“Dad won't show up this afternoon. Look, those gaskets are all right and, anyhow, two gets you five he'd never know the difference.”
“Well, he would okay them if he saw them.”
“Hand me that wrench.”
Hazel did show up again but by then they had the sequence put back together and had opened up the preheater. She did not ask about the injector sequence but got down on her belly with a flashlight and mirror and inspected the preheater's interior. Her frail body, although still agile as a cricket under the Moon's weak pull, was not up to heavy work with a wrench, but her eyes were sharper, and much more experienced, than those of the twins. Presently she wiggled out. “Looks good,” she announced. “We'll put it back together tomorrow. Let's go see what the cook ruined tonight.” She helped them disconnect their oxygen hoses from the ship's tank and reconnect to their back packs, then the three went down out of the ship and back to Luna City.
Dinner was monopolised by a hot argument over the next installment of The Scourge of the Spaceways. Hazel was still writing it but the entire family, with the exception of Doctor Stone, felt free to insist on their own notions of just what forms of mayhem, and violence the characters should indulge in next.
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