“Oh.” He looked at mine. It was neater and smaller than the one she haywired on Pluto. “Do we dare take it apart?”
“Well, it’s got a lot of power tucked in it. It might explode.”
“Yes, it might.” He handed it back, looking wistful.
A “happy thing” can’t be explained. They look like those little abstract sculptures you feel as well as look at. Mine was like obsidian but warm and not hard; Peewee’s was more like jade. The surprise comes when you touch one to your head. I had Professor Reisfeld do so and he looked awed—the Mother Thing is all around you and you feel warm and safe and understood.
He said, “She loves you. The message wasn’t for me. Excuse me.”
“Oh, she loves you, too.”
“Eh?”
“She loves everything small and young and fuzzy and helpless. That’s why she’s a ‘mother thing.’”
I didn’t realize how it sounded. But he didn’t mind. “You say she is a police officer?”
“Well, she’s more of a juvenile welfare officer—this is a slum neighborhood we’re in, backward and pretty tough. Sometimes she has to do things she doesn’t like. But she’s a good cop and somebody has to do nasty jobs. She doesn’t shirk them.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t.”
“Would you like to try it again?”
“Do you mind?”
“Oh, no, it doesn’t wear out.”
He did and got that warm happy look. He glanced at Peewee, asleep with her face in her cereal. “I need not have worried about my daughter, between the Mother Thing—and you.”
“It was a team,” I explained. “We couldn’t have made it without Peewee. The kid’s got guts.”
“Too much, sometimes.”
“Other times you need that extra. These spheres are recorders. Do you have a tape recorder, Professor?”
“Certainly, sir.” We set it up and let a sphere talk to it. I wanted a tape because the spheres are one-shot—the molecules go random again. Then I showed him the metal paper. I had tried to read it, got maybe two inches into it, then just recognized a sign here and there. Professor Reisfeld got halfway down the first page, stopped. “I had better make those phone calls.”
At dawn a sliver of old Moon came up and I tried to judge where Tombaugh Station was. Peewee was asleep on her Daddy’s couch, wrapped in his bathrobe and clutching Madame Pompadour. He had tried to carry her to bed but she had wakened and become very, very difficult, so he put her down. Professor Reisfeld chewed an empty pipe and listened to my sphere whispering softly to his recorder. Occasionally he darted a question at me and I’d snap out of it.
Professor Giomi and Dr. Bruck were at the other end of the study, filling a blackboard, erasing and filling it again, while they argued over that metal paper. Geniuses are common at the Institute for Advanced Study but these two wouldn’t be noticed anywhere; Bruck looked like a truckdriver and Giomi like an excited Iunio. They both had that Okay-I-get-you that Professor Reisfeld had. They were excited but Dr. Bruck showed it only by a tic in his face—which Peewee’s Daddy told me was a guarantee of nervous breakdowns—not for Bruck, for other physicists.
Two mornings later we were still there. Professor Reisfeld had shaved; the others hadn’t. I napped and once I took a shower. Peewee’s Daddy listened to recordings—he was now replaying Peewee’s tape. Now and then Bruck and Giomi called him over, Giomi almost hysterical and Bruck stolid. Professor Reisfeld always asked a question or two, nodded and came back to his chair. I don’t think he could work that math—but he could soak up results and fit them with other pieces.
I wanted to go home once they were through with me but Professor Reisfeld said please stay; the Secretary General of the Federated Free Nations was coming.
I stayed. I didn’t call home because what was the use in upsetting them? I would rather have gone to New York City to meet the Secretary General, but Professor Reisfeld had invited him here—I began to realize that anybody really important would come if Professor Reisfeld asked him.
Mr. van Duivendijk was slender and tall. He shook hands and said, “I understand that you are Dr. Samuel C. Russell’s son.”
“You know my father, sir?”
“I met him years ago, at the Hague.”
Dr. Bruck turned—he had barely nodded at the Secretary General. “You’re Sam Russell’s boy?”
“Uh, you know him, too?”
“Of course. On the Statistical Interpretation of Imperfect Data. Brilliant.” He turned back and got more chalk on his sleeve. I hadn’t known that Dad had written such a thing, nor suspected that he knew the top man in the Federation. Sometimes I think Dad is eccentric.
Mr. van D. waited until the double domes came up for air, then said, “You have something, gentlemen?”
“Yeah,” said Bruck.
“Superb!” agreed Giomi.
“Such as?”
“Well—” Dr. Bruck pointed at a line of chalk. “That says you can damp out a nuclear reaction at a distance.”
“What distance?”
“How about ten thousand miles? Or must you do it from the Moon?”
“Oh, ten thousand miles is sufficient, I imagine.”
“You could do it from the Moon,” Giomi interrupted, “if you had enough power. Magnificent!”
“It is,” agreed van Duivendijk. “Anything else?”
“What do you want?” demanded Bruck. “Egg in your suds?”
“Well?”
“See that seventeenth line? It may mean anti-gravity, I ain’t promising. Or, if you rotate ninety degrees, this unstable Latin thinks it’s time travel.”
“It is!”
“If he’s right, the power needed is a fair-sized star—so forget it.” Bruck stared at hen’s tracks. “A new approach to matter conversion—possibly. How about a power pack for your vest pocket that turns out more ergs than the Brisbane reactor?”
“This can be done?”
“Ask your grandson. It won’t be soon.” Bruck scowled.
“Dr. Bruck, why are you unhappy?” asked Mr. van D.
Bruck scowled harder. “Are you goin’ to make this ‘Top Secret’? I don’t like classifying mathematics. It’s shameful.”
I batted my ears. I had explained to the Mother Thing about “classified” and I think I shocked her. I said that the FFN had to have secrets for survival, just like Three Galaxies. She couldn’t see it. Finally she had said that it wouldn’t make any difference in the long run. But I had worried because while I don’t like science being “secret,” I don’t want to be reckless, either.
Mr. van D. answered, “I don’t like secrecy. But I have to put up with it.”
“I knew you would say that!”
“Please. Is this a U.S. government project?”
“Eh? Of course not.”
“Nor a Federation one. Very well, you’ve shown me some equations. I can’t tell you not to publish them. They’re yours.”
Bruck shook his head. “Not ours.” He pointed at me. “His.”
“I see.” The Secretary General looked at me. “I am a lawyer, young man. If you wish to publish, I see no way to stop you.”
“Me? It’s not mine—I was just—well, a messenger.”
“You seem to have the only claim. Do you wish this published? Perhaps with all your names?” I got the impression that he wanted it published.
“Well, sure. But the third name shouldn’t be mine; it should be—” I hesitated. You can’t put a birdsong down as author. “—uh, make it ‘Dr. M. Thing.’”
“Who is he?”
“She’s a Vegan. But we could pretend it’s a Chinese name.”
The Secretary General stayed on, asking questions, listening to tapes. Then he made a phone call—to the Moon. I knew it could be done, I never expected to see it. “Van Duivendijk here…yes, the Secretary General. Get the Commanding General… Jim?… This connection is terrible… Jim, you sometimes order practice maneuvers… My call is unofficial but y
ou might check a valley—” He turned to me; I answered quickly. “—a valley just past the mountains east of Tombaugh Station. I haven’t consulted the Security Council; this is between friends. But if you go into that valley I very strongly suggest that it be done in force, with all weapons. It may have snakes in it. The snakes will be camouflaged. Call it a hunch. Yes, the kids are fine and so is Beatrix. I’ll phone Mary and tell her I talked with you.”
The Secretary General wanted my address. I couldn’t say when I would be home because I didn’t know how I would get there—I meant to hitchhike but didn’t say so. Mr. van D.’s eyebrows went up. “I think we owe you a ride home. Eh, Professor?”
“That would not be overdoing it.”
“Russell, I heard on your tape that you plan to study engineering—with a view to space.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, ‘Yes, Mr. Secretary.’”
“Have you considered studying law? Many young engineers want to space—not many lawyers. But the Law goes everywhere. A man skilled in space law and meta-law would be in a strong position.”
“Why not both?” suggested Peewee’s Daddy. “I deplore this modern overspecialization.”
“That’s an idea,” agreed Mr. van Duivendijk. “He could then write his own terms.”
I was about to say I should stick to electronics—when suddenly I knew what I wanted to do. “Uh, I don’t think I could handle both.”
“Nonsense!” Professor Reisfeld said severely.
“Yes, sir. But I want to make space suits that work better. I’ve got some ideas.”
“Mmm, that’s mechanical engineering. And many other things, I imagine. But you’ll need an M.E. degree.” Professor Reisfeld frowned. “As I recall your tape, you passed College Boards but hadn’t been accepted by a good school.” He drummed his desk. “Isn’t that silly, Mr. Secretary? The lad goes to the Magellanic Clouds but can’t go to the school he wants.”
“Well, Professor? You pull while I push?”
“Yes. But wait.” Professor Reisfeld picked up his phone. “Susie, get me the President of M.I.T. I know it’s a holiday; I don’t care if he’s in Bombay or in bed; get him. Good girl.” He put down the phone. “She’s been with the Institute five years and on the University switchboard before that. She’ll get him.”
I felt embarrassed and excited. M.I.T.—anybody would jump at the chance. But tuition alone would stun you. I tried to explain that I didn’t have the money. “I’ll work the rest of this school year and next summer—I’ll save it.”
The phone rang. “Reisfeld here. Hi, Oppie. At the class reunion you made me promise to tell you if Bruck’s tic started bothering him. Hold onto your chair; I timed it at twenty-one to the minute. That’s a record… Slow down; you won’t send anybody, unless I get my pound of flesh. If you start your lecture on academic freedom and ‘the right to know,’ I’ll hang up and call Berkeley. I can do business there—and I know I can here, over on the campus… Not much, just a four-year scholarship, tuition and fees… Don’t scream at me; use your discretionary fund—or make it a wash deal in bookkeeping. You’re over twenty-one; you can do arithmetic… Nope, no hints. Buy a pig in a poke or your radiation lab won’t be in on it. Did I say ‘radiation lab’? I meant the entire physical science department. You can flee to South America, don’t let me sway you… What? I’m an embezzler, too. Hold it.” Professor Reisfeld said to me, “You applied for M.I.T.?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“He’s in your application files, ‘Clifford C. Russell.’ Send the letter to his home and have the head of your team fetch my copy… Oh, a broad team, headed by a mathematical physicist—Farley, probably; he’s got imagination. This is the biggest thing since the apple konked Sir Isaac… Sure, I’m a blackmailer, and you are a chair warmer and a luncheon speaker. When are you returning to the academic life?… Best to Beulah. ’Bye.”
He hung up. “That’s settled. Kip, the one thing that confuses me is why those worm-faced monsters wanted me.”
I didn’t know how to say it. He had told me only the day before that he had been correlating odd data—unidentified sightings, unexpected opposition to space travel, many things that did not fit. Such a man is likely to get answers—and be listened to. If he had a weakness, it was modesty—which he hadn’t passed on to Peewee. If I told him that invaders from outer space had grown nervous over his intellectual curiosity, he would have pooh-poohed it. So I said, “They never told us, sir. But they thought you were important enough to grab.”
“Some mistake. Now if it had been the Secretary here—”
Mr. van Duivendijk stood up. “Curt, I won’t waste time listening to nonsense. Russell, I’m glad your schooling is arranged. If you need me, call me.”
When he was gone, I tried to thank Professor Reisfeld. “I meant to pay my way, sir. I would have earned the money before school opens again.”
“In less than three weeks? Come now, Kip.”
“I mean the rest of this year and—”
“Waste a year? No.”
“But I already—” I looked past his head at green leaves in their garden. “Professor…what date is it?”
“Why, Labor Day, of course.”
(“—forthwith to the space-time whence they came.”)
Professor Reisfeld flipped water in my face. “Feeling better?”
“I—I guess so. We were gone for weeks.”
“Kip, you’ve been through too much to let this shake you. You can talk it over with the stratosphere twins—” He gestured at Giomi and Bruck. “—but you won’t understand it. At least I didn’t. Why not assume that a hundred and sixty-seven thousand light-years leaves room for Tennessee windage amounting to only a hair’s breadth of a fraction of one per cent? Especially when the method doesn’t properly use space-time at all?”
When I left, Mrs. Reisfeld kissed me and Peewee blubbered and had Madame Pompadour say good-bye to Oscar, who was in the back seat because the Professor was driving me to the airport.
On the way he remarked, “Peewee is fond of you.”
“Uh, I hope so.”
“And you? Or am I impertinent?”
“Am I fond of Peewee? I certainly am! She saved my life four or five times.” Peewee could drive you nuts. But she was gallant and loyal and smart—and had guts.
“You won a life-saving medal or two yourself.”
I thought about it. “Seems to me I fumbled everything I tried. But I had help and an awful lot of luck.” I shivered at how luck alone had kept me out of the soup—real soup.
“‘Luck’ is a question-begging word,” he answered. “You spoke of the ‘amazing luck’ that you were listening when my daughter called for help. That wasn’t luck.”
“Huh? I mean, ‘Sir’?”
“Why were you on that frequency? Because you were wearing a space suit. Why were you wearing it? Because you were determined to space. When a space ship called, you answered. If that is luck, then it is luck every time a batter hits a ball. Kip, ‘good luck’ follows careful preparation; ‘bad luck’ comes from sloppiness. You convinced a court older than Man himself that you and your kind were worth saving. Was that mere chance?”
“Uh…fact is, I got mad and almost ruined things. I was tired of being shoved around.”
“The best things in history are accomplished by people who get ‘tired of being shoved around.’” He frowned. “I’m glad you like Peewee. She is about twenty years old intellectually and six emotionally; she usually antagonizes people. So I’m glad she has gained a friend who is smarter than she is.”
My jaw dropped. “But, Professor, Peewee is much smarter than I am. She runs me ragged.”
He glanced at me. “She’s run me ragged for years—and I’m not stupid. Don’t downgrade yourself, Kip.”
“It’s the truth.”
“So? The greatest mathematical psychologist of our time, a man who always wrote his own ticket even to retiring when it suited him—very difficult, when a man is in demand—this
man married his star pupil. I doubt if their offspring is less bright than my own child.”
I had to untangle this to realize that he meant me. Then I didn’t know what to say. How many kids really know their parents? Apparently I didn’t.
He went on, “Peewee is a handful, even for me. Here’s the airport. When you return for school, please plan on visiting us. Thanksgiving, too, if you will—no doubt you’ll go home Christmas.”
“Uh, thank you, sir. I’ll be back.”
“Good.”
“Uh, about Peewee—if she gets too difficult, well, you’ve got the beacon. The Mother Thing can handle her.”
“Mmm, that’s a thought.”
“Peewee tries to get around her but she never does. Oh—I almost forgot. Whom may I tell? Not about Peewee. About the whole thing.”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
“Sir?”
“Tell anybody anything. You won’t very often. Almost no one will believe you.”
I rode home in a courier jet—those things go fast. Professor Reisfeld had insisted on lending me ten dollars when he found out that I had only a dollar sixty-seven, so I got a haircut at the bus station and bought two tickets to Centerville to keep Oscar out of the luggage compartment; he might have been damaged. The best thing about that scholarship was that now I needn’t ever sell him—not that I would.
Centerville looked mighty good, from elms overhead to the chuckholes under foot. The driver stopped near our house because of Oscar; he’s clumsy to carry. I went to the barn and racked Oscar, told him I’d see him later, and went in the back door.
Mother wasn’t around, Dad was in his study. He looked up from reading. “Hi, Kip.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Nice trip?”
“Uh, I didn’t go to the lake.”
“I know. Dr. Reisfeld phoned—he briefed me thoroughly.”
“Oh. It was a nice trip—on the whole.” I saw that he was holding a volume of the Britannica, open to “Magellanic Clouds.”
He followed my glance. “I’ve never seen them,” he said regretfully. “I had a chance once, but I was busy except one cloudy night.”
Have Space Suit—Will Travel Page 23
