The Rolling Stones

by Robert A. Heinlein

  When the twins reached their own room Castor got down the general catalog of Four Planets Export. Pollux said, “Cas?”

  “Don’t bother me.”

  “Have you ever noticed that Dad always gets pushed around until he gets his own way?”

  “Sure. Hand me that slide rule.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BICYCLES AND BLAST-OFF

  THE Rolling Stone WAS MOVED

  over to the space port by the port’s handling & spotting crew—over the protests of the twins, who wanted to rent a tractor and dolly and do it themselves. They offered to do so at half price, said price to be applied against freightage on their trade goods to Mars.

  “Insurance?” inquired their father.

  “Well, not exactly,” Pol answered.

  “We’d carry our own risk,” added Castor. “After all, we’ve got assets to cover it.”

  But Roger Stone was not to be talked into it; he preferred, not unreasonably, to have the ticklish job done by bonded professionals. A spaceship on the ground is about as helpless and unwieldy as a beached whale. Sitting on her tail fins with her bow pointed at the sky and with her gyros dead a ship’s precarious balance is protected by her lateral jacks, slanting down in three directions. To drag her to a new position requires those jacks to be raised clear of the ground, leaving the ship ready to topple, vulnerable to any jar. The Rolling Stone had to be moved thus through a pass in the hills to the port ten miles away. First she was jacked higher until her fins were two feet off the ground, then a broad dolly was backed under her; to this she was clamped. The bottom handler ran the tractor; the top handler took position in the control room. With his eyes on a bubble level, his helmet hooked by wire phone to his mate, he nursed a control stick which let him keep the ship upright. A hydraulic mercury capsule was under each fin of the ship; by tilting the stick the top handler could force pressure into any capsule to offset any slight irregularity in the road.

  The twins followed the top handler up to his station. “Looks easy,” remarked Pol while the handler tested his gear with the jacks still down.

  “It is easy,” agreed the handler, “provided you can outguess the old girl and do the opposite of what she does—only do it first. Get out now; we’re ready to start.”

  “Look, Mister,” said Castor, “we want to learn how. We’ll hold still and keep quiet.”

  “Not even strapped down—you might twitch an eyebrow and throw me half a degree off.”

  “Well, for the love of Pete!” complained Pollux. “Whose ship do you think this is?”

  “Mine, for the time being,” the man answered without rancor. “Now do you prefer to climb down, or simply be kicked clear of the ladder?”

  The twins climbed out and clear, reluctantly but promptly. The Rolling Stone, designed for the meteoric speeds of open space, took off for the space port at a lively two miles an hour. It took most of a Greenwich day to get her there. There was a bad time in the pass when a slight moonquake set her to rocking, but the top handler had kept her jacks lowered as far as the terrain permitted. She bounced once on number-two jack, then he caught her and she resumed her stately progress.

  Seeing this, Pollux admitted to Castor that he was glad they had not gotten the contract. He was beginning to realize that this was an esoteric skill, like glassblowing or chipping flint arrowheads. He recalled stories of the Big Quake of ’31 when nine ships had toppled.

  No more temblors were experienced save for the microscopic shivers Luna continually experiences under the massive tidal strains of her eighty-times-heavier cousin Terra. The Rolling Stone rested at last on a launching flat on the east side of Leyport, her jet pointed down into splash baffles. Fuel bricks, water, and food, and she was ready to go—anywhere.

  The mythical average man needs three and a half pounds of food each day, four pounds of water (for drinking, not washing), and thirty-four pounds of air. By the orbit most economical of fuel the trip to Mars from the Earth-Moon system takes thirty-seven weeks. Thus it would appear that the seven rolling Stones would require some seventy-five thousand pounds of consumable supplies for the trip, or about a ton a week.

  Fortunately the truth was brighter or they would never have raised ground. Air and water in a space ship can be used over and over again with suitable refreshing, just as they can be on a planet. Uncounted trillions of animals for uncounted millions of years have breathed the air of Terra and drunk of her streams, yet air of Earth is still fresh and her rivers still run full. The Sun sucks clouds up from the ocean brine and drops it as sweet rain; the plants swarming over the cool green hills and lovely plains of Earth take the carbon dioxide of animal exhalation from the winds and convert it into carbohydrates, replacing it with fresh oxygen.

  With suitable engineering a spaceship can be made to behave in the same way.

  Water is distilled; with a universe of vacuum around the ship low-temperature, low-pressure distillation is cheap and easy. Water is no problem—or, rather, shortage of water is no problem. The trick is to get rid of excess, for the human body creates water as one of the by-products of its metabolism, in “burning” the hydrogen in food. Carbon dioxide can be replaced by oxygen through “soilless gardening”—hydroponics. Short-jump ships, such as the Earth-Moon shuttles, do not have such equipment, any more than a bicycle has staterooms or a galley, but the Rolling Stone, being a deep-space vessel, was equipped to do these things.

  Instead of forty-one and a half pounds of supplies per person per day the Rolling Stone could get along with two; as a margin of safety and for luxury she carried about three, or a total of about eight tons, which included personal belongings. They would grow their own vegetables en route; most foods carried along would be dehydrated. Meade wanted them to carry shell eggs, but she was overruled both by the laws of physics and by her mother—dried eggs weigh so very much less.

  Baggage included a tossed salad of books as well as hundreds of the more usual film spools. The entire family, save the twins, tended to be old-fashioned about books; they liked books with covers, volumes one could hold in the lap. Film spools were not quite the same.

  Roger Stone required his sons to submit lists of what they proposed to carry to Mars for trade. The first list thus submitted caused him to call them into conference. “Castor, would you mind explaining this proposed manifest to me?”

  “Huh? What is there to explain? Pol wrote it up. I thought it was clear enough.”

  “I’m afraid it’s entirely too clear. Why all this copper tubing?”

  “Well, we picked it up as scrap. Always a good market for copper on Mars.”

  “You mean you’ve already bought it?”

  “Oh, no. We just put down a little to hold it.”

  “Same for the valves and fittings I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s good. Now these other items—cane sugar, wheat, dehydrated potatoes, polished rice. How about those?”

  Pollux answered. “Cas thought we ought to buy hardware; I favored foodstuffs. So we compromised.”

  “Why did you pick the foods you did?”

  “Well, they’re all things they grow in the city’s air-conditioning tanks, so they’re cheap. No Earth imports on the list, you noticed.”

  “I noticed.”

  “But most of the stuff we raise here carries too high a percentage of water. You wouldn’t want to carry cucumbers to Mars, would you?”

  “I don’t want to carry anything to Mars; I’m just going for the ride.” Mr. Stone put down the cargo list, picked up another. “Take a look at this.”

  Pollux accepted it gingerly. “What about it?”

  “I used to be a pretty fair mechanic myself. I got to wondering just what one could build from the ‘hardware’ you two want to ship. I figure I could build a fair-sized still. With the ‘foodstuffs’ you want to take a man would be in a position to make anything from vodka to grain alcohol. But I don’t suppose you two young innocents noticed that?”

&n
bsp; Castor looked at the list. “Is that so?”

  “Hmm—Tell me: did you plan to sell this stuff to the government import agency, or peddle it on the open market?”

  “Well, Dad, you know you can’t make much profit unless you deal on the open market.”

  “So I thought. You didn’t expect me to notice what the stuff was good for—and you didn’t expect the customs agents on Mars to notice, either.” He looked them over. “Boys, I intend to try to keep you out of prison until you are of age. After that I’ll try to come to see you each visiting day.” He chucked the list back at them. “Guess again. And bear in mind that we raise ship Thursday—and that I don’t care whether we carry cargo or not.”

  Pollux said, “Oh, for pity’s sake, Dad! Abraham Lincoln used to sell whiskey. They taught us that in history. And Winston Churchill used to drink it.”

  “And George Washington kept slaves,” his father agreed. “None of which has anything to do with you two. So scram!”

  They left his study and passed through the living room; Hazel was there. She cocked a brow at them. “Did you get away with it?”

  “No.”

  She stuck out a hand, palm up. “Pay me. And next time don’t bet that you can outsmart your Pop. He’s my boy.”

  Cas and Pol settled on bicycles as their primary article of export. On both Mars and Luna prospecting by bicycle was much more efficient than prospecting on foot; on the Moon the old-style rock sleuth with nothing but his skis and Shank’s ponies to enable him to scout the area where he had landed his jumpbug had almost disappeared; all the prospectors took bicycles along as a matter of course, just as they carried climbing ropes and spare oxygen. In the Moon’s one-sixth gravity it was an easy matter to shift the bicycle to one’s back and carry it over any obstacle to further progress.

  Mars’ surface gravity is more than twice that of Luna, but it is still only slightly more than one-third Earth normal, and Mars is a place of flat plains and very gentle slopes; a cyclist could maintain fifteen to twenty miles an hour. The solitary prospector, deprived of his traditional burro, found the bicycle an acceptable and reliable, if somewhat less congenial, substitute. A miner’s bike would have looked odd in the streets of Stockholm; over-sized wheels, doughnut sand tires, towing yoke and trailer, battery trickle charger, two-way radio, saddle bags, and Geiger-counter mount made it not the vehicle for a spin in the park—but on Mars or on the Moon it fitted its purpose the way a canoe fits a Canadian stream.

  Both planets imported their bicycles from Earth—until recently. Lunar Steel Products Corporation had lately begun making steel tubing, wire, and extrusions from native ore; Sears & Montgomery had subsidized an assembly plant to manufacture miner’s bikes on the Moon under the trade name “Lunocycle” and Looney bikes, using less than twenty per cent by weight of parts raised up from Earth, undersold imported bikes by half.

  Castor and Pollux decided to buy up second-hand bicycles which were consequently flooding the market and ship them to Mars. In interplanetary trade cost is always a matter of where a thing is gravity-wise—not how far away. Earth is a lovely planet but all her products lie at the bottom of a very deep “gravity well,” deeper than that of Venus, enormously deeper than Luna’s. Although Earth and Luna average exactly the same distance from Mars in miles, Luna is about five miles per second “closer” to Mars in terms of fuel and shipping cost.

  Roger Stone released just enough of their assets to cover the investment. They were still loading their collection of tired bikes late Wednesday afternoon, with Cas weighing them in, Meade recording for him, and Pol hoisting. Everything else had been loaded; trial weight with the crew aboard would be taken by the port weightmaster as soon as the bicycles were loaded. Roger Stone supervised the stowing, he being personally responsible for the ship being balanced on take off.

  Castor and he went down to help Pol unload the last flat. “Some of these seem hardly worth shipping,” Mr. Stone remarked.

  “Junk, if you ask me,” added Meade.

  “Nobody asked you,” Pol told her.

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head,” Meade answered sweetly, “or go find yourself another secretary.”

  “Stow it, Junior,” admonished Castor. “Remember she’s working free. Dad, I admit they aren’t much to look at, but wait a bit. Pol and I will overhaul them and paint them in orbit. Plenty of time to do a good job—like new.”

  “Mind you don’t try to pass them off as new. But it looks to me as if you had taken too big a bite. When we get these inside and clamped down, there won’t be room enough in the hold to swing a cat, much less do repair work. If you were thinking of monopolizing the living space, consider it vetoed.”

  “Why would anyone want to swing a cat?” asked Meade. “The cat wouldn’t like it. Speaking of that, why don’t we take a cat?”

  “No cats,” her father replied. “I traveled with a cat once and I was in executive charge of its sand box. No cats.”

  “Please, Cap’n Daddy! I saw the prettiest little kitten over at the Haileys’ yesterday and—”

  “No cats. And don’t call me ‘Captain Daddy.’ One or the other, but the combination sounds silly.”

  “Yes, Captain Daddy.”

  “We weren’t planning on using the living quarters,” Castor answered. “Once we are in orbit we’ll string ’em outside and set up shop in the hold. Plenty of room.”

  A goodly portion of Luna City came out to see them off. The current mayor, the Honorable Thomas Beasley, was there to say good-by to Roger Stone; the few surviving members of the Founding Fathers turned out to honor Hazel. A delegation from the Junior League and what appeared to be approximately half of the male members of the senior class of City Tech showed up to mourn Meade’s departure. She wept and hugged them all, but kissed none of them; kissing while wearing a space suit is a futile, low-caloric business.

  The twins were attended only by a dealer who wanted his payment and wanted it now and wanted it in full.

  Earth hung in half phase over them and long shadows of the Obelisk Mountains stretched over most of the field. The base of the Rolling Stone was floodlighted; her slender bow thrust high above the circle of brightness. Beyond her, marking the far side of the field, the peaks of Rodger Young Range were still shining in the light of the setting Sun. Glorious Orion glittered near Earth; north and east of it, handle touching the horizon, was the homely beauty of the Big Dipper. The arching depth of sky and the mighty and timeless monuments of the Moon dwarfed the helmeted, squatty figures at the base of the spaceship.

  A searchlight on the distant control tower pointed at them; blinked red three times. Hazel turned to her son. “Thirty minutes, Captain.”

  “Right.” He whistled into his microphone. “Silence, everyone! Please keep operational silence until you are underground. Thanks for coming, everybody. Good-by!”

  “’Bye, Rog!” “Good trip, folks!” “Aloha!” “Hurry back—”

  Their friends started filing down a ramp into one of the field tunnels; Mr. Stone turned to his family. “Thirty minutes. Man the ship!”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Hazel started up the ladder with Pollux after her. She stopped suddenly, backed down and stepped on his fingers. “Out of my way, youngster!” She jumped down and ran toward the group disappearing down the ramp. “Hey, Tom! Beasley! Wait! Half a mo—”

  The mayor paused and turned around; she thrust a package into his hand. “Mail this stuff for me?”

  “Certainly, Hazel.”

  “That’s a good boy. ’Bye!”

  She came back to the ship; her son inquired, “What was the sudden crisis, Hazel?”

  “Six episodes. I stay up all night getting them ready…then I didn’t even notice I still had ’em until I had trouble climbing with one hand.”

  “Sure your head’s on tight?”

  “None of your lip, boy.”

  “Get in the ship.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Once they were
all inboard the port’s weightmaster made his final check, reading the scales on the launching flat under each fin, adding them together. “Two and seven-tenths pounds under, Captain. Pretty close figuring.” He fastened trim weights in that amount to the foot of the ladder. “Take it up.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Roger Stone hauled up the ladder, gathered in the trim weights, and closed the door of the air lock. He let himself into the ship proper, closed and dogged the inner door behind him, then stuck his head up into the control room. Castor was already in the co-pilot’s couch. “Time?”

  “Minus seventeen minutes, Captain.”

  “She tracking?” He reached out and set the trim weights on a spindle at the central axis of the ship.

  “Pretty as could be.” The main problem and the exact second of departure had been figured three weeks earlier; there is only one short period every twenty-six months when a ship may leave the Luna-Terra system for Mars by the most economical orbit. After trial weight had been taken the day before Captain Stone had figured his secondary problem, i.e., how much thrust for how long a period was required to put this particular ship into that orbit. It was the answer to this second problem which Castor was now tracking in the automatic pilot.

  The first leg of the orbit would not be toward Mars, but toward Earth, with a second critical period, as touchy as the take off, as they rounded Earth. Captain Stone frowned at the thought, then shrugged; that worry had to come later. “Keep her tracking. I’m going below.”

  He went down into the power room, his eyes glancing here and there as he went. Even to a merchant skipper, to whom it is routine, the last few minutes before blast-off are worry-making. Blast-off for a spaceship has a parachute-jump quality; once you jump it is usually too late to correct any oversights. Space skippers suffer nightmares about misplaced decimal points.

  Hazel and Pollux occupied the couches of the chief and assistant. Stone stuck his head down without going down. “Power Room?”

  “She’ll be ready. I’m letting her warm slowly.”