The Rolling Stones

by Robert A. Heinlein

  The café owner said nothing for several moments. At last he said, “Nice ride, boys. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  He stared at the heap of bikes. “How much?”

  Castor named a price. Pappalopoulis shook his head sadly. “That’s a lot of money.”

  Before Pollux could name a lower price Castor said, “Make it easy on yourself. We’d rather be cut in on the gravy but we thought you might prefer to own them yourselves. So let’s make it a partnership; you run the business, we put up the bikes. Even split on the gross and you absorb the overhead. Fair enough?”

  Pappalopoulis reached over and stroked the flat cat. “Partnerships make quarrels,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Have it your own way,” Castor answered. “Five per cent for cash.”

  Pappalopoulis pulled out a roll that would have choked a medium-large Venerian sand hog. “I buy ’em.”

  The twins spent the afternoon exploring the city on foot and looking for presents for the rest of the family. When they started home their way led them back through the square between the receiving station and Poppa’s restaurant. The sign now read:

  THE OLD SOUTHERN DINING BOOM

  AND

  TOURIST BUREAU

  Sodas Souvenirs Candy

  Sightseeing Trips

  BICYCLES RENTED

  Guide Service

  See the Ancient Martian Ruins!!!

  Pollux looked at it. “He’s a fast operator, all right. Maybe you should have insisted on a partnership.”

  “Don’t be greedy. We turned a profit, didn’t we?”

  “I told you we would. Well, let’s get Fuzzy Britches home to Buster.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CAVEAT VENDOR

  FUZZY BRITCHES WAS NOT

  an immediate success with Lowell. “Where’s its legs?” he said darkly. “If it’s a Martian, it ought to have three legs.”

  “Well,” argued Castor, “some Martians don’t have legs.”

  “Prove it!”

  “This one doesn’t. That proves it.”

  Meade picked Fuzzy Britches up; it immediately began to buzz—whereupon Lowell demanded to hold it. Meade passed it over. “I don’t see,” she remarked, “why anything as helpless as that would have such bright colors.”

  “Think again, honey lamb,” advised Hazel. “Put that thing out on the desert sand and you would lose it at ten feet. Which might be a good idea.”

  “No!” answered Lowell.

  “‘No’ what, dear?”

  “Don’t you lose Fuzzy Britches. He’s mine.” The child left carrying the flat cat and cooing a lullaby to it. Fuzzy Britches might lack legs but it knew how to win friends; anyone who picked it up hated to put it down. There was something intensely satisfying about petting the furry thing. Hazel tried to analyze it but could not.

  No one knew when the quarantine of the War God would be lifted. Therefore Meade was much surprised one morning to return to Casa Mañana and find her father in the general room. “Daddy!” she yelled, swarming over him. “When did you get down?”

  “Just now.”

  “Mummy, too?”

  “Yes. She’s in the ’fresher.”

  Lowell stood in the doorway, watching them impassively. Roger Stone loosed himself from his daughter and said, “Good morning, Buster.”

  “Good morning, Daddy. This is Fuzzy Britches. He’s a Martian. He’s also a flat cat.”

  “Glad to know you, Fuzzy Britches. Did you say ‘flat cat’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. But it looks more like a wig.”

  Dr. Stone entered, was subjected to the same treatment by Meade, then turned to Lowell. He permitted her to kiss him, then said, “Mama, this is Fuzzy Britches. Say hello to him.”

  “How do you do, Fuzzy Britches? Meade, where are your brothers? And your grandmother?”

  Meade looked upset. “I was afraid you would get around to that. The twins are in jail again.”

  Roger Stone groaned. “Oh, no, not again! Edith, we should have stayed on Phobos.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Well, let’s face it. What is the charge this time, Meade?”

  “Fraud and conspiring to evade the customs duties.”

  “I feel better. The last time but one, you’ll remember, it was experimenting with atomics inside the city limits and without license. But why aren’t they out on bail? Or is there something worse you haven’t told us?”

  “No, it’s just that the court has tied up their bank account and Hazel wouldn’t get them bond. She said they were safer where they were.”

  “Good for Hazel!”

  “Daddy, if we hurry we can get back downtown for the hearing. I’ll tell you and Mummy about it on the way.”

  The “fraud” part of it came from Mr. Pappalopoulis; the rest of it came straight from the planetary government. Mars, being in a state of expanding economy, just beginning to be self-supporting and only recently of declared sovereignty, had a strongly selective tariff. Being forced to import much and having comparatively little to export which could not be had cheaper Earthside, all her economic statutes and regulations were bent toward relieving her chronic credit gap. Articles not produced on Mars but needed for her economy came in duty free; articles of luxury or pleasure carried very high rates; articles manufactured on Mars were completely protected by embargo against outside competition.

  Bicycles were classed by the Import Commission as duty free since they were necessary to prospecting—but bicycles used for pleasure became “luxury items,” The customs authorities had gotten around to noticing the final disposition of the cargo of the Rolling Stone. “Of course somebody put them up to it,” continued Meade, “but Mr. Angelo swears he didn’t do it and I believe him. He’s nice.”

  “That’s clear enough. What’s the fraud angle?”

  “Oh, that!” The bicycles had at once been impounded for unpaid duty penalties and costs whereupon their new owner had sworn an information charging fraud. “He’s getting a civil suit, too, but I think Hazel has it under control. Mr. Poppa says he just wants his bicycles back; he’s losing business. He’s not mad at anybody.”

  “I would be,” Roger Stone answered grimly. “I intend to skin those two boys with a dull knife. What makes Hazel think she can square Mr. Pappa-et-cetera?” ‘Just what, I’d like to know?’

  “She got a temporary court order freeing the bicycles to Mr. Poppa pending the outcome of the hearing; she had to put up a delivery bond on the bicycles. So Mr. Poppa dropped the fraud matter and is waiting on the civil suit to see if he’s hurt.”

  “Hmm—My bank account feels a little better anyway. Well, dear, we might as well go down and get it over with. There doesn’t seem to be anything here that a long check book can’t cover.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Remind me to buy a pair of Oregon boots on the way home. Meade, how much is this tariff?”

  “Forty per cent.”

  “Not too bad. They probably made more profit than that.”

  “But that’s not all, Daddy. Forty per cent, plus another forty per cent penalty—plus confiscation of the bicycles.”

  “Plus two weeks in pillory, I hope?”

  “Don’t do anything hasty, Daddy. Hazel is arguing the case.”

  “Since when was she admitted to the bar?”

  “I don’t know, but it seems to be all right. She got that court order.”

  “Dear,” said Dr. Stone, “Shouldn’t the boys have a regular lawyer? Your mother is a wonderful person, but she is sometimes just a bit impetuous.”

  “If you mean she’s as crazy as a skew orbit, I agree with you. But I’m betting on Hazel anyhow. We’ll let her have her turn at the board. It probably won’t cost me much more.”

  “As you say, dear.”

  They slipped into the back of the courtroom, which appeared to be a church on some other days. Hazel was up front, talking to the judge. She saw them come in but
did not appear to recognize them. The twins, looking very sober, were sitting together near the bench; they recognized their parents but took their cue from their grandmother.

  “May it please the court,” said Hazel, “I am a stranger here in a strange land. I am not skilled in your laws nor sophisticate in your customs. If I err, I pray the court to forgive me in advance and help me back to the proper path.”

  The judge leaned back and looked at her. “We were over all that earlier this morning.”

  “Sure, Judge, but it looks good in the record.”

  “Do you expect to get me reversed?”

  “Oh, no! We’ll settle the whole thing right here and now, I’d guess.”

  “I wouldn’t venture to guess. I told you this morning that I would advise you as to the law, if need be. As to courtroom formalities, this is a frontier. I can remember the time when, if one of us became involved in a misadventure which caused public disapproval, the matter was settled by calling a town meeting and taking a show of hands—and I’ve no doubt that as much justice was dispensed that way as any other. Times have changed but I don’t think you will find this court much bothered by etiquette. Proceed.”

  “Thanks, Judge. This young fellow here—” She hooked a thumb at the prosecutor’s table. “—would have you believe that my boys cooked up a nefarious scheme to swindle the citizens of this nation out of their rightful and lawful taxes. I deny that. Then he asks you to believe that, having hatched this Machiavellian plot, they carried it through and got away with it, until the hand of justice, slow but sure, descended on them and grabbed them. That’s a pack of nonsense, too.”

  “One moment. I thought you stipulated this morning to the alleged facts?”

  “I admitted that my boys didn’t pay duty on those bikes. I didn’t admit anything else. They didn’t pay duty because nobody asked them to pay.”

  “I see your point. You’ll have to lay a foundation for that and get it in by proper evidence later. I can see that this is going to be a little involved.”

  “It needn’t be, if we’ll all tell the truth and shame the devil.” She paused and looked puzzled. “Warburton… Warburton…” she said slowly, “your name is Warburton, Judge? Any kinfolk on Luna?”

  The judge squared his shoulders. “I’m a hereditary citizen of the Free State,” he said proudly. “Oscar Warburton was my grandfather.”

  “That’s it!” agreed Hazel. “It’s been bothering me all morning—but the numbers didn’t click into place until I noticed your profile just now. I knew your granddaddy well. I’m a Founding Father, too.”

  “How’s that? There weren’t any Stones on the roster.”

  “Hazel Meade Stone.”

  “You’re Hazel Meade? But you can’t be—you must be dead!”

  “Take another look, Judge. I’m Hazel Meade.”

  “Well, by the breath of K’Raath! Excuse me, ma’am. We must get together when this is over.” He straightened up again. “In the meantime I trust you realize that this in no way affects the case before us?”

  “Oh, naturally not! But I must say it makes me feel better to know who’s sitting on this case. Your granddaddy was a just man.”

  “Thank you. And now shall we proceed?”

  The young prosecutor was on his feet. “May it please the court!”

  “May what please the court?”

  “We feel that this is most irregular. We feel that under the circumstances the only proper procedure is for this court to disqualify itself. We feel—”

  “Cut out that ‘we’ stuff, Herbert. You’re neither an editor nor a potentate. Motion denied. You know as well as I do that Judge Bonelli is laid up sick. I don’t propose to clutter up the calendar on the spurious theory that I can’t count fingers in front of my face.” He glanced at the clock. “In fact, unless one of you has new facts to produce—facts, not theories—I’m going to assume that you have both stipulated to the same body of facts. Objection?”

  “Okay with me, Judge.”

  “No objection,” the prosecutor said wearily.

  “You may continue, ma’am. I think we ought to wind this up in about ten minutes, if you both will stick to the subject. Let’s have your theory.”

  “Yes, your honor. First, I want you to take a look at those two young and innocent lads and see for yourself that they could not be up to anything criminal.” Castor and Pollux made a mighty effort to look the description; they were not notably successful.

  Judge Warburton looked at them and scratched his chin. “That’s a conclusion, ma’am. I can’t see any wings sprouting from here.”

  “Forget it, then. They’re a couple of little hellions, both of them. They’ve given me plenty of grief. But this time they didn’t do anything wrong and they deserve a vote of thanks from your chamber of commerce—and from the citizens of Mars Commonwealth.”

  “The first part sounds plausible. The latter part is outside the jurisdiction of this court.”

  “You’ll see. The key to this case is whether or not a bicycle is a production item, or a luxury. Right?”

  “Correct. And the distinction depends on the end use of the imported article. Our tariff schedule is flexible in that respect. Shall I cite the pertinent cases?”

  “Oh, don’t bother!”

  “I believe it was stipulated that the bicycles were sold for the end use of sightseeing, that the defendants knew that, that they even suggested that end use and made it part of their sales argument, and that they neglected to inform the buyer of the customs status of the articles in question. Correct?”

  “Right to nine decimals, Judge.”

  “I’ve not yet gotten a glimpse of your theory. Surely you are not contending that sightseeing is anything but a luxury?”

  “Oh, it’s a luxury all right!”

  “Madam, it seems to me that you are doing your grandsons no good. If you will withdraw, I will appoint counsel.”

  “Better ask them, Judge.”

  “I intended to.” He looked inquiringly at the twins. “Are you satisfied with your representation?”

  Castor caught Pollux’s eye, then answered promptly, “We’re as much in the dark as you are, sir—but we’ll string along with grandmother.”

  “I admire your courage at least. Proceed, ma’am.”

  “We agreed that sightseeing is a luxury. But ‘luxury’ is a relative term. Luxury for whom? Roast suckling pig is a luxury for you and me—”

  “It certainly is. I haven’t tasted one on this planet.”

  “—but it’s an early death for the pig. Will the court take judicial notice of an activity known as ‘Mars’ Invisible Export?’”

  “The tourist trade? Certainly, if it’s necessary to your theory.”

  “Objection!”

  “Just hang on to that objection, Herbert; she may not establish a connection. Proceed.”

  “Let’s find out who eats that pig. Your tariff rules, so it has been explained, are to keep citizens of the Commonwealth from wasting valuable foreign exchange on unnecessary frills. You’ve got a credit gap—”

  “Regrettably, we have. We don’t propose to increase it.”

  “That’s my point. Who pays the bill? Do you go sightseeing? Does he?” She pointed again at the prosecutor. “Shucks, no! It’s old stuff to both of you. But I do—I’m a tourist. I rented one of those bicycles not a week ago—and helped close your credit gap. Your honor, we contend that the renting of bicycles to tourists, albeit a luxury to the tourist, is a productive activity for export to the unmixed benefit of every citizen of the Commonwealth and that therefore those bicycles are ‘articles of production’ within the meaning and intent of your tariff laws!”

  “Finished?” She nodded. “Herbert?”

  “Your honor, this is ridiculous! The prosecution has clearly established its case and the defense does not even dare to dispute it. I have never heard a more outlandish mixture of special pleading and distortion of the facts. But I am sure the facts are clear to
the court. The end use is sightseeing, which the defense agrees is a luxury. Now a luxury is a luxury—”

  “Not to the pig, son.”

  “‘The pig?’ What pig? There are no pigs in this case; there isn’t a pig on Mars. If we—”

  “Herbert! Have you anything to add?”

  “I—” The young prosecutor slumped. “Sorry, Dad, I got excited. We rest.”

  The judge turned to Hazel. “He’s a good boy, but he’s impetuous—like yours. I’ll make a lawyer out of him yet.” He straightened up. “And the court rests—ten minutes out for a pipe. Don’t go away.” He ducked out.

  The twins whispered and fidgeted; Hazel caught the eyes of her son and daughter-in-law and gave them a solemn wink. Judge Warburton returned in less than ten minutes and the bailiff shouted for order. The judge stared at the prisoners. “The court rules,” he said solemnly, “that the bicycles in question are ‘articles of production’ within the meaning of the tariff code. The prisoners are acquitted and discharged. The clerk will release the delivery bond.”

  There was very scattered applause, led by Hazel. “No demonstrations!” the judge said sharply. He looked again at the twins. “You’re extremely lucky—you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yessir!”

  “Then get out of my sight and try to stay out of trouble.”

  Dinner was a happy family reunion despite the slight cloud that still hung over the twins. It was also quite good, Dr. Stone having quietly taken over the cooking. Captain Vandenbergh, down on the same shuttle, joined them for dinner. By disconnecting the TV receiver and placing it temporarily on Meade’s bunk and by leaving open the door to the twins’ cubicle so that Captain Vandenbergh’s chair could be backed into the door frame, it was just possible for all of them to sit down at once. Fuzzy Britches sat in Lowell’s lap; up till now the flat cat had had its own chair.

  Roger Stone tried to push back his chair to make more room for his knees, found himself chock-a-block against the wall. “Edith, we will just have to get a larger place.”

  “Yes, dear. Hazel and I spoke to the landlord this afternoon.”