Off The Main Sequence

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Gilead conceded the existence in this world of altruistic reasons, but was inclined not to treat them as “least hypothesis" until all other possible hypotheses had been eliminated; Baldwin might have had his own reasons for wishing him to live long enough to report to New Washington and nevertheless be pleased to wipe him out now that he was a wanted man whose demise would cause no comment.

  Baldwin might even be a partner in these dark matters of Mrs. Keithley. In some ways that was the simplest explanation though it left other factors unexplained. In any case Baldwin was a key actor — and he had the films. The risk was necessary.

  Gilead did not worry about it. The factors known to him were chalked up on the blackboard of his mind, there to remain until enough variables become constants to permit a solution by logic. The ride was very pleasant.

  Steve put him down on the lawn of a large rambling ranch house, introduced him to a motherly old party named Mrs. Garver, and took off. “Make yourself at home, Joe," she told him, “Your room is the last one in the east wing — shower across from it, Supper in ten minutes."

  He thanked her and took the suggestion, getting back to the living room with a minute or two to spare. Several others, a dozen or more of both sexes, were there. The place seemed to be a sort of a dude ranch — not entirely dude, as he had seen Herefords on the spread as Steve and he were landing.

  The other guests seemed to take his arrival as a matter of course. No one asked why he was there. One of the women introduced herself as Thalia Wagner and then took him around the group. Ma Garver came in swinging a dinner bell as this was going on and they all filed into a long, low dining room. Gilead could not remember when he had had so good a meal in such amusing company.

  After eleven hours of sleep, his first real rest in several days, he came fully, suddenly awake at a group of sounds his subconscious could not immediately classify and refused to discount. He opened his eyes, swept the room with them, and was at once out of bed, crouching on the side away from the door. There were hurrying footsteps moving past his bedroom door. There were two voices, one male, one female, outside the door; the female was Thalia Wagner, the man he could not place.

  Male: “tsamaeq?"

  Female: “ntSt"

  Male: “zutntst."

  Female: “tpbit" New Jersey."

  These are not precisely the sounds that Gilead heard, first because of the limitations of phonetic symbols, and second because his ears were not used to the sounds. Hearing is a function of the brain, not of the ear; his brain, sophisticated as it was, nevertheless insisted on forcing the sounds that reached his ears into familiar pockets rather than stop to create new ones.

  Thalia Wagner identified, he relaxed and stood up. Thalia was part of the unknown situation he accepted in coming here; a stranger known to her he must accept also. The new unknowns, including the odd language, he filed under “pending" and put aside.

  The clothes he had had were gone, but his money — Baldwin’s money, rather — was where his clothes had been and with it his work card as Jack Gillespie and his few personal articles. By them some one had laid out a fresh pair of walking shorts and new sneakers, in his size.

  He noted, with almost shocking surprise, that some one had been able to serve him thus without waking him.

  He put on his shorts and shoes and went out. Thalia and her companion had left while he dressed. No one was about and he found the dining room empty, but three places were set, including his own of supper, and hot dishes and facilities were on the sideboard. He selected baked ham and hot rolls, fried four eggs, poured coffee. Twenty minutes later, warmly replenished and still alone, he stepped out on the veranda.

  It was a beautiful day. He was drinking it in and eyeing with friendly interest a desert lark when a young woman came around the side of the house. She was dressed much as he was, allowing for difference in sex, and she was comely, though not annoyingly so. “Good morning," he said.

  She stopped, put her hands on her hips, and looked him up and down. “Well!" she said. “Why doesn’t somebody tell me these things?"

  Then she added, “Are you married?"

  “No."

  “I’m shopping around. Object: matrimony. Let’s get acquainted."

  “I’m a hard man to marry. I’ve been avoiding it for years."

  “They’re all hard to marry." she said bitterly. “There’s a new colt down at the corral. Come on."

  They went. The colt’s name was War Conqueror of Baldwin; hers was Gail. After proper protocol with mare and son they left. “Unless you have pressing engagements," said Gail, “now is a salubrious time to go swimming."

  “If salubrious means what I think it does, yes."

  The spot was shaded by cottonwoods, the bottom was sandy; for a while he felt like a boy again, with all such matters as lies and nova effects and death and violence away in some improbable, remote dimension. After a long while he pulled himself up on the bank and said, “Gail, what does 'tsumaeq’ mean?"

  “Come again?" she answered. “I had water in my ear."

  He repeated all of the conversation he had heard. She looked incredulous, then laughed. “You didn’t hear that, Joe, you just didn’t." She added “You got the 'New Jersey,’ part right."

  “But I did."

  “Say it again."

  He did so, more carefully, and giving a fair imitation of the speakers’ accents.

  Gail chortled. “I got the gist of it that time. That Thalia; someday some strong man is going to wring her neck."

  “But what does it mean?"

  Gail gave him a long, sidewise look. “If you ever find out, I really will marry you, in spite of your protests."

  Some one was whistling from the hilltop. “Joe! Joe Greene — the boss wants you."

  “Gotta go," he said to Gail. “G’bye."

  “See you later," she corrected him.

  Baldwin was waiting in a study as comfortable as himself. “Hi, Joe," he greeted him. “Grab a seatful of chair. They been treating you right?"

  “Yes, indeed. Do you always set as good a table as I’ve enjoyed so far?"

  Baldwin patted his middle. “How do you think I came by my nickname?"

  “Kettle Belly, I’d like a lot of explanations."

  “Joe, I’m right sorry you lost your job. If I’d had my druthers, it wouldn’t have been the way it was."

  “Are you working with Mrs. Keithley?"

  “No. I’m against her."

  “I’d like to believe that, but I’ve no reason to — yet. What were you doing where I found you?"

  “They had grabbed me — Mrs. Keithley and her boys."

  “They just happened to grab you — and just happened to stuff you in the same cell with me — and you just happened to know about the films I was supposed to be guarding — and you just happened to have a double deck of cards in your pocket? Now, really!"

  “If I hadn’t had the cards, we would have found some other way to talk," Kettle Belly said mildly. “Wouldn’t we, now?"

  “Yes. Granted."

  “I didn’t mean to suggest that the set up was an accident. We had you covered from Moon Base; when you were grabbed — or rather as soon as you let them suck you into the New Age, I saw to it that they grabbed me too; I figured I might have a chance to lend you a hand, once I was inside." He added, “I kinda let them think that I was an FBS man, too."

  “I see. Then it was just luck that they locked us up together."

  “Not luck," Kettle Belly objected. “Luck is a bonus that follows careful planning — it’s never free. There was a computable probability that they would put us together in hopes of finding out what they wanted to know. We hit the jackpot because we paid for the chance. If we hadn’t, I would have had to crush out of that cell and look for you — but I had to be inside to do it."

  “Who is Mrs. Keithley?"

  “Other than what she is publicly, I take it. She is the queen bee — or the black widow — of a gang. 'Gang’ is a poor wo
rd-power group, maybe. One of several such groups, more or less tied together where their interests don’t cross. Between them they divvy up the country for whatever they want like two cats splitting a gopher."

  Gilead nodded; he knew what Baldwin meant, though he had not known that the enormously respected Mrs. Keithley was in such matters — not until his nose had been rubbed in the fact. “And what are you. Kettle Belly?"

  “Now, Joe — I like you and I’m truly sorry you’re in a jam. You led wrong a couple of times and I was obliged to trump, as the stakes were high. See here, I feel that I owe you something; what do you say to this: we’ll fix you up with a brand-new personality. vacuum tight — even new fingerprints if you want them. Pick any spot on the globe you like and any occupation; we’ll supply all the money you need to start over — or money enough to retire and play with the cuties the rest of your life. What do you say?"

  “No." There was no hesitation.

  “You’ve no close relatives, no intimate trends. Think about it. I can’t put you back in your job; this is the best I can do."

  “I’ve thought about it. The devil with the job, I want to finish my case! You’re the key to it."

  “Reconsider, Joe. This is your chance to get out of affairs of state and lead a normal, happy life."

  " 'Happy’, he says!"

  “Well, safe, anyhow. If you insist on going further your life expectancy becomes extremely problematical. “

  “I don’t recall ever having tried to play safe."

  “You’re the doctor, Joe. In that case —" A speaker on Baldwin’s desk uttered: “cenie B hdg rylp."

  Baldwin answered, “nu," and sauntered quickly to the fireplace. An early-morning fire still smouldered in it. He grasped the mantel piece, pulled it toward him. The entire masonry assembly, hearth, mantel, and grate, came toward him, leaving an arch in the wall. “Duck down stairs, Joe," he said. “It’s a raid."

  “A real priest’s hole!"

  “Yeah, corny, ain’t it? This joint has more bolt holes than a rabbit’s nest — and booby-trapped, too. Too many gadgets, if you ask me." He went back to his desk, opened a drawer, removed three film spools and dropped them in a pocket.

  Gilead was about to go down the staircase; seeing the spools, he stopped. “Go ahead, Joe," Baldwin said urgently. “You’re covered and outnumbered. With this raid showing up we wouldn’t have time to fiddle; we’d just have to kill you."

  They stopped in a room well underground, another study much like the one above, though lacking sunlight and view. Baldwin said something in the odd language to the mike on the desk, was answered.

  Gilead experimented with the idea that the lingo might be reversed English, discarded the notion.

  “As I was saying," Baldwin went on, “if you are dead set on knowing all the answers —"

  “Just a moment. What about this raid?"

  “Just the government boys. They won’t be rough and not too thorough. Ma Garver can handle them. We won’t have to hurt anybody as long as they don’t use penetration radar."

  Gilead smiled wryly at the disparagement of his own former service. “And if they do?"

  “That gimmick over there squeals like a pig, if it’s touched by penetration frequencies. Even then we’re safe against anything short of an A-bomb. They won’t do that; they want the films, not a hole in the ground. Which reminds me — here, catch."

  Gilead found himself suddenly in possession of the films which were at the root of the matter. He unspooled a few frames and made certain that they were indeed the right films. He sat still and considered how he might get off this limb and back to the ground without dropping the eggs. The speaker again uttered something; Baldwin did not answer it but said, “We won’t be down here long."

  “Bonn seems to have decided to check my report." Some of his — former — comrades were upstairs. If he did Baldwin in, could he locate the inside control for the door?

  “Bonn is a poor sort. He’ll check me — but not too thoroughly; I’m rich. He won’t check Mrs. Keithley at all; she’s too rich. He thinks with his political ambitions instead of his head. His late predecessor was a better man — he was one of us."

  Gilead’s tentative plans underwent an abrupt reversal. His oath had been to a government; his personal loyalty had been given to his former boss. “Prove that last remark and I shall be much interested. “

  “No, you’ll come to learn that it’s true — if you still insist on knowing the answers. Through checking those films, Joe? Toss 'em back."

  Gilead did not do so. “I suppose you have made copies in any case?"

  “Wasn’t necessary; I looked at them. Don’t get ideas, Joe; you’re washed up with the FBS, even if you brought the films and my head back on a platter. You slugged your boss — remember?"

  Gilead remembered that he had not told Baldwin so. He began to believe that Baldwin did have men inside the FBS, whether his late bureau chief had been one of them or not.

  “I would at least be allowed to resign with a clear record. I know Bonn — officially he would be happy to forget it." He was simply stalling for time, waiting for Baldwin to offer an opening.

  “Chuck them back, Joe. I don’t want to rassle. One of us might get killed — both of us, if you won the first round. You can’t prove your case, because I can prove I was home teasing the cat. I sold 'copters to two very respectable citizens at the exact time you would claim I was somewhere else." He listened again to the speaker, answered it in the same gibberish.

  Gilead’s mind evaluated his own tactical situation to the same answer that Baldwin had expressed. Not being given to wishful thinking he at once tossed the films to Baldwin.

  “Thanks, Joe." He went to a small oubliette set in the wall, switched if to full power, put the films in the hopper, waited a few seconds, and switched it off. “Good riddance to bad rubbish."

  Gilead permitted his eyebrows to climb. “Kettle Belly, you’ve managed to surprise me."

  “How?"

  “I thought you wanted to keep the nova effect as a means to power."

  “Nuts! Scalping a man is a hell of a poor way to cure him of dandruff. Joe, how much do you know about the nova effect?"

  “Not much. I know it’s a sort of atom bomb powerful enough to scare the pants off anybody who gets to thinking about it."

  “It’s not a bomb. It’s not a weapon. It’s a means of destroying a planet and everything on it completely — by turning that planet into a nova. If that’s a weapon, military or political, then I’m Samson and you’re Delilah.

  “But I’m not Samson," he went on, “and I don’t propose to pull down the Temple — nor let anybody else do so. There are moral lice around who would do just that, if anybody tried to keep them from having their own way. Mrs. Keithley is one such. Your boy friend Bonn is another such, if only he had the guts and the savvy — which he ain’t. I’m bent on frustrating such people. What do you know about ballistics, Joe?"

  “Grammar school stuff."

  “Inexcusable ignorance." The speaker sounded again; he answered it without breaking his flow. “The problem of three bodies still lacks a neat general solution, but there are several special solutions — the asteroids that chase Jupiter in Jupiter’s own orbit at the sixty degree position, for example. And there’s the straight-line solution — you’ve heard of the asteroid 'Earth-Anti’?"

  “That’s the chunk of rock that is always on the other side of the Sun, where we never see it."

  “That’s right — only it ain’t there any more. It’s been novaed."

  Gilead, normally immune to surprise, had been subjected to one too many. “Huh? I thought this nova effect was theory?"

  “Nope. If you had had time to scan through the films you would have seen pictures of it. It’s a plutonium, lithium, and heavy water deal, with some flourishes we won’t discuss. It adds up to the match that can set afire a world. It did — a little world flared up and was gone.

  “Nobody saw it happen. No on
e on Earth could see it, for it was behind the Sun. It couldn’t have been seen from Moon Colony; the Sun still blanked it off from there — visualize the geometry. All that ever saw it were a battery of cameras in a robot ship. All who knew about it were the scientists who rigged it — and all of them were with us, except the director — If he had been, too, you would never have been in this mix up,"

  “Dr. Finnley?"

  “Yep. A nice guy, but a mind like a pretzel. A 'political’ scientist, second-rate ability. He doesn’t matter; our boys will ride herd on him until he’s pensioned off. But we couldn’t keep him from reporting and sending the films down. So I had to grab 'em and destroy them."

  “Why didn’t you simply save them? All other considerations aside, they are unique in science."

  “The human race doesn’t need that bit of science, not this millennium. I saved all that mattered, Joe — in my head."

  “You are your cousin Hartley, aren’t you?"

  “Of course. But I’m also Kettle Belly Baldwin, and several other guys."

  “You can be Lady Godiva, for all of me."

  “As Hartley, I was entitled to those films, Joe. It was my project. I instigated it, through my boys."

  “I never credited Finnley with it. I’m not a physicist, but he obviously isn’t up to it."

  “Sure, sure. I was attempting to prove that an artificial nova could not be created; the political — the racial — importance of establishing the point is obvious. It backfired on me — so we had to go into emergency action."

  “Perhaps you should have left well enough alone."

  “No. It s better to know the worst; now we can be alert for it, divert research away from it." The speaker growled again; Baldwin went on. “There may be a divine destiny, Joe, unlikely as it seems, that makes really dangerous secrets too difficult to be broached until intelligence reaches the point where it can cope with them — if said intelligence has the will and me good intentions. Ma Garver says to come up now."

  They headed for the stairs. “I’m surprised that you leave it up to an old gal like Ma to take charge during an emergency."

  “She’s competent, I assure you. But I was running things — you heard me."