(For some of the more important unanswered questions in Stranger see chapter 33, especially page 344 of the hardcover, the paragraph starting: "All names belong in the hat, Ben.")
Starship Troopers is loaded with unanswered questions, too. Many people rejected that book with a cliché—"fascist," or "militaristic." They can't read or won't read; it is neither. It is a dead serious (but incomplete) inquiry into why men fight. Since men do fight, it is a question well worth asking.
My latest book, I Will Fear No Evil, is even more loaded with serious, unanswered questions—perhaps too laden; the story line sags a little. But the questions are dead serious—because, if they remain unanswered, we wind up dead. It does not affect me personally too much, at least not in this life, as I will probably be dead before the present trends converge in major catastroohe. Nevertheless, I worry about them. I think we are in a real bind . . . and that the answers are not to be found in simplistic "nature communes," nor in "Zero Population Growth," which does not embrace the entire globe. There may be no answers fully satisfactory . . . and even incomplete answers will be very difficult.
I find that I have written an essay to myself rather than a letter. Forgive me—perhaps I have reached the age at which one maunders. But I hope I have convinced you that Stranger is dead serious . . . as questions. Serious, nontrivial questions, on which a man might spend a lifetime. (And I almost have.)
But anyone who takes that book as answers is cheating himself. It is an invitation to think—not to believe. Anyone who takes it as a license to screw as he pleases is taking a risk; Mrs. Grundy is not dead. Or any other sharp affront to the contemporary culture done publicly—there are stern warnings in it about the dangers involved. Certainly "Do as thou wilt is the whole of the Law" is correct when looked at properly—in fact, it is a law of nature, not an injunction, nor a permission. But it is necessary to remember that it applies to everyone—including lynch mobs. The Universe is what it is, and it never forgives mistakes—not even ignorant ones . . .
AFTERWORD
Before the cut version of I Will Fear No Evil was ready for publication, Robert was taken ill. For two years he was laid up with various illnesses and operations. At last, in 1972, he was well enough and very eager to begin writing again. His next book was Time Enough for Love.
In addition to changes in the times and customs, Robert now had a reputation that allowed him to do such books as he preferred to do. It is possible that, at least in part, Stranger had had some effects upon the sexual revolution of the sixties and seventies. It was in tune with the moods of the times. So his publishers did not object to the length of Time Enough for Love, and one thing I found curious—there was no objection at all to the incest scenes. Not even reviewers mentioned it.
The following two years were mostly taken up with study of advances in physical and biological sciences. How could one write science fiction without keeping up with what was being discovered in those fields? These studies were undertaken for two articles for the Britannica Compton Yearbook: "Dirac, Antimatter and You," and "Are you a 'Rare Blood.' "
Another serious illness occurred in 1978. Following his recuperation from that, Robert went to his computer and wrote The Number of the Beast. Aside from a very few flags on the copy-edited manuscript, he was asked to cut by 2,000 words (!) out of an estimated 200,000 words. That was, of course, an easy task.
Expanded Universe followed, at the behest of James Baen. To our surprise, this book generated far more mail than any other book Robert had ever written. For two years, I was tied to the computer answering the fan mail which resulted from its publication.
In 1981, at seventy-four years of age, Robert decided that he would no longer do any of the special little tasks which being a well-known writer entails: no more speeches (even to librarians), no more appearances at conventions—his health would not permit the pressure. He would simply write the books he wanted to write.
So he wrote Friday, then Job, The Cat Who Walks through Walls, and his final book, To Sail Beyond the Sunset. Each of these books differed from anything he had previously done, and some displayed new techniques he had been inventing.
To Sail was published on Robert's 80th birthday in 1987, by special arrangement with his publisher. The only further item Robert wrote was the foreword for Ted Sturgeon's novel Godbody. While contract negotiations for To Sail were still going on, Robert came down with what was to be his final illness. For almost two years, he hovered between illness and frail health, but finally succumbed on May 8, 1988.
(249)
In 1977, Heinlein organized a major blood drive among science fiction fans.
APPENDICES
APPENDIX A
CUTS IN Red Planet
[Alice Dalgliesh, the editor at Scribner's, objected to anything that might be construed as having some sexual connotations and also to the use of guns by youngsters, as well as other matters. As a result, Heinlein was forced to make a number of cuts in his original manuscript. Some of these are shown here. Chapter and paragraph numbers refer to Red Planet as originally published.]
Between Chapter II, paragraph 13 and Chapter II, middle of paragraph 23:
The second generation trooped out. Phyllis said, "Take the charges out of your gun, Jimmy, and let me practice with it."
"You're too young for a gun."
"Pooh! I can outshoot you." This was very nearly true and not to be borne; Phyllis was two years younger than Jim and female besides.
"Girls are just target shooters. If you saw a water-seeker, you'd scream."
"I would, huh? We'll go hunting together and I'll bet you two credits that I score first."
"You haven't got two credits."
"I have, too."
"Then how was it you couldn't lend me a half credit yesterday?"
Phyllis changed the subject. Jim hung up his weapon in his cupboard and locked it. Presently they were back in the living room, to find that their father was home and dinner ready.
Phyllis waited for a lull in grown-up talk to say, "Daddy?"
"Yes, Puddin'? What is it?"
"Isn't it about time I had a pistol of my own?"
"Eh? Plenty of time for that later. You keep up your target practice."
"But, look, Daddy—Jim's going away and that means that Ollie can't ever go outside unless you or mother have time to take him. If I had a gun, I could help out."
Mr. Marlowe wrinkled his brow. "You've got a point. You've passed all your tests, haven't you?"
"You know I have!"
"What do you think, my dear? Shall we take Phyllis down to city hall and see if they will license her?"
Before Mrs. Marlowe could answer Doctor MacRae muttered something into his plate. The remark was forceful and probably not polite.
"Eh? What did you say, Doctor?"
"I said," answered MacRae, "that I was going to move to another planet. At least that's what I meant."
"Why? What's wrong with this one? In another twenty years we'll have it fixed up good as new. You'll be able to walk outside without a mask."
"Sir, it is not the natural limitations of this globe that I object to; it is the pantywaist nincompoops who rule it— These ridiculous regulations offend me. That a free citizen should have to go before a committee, hat in hand, and pray for permission to bear arms—fantastic! Arm your daughter, sir, and pay no attention to petty bureaucrats."
Jim's father stirred his coffee. "I'm tempted to. I really don't know why the Company set up such rules in the first place."
"Pure copy-cattism. The swarming beehives back on Earth have similar childish rules; the fat clerks that decide these things cannot imagine any other conditions. This is a frontier community; it should be free of such."
"Mmmm . . . probably you're right, Doctor. Can't say that I disagree with you, but I'm so busy trying to get on with my job that I really don't have time to worry about politics. It's easier to comply than to fight a test case." Jim's father turned to his wife. "If it's al
l right with you, my dear, could you find time to arrange for a license for Phyllis?"
"Why, yes," she answered doubtfully, "if you really think she's old enough." The doctor muttered something that combined "Danegeld" and the "Boston Tea Party" in the same breath. Phyllis answered:
"Sure, I'm old enough, Mother. I'm a better shot than Jimmy."
Jim said, "You're crazy as a spin bug!"
"Mind your manners, Jim," his father cautioned. "We don't speak that way to ladies."
"Was she talking like a lady? I ask you, Dad."
"You are bound to assume that she is one. Drop the matter. What were you saying, Doctor?"
"Eh? Nothing that I should have been saying, I'm sure."
Between Chapter VIII, paragraph 29 and Chapter VIII, paragraph 3:
"Sure." Jim got up. In so doing he woke Willis, who extended his eyes, sized up the situation, and greeted them. Jim picked him up, scratched him, and said, "What time did you come in, you tramp?" then suddenly added, "Hey!"
" 'Hey' what?" asked Frank.
"Well, would you look at that?" Jim pointed at the tumbled silks.
Frank got up and joined him. "Look at what? Oh—"
In the hollow in which Willis had been resting were a dozen small, white spheroids, looking like so many golf balls.
"What do you suppose they are?" asked Jim.
Frank studied them closely. "Jim," he said slowly, "I think you'll just have to face it. Willis isn't a boy; he's a she."
"Huh? Oh, no!"
"Willis good boy," Willis said defensively.
"See for yourself," Frank went on to Jim. "Those are eggs. If Willis didn't lay them, you must have."
Jim looked bewildered, then turned to Willis. "Willis, did you lay those eggs? Did you?"
"Eggs?" said Willis. "What Jim boy say?"
Jim set him down by the nest and pointed. "Did you lay those?"
Willis looked at them, then figuratively shrugged his shoulders and washed his hands of the whole matter. He waddled away. His manner seemed to say that if Jim chose to make a fuss over some eggs or whatever that just happened to show up in the bed, well, that was Jim's business; Willis would have none of it.
"You won't get anything out of him," Frank commented. "I suppose you realize this makes you a grandfather, sort of."
"Don't be funny!"
"Okay, forget the eggs. When do we eat? I'm starved."
Jim gave the eggs an accusing glance and got busy on the commissary. While they were eating Gekko came in. They exchanged grave greetings, then the Martian seemed about to settle himself for another long period of silent sociability—when he caught sight of the eggs.
Neither of the boys had ever seen a Martian hurry before, nor show any signs of excitement. Gekko let out a deep snort and left the room at once, to return promptly with as many companions as could crowd into the room. They all talked at once and paid no attention to the boys.
"What goes on here?" asked Frank, as he crowded against a wall and peered through a thicket of legs.
"Blessed if I know."
After a while they calmed down a little. One of the larger Martians gathered up the eggs with exaggerated care and clutched them to him. Another picked up Willis and they all trooped out.
Jim stood hesitantly at the door and watched them disappear.
In place of text between Chapter XIII, paragraph 6 and Chapter XIII, paragraph 17:
"Certainly, certainly," agreed MacRae, "but speaking non-professionally, I'd rather see the no-good so-and-so hang. Paranoia is a disorder contracted only by those of fundamentally bad character."
"Now, Doctor," protested Rawlings.
"That's my opinion," insisted MacRae, "and I've seen a lot of cases, in and out of hospitals."
Insert to Chapter XIV, paragraph 49:
"Everything about Mars is startling. Another thing: we've never been able to find anything resembling sex on this planet—various sorts of specie conjugation, yes, but no sex. It appears to me that we missed it. I think that all the nymph Martians, the bouncers, are female; all of the adults are male. They change. I use the terms for want of better ones, of course. But if my theory is . . .
After the current ending:
Jim took it well. He accepted MacRae's much expurgated explanation and nodded. "I guess if Willis has to hibernate, well, that's that. When they come for him, I won't make any fuss. It was just that Howe and Beecher didn't have any right to take him."
"That's the slant, son. But it's right for him to go with the Martians because they know how to take care of him, when he needs it. You saw that when you were with them."
"Yes." Jim added, "Can I visit him?"
"He won't know you. He'll be asleep."
"Well—look, when he wakes up, will he know me?"
MacRae looked grave. He had asked the old one the same question. "Yes," he answered truthfully, "he'll have all his memory intact." He did not give Jim the rest of the answer—that the transition period would last more than forty Earth years.
"Well, that won't be so bad. I'm going to be awfully busy in school right now, anyhow."
"That's the spirit."
Jim looked up Frank and they went to their old room, vacant of womenfolk at the moment. Jim cradled Willis in his arms and told Frank what Doc had told him. Willis listened, but the conversation was apparently over the little Martian's depth; Willis made no comment.
Presently Willis became bored with it and started to sing. The selection was the latest Willis had heard, the tango Frank had presented to Jim: ¿Quien es la Señorita?
When it was over Frank said, "You know, Willis sounds exactly like a girl when he sings that."
Jim chuckled. "¿Quien es la Señorita, Willis?"
Willis managed to look indignant. "Willis fine boy!" she insisted.
APPENDIX B
Postlude to Podkayne of Mars—Original Version
[The editor at Putnam's was unhappy with Heinlein's original ending for Podkayne of Mars. Heinlein therefore made some changes to satisfy his requirements. In the published version, Podkayne survives; in Heinlein's original, she did not.]
POSTLUDE
I guess I had better finish this.
My sister got right to sleep after I rehearsed her in what we were going to do. I stretched out on the floor but didn't go right to sleep. I'm a worrier, she isn't. I reviewed my plans, trying to make them tighter. Then I slept.
I've got one of those built-in alarm clocks and I woke just when I planned to, an hour before dawn. Any later and there would be too much chance that Jojo might be loose, any earlier and there would be too much time in the dark. The Venus bush is chancy even when you can see well; I didn't want Poddy to step into something sticky, or step on something that would turn and bite her leg off. Nor me, either.
But we had to risk the bush, or stay and let old Gruesome kill us at her convenience. The first was a sporting chance; the latter was a dead certainty, even though I had a terrible time convincing Poddy that Mrs. Grew would kill us. Poddy's greatest weakness—the really soft place in her head, she's not too stupid otherwise—is her almost total inability to grasp that some people are as bad as they are. Evil. Poddy never has understood evil. Naughtiness is about as far as her imagination reaches.
But I understand evil, I can get right inside the skull of a person like Mrs. Grew and understand how she thinks.
Perhaps you infer from this that I am evil, or partly so. All right, want to make something of it? Whatever I am, I knew Mrs. Grew was evil before we ever left the Tricorn . . . when Poddy (and even Girdie!) thought the slob was just too darling for words.
I don't trust a person who laughs when there is nothing to laugh about. Or is good-natured no matter what happens. If it's that perfect, it's an act, a phony. So I watched her . . . and cheating at solitaire wasn't the only giveaway.
So between the bush and Mrs. Grew, I chose the bush, both for me and my sister.
Unless the air car was there and we could swipe
it. This would be a mixed blessing, as it would mean two of them to cope with, them armed and us not. (I don't count a bomb as an arm, you can't point it at a person's head.)
Before I woke Poddy I took care of that alate pseudo-simian, that "fairy." Vicious little beast. I didn't have a gun. But I didn't really want one at that point; they understand about guns and are hard to hit, they'll dive on you at once.
Instead I had shoe trees in my spare shoes, elastic bands around my spare clothes, and more elastic bands in my pockets, and several two-centimeter steel ball bearings.
Shift two wing nuts, and the long parts of the shoe trees become a steel fork. Add elastic bands and you have a sling shot. And don't laugh at a slingshot; many a sand rat has kept himself fed with only a sling shot. They are silent and you usually get your ammo back.
I aimed almost three times as high as I would at home, to allow for the local gravity, and got it right on the sternum, knocked it off its perch—crushed the skull with my heel and gave it an extra twist for the nasty bite on Poddy's arm. The young one started to whine, so I pushed the carcass over in the corner, somewhat out of sight, and put the cub on it. It shut up. I took care of all this before I woke Poddy because I knew she had sentimental fancies about these "fairies" and I didn't want her jittering and maybe grabbing my elbow. As it was—clean and fast.
She was still snoring, so I slipped off my shoes and made a fast reconnoiter.
Not so good— Our local witch was already up and reaching for her broom; in a few minutes she would be unlocking Jojo if she hadn't already. I didn't have a chance to see if the sky car was outside; I did well not to get caught. I hurried back and woke Poddy.
"Pod!" I whispered. "You awake?"
Grumbles From the Grave Page 26
