The Fantasies of Robert A. Heinlein

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “What camera truck?”

  “Ain’t this a movie?”

  “Good grief, no! That car is filled with kidnappers. Faster!”

  “A snatch? I don’t want no part of it.” He braked suddenly.

  Pete took the ax and prodded the driver. “You catch ’em!”

  The hack speeded up again but the driver protested, “Not in this wreck. They got more power than me.”

  Pappy grabbed Pete’s arm. “There’s Kitten!”

  “Where? Oh, never mind that now!”

  “Slow down!” yelled Pappy. “Kitten, oh, Kitten—over here!”

  The whirlwind swooped down and kept pace with them. Pappy called to it. “Here, baby! Go get that car! Up ahead—get it!”

  Kitten seemed confused, uncertain. Pappy repeated it and she took off—like a whirlwind. She dipped and gathered a load of paper and trash as she flew.

  They saw her dip and strike the car ahead, throwing paper in the face of the driver. The car wobbled. She struck again. The car veered, climbed the curb, ricocheted against the crash rail, and fetched up against a lamp post.

  FIVE MINUTES LATER PETE, HAVING left Kitten, Clarence, and the fire ax to hold the fort over two hoodlums suffering from abrasion, multiple contusions and shock, was feeding a dime into a pay phone at the nearest filling station. He dialed long distance. “Gimme the FBI’s kidnap number,” he demanded. “You know—the Washington, D.C., snatch number.”

  “My goodness,” said the operator, “do you mind if I listen in?”

  “Get me that number!”

  “Right away!”

  Presently a voice answered, “Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Lemme talk to Hoover! Huh? Okay, okay—I’ll talk to you. Listen this is a snatch case. I’ve got ’em on ice, for the moment, but unless you get one of your boys from your local office here pronto there won’t be any snatch case—not if the city cops get here first. What?” Pete quieted down and explained who he was, where he was, and the more believable aspects of the events that had led up to the present situation. The government man cut in on him as he was urging speed and more speed and assured him that the local office was already being notified.

  Pete got back to the wreck just as Lieutenant Dumbrosky climbed out of a squad car. Pete hurried up. “Don’t do it, Dumbrosky,” he yelled.

  The big cop hesitated. “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t do anything. The FBI are on their way now—and you’re already implicated. Don’t make it any worse.”

  Pete pointed to the two hoodlums; Clarence was sitting on one and resting the spike of the ax against the back of the other. “These birds have already sung. This town is about to fall apart. If you hurry, you might be able to get a plane for Mexico.”

  Dumbrosky looked at him. “Wise guy,” he said doubtfully.

  “Ask them. They confessed.”

  One of the hoods raised his head. “We was threatened,” he announced. “Take ’em in, lieutenant. They assaulted us.”

  “Go ahead,” Pete said cheerfully. “Take us all in—together. Then you won’t be able to lose that pair before the FBI can question them. Maybe you can cop a plea.”

  “Now?” asked Clarence.

  Dumbrosky swung around. “Put that ax down!”

  “Do as he says, Clarence. Get your camera ready to get a picture as the G-men arrive.”

  “You didn’t send for no G-men.”

  “Look behind you!”

  A dark blue sedan slid quietly to a stop and four lean, brisk men got out. The first of them said, “Is there someone here named Peter Perkins?”

  “Me,” said Pete. “Do you mind if I kiss you?”

  It was after dark but the parking lot was crowded and noisy. A stand for the new Mayor and distinguished visitors had been erected on one side, opposite it was a bandstand; across the front was a large illuminated sign: HOME OF KITTEN—HONORARY CITIZEN OF OUR FAIR CITY.

  In the fenced-off circle in the middle Kitten herself bounced and spun and swayed and danced. Pete stood on one side of the circle with Pappy opposite him; at four-foot intervals around it children were posted. “All set?” called out Pete.

  “All set,” answered Pappy. Together, Pete, Pappy and the kids started throwing serpentine into the ring. Kitten swooped, gathered the ribbons up and wrapped them around herself.

  “Confetti!” yelled Pete. Each of the kids dumped a sackful toward the whirlwind—little of it reached the ground.

  “Balloons!” yelled Pete. “Lights!” Each of the children started blowing up toy balloons; each had a dozen different colors. As fast as they were inflated they fed them to Kitten. Floodlights and searchlights came on; Kitten was transformed into a fountain of boiling, bubbling color, several stories high.

  “Now?” said Clarence.

  “Now!”

  THE MAN WHO TRAVELED IN ELEPHANTS

  Rain streamed across the bus’s window. John Watts peered out at wooded hills, content despite the weather. As long as he was rolling, moving, traveling, the ache of loneliness was somewhat quenched. He could close his eyes and imagine that Martha was seated beside him.

  They had always traveled together; they had honeymooned covering his sales territory. In time they had covered the entire country—Route 66, with the Indians’ booths by the highway, Route 1, up through the District, the Pennsylvania Turnpike, zipping in and out through the mountain tunnels, himself hunched over the wheel and Martha beside him, handling the maps and figuring the mileage to their next stop.

  He recalled one of Martha’s friends saying, “But, dear, don’t you get tired of it?”

  He could hear Martha’s bubbly laugh. “With forty-eight wide and wonderful states to see, grow tired? Besides, there is always something new—fairs and expositions and things.”

  “But when you’ve seen one fair you’ve seen them all.”

  “You think there is no difference between the Santa Barbara Fiesta and the Fort Worth Fat Stock Show? Anyhow,” Martha had gone on, “Johnny and I are country cousins; we like to stare at the tall buildings and get freckles on the roofs of our mouths.”

  “Do be sensible, Martha.” The woman had turned to him. “John, isn’t it time that you two were settling down and making something out of your lives?”

  Such people tired him. “It’s for the ’possums,” he had told her solemnly. “They like to travel.”

  “The opossums? What in the world is he talking about, Martha?”

  Martha had shot him a private glance, then dead-panned, “Oh, I’m sorry! You see, Johnny raises baby ’possums in his umbilicus.”

  “I’m equipped for it,” he had confirmed, patting his round stomach.

  That had settled her hash! He had never been able to stand people who gave advice “for your own good.”

  Martha had read somewhere that a litter of new-born opossums would no more than fill a teaspoon and that as many as six in a litter were often orphans through lack of facilities in mother ’possums pouch to take care of them all. They had immediately formed the Society for the Rescue and Sustenance of the Other Six ’Possums, and Johnny himself had been unanimously selected—by Martha—as the site of Father Johnny’s ’Possum Town.

  They had had other imaginary pets, too. Martha and he had hoped for children; when none came, their family had filled out with invisible little animals; Mr. Jenkins, the little grey burro who advised them about motels. Chipmink the chattering chipmunk, who lived in the glove compartment, Mus Followalongus the traveling mouse, who never said anything but who would bite unexpectedly, especially around Martha’s knees.

  They were all gone now; they had gradually faded away for lack of Martha’s gay, infectious spirit to keep them in health. Even Bindlestiff, who was not invisible, was no longer with him. Bindlestiff was a dog they had picked up beside the road, far out in the desert, given water and succor and received in return his large and uncritical heart. Bindlestiff had traveled with them thereafter, until he, too, had been calle
d away, shortly after Martha.

  John Watts wondered about Bindlestiff. Did he roam free in the Dog Star, in a land lush with rabbits and uncovered garbage pails? More likely he was with Martha, sitting on her feet and getting in the way. Johnny hoped so.

  He sighed and turned his attention to the passengers. A thin, very elderly woman leaned across the aisle and said, “Going to the Fair, young man?”

  He started. It was twenty years since anyone had called him “young man.” “Unh? Yes, certainly.” They were all going to the Fair: the bus was special.

  “You like going to fairs?”

  “Very much.” He knew that her inane remarks were formal gambits to start a conversation. He did not resent it; lonely old women have need of talk with strangers—and so did he. Besides, he liked perky old women. They seemed the very spirit of America to him, putting him in mind of church sociables and farm kitchens—and covered wagons.

  “I like fairs, too,” she went on. “I even used to exhibit—quince jelly and my Crossing-the-Jordan pattern.”

  “Blue ribbons, I’ll bet.”

  “Some,” she admitted, “but mostly I just liked to go to them. I’m Mrs. Alma Hill Evans. Mr. Evans was a great one for doings. Take the exposition when they opened the Panama Canal—but you wouldn’t remember that.”

  John Watts admitted that he had not been there.

  “It wasn’t the best of the lot, anyway. The Fair of ’93, there was a fair for you: There’ll never be one that’ll even be a patch on that one.”

  “Until this one, perhaps?”

  “This one? Pish and tush! Size isn’t everything.” The All-American Exposition would certainly be the biggest thing yet—and the best. If only Martha were along, it would seem like heaven. The old lady changed the subject. “You’re a traveling man, aren’t you?”

  He hesitated, then answered, “Yes.”

  “I can always tell. What line are you in, young man?”

  He hesitated longer, then said flatly, “I travel in elephants.”

  She looked at him sharply and he wanted to explain, but loyalty to Martha kept his mouth shut. Martha had insisted that they treat their calling seriously, never explaining, never apologizing. They had taken it up when he had planned to retire; they had been talking of getting an acre of ground and doing something useful with radishes, or rabbits, or such. Then, during their final trip over his sales route, Martha had announced after a long silence, “John, you don’t want to stop traveling.”

  “Eh? Don’t I? You mean we should keep the territory?”

  “No, that’s done. But we won’t settle down, either.”

  “What do you want to do? Just gypsy around?”

  “Not exactly. I think we need some new line to travel in.”

  “Hardware? Shoes? Ladies’ ready-to-wear?”

  “No.” She had stopped to think. “We ought to travel in something. It gives point to your movements. I think it ought to be something that doesn’t turn over too fast, so that we could have a really large territory, say the whole United States.”

  “Battleships perhaps?”

  “Battleships are out of date, but that’s close.” Then they had passed a barn with a tattered circus poster. “I’ve got it!” she had shouted. “Elephants! We’ll travel in elephants.”

  “Elephants, eh? Rather hard to carry samples.”

  “We don’t need to. Everybody knows what an elephant looks like. Isn’t that right, Mr. Jenkins?” The invisible burro had agreed with Martha, as he always did; the matter was settled.

  Martha had known just how to go about it. “First we make a survey. We’ll have to comb the United States from corner to corner before we’ll be ready to take orders.”

  For ten years they had conducted the survey. It was an excuse to visit every fair, zoo, exposition, stock show, circus, or punkin doings anywhere, for were they not all prospective customers? Even national parks and other natural wonders were included in the survey, for how was one to tell where a pressing need for an elephant might turn up? Martha had treated the matter with a straight face and had kept a dogeared notebook: “La Brea Tar Pits, Los Angeles—surplus of elephants, obsolete type, in these parts about 25,000 years ago.” “Philadelphia—sell at least six to the Union League.” “Brookfield Zoo, Chicago—African elephants, rare.” “Gallup, New Mexico—stone elephants east of town, very beautiful.” “Riverside, California, Elephant Barbershop—brace owner to buy mascot.” “Portland, Oregon—query Douglas Fir Association. Recite Road to Mandalay. Same for Southern Pine group. N.B. this calls for trip to Gulf Coast as soon as we finish with rodeo in Laramie.”

  Ten years and they had enjoyed every mile of it. The survey was still unfinished when Martha had been taken. John wondered if she had buttonholed Saint Peter about the elephant situation in the Holy City. He’d bet a nickel she had.

  But he could not admit to a stranger that traveling in elephants was just his wife’s excuse for traveling around the country they loved.

  The old woman did not press the matter. “I knew a man once who sold mongooses,” she said cheerfully. “Or is it ‘mongeese’? He had been in the exterminator business and—what does that driver think he is doing?”

  The big bus had been rolling along easily despite the driving rain. Now it was swerving, skidding. It lurched sickeningly—and crashed.

  John Watts banged his head against the seat in front. He was picking himself up, dazed, not too sure where he was, when Mrs. Evans’ thin, confident soprano oriented him. “Nothing to get excited about, folks. I’ve been expecting this—and you can see it didn’t hurt a bit.”

  John Watts admitted that he himself was unhurt. He peered nearsightedly around, then fumbled on the sloping floor for his glasses. He found them, broken. He shrugged and put them aside; once they arrived he could dig a spare pair out of his bags.

  “Now let’s see what has happened.” Mrs. Evans went on. “Come along, young man.” He followed obediently.

  The right wheel of the bus leaned drunkenly against the curb of the approach to a bridge. The driver was standing in the rain, dabbing at a cut on his cheek. “I couldn’t help it,” he was saying. “A dog ran across the road and I tried to avoid it.”

  “You might have killed us!” a woman complained.

  “Don’t cry till you’re hurt,” advised Mrs. Evans. “Now let’s get back into the bus while the driver phones for someone to pick us up.”

  John Watts hung back to peer over the side of the canyon spanned by the bridge. The ground dropped away steeply; almost under him were large, mean-looking rocks. He shivered and got back into the bus.

  The relief car came along very promptly, or else he must have dozed. The latter, he decided, for the rain had stopped and the sun was breaking through the clouds. The relief driver thrust his head in the door and shouted, “Come on folks! Time’s a-wastin’! Climb out and climb in.” Hurrying, John stumbled as he got aboard. The new driver gave him a hand.

  “’Smatter, Pop? Get shaken up?”

  “I’m all right, thanks.”

  “Sure you are. Never better.”

  He found a seat by Mrs. Evans, who smiled and said, “Isn’t it a heavenly day?”

  He agreed. It was a beautiful day, now that the storm had broken. Great fleecy clouds tumbling up into warm blue sky, a smell of clean wet pavement, drenched fields and green things growing—he lay back and savored it. While he was soaking it up a great double rainbow formed and blazed in the eastern sky. He looked at them and made two wishes, one for himself and one for Martha. The rainbows’ colors seemed to be reflected in everything he saw. Even the other passengers seemed younger, happier, better dressed, now that the sun was out. He felt light-hearted, almost free from his aching loneliness.

  They were there in jig time; the new driver more than made up the lost minutes. A great arch stretched across the road: THE ALL-AMERICAN CELEBRATION AND EXPOSITION OF ARTS and under it PEACE AND GOOD WILL TO ALL. They drove through and sighed to a stop.


  Mrs. Evans hopped up. “Got a date—must run!” She trotted to the door, then called back, “See you on the midway, young man,” and disappeared in the crowd.

  John Watts got out last and turned to speak to the driver. “Oh, uh, about my baggage. I want to—”

  The driver had started his engine again. “Don’t worry about your baggage,” he called out. “You’ll be taken care of.” The huge bus moved away.

  “But—” John Watts stopped; the bus was gone. All very well—but what was he to do without his glasses?

  But there were sounds of carnival behind him, that decided him. After all, he thought, tomorrow will do. If anything is too far away for me to see, I can always walk closer. He joined the queue at the gate and went in.

  It was undeniably the greatest show ever assembled for the wonderment of mankind. It was twice as big as all outdoors, brighter than bright lights, newer than new, stupendous, magnificent, breathtaking, awe inspiring, supercolossal, incredible—and a lot of fun. Every community in America had sent its own best to this amazing show. The marvels of P.T. Barnum, of Ripley, and of all Tom Edison’s godsons had been gathered in one spot. From up and down a broad continent the riches of a richly endowed land and the products of a clever and industrious people had been assembled, along with their folk festivals, their annual blow-outs, their celebrations, and their treasured carnival customs. The result was as American as strawberry shortcake and as gaudy as a Christmas tree, and it all lay there before him, noisy and full of life and crowded with happy, holiday people.

  Johnny Watts took a deep breath and plunged into it.

  He started with the Fort Worth Southwestern Exposition and Fat Stock Show and spent an hour admiring gentle, whitefaced steers, as wide and square as flat-topped desks, scrubbed and curried, with their hair parted neatly from skull to base of spine, then day-old little black lambs on rubbery stalks of legs, too new to know themselves, fat ewes, their broad backs paddled flatter and fatter by grave-eyed boys intent on blue ribbons. Next door he found the Pomona Fair with solid matronly Percherons and dainty Palominos from the Kellog Ranch.