Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “I guess so,” Coster said slowly. Suddenly he stuck his hand out at LeCroix. “You fly her, Les; I’ll build her.”

  LeCroix grabbed his hand. “It’s a deal. And you and the Boss get busy and start making plans for the next job—big enough for all of us.”

  “Right!”

  Harriman put his hand on top of theirs. “That’s the way I like to hear you talk. We’ll stick together and we’ll found Luna City together.”

  “I think we ought to call it ‘Harriman,’” LeCroix said seriously.

  “Nope, I’ve thought of it as Luna City ever since I was a kid; Luna City it’s going to be. Maybe we’ll put Harriman Square in the middle of it,” he added.

  “I’ll mark it that way in the plans,” agreed Coster.

  Harriman left at once. Despite the solution he was terribly depressed and did not want his two colleagues to see it. It had been a Pyrrhic victory; he had saved the enterprise but he felt like an animal who has gnawed off his own leg to escape a trap.

  VIII

  Strong was alone in the offices of the partnership when he got a call from Dixon. “George, I was looking for D.D. Is he there?”

  “No, he’s back in Washington—something about clearances. I expect him back soon.”

  “Hmmm . . . Entenza and I want to see him. We’re coming over.”

  They arrived shortly. Entenza was quite evidently very much worked up over something; Dixon looked sleekly impassive as usual. After greetings, Dixon waited a moment, then said, “Jack, you had some business to transact, didn’t you?”

  Entenza jumped, then snatched a draft from his pocket.

  “Oh, yes! George, I’m not going to have to prorate after all. Here’s my payment to bring my share up to full payment to date.”

  Strong accepted it. “I know that Delos will be pleased.” He tucked it in a drawer.

  “Well,” said Dixon sharply, “aren’t you going to receipt for it?”

  “If Jack wants a receipt. The cancelled draft will serve.” However, Strong wrote out a receipt without further comment; Entenza accepted it.

  They waited a while. Presently Dixon said, “George, you’re in this pretty deep, aren’t you?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Want to hedge your bets?”

  “How?”

  “Well, candidly, I want to protect myself. Want to sell one-half of one percent of your share?”

  Strong thought about it. In fact he was worried—worried sick. The presence of Dixon’s auditor had forced them to keep on a cash basis—and only Strong knew how close to the line that had forced the partners. “Why do you want it?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t use it to interfere with Delos’s operations. He’s our man; we’re backing him. But I would feel a lot safer if I had the right to call a halt if he tried to commit us to something we couldn’t pay for. You know Delos; he’s an incurable optimist. We ought to have some sort of a brake on him.”

  Strong thought about it. The thing that hurt him was that he agreed with everything Dixon said; he had stood by and watched while Delos dissipated two fortunes, painfully built up through the years. D.D. no longer seemed to care. Why, only this morning he had refused even to look at a report on the H & S automatic household switch—after dumping it on Strong.

  Dixon leaned forward. “Name a price, George. I’ll be generous.”

  Strong squared his stooped shoulders. “I’ll sell—”

  “Good!”

  “—if Delos okays it. Not otherwise.”

  Dixon muttered something. Entenza snorted. The conversation might have gone acrimoniously further, had not Harriman walked in.

  No one said anything about the proposal to Strong. Strong inquired about the trip; Harriman pressed a thumb and finger together. “All in the groove! But it gets more expensive to do business in Washington every day.” He turned to the others. “How’s tricks? Any special meaning to the assemblage? Are we in executive session?”

  Dixon turned to Entenza. “Tell him, Jack.”

  Entenza faced Harriman. “What do you mean by selling television rights?”

  Harriman cocked a brow. “And why not?”

  “Because you promised them to me, that’s why. That’s the original agreement; I’ve got it in writing.”

  “Better take another look at the agreement, Jack. And don’t go off half-cocked. You have the exploitation rights for radio, television, and other amusement and special feature ventures in connection with the first trip to the Moon. You’ve still got ’em. Including broadcasts from the ship, provided we are able to make any.” He decided that this was not a good time to mention that weight considerations had already made the latter impossible; the Pioneer would carry no electronic equipment of any sort not needed in astrogation. “What I sold was the franchise to erect a television station on the Moon later. By the way, it wasn’t even an exclusive franchise, although Clem Haggerty thinks it is. If you want to buy one yourself, we can accommodate you.”

  “Buy it! Why, you—”

  “Wups! Or you can have it free, if you can get Dixon and George to agree that you are entitled to it. I won’t be a tightwad. Anything else?”

  Dixon cut in. “Just where do we stand now, Delos?”

  “Gentlemen, you can take it for granted that the Pioneer will leave on schedule—next Wednesday. And now, if you will excuse me, I’m on my way to Peterson Field.”

  After he had left his three associates sat in silence for some time, Entenza muttering to himself, Dixon apparently thinking, and Strong just waiting. Presently Dixon said, “How about that fractional share, George?”

  “You didn’t see fit to mention it to Delos.”

  “I see.” Dixon carefully deposited an ash. “He’s a strange man, isn’t he?”

  Strong shifted around. “Yes.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Let me see—he came to work for me in—”

  “He worked for you?”

  “For several months. Then we set up our first company.” Strong thought back about it. “I suppose he had a power complex, even then.”

  “No,” Dixon said carefully. “No, I wouldn’t call it a power complex. It’s more of a Messiah complex.”

  Entenza looked up. “He’s a crooked son of a bitch, that’s what he is!”

  Strong looked at him mildly. “I’d rather you wouldn’t talk about him that way. I’d really rather you wouldn’t.”

  “Stow it, Jack,” ordered Dixon. “You might force George to take a poke at you. One of the odd things about him,” went on Dixon, “is that he seems to be able to inspire an almost feudal loyalty. Take yourself. I know you are cleaned out, George—yet you won’t let me rescue you. That goes beyond logic; it’s personal.”

  Strong nodded. “He’s an odd man. Sometimes I think he’s the last of the Robber Barons.”

  Dixon shook his head. “Not the last. The last of them opened up the American West. He’s the first of the new Robber Barons—and you and I won’t see the end of it. Do you ever read Carlyle?”

  Strong nodded again. “I see what you mean, the ‘Hero’ theory, but I don’t necessarily agree with it.”

  “There’s something to it, though,” Dixon answered. “Truthfully, I don’t think Delos knows what he is doing. He’s setting up a new imperialism. There’ll be the devil to pay before it’s cleaned up.” He stood up. “Maybe we should have waited. Maybe we should have balked him—if we could have. Well, it’s done. We’re on the merry-go-round and we can’t get off. I hope we enjoy the ride. Come on, Jack.”

  IX

  The Colorado prairie was growing dusky. The Sun was behind the peak and the broad white face of Luna, full and round, was rising in the east. In the middle of Peterson Field, the Pioneer thrust toward the sky. A barbed-wire fence, a thousand yards from its base in all directions, held back the crowds. Just inside the barrier guards patrolled restlessly. More guards circulated through the crowd. Inside the fence, close to it, trucks and trailers for
camera, sound, and television equipment were parked and, at the far ends of cables, remote-control pick-ups were located both near and far from the ship on all sides. There were other trucks near the ship and a stir of organized activity.

  Harriman waited in Coster’s office; Coster himself was out on the field, and Dixon and Entenza had a room to themselves. LeCroix, still in a drugged sleep, was in the bedroom of Coster’s on-the-job living quarters.

  There was a stir and a challenge outside the door. Harriman opened it a crack. “If that’s another reporter, tell him ‘no.’ Send him to Mr. Montgomery across the way. Captain LeCroix will grant no unauthorized interviews.”

  “Delos! Let me in.”

  “Oh—you, George. Come in. We’ve been hounded to death.”

  Strong came in and handed Harriman a large and heavy handbag. “Here it is.”

  “Here is what?”

  “The cancelled covers for the philatelic syndicate. You forgot them. That’s half a million dollars, Delos,” he complained. “If I hadn’t noticed them in your coat locker we’d have been in the soup.”

  Harriman composed his features. “George, you’re a brick, that’s what you are.”

  “Shall I put them in the ship myself?” Strong said anxiously.

  “Huh? No, no. Les will handle them.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re about to waken him. I’ll take charge of the covers.” He took the bag and added, “Don’t come in now. You’ll have a chance to say good-bye on the field.”

  Harriman went next door, shut the door behind him, waited for the nurse to give the sleeping pilot a counteracting stimulant by injection, then chased her out. When he turned around the pilot was sitting up, rubbing his eyes. “How do you feel, Les?”

  “Fine. So this is it.”

  “Yup. And we’re all rooting for you, boy. Look, you’ve got to go out and face them in a couple of minutes. Everything is ready—but I’ve got a couple of things I’ve got to say to you.”

  “Yes?”

  “See this bag?” Harriman rapidly explained what it was and what it signified.

  LeCroix looked dismayed. “But I can’t take it, Delos. It’s all figured to the last ounce.”

  “Who said you were going to take it? Of course you can’t; it must weigh sixty, seventy pounds. I just plain forgot it. Now here’s what we do: for the time being, I’ll just hide it in here—” Harriman stuffed the bag far back into a clothes closet. “When you land, I’ll be right on your tail. Then we pull a sleight-of-hand trick and you fetch it out of the ship.”

  LeCroix shook his head ruefully. “Delos, you beat me. Well, I’m in no mood to argue.”

  “I’m glad you’re not; otherwise I’d go to jail for a measly half-million dollars. We’ve already spent that money. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter,” he went on. “Nobody but you and me will know it—and the stamp collectors will get their money’s worth.” He looked at the younger man as if anxious for his approval.

  “Okay, okay,” LeCroix answered. “Why should I care what happens to a stamp collector—tonight? Let’s get going.”

  “One more thing,” said Harriman and took out a small cloth bag. “This you take with you—and the weight has been figured in. I saw to it. Now here is what you do with it.” He gave detailed and very earnest instructions.

  LeCroix was puzzled. “Do I hear you straight? I let it be found—then I tell the exact truth about what happened?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay.” LeCroix zipped the little bag into a pocket of his coveralls. “Let’s get out to the field. H-hour minus twenty-one minutes already.”

  Strong joined Harriman in the control blockhouse after LeCroix had gone up inside the ship. “Did they get aboard?” he demanded anxiously. “LeCroix wasn’t carrying anything.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Harriman. “I sent them ahead. Better take your place. The ready flare has already gone up.”

  Dixon, Entenza, the Governor of Colorado, the Vice President of the United States, and a round dozen of V.I.P.s were already seated at periscopes, mounted in slits, on a balcony above the control level. Strong and Harriman climbed a ladder and took the two remaining chairs.

  Harriman began to sweat and realized he was trembling. Through his periscope out in front he could see the ship; from below he could hear Coster’s voice, nervously checking departure station reports. Muted through a speaker by him was a running commentary of one of the newscasters reporting the show. Harriman himself was the—well, the admiral, he decided—of the operation, but there was nothing more he could do, but wait, watch, and try to pray.

  A second flare arched up in the sky, burst into red and green. Five minutes.

  The seconds oozed away. At minus two minutes, Harriman realized that he could not stand to watch through a tiny slit; he had to be outside, take part in it himself—he had to. He climbed down, hurried to the exit of the blockhouse. Coster glanced around, looked startled, but did not try to stop him; Coster could not leave his post no matter what happened. Harriman elbowed the guard aside and went outdoors.

  To the east the ship towered skyward, her slender pyramid sharp black against the full Moon. He waited.

  And waited.

  What had gone wrong? There had remained less than two minutes when he had come out; he was sure of that—yet there she stood, silent, dark, unmoving. There was not a sound, save the distant ululation of sirens warning the spectators behind the distant fence. Harriman felt his own heart stop, his breath dry up in his throat. Something had failed. Failure.

  A single flare rocket burst from the top of the blockhouse; a flame licked at the base of the ship.

  It spread, there was a pad of white fire around the base. Slowly, almost lumberingly, the Pioneer lifted, seemed to hover for a moment, balanced on a pillar of fire—then reached for the sky with acceleration so great that she was above him almost at once, overhead at the zenith, a dazzling circle of flame. So quickly was she above, rather than out in front, that it seemed as if she were arching back over him and must surely fall on him. Instinctively and futilely he threw a hand in front of his face.

  The sound reached him.

  Not as sound—it was a white noise, a roar in all frequencies, sonic, subsonic, supersonic, so incredibly loaded with energy that it struck him in the chest. He heard it with his teeth and with his bones as well as with his ears. He crouched his knees, bracing against it.

  Following the sound at the snail’s pace of a hurricane came the backwash of the splash. It ripped at his clothing, tore his breath from his lips. He stumbled blindly back, trying to reach the lee of the concrete building, was knocked down.

  He picked himself up coughing and strangling and remembered to look at the sky. Straight overhead was a dwindling star. Then it was gone.

  He went into the blockhouse.

  The room was a babble of high-tension, purposeful confusion. Harriman’s ears, still ringing, heard a speaker blare, “Spot One! Spot One to blockhouse! Step five loose on schedule—ship and step five showing separate blips—” and Coster’s voice, high and angry, cutting in with, “Get Track One! Have they picked up step five yet? Are they tracking it?”

  In the background the news commentator was still blowing his top. “A great day, folks, a great day! The mighty Pioneer, climbing like an angel of the Lord, flaming sword at hand, is even now on her glorious way to our sister planet. Most of you have seen her departure on your screens; I wish you could have seen it as I did, arching up into the evening sky, bearing her precious load of—”

  “Shut that thing off!” ordered Coster, then to the visitors on the observation platform, “And pipe down up there! Quiet!”

  The Vice President of the United States jerked his head around, closed his mouth. He remembered to smile. The other V.I.P.s shut up, then resumed again in muted whispers. A girl’s voice cut through the silence, “Track One to Blockhouse—step five tracking high, plus two.” There was a stir in the corner. There a large canvas hood shielded a heavy sheet
of Plexiglas from direct light. The sheet was mounted vertically and was edge-lighted; it displayed a coordinate map of Colorado and Kansas in fine white lines; the cities and towns glowed red. Unevacuated farms were tiny warning dots of red light.

  A man behind the transparent map touched it with a grease pencil; the reported location of step five shone out. In front of the map screen a youngish man sat quietly in a chair, a pear-shaped switch in his hand, his thumb lightly resting on the button. He was a bombardier, borrowed from the Air Forces; when he pressed the switch, a radio-controlled circuit in step five should cause the shrouds of step five’s landing ’chute to be cut and let it plummet to Earth. He was working from radar reports alone with no fancy computing bombsight to think for him. He was working almost by instinct—or, rather, by the accumulated subconscious knowledge of his trade, integrating in his brain the meager data spread before him, deciding where the tons of step five would land if he were to press his switch at any particular instant. He seemed unworried.

  “Spot One to Blockhouse!” came a man’s voice again. “Step four free on schedule,” and almost immediately following, a deeper voice echoed, “Track Two, tracking step four, instantaneous altitude nine-five-one miles, predicted vector.”

  No one paid any attention to Harriman.

  Under the hood the observed trajectory of step five grew in shining dots of grease, near to, but not on, the dotted line of its predicted path. Reaching out from each location dot was drawn a line at right angles, the reported altitude for that location.

  The quiet man watching the display suddenly pressed down hard on his switch. He then stood up, stretched, and said, “Anybody got a cigarette?”

  “Track Two!” he was answered. “Step four—first impact prediction—forty miles west of Charleston, South Carolina.”

  “Repeat!” yelled Coster.