“When was that, Dad?”
“In South America, before you were born.”
“I didn’t know you had been there.”
“It was a cloak-and-daggerish government job—not one to talk about. Are they beautiful?”
“Uh, not exactly.” I got another volume, turned to “Nebulae” and found the Great Nebula of Andromeda. “Here is beauty. That’s the way we look.”
Dad sighed. “It must be lovely.”
“It is. I’ll tell you all about it. I’ve got a tape, too.”
“No hurry. You’ve had quite a trip. Three hundred and thirty-three thousand light-years—is that right?”
“Oh, no, just half that.”
“I meant the round trip.”
“Oh. But we didn’t come back the same way.”
“Eh?”
“I don’t know how to put it, but in these ships, if you make a jump, any jump, the short way back is the long way ’round. You go straight ahead until you’re back where you started. Well, not ‘straight’ since space is curved—but straight as can be. That returns everything to zero.”
“A cosmic great-circle?”
“That’s the idea. All the way around in a straight line.”
“Mmm—” He frowned thoughtfully. “Kip, how far is it, around the Universe? The red-shift limit?”
I hesitated. “Dad, I asked—but the answer didn’t mean anything.” (The Mother Thing had said, “How can there be ‘distance’ where there is nothing?”) “It’s not a distance; it’s more of a condition. I didn’t travel it; I just went. You don’t go through, you slide past.”
Dad looked pensive. “I should know not to ask a mathematical question in words.”
I was about to suggest that Dr. Bruck could help when Mother sang out: “Hello, my darlings!”
For a split second I thought I was hearing the Mother Thing.
She kissed Dad, she kissed me. “I’m glad you’re home, dear.”
“Uh—” I turned to Dad.
“She knows.”
“Yes,” Mother agreed in a warm indulgent tone, “and I don’t mind where my big boy goes as long as he comes home safely. I know you’ll go as far as you want to.” She patted my cheek. “And I’ll always be proud of you. Myself, I’ve just been down to the corner for another chop.”
Next morning was Tuesday, I went to work early. As I expected, the fountain was a mess. I put on my white jacket and got cracking. Mr. Charton was on the phone; he hung up and came over. “Nice trip, Kip?”
“Very nice, Mr. Charton.”
“Kip, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say. Are you still anxious to go to the Moon?”
I was startled. Then I decided that he couldn’t know.
Well, I hadn’t seen the Moon, hardly, I was still eager—though not as much in a hurry. “Yes, sir. But I’m going to college first.”
“That’s what I mean. I—Well, I have no children. If you need money, say so.”
He had hinted at pharmacy school—but never this. And only last night Dad had told me that he had bought an education policy for me the day I was born—he had been waiting to see what I would do on my own. “Gee, Mr. Charton, that’s mighty nice of you!”
“I approve of your wanting an education.”
“Uh, I’ve got things about lined up, sir. But I might need a loan someday.”
“Or not a loan. Let me know.” He bustled away, plainly fussed.
I worked in a warm glow, sometimes touching the happy thing, tucked away in a pocket. Last night I had let Mother and Dad put it to their foreheads. Mother had cried; Dad said solemnly, “I begin to understand, Kip.” I decided to let Mr. Charton try it when I could work around to it. I got the fountain shining and checked the air conditioner. It was okay.
About midafternoon Ace Quiggle came in, plunked himself down. “Hi, Space Pirate! What do you hear from the Galactic Overlords? Yuk yuk yukkity yuk!”
What would he have said to a straight answer? I touched the happy thing and said, “What’ll it be, Ace?”
“My usual, of course, and snap it up!”
“A choc malt?”
“You know that. Look alive, Junior! Wake up and get hep to the world around you.”
“Sure thing, Ace.” There was no use fretting about Ace; his world was as narrow as the hole between his ears, no deeper than his own hog wallow. Two girls came in; I served them cokes while Ace’s malt was in the mixer. He leered at them. “Ladies, do you know Commander Comet here?” One of them tittered; Ace smirked and went on: “I’m his manager. You want hero-ing done, see me. Commander, I’ve been thinking about that ad you’re goin’ to run.”
“Huh?”
“Keep your ears open. ‘Have Space Suit—Will Travel,’ that doesn’t say enough. To make money out of that silly clown suit, we got to have oomph. So we add: ‘Bug-Eyed Monsters Exterminated—World Saving a Specialty—Rates on Request.’ Right?”
I shook my head. “No, Ace.”
“S’matter with you? No head for business?”
“Let’s stick to the facts. I don’t charge for world saving and don’t do it to order; it just happens. I’m not sure I’d do it on purpose—with you in it.”
Both girls tittered, Ace scowled. “Smart guy, eh? Don’t you know that the customer is always right?”
“Always?”
“He certainly is. See that you remember it. Hurry up that malt!”
“Yes, Ace.” I reached for it; he shoved thirty-five cents at me; I pushed it back. “This is on the house.”
I threw it in his face.
Robert A. Heinlein, Have Space Suit—Will Travel
(Series: # )
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