Robert Heinlein - Variable Star

But college life had not prepared me for this. I was in a milieu where I knew I had no faintest idea what constituted correct behavior—and I was already saddled with some complex and difficult social problems that I had about a dozen steps to solve, for the toughest audience on the planet.

When in doubt, I decided, fall back on analogy. Okay… royalty always takes precedence, that gets you started. Which one next? And how…?

I’d expected those twelve steps would seem to take forever. They turned out to be just long enough.

Part of what threw me was the apparent ages. Both men I was here to meet seemed to be middle-aged, somewhere between thirty and sixty. Neither visibly deferred to the other by body language or chair placement. Both were dressed equally well, which was very well. Both carried themselves with authority and confidence, and had “the look of eagles”—a constant hyperalertness I had seen before only in certain very good bodyguards like the Gurkhas out in the hallway, and in a Zen priest I met once.

So which one was Jinny’s dad… and which one merely owned half the inner Solar System?

When I reached the decision point, I put down my money, made my bet, and quit worrying. The rest of the necessary choices seemed to have been made while I was busy.

I stopped in front of the man to my right, bowed almost as deeply as I would have for the Secretary General or for Jinny, and said, “Good morning, Conrad. I am Joel Johnston. Thank you for taking me into your cubic. Your home is most gracious. Pardon me a moment, please.”

Without waiting for a response I turned on my heel and gave Rennick my warmest smile. “It was very kind of you to escort me here, Alex. I’m sure with Leo’s help I’ll find my way back to my quarters.”

His own smile congealed slightly at the edges, and he opened his mouth as if to reply.

“Thank you,” I said pointedly.

After an instant’s hesitation, spent in reappraisal of me, he did a little indescribable thing with his mouth that was a rueful salute, and nodded. He said, “You’re welcome,” on his way to the door.

Again without pausing, I turned to the second man, bowed almost as deeply as I had to the first, and said, “Mr. Albert, I am Joel Johnston of Lermer City, Ganymede. My parents were Ben and Evelyn Johnston of that city. I am a recent graduate of Fermi Junior College. I love your daughter Jinnia—more than I can say!—and she loves me. I’m declaring now my intention to ask you for her hand as soon as I can. I will supply Dorothy Robb with what is necessary to allow you to inspect my background and records.”

I was done. I had shot my bolt—nothing to do now but wait and see just how badly I’d screwed things up. The door whispered shut behind Rennick, and sealed me in here in the lions’ den.

The man last addressed stared up at me, absolutely expressionless, yet with an attention that was almost a physical force, as if any slightest muscle twitch on my face might tell him something crucial. He stared for so long I began to suspect that I had botched the whole thing, guessed wrong—that he was not Mr. Albert, but the Lord God Conrad himself. I wished I could sneak a glance at the other man for a clue, but did not dare take my gaze away from his.

“Well and boldly spoken,” he said at last. “My daughter has made an interesting choice, Mr. Johnston. Good luck to you.”

It wasn’t until I exhaled that I realized I’d been holding my breath. Those were the last words he said to me.

“How did you know which of us was which?” the other man asked. “You can’t have seen a picture of me. There are none.”

For a split second I thought about claiming to have had the foresight to google up a picture of my fiancée’s father, last night. Rennick’s advice came back to me. Don’t bullshit . “I did not know, Conrad. I was forced to guess.”

He nodded. “On what basis?”

I didn’t have a clue. But my mouth did. It opened, and out came, “Jinny’s cheeks.”

“What did you say?”

Why, yes. I could see what my mouth meant, now that I looked. “Jinny’s cheekbones, s—Conrad. Cheekbones and ears. They’re distinctive. Mr. Albert has them, too.”

He mimed the word “ah,” without actually emitting sound. Mr. Albert was poker-faced.

I was beginning to understand why there were no pictures of Conrad of Conrad. There’s an expression actors use: “He can’t wear the clothes.” Meaning that actor, however talented he may be, just isn’t right for that part. No one would have cast this man as Conrad.

Not that he was in any way unimpressive, quite the contrary. He just didn’t look nearly heartless or soulless or ruthless enough to fit my preconceptions of the head of a multiplanet empire. He looked… learned, and wise, and kind. He would have been excellent casting for, say, a brilliant college professor. In some warm, fuzzy subject, like ecology, or sociobiology, or poetry, or even theology. His students would all love him, and write him letters years later to tell him he’d changed their lives. But he would never make department chairman because he wasn’t willing to kill for it.

I knew this impression had to be utterly false. This was Conrad of Conrad. But he did not bear the kind of face that would inspire the countless armies of remorseless sharks in suits who constituted the Conrad empire. He had the kind of face that would reassure their mothers. He was more effective as a Man of Mystery, never seen.

“Have a seat, Joel,” Conrad said.

It was a superbly comfortable chair, and became more so the longer I sat in it. This wasn’t going so badly…

“I am informed that my granddaughter Jinnia Anne has revealed her true identity to you, and you have accepted her proposal of matrimony—”

I opened my mouth but no sound came out.

He went on quickly, as one who is determined to get through his little speech however banal it may be. “I commend you heartily on your good fortune, Jinny on her good sense, and both of you on your good taste; I wish you both every happiness; I am confident you will prove a welcome and valuable addition to our great family; we will now define the terms and conditions under which that may occur—”

I opened my mouth even farther. Even less sound came out.

His eyes narrowed very slightly. The department chairman reluctantly suspected me of plagiarizing my thesis. “—unless you would feel more comfortable represented by counsel?”

I had to reject the slander. “No!” I managed to say, and got nearly halfway through my follow-up monosyllable, “I—,” before he steamrollered ahead.

“No, of course not. Excellent. I’m sure Jinny has made her family situation clear to you, explained all the ramifications, brought you up to speed.” She damn well had not! “Preliminary genetic analysis is satisfactory, as expected given your heritage.” Apparently my consent had been assumed. “I might add that I consider such analysis a mere pro forma check on my granddaughter’s intuition and judgment: you were in the moment she said you are. But I am pleased with her choice. I met your father, you know. Many years ago, when he came Earthside to receive his prize.”

“Then you met me,” I blurted out.

“Eh?”

“I never left his side, that trip.”

“Ah.” He did the math, worked out how old I would have been. “Oh!” He started slightly at a memory. “Uh…”

The only vowel he had not tried in front of an “h” yet was “i”—and perhaps “y.” What was his problem?

Then all of a sudden I remembered, too.

“Ih!” I gasped. “I bit you.”

I’d never seen anyone try to unfrown, before. “Yes.” He gave up and surrendered to the frown. “You did.” Then without warning he smiled, so broadly it was as if another man had burst out laughing. “Good for you!” It made him look much younger, and it took me an instant to work out the sad reason why: his smile wrinkles were almost entirely nonexistent. I tried to remember why I had felt he needed biting, back then, but failed. All I could recall was the fuss after I had done it. Everyone had been upset… except Dad. He had apologized for me—once—and then stopped hearing conversation about the matter.