Robert Heinlein - Variable Star

“Just reach right through it, whenever you’re ready, sir,” he volunteered. “That collapses the field.”

I opened my mouth to ask what kind of field, how was it generated, what were its properties—and stifled myself. There would be time for that later. “What is your name?”

“Nakamura, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nakamura. You’re very kind.”

“You’re welcome, sir. And thank you.” Somehow he was gone instantly, without hurrying.

I started to get out of bed… and the damned thing helped me. The part right under my knees dropped away, and the part under my butt rose, and I was on my feet. I reacted pretty much as if I’d been goosed—the physical sensations were not dissimilar. I said the word “Whoa!” louder and an octave higher than I might have wished, leaped forward a meter or so, and spun around to glare accusingly at the bed.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Joel?” Leo asked.

I took a deep breath. And then another. “Not yet,” I stated cautiously.

On the way to the ’fresher, I passed close to the tray of food. I could see a cup of coffee in there, and wanted it so badly it brought tears to my eyes. But I knew if I “collapsed the field” now, I probably wouldn’t be able to re-create it again. And besides, there was the question of making room for the coffee.

So okay, I would hurry and be out of the ’fresher in five minutes instead of ten. I stepped in….

On Ganymede we’re more reticent about such matters than Terrans—for complex sociocultural reasons I’d be perfectly happy to explain any time you have an hour to kill listening to a guy who doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. So I’ll just say that this ’fresher was about ten times better equipped and programmed than I had ever imagined possible, and let it go at that. It was more like fifteen minutes before I was able to make myself end the sybaritic cycle.

When I came out, my clothes were gone.

I remarked on this, as casually as I could manage. Leo explained that they had been taken away for laundering. He invited me to wear any of the fakes in the closet that pleased me, and assured me, unnecessarily, that they would all fit me perfectly.

I was not at all happy about this, but I could see my wallet, phone, and keys on the bedside table, so I postponed the matter until after coffee.

By the end of the first cup, I had no strong objection to anything short of disembowelment or denial of a second cup. If you are ever given the choice, insist on the peaberry. Trust me.

When I was ready to dress, I automatically reached for the copy of my best suit, comforting myself as best I could with the guess that this version of it, at least, would be freshly cleaned, and would not be worn nearly through in spots. But as I took it from the closet, I noticed an item hanging just behind it that certainly was not a copy of any garment I owned. It was a J. L. Fong suit. Top of the line, of the latest cut and style. In a color, I noticed, that would complement Jinny’s hair. It was worth more than my entire wardrobe—more than my passage to Earth had cost. The tights were just a bit daring, but I decided I had the calves to carry them off. I was unsurprised to find suitable underwear and other necessary accessories in drawers, tucked in among my own trash.

The moment I put it on, that suit became an old, familiar, and valued friend—and I became taller and wider across the shoulders. It could not have fit better if it had been made on my body. It knew things about me I wouldn’t learn for years yet, and approved of them all. Wearing a suit like that, you could break up a knife fight with an admonishment, secure a million-dollar loan without being troubled for a signature, walk away from a crime scene, or obtain illicit drugs on credit. I examined the effect in the ’fresher room mirror, and decided that on me, it looked good. Perhaps, I felt, I could even survive an interview with Conrad of Conrad without soiling it. If it was a brief interview.

“Will Jinny be present at this meeting, do you know?” I asked Leo.

“No, Mr. Joel. Only Mr. Conrad, Mr. Albert, and yourself.”

I blinked. “Wait a second. Which Mr. Conrad—Jinny’s father, or her grandfather? And who’s this Albert bloke?”

“Ah. Pardon me, Mr. Joel. There are over a dozen adult males in the immediate family whose last name is or incorporates Conrad—but by long-standing family and corporate tradition, there is only one ‘Mr. Conrad’ at any one time. At present that is Jenny’s grandfather, Mr. Richard Conrad—Conrad of Conrad. The others are Mr. Joseph, Mr. Chang, Mr. Akwai-N’boko, and so on. Mr. Albert is Jinny’s father.”

“I see,” I said. “Thank you.” I began to understand Leo’s insistence on putting Mr. before my name. I started to ask where Jinny was now, and realized the answer would probably mean nothing to me.

I paid attention to my breathing, trying to make it slower and deeper, for another twenty seconds. Then I said, “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Very good, Mr. Joel.”

I left the faux farmhouse, and walked through faux fields. It smelled convincingly like morning on Ganymede, and don’t ask me to explain that. It felt inexpressibly weird to be walking through a colonial homestead, in the wrong gravity, dressed like an aristocrat, heading for a doorway of pink smoke. It was a bit of a relief to walk through the smoke and find myself in an ordinary corridor that smelled like Terra instead of Wonderland.

“I’ll guide you from here, sir,” Leo said. “Do you see the light at your feet?”

I glanced down, and there was a soft green light at the baseboard of the left-hand wall, pulsing on and off. It was about the size and intensity of a firefly: discreet, but impossible to miss. “Lead on,” I said. It moved away.

“If you’ll forgive a personal observation, sir,” Leo said as I followed his blinking firefly down the corridor, “you have an excellent time sense for a human.”

“Excuse me?’”

“You said, ‘Okay, I’m ready,’ twenty-nine minutes and forty-one seconds after I advised you that you had thirty minutes to prepare.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “A couple of people have told me I have a pretty accurate internal clock.”

“Extremely so, sir, if this example is representative.”

I shrugged. “I never burn the toast. Look, I have some thinking to do, all right?”

“Yes, sir. I’d just like to—”

“Later, Leo.”

“But, sir—”

I was raised to be polite to gadgets—Dad always said it was good practice—but I was trying to get some fretting done and Leo was distracting me. “Quiet!”

He shut up, and I put my full attention on the predicament I was in. First I scanned my memory for everything I had ever heard or read about high-level etiquette, manners, or protocol. Unfortunately that only took me about two steps. Then I examined my own autobiography, looking first for things that might impress a multi-octillionaire—and when that failed, making a short list of spots that might alienate one, and going over my excuses. A step and a half, tops. As I followed the blinking green firefly around a corner, I was trying to decide whether the next priority was to imagine all the possible ways this upcoming meeting could go wrong, or to try and work out exactly how I had gotten myself into this, where I had taken my first misstep—

—when I rounded the corner, and encountered eighteen kilograms of mass coming in the other direction.

I weighed four times that much. But it caught me well above my center of gravity—square in the face—and was moving much faster, packing more kinetic energy. I believe the Terran expression is, who knows why, “ass over teakettle.”