Robert Heinlein - Double Star

Yet such is the injustice of fortune that his sawings and rantings had paid him well while real artists went hungry.

«Dak, I simply cannot see why you considered him for it.»

«Well, we didn't want him; he is tied up with some long-term contract that would make his absence conspicuous and awkward. It was lucky for us that you were — uh, “at liberty.” As soon as you agreed to the job I had Jock send word to call off the team that was trying to arrange a deal with Trowbridge.»

«I should think so!»

«But — see here, Lorenzo, I'm going to lay it on the line. While you were busy whooping your cookies after Brennschluss I called the Go For Broke and told them to pass the word down to get busy on Trowbridge again.»

« What? »

«You asked for it, shipmate. See here, a man in my racket contracts to herd a heap to Ganymede, that means he will pilot that pot to Ganymede or die trying. He doesn't get fainthearted and try to welsh while the ship is being loaded. You told me you would take this job — no “ifs” or “ands” or “buts” — you took the job. A few minutes later there is a fracas; you lose your nerve. Later you try to run out on me at the field. Only ten minutes ago you were screaming to be taken back dirtside. Maybe you are a better actor than Trowbridge. I wouldn't know. But I know we need a man who can be depended on not to lose his nerve when the time comes. I understand that Trowbridge is that sort of bloke. So if we can get him, well use him instead, pay you off and tell you nothing and ship you back. Understand?»

Too well I understood. Dak did not use the word — I doubt if he would have understood it — but he was telling me that I was not a trouper. The bitter part about it was that he was justified. I could not be angry; I could only be ashamed. I had been an idiot to accept the contract without knowing more about it — but I had agreed to play the role, without conditions or escape clauses. Now I was trying to back out, like a rank amateur with stage fright.

«The show must go on» is the oldest tenet of show business. Perhaps it has no philosophical verity, but the things men live by are rarely subject to logical proof. My father had believed it — I had seen him play two acts with a burst appendix and then take his bows before he had let them rush him to a hospital. I could see his face now, looking at me with the contempt of a trouper for a so-called actor who would let an audience down.

«Dak,» I said humbly, «I am very sorry. I was wrong.»

He looked at me sharply. «You'll do the job?»

«Yes.» I meant it sincerely. Then I suddenly remembered a factor which could make the part as impossible for me as the role of Snow White in The Seven Dwarfs. «That is — well, I want to. But — »

«But what?» he said scornfully. «More of your damned temperament?»

«No, no! But you said we were going to Mars. Dak, am I going to be expected to do this impersonation with Martians around me?»

«Eh? Of course. How else on Mars?»

«Uh ... But, Dak, I can't stand Martians! They give me the heebie jeebies. I wouldn't want to — I would try not to — but I might fall right out of the characterization.»

«Oh. If that is all that is worrying you, forget it.»

«Huh? But I can't forget it. I can't help it. I — »

«I said, “Forget it.” Old son, we knew you were a peasant in such matters — we know all about you. Lorenzo, your fear of Martians is as childish and irrational as a fear of spiders or snakes. But we had anticipated it and it will be taken care of. So forget it.»

«Well — all right.» I was not much reassured, but he had flicked me where it hurt. «Peasant» — why,« peasants » were the audience! So I shut up.

Dak pulled the communicator to him, did not bother to silence his message with the rumble box: «Dandelion to Tumbleweed — cancel Plan Inkblot. We will complete Mardi Gras.»

«Dak?» I said as he signed off.

«Later,» he answered. «I'm about to match orbits. The contact may be a little rough, as I am not going to waste time worrying about chuck holes. So pipe down and hang on.»

And it was rough. By the time we were in the torchship I was glad to be comfortably back in free fall again; surge nausea is even worse than everyday drop-sickness. But we did not stay in free fall more than five minutes; the three men who were to go back in the Can Do were crowding into the transfer lock even as Dak and I floated into the torchship. The next few moments were extremely confused. I suppose I am a ground hog at heart for I disorient very easily when I can't tell the floor from the ceiling. Someone called out, «Where is he?» Dak replied, «Here!» The same voice replied, «Him?» as if he could not believe his eyes.

«Yes, yes!» Dak answered. «He's got make-up on. Never mind, it's all right. Help me get him into the cider press.»

A hand grabbed my arm, towed me along a narrow passage and into a compartment. Against one bulkhead and flat to it were two bunks, or «cider presses,» the bathtub-shaped, hydraulic, pressure-distribution tanks used for high acceleration in torchships. I had never seen one before but we had used quite convincing mock-ups in the space opus The Earth Raiders.

There was a stenciled sign on the bulkhead behind the bunks: WARNING!!! Do Not Take More than Three Gravities without a Gee Suit. By Order of — I rotated slowly out of range of vision before I could finish reading it and someone shoved me into one cider press. Dak and the other men were hurriedly strapping me against it when a horn somewhere near by broke into a horrid hooting. It continued for several seconds, then a voice replaced it: «Red warning! Two gravities! Three minutes! Red warning! Two gravities! Three minutes!» Then the hooting started again.

Through the racket I heard Dak ask urgently, «Is the projector all set? The tapes ready?»

«Sure, sure!»

«Got the hypo?» Dak squirmed around in the air and said to me, «Look, shipmate, we're going to give you a shot. It's all right. Part of it is Nullgrav, the rest is a stimulant — for you are going to have to stay awake and study your lines. It will make your eyeballs feel hot at first and it may make you itch, but it won't hurt you.»

«Wait, Dak, I — »

«No time! I've got to smoke this scrap heap!» He twisted and was out the door before I could protest. The second man pushed up my left sleeve, held an injection gun against the skin, and I had received the dose before I knew it. Then he was gone. The hooting gave way to: «Red warning! Two gravities! Two minutes!»

I tried to look around but the drug made me even more confused. My eyeballs did feel hot and my teeth as well and I began to feel an almost intolerable itching along my spine — but the safety straps kept me from reaching the tortured area — and perhaps kept me from breaking an arm at acceleration. The hooting stopped again and this time Dak's self-confident baritone boomed out, «Last red warning! Two gravities! One minute! Knock off those pinochle games and spread your fat carcasses — we're goin' to smoke!» The hooting was replaced this time by a recording of Arkezian's AdAstra, opus 61 in C major. It was the controversial London Symphony version with the 14-cycle «scare» notes buried in the timpani. Battered, bewildered, and doped as I was, they seemed to have no effect on me — you can't wet a river.

A mermaid came in the door. No scaly tail, surely, but a mermaid is what she looked like. When my eyes refocused I saw that it was a very likely looking and adequately mammalian young woman in singlet and shorts, swimming along head first in a way that made clear that free fall was no novelty to her. She glanced at me without smiling, placed herself against the other cider press, and took hold of the hand grips — she did not bother with safety belts. The music hit the rolling finale and I felt myself grow very heavy.