Robert Heinlein - The Rolling Stones

Captain Stone had all hands with the exception of Dr. Stone and Lowell compute their new orbit. They all worked from the same. data, using readings supplied by Traffic Control and checked against their own instruments. Roger Stone waited until all had finished before comparing results.

"What do you get, Hazel?"

"As I figure, Captain, you won't miss Mars by more than a million miles or so."

"I figure it right on."

"Well, now that you mention it, so do I."

"Cas? Pol? Meade?"

The twins were right together to six decimal places and checked with their father and grandmother to five, but Meade's answer bore no resemblance to any of the others. Her father looked it over curiously. "Baby girl, I can't figure out how you got this out of the computer. As near as I can tell you have us headed for Proxima Centauri."

Meade looked at it with interest. "Is that so? Tell you what let's use mine and see what happens. It ought to be interesting."

"But not practical. You have us going faster than light."

"I thought the figures were a bit large."

Hazel stuck out a bony forefinger. "That ought to be a minus sign, hon."

"That's not all that's wrong," announced Pollux. "Look at this – " He held out Meade's programming sheet.

"That will do, Pol," his father interrupted. "You are not called on to criticise Meade's astrogation."

"But -"

"Stow it."

"I don't mind, Daddy," Meade put in. "I knew I was wrong." She shrugged. "It's the first one I've ever worked outside of school. Somehow it makes a difference when it's real."

"It certainly does as every astrogator learns. Never mind, Hazel has the median figures. We'll log hers."

Hazel shook hands with herself. "The winnah and still cham­peen!"

Castor said, "Dad, that's final? No more maneuvers until you calculate your approach to Mars?"

"Of course not. No changes for six months at least. Why?"

"Then Pol and I respectfully request the Captain's permission to decompress the hold and go outside. We want to get to work on our bikes."

"Never mind the fake military-vessel phraseology. But I have news for you." He took a sheet of paper out of his belt pouch. "Just a moment while I make a couple of changes." He wrote on it, then fastened it to the control room bulletin board. It read:

SHIP'S ROUTINE

0700 Reveille (optional for Edith, Hazel, & Buster)

0745 Breakfast (Meade cooks. Twins wash dishes)

0900 School C & P, math

Meade, astrogation, coached by Hazel

Lowell, reeling, writhing, and fainting in coils - or whatever

his mother deems neces­sary

1200 End of morning session

1215 Lunch

1300 School C&P, math

Hydroponics chores, Meade

1600 End of afternoon session

1800 Dinner - All Hands initial ship's maintenance schedule.

SATURDAY ROUTINE - turn to after breakfast and clean ship, Hazel in charge. Captain's inspection at 1100. Personal laundry in afternoon.

SUNDAY ROUTINE - meditation, study, and recrea­tion. Make & Mend in afternoon.

Hazel looked it over. "Where are we headed, Rog? Botany Bay? You forgot to set a time to flog the peasants."

"It seems very reasonable to me."

"Possibly. Six gets you ten it won't last a week."

"Done. Let's see your money."

The twins had read it with dismay. Pollux blurted out, "But Dad! You haven't left us any time to repair our bikes - do you want us to lose our investment?"

"I've assigned thirty hours of study a week. That leaves one hundred and thirty-eight other hours. How you use them is your business as long as you keep our agreement about studying."

Castor said, "Suppose we want to start math at eight-thirty and again right after lunch? Can we get out of school that much earlier?"

"I see no objection."

"And suppose we study evenings sometimes? Can we work up some velvet?"

Their father shrugged. "Thirty hours a week - any reasonable variations in the routine will be okay, provided you enter in the log the exact times."

"Now that that's settled," Hazel commenced, "I regret to inforrn you, Captain, that there is one other little item on that Procrustean program that will have to be canceled for the time being at least. Much as I would enjoy inducing our little blos­som into the mysteries of astrogation I don't have the time right now. You'll have to teach her yourself."

"Why?"

"'Why" the man asks? You should know better than anyone. The Scourge ofthe Spaceways, that's why. I've got to hole up and write like mad for the next three or four weeks; I've got to get several months of episodes ahead before we get out of radio range."

Roger Stone looked at his mother sadly. "I knew it was bound to come, Hazel, but I didn't expect it to hit you so young. The mental processes dull, the mind tends to wander, the -"

"Whose mind does what? Why you young -"

"Take it easy. If you'll look over your left shoulder out the starboard port and squint your eyes, you might imagine that you see a glint on the War God. It can't be much over ten thousand miles away."

"What's that got to do with me?" she demanded suspiciously.

"Poor Hazel! We'll take good care of you, Mother, we're riding in orbit with several large commercial vessels; every one of them has burners powerful enough to punch through to Earth. We won't ever be out of radio contact with Earth."

Hazel stared out the port as if she could actually spot the War God. " Well, I'll be dogged," she breathed. "Roger, lead me to my room - that's a good boy. It's senile decay, all right You'd better take back your show; I doubt if I can write it."

"Huh, uh! You let them pick up that option; you've got to write it. Speaking of The Scum of the Waste Spaces, I've been meaning to ask you a couple of questions about it and this is the first spare moment we've had. In the first place, why did you let them sign us up again?"

"Because they waved too much money under my nose, as you know full well. It's an aroma we Stones have hardly ever been able to resist."

"I just wanted to make you admit it. You were going to get me off the hook - remember? So you swallowed it yourself."

"More bait."

"Surely. Now the other point: I don't see how you dared to go ahead with it, no matter how much money they offered. The last episode you showed me, while you had killed off the Galac­tic Overlord you had also left Our Hero in a decidedly untenable position. Sealed in a radioactive sphere, if I remember correctly, at the bottom of an ammonia ocean on Jupiter. The ocean was swarming with methane monsters, whatever they are, each hypnotised by the Overlord's mind ray to go after John Sterling at the first whiff - and him armed only with his Scout knife. How did you get him out of it?"

"We found a way," put in Pol. "If you assume -"

"Quiet infants. Nothing to it, Roger. By dint of superhuman effort Our Hero extricated himself from his predicament and-"

"That's no answer."

"You don't understand. I open the next episode on Gany­mede. John Sterling is telling Special Agent Dolores O'Shanahan about his adventure. He's making light of it, see? He's noble so he really wouldn't want to boast to a girl. Just as he is jokingly disparaging his masterly escape the next action starts and it's so fast and so violent and so bloody that our unseen audience doesn't have time to think about it until the commercial. And by then they've got too much else to think about."

Roger shook his head. "That's literary cheating."

"Who said this was literature? It's a way to help corporations take tax deductions. I've got three new sponsors."

"Hazel," asked Pollux, "where have you got them now? What's the situation?"

Hazel glanced at the chronometer. "Roger, does that schedule take effect today? Or can we start fresh tomorrow?"