Robert Heinlein: The Rolling Stones

They had to wait at the lock for a load of tourists, just arrived in the morning shuttle from Earth, to spill out. One of two women passengers stopped and stared at them. "Thelma," she said to her companion, "that little man - he's wearing a gun."

The other woman urged her along. "Don't take notice," she said. "It's not polite." She went on, changing the subject 'I won­der where we can buy souvenir turtles around here? I promised Herbert."

Hazel turned and glared at them; Mr. Stone took her arm and urged her into the now empty lock. She continued to fume as the lock cycled. "Groundhogs! Souvenir turtles indeed!"

"Mind your blood pressure, Hazel," her son advised.

"You mind yours." She looked up at him and suddenly grinned. "I should ha' drilled her, podnuh - like this." She made a fast draw to demonstrate, then, before returning the weapon to its holster, opened the charge chamber and removed a cough drop. This she inserted through the pass valve of her helmet and caught it on her tongue. Sucking it, she continued. "Just the same, son, that did it. Your mind may not be made up; mine is. Luna is getting to be like any other ant hill. I'm going out somewhere to find elbow room, about a quarter of a billion miles of it."

"How about your pension?"

"Pension be hanged! I got along all right before I had it, Hazel, along with the other remaining Founding Fathers - and mothers - of the lunar colony, had been awarded a lifetime pension from a grateful city. This might be for a long period, despite her age, as the normal human life span under the bio­logically easy conditions of the Moon's low gravity had yet to be determined; the Luna city geriatrics clinic regularly revised the estimate upwards.

She continued, "How about you? Are you going to stay here, like a sardine in a can? Better grab your chance, son, before they run you for office again. Oueen to king's bishop three, Lowell."

"We'll see. Pressure is down; let's get moving."

Castor and Pollux carefully stayed out of the discussion; things were shaping up.

As well as Dealer Dan's lot, the government salvage yard and that of the Bankrupt Hungarian were, of course, close by the spaceport The Hungarian's lot sported an ancient sun-tarnished sign - BARGAINS! BARGAINS!! BARGAINS!!! GOING OUT OF BUSINESS - but there were no bargains there, as Mr. Stone decided in ten minutes and Hazel in five. The government salvage yard held mostly robot freighters without living qnarters - one-trip ships, the interplanetary equivalent of discarded packing cases - and obsolete military craft unsuited for most private uses. They ended up at Ekizian's lot.

Pollux headed at once for the ship he and his brother had picked out. His father immediately called him back 'Hey," Pol! What's your hurry?"

"Don't you want to see our ship?"

"Your ship? Are you still laboring under the fancy that I am going to let you two refugees from a correction school buy that Deiroiter?"

" Huh? Then what did we come out here for?"

"I want to look at some ships. But I am not interested in a Detroiter VII."

Pollux said, "Huh! See here, Dad, we aren't going to settle for a jumpbug. We need a - "The rest of his protest was cut off as Castor reached over and switched off his walkie-talkie; Castor picked it up:

"What sort of a ship, Dad? Pol and I have looked over most of these heaps, one time or another."

"Well, nothing fancy. A conservative family job. Let's look at that Hanshaw up ahead."

Hazel said, "I thought you said Hanshaws were fuel hogs, Roger?"

"True, but they are very comfortable. You can't have everything."

"Why not?"

Pollux had switched his radio back on immediately. He put in, "Dad, we don't want a runabout. No cargo space." Castor reached again for his belt switch; he shut up.

But Mr. Stone answered hirn. "Forget about cargo space. You two boys would lose your shirts if you attempted to compete with the sharp traders running around the system. I'm looking for a ship that will let the family make an occasional pleasure trip; I'm not in the market for a commercial freighter."

Pollux shut up; they all went to the Hanshaw Mr. Stone had pointed out and swarmed up into her control room. Hazel used both hands and feet in climbing the rope ladder but was only a little behind her descendants. Once they were in the ship she went down the hatch into the power room; the others looked over the control roof and the living quarters, combined in one compartment. The upper or bow end was the control station with couches for pilot and co-pilot. The lower or after end had two more acceleration couches for passengers, all four couches were reversible, for the ship could be tumbled in flight, caused to spin end over end to give the ship artificial 'gravity' through centrifugal force - in which case the forward direction would be 'down', just the opposite of the 'down' of flight under power.

Pollux looked over these arrangements with distaste. The notion of cluttering up a ship with gadgetry to coddle the tender stomachs of groundhogs disgusted him. No wonder Hanshaws were fuel hogs!

But his father thought differently. He was happily stretched out in the pilot's couch, fingering the controls. "This baby might do," he announced, "if the price is right."

Castor said, "I thought you wanted this for the family, "I do."

"Be pretty cramped in here once you rigged extra couches. Edith won't like that"

"You let me worry, about your mother. Anyhow, there are enough couches now.

"With only four? How do you figure?"

"Me, your mother, your grandmother, and Buster. If Meade is along we'll rig something for the baby. By which you may conclude that I am really serious about you two juvenile delin­quents finishing your schooling. Now don't blow your safeties! - I have it in mind that you two can use this crate to run around in after you finish school. Or even during vacations, once you get your unlimited licenses. Fair enough?"

The twins gave him the worst sort of argument to answer; neither of them said anything. Their expressions said everything that was necessary. Their father went on, "See here - I'm trying to be fair and I'm trying to. be generous. But how many boys your age do you know, or have even heard of, who have their own ship? None - right? You should get it through your heads that you are not supermen."

Castor grabbed at it. "How do you know that we are not "supermen"?"

Poliux followed through with, "Conjecture, pure conjecture." Before Mr. Stone could think of an effective answer his mother poked her head up the power room hatch. Her expres­sion seemed to say she had whiffed a very bad odor. Mr. Stone said, "What's the trouble, Hazel? Power plant on the blink?"

""On the blink", he says! Why, I wouldn't lift this clunker at two gravities."

"What's the matter with it?"

"I never saw a more disgracefully abused - No, I won't tell you. Inspect it yourself; you don't trust my engineering ability."

"Now see here, Hazel, I've never told you I don't trust your engineering."

"No, but you don't. Don't try to sweet-talk me; I know. So check the power room yourself. Pretend I haven't seen it"

Her son turned away and headed for the outer door, saying huffily, "I've never suggested that you did not know power plants. If you are talking about that Gantry design, that was ten years ago; by now you should have forgiven me for being right about it."

To the surprise of the twins Hazel did not continue the argu­ment but followed her son docilely into the air lock. Mr. Stone started down the rope ladder; Castor pulled his grandmother aside, switched off both her radio and pushed his hel­met into contact with hers so that he might speak with her in private. "Hazel, what was wrong with the power plant? Pol and I went through this ship last week - I didn't spot anything too bad."