Robert Heinlein - Starman Jones

Max watched him leave the first time with gnawing doubts, but Sam came back. Once he brought with him an elderly, gross woman who looked Max over as if he were an animal up for auction. Sam did not introduce her but said, "How about it? I thought a mustache would help."

She looked at Max from one side, then the other. "No," she decided, "that would just make him look made up for amateur theatricals." She touched Max's head with moist, cold fingers; when he drew back, she admonished, "Don't flinch, honey duck. Aunt Becky has to work on you. No, we'll move back his hair line above his temples, thin it out on top, and kill its gloss. Some faint wrinkles tattooed around his eyes. Mmm ... that's all. Mustn't overdo it."

When this fat artist was through Max looked ten years older. Becky asked if he wanted his hair roots killed, or would he prefer to have his scalp return to normal in time? Sam started to insist on permanence, but she brushed him aside. "I'll give him a bottle of 'Miracle Gro'--no extra charge, it's just rubbing alcohol--and he can make a big thing of using it. How about it, lover? You're too pretty to age you permanently."

Max accepted the "Miracle Gro"--hair restored or your money back.

Sam took away his citizen's identification card, returned with another one. It had his right name, a wrong age, his right serial number, a wrong occupation, his own thumb print, and a wrong address. Max looked at it curiously. "It looks real."

"It should. The man who made it makes thousands of real ones--but he charges extra for this." That night Sam brought him a book titled _Ship Economy_ and embossed with the seal of the Guild of Space Stewards, Cooks, and Purser's Clerks. "Better stay up all night and see how much you can soak up. The man it belongs to won't sleep more than ten hours even with the jolt Percy slipped into his nightcap. Want a pill to keep you awake?"

"I don't think so." Max examined it. It was in fine print and quite thick. But by five in the morning he had finished it. He woke Sam and gave it back, then went to sleep, his head buzzing with stowage and dunnage, moment arms and mass calculations, hydroponics techniques, cargo records, tax forms, diets, food preservation and preparation, daily, weekly, and quarterly accounts, and how to get rats out of a compartment which must not be evacuated. Simple stuff, he decided--he wondered why such things were considered too esoteric for laymen.

On the fourth day of his incarceration Sam fitted him out with spaceside clothes, none of them new, and gave him a worn plastileather personal record book. The first page stated that he was an accepted brother of the Stewards, Cooks, and Purser's Clerks, having honorably completed his apprenticeship. It listed his skills and it appeared that his dues had been paid each quarter for seven years. What appeared to be his own signature appeared above that of the High Steward, with the seal of the guild embossed through both. The other pages recorded his trips, his efficiency ratings, and other permanent data, each properly signed by the first officers and pursers concerned. He noted with interest that he had been fined three days pay in the _Cygnus_ for smoking in an unauthorized place and that he had once for six weeks been allowed to strike for chartsman, having paid the penalty to the Chartsmen & Computers Guild for the chance.

"See anything odd?" asked Sam.

"It all looks funny to me."

"It says you've been to Luna. Everybody's been to Luna. But the ships you served in are mostly out of commission and none of the pursers happens to be in Earthport now. The only starship you ever jumped in was lost on the trip immediately after the one you took. Get me?"

"I think so."

"When you talk to another spaceman, no matter what ship he served in, it's not one you served in--you won't be showing this record to anybody but the purser and your boss anyhow."

"But suppose _they_ served in one of these?"

"Not in the _Asgard_. We made darn sure. Now I'm going to take you out on an evening of gaiety. You'll drink warm milk on account of your ulcer and you'll complain when you can't get it. And that's just about all you'll talk about--your symptoms. You'll start a reputation right now for being untalkative; you can't make many mistakes with your mouth shut. Watch yourself, kid, there will be spacemen around you all evening. If you mess it up, I'll leave you dirtside and raise without you. Let me see you walk again."

Max walked for him. Sam cursed gently. "Cripes, you still walk like a farmer. Get your feet out of those furrows, boy."

"No good?"

"It'll have to do. Grab your bonnet. We'll strike while the iron's in the fire and let the bridges fall where they may."

The _Asgard_ was to raise the next day. Max woke early and tried to wake Sam, but this proved difficult. At last the older man sat up. "Oh, what a head! What time is it?"

"About six."

"And you woke me? Only my feeble condition keeps me from causing you to join your ancestors. Go back to sleep."

"But today's the day!"

"Who cares? She raises at noon. We'll sign on at the last minute; that way you won't have time to make a slip."

"Sam? _How do you know they'll take us?_"

"Oh, for Pete's sake! It's all arranged. Now shut up. Or go downstairs and get breakfast--but don't talk to anybody. If you're a pal, you'll bring me a pot of coffee at ten o'clock."

"And breakfast?"

"Don't mention food in my presence. Show some respect." Sam pulled the covers up over his head.

It was nearly eleven thirty when they presented themselves at the gate of the port; ten minutes later before the bus deposited them at the base of the ship. Max looked up at its great, bulging sides but was cut short by a crewman standing at the lift and holding a list. "Names."

"Anderson."

"Jones."

He checked them off. "Get in the ship. You should have been here an hour ago." The three climbed into the cage; it swung clear of the ground and was reeled in, swaying, like a bucket on a well rope.

Sam looked down and shuddered. "Never start a trip feeling good," he advised Max. "It might make you sorry to be leaving." The cage was drawn up inside the ship; the lock closed after them and they stepped out into the _Asgard_. Max was trembling with stage fright.

He had expected to be sworn into the ship's company by the first officer, as called for by law. But his reception was depressingly unceremonious. The crewman who had checked them into the ship told them to follow him; he led them to the Purser's office. There the Chief Clerk had them sign and thumbprint the book, yawning the while and tapping his buck teeth. Max surrendered his forged personal record book, while feeling as if the deception were stamped on it in bold letters. But Mr. Kuiper merely chucked it into a file basket. He then turned to them. "This is a taut ship. You've started by very nearly missing it. That's a poor start."

Sam said nothing. Max said, "Yessir."

The Chief Clerk went on, "Stow your gear, get your chow, and report back." He glanced at a wall chart. "One of you in D-112, the other in E-009."

Max started to ask how to get there, but Sam took his elbow and eased him out of the office. Outside he said, "Don't ask any questions you can avoid. We're on Baker deck, that's all we need to know." Presently they came to a companionway and started back down. Max felt a sudden change in pressure, Sam grinned. "She's sealed. Won't be long now."

They were in D-112, an eight-man bunkroom, and Sam was showing him how to set the lock on the one empty locker when there was a distant call on a loudspeaker. Max felt momentarily dizzy and his weight seemed to pulse. Then it stopped. Sam remarked, "They were a little slow synchronizing the field--or else this bucket of bolts has an unbalanced phaser." He clapped Max on the back. "We made it, kid."