Robert Heinlein - Between Planets

"Oh, Daddy, you wouldn't! "

"Quiet, Isobel. In the second place, it's not good for a young man to have such dealings." He paused. "But perhaps we can work something out. Your father would pay for this message, would he not?"

"Oh, certainly!"

"But I can't send it collect. Very well; write a draft on your father for the amount; I'll accept it as payment."

Instead of answering at once, Don thought about it. It seemed to be the same thing as sending a message collect which he was willing to do-but running up debts in his father's name and without his knowledge stuck in his craw. "See here, Mr. Costello, you couldn't cash such a draft any time soon in any case: why don't I just give you an I.O.U and pay it back as quickly as possible? Isn't that better?"

"Yes and no. Your personal note is simply a case of letting you have interplanetary service on credit-which is what the rules forbid. On the other hand, a draft on your father commercial paper, equivalent to cash even if I can't cash it right away. A space lawyer's difference, granted-but it's the difference between what I can do and can't do with the corporation's affairs."

"Thanks," Don said slowly, "but I think I'll wait a while. I may be able to borrow the money elsewhere."

Mr. Costello looked from Don to Isobel, shrugged helplessly. "Oh, give me your I.O.U." he said snappishly. "Make it out to me, not to the company. You can pay me when you can." He looked again at his daughter who was smiling approval.

Don made out the note. When Isobel and he were out o earshot of her father, Don said, "That was a mighty generous thing for your father to do."

"Pooh!" she answered. "It just goes to show how far a doting father will go not to crimp his daughter's chances."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

She grinned at him. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Grandmother Isobel was pulling your leg. Don't take me. seriously."

He grinned back. "Then where should I take you? Across to the Dutchman's for a coke?"

"You've talked me into it."

When he got back to the restaurant he found, in addition to the inevitable stack of dishes, a heated discussion abou the draft bill pending in the Estates General. He pricked up his ears; if conscription came, he was sure fodder for it and he wanted to beat them to it by enlisting in the High Guard. McMasters' advice about the "only way to get to Mars" stuck in his mind.

Most of the opinions seemed to favor a draft, nor could Don argue against it; it seemed reasonable to him even though he would be caught in it. One quiet little man heard the others out, then cleared his throat. "There will be a draft," he announced.

The last speaker, a co-pilot still wearing the triple globe on his collar, answered, "Huh? What do you know about it, Shorty?"

"Quite a bit. Let me introduce myself-Senator Ollendorf of CuiCui Province. In the first place we don't need a draft; the nature of our dispute with the Federation is not such as to employ a large army. Secondly, our people are not of the temperament to put up with it. By the drastic process of selective immigration we have here on Venus a nation of hardy individualists almost anarchists. They don't take to forced service. Thirdly, the taxpayers will not support a mass army; we have more volunteers now than we can find money to pay for. Lastly, my colleagues and I are going to vote it down about three to one."

"Shorty," complained the co-pilot, "why did you bother with the first three reasons?"

"Just practicing the speech I mean to make tomorrow," apologized the Senator. "Now, sir, since you are so strong for the draft, pray tell why you haven't joined the High Guard? You are obviously qualified."

"Well, I'll tell you, just like you told me. First or firstly, I'm not a colonial, so it's not my war. Secondly, this is my first vacation since the time they grounded the Comet-class ships. And thirdly, I joined up yesterday and I'm drinking up my bounty money before reporting in. Does that satisfy you?"

"Completely, sir! May I buy you a drink?"

"Old Charlie doesn't serve anything but coffee-you ought to know that. Here, have a mug and tell us what's cooking over on Governor's Island. Give us the inside data."

Don kept his ears open and his mouth (usually) shut. Among other things he learned why the "war" was producing no military action-other than the destruction of Circum-Terra. It was not alone that a distance varying from about thirty million to better than one hundred, fifty million miles was, to say the least, awkwardly inconvenient for military communications; more important was the fear of retaliation which seemed to have produced a stalemate.

A sergeant technician of the Middle Guard outlined it to anyone who would listen: "Now they want to keep everybody up half the night with space raid alerts. Malarky! "

"Terra won't attack-the big boys that run the Federation know better. The war's over."

"Why do you figure they won't attack?" Don asked. "Seems to me we're sitting ducks here."

"Sure we are. One bomb and they blow this mudhole out of the swamp. Same for Buchanan. Same for CuiCui Town. What good does that do them?"

"I don't know, but I don't relish being A-bombed."

"You won't be! Use your head. They knock out a few shopkeepers and a lot of politicians-and they don't touch the back country. Venus Republic is as strong as ever-because those three spots are the only targets fit to bomb on this whole fogbound world. Then what happens?"

"It's your story; you tell me."

"A dose of reprisal, that's what-with all those bombs Commodore Higgins snagged out of Circum-Terra. We've got some of their fastest ships and we'd have the juiciest targets in history to shoot at. Everything from Detroit to Bolivarsteel mills, power plants, factories. They won't risk pulling our nose when they know we're all set to kick them in the belly. Let's be logical!" The sergeant set down his cup and looked around triumphantly.

A quiet man at the end of the counter had been listening. Now he said softly, "Yes-but how do you know that the strong men in the Federation will use logic?"

The sergeant looked surprised. "Huh? Oh, come off it! The war's over, I tell you. We ought to go home. I've got forty acres of the best rice paddies on the planet; somebody's got to get the crop in. Instead I'm sitting around here, playing space raid drill. The government ought to do something."

THE GOVERNMENT did do something; the draft act was passed the next day. Don heard about it at noon; as soon as the lunch hour rush was over he dried his hands and went uptown to the recruiting station. There was a queue in front of it; he joined its tail and waited.

Over an hour later he found himself facing a harried-looking warrant officer seated at a table. He shoved a form at Don. "Print your name. Sign at the bottom and thumb it. Then hold up your right hand."

"Just a minute," Don answered. "I want to enlist in the High Guard. This forms reads for the Ground Forces."

The officer swore mildly. "Everybody wants the High Guard. Listen, son, the quota for the High Guard was filled at nine o'clock this morning-now I'm not even accepting them for the waiting list."

"But I don't want the Ground Forces. I'm-I'm a spaceman."

The man swore again, not so mildly. "You don't look it. You last-minute patriots make me sick-trying to join the sky boys so you won't have to soldier in the mud. Go on home; when we want you we'll send for youand it won't be for the High Guard. You'll be a duckfoot and like it."

"But..."

"Get out, I said."

Don got. When he reached the restaurant Old Charlie looked at the clock then at him. "You soldier boy now?"

"They wouldn't have me."

"Good thing. Get me up some cups."