Robert Heinlein - Between Planets

Phipps turned to Don. "Young fellow, you didn't know it, but when your parents called you home to Mars, you were a courier with a message."

Don looked at him sharply. "But I did know it." His mind raced ahead, adjusting himself to this new situation.

"You did? Well, that's fine! Let's have it, then."

"Have what?"

"The ring-the ring, of course. Give it to us."

JOHN VII:24

"WAIT a minute," Don protested. "You're mixed up. I know what ring you mean, all right, but it wasn't the ring; it was the paper that it was wrapped in. And the I.B.I. got that."

Phipps looked perplexed, then laughed. "They did, eh? Then they made the same mistake you did. But it's the ring itself that is important. Let's have it."

"You must be mistaken," Don answered slowly. "Or maybe we aren't talking about the same ring." He thought about it. "It's possible that the I.B.I. swapped rings before the package ever reached me. But it's a dead cinch that the ring that was delivered to me couldn't have contained a message. It was transparent plastic-styrene, probably-and there wasn't even a fly speck in it. No message. No way to hide a message."

Phipps shrugged impatiently. "Don't quibble with me as to whether or not a message could be concealed in the ring-it's the right ring; be sure of that. The I.B.I. didn't switch rings-we know."

"How do you know?"

"Confound it, boyl Your function was to deliver the ring, that's all. You let us worry about the message in it."

Don was beginning to feel sure that when his younger self had bitten Phipps' thumb, he must have been justified. "Wait a minute! I was to deliver the ring, yes-that is what Dr. Jefferson-you know who he is?"

"I knew who he was. I've never met him."

"That's what Dr. Jefferson wanted. He's dead, or so they told me. In any case I can't consult him But he was ,very specific about to wham I was to deliver it-to my father. Not to you."

Phipps pounded the arm of the chair. "I know it, I know it! If things had gone properly, you would have delivered it to your father and we would have been saved no end of trouble. But those eager lads in New London had to- Never mind. The rebellion occurring when it did caused you to wind up here instead of on Mars. I'm trying to pick up the pieces. You can't deliver it to your father, but you can get the same result by turning it over to me. Your father and I are working toward the same end."

Don hesitated before answering, "I don't wish to be rude -but you ought to give some proof of that."

Sir Isaac produced with his voder a sound exactly like a man clearing his throat. "Ahem!" They both turned their heads toward him. "Perhaps," he went on, "I should enter the discussion. I have known Donald, if I may say so, more recently, my dear Phipps."

"Well-go ahead."

Sir Isaac turned most of his eyes on Don. "My dear Donald, do you trust me?"

"Uh, I think so, Sir Isaac-but it seems to me that I am obligated to insist on proof. It isn't my ring."

"Yes, you have reason. Then let us consider what would be proof. If I say...

Don interrupted, feeling that the whole matter was out of hand. "I'm sorry I let this grow into an argument. You see, it does not matter."

"Eh?"

"Well, you see, I don't have the ring any longer. It's gone."

There was a dead silence for a long minute. Then Phipps said, "I think Malath has fainted."

There was scurrying excitement while the Martian's cart was removed to his chambers, tension until it was reported that he was floating in his very special bed and resting comfortably. The conference resumed with three members. Phipps glowered at Don. "It's your fault, you know. What you said took the heart out of him."

"Me? I don't understand."

"He was a courier, too-he was stranded here the same way you were. He has the other half of the message-of the message you lost. And you removed the last possible chance he has of getting home before high gravity kills him. He's a sick man-and you jerked the rug out from under him."

Donald said, "But-"

Sir Isaac interrupted. "Donald is not at fault. The young should be blamed only with just cause and after deliberation, lest the family sorrow."

Phipps glanced at the dragon, then back at Don. "I'm sorry. I'm tired and bad tempered. What's done is done. The important point is: what happened to the ring? Is there any possibility of locating it?"

Don looked unhappy. "I'm afraid not." He explained rapidly about the attempt to get the ring from him and how he had had no proper place to protect it. "I didn't know that it was really important but I was determined to carry out Dr. Jefferson's wishes-maybe I'm sort of stubborn at times. So I did the best I could think of to do; I turned it over to a friend for safekeeping. I figured that was best because no one would think of looking for it in the hands of a person who wouldn't be expected to have it."

"Sound enough," agreed Phipps, "but to whom did you give it?"

"A young lady." Don's features contorted. "I think she was killed when the Greenies attacked."

"You don't know?"

"I'm fairly certain. I've been doing work that gives me opportunities to ask and nobody has laid eyes on her since the attack. I'm sure she's dead."

"You could be wrong. What was her name?"

"Isobel Costello. Her father managed the I. T. & T. branch."

Phipps looked utterly astounded, then lay back in his chair and roared. Presently he wiped his eyes and said, "Did you hear that, Sir Isaac? Did you hear that? Talk about the Blue Bird in your own back yard! Talk about Grandma's spectacles!"

Don looked from one to the other. 'What do you mean?" he asked in offended tones.

"What do I mean? Why, son, Jim Costello and his daughter have been right here since two days after the attack." He jumped out of his chair. "Don't move! Stay where you are-I'll be right back."

And he was back quickly. "I always have trouble with those funny house phones of yours, Sir Ike," he complained. "But they're coming." He sat down and heaved a sigh. "Some days I'm tempted to turn myself in as an idiot."

Phipps shut up, save for a suppressed chuckle or two. Sir Isaac seemed to be contemplating his non-existent navel. Don was preoccupied with turbulent thoughts, relief too great to be pleasure. Isobel alive!

Presently, calm somewhat restored, he spoke up. "Look, isn't it about time somebody told me what this is all about?"

Sir Isaac lifted his head and his tendrils played over the keys. "Your pardon, dear boy. I was thinking of something else. Long, long ago when my race was young and when your race had not yet--"

Phipps cut in. "Excuse me, old boy, but I can brief it and you can fill him in on the details later." He assumed assent and turned to Don. "Harvey, there is an organization-a cabal, a conspiracy, a secret lodge call it what you like-we just call it 'The Organization'. I'm a member, so is Sir Isaac, so is old Malath-and so are both of your parents. And so was Dr. Jefferson. It's made up mostly of scientists but it is not limited to them; the one thing we all have in common is a belief in the dignity and natural worth of free intelligence. In many different ways we have fought-and fought unsuccessfully, I should add-against the historical imperative of the last two centuries the withering away of individual freedom under larger and even more pervasive organizations, both governmental and quasigovernmental.

"On Earth our group derives from dozens of sources, way back in history associations of scientists fighting against secrecy and the straitjacketing of thought, artists fighting against censorship, legal aid societies, many other organizations, most of them unsuccessful, and some downright stupid. About a century ago all such things were pushed underground; the weak sisters dropped out, the talkative got themselves arrested and liquidated-and the remnants consolidated.