John Varley: The Golden Globe

So there was precedent for an entire nation going after one man. What seems to be new, in my case, is that the one man is going to fight back.

In the words of the great Bugs Bunny, "I suppose you know, this means war!"

I hereby declare that a state of war exists between the planet of Charon and me, Kenneth Catherine Duse Faneuil Savoyard Booth Johnson Ivanovich de la Valentine.

That should have them trembling in their boots.

But don't laugh yet. Remember, I have more money than Charon.

And remember, I can run, but they can't hide.

And most importantly, remember this: it is more than theoretically possible to smash a planet like a ripe watermelon. Charon is not even a very big watermelon. More like a frozen grape.

It's been rumored that several governments possess weapons, bombs I guess you'd call them, capable of busting a planet. If this is true I've been unable to confirm it. If you know of such a weapon, can get your hands on one, and want to become an extremely rich person, contact my law firm, Flynn and Associates, and be prepared to prove it. I'm in the market.

Oh, yes, indeed. I will double the price on my head for information leading to the complete, total, genocidal destruction of the nation of Charon. At this moment, in advanced physics labs all over the system, men and women are sitting around thinking, thinking, thinking as hard as they can, trying to come up with a way to do it. The word has been out, underground, for some time in that community. Now I'm making it public.

Genocidal. I used the word quite deliberately. It is my intention, if I can, to kill every Charonese. Why not? It's their intention to kill me. If the established governments of the solar system won't do anything to protect me, I have no choice but to take the law into my own hands. Which isn't precisely right, since there doesn't seem to be any law that covers my predicament. But I think you know what I mean.

Ah, but what about the innocent children? I hear you cry.

I won't say I haven't worried about it. And I don't know what to do about it. Every one of those children will grow up to be Charonese adults, sworn to kill me. And, in my opinion, growing up Charonese is a fate worse than death.

But I will do what the Charonese never did for me. I'm issuing a warning. Parents of Charon, if you value the lives of your children, get out now, while you still can . You have one year during which I will hold my fire. After that, you may expect a rain of death without further warning.

I am at war.

So, realistically, what is the likelihood of such a rain of death? Not very good. A fair-sized asteroid accelerated to near light speed would turn the trick, arriving too quickly for them to do anything about it. But no one is able to do that, yet. Anything slower gives their planetary defenses—and they have the best—time to destroy or divert it. There have been other methods proposed, all of them extremely blue-sky.

I was a bit shocked to find out how cheap and easy a biological solution would be. There are some very scary guys out there, with some very scary toys capable of killing millions, or even the entire human race, with bioengineered diseases. All of them are far too dangerous to even consider, and the existence of such folks and their toys provides me with still another reason for doing what I always knew, in the back of my mind, I would have to do.

Get out of town.

Currently there is only one bus to board if you want to do that. The starship Robert A. Heinlein .

If you're on Luna, or if you're planning a trip to Luna, be sure to take a trip out to see the Heinlein . Anyone in King City can tell you how to get there. Bring the kids; they'll enjoy it. But don't wait too long.

When you get there you'll find the old hulk buzzing with activity. Ships are landing and taking off, busy little seagulls to the Heinlein's beached whale. Trucks arrive and depart in a steady stream, like worker ants. But the birds and the bugs aren't dismembering a corpse, they're outfitting, rigging, remodeling, refurbishing, and whatever else needs to be done to prepare a ship for a voyage never undertaken before. The animals are arriving, two by two. Buses are bringing in workers and transporters are delivering materials and odd, custom-made assemblies that look like nothing you've ever seen before, those that aren't covered by vacuum-proof tarps to hide from the prying eyes of theoretical physicists who would kill for a glimpse of them.

It's amazing what a few billion dollars can do. With luck, without any unforeseen problems, we should be departing in a little over a year.

That's right. I said "we." I have bought passage on the maiden voyage, and it has to be the most expensive ticket in history. Though if you measured it in dollars per mile, it ain't that bad a deal. The first stop is supposed to be an interesting little Earth-like world about twenty light-years from here. If that doesn't work out—if the Invaders or somebody else are already there—the galaxy is vast. We could lose ourselves in it, never find our way home. The prospect doesn't frighten me.

I anticipate a few hairy moments when I rendezvous with the Heinlein . That will be the last chance for my tormentors, and they will know it, and they will go all out. But I have a few more tricks up my sleeve. I've made it this far. I'm not going to get shot down at the bon voyage party.

I'm even beginning to feel the stirrings of a shipboard romance. Hildy Johnson is going, too. There should be plenty of news to report, though who she'll report it to I can't imagine. Maybe the slime creatures of Aldebaran are just dying for some tabloid publishing.

Hildy and Sparky. Sounds like a match made in hell to me. It's so bad it might even work.

But if you miss this sailing, don't despair. There will be other ships, and they'll be leaving soon. Everyone is welcome... except Charonese. Your Charonese passport is no good here, hombre, and neither is your money. You will never be sold a stardrive, unto eternity.

I'm sure they'll steal one eventually, but by then I could be ten thousand light years away.

Toodle-oo, assholes. Keep watching the sky. You never know when I might figure out how to send back a surprise package.

As the biggest sugar daddy since Isabella hocked the crown jewels, some thought I'd want a pretty big say in the running of the ship. There were negative voices raised in the Heinleiner community, a few discouraging words where such are seldom heard. And I did get a look at the plans, and I did suggest a change. To be paid for by myself, naturally. And it was typical thinking by technical types, I must say. There were going to be a dozen movie theaters, innumerable gymnasia, green spaces, an amusement park. Hell, there might have been a rodeo for all I know. But no legitimate theater.

That oversight has been rectified. Work is almost complete on the John Valentine Memorial Theater. It won't be big enough to stage Work in Progress , but should do nicely for musicals and classics. There are even a few efforts of my own gathering dust in the back of my trunk. It's not like there will be anywhere else for theater lovers to go. I myself will be artistic director, and will probably wear a few other hats until I can instill a love of the theatrical arts into the rest of the passengers.

Come on, kids! We can put on a show! Mickey can do his juggling act, and Judy can sing a song, and Busby and his girls can dance, and we'll do it all in Farmer Heinlein's old barn! It'll be swell!

Swell or awful, it'll damn sure be the best show between here and the Andromeda Galaxy.