Farmer in the Sky by Robert A. Heinlein(1)

1. Earth

Our troop had been up in the High Sierras that day and we were late getting back. We had taken off from the camp field on time but Traffic Control swung us 'way east to avoid some weather. I didn't like it; Dad usually won't eat if I'm not home.

Besides that, I had had a new boy shoved off on me as co-pilot; my usual co-pilot and assistant patrol leader was sick, so our Scoutmaster, Mr. Kinski, gave me this twerp. Mr. Kinski rode in the other copter with the Cougar Patrol.

"Why don't you put on some speed?" the twerp wanted to know.

"Ever hear of traffic regulations?" I asked him.

The copter was on slave-automatic, controlled from the ground, and was cruising slowly, down a freight lane they had stuck us in.

The twerp laughed. "You can always have an emergency. Here—I'll show you." He switched on the mike. "Dog Fox Eight Three, calling traffic—"I switched it off, then switched on again when Traffic answered and told them that we had called by mistake. The twerp looked disgusted. "Mother's good little boy!" he said in sticky sweet tones.

That was just the wrong thing to say to me. "Go after," I told him, "and tell Slats Keifer to come up here."

"Why? He's not a pilot."

"Neither are you, for my money. But he weighs what you do and I want to keep the crate trimmed."

He settled back in his seat. "Old Man Kinski assigned me as co-pilot; here I stay."

I counted to ten and let it ride. The pilot compartment of a ship in the air is no place for a fight. We had nothing more to say to each other until I put her down on North Diego Platform and cut the tip jets.

I was last one out, of course. Mr, Kinski was waiting there for us but I didn't see him; all I saw was the twerp. I grabbed him by the shoulder. "Want to repeat that crack now?" I asked him.

Mr. Kinski popped up out of nowhere, stepped between us and said, "Bill! Bill! What's the meaning of this?"

"I—" I started to say that I was going to slap the twerp loose from his teeth, but I thought better of it

Mr. Kinski turned to the twerp. "What happened, Jones?"

"I didn't do anything! Ask anybody."

I was about to say that he could tell that to the Pilots' Board. Insubordination in the air is a serious matter. But that "Ask anybody" stopped me. Nobody else had seen or heard anything.

Mr. Kinski looked at each of us, then said, "Muster your patrol and dismiss them, Bill." So I did and went on home.

All in all, I was tired and jumpy by the time I got home. I had listened to the news on the way home; it wasn't good. The ration had been cut another ten calories—which made me still hungrier and reminded me that I hadn't been home to get Dad's supper. The newscaster went on to say that the Spaceship Mayflower had finally been commissioned and that the rolls were now opened for emigrants. Pretty lucky for them, I thought. No short rations. No twerps like Jones.

And a brand new planet.

George—my father, that is—was sitting in the apartment, looking over some papers. "Howdy, George," I said to him, "eaten yet?"

"Hello, Bill. No."

"I'll have supper ready right away." I went into the pantry and could see that he hadn't eaten lunch, either. I decided to fix him a plus meal.

I grabbed two Syntho-Steaks out of the freezer and slapped them in quickthaw, added a big Idaho baked potato for Dad and a smaller one for me, then dug out a package of salad and let it warm naturally.

By the time I had poured boiling water over two soup cubes and over coffee powder the steaks were ready for the broiler. I transferred them, letting it cycle at medium rare, and stepped up the gain on the quickthaw so that the spuds would be ready when the steaks were—then back to the freezer for a couple of icekreem cake slices for dessert.

The spuds were ready. I took a quick look at my ration accounts, decided we could afford it, and set out a couple of pats of butterine for them. The broiler was ringing; I removed the steaks, set everything out, and switched on the candles, just as Anne would have done.

"Come and get it!" I yelled and turned back to enter the calorie and point score on each item from the wrappers, then shoved the wrappers in the incinerator. That way you never get your accounts fouled up.

Dad sat down as I finished. Elapsed time from scratch, two minutes and twenty seconds—there's nothing hard about cooking; I don't see why women make such a fuss about it. No system, probably.

Dad sniffed the steaks and grinned. "Oh boy! Bill, you'll bankrupt us."

"You let me worry," I said. I'n still plus for this quarter." Then I frowned. "But I won't be, next quarter, unless they quit cutting the ration."

Dad stopped with a piece of steak on its way to his mouth. "Again?"

"Again. Look, George, I don't get it. This was a good crop year and they started operating the Montana yeast plant besides."

"You follow all the commissary news, don't you, Bill?"

"Naturally."

"Did you notice the results of the Chinese census as well? Try it on your slide rule."

I knew what he meant—and the steak suddenly tasted like old rubber. What's the use in being careful if somebody on the other side of the globe is going to spoil your try? "Those darned Chinese ought to quit raising babies and start raising food!"

"Share and share alike, Bill."

"But—" I shut up. George was right, he usually is, but somehow it didn't seem fair. "Did you hear about the Mayflower?" I asked to change the subject.

"What about the Mayflower?" Dad's voice was suddenly cautious, which surprised me. Since Anne died —Anne was my mother—George and I have been about as close as two people can be.

"Why, she was commissioned, that's all. They've started picking emigrants."

"So?" There was that cautious tone again. "What did you do today?"

"Nothing much. We hiked about five miles north of camp and Mr. Kinski put some of the kids through tests. I saw a mountain lion."

"Really? I thought they were all gone."

"Well, I thought I saw one."

"Then you probably did. What else?"

I hesitated, then told him about this twerp Jones. "He's not even a member of our troop. How does he get that way, interfering with my piloting?"

"You did right, Bill. Sounds as if this twerp Jones, as you call him, was too young to be trusted with a pilot's license."

"Matter of fact, he's a year older than I am."

"In my day you had to be sixteen before you could even go up for your license."

"Times change, George."

"So they do. So they do."

Dad suddenly looked sad and I knew he was thinking about Anne. I hastily said, "Old enough or not, how does an insect like Jones get by the temperament-stability test?"

"Psycho tests aren't perfect, Bill. Neither are people." Dad sat back and lit his pipe. "Want me to clean up tonight?"

"No, thanks." He always asked; I always turned him down. Dad is absent-minded; he lets ration points get into the incinerator. When I salvage, I really salvage. "Feel like a game of cribbage?"

"I'll beat the pants off you."

"You and who else?" I salvaged the garbage, burned the dishes, followed him into the living room. He was getting out the board and cards.

His mind wasn't really on the game. I was around the corner and ready to peg out before he was really under way. Finally he put down his cards and looked square at me. "Son—"

"Huh? I mean, 'Yes, George?'"

“I've decided to emigrate in the Mayflower."

I knocked over the cribbage board. I picked it up, eased my throttle, and tried to fly right. "That's swell! When do we leave?"

Dad puffed furiously on his pipe. "That's the point, Bill. You're not going."

I couldn't say anything. Dad had never done anything like this to me before. I sat there, working my mouth like a fish. Finally I managed, "Dad, you're joking."

"No, I'm not, Son."

"But why? Answer me that one question: why?"

"Now see here, Son—"

"Call me 'Bill'."

"Okay, Bill. It's one thing for me to decide to take my chances with colonial life but I've got no right to get you off to a bad start. You've got to finish your education. There are no decent schools on Ganymede. You get your education, then when you're grown, if you want to emigrate, that's your business."

"That's the reason? That's the only reason? To go to school?"

"Yes. You stay here and take your degree. I'd like to see you take your doctor's degree as well. Then, if you want to, you can join me. You won't have missed your chance; applicants with close relatives there have priority."

"No!"

Dad looked stubborn.

So did I, I guess. "George, I'm telling you, if you leave me behind, it won't do any good. I won't go to school. I can pass the exams for third class citizenship right now. Then I can get a work permit and—"

He cut me short. "You won't need a work permit. I'm leaving you well provided for, Bill. You'll—"

" 'Well provided for'! Do you think I'd touch a credit of yours if you go away and leave me? I'll live on my student's allowance until I pass the exams and get my work card."

"Bring your voice down, Sonl" He went on, "You're proud of being a Scout, aren't you?"

"Well--yes."

"I seem to remember that Scouts are supposed to be obedient. And courteous, too."

That one was pretty hot over the plate. I had to think about it. "George——"

"Yes, Bill?"

"If I was rude, I'm sorry. But the Scout Law wasn't thought up to make it easy to push a Scout around. As long as I'm living in your home I'll do what you say. But if you walk out on me, you don't have any more claim on me. Isn't that fair?"

"Be reasonable, Son. I'm doing it for your own good."

"Don't change the subject, George. Is that fair or isn't it? If you go hundreds of millions of miles away, how can you expect to run my life after you're gone? I'll be on my own."

"I'll still be your father."

"Fathers and sons should stick together. As I recall, the fathers that came over in the original Mayflower brought their kids with them."

"This is different."

"How?"

"It's further, incredibly further—and dangerous."

"So was that move dangerous—half the Plymouth Rock colony died the first winter; everybody knows that. And distance doesn't mean anything; what matters is how long it takes. If I had had to walk back this afternoon, I'd still be hiking next month. It took the Pilgrims sixty-three days to cross the Atlantic or so they taught me in school—but this afternoon the caster said that the Mayflower—will reach Ganymede in sixty days. That makes Ganymede closer than London was to Plymouth Rock."

Dad stood up and knocked out his pipe. "I'm not going to argue, Son."

"And I'm not, either." I took a deep breath. I shouldn't have said the next thing I did say, but I was mad. I'd never been treated this way before and I guess I wanted to hurt back. "But I can tell you this: you're not the only one who is sick of short rations. If you think I'm going to stay here while you're eating high on the hog out in the colonies, then you had better think about it again. I thought we were partners."

That last was the meanest part of it and I should have been ashamed. That was what he had said to me the day after Anne died, and that was the way it had always been.

The minute I said it I knew why George had to emigrate and I knew it didn't have anything to do with ration points. But I didn't know how to unsay it.

Dad stared. Then he said slowly, "You think that's how it is? That I want to go away so I can quit skipping lunch to save ration points?"

"What else?" I answered. I was stuck in a groove; I didn't know what to say.

"Hmm . . . well, if you believe that, Bill, there is nothing I can say. I think I'll turn in."

I went to my room, feeling all mixed up inside. I wanted Mother around so bad I could taste it and I knew that George felt the same way. She would never have let us reach the point where we were actually shouting at each other—at least I had shouted. Besides that, the partnership was busted up, it would never be the same.

I felt better after a shower and a long massage. I knew that the partnership couldn't really be busted up. In the long run, when George saw that I had to go, he wouldn't let college stand in the way. I was sure of that—well, pretty sure at least.

I began to think about Ganymede.

Ganymede!

Why, I had never even been out to the Moon!

There was a boy in my class who had been born on the Moon. His parents were still there; he had been sent home for schooling. He gave himself airs as a deep-space man. But Luna was less than a quarter of a million miles away; you could practically throw rocks at it. It wasn't self-supporting; Moon Colony had the same rations as Earth. It was really part of Earth. But Ganymede!

Let's see—Jupiter was half a billion miles away, more or less, depending on the time of year. What was the tiny distance to the Moon compared with a jump like that?

Suddenly I couldn't remember whether Ganymede was Jupiter's third moon or fourth. And I just had to know. There was a book out in the living room that would tell and more besides—Ellsworth Smith's A Tour of Earth's Colonies. I went out to get it.

Dad hadn't gone to bed. He was sitting up, reading. I said, "Oh—hello," and went to look for the book. He nodded and went on reading.

The book wasn't where it should have been. I looked around and Dad said, "What are you looking for, Bill?"

Then I saw that he was reading it. I said, "Oh, nothing. I didn't know you were using it."

"This?" He held it up.

"It doesn't matter. I'll find something else."

"Take it. I'm through with it."

"Well ... All right-thanks." I took it and turned away.

"Just a minute, Bill."

I waited. "I've come to a decision, Bill. I'm not going."

"Huh?"

"You were right about us being partners. My place is here."

"Yes, but— Look, George, I'm sorry I said what I did about rations. I know that's not the reason. The reason is—well, you've got to go." I wanted to tell him I knew the reason was Anne, but if I said Anne's name out loud I was afraid I'd bawl.

"You mean that you are willing to stay behind—and go to school?"

"Uh—" I wasn't quite ready to say that; I was dead set on going myself. "I didn't quite mean that. I meant that I know why you want to go, why you've got to go."

"Hmm . . ." He lit his pipe, making a long business of it. "I see. Or maybe I don't" Then he added, "Let's put it this way, Bill. The partnership stands. Either we both go, or we both stay—unless you decide of your own volition that you will stay to get your degree and join me out there later. Is that fair?"

"Huh? Oh, yes!"

"So let's talk about it later."

I said goodnight and ducked into my room quick. William, my boy, I told myself, it's practically in the bag—if you can just keep from getting soft-hearted and agreeing to a split up. I crawled into bed and opened the book.

Ganymede was Jupiter-III; I should have remembered that. It was bigger than Mercury, much bigger than the Moon, a respectable planet, even if it was a moon. The surface gravity was one third of Earth-normal; I would weigh about forty-five pounds there. First contacted in 1985—which I knew—and its atmosphere project started in 1998 and had been running ever since.

There was a stereo in the book of Jupiter as seen from Ganymede—round as an apple, ruddy orange, and squashed on both poles. And big as all outdoors. Beautiful. I fell asleep staring at it.

Dad and I didn't get a chance to talk for the next three days as my geography class spent that time in Antarctica. I came back with a frostbitten nose and some swell pix of penguins—and some revised ideas. I had had time to think.

Dad had fouled up the account book as usual but he had remembered to save the wrappers and it didn't take me long to straighten things out. After dinner I let him beat me two games, then said, "Look, George——"

"Yes?"

"You know what we were talking about?"

"Well, yes."

"It's this way. I'm under age; I can't go if you won't let me. Seems to me you ought to, but if you don't, I won't quit school. In any case, you ought to go—you need to go—you know why. I'm asking you to think it over and take me along, but I'm not going to be a baby about it."

Dad almost looked embarrassed. "That's quite a speech, Son. You mean you're willing to let me go, you stay here and go to school, and not make a fuss about it?"

"Well, not 'willing'-but I'd put up with it."

"Thanks." Dad fumbled in his pouch and pulled out a flat photo. "Take a look at this."

"What is it?"

"Your file copy of your application for emigration. I submitted it two days ago."

2. The Green-Eyed Monster

I wasn't much good in school for the next few days. Dad cautioned me not to get worked up over it; they hadn't approved our applications as yet. "You know, Bill, ten times as many people apply as can possibly go."

"But most of them want to go to Venus or Mars. Ganymede is too far away; that scares the sissies out."

"I wasn't talking about applications for all the colonies; I meant applications for Ganymede, specifically for this first trip of the Mayflower"

"Even so, you can't scare me. Only about one in ten can qualify. That's the way it's always been."

Dad agreed. He said that this was the first time in history that some effort was being made to select the best stock for colonization instead of using colonies as dumping grounds for misfits and criminals and failures. Then he added, "But look, Bill, what gives you the notion that you and I can necessarily qualify? Neither one of us is a superman,"

That rocked me back on my heels. The idea that we might not be good enough hadn't occurred to me. "George, they couldn't turn us down!"

"They could and they might."

"But how? They need engineers out there and you're tops. Me—I'm not a genius but I do all right in school. We're both healthy and we don't have any bad mutations; we aren't color blind or bleeders or anything like that."

"No bad mutations that we know of," Dad answered. "However, I agree that we seem to have done a fair job in picking our grandparents. I wasn't thinking of anything as obvious as that."

"Well, what, then? What could they possibly get us on?"

He fiddled with his pipe the way he always does when he doesn't want to answer right away. "Bill, when I pick a steel alloy for a job, it's not enough to say, 'Well, it's a nice shiny piece of metal; let's use it.' No, I take into account a list of tests as long as your arm that tells me all about that alloy, what it's good for and just what I can expect it to do in the particular circumstances I intend to use it. Now if you had to pick people for a tough job of colonizing, what would you look for?"

"Uh ... I don't know."

"Neither do I. I'm not a social psychometrician. But to say that they want healthy people with fair educations is like saying that I want steel rather than wood for a job. It doesn't tell what sort of steel. Or it might not be steel that was needed; it might be titanium alloy. So don't get your hopes too high."

"But—well, look, what can we do about it?"

"Nothing. If we don't get picked, then tell yourself that you are a darn good grade of steel and that it's no fault of yours that they wanted magnesium."

It was all very well to look at it that way, but it worried me. I didn't let it show at school, though. I had already let everybody know that we had put in for Ganymede; if we missed—well, it would be sort of embarrassing.

My best friend, Duck Miller, was all excited about it and was determined to go, too.

"But how can you?" I asked. "Do your folks want to go?"

"I already looked into that," Duck answered. "All I have to have is a grown person as a sponsor, a guardian. Now if you can tease your old man into signing for me, it's in the bag."

"But what will your father say?"

"He won't care. He's always telling me that when he was my age he was earning his own living. He says a boy should be self reliant. Now how about it? Will you speak to your old man about it—tonight?"

I said I would and I did. Dad didn't say anything for a moment, then he asked: "You really want Duck with you?"

"Sure I do. He's my best friend."

"What does his father say?"

"He hasn't asked him yet," and then I explained how Mr. Miller felt about it

"So?" said Dad. "Then let's wait and see what Mr. Miller says."

"Well—look, George, does that mean that you'll sign for Duck if his father says it's okay?"

"I meant what I said, Bill. Let's wait. The problem may solve itself."

I said, "Oh well, maybe Mr. and Mrs. Miller will decide to put in for it, too, after Duck gets them stirred up."

Dad just cocked an eyebrow at me. "Mr. Miller has, shall we say, numerous business interests here. I think it would be easier to jack up one corner of Boulder Dam than to get him to give them up."

"You're giving up your business."

"Not my business, my professional practice. But I'm not giving up my profession; I'm taking it with me."

I saw Duck at school the next day and asked him what his father had said.

"Forget it," he told me. "The deal is off."

"Huh?"

"My old man says that nobody but an utter idiot would even think of going out to Ganymede. He says that Earth is the only planet in the system fit to live on and that if the government wasn't loaded up with a bunch of starry-eyed dreamers we would quit pouring money down a rat hole trying to turn a bunch of bare rocks in the sky into green pastures. He says the whole enterprise is doomed."

"You didn't think so yesterday."

"That was before I got the straight dope. You know what? My old man is going to take me into partnership. Just as soon as I'm through college he's going to start breaking me into the management end. He says he didn't tell me before because he wanted me to learn self reliance and initiative, but he thought it was time I knew about it. What do you think of that?"

"Why, that's pretty nice, I suppose. But what's this about the 'enterprise being doomed'?"

" 'Nice', he calls it! Well, my old man says that it is an absolute impossibility to keep a permanent colony on Ganymede. It's a perilous toehold, artificially maintained—those were his exact words—and someday the gadgets will bust and the whole colony will be wiped out, every man jack, and then we will quit trying to go against nature."

We didn't talk any more then as we had to go to class. I told Dad about it that night. "What do you think, George?"

"Well, there is something in what he says——"

"Huh?"

"Don't jump the gun. If everything went sour on Ganymede at once and we didn't have the means to fix it, it would revert to the state we found it in. But that's not the whole answer. People have a funny habit of taking as 'natural' whatever they are used to—but there hasn't been any 'natural' environment, the way they mean it, since men climbed down out of trees. Bill, how many people are there in California?"

"Fifty-five, sixty million."

"Did you know that the first four colonies here starved to death? 'S truthl How is it that fifty-odd million can live here and not starve? Barring short rations, of course."

He answered it himself. "We've got four atomic power plants along the coast just to turn sea water into fresh water. We use every drop of the Colorado River and every foot of snow that falls on the Sierras. And we use a million other gadgets. If those gadgets went bad—say a really big earthquake knocked out all four atomic plants—the country would go back to desert. I doubt if we could evacuate that many people before most of them died from thirst. Yet I don't think Mr. Miller is lying awake nights worrying about it. He regards Southern California as a good 'natural' environment.

"Depend on it, Bill. Wherever Man has mass and energy to work with and enough savvy to know how to manipulate them, he can create any environment he needs."

I didn't see much of Duck after that. About then we got our preliminary notices to take tests for eligibility for the Ganymede colony and that had us pretty busy. Besides, Duck seemed different—or maybe it was me. I had the trip on my mind and he didn't want to talk about it. Or if he did, he'd make some crack that rubbed me the wrong way.

Dad wouldn't let me quit school while it was still uncertain as to whether or not we would qualify, but I was out a lot, taking tests. There was the usual physical examination, of course, with some added wrinkles. A g test, for example—I could take up to eight gravities before I blacked out, the test showed. And a test for low-pressure tolerance and hemorrhaging—they didn't want people who ran to red noses and varicose veins. There were lots more.

But we passed them. Then came the psycho tests which were a lot worse because you never knew what was expected of you and half the time you didn't even know you were being tested. It started off with hypno-analysis, which really puts a fellow at a disadvantage. How do you know what you've blabbed while they've got you asleep?

Once I sat around endlessly waiting for a psychiatrist to get around to seeing me. There were a couple of clerks there; when I came in one of them dug my medical and psycho record out of file and laid it on a desk. Then the other one, a red-headed guy with a permanent sneer, said, "Okay, Shorty, sit down on that bench and wait."

After quite a while the redhead picked up my folder and started to read it. Presently he snickered and turned to the other clerk and said, "Hey, Ned—get a load of this!"

The other one read what he was pointing to and seemed to think it was funny, too. I could see they were watching me and I pretended not to pay any attention.

The second clerk went back to his desk, but presently the redhead went over to him, carrying my folder, and read aloud to him, but in such a low voice that I couldn't catch many of the words. What I did catch made me squirm.

When he had finished the redhead looked right at me and laughed. I stood up and said, "What's so funny?"

He said, "None of your business, Shorty. Sit down."

I walked over and said, "Let me see that."

The second clerk stuffed it into a drawer of his desk. The redhead said, "Mamma's boy wants to see it, Ned. Why don't you give it to him?"

"He doesn't really want to see it," the other one said.

"No, I guess not." The redhead laughed again and added, "And to think he wants to be a big bold colonist."

The other one looked at me while chewing a thumbnail and said, "I don't think that's so funny. They could take him along to cook."

This seemed to convulse the redhead. "Ill bet he looks cute in an apron."

A year earlier I would have poked him, even though he outweighed me and outreached me. That "Mamma's boy" remark made me forget all about wanting to go to Ganymede; I just wanted to wipe the silly smirk off his face.

But I didn't do anything. I don't know why; maybe it was from riding herd on that wild bunch of galoots, the Yucca Patrol—Mr. Kinski says that anybody who can't keep order without using his fists can't be a patrol leader under him.

Anyhow I just walked around the end of the desk and tried to open the drawer. It was locked. I looked at them; they were both grinning, but I wasn't. "I had an appointment for thirteen o'clock," I said. "Since the doctor isn't here, you can tell him I'll phone for another appointment." And I turned on my heel and left

I went home and told George about it. He just said he hoped I hadn't hurt my chances.

I never did get another appointment. You know what? They weren't clerks at all; they were psycho-metricians and there was a camera and a mike on me the whole time.

Finally George and I got notices saying that we were qualified and had been posted for the Mayflower, "subject to compliance with all requirements."

That night I didn't worry about ration points; I really set us out a feast.

There was a booklet of the requirements mentioned. "Satisfy all debts"—that didn't worry me; aside from a half credit I owed Slats Keifer I didn't have any. "Post an appearance bond"—George would take care of that "Conclude any action before any court of superior jurisdiction"—I had never been in court except the Court of Honor. There were a flock of other things, but George would handle them.

I found some fine print that worried me. "George," I said, "It says here that emigration is limited to families with children."

He looked up. "Well, aren't we such a family? If you don't mind being classified as a child."

"Oh. I suppose so. I thought it meant a married couple and kids."

"Don't give it a thought."

Privately I wondered if Dad knew what he was talking about.

We were busy with innoculations and blood typing and immunizations and I hardly got to school at all. When I wasn't being stuck or being bled, I was sick with the last thing they had done to me. Finally we had to have our whole medical history tattooed on us—identity number, Rh factor, blood type, coag time, diseases you had had, natural immunities and inoculations. The girls and the women usually had it done in invisible ink that showed up only under infra-red light, or else they put it on the soles of their feet.

They asked me where I wanted it, the soles of my feet? I said no, I don't want to be crippled up; I had too much to do. We compromised on putting it where I sit down and then I ate standing up for a couple of days. It seemed a good place, private anyhow. But I had to use a mirror to see it.

Time was getting short; we were supposed to be at Mojave Space Port on 26 June, just two weeks away. It was high time I was picking out what to take. The allowance was fifty-seven and six-tenths pounds per person and had not been announced until all our body weights had been taken.

The booklet had said, "Close your terrestrial affairs as if you were dying." That's easy to say. But when you die, you can't take it with you, while here we could— fifty-seven-odd pounds of it.

The question was: what fifty-seven pounds?

My silkworms I turned over to the school biology lab and the same for the snakes. Duck wanted my aquarium but I wouldn't let him; twice he's had fish and twice he's let them die. I split them between two fellows in the troop who already had fish. The birds I gave to Mrs. Fishbein on our deck. I didn't have a cat or a dog; George says ninety floors up is no place to keep junior citizens—that's what he calls them.

I was cleaning up the mess when George came in. "Well," he says, "first time I've been able to come into your room without a gas mask."

I skipped it; George talks like that. "I still don't know what to do," I said, pointing at the heap on my bed.

"Microfilmed everything you can?"

"Yes, everything but this picture." It was a cabinet stereo of Anne, weighing about a pound and nine ounces.

"Keep that, of course. Face it, Bill, you've got to travel light. We're pioneers."

"I don't know what to throw out."

I guess I looked glum for he said, "Quit feeling sorry for yourself. Me, I've got to give up this—and that's tough, believe me." He held out his pipe.

"Why?" I asked. "A pipe doesn't weigh much."

"Because they aren't raising tobacco on Ganymede and they aren't importing any."

"Oh. Look, George, I could just about make it if it weren't for my accordion. But it licks me."

"Hmm . . . Have you considered listing it as a cultural item?"

"Huh?"

"Read the fine print. Approved cultural items are not covered by the personal weight schedule. They are charged to the colony."

It had never occurred to me that I might have anything that would qualify. "They wouldn't let me get away with it, George!"

"Can't rule you out for trying. Don't be a defeatist."

So two days later I was up before the cultural and scientific board, trying to prove that I was an asset. I knocked out Turkey in the Straw, Nehru's Opus 81, and the introduction to Morgenstern's Dawn of the 22nd Century, as arranged for squeeze boxes. I gave them The Green Hills of Earth for an encore.

They asked me if I liked to play for other people and told me politely that I would be informed as to the decision of the board . . . and about a week later I got a letter directing me to turn my accordion over to the Supply Office, Hayward Field. I was in, I was a "cultural asset"!

Four days before blast-off Dad came home early-he had been closing his office—and asked me if we could have something special for dinner; we were having guests. I said I supposed so; my accounts showed that we would have rations to turn back.

He seemed embarrassed. "Son—“

"Huh? Yes, George?"

"You know that item in the rules about families?"

"Uh, yes."

"Well, you were right about it, but I was holding out on you and now I've got to confess. I'm getting married tomorrow."

There was a sort of roaring in my ears. Dad couldn't have surprised me more if he had slapped me.

I couldn't say anything. I just stood there, looking at him. Finally I managed to get out, "But, George, you can't do that!"

"Why not, Son?"

"How about Anne?"

"Anne is dead."

"But— But—" I couldn't say anything more; I ducked into my room and locked myself in. I lay on the bed, trying to think.

Presently I heard Dad trying the latch. Then he tapped on the door and said, "Bill?"

I didn't answer. After a while he went away. I lay there a while longer. I guess I bawled, but I wasn't bawling over the trouble with Dad. It seemed the way it did the day Anne died, when I couldn't get it through my head that I wouldn't ever see her again. Wouldn't ever see her smile at me again and hear her say, "Stand tall, Billy."

And I would stand tall and she would look proud and pat my arm.

How could George do it? How could he bring some other woman into Anne's home?

I got up and had a look at myself in the mirror and then went in and set my 'fresher for a needle shower and a hard massage. I felt better afterwards, except that I still had a sick feeling in my stomach. The 'fresher blew me off and dusted me and sighed to a stop. Through the sound it seemed to me I could hear Anne speaking to me, but that must have been in my head.

She was saying, "Stand tall, Son." I got dressed again and went out.

Dad was messing around with dinner and I do mean messing. He had burned his thumb on the shortwave, don't ask me how. I had to throw out what he had been fiddling with, all except the salad. I picked out more stuff and started them cycling. Neither of us said anything.

I set the table for three and Dad finally spoke. "Better set it for four, Bill. Molly has a daughter, you know."

I dropped a fork. "Molly? You mean Mrs. Kenyon?"

"Yes. Didn't I tell you? No, you didn't give me a chance to."

I knew her all right. She was Dad's draftsman. I knew her daughter, too—a twelve-year-old brat. Somehow, it being Mrs. Kenyon made it worse, indecent. Why, she had even come to Anne's Farewell and had had the nerve to cry.

I knew now why she had always been so chummy with me whenever I was down at Dad's office. She had had her eye on George.

I didn't say anything. What was there to say?

I said "How do you do?" politely when they came in, then went out and pretended to fiddle with dinner. Dinner was sort of odd. Dad and Mrs. Kenyon talked and I answered when spoken to. I didn't listen. I was still trying to figure out how he could do it. The brat spoke to me a couple of times but I soon put her in her place.

After dinner Dad said how about all of us going to a show? I begged off, saying that I still had sorting to do. They went.

I thought and thought about it. Any way I looked at it, it seemed like a bad deal.

At first I decided that I wouldn't go to Ganymede after all, not if they were going. Dad would forfeit my bond, but I would work hard and pay it back—I wasn't going to owe them anything!

Then I finally figured out why Dad was doing it and I felt some better, but not much. It was too high a price.

Dad got home late, by himself, and tapped on my door. It wasn't locked and he came in. "Well, Son?" he said.

"'Well' what?"

"Bill, I know that this business comes as a surprise to you, but you'll get over it."

I laughed, though I didn't feel funny. Get over it! Maybe he could forget Anne, but I never would.

"In the meantime," he went on, "I want you to behave yourself. I suppose you know you were as rude as you could be without actually spitting in their faces?"

"Me rude?"I objected. "Didn't I fix dinner for them? Wasn't I polite?"

"You were as polite as a judge passing sentence. And as friendly. You needed a swift kick to make you remember your manners."

I guess I looked stubborn. George went on, "That's done; let's forget it. See here, Bill—in time you are going to see that this was a good idea. All I ask you to do is to behave yourself in the meantime. I don't ask you to fall on their necks; I do insist that you be your own normal, reasonably polite and friendly self. Will you try?"

"Uh, I suppose so." Then I went on with, "See here, Dad, why did you have to spring it on me as a surprise?"

He looked embarrassed. "That was a mistake. I suppose I did it because I knew you would raise Cain about it and I wanted to put it off."

"But I would have understood if you had only told me. I know why you want to marry her—"

"Eh?"

"I should have known when you mentioned that business about rules. You have to get married so that we can go to Ganymede——"

"What?"

I was startled. I said, "Huh? That's right, isn't it? You told me so yourself. You said—"

"I said nothing of the sort!" Dad stopped, took a deep breath, then went on slowly, "Bill, I suppose you possibly could have gathered that impression—though I am not flattered that you could have entertained it. Now I'll spell out the true situation: Molly and I are not getting married in order to emigrate. We are emigrating because we are getting married. You may be too young to understand it, but I love Molly and Molly loves me. If I wanted to stay here, she'd stay. Since I want to go, she wants to go. She's wise enough to understand that I need to make a complete break with my old background. Do you follow me?"

I said I guessed so.

"I'll say goodnight, then."

I answered, "Goodnight." He turned away, but I added, "George—" He stopped.

I blurted out. "You don't love Anne any more, do you?"

Dad turned white. He started back in and then stopped. "Bill," he said slowly, "it has been some years since I've laid a hand on you—but this is the first time I ever wanted to give you a thrashing."

I thought he was going to do it. I waited and I had made up my mind that if he touched me he was going to get die surprise of his life. But he didn't come any nearer; he just closed the door between us.

After awhile I took another shower that I didn't need and went to bed. I must have lain there an hour or more, thinking that Dad had wanted to hit me and wishing that Anne were around to tell me what to do. Finally I switched on the dancing lights and stared at them until they knocked me out.

Neither one of us said anything until breakfast was over and neither of us ate much, either. Finally Dad said, "Bill, I want to beg your pardon for what I said last night. You hadn't done or said anything to justify raising a hand to you and I had no business thinking it or saying it."

I said, "Oh, that's all right." I thought about it and added, "I guess I shouldn't have said what I did."

"It was all right to say it What makes me sad is that you could have thought it. Bill, I've never stopped loving Anne and I'll never love her any less."

"But you said—" I stopped and finished, "I just don't get it."

"I guess there is no reason to expect you to." George stood up. "Bill, the ceremony is at fifteen o'clock. Will you be dressed and ready about an hour before that time?"

I hesitated and said, "I won't be able to, George. I've got a pretty full day."

His face didn't have any expression at all and neither did his voice. He said, "I see," and left the room. A bit later he left the apartment. A while later I. tried to call him at his office, but the autosecretary ground out the old stall about "Would you like to record a message?" I didn't. I figured that George would be home some time before fifteen hundred and I got dressed in my best. I even used some of Dad's beard cream.

He didn't show up. I tried the office again, and again, got the "Would-you-like-to-record-a-message?" routine. Then I braced myself and looked up the code on Mrs. Kenyon.

He wasn't there. Nobody was there.

The time crawled past and there was nothing I could do about it. After a while it was fifteen o'clock and I knew that my father was off somewhere getting married but I didn't know where. About fifteen-thirty I went out and went to a show.

When I got back the red light was shining on the phone. I dialed playback and it was Dad: "Bill I tried to reach you but you weren't in and I can't wait. Molly and I are leaving on a short trip. If you need to reach me, call Follow Up Service, Limited, in Chicago—we'll be somewhere in Canada. We'll be back Thursday night. Goodbye." That was the end of the recording.

Thursday night—blast-off was Friday morning.

3. Space Ship Bifrost

Dad called me from Mrs. Kenyon's—I mean from Molly's—apartment Thursday night. We were both polite but uneasy. I said yes, I was all ready and I hoped they had had a nice time. He said they had and would I come over and we would all leave from there in the morning.

I said I hadn't known what his plans were, so I had bought a ticket to Mojave port and had reserved a room at Hotel Lancaster. What did he want me to do?

He thought about it and said, "It looks like you can take care of yourself, Bill."

"Of course I can."

"All right. We'll see you at the port. Want to speak to Molly?"

"Uh, no, just tell her hello for me."

"Thanks, I will." He switched off.

I went to my room and got my kit—fifty-seven and fifty-nine hundredths pounds; I couldn't have added a clipped frog's hair. My room was bare, except for my Scout uniform. I couldn't afford to take it, but I hadn't thrown it away yet.

I picked it up, intending to take it to the incinerator, then stopped. At the physical exam I had been listed at one hundred thirty-one and two tenths pounds mass in the clothes I would wear for blast off.

But I hadn't eaten much the last few days.

I stepped into the 'fresher and onto the scales—one hundred twenty-nine and eight tenths. I picked up the uniform and stepped back on the scales—one hundred thirty-two and five tenths.

William, I said, you get no dinner, you get no breakfast, and you drink no water tomorrow morning. I bundled up my uniform and took it along.

The apartment was stripped. As a surprise for the next tenant I left in the freezer the stuff I had meant to eat for supper, then switched all the gadgets to zero except the freezer, and locked the door behind me. It felt funny; Anne and George and I had lived there as far back as I could remember.

I went down to subsurface, across town, and caught the In-Coast tube for Mojave. Twenty minutes later I was at Hotel Lancaster in the Mojave Desert.

I soon found out that the "room" I had reserved was a cot in the billiard room. I trotted down to find out what had happened.

I showed the room clerk the 'stat that said I had a room coming to me. He looked at it and said, "Young man, have you ever tried to bed down six thousand people at once?"

I said no, I hadn't.

"Then be glad you've got a cot. The room you reserved is occupied by a family with nine children."

I went.

The hotel was a madhouse. I couldn't have gotten anything to eat even if I hadn't promised myself not to eat; you couldn't get within twenty yards of the dining room. There were children underfoot everywhere and squalling brats galore. There were emigrant families squatting in the ball room. I looked them over and wondered how they had picked them; out of a grab bag?

Finally I went to bed. I was hungry and got hungrier. I began to wonder why I was going to all this trouble to hang on to a Scout uniform I obviously wasn't going to use.

If I had had my ration book I would have gotten up and stood in line at the dining room—but Dad and I had turned ours in. I still had some money and thought about trying to find a free-dealers; they say you can find them around a hotel. But Dad says that "free-dealer" is a fake word; they are black marketeers and no gentleman will buy from them.

Besides that I didn't have the slightest idea of how to go about finding one.

I got up and got a drink and went back to bed and went through the relaxing routine. Finally I got to sleep and dreamed about strawberry shortcake with real cream, the kind that comes from cows.

I woke up hungry but I suddenly remembered that this was it!—my last day on Earth. Then I was too excited to be hungry. I got up, put on my Scout uniform and my ship suit over it.

I thought we would go right on board. I was wrong.

First we had to assemble under awnings spread out in front of the hotel near the embarking tubes. It wasn't air conditioned outside, of course, but it was early and the desert wasn't really hot yet. I found the letter "L" and sat down under it, sitting on my baggage. Dad and his new family weren't around yet; I began to wonder if I was going to Ganymede by myself. I didn't much care.

Out past the gates about five miles away, you could see the ships standing on the field, the Daedalus and the Icarus, pulled off the Earth-Moon run for this one trip, and the old Bifrost that had been the shuttle rocket to Supra-New-York space station as far back as I could remember.

The Daedalus and the Icarus were bigger but I hoped I would get the Bifrost; she was the first ship I ever saw blast off.

A family put their baggage down by mine. The mother looked out across the field and said, "Joseph, which one is the Mayflower?"

Her husband tried to explain to her, but she still was puzzled. I nearly burst, trying to keep from laughing. Here she was, all set to go to Ganymede and yet she was so dumb she didn't even know that the ship she was going in had been built out in space and couldn't land anywhere.

The place was getting crowded with emigrants and relatives coming to see them off, but I still didn't see anything of Dad. I heard my name called and turned around and there was Duck Miller. "Gee, Bill," he said, "I thought I'd missed you."

"Hi, Duck. No, I'm still here."

"I tried to call you last night but your phone answered 'service discontinued,' so I hooked school and came up."

"Aw, you shouldn't have done that."

"But I wanted to bring you this." He handed me a package, a whole pound of chocolates. I didn't know what to say.

I thanked him and then said, "Duck, I appreciate it, I really do. But I'll have to give them back to you."

"Huh? Why?"

"Weight Mass, I mean. I can't get by with another ounce."

"You can carry it."

"That won't help. It counts just the same."

He thought about it and said, "Then let's open it."

I said, "Fine," and did so and offered him a piece. I looked at them myself and my stomach was practically sitting up and begging. I don't know when I've been so hungry.

I gave in and ate one. I figured I would sweat it off anyhow; it was getting hot and I had my Scout uniform on under my ship suit—and that's no way to dress for the Mojave Desert in June! Then I was thirstier than ever, of course; one thing leads to another.

I went over to a drinking fountain and took a very small drink. When I came back I closed the candy box and handed it back to Duck and told him to pass it around at next Scout meeting and tell the fellows I wished they were going along. He said he would and added, "You know, Bill, I wish I was going. I really do."

I said I wished he was, too, but when did he change his mind? He looked embarrassed but about then Mr. Kinski showed up and then Dad showed up, with Molly and the brat—Peggy—and Molly's sister, Mrs. van Metre. Everybody shook hands all around and Mrs. van Metre started to cry and the brat wanted to know what made my clothes so bunchy and what was I sweating about?

George was eyeing me, but about then our names were called and we started moving through the gate.

George and Molly and Peggy were weighed through and then it was my turn. My baggage was right on the nose, of course, and then I stepped on the scales. They read one hundred and thirty-one and one tenth pounds—I could have eaten another chocolate.

"Check!" said the weightmaster, then he looked up and said, "What in the world have you got on, son?"

The left sleeve of my uniform had started to unroll and was sticking out below the half sleeve of my ship suit. The merit badges were shining out like signal lights.

I didn't say anything. He started feeling the lumps the uniform sleeves made. "Boy," he said, "you're dressed like an arctic explorer; no wonder you're sweating. Didn't you know you weren't supposed to wear anything but the gear you were listed in?"

Dad came back and asked what the trouble was? I just stood there with my ears burning. The assistant weightmaster got into the huddle and they argued what should be done. The weightmaster phoned somebody and finally he said, "He's inside his weight limit; if he wants to call that monkey suit part of his skin, we'll allow it. Next customer, please!"

I trailed along, feeling foolish. We went down inside and climbed on the slide strip, it was cool down there, thank goodness. A few minutes later we got off at the loading room down under the rocket ship. Sure enough, it was the Bifrost, as I found out when the loading elevator poked above ground and stopped at the passenger port. We filed in.

They had it all organized. Our baggage had been taken from us in the loading room; each passenger had a place assigned by his weight. That split us up again; I was on the deck immediately under the control room. I found my place, couch 14-D, then went to a view port where I could see the Daedalus and the Icarus.

A brisk little stewardess, about knee high to a grasshopper, checked my name off a list and offered me an injection against dropsickness. I said no, thanks.

She said, "You've been out before?"

I admitted I hadn't; she said, "Better take it."

I said I was a licensed air pilot; I wouldn't get sick I didn't tell her that my license was just for copters. She shrugged and turned away. A loudspeaker said, "The Daedalus is cleared for blasting." I moved up to get a good view.

The Daedalus was about a quarter of a mile away and stood up higher than we did. She had fine lines and was a mighty pretty sight, gleaming in the morning sunshine. Beyond her and to the right, clear out at the edge of the field, a light shone green at the traffic control blockhouse.

She canted slowly over to the south, just a few degrees.

Fire burst out of her base, orange, and then blinding white. It splashed down into the ground baffles and curled back up through the ground vents. She lifted.

She hung there for a breath and you could see the hills shimmer through her jet. And she was gone.

Just like that—she was gone. She went up out of there like a scared bird, just a pencil of white fire in the sky, and was gone while we could still hear and feel the thunder of her jets inside the compartment.

My ears were ringing. I heard someone behind me say, "But I haven't had breakfast. The Captain will just have to wait. Tell him, Joseph."

It was the woman who hadn't known that the Mayflower was a space-to-space ship. Her husband tried to hush her up, but he didn't have any luck. She called over the stewardess. I heard her answer, "But, madam, you can't speak to the Captain now. He's preparing for blast-off."

Apparently that didn't make any difference. The stewardess finally got her quiet by solemnly promising that she could have breakfast after blast-off. I bent my ears at that and I decided to put in a bid for breakfast, too.

The Icarus took off twenty minutes later and then the speaker said, "All hands! Acceleration stations–prepare to blast off." I went back to my couch and the stewardess made sure that we were all strapped down. She cautioned us not to unstrap until she said we could. She went down to the deck below.

I felt my ears pop and there was a soft sighing in the ship. I swallowed and kept swallowing. I knew what they were doing: blowing the natural air out and replacing it with the standard helium-oxygen mix at half sea-level pressure. But the woman—the same one—didn't like it. She said, "Joseph, my head aches. Joseph, I can't breathe. Do something!"

Then she clawed at her straps and sat up. Her husband sat up, too, and forced her back down.

The Bifrost tilted over a little and the speaker said, "Minus three minutes!"

After a long time it said, "Minus two minutes!"

And then "Minus one minutel" and another voice took up the count:

"Fifty-nine! Fifty-eight! Fifty-seven!"

My heart started to pound so hard I could hardly hear it. But it went on: "-thirty-five! Thirty-four! Thirty-three! Thirty-two! Thirty-one! Half! Twenty-nine! Twenty-eight!"

And it got to be: "Ten!"

And "Nine!"

"Eight!

"Seven!

"And six!

"And five!

"And four!

"And three!

"And two—"