The Rolling Stones (3 page)

“We prefer your stuff.”

“My stuff? My stuff isn’t literature. It’s more of an animated comic strip.”

“We like it,” Castor said firmly.

His father took a deep breath. “Thank you. Which reminds me that I still have a full episode to sweat out tonight, so I will cut this discussion short. In the first place you can’t touch the money without my thumbprint—from now on I am going to wear gloves. In the second place both of you are too young for an unlimited license.”

“You could get us a waiver for out-system. When we got back we’d probably be old enough for unlimited.”

“You’re too young!”

Castor said, “Why, Dad, not half an hour ago you accepted a gimmick from me in which you were going to have an eleven-year-old kid driving a ship.”

“I’ll raise his age!”

“It’ll ruin your gimmick.”

“Confound it! That’s just fiction—and poor fiction at that. It’s hokum, dreamed up to sell merchandise.” He suddenly looked suspiciously at his son. “Cas, you planted that gimmick on me. Just to give yourself an argument in favor of this harebrained scheme—didn’t you?”

Castor looked pious. “Why, Father, how could you think such a thing?”

“Don’t ‘Father’ me! I can tell a hawk from a handsaw.”

“Anybody can,” Grandmother Hazel commented. “The Hawk class is a purely commercial type while the Hanshaw runabout is a sport job. Come to think about it, boys, a Hanshaw might be better than a Douglas. I like its fractional controls and—”

“Hazel!” snapped her son. “Quit encouraging the boys. And quit showing off. You’re not the only engineer in the family.”

“I’m the only good one,” she answered smugly.

“Oh, yes? Nobody ever complained about my work.”

“Then why did you quit?”

“You know why. Fiddle with finicky figures for months on end—and what have you got? A repair dock. Or a stamping mill. And who cares?”

“So you aren’t an engineer. You’re merely a man who knows engineering.”

“What about yourself? You didn’t stick with it.”

“No,” she admitted, “but my reasons were different. I saw three big, hairy, male men promoted over my head and not one of them could do a partial integration without a pencil. Presently I figured out that the Atomic Energy Commission had a bias on the subject of women no matter what the civil service rules said. So I took a job dealing blackjack. Luna City didn’t offer much choice in those days—and I had you to support.”

The argument seemed about to die out; Castor judged it was time to mix it up again. “Hazel, do you really think we should get a Hanshaw? I’m not sure we can afford it.”

“Well, now, you really need a third crewman for a—”

“Do you want to buy in?”

Mr. Stone interrupted. “Hazel, I will not stand by and let you encourage this. I’m putting my foot down.”

“You look silly standing there on one foot. Don’t try to bring me up, Roger. At ninety-five my habits are fairly well set.”

“Ninety-five indeed! Last week you were eighty-five.”

“It’s been a hard week. Back to our muttons—why don’t
you
buy in with them? You could go along and keep them out of trouble.”

“What? Me?” Mr. Stone took a deep breath. “(A) a marine guard couldn’t keep these two junior-model Napoleons out of trouble. I know; I’ve tried. (B) I do not like a Hanshaw; they are fuel hogs. (C) I have to turn out three episodes a week of
The Scourge of the Spaceways—
including one which must be taped tonight, if this family will ever quiet down!”

“Roger,” his mother answered, “trouble in this family is like water for fish. And nobody asked you to buy a Hanshaw. As to your third point, give me a blank spool and I’ll dictate the next three episodes tonight while I’m brushing my hair.” Hazel’s hair was still thick and quite red. So far, no one had caught her dyeing it. “It’s about time you broke that contract anyway; you’ve won your bet.”

Her son winced. Two years before he had let himself be trapped into a bet that he could write better stuff than was being channeled up from Earth—and had gotten himself caught in a quicksand of fat checks and options. “I can’t afford to quit,” he said feebly.

“What good is money if you don’t have time to spend it? Give me that spool and the box.”

“You can’t write it.”

“Want to bet?”

Her son backed down; no one yet had won a bet with Hazel. “That’s beside the point. I’m a family man; I’ve got Edith and Buster and Meade to think about, too.”

Meade turned her head again. “If you’re thinking about me, Daddy, I’d
like
to go. Why, I’ve never been
any place—
except that one trip to Venus and twice to New York.”

“Hold still, Meade,” Dr. Stone said quietly. She went on to her husband, “You know, Roger, I was thinking just the other day how cramped this apartment is. And we haven’t been any place, as Meade says, since we got back from Venus.”

Mr. Stone stared. “You too? Edith, this apartment is bigger than any ship compartment; you know that.”

“Yes, but a ship seems bigger. In free fall one gets so much more use out of the room.”

“My dear, do I understand that you are supporting this junket?”

“Oh, not at all! I was speaking in general terms. But you do sleep better aboard ship. You never snore in free fall.”

“I do not snore!”

Dr. Stone did not answer. Hazel snickered. Pollux caught Castor’s eye and Castor nodded; the two slipped quietly away to their own room. It was a lot of trouble to get mother involved in a family argument, but worth the effort; nothing important was ever decided until she joined in.

Meade tapped on their door a little later; Castor let her in and looked her over; she was dressed in the height of fashion for the American Old West. “Square dancing again, huh?”

“Eliminations tonight. Look here, Cas, even if Daddy breaks loose from the money you two might be stymied by being underage for an unlimited license—right?”

“We figure on a waiver.” They had also discussed blasting off without a waiver, but it did not seem the time to mention it.

“But you might not get it. Just bear in mind that I will be eighteen next week. ’Bye now!”

“Good night.”

When she had gone Pollux said, “That’s silly. She hasn’t even taken her limited license.”

“No, but she’s had astrogation in school and we could coach her.”

“Cas, you’re crazy. We can’t drag her all around the system; girls are a nuisance.”

“You’ve got that wrong, Junior. You mean ‘sisters’—girls are okay.”

Pollux considered this. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“Oh, so? How about the time you tried to use liquid air to—”

“Let’s not be petty!”

Grandmother Hazel stuck her head in next. “Just a quick battle report, boys. Your father is groggy but still fighting gamely.”

“Is he going to let us use the money?”

“Doesn’t look like it, as of now. Tell me, how much did Ekizian ask you for that Detroiter?”

Castor told her; she whistled. “The gonoph,” she said softly. “That unblushing groundhog—I’ll have his license lifted.”

“Oh, we didn’t agree to pay it.”

“Don’t sign with him at all unless I’m at your elbow. I know where the body is buried.”

“Okay. Look, Hazel, you really think a Detroiter VII is unstable?”

She wrinkled her brow. “Its gyros are too light for the ship’s moment of inertia. I hate a ship that wobbles. If we could pick up a war-surplus triple-duo gyro system, cheap, you would have something. I’ll inquire around.”

It was much later when Mr. Stone looked in. “Still awake, boys?”

“Oh, sure, come in.”

“About that matter we were discussing tonight—”

Pollux said, “Do we get the money?”

Castor dug him in the ribs but it was too late. Their father said, “I told you that was out. But I wanted to ask you: did you, when you were shopping around today, happen to ask, uh, about any larger ships?”

Castor looked blank. “Why, no, sir. We couldn’t afford anything larger—could we, Pol?”

“Gee, no! Why do you ask, Dad?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all! Uh, good night.”

He left. The twins turned to each other and solemnly shook hands.

A CASE FOR DRAMATIC LICENSE

A
T BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING

—“morning” by Greenwich time, of course; it was still late afternoon by local sun time and would be for a couple of days—the Stone family acted out the episode Hazel had dictated the night before of Mr. Stone’s marathon adventure serial. Grandma Hazel had stuck the spool of dictation into the autotyper as soon as she had gotten up; there was a typed copy for each of them. Even Buster had a small side to read and Hazel played several parts, crouching and jumping around and shifting her voice from rusty bass to soprano.

Everybody got into the act—everybody but Mr. Stone; he listened with a dour try-to-make-me-laugh expression.

Hazel finished her grand cliff-hanging finale by knocking over her coffee. She plucked the cup out of the air and had a napkin under the brown flood before it could reach the floor under the urge of the Moon’s leisurely field. “Well?” she said breathlessly to her son, while still panting from the Galactic Overlord’s frantic attempts to escape a just fate. “How about it? Isn’t that a dilly? Did we scare the dickens out of ’em or didn’t we?”

Roger Stone did not answer; he merely held his nose. Hazel looked amazed. “You didn’t
like
it? Why, Roger, I do believe you’re jealous. To think I would raise a son with spirit so mean that he would be envious of his own mother!”

Buster spoke up. “
I
liked it. Let’s do that part over where I shoot the space pirate.” He pointed a finger and made a zizzing noise. “Wheel Blood all over the bulkheads!”

“There’s your answer, Roger. Your public. If Buster likes it, you’re in.”

“I thought it was exciting,” Meade put in. “What was wrong with it, Daddy?”

“Yes,” agreed Hazel belligerently. “Go ahead. Tell us.”

“Very well. In the first place, spaceships do not make hundred-and-eighty-degree turns.”

“This one does!”

“In the second place, what in blazes is this ‘Galactic Overlord’ nonsense? When did he creep in?”

“Oh, that! Son, your show was dying on its feet, so I gave it a transfusion.”

“But ‘Galactic Overlords’—now, really! It’s not only preposterous; it’s been used over and over again.”

“Is that bad? Next week I’m going to equip
Hamlet
with atomic propulsion and stir it in with
The Comedy of Errors.
I suppose you think Shakespeare will sue me?”

“He will if he can stop spinning.” Roger Stone shrugged. “I’ll send it in. There’s no time left to do another one and the contract doesn’t say it has to be good; it just says I have to deliver it. They’ll rewrite it in New York anyway.”

His mother answered, “Even money says your fan mail is up twenty-five per cent on this episode.”

“No, thank you. I don’t want you wearing yourself out writing fan mail—not at your age.”

“What’s wrong with my age? I used to paddle you twice a week and I can still do it. Come on; put up your dukes!”

“Too soon after breakfast.”

“Sissy! Pick your way of dying—Marquis of Queensbury, dockside, or kill-quick.”

“Send around your seconds; let’s do this properly. In the meantime—” He turned to his sons. “Boys, have you any plans for today?”

Castor glanced at his brother, then said cautiously, “Well, we were thinking of doing a little more shopping for ships.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Pollux looked up sharply. “You mean we get the money?” His brother glared at him. Their father answered, “No, your money stays in the bank—where it belongs.”

“Then why bother to shop?” He got an elbow in the ribs for this remark.

“I’m interested in seeing what the market has to offer,” Mr. Stone answered. “Coming, Edith?”

Dr. Stone answered, “I trust your judgment, my dear.”

Hazel gulped more coffee and stood up. “I’m coming along.”

Buster bounced down out of his chair. “Me, too!”

Dr. Stone stopped him. “No, dear. Finish your oatmeal.”

“No! I’m going, too. Can’t I, Grandma Hazel?”

Hazel considered it. Riding herd on the child outside the pressurized city was a full-time chore; he was not old enough to be trusted to handle his vacuum-suit controls properly. On this occasion she wanted to be free to give her full attention to other matters. “I’m afraid not, Lowell. Tell you what, sugar, I’ll keep my phone open and we’ll play chess while I’m away.”

Buster clouded up. “It’s no fun to play chess by telephone. I can’t tell what you are thinking.”

Hazel stared at him. “So that’s it? I’ve suspected it for some time. Maybe I can win a game once. No, don’t start whimpering—or I’ll take your slide rule away from you for a week.” The child thought it over, shrugged, and his face became placid. Hazel turned to her son. “Do you suppose he really does hear thoughts?”

Her son looked at his least son. “I’m afraid to find out.” He sighed and added, “Why couldn’t I have been born into a nice, normal, stupid family? Your fault, Hazel.”

His mother patted his arm. “Don’t fret, Roger. You pull down the average.”