Read Online Job: A Comedy of Justice by Robert A. Heinlein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert A. Heinlein
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did?”
That ended it. My rat-faced caller had scrambled out as I was being fished out and had streaked off the ship. By the time they had finished reviving me, Nasty and his bodyguards were long gone.
Mr. Henderson had me lie still until the ship’s doctor arrived. He put a stethoscope on me and announced that I was okay. I told a couple of small fibs, some near truths, and an evasion. By then the gangway had been removed and shortly a loud blast announced that we had left the dock.
I did not find it necessary to tell anyone that I had played water polo in school.
The next many days were very sweet, in the fashion that grapes grow sweetest on the slopes of a live volcano.
I managed to get acquainted (reacquainted?) with my table mates without, apparently, anyone noticing that I was a stranger. I picked up names just by waiting until someone else spoke to someone by name—remembered the name and used it later. Everyone was pleasant to me—I not only was not “below the salt,” since the record showed that I had been aboard the full trip, but also I was at least a celebrity if not a hero for having walked through the fire.
I did not use the swimming pool. I was not sure what swimming Graham had done, if any, and, having been “rescued,” I did not want to exhibit a degree of skill inconsistent with that “rescue.” Besides, while I grew accustomed to (and even appreciative of) a degree of nudity shocking in my former life, I did not feel that I could manage with aplomb being naked in company.
Since there was nothing I could do about it, I put the mystery of Nastyface and his bodyguard out of my mind.
The same was true of the all-embracing mystery of j who I am and how I got here—nothing I could do about it, so don’t worry about it. On reflection I realized that I was in exactly the same predicament as every other human being alive: We don’t know who we are, or where we came from, or why we are here. My dilemma was merely fresher, not different.
One thing (possibly the only thing) I learned in seminary was to face calmly the ancient mystery of life, untroubled by my inability to solve it. Honest priests and preachers are denied the comforts of religion; instead they must live with the austere rewards of philosophy. I never became much of a metaphysician but I did learn not to worry about that which I could not solve.
I spent much time in the library or reading in deck chairs, and each day I learned more about and felt more at home in this world. Happy, golden days slipped past like a dream of childhood.
And every day there was Margrethe.
I felt like a boy undergoing his first attack of puppy love.
It was a strange romance. We could not speak of love. Or I could not, and she did not. Every day she was my servant (shared with her other passenger guests)…and my “mother” (shared with others? I did not think so…but I did not know). The relationship was close but not intimate. Then each day, for a few moments while I “paid” her for tying my bow tie, she was my wonderfully sweet and utterly passionate darling.
But only then.
At other times I was “Mr. Graham” to her and she called me “sir”—warmly friendly but not intimate. She was willing to chat, standing up and with the door open; she often had ship’s gossip to share with me. But her manner was always that of the perfect servant. Correction: the perfect crew member assigned to personal service. Each day I learned a little more about her. I found no fault in her.
For me the day started with my first sight of her—usually on my way to breakfast when I would meet her in the passageway or spot her through an open door of a room she was making up…just “Good morning, Margrethe” and “Good morning, Mr. Graham,” but the sun did not rise until that moment.
I would see her from time to time during the day, peaking each day with that golden ritual after she tied my tie.
Then I would see her briefly after dinner. Immediately after
That ended it. My rat-faced caller had scrambled out as I was being fished out and had streaked off the ship. By the time they had finished reviving me, Nasty and his bodyguards were long gone.
Mr. Henderson had me lie still until the ship’s doctor arrived. He put a stethoscope on me and announced that I was okay. I told a couple of small fibs, some near truths, and an evasion. By then the gangway had been removed and shortly a loud blast announced that we had left the dock.
I did not find it necessary to tell anyone that I had played water polo in school.
The next many days were very sweet, in the fashion that grapes grow sweetest on the slopes of a live volcano.
I managed to get acquainted (reacquainted?) with my table mates without, apparently, anyone noticing that I was a stranger. I picked up names just by waiting until someone else spoke to someone by name—remembered the name and used it later. Everyone was pleasant to me—I not only was not “below the salt,” since the record showed that I had been aboard the full trip, but also I was at least a celebrity if not a hero for having walked through the fire.
I did not use the swimming pool. I was not sure what swimming Graham had done, if any, and, having been “rescued,” I did not want to exhibit a degree of skill inconsistent with that “rescue.” Besides, while I grew accustomed to (and even appreciative of) a degree of nudity shocking in my former life, I did not feel that I could manage with aplomb being naked in company.
Since there was nothing I could do about it, I put the mystery of Nastyface and his bodyguard out of my mind.
The same was true of the all-embracing mystery of j who I am and how I got here—nothing I could do about it, so don’t worry about it. On reflection I realized that I was in exactly the same predicament as every other human being alive: We don’t know who we are, or where we came from, or why we are here. My dilemma was merely fresher, not different.
One thing (possibly the only thing) I learned in seminary was to face calmly the ancient mystery of life, untroubled by my inability to solve it. Honest priests and preachers are denied the comforts of religion; instead they must live with the austere rewards of philosophy. I never became much of a metaphysician but I did learn not to worry about that which I could not solve.
I spent much time in the library or reading in deck chairs, and each day I learned more about and felt more at home in this world. Happy, golden days slipped past like a dream of childhood.
And every day there was Margrethe.
I felt like a boy undergoing his first attack of puppy love.
It was a strange romance. We could not speak of love. Or I could not, and she did not. Every day she was my servant (shared with her other passenger guests)…and my “mother” (shared with others? I did not think so…but I did not know). The relationship was close but not intimate. Then each day, for a few moments while I “paid” her for tying my bow tie, she was my wonderfully sweet and utterly passionate darling.
But only then.
At other times I was “Mr. Graham” to her and she called me “sir”—warmly friendly but not intimate. She was willing to chat, standing up and with the door open; she often had ship’s gossip to share with me. But her manner was always that of the perfect servant. Correction: the perfect crew member assigned to personal service. Each day I learned a little more about her. I found no fault in her.
For me the day started with my first sight of her—usually on my way to breakfast when I would meet her in the passageway or spot her through an open door of a room she was making up…just “Good morning, Margrethe” and “Good morning, Mr. Graham,” but the sun did not rise until that moment.
I would see her from time to time during the day, peaking each day with that golden ritual after she tied my tie.
Then I would see her briefly after dinner. Immediately after
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