Read Online Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky by Robert A. Heinlein - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert A. Heinlein
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napkin down on the table. “Kid, I believe you’re right.”
“Don’t forget, too, what you’ll be doing for the country. There’ll be factories springing up right away all over the Southwest—every place where there’s lots of sunshine. Free power! You’ll be the new emancipator.”
He stood up, his eyes shining. “Kid, we’ll do it! Half a minute while I tell Dad our decision, then we’ll beat it for town.”
Two hours later the teletype in every news service office in the country was clicking out the story. Douglas insisted that the story include the technical details of the process as a condition of releasing it. By the time he and Mary Lou walked out of the Associated Press building the first extra was on the street:
“GENIUS GRANTS GRATIS POWER TO PUBLIC.”
Archie bought one and beckoned to the muscle man who was shadowing him.
“Come here, Sweetheart. You can quit pretending to be a fireplug. I’ve an errand for you.” He handed the lunk the newspaper. It was accepted uneasily. In all his long and unsavory career he had never had the etiquette of shadowing treated in so cavalier a style. “Take this paper to your boss and tell him Archie Douglas sent him a valentine. Don’t stand there staring at me! Beat it, before I break your fat head!”
As Archie watched him disappear in the crowd, Mary Lou slipped a hand in his. “Feel better, son?”
“Lots.”
“All your worries over?”
“All but one.” He grabbed her shoulders and swung her around. “I’ve got an argument to settle with you. Come along!” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her out into the crosswalk.
“What the hell, Archie! Let go my wrist.”
“Not likely. You see that building over there? That’s the courthouse. Right next to the window where they issue dog licenses, there’s one where we can get a wedding permit.”
“I’m not going to marry you!”
“Oh, yes, you are—or I’ll start to scream right here in the street.”
“This is blackmail!”
As they entered the building, she was still dragging her feet—but not too hard.
The Roads Must Roll
“Who makes the roads roll?”
The speaker stood still on the rostrum and waited for his audience to answer him. The reply came in scattered shouts that cut through the ominous, discontented murmur of the crowd.
“We do!”—“We do!”—“Damn right!”
“Who does the dirty work ‘down inside’—so that Joe Public can ride at his ease?”
This time it was a single roar, “We do!” The speaker pressed his advantage, his words tumbling out in a rasping torrent. He leaned toward the crowd, his eyes picking out individuals at whom to fling his words. “What makes business? The roads! How do they move the food they eat? The roads! How do they get to work? The roads! How do they get home to their wives? The roads!” He paused for effect, then lowered his voice. “Where would the public be if you boys didn’t keep them roads rolling?—Behind the eight ball and everybody knows it. But do they appreciate it? Pfui! Did we ask for too much? Were our demands unreasonable? ‘The right to resign whenever we want to.’ Every working stiff in other lines of work has that. ‘The same pay as the engineers.’ Why not? Who are the real engineers around here? D’yuh have to be a cadet in a funny little hat before you can learn to wipe a bearing, or jack down a rotor? Who earns his keep: the ‘gentlemen’ in the control offices, or the boys ‘down inside’? What else do we ask? ‘The right to elect our own engineers.’ Why not? Who’s competent to pick engineers? The technicians?—or some dumb examining board that’s never been ‘down inside,’ and couldn’t tell a rotor bearing from a field coil?”
He changed his pace with natural art, and lowered his voice still further. “I tell you, brother, it’s time we quit fiddlin’ around with petitions to the Transport Commission, and use a little direct action. Let ’em yammer about democracy;
“Don’t forget, too, what you’ll be doing for the country. There’ll be factories springing up right away all over the Southwest—every place where there’s lots of sunshine. Free power! You’ll be the new emancipator.”
He stood up, his eyes shining. “Kid, we’ll do it! Half a minute while I tell Dad our decision, then we’ll beat it for town.”
Two hours later the teletype in every news service office in the country was clicking out the story. Douglas insisted that the story include the technical details of the process as a condition of releasing it. By the time he and Mary Lou walked out of the Associated Press building the first extra was on the street:
“GENIUS GRANTS GRATIS POWER TO PUBLIC.”
Archie bought one and beckoned to the muscle man who was shadowing him.
“Come here, Sweetheart. You can quit pretending to be a fireplug. I’ve an errand for you.” He handed the lunk the newspaper. It was accepted uneasily. In all his long and unsavory career he had never had the etiquette of shadowing treated in so cavalier a style. “Take this paper to your boss and tell him Archie Douglas sent him a valentine. Don’t stand there staring at me! Beat it, before I break your fat head!”
As Archie watched him disappear in the crowd, Mary Lou slipped a hand in his. “Feel better, son?”
“Lots.”
“All your worries over?”
“All but one.” He grabbed her shoulders and swung her around. “I’ve got an argument to settle with you. Come along!” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her out into the crosswalk.
“What the hell, Archie! Let go my wrist.”
“Not likely. You see that building over there? That’s the courthouse. Right next to the window where they issue dog licenses, there’s one where we can get a wedding permit.”
“I’m not going to marry you!”
“Oh, yes, you are—or I’ll start to scream right here in the street.”
“This is blackmail!”
As they entered the building, she was still dragging her feet—but not too hard.
The Roads Must Roll
“Who makes the roads roll?”
The speaker stood still on the rostrum and waited for his audience to answer him. The reply came in scattered shouts that cut through the ominous, discontented murmur of the crowd.
“We do!”—“We do!”—“Damn right!”
“Who does the dirty work ‘down inside’—so that Joe Public can ride at his ease?”
This time it was a single roar, “We do!” The speaker pressed his advantage, his words tumbling out in a rasping torrent. He leaned toward the crowd, his eyes picking out individuals at whom to fling his words. “What makes business? The roads! How do they move the food they eat? The roads! How do they get to work? The roads! How do they get home to their wives? The roads!” He paused for effect, then lowered his voice. “Where would the public be if you boys didn’t keep them roads rolling?—Behind the eight ball and everybody knows it. But do they appreciate it? Pfui! Did we ask for too much? Were our demands unreasonable? ‘The right to resign whenever we want to.’ Every working stiff in other lines of work has that. ‘The same pay as the engineers.’ Why not? Who are the real engineers around here? D’yuh have to be a cadet in a funny little hat before you can learn to wipe a bearing, or jack down a rotor? Who earns his keep: the ‘gentlemen’ in the control offices, or the boys ‘down inside’? What else do we ask? ‘The right to elect our own engineers.’ Why not? Who’s competent to pick engineers? The technicians?—or some dumb examining board that’s never been ‘down inside,’ and couldn’t tell a rotor bearing from a field coil?”
He changed his pace with natural art, and lowered his voice still further. “I tell you, brother, it’s time we quit fiddlin’ around with petitions to the Transport Commission, and use a little direct action. Let ’em yammer about democracy;
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