Read Online Podkayne of Mars by Robert A. Heinlein - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert A. Heinlein
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falling downstairs.
And I must say that I am getting a wee bit tired of having youth treated as a punishable offense.
Our typical male passenger is the same sort, only not nearly so numerous. He differs from his wife primarily in that, instead of looking down his nose at me, he is sometimes inclined to pat me in a “fatherly” way that I do not find fatherly, don’t like, avoid if humanly possible—and which nevertheless gets me talked about.
I suppose I should not have been surprised to find the Tricorn a super-deluxe old folks’ home, but (I may as well admit it) my experience is still limited and I was not aware of some of the economic facts of life.
The Tricorn is expensive. It is very expensive. Clark and I would not be in it at all if Uncle Tom had not twisted Dr. Schoenstein’s arm in our behalf. Oh, I suppose Uncle Tom can afford it, but, by age group though not by temperament, he fits the defined category. But Daddy and Mother had intended to take us in the Wanderlust, a low-fare, economy-orbit freighter. Daddy and Mother are not poor, but they are not rich—and after they finish raising and educating five children it is unlikely that they will ever be rich.
Who can afford to travel in luxury liners? Ans.: Rich old widows, wealthy retired couples, high-priced executives whose time is so valuable that their corporations gladly send them by the fastest ships—and an occasional rare exception of some other sort.
Clark and I are such exceptions. We have one other exception in the ship, Miss—well, I’ll call her Miss Girdle Fitz-Snugglie, because if I used her right name and perchance anybody ever sees this, it would be all too easily recognizable. I think Girdie is a good sort. I don’t care what the gossips in this ship say. She doesn’t act jealous of me even though it appears that the younger officers in the ship were all her personal property until I boarded—all the trip out from Earth, I mean. I’ve cut into her monopoly quite a bit, but she isn’t catty to me; she treats me warmly woman-to-woman, and I’ve learned quite a lot about Life and Men from her . . . more than Mother ever taught me.
(It is just possible that Mother is slightly naïve on subjects that Girdie knows best. A woman who tackles engineering and undertakes to beat men at their own game might have had a fairly limited social life, wouldn’t you think? I must study this seriously . . . because it seems possible that much the same might happen to a female space pilot and it is no part of my Master Plan to become a soured old maid.)
Girdie is about twice my age, which makes her awfully, young in this company; nevertheless it may be that I cause her to look just a bit wrinkled around the eyes. Contrariwise, my somewhat unfinished look may make her more mature contours appear even more Helen-of-Troyish. As may be, it is certain that my presence has relieved the pressure on her by giving the gossips two targets instead of one.
And gossip they do. I heard one of them say about her: “She’s been in more laps than a napkin!”
If so, I hope she had fun.
Those gay ship’s dances in the mammoth ballroom! Like this: they happen every Tuesday and Saturday night, when the ship is spacing. The music starts at 20.30 and the Ladies’ Society for Moral Rectitude is seated around the edge of the floor, as if for a wake. Uncle Tom is there, as a concession to me, and very proudsome and distinguished he looks in evening formal. I am there in a party dress which is not quite as girlish as it was when Mother helped me pick it out, in consequence of some very careful retailoring I have done with my door locked. Even Clark attends because there is nothing else going on and he’s afraid he might miss something—and looking so nice I’m proud of him, because he has to climb into his own monkey suit or he can’t come to the ball.
Over by the punch bowl are half a dozen of the ship’s junior officers, dressed in mess jacket uniforms and
And I must say that I am getting a wee bit tired of having youth treated as a punishable offense.
Our typical male passenger is the same sort, only not nearly so numerous. He differs from his wife primarily in that, instead of looking down his nose at me, he is sometimes inclined to pat me in a “fatherly” way that I do not find fatherly, don’t like, avoid if humanly possible—and which nevertheless gets me talked about.
I suppose I should not have been surprised to find the Tricorn a super-deluxe old folks’ home, but (I may as well admit it) my experience is still limited and I was not aware of some of the economic facts of life.
The Tricorn is expensive. It is very expensive. Clark and I would not be in it at all if Uncle Tom had not twisted Dr. Schoenstein’s arm in our behalf. Oh, I suppose Uncle Tom can afford it, but, by age group though not by temperament, he fits the defined category. But Daddy and Mother had intended to take us in the Wanderlust, a low-fare, economy-orbit freighter. Daddy and Mother are not poor, but they are not rich—and after they finish raising and educating five children it is unlikely that they will ever be rich.
Who can afford to travel in luxury liners? Ans.: Rich old widows, wealthy retired couples, high-priced executives whose time is so valuable that their corporations gladly send them by the fastest ships—and an occasional rare exception of some other sort.
Clark and I are such exceptions. We have one other exception in the ship, Miss—well, I’ll call her Miss Girdle Fitz-Snugglie, because if I used her right name and perchance anybody ever sees this, it would be all too easily recognizable. I think Girdie is a good sort. I don’t care what the gossips in this ship say. She doesn’t act jealous of me even though it appears that the younger officers in the ship were all her personal property until I boarded—all the trip out from Earth, I mean. I’ve cut into her monopoly quite a bit, but she isn’t catty to me; she treats me warmly woman-to-woman, and I’ve learned quite a lot about Life and Men from her . . . more than Mother ever taught me.
(It is just possible that Mother is slightly naïve on subjects that Girdie knows best. A woman who tackles engineering and undertakes to beat men at their own game might have had a fairly limited social life, wouldn’t you think? I must study this seriously . . . because it seems possible that much the same might happen to a female space pilot and it is no part of my Master Plan to become a soured old maid.)
Girdie is about twice my age, which makes her awfully, young in this company; nevertheless it may be that I cause her to look just a bit wrinkled around the eyes. Contrariwise, my somewhat unfinished look may make her more mature contours appear even more Helen-of-Troyish. As may be, it is certain that my presence has relieved the pressure on her by giving the gossips two targets instead of one.
And gossip they do. I heard one of them say about her: “She’s been in more laps than a napkin!”
If so, I hope she had fun.
Those gay ship’s dances in the mammoth ballroom! Like this: they happen every Tuesday and Saturday night, when the ship is spacing. The music starts at 20.30 and the Ladies’ Society for Moral Rectitude is seated around the edge of the floor, as if for a wake. Uncle Tom is there, as a concession to me, and very proudsome and distinguished he looks in evening formal. I am there in a party dress which is not quite as girlish as it was when Mother helped me pick it out, in consequence of some very careful retailoring I have done with my door locked. Even Clark attends because there is nothing else going on and he’s afraid he might miss something—and looking so nice I’m proud of him, because he has to climb into his own monkey suit or he can’t come to the ball.
Over by the punch bowl are half a dozen of the ship’s junior officers, dressed in mess jacket uniforms and
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