The Rolling Stones

Published by
Charles Scribner’s Sons

THE ROLLING STONES

BETWEEN PLANETS

FARMER IN THE SKY

RED PLANET

SPACE CADET

ROCKET SHIP GALILEO

By Other Publishers

TOMORROW THE STARS
 (edited by R.A.H.)

SIXTH COLUMN

BEYOND THIS HORIZON

WALDO & MAGIC, INC.

THE PUPPET MASTERS

THE MAN WHO SOLD THE MOON

THE GREEN HILLS OF EARTH

COPYRIGHT 1952 BY ROBERT A. HEINLEIN

J-1O.70[V]

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IN ANY FORM WITHOUT THE PERMISSION OF CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS.

A condensed version of this book was published in
Boy’s Life
under the title, “Tramp Space Ship.”

For
LUCKY
and
DOC
and
BARBARA

THE UNHEAVENLY TWINS

T
HE TWO BROTHERS

stood looking the old wreck over. “Junk,” decided Castor.

“Not junk,” objected Pollux. “A jalopy—granted. A heap any way you look at it. A clunker possibly. But not junk.”

“You’re an optimist, Junior.” Both boys were fifteen; Castor was twenty minutes older than his brother.

“I’m a believer, Grandpa—and you had better be, too. Let me point out that we don’t have money enough for anything better. Scared to gun it?”

Castor stared up the side of the ship. “Not at all—because that thing will never again rise high enough to crash. We want a ship that will take us out to the Asteroids—right? This superannuated pogo stick wouldn’t even take us to Earth.”

“It will when I get through hopping it up—with your thumb-fingered help. Let’s look through it and see what it needs.”

Castor glanced at the sky. “It’s getting late.” He looked not at the Sun making long shadows on the lunar plain, but at Earth, reading the time from the sunrise line now moving across the Pacific.

“Look, Grandpa, are we buying a ship or are we getting to supper on time?”

Castor shrugged. “As you say, Junior.” He lowered his antenna, then started swarming up the rope ladder left there for the accommodation of prospective customers. He used his hands only and despite his cumbersome vacuum suit his movements were easy and graceful. Pollux swarmed after him.

Castor cheered up a bit when they reached the control room. The ship had not been stripped for salvage as completely as had many of the ships on the lot. True, the ballistic computer was missing but the rest of the astrogational instruments were in place and the controls to the power room seemed to be complete. The space-battered old hulk was not a wreck, but merely obsolete. A hasty look at the power room seemed to confirm this.

Ten minutes later Castor, still mindful of supper, herded Pollux down the ladder. When Castor reached the ground Pollux said, “Well?”

“Let me do the talking.”

The sales office of the lot was a bubble dome nearly a mile away; they moved toward it with the easy, fast lope of old Moon hands. The office airlock was marked by a huge sign:

DEALER DAN
THE SPACESHIP MAN
CRAFT OF ALL TYPES
•••
SCRAP METAL
•••
SPARE PARTS
FUELING & SERVICE
 (
AEC License No.
739024) 

They cycled through the lock and unclamped each other’s helmets. The outer office was crossed by a railing; back of it sat a girl receptionist. She was watching a newscast while buffing her nails. She spoke without taking her eyes off the TV tank: “We’re not buying anything, boys—nor hiring anybody.”

Castor said, “You sell spaceships?”

She looked up. “Not often enough.”

“Then tell your boss we want to see him.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Whom do you think you are kidding, sonny boy? Mr. Ekizian is a busy man.”

Pollux said to Castor, “Let’s go over to the Hungarian, Cas. These people don’t mean business.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

The girl looked from one to the other, shrugged, and flipped a switch. “Mr. Ekizian—there are a couple of Boy Scouts out here who say they want to buy a spaceship. Do you want to bother with them?”

A deep voice responded, “And why not? We got ships to sell.”

Shortly a bald-headed, portly man, dressed in a cigar and a wrinkled moonsuit, came out of the inner office and rested his hands on the rail. He looked them over shrewdly but his voice was jovial. “You wanted to see me?”

“You’re the owner?” asked Castor.

“Dealer Dan Ekizian, the man himself. What’s on your mind, boys? Time is money.”

“Your secretary told you,” Castor said ungraciously. “Spaceships.”

Dealer Dan took his cigar out of his mouth and examined it. “Really? What would you boys want with a spaceship?”

Pollux muttered something; Castor said, “Do you usually do business out here?” He glanced at the girl.

Ekizian followed his glance. “My mistake. Come inside.” He opened the gate for them, led them into his office, and seated them. He ceremoniously offered them cigars; the boys refused politely. “Now out with it, kids. Let’s not joke.”

Castor repeated, “Spaceships.”

He pursed his lips. “A luxury liner, maybe? I haven’t got one on the field at the moment but I can always broker a deal.”

Pollux stood up. “He’s making fun of us, Cas. Let’s go see the Hungarian.”

“Wait a moment, Pol. Mr. Ekizian, you’ve got a heap out there on the south side of the field, a class VII, model ’93 Detroiter. What’s your scrap metal price on her and what does she mass?”

The dealer looked surprised. “That sweet little job? Why, I couldn’t afford to let that go as scrap. And anyhow, even at scrap that would come to a lot of money. If it is metal you boys want, I got it. Just tell me how much and what sort.”

“We were talking about that Detroiter.”

“I don’t believe I’ve met you boys before?”

“Sorry, sir. I’m Castor Stone. This is my brother Pollux.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Stone. Stone… Stone? Any relation to—The ‘Unheavenly Twins’—that’s it.”

“Smile when you say that,” said Pollux.

“Shut up, Pol. We’re the Stone twins.”

“The frostproof rebreather valve, you invented it, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Say, I got one in my own suit. A good gimmick—you boys are quite the mechanics.” He looked them over again. “Maybe you were really serious about a ship.”

“Of course we were.”

“Hmm…you’re not looking for scrap; you want something to get around in. I’ve got just the job for you, a General Motors Jumpbug, practically new. It’s been out on one grubstake job to a couple of thorium prospectors and I had to reclaim it. The hold ain’t even radioactive.”

“Not interested.”

“Better look at it. Automatic landing and three hops takes you right around the equator. Just the thing for a couple of lively, active boys.”

“About that Detroiter—what’s your scrap price?”

Ekizian looked hurt. “That’s a deepspace vessel, son—it’s no use to you, as a ship. And I can’t let it go for scrap; that’s a clean job. It was a family yacht—never been pushed over six
g
, never had an emergency landing. It’s got hundreds of millions of miles still in it. I couldn’t let you scrap that ship, even if you were to pay me the factory price. It would be a shame. I love ships. Now take this Jumpbug…”

“You can’t sell that Detroiter as anything but scrap,” Castor answered. “It’s been sitting there two years that I know of. If you had hoped to sell her as a ship you wouldn’t have salvaged the computer. She’s pitted, her tubes are no good, and an overhaul would cost more than she’s worth. Now what’s her scrap price?”

Dealer Dan rocked back and forth in his chair; he seemed to be suffering. “Scrap that ship? Just fuel her up and she’s ready to go—Venus, Mars, even the Jovian satellites.”

“What’s your cash price?”

“Cash?”

“Cash.”

Ekizian hesitated, then mentioned a price. Castor stood up and said, “You were right, Pollux. Let’s go see the Hungarian.”

The dealer looked pained. “If I were to write it off for my own use, I couldn’t cut that price—not in fairness to my partners.”

“Come on, Pol.”

“Look, boys, I can’t let you go over to the Hungarian’s. He’ll cheat you.”

Pollux looked savage. “Maybe he’ll do it politely.”

“Shut
up
, Pol!” Castor went on, “Sorry, Mr. Ekizian, my brother isn’t housebroken. But we can’t do business.” He stood up.

“Wait a minute. That’s a good valve you boys thought up. I use it; I feel I owe you something.” He named another and lower sum.

“Sorry. We can’t afford it.” He started to follow Pollux out.

“Wait!” Ekizian mentioned a third price. “Cash,” he added.

“Of course. And you pay the sales tax?”

“Well…for a cash deal, yes.”

“Good.”

“Sit down, gentlemen. I’ll call in my girl and we’ll start the papers.”

“No hurry,” answered Castor. “We’ve still got to see what the Hungarian has on his lot—and the government salvage lot, too.”

“Huh? That price doesn’t stand unless you deal right now. Dealer Dan, they call me. I got no time to waste dickering twice.”

“Nor have we. See you tomorrow. If it hasn’t sold, we can take up where we left off.”

“If you expect me to hold that price, I’ll have to have a nominal option payment.”