Citizen of the Galaxy by Robert A. Heinlein

“Skipper,” Krausa said with distress, looking again at his watch, “I must leave now. Today is our Remembrance . . . and my Mother’s funeral is in fifty minutes.”

“What? Why didn’t you say so? Goodness, man! You’ll never make it”

“I’m very much afraid so . . . but I had to do this.”

“We’ll fix that.” The Colonel snatched open the door. “Eddie! An air car for Captain Krausa. Speed run. Take him off the top and put him down where he says. Crash!”

“Aye aye, Skipper!”

Brisby turned back, raised his eyebrows, then stepped into the outer office. Krausa was facing Thorby, his mouth working painfully. “Come here. Son.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I have to go now. Maybe you can manage to be at a Gathering . . . some day.”

“Ill try, Father!”

“If not . . . well, the blood stays in the steel, the steel stays in the blood. You’re still Sisu”

” ‘The steel stays in the blood.’ ”

“Good business, Son. Be a good boy.”

“Good . . . business! Oh, Father!”

“Stop it! You’ll have me doing it. Listen, I’ll take your responses this afternoon. You must not show up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your Mother loves you . . . and so do I.”

Brisby tapped on the open door. “Your car is waiting, Captain.”

“Coming, Skipper.” Krausa kissed Thorby on both cheeks and turned suddenly away, so that all Thorby saw was his broad back.

Colonel Brisby returned presently, sat down, looked at Thorby and said, “I don’t know quite what to do with you. But we’ll manage.” He touched a switch. “Have someone dig up the berthing master-at-arms, Eddie.” He turned to Thorby. “We’ll make out, if you’re not too fussy. You traders live pretty luxuriously, I understand.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Baslim was a colonel? Of your service?”

“Well . . . yes.”

Thorby had now had a few minutes to think — and old memories had been stirred mightily. He said hesitantly, “I have a message for you — I think.”

“From Colonel Baslim?”

“Yes, sir. I’m supposed to be in a light trance. But I think I can start it.” Carefully, Thorby recited a few code groups. “Is this for you?”

Colonel Brisby again hastily closed the door. Then he said earnestly, “Don’t ever use that code unless you are certain everyone in earshot is cleared for it and the room has been debugged.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“No harm done. But anything in that code is hot I just hope that it hasn’t cooled off in two years.” He touched the talker switch again. “Eddie, cancel the master-at-arms. Get me the psych officer. If he’s out of the ship, have him chased down.” He looked at Thorby. “I still don’t know what to do with you. I ought to lock you in the safe.”

The long message was squeezed out of Thorby in the presence only of Colonel Brisby, his Executive Officer Vice Colonel “Stinky” Stancke, and the ship’s psychologist Medical-Captain Isadore Krishnamurti. The session went slowly; Dr. Kris did not often use hypnotherapy. Thorby was so tense that he resisted, and the Exec had a blasphemous time with recording equipment. But at last the psychologist straightened up and wiped his face. “That’s all, I think,” he said wearily. “But what is it?”

“Forget you heard it. Doc,” advised Brisby. “Better yet, cut your throat.”

“Gee, thanks. Boss.”

Stancke said, “Pappy, let’s run him through again. I’ve got this mad scientist’s dream working better. His accent may have garbled it.”

“Nonsense. The kid speaks pure Terran.”

“Okay, so it’s my ears. I’ve been exposed to bad influences — been aboard too long.”

“If,” Brisby answered calmly, “that is a slur on your commanding officer’s pure speech, I consider the source. Stinkpot, is it true that you Riffs write down anything you want understood?”

“Only with Araleshi . . . sir. Nothing personal, you asked. Well, how about it? I’ve got the noise filtered out”

“Doc?”

“Hmm . . . The subject is fatigued. Is this your only opportunity?”

“Eh? He’ll be with us quite a while. All right, wake him.”

Shortly Thorby was handed over to the berthing P.O. Several liters of coffee, a tray of sandwiches, and one skipped meal later the Colonel and his second in command had recorded in clear the thousands of words of old Baslim the Beggar’s final report. Stancke sat back and whistled. “You can relax, Pappy. This stuff didn’t cool off — a half-life of a century, on a guess.”

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