Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

I felt tired and old. “Just a moment,” I said. “You’re both wrong. Remember

I defined ‘bravery’ as requiring that a man had to have a choice . . . and chooses

to be brave in spite of his own fear. The ward surgeon had the decisions forced on

him, so he is not in the running. Colonel Hostetter was an old man and blooded in

battle-and he had Josephs’ example to live up to. So he doesn’t get first prize.”

“But that’s silly,” Jones protested. “Josephs was brave, sure-but, if it was

hard for Josephs to offer himself, it was four times as hard for Hostetter. It would

begin to look like a jinx-like a man didn’t stand a chance of coming off that table

alive.”

“Yes, yes!” I agreed. “I know, that’s the way I felt at the time. But you

didn’t let me finish. I know for certain that it took more bravery to do what

Josephs did.

“The autopsy didn’t show an aft embolism in Josephs, or anything else.

Josephs died of fright.”

The End

Page 102

The Answer: I’ll bury this in other words to keep your eye from picking it up at

once; the shortcoming is that this is a true story. I was there. I have changed

names, places, and dates but not the essential facts.

FOREWORD

You may not be old enough to remember the acute housing shortage following

World War II (the subject of this story) but if you are over six but not yet old

enough for the undertaker, you are aware of the current problem of getting in out of

the rain. . . a problem especially acute for the young couple with one baby and for

the retired old couple trying to get by on Social “Security” plus savings if any. (I

am not suggesting that it is easy for those between youth and old age; the present

price of mortgage money constitutes rape with violence; the price tag on an

honestly-constructed-if you can find one-two-bedroom house makes me feel faint.)

In 1960 in Moscow Mrs. Heinlein and I had as Intourist courier a sweet child

named Ludmilla-23, unmarried, living with her father, mother, brother and sisters.

She told us that her ambition in life was for her family not to have to share a

bathroom with another family.

The next aesthete who sneers at our American “plumbing culture” in my

presence I intend to cut into small pieces and flush him down that W.C. he despises.

Any old pol will recognize the politics in this story as the Real McCoy.

Should be. Autobiographical in many details. Which details? Show me a warrant and

I’ll take the Fifth.

A BATHROOM OF HER OWN

Ever step on a top step that wasn’t there?

That’s the way I felt when I saw my honorable opponent for the office of

city councilman, third district.

Tom Griffith had telephoned at the close of filing, to let me know my

opponents. “Alfred McNye,” he said, “and Francis X. Nelson.”

“McNye we can forget,” I mused. “He files just for the advertising. It’s a

three-way race-me, this Nelson party, and the present encumbrance, Judge Jorgens.

Maybe we’ll settle it in the primaries.” Our fair city has the system laughingly

called “non-partisan”; a man can be elected in the primary by getting a clear

majority.

“Jorgens didn’t file, Jack. The old thief isn’t running for re-election.”

I let this sink in. “Tom, we might as well tear up those photostats. Do you

suppose Tully’s boys are conceding our district?”

“The machine can’t concede the third district, not this year. It must be

Nelson.”

“I suppose so . . . it can’t be McNye. What d’you know about him?”

“Nothing.”

“Nor I. Well, we’ll look him over tonight.” The Civic League had called a

“meet-the-candidates” meeting that night. I drove out to the trailer camp where I

hang

my hat-then a shower, a shave, put on my hurtin’ shoes, and back to town. It gave me

time to think.

It’s not unusual for a machine to replace-temporarily-a man whose record

smells too ripe with a citizen of no background to be sniped at. I could visualize

Nelson-young, manly looking, probably a lawyer and certainly a veteran. He would be