Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

“What’s up? Who’s dead now?”

Baird held up one hand. “Quiet, gentlemen, please!

Pinero was murdered a few moments ago at his home.”

“Murdered?!”

“That isn’t all. About the same time vandals broke into his office and

smashed his apparatus.” –

No one spoke at first. The committee members glanced around at each other.

No one seemed anxious to be the first to comment.

Finally one spoke up. “Get it out.”

“Get what out?”

“Pinero’s envelope. It’s in there too. I’ve seen it.”

Baird located it and slowly tore it open. He unfolded the single sheet of

paper, and scanned it.

“Well? Out with it!”

“One thirteen p.m. – today.”

They took this in silence.

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Their dynamic calm was broken by a member across the table from Baird

reaching for the lock-box. Baud interposed a hand.

“What do you want?”

“My prediction-it’s in there-we’re all in there.”

“Yes, yes. We’re all in here. Let’s have them.”

Baird placed both hands over the box. He held the eye of the man opposite

him but did not speak. He licked his lips. The corner of his mouth twitched. His

hands shook. Still he did not speak. The man opposite relaxed back into his chair.

“You’re right, of course,” he said.

“Bring me that waste basket.” Baird’s voice was low and strained but steady.

He accepted it and dumped the litter on the rug. He placed the tin basket on

the table before him. He tore half a dozen envelopes across, set a match to them,

and dropped them in the basket. Then he started tearing a double handful at a time,

and fed the fire steadily. The smoke made him cough, and tears ran out of his

smarting eyes. Someone got up and opened a window. When he was through, he pushed

the basket away from him, looked down, and spoke.

“I’m afraid I’ve ruined this table top.”

FOREWORD

For any wordsmith the most valuable word in the English language is that

short, ugly, Anglo-Saxon monosyllable: No!!! It is one of the peculiarities in the

attitude of the public toward the writing profession that a person who would never

expect a free ride from a taxi driver, or free groceries from a market, or free

gilkwoks from a gilkwok dealer, will without the slightest embarrassment ask a

professional writer for free gifts of his stock in trade.

This chutzpah is endemic in science fiction fans, acute in organized SF

fans, and at its virulent worst in organized fans-who-publish-fan-magazines.

The following story came into existence shortly after I sold my first

story-and resulted from my having not yet learned to say No!

“Anyone who considers protocol unimportant has never dealt with a cat.”

-L. Long

SUCCESSFUL OPERATION

“How dare you make such a suggestion!”

The State Physician doggedly stuck by his position. “I would not make it,

sire, if your life were not at stake. There is no other surgeon in the Fatherland

who can transplant a pituitary gland, but Doctor Lans.”

“You will operate!”

The medico shook his head. “You would die, Leader. My skill is not

adequate.”

The Leader stormed about the apartment. He seemed about to give way to one

of the girlish bursts of anger that even the inner state clique feared so much.

Surprisingly he capitulated.

“Bring him here!” he ordered.

Doctor Lans faced the Leader with inherent dignity, a dignity and presence

that three years of “protective custody” had been unable to shake. The pallor and

gauntness of the concentration camp lay upon him, but his race was used to

oppression. “I see,” he said. “Yes, I see . . . I can perform that operation. What

are your terms?”

“Terms?” The Leader was aghast. “Terms, you filthy swine? You are being

given a chance to redeem in part the sins of your race!”

The surgeon raised his brows. “Do you not think that I know that you would

not have sent for me had

there been any other course available to you? Obviously, my services have become

valuable.

“You’ll do as you are told! You and your kind are lucky to be alive.”

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“Nevertheless I shall not operate without my fee.” “I said you are lucky to