Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

or 1980.) So-

WHERE TO?

A bloomin’, foolish sparrow Built his nest in a spout, And along-

-came a building inspector, looked over the site, and the plans, and okayed them,

after requiring the sparrow to buy eleven different licenses totalling 18% of the

sparrow’s building budget, plus something called special service, and along-

-the bleedin’ rains came, And washed the sparrow out.

Again the foolish sparrow, Built his nest in the spout, And again-

-came that building inspector, bawled out the sparrow for failing to get special

licenses and permits covering typhoons, sun spots, and ice ages, required him to buy

seventeen permits and/or licenses and appear before boards controlling zoning,

economic impact, ecological protection, energy conservation, and community

esthetics, plus something called “very special service”-and a second mortgage, and

along-

-the bleedin’ rains came,

And washed the sparrow out. (Around again.., and again.., and-)

1950 Where To?

Most science fiction consists of big-muscled stories about adventures in

space, atomic wars, invasions by extra-terrestrials, and such. All very well-but now

we will take time out for a look at ordinary home life half a century hence.

Except for tea leaves and other magical means, the only way to guess at the

future is by examining the present in the light of the past. Let’s go back half a

century and visit your grandmother before we attempt to visit your grandchildren.

1900: Mr. McKinley is President and the airplane has not yet been invented.

Let’s knock on the door of that house with the gingerbread, the stained glass, and

the cupola.

The lady of the house answers. You recognize her- your own grandmother, Mrs.

Middleclass. She is almost as plump as you remember her, for she “put on some good,

healthy flesh” after she married.

She welcomes you and offers coffee cake, fresh from her modern kitchen

(running water from a hand pump; the best coal range Pittsburgh ever produced).

Everything about her house is modern-hand-painted china, souvenirs from the

Columbian Exposition, beaded portières, shining baseburner stoves, gas lights, a

telephone on the wall.

There is no bathroom, but she and Mr. Middleclass

are thinking of putting one in. Mr. Middleclass’s mother calls this nonsense, but

your grandmother keeps up with the times. She is an advocate of clothing reform,

wears only one petticoat, bathes twice a week, and her corsets are guaranteed rust

proof. She has been known to defend female suffrage-but not in the presence of Mr.

Middleclass.

Nevertheless, you find difficulty in talking with her. Let’s jump back to

the present and try again.

The automatic elevator takes us to the ninth floor, and we pick out a door

by its number, that being the only way to distinguish it.

“Don’t bother to ring,” you say? What? It’s your door and you know exactly

what lies beyond it- Very well, let’s move a half century into the future and try

another middle class home.

It’s a suburban home not two hundred miles from the city. You pick out your

destination from the air while the cab is landing you-a cluster of hemispheres that

makes you think of the houses Dorothy found in

Oz.

You set the cab to return to its hangar and go into the entrance hall. You

neither knock nor ring. The screen has warned them before you touched down on the

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landing flat and the autobutler’s transparency is shining with: PLEASE RECORD A

MESSAGE.

Before you can address the microphone a voice calls out, “Oh, it’s you! Come

in, come in.” There is a short wait, as your hostess is not at the door. The

autobutler flashed your face to the patio-where she was reading and sunning

herself-and has relayed her voice back to you.

She pauses at the door, looks at you through oneway glass, and frowns

slightly; she knows your oldfashioned disapproval of casual nakedness. Her kindness

causes her to disobey the family psychiatrist; she grabs a robe and covers herself

before signaling the door to open.

The psychiatrist was right; you have thus been

classed with strangers, tradespeople, and others who are not family intimates. But

you must swallow your annoyance; you cannot object to her wearing clothes when you