Heinlein, Robert A – Free Men
Heinlein, Robert A – Free Men
FOREWORD
My next attempt to branch out was my first book:
ROCKET SHIP GALILEO. I attempted book publication earlier than I had intended to because a boys’ book was solicited from me by a major publisher. I was unsure of myself-but two highly respected friends, Cleve Cartmill and Fritz Lang, urged me to try it. So I did…and the publisher who had asked for it rejected it. A trip to the Moon? Preposterous! He suggested that I submit another book-length MS without that silly space-travel angle.
Instead I sold it to Scribner’s and thereby started a sequence: one boys’ book each yeartimed for the Christmas trade. This lasted twelve years and was a very strange relationship, as my editor disliked science fiction, disliked me (a sentiment I learned to reciprocate), and kept me on for the sole reason that my books sold so well that they kept her department out of the red-her words. Eventually she bounced one with the suggestion that I shelve it for a year and then rewrite it.
But by bouncing it she broke the chain of options. Instead of shelving it, I took it across the street…and won a Hugo with it.
ROCKET SHIP GALILEO was a fumbling first attempt; I have never been satisfied with it. But it has never been out of print, has appeared in fourteen languages, and has earned a preposterous amount in book royalties alone; I should not kick. Nevertheless I cringe whenever I consider its shortcomings.
My next fiction (here following) was FREE MEN. Offhand it appears to be a routine post-Holocaust story, and the details-idioms, place names, etc. — justify that assumption. In fact it is any conquered nation in any century —
FREE MEN
“That makes three provisional presidents so far,” the Leader said. “I wonder how many more there are?” He handed the flimsy sheet back to the runner, who placed it in his mouth and chewed it up like gum.
The third man shrugged. “No telling. What worries me — ” A mockingbird interrupted. “Doity, doity, doity,” he sang. “Terloo, terloo, terloo, purty-purtypurty-purty.”
The clearing was suddenly empty.
“As I was saying,” came the voice of the third man in a whisper in the Leader’s ear, “it ain’t how many worries me, but how you tell a de Gaulle from a Laval. See anything?”
“Convoy. Stopped below us.” The Leader peered through bushes and down the side of a bluff. The high ground pushed out toward the river here, squeezing the river road between it and the water. The road stretched away to the left, where the valley widened out into farmland, and ran into the outskirts of Barclay ten miles away.
The convoy was directly below them, eight trucks preceded and followed by halftracks. The following halftrack was backing, vortex gun cast loose and ready for trouble. Its commander apparently wanted elbow room against a possible trap.
At the second truck helmeted figures gathered around its rear end, which was jacked up. As the Leader watched he saw one wheel temoved.
“Trouble?”
“I think not. Just a breakdown. They’ll be gone soon.” He wondered what was in the trucks. Food, probably. His mouth watered. A few weeks ago an opportunity like this would have meant generous rations for all, but the conquerors had smartened up.
He put useless thoughts away. “It’s not that that worries me, Dad,” he added, returning to the subject. “We’ll be able to tell quislings from loyal Americans. But how do you tell men from boys?”
“Thinking of Joe Benz?”
“Maybe. I’d give a lot to know how far we can trust Joe. But I could have been thinking of young Morrie.”
“You can trust him.”
“Certainly. At thirteen he doesn’t drink-and he wouldn’t crack if they burned his feet off. Same with Cathleen. It’s not age or sex-but how can you tell? And you’ve got to be able to tell.”
There was a flurry below. Guards had slipped down from the trucks and withdrawn from the road when the convoy had stopped, in accordance with an orderly plan for such emergencies. Now two of them returned to the convoy, hustling between them a figure not in uniform.