Pat answered, “Let him talk. He’s our secret weapon, maybe.”
“If you want the considered judgment of an experienced businessman, this so-called contract is either a practical joke or a proposition so preposterous as to be treated with contempt. I understand that the twins are supposed to have some freak talent-although I’ve seen no evidence of it-but the idea of paying them more than a man receives in his mature years, well, it’s just not the right way to raise boys. If they were sons of mine, I would forbid it. Of course, they’re not-”
“No, they’re not,” Dad agreed.
Frank looked sharply at him. “Was that sarcasm, Father Bartlett? I’m merely trying to help. But as I told you the other day, if the twins will go to some good business school and work hard, I’d find a place for them in the bakery. If they make good, there is no reason why they should not do as well as I have done.” Frank was his father’s junior partner in an automated bakery; he always managed to let people know how much money he made. “But as for this notion of going out into space, I’ve always said that if a man expects to make anything of himself, he should stay home and work. Excuse me, Steve.”
Uncle Steve said woodenly, “I’d be glad to excuse you.”
“Eh?”
“Forget it, forget it. You stay out of space and I’ll promise not to bake any bread. By the way, there’s flour on your lapel.”
Frank glanced down hastily. Faith brushed at his jacket and said, “Why, that’s just powder.”
“Of course it is,” Frank agreed, brushing at it himself. “I’ll have you know, Steve, that I’m usually much too busy to go down on the processing floor. I’m hardly ever out of the office.”
“So I suspected.”
Frank decided that he and Faith were late for another appointment and got up to go, when Dad stopped them.
“Frank? What was that about my boys being freaks?”
“What? I never said anything of the sort.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
They left in a sticky silence, except that Pat was humming silently and loudly the March of the Gladiators. “We’ve got it won, kid!”
It seemed so to me, too-but Pat had to press our luck. He picked up the contract. “Then it’s okay, Dad?”
“Mmm … I want to consult Judge Holland-and I’m not speaking for your mother.” That did not worry us; Mum wouldn’t hold out if Dad agreed, especially not with Uncle Steve around. “But you could say that the matter has not been disapproved.” He frowned. “By the way, there is no time limit mentioned in there.”
Uncle Steve fielded that one for us; “That’s customary on a commercial ship, Bruce … which is what this is, legally. You sign on for the voyage, home planet to home planet.”
“Uh, no doubt. But didn’t they give you some idea, boys?”
I heard Pat moan, “There goes the ball game. What’ll we tell him, Tom” Dad waited and Uncle Steve eyed us.
Finally Uncle Steve said, “Better speak up, boys. Perhaps I should have mentioned that I’m trying to get a billet on one of those ships myself-special discharge and such. So I know.”
Pat muttered something. Dad said sharply, “Speak up, son.”
“They told us the voyage would probably last … about a century.”
Mum fainted and Uncle Steve caught her and everybody rushed around with cold compresses getting in each other’s way and we were all upset. Once she pulled out of it Uncle Steve said to Dad, “Bruce? I’m going to take the boys out and buy them a tall, strong sarsaparilla and get them out from under foot. You won’t want to talk tonight anyhow.”
Dad agreed absently that it was a good. idea. I guess Dad loved all of us; nevertheless, when the chips were down, nobody counted but Mother.
Uncle Steve took us to a place where be could get something more to his taste than sarsaparilla, then vetoed it when Pat tried to order beer. “Don’t try to show off, youngster. You are not going to put me in the position of serving liquor to my sister’s kids.”