Man Who Sold the Moon Part 1

Man Who Sold the Moon.

Heinlein, Robert A.

Introduction.

EVERY editor is always pleased to hear from one of his regular, good authors. Being as human as his readers, he, too, tends to read first stories arriving from known authors; in reading a magazine, most people do the same thing-read first the stories by the authors they know and like. But the editor's real pleasure comes when, from that pile of ma.n.u.scripts from unknowns-technically known as the "slush pile"-a ma.n.u.script of real impact and value appears.

Bob Heinlein, completely unknown, sent in a yarn called "Life-Line'!_and gave me that pleasure. You'll read it yourself in this book-but you won't have the pleasure I did, because you know beforehand that it's a good story, or it wouldn't be here.

When such a new star appears, the editor's next worry and wonder is "Can he repeat-or is he another oneshot?" There are a lot of men who have one good story; having told it, they lapse dismally back into mediocrity. Heinlein, however, was no one-shot though he never did repeat-he progressed. Many of the readers of this book are old~tirne science-fictioneers, many are newcomers to the field. To the old timers, some realization of Heinlein's achievement has already come. To the newcomers, reading these stories, the quality of workmans.h.i.+p displayed conceals itself. A really good acrobat makes all his feats seem easy, natural, graceful movements-his technique is so smoothly flawless that the audience never fully appreciates the near-impossibility of the act. Similarly, once a master workman has shown how to handle a problem in story tecnmque, me answer seems so easy, namrai ann simple that the actuality of a major literary invention is completely missed.

This is the first volume of the Future History series; it is worthwhile here to consider the problem of science-fiction presentation, and point out the easily overlooked neatness of Heinlein's sohitions. For Heinlein was one of the major molders of the science-fiction medium.

First, science-fiction is an extremely difficult medium in which to produce good work-really good work. In the story of here-and-now, the author starts with the reader siready coached on the background. The author need only say "New York City", and the reader has a sort of montage mental vision of skysc.r.a.pers, Broadway theaters, East Side slums, millions of people. If the author mentions "taxi", a very real mental image of a taxicab is called to mind in the reader's memory.

But if the science-fiction author says "Luna City"- there is no mental image whatever, save a very vague a.s.sociationwiththefull moonridinginanight sky, as seen from Earth. If the author has laid his scene a century hence, and mentions a taxiplane-no mental image results. Helicopter? Antigravity mechanism? Some sort of repulsion beams? Rocket-type drive? Atomic engine, or gasoline powered? Nothing-no image, no conception of the limitations, abilities, or characteristics.

This sort of problem isn't limited to those two things, of course; the entire background against which the story is to be acted out is completely unknown to the reader. Where a here-and-now short-story writer need only develop his characters, the reader supplying in full detail the background, the science-fiction short-story writer must first supply background, and then character before he can tell his story.

The Romans had human slavery; the Middle Ages called it serfdom. And neither bore any marked resemblance to Colonial America's inst.i.tution of slavery. Here, in a period of some 2000 years, there has been a vast alteration in the social pattern that we can all understand.

In India.we have the caste system, and the Untouchables. In China, one of the supreme disgraces is to have someone commit suicide on your doorstep.

True, 'human nature doesn't change over the years- but human nature is a reaction to group mores and the cultural pattern.. Those do change, and change drastically. The people of one South Pacific island hold in highest esteem the man who can lie, cheat, murder, steal and blackmail most successfully. The basic of human nature is to win and hold the admiration of Mends in the group; if murder, dishonesty and blackmail are held to be virtues-the motivations of a man are different.

Cultural patterns change; one of the things Heinlein "invented" was the use of that fact. But to do so, it was necessary to invent a technique that would permit an author, in the course of a story, to build up not only characters, but also to give the reader an understanding of the cultural pattern, since the characters must react in normal, human-nature fas.h.i.+on, to that pattern, not on the basis of our cultural pattern.

H. G. Wells did something of the sort in some of his novels. But Wells' method was to spend two chapters or so describing, for the reader, the cultural pattern be wanted to operate against. In the leisurely '90's and early twentieth century, that was permissible. The reader accepted it. Long descriptive pa.s.sages were common. But the development of literary technique in the last third: of a century has changed that; stage techniques, where long character-descriptions are ruled out, have moved into the novel field. Today, the reader won't stand for pages of description of what the author thinks the character~is like; let the character act, and show his character.

That's not too tough an a.s.signment-provided the author and reader are talking about characters against a mutually understood cultural background. But, in sciencefiction, the problem is a dilly. Briefly stated, the science-fiction author must put over to the reader (1), the mores and patterns of the cultural background, (2), interwoven with that-stemming from it, and in turn forcing it into existence-the technological background and then, finally, the characters. He may not use long descriptive pa.s.sages for any of this necessary material.

The cross-influence of c~ultural patterns and mores on technological background is one of the prime fields of exploration for science-fiction. The invention of the cotton gin made unnecessary the slave-labor engaged in separating cotton from the . seeds-but so cheapened and increased the demand for cotton that more slaves were needed for the field work. Had an efficient mechanical cotton-picker and weed-killer, like those available today, been invented in 1850, the inst.i.tution of slavery would have been uneconomic, and an entirely different cultural pattern would have grown up in the South.

So long as hand tools were the only way of manufacturing, the corporation and the labor union alike were impossible. When technology advanced to the point of developing a half-million-dollar machine for producing a ten-cent article, both became necessary. This interaction of technology and social pattern works both ways, of coui*. The invention of the machine to produce zippers is dependent on the social custom of wearing complex clothing.

This complexity of interaction of technology and social custom must then be added to the third factor: the reaction of human nature to the resultant mixture. There Is the true field of science-fiction-and the difficulty of handling the problem, the near impossibility of doing it well, becomes evident.

Heinlein was one of the first to develop techniques of story-telling that do it. Like the highly skilled acrobat, he makes his feats seem the natural, easy, simple way- but after you've finished and enjoyed one of his stories-"The Roads Must Roll" for example-notice how much of the cultural-technological pattern he has put over, without impressing you, at any point, with a twominute lecture on the pattern of the time. It's a fine action yarn-with an almost incredible ma.s.s of discussion somehow slipped in between without interrupting the flow of action.

Finally, Heinlein was one of the first to build up the description of cultural background to its logical point. He developed a carefully mapped out "history of the future", a succession of events which serve as the great, broad background against which these stories are laid. For the casual reader of the magazine, each story is complete In itself. But for the regular reader, the individual stories added up one by one into an even larger, even stronger structure.

But all this talk of the technical business of story-telllng~ gives a false impression. These stories do a good job of presenting a new cultural pattern-but that's not why they're worth reading. They're good stories. That's important. I have dwelt on their technique primarily because they are such smooth work that the reader is apt to miss completely the precision work behind the swift-moving, smoothly told yarn.

The important thing is that these, sirs, are high adventure. The high adventure of the years to come-the years we, unfortunately, may not live to see. These are a window on tomorrow; a television set tuned to the future. But we lack the key to the door that would let us walk through into that future; we must only watch and listen to the highest of all adventures-the conquest of the stars!

John. W. CAMPBELL, JR Westfield, NJ.

Preface.

"It does not pay a prophet to be too specific."

-L. SPRAGUE DE CAMP.

Tim stories in this and later volumes of this series were not written as prophecy, nor as history. The author would be much surprised if any one of them turned out to be close enough to future events to be cla.s.sified as successful prophecy.

They are of the "What-would-happen-if-" sort, in which the "if", the basic postulate of each story, is some possible change in human environment latent in our present day technology or culture. Sometimes the possibility is quite remote, as in "Life-Line"; sometimes the postulated possibility is almost a certainty, as in the series concerned with interplanetary flight.

The pseudolilstory of the immediate future outlined in the chart you will find in this volume makes it appear that I was seriously attempting prophecy. The appearance is.illusory; the chart was worked up, a bit at a time, to keep me from stumbling as I added new stories. It was originally a large wall chart in my study, to which I added pencilled notes from time to time. This was an idea I had gotten from Mr. Sinclair Lewis, who is alleged to maintain charts, files, notes and even very detailed maps of his fictional state of Winnemac and its leading city, Zenith. Mr. Lewis has managed to make Zenith and its citizens more real to more people than any real midwestern city of comparable size. I figured that a technique which was good for Mr. Lewis would certainly be good for me; I swiped the idea. I am glad to be able to acknowledge publicly my debt.

In 1940 I showed the chart to John W. Campbell, Jr.; he insisted on publis.h.i.+ng it. From then on I was stuck with it; it became increasingly difficult to avoid fitting a story into the chart. I was forced to invent several pen names for use when I had a story in mind which was entirely incompatible, with the a.s.sumed "history". By now I hardly need the chart; the fictional future history embodied in it is at least as real to me as Plymouth Rock.

This series was started ten years ago; this past decade has been as revolutionary in technology as the century which preceded it. Increasingly each year the wil~l predictions of science-fiction writers are made tame by the daily papers. In my chart you will find "booster guns" a.s.signed to one hundred years in the future-but the Germans designed such guns during World War II. The chart gives 1978 as the date of the first rocket to the Moon; I will give anyone odds that 1978 is the wrong date, but I will not bet that it will not be sooner.

"Blowups Happen" is a case in point. This story was written a few months after the first word of fission of uranium reached this country, long before the Manhattan (atom bomb) Project was set up. During the few months between writing and first printing, the story went in and out of dale five times, so rapidly did atomics march. It has now been revised in a few details to bring it in line with present knowledge; it will undoubtedly go out of date in its details soon. But of this we may be sure: the basic idea of the story will never go out of date, for atomic power in many of its aspects will continue to be fantastically dangerous both individually and socially-and men will continue to work with it despite all danger.

Details change; the drama continues. Technology races ahead while people remain stubbornly the same. Recently I counted fourteen different sorts of astrology magazines on one news stand-but not one magazine on astronomy. There were only three hundred years from Plymouth Rock to atomic power; there a~e still more outhouses than flush toilets in the United States, the land of inside plumbing. And the radio will not have changed much on the day when men first walk the silent face of the Moon.

The anomalies of the Power Age are more curious than its wonders.

But it is a great and wonderful age, the most wonderful this giddy planet has yet seen. ~It is sometimes comic, too often tragic, and always wonderful. Our wildest dreams of the future will be surpa.s.sed by what lies in front of us. Come bad, come good, I want to take part in the show as long as possible.

ROBERT A. HEINLEIN.

Colorado Springs, Cob.

"Let There Be Light"

ARCHIBALD DOUGLAS, Sc.D., Ph.D., B.S., read the telegram with unconcealed annoyance.

"ARRIVING CITY LATE TODAY STOP DESIRE CONFERENCE COLD LIGHT YOUR LABORATORY TEN P M (signed) DR. M. L MARTIN"

He was, was he? He did, did he? What did he think this lab was; a hotel? And did Martin think that his time was at the disposal of any Joe Doakes who had the price of a telegram? He had framed in his mind an urbanely discouraging reply when he noticed that the message had been filed at a mid-western airport. Very well, let him arrive. Douglas had no intention of meeting him.

Nevertheless, his natural curiosity caused him to take down his copy of Who's Who in Science and look up the offender. There it was: Martin, M. L., bio-chemist and ecologist, P.D.Q., X.Y.Z., N.R.A., C.I.O.-enough degrees for six men. Hmmm...-Director Guggenheim Orinoco Fauna Survey, Author; Co-Lateral Symbiosis of the Boll Weevil, and so on, through three inches of fine print The old boy seemed to be a heavyweight.

A little later Douglas surveyed himself in the mirror of the laboratory washroom. He took off a dirty laboratory smock, removed a comb from his vest pocket, and put a careful polish on his sleek black hair. An elaborately tailored checked jacket, a snap-brim hat and he was ready for the street. He fingered the pale scar that stenciled the dark skin of one cheek. Not bad, he thought, in spite of the scar. If it weren't for the broken nose he would look O.K.

The restaurant where he dined alone was only partly filled. It wouldn't become lively until after the theatres were out, but Douglas apprecIated the hot swing band and the good food. Toward the end of his meal, a young woman walked past his table and sat down, facing him, one table away. He sized her up with care. Pretty fancy!

Figure like a strip dancer, lots of corn-colored hair, nice complexion, and great big soft blue eyes. Rather dumb pan, but what could you expect?

He decided to invite her over for a drink. If things shaped up, Dr. Martin could go to the devil. He scribbled a note on the back of a menu, and signalled the wafter.

"Who is she, Leo? One of the entertainers?"

"No, m'sieur, I have not seen her before."

Douglas relaxed, and waited for results. He knew the come-hither look when he saw it, and he was sure of the outcome. The girl read his note and glanced over at him with a little smile. He returned it with interest. She borrowed a pencil from the waiter, and wrote on the menu. Presently Leo handed it to him.

"Sorry,"-it read-"and thanks for the kind offer, but I am otherwise engaged."

Douglas paid his bill, and returned to the laboratory.

His laboratory was located on the top floor of his father's factory. He left the outer door open and the elevator down in antic.i.p.ation of Doctor Marth's arrival, then he busied himself by tryTag to locate the cause of an irritating vibration in his centrifuge. Just at ten o'clock he heard the whir of the elevator. Ije reached the outer door of his office just as his visitor arrived.

Facing him was the honey-colored babe be had tried to pick up in the restaurant He was immediately indignant "How the h.e.l.l did you get here? Follow me?"

She froze up at onee. "I have an appointment with Doctor Douglas. Please tell him that I am here."

"The h.e.l.l you have. What kind of a game is this?"

She c~ntrolled herself, but her face showed the effort "I think Doctor Douglas is the best judge of that. Tell him Fm here-at once."

"You're looking at him. Fm Doctor Douglas."

"You! I don't believe it. You look more like a-a gangster."

"I am, nevertheless. Now cut out the clowning, sister, and tell me what the racket is. What's your name?"

"I am Doctor M. L. Martin."

He looked completely astounded, then bellowed his amus.e.m.e.nt. "No foolin'? You wouldn't kid your country cousin, would you? Come in, doe, come in."

She followed him, suspicious as a strange dog; ready to fight at any provocation. She accepted a chair, then addressed him again. "Are you really Doctor Douglas?"

He grinned at her. "In the flesh-and~ I can prove it. How about you? I still think this is some kind of a badger game."

She froze up again. "What do you want-my birth certificate?"

"You probably murdered Dr. Martin in the elevator, and stuffed the old boy's body down the shaft"

She arose, gathered up her gloves and purse, and prepared to leave. "I caine fifteen hundred miles for this meeting. I am sorry I bothered. Good evening, Doctor Douglas."

He was instantly soothing. "Aw, don't get sore-I was just needling you. It just tickled me that the distinguished Doctor Martin should look so much like Betty Grable. Now sit back down"-he gently disengaged her hands from her gloves-"and let me buy you that drink you turned down earlier."

She hesitated, still determined to be angry, then her natural good nature came to his aid, and she relaxed.

"O.K., Butch."

"That's better. What'll it be; Scotch or Bourbon?"

"Make mine Bourbon-and not too much water."~ By the time the drinks were fixed and cigarets lighted the tension was lifted. "Tell me," he began, "to what do I owe this visit? I don't know a d.a.m.n thing about biology."

She blew a smoke ring 'and poked a carmine finger nail through it. "You remember that article you had in the April Physical Review? The one about cold light, and possible ways~of achieving it?"

He nodded. "Electroluminescence vs. Chemiluminescence: not much in that to interest a biologist."

"Nevertheless I've been working on the same problem."

'From what angle?"

"I've been trying to find out how a lightning bug does the trick. I saw some gaudy ones down in South America, and it got me to thinking."

"11mm- Maybe you got something. What have you found out?"

"Not much that wasn't already known. As you probably know, the firefly is an almost incredibly efficient source of light-at least 96% efficient Now how efficient would you say the ordinary commercial tungsten-filament incandescent lamp is?"

"Not over two percent at the best."

"That's fair enough. And a stupid little beetle does fifty times as well without turning a hair. We don't look so hot, do we?"

"Not very," he acknowledged. "Go on about the bug."

"Well, the firefly has in his tummy an active organic compound-very complex-called luciferin. When this oxydizes in the presence of a catalyst, luciferase, the entire energy of oxydation is converted into green light- no heat. Reduce it with hydrogen and it's ready to go again. I've learned how to do it in the laboratory."

"The h.e.l.l you have! Congratulations! You don't need mc. I can close up shop."

"Not so fast. It isn't commercially feasible; it takes too much gear to make it work; it's too messy; and I can't get an intense light. Now I came to see you to see if we might combine forces, pool our information, and work out something practical."

Three weeks later at four in the morning Doctor M. L.