Table Of ContenteVersion 2.1 - see revision notes at end of text
Farmer in the Sky
by
Robert A. Heinlein
CONTENTS
1 Earth
2 The Green-Eyed Monster
3 Space Ship Bifrost
4 Captain DeLongPre
5 Captain Harkness
6 E = MC²
7 Scouting in Space
8 Trouble
9 The Moons of Jupiter
10 The Promised Land
11 "Share Croppers"
12 Bees and Zeroes
13 Johnny Appleseed
14 Land of My Own
15 Why Did We Come?
16 Line Up
17 Disaster
18 Pioneer Party
19 The Other People
20 Home
1. Earth
Our troop had been up in the High Sierras that day and we were late
getting back. We had taken off from the camp field on time but Traffic
Control swung us 'way east to avoid some weather. I didn't like it; Dad
usually won't eat if I'm not home.
Besides that, I had had a new boy shoved off on me as co-pilot; my
usual co-pilot and assistant patrol leader was sick, so our
Scoutmaster, Mr. Kinski, gave me this twerp. Mr. Kinski rode in the
other copter with the Cougar Patrol.
"Why don't you put on some speed?" the twerp wanted to know.
"Ever hear of traffic regulations?" I asked him.
The copter was on slave-automatic, controlled from the ground, and
was cruising slowly, down a freight lane they had stuck us in.
The twerp laughed. "You can always have an emergency. Here—I'll
show you." He switched on the mike. "Dog Fox Eight Three, calling
traffic—"
I switched it off, then switched on again when Traffic answered and
told them that we had called by mistake. The twerp looked disgusted.
"Mother's good little boy!" he said in sticky sweet tones.
That was just the wrong thing to say to me. "Go aft," I told him, "and
tell Slats Keifer to come up here."
"Why? He's not a pilot."
"Neither are you, for my money. But he weighs what you do and I
want to keep the crate trimmed."
He settled back in his seat. "Old Man Kinski assigned me as co-pilot;
here I stay."
I counted to ten and let it ride. The pilot compartment of a ship in the
air is no place for a fight. We had nothing more to say to each other
until I put her down on North Diego Platform and cut the tip jets.
I was last one out, of course. Mr, Kinski was waiting there for us but I
didn't see him; all I saw was the twerp. I grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Want to repeat that crack now?" I asked him.
Mr. Kinski popped up out of nowhere, stepped between us and said,
"Bill! Bill! What's the meaning of this?"
"I—" I started to say that I was going to slap the twerp loose from his
teeth, but I thought better of it
Mr. Kinski turned to the twerp. "What happened, Jones?"
"I didn't do anything! Ask anybody."
I was about to say that he could tell that to the Pilots' Board.
Insubordination in the air is a serious matter. But that "Ask anybody"
stopped me. Nobody else had seen or heard anything.
Mr. Kinski looked at each of us, then said, "Muster your patrol and
dismiss them, Bill." So I did and went on home.
All in all, I was tired and jumpy by the time I got home. I had listened
to the news on the way home; it wasn't good. The ration had been cut
another ten calories—which made me still hungrier and reminded me
that I hadn't been home to get Dad's supper. The newscaster went on
to say that the Spaceship Mayflower had finally been commissioned
and that the rolls were now opened for emigrants. Pretty lucky for
them, I thought. No short rations. No twerps like Jones.
And a brand new planet.
George—my father, that is—was sitting in the apartment, looking over
some papers. "Howdy, George," I said to him, "eaten yet?"
"Hello, Bill. No."
"I'll have supper ready right away." I went into the pantry and could
see that he hadn't eaten lunch, either. I decided to fix him a plus
meal.
I grabbed two Syntho-Steaks out of the freezer and slapped them in
quickthaw, added a big Idaho baked potato for Dad and a smaller one
for me, then dug out a package of salad and let it warm naturally.
By the time I had poured boiling water over two soup cubes and over
coffee powder the steaks were ready for the broiler. I transferred
them, letting it cycle at medium rare, and stepped up the gain on the
quickthaw so that the spuds would be ready when the steaks were—
then back to the freezer for a couple of icekreem cake slices for
dessert.
The spuds were ready. I took a quick look at my ration accounts,
decided we could afford it, and set out a couple of pats of butterine
for them. The broiler was ringing; I removed the steaks, set
everything out, and switched on the candles, just as Anne would have
done.
"Come and get it!" I yelled and turned back to enter the calorie and
point score on each item from the wrappers, then shoved the
wrappers in the incinerator. That way you never get your accounts
fouled up.
Dad sat down as I finished. Elapsed time from scratch, two minutes
and twenty seconds—there's nothing hard about cooking; I don't see
why women make such a fuss about it. No system, probably.
Dad sniffed the steaks and grinned. "Oh boy! Bill, you'll bankrupt us."
"You let me worry," I said. I'n still plus for this quarter." Then I
frowned. "But I won't be, next quarter, unless they quit cutting the
ration."
Dad stopped with a piece of steak on its way to his mouth. "Again?"
"Again. Look, George, I don't get it. This was a good crop year and
they started operating the Montana yeast plant besides."
"You follow all the commissary news, don't you, Bill?"
"Naturally."
"Did you notice the results of the Chinese census as well? Try it on
your slide rule."
I knew what he meant—and the steak suddenly tasted like old rubber.
What's the use in being careful if somebody on the other side of the
globe is going to spoil your try? "Those darned Chinese ought to quit
raising babies and start raising food!"
"Share and share alike, Bill."
"But—" I shut up. George was right, he usually is, but somehow it
didn't seem fair. "Did you hear about the Mayflower?" I asked to
change the subject.
"What about the Mayflower?" Dad's voice was suddenly cautious,
which surprised me. Since Anne died —Anne was my mother—George
and I have been about as close as two people can be.
"Why, she was commissioned, that's all. They've started picking
emigrants."
"So?" There was that cautious tone again. "What did you do today?"
"Nothing much. We hiked about five miles north of camp and Mr.
Kinski put some of the kids through tests. I saw a mountain lion."
"Really? I thought they were all gone."
"Well, I thought I saw one."
"Then you probably did. What else?"
I hesitated, then told him about this twerp Jones. "He's not even a
member of our troop. How does he get that way, interfering with my
piloting?"
"You did right, Bill. Sounds as if this twerp Jones, as you call him, was
too young to be trusted with a pilot's license."
"Matter of fact, he's a year older than I am."
"In my day you had to be sixteen before you could even go up for
your license."
"Times change, George."
"So they do. So they do."
Dad suddenly looked sad and I knew he was thinking about Anne. I
hastily said, "Old enough or not, how does an insect like Jones get by
the temperament-stability test?"
"Psycho tests aren't perfect, Bill. Neither are people." Dad sat back
and lit his pipe. "Want me to clean up tonight?"
"No, thanks." He always asked; I always turned him down. Dad is
absent-minded; he lets ration points get into the incinerator. When I
salvage, I really salvage. "Feel like a game of cribbage?"
"I'll beat the pants off you."
"You and who else?" I salvaged the garbage, burned the dishes,
followed him into the living room. He was getting out the board and
cards.
His mind wasn't really on the game. I was around the corner and
ready to peg out before he was really under way. Finally he put down
his cards and looked square at me. "Son—"
"Huh? I mean, 'Yes, George?'"
"I've decided to emigrate in the Mayflower."
I knocked over the cribbage board. I picked it up, eased my throttle,
and tried to fly right. "That's swell! When do we leave?"
Dad puffed furiously on his pipe. "That's the point, Bill. You're not
going."
I couldn't say anything. Dad had never done anything like this to me
before. I sat there, working my mouth like a fish. Finally I managed,
"Dad, you're joking."
"No, I'm not, Son."
"But why? Answer me that one question: why?"
"Now see here, Son—"
"Call me 'Bill'."
"Okay, Bill. It's one thing for me to decide to take my chances with
colonial life but I've got no right to get you off to a bad start. You've
got to finish your education. There are no decent schools on
Ganymede. You get your education, then when you're grown, if you
want to emigrate, that's your business."
"That's the reason? That's the only reason? To go to school?"
"Yes. You stay here and take your degree. I'd like to see you take your
doctor's degree as well. Then, if you want to, you can join me. You
won't have missed your chance; applicants with close relatives there
have priority."
"No!"
Dad looked stubborn.
So did I, I guess. "George, I'm telling you, if you leave me behind, it
won't do any good. I won't go to school. I can pass the exams for third
class citizenship right now. Then I can get a work permit and—"
He cut me short. "You won't need a work permit. I'm leaving you well
provided for, Bill. You'll—"
" 'Well provided for'! Do you think I'd touch a credit of yours if you go
away and leave me? I'll live on my student's allowance until I pass the
exams and get my work card."
