Short Stories by Robert A. Heinlein Vol 2 Part 50

When the curtain rang down for the last time he let his dresser lead him away. He was always a little bit drunk at the end of a performance; dancing was a joyous intoxication even in rehearsal, but to have an audience lifting him, carrying him along, applauding him - He never grew jaded to it. It was always new and heartbreakingly wonderful.

'This way, chief. Give us a little smile.' The flash bulb flared.

'Thanks.'

'Thank'you. Have a drink.' He motioned towards one end of his dressing room. They were all such nice fellows, such grand guys - the reporters, the photographers - all of them.

'How about one standing up?' He started to comply, but his dresser, busy with one slipper, warned him:

'You operate in half an hour.'

'Operate?' the news photographer said. 'What's it this time?'

'A left cerebrectomy,' he answered.

'Yeah? How about covering it?'

'Glad to have you - if the hospital doesn't mind.'

'We'll fix that.'

Such grand guys.

'-trying to get a little different angle on a feature article.'

It was a feminine voice, near his ear. He looked around hastily, slightly confused. 'For example, what made you decide to take up dancing as a career?'

'I'm sorry,' he apologized. 'I didn't hear you. I'm afraid it's pretty noisy in here.'

'I said, why did you decide to take up dancing?'

'Well, now, I don't quite know how to answer that. I'm afraid we would have to go back quite a way-'

James Stevens scowled at his a.s.sistant engineer. 'What have you got to look happy about?' he demanded.

'It's just the shape of my face,' his a.s.sistant apologized.

'Try laughing at this one: there's been another crash.'

'Oh, cripes! Don't tell me, let me guess. Pa.s.senger or freight?'

'A Climax duo-freighter on the Chicago-Salt Lake shuttle, just west of North Platte. And, chief-'

'Yes?'

'The Big Boy wants to see you.'

'That's interesting. That's very, very interesting. Mac-'

'Yeah, chief.'

'How would you like to be Chief Traffic Engineer of North

American Power-Air? I hear there's going to be a vacancy.'

Mac scratched his nose. 'Funny that you should mention that, chief. I was just going to ask you what kind of a recommendation you could give me in case I went back into civil engineering. Ought to be worth something to you to get rid of me.'

'I'll get rid of you - right now. You bust out to Nebraska, find that heap before the souvenir hunters tear it apart, and bring back its deKalbs and its control board.'

'Trouble with cops, maybe?'

'You figure it out. Just be sure you come back.'

"With my slipstick, or on it."

Stevens's office was located immediately adjacent to the zone power plant; the business offices of

North American were located in a hill, a good three quarters of a mile away. There was the usual inter- connecting tunnel; Stevens entered it and deliberately chose the low-speed slide in order to have more time to think before facing the boss.

By the time he arrived he had made up his mind, but he did not like the answer.

The Big Boy, Stanley F. Gleason, Chairman of the Board greeted him quietly. 'Come in, Jim. Sit down. Have a cigar.'

Stevens slid into a chair, declined the cigar and pulled out a cigarette, which he lit while looking around. Besides the chief and himself, there were present Harkness, head of the legal staff, Dr Rambeau, Stevens's opposite number for research, and Striebel, the chief engineer for city power.

Us five and no more, he thought grimly- All the heavy- weights and none of the middleweights. Heads will roll!-

Starting with mine.

'Well,' he said, almost belligerently, 'we're all here. Who's got the cards? Do we cut for deal?'

Harkness looked faintly distressed by the impropriety;

Rambeau seemed too sunk in some personal gloom to pay any attention to wisecracks in bad taste. Gleason ignored it.

'We've been trying to figure a way out of our troubles,

James.

I left word for you on the chance that you might not have left.'

'I stopped by simply to see if I had any personal mail,'

Stevens said bitterly. 'Otherwise I'd be on the beach at Miami, turning suns.h.i.+ne into vitamin D.'

'I know,' said Gleason, 'and I'm sorry. You deserve that vacation, Jimmie. But the situation has gotten worse instead of better. Any ideas?'

'What does Dr Rambeau say?'