TANSTAAFL

(There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch)

 Chapter 1

© Dylan Clearbrook

 

Oct. 1969

 It was a tradition carried out by father and son over several genera­tions.   Every year, beginning on the night of the son's tenth birthday and ending on his eighteenth, father and son would, after the celebrations with family and friends, get together and have their own, private, ceremo­ny.

On a small hill that over looked the more clustered portions of the small town of Polo, Missouri, father and son would sit and talk.

On these nights, if no others, they were not father and son.  They were two men sitting and talking.  Friends that could speak what ever was on their minds (without fear of punishment on the part of the son) and striving to know one another.

On these nights no fatherly orders were handed down to son.  Yet fatherly advice, if asked for, was given freely and gladly.

“Okay, now where is the Big Dipper?”

Ten-year-old Arther L. Terril searched the sky for a moment.

“There's the North Star, Polaris, so...  There it is!” he pointed.

George Terril nodded, smiling.

“You seem up on proper names tonight.  What is the Big Dipper’s?”

“Ursa Major.” the boy answered promptly. “And the Little Dipper is Ursa Minor.”

“And where did those names come from?”

“Ancient Greeks.” this was said a bit more hesitantly, “Ursa for bear. Major and Minor for big and little.”  The boy's face screwed up as he studied the constellations.  Finally he shook his head. “I can't see where they got the idea they looked like bears.  They look like dippers to me.”

George shook his head in amused agreement as he patted the boy's shoulder.

At ten years of age, most boys were trading baseball cards, playing football, war, or cops and robbers.  Not Arther.

Oh, he did his share, but he did not allow it to fill up all of his free time.  A good portion of his time was set aside for his hobby: Astronomy.

George smiled at the memory of a seven year old Arther as he and Janise had gave him his first telescope, an expensive luxury for farmers trying to make ends meet.  For a full month afterward, Janise had to pull Arther from his stargazing long enough to eat supper and then, again, when it was time for bed.  Arther was, however, always careful not to let it get in the way of his daily chores.

It wasn't long before going to the moon just wasn't good enough.  Now he wanted to explore the stars!

“I'm going there.”  He would whisper.

“You may at that, son.” George grinned down at the awe filled face. “You just may at that.”

 

Feb. 1972

“Dad, Majority means over half and minority means less than half.  Right?”

“Yes, it does.” George carefully folded the newspaper he had been reading and set it aside. “Why?”

“We had a quest speaker today at school.”  Arther announced through a mouthful of cookie.  “From a group he called the Moral Majority.”

“Hush dear.” Janise Terril reacted as if she could see the storm clouds gathering in her husband's face, though her eyes never left her needle work.  “It's to be expected.  This is the Bible Belt, after all.”

“That doesn't mean I have to like it.” George said, sullenly. Then, to Arther, “Son, have you ever wondered why your mother and I have never taken you to church?”

Arther nodded.  In fact, he had been in more than a few fights because of it.  Other kids, spouting nonsense they could only have heard from their parents, about 'them commonist atheist Terrils'.  He knew a commonist was some one from Russia but he had no idea what an atheist was. So it had to be bad.

“You aren't commonist atheists are you?” he finally ventured.

“Heavens no!”  Janise exclaimed with laughter, her needles never missed a beat.

“I think the word you’re trying to say is Communist.” George correct­ed. “And where on earth did you hear that?  Never mind, I’ve got a good hunch.  No, Arther, your mother and I are not communists.  Nor are we atheists.  Do you even know what an atheist is?  An atheist is a person that denies the existence of God.  Son, that is just as foolish as believing in God totally on faith.”

“I don't understand.”  Arther said, after a moment. “You just said that it is wrong not to believe in God but that it is also wrong to be­lieve in God.”

“Basically,” George chuckled, “That is exactly what I said.  Son, can you prove to me that God does not exist?”

Arther thought a moment then shook his head.

“Neither can any one else.” George said. “Now how about the other way?  Can you prove that God does exist?”

Arther smiled.

“Sure. The Bible says so.” he stated, somewhat smugly.

“Uh‑huh. Right.” George frowned. “Son, what exactly is the Bible?”

“The word of God?” it was more question than statement. He was a bit unsure of himself now.  He had figured that his father would be happy that he could answer his question.

“And who told you this?”

“My home room teacher, Mrs. Grundy.”

George had been taking a sip of coffee when Arther said this.  Janise had to slap him on the back a few times to stop him from choking.

“Yes, Virginia,” she quipped laughingly, “there really is a Mrs. Grundy.”

(Author’s note: Readers of Heinlein will recognize this!)

“What else has this Mrs. Grundy been telling you?”  George demanded after he got his coughing spasm under control.

Arther shrugged.

“She spends a half hour each morning teaching out of the Bible, telling us what it means.  The quest speaker was a friend of hers.”  He paused for a second.  “I don't like her very much.”

“And why is that?”

“She scolded me once for bringing an astronomy book into her class. Said she wouldn't allow that trash in her room.”

“It figures.” George said to his wife. “Some of these people believe there is very little difference between astronomy and astrology.  The stars are God's domain and man shouldn't meddle.”  He shook his head.  “Son, I'm not going to tell you that the Bible is not the Word of God.  If I did that I would be just as wrong as your Mrs. Grundy.”  He stood and walked over to the nearest bookshelf.  He searched for a moment then took down an old, battered book.

“Though people will always try, you must never allow any one to tell you what you should or shouldn't believe.  One of the benefits of freedom is the right to choose for yourself.  It is not only a right; it is a major responsibility.  Only you can decide what you believe.  Now, here is a Bible.  You read it, from cover to cover.  When you have finished, then you can decide.”  He handed the book to Arther.  “You have any problems or you just want to discuss something you've read, come to me and we'll talk about it.  Just remember, your mother and I cannot decide for you.  You'll have to decide on you own, going by what you've read.”

Two weeks later Arther asked his father to help him get transferred out of Mrs. Grundy's class.

 

Apr. 1982

 ”Mail, Mr. Malar.”  Jenny Hawks, a secretary for Malar and Hendric Stock Brokerage Services, announced as she swept into the office. “You've got a letter from Arther.”

Barton Malar, senior partner of Malar and Hendric (now the only partner since Hendric had died the previous year), cocked an eyebrow at the petit redhead.

“Arther?”

“Sgt. Terril, I mean.” the girl stammered, blushing.  Barton was mildly surprised to notice that the blush reached below the visible cleavage above the half‑cups of the girl's office dress.

“Don't let it worry you.”  He chuckled, “His father had the same affect on women when we were in the Army together.  Now go take a cold shower so you can get back to work.”

“Boss, you're impossible!”

Barton winced as the office door slammed behind the secretary.  He snick­ered some more.

He sorted through the mail until he found the letter from Arther.  More instructions, probably.

Barton shook his head in amusement.  No one as young as Arther Terril had any right to be so money wise, especially if he was from a farm.

Five years earlier, Arther Terril had walked into Malar and Hendric’s, and placed enough money in Barton's hand for four full years of education at a middle college.  With the money came instructions as to where and when to invest it.  Three days later he joined the Army.

Every month Barton mailed an update of his account and every other month Arther sent back fresh instructions.

That, of course, had been before the Central American Conflict. 

When Nicaragua troops and equipment swept across the borders of Honduras and El Salvador, The United States jumped in with both feet by sending in it's most elite troops before the echoes of the first battles had died away.  Barton knew that Arther, a member of the famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) Green Berets, would be among the first to go.

That being the case, he was not surprised when there was a delay of six months before Arther's next letter.  There was a three-month gap before this one.

Now, five years after that first day, Arther Terril was a wealthy man.

From the very beginning he had taken the big risks.  Risks Barton himself would not have dared with his own money.

And every one of those risks had paid off.  Every one of them.

From a measly few thousand dollars, Arther Terril had amassed a fortune in just three short years that made him, at the age of twenty‑two, one of the wealthiest men in his age group in the Continental U. S.

“And,” Barton mused, “just a few shares shy of being the  major stockholder of a well off, if not exactly major, communications compa­ny.”

Barton opened the letter.

Barton,

I'm still in El Salvador so this letter, like the last one, may be delayed a bit.

I received your last two reports the day before yester­day....

Barton shook his head in disgust.  In a couple of days it would be time to send the next report.

As usual, I have some instructions for you.

First of all, I want you to drop my secondary inter­ests!  Sell them off.  With the secondary money remain­ing and with what you receive from selling, I want you to carry out the instructions contained within the sealed envelope I gave you three years ago.  If you have a problem with those instructions, contact my father.  This is to be considered a Primary interest!

Next, make that move we discussed on my last leave with the following changes.  Buy it all.  One hundred per­cent.  Every thing.  I've included in this letter a sworn statement, witnessed by my company commander and the company chaplain, giving you the authority to do this. I know you have my proxies, this is just a little added insurance.  Take control, you know what I want done.

Finally, I would like you to check out a college for me.  Yeah, a college.  One of the new guys here has been telling me about a small college in Butler and it sounds too good to be true.  Check it out for me, will you?  If, after you check it out, you’re not sure I'll like it, talk it over with my folks, they'll know.  If you think it's worth a shot, send me the necessary paperwork for enrollment in the '83‑'84 year.

God, Bart, just one more year of this hell and I get to come home.  Being here, I can imagine how 'Nam must have been for you and dad.  Believe me when I tell you that it's the same shit all over again.  This isn't war; it's shooting fish in a barrel.  With the regular U. S. troops playing the part of the fish.

Gotta go now, the Captain just signaled to move out.  By the way, I'm acting lieutenant now. Battlefield promotion to second looie subject to approval.  Lieu­tenant Jarickson bought it yesterday.

 Bye for now,

  Tell Jenny I said hi,

    Lieutenant (A.J.) Arther L. Terril

 

 Barton reread the letter twice before setting it down.  He stood and walked over to his wall safe.  Opening it, he sifted through it's contents until he found what he was looking for, the sealed letter.

Returning to his desk, he hesitated for a moment then ripped the envelope open.

  

Mr. Malar,

I am assuming that you are reading this at some future date, prior to my release from the service, due to instructions you have received from my father or myself.

The instructions in this letter are of an extremely sensitive nature as, in them, I will ask you to go beyond the bounds of current laws.  Nothing immoral, but possibly legally questionable.

It was my hope that I would be able to carry out these instructions myself after returning home.  In the like­lihood that current economic trends may continue, if not worsen, I have left these requests.  If I have instructed you to read this, it means I believe the current economic situation, as they are when you read this, to be extremely alarming.

The purpose of these instructions is to prepare for the worst possible scenario.

Ultimately, I fear, we, as a nation (if not the world), will suffer economic disaster comparable to none the world has suffered thus far.  Perhaps it is pure para­noia on my part yet I can see no miracles in the near future that will pull us out of our economic decline.

Now, on to those instructions.  I will have already informed you as to where to get the resources to accom­plish this task, from moneys earned on what I will call secondary interests.

The entire purpose of the secondary interest was simply to amass finances not directly connected to any prima­ry interests.

These are finances that can literally disappear with out causing undo concern.  For all practical purposes, they will disappear.  Here is what I want you to do: over a period of several months, I want you to remove the secondary funds from circulation and invest them strictly in gold.

There is a catch, however.  I am not interested in the normal method of investment.  I want you to actually purchase the gold and take physical possession of it.

Barton almost dropped the letter. Private ownership of gold  in forms other than jewel­ry and coins was a federal offense!

I am not interested in jewelry or coins, the letter continued, as if, over the span of years, Arther had read his mind, I want bullion.  The largest ingots you can manage.  Once obtained, have them shipped to my father's farm.  Together, he and I provided a storage place for more than I, no matter how much money my secondary interests earned, could ever hope to pur­chase.

That being the case, I would advise you to do the same as I and have my dad store it.

I cannot stress how important this is.  If you feel that you cannot, in good conscience, carry out these instructions, inform my father and turn over all my accounts to him.  All of them.

Arther L. Terril

 

Turn over everything?

For a moment Barton let anger cloud his thoughts.  Threats!  Basical­ly, Arther was telling him that if he didn't follow these instructions then he would lose his business!  Of course he would, he chuckled to himself. Good business sense.  If the people you have do not carry out your orders, you get some one who will.

Relaxing, he reached for a calculator to do some quick figuring.  With the approximate worth of Arther's secondaries being around two million and the price of gold being about four hundred dollars an ounce, or eight hundred and eighty‑two a kilogram, Arther could end up with ‑ Barton whistled softly as he read the results ‑ five thousand pounds or about two thousand, two hundred and sixty ‑ eight kilograms.  Two and a half short tons of gold!  Setting aside the calculator, he reached for the inner office com.

“Jenny, I want you to track down the name of a college in or near Butler, Missouri, call them up and get an appointment for me with the dean, school‑master, or whatever.”

“A college, Boss?” Jenny's voice sounded skeptical.

“Yes a college. It's for Arther.” he paused, “Hold all my calls until I tell you other wise.”

“Right, Boss.”

Next, Barton turned to his computer and requested a hard copy of his own financial standings.  On an impulse, he added Jenny’s standings to the request.

 

*****

 

'ANYTHING FREE IS WORTH WHAT YOU PAY FOR IT.' L.L.

 

TANSTAAFL

(There Ain't No Such Thing As A Free Lunch)

 

The bronze statue was, in Barton's opinion, a very nice piece of work.  A man of indeterminate age, with hair so finely crafted each individual strand seemed to flow in a nonexistent breeze. He was shirtless, armed with some unidentifiable weapon, and wearing a kilt that bellowed in the same breeze that swept the hair, yet it was the face that grabbed Barton’s attention.  The man was wearing an expression that seemed to convey an almost unholy joy of life and confidence of self. The statute was truly an exquisite piece of art.  Art in its original sense.  Nothing at all like the trash people called art these days.

“So what do you think?”  Startled by the unexpected voice, Barton spun to his right as if fearing a crazed killer were advancing on him. The killer, he was relieved to discover, wasn't.  A killer, that is.  Rather it was a smallish, extremely well proportioned woman that was, like the man the statue portrayed, of indeterminate age.  She could, Barton thought, be any where between twenty‑two and fifty.  Barton was more inclined to guess on the low side.  Most likely a guide to take him to the dean.  Realizing that he was staring, he turned back to the statue.

“It's good.  Very good, as a matter a fact.”  He stated. “Just one question.  Who is it?”

“What?  You don't know?”  The young woman laughed, shaking her head. “A sure sign of a restricted education.  We'll have to do something about that.”  Barton had no idea if the young lady was joking or not.  Assuming the former, he managed a weak smile and spread his hands, as if to say, “what can I do?”

“This,” The young woman went on to explain, “is only the oldest man ever to live, having lived through twenty centuries and still going strong in the hearts and minds of millions of fans.”  She gestured towards the raised plaque.  “Actually, he is one of Heinlein's most famous characters. More famous, in some  ways, then Smith.”

“Smith?”

The young woman feigned shocked disbelief and Barton shook his head, smiling.

“Another indication of a sadly neglected education in fine litera­ture.” he conceded.  He forced his eyes, which had begun to wander over the young woman's body of their own accord, back to the statue.  “Whose work is this?”

“Mine.”  was the proud reply, “I worked on it for three years and finally presented to the institute just weeks before graduating.”

“You're a graduate?”  Barton re-estimated her age upwards, slightly.

“Yep.” The woman nodded. “Oh, forgive my manners.  You must be Mr. Malar.”

“Barton.” he clarified.

“Okay. Barton it is.  I'm Anna Driver, Dean of Heinlein University.”

Barton took the proffered hand a bit shakily.  There was absolutely no way in hell this young girl was the dean of a university!  As if reading his mind, the girl/dean laughed.

“I know. I don't look like a dean. But, if you'll follow me, I’ll show you the plaques and skins on my office walls to prove it.”

“Well, Mr. Malar. What can I do for you?”

*****

 

The young woman, who had insisted on being called Anna, had made a point of showing off her 'plaques and skins' as soon as they had reached her office. Fully satisfied, Barton now sat on the visitor's side of the dean's desk while Anna made herself comfortable on the business side.  At the moment she was consulting a note pad.

“Your secretary, Miss Hawks?, stated the purpose of this interview was to get as much information about our university as possible and perhaps take a tour of the campus.  Her reasons for this were, however, a bit vague, something about a soldier serving in Central America at the time.” she looked up from the note pad.  “To be perfectly frank, Mr. Malar, I don't see how I can help you.”   

“Why not?”  Barton asked, “and please, drop the Mr. Malar and just call me Barton.”

“Okay, Barton.” Anna smiled, then turned serious once again as she contin­ued, “First of all, while we make no real attempt at secrecy, we here at Heinlein University do like to keep a low profile if at all possible.  It is very rare that any one living outside a fifty-mile radius and not connected to the university in any way ever hears of us.  Believe it or not, we like it that way.  That being the case, we usually do not give tours to any one other than students we are reasonably sure have already made up their minds and will be attending our university.”

“And, as I am not a student in that category, I do not rate a tour of the facilities.” Barton smiled to take the sting out of his words.  “In any case, this client, whose name I really shouldn't divulge, may possibly wish to enroll for the first semester in  '83.  My job is simply to take a look around and then give my recommendation.  Actually, recommendation isn't the right word.  Basically, I'll just be sending my client a summary based on my hopefully unbiased observations.  A 'no visitors' rule will make my task extremely difficult.”

“Well,” the university dean paused, thinking, “why don't I give you a little back ground on our university here and then go from there?”  Barton nodded his acceptance of the idea.

“Heinlein University takes its name, of course, from an author born right here in Butler.  Actually, he didn't live here all that long, his parents moved to Kansas City while he was still an infant.”  She shook her head, “Perhaps getting out of here before he was old enough for this basically redneck community to affect him was possibly the best thing that ever happened to him, not to mention millions of those that would later become his most worshipful fans.  Never the less, he has never forgotten his roots.  Many of his stories refer back to, if not actually taking place in, the mid‑west or Bible Belt as it's called.  Though he did not live here long, Heinlein set up a scholarship trust in Butler for exceptional students.  Also, if you go to the library, you'll see a locked glass case that holds autographed first editions of all of his works.  The irony is, that while there's a copy of every book in that case, you will not find a single copy of anything written since 1959 on the shelves.  They have three copies of every book, in addition to those in the case.  But you will find no reference in the card catalog to any book written by Heinlein after 1959.”

“But if they have them...” Barton began, confused.

“Oh, they have to have them. It's a clause in the trust. If the library does not maintain at least three copies of every book, in addition to those on display in the case, the trust will be voided.  I said this is basically a redneck town.  Believe me, it is.  Many of these people consider them­selves righteous, christian folk and Heinlein's later works contain material most of them consider offensive.  So, that being the case, they practice a limited form of censorship.  The books are there. They can be checked out, supposedly.  There is, however, no clause in the trust that demands they advertise the books in any way, such as in the card catalog.  Nor is there any clause that states that the books must be displayed on the library shelves.”

“And they actually get away with it?” Barton frowned.  He knew only what Anna had told him about the author, but censorship of any kind disgusted him.

“How many times have you seen a majority of the people get worked up over a library?” was Anna's bitter reply.  “Around here it's worse.  Most people don't give a damn if the town has a library or not.  Only Heinlein’ trust fund and funds donated by us keep it going.  It receives absolutely no other funding from the town.” she seemed to shake herself out her mood and smiled.

“Back to the university.” she said.  “We have been here, or in the general area, for perhaps thirty years.  Up until '79, however, our name was New Midwest Tech.  In '79 the faculty and the students voted almost unanimously to change the name to Heinlein University.”

“Wait a minute.” Barton broke in, holding up a hand.  “You said you've been here for thirty years?”

“Or close to it.”  Anna agreed.

“Then why haven't I heard of you?  I've lived in or around Kansas City most of my live and not once have I heard of Heinlein University, or New Midwest Tech, for that matter.”

“Not surprising.”  Anna confessed, “Like I mentioned earlier, we try to keep a low profile.  I assure you that this policy is not a new develop­ment.”

“Which prompts me to ask why.”  Barton said.  “I take it you do not even advertise.”

“No, we don't.  We gain our students in one of two ways.  They hear of us through graduates and seek us out or we seek them out and attempt to, shall we say, recruit them.”

“Sounds almost like a cult.” Barton laughed uneasily.

“Almost.”  Anna agreed.  “And, in a way, I suppose it could be consid­ered a cult.  A cult dedicated to the advancement of knowledge and learn­ing.  You see, we are very picky about the students we will take here.”  She paused and rifled around in her desk for a moment.  She finally extracted two thick booklets, one of which she handed to Barton.

“That,” she said, “is an entrance exam commonly used by most estab­lish­ments of higher learning today.  What do you think of it?”

Barton glanced through the book, pausing here and there to work some of the problems in his head.

“A lot easier than the exams I had to take.”  He admitted with a grin. “But adequate.”

“Now look at this one.  This is the exam we give potential students.” She handed him the second booklet.  He did not have to look long.

“Miss Driver, if my college had given this exam, I would never have made it.”  He complained.  “You seriously use this as an entrance exam?”

“Yes, we do.”  Was the emphatic answer.  “We do not, however, require the prospective student to pass it with flying colors.  It is used more as a gauge of the student’s current abilities and a test of the student himself.  How he or she handles certain problems.  Does the student skip certain problems and, if so, which ones?  The institutions which use this exam,” she tapped the first booklet with a fingernail, “require students to pass it by at least sixty percent.  We, on the other hand,” now she tapped the second booklet, “require a score of no less than seventy percent.”

“One thing is obvious from the beginning.”  Barton observed,  “You don't seem to conform to what is considered standardized procedures.”

“True. We don't and we have no intention of conforming in the near future.  If we were to conform, it is our opinion that our students would be cheated.”

“Cheated? How?”

“Well, take scholarships, for instance.  Consider the money lost by college awarded scholarships.”  Anna was getting worked up.  “It has to be made up somehow.  In the old days, colleges maintained a certain standard.  Students had to maintain a certain grade point average.  If they were unable to, they were given two alternatives: take the entire year over again or drop out.  They would not, under any circumstance, advance to the next grade.  In some cases, if the G.P.A. was at the bare minimum, they were advised to take the year over anyway.”

“Then?” Barton prompted.

“Then the university heads noticed that people were interested in college sports and were willing to pay to watch.  They began searching high schools and lower colleges for talented players, offering to pay their way if they agreed to play for the university.  It wasn't long before it became apparent that many of these athletes could not maintain the G.P.A. Standard.

“At first you could find a few universities that maintained their stan­dards.  They gave their players the same choices non‑ athletic students had: stay back or drop out. They lost a lot of good players that way.  Other universities, again a minority, simply cheated.  They gave the players passing scores whether they deserved them or not.  The majority, however, simply lowered their standards

“This measure worked for a while.  But scholarships cost.  So, to pay for the scholarships, universities raised their tuition.  Yet even that was not enough, for the number of people able to maintain the G.P.A. and pay the higher tuition was not enough to keep things going.  Many students had dropped out, not because they couldn't afford the higher tuition, but because they realized the price hike for what it was.  They would not get more for their money, they were helping to pay some one else's way.

“So, to get more students, the universities again lowered their standards and this time made the entrance exams easier.”  Anna shook her head in disgust, “It's been an unending downward spiral ever since.  More scholar­ships, higher tuition, lower standards, easier exams.” she glared at Barton,  “Did you know that about thirty percent of all graduates can't read?  Thirty percent of all graduates from institutions of so-called higher learning are illiterate!  And maybe, just maybe, one tenth of the top five percent of a graduating class ever does anything with what they've learned!  What I mean is that they rely solely on that knowledge.  They never use it to come up with anything original.”

“You can't expect every one to be an Einstein, can you?”  Barton tried to lighten the mood.

“Can't I?” was the retort, “I can and I do.  Anything less is a waste.”

Barton could only shrug as he squirmed in his seat, Damn this woman was intense.

“So how is Heinlein University different?”  Anna took a deep breath, calming down.

“Well, we don't have scholarships.” she said, finally, smiling weakly, “We could, if we chose, keep our tuition low and our standards high.  We don't.  Oh, our standards are high, but our tuition could not be consid­ered low by any one's standards.”

“And why is that?” Barton demanded, “Does a student get more for his money?”

“Exactly!  The higher tuition allows us to purchase the best equip­ment, and more of it, and allows us to hire the best teachers.”

“Teachers? Don't you mean professors?”

“Teachers.” Anna stated firmly, “They are not hired for research, they are hired to teach.”

“I thought a professor was just a higher rank of teacher.”

“Originally, yes.  But walk into any university now days and most so‑called professors will tell you that students are an irritable inter­ruption of their 'work'.”

“So you do no research here?”

“Are you kidding?  Believe it or not, only three universities in the nation have more elaborate research facilities and only modesty and policy prevents me from claiming that the success rate of our research is forty percent higher than any other.”

“Modesty I won't buy.” Barton laughed. “But what do you mean 'policy­'? I thought you said your professors did no research.”

“No, I said we don't hire them for research.  We hire them to teach.  But research can and is done on their own time and a great part is done by students on their own and in the classroom.  As for 'policy', each teacher signs a contract with the university before he or she is hired.  'No research results obtained at Heinlein University, whether obtained in class or on the researchers own time, may be published with out the express permission of the University. This portion of the contract is enforce­able even if employment is terminated either by the university or by the teacher.”

“What if a teacher simply went some where else, repeated the research, and then published the results?”

“There's a clause in the contract that covers that.  ‘No research performed at Heinlein University may be repeated elsewhere at a later date.' See?  We cover all bases.”

“But why?” Barton asked, “If your researches are as successful as you claim, couldn't you make more money for the university by publishing some of your results?  And even if you couldn't, don't you feel that you have a moral obligation...” his voice trailed off at the steely eyed glare he was getting.

“I'll answer that last part first.”  Anna's voice was hard. “No, neither I nor any member of this establishment feels we have what you call 'a moral obligation' to mankind.  For what do we owe?  What have we received that leaves us indebted?  What do I owe?  If I paid, what would I be paying for?  My food?  My clothes?  My home?  I work for these things.  I earned them.  Mankind did not give them to me.  Do I owe for my very existence, then?  It seems to me that was brought about by my parents.  All of mankind did get together and decide to have a baby.  If I owe anybody, then, it is my parents.  They worked to feed me and keep a roof over my head.  They earned.  They were not given.

“Do you know where the concept of moral obligation originated, Mr. Malar?  It originated with a loafer that wanted something that someone else made but he didn't want to earn it.  There are two types of people in this world, Mr. Malar.  Makers and Takers.  The Takers take what the Maker has made and gives nothing in return, screaming all the while that it is the Maker's 'duty' to surrender what they've made with out a thought of personal gain.”  Anna placed both hands on the desk in front of her and took a couple of deep breaths.  What may have been a mere philosophical theory to others was obviously a way of life to her. 

“That kind of thinking isn't new.”  She continued in a more controlled voice.  “But now, in this day and age, it is growing stronger.  There are more and more Takers and fewer Makers.  The Takers are unwilling to make the effort to use their minds.  Instead, they take the products of the minds of the makers.  And they truly believe that it is their 'right' to do this.  And we, the makers, have a 'moral obligation' to give it to them without fuss or fight.”  Anna closed her eyes for a moment.  “I'm sorry, Mr. Malar.  That's just a touchy subject with me.”

“It's Barton, remember?” Barton smiled.  “And it's quite alright.  I actually believe that I needed that little lecture.  Later, when we have more time, I’d like to continue.  You have me half convinced already.”

“It's a date.”  Anna laughed.  Then, after another, calming breath, “To answer the first part of your question: Yes, I suppose we could make a substantial amount of money for the University by publishing some of our results.  And we do.  But we decide what to publish.” 

She paused.  Though she was looking straight at him, Barton got the uneasy feeling that she was looking right through him.  After a moment she stood and, gathering up some papers, she excused herself.

“Please wait here.  I'll be right back.”

Anna was gone for less than five minutes before returning.  She held up a freshly typed form.

“More paperwork for the Admin people.”  She said.  She handed the form to Barton.  “A new type of contract.  I had this one typed up and several copies are being made for future use.  A visitor's contract.  Basically, it says that the visitor, you, agrees to reveal nothing he or she sees within the university to anyone outside the university during his or her stay here or upon leaving the university.”

“If I don't sign this?”  Barton asked.

“Then I will pleasantly inform you that our interview is at an end and escort you to the front doors.  I will talk no more about the university until you sign the contract.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Barton began as he scrawled his signature, “What about your students?   You said they do research here.  Do they have to sign contracts as well?”

“Yes, they do.” Anna replied, taking the contract back and giving it a quick once over.  “One almost identical to those signed by the staff and the teachers.”  Apparently satisfied, she pushed back from her desk and stood.

“Now what?” Barton asked, rising to his feet as well.

“You mentioned that you were interested in a tour.  Well, now you're going to get it.”  Anna smiled and waved Barton out the door.  “Just let me drop these off with my secretary and we'll be on our way.”

Barton was impressed.

*****

Anna had shown him room after room of research.  He was particularly impressed with the hydroponics section.

“I grew up on a farm.” He explained.  “If the banker hadn't foreclosed, I guess I'd have inherited it when the folks passed away.  I guess you just can't take the farm out of the boy.  The young man I represent just happens to be the son of my best friend.  When ever I feel the need to get a way from everything, I spend a couple of days with them on their farm, helping out.”

He heaved a big sigh. “It seems the need to get away comes more frequently every year.”

Anna slipped her arm in his.

“Being a farmer, even if only at heart, you'll be able to appreciate what we're able to do here.”  She waved her hand in a motion that took in the entire green house. “In these green houses, we are able to grow more tons of crops per acre per year than most farmers can hope to realize in several years.  The average farmer is dependent on many things to insure a good crop: Weather, soil conditions, etc.  Here, we are not.  It's all inside so it's perfect weather year round.  There's no problem with soil conditions because there's no soil.  The plants are held in a styrofoam like substance that allows their roots to grow downward into a virtual nutrient bath.  Actually it should be called a nutrient shower since the roots are constantly being sprayed.

“Sun lamps provide the light needed for photosynthesis.  We also stagger our crops.  While one crop is being harvested, another is ripening and still another is sprouting and a fourth is being planted.  It's set up so that, at any given time, there is almost certainly a crop ready for harvest.”  The pride in her face was quickly replaced by one of concern. “By using methods such as these, only on a grander scale, food poor countries could feed their people.  Before you ask; yes, it has been suggested, not by us, but the suggestion was turned down.  Uneconomical. (In a pig's eye).”  She steered Barton out of the green house and the tour continued.

The next section they visited looked as if it should have belonged to NASA.

“My god!”  Barton exclaimed quietly as he glanced over a student's shoulder.  “Are those rocket designs?”  The student merely nodded in a distracted sort of way and continued with his work.  Anna pulled him away.

“Heinlein University realizes that any future man has will be in space or the oceans.  Preferably both.  Space is, however, limitless, the oceans aren't.  It’s no secret that NASA is drawing up plans for a reusable space vehicle.  At first, it was a joint plan to develop a space station and a vehicle to shuttle personnel between the station and Earth.  Incidentally, that's the vehicle's official designation - the Space Shuttle.  But, thanks to shortsighted people like Congressman Joseph Karth, a Democrat from Minnisota, and Senator Walter Mondale (Lord help us if he ever becomes President) the station portion of the program has all but been tossed out the window.  At best, it's gathering dust on a shelf.  It's only because of the political backing of the Air Force that the shuttle portion of the program proceeds. Any moron can see the military advantages of such a vehicle.”

“But without a station...”

“The Shuttle becomes virtually useless except as a military vehicle or to position satellites.”

“What about servicing satellites already in orbit?”

“Too expensive.  Look, it takes a tremendous amount of power to push an Apollo with three men out of Earth's gravity well.  The shuttle will take even more.  The fuel needed to create that kind of power can be expensive as hell.  Rather than retrieve satellites or even have the shuttle position a new one,  it would make more economical sense to launch a new one on an unmanned rocket.”

“But with a station in orbit,” Barton continued the train of thought. “It would be more cost effective to effect repairs on already existing satellites?”

“Right!”

“Okay.  Now answer this one.  Satellites crash into Earth's atmosphere eventually as their orbits decay.  What is to stop your station from doing the same?”

“Lagrange Points.”

“Do who?”

“In the late eighteenth century, a French mathematician named LaGrange showed that there are five points where the gravity of the Earth and that of the Moon and the centrifugal force exerted by these bodies cancel each other out.  It was his theory that any object placed in one of these `libration' points would remain there.  However, three of these points, called L1, L2, and L3, are unstable.  If an object placed in one of these points was nudged, even slightly, it would tend to move away, usually away from both the Earth and the Moon.  These three points are on a line with the Earth and Moon.  L1 sits between these two bodies.  L2 sits in the same orbit as the Moon but on the other side of the Earth.  L3 lies just on the other side of the Moon.  The other two points, L4 and L5, lie at equal distances from both Bodies in the moon's orbit. One preceding the moon as it orbits the Earth, the other trailing it.  These libration points, or LaGrange points as they've come to be called, are considered more stable. Recent studies indicate that an object would remain in place in one of these points if it was placed in orbit around the point rather that sitting directly in it.”

“If you say so.” Barton didn't look as if he were completely lost. “But you still didn't answer the question.  Will the orbit decay?”

“No.”  Anna laughed.  “Placed in L4 or L5, a station or a colony would not fall to Earth unless it receives an awful big push.”

Barton moved on and peered over the shoulder of another student.  This one a young lady in her late teens or early twenties.

“And what are these?”  He asked, indicating the blue prints the girl was working on.  The girl put down her pencil and pushed away from the drawing board. She grinned up at Barton.

 “Plans for a moon based mining operation.”  She said. “A colony in space will require massive amounts of raw materials.  The moon can supply this.  By using mass-drivers or rapid fire catapults, material mined from the lunar surface can be thrown into space where waiting mass-catchers can haul it to the Lagrange point where the material can be smelted and used to construct the station itself and, later on, solar power satellites.”

“Why not just put a colony on the moon's surface?” Barton asked.

“Eventually, there may be.”  Anna put in.  She slipped an arm through Barton's and moved a bit closer. “But the Moon has the same drawback that the Earth does, just at a lesser degree. Gravity.”

“But it's only one sixth that of Earth.”  Barton protested. “And besides, wouldn't it be safer? I mean, they could burrow underground and be safe from meteors and cosmic rays and such.”

“First of all, a colony in orbit can be reached easier than one on the lunar surface.” The girl student supplied.  She was still smiling, thought now she also looked nervously at Anna now and then.  “A vessel lifting from the Moon will use fuels that first have to be lifted from Earth.  Expen­sive.  Second, solar power, feasible and economical in space, is worse than useless on the moon two weeks out of four due to it's day-night cycle.”

“What about solar power satellites?” Barton asked. “They can remain in orbit and transfer the energy gathered via microwave to the lunar surface.”

Both Anna and the student looked impressed at Barton's obvious knowledge

“I see you know a little bit on the subject.”  Anna said, obviously pleased. “Eventually that will be the answer to the energy problem on both the Earth and the Moon.  In both cases, satellites built and then launched into orbit would be highly inefficient.  Their size alone would be a tremendous drawback, as would the cost of repairs.  These failings alone would far outweigh the resulting energy such a satellite would produce.  An SPS constructed in orbit, and maintained continuously by the personnel of a colony in either L4 or L5, has none of those drawbacks.  The solar panels, extremely fragile, would not have to be launched from Earth or the Moon.  They could be made by the colony and then moved into position.  And, get this, there would be no limit on size!  None whatsoev­er. Remember, the larger the surface soaking up the sun's rays, the more energy produced.”

“So we have a reversal, the resulting energy output and the reduced maintenance cost out weigh any drawbacks.” Barton mused.

“By a long shot.”  Anna said.  “Look, it's lunch time and I'm starved.  Can we continue the tour after we get something to eat?”

“By all means.  Where do we go?”

“Follow me.”

 “You don't maintain separate areas for faculty and students?”  Barton asked as he looked around the enormous cafeteria.  Anna shook her head.

*****

“Uneconomical.”  She said.  “Why maintain two cafeterias when one would always be empty?  Look over there.”

Barton looked where she indicated.  A group of students and two (or three, Barton wasn't sure if that young looking lady was a student or a teacher) sat at a table together.  One, the lady Barton was unsure of, was talking rapidly and gesturing wildly with the fork she held in her right hand.  As he watched, he saw the student to her right reach out and gently remove the fork from her hand, lying it beside an untouched tray of food.  The girl went on talking and gesturing, never noticing.

“The cafeteria's just an annex of the class room.”  Anna explained.  “We almost have to force that particular group to eat.  If we didn't, they would probably forget to.”

“That's a single class?”  Barton counted.  “Three teachers and fifteen students?”

“Medical Section.”  Anna said.  “We'll stop by there when we finish here and I'll show you what those `students' are doing!”

 

*****

 

“Cancer Research”

Barton read the title on the door as Anna led him in.  Anxious to continue with the tour, he had wolfed down his food (all the vegetables had come from the hydroponics farms and the meat from the livestock section.  It had looked like hamburger and had tasted like beef, but Anna insisted that it was rabbit. All Good.) and then fidgeted while Anna took her time.

“Actually, it's just a catch all.”  Anna explained, noticing his glance.  “It's a sub-section of the Medical Section and is itself divided into further sub-sections.  Usually this is reserved for fifth to eighth year students.  Occasionally we let in an exceptionally bright third or fourth year student.”

The door led into a small alcove lined with closets.  Anna approached one of these.  She opened it, pulling out a gown, gloves, mask, and cap, which she handed to Barton.  “Put these on.”  She instructed. “There's nothing dangerous as long as you keep your hands to yourself, but we never take chances.”  She pulled out a set of protective clothing for herself and began pulling them on over her `street' clothes.  Once dressed, Anna led him in.

“To graduate,” She went on in her best tour guide voice, “a medical student must contribute something.  He or she must complete a research assignment of his or her choice.  We give only the basic guidelines.  One, it must not be a copy of research done.  It must be original though it may be related to research that has already been done or that is being done by some one else.  Two, hazardous portions of any research can only be performed in the presence of an instructor and then only after the student has convinced the faculty board that it is necessary and that all precautions have been taken.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”  Anna led the way through the subsections one at a time while reciting past achievements. “One student, looking for a cure for muscular diseases, failed.  But that was okay.  Instead of a cure, she developed a serum that, when taken by an expectant mother, prevents the development of muscular diseases after birth.  And no, to answer your question before you ask, we have not released this serum to the public.  We do make use of it here within the university.”

“I don't believe this?” Barton was appalled.  “You claim to have a way to stop a portion of suffering.  Yet you refuse to release it to the public.”

“With good reason.”  Anna was patient. “First of all, the public would never hear of it unless we published our results in a magazine or in the newspaper or on television and over the radio.  Even then, the Food and Drug Administration would stomp on it once other `notable scientist and medical people' published their results of tests done with our serum.  Their findings would all indicate that it was a fake.”

“Huh? I'm not sure I understand.  If this stuff works as you say, then surely their findings would show that.”

“Surely they would not.”  Anna sounded bitter now. “Consider how many companies make money by producing drugs for treatments of Muscular Dystrophy or produce wheel chairs, crutches, etc.  These people make their entire incomes off these diseases.  Consider what would happen to that income if muscular diseases became virtually extinct.  Hell, even the medical profession would lose the income that treating patients with these diseases brings.”

“Are you saying that they would purposely falsify their findings in an effort to keep your serum from being used?  They couldn't!”

”They can. They have done similar things before.  Consider that organization that has the televised fund-raiser every year.  It states that its purpose is to one day do away with muscular diseases.  I personally believe that those people are well meaning but not too realistic.  They seem to come close to an answer, again and again, just to have some other `noted specialists' pull the rug out from under them by telling them that what they've come up with won't work.”  Anna shook her head.  “No, it would be next to useless to publish our results.”  She looked Barton in the eyes and he could see that hers were watering.  “It's hard sometimes.  Real hard.”

“What's in that room?”  Barton pointed toward a door, changing the subject after a painful moment.  The sign on the door read: Methuselah.

“That” Anna exclaimed, brightening “is an ongoing project done in spare time by both faculty and students.”

“And it's purpose?”  Barton prompted.

“What else in a university named after the creator of the man who lived twenty centuries?”  Anna laughed.  “To extend the life of man!”

“You're not serious?”  Barton exclaimed.  “Have you had any results?”

Anna shrugged, smiling.

“To soon to tell.”  She said.  “The project was started just six years ago.”

“When do you expect to see results?”

“When the oldest of our test subjects fails to die at an appropriate age and still maintains good health.”

“You're testing on humans?”

“Only volunteers.”

“How old is the oldest subject?”

“Fifty-six.”

“And how does he look?”

“She.”

“Okay. How does she look?”

Anna spread her arms and turned around slowly.

“You tell me.”

“You?  You're letting them test on you?”

“Of course, since one of my husbands is doing the testing.”  She said.  “Come on in and I'll introduce you.”  She reached for the doorknob.  Barton stopped her.

“Excuse me.  Ah, perhaps I heard wrong, ah....”

“No.” Anna laughed, placing a hand on his. “I said one of my hus­bands.”

”Uh, how many, that is, uh, “

“Four, last time I looked.”  Anna said.  “Of course only one of them is my legal husband, according to state and federal laws.  I just don't have paper work for the others or for my co-wives.”

“Co-wives?”  Barton felt dizzy. “Excuse me, but is there some place I can sit down?”

“Oh, of course.”  Anna led him to a pair of chairs and, after getting him settled, pulled hers around so that they could face one another, knees touching.  “Does the concept of polygamy bother you?”

“A bit, to be honest.”  Barton shook his head.  “I've been taught since I was a kid that there was only one man to a woman and vica versa.”

“And all else is immoral.”  Anna nodded.  “I was taught pretty much the same thing.  I guess I'm just a bit different than most people.  As I got older, I began to refuse to take everything I was taught as sacred truth just because every one else did or because some book said so.  I looked everything over and then made my own decisions.”  She paused and took Barton's hand in hers. “I came from a very religious family.  Couldn't get more religious.  If the preacher of the church said it was bad, Daddy wouldn't allow it in his house.  If the preacher had said that children are bad and should be destroyed, I do believe dear old daddy would have taken an axe to me himself and be firmly convinced that he was doing the Lord's will - because the preacher said so.”

“Well, I guess anybody who practices polygamy would be against organized religion since all but the Mormon church preach against it.”

“Yes and no.”  Anna said. “Yes, I am an earnest foe of organized religion, of any organized religion.  But I am by no means an atheist.”

“I don't understand.”

“Lecture number fifty-three.”  Anna laughed.  “In this case, let's take dear old daddy's denomination, Southern Baptist.  Only the Amish are worse.”

“What about the Jehovah's Witnesses?”

“Misinformed idiots. No real importance since they're already the laughing stock of the entire nation.  The Southern Baptists, now, are the Puritans of the Protestant branch of Christianity.  If you've ever been to one of their worship services then you'll know what I mean when I say that these people look more like people attending a funeral rather than people who are supposedly showing joy in the Lord.  They never, ever, even consider the possibility that whatever their beloved preacher tells them may be wrong.  They enjoy sex, with their spouses, and feel as if they've sinned because they've been told sex is supposed to be a chore, not something to enjoy.  They claim drinking is wrong (in direct contrast with the Bible, I might add) because Jesus did not drink (also mistaken).  They believe all forms of dancing is evil.  This contradicts passages in the Bible that tell the people to dance for joy in the Lord.  These are all things they believe because the preacher says so and he should know since he is wiser than they and better able to interpret the correct meaning of the Bible.  They believe that nudity is wrong because the human body is evil (another reason sex is supposed to be a chore, not a blessing...).”

“And most of them are fucking hypocrites that don't drink, don't smoke, don't do anything - on Sunday!” A new, masculine voice cut in.  “On Sunday, they simply ask forgiveness for doing all these things Monday thru Saturday!”

Barton turned in his chair to see a big, burly man in a long white coat step through the door with the Methuselah sign.

“I thought I heard you out here, spouting off.”  The man said to Anna.  He turned to Barton.  Anna had not moved, so it was impossible for him to stand up.  “You must be that broker fella Anna said was coming to check us out for some Army boy.”  He reached a large hand down and swallowed Barton's.  “I'm Ed.  Edward O'Connor-Driver.  Looks like I came out just in time to save you.  Fair warning fella, religion is Anna's pet peeve.  Or one of them, rather.  We try to keep her off the subject.  Since I've heard it all before, I can give you a summary:  She believes in a Creator because the idea of something coming from nothing; i.e. the Big Bang; is stupid but all organized religion is basically full of shit.”

“Oh Ed, shut up.”  Anna said.  And then, to Barton “Don't mind him, he just wanted to stop us because he knew he couldn't hold his own in an intelligent conversation.”

“Intelligent, hrrmp.  Mr. Malar, you just let me know if she gets to be a pain.  I'd be more than happy to paddle her bottom.”

“No pain.”  Barton said. “And call me Barton.  Anna was just about to bring me in and introduce me when I felt a wave of dizziness.”  He held up a hand at the concerned look that came over Ed.  “No, I'm okay.  It's just that this place is so fantastic to begin with. And then...” he trailed off.

“I referred to you as one of my husbands.”  Anna said.  “On top of everything else, learning that some of us are polygamists was a bit much.”

“There are other group marriages?”  Barton asked, somewhat weakly.

“Six.”  Ed answered.  “No, five.  I forgot.  The Talens and the Hasenthorps merged their family groups.  They are now, by mutual consent, the Talenthorps.  Big family.  Nine husbands, ten wives, and fourteen kids (two of which started school here this year).”

Much later, Barton again stood at the entrance looking up at the statue.  Yes, Arther would like it here.

 1986

 The year had started with a very bad omen - the Challenger disaster.  One Space Shuttle and seven people (one of whom was to have been the first teacher in space) gone in one huge fireball.  Not quite accurate, of course, since bodies were recovered, but close enough; they all died.  It was also the beginning of the death of N.A.S.A. and the space program.  There would still be launches of shuttles and satellite positioning rockets and the government would, at the request of the Air Force, forward the funds needed to replace the Challenger.  But slowly, the flow of money would dwindle to become a mere trickle.  There would, perhaps, be talk every now and then of a space station, but nothing concrete would ever come of it.  For the most part there would be enough funds to maintain what they already had and nothing more.

Arther heard the crying of a little boy that had swore that he would go into space.

End of Chapter 1 of TANSTAAFL

 

-- Story written and copyrighted (C) 1993 by Dylan Clearbrook

-- and may not be reprinted without permission.