The rest of our family is Great-Uncle Tom, Daddy's father's brother. Uncle Tom is a parasite. So he says. It is true that you don't see him work much, but he was an old man before I was born. He is a Revolutionary veteran, same as Daddy, and is a Past Grand Commander of the Martian Legion and a Senator-at-Large
of the Republic, but he doesn't seem to spend much time on either sort of politics, Legion or public; instead he hangs out at the Elks Club and plays pinochle with other relics of the past. Uncle Tom is really my closest relative, for he isn't as intense as my parents, nor as busy, and will always take time to talk with me. Furthermore he has a streak of Original Sin which makes him sympathetic to my problems. He says that I have such a streak, too, much wider than his. Concerning this, I reserve my opinion.
That's our family and we are all going to Earth. Wups! I left out three-the infants. But they hardly count now and it is easy to forget them. When Daddy and Mother got married, the PEG Board-Population, Ecology, & Genetics-pegged them at five and would have allowed them seven had they requested it, for, as you may have gathered, my parents are rather highgrade citizens even among planetary colonials all of whom are descended from, or are themselves, highly selected and drastically screened stock.
But Mother told the Board that five was all that she had time for and then had us as fast as possible, while fidgeting at a desk job in the Bureau of Planetary Engineering. Then she popped her babies into deep-freeze as fast as she had them, all but me, since I was the first. Clark spent two years at constant entropy, else he would be almost as old as I am-deep-freeze time doesn't count, of course, and his official birthday is the day he was decanted. I remember how jealous I was- Mother was just back from conditioning Juno and it didn't seem fair to me that she would immediately start raising a baby.
Uncle Tom talked me out of that, with a lot of lap sitting, and I am no longer jealous of Clark-merely wary.
So we've got Gamma, Delta, and Epsilon in the subbasement of the crèche at Marsopolis, and we'll uncork
and name at least one of them as soon as we get back from Earth. Mother is thinking of revivifying Gamma and Epsilon together and raising them as twins (they're girls) and then launching Delta, who is a boy, as soon as the girls are housebroken. Daddy says that is not fair, because Delta is entitled to be older than Epsilon by natural priority of birth date. Mother says that is mere worship of precedent and that she does wish Daddy would learn to leave his reverence for the past on the campus when he comes home in the evening.
Daddy says that Mother has no sentimental feelings-and Mother says she certainly hopes not, at least with any problem requiring rational analysis-and Daddy says let's be rational, then... twin older sisters would either break a boy's spirit or else spoil him rotten.
Mother says that is unscientific and unfounded. Daddy says that Mother merely wants to get two chores out of the way at once-whereupon Mother heartily agrees and demands to know why proved production engineering principles should not be applied to domestic economy?
Daddy doesn't answer this. Instead he remarks thoughtfully that he must admit that two little girls dressed just alike would be kind of cute ... name them "Margret" and "Marguerite" and call them "Peg" and "Meg"- Clark muttered to me, "Why uncork them at all?
Why not just sneak down some night and open the valves and call it an accident?"
I told him to go wash out his mouth with prussic acid and not let Daddy hear him talk that way. Daddy would have walloped him properly. Daddy, although a historian, is devoted to the latest, most progressive theories of child psychology and applies them by canalizing the cortex through pain association whenever he really wants to ensure that a lesson will not be
forgotten. As he puts it so neatly: "Spare the rod and spoil the child."
I canalize most readily and learned very early indeed how to predict and avoid incidents which would result in Daddy's applying his theories and his hand. But in Clark's case it is almost necessary to use a club simply to gain his divided attention.
So it is now clearly evident that we are going to have twin baby sisters. But it is no headache of mine, I am happy to say, for Clark is quite enough maturing trauma for one girl's adolescence. By the time the twins are a current problem I expect to be long gone and far away.
Interlude
Hi, Pod.
So you think I can't read your worm tracks.
A lot you know about me! Poddy-oh, excuse me, "Captain" Podkayne Fries, I mean, the famous Space Explorer and Master of Men-Captain Poddy dear, you probably will never read this because it wouldn't occur to you that I not only would break your "code" but also write comments in the big, wide margins you leave.
Just for the record, Sister dear, I read Old Anglish just as readily as I do System Ortho. Anglish isn't all that hard and I learned it as soon as I found out that a lot of books I wanted to read had never been translated. But it doesn't pay to tell eveiything you know, or somebody comes along and tells you to stop doing whatever it is you are doing. Probably your older sister.
But imagine calling a straight substitution a "code"! Poddy, if you had actually been able to write Old Martian, it would have taken me quite a lot longer. But
you can't. Shucks, even Dad can't write it without stewing over it and he probably knows more about Old Martian than anyone else in the System.
But you won't crack my code-because I haven't any.
Try looking at this page under ultraviolet light-a sun lamp, for example.
II
Oh, Unspeakables!
Dirty ears! Hangnails! Snel-frockey! Spit! WE AREN'T GOING!
At first I thought that my brother Clark had managed one of his more charlatanous machinations of malevolent legerdemain. But fortunately (the only fortunate thing about the whole miserable mess) I soon perceived that it was impossible for him to be in fact guilty no matter what devious subversions roil his id. Unless he has managed to invent and build in secret a time machine, which I misdoubt he would do if he could... nor am I prepared to offer odds that he can't. Not since the time he rewired the delivery robot so that it would serve him midnight snacks and charge them to my code number without (so far as anyone could ever prove) disturbing the company's seal on the control box.
We'll never know how he did that one, because, despite the fact that the company offered to Forgive All and pay a cash bonus to boot if only he would please tell them how he managed to beat their unbeatable seal-despite this, Clark looked blank and would not talk. That left only circumstantial evidence, i.e~, it was clearly evident to anyone who knew us both (Daddy and Mother, namely) that I would never order candy-stripe ice cream smothered in hollandaise sauce, or-no, I can't go on; I feel ill. Whereas Clark is widely known to eat anything which does not eat him first.
Even this clinching psychological evidence would never have convinced the company's adjuster had not their own records proved that two of these obscene feasts had taken place while I was a house guest of friends in Syrtis Major, a thousand kilometers away. Never mind, I simply want to warn all girls not to have a Mad Genius for a baby brother. Pick instead a stupid, stolid, slightly subnormal one who will sit quietly in front of the solly box, mouth agape at cowboy classics, and never wonder what makes the pretty images.