Free Man Who Sold the Moon / Orphans of the Sky by Robert A. Heinlein

think that even politicians would be bright enough to see that. Sometimes, lying awake at night, I wonder why we technicians don’t just take things over, and—”

    “Your wife is calling, Mr. Gaines.”
    “Very well.” He picked up the handset and turned to the visor screen.
    “Yes, darling, I know I promised, but . . . you’re perfectly right, darling, but Washington has especially requested that we show Mr. Blekinsop anything he wants to see. I didn’t know he was arriving today . . . No, I can’t turn him over to a subordinate. It wouldn’t be courteous. He’s Minister of Transport for Australia. I told you that . . . Yes, darling, I know that courtesy begins at home, but the roads must roll. It’s my job; you knew that when you married me. And this is part of my job . . . That’s a good girl. We’ll positively have breakfast together. Tell you what, order horses and a breakfast pack and we’ll make it a picnic. I’ll meet you in Bakersfield—usual place . . . Goodbye, darling. Kiss Junior goodnight for me.”
    He replaced the handset on the desk whereupon the pretty, but indignant features of his wife faded from the visor screen. A young woman came into his office. As she opened the door she exposed momentarily the words printed on its outer side: “DIEGO-RENO ROAD-TOWN, Office of the Chief Engineer.” He gave her a harassed glance.
    “Oh, it’s you. Don’t marry an engineer, Dolores, marry an artist. They have more home life.”
    “Yes, Mr. Gaines. Mr. Blekinsop is here, Mr. Gaines.”
    “Already? I didn’t expect him so soon. The Antipodes ship must have grounded early.”
    “Yes, Mr. Gaines.”
    “Dolores, don’t you ever have any emotions?”
    “Yes, Mr. Gaines.”
    ‘“Hmmm, it seems incredible, but you are never mistaken. Show Mr. Blekinsop in.”
    “Very good, Mr. Gaines.”
    Larry Gaines got up to greet his visitor. Not a particularly impressive little guy, he thought, as they shook hands and exchanged formal amenities. The rolled umbrella, the bowler hat were almost too good to be true. An Oxford accent partially masked the underlying clipped, flat, nasal twang of the native Australian.
    “It’s a pleasure to have you here, Mr. Blekinsop, and I hope we can make your stay enjoyable.”
    The little man smiled. “I’m sure it will be. This is my first visit to your wonderful country. I feel at home already. The eucalyptus trees, you know, and the brown hills—”
    “But your trip is primarily business?”
    “Yes, yes. My primary purpose is to study your road-cities, and report to my government on the advisability of trying to adapt your startling American methods to our social problems Down Under. I thought you understood that such was the reason I was sent to you.”
    “Yes. I did in a general way. I don’t know just what it is that you wish to find out. I suppose that you have heard about our road-towns, how they came about, how they operate, and so forth.”
    “I’ve read a good bit, true, but I am not a technical man, Mr. Gaines, not an engineer. My field is social and political. I want to see how this remarkable technical change has affected your people. Suppose you tell me about the roads as if I were entirely ignorant. And I will ask questions.”
    “That seems a practical plan. By the way, how many are there in your party?”
    “Just myself. I sent my secretary on to Washington.”
    “I see.” Gaines glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s nearly dinner time. Suppose we run up to the Stockton strip for dinner. There is a good Chinese restaurant up there that I’m partial to. It will take us about an hour and you can see the ways in operation while we ride.”
    “Excellent.”
    Gaines pressed a button on his desk, and a picture formed on a large visor screen mounted on the opposite wall. It showed a strong-boned, angular young man seated at a semicircular control desk, which was backed by a complex instrument board. A cigarette was tucked in one corner of his