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

mouth.
    The young man glanced up, grinned, and waved from the screen. “Greetings and salutations, Chief. What can I do for you?”
    “Hi, Dave. You’ve got the evening watch, eh? I’m running up to the Stockton sector for dinner. Where’s Van Kleeck?”
    “Gone to a meeting somewhere. He didn’t say.”
    “Anything to report?”
    “No, sir. The roads are rolling, and all the little people are going ridey-ridey home to their dinners.”
    “O.K.—keep ’em rolling.”
    “They’ll roll, Chief.”
    Gaines snapped off the connection and turned to Blekinsop. “Van Kleeck is my chief deputy. I wish he’d spend more time on the road and less on politics. Davidson can handle things, however. Shall we go?”
    They glided down an electric staircase, and debouched on the walkway which bordered the northbound five-mile-an-hour strip. After skirting a stairway trunk marked OVERPASS TO SOUTHBOUND ROAD, they paused at the edge of the first strip. “Have you ever ridden a conveyor strip before?” Gaines inquired. “It’s quite simple. Just remember to face against the motion of the strip as you get on.”
    They threaded their way through homeward-bound throngs, passing from strip to strip. Down the center of the twenty-mile-an-hour strip ran a glassite partition which reached nearly to the spreading roof. The Honorable Mr. Blekinsop raised his eyebrows inquiringly as he looked at it.
    “Oh, that?” Gaines answered the unspoken inquiry as he slid back a panel door and ushered his guest through. “That’s a wind break. If we didn’t have some way of separating the air currents over the strips of different speeds, the wind would tear our clothes off on the hundred-mile-an-hour strip.” He bent his head to Blekinsop’s as he spoke, in order to cut through the rush of air against the road surfaces, the noise of the crowd, and the muted roar of the driving mechanism concealed beneath the moving strips. The combination of noises inhibited further conversation as they proceeded toward the middle of the roadway. After passing through three more wind screens located at the forty, sixty, and eighty-mile-an-hour strips, respectively, they finally reached the maximum speed strip, the hundred-mile-an-hour strip, which made the round trip, San Diego to Reno and back, in twelve hours.
    Blekinsop found himself on a walkway twenty feet wide facing another partition. Immediately opposite him an illuminated show window proclaimed:

    JAKE’S STEAK HOUSE No. 4
    The Fastest Meal on the Fastest Road!
    “To dine on the fly
    Makes the miles roll by!!”

    “Amazing!” said Mr. Blekinsop. “It would be like dining in a tram. Is this really a proper restaurant?”
    “One of the best. Not fancy, but sound.”
    “Oh, I say, could we—”
    Gaines smiled at him. “You’d like to try it, wouldn’t you, sir?”
    “I don’t wish to interfere with your plans—”
    “Quite all right. I’m hungry myself, and Stockton is a long hour away. Let’s go in.”
    Gaines greeted the manageress as an old friend. “Hello, Mrs. McCoy. How are you tonight?”
    “If it isn’t the chief himself! It’s a long time since we’ve had the pleasure of seeing your face.” She led them to a booth somewhat detached from the crowd of dining commuters. “And will you and your friend be having dinner?”
    “Yes, Mrs. McCoy—suppose you order for us—but be sure it includes one of your steaks.”
    “Two inches thick—from a steer that died happy.” She glided away, moving her fat frame with surprising grace.
    With sophisticated foreknowledge of the chief engineer’s needs, Mrs. McCoy had left a portable telephone at the table. Gaines plugged it in to an accommodation jack at the side of the booth, and dialed a number. “Hello—Davidson? Dave, this is the chief. I’m in Jake’s beanery number four for supper. You can reach me by calling ten-L-six-six.”
    He replaced the handset, and Blekinsop inquired politely: “Is it necessary for you to be