Free Into the Slave Nebula by John Brunner Page B

side. “Rowl! Who’s that turning up here at this time of night?”
    “Mr. Derry senior, sir,” the butler said. “At least I presume so—it’s the model of heli which he uses.”
    “Good, good! Now you look here, young man! You get Rowl to give you a drink and hang on until your father comes in, and we’ll see if we can straighten out this crazy notion of yours.”
    But his father came in staggering under his load of euphorics, in no condition to talk sense. Snorting with annoyance the old man sent Rowl for antidotes and ice.
    “Now you get your head clear, and fast!” he exclaimed. “When are you going to latch on to the fact that you have responsibilities, Derry? Here’s this boy of yours full of some crackbrain plan to run away from Earth, and you’re so piped you can barely walk!”
    “He’s what?” His father turned a bulbous glare on Horn. “He’s got a plan to
what?
”
    “That’s better,” the old man said sharply. “At least you’re paying attention now. Well, boy, tell us the whole story and we’ll see about it.”
    Horn complied. He hadn’t intended to explain, but only to demand the money he needed and march out, leaving his relatives to ask one another what they had done to drive him away. Somehow, though, once he started talking he couldn’t stop, and all kinds of things which he knew even before he mentioned them his listeners would not understand came tumbling out.
    “So because your carnival week was spoiled by some off-planet character getting himself stuck with a knife,” said his father at last, “you want to renege on all your family obligations and hide your head on some backward ball of mud like the one he probably came from!”
    “Family obligations!” flared Horn. “That’s good, coming from you! I never saw you do anything with family obligations except off-load them on to Grandad’s back! Do you know where your wife is right now?”
    “Why, you foul-mouthed little—!” For an instant it looked as though his father was going to jump up and take a swing at him. Then his grandfather’s curt voice broke in.
    “Sit down, Derry. Control yourself. There’s nothing wrong with the boy which a whipping would help, and anyhow he’s too old to be treated that way by now. Or should be. If it hadn’t been for this android at the hotel stuffing his ears with all kinds of nonsense about the man who got killed—”
    “It isn’t nonsense!” Horn stamped his foot.
    “No, you must take it pretty seriously,” his grandfather agreed sarcastically. “Asking a hundred thousand to help you run off and—and become a citizen of the galaxy or rescue a fair maiden from a man-eating tree or somethingequally absurd. But you can’t expect anyone
else
to take it seriously.”
    “Well, hell, make it fifty thousand, enough for a one-way trip instead of a round one! Or—no, forget I asked for anything! I still have practically all my carnival allowance, and there must be a cheaper way of getting off Earth than shipping in a luxury liner!” Horn started for the door.
    “Dad,” said his father, plucking at the old man’s sleeve. “Dad, I think he really means it.”
    “Yes, of course he does. Right this minute he means every word of it. But you know the next we’ll hear of him if he does walk out, don’t you? There’ll be a signal from some benighted mudball out in the wide black yonder saying to send him his fare and he’ll come home and be a good little boy again!”
    “Come home? To what? A life as rigidly programmed as one of your robots’—only they’re lucky.
They
aren’t designed with the capacity to resent it.” Horn had to clench his fists to stop his hands from trembling.
    A dangerous glint showed in his grandfather’s eyes; he had never allowed anyone to voice criticism of his robots within the four walls of his home. Still he remained relatively calm, and spoke in a reasonable tone.
    “Now, boy, think it through again, just to please me. I can well