Glory Road by Robert A. Heinlein Read Free Book Online

and no other furniture. As soon as the door was dosed behind us I was suddenly aware that the room was achingly, painfully anechoic; the bare walls gave back no sound.
    The couches were in the center of a circle which was part of a large design, in chalk, or white paint, on bare floor. We entered the pattern; she turned and squatted down and completed one line, closing it—and it was true; she was unable to be awkward, even hunkered down, even with her breasts drooping as she leaned over.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    “A map to take us where we are going.”
    “It looks more like a pentagram.”
    She shrugged. “All right, it is a pentacle of power. A schematic circuit diagram would be a better tag. But, my hero, I can’t stop to explain it. Lie down, please, at once.”
    I took the right-hand couch as she signed me, but I couldn’t let ft be. “Star, are you a witch?”
    “If you like. Please, no talking now.” She lay down, stretched out her hand. “And join hands with me, my lord; it is necessary.”
    Her hand was soft and warm and very strong. Presently the light faded to red, then died away. I slept.

Chapter 5
    FIVE
    I woke to singing birds.
    Her hand was still in mine. I turned my head and she smiled at me. “Good morning, my lord.”
    “Good morning. Princess.” I glanced around. We were still lying on those black couches but they were outdoors, in a grassy dell, a clearing in trees beside a softly chuckling stream—a place so casually beautiful that it looked as if it had been put together leaf by leaf by old and unhurried Japanese gardeners.
    Warm sunshine splashed through leaves and dappled her golden body. I glanced up at the sun and back at her. “Is it morning?” It had been noonish or later and that sun ought to be—seemed to be—setting, not rising—
    “It is again morning, here.”
    Suddenly my bump of direction spun like a top and I felt dizzy. Disoriented—a feeling new to me and very unpleasant. I couldn’t find north.
    Then things steadied down. North was that way, upstream—and the sun was rising, maybe nine in the morning, and would pass across the north sky. Southern Hemisphere. No sweat.
    No trick at all—Just give the kook a shot of dope while examining him, lug him aboard a 707 and jet him to New Zealand, replenishing the Mickey Finn as needed. Wake him up when you want him.
    Only I didn’t say this and never did think it. And it wasn’t true.
    She sat up. “Are you hungry?”
    I suddenly realized that an omelet some hours ago—how many?—was not enough for a growing boy. I sat up and swung my feet to the grass. “I could eat a horse.”
    She grinned. “The shop of La Société Anonyme de Hippophage is closed I’m afraid. Will you settle for trout? We must wait a bit, so we might as well eat. And don’t worry, this place is defended.”
    “‘Defended’?”
    “Safe.”
    “All right. Uh, how about a rod and hooks?”
    “I’ll show you.” What she showed me was not fishing tackle but how to tickle fish. But I knew how. We waded into that lovely stream, just pleasantly cool, moving as quietly as possible, and picked a place under a bulging rock, a place where trout like to gather and think—the fishy equivalent of a gentlemen’s club.
    You tickle trout by gaining their confidence and then abusing it. In about two minutes I got one, between two and three pounds, and tossed it onto the bank, and Star had one almost as large. “How much can you eat?” she asked.
    “Climb out and get dry,” I said. “I’ll get another one.”
    “Make it two or three,” she amended. “Rufo will be along.” She waded quietly out.
    “Who?”
    “Your groom.”
    I didn’t argue. I was ready to believe seven impossible things before breakfast, so I went on catching breakfast. I let it go with two more as the last was the biggest trout I’ve ever seen. Those beggars fairly queued up to be grabbed.
    By then Star had a fire going and was cleaning fish with a sharp rock. Shucks,