The Rolling Stones by Robert A. Heinlein Read Free Book Online Page B

Roger.”
    “Meade?”
    “Sounds good, Daddy.”
    “Hazel?”
    “This is one of your brighter days, son.”
    “Stripped of the implied insult, I take it that means yes.”
    “I don’t like it,” objected Pollux. “Castor and I plan to gather quite a bit of moss.”
    “It’s four to three, even if you get Buster to go along with you and your accomplice. Overruled. The Rolling Stone it is.”
    Despite their great sizes and tremendous power spaceships are surprisingly simple machines. Every technology goes through three stages: first, a crudely simple and quite unsatisfactory gadget; second, an enormously complicated group of gadgets designed to overcome the shortcomings of the original and achieving thereby somewhat satisfactory performance through extremely complex compromise; third, a final stage of smooth simplicity and efficient performance based on correct understanding of natural laws and proper design therefrom.
    In transportation, the ox cart and the rowboat represent the first stage of technology.
    The second stage might well be represented by the automobiles of the middle twentieth century just before the opening of interplanetary travel. These unbelievable museum pieces were for their time fast, sleek and powerful—but inside their skins were assembled a preposterous collection of mechanical buffoonery. The prime mover for such a juggernaut might have rested in one’s lap; the rest of the mad assembly consisted of afterthoughts intended to correct the uncorrectable, to repair the original basic mistake in design—for automobiles and even the early aeroplanes were “powered” (if one may call it that) by “reciprocating engines.”
    A reciprocating engine was a collection of miniature heat engines using (in a basically inefficient cycle) a small percentage of an exothermic chemical reaction, a reaction which was started and stopped every split second. Much of the heat was intentionally thrown away into a “water jacket” or “cooling system,” then wasted into the atmosphere through a heat exchanger.
    What little was left caused blocks of metal to thump foolishly back-and-forth (hence the name “reciprocating”) and thence through a linkage to cause a shaft and flywheel to spin around. The flywheel (believe it if you can) had no gyroscopic function; it was used to store kinetic energy in a futile attempt to cover up the sins of reciprocation. The shaft at long last caused wheels to turn and thereby propelled this pile of junk over the countryside.
    The prime mover was used only to accelerate and to overcome “friction”—a concept then in much wider engineering use. To decelerate, stop, or turn the heroic human operator used his own muscle power , multiplied precariously through a series of levers.
    Despite the name “automobile” these vehicles had no autocontrol circuits; control, such as it was, was exercised second by second for hours on end by a human being peering out through a small pane of dirty silica glass, and judging unassisted and often disastrously his own motion and those of other objects. In almost all cases the operator had no notion of the kinetic energy stored in his missile and could not have written the basic equation. Newton’s Laws of Motion were to him mysteries as profound as the meaning of the universe.
    Nevertheless millions of these mechanical jokes swarmed over our home planet, dodging each other by inches or failing to dodge. None of them ever worked right; by their nature they could not work right; and they were constantly getting out of order. Their operators were usually mightily pleased when they worked at all. When they did not, which was every few hundred miles ( hundred , not hundred thousand), they hired a member of a social class of arcane specialists to make inadequate and always expensive temporary repairs.
    Despite their mad shortcomings, these “automobiles” were the most characteristic form of wealth and the most cherished possessions of their