Stanley Kubrick, The Trashmen and Robert A. Heinlein: The Unholy Trinity of the Late 20th Century; or, How I Learned To Begin Worrying And Fear The Bird

Part 2: The Unpleasant Revelation of Robert A. Heinlein

"In the Beginning," Stoles stated, "there was the Bird." He suddenly covered his hands with his face; all the others gathered around the table did likewise.
--Robert A. Heinlein

But back a bit. It's 1942, and Robert A. Heinlein, the Sci-Fi Writer's Sci-Fi Writer, is about to whelp another story. Don't let that word put you off. It's going to be good -- he's good; even when he's pedantic and didactic he's good -- but this one's a bit Weird, you know? Not just Weird for a writer of Wyrd Tales but Weird in an absolute sense. It's called "The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag", and it's going to go something like this:

Edward Randall and Cynthia Craig Randall are detectives, one of those cute husband-and-wife teams that a) have a capable female, and b) everyone forgets that RAH just 'bout invented. They're hired by a timid milquetoast of a creampuff named Jonathan Hoag to find the answer to one ever-loving question: just what the hell is it that Hoag does all the live-long day? The answer is, naturally, more complicated than one might think. But The Usual (interplanetary spy, secret scientist, oddball prophet of mathematical doom) is set aside for something completely alien to RAH's previous fictional outings: the revelation that there are Gods, and the most mighty and fearful of them all is The Bird.

Now I know, I know, you're thinking that some strange little tale from a man who made a good living by typing out strange little tales isn't exactly news. But it's strange, even for him, how this one seems to have come about.

See, it's 1940, and RAH is starting to think that even though it's June and all, he can tell right now that it's gonna be a cold winter. Russia's starting to make noises about how it's a shame how little vodka can be found over there in Eastern Europe, and Japan's making noises about how most of Asia is noticeably short of chrysanthememums, and Hitler's making noises about how all the world is a little low on der Volk. RAH is particularly good at putting 2 & 2 together. He knows what's happening, and more importantly what's about to happen. It's got nothing to do with any sort of science-fiction-y insight into the future, it's just a gut feeling that's worthy of attention.

So he does what every patriotic citizen made a point of doing during that war (cf. Einstein, Bohr, et al) and writes a good long explanatory letter to the President, who is apparently so well thought of by all of America that he's getting these letters of advice from all and, sadly, sundry. The latter's not a group that RAH thinks he's likely to fall into soon, not even with the most strict of secretarial assistants, so he makes it personal. It's just his way.

He writes. He's good at it, remember? He writes about expansion and lebensraum and realpolitik and all the rest, and he makes it all persusasive, damned persuasive, because he believes in what he's writing and it's important. He tries to tell FDR, one TLA to another, that sooner, no later about it, he's going to have to fight the Germans and the Russians and the Japanese, and if he starts now he won't find himself backed up against a wall to start with, and FDR knows, like any other TLA knows, that that's not how you want to start a fight.

And, quickly, RAH gets a reply. Very quickly. That FDR is indeed thankful for the advice of one so prestigious, and that he'll be certain to keep RAH's advice, the advice of another TLA, close at hand when it comes to that difficult lonely moment that only great leaders such as onesselves understand.

That doesn't go over well.

He tries another letter. He makes it more persuasive. FDR urges RAH to keep him informed of his (RAH's) insights and views. Worse luck. He tries again. FDR, letterhead announcing certainty of origin, practically begs for further advice. RAH tries telegrams; before the hour is out, a near-hysterical reply back from The White House is handed to him by some pimply Western Union psuedopod.

This is the last straw. RAH is mad. He's tried, dammit, tried even though he hadn't voted for the Commie bastard, didn't even believe he was a Commie bastard like everyone told him, but it was starting to make sense now, all right! Yeah!

He gets drunk. He could write a drunk like you wouldn't believe, make you feel the stubble on that 3am shadow when your hand missed, scraped your cheek and slapped bourbon all over your face you were so drunk. This was known to be one of those artistic ironies, since the truth is that he had his annual snifter of port at Xmas (no, really) and that was it. Having no experience, he decides to go for the gusto: he's mad, and that means tequila. Hadn't he written about that somewhere once? Sure he had.

He's alone, as it happens, and so has neither tolerant wife to warn him off nor experienced friend to moderate the pace. The mickey of tequila (one of three fetched by an amused cab driver) went back far too quickly, and the bourbon (he loves Raymond Chandler, and thinks it apropos) follows all too soon. Things begin to spin, and he holds on tight for dear life, cursing FDR all the while for making him do this.

He ends up, somehow, out in the suddenly-really-big back yard clinging to a tree and wondering how the hell he was going to get out of the country before Uncles Joe, Adolf and Hirohito began fighting over him.

Finally, head spinning like a top, ready to tell his he-woulda-chosen-this-nation-even-if-he'd-been-born-somewhere-else nation to go screw itself, he decided that one final goddamn chance was to be given. Somewhere in between the last bottle of tequila and the lonely hours of dawn he determines to make a final plea, to powers eldritch and unknown, for wisdom for his country's leader.

He wanders out into his back yard, clutching a pen and a shot glass, finds a likely-looking patch of grass, and began to howl drunkenly at the stars. He does a little dance. He traces out a pattern in the dew with his feet. He does this for a good ten minutes before realizing that a) it's a little weird that his neighbours aren't yelling at him to shut up and b) it's a lot weird that he isn't alone.

Something's there, that was for sure, and damned if he could see it.

"Wise and cruel was the Bird, and wise and cruel were the Sons of the Bird."
--Robert A. Heinlein

At first he figured it was a neighbour after all, coming up to him for an up-close-and-personal attempt to shut him up. Reasonable assumption, were it not for the now-that-you-mention-it singular lack of feathers pluming his neighbours. Most of his neighbours didn't have a red pupil radiating evil, either, or a harsh, croaking voice that told of stars, and fire, and cold, cold ashes. Or command him to write things down like a junior secretary called from the pool to take dictation.

The command felt a bit hard to obey, despite an overwhelming urgency to the order, because he had no paper, or pen, or typewriter, or anything else. But suddenly by his side he saw a man (let's assume) fresh, and pink-faced, and scrubbed-looking, who looked like a junior assistant secretary called from the pool to take dictation. "Just speak," he said, his face earnest and his eyes frighteningly blank, "and I'll take it down."

So RAH did. The thing in front of him spoke, and held RAH's gaze steadily; RAH spoke what he had heard, as though he was doing simultaneous translation, and the stranger's hands moved over the paper sure and quick. RAH had no time to wonder why he (RAH) was necessary, why the stranger couldn't just take down the words of the thing directly, because the words he heard were strange and new to him, and he had little time to make sure he spoke the right words before new ones crowded out the old.

RAH listened, and spoke, and the stranger listened, and wrote, and the thing spoke, and stared. It went on for hours, or days, or something, and a part of RAH's mind grimaced in disgust at the cliche about not knowing how long this all really was. There was nothing to do, though, but continue until he collapsed in a heap, shivering in the grass in the light of the suddenly sadly pathetic sun. It was a while before he could get it together enough to vomit, then crawl back into the house and lay on the kitchen floor, waiting for the earth to stop rotating.

He woke up at noon, crawled back out to the yard, and retrieved an envelope marked "RAH" in block letters. Inside were many sheets of paper, similarly block-printed, and a string of words, sentences, paragraphs and fearful thoughts about The Bird. It was all too goddamned strange to be usable as it was, but as he re-read it there were images in there compelling enough to be shaped by one talented as RAH. It wasn't worth the hangover, that was for sure, but there was no reason not to make use of whatever the hell it was he'd come up with the night before.

"Hoag," Randall demanded, "are you a devil?"
"I don't understand you."
"`The Bird is Cruel!'"
Hoag did not cover his face; he simply looked confused and a bit more apprehensive.
--Robert A. Heinlein

When the weekend was over, RAH's wife came back to find him typing away feverishly in his office. She asked how things were going.

"I've got this story," said RAH.