My latest book, / Will Fear No Evil, is even more loaded with serious, unanswered questions-perhaps too laden; the story line sags a little. But the questions are dead serious-because, if they remain unanswered, we wind up dead. It does not affect me personally too much, at least not in this life, as I will probably be dead before the present trends converge in major catastrophe. Nevertheless, I worry about them. I think we are in a real bind...and that the answers are not to be found in simplistic "nature communes," nor in "Zero Population Growth," which does not embrace the entire globe.
There may be no answers fully satisfactory...and even incomplete answers will be very difficult.
I find that I have written an essay to myself rather than a letter. Forgive me-perhaps I have reached the age at which one maunders. But I hope I have convinced you that Stranger is dead serious...as questions. Serious, nontrivial questions, on which a man might spend a lifetime. (And I almost have.)
But anyone who takes that book as answers is cheating himself. It is an invitation to think-not to believe. Anyone who takes it as a license to screw as he pleases is taking a risk; Mrs. Grundy is not dead. Or any other sharp affront to the contemporary culture done publicly-there are stern warnings in it about the dangers involved. Certainly "Do as thou wilt is the whole of the Law" is correct when looked at properly-in fact, it is a law of nature, not an injunction, nor a permission. But it is necessary to remember that it applies to everyone -- including lynch mobs. The Universe is what it is, and it never forgives mistakes-not even ignorant ones...
AFTERWORD
Before the cut version of / Will Fear No Evil was ready for publication, Robert was taken ill. For two years he was laid up with various illnesses and operations. At last, in 1972, he was well enough and very eager to begin writing again.
His next book was Time Enough for Love.
In addition to changes in the times and customs, Robert now had a reputation that allowed him to do such books as he preferred to do. It is possible that, at least in part, Stranger had had some effects upon the sexual revolution of the sixties and seventies. It was in tune with the moods of the times. So his publishers did not object to the length of Time Enough for Love, and one thing I found curious-there was no objection at all to the incest scenes. Not even reviewers mentioned it.
The following two years were mostly taken up with study of advances in physical and biological sciences. How could one write science fiction without keeping up with what was being discovered in those fields? These studies were undertaken for two articles for the Britan-nica Compton Yearbook: "Dirac, Antimatter and You," and "Are you a 'Rare Blood.' "
Another serious illness occurred in 1978. Following hi" recuperation from that, Robert went to his computer •nd wrote The Number of the Beast. Aside from a very few flags on the copy-edited manuscript, he was asked to cut by 2,000 words (!) out of an estimated 200,000 worth. That was, of course, an easy task.
Expanded Universe followed, at the behest of James Baen. To our surprise, this book generated far more mail than any other book Robert had ever written. For two years, I was tied to the computer answering the fan mail which resulted from its publication.
In 1981, at seventy-four years of age, Robert decided that he would no longer do any of the special little tasks which being a well-known writer entails: no more speeches (even to librarians), no more appearances at conventions-his health would not permit the pressure. He would simply write the books he wanted to write.
So he wrote Friday, then Job, The Cat Who Walks through Walls, and his final book, To Sail Beyond the Sunset. Each of these books differed from anything he had previously done, and some displayed new techniques he had been inventing.
To Sail was published on Robert's 80th birthday in 1987, by special arrangement with his publisher. The only further item Robert wrote was the foreword for Ted Sturgeon's novel Godbody. While contract negotiations for To Sail were still going on, Robert came down with what was to be his final illness. For almost two years, he hovered between illness and frail health, but finally succumbed on May 8, 1988.
APPENDICES
APPENDIX A
CUTS IN Red Planet
[Alice Dalgliesh, the editor at Scribner's, objected to anything that might be construed as having some sexual connotations and also to the use of guns by youngsters, as well as other matters. As a result, Heinlein was forced to make a number of cuts in his original manuscript. Some of these are shown here. Chapter and paragraph numbers refer to Red Planet as originally published.]
Between Chapter II, paragraph 13 and Chapter II, middle of paragraph 23:
The second generation trooped out. Phyllis said, "Take the charges out of your gun, Jimmy, and let me practice with it."
"You're too young for a gun."
"Pooh! I can outshoot you." This was very nearly true and not to be borne; Phyllis was two years younger than Jim and female besides.
"Girls are just target shooters. If you saw a water-nccker, you'd scream."
"I would, huh? We'll go hunting together and I'll bet you two credits that I score first."
"You haven't got two credits."
"I have, too."
"Then how was it you couldn't lend me a half credit yentcrday?"
Phyllis changed the subject. Jim hung up his weapon in his cupboard and locked it. Presently they were back in the living room, to find that their father was home and dinner ready.
Phyllis waited for a lull in grown-up talk to say, "Daddy?"
"Yes, Puddin'? What is it?"
"Isn't it about time I had a pistol of my own?"
"Eh? Plenty of time for that later. You keep up your target practice."
"But, look, Daddy-Jim's going away and that means that Ollie can't ever go outside unless you or mother have time to take him. If I had a gun, I could help out."
Mr. Marlowe wrinkled his brow. "You've got a point. You've passed all your tests, haven't you?"
"You know I have!"
"What do you think, my dear? Shall we take Phyllis down to city hall and see if they will license her?"
Before Mrs. Marlowe could answer Doctor MacRae muttered something into his plate. The remark was forceful and probably not polite.
"Eh? What did you say, Doctor?"
"I said," answered MacRae, "that I was going to move to another planet. At least that's what I meant."
"Why? What's wrong with this one? In another twenty years we'll have it fixed up good as new. You'll be able to walk outside without a mask."
"Sir, it is not the natural limitations of this globe that I object to; it is the pantywaist nincompoops who rule it -- These ridiculous regulations offend me. That a free citizen should have to go before a committee, hat in hand, and pray for permission to bear arms-fantastic! Arm your daughter, sir, and pay no attention to petty bureaucrats."
Jim's father stirred his coffee. "I'm tempted to. I really don't know why the Company set up such rules in the first place."
"Pure copy-cattism. The swarming beehives back on
Earth have similar childish rules; the fat clerks that decide these things cannot imagine any other conditions. This is a frontier community; it should be free of such."
"Mmmm...probably you're right, Doctor. Can't say that I disagree with you, but I'm so busy trying to get on with my job that I really don't have time to worry about politics. It's easier to comply than to fight a test case." Jim's father turned to his wife. "If it's all right with you, my dear, could you find time to arrange for a license for Phyllis?"