TRAMP ROYALE An Ace Book Published by The Berkley Publishing Group 200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016 Copyright © 1992 by Mrs. Robert A. Heinlein. Book design by Caron Harris All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. First Edition: April 1992 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Heinlein, Robert A. (Robert Anson), 1907-1988 Tramp Royale / Robert A. Heinlein.—lst ed. p. cm. I. Title PS3515.E288T7 1992 813.54—dc20 ISBN 0-441-82184-7 Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Preface TRAMP ROYALE HAS spent almost forty years in the obscurity of the files. It was written immediately after our return from a trip around the world in 1953 and '54, and sent on the rounds of publishing companies. But, at that time, there was a slump in the publishing business, and no one could see any possibility of publishing it. It was then put in the files and sent to the library at the University of California at Santa Cruz, and forgotten. In 1989, an editor asked me whether Robert had any unpublished books. I recalled this one. So the library made a copy of the manuscript, and I sent it to that editor. Now here it is. It might strike you as odd that an out-of-date travel book should be resurrected and published. But there must be something interesting in it, aside from the dated prices and old hotels which might now be torn down to make room for more modern ones. Homesickness is ever-present when one travels away from home. It might well have flavored some of this book. I hope that our friends from some of the places mentioned in this book will not take offense at what has been said. Robert wrote his observations of their hotels and cultures without pulling his punches. We both know from later observation that Australian hotels have changed for the better. On looking back, I find the prices of those days laughable. Where could one get a suite for $22 U.S. these days? I'm sure that Singapore prices are far higher now. And $35 for an alligator bag! If you could find one now, I'm sure it would cost ten times that much. The title of this book comes from a Kipling poem—"Sestina of the Tramp-Royal"—which you will find on pages 371-72 of this book. The Britannica says of the sestina form: "A most elaborate form of verse . The scheme was the invention of the troubadour, Arnault Daniel, who wrote many sestinas . The sestina, in its pure medieval form, consists of six stanzas of six lines each of blank verse; hence the name. The final words of the first stanza appear in varied order in all the others, the order laid down by the Provencals being: abcdef, faebdc, cfdabe, ecbfad, deacfb, bdfeca. On these stanzas a tornada, or envoi, of three lines, in which all the key words were repeated in the following order:—b-e, d-c, f-a." Such rigidity in form is probably not suited to beautiful poetry, and the Kipling verses are not his best, but the poem might have been influential in the writing of this book. Enjoy this book as a period piece. It does not represent today's world at all. We enjoyed even the horrid parts of the trip in retrospect, but especially the homecoming. Being away from home for an extended period makes one appreciate one's home country. VIRGINIA HEINLEIN Atlantic Beach, Florida TRAMP ROYALE I Ten Suitcases MY WIFE TICKY is an anarchist-individualist. I sometimes suspect that all females are anarchists in their hearts, with no innate respect for law and order . but on her it shows more. She is the sort of person who looks the wrong way at tennis matches. When she was in the Navy during the early 'forties she showed up one morning in proper uniform but with her red hair held down by a simple navy-blue band—a hair ribbon. It was neat (Ticky is always neat) and it suited the rest of her outfit esthetically, but it was undeniably a hair ribbon and her division officer had fits. "If you can show me," Ticky answered with simple dignity, "where it says one word in the Navy Uniform Regulations on the subject of hair ribbons, I'll take it off. Otherwise not." See what I mean? She doesn't have the right attitude. I should have known better than to propose a trip around the world to her. Little-did-I-dream that I would spend the next forty thousand miles shaking in my boots for fear that she would wind up in some foreign calaboose while I tried to find the American consul. The junket came about because we found ourselves last year with a drawerful of old, dirty money and no special use for it. I do not like to keep money around too long; the stuff shrinks like Colorado snow in a chinook—inflation, or they pass a new tax, or an operation, or something. Or someone comes along who can sweet-talk me out of it. It never lasts long. We had been talking more or less about building another house with it, renting it, and becoming fat and nasty as landlords. But building involves time as well as money; it becomes a demanding vice. The fascinating details of septic tanks and clerestories and insulation move in like Bermuda grass and take over the mind and imagination. For a fiction-writer such as myself this is a road to bankruptcy. But it was necessary to do something before a distinguished stranger came along and persuaded me to invest in a Wyoming oil lease. Ticky was out weeding on the terrace when I found the solution. I hurried out to tell her, approaching the matter with the finesse of a sailor on a four-hour pass. "Look," I said, "we're going to make a trip around the world." I had placed myself to catch her if she fainted, or to join in the dance if her ecstatic response required exercise to work it off. She was able to control her enthusiasm. For about thirty unusually long seconds she continued to fiddle with a johnny-jump-up, then she said bleakly, "Why?" "Huh? Don't you want to go around the world?" "I like it here." "Well, so do I. But we can't spend our whole lives in one spot. We grow roots. We vegetate. People will start searching us for sun scorch and scale bugs. Travel is—" "Speaking of roots, I'm worried about those lilacs. I think I'll have to—" I approached her gently and took a trowel out of her hand. "Ticky," I said gently, "listen to me. Forget gardening for a moment. We're going around the world. I mean it." She sighed and let me keep the trowel. "Why? What has Timbuctu got that we haven't got more of right here? Except fleas, maybe?" "That's not the point. I grant you that Colorado Springs is almost certainly a nicer spot than Timbuctu, but—" "Then why go there?" "Why? Because I like to travel. I thought you did, too." "I do. We went to Sun Valley less than a year ago. It was fun." She thought about it. "If you want to go abroad, let's go to Lake Louise. I've always wanted to go there." "Huh? Canada is not `abroad'—it's not a foreign country." "Ask a Canadian." "Sure, sure. But it's really just a part of home that happens not to pay taxes to Washington. Pretty clever of them, too, come to think about it. But take Timbuctu, since you mentioned it." "You take it. Let's go to Lake Louise and watch the glaciers glashe." "All right, all right! We'll go to Lake Louise. We'll have dinner there tonight. It'll only take about three hours, not counting the hour to drive to the airport. We can discuss the trip around the world and make plans and tomorrow morning we'll come back and start arrangements." "Mmm, no. Your tux is at the cleaner's and I haven't a dinner dress that is fit to wear." She took the trowel back from my limp fingers. "About next Wednesday, maybe. I'll have to buy some clothes and Sweet Chariot ought to be put in the shop for a day, just to be safe." "What do you want to put the car in the shop for? It runs; if it will get us from here to the airport that's all I ask of it." "Because we are going to drive to Lake Louise. No airplanes for me." "What? Now wait a minute, slow up. We are not going to drive to Lake Louise. Since when this silly aversion to airplanes?" "Since all these crashes in the papers. Airplanes are dangerous." "Look who's talking! Leadfoot Lulu, the gal who thinks she is parked if she's doing less than ninety." "I have excellent reflexes," Ticky answered with dignity, "but my reflexes are useless if a plane I'm a passenger in runs into a mountain. Which they've been doing." "Which they do darned seldom. It's—" "Once is enough. Once is too many." "It's well known that modern airlines are the safest form of travel.