Red Planet by Robert A. Heinlein Page B

in the soup, for inciting to riot or some such nonsense. Anyhow,’ he went on, ‘just what could you say in a letter that you could put your finger on and prove that Mr Howe was doing something he had no right to? I know what my old man would say.’
    'What would he say?’
    'Many's the time he's told me stories about the school he went to back Earthside and what a rough place it was. I think he's a little proud of it. If I tell him that Howie won't let us keep cookies in our room, he'll just laugh at me. He'd say —’
    'Dawggone it, Frank, it's not the rule about food in our rooms; it's the whole picture.’
    'Sure, sure. I know it. But try to tell my old man. All we can tell is little things like that It'll have to get a lot worse before you could get our parents to do anything.’
    Frank's views were confirmed as the day wore on. As the news spread student after student dropped in on them, some to pump Jim's hand for having bearded the Headmaster, some merely curious to see the odd character who had had the temerity to buck vested authority. But one two-pronged fact became apparent: no one liked the new school head and all resented some or all of his new ‘disciplinary’ measures, but no one was anxious to join up in what was assumed to be a foregone lost cause.
    On Sunday Frank went out into Syrtis Minor—the terrestrial settlement, not the nearby Martian city. Jim, under what amounted to room arrest, stayed in their room, pretended to study and talked to Willis. Frank came back at supper time and announced, ‘I brought you a present.’ He chucked Jim a tiny package.
    'You're a pal! What is it?’
    'Open it and see.’
    It was a new tango recording, made in Rio and direct from Earth via the Albert Einstein, titled ¿Quién Es La Señorita? Jim was inordinately fond of Latin music; Frank had remembered it.
    'Oh, boy!’ Jim went to the study desk, threaded the tape into the speaker, and got ready to enjoy it. Frank stopped him.
    'There's the supper bell. Better wait.’
    Reluctantly Jim complied, but he came back and played it several times during the evening until Frank insisted that they study. He played it once more just before lights-out.
    The dormitory corridor had been dark and quiet for perhaps fifteen minutes when ¿Quién Es La Señorita? started up again. Frank sat up with a start. ‘What the dickens? Jim—don't play that now!’
    'I'm not,’ protested Jim. ‘It must be Willis. It has to be Willis.’
    'Well, shut him up. Choke him. Put a pillow over his head.’
    Jim switched on the light. ‘Willis boy—hey, Willis! Shut up that racket!’ Willis probably did not even hear him. He was standing in the middle of the floor, beating time with his eye stalks, and barrelling on down the groove. His rendition was excellent, complete with marimbas and vocal chorus.
    Jim picked him up. ‘Willis! Shut up, fellow.’
    Willis kept on beating it out.
    The door burst open and framed Headmaster Howe. ‘Just as I thought,’ he said triumphantly, ‘no consideration for other people's rights and comforts. Shut off that speaker. And consider yourself restricted to your room for the next month.’
    Willis kept on playing; Jim tried to hide him with his body. ‘Didn't you hear my order?’ demanded Howe. ‘I said to shut off that music.’ He strode over to the study desk and twisted the speaker switch. Since it was already shut off full, all he accomplished was breaking a finger nail. He suppressed an unschoolmasterly expression and stuck the finger in his mouth. Willis worked into the third chorus.
    Howe turned around. ‘How do you have this thing wired?’ he snapped. Getting no answer, he stepped up to Jim and said, ‘What are you hiding?’ He shoved Jim aside, looked at Willis with evident disbelief and distaste. ‘What is that?'
    'Uh, that's Willis,’ Jim answered miserably, raising his voice to be heard.
    Howe was not entirely stupid; it gradually penetrated that the music he had been hearing came out