First published in 1959 Latest edition: 1983 Publisher: Ace Books Mass Market Paperback ISBN 0441854575 Previous editions Foreign editions

Reviews     There is no reason to mince words here: The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag, simply put, stands as Robert Heinlein's best story collection. From the title story (novella, really) to the classic short story, "They," to the fanciful "The Man who Travelled in Elephants," Heinlein delivers something for everyone. Hoag manages to be by turns idealistic, cynical, dark-visioned, sweetness-and-light, terrifying, heartwarming and philosophical. While Heinlein's Future History stories detail mankind's destiny, they do tend to be process-oriented, meat and potatoes SF stories. In Hoag, which has no ties to Future History, Heinlein serves us dessert. Listed below are the collected works: "The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag" (1942)     What if the Sons of the Bird lurked behind all your mirrors? "The Man who Traveled in Elephants" (1957)     A childless couple leads an idyllic life on the road. One of Heinlein's own favorites, according to Spider Robinson. "All You Zombies" (1959)     One of Heinlein's last short stories, a somber time travel paradox. "They" (1941)     A masterpiece about solipsism. Informs the 1984 novel, Job: A Comedy of Justice. Related reading. "Our Fair City" (1941)     Who says you can't fight city hall? Even a kitten could do it. "And He Built a Crooked House" (1940)     An early confection about a tesseract-shaped house. Heinlein takes pains to describe what it is like to walk around in a hypercube. ---Beth Ager Excerpts     "It is blood, doctor?" Jonathan Hoag moistened his lips with his tongue and leaned forward in the chair, trying to see what was written on the slip of paper the medico held.     Dr. Potbury brought the slip of paper closer to his vest and looked at Hoag over his spectacles. "Any particular reason," he asked, "why you should find blood under your fingernails?"     "No. That is to say--Well, no--there isn't. But it is blood--isn't it?"     "No," Potbury said heavily. "No, it isn't blood."     Hoag knew that he should have felt relieved. But he was not. He knew in that moment that he had clung to the notion that the brown grime under his fingernails was dry blood rather than let himself dwell on other, less tolerable, ideas.     He felt sick at his stomach. But he had to know--     "What is it, doctor? Tell me."     Potbury looked him up and down. "You asked me a specific question. I've answered it. You did not ask me what the substance was; you asked me to find out whether or not it was blood. It is not."     "But--You are playing with me. Show me the analysis." Hoag half rose from his chair and reached for the slip of paper.     The doctor held it away from him, then tore it carefully in two. Placing the two pieces together he tore them again, and again.     "Why, you!"     "Take your practice elsewhere," Potbury answered. "Never mind the fee. Get out. And don't come back." Back to The Heinlein Book Bin Index