Time Enough for Love

by Robert A. Heinlein

  When the Howard Clinic notified me that the Senior was awake (with a reminder that only one “night” had passed for him) I was not only awake but had completed necessary work and bucked the rest; I went at once to the Clinic. After they decontaminated me I found him dawdling over coffee, having just finished breakfast.

  He glanced up and grinned. “Hi, Ira!”

  “Good morning, Grandfather.” I went to him ready to offer a respectful salutation such as he had permitted when I bade him goodnight the night “before”—but watching for signs that say Yes, or No, before the mouth speaks. Even among the Families there is wide variety in such customs—and Lazarus is, as always, a law unto himself. So I closed the last of the gap with great deliberation.

  He answered me by drawing back so slightly that it would have been unnoticeable had I not been alert for it. He added a gentle warning: “Strangers present, Son.”

  I stopped at once. “At least I think they are strangers,” he added. “I’ve been trying to get acquainted, but all we share is some pidgin speech plus a lot of handwaving. But it’s nice to have people around instead of those zombies—we get along. Hey, dear! Come here, that’s a good girl.”

  He motioned to one of his rejuvenation technicians—two on watch, as usual, and this morning one was female, one was male. I was pleased to see that my order that females should “dress attractively” had been carried out. This woman was a blonde, graceful and not unattractive if one likes tallness in a female. (I don’t dislike it, but there is something to be said for one small enough to fit on one’s lap—not that I’ve had much time for that lately.)

  She glided forward and waited, smiling. She was dressed in a something—women’s styles don’t stay the same long enough for me to keep track, and this was a period when every woman in New Rome seemed to be trying to dress differently from every other woman. Whatever it was, it was an iridescent blue that set off her eyes and fitted her closely where it covered her at all; the effect was pleasing.

  “Ira, this is Ishtar—did I get your name right that time, dear?”

  “Yes, Senior.”

  “And that young man over there is, believe it or not, ‘Galahad.’ Know any legends of Earth, Ira? If he knew its idiomatic meaning, he would change it—the perfect knight who never got any. But I’ve been trying to remember why Ishtar’s face is so familiar. Dear, was I ever married to you? Ask her for me, Ira; she may not have understood.”

  “No, Senior. Not never. Is certain.”

  “She understood you,” I said.

  “Well, it could have been her grandmother—a lively wench, Ira. Tried to kill me, so I left her.”

  The Chief Master Technician spoke briefly in Galacta. I said, “Lazarus, she says that, while she has never had the honor of being married to you, contractually or informally, she is quite willing if you are.”

  “Well! A saucy one—it must have been her grandmother. Eight, nine hundred years back, more or less—I lose track of half centuries—and on this planet. Ask her if, uh, Ariel Barstow is her grandmother.”

  The technician looked very pleased and broke into rapid Galacta. I listened and said, “She says that Ariel Barstow is her great-great-great-grandmother and she is joyed to hear you acknowledge the connection as that is the lineage by which she is descended from you . . and that she would be supremely honored, both for herself and on behalf of her siblings and cousins, if you would converge the lineage again, with or without contract. After your rejuvenation is completed, she adds—she is not trying to rush you. How about it, Lazarus? If she has used up her reproduction quota, I would be happy to grant her an exception so that she would not have to migrate.”

  “The hell she ain’t trying to rush me. And so are you. But she put it politely, so let’s give it a polite answer. Tell her that I’m honored and her name goes into the hat—but don’t tell her I’m shipping out on Thursday. ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you’ in other words—but make her happy about it; she’s a nice kid.”

  I revised the message diplomatically; Ishtar beamed, curtsied, and backed away. Lazarus said, “Drag up a rock, Son, and sit a while.” He lowered his voice and added, “Between ourselves, Ira, I’m pretty sure Ariel slipped one in on me. But with another of my descendants, so this kid is descended from me anyhow, though maybe not as directly. Not that it matters. What are you doing up so early? I said you could have two hours after breakfast to yourself.”

  “I’m an early riser, Lazarus. Is it true that you have decided on the full course? She seems to think so.”

  Lazarus looked pained. “It’s probably the simplest answer —but how do I know I’ll get my own balls back?”

  “Gonads from your clone are your own, Lazarus; that’s basic to the theory.”

  “Well . . we’ll see. Early rising is a vice, Ira; it’ll stunt your growth and shorten your days. Speaking of such—” Lazarus glanced up at the wall. “Thanks for having that switch reinstalled. I don’t feel tempted by it this fine morning, but a man does like to have a choice. Galahad, coffee for the Chairman and fetch me that plastic envelope.” Grandfather Lazarus supplemented his order with gestures, but I think the tech understood his words. Or was somewhat telepathic; rejuvenators are quite empathic—need to be. The man moved at once to comply.

  He handed Lazarus an impervolope and poured coffee for me—which I did not want but will drink anything protocol requires. Lazarus went on, “Here’s my new will, Ira. Read it and file it somewhere and tell your computer. I’ve already approved the way she worded it and read it back into her and told her to place it in her permanents with a ‘bind’ on it—it ‘ud take a Philadelphia lawyer to diddle you out of your inheritance now—though no doubt one could.”

  He waved the male tech aside. “No more coffee, lad—thanks. Go sit down. You go sit, too, dear. Ishtar. Ira, what are these young people? Nurses? Orderlies? Servants? Or what? They hover over me like a hen with one chick. I’ve never cared for more service than I need. Just sociability. Human company.”

  I could not answer without inquiring. Not only is it unnecessary for me to know how the Rejuvenation Clinic is organized, but also it is private enterprise, not under the Trustees—and my intervention in the case of the Senior was much resented by its Director. So I interfered as little as possible—as long as my orders were carried out.

  I spoke to the female tech, in Galacta: “What is your professional designation, ma’am? The Senior wants to know. He says that you have been behaving like a servant.”

  She answered quietly, “It is our pleasure to serve him in any way we can, sir”—then hesitated and went on: “I am Administrator Master Chief Rejuvenation Technician Ishtar Hardy, Deputy Director for Rejuvenation Procedures, and my assistant watch officer is AssociateTechnician Galahad Jones.”

  Having been rejuvenated twice and used to the idea all my life, it does not surprise me when cosmetic age does not match calendar age. But I admit to surprise at learning that this young woman was not just a technician but boss of her department—probably number three in the entire Clinic. Or possibly number two while the Director was away sulking in her tent—damn her duty-struck stiff neck. Or even Director Pro Tem with her deputy, or some department head, bucked into “minding the store.” “So?” I answered. “May I ask your calendar age, Madam Administrator?”

  “Mr. Chairman Pro Tem may ask anything. I am only one hundred forty-seven years old—but I am qualified; this has been my only career since first maturity.”

  “I did not imply doubt of your qualifications, madam, but I am astonished to see you standing a watch rather than sitting at a desk. Although I confess I don’t know how the Clinic is organized.”

  She smiled slightly. “Sir, I could express a similar feeling at your own personal interest in this case . . were it not that I think I understand it. I am here because I choose not to delegate the responsibility; he is the Senior. I have screened all watch officers assigned to him—the best we have to offer.”

  I should have kno
wn it. “We understand each other.” I added, “I am pleased. But may I make a suggestion? Our Senior is independent by temperament and highly individualistic. He wants a minimum of personal service—only that which he must have.”

  “Have we been annoying him, sir? Too solicitous? I can watch and listen from outside the door and still be here instantly if he wants something.”

  “Possibly too solicitous. But stay in sight. He does want human companionship.”

  “What’s all this yack-yack?” demanded Lazarus.

  “I had to ask questions, Grandfather, as I don’t know the organization of the Clinic. Ishtar is not a servant; she is a rejuvenator and a highly skilled one—and so is her assistant. But they are happy to supply any service you want.”

  “I don’t need flunkies; I’m feeling pretty good today. If I want anything, I’ll shout; they don’t need to hang over me, hand and foot.” Then he grinned. “But she’s a cute little trick, in the large, economy size; it’s a pleasure to have her around. Moves like a cat—no bones, just flows. She does indeed remind me of Ariel—did I tell you why Ariel tried to kill me?”

  “No. I would like to hear if you want to tell me.”

  “Mmm—Ask me when Ishtar isn’t around—I think she knows more English than she lets on. But I did promise to talk if you showed up to listen. What would you like to hear?”

  “Anything, Lazarus. Scheherazade picked her own subjects.”

  “So she did. But I don’t have one on tap.”

  “Well . . you said as I came in that ‘early rising is a vice.’ Did you mean that seriously?”

  “Maybe. Gramp Johnson claimed it was. He used to tell a story about a man who was condemned to be shot at sunrise—but overslept and missed it. His sentence was commuted that day, and he lived another forty, fifty years. Said it proved his point.”

  “Do you think that’s a true story?”

  “As true as any of Scheherazade’s. I took it to mean ‘Sleep whenever you can; you may have to stay awake a long time.’ Early rising may not be a vice, Ira, but it is certainly no virtue. The old saw about the early bird just goes to show that the worm should have stayed in bed. I can’t stand people who are smug about how early they get up.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound smug, Grandfather. I get up early from long habit—the habit of work. But I don’t say it’s a virtue.”

  “Which? Work? Or early rising? Neither is a virtue. But getting up early does not get more work done . . any more than you can make a piece of string longer by cutting off one end and tying it onto the other. You get less work done if you persist in getting up yawning and still tired. You aren’t sharp and make mistakes and have to do it over. That sort of busybusy is wasteful. As well as unpleasant. And annoying to those who would sleep late if their neighbors weren’t so noisily active at some ungodly cow-milking hour. Ira, progress doesn’t come from early risers—progress is made by lazy men looking for easier ways to do things.”

  “You make me feel that I’ve wasted four centuries.”

  “Perhaps you have, Son, if you’ve spent it getting up early and working hard. But it’s not too late to change your ways. Don’t fret about it; I’ve wasted most of my long life—though perhaps more pleasantly. Would you like to hear a story about a man who made laziness a fine art? His life exemplified the Principle of Least Effort. A true story.”

  “Certainly. But I don’t insist on its being true.”

  “Oh, I won’t let truth hamper me, Ira; I’m a solipsist at heart. Hear then, O Mighty King,

  II

  The Tale of the Man Who Was Too Lazy to Fail

  He was a schoolmate of mine in a school for training naval officers. Not space navy; this was before the human race had even reached Earth’s one satellite. This was wet navy, ships that floated in water and attempted to sink each other, often with regrettable success. I got mixed up in this through being too young to realize emotionally that, if my ship sank, I probably would sink, too—but this is not my story, but David Lamb’s.8

  To explain David I must go back to his childhood. He was a hillbilly, which means he came from an area uncivilized even by the loose standards of those days—and Dave came from so far back in the hills that the hoot owls trod the chickens.

  His education was in a one-room country school and ended at thirteen. He enjoyed it, for every hour in school was a hour sitting down doing nothing harder than reading. Before and after school he had to do chores on his family’s farm, which he hated, as they were what was known as “honest work”—meaning hard, dirty, inefficient, and ill-paid—and also involved getting up early, which he hated even worse.

  Graduation was a grim day for him; it meant that he now did “honest work” all day long instead of spending a restful six or seven hours in school. One hot day he spent fifteen

  J.F. 45th

  hours plowing behind a mule . . and the longer he stared at the south end of that mule, breathing dust it kicked up and wiping the sweat of honest toil out of his eyes, the more he hated it.

  That night he left home informally, walked fifteen miles to town, slept across the door of the post office until the postmistress opened up next morning, and enlisted in the Navy. He aged two years during the night, from fifteen to seventeen, which made him old enough to enlist.

  A boy often ages rapidly when he leaves home. The fact was not noticeable; birth registrations were unheard of at that time and place, and David was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, well-muscled, handsome, and mature in appearance, save for a wild look around the eyes.

  The Navy suited David. They gave him shoes and new clothes, and let him ride around on the water, seeing strange and interesting places—untroubled by mules and the dust of cornfields. They did expect him to work, though not as much, or as hard, as working a hill farm—and once he figured out the political setup aboard ship he became adept at not doing much work while still being satisfactory to the local gods, namely, chief petty officers.

  But it was not totally satisfactory as he still had to get up early and often had to stand night watches and sometimes scrub decks and perform other tasks unsuited to his sensitive temperament.

  Then he heard about this school for officer candidates—“midshipmen” as they were known. Not that David cared what they were called; the point was that the Navy would pay him to sit down and read books—his notion of heaven—untroubled by decks to scrub and by petty officers. O King, am I boring you? No?

  Very well—David was ill prepared for this school, never having had four to five years’ additional schooling considered necessary to enter it—mathematics, what passed for science, history, languages, literature, and so forth.

  Pretending to four years or so of schooling he did not have was more difficult than tacking two years on the age of an overgrown boy. But the Navy wished to encourage enlisted men to become officers, so it had established a tutoring school to aid candidates slightly deficient in academic preparation.

  David construed “slightly deficient” to mean his own state; he told his chief petty officer that he had “just missed” graduating from high school—which was true in a way; he had “just missed” by half a county, that being the distance from his home to the nearest high school.

  I don’t know how David induced his See-Pee-Oh to recommend him; David never discussed this. Suffice to say that, when David’s ship steamed for the Mediterranean, David was dropped at Hampton Roads six weeks before the tutoring school convened. He was a supernumerary during that time. The Personnel Officer (in fact, his clerk) assigned David to a bunk and a mess, and told him to stay out of sight during working hours in the empty classrooms where his fellow hopefuls would meet six weeks later. David did so; the classrooms had in them the books used in tutoring in academic subjects a candidate might lack—and David lacked them all. He stayed out of sight and sat down and read.

  That’s all it took.

  When the class convened, David helped tutor in Euclidean geometry, a required subject and perhaps t
he most difficult. Three months later he was sworn in as a naval cadet on the beautiful banks of the Hudson River at West Point.

  David did not realize that he had jumped from the frying pan into the fire; the sadism of petty officers is a mild hit-ormiss thing compared with the calculated horrors visited on new cadets—“plebes”—by cadets of the senior classes, especially by the seniormost, the first classmen, who were walking delegates of Lucifer in that organized hell.

  But David had three months to find this out and to figure out what to do, that being the time upper classes were on the briny, practicing warfare. As he saw it, if he could last nine months of these hazards, all the kingdoms of the Earth would be his. So he said to himself, if a cow or a countess can sweat out nine months, so can I.

  He arranged the hazards in his mind in terms of what must be endured, what could be avoided, and what he should actively seek. By the time the lords of creation returned to stomp on the plebes he had a policy for each typical situation and was prepared to cope with it under doctrine, varying doctrines only enough to meet variations in situation rather than coping hastily on an improvised basis.

  Ira—“O King,” I mean—this is more important to surviving in tough situations than it sounds. For example, Gramp—David’s Grampaw, that is—warned him never to sit with his back to door. “Son,” he said to him, “might be nine hundred and ninety-nine times you’d get away with it—no enemy of your’n would come through that door. But the thousandth time—that’s the one. If my own Grampaw had always obeyed that rule, he might be alive today and still jumping out bedroom windows. He knew better, but he missed just once, through being too anxious to sit in on a poker game, and thereby took the one chair open, one with its back to a door. And it got him.

  “He was up out of his chair and emptied three shots from each of his guns into his assailant before he dropped; we don’t die easy. But ‘twas only a moral victory; he was essentially dead, with a bullet in his heart, before he got out of that chair. All from sitting with his back to an open door.”