Time Enough for Love

by Robert A. Heinlein

  He snapped Hamadryad’s drink to the table, placed nipple in her mouth, patted her cheek, then took the other side and started to help, following Ishtar’s lead. The table changed action to match four hands.

  Some minutes later he let the nipple for his drink retract, and spoke. “Ish, any chance that Gramp twigged? About you two broads?”

  “We’re not all that broad. At least, Ham is not.”

  “ ‘Broad’ is a usual English idiom for a female, and you said we should talk and think in English as long as we are on this commitment.”

  “I simply said that Hamadryad is not very broad. Even though she’s had more children than I have—and I haven’t had any since rejuvenation. But it’s a colorful idiom; I like it. I don’t see how Lazarus could guess that we are pregnant. Not that it would matter if he did, in my case—except just how I am pregnant, and he can’t know that as I fudged the record on the source of the cloned cell. Ham, you haven’t hinted anything to Lazarus—have you?”

  Hamadryad surrendered her drink. “Of course not!”

  “Minerva knows,” Galahad said.

  “Of course she does, I discussed it with her. But—Now you’ve got me wondering. Minerva?”

  “Listening, Ishtar.” The computer added, “Ira is leaving; Lazarus has come inside. No problems.”

  “Thank you, dear. Minerva, is there any possible way that Lazarus could know about Hamadryad and me? That we are pregnant, I mean, and why and how.”

  “He has not said so, nor has anyone mentioned it in his presence. Evaluation of pertinent data available to me makes it probable by less than one part in one thousand.”

  “How about Ira?”

  “Less than one part: in ten thousand. Ishtar, when Ira told me to supply you with service and to assign to you a restricted memory, he programmed me so that any later program will simply wipe your assigned box. Truly, there is no way for him to retrieve from your private memory file, nor can I self-program to get around it.”

  “Yes, so you assured me. But I don’t know much about computers, Minerva.”

  Minerva chuckled. “Whereas I do. You could say that I have made a career of computers. Don’t worry, dear, your secrets are safe with me. Lazarus has just told me to order a light supper for him; then he is going to bed.”

  “Good. Let me know what he eats and how much and when he goes to bed--then call me if he wakes. Awake and alone at night, a man is at his lowest ebb; I must be ready to move quickly. But you know that.”

  “I shall watch his wave patterns, Ishtar. You will have two to five minutes’ warning—unless El Diablo jumps on his stomach.”

  “That damned cat. But being wakened that way doesn’t depress him; it’s his suicidal nightmares that worry me. I have about used up diversionary emergencies; I can’t set fire to the penthouse a second time.”

  “Lazarus has not had one of his typical depression nightmares this month, Ishtar, and I know how to spot the wave sequences now; I’ll be very careful.”

  “I know you will, dear. I wish we knew the incidents in his past from which each is derived; we might be able to wipe them.”

  “Ish,” Galahad put in, “you go tinkering with his memory and you might lose everything Ira is after.”

  “And I might save our client, too. You stick to backrubbing, dear, and leave delicate work to Minerva and me. Anything more, Minerva?”

  “No. Yes. Ira is telling me to find Hamadryad; he wants to talk to her. Will she take the call?”

  “Sure!” agreed Hamadryad, rolling over. “But patch him in through you, Minerva; I won’t go to the phone, I don’t have my face on.”

  “Hamadryad?”

  “Yes, Ira?”

  “Message for you. Be nice to an old man and show up at the cottage as usual, will you? Better yet, get there early and have breakfast with him.”

  “Are you sure he wants to see me?”

  “He does. He shouldn’t, after the way you embarrassed him. What possessed you, Ham? But this message is his idea, not mine. He wants to be sure he hasn’t scared you off.”

  She sighed with relief. “I’m not scared off if he will let me stay. Father, I told you I would devote as many days to this as he will permit. I meant it and still mean it. In fact I’ve told my manager that she can buy me out on long-term credit; that’s how serious I am.”

  “So? I’m very pleased. If you do, and want to cash out, I—the government, that is—will pick up the loan from you without discounting it; I’ve assigned unlimited credit to anything relating to the Senior. Just tell Minerva.”

  “Thank you, sir. I don’t expect to need it—unless Gramp gets tired of me and I see something else I want to invest in. But the business is prosperous; I may just let Priscilla support me in style for a few years. Quite prosperous—betcha my assets exceed yours. Your private fortune, I mean.”

  “Don’t be silly, my silly daughter; as a private citizen I’m almost a pauper—whereas in my official capacity I could confiscate your assets with just a word to Minerva and no one would question it.”

  “Except that you never would—you’re sweet, Ira.”

  “Huh?”

  “You are . . even if you can’t remember the names of my children. I’m feeling very gay, Papa, you’ve made me happy.”

  “You haven’t called me ‘Papa’ for, oh, fifty or sixty years.”

  “Because you never encourage intimacy once a child is grown. Nor do I from mine. But this assignment has made me feel closer to you. I’ll shut up, sir, and I’ll be there early tomorrow. Off?”

  “One moment. I forgot to ask where you are. If you’re home—”

  “I’m not; I’m having a bath with Galahad and Ishtar. About to, that is; you interrupted a wonderful back rub they were giving me.”

  “Sorry. As you are still in the Palace, I suggest that you stay. To be here early tomorrow. Beg a bed from them or, if that is intruding, come to my apartments; we’ll find something.”

  “Don’t fret about me, Ira. If I can’t shame them into keeping me overnight, Minerva will find me a bed. Truly, Lazarus’ bed is the only one I’ve ever found impossible to get into—maybe I need to apply for rejuve.”

  The Chairman Pro Tem was slow in answering. “Hamadryad . . you were serious in proposing to have children by him—were you not?”

  “Privacy, sir.”

  “Sorry. Hmm—The custom of privacy does not forbid me to say that I think it is a very good idea. If you tell me to, I will encourage it in any way I can.”

  Hamadryad looked at Ishtar and spread her hands in a gesture of “What do I do now?”—then answered: “His refusal seemed very firm, sir.”

  “Let me offer you a male viewpoint, my daughter. A man often refuses such a proposal when he wants to accept it—a man likes to be sure of a woman’s motives and sincerity. At a later time he may accept. I don’t mean that you should nag him with it; that would not work. But if you want this . . bide your time. You’re a charming woman; I have confidence in you.”

  “Yes, sir. If he does give me a child, we would all be richer thereby—would we not?”

  “Yes, certainly. But my motives are somewhat different. If he dies or leaves us, there is always the sperm bank and the tissue bank—neither of which he can touch because I’ll cheat if necessary. But I don’t want him to die, Hamadryad, nor do I want him to leave soon—and I am not speaking from sentiment. The Senior is unique; I’ve gone to much trouble not to waste him. Your presence pleases him, your offer stimulates him . . even though you feel he reacted badly. You’re helping to keep him alive—and if he eventually lets you have his child, you may succeed in keeping him alive a long time. Indefinitely long.”

  Hamadryad wiggled with pleasure and smiled at Ishtar. “Father, you make me feel proud.”

  “You have always been a daughter to be proud of, dear. Although I can’t claim all the credit; your mother is a most exceptional woman. Off now?”

  “Off, with music playing. Good night, sir!”

/>   Without getting up, Hamadryad grabbed both her friends around their waists and hugged them tightly. “Oh, I feel good!”

  “So get down off this table, narrow broad; it’s my turn.”

  “You don’t need a massage,” Ishtar said firmly; “you’ve been under no emotional strain and the hardest work you’ve done all day is to beat me two games of murder ball.”

  “But I’m the spiritual type. Sensitive.”

  “So you are, dear Galahad, and now you can most spiritually help her down and help me bathe her—still most spiritually.”

  Galahad complied while complaining “You two ought to bathe me, instead. Pretend I’m a blind music maker.” He closed his eyes and sang:

  " 'There’s a cop a-

  round the corner

  who is sometimes not so friendly

  To a man who

  isn’t holding

  Or otherwise unlucky—

  “That’s me—‘unlucky’—or I wouldn’t have to work with two women in the house. What cycle, Ish?”

  “ ‘Relaxing’ of course. Hamadear, since you let us hear that call, I assume that I can talk about it. I agree with Ira. You have Lazarus sexually stimulated whether he knows it or not, and if you can keep him that way, he won’t be depressed.”

  “Is he truly that nearly recovered, Ishtar?” Hamadryad asked while raising her arms and letting them work on her. “He looks better. But I can’t tell—his manner doesn’t change.”

  “Oh, definitely. He started masturbating a month ago. Shampoo, dear?”

  “He did? Really? Oh, that’s wonderful! Do I need one? Yes, I do—thanks.”

  “ ‘So it’s well to

  Have a sister

  Or even an old uncle—

  “Close your eyes, Hambone baby; shampoo mix coming. A client has no privacy with Ishtar. But she didn’t tell me; I had to infer it from his graphs. Ish, why do I always wind up washing Ham’s back?”

  “Because you tickle, sweetheart. There was no need for you to know. But a client certainly has no privacy with Minerva to help—and that’s as it should be; we need better computer service at the Clinic, I now see. Although he does have privacy in its true sense, as all of this is covered by the Oath. Even though you are not regular staff, Ham, I’m sure you realize that.”

  “Oh, certainly! Not quite so hard, Galahad. Red-hot pincers could not make me talk other than to you two. Not even to Ira. Ishtar, do you think I could learn to be a real rejuvenator?”

  “If you feel a vocation for it and want to study that hard. Let it rinse now, Galahad. You have the empathy, I’m sure. What’s your index?”

  “ ‘They’re your friends, boy.

  Don’t neglect them

  Birthdays and Yom Kippur—

  “Uh . . ‘Genius-minus,’ ” Hamadryad admitted.

  “Takes genius,” Galahad said helpfully, “as well as a compulsive need to work; she’s a slave driver, Hammy baby.”

  “ ‘Also Christmas

  And Chanukah

  A card or even candy.’ ”

  *

  “You’re off key, dear. You’re ‘Genius-plus,’ Ham, slightly higher than Galahad’s index. I looked it up just in case—and you did ask. I’m very pleased.”

  “ ‘Off key’? Now you’ve gone too far.”

  “You have other virtues, my true knight; you need not be a troubadour. Hamadear, if you search your heart and really want it, you could be an associate technician by the time we migrate. If you intend to migrate. If not, the Clinic here always needs staff; a true vocation is scarce. But I’d tike—terribly—to have you with us. Both of us will help you.”

  “Sure we will, Hammy! ‘Off key’ indeed! Is this colony going to be polygamous?”

  “Ask Ira. Does it matter? Grab a robe and throw it around the Hamadarling, then I’ll trade a quick scrub with you; I’m hungry.”

  “Do you want to risk it? After what you said about my singing? I know every spot and I’ll tickle them all.”

  “King’s Cross! I apologize! I love your singing, dear.”

  “The idiom is ‘King’s X,’ Ish. Pax, it is. Grab robes for all of us, Hammy, that’s a good girl. Long legs, while I was singing—perfectly on key—I figured out that idiom that was bothering me. It’s not what Minerva thought it was; a ‘hook shop‘ is a bordello. Which makes the Born Loser’s sister a hetaera—and the last piece falls into place.”

  “Why, of course! No wonder she could subsidize her brother—artists always get paid more than anyone else.”

  Hamadryad returned with robes, laid them on the massage table. She said, “I didn’t know that idiom was bothering you, Galahad. I understood it the first time I heard that song.”

  “I wish you had told me.”

  “Is it important?”

  “Only as one more clue. Ham, in analyzing a culture, its myths and folk songs and idioms and aphorisms are more basic than its formal history. You can’t understand a person unless you understand her culture. ‘His,’ I should say, in speaking English—and that alone tells something basic about the culture in which our client grew up: the fact that a general term invariably takes the masculine form when both masculine and feminine are implied. It means either that males are dominant or that women have just emerged from lower status, but the language lag—there always is one—has not caught up with cultural change. The latter, in the barbarism Lazarus came from, as indicated by other clues.”

  “You can tell all that just from a rule of grammar?”

  “Sometimes. Hammy, I used to do this professionally, when I was old and grizzled and waiting for rejuvenation. It’s detective work and no one clue is ever enough. For example, women must not have reached equal status even though other clues show them gaining it—for whoever heard of a bordello managed by a man? A guard in one, yes, and Lazarus said that he was that, too. But manager? Preposterous, by modern standards. Unless that colony on Mars was an atypical retrogression—it may have been, I don’t know.”

  “Continue it as we eat, kids; Mama is hungry.”

  “Coming, Ish dear. Galahad, I understood that idiom without thinking about it. You see, my mother was—still is—a hetaera.”

  “Really? There’s a wild coincidence. So was mine, and so was Ishtar’s—and we three wind up all in rejuvenation work and on the same client. Two numerically small professions—I wonder what the odds are against it?”

  “Not too high, as both professions require strong empathy. But if you want to know, ask Minerva,” advised Ishtar, “and hand me that robe. I don’t like blowdry and I don’t want to get chilled while rustling food. Hamasweet, why didn’t you follow your mother’s profession? With your beauty you would be a star.”

  Hamadryad shrugged. “Oh, I know what I look like. But Mother can snatch a man away from me just by lifting her little finger—except that I avoid the chance. Beauty has little to do with it—you saw a man turn me down just today. Lazarus himself told us what it takes to make a great artist—a spiritual quality a man can feel. My mother has it. I don’t.”

  “I follow your reasoning,” Ishtar said as they went through her lounge into the buttery. There she screened the menu offered by the kitchen down below. “My mother has it, too. Not especially pretty, but what she has, men want. Still want, although she’s retired.”

  “Long Legs,” Galahad said soberly, “you do all right. You’ve got it too.”

  “Thank you, my knight, but that’s not true. I sometimes have it for one man. Or two at most. And sometimes not at all, as I can get buried in our profession and forget about sex. I told you how many years I had been celibate. I wouldn’t have found you, dear, would never have risked ‘Seven Hours’ —had not our client had me so terribly emotional. Quite unprofessionally, Hamadryad; I was as silly as a schoolgirl on a warm spring night. But, Galahad, Tamara—my mother—has it all the time and for anyone who needs her. Tamara never set a price, she didn’t need to; they showered gifts on her. She’s retired now and considering whether to re
juvenate again. But her fans won’t leave her alone; she still gets endless offers.”

  Galahad said sorrowfully, “That’s what I would like to be. But I’m that ‘Born Loser.’ If a man tried that profession, he’d kill himself in a month.”

  “In your case, dear Galahad, it might take a little longer. But eat and restore your strength; we’re going to put you in the middle of the bed tonight.”

  “Does that mean I’m invited?” asked Hamadryad.

  “That’s one way of putting it. A more accurate statement would be that I’m inviting myself. Galahad made it clear in the shower that his plans for the night include you, dear. But he didn’t mention me.”

  “Oh, he did, too! Anyhow he’s horny about you all the time; I can feel it.”

  “He’s homy—end of message and off. Will steaks and random garnish do, or do you each wish to choose? I don’t feel imaginative.”

  “Suits me. Ish, you should put Galahad under contract. While he’s groggy.”

  “Privacy, dear.”

  “Sorry. I just blurted it out. Because I’m so fond of you both.”

  “Big-arsed bitch won’t marry me,” said Galahad. “And me so good and pure and modest. Claims I tickle. Will you marry me, little Hamadear?”

  “What? Galahad, you’re the world’s worst tease. You not only don’t want me to; you know I’m committed to the Senior even though he refused me. Until Ish tells me to drop it. If she does.”

  Ishtar finished ordering, wiped the screen. “Galahad, don’t tease our baby. I want both Hamadryad and me to be free of other contracts as long as either of us has any chance of getting our client interested in cohabitation, or progeny, or both. Not just a lark but something he can take seriously.”

  “So? Then why in the name of all the fertility gods did you arrange to have both of you pregnant at once? I don’t get it. I hear the whir, but the figures won’t add.”