How could he take full-grown domestic animals and turn them into able, happy human beings, educated in every needful way and capable of competing in a free society? Willing to compete, undismayed by it—He was just beginning to see the size of the “stray cat” problem he had taken on. Was he going to have to keep them as pets for fifty or sixty years or whatever, until they died naturally?
Long, long before that, the boy Woodie Smith had found a half-dead fox kit in the woods, apparently lost by its mother, or perhaps the vixen was dead. He took it home, nursed it with a bottle, raised it in a cage through one winter. In the spring he took it back where he had found it, left it there in the cage with the door latched open.
He checked a few days later, intending to salvage the cage.
He found the creature cowering in the cage, half starved and horribly dehydrated—with the door still latched open. He took it home, again nursed it back to health, built a chickenwire run for it, and never again tried to turn it loose. In the words of his grandfather, “The poor critter had never had a chance to learn how to be a fox.”
Could he teach these cowed and ignorant animals how to be human?
They returned to his wardroom when “the little hand was straight out and the big hand was straight up”—they waited outside the door until this was so, and Captain Sheffield pretended not to notice.
But when they came in, he glanced at the clock and said, “Right on time—good! You’ve certainly shampooed, but remind me to find combs for you.” (What other toilet articles did they need? Would he have to teach them how to use them? And—oh, damn it!—was there anything in the ship for a woman’s menstrual needs? What could be improvised? Well, with luck that problem would hold off a few days. No point in asking her; she couldn’t add. Tarnation, the ship was not equipped for passengers.)
“Sit down. No, wait a moment. Come here, dear.” It seemed to the Captain that the garment she wore was clinging suspiciously; he felt it, it was wet. “Did you leave that on when you bathed?”
“No, Mas—No, Captain; I washed it.”
“I see.” He recalled that its gaudy pattern had been enhanced by coffee and other things while the girl was botching breakfast. “Take it off and hang it somewhere; don’t let it dry on your body.”
She started slowly to comply. Her chin quivered—and he recalled how she had admired herself in a tall mirror when he bought it for her. “Wait a moment, Llita. Joe, take off your breechclout. And sandals.”
The lad complied at once.
“Thank you, Joe. Don’t put that clout back on without washing it; by now it’s dirty even though it looks clean. Don’t wear it under way unless it suits you. You sit down. Llita, were you wearing anything when I bought you?”
“No . . Captain.”
“Am I wearing anything now?”
“No, Captain.”
“There are times and places to wear clothes—and other times and places when clothes are silly. If this were a passenger ship, we would all wear clothes and I would wear a fancy uniform. But it is not, and there is nobody here but me and your brother. See that instrument there? That’s a thermohumidostat which tells the ship’s computer to hold the temperature at twenty-seven Celsius and forty percent humidity, with random variation to stimulate us—which may not mean anything to you but is my notion of comfort in bare skin. For an hour each afternoon it drops that temperature to encourage exercise, as flab is the curse of shipboard life.
“If that cycle doesn’t suit you two, we’ll reach a compromise. But first we’ll try it my way. Now about that wet rag plastered to your hips—If you are stupid, you’ll let it dry where it is and be uncomfortable. If you are smart, you’ll hang it up and let it dry without wrinkling. That’s a suggestion, not an order; if you wish, you may wear it at all times. But don’t sit down with it on you, wet; there is no reason to get cushions wet. Can you sew?”
“Yes, Captain. Uh . . some.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up. You are wearing the only woman’s garment in the ship, and if you insist on clothes, you’ll need to make some for the months ahead. You’ll need something for Valhalla, too: it’s not as warm as Blessed. Women there wear trousers and short coats; men wear trousers and long coats; everyone wears boots. I had three outfits custom-made on Landfall; maybe we can make do with them until I can get you two to a tailor. Boots—Mine would fit you like socks on a rooster. Hmm—We can wrap your feet so that a pair will stay on long enough to get you to a bootery.
“We won’t worry about that now. Join the conference—standing up and wet, or sitting down and comfortable.”
Estrellita bit her lip and decided in favor of comfort.
Minerva, those youngsters were brighter than I had expected. At first they studied because I told them to. But once they tasted the magic of the printed word, they were hooked. They learned to read like grass through a goose and didn’t want to do anything else. Especially stories. I had a good library, mostly in micro, thousands of those, but also a few dozen valuable bound books, facsimile antiques I had picked up on Landfall where they speak English and use Galacta only as a trade tongue. Savvy Oz books, Minerva?
Yes, of course you do; I helped plan the Great Library and included my childhood favorites as well as more sober things. I did make sure that Joe and Llita read a spread of sober stuff but mostly I let them wallow in stones—The Just So Stories, and the Oz books, and Alice in Wonderland, and A Child’s Garden of Verses, and Two Little Savages, and such. Too limited; they were books from my childhood, three centuries before the Diaspora. On the other hand, every human culture in the Galaxy derives from that one.
But I tried to make sure that they understood the difference between fiction and history—difficult, as I wasn’t certain that there was a difference. Then I had to explain that a fairy tale was still a different sort, one step farther along the spectrum from fact to fancy.
Minerva, this is very hard to explain to an inexperienced mind. What is “magic”? You are more magical than any “magic” in fairy tales, and it does no good to say that you are a product of science, rather than magic, in speaking to kids who have no idea what is meant by “science”—and I wasn’t sure that the distinction was valid even when I was explaining the distinction. In my wanderings I have run across magic many times—which simply says that I have seen wonders I could not explain.
I finally let it go by asserting ex cathedra that some stories were just for fun and not necessarily true—Gullive’s Travels were not the same sort of thing as The Adventures of Marco Polo, while Robinson Crusoe lay somewhere in between—and they should ask me, if in doubt.
They did ask, sometimes, and accepted my decision without argument. But I could see that they did not always believe me. That pleased me; they were starting to think for themselves—didn’t matter if they were wrong. Llita was simply politely respectful to me about Oz. She believed in the Emerald City with all her heart and, if she had had her druthers, she would have been going there rather than to Valhalla. Well, so would I.
The important thing was that they were cutting the cord.
I did not hesitate to use fiction in teaching them. Fiction is a faster way to get a feeling for alien patterns of human behavior than is nonfiction; it is one stage short of actual experience—and I had only months in which to turn these cowed and ignorant animals into people. I could have offered them psychology and sociology and comparative anthropology; I had such books on hand. But Joe and Llita could not have put them together into a gestalt—and I recall another teacher who used parables in putting over ideas.
They read every hour I would let them, huddled together like puppies and staring at the reading machine and nagging each other about how fast to raise the pages. Usually Llita nagged Joe; she was quicker than he—but as may be, they spurred each other from illiterate to speedreaders in zip time. I didn’t let them have sound-and-picture tapes—I wanted them to read.
Couldn’t let ’em spend all their time reading; they had to l
earn other things—not just salable skills but, much more important, that aggressive self-reliance necessary to a free human—which they totally lacked when I saddled myself with them. Shucks, I wasn’t certain they had the potential; it might have been bred out of their line. But if the spark was in them, I had to find it and fan it into Same—or I would never be able to make them run free.
So I forced them to make up their own minds as much as possible, while being cautiously rough on them in other ways . . and greeted every sign of rebellion—silently, in my mind—as a triumphant proof of progress.
I started by teaching Joe to Sght—just hand to hand; I didn’t want either of us killed. One compartment was fitted as a gymnasium, with equipment that could be adapted for gee or for free-fall; I used it that hour a day of lowered temperature. Here I worked Joe out. Llita was required to attend but just to exercise—although I had in mind that it might spur Joe along if his sister saw him getting the whey knocked out of him.
Joe needed that spur; he had a terrible time getting it through his head that it was okay to hit or kick me, that I wanted him to try, that I would not be angry if he succeeded —but that I would be angry if he didn’t try his darnedest.
Took a while. At first he wouldn’t chop at me no matter how wide open I left myself . . and when I got him past that, calling him names and taunting him, he still hesitated that split second that let me close and chop him instead.
But one afternoon he got the idea so well that he landed a good one on me and I hardly had to hold back to let him land it. After supper he got his reward: permission to read a bound book, one with pages, him dressed in a pair of my surgical gloves and warned that I would clobber him if he got it dirty or tore a page. Llita wasn’t permitted to touch it; this was his prize. She sulked and didn’t even want to use the reading machine—until he asked if it was all right for him to read aloud to her.
I ruled that she could even read it with him—as long as she didn’t touch it. So she snuggled up close, head by his, happy again, and started bossing him about turning the pages.
The next day she asked me why she could not learn to fight, too?
No doubt she was finding solo exercise a bore—I always found it so and did it only because it was needful to stay in shape—no telling what hazards next groundfall might bring. Minerva, I’ve never felt that women should have to fight; it is a male’s business to protect females and children. But a female should be able to fight because she may have to.
So I agreed, but we had to change the rules. Joe and I had been working out by dockside rules—no rules, that is, save that I didn’t tell him that I planned not to do him any permanent damage and did not intend to let him give me anything worse than bruises. But I never said this—if he could manage it, he was free to gouge out one of my eyes and eat it. I just made damn sure that he didn’t.
But females are built differently from males. I could not let Llita work out with us until I devised a plastron to protect her tits—necessary; she was a bit oversized in that department, and we could have hurt her without intending to. Then I told Joe privately that bruises were okay, but that if he broke one of her bones, I would break one of his, just for drill.
But I put no restrictions on his sister—and I underestimated her; she was twice as aggressive as he was. Untrained but fast —and she meant business.
The second day we worked out with her, not only was she wearing that plastron, her brother and I were wearing jockstraps. And Llita had been allowed to read a real book the night before.
Joe turned out to have talent for cooking, so I encouraged him to be as fancy as ship’s stores permitted while crowding her to become an adequate cook. A man who can cook can support himself anywhere. But anyone, male or female, should be able to cook, keep house, and care for children. I hadn’t located a trade for Llita, although she displayed a talent for mathematics once I set up inducements for that, too. That was encouraging; a person who can read and write and has a head for math can learn anything she needs to know. So I started her on bookkeeping and accounting, from books, not helping her, and required Joe to learn to use all the tools the ship boasted—not many, mainly maintenance gear—and supervised him closely; I didn’t want him losing fingers or ruining tools.
I was hopeful. Then the situation changed—
(Circa 3,100 words omitted)
—easy to say that I was stupid. I had raised stock and a good many children. Being ship’s surgeon as well as everything else, I had given them the most thorough examinations my equipment permitted when we were a couple of days out—quite thorough for those days; I had not practiced medicine after leaving Ormuzd but did keep my sick bay stocked and equipped, and picked up the latest tapes whenever I was on a civilized planet and studied them during long jumps. I was a good jackleg doctor, Minerva.
The kids were as healthy as they looked, aside from slight dental caries in him, two small cavities. I noticed that the factor’s allegation about her was correct—virgo intacta, semilunar hymen, unfrayed, so I used my smallest speculum. She neither complained nor tensed up nor asked what I was looking for. I concluded that they had had regular checkups and other medical attention, far more than slaves on Blessed usually received.
She had thirty-two teeth in perfect condition but could not tell me when the last four molars had erupted, just that it was “not long ago.” He had twenty-eight teeth and so little space in his jaw for adult molars that I anticipated trouble. But X-ray prints showed no buds.
I cleaned and filled the cavities, and made note that he must have those fillings removed and the tissue regenerated on Valhalla, and be inoculated against further decay; Valhalla had good dentistry, far superior to what I could do.
Llita could not tell me when she had last menstruated. She discussed it with Joe; he tried to count on his fingers how many days it had been since they had been taken from their home place, as they agreed that it was before that. I told her to let me know next time and each time, so that I could determine her cycle. I gave her a tin of napkins, emergency supplies I hadn’t known I had—must have been in the ship twenty years.
She did tell me, and I had to open the tin for her; neither of them knew how. She was delighted with the little elastic panty included in the package, and often wore it when she did not need it, as “dress up.” The kid was crazy about clothes; as a slave she had never had a chance to pamper her vanity. I told her it was all right as long as she washed it every time she wore it—I clamped down hard on cleanliness, inspecting their ears, sending them from the table to scrub their nails, and so forth. They had received no more training than a hog. She never had to be told twice, and picked on him and made sure that he met my standards, too. I found myself being more exacting with myself; I could not bring dirty fingernails to the table or skip a shower because I was sleepy—I had set the standards and had to live up to them.
She was almost as unskilled a seamstress as she was a cook, but she taught herself because she liked clothes. I dug out some bright-colored trade cloth and let her have fun—and used it as carrot-and-stick; wearing anything became a privilege that depended on good behavior. I put a stop that way—well, mostly —to her nagging her brother.
That wouldn’t work with Joe; clothes did not interest him —but if he rated it, I gave him more of a working over during exercise period. Seldom—he was not the problem she was.
One evening, three or four of her periods later, I noticed on my calendar that she was past due—having forgotten the matter. Minerva, I never walked into their staterooms without knocking; shipboard life required such privacy as can be managed—too little, that is.
Her door was open, and her room was empty. I tapped on his door, got no answer, went on, looked for her in the wardroom and galley, even in our little gym. I decided that she must be taking a bath and I would speak to her in the morning.
As I passed his stateroom again in heading back to my cabin, his door opened; she stepped out and closed it behind her. I said, “Oh,
there you are!” or some such. “I thought Joe was asleep.”
“He’s just gone to sleep,” Llita said. “Do you want him, Captain? Shall I wake him?”
I said, “No, I was looking for you, but I tapped on his door five or ten minutes ago and got no answer.”
She was contrite over not having heard my knock. “I’m sorry, Captain. I guess we were so busy we didn’t hear you.” She told me how they were busy.
—which I had figured out, having suspected it from the moment I noticed that she was a week overdue after being clock regular. “That’s understandable,” I said. “I’m glad my knock didn’t disturb you.”
“We try never to disturb you with it, Captain,” she answered with sweet seriousness. “We wait till you go to your cabin at night. Or sometimes when you take siesta.”
I said, “Goodness, dear, you don’t have to be that careful. Do your work and keep your study hours, then do as you please the rest of the time. Starship ‘Libby’ is not a sweatship; I want you kids to be happy. Can’t you get it through your fuzzy head that you are not a slave?”
Apparently she could not, quite, Minerva, for she still fretted that she had not heard my knock and jumped to respond. I said, “Don’t be silly, Llita. It will keep till tomorrow.”
But she insisted she wasn’t sleepy and was ready and anxious to do whatever I wanted—which made me a touch nervous. Minerva, one of the oddities about “Eros” is that women are never so willing as when they just have, and there was nothing in Llita’s background to inhibit her. Worse, I found that I was aware of her as a ripe female for almost the first time since the two came aboard—she was standing close to me in a narrow passageway, carrying in one hand one of those weird costumes she delighted in making, and was a bit whiff from happy exercise. I was tempted—and felt certain that she would respond at once and happily. The thought crossed my mind that she was already pregnant—nothing to fret about.
Time Enough for Love Page 23
