Time Enough for Love

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Whatever you wish, dear friend.”

  “All right. You keep coming back to me and Llita, Minerva, and seem bothered that I denied her this ‘boon.’ But you don’t know that I denied her anything and you certainly don’t know that it was a ‘boon.’ Can be, surely—but not always, and often sex is not. Trouble is that you don’t understand ‘Eros,’ dear, because you can’t; you aren’t built to understand it. I’m not running down sex; sex is swell, sex is wonderful. But if you put a holy aura around it—and that is what you are doing—sex stops being fun and starts being neurotic.

  “Stipulating for argument that I ‘denied Llita this boon,’ it surely did not leave her sex starved. At worst I could possibly have miffed her a little. But she was not deprived. Llita was a hearty wench, and having to work too hard was the only thing that ever kept her off her back—or on top, or standing up, or kneeling, or swinging from the chandeliers—and I did make it possible for them to have more time for it. Joe and Llita were simple souls, uninhibited and uncorrupted, and of the four major interests of mankind—war, money, politics, and sex—they were interested only in sex and money. With some guidance from me they got plenty of both.

  “Shucks, it can’t matter now to say that, after they learned contraception techniques—almost as perfect then as now, and which I taught them but had no reason to mention—they had no superstitions or taboos to keep them from branching out for fun, and their pair-bonding was so strong as not to be endangered thereby. They were innocent hedonists, and if Llita failed to trip one tired old spaceman, she did trip plenty of others. And so did Joe. They had fun—plus the deep happiness of as perfect a marriage as I have ever observed.”

  “I am most pleased to hear it,” Minerva answered. “Very well, Lazarus, I withdraw my questions and refrain from speculations about Mrs. Long and that ‘tired old spaceman’— even though your statements show that you were neither tired, nor old, nor a spaceman at that time. You mentioned ‘four major interests of mankind’—but did not include science and art.”

  “I didn’t leave them out through forgetting them, Minerva. Science and art are occupations of a very small minority—a small percentage even of those people who claim to be scientists or artists. But you know that; you were simply changing the subject.”

  “Was I, Lazarus?”

  “Pig whistle, dear. You know the parable of the Little Mermaid. Are you prepared to pay the price she paid? You can, you know.” He added, “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

  The computer sighed. “I think the question is ‘may,’ not ‘can.’ A wheelbarrow has no rights. Nor do I.”

  “You’re dodging, dear. ‘Rights’ is a fictional abstraction. No one has ‘rights,’ neither machines nor flesh-and-blood. Persons—both sorts!—have opportunities, not rights, which they use, or do not use. All you have going for you is that you are the strong right arm of the boss of this planet . . plus the friendship of an old man who enjoys very special privileges for a most illogical reason but does not hesitate to take advantage of those privileges . . plus, stored in your memories in Dora’s number-two hold, all the biological and genetic data of Secundu Howard Clinic—best such library in the Galaxy, possibly, and certainly best for human biology. But what I asked was: Will you pay the price? Having your mental processes slowed down at least a million to one; data storage reduced by some unknown—but large—factor; some chance—again I can’t say —of failure in achieving transmigration . . and always the certainty of death as the ultimate outcome—death a machine need never know. You know that you can outlive the human race. Immortal.”

  “I would not choose to outlive my makers, Lazarus.”

  “So? You say that tonight, dear—but would you say it a million years from now? Minerva, my beloved friend—my only friend with whom I can be truthful—I feel certain that you have been toying with this idea ever since the Clinic’s files were made part of your memories. But, even with your speed of thought, I suspect that you do not have the experience—the flesh-and-blood experience—with which to think it through. If you choose to risk this, you cannot be both machine and flesh-and-blood. Oh, certainly we have mixes—machines with human brains, and flesh-and-blood bodies controlled by computers. But what you want is to be a woman. Right? True or false?”

  “Would that I were a woman, Lazarus!”

  “So I knew, dear. And we both know why. But—think about this!—even if you manage this risky change—and I don’t know what the risks are; I am just an old shipmaster, retired country doctor, obsolete engineer; you are the one with all the data my race has accumulated about such things—suppose you manage it . . and find that Ira will not take you to wife?”

  The computer hesitated a full millisecond. “Lazarus, if Ira refuses me—refuses me utterly; he need not marry me—would you then be as difficult with me as you seem to have been with Llita? Or would you teach me ‘Eros’?”

  Lazarus looked astounded, then guffawed. “Touché! You ranged me, girl—you hulled me between wind and water! All right, dear, a solemn promise: If you do this . . and Ira won’t bed you, I’ll take you to bed myself and do my best to wear you out! Or the other way around more likely; a male hardly ever outlasts a female. Okay, dear, I’m the second team—and I’ll stick around till we know the outcome.”

  He chuckled. “My sweet, I am almost tempted to hope that Ira turns chicken—were it not you want him so badly. Let’s discuss practical aspects. Can you tell me what it will take?”

  “Only in theory, Lazarus; my memories do not show that it has ever been attempted. But it would be similar to a total clone rejuvenation in which computer help is used to transfer the memories of the old brain into its blank twin in the clone body. In another way it resembles what I do when I move the ‘me’ here in the Palace into my new ‘me’ in Dora’s hold.”

  “Minerva, I suspect that it is more difficult—and far more risky—than either one. Different time rates, dear. Machine to machine you do in a split second. But that total-clone job takes, I think, a minimum of two years—rush it, and you wind up with an old dead body and a new idiot. No?”

  “There have been such cases, Lazarus. But not in the past two centuries.”

  “Well . . my opinion isn’t worth anything. You must discuss it with an expert—and it must be one you can trust. Ishtar, perhaps, although she may not be the expert you need.”

  “Lazarus, there is no expert in this venture; it has never been done. Ishtar can be trusted; I have discussed it with her.”

  “What does she say?”

  “That she does not know whether it can be done or not—in practice, that is, with success on the first attempt. But she is deeply sympathetic—she is a woman!—and is thinking of ways to make it less hazardous. She says that it will require the finest of gene surgery, plus facilities for full-adult cloning.”

  “I guess I missed something. Starting a clone doesn’t take a topflight gene surgeon; I’ve done it myself. Then, if you plant the clone in utero and get it to take, a host-mother will hand you a baby in nine months. Safer. Easier.”

  “But, Lazarus, I can’t move me into a baby’s skull. No room!”

  “Um. Yes. True.”

  “Even with a full-size adult brain I will have to choose most carefully what to take and what to leave behind. Nor can I be a simple clone: I must be a composite.”

  “Mmm—I’m not sharp tonight. No, you would not want to be Ishtar’s twin, for example, with your own personality and selected knowledge imprinted on what would have been her brain. Hm—Dear, may I offer you my twelfth chromosome pair?”

  “Lazarus!”

  “Don’t cry, girl; you’ll get your gears all rusty. I don’t know that there’s anything to the theory that reinforcement in a gene complex in that chromosome pair controls longevity. Even if it does, I might be handing you a run-down clock. You might be better off using Ira’s twelfth.”

  “No. Nothing from Ira.”

  “Do you expect to do this without
his knowing it?” Lazarus then added thoughtfully, “Oh—Children, eh?”

  The computer did not answer.

  Lazarus said gently, “Should have known you meant to go whole hog. Then you won’t want to borrow from Hamadryad, either; she’s his daughter. Unless genetic charting shows that we can avoid any hazard. Mmm—Dear, you want as mixed a composite as can be managed, do you not? So that your clone will be a unique flesh-and-blood, not too closely copied from any other zygote. Twenty-three parents perhaps? Is that what you had in mind?”

  “I think that would be best, Lazarus, since that could be done without separating paired chromosomes—simpler surgery and no possibility of introducing an unexpected reinforcement. If it were possible to find twenty-three—satisfactory—donors who were willing.”

  “Who said they had to be willing? We’ll steal ’em, dear. Nobody owns his genes; he’s merely their custodian. They are passed to him willy-nilly in the meiotic dance; he passes them along to others through the same blind chances. There must be many thousands of tissue cultures over at the Clinic, each with many thousands of cells—so who’s to know or care if we borrow one cell from each of twenty-three cultures?—if we’re slick about it. Don’t fret about ethics; it’s like stealing twenty-three grains of sand from a large beach.

  “I don’t give a hoot about the Clinic’s rules; I suspect that we’ll be hip-deep in proscribed techniques all through this. Hmm—Those Clinic records you’ve stored in Dora: Do they include genetic charting of tissue cultures on hand? Case histories of their donor-consigners?”

  “Yes, Lazarus. Although personal records are confidential.”

  “Who cares? Ishtar said you could study both ‘confidential’ and ‘secret’—as long as you kept it to yourself. So pick the twenty-three parents you want—while I worry about how to steal them. Stealing is more in my line, anyhow. I don’t know what criteria you will use, but I offer one mild suggestion: If the selection you have to choose from permits it, each of your parents should be healthy in all respects and as brainy as possible—by their established records in life as shown by their case histories, not alone by their genetic charts.” Lazarus thought about it. “That mythical time machine I mentioned earlier would be a convenience. I would like to look over all twenty-three after you pick them—and some of them may be dead. The donors I mean, not the tissue cultures.”

  “Lazarus, if other characteristics are satisfactory, is there any reason not to select as well for physical appearance?”

  “Why worry about it, dear? Ira is not the sort of man to insist on Helen of Troy.”

  “No, I don’t think he is. But I want to be tall—tall as Ishtar —and slender, with small breasts. And straight, brown hair.”

  “Minerva . . why?”

  “Because that is the way I look. You said so. You did say so!”

  Lazarus blinked at the gloom and hummed softly: “She’s a good sport . . I can spring her . . for a fin or even a sawbuck”—then said sharply: “Minerva, you’re a crazy, mixed-up machine. If the best combination of traits results in your being a short, plump blonde with big tits—buy it! Don’t worry about an old man’s fantasies. I’m sorry I mentioned that imaginary description.”

  “But, Lazarus, I said ‘if other characteristics are satisfactory—’ To get that physical appearance I need search only with respect to three autosome pairs; there is no conflict, the search is already complete within all parameters we have discussed thus far. And that is me—is ‘I’?—no, me! I’ve known it since you told me. But—from things you have said—and others that you did not say—I feel that I need your permission to look like that.”

  The old man lowered his head and covered his face. Then he looked up. “Go ahead, dear—look like her. I mean ‘look like yourself.’ Like your mind’s-eye picture of yourself. You’ll find it hard enough to learn to be flesh-and-blood without the added handicap of not looking the way you feel you ought to look.”

  “Thank you, Lazarus.”

  “There will be problems, dear, even if everything goes well. For example, has it occurred to you that you will have to learn to talk all over again? Even learn to see and to hear? When you move yourself over into your clone body and leave nothing behind but a computer, you won’t suddenly be an adult. Instead, you’ll be a weird sort of baby in an adult body, with the world a buzzing confusion around you and totally strange. You may find it frightening. I’ll be there, I promise I will be there and holding your hand. But you won’t know me; your new eyes won’t abstract a gestalt of me until you learn to use them. You won’t understand a word I say—did you realize that?”

  “I do realize it, Lazarus. I did know it, I have given it much thought. Getting into my new body—without destroying the computer that I am now . . which I must not, as Ira will need it and so will Ishtar—making that transition is the most critical phase. But if I make it, I promise you that I will not be frightened by the strangeness. Because I know that I will have loving friends around me, cherishing me, keeping me alive, not letting me hurt myself nor be hurt—while I’m learning to be a flesh-and-blood.”

  “That you will have, dear.”

  “I know and I am not worried. So don’t you worry, beloved Lazarus—don’t think of it now. Why did you say, earlier, ‘that mythical time machine’?”

  “Eh? How would you describe it?”

  “I would describe it as an ‘unrealized potential.’ But ‘mythical’ implies impossibility.”

  “Eh? Keep talking!”

  “Lazarus, I learned from Dora, when she taught me the mathematics of n-space astrogation, that every jump transition involves a decision as to when to reenter the time axis.”

  “Yes, certainly. Since you are cut off from the framework of the speed-of-light you could go as many years astray as there are light-years involved in the jump. But that’s not a time machine.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Hmm—It’s a disturbing thought—it feels like intentionally making a bad landing. I wish Andy Libby were here. Minerva, why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “Should I have put it into your Zwicky Box? You turned down time travel forward . . and I ruled out time travel into the past because you said you wanted something new.”

  INTERMISSION

  Excerpts from the Notebooks of Lazarus Long

  Always store beer in a dark place.

  By the data to date, there is only one animal in the Galaxy dangerous to man—man himself. So he must supply his own indispensable competition. He has no enemy to help him.

  Men are more sentimental than women. It blurs their thinking.

  Certainly the game is rigged. Don’t let that stop you; if you don’t bet, you can’t win.

  Any priest or shaman must be presumed guilty until proved innocent.

  Always listen to experts. They’ll tell you what can’t be done, and why. Then do it.

  Get a shot off fast. This upsets him long enough to let you make your second shot perfect.

  There is no conclusive evidence of life after death. But there is no evidence of any sort against it. Soon enough you will know. So why fret about it?

  If it can’t be expressed in figures, it is not science; it is opinion.

  It has long been known that one horse can run faster than another—but which one? Differences are crucial.

  A fake fortuneteller can be tolerated. But an authentic soothsayer should be shot on sight. Cassandra did not get half the kicking around she deserved.

  Delusions are often functional. A mother’s opinions about her children’s beauty, intelligence, goodness, et cetera ad nauseam, keep her from drowning them at birth.

  Most “scientists” are bottle washers and button sorters.

  A “pacifist male” is a contradiction in terms. Most selfdescribed “pacifists” are not pacific; they simply assume false colors. When the wind changes, they hoist the Jolly Roger.

  Nursing does not diminish the beauty of a woman’s breasts; it enhances their charm by
making them look lived in and happy.

  A generation which ignores history has no past—and no future.

  A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.

  What a wonderful world it is that has girls in it!

  Small change can often be found under seat cushions.

  History does not record anywhere at any time a religion that has any rational basis. Religion is a crutch for people not strong enough to stand up to the unknown without help. But, like dandruff, most people do have a religion and spend time and money on it and seem to derive considerable pleasure from fiddling with it.

  It’s amazing how much “mature wisdom” resembles being too tired.

  If you don’t like yourself, you can’t like other people.

  Your enemy is never a villain in his own eyes. Keep this in mind; it may offer a way to make him your friend. If not, you can kill him without hate—and quickly.

  A motion to adjourn is always in order.

  No state has an inherent right to survive through conscript troops and, in the long run, no state ever has. Roman matrons used to say to their sons: “Come back with your shield, or on it.” Later on, this custom declined. So did Rome.

  Of all the strange “crimes” that human beings have legislated out of nothing, “blasphemy” is the most amazing—with “obscenity” and “indecent exposure” fighting it out for second and third place.

  Cheops’ Law: Nothing ever gets built on schedule or within budget.

  It is better to copulate than never.

  All societies are based on rules to protect pregnant women and young children. All else is surplusage, excrescence, adornment, luxury, or folly which can—and must—be dumped in emergency to preserve this prime function. As racial survival is the only universal morality, no other basic is possible. Attempts to formulate a “perfect society” on any foundation other than “Women and children first!” is not only witless, it is automatically genocidal. Nevertheless, starry-eyed idealists (all of them male) have tried endlessly—and no doubt will keep on trying.