Time Enough for Love

by Robert A. Heinlein

  She kissed two wet little girls, then dropped to her knees and kissed me.

  Then she said softly, rubbing her mouth against mine, “You darling. When I heard you were here, I hurried. Mi laroona d’ vashti meedth du?”

  “Yes! And any other night you have free.”

  “Not so fast with English, doreeth mi; I learning it—slowly—because my daughter wants her assistants in rejuvenation to speak language not known to most clients . . and because our family speaks English much as Galacta.”

  “You are now a rejuvenator? And have a daughter here?”

  “Ishtar datter mi—did you not know, petsan mi-mi? Nay, I am nurse only. But studying I am and Ishtar hope-tells that I will be assistant technician in half handful of years. Good—nay?”

  “Good, I suppose. But what a loss to the art!”

  “Blandjor,” she said happily, tousling my wet hair. “Even though rejuvenated—did you note?—here the art pays no living. Too many willing ones, sweeter and younger and prettier.” The twins had stayed with us, listening and quiet for a moment. Tamara reached out both arms, hugged them to her. “Example. These my granddaughters. Eager to grow tall so they can lie down and be short.” She kissed each of them. “And red curls they have. I not have.”

  I started to say that age and red curls did not matter, then realized that a compliment to Tamara so phrased could cause chins to quiver. But I did not need to speak; the spout had opened again:

  “Aunt Tammy, we are not eager—”

  “—just willing and practical—”

  “—and anyhow he won’t marry us—”

  “—he just teases about it—”

  “—and you can’t be our grandmother—”

  “—’cause that would make you our Buddy Boy’s grandmother—”

  “—which is illogical, impossible, and ridiculous—”

  “—so you have to be our ‘Aunt Tammy.’ ”

  I found their logic doubly enthymematic if not a total non sequitur, but I agreed with it because the notion of Tamara being the Senior’s grandmother was one I could not face. So I changed the subject:

  “Tamara dear, would you let me take off your sandals and then you come join us in the soak? Or shall I get out and get dry?”

  She did not have to answer:

  “We gotta run get ready—”

  “—cause Mama Hamadryad has finished her face and started her nipples—”

  “—so if we don’t hurry, we’ll have to come to dinner with our hides bare naked—”

  “—and for a party that would never do—”

  “—and you two had better hurry too—”

  “—or Buddy Boy will throw it to the pigs. Scuse!”

  I climbed out and let Tamara dry me—unnecessary as there was a blowdry at hand. But if Tamara offers me anything my answer is Yes. It took a while; we “wasted” time on touch and talk. (Is there a better way to spend time?)

  When I was dry and wondering if I should try the cosmetics bench (I don’t use cosmetics much, just depilatories), one of the twins came rushing back with a garment for me, a blue chlamys. She said breathlessly, “Lazarus says try this or what would you like?—but that you needn’t wear anything if you don’t want to ’cause it’s a hot night and you count as family because you’re Minerva’s father, one of them.”

  I thought I had them keyed now by freckle pattern. “Thank you, Lorelei; I’ll wear it.” I’ve always felt that a napkin was enough to wear in dining at home in a properly tempered house—or outdoors in private on a warm night. But, as guest of honor even though “family,” I could not go bare when they were taking the trouble to be festively formal.

  “You’re welcome, but I’m Captain Lazuli, but that’s all right, she’s me. Scuse!” She vanished.

  I put it on; we went into the garden and retrieved Tamara’s gown—and it matched what I was wearing. The same shade of blue, I mean, and a Golden-Age-of-Hellas flavor to it. Hers was about two grams of blue fog. The bodice fastened at the right shoulder and came diagonally down to her waist at the left. Its skirt was longer than mine—but that was appropriate; Greek men of their Golden Age did wear their skirts shorter than did women, instead of the reverse that is more usual on Secundus. (I did not know as yet what was customary on Tertius.) We matched, and I was pleased.

  Accident? “Accidents” around the Senior are usually planned.

  We ate in the garden, a couch for each couple, arranged in hexagon with the fountain as the sixth side. Athene made the water dance and danced lights in it, to match whatever she was playing. All the womenfolk but Tamara helped with the primary serving; Lori and Lazi played Hebe from then on—it was impossible to keep them nailed to their couch anyhow. As the feast started, Ira was with Minerva, Lazarus with Ishtar, Galahad with Hamadryad, and the twins together. But the women moved around like chessmen, sharing a couch, a few bites, a little cuddling, then moving on—all but Tamara, whose firm-soft, rounded bottom lay against my lap the entire feast. It was just as well that she did not move; I’m not shy but prefer not to show the gallant reflex unless I need it at once—and I was very conscious of her dear body warm against me.

  But while Lazarus started the repast with Ishtar, the next time I looked his way it was Minerva who reclined against him—and next, one of the twins, which one I am not sure. And so on.

  I won’t describe the feast except to say that I did not expect it in a young colony and to add that I have paid high prices for poorer food in famous restaurants in New Rome.

  All but Lazarus and his sisters were wearing colorful, pseudo-Grecian garments. But Lazarus was dressed as a Scottish chieftain of two and a half millennia ago—the kilt, bonnet, sporran, dirk, claymore, etc. The sword he laid aside but handy, as if expecting to need it. I can state firmly that he was never entitled to dress as a chief by the rules of those longlost clans. There is doubt that he is entitled to wear any Scottish dress. He once said that he was “half Scotch and half soda,” but on another occasion he told Ira Weatheral that he had first worn the kilt at a time (shortly before the flight of the New Frontiers) when the style was popular in his home country—found that he liked it, and thereafter wore the kilt when local custom permitted.

  That night he went all out and added a fierce mustache to match his finery.

  His twin sisters were dressed exactly as he was. I am still wondering whether all this was to honor me, to impress me, or to amuse me. Perhaps all three.

  I would happily have spent those three hours in quiet, feeding Tamara and letting her feed me, bathed in the peace of soul that comes from touching her, but the closed happiness circle (and closed it was; Athene’s voice now came from the fountain) showed that the Senior expected us to share company, talking and listening in turn, as ritually as in any protocol-bound salon in New Rome. And so we did, in shared and gentle harmony—with the twins adding unexpected grace notes but usually managing to restrain their exuberance and be “grown-up.” The Senior started it, using Ira as Stimulator. “Ira, what would you say if a god came through that entranceway?”

  “I’d tell him to wipe his feet. Ishtar doesn’t permit gods with dirty feet in this house.”

  “But all gods have feet of clay.”

  “That wasn’t what you said yesterday.”

  “This is not yesterday, Ira. I’ve seen a thousand gods and all had feet of clay. All were swindles, first”—Lazarus ticked it with his fingers—“to benefit the shamans; second, to benefit the kings; and third, always to benefit the shamans. Then I met the thousand-and-first.” The Senior paused.

  Ira looked at me. “At this point I am supposed to say, ‘Do tell!’ or some such insincerity, then the rest of you chime, ‘Yes, yes, Lazarus!’—which has its merit; the rest of us would have at least twenty uninterrupted minutes for swilling and guzzling.

  “But I’m going to fool him. He’s leading up to how he killed the gods of the Jockaira with nothing but a toy gun and moral superiority. Since that lie is already in his memo
irs in four conflicting versions, why should we be burdened with a fifth?”

  “It was not a toy gun; it was a Mark Nineteen Remington Blaster at full charge, a superior weapon in its day—and after I carved them up, the stench was worse than Hormone Hall the morning after payday. And my superiority is never moral; it lies always in doing it first before he does it to me. But the point of the story Ira won’t let me tell is that those globs were real gods because neither shamans nor kings were cut in on the loot; they were swindled, too. Those doggie people were property, solely for the benefit of their gods—gods in the sense that a man can be a god to a dog—which I had suspected first time around, when they drove poor Slayton Ford right out of his think tank and nearly killed him. But the second time, some eight or nine hundred years later, Andy Libby and I proved that this was so. ‘How?’ you ask—”

  “We didn’t ask.”

  “Thank you, Ira. Because after all that time the Jockaira had not changed in any way. Their speech, customs, buildings, you name it—were frozen. This can happen only with domesticated animals. A wild animal, such as man, changes his ways as conditions change; he adjusts. I’ve often thought I would like to go back and see if the doggie people managed to go feral after they lost their owners. Or did they simply lie down and die? But I wasn’t too tempted; Andy and I were lucky to get off that planet still with our gonads, the way they were yapping at our heels.”

  “See what I mean, Justin? Version number three had the Jockaira falling into a coma the instant their masters were burned out—and Libby doesn’t figure into that version at all.”

  “Papa Ira, you don’t understand Buddy Boy—”

  “—he doesn’t tell lies—”

  “—he’s a creative artist—”

  “—speaking in parables—”

  “—and he emancipated those Jabberwockies—”

  “—who were cruelly oppressed.”

  Ira Weatheral said, “Justin, I had trouble coping with one Lazarus Long. But three of him? I surrender. Come here, Lori, and let me nibble your ear. Minerva, my lovely, let go of that, wash your pretty hands, then see if Justin needs more wine. Justin, you are the only one with news to impart. What news on the Bourse?”

  “Falling steadily. If you own participations on Secundus, you had better have me carry back instructions to your broker. Lazarus, I noticed that you classed ‘man’ as a wild animal—”

  “He is. You can kill him, but you can’t tame him. The worst bloodbaths in history derive from attempting to tame him.”

  “I wasn’t arguing it, Ancestor. I’m a mathematical historiographer; my nose is rubbed in that fact. But has news reached here of the flight of the ‘Vanguard’? The original ‘Vanguard,’ I mean—pre-Diaspora.”

  Lazarus sat up so suddenly that he almost spilled Ishtar off his couch. He caught her. “Sorry, honey. Justin—keep talking.”

  “I didn’t intend to talk about the ‘Vanguard’ herself—”

  “I want to hear about her. I hear no objection; it is so ruled. Talk, Son!”

  The protocol of a salon feast having gone to pieces, I talked, first reviewing some ancient history. Although it has almost been forgotten, the New Frontiers was not the first starship. She had an older sister, the Vanguard, that left the Solar System a few years earlier than the momentous date on which Lazarus Long commandeered the New Frontiers. She was headed for Alpha Centauri but never reached there—no signs of visitation were ever found on the one possible planet, a Terran type around Alpha Centauri A, the only G-type star in that volume.

  But the ship herself was found by accident, in open orbit a long way from where she should have been by any rational assumption based on her mission—discovered nearly a century ago and this tells the difficulties of historiography when ships are the fastest means of communication; this story echoed back to Secundus via five colonial planets before it reached Archives—a few years after Lazarus left New Rome, a few years before I went to Boondock as (nominal) courier for the Chairwoman Pro Tern. Not that a century’s delay matters, as the news interested only fusty specialists. To most people it was an uninteresting confirmation of an inconsequential bit of ancient history.

  Everything in the Vanguard was dead while the ship herself was sleeping, her converter automatically shut down, her atmosphere almost leaked away, her records so destroyed, illegible, incomplete, or desiccated as to distress one. The Vanguard matters only to antiquarians and such—although she will remain an endless trove to deviants such as me—if we don’t lose her again. Space is deep.

  But the interesting thing about the find is that when the Vanguard was backtracked ballistically by computer, it showed that she had passed close to a Sol-type star seven centuries earlier. A check of that system turned up one planet Terran in type; it was found to be inhabited by H. sapiens. But not from the Diaspora. From the Vanguard.

  “Lazarus, there is no possible doubt. Those few thousand savages on that planet—designated ‘Pitcairn Island,’ the catalog number escapes me—are descended from some who reached there, presumably by ship’s boat, seven centuries before they were found. They had reverted to precivilization food-gathering stage, and had the planet rather than the ship been found first, it might have started another of those stories about a breed of humans not derived from old Terra.

  “But their argot, fed into a linguistic analyzer-synthesizer, played back as that version of English which was the ‘Vanguard’s’ working language. Reduced vocabulary, new words, degenerate syntax—but the same language.”

  “Their myths, Justin, their myths!” Galahad-Obadiah demanded.

  I was forced to admit that I did not have it all on tap but promised to make a full copy for him and send it via the first ship. “But, Senior, the interesting thing is that these savages, so wild and fierce that in dealing with them more scientists were killed than savages—”

  “Hooray for them. Son, those savages were minding their own business on their own planet. An intruder can expect whatever he gets. Up to him to keep his guard up.”

  “I suppose so. Three scientists were eaten before they figured out how to deal with these pseudo-aborigines. By remotely controlled humanoid robots, that is. But the point I wanted to make was not their fierceness but their intelligence. Believe me or not, by every test that could be used, these wild men, these savages, checked superior to norm. Much superior. By the bell curve they land in the range of ‘exceptionally gifted’ to ‘genius-plus.’ ”

  “You expect me to be surprised? Why?”

  “Well—Savages. And probably closely inbred.”

  “You’re baiting me, Justin; you know better—although possibly Ira signed you to be Stimulator. All right, I’ll take the bait. ‘Savage’ describes a cultural condition, not a degree of intelligence. Nor does inbreeding damage a gene pool if conditions for survival are extreme; since you describe them as cannibals, they probably ate their culls. From the shape the ship was in, it is fair to assume that their ancestors landed with little or nothing—possibly bare hands and a hatful of ignorance . . in which case only the most able, the smartest, could survive. Justin, the crew of that first ship averaged far more intelligent than the Howards who escaped in the ‘New Frontiers’; they were picked for intelligence—whereas the original Howard selectees were picked only for longevity, not for brainpower. Your savages were descended solely from geniuses . . then passed through Allah alone knows how many ordeals that kill off the stupid and leave only the smartest to breed. What does that leave?”

  I admitted that I had tossed him a baiting question to see how he would answer. The Senior nodded. “I know you’re not stupid, Son; I had Athene give me a runback on your ancestry. But I have often been amazed at how the moderately bright and moderately well-informed—which describes no one in this happiness circle, so no one need pretend to modesty—how often such somewhat superior people have trouble coming to grips with the ancient silk-purse-and-sow’s-ear problem. If heredity were not overwhelmingly more important than
environment, you could teach calculus to a horse.

  “In my early days it was an article of faith among a selfstyled ‘intellectual elite’ that they could teach calculus to a horse . . if they started early enough, spent enough money, supplied special tutoring, and were endlessly patient and always careful not to bruise his equine ego. They were so sincere that it seems downright ungrateful that the horse always persisted in being a horse. Especially as they were right . . if ‘starting early enough’ is defined as a million years or more.

  “But those savages will make it; they can’t avoid winning. The problem in reverse is more horridly interesting. Justin, do you realize that we Howards killed off Old Terra?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, now, Son, you’re not supposed to answer in such a way as to chop off conversation . . thereby leaving us with nothing to do but get drunk and cuddle the girls.”

  “Swell!” Obadiah-Galahad shouted. “Let’s!” He had Minerva with him at that moment; he grabbed her and flipped her over facing him. “Little whatever-your-name-is, do you have any last words?”

  “Yes.”

  “ ‘Yes’ what?”

  “Just ‘Yes.’ That’s my last word.”

  “Galahad,” said Ishtar, “if you’re going to rape Minerva, drag her back of the fountain. I want to hear what Justin means by that.”

  “How can I rape her when she won’t fight?” he complained.

  “You’ve always been able to solve that problem. But do it quietly. Justin, I find myself shocked. It seems to me that we’ve been quite generous in supplying Old Home Terra with new technologies—and there’s not much else we can give them. Didn’t the last migrant transport come back only half loaded?”

  “I’ll answer it,” Lazarus growled. “Justin might pretty it up. Not all the Howards. Two. Andy Libby provided the weapon; I delivered the coup de grace. Space travel killed Earth.”