Time Enough for Love

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Ishtar looked troubled. “Grandfather, I don’t understand.”

  “She calls me that when I’ve been naughty,” the Senior confided to me. “It’s her way of spanking me. Ish darling, you are young and sweet and have spent your life studying biology, not history. Earth was doomed in any case; space travel just hurried it along. By 2012 it wasn’t fit to live on—so I spent the next century elsewhere, although the other real estate in the Solar System is far from attractive. Missed seeing Europe destroyed, missed a nasty dictatorship in my home country. Came back when things appeared to be tolerable, found that they weren’t—and that’s when the Howards had to run for it.

  “But space travel can’t ease the pressure on a planet grown too crowded, not even with today’s ships and probably not with any future ships—because stupid people won’t leave the slopes of their home volcano even when it starts to smoke and rumble. What space travel does do is drain off the best brains: those smart enough to see a catastrophe before it happens and with the guts to pay the price—abandon home, wealth, friends, relatives, everything—and go. That’s a tiny fraction of one percent. But that’s enough.”

  “It’s the bell curve again,” I said to Ishtar. “If—as Lazarus thinks, and statistics back him up—every migration comes primarily from the right-hand end of the normal-incidence curve of human ability, then this acts as a sorting device whereby the new planet will show a bell curve with a much higher intelligence norm than the population it came from . . and the old planet will average almost imperceptibly stupider.”

  “Imperceptible except for one thing!” Lazarus objected. “That tiny fraction that hardly shows statistically is the brain. I recall a country that lost a key war by chasing out a mere half dozen geniuses. Most people can’t think, most of the remainder won’t think, the small fraction who do think mostly can’t do it very well. The extremely tiny fraction who think regularly, accurately, creatively, and without self-delusion—in the long run these are the only people who count . . and they are the very ones who migrate when it is physically possible to do so.

  “As Justin said, statistically it hardly shows. But qualitatively it makes all the difference. Chop off a chicken’s head and it doesn’t die at once; it flops around more energetically than ever. For a while. Then it dies.

  “That’s what space travel did to Earth: chopped its head off. For two thousand years its best brains have been migrating. What’s left is flopping harder than ever . . to no purpose and will die that much sooner. Soon, I think. I don’t feel guilty about it; I see no sin in those smart enough to escape escaping if they can—and the death rattle of Earth was clear and strong back in the twentieth century, Earth reckoning, when I was a young man and space travel had barely started—not even started in interstellar terms. It took two more centuries and then some to get it rolling. Can’t count the first migration of the Howards; it was involuntary, and they weren’t the best brains.

  “The later Howard migration to Secundus was more important; it shook out some of the dullards, left them behind. The non-Howard migrations were even more important. I’ve often wondered what would have happened if there had been no political restraints against migrating from China; the few Chinese who did reach the stars seem always to be winners, I suspect that the Chinese average smarter than the rest of Earth’s spawn.

  “Not that slant of eye or color of skin matters today, or even matters at the moment of truth. One of the early Howards was Robert C. M. Lee, of Richmond, Virginia—anybody know what his name was originally?”

  “I do,” I answered.

  “Of course you do, Justin, so keep quiet—and that includes you, Athene. Anyone else?”

  No one answered; Lazarus went on: “His birth name was Lee Choy Moo; he was born in Singapore, and his parents came from Canton in China—and of the people in the ‘New Frontiers’ he was a mathematician second only to Andy Libby.”

  “Goodness!” said Hamadryad. “I’m descended from him—but I didn’t know he was a great mathematician.”

  “Did you know he was Chinese?”

  “Lazarus, I’m not sure what ‘Chinese’ means; I haven’t studied much terrestrial history. Isn’t it a religion? Like ‘Jewish’?”

  “Not exactly, dear. The point is that it no longer matters. Just as few know and no one cares that the famous Zaccur Barstow, my partner in crime, was a quarter Negro. Does that word mean anything to you, Hamadarling? Not a religion.”

  “The word means ‘black,’ so I assume that one of his grandparents was from Africa.”

  “Which shows what comes of assuming anything on one datum. Two of Zack’s grandparents, both mulatto, came from Los Angeles in my homeland. Since my line mixed with his a long time back, probably any of you can claim African ancestry. Which is statistically equivalent to claiming descent from Charlemagne. I’ve gone far afield, and it is time we picked a new Stimulator and a new Respondent. Space travel ruined old Earth—that’s one viewpoint. The other side of the coin, happier and more important in the long run, is that it improved the breed. Probably saved it as well but ‘improved’ is certain. Homo sapiens is now not only far more numerous than he ever was on Earth; he is a better, smarter, more efficient animal in every measurable fashion. Further this Respondent sayeth not; somebody else grab it. Lazi, quit trying to tickle me and go bother Galahad; Minerva needs a rest.”

  “Lazarus,” Ishtar said, “just one more responding, please. Something you said about Howards made me wonder. You seemed to place all emphasis on intelligence. Don’t you consider long-life important?”

  I was astonished to see the oldest human alive frowning over this, slow to answer. Surely it was a question he had settled in his mind at least a thousand years earlier. I tried to forstalt the quandary, found I could not soothly norom it.

  “Ishtar, the only correct verbal answer to that is Yes and No—which merely says I lack language to define something that is crystal clear inside me and has been for centuries. But here is part of the truth: A long time ago a short-lifer proved to me that we all live the same length of time.” He glanced at Minerva; she looked solemnly back. “Because we all live now. She—he—was not asserting that fallacy of Georg Cantor which distorted pre-Libby mathematics so long; uh, he —was asserting a verifiable objective truth. Each individual lives her life in now independently of how others may measure that life in years.

  “But here is another piece of truth. Life is too long when one is not enjoying now. You recall when I was not and wished to terminate it. Your skill—and trickery, my darling, and don’t blush—changed that and again I savor now. But perhaps I have never told you that I approached even my first rejuvenation with misgivings, afraid that it would make my body young without making my spirit young again—and don’t bother to tell me that ‘spirit’ is a null word; I know that it is undefinable . . but it means something to me.

  “But here is still more of the truth and all I’ll try to say about it. Although long-life can be a burden, mostly it is a blessing. It gives time enough to learn, time enough to think, time enough not to hurry, time enough for love.

  “Enough of weighty matters. Galahad, pick a light subject and, Justin, you plant the barbs; I’ve talked enough. Ishtar, my darling, fetch your long lovely carcass over here, stretch out, and let me ply you with brandy; I want you relaxed enough for what I intend to do with you later.”

  She came readily to him, stopping only to kiss Ira a promise, then saying softly but clearly to our Ancestor, “Our beloved, it takes no brandy to make me utterly willing for whatever you have in mind.”

  “Anesthesia, Mama Ishtar. I plan to show you something Big Anna taught me which I haven’t dared risk in all these years. You may not live till morning. Frightened?”

  She smiled lazily, happily. “Oh, terribly frightened.”

  Galahad covered Lapis Lazuli’s mouth with a hand; she bit him. “Stop it, Laz. Let’s everybody watch this—it might be new.”

  XV

  Agape

&
nbsp; I woke slowly next morning, lazed in bed and lived again my Welcome Bacchanalia. I was in a big bed in a ground-floor room with its garden wall still open as it had been when the party had moved to beds. I could hear no one, although (as I recalled) Tamara and Ira had been with me. Or had Ira visited us earlier?

  No matter, all of them visited us at some time before Athene sang us to sleep; I seemed to recall as high as six or seven at once in that big bed, counting Tamara and me. No, Tamara had been gone once, leaving me at the mercy of the talkative twins—who were almost quiet. They said they wanted to assure me that I did not have to marry them in order to be a member of the family—they would be gone too much of the time anyhow—because they were going to be pirates when they were big enough—but stay groundside half the time—and open a hook shop over a pool hall—and would I come to see them there?

  They had to explain to me both terms; then they sang me a little song that seemed partly amphigory and partly ancient English, but included both terms. I kissed them and promised that, when they opened this studio, I would be their most faithful admirer—a promise that did not worry me; at about that age most girls (all of my daughters) have ambitions to become great hetaeras; few attempt that most demanding of arts—or only long enough to discover that they do not have a true vocation.

  I thought they were more likely to become pirates; Lazarus Long’s identicals might figure out a way to make crime pay in spite of the enormous depths of space.

  My Welcome Bacchanalia had bridged from feast to bed with the customary entertainment save that it was homemade instead of the expensive (and often dull) professional acts a fashionable New Rome hostess offers. Lazarus and his sister-daughters started it with what may have been an authentic Highland Fling (who knows, today?): Lazarus dancing fiercely and vigorously (after all that food and drink!), his two miniature copies keeping the pattern exactly with him—to skirling bagpipes offered by Athene . . which I would not have recognized were it not that I am an amateur of ancient music as well as a professional of ancient history. The girls followed with an encore, a sword dance, while Lazarus pretended to be passed out from exertion.

  Ira, to my amazement, turned out to be a skilled juggler. Question: Did he have that skill all those years he managed a planet?

  Galahad sang a ballad with professional virtuosity and great range and control, which astonished me almost as much as I seemed to recall that he used to sing always off key. But when he took an encore with a kerchief stuffed in his mouth, I realized that I had been swived; Athene had done it all. He then played a corpse with three beautiful widows, Minerva, Hamadryad, Ishtar. I won’t describe the dialogue except to say that they seemed cheerful over losing him.

  Tamara concluded it by singing “My Arms Enclose You Still”—attributed on slight evidence to the Blind Singer but ancient in any case. I’ve long thought of it as Tamara’s Song, and I wept with happiness, and I was not alone; all did. The twins blubbered aloud . . and when she reached that last line, “—wherever the wild geese lead you, love, my arms will hold you close,” I was startled to see that the Senior’s craggy features were as wet as mine.

  I got up, poked around in the alcove and refreshed myself enough to face other people, went out into the garden and found Galahad. I kissed him and accepted a happy-morning in a frosty tumbler. It was fruit juice freshly pressed—a treat for taste buds used to morning cups “improved” in various chemical ways.

  “I’m cook this morning,” he said, “so you had better take your eggs either fried or boiled.” He then answered the question a guest does not ask: “If you had awakened earlier, you would have had more choice; Lazarus claims I can’t boil water. But everyone else is gone.”

  “So?”

  “Si. Ira has gone to his office—to work, perchance to sleep. Tamara has gone back to her patients with a message to you that she hopes to be home tonight—but with a word to Hamadryad to take you to bed and rub your shoulder muscles and put you to sleep early, so I’m not sure she expects to be back—won’t if she thinks her patients need her. Lazarus has gone somewhere and one does not ask. Minerva has the twins, and school may be in the ‘Dora’; it often is. Ishtar got a call to set a broken arm on a farm north of here. Hamadryad has taken our kids on a picnic so as not to disturb you, you lazy lecher. Boiled or fried?”

  He was already frying them, so I answered, “Boiled.”

  “Good, I’ll eat these myself. To hold me till lunch.”

  “I mean ‘Fried.’ ”

  “So I’ll put in three more, dear. You’re staying, aren’t you? Answer Yes or I’ll put the twins to work on you.”

  “Galahad, I want to—”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  “—but there are problems.” I shifted the subject. “You said ‘Hamadryad has taken our kids on a picnic—’ Haven’t I met all your family?”

  “Dear, we do not exhibit our youngest the moment someone sets foot in the foyer and thereby place on him the onus of being insincerely ecstatic. But there was usually someone with them; Lazarus has firm ideas on raising children. Athene keeps eye and ear on them—but can’t pick them up. Lazarus says that a frightened child needs to be picked up and cuddled now, not later. He believes in spanking right now, too; it evens out, our kids are neither spoiled nor timid. Lazarus is especially strong on not letting a young child wake up alone—so now you know why I kissed you good-night a bit early. So that Ishtar could help keep you awake while I slept with our youngest three.”

  “Do you actually sleep with them?”

  “Well—When Elf jumps up and down on my stomach, it makes me restless. But being peed on doesn’t wake me—usually. Having the cuddle watch isn’t bad; we rotate so it’s only every ninth night. Every tenth if you opt in. But that can change overnight. Suppose we have a rejuvenation client—One or more clients puts Ishtar, Tamara, Hamadryad, and me out of circulation much of the time. Add that Lazarus may leave as soon as he decides Laz and Lor are grown up. Then assume that all our darlings get cracking on making babies.”

  Galahad grinned at me. “How long does it take four willing women to make four more babies? Or six, when the twins join the production schedule as they threaten to at least twice a week. Justin dear, we want you to stay but it won’t all be like last night. If responsibilities of family life worry you, you’d be better off in New Rome where you can hire people to do what you don’t fancy doing yourself.”

  “Galahad,” I said earnestly, “stop stuffing your face a moment, dear. You can’t scare me with baby pee. I was getting up in the night to soothe crying babies a hundred years before you were born. I intend to colonize, I intend to marry again, I intend to raise kids. I had planned to go back to Secundus to clean up loose ends, then come back with the second wave. But I may say the hell with that and stay . . as some of the Senior’s remarks last night were aimed at me. At least I took them personally—about having the guts to abandon everything and go. Secundus is a smoking volcano; that old vixen could set off a bloodbath. One that could include me, simply because I’m a major bureaucrat.”

  I took a deep breath and plunged in: “What I don’t understand is why I seem to be invited to join the Senior’s household. Why?”

  Galahad answered, “It’s not your pretty face.”

  “I know that. Oh, I hardly ever scare dogs with it, but it’s just a face.”

  “It’s not too bad. A cosmetic surgeon could do wonders. I’m the second-best cosmetic surgeon on this planet—there being two. The practice would be good for me and, as you pointed out, you’ve nothing to lose.”

  “Damn it, dear, don’t farce me. Answer my question.”

  “The twins like you.”

  “So? I find them delightful. But the opinion of inexperienced adolescents could not have weighed heavily.”

  “Justin, don’t let their clowning fool you; they are adult in everything but height—and they are our Ancestor’s identical twins. They have his talent for looking inside a person and spotting a bad o
ne. Lazarus lets them run loose because he trusts them to shoot to kill . . and not to shoot if they don’t intend to kill.”

  I gulped inside. “Are you saying that those little guns they carry are not toys?”

  My old friend Obadiah looked as if I had said something obscene. “Why, Justin! Lazarus wouldn’t let a woman go out of this house unarmed.”

  “Why? This colony seems peaceful. What have I missed?”

  “Not much, I think. Lazarus’ advance party made sure that this subcontinent was reasonably clear of large predators. But we brought along the two-legged sort, and despite screening, Lazarus doesn’t assume that they are angels. He wasn’t looking for angels; they don’t make the best pioneers. Uh, yesterday Minerva was wearing a little skirt. Did you wonder about it? In view of the heat?”

  “Not especially.”

  “She wears her gun strapped to her thigh. Nevertheless, Lazarus won’t let her go out alone; the twins are her usual bodyguard. As a flesh-and-blood she’s only three years old; she doesn’t shoot as well as the twins do, and she’s more trusting than they are. How’s your marksmanship?”

  “Just fair. I started taking lessons when I made up my mind to migrate. But I haven’t had time to practice.”

  “Better find time. Not that Lazarus will ride you about it; he feels responsible for our women, not for men. But if you ask for help—I did, and so did Ira—he’ll coach you in everything from bare hands to improvised weapons . . with two thousand years of dirty tricks thrown in. Up to you, old darling—but here’s what it did for me. As you know I used to be a campus narky—a scholar poring over old records—I never carried arms. Then I took rejuvenation and became a rejuvenator myself and was even less inclined to go armed. But for fourteen years I’ve had regular coaching from the all-time champion in how to stay alive. The result? I stand straight and proud. Haven’t had to kill anyone yet.” Galahad suddenly grinned. “But the day is young.”

  I answered soberly, “Galahad, that’s one reason I agreed to run a silly errand for Madam Arabelle: to find out things like that. Very well, I take your advice seriously. But you haven’t answered my question.”