Time Enough for Love

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “Well . . I suppose I’ve got to go home—eventually.”

  “How about a little spin out Paseo to cool off first?”

  “That’s a n’idee. If it won’t put you out?”

  “Not at all.”

  Lazarus drove around, keeping silent, until the old man’s fuming stopped. When Lazarus noted this, he headed back and turned east on Thirty-first Street, and parked. “Mr. Johnson, may I say something?”

  “Eh? Speak up.”

  “If they won’t take you—even with your hair dyed—I hope you won’t feel too bad about it. Because this war is a terrible mistake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said.” (How much to tell him? How much can I get him to believe? I can’t hold back altogether—this is Gramp . . who taught me to shoot, and a thousand other things. But what will he believe?) “This war won’t do the slightest good; it will just make things worse.”

  Gramp stared at him, under knotted brows. “What are you, Ted? Pro-German?”

  “No.”

  “Pacifist, maybe? Come to think about it, you’ve never had one word to say about the war.”

  “No, I’m not a pacifist. And I’m not pro-German. But if we win this war—”

  “You mean ‘When we win this war!’ ”

  “All right, ‘when we win this war,’ it will turn out that we’ve actually lost it. Lost everything we thought we were fighting for.”

  Mr. Johnson abruptly changed tactics. “When are you enlisting?”

  Lazarus hesitated. “I’ve got a couple of things I must do first.”

  “I thought that might be your answer, Mr. Bronson. Good-bye!” Gramp fumbled with the door latch, cursed, and stepped over onto the running board, thence to the curb.

  Lazarus said, “Gramp! I mean ‘Mr. Johnson.’ Let me finish running you home. Please!”

  His grandfather paused just long enough to look back and say, “Not on your tintype . . you pusillanimous piss-ant.” Then he marched steadily down the street to the car stop.

  Lazarus waited and watched Mr. Johnson climb aboard; then he trailed the trolley car, unwilling to admit that there was nothing he could do to correct the shambles he had made of his relations with Gramp. He watched the old man get off at Benton Boulevard, considered overtaking him and trying to speak to him.

  But what could he say? He understood how Gramp felt, and why—and he had already said too much and no further words could call it back or correct it. He drove aimlessly on down Thirty-first Street.

  At Indiana Avenue he parked his car, bought a Star from a newsboy, went into a drugstore, sat down at the soda fountain, ordered a cherry phosphate to justify his presence, looked at the newspaper.

  But was unable to read it—Instead he stared at it and brooded.

  When the soda jerk wiped the marble counter in front of him and lingered, Lazarus ordered another phosphate. When this happened a second time, Lazarus asked to use a telephone.

  “Home or Bell?”

  “Home.”

  “Back of the cigar counter and you pay me.”

  “Brian? This is Mr. Bronson. May I speak to your mother?”

  “I’ll go see.”

  But it was his grandfather’s voice that came on the line: “Mr. Bronson, your sheer effrontery amazes me. What do you want?”

  “Mr. Johnson, I want to speak to Mrs. Smith—”

  “You can’t.”

  “—because she has been very kind to me and I want to thank her and say good-bye.”

  “One moment—” He heard his grandfather say, “George, get out. Brian, take Woodie with you and close the door and see that it stays closed.” Mr. Johnson’s voice then came back closer: “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then listen carefully and don’t interrupt; I’m going to say this just once.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My daughter will not speak to you, now or ever—”

  Lazarus said quickly, “Does she know that I asked to speak to her?”

  “Shut up! Certainly she knows. She asked me to deliver that message. Or I would not have spoken to you myself. Now I too have a message for you—and don’t interrupt. My daughter is a respectable married woman whose husband has answered his country’s call. So don’t bang around her. Don’t come here or you’ll be met with a shotgun. Don’t telephone. Don’t go to her church. Maybe you think I can’t make this stick. Let me remind you that this is Kansas City. Two broken arms cost twenty-five dollars; for twice that they’ll kill you. But for a combined deal—break your arms first and then kill you—there’s a discount. I can afford sixty-two fifty if you make it necessary. Understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “So twenty-three skidoo!”

  “Hold it! Mr. Johnson, I do not believe that you would hire a man to kill another man—”

  “You had better not risk it.”

  “—because I think you would kill him yourself.”

  There was a pause. Then the old man chuckled slightly. “You may be right.” He hung up on Lazarus.

  Lazarus cranked his car and drove away. Presently he found that he was driving west on Linwood Boulevard, noticed it because he passed his family’s church. Where he had first seen Maureen—

  Where he would never see her again.

  Not ever! Not even if he came back again and tried to avoid the mistakes he had made—there were no paradoxes. Those mistakes were unalterably part of the fabric of space-time, and all of the subtleties of Andy’s mathematics, all of the powers built into the Dora, could not erase them.

  At Linwood Plaza, he parked short of Brooklyn Avenue and considered what to do next.

  Drive to the station and catch the next Santa Fe train west. If either of those calls for help lasted through the centuries, then he would be picked up on Monday morning—and this war and all its troubles would again be something that happened a long time ago—and “Ted Bronson” would be someone Gramp and Maureen had known briefly and would forget.

  Too bad he had not had time to get those messages etched; nevertheless, one of them might last. If not—then make rendezvous for pickup in 1926. Or if none of them got through —always a possibility since he was attempting to use Delay Mail before it was properly set up—then wait for 1929 and carry out rendezvous as originally planned. No problem about that; the twins and Dora were ready to keep that one, no matter what.

  Then why did he feel so bad?

  This wasn’t his war.

  Time enough and Gramp would know that the prediction he had blurted out was simple truth. In time Gramp would learn what French “gratitude” amounted to—when “Lafayette, we are here!” was forgotten and the refrain was “Pas un sou a l’Amérique!” Or British “gratitude” for that matter. There was no gratitude between nations, never had been, never would be. “Pro-German”? Hell, no, Gramp! There is something rotten at the very heart of German culture, and this war is going to lead to another with German atrocities a thousand times more terrible than any they are accused of today. Gas chambers and a stink of burning flesh in planned viciousness—A stench that lasted through the centuries—

  But there was no way to tell Gramp and Maureen any of this. Nor should he try. The best thing about the future was that it was unknown. Cassandra’s one good quality was that she was never believed.

  So why should it matter that two people who could not possibly know what he knew misunderstood why he thought this war was useless?

  But the fact was that it did matter—it mattered terribly.

  He felt the slight bulge against his left ribs. A defense for his goid—gold he did not give a damn about. But a “termination option” switch, too.

  Snap out of it, you silly fool! You don’t want to be dead; you simply want the approval of Gramp and Maureen.—of Maureen.

  The recruiting station was under the main post office, far downtown. Late as it was, it was still open, with a queue outside. Lazarus paid an old Negro a dollar to si
t in his car, warned him that there was a grip in the back, promised him another dollar when he got back—and did not mention the money vest and pistol, both now in the grip. But Lazarus did not worry about car or money—might be simpler if both were stolen. He joined the queue.

  “Name?”

  “Bronson, Theodore.”

  “Previous military experience?”

  “None.”

  “Age? No, date of birth—and it had better be before April 5, 1899.”

  “November 11, 1890.”

  “You don’t look that old, but okay. Take this paper and through that door. You’ll find sacks or pillow cases. Take your clothes off, put ‘em in one, keep ’em with you. Hand this to one of the docs and do what he tells you.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “Get moving. Next.”

  A doctor in uniform was assisted by six more in civilian clothes. Lazarus read the Snellen Card correctly, but the doctor did not seem to be listening; this seemed to be a “warm body” examination. Lazarus saw only one man rejected, one who was (in Lazarus’ horseback judgment) in the terminal stages of consumption.

  Only one physician seemed at all anxious to find defects. He had Lazarus bend over and pull his buttock cheeks apart, felt for hernias and made him cough, then palpated his belly. “What’s this hard mass on the right side?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Have you had your appendix out? Yes, I see the scar. Feel the ridge, rather; the scar hardly shows. You had a good surgeon; I wish I could do one that neat. Probably just a mass of fecal matter there; take a dose of calomel and you’ll be rid of it by morning.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Don’t mention it, Son. Next.”

  “Hold up your right hands and repeat after me. . . . . . . . ”

  “Hang onto these slips of paper. Be at the station before seven tomorrow morning, show your slip to a sergeant at the information desk; he’ll tell you where to board. If you lose your slip of paper, be there anyhow—or Uncle Sam will come looking for you. That’s all, men, you’re in the Army now! Out through that door.”

  His car was still there; the old Negro got out. “Eve’ything’s fine, Cap’m!”

  “It surely is,” Lazarus agreed heartily while getting out a dollar bill. “But it’s ‘Private,’ not ‘Captain.’ ”

  “They took you? In that case, I cain’t hahdly take youah dollah.”

  “Sure you can! I don’t need it; Uncle Sam is looking out for me for the ‘duration,’ and he’s going to pay me twenty-one dollars a month besides. So put this with the other one and buy gin and drink a toast to me—Private Ted Bronson.”

  “Ah couldn’t rightly do that, Cap’m—Private Ted Bronson, suh. Ah’m White Ribbon—Ah took the plaidge befoah you was bohn. You jes’ keep youah money and hang the Kaisuh fo’ us.”

  “I’ll try, Uncle. Let’s make this five dollars and you can give it to your church . . and say a prayer for me.”

  “Well . . if you say so, Cap’m Private.”

  Lazarus tooled south on McGee feeling happy. Never take little bites, enjoy life! “K-K-K- Katy! Beautiful Katy—”

  He stopped at a drugstore, looked over the cigar counter, spotted a nearly empty box of White Owls, bought the remaining cigars, asked to keep the box. He then bought a roll of cotton and a spool of surgical tape—and, on impulse, the biggest, fanciest box of candy in the store.

  His car was parked under an arc light; he let it stay there, got into the back seat, dug into his grip, got out vest and pistol, then started an un-tailoring job, indifferent to the chance of being seen. Five minutes with his pocketknife undid hours of tailoring; heavy coins clinked into the cigar box. He cushioned them with cotton, sealed the box and strengthened it by wrapping it with tape. The slashed vest, the pistol, and his ticket west went down a storm drain and the last of Lazarus’ worries went with them. He smiled as he stood up and brushed his knees. Son, you are getting old—why, you’ve been living cautiously!

  He drove gaily out Linwood to Benton, ignoring the city’s seventeen-miles-per-hour speed limit. He was pleased to see lights burning on the lower floor of the Brian Smith residence; he would not have to wake anyone. He went up the walk burdened with the candy box, the case for chessmen, and the taped cigar box. The porch light came on as he reached the steps; Brian Junior opened the door and looked out. “Grandpaw! It’s Mr. Bronson!”

  “Correction,” Lazarus said firmly. “Please tell your grandfather that Private Bronson is here.”

  Gramp appeared at once, looked at Lazarus suspiciously. “What is this? What did I hear you tell that boy?”

  “I asked him to announce ‘Private Bronson.’ Me.” Lazarus managed to get all three packages under his left arm, reached into a pocket, got out the slip of paper he had been given at the recruiting station. “Look at it.”

  Mr. Johnson read it. “I see. But why? Feeling the way you do.”

  “Mr. Johnson, I never said I was not going to enlist; I simply said I had things to do first. That was true, I did have. It’s true also that I have misgivings about the ultimate usefulness of this war. But regardless of any opinion—which I should have kept to myself—the time has come to close ranks and move forward together. So I went down and volunteered and they accepted me.”

  Mr. Johnson handed back the recruitment form, opened the door wide. “Come in, Ted!”

  Lazarus saw heads disappearing as he came in; apparently most of the family was still up. His grandfather ushered him into the parlor. “Please sit down. I must go tell my daughter.”

  “If Mrs. Smith has retired, I would not want her to be disturbed,” Lazarus lied. (Hell, no, Gramp! I’d rather crawl in with her. But that’s one secret I’ll keep forever.)

  “Never you mind. This is something she will want to know. Uh, that piece of paper—may I have it to show her?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Lazarus waited. Ira Johnson returned in a few minutes, handed back the proof of enlistment. “She’ll be down shortly.” The old man sighed. “Ted, I’m proud of you. Earlier today you had me upset—and I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry—I apologize.”

  “I can’t accept it because there is nothing to apologize for, sir. I spoke hastily and did not make myself clear. Can we forget it? Will you shake hands with me?”

  “Eh? Yes. Surely! Mrrph!” Solemnly they shook hands. (Maybe Gramp could still straight-arm an anvil—my fingers are crushed.)

  “Mr. Johnson, would you take care of some things for me? Things I didn’t have time to do?”

  “Eh? Certainly!”

  “This box, mainly.” Lazarus handed him the taped cigar box.

  Mr. Johnson took it, his eyebrows shot up. “Heavy.”

  “I cleaned out my lockbox. Gold coins. I’ll pick it up when the war is over . . or if I don’t, will you give it to Woodie? When he’s twenty-one?”

  “What? Now, now, Son, you’ll come through all right.”

  “I plan to, and I’ll pick it up then. But I might fall down a ladder in a troopship and break my silly neck. Will you do it?”

  “Yes, I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you, sir. This is for Woodie right now. My chessmen. I can’t pack them around. I’d give them to you except that you would think up some reason not to take them but Woodie won’t.”

  “Mrrph. Very well, sir.”

  “Here’s one thing that is for you—but it’s not quite what it seems.” Lazarus handed over the bill of sale for the landaulet.

  Mr. Johnson read it. “Ted, if you’re trying to give me your automobile, you can think again.”

  “That’s only a nominal conveyance of title, sir. What I would like is to leave it with you. Brian can drive it; he’s a good driver now, he’s a natural. You can drive it; even Mrs. Smith might want to learn. When Lieutenant Smith is home, he may find it convenient. But if they send me for training anywhere near here and I get time off before I’m sent overseas, I’d like to feel free to use it myself.�
��

  “But why hand me a bill of sale? Sure, it can sit in the barn . . and no doubt Brian—both of them—would drive it. Might learn to herd it myself. But no need for this.”

  “Oh. I didn’t make myself clear. Suppose I’m off somewhere, say in New Jersey—but want to sell it. I can drop you a penny postcard, and it’s easy, because you’ll have that.” Lazarus added thoughtfully, “Or I might fall down that ladder . . in which case the same reasoning applies. If you don’t want it, you can sign it over to Brian Junior. Or whatever. Mr. Johnson, you know I don’t have any relatives—so why not let it run easy?”

  Before Gramp could reply, Mrs. Smith came in, dressed in her best and smiling (and had been crying, Lazarus felt certain). She extended her hand. “Mr. Bronson! We are all so proud of you!”

  Her voice, her fragrance, the touch of her hand, her proud joy, all hit Lazarus in the gut; his careful conditioning was swept away. (Maureen beloved, it’s lucky that I’m being sent away at once. Safer for you, better all around. But I did it to make you proud of me, and now my cup runneth over—and please ask me to sit down before Gramp notices the tilt of my kilt!)

  “Thank you, Mrs. Smith. I just stopped by to say thank you and good-bye—and good night, too, as I’m shipping out early tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, do please sit down! Coffee at least, and the children will want to say good-bye to you, too.”

  An hour later he was still there and still happier—happy all through. The candy had been opened after he had presented it to Carol for all of them. Lazarus had drunk much coffee thick with cream and sugar and had eaten a hefty slice of home-baked white cake with chocolate icing, then accepted a second while admitting that he had not eaten since breakfast —then protested when Maureen wanted to jump up and cook. They reached a compromise under which Carol went out to make a sandwich for him.

  “It’s been a confusing day,” he explained, “and I haven’t had time to eat. You caused me to change plans, Mr. Johnson.”

  “I did, Ted? How?”

  “You know—I think I’ve told you both—that I planned to make a business trip to San Francisco leaving the first of July. Then this happens—Congress declaring war—and I decided to make the trip at once, settle my affairs there—then enlist. When I saw you I was all set to leave, packed and everything —and you made me realize that the Kaiser wouldn’t wait while I took care of private affairs. So I joined up at once.” Lazarus managed to look sheepish. “My packed grip is still out in the car, going nowhere.”