Time Enough for Love

by Robert A. Heinlein

  “That’s comforting. How many babies?”

  “Nosy little girl. You’re going to have quite a number yet yourself, Grandmother, and I won’t answer that, either. I withdraw the question about the pregnancy rule.”

  “Secret, Lazarus—”

  “Better start calling me ‘Theodore.’ We’ll be home soon.”

  “Yes, sir, Staff Sergeant Theodore Bronson, your lecherous old great-great-great-grandmother will be careful. How many ‘greats’ should there be in that?”

  “Sweetheart, do you want that answered? If it had not been necessary to calm your fears about Brian, I would have stayed ‘Ted Bronson.’ I like being your Theodore.’ I’m not sure that being a mysterious man from the future is going to be as comfortable. Especially if you think of me as some remote descendant. I’m here beside you, not in some far future.”

  “Beside me. Touching me. And yet you’re not even born yet—are you? And in your time . . I’m long dead. You even know when I will die. You said so. You just won’t tell me when.”

  “Oh, confound it, Maureen; that’s wrong all the way through! That’s what comes of admitting that I’ve time-traveled. But I had to. For you.”

  “I’m sorry, Laz—Theodore my warrior. I won’t ask any more questions.”

  “Sweetheart, the fact that I am here means that you’re not dead. And I certainly was born; pinch me and find out. All ‘nows’ are equal; that is the basic theorem of time travel. They don’t disappear; both ‘past’ and ‘future’ are mathematical abstractions; the ‘now’ is always all there is. As for knowing the day you died—or will die; it’s the same thing—I don’t. I just know that you had—have—will have—many children, and you live a long time . . and your hair never gets gray. But the Foundation lost track of you—will lose track of you—and your date of death never got into the records. Maybe you moved and didn’t tell the Foundation. Shucks, maybe I came back—will come back—and picked you up in your old age, and took you to Tertius.”

  “Where?”

  “My home. I think you would like it there. You could run around all day, dressed—undressed—as a French postcard.”

  “I’m sure I would like that now. But I don’t think I would, as an old woman.”

  “All you would have to do is to ask Ishtar for rejuvenation. I told you what she did for Tamara . . when her breasts hung down to her waist and were empty sacks. But look at Tamara now-that ‘now’—pregnant again, just like a kid. But forget it—if it did happen, it will happen. Mama Maureen—I’m durned if I’ll call you ‘Grandmother’ again—all I’m sure of is that I’m not sure of the date of your death, and I’m glad I’m not, and you should be. Nor of my death, and I’m glad of that, too. Carpe diem! We’re almost home and you started to say something and I said to call me Theodore’ and we got off the track. Was it about Tamara?”

  “Oh, yes! Theodore? When you go home to wherever your home is, can you take anything with you? Or does it have to be just you?”

  “Why, no. I arrived with clothes and money.”

  “I’d like to send a little present to Tamara. But I can’t guess what she would want . . from this time to that wonderful age of yours. Can you suggest something?”

  “Mmm . . Tamara would treasure anything from you. She knows she’s descended from you, and she’s the most warmly sentimental of all my family. It should be something small enough to carry on my person, even in the trenches, as I’m always ready to abandon anything I’m not carrying—have to be. Not jewelry. Tamara would not value a diamond bracelet one whit more than a hairpin . . but she would treasure a hairpin that I could tell her I had seen you wearing. Something small, something you’ve worn. Look, send her a garter! Perfect! One of these you have on.”

  “Mayn’t I send her a brand-new pair? Oh, I’ll slip them on for a moment, so that you can tell her truthfully that I’ve worn them. But these—Not only are they rather old and worn but I’ve perspired right through them tonight. They’re not fresh and clean. And they do have naughty mottoes on them.”

  “No, no, one of these. Sweetheart, ‘naughty’ today can’t be naughty on Tertius; I’ll have to explain any naughtiness to Tamara. As for perspiration, I hope that some trace of your sweet fragrance clings to them until I can get them to her; that would delight Tamara. You say this pair is old? Maureen, by any chance are they about six years old?”

  “I told you I was sentimental, Theodore. Yes, this is the same pair. Old and faded and worn and I’ve replaced the elastic—but the same pair; I picked them to wear for you.”

  “Then I want one of them for me!”

  “Beloved Theodore. I planned to offer you both of them. That’s why I suggested a new pair for Tamara. Very well, dear, one for you, one for her. As soon as we’re home. I’ll trot upstairs, and when I come down, I’ll have a present for you and will tell you not to open it until you’re back at Camp Funston. You just say thank you and go straight to your room and put it into your grip. I see a light on the front porch, so now I must push my skirts down and be the prim and proper Mrs. Brian Smith. With a smoldering volcano inside her! Thank you, Staff Sergeant Bronson. You have given my son and me a most enjoyable evening.”

  “Thank you, pretty little pussycat in green garters and no bloomers. Will you grab the Teddy bear and the Kewpie doll while I carry our chaperon?”

  Ira Johnson and Nancy were not yet home. Brian Junior relieved Lazarus of the limp child and carried him upstairs. Carol went along to put Woodie to bed after exacting a promise from “Uncle Ted” not to go to bed before she came back. George wanted to know where they had gone and what they had done, but Lazarus put him off with a promise and used the chance to repair to his tiny bath and repair himself.

  Hair a bit mussed—Thank God respectable women did not use lipstick. Uniform slightly wrinkled, nothing damning about that. Five minutes later, refreshed and certain there were no feathers on his chin, Lazarus returned to the front of the house and offered George and Brian Junior an account of the evening truthful in everything he said.

  He had just started when Carol came down and listened too; then Mrs. Smith rejoined them, moving regally as always and carrying a little package wrapped in tissue paper. “A surprise for you, Sergeant Theodore—please don’t open it until you are back at camp.”

  “Then I had better put it into my grip right now.”

  “If you wish, sir. I think it’s bedtime, dears.”

  “Yes, Mama,” agreed Carol. “But Uncle Ted was telling us how you knocked down all the milk bottles.”

  “He says you should pitch for the Blues, Mama!” added George.

  “All right, fifteen minutes.”

  “Mrs. Smith,” said Lazarus, “you ought not to start your stopwatch on us until I get back.”

  “You’re as bad as the rest of my children, Sergeant. Very well.”

  Lazarus put the package into his grip, locked it from long habit, and returned. Nancy and her young man arrived; Lazarus was introduced while looking over Jonathan Weatheral with real interest. Pleasant young fellow, a bit on the gawky side—Tamara and Ira will be interested, so let’s photograph him by eye, be able to sketch him, and remember any word he says.

  Mrs. Smith urged her prospective son-in-law into the parlor while cutting Nancy out of the herd; Lazarus resumed describing what they had done at the amusement park while Jonathan looked politely bored. Mrs. Smith returned, carrying a laden tray and said, “That fifteen minutes is up, dears. Jonathan, Nancy wants you to help her with something; will you see what it is? She’s in the kitchen.”

  Brian Junior asked if he could put the car into the barn. “Sergeant Uncle Ted, I haven’t let your car sit out at the curb at night, not once. But I’ll get it out for you, first thing in the morning; it’s kind o’ tricky, sort of a ‘Z’ turn, you have to back and fill.”

  Lazarus thanked him, kissed Carol good-night, as she was clearly expecting it. George couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether he had outgrown kissing or not, so Laza
rus settled it by shaking hands and telling him he had quite a grip on him. At that point Mr. Johnson got home, and the good-nights started over.

  Five minutes later Mrs. Smith, her father, and Lazarus were seated in the parlor over coffee and cake, and Lazarus was suddenly reminded of the first night he had been invited in. Save that the men were now in uniform the tableau was the same; each was seated in the spot he had been in that night, Mrs. Smith presided over the “company” coffee service with the same serene dignity; even the refreshments were the same. He looked for changes, could find only three: His elephant was not back of Mrs. Smith’s chair, the prizes they had won at the amusement park were on a table near the door, and sheet music for “Hello, Central, Give Me No Man’s Land” was open on the piano.

  “You were late tonight, Father.”

  “Seven recruits, and I had just the usual sizes for them, too large and too small. Ted, we get what the Army doesn’t want. Proper, of course. We now have Lewis guns for the machine-gun companies and enough Springfields to go around; we are beginning to look less like Villa’s bandits, I’m not complaining. Daughter, what are those things on that table? They look out of place.”

  “The Kewpie doll I won myself, so I’m thinking of giving it a place of honor on top of the piano. The Teddy Roosevelt bear was won by Sergeant Theodore; perhaps he’s taking it to France with him. Electric Park, Father, and I don’t think it cost Sergeant Theodore more than twice what the prizes are worth for us to win them; we had a lucky night—and a very gay one.”

  Lazarus could see the old man starting to cloud up—in public with a bachelor? With her husband away? So he spoke up:

  “I can’t take it to France, Mrs. Smith; I made a deal with Woodie—don’t you remember? My Teddy bear for his elephant. I assume it’s a firm deal; he carried it from then on.”

  Mr. Johnson said, “If you didn’t get it in writing, Ted, he’ll hornswoggle you. Do I understand that Woodie went to Electric Park with you two?”

  “Yes, sir. Between ourselves I expect to leave the elephant in Woodie’s custody for the duration. But I’m going to dicker with him first.”

  “He’ll still hornswoggle you. Maureen, the idea was to give you relief from the children. Especially Woodie. What in Ned possessed you to take him along?”

  “We didn’t exactly take him along, Father; he was a stowaway.” She gave her father an accurate account, save that she left out certain things and did not include a timetable.

  Mr. Johnson shook his head and looked pleased. “That boy will go far—if they don’t hang him first. Maureen, you should have spanked him and fetched him home. Then you and Ted should have gone on with your ride.”

  “Oh, fuss, Father, I did have my ride and a very nice one; I made Woodrow sit in the back seat and keep quiet. Then I had a gay time at the park, a bonus I would not have had if Woodrow had not invited himself along.”

  “Woodie had some justice on his side,” Lazarus admitted. “I did promise him an outing at Electric Park, then never kept my promise.”

  “Should have whacked him.”

  “It’s too late for that, Father. And we did have fun. We ran into some people from church, too—Lauretta and Clyde Simpson.”

  “That old witch! She’ll gossip about you, Maureen.”

  “I think not. We chatted while Woodie rode the miniature train. But you might remember that Sergeant Bronson is your eldest sister’s son.”

  Ira Johnson raised his eyebrows, then chuckled. “Samantha would be surprised—if she were still with us. Ted, my eldest sister was thrown by a horse she was trying to break . . at eighty-five. She lingered awhile, then turned her face to the wall and refused to eat. Very well, I’ll remember. Ted, this is better than blaming my gay-dog brother and still harder to check on; Samantha lived in Illinois, wore out three husbands, and one of them could have been named Bronson for all anyone here would know. Do you mind? Gives you a family of sorts.”

  “I don’t mind. Although I like to think of this family as my family.”

  “And we like to have you think of us that way, Son. Maureen, is our young lady home?”

  “Just before you got home, Father. They are in the kitchen, on the excuse that she wanted to make a sandwich for Jonathan. Since I’m sure it’s an excuse to stay out there and spoon, I suggest that, if you want something from the kitchen, you allow me to fetch it; I’ll be noisy enough to let Nancy jump off his lap. Theodore, Nancy is engaged; we just haven’t made a formal announcement. I think it’s best to let them marry now, since he’ll be joining the Army almost at once. What do you think?”

  “I’m hardly entitled to an opinion, Mrs. Smith. I hope they will be happy.”

  “They will be,” said Mr. Johnson. “He’s a fine lad. I tried to sign him into the Seventh, but he insisted on waiting for his birthday so he could go straight into the Army. Even though he couldn’t be drafted for another three years. Spirit. I like him. Ted, if you need to go to your room, you can go around this other way and avoid the kitchen.”

  A few minutes later the young people came out of the kitchen, made polite sounds without sitting down; then Nancy stepped out onto the porch to say good-night to her swain, came back in, and sat down.

  Mr. Johnson smothered a yawn. “Time I hit the hay. You will too, Ted, if you’re smart. Too noisy around here to sleep late, especially where your room is.”

  Nancy said quickly, “I’ll keep the young ones quiet, Grandpa, so Uncle Ted can sleep.”

  Lazarus stood up. “Thank you, Nancy, but I didn’t get much rest on the train last night; I think I’ll go right to bed. Don’t worry about keeping quiet in the morning; I’ll wake up at reveille time anyhow. Habit.”

  Mrs. Smith stood up. “We’ll all go to bed.”

  Mr. Johnson shook hands as he said good-night; Mrs. Smith gave Lazarus a symbolic peck on the cheek such as she had given him on arrival, thanked him for a lovely evening, and urged him to turn over and go back to sleep if the reveille habit wakened him; Nancy hung back and kissed him good-night as her elders started up the stairs.

  Lazarus went to his room and on into his bath. Maureen had told him not to hesitate to draw a tub; it would not wake the children. He started one, went back and opened his grip, got out the little package, took it into the bath and threw the bolt, there being no key in the bedroom door. It was a small flat box such as garters might come in; he opened it carefully, intending to rewrap it exactly as it had been.

  Ah, the garters! Faded, as she had said, and clearly not new . . and—Yes!—redolent with her own evocative fragrance. Would it last long enough for him to get it home, have the lovely, delicate aroma analyzed, amplified, and fixed? Probably—and with computer help a skilled scentologist could separate out the odors of satin and rubber, and amplify hers selectively. He would have to go to Secundus for such expert help. Worth the trip and then some!

  Now let’s see those “naughty” mottoes—One read: “Open All Hours—Ring Bell for Service!”—the other: "Welcome! Come in and Stir the Fire.“ Sweet darling, those aren’t “naughty.”

  A plain envelope under the garters—He laid them aside and opened it.

  A plain white card: “Best I could do, Beloved. M.”

  A photograph, amateur work but excellent quality for this here-&-now: Maureen herself, outdoors in bright sunlight against a background of thick bushes. She was standing gracefully, smiling and looking at the camera—dressed only in her “French postcard” style. Lazarus felt a burst of passion. Why, you generous, trusting darling! Not your only copy? No, Brian would have made more than one print—undoubtedly had one with him. This print would have been locked somewhere in your bedroom. Yes, your waist is slender without a corset . . and those are not broken down; they are lovely—and I’m certain what caused your happy smile. Thank you, thank you!

  With the photograph was a little flat package in tissue paper. He opened it gently. A thick lock of red hair, tied with a green ribbon. The lock curled in a tight circle.


  Lazarus stared at it. Maureen my beloved, this is the most precious gift of all—but I do hope you cut it so carefully that Brian won’t notice it’s missing.

  He looked at each of her gifts again, restored them just as they had been, put the box into the bottom of his grip, locked it, turned off the tub, undressed, and got into the water.

  But a lukewarm tub did not make him sleep. For a long time he lay in darkness and relived the past few hours.

  He now felt that he understood Maureen. She was relaxed with what she was—“liked herself” as Lazarus thought of it—and liking yourself was the necessary first step toward loving other people. She had no guilt feelings because she never did anything that could make her feel guilty. She was unblinkingly honest with herself, was her own self-judge instead of looking to others, did not lie to herself—but lied to others without hesitation when needed for kindness or to get along with rules she had not made and did not respect.

  Lazarus understood that; he lived the same way—and now knew where he got the trait. From Maureen . . and through her, from Gramp. And from Pop, too—reinforced. He felt very happy, despite an unsatisfied ache in his loins. Or in part because of it, he corrected; he found that he cherished that ache.

  When the doorknob turned, he was instantly alert, out of bed and waiting before the door opened.

  She was in his arms, warm and fragrant.

  She pulled back to shrug off her wrap, let it fall, came back into his arms, body to body, and gave her mouth fully.

  When they broke the kiss, she stayed in his arms, clinging. He whispered huskily, “Why did you risk it?”

  She answered softly, “I found that I must. Once I knew that, I realized that it was even less risk than our walnut tree. The children never come downstairs at night when we have a guest. Father may suspect me . . but that makes it certain that he won’t check on me. Don’t worry, darling. Take me to bed. Now!”