To Sail Beyond the Sunset

by Robert A. Heinlein

  The house had—mirabile visu!—two hot water heaters, one for upstairs, one for kitchen, laundry room, and maid’s bath. I tried a tap and was amazed to discover that the water was hot. George Strong said, “After you called yesterday I instructed our maintenance foreman to have services turned on and the house aired. You could sleep here tonight if you so wished.”

  “We’ll see.” I took a quick look in the basement and we left.

  George Strong treated us to a lovely lunch in The Fiesta Patio in the Plaza, then at my request we were taken to Dr. Rumsey’s office. I spoke to Jim Rumsey and told him what in particular I wanted him to look for—I can be truthful with Dr. Rumsey, thank goodness, since he understands Howard problems. “Don’t tell her whether or not she is pregnant; tell me. She’s a difficult case; I need leverage. Do you want to know her real age?”

  “You forget that I know it. I’ll try not to let that fact affect my judgment.”

  “Jim, you’re a comfort.” I kissed him good-bye, went out and spoke to my youngsters:

  “Just sit tight and wait. He has other patients ahead of you. When you are through, make your best of way home.”

  “You’re not picking us up?” Priscilla seemed amazed. “I thought we were going shopping?”

  “No, we’ve run out of time. Perhaps we’ll go to the Plaza after dinner; I believe Sears is open late.”

  “‘Sears.’”

  “Do you have something against Sears?”

  “Aunt Marian never shops at Sears.”

  “That’s interesting. I’ll see you at home. You can walk or take the bus.”

  “Wait a moment! Did you tell the doctor that I don’t want to be poked?”

  “On the contrary, I told him that if you gave him any lip or showed any lack of cooperation, I wanted him to tell me.”

  Priscilla pouted. “I thought that you were going to pick us up and go shopping and then we were going back and decide which house to rent.”

  “I am about to decide that right now, while you two take your physicals.”

  “You mean we don’t get a vote?”

  “Did you think that we were going to vote on it? All right, we’ll vote by the rules of the Republic of Gondor. For each dollar each interested party invests in the deal he or she gets one vote. How many votes do you want to buy?”

  “Huh? Why, I think that’s mean!”

  “Priscilla, it has never been in the Bill of Rights that minor dependents get to pick the family domicile. And, while I do not know how Aunt Marian ran things, in my household I make such decisions. I may consult others; I may not. If I do consult others, I am not bound by their opinions. Understand me?”

  Priscilla did not answer. Donald said quietly, “Slugger, you’re crowding your luck.”

  I rejoined George at his car; he handed me in. “Where now, dear lady?”

  “I would like to look again at the furnished house.”

  “Good.”

  We rode in silence. George Strong was a comfortable man to be with; he had no small talk. Presently I said, “Did you bring those two envelopes?”

  “Yes. Do you want them now? If so, I had better park. They are in a concealed zipper pocket, rather hard to reach.”

  “No, I was just checking, before we got too far from your office.”

  When we reached the house, I went upstairs with George at my heels, and into the master bedroom. I started undressing; his face lit up. “Maureen, I had hoped that you had this in mind.” He sighed happily and started reaching for fastenings himself. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long. I’ve been overwhelmed with mother problems and with school. But school is over for me, for a long time at least, and my mothering problems I have under control—I hope—and I’ll have more time, if you want me.”

  “I’ll always want you!”

  “I’ve been thinking about you and your sweet ways all day. But I had to park the children first. Do you want to undress me? Or shall we both hurry and see how quickly we can be in bed?”

  “What a choice to have to make!”

  George wasn’t the greatest bedroom artist in the world, but in the six years I had been his now-and-then mistress, he had never left me hanging on the fence. He was an attentive and considerate lover and he took as his prime purpose being certain that his partner in bed reached orgasm.

  If he was no Adonis, I was no Venus. When I was Priscilla’s age, I looked pretty good—as tasty as she did, I think. But now (1952) I was seventy and a simulated forty-seven, and did look past forty despite special effort. An older woman must work at it, just as George worked at it (and I did appreciate his efforts). She must keep her breath sweet, her inner muscles in good tone, her voice low and mellow, her smile ready and her frown never, and her attitude friendly and cooperative. Father had told me, “Widows are far better than brides. They don’t tell, they won’t yell, they don’t swell, they rarely smell, and they’re grateful as hell.”

  That’s Maureen Johnson from 1946 to 1982. When I first heard Father’s bawdy formula I was simply amused by it and never expected it to apply to me…until that sour day that Brian let me know that his younger concubine had displaced me. Then I found that Father’s joking description was the simple truth. So I became an available “emergency squaw.” I worked hard at being agreeable and smelling good. And I didn’t insist on Adonis, just a friendly fair exchange with a gentleman. (Never an oaf, never a wimp!)

  I always left time for a second one, if he wanted it. He wants it, if you have done the job on him you should do. The reason American men are such lousy lovers is that American women are such lousy lovers. And vice versa, and around and around. “Garbage in, garbage out.” You get what you pay for.

  That twenty minutes to an hour between goes is the best time in the world for intimate talk.

  “Want first crack at the bathroom?” I asked.

  “No hurry,” George answered, his voice rumbling in his chest (I had my right ear against it). “How about you?”

  “No rush. George, that was a goody. And just what I needed. Thank you, sir.”

  “Maureen, you’re the one Shakespeare had in mind. ‘—Where other women satiate, she most makes hungry.’”

  “Go along with you, sir.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Tell me enough times and I’ll believe it. George, when you do get up, would you please get those envelopes? Wait a moment. Do you have time today for a second one?”

  “I have time. That is what time is for.”

  “All right. I did not want to waste time in bed talking business if you were in a hurry. Because I do know ways to get you up again quickly if you are in a hurry.”

  “You do indeed! But I got a day’s work done before ten in order to devote the rest of the day to Maureen.” He got up, got the two envelopes, came back, offered them to me.

  I said, “No, I don’t want to touch them. George, please examine them. Is there any way I could have tampered with them?”

  “I don’t see how you could have. They have been in my possession continuously since July fourth, 1947.” He smiled at me, and I smiled back—that was the date of the second time we had been in bed together. “Your birthday, girl, and you gave me a present.”

  “No, we exchanged presents, to our mutual profit. Examine the envelopes, George—have they been tampered with? No, don’t come closer. I might bewitch them.”

  He looked them over. “The flap seal has both our signatures written across it, on each envelope. I know my signature and I saw you sign under mine. I do not see how even Houdini could have opened them.”

  “Please open number one, George, and read it aloud…and keep it. Put it back into your zipper pocket.”

  “Whatever you say, dear girl.” He opened it and read, “‘July 4, 1947. In the spring of 1951 a man calling himself “Dr. Pinero” will infuriate both scientists and insurance men by claiming to be able to predict the date of any person’s death. He will set up in business in this sort of fortu
netelling. For several months he will enjoy great business success. Then he will be killed or die in an accident and his apparatus will be destroyed. Maureen Johnson.’”

  (As George read aloud, I thought back to that Saturday night, the twenty-ninth of June, 1918. Brian slept part of the time; Theodore and I not at all. Every now and then I ducked into the bath, recorded in crisp Pitmann everything Theodore had told me—many details that he had not given to Judge Sperling and Justin and Mr. Chapman.)

  George said, “Interesting. I never did believe that this Doctor Pinero could do what he claimed to do. It must have been some complex hoax.”

  “That’s not the point, George.” (I did not speak sharply.)

  “Eh?”

  “It does not matter now whether he was a charlatan or not; the man is dead, his apparatus destroyed, none of his notes remains. So said Time magazine and all the newspapers. All this happened last year, 1951. That envelope has been in your custody since July 1947, four years ago: How did I do it?”

  He answered mildly, “I wondered about that. Are you going to tell me?”

  (Certainly, George. This man from the stars and the future came to me and made love to me and told me these things because he thought they could help me. And then he died, killed in a war that wasn’t his. For me. [Only now I know that he went back to the stars and I lost him…and found him…and now I’m lost again, in a darkened lorry with a screwball cat. Pixel, don’t go away again!])

  “George, I’m a soothsayer.”

  “A soothsayer. That’s a fortuneteller.”

  “Literally it means one who speaks the truth. But I am a prophet, rather than a fortuneteller. All those envelopes contain prophecies. Now for envelope number two. Don’t open it quite yet. George, have I been in your office in the past month?”

  “Not to my knowledge. The only time you were ever in it, that I can recall, was about two years ago. We had a dinner date and it suited you to stop by my office rather than be picked up.”

  “That’s right. You read the Wall Street Journal, I’m sure. You are a director of the corporation managing the paradise atomic power plant; I suspect that you read the Journal pretty carefully concerning public power matters.”

  “That’s true. Managing business involves studying all sorts of finicky details.”

  “What is new in the public power business lately?”

  “Nothing much. The usual ups and downs.”

  “Any new power sources?”

  “No, nothing significant. Some experimental windmills, but windmills, even improved ones, can’t be classed as new.”

  “How about sunpower, George?”

  “Sunpower? Oh! Yes, there was a feature story in the Wall Street Journal. Eh…sunpower screens. Direct conversion of sunlight to electricity. Uh, two long-hair scientists, Dr. Archibald Douglas and Dr. M. L. Martin. Maureen, their gadget will never amount to anything. If you are considering it, don’t risk any money on it. Do you realize how much of the time it is cloudy, how many hours are dark, how smog cuts into the potential? You wind up with—”

  “George. Open the second envelope.”

  He did so. “‘Two scientists, Douglas and Martin, will develop conversion of sunlight into electricity at high efficiency. Douglas-Martin Sunpower Screens will revolutionize public power and strongly affect everything else for the rest of the twentieth century.’ Maureen, I just can’t see how such an inefficient source—”

  “George, George! How did I know, in 1947, about these sunpower gadgets disclosed just this year? How did I get the names right? Douglas. Martin.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I told you and now I’ll repeat it. I am a prophet. Envelope number three tells Harriman Industries how to cash in on the Douglas-Martin Sunpower Screens. The next three envelopes concern power, public power, big power—and the changes coming that you won’t believe. But you will have to believe when we open those envelopes one by one. The question is: Will we open them after the fact, as with these two—and then all I could say is ‘I told you so’—or do we open each one long enough before the fact that my prophecy is useful to you?”

  “I’m getting chilly. Shall I get dressed, or come back to bed?”

  “Oh, dear! I’ve talked business too long. Come to bed, George, and let me try to make it up to you.”

  He did and we cuddled, but the essential miracle did not take place. At last I said, “Shall I apply a little direct magic? Or would you rather rest?”

  “Maureen, what is it you want from Harriman Industries? You have not done this just to perplex me.”

  “Of course not, George. I want to be elected a director of Harriman Industries, the holding company. Later on you will need me on the board of some of the corporations being held by it. However, I will continue to decide how to time prophecies…as timing is everything.”

  “A director. There are no women on the board.”

  “There will be when you nominate me and I am elected.”

  “Maureen, please! All directors are major stockholders.”

  “How much stock does it take to be eligible?”

  “One share complies with the rules. But company policy calls for major ownership. In the holding company or any of its subsidiaries.”

  “How much? Shares. No, dollar value by the market; the various corporate shares are not all the same value per share. Not any, I should say.”

  “Uh, Mr. Harriman and I think a director should own, or acquire soon after election, at least half a million in market value of shares. It fixes his attention on what he is voting on.”

  “George, on Monday at the close of market my summed up position in all of your companies was $872,039.81—I can bring that up to an even million in a few days if it would help to smooth the way.”

  George’s eyebrows went way up. “Maureen, I didn’t know that you owned any of our stock. I should have spotted your name in connection with any large block.”

  “I use dummies. Some in Zurich, some in Canada, some in New York. I can get it all into my own name if there is any reason to.”

  “We’ll need some intelligences filed with us, at least. Maureen, am I free to tell Mr. Harriman about your envelopes? Your prophecies?”

  “How would he feel about them?”

  “I’m not sure. He and I have been in business together since the twenties…but I don’t know him. He’s a plunger… I’m a plough horse.”

  “Well, let’s keep it a bedroom secret for now. Perhaps you will want to open the next envelope in his presence. Or perhaps not. George, if the public, particularly the Street, got hold of the idea that you were making business decisions on the advice of a soothsayer, it might damage Harriman Industries, might it not?”

  “I think you’re right. All right, bedroom secret.” He suddenly smiled. “But if I said that I consulted an astrologer, half of those knotheads would consider it ‘scientific.’”

  “And now let’s drop it, and let me see if I can get our plough horse interested in ploughing me. George, do all the men in your family have oversize penises?”

  “Not that I know of and I think you are trying to flatter me.”

  “Well, it seems big to me. Hey! It’s getting bigger!”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  Serpent’s Tooth

  My problems for the next ten years were Princess Polly, Priscilla, Donald, George Strong…and a curious metaphysical problem I still don’t know how to resolve—or how I should have resolved it, although I have talked it over in depth with my husband and friend Dr. Jubal Harshaw and with some of the finest mathematico-manipulative cosmologists in any universe, starting with Elizabeth “Slipstick Libby” Long. It involves the age-old pseudo-paradox of free will and predestination.

  Free will is a fact, while you are living it. And predestination is a fact when you look at any sequence from outside.

  But in World-as-Myth neither “free will” nor “predestination” have meaning. Each is semantically null. If we ar
e simply patterns of fictions put together by fabulists, then one may as well speak of “free will” for pieces in a chess game. After the game is history and the chessmen have been placed back in the box, does the Red Queen lose sleep moaning “Oh, I should never have taken that pawn!”

  Ridiculous.

  I am not an assemblage of fictions. I was not created by a fabulist. I am a human woman, daughter of human parents, and mother of seventeen boys and girls in my first life and mother of still more in my first rejuvenation. If I am controlled by destiny, then that destiny lies in my genes…not in the broodings of some near-sighted introvert hunched over a roboscriber.

  The trouble was that there came a time as we neared the end of the decade that I realized that Theodore had told me about a tragedy that possibly could be prevented. Or could it? Could I use my free will to break the golden chains of predestination? Could I use my foreknowledge that something was going to happen to cause it not to happen?

  Let’s turn it upside down—If I keep something from happening, how could I have foreknowledge of something that never happened?

  Don’t try to sort that out; you’ll bite your own tail.

  Is it ever possible to avoid an appointment in Samarra?

  I knew that the power satellite was going to blow up, killing everybody aboard. But in 1952 no one else knew there ever would be a power satellite. In 1952 it was not even a blueprint.

  What was my duty?

  On Friday Dr. Rumsey told me that Priscilla was not pregnant and that she was physically old enough to be bred and that he was willing to support a delayed birth certificate, if I wanted her to have one, showing an age anywhere from thirteen to nineteen…but that in his opinion she was childish in her attitudes.