Time Enough for Love (10 page)

“Very simple. I’ll choose something
I
would like to see a long-legged beautiful blonde wear.”

He was surprised to see how little Ishtar had in her wardrobe. In all his varied experience with women she was the only one he could remember who seemed to lack the vanity needed to buy unnecessary clothes. As he searched, mind preoccupied, he hummed and then sang a snatch of doggerel.

Ishtar said, “You speak his milk language!”

“Eh? What? Whose? The Senior’s? I certainly don’t. But I must learn it, I suppose.”

“But you were singing in it. A little song he always sings when he’s busy with something.”

“You mean this? ‘Therza
pooly
awl… Bytha
paun
shot—’ I have a phonographic ear, that’s all; I don’t understand the words. What do they mean?”

“I’m not sure they mean anything. Most of them are not in the vocabulary I’ve learned so far. I suspect that it is just amphigoric rhythm, a self-tranquilizer. Semantically null.”

“On the other hand, it might be a key to understanding him. Have you tried asking a computer?”

“Galahad, I haven’t been given access to the computer that records what goes on in his suite. But I doubt if anyone can understand him, in depth. He’s a primitive, dear—a living fossil.”

“I would certainly like to try to understand him. This language he uses—Is it difficult?”

“Very. Irrational, complicated syntax, and so loaded with idioms and multivalues that I trip even on words I think I know. I wish I had your recording ear.”

“The Chairman Pro Tem seemed to have no difficulty.”

“I think he has a special talent for languages. But if you want to try, dear, I have the instructional programs here.”

“Accepted! What is this? A party dress?”

“That? That’s not clothing. I bought it as a throw cover for a couch—then got it home and saw that it did not fit my lounging room.”

“It’s a dress. Stand there and hold still.”

“Don’t
tickle!
”

Affairs of State

Despite what I told the Senior, my ancestor Grandfather Lazarus, I work hard in governing Secundus. But only in thinking about policy and in judging the work of others. I don’t do donkey work; I leave that to professional administrators. Even so, the problems of a planet with more than a billion people can keep a man busy, especially if his intention is to govern as little as possible—as that means he must keep a sharp eye out and his ear tuned for signs that subordinates are doing unnecessary governing. Half my time is used in the negative work of plucking such officious officials and ordering that they never again serve in any public capacity.

Then I usually abolish their jobs, and all jobs subordinate to them.

I have never noticed any harm from such pruning save that parasites whose jobs are eliminated must find some other way to avoid starvation. (They are welcome to starve—better if they do. But they don’t.)

The important thing is to spot these malignant growths and remove them while they are small. The more skill a Chairman Pro Tem acquires in this, the more emerging ones he finds, which keeps him busier than ever. Anyone can see a forest fire; skill lies in sniffing the first smoke.

This leaves me too little time for my prime work: thinking about policy. The purpose of my government is never to do good, but simply to refrain from doing evil. This sounds simple but is not. For example, although prevention of armed revolution is obviously part of my main duty,
i.e.
, to keep order, I began to have doubts about the wisdom of transporting potential revolutionary leaders years before Grandfather Lazarus called my attention to it. But the symptom that roused my worry was so null that it took ten years for me to notice it:

During those ten years there was not one attempt to assassinate me.

By the time Lazarus Long returned to Secundus for the purpose of dying this disturbing symptom had continued twenty years.

This was ominous, and I realized it. A population of one billion-plus so contented, so uniform, so smug that not one determined assassin shows up in a double decade is seriously ill no matter how healthy it looks. In the ten years that elapsed after I noticed this lack I worried about it every hour I could spare—and found myself asking myself over and over again: What would Lazarus Long do?

I knew in broad outline what he
had
done—and that was why I decided to migrate—either lead my people off planet or go alone if none would follow.

(In rereading this, it sounds as if I sought to be assassinated in some mystic The King
Must Die
sense. Not at all! I am surrounded at all times by powerful and subtle safeguards the nature of which I will not divulge. But there is no harm in mentioning three negative precautions; my facial appearance is not known to the public, I almost never appear in public anyhow, and when I do, it is never announced. The job of ruler is dangerous—or should be—but I don’t intend to die from it. The “disturbing symptom” was not that I am alive but that there are no dead assassins. No one seems to hate me enough to try. Frightening. Where have I failed them?)

When the Howard Clinic notified me that the Senior was awake (with a reminder that only one “night” had passed for him) I was not only awake but had completed necessary work and bucked the rest; I went at once to the Clinic. After they decontaminated me I found him dawdling over coffee, having just finished breakfast.

He glanced up and grinned. “Hi, Ira!”

“Good morning, Grandfather.” I went to him ready to offer a respectful salutation such as he had permitted when I bade him goodnight the night “before”—but watching for signs that say Yes, or No, before the mouth speaks. Even among the Families there is wide variety in such customs—and Lazarus is, as always, a law unto himself. So I closed the last of the gap with great deliberation.

He answered me by drawing back so slightly that it would have been unnoticeable had I not been alert for it. He added a gentle warning: “Strangers present, Son.”

I stopped at once. “At least I think they are strangers,” he added. “I’ve been trying to get acquainted, but all we share is some pidgin speech plus a lot of handwaving. But it’s nice to have people around instead of those zombies—we get along. Hey, dear! Come here, that’s a good girl.”

He motioned to one of his rejuvenation technicians—two on watch, as usual, and this morning one was female, one was male. I was pleased to see that my order that females should “dress attractively” had been carried out. This woman was a blonde, graceful and not unattractive if one likes tallness in a female. (I don’t dislike it, but there is something to be said for one small enough to fit on one’s lap—not that I’ve had much time for that lately.)

She glided forward and waited, smiling. She was dressed in a something—women’s styles don’t stay the same long enough for me to keep track, and this was a period when every woman in New Rome seemed to be trying to dress differently from every other woman. Whatever it was, it was an iridescent blue that set off her eyes and fitted her closely where it covered her at all; the effect was pleasing.

“Ira, this is Ishtar—did I get your name right that time, dear?”

“Yes, Senior.”

“And that young man over there is, believe it or not, ‘Galahad.’ Know any legends of Earth, Ira? If he knew its idiomatic meaning, he would change it—the perfect knight who never got any. But I’ve been trying to remember why Ishtar’s face is so familiar. Dear, was I ever married to you? Ask her for me, Ira; she may not have understood.”

“No, Senior. Not never. Is certain.”

“She understood you,” I said.

“Well, it could have been her grandmother—a lively wench, Ira. Tried to kill me, so I left her.”

The Chief Master Technician spoke briefly in Galacta. I said, “Lazarus, she says that, while she has never had the honor of being married to you, contractually or informally, she is quite willing if you are.”

“Well! A saucy one—it
must
have been her grandmother. Eight, nine hundred years back, more or less—I lose track of half centuries—and on this planet. Ask her if, uh, Ariel Barstow is her grandmother.”

The technician looked very pleased and broke into rapid Galacta. I listened and said, “She says that Ariel Barstow is her great-great-great-grandmother and she is joyed to hear you acknowledge the connection as that is the lineage by which she is descended from you…and that she would be supremely honored, both for herself and on behalf of her siblings and cousins, if you would converge the lineage again, with or without contract. After your rejuvenation is completed, she adds—she is not trying to rush you. How about it, Lazarus? If she has used up her reproduction quota, I would be happy to grant her an exception so that she would not have to migrate.”

“The hell she ain’t trying to rush me. And so are you. But she put it politely, so let’s give it a polite answer. Tell her that I’m honored and her name goes into the hat—but don’t tell her I’m shipping out on Thursday. ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you’ in other words—but make her happy about it; she’s a nice kid.”

I revised the message diplomatically; Ishtar beamed, curtsied, and backed away. Lazarus said, “Drag up a rock, Son, and sit a while.” He lowered his voice and added, “Between ourselves, Ira, I’m pretty sure Ariel slipped one in on me. But with another of my descendants, so this kid is descended from me anyhow, though maybe not as directly. Not that it matters. What are you doing up so early? I said you could have two hours after breakfast to yourself.”

“I’m an early riser, Lazarus. Is it true that you have decided on the full course? She seems to think so.”

Lazarus looked pained. “It’s probably the simplest answer—but how do I know I’ll get my own balls back?”

“Gonads from your clone are your own, Lazarus; that’s basic to the theory.”

“Well…we’ll see. Early rising is a vice, Ira; it’ll stunt your growth and shorten your days. Speaking of such—” Lazarus glanced up at the wall. “Thanks for having that switch reinstalled. I don’t feel tempted by it this fine morning, but a man does like to have a choice. Galahad, coffee for the Chairman and fetch me that plastic envelope.” Grandfather Lazarus supplemented his order with gestures, but I think the tech understood his words. Or was somewhat telepathic; rejuvenators are quite empathic—need to be. The man moved at once to comply.

He handed Lazarus an impervolope and poured coffee for me—which I did not want but will drink anything protocol requires. Lazarus went on, “Here’s my new will, Ira. Read it and file it somewhere and tell your computer. I’ve already approved the way she worded it and read it back into her and told her to place it in her permanents with a ‘bind’ on it—it ‘ud take a Philadelphia lawyer to diddle you out of your inheritance now—though no doubt one could.”

He waved the male tech aside. “No more coffee, lad—thanks. Go sit down. You go sit, too, dear. Ishtar. Ira, what are these young people? Nurses? Orderlies? Servants? Or what? They hover over me like a hen with one chick. I’ve never cared for more service than I need. Just sociability. Human company.”

I could not answer without inquiring. Not only is it unnecessary for me to know how the Rejuvenation Clinic is organized, but also it is private enterprise, not under the Trustees—and my intervention in the case of the Senior was much resented by its Director. So I interfered as little as possible—as long as my orders were carried out.

I spoke to the female tech, in Galacta: “What is your professional designation, ma’am? The Senior wants to know. He says that you have been behaving like a servant.”

She answered quietly, “It is our pleasure to serve him in any way we can, sir”—then hesitated and went on: “I am Administrator Master Chief Rejuvenation Technician Ishtar Hardy, Deputy Director for Rejuvenation Procedures, and my assistant watch officer is AssociateTechnician Galahad Jones.”

Having been rejuvenated twice and used to the idea all my life, it does not surprise me when cosmetic age does not match calendar age. But I admit to surprise at learning that this young woman was not just a technician but boss of her department—probably number three in the entire Clinic. Or possibly number two while the Director was away sulking in her tent—damn her duty-struck stiff neck. Or even Director Pro Tem with her deputy, or some department head, bucked into “minding the store.” “So?” I answered. “May I ask your calendar age, Madam Administrator?”

“Mr. Chairman Pro Tem may ask anything. I am only one hundred forty-seven years old—but I am qualified; this has been my only career since first maturity.”

“I did not imply doubt of your qualifications, madam, but I am astonished to see you standing a watch rather than sitting at a desk. Although I confess I don’t know how the Clinic is organized.”

She smiled slightly. “Sir, I could express a similar feeling at your own personal interest in this case…were it not that I think I understand it. I am here because I choose not to delegate the responsibility; he is the
Senior
. I have screened all watch officers assigned to him—the best we have to offer.”

I should have known it. “We understand each other.” I added, “I am pleased. But may I make a suggestion? Our Senior is independent by temperament and highly individualistic. He wants a minimum of personal service—only that which he must have.”

“Have we been annoying him, sir? Too solicitous? I can watch and listen from outside the door and still be here instantly if he wants something.”

“Possibly too solicitous. But stay in sight. He
does
want human companionship.”

“What’s all this yack-yack?” demanded Lazarus.

“I had to ask questions, Grandfather, as I don’t know the organization of the Clinic. Ishtar is not a servant; she is a rejuvenator and a highly skilled one—and so is her assistant. But they are happy to supply any service you want.”

“I don’t need flunkies; I’m feeling pretty good today. If I want anything, I’ll shout; they don’t need to hang over me, hand and foot.” Then he grinned. “But she’s a cute little trick, in the large, economy size; it’s a pleasure to have her around. Moves like a cat—no bones, just flows. She does indeed remind me of Ariel—did I tell you why Ariel tried to kill me?”