Time Enough for Love (40 page)

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God is omnipotent, omniscient, and omnibenevolent—it says so right here on the label. If you have a mind capable of believing all three of these divine attributes simultaneously, I have a wonderful bargain for you. No checks, please. Cash and in small bills.

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Courage is the complement of fear. A man who is fearless cannot be courageous. (He is also a fool.)

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The two highest achievements of the human mind are the twin concepts of “loyalty” and “duty.” Whenever these twin concepts fall into disrepute—get out of there fast! You may possibly save yourself, but it is too late to save that society. It is doomed.

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People who go broke in a big way never miss any meals. It is the poor jerk who is shy a half slug who must tighten his belt.

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The truth of a proposition has nothing to do with its credibility. And vice versa.

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Anyone who cannot cope with mathematics is not fully human. At best he is a tolerable subhuman who has learned to wear shoes, bathe, and not make messes in the house.

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Moving parts in rubbing contact require lubrication to avoid excessive wear. Honorifics and formal politeness provide lubrication where people rub together. Often the very young, the untraveled, the naïve, the unsophisticated deplore these formalities as “empty,” “meaningless,” or “dishonest,” and scorn to use them. No matter how “pure” their motives, they thereby throw sand into machinery that does not work too well at best.

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A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.

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The more you love, the more you
can
love—and the more intensely you love. Nor is there any limit on how
many
you can love. If a person had time enough, he could love all of that majority who are decent and just.

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Masturbation is cheap, clean, convenient, and free of any possibility of wrongdoing—and you don’t have to go home in the cold. But it’s
lonely
.

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Beware of altruism. It is based on self-deception, the root of all evil.

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If tempted by something that feels “altruistic,” examine your motives and root out that self-deception. Then, if you still want to do it, wallow in it!

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The most preposterous notion that H. sapiens has ever dreamed up is that the Lord God of Creation, Shaper and Ruler of all the Universes, wants the saccharine adoration of His creatures, can be swayed by their prayers, and becomes petulant if He does not receive this flattery. Yet this absurd fantasy, without a shred of evidence to bolster it, pays all the expenses of the oldest, largest, and least productive industry in all history.

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The second most preposterous notion is that copulation is inherently sinful.

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Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of—but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards.

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$100 placed at 7 percent interest compounded quarterly for 200 years will increase to more than $100,000,000—by which time it will be worth nothing.

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Dear, don’t bore him with trivia or burden him with your past mistakes. The happiest way to deal with a man is never to tell him anything he does not need to know.

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Darling, a true lady takes off her dignity with her clothes and does her whorish best. At other times you can be as modest and dignified as your
persona
requires.

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Everybody lies about sex.

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If men were the automatons that behaviorists claim they are, the behaviorist psychologists could not have invented the amazing nonsense called “behaviorist psychology.” So they are wrong from scratch—as clever and as wrong as phlogiston chemists.

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The shamans are forever yacking about their snake-oil “miracles.” I prefer the Real McCoy—a pregnant woman.

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If the universe has any purpose more important than topping a woman you love and making a baby with her hearty help, I’ve never heard of it.

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Thou shalt remember the Eleventh Commandment and keep it Wholly.

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A touchstone to determine the actual worth of an “intellectual”—find out how he feels about astrology.

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Taxes are not levied for the benefit of the taxed.

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There is no such thing as “social gambling.” Either you are there to cut the other bloke’s heart out and eat it—or you’re a sucker. If you don’t like this choice—don’t gamble.

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When the ship lifts, all bills are paid. No regrets.

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The first time I was a drill instructor I was too inexperienced for the job—the things I taught those lads must have got some of them killed. War is too serious a matter to be taught by the inexperienced.

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A competent and self-confident person is incapable of jealousy in anything. Jealousy is invariably a symptom of neurotic insecurity.

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Money is the sincerest of all flattery.

Women love to be flattered.

So do men.

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You live and learn. Or you don’t live long.

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Whenever women have insisted on absolute equality with men, they have invariably wound up with the dirty end of the stick. What they are and what they can do makes them superior to men, and their proper tactic is to demand special privileges, all the traffic will bear. They should never settle merely for equality. For women, “equality” is a disaster.

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Peace is an extension of war by political means. Plenty of elbowroom is pleasanter—and much safer.

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One man’s “magic” is another man’s engineering. “Supernatural” is a null word.

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The phrase “we (I) (you) simply
must
—” designates something that need not be done. “That goes without saying” is a red warning. “Of course” means you had best check it yourself. These small-change clichés and others like them, when read correctly, are reliable channel markers.

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Do not handicap your children by making their lives easy.

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Rub her feet.

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If you happen to be one of the fretful minority who can do creative work, never force an idea; you’ll abort it if you do. Be patient and you’ll give birth to it when the time is ripe. Learn to wait.

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Never crowd youngsters about their private affairs—sex especially. When they are growing up, they are nerve ends all over, and resent (quite properly) any invasion of their privacy. Oh, sure, they’ll make mistakes—but that’s
their
business, not yours. (You made your own mistakes, did you not?)

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Never underestimate the power of human stupidity.

The Tale of the Adopted Daughter

Stand with me on Man’s old planet, gazing north when sky has darkened; follow down the Dipper’s handle, half again and veering leftward—Do you see it? Can you sense it? Nothing there but cold and darkness. Try again with both eyes covered, try once more with inner vision, hearken now to wild geese honking, sounding through the endless spaces, bouncing off the strange equations—

There
it glistens! Hold the vision, warp your ship through crumpled spaces. Gently, gently, do not lose it. Virgin planet, new beginnings—

Woodrow Smith, of many faces, many names, and many places, led this band to New Beginnings, planet clean and bright as morning. End of line, he told his shipmates. Endless miles of untouched prairie, endless stands of uncut timber, winding rivers, soaring mountains, hidden wealth and hidden dangers. Here is life or here is dying; only sin is lack of trying. Grab your picks and grab your shovels; dig latrines and build your hovels—next year better, next year stronger, next year’s furrows that much longer.

Learn to grow it, learn to eat it. You can’t buy it; learn to
make
it! How d’you know until you’ve tried it? Try again and keep on trying—

Ernest Gibbons, né Woodrow Smith, sometimes known as Lazarus Long, et al., President of New Beginnings Bank of Commerce, walked out of the Waldorf Dining Room. He stood on the veranda, picking his teeth and looking over the busy street scene. Half a dozen saddle mules and a loper (muzzled) were hitched just below him. Up the street to the right a mule train from out back was unloading at the dock of the Top Dollar Trading Post (E. Gibbons, Prop.). A dog lay in the dust in the middle of the street; mounted traffic went around him. Across the street to his left a dozen children played some noisy game in the yard of Mrs. Mayberry’s Primary School.

He could count thirty-seven people without moving from that spot. What a change eighteen years made! Top Dollar was no longer the only settlement, or even the largest. New Pittsburgh was larger (and dirtier), and both Separation and Junction were large enough to be called towns. This from only two shiploads and in a colony that had almost starved its first winter.

He did not like to think about that winter. That one family—cannibalism had not actually been
proved
—still, it was just as well that they were all dead.

Forget it. The weak ones died, and the bad ones died or were killed; the stock that survived was always stronger, smarter, more decent. New Beginnings was a planet to be proud of, and it would get better and better and better for a long time.

Still, almost twenty years was long enough to stay in one place; it was time to ship out again. In many ways it had been more fun when he and Andy, God rest his sweet innocent soul, had gone banging around the stars together, lining up real estate and never staying longer than necessary to assess potentialities. He wondered if his son Zaccur would be back on time with a third load of hopefuls.

He lifted his kilt and scratched above his right knee—checked his blaster—hitched at the belt band on the left, checked his needle gun—scratched the back of his neck, made sure of his second throwing knife. Ready to face the public, he considered whether to go to his desk at the bank or to the trading post and check that incoming shipment. Neither appealed to him.

One of the hitched mules nodded at him. Gibbons looked at him, then said, “Hi, Buck. How are you, boy? Where’s your boss?”

Buck closed his lips tightly, then said explosively, “Pannnk!”

That settled one point: If Clyde Leamer had hitched here instead of in front of the bank, it meant that Clyde intended to use the side door and was looking for another loan. Let’s see what effort he makes to find me.

Skip the trading post, too—not only would Clyde look there next but it wasn’t fair to make Rick nervous by showing up before he had time to steal his usuals; good storekeepers were hard to come by. Rick was always honest—5 per cent, no more, no less.

Gibbons felt in his shirt pocket, found a sweet, gave it to Buck on the flat of his hand. The mule took it neatly, nodded thanks. Gibbons reflected that these mutant mules, fertile and breeding true, were the biggest help to colonizing since the Libby Drive. They took cold-sleep easily—when you shipped swine, half your breeding stock arrived as pork—and they could look out for themselves in many ways; a mule could stomp a wild loper to death.

He said, “So long, Buck. Going for a walk. Walk. Tell Boss.”

“Shoh-rrrong!” acknowledged the mule. “Pye!”

Gibbons turned left and headed out of town while considering how big a loan to offer Clyde Leamer with Buck as security. A good-tempered, smart stallion mule was a prize—and about the only unmortgaged asset Clyde had left. Gibbons had no doubt that a loan on Buck would put Clyde back on his feet—literally—as soon as the loan was due. Gibbons felt no pity. A man who couldn’t cut the mustard on New Beginnings was worthless, no sense in propping him up.

No, don’t lend Clyde a dollar! Offer to buy outright—at 10 percent over a fair price. A decent hardworking animal should not belong to a lazy bum. Gibbons had no need for a saddle mule—but it would do him good to ride an hour or so each day. Man got flabby sitting in a bank.

Marry again and give Buck to his bride as a wedding present—A pleasant thought, but the only Howards on planet were married couples and not one with a husband-high daughter—as well as all being in masquerade until the place grew populous enough that the Families would set up a clinic here. Safer. Once burned, forever shy. He avoided Howards, and they avoided each other, on the surface. Be nice to be married again, though. The Magee family—actually Barstows—had two or three girls growing up. Maybe he should pay them a call someday.

In the meantime—He felt gusty and good, stuffed with scrambled eggs and wicked thoughts, and wondered where there was a female who felt the same way and could duck out and share their interest. Ernie knew several who shared his enthusiasm—but not available at this time of day, not for a casual romp. Which was all he was wanted; it was not fair to engage in anything serious with an ephemeral no matter how sweet she was—especially if she was truly sweet.

Banker Gibbons was at the edge of town and about to turn back when he noticed smoke from a house farther out—the Harper place. What had been the Harper place, he amended, before they homesteaded outback, but now occupied by, uh, Bud Brandon and his wife, Marje—nice young couple from the second shipload. One child? He thought so.

Running a fireplace on a day like this? Possibly burning trash—

Hey, that smoke is
not
from the chimney!

Gibbons broke into a run.

As he reached the Harper place, the entire roof was burning. Lazarus skidded to a stop and tried to judge the situation. Like most older houses, the Harper place had no ground-floor windows and but a single door that fit tightly and opened outward—a design for a time when lopers and dragons were ubiquitous.

Opening that door would be opening the damper on a burning fire.

He did not waste an instant debating it; that door must stay closed. He ran around the house, spotting windows of the upper floor and looking for means to reach one—a ladder or anything. Was anyone inside? Didn’t the Brandons even have knotted-rope fire escapes? Probably not; good rope came from Earth and retailed at ninety dollars a meter—the Harpers would not have left any behind.