Time Enough for Love (21 page)

She sighed. “Galahad—if I picked the right name for you—do I have to offer you a cohabitation contract merely because I might invite you to stay overnight again? It’s likely that neither of us will get any sleep tonight.”

“That’s what I was saying.”

“Not quite. Because we may
work
all night. Even if you choose to spend three minutes to our mutual pleasure.”

“‘Three minutes’? I wasn’t that hasty even the first time.”

“Well—Five minutes?”

“Am I offered twenty minutes…plus an apology?”

“Men! Thirty minutes, darling, and no apology.”

“Accepted.” He stood up.

“Five of which you’ve wasted arguing about it. So come along—exasperating darling.”

He followed her out into her foyer. “What’s this about ‘work all night’?”

“And tomorrow, too. I’ll know when I check what’s in my phone. If there’s nothing, I’ll have to call the Chairman Pro Tem, much as I hate to. I’ve got to look over this rooftop cabin or whatever it is, and see what arrangements can be made to take care of him there. Then both of us will move him; I can’t delegate
that
. Then—”

“Ishtar! Are you going to agree to
that?
Nonsterile habitat, no emergency equipment, and so forth?”

“Darling…
you
are impressed by my rank; Mr. Weatheral is not. And the Senior isn’t even impressed by Mr. Weatheral’s authority; the Senior is the
Senior
. I kept hoping that Mr. Chairman Pro Tem would find some way to wheedle him into postponing such a move. But he did not. So now I have two choices: Do it his way—or withdraw completely. As the Director did. Which I
won’t
do. Which leaves me
no
choice. So tonight I’ll inspect his new quarters and see what can be done between now and tomorrow midmorning. Even though it’s hopeless to make such a place sterile, perhaps it can be made more nearly suitable before he sees it.”

“And emergency equipment, don’t forget that, Ishtar.”

“As if I would, stupid darling. Now help me out of this damned thing—I mean ‘this pretty dress you designed for me and which the Senior clearly liked.’ Please?”

“So stand still and hold still and shut up.”

“Don’t
tickle!
Oh, drat, there’s the phone signal! Get it off me, dear—hurry!”

Love

Lazarus lounged in his hammock and scratched his chest. “Hamadryad,” he said, “that’s not an easy question. At seventeen I was certain I was in love. But it was merely excess hormones and self-delusion. It was most of a thousand years later before I experienced the real thing—and didn’t recognize the condition for years, as I had quit using that word.”

Ira Weatheral’s “pretty daughter” looked puzzled, while Lazarus thought again that Ira had been wrong: Hamadryad was not pretty; she was so startling beautiful that she would have fetched top premium prices at auction on Fatima, with hard-eyed Iskandrian factors outbidding each other in the belief that she was a sound speculation. If the Protector of the Faith had not preempted her for himself—

Hamadryad did not seem to know that her appearance was exceptional. But Ishtar did. The first ten days that Ira’s daughter had been part of Lazarus’ “family” (so he thought of them—a good enough term as Ira, Hamadryad, Ishtar, and Galahad were all his descendants and now privileged to call him “Grandfather” as long as they did not overdo it)—those first days Ishtar had shown a childish tendency to try to place herself between Hamadryad and Lazarus, and also between Hamadryad and Galahad, even when this required being two places at once.

Lazarus had watched this barnyard dance with amusement and had wondered if Ishtar knew that she was doing it. Probably not, he decided. His rejuvenation supervisor was all duty and no sense of humor and would have been shocked had she known that she had reverted to adolescence.

But it did not last. It was impossible not to like Hamadryad because she remained quietly friendly no matter what. Lazarus wondered if it was a behavior pattern consciously developed to protect herself against her less-endowed sisters—or was it simply her nature? He had not tried to find out. But Ishtar now tended to sit by Hamadryad, or even to make room between herself and Galahad for Hamadryad, and let her help in serving meals and such—assistant “housewife” de facto.

“If I must wait a thousand years to understand that word,” Hamadryad replied, “then I probably never will. Minerva says that it cannot be defined in Galacta and even when I speak Classic English, I find that I think in Galacta, which means that I do not really grasp English. Since the word ‘love’ occurs so frequently in ancient English literature, I thought my failure to understand that word might be the block that keeps me from thinking in English.”

“Well, let’s shift to Galacta and take a swing at it. In the first place, very little thinking was ever done in English; it is not a language suited to logical thought. Instead, it’s an emotive lingo beautifully adapted to concealing fallacies. A rationalizing language, not a rational one. But most people who spoke English had no more idea of the meaning of the word ‘love’ than you have, even though they used it all the time.”

Lazarus added, “Minerva! We’re going to take another hack at the word ‘love.’ Want to join in? If so, shift to your personal mode.”

“Thank you, Lazarus. Hello, Ira-Ishtar-Hamadryad-Galahad,” the disembodied contralto voice answered. “I am and have been in personal mode, and usually am, now that you have given me permission to use my judgment. You’re looking well, Lazarus—younger every day.”

“I feel younger. But, dear, when you go to personal mode, you should tell us.”

“I’m sorry, Grandfather!”

“Don’t sound so humble. Just say, ‘Howdy, I’m here,’ that’s all. If you could manage to tell me, or Ira, just once, to go to hell, it ’ud be good for you. Clean your circuits.”

“But I have no wish to say that to either of you.”

“That’s what’s wrong. If you hang around Dora, you’ll learn to. Have you spoken to her today?”

“I’m speaking with Dora now, Lazarus. We’re playing fairy chess in five dimensions, and she’s teaching me songs you taught her. She teaches me a song, then I sing a tenor lead while she harmonizes in soprano. We’re doing this in real time because we’re outing through the speakers in your control room and listening to ourselves. Right now we’re singing the story of One-Ball Riley. Would you care to hear us?”

Lazarus flinched. “No, no, not
that
one.”

“We’ve practiced several others. ‘Rangy Lil’ and ‘The Ballad of Yukon Jake’ and ‘Barnacle Bill’—I sing the story on that one while Dora does soprano and bass. Or perhaps ‘Four Whores Came Down from Canada’—that one is fun.”

“
No
, Minerva. I’m sorry, Ira; my computer is corrupting your computer.” Lazarus sighed. “I didn’t plan it that way; I just wanted Minerva to baby-sit for me. Since I’ve got the only retarded ship in this sector.”

“Lazarus,” Minerva said reproachfully, “I don’t think it is correct to say that Dora is retarded. She’s quite intelligent, I think. I do not understand why you say that she is corrupting me.”

Ira had been lying on the grass, sunbathing with a kerchief over his eyes. He rolled to one elbow. “Nor I, Lazarus. That last one I’d like to hear. I recall where Canada is-was. North of the country you were born in.”

Lazarus counted silently, then said, “Ira, I know I have prejudices ridiculous to a civilized modern man such as yourself. I can’t help it; I’m canalized by early childhood, imprinted like a baby duckling. If you want to hear bawdy songs from a barbaric era, please listen to them in your apartments—not up here. Minerva, Dora doesn’t understand those songs; to her they are nursery rhymes.”

“Nor do I understand them, sir, other than theoretically. But they are jolly, and I have enjoyed being taught to sing.”

“Well—All right. Has Dora been behaving herself otherwise?”

“She’s been a good girl, Grandfather Lazarus, and I think she is contented with my company. She pouted a little at not having her bedtime story last night. But I told her that you were very tired and already asleep, and told her a story myself.”

“But—Ishtar! Did I miss a day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Surgery? I didn’t notice any new healed places.”

The Master Chief Technician hesitated. “Grandfather, I will discuss procedures only if you insist. It does a client no good to be reminded of such things. I hope that you will not insist. I do hope so, sir.”

“Um. All right, all right. But next time you chop out a day—or a week, or whatever—warn me. So that I can leave a bedtime story on file with Minerva. No, that won’t do; you don’t want me to know. Okay, I’ll keep stories on file with Minerva and you warn her, instead.”

“I will, Grandfather. It does help when the client cooperates, especially by paying as little attention to what we do as possible.” Ishtar smiled briefly. “The client we dread is another rejuvenator. Worries and tries to run things.”

“Small wonder. I know, dear, I have that horrid habit of trying to run things myself. The only way I can keep from it is by staying out of the control room. So when I get too nosy, tell me to shut up. But how are we doing? How much longer do I have to go?”

Ishtar answered hesitantly, “Perhaps this is a time when I should tell you to…‘shut up.’”

“That’s it! But firmer, dear. ‘Get out of my control room, you custard-headed dolt, and
stay
out!’ Make him realize that, if he doesn’t
jump
, you’ll toss him into the brig. Now try it again.”

Ishtar grinned widely. “Grandfather, you’re an old fraud.”

“So I’ve long suspected. I was hoping it didn’t show. All right, the subject is ‘love’ Minerva, the Hamadarling says you told her that it can’t be defined in Galacta. Got anything to add to that?”

“Tentatively yes, Lazarus. May I reserve my answer until the others speak?”

“Suit yourself. Galahad, you talk less and listen more than anybody else in the family. Want to try it?”

“Well, sir, I hadn’t realized that there was any mystery about ‘love’ until I heard Hamadryad ask about it. But I’m still learning English. By the naturalistic method the way a child learns his milk language. No grammar, no syntax, no dictionary—just listen and talk and read it. Acquire new words by context. By that method I acquired a feeling that ‘love’ means the shared ecstasy that can be attained through sex. Is that right?”

“Son, I hate to say this—because, if you’ve been reading a lot of English, I see how you reached that opinion—but you are one hundred percent wrong.”

Ishtar looked startled. Galahad simply looked thoughtful. “Then I must go back and read some more.”

“Don’t bother, Galahad. Most of those writers you’ve been reading misuse the word just that way. Shucks, I misused it for years myself; it’s a prime example of the slipperiness of the English tongue. But, whatever ‘love’ is, it’s not sex. I’m not running down sex. If there is a purpose in life more important than two people cooperating in making a baby, all the philosophers in history haven’t been able to find it. And between babies, the practice runs keep up our zest in life and make tolerable the fact that raising a baby is one hell of a lot of work. But that’s not love. Love is something that still goes on when you are
not
sexually excited. It being so stipulated, who wants to try it? Ira, how about you? You know English better than the others, you speak it almost as well as I do.”

“I speak it better than you do, Gramp; I speak it grammatically, which you do not.”

“Don’t praggle me, boy; I’ll quang you proper. Shakespeare and I never let grammar interfere with expressing ourselves. Why, he said to me once—”

“Oh, stop it! He died three centuries before you were born.”

“He did, huh? They opened his grave once and found it empty. The fact is, he was a half brother of Queen Elizabeth and dyed his hair to make the truth less obvious. The other fact is that they were closing in on him, so he switched. I’ve died that way several times. Ira, his will left his ‘second-best bed’ to his wife. Look up who got his
best
bed and you’ll begin to figure out what really happened. Do you want to try to define ‘love’?”

“No. You would change the rules again. All you have done so far is to divide the field of experience called ‘love’ into the same categories Minerva divided it into when you asked her this same question weeks ago—namely, ‘Eros’ and ‘Agape.’ But you avoided using those technical words for the subfields, and by this sophistry you attempted to exclude the general term from one subfield and thereby claimed that the term to be defined was limited to the other subfield—which set it up for you to define ‘love’ as identically equal to ‘Agape.’ But again without using that word. It won’t work, Lazarus. To use your own metaphor, I saw you palm that card.”

Lazarus shook his head admiringly. “There are no flies on you, boy; I did a good job when I thought you up. Someday when we have time to waste, let’s have a go at solipsism.”

“Come off it, Lazarus. You can’t bulldoze me the way you did Galahad. The subcategories are still ‘Eros’ and ‘Agape.’ ‘Agape’ is rare; ‘Eros’ is so common that it is almost inevitable that Galahad acquired the feeling that ‘Eros’ is the total meaning of the word ‘love.’ Now you have unfairly confused him since he assumes—incorrectly—that you are a reliable authority with respect to the English language.”

Lazarus chuckled. “Ira, m’boy, when I was a kid, they sold that stuff by the wagonload to grow alfalfa. Those technical words were thought up by armchair experts of the same sort as theologians. Which gives them the same standing as sex manuals written by celibate priests. Son, I avoided those fancy categories because they are useless, incorrect, and misleading. There can be sex without love, and love without sex, and situations so intermixed that nobody can sort out which is which. But love
can
be defined, an exact definition that does not resort to the word ‘sex,’ or to question-begging by exclusion through the use of such words as ‘Eros’ and ‘Agape.’”

“So define it,” said Ira. “I promise not to laugh.”

“Not yet. The trouble with defining in words anything as basic as love is that the definition can’t be understood by anyone who has not experienced it. It’s like the ancient dilemma of explaining a rainbow to a person blind from birth. Yes Ishtar, I know that you can fit such a person with cloned eyes today—but that dilemma was inescapable in my youth. In those days one could teach such an unfortunate all the physical theory of the electromagnetic spectrum, tell him precisely what frequencies the human eye can pick up, define colors to him in terms of those frequencies, explain exactly how the mechanisms of refraction and reflection produce a rainbow image and what its shape is and how the frequencies are distributed until he knew
all
about rainbows in the scientific sense…but you
still
couldn’t make him feel the breathless wonder that the sight of a rainbow inspires in a man. Minerva is better off than that man, because she can
see
. Minerva dear, do you ever look at rainbows?”