Time Enough for Love (25 page)

“Sure we will, Hammy! ‘Off key’ indeed! Is this colony going to be polygamous?”

“Ask Ira. Does it matter? Grab a robe and throw it around the Hamadarling, then I’ll trade a quick scrub with you; I’m hungry.”

“Do you want to risk it? After what you said about my singing? I know every spot and I’ll tickle them all.”

“King’s Cross! I apologize! I love your singing, dear.”

“The idiom is ‘King’s X,’ Ish. Pax, it is. Grab robes for all of us, Hammy, that’s a good girl. Long legs, while I was singing—perfectly on key—I figured out that idiom that was bothering me. It’s not what Minerva thought it was; a ‘hook shop’ is a bordello. Which makes the Born Loser’s sister a hetaera—and the last piece falls into place.”

“Why, of course! No wonder she could subsidize her brother—artists always get paid more than anyone else.”

Hamadryad returned with robes, laid them on the massage table. She said, “I didn’t know that idiom was bothering you, Galahad. I understood it the first time I heard that song.”

“I wish you had told me.”

“Is it important?”

“Only as one more clue. Ham, in analyzing a culture, its myths and folk songs and idioms and aphorisms are more basic than its formal history. You can’t understand a person unless you understand her culture. ‘His,’ I should say, in speaking English—and that alone tells something basic about the culture in which our client grew up: the fact that a general term invariably takes the masculine form when both masculine and feminine are implied. It means either that males are dominant or that women have just emerged from lower status, but the language lag—there always is one—has not caught up with cultural change. The latter, in the barbarism Lazarus came from, as indicated by other clues.”

“You can tell all that just from a rule of grammar?”

“Sometimes. Hammy, I used to do this professionally, when I was old and grizzled and waiting for rejuvenation. It’s detective work and no one clue is ever enough. For example, women must not have reached equal status even though other clues show them gaining it—for whoever heard of a bordello managed by a
man?
A guard in one, yes, and Lazarus said that he was that, too. But
manager?
Preposterous, by modern standards. Unless that colony on Mars was an atypical retrogression—it may have been, I don’t know.”

“Continue it as we eat, kids; Mama is hungry.”

“Coming, Ish dear. Galahad, I understood that idiom without thinking about it. You see, my mother was—still is—a hetaera.”

“Really? There’s a wild coincidence. So was mine, and so was Ishtar’s—and we three wind up all in rejuvenation work and on the same client. Two numerically small professions—I wonder what the odds are against it?”

“Not too high, as both professions require strong empathy. But if you want to know, ask Minerva,” advised Ishtar, “and hand me that robe. I don’t like blowdry and I don’t want to get chilled while rustling food. Hamasweet, why didn’t you follow your mother’s profession? With your beauty you would be a star.”

Hamadryad shrugged. “Oh, I know what I look like. But Mother can snatch a man away from me just by lifting her little finger—except that I avoid the chance. Beauty has little to do with it—you saw a man turn me down just today. Lazarus himself told us what it takes to make a great artist—a spiritual quality a man can
feel
. My mother has it. I don’t.”

“I follow your reasoning,” Ishtar said as they went through her lounge into the buttery. There she screened the menu offered by the kitchen down below. “My mother has it, too. Not especially pretty, but what she has, men want. Still want, although she’s retired.”

“Long Legs,” Galahad said soberly, “you do all right. You’ve got it too.”

“Thank you, my knight, but that’s not true. I sometimes have it for one man. Or two at most. And sometimes not at all, as I can get buried in our profession and forget about sex. I told you how many years I had been celibate. I wouldn’t have found
you
, dear, would never have risked ‘Seven Hours’—had not our client had me so terribly emotional. Quite unprofessionally, Hamadryad; I was as silly as a schoolgirl on a warm spring night. But, Galahad, Tamara—my mother—has it all the time and for anyone who needs her. Tamara never set a price, she didn’t need to; they showered gifts on her. She’s retired now and considering whether to rejuvenate again. But her fans won’t leave her alone; she still gets endless offers.”

Galahad said sorrowfully, “That’s what I would like to be. But I’m that ‘Born Loser.’ If a man tried that profession, he’d kill himself in a month.”

“In your case, dear Galahad, it might take a little longer. But eat and restore your strength; we’re going to put you in the middle of the bed tonight.”

“Does that mean I’m invited?” asked Hamadryad.

“That’s one way of putting it. A more accurate statement would be that I’m inviting myself. Galahad made it clear in the shower that his plans for the night include you, dear. But he didn’t mention me.”

“Oh, he did, too! Anyhow he’s horny about you all the time; I can feel it.”

“He’s horny—end of message and off. Will steaks and random garnish do, or do you each wish to choose? I don’t feel imaginative.”

“Suits me. Ish, you should put Galahad under contract. While he’s groggy.”

“Privacy, dear.”

“Sorry. I just blurted it out. Because I’m so fond of you both.”

“Big-arsed bitch won’t marry me,” said Galahad. “And me so good and pure and modest. Claims I tickle. Will you marry me, little Hamadear?”

“What? Galahad, you’re the world’s worst tease. You not only don’t want me to; you know I’m committed to the Senior even though he refused me. Until Ish tells me to drop it. If she does.”

Ishtar finished ordering, wiped the screen. “Galahad, don’t tease our baby. I want both Hamadryad and me to be free of other contracts as long as either of us has any chance of getting our client interested in cohabitation, or progeny, or both. Not just a lark but something he can take seriously.”

“So? Then why in the name of all the fertility gods did you arrange to have
both
of you pregnant at once? I don’t get it. I hear the whir, but the figures won’t add.”

“Because, my stupid darling, I didn’t dare wait. The Director may come back any time.”

“But why
you
two? With maybe ten thousand healthy host-mothers registered and available? And why
two?
”

“Dearest man, I’m sorry I said you were stupid—you aren’t; you’re just male. Hamadryad and I know exactly what risks we are taking and why. We don’t look pregnant and won’t for weeks yet, and if either of us can jockey Lazarus into a contract, an abortion takes ten minutes. Professional host-mothers won’t do for this job; it has to be bellies over which I have some control and women I trust utterly. Bad enough that I had to trust a gene surgeon and risk a proscribed procedure—Ira may have to get me out of that if anything slips.

“But you know as well as I do, sweet Galahad, that even an ordinary clone sometimes goes wild. I wish I had
four
female bellies I could use, not two. Eight. Sixteen! Increase the chances of getting
one
normal fetus. In another month—long before it shows—we’ll know what we’re carrying. If the odds fail both of us—well, I’m ready to start over again and Hamadryad is, too.”

“As many times as necessary, Ishtar. I swore it.”

Ishtar patted her hand. “We’ll get a good one. Galahad, Lazarus is going to have his identical twin sister, I promise you—and once it is an accomplished fact, we’ll hear no more talk of termination-option switches, or leaving us, or anything—at least until she’s woman tall!”

“Ishtar?”

“Yes, Hamadryad?”

“If we
both
show normal fetuses a month from now—”

“Then you can abort, dear; you know that.”

“No, no, no! I shan’t! What’s wrong with
twins?
”

Galahad blinked at her. “Don’t bother to answer, Ish. Let me give you the male angle. The man who can resist raising identical twin girls hasn’t been born. And his name isn’t Lazarus Long. Look, dears, is there anything, anything at
all,
that can improve
both
your chances? Now?”

“No.” Ishtar repeated softly, “No. We both test pregnant, that’s all we can say or do now. Except pray. And I don’t know how to pray.”

“Then it’s time we learned!”

Voices in the Dark

After Minerva ordered his evening meal for Lazarus, then supervised its service, the computer said, “Is there anything else, sir?”

“I guess not. Yes. Will you have dinner with me, Minerva?”

“Thank you, Lazarus. I accept.”

“Don’t thank me;
you
are doing
me
a favor, milady. I’m moody tonight. Sit down, dear, and cheer me up.”

The computer’s voice repositioned so that it appeared to come from the other side of the table where Lazarus sat, as if a flesh-and-blood were seated there. “Shall I construct an image, Lazarus?”

“Don’t put yourself to the trouble, dear.”

“It’s no trouble, Lazarus; I have ample spare capacity.”

“No, Minerva. That holo you made for me one night—perfect, realistic, moved just like a flesh-and-blood. But it wasn’t
you
. I know what you look like. Umm…lower the lights and spot enough light on my plate to let me eat. Then I’ll see you in the gloom without a holo.”

The lighting readjusted so that the room was almost dark save for a pool of light on chastely perfect tableware and napery in front of Lazarus. The contrast dazzled his eyes enough that he could not see across the table without peering—he did not peer. Minerva said, “What is my appearance, Lazarus?”

“Eh?” He stopped to think. “It fits your voice. Hmm, it’s a picture that has grown up in my mind without thinking about it, during the time we have been together. Dear, do you realize that we have been living together more intimately than husband and wife usually manage?”

“Perhaps I don’t, Lazarus, since I cannot experience being a wife. But I am happy to be close to you.”

“Being a wife doesn’t have too much to do with copulation, my dear. You’ve been a mother to my baby, Dora. Oh, I know that Ira stands first with you…but you are like that girl Olga I spoke of; you have so much to give that you can enrich more than one man. But I honor your loyalty to Ira. Your love for him, dear.”

“Thank you, Lazarus. But—if I know what the word means—I love you, too. And Dora.”

“I know you do. Both. You and I have no need to worry over words; we’ll leave that to Hamadryad. Mmm, your appearance—you are tall, about as tall as Ishtar. But slender. Not skinny, just slender—strong and well muscled without being bulgy. You are not as broad in the hips as she is. But broad enough. Womanly. You’re young, but a mature young woman, not a girl. Breasts much smaller than Ishtar’s, more like Hamadryad’s. You are handsome rather than pretty, and you are rather solemn, except when one of your rare smiles lights up your face. Your hair is brown and straight, and you wear it long. But you don’t fuss with it other than to keep it clean and neat. Your eyes are brown and match your hair. You usually don’t wear cosmetics, but you almost always wear some sort of clothing—simple clothing; you are not a clothes-horse, dress does not interest you that much. But you go naked only with persons you fully trust—a short list.

“That’s all, I guess. I haven’t tried to imagine details; this is just what grew in my mind. Oh, yes!—you keep your nails, both hands and feet, short and clean. But you aren’t fussy about it, or about anything. Neither dirt nor sweat bothers you, and you don’t flinch at blood, even though you don’t like it.”

“I am very pleased to know how I look, Lazarus.”

“Huh? Oh, fiddle, girl—that’s my imagination living its own life.”

“That is how I look,” Minerva said firmly, “and I like it.”

“All right. Although you can be as dazzingly beautiful as Hamadryad if you want to be.”

“No, I look just as you described me. I am a ‘Martha,’ Lazarus, not her sister Mary.”

Lazarus said, “You surprised me. Yes, you are. You’ve read the Bible?”

“I have read everything in the Great Library. In one sense I
am
the Library, Lazarus.”

“Mmm, yes, should’ve realized it. How is the twinning process coming along? Going to be ready? Say if Ira gets a burr under his saddle and takes off in a hurry.”

“It is essentially complete, Lazarus. All my permanents, programs and memories and logics, are twinned in Dora’s number-four hold, and I run routine checks and exercise by running the twinned parts parallel with the me here under the Palace—a ‘Tell me six times’ instead of my normal ‘Tell me three times’ method. I have found and corrected some open circuits that way—minor factory defects, nothing I could not handle at once. You see, Lazarus, I treated it as a crash program and did not depend on Turing processes to build most of my new me, as I would have had to build extensionals in Dora for that sole purpose, then remove them save for maintenance extensionals.

“That would have taken much time, of course, since I can’t use computer speeds in manipulating mass. So instead I ordered all new blank memories and logic circuitry and had them installed in Dora by factory technicians. Much faster. Then I filled them and checked them.”

“Any trouble, dear?”

“No, Lazarus. Oh, Dora grumbled about dirty feet in her clean compartments. But it was just grumbling, as they worked ‘clean-room’ style, lint-free coveralls and masks and gloves, and I required them to change in the air lock, not just before they entered her number-four.” He felt her quick smile. “Temporary sanitary facilities outside the ship—which caused the project engineer to grumble, as well as the shop steward.”

“Should think so. Wouldn’t have hurt Dora to activate a head.”

“Lazarus, as you pointed out, I will be—I hope—a passenger in Dora someday. So I have tried to become her friend—and we are friends, and I love her, and she is the only friend I have who is a computer. I don’t want to jeopardize that by making a mess, or permitting one to be made, in my moving into her ship. She is, as you said, a neat housekeeper; I am trying to be just as neat and show thereby that I respect her and appreciate the privilege of being a passenger in her. The engineer in charge and that talky shop steward had no reason to grumble; I specified all this in the contract—change clothes at the lock, leg urinals for all personnel inside, no eating, expectorating, or smoking in the ship, go by the shortest route to number-four, no snooping elsewhere in the ship—which they could not, anyhow, as I asked Dora to keep all doors locked save that direct route—and I paid to have it done this way.”