Time Enough for Love (33 page)

I got him a job, pearl diver and handyman in a small gourmet restaurant, with a side arrangement for pay-me’s to the chef for every Valhalla dish Joe learned to cook correctly. In the meantime I kept her aboard on the excuse that a pregnant woman could not risk the nasty weather until I could get her proper clothing—and don’t bother me now, dear; I’ve got cargo to worry about.

She took it well enough, pouting just a little. She didn’t like Valhalla anyhow; it has one-and-a-seventh gee and I had got them used to the luxury of free-fall—easy on her swelling belly, no strain on her arches or her swelling tits. Now she suddenly found herself much heavier than she had ever been, awkward, and with unhappy feet. What she could see of Valhalla from the entrance lock looked like a frozen slice of hell; she was pleased by my offer to take them on to Landfall.

Still, Valhalla was the only new place she had ever been; she wanted to see it. I stalled while I got cargo unloaded, then took her measurements and got her one warm outfit in local style—but I played her a dirty trick; I fetched back three pairs of boots and let her take her choice. Two pairs were plain work boots; the third pair was gaudy—and half a size too small.

So when I did take her groundside, she was wearing too-tight boots, and the weather was unusually cold and blustery—I had watched the predictions. Torheim is pretty in spots, as skyport cities go—but I avoided those parts and took her “sightseeing” in dull neighborhoods—on foot. By the time I flagged a sleigh and took her back to the ship, she was miserable, and glad to get out of uncomfortable clothes, especially the boots, and into a hot bath.

I offered to take her into town next day but left her free to refuse. She declined politely.

(Omitted)

—not quite that bad, Minerva; I simply wanted to keep her in purdah without arousing her suspicions. Actually I had bought two pairs of those gaudy boots, one pair her correct size—and switched them on her at the end of that first day, while she was soaking her poor tired feet. Later I suggested that her trouble had been that she had never worn shoes or boots in her life—so why not wear them around the ship until she got the hang of it?

So she did and was surprised at how easy it was. I explained with a straight face that her feet had swelled the first time, so take it easy, an hour today, a little more each day, until she felt comfortable in them all day long. In a week she was wearing them even if she wore nothing else; she was more comfortable in them than barefooted—not surprising as they were arch-support footwear I had picked most carefully—between pregnancy and the difference in surface gravity of the two planets—point ninety-five gee for her home planet; one point fourteen for Valhalla—she weighed about twenty kilos more than she ever had in her life; she
needed
contoured foot supports.

I had to caution her not to wear them to bed.

I took her to town a couple of times while I was selecting cargo, but I coddled her—not much walking or standing around. She came along when I invited her but was always willing to stay aboard and read.

In the meantime Joe worked long hours, only one day off in seven. So just before we left, I had him quit his job and I took my kids on a proper holiday; a sleigh hired for the day, with reindeer instead of power, sightseeing that was truly sightseeing on a clear, sunny day that was almost warm, lunch in the country at a fine restaurant with a view of snow-covered crags of Jotunheimen range, dinner at a still finer restaurant in the city, one with live music and entertainment as well as superb food—and a stop for tea at the little gourmet spot where Joe had labored so that he could be addressed as “Friherr Lang” by our host, instead of “Hey, you!”—and have a chance to show off his beautiful, bulging bride.

And beautiful she was, Minerva. On Valhalla both sexes wear, under heavy outdoor clothes, indoor clothes that are essentially pajamas. The difference between those worn by women and by men lies in material, cut, and such. I had bought one party outfit for each of them. Joe looked smart and so did I, but all eyes were on Llita. She was covered from shoulders to boots—but only technically. The cloth of that harem outfit shimmered with changing lights, orange and green and gold, without obstructing the view. Anyone who cared to look could see that her nipples were crinkled with excitement—and everyone cared to look. That she clearly had only a couple of months to go gave her a large bonus vote toward being picked as “Miss Valhalla.”

She looked grand and knew it, and her face showed her happiness. She was self-confident, too, as I had coached her in local table manners, and how to stand and how to sit and how to behave and such, and she had already got through lunch without a bobble.

It was all right to let her display herself and enjoy the silent, or sometimes not silent, applause; not only were we leaving right away, but also Joe and I had our knives in sight in our boot tops. True, Joe was no knife fighter. But the wolves there didn’t know that, and not one was inclined to bother our beautiful bitch when she was flanked by wolves of her own.

—early next morning despite a short night. We loaded all day long, with Llita handling manifests and Joe checking numbers while I made sure I wasn’t being robbed. Late that night I had us in n-space, with my pilot computer sniffing out the last decimal places for the first leg to Landfall. I set the gravistat to bring us slowly down from Valhalla surface-normal to a comfortable quarter gee—no more free-fall until Llita had her baby—then locked the control room and headed down to my cabin, stinking and tired and trying to kid myself that tomorrow was soon enough for a bath.

Their door was open—their bedroom door, the room that had been Joe’s before I turned their rooms into a suite. Door open and them in bed—they had never done
that
before.

I soon learned why. They piled out of bed and paddled toward me; they wanted me to join their fun—they wanted to thank me…for that party day, for buying them, for everything else. His idea? Hers? Both? I didn’t try to find out; I just thanked them and told them that I was whipped to the red, worn out, and dirty—all I wanted was soap and hot water and twelve hours of shut-eye—and for them to sleep late; we’d set up ship’s routine after we were rested.

I did let them bathe me and massage me to sleep. That did not break discipline; I had taught them a bit about massage, and Joe in particular had a firmly gentle touch; he had been massaging her daily during her pregnancy—even while working long hours in that restaurant.

But, Minerva, had I not been so bushed, I might have broken my rule about dependent females.

(Omitted)

—every tape, every book available in Torheim for a refresher in obstetrics and gynecology, plus instruments and supplies I had not expected to need aboard ship. I kept to my cabin until I had mastered all new art and was at least as skilled in baby-cotching; as I had been as a country doctor on Ormuzd long before.

I kept a close eye on my patient, watched her diet, made her exercise, checked her gizzards daily—and permitted no undue familiarity.

Dr. Lafayette Hubert, MD, aka Captain Aaron Sheffield aka The Senior, et al., worried excessively over his one patient. But he kept her and her husband from seeing it and applied his worry constructively in planning for every obstetric emergency known to the art at that time. Hardware and supplies he had obtained on Valhalla paralleled in every major respect the equipment of Frigg Temple in Torheim, where fifty births a day were not uncommon.

He smiled to himself at the mass of junk he had taken aboard, recalling a country doctor on Ormuzd who had delivered many a baby with nothing but bare hands, while the mother sat in her husband’s lap, knees pulled high and wide by her husband so that old Doc Hubert could kneel in front of them and catch the baby.

True—but he had always had with him all the gear a husky pacing borri could tote, even though he might never open a saddlebag if everything went right. That was the point: to have the stuff at hand if things did
not
go right.

One item purchased in Torheim was not for emergency: the latest improved-model delivery chair—hand grips, padded support arms; leg, foot, and back supports adjustable independently in three axes of translation and rotation with controls accessible both to midwife and patient, quick-release restraints. It was a marvelously flexible piece of mechanical engineering to enable the mother to position herself—or be positioned—so that her birth canal was vertical and as wide open as possible at the moment of truth.

Dr. Hubert-Sheffield had it set up in his cabin, checked its many adjustments before signing for it—then looked at it and frowned. A good gadget, and he had paid its high price without a quiver. But it had no love in it; it was as impersonal as a guillotine.

A husband’s arms, a husband’s lap, were not as efficient—but there was much to be said, in his opinion, for having parents go through the ordeal together, she with her husband’s arms holding her, comforting her, while he gave both muscular and emotional support that left the midwife free to concentrate on physical aspects.

A husband who had done this had no doubt that he was a father. Even if some passing stranger had slipped her the juice, such fact became irrelevant, swallowed up by this greater experience.

So how about it, Doc? This gadget? Or Joe’s arms? Did the kids need this second “marriage ceremony”? Could Joe take it, physically and emotionally? There was no doubt that Llita was the more rugged member of the team although Joe outmassed her even when she was near term. What if Joe fainted and dropped her—at the exact wrong instant?

Sheffield worried these matters while he led auxiliary controls from the gravistat in the control room to the delivery chair. He had decided that, nuisance though it was, his cabin had to be the delivery room; it was the only compartment with enough deck space, a bed at hand, and its own bath. Oh, well, he could stand the nuisance of squeezing past the pesky thing to reach his desk and wardrobe for the next fifty days—sixty at the outside, if he had Llita’s date of conception right and had judged her progress correctly. Then he could disassemble it and stow it.

Perhaps he could sell it at a profit on Landfall; it was in advance of the art there, he felt sure.

He positioned the chair, bolted it to the deck, ran it up to maximum height, placed its midwife’s stool in front of it, adjusted the stool until he was comfortable in it, found he could lower the delivery chair ten or twelve centimeters and still have room to work. That done, he climbed into the delivery chair and fiddled with its adjustments—found that it could be made to fit even a person of his height—predictable; some women on Valhalla were taller than he was.

Minerva, by my figures Llita was about ten days late—which did not worry them, as I had been carefully vague about it, and worried me only a touch, as she checked out normal and healthy in all respects. I prepared them not only with instruction and drill, but also with hypnosis, and had prepared her with exercises designed to make it as easy on her as possible—I dislike postpartum repairs; that canal should
stretch
, not tear.

What was really fretting me was possibility that I was going to have to break the neck of a monster. Kill a baby, I mean—I shouldn’t dodge the blunt truth. All calculations I had done one sleepless night still left this chance open—and if I had been wrong in any assumption, the chance might be higher than I like to think about.

If I had to do it, I wanted to get it over with.

I was far more worried than she was. I don’t think she worried at all; I had worked hard on that hypnotic preparation.

If I had to do this grisly thing, I was going to have to do it
fast
, while their attentions were elsewhere—then never let them see it and space the pitiful remains at once. Then tackle the horrid job of trying to put them back together emotionally. As a married couple? I did not know. Maybe I would have an opinion after I saw what she was carrying.

At last her contractions were coming close together, so I had them get into the delivery chair—easy, one-quarter gravity. The chair was already adjusted, and they were used to the position, from drill. Joe climbed in, sat with his thighs stretched wide, knees over the rests, heels braced—not too comfortable as he was not angleworm-limber the way she was. Then I picked her up and sat her in his lap—no trouble, she weighed less than forty pounds at that pseudo-acceleration. Call it eighteen kilos.

She spread her legs almost in a horizontal split and scooted forward in his lap while Joe kept her from falling between his thighs. “Is that far enough, Captain?” she asked.

“Just fine,” I said. The chair might have positioned her a touch better—but she would not have had Joe’s arms around her. I had never told them that there was any other way to do it. “Give her a kiss, Joe, while I get the straps.”

Left knee strap around both their left knees together, same for right knees, and with her feet braced on additional supports I had added—chest and shoulder and thigh straps on him so firmly that he would stay in that chair even if the ship fell apart, but no such straps on
her
. Her hands on the hand grips, while his hands and arms were a living, warm, and loving safety belt, just under her tits, just over the bulge but not on it. He knew how, we had practiced. If I wanted pressure on her belly, I would tell him—otherwise leave well enough alone.

My stool was bolted to the deck, I had added a seat belt. As I strapped myself down, I reminded them that we had a rough ride coming—and this we had not been able to practice; it would have risked miscarriage. “Lock your fingers, Joe, but let her breathe. Comfortable, Llita?”

“Uh—” she said breathlessly. “I—I’m starting another one!”

“Bear down, dear!” I made sure my left foot was positioned for the gravistat control and watched her belly.

Big one! As it peaked, I switched from one-quarter gravity up to two gravities almost in one motion—and Llita let out a yip and the baby squirted like a watermelon seed right into my hands.

I dragged my foot back to allow the gravistat to put us back on low gee even as I made a nearly instantaneous inspection of the brat. A normal boy, red and wrinkled and ugly—so I slapped his tochis and he bawled.