Time Enough for Love (34 page)

VARIATIONS ON A THEME

Landfall

(Omitted)

—girl I had intended to marry had married again and had another baby. Not surprising; I had been off Landfall two standard years. Not tragic, either, as we had been married once about a hundred years earlier. Old friends. So I talked it over with her and her new husband, then married one of her granddaughters, one not descended from me. Both gals Howards, of course, and Laura, the one I married that time, being of the Foote Family.
¹⁴

We were a good match, Minerva; Laura was twenty, and I was freshly rejuvenated and holding my cosmetic age at the early thirties. We had several children—nine, I think—then she got bored with me forty-odd years later, and wanted to marry my 5th/7th cousin
¹⁵
Roger Sperling—which did not grieve me as I was getting restless as a country squire. Anyhow, when a woman wants to go, let her go. I stood up for her at their wedding.

Roger was surprised to learn that my plantation was not community property. Or possibly did not think that I would hold Laura to the marriage settlement she had signed—but that wasn’t the first time I had been wealthy; I had learned. It took a tedious suit to convince him that Laura owned her wedding dower plus appreciation, not those thousands of hectares that were mine before I married her. In many ways it is simpler to be poor.

Then I shipped out again.

But this is about my kids who weren’t really mine. Before we reached Landfall, Joseph Aaron Long looked more like a cherub and less like a monkey but was still young enough to wet on anyone reckless enough to pick him up—which his grandpappy did, several times a day. I was fond of him; he was not only a merry baby but was also, to me, a most satisfying triumph.

By the time we grounded, his father had shaped up into a really good cook.

Minerva, I could have set those kids up in style; that was as profitable a triangle trip as I ever made. But you don’t cause ex-slaves to stand tall and free and proud by giving them things. What I did was to enable them to get out and scratch. Like this—

I credited them with half-time apprentice wages, Blessed to Valhalla, on the assumption that their other half-time was taken up by studies. This I had Llita figure in Valhalla kroner, at Valhalla wage rates. I had her add to this Joe’s wages as kitchen help on Valhalla, minus what he had spent there. This total was credited to them as a share in cargo on the third leg, Valhalla to Landfall—which amounted to less than one-half of 1 percent of that cargo. I made Llita work this out.

To this we added ship’s-cook wages for Joe, Valhalla to Landfall, payable in Landfall bucks at Landfall wage scales—but only as wages not as a share in cargo. I had to explain to Llita why Joe’s wages for that leg could not be invested retroactively in cargo lifted at Valhalla. Once she understood it, she had a grasp of the notions of venture and risk and profit—but I did not pay her for this accounting; I was durned if I would pay purser’s wages to figure her own money when I was not only having to check everything she did but was giving her a lesson in economics as well.

I did not pay Llita for the leg to Landfall; she was a passenger, busy having a baby and then still busier learning to care for it. But I did not charge her for passage; she deadheaded.

You see what I was doing—rigging the accounts so that I would owe them something once I sold my cargo, while making it appear that they had earned it. They hadn’t been worth
any
wages; on the contrary I had spent quite a chunk on them—aside from buying them, which I never charged against them even in my head. On the other hand, I was paid in deep satisfaction—especially if they learned to stand on their own feet. But I discussed none of this; I just had Llita figure their share—my way.

(Omitted)

—came to a couple of thousand, not enough to support them very long. But I took time to find a hole-in-the-wall luncheon, on which I took option through a third party, after satisfying myself that a couple of strivers could stay afloat with it, if the price was right and they were willing to work. Then I told them that they had better start job hunting as I was putting the
Libby
up for sale or bond-and-lease. It was root, hog, or die. They were
really
free—free to starve.

Llita didn’t pout, she just looked solemn and went on nursing little J.A. Joe looked scared. But later I saw them with their heads together over a newspaper I had brought aboard; they were checking “help wanted” ads.

After much whispering Llita asked diffidently if I could baby-sit while they went job hunting?—but if I was busy, J.A. could ride her hip.

I said I wasn’t going anywhere—but had they checked “business opportunities”? Jobs for untrained people didn’t lead anywhere.

She looked startled; it was a new idea. But that hint was enough. There was more looking and whispering; then she fetched the paper to me and pointed to an ad—my own but not so marked—and asked what “five-year amortization” meant?

I sniffed at it and told her it was a way to go broke slowly, especially if she spent money on clothes—and there must be something wrong or the owner wouldn’t want to sell.

She looked as sad as Joe did and said that the other business opportunities called for investing lots of money. I grudgingly admitted that it could not hurt to look—but watch out for booby traps.

They came back full of enthusiasm—they were
sure
they could buy it and make it pay! Joe was twice as good a cook as that fry cook who had it—he used too much grease and it was rancid and the coffee was terrible and he didn’t even keep the place
clean
. But best of all, behind the storeroom was a bedroom where they could live and—

I squelched them. What were the gross receipts? How about taxes? What licenses and inspections and what squeeze on each? What did
they
know about buying food wholesale? No, I would
not
go look at it; they had to make up their own minds and quit leaning on me and, anyhow, I didn’t know anything about restaurant business.

Two lies, Minerva; I’ve run restaurants on five planets—plus a silent lie as to my reasons for not being willing to inspect the joint. Two—no, three—reasons: First, I had gone over the place in cynical detail before I optioned it; second, that fry cook was bound to remember me; third, since I was selling it to them, through a dummy, I could neither vouch for it nor urge them to buy. Minerva, if I sell a horse, I won’t guarantee that it has a leg on each corner; the buyer must count them himself.

Having disclaimed any knowledge of restaurant business, I then lectured them about it. Llita started taking notes, then asked to be allowed to start the recorder. So I went into detail: Why 100 percent gross profit on the cost of food might not break even after she figured costs and overhead—amortization, depreciation, taxes, insurance, wages for them as if they were employees, etc. Where the farmers’ market was and how early they had to be there each morning. Why Joe must learn to cut meat, not buy it by the piece—and where he could learn how. How a long menu could ruin them. What to do about rats, mice, roaches, and some dillies Landfall has but thank heaven Secundus does not. Why—

(Omitted)

—chopped the umbilical, Minerva. I don’t think they ever guessed that they were dealing with me. I neither cheated nor helped them; that amortized sales contract simply passed on the price I had to pay for the dump, plus a load representing time I had spent dickering the price downward, plus legal and escrow fees and a fee to the dummy, plus the interest a bank would charge
me
—two points cheaper than
they
could get, at least. But no charity, none—I made nothing, lost nothing, and charged for only a day of my time.

Llita turned out to be tighter than a bull’s arse in fly time; I think she broke even the first month despite closing down while they cleaned and refurbished. Certainly she did not miss that first month’s payment on the mortgage, nor any after that. Miss one? Dear, they paid that five-year loan in three years.

Not too surprising. Oh, a long spell of illness could have wrecked them. But they were healthy and young and worked seven days a week until they were free and clear. Joe cooked and Llita handled the cashbox and smiled at customers and helped at the counter, and J.A. lived in a basket at his mother’s elbow until he was old enough to toddle.

Until I married Laura and left New Canaveral to be a country gentleman, I stopped in their joint fairly often—not too often, as Llita would not let me pay, and that was proper, part of standing tall and proud; they had eaten my food, now I ate theirs. So I usually stopped just for a cup of coffee and checked on my godson—while checking on them. I steered custom their way, too; Joe was a good cook and got steadily better, and word got around that Estelle’s Kitchen was the place if you appreciated good food. Word-of-mouth is the best advertising; people tend to be smug about having “discovered” that sort of eatery.

It did no harm with customers, male especially, that Estelle herself presided over the cashbox, young and pretty and with a baby in her arm. If she was nursing him as she made change—as was often the case at first—it practically guaranteed a lavish tip.

J.A. gave up the dairy business presently, but when he was about two his job was taken over by a baby girl, Libby Long. I didn’t deliver that one, and her red hair had nothing to do with me. Joe was blond, and I assume that Llita carried the gene as a recessive—doubt if she had time to branch out. Libby was a number-one tip-inducer, and I credit her with helping pay off the mortgage early.

A few years later Estelle’s Kitchen moved uptown to the financial district, was somewhat larger and Llita hired a waitress, a pretty one of course—

(Omitted)

—Maison Long was swank, but it had a corner in it, a coffee shop, named “Estelle’s Kitchen” and Estelle was hostess there as well as in the main dining room—smiling, dressed fit to kill in clothes that showed her superb figure, calling regulars by name and getting the names of their guests and remembering them. Joe had three chefs and a number of helpers, and they met his high standards or he fired them.

But before they opened Maison Long, something happened that showed that my kids were even smarter than I thought they were—or at least remembered everything and figured things out later. Mind you, when I bought them, they were too ignorant to pound sand and I don’t think either one had ever touched money at any time.

Letter from a lawyer—Inside was a bank draft, with it was an accounting: Two passages, Blessed to Valhalla to Landfall, second leg taken from tariffs of Transtellar Migration Corporation, Ltd. (New Canaveral) and first leg arbitrarily equated to second leg; certain monies accruing from share in sale of cargo; five thousand blessings expressed as bucks at an estimated exchange rate based on assumptions as to equivalent buying power, see enclosure; total of above gross sums; interest on gross compounded semiannually for thirteen years at the going commercial rate for each year for unsecured loans—and grand total same as the bank draft, a sum I’m not sure I remember, Minerva, but it would not mean anything in Secundus crowns anyhow. It was a sizable sum.

There was no mention of Llita or Joe, and the draft was signed by this lawyer. So I called him.

He turned out to be stuffy, which did not impress me as I was a lawyer there myself, although not practicing. All he would say was that he was acting for an undisclosed client.

So I fired legalese at him, and he loosened up to the extent of informing me that he had instructions to cover the contingency that I might refuse the draft: He was then to pay the draft sum to a designated foundation and so inform me after it was paid. But he declined to tell me
what
foundation.

I signed off and called Estelle’s Kitchen. Llita answered, then cut in video and smiled her best. “Aaron! We haven’t seen you in much too long.”

I agreed and added that apparently they had gone out of their silly minds while I wasn’t watching. “I have here a bunch of nonsense from a lawyer, along with a ridiculous draft. If I could reach you, dear, I would paddle you. Better let me talk with Joe.”

She smiled happily and told me that I was welcome to paddle her any time and that I could talk to Joe in a moment but that he was locking up. Then she stopped smiling and said with sober dignity, “Aaron, our oldest and dearest friend, that draft is not ridiculous. Some debts cannot be paid. So you taught me, years ago. But the money part of a debt
can
be paid. This we are doing, as closely as we have been able to figure it.”

I said, “God damn it, you stupid little bitch, you kids don’t owe me a bloody penny!”—or words to that effect.

She answered, “Aaron, our beloved master—”

At the word “master” I blew my overloads, Minerva. I used language guaranteed to scorch the hide of the lead mules in a team of six.

She let me run down, then said softly, “Our master until you free us by letting us pay this—Captain.”

Dear, I skidded to a halt.

She added, “But even then you will still be our master in my heart, Captain. And in Joe’s heart, I know. Even though we stand free and proud, as you taught us. Even though—thanks always to you—our children, and the children I still will bear, will never know that we were ever anything but free…and proud.”

I said, “Dear, you’re making me cry.”

She said, “No, no! The Captain never cries.”

I said, “A lot you know about it, wench. I weep. But in my cabin—with the door locked. Dear, I won’t argue. If this is what it takes to make you kids feel free, I’ll take it. But just the base sum, no interest. Not from friends.”

“We are more than friends, Captain. And less. Interest on a debt is
always
paid—you taught me. But I knew that in my heart when I was only an ignorant slave, freshly manumitted. Joseph knew it, too. I
tried
to pay interest, sir. But you would not have me.”

I changed the subject. “What is this blinking foundation that gets the bucks if I refuse them?”

She hesitated. “We planned to leave that up to you, Aaron. But we thought it might go to orphans of spacemen. Perhaps the Harriman Memorial Refuge.”