Time Enough for Love (35 page)

“You’re both crazy. That fund is bulging, and I know it. Look, if I go to town tomorrow, can you shut down that ptomaine trap for a day? Or perhaps Neilsday?”

“Any day and as many days as you wish, dear Aaron”—so I said I would call back.

Minerva, I needed time to think. Joe was no problem, he never was. But Llita was stubborn. I had offered to compromise; she had not budged a millimeter. It was the interest that made it such a horrid sum, for them—two strivers who had started with a couple of thousand bucks thirteen years back and were raising three kids by then.

Compound interest is murder. The sum she claimed they owed me—the amount of that draft—was more than two and a half times the base sum…and I couldn’t see how they had saved even
that
. But, had I been able to get her to agree on the base amount and forget compound interest, they would still have a nice chunk of capital to expand again—and if it took giving the smaller sum to orphaned spacemen or spacemen’s orphans or indignant cats to make them feel proud, I could understand how it would be a bargain in their eyes. I had taught them myself, hadn’t I? I once dropped ten times that amount rather than argue over whether cards had been cut—then slept that night in a graveyard.

I wondered if, in her sweetly devious mind, she was paying me back for having dragged her out of my bed one night fourteen years earlier. I wondered what she would do if I made a counteroffer to accept the base sum and let her “pay the interest” her own way. Shucks, she would probably be on her back before you could say “Contraception.”

Which would solve nothing.

Since she had turned down my compromise, we were back where we had started. She was determined to pay it all—or give it away pointlessly—and I was not going to let her do either one; I can be stubborn, too.

There had to be a way to do both.

At dinner that night, after the servants withdrew, I told Laura I was going to town on business—would she like to come along? Shop while I was busy, then dine wherever she liked, then any fun that appealed to her. Laura was pregnant again; I thought she might enjoy a day wasting money on clothes.

Not that I planned to have her along at the coming row with Llita; officially Joseph and Estelle Long and their oldest child had been born on Valhalla; we had become friends when they had taken passage in my ship. I had fleshed out that story and coached the kids in it on the leg to Landfall, and had them study sound-sight tapes from Torheim—ones which turned them into synthetic Valhallans unless questioned too closely by real Valhallans.

This fakery was not utterly necessary as Landfall. had an open-door policy; an immigrant did not even have to register—he could sink or swim. No landing fee, no head tax, not much taxation of any sort, or much government, and New Canaveral, the third biggest city, was only a hundred thousand—Landfall was a good place to be in those days.

But I had Joe and Llita do it that way both for them and for their kids. I wanted them to forget that they had ever been slaves, never talk about it, never let their kids know it—and at the same time, bury the fact that they had been, in some odd fashion, brother and sister. There is nothing shameful in being born a slave (not for the slave!), nor was there any reason why diploid complements should not marry. But forget it—start over. Joseph Long had married Stjerne Svensdatter (name Anglicized to “Estelle,” with the nickname Yeetah from babyhood); they had married when he finished apprenticeship to a chef; they had migrated after their first child. The story was simple and unassailable, and put the polish on my only attempt at playing Pygmalion. I had seen no reason to give my new wife any but the official version. Laura knew they were my friends; she was gracious to them on my account, then had come to like them on their own account.

Laura was a good gal, Minerva, good company in bed and out, and she had the Howard virtue, even on her first marriage, of not trying to smother her spouse—most Howards need at least one marriage to learn it. She knew who I was—the Senior—as our marriage and later our kids were registered with the Archives, just as had been my marriage to her grandmother, and the offspring from that. But she did not treat me as a thousand years older than she was and never quizzed me about my past lives—simply listened if I felt like talking.

I don’t blame her for that lawsuit; Roger Sperling cooked that up, the greedy son of a sow.

Laura said, “If you don’t mind, dear, I’ll stay home. I would rather splurge on clothes after I slim down. As for dinner, there isn’t a restaurant in New Canaveral that can match what Thomas does for us here. Well, Estelle’s Kitchen perhaps, but that’s a lunchroom, not a restaurant. Will you see them this trip? Estelle and Joe, I mean.”

“Possibly.”

“Find time, dear; they are nice people. Besides, I want to send some knickknack to my goddaughter. Aaron, if you want to treat me to a fancy restaurant when we go to town, you should encourage Joe to open one. Joe can cook, equal to Thomas.”

(Better than Thomas, I said to myself—and Joe doesn’t scowl at a polite request. Minerva, the trouble with servants is that you serve them quite as much as they serve you.) “I’ll make a point of seeing them, at least long enough to deliver your present to Libby.”

“And kiss them all for me and I’d better send something to each of their kids and be sure to tell Estelle that I’m pregnant again and find out if she is, too, and remember to tell me, and what time are you leaving, dear?—I must check your shirts.”

Laura was serenely certain that I could not pack an overnight bag no matter how many centuries of experience I had had. Her ability to see the world as she wanted to see it enabled her to put up with my cranky ways for forty years; I do appreciate her. Love? Certainly, Minerva. She looked out for my welfare, always, and I did for hers, and we enjoyed being together. Just not love so intense that it is a great ache in your belly.

Next day I took my jumpbuggy over to New Canaveral.

(Omitted)

—planned Maison Long. Llita had meant to blitz me. I’m sentimental, and she knew it and had set the stage. When I got there, the shutters were closed, early—and their two older kids were farmed out for the night and baby Laura was asleep. Joe let me in, told me to go on back; he had our dinner on the range and would be along in a minute. So I went back to their living quarters to find Llita.

I found her—dressed in sarong and sandals I had given her not an hour after I had bought her. Instead of the sophisticated face-do she now used so well, she was wearing no makeup at all and had her hair simply parted and hanging straight down, to her waist or longer, and brushed till it shone. But this was not the frightened, ignorant slave who had to be taught how to bathe; this serenely beautiful young lady was clean as a sterilized scalpel, and was scented with some perfume which may have been named Spring Breezes but should have been called Justifiable Rape and sold only under doctor’s prescription.

She posed just long enough for me to take this in, then swarmed over me, hit me with a kiss that matched her perfume.

By the time she let me go, Joe had joined us—dressed in breechclout and sandals.

But I did not let it go sentimental; I riposted sharply, stopping only to accept one-tenth that much kiss from Joe, said nothing about their costumes, and at once started explaining that business deal. When Llita caught what I was talking about, she shifted from sexy siren to sharp businesswoman, listened intently, ignored her stage setting and costuming, and asked the right questions.

Once she said, “Aaron, I sniff a mouse. You told us to be free, and we’ve tried to be—and that’s why we sent you that draft. I can add figures; we
owe
you that money. We don’t have to have the biggest restaurant in New Canaveral. We’re happy, the children are healthy, we’re making money.”

“And working too hard,” I answered.

“Not all that hard. Though a bigger restaurant would mean even more work. But the point is: You seem to be buying us again. That’s all right if you wish to—you are the only master we would ever accept. Is that your intention, sir? If so, please say so. Be frank with us.”

I said, “Joe, will you hold her while I wallop her? For using that dirty word? Llita, you are wrong on both counts. A bigger restaurant means
less
work. And I’m not buying you; this is a business deal in which I expect a fat profit. I’m betting on Joe’s genius as a chef, plus your genius for pinching pennies without cutting quality. If I don’t make money, I’ll exercise my option to liquidate, get my investment back, and you can go back to running a lunch counter. If you fail I won’t prop you up.”

“Brother?” She called him that in the dialect of their childhood. It signified to me that the lodge was tyled for executive session at the highest degree, as they were most careful not to call each other “Brother” or “Sister” in any language, especially in front of the children. J.A. was sometimes “Brother” in English—never his father Joe. Minerva, I don’t recall that Landfall had laws against incest—it did not have many laws. But there was a strong taboo against it, and I had carefully indoctrinated them. Half the battle with any culture is knowing its taboos.

Joe looked thoughtful. “I can cook. Can you manage it, Sis?”

“I can try. Of course we’ll try it if you want us to, Aaron. I’m not sure we can make a go of it, and it does look like more work to me. I’m not complaining, Aaron, but we are already working about as hard as we can.”

“I know you are. I don’t see how Joe found time to knock you up.”

She shrugged and said, “That doesn’t take long. And it will be a long time—I’ve just barely caught—before I’ll have to take time off. J.A. is old enough to handle the cashbox when I do. But not in a big fancy restaurant.”

I answered, “Wench, you’re thinking in terms of a lunchroom. Now listen, and learn how to make more money with less work and more time off.

“We may not open Maison Long until after you have this baby; we can’t set this up overnight. We must sell or lease this place—which means finding buyers who can keep it out of the red; it’s always expensive to have to take a place back.

“We must find a suitable property in the right neighborhood, for sale or lease with option to buy. I may buy it and rent it to the corporation, so as not to tie up too much of the corporation’s capital in senior financing. Find the place, remodel it probably, redecorate it certainly. Money for fixtures. Not much for squeeze; I know where the bodies are buried in this burg, and I won’t hold still for excessive squeeze.

“But, my dear, you will
not
be on the cashbox; we’ll hire help, and I’ll set it up so that they can’t steal.
You
will be moving around, looking pretty, smiling at people—and keeping your eye on everything. But you’ll do this only at lunch and dinner. Call it six hours a day.”

Joe looked startled; Llita blurted out, “But, Aaron, we always open up as soon as we’re back from market and stay open late. Otherwise you lose so much trade.”

“I’m sure you work that hard; this draft proves it. And that’s why you think getting pregnant ‘doesn’t take long.’ But it
should
‘take long,’ dear. Work is not an end in itself; there must always be time enough for love. Tell me—When you caught J.A. in the ‘Libby’, were you rushed? Or did you have time to enjoy it?”

“Oh, goodness!” Her nipples suddenly crinkled. “Those were wonderful days!”

“There will be wonderful days again. Gather ye rosebuds, time is still a-flying. Or have you lost interest?”

She looked indignant. “Captain, you know me better than that.”

“Joe? Slowing down, son?”

“Well…we do work long hours. Sometimes I’m pretty tired.”

“Let’s change that. This will not be a lunchroom; this is going to be a high-priced gourmet restaurant of a quality this planet has never seen. Remember that place I took you kids for dinner just before we lifted from Valhalla? That sort. Soft lights and soft music and wonderful food and high prices. A wine cellar but no hard liquor; our patrons must not have their tastebuds numbed.

“Joe, you will still go to market each morning; selecting top-quality food is something you can’t delegate. But don’t take Llita and do take J.A. if he’s going to learn the profession.”

“I sometimes take him now.”

“Good. Then come home and go to bed again; you’re through until you cook dinner. Not lunch.”

“Huh?”

“That’s right. Your number two chef handles lunch, then helps with dinner, your big moneymaking meal. Llita is hostess both for lunch and dinner but keeps an especially sharp eye on quality at lunch, Joe, since you won’t be in the kitchen. But she never goes to market and should still be in bed when you get back from market—did I say that your quarters will be attached, just as now? You’ll both be off duty two or three hours in the afternoon—just right for the sort of siesta you used to grab in the ‘Libby.’ In fact, if you two can’t find time under that regime both for sleep and plenty of happy play—But you can.”

“It sounds grand,” Llita conceded, “if we can make a living with those hours—”

“You can. A better living. But instead of trying to get every buck, Llita, your object will be to maintain top quality while not losing money…and
enjoy
life.”

“We will. Aaron, our beloved…captain and friend, since I must not say that ‘dirty’ word, we enjoyed life even as children when I had to wear that horrid virgin’s basket—because it was so sweet to snuggle together all the long nights. When you bought us—and freed us—and I didn’t have to wear it, life was perfect. I didn’t think it could be better—though it will be, when we don’t have to choose between sleep and trying to stay awake for loving. Uh, you may not believe this since you know what a rutty wench I am—but lots of times sleep won.”

“I believe it. Let’s change it.”

“But—No breakfast trade at all? Aaron, some of our breakfast customers have been coming to us the whole time we’ve been on Landfall.”

“Net profit?”

“Well…not much. People won’t pay as much for breakfast even though materials sometimes cost as much. I’ve been satisfied with a very small net on breakfast. Advertising. I’d hate to tell our regulars that we won’t serve them any longer.”