Time Enough for Love (8 page)

“But I do know a lot about swindles. I think that every major variation of every possible swindle has been tried on me, one time and another.

“Some of them worked, back when I was very young. Then I took Grampaw Johnson’s advice and quit looking for the best of it; thereafter I could no longer be swindled. But I was not capable of benefiting from Gramp’s advice until I was burned a few times. Ira, it’s getting late.”

The Chairman Pro Tem promptly stood up. “So it is, sir. May I ask two questions before I leave? Not for your memoirs, procedural questions only.”

“Make it short and snappy.”

“You’ll have your termination-option switch tomorrow morning. But you spoke of not feeling well, and there is no need for that even if you choose to terminate in the near future. Shall we resume the rejuvenation procedures?”

“Hmmm. Second question?”

“I promised to do my best to find something brand-new to interest you. I promised also to spend every day here with you. I see conflict.”

Lazarus grinned. “Don’t kid your old Grampaw, Son; you’ll delegate that research.”

“Certainly. But I must plan how to start it, then review progress at intervals, and suggest new avenues to explore.”

“Mmm…if I consent to the full course, I’ll be out of circulation a day or two every now and then.”

“I believe current practice calls for one day of deep rest approximately each week, varied to suit the client’s condition. My own experience is about a hundred years back; I understand there have been improvements. You’ve decided to take it, sir?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow—after that switch is installed. Ira, I don’t make decisions in haste that don’t call for haste. But if I consent, you’ll have free time to use as you see fit. G’night, Ira.”

“Good night, Lazarus. I hope you decide to accept it.” Weatheral turned toward the door, stopped halfway there, and spoke to the technicians—who left the room at once. The dining table scurried after them. Once the door had shut down Weatheral turned and faced Lazarus Long. “Grandfather,” he said softly, his voice somewhat choked. “Uh—may I?”

Lazarus had let his chair sink back into a reclining couch that held him, hammocklike, as tenderly as a mother’s arms. At the younger man’s words he raised his head. “Huh? What?
Oh!
All right, all right, come here—Grandson.” He reached out one arm to Weatheral.

The Chairman Pro Tem hurried to him, took Lazarus’ hand, dropped to his knees and kissed it.

Lazarus snatched his hand back. “For Pete’s sake! Don’t kneel to me—don’t
ever
do that. If you want to be my grandson, treat me as such. Not that way.”

“Yes, Grandfather.” Weatheral got to his feet, leaned over the old man, and kissed his mouth.

Lazarus patted his cheek. “You’re a sentimentalist, Grandson. But a good boy. Trouble is, there never has been much demand for good boys. Now get that solemn expression off your face and go home and get a good night’s rest.”

“Yes, Grandfather. I will. Good night.”

“Good night. Now beat it.”

Weatheral left quickly. The technicians jumped aside as he came out, then went back into the suite. Weatheral continued on, ignoring people around him but with a softer, gentler expression on his face than was his wont. He went past a bank of transports to the Director’s private transport; it opened to his voice, then conveyed him quickly into the bowels of the city and directly to the Executive Palace.

Lazarus looked up as his attendants came back in; he motioned the taller one to him. The technician’s voice, filtered and distorted by the helmet, said carefully, “Bed…sir?”

“No, I want—” Lazarus paused, then spoke to the air. “Computer? Can you speak? If not, print it out.”

“I hear you, Senior,” a mellifluous, contralto voice answered.

“Tell this nurse that I want whatever they are allowed to give me for pain. I have work to do.”

“Yes, Senior.” The disembodied voice shifted to. Lingua Galacta, was answered in kind, then went on: “Master Chief Technician on duty wishes to know the nature and location of your pain, and adds that you should not work tonight.”

Lazarus kept silent while he counted ten chimpanzees in his mind. Then he said softly, “Damn it, I hurt
everywhere.
And I don’t want advice from a child. I have loose ends to tidy up before I sleep…because one never knows that one will wake up again. Forget the painkiller; it ain’t all that important. Tell ‘em to get out and stay out.”

Lazarus tried to ignore the ensuing exchange, as it annoyed him that he almost-not-quite understood it. He opened the envelope Ira Weatheral had returned to him, then opened out his will—a long bellows-fold of computer printout—and started reading it while whistling off key.

“Senior, Master Chief technician on duty states that you have given a null order, which is a true statement by the Clinic’s regulations. A general analgesic is forthcoming.”

“Forget it.” Lazarus went on reading, and shifted to singing softly the tune he had been whistling:

The taller technician appeared at his elbow, carrying a shiny disk with attached tubing. “For…pain.”

Lazarus made a brush-off gesture with his free hand. “Go ’way, I’m busy.”

The shorter technician appeared on his other side. Lazarus looked that way and said, “What do
you
want?”

As he turned his head the taller technician moved quickly; Lazarus felt a sting in his forearm. He rubbed the spot and said, “Why, you rapscallion. Foxed me, didn’t you? All right, beat it. Raus. Scat!” He dismissed the incident from his mind and returned to work. A moment later he said:

“Computer!”

“Awaiting your orders, Senior.”

“Record this for printout. I, Lazarus Long, sometimes known as the Senior and listed in the Howard Families’ Genealogies as Woodrow Wilson Smith, born 1912, do declare this to be my last will and testament—Computer, go back through my talk with Ira and dig out what I said I wanted to do to help him lead a migration—got it?”

“Retrieved, Senior.”

“Fix up the language and tack it onto my opening statement. And—let me see—add something like this: In the event Ira Weatheral fails to qualify for inheritance, then all my worldly wealth of which I die possessed shall go to, uh, to—to found a home for indigent and superannuated pickpockets, prostitutes, panhandlers, piemen, priggers, and other unworthy poor starting with ‘P.’ Got it?”

“Recorded, Senior. Please be advised that this alternative has a high probability of being nullified if tested by the current rules of this planet.”

Lazarus expressed a rhetorical and physiologically improbable wish. “All right, set it up for stray cats or some other useless but legally acceptable purpose. Search your permanents for such a purpose that
will
get by the courts. Just be certain that the Trustees can’t get their hands on it. Understand?”

“There is no way to be certain of that, Senior, but it will be attempted.”

“Look for a loophole. Print that out as fast as you can research it and put it together. Now stand by for a memorandum of my assets. Begin.” Lazarus started to read the list, found that his eyes were blurring and would not focus. “Damnation! Those dummies slipped me a Mickey and it’s taking hold. Blood! I must have a drop of my own blood to thumbprint it! Tell those dummies to help me and tell them
why
—and warn them that I will bite my tongue to get it if they won’t help me. Now print out my will with any feasible alternative—but
hurry!
”

“Printout starting,” the computer answered quietly, then shifted to Galacta.

The “dummies” did not argue with the computer; they moved fast, one snatching the new sheet out of the auxiliary printout the instant it stopped whirring, the other producing a sterile point out of nowhere and stabbing the ball of Lazarus’ left little finger after giving Lazarus a split second to see what was being done.

Lazarus did not wait for blood to be taken by pipette. He squeezed the stabbed finger for a drop, rubbed his right thumb in it, then print-signed his will while the shorter technician held it for him.

Then he sank back. “It’s done,” he whispered. “Tell Ira.” He was heavily asleep at once.

The chair gently transferred Lazarus to his bed while the technicians silently supervised. Then the shorter watched the readouts on respiration, heart action, brain rhythms, and other physicals while the taller placed the documents, old will and new, in an impervolope, sealed it, chopped and thumb-printed the seal, marked it “Surrender only to the Senior and/or Mr. Chairman Pro Tem,” then retained it until their reliefs arrived.

The relief chief technician listened to the record of the watch, glanced over the physicals, studied the sleeping client.

“Timed,” he stated.

“Neolethe. Thirty-four hours.”

He whistled. “Another crisis?”

“Less severe than the last. Pseudopain with irrational irascibility. Physicals within limits for this stage.”

“What’s in the sealer?”

“Just sign for it and include delivery instructions in your receipt.”

“Pardon me for using up oxygen!”

“Your receipt, please.”

The relief wrote out a receipt, chopped and thumbed it, swapped it for the impervolope. “I relieve you,” he said brusquely.

“Thank you.”

The shorter technician was waiting at the door. The Master Chief Technician paused to say, “You needn’t have waited. It sometimes takes me three times this long to turn over the watch. You are free to leave as soon as the relief junior watch officer arrives.”

“Yes, Master Chief Technician. But this is a very special client—and I thought you might need me with Mr. Snoopy Nose.”

“I can cope with him. Yes, a very special client indeed…and it speaks well for you that the Skills Board assigned you to me when your predecessor opted out.”

“Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me, Associate Technician.” The voice, although distorted by helmet and relay and filter, sounded gentle even though the words were not. “That was not a compliment but a statement of fact. If you had not done well on your first watch, there would be no second watch—as you say, ‘a very special client.’ You did well…aside from nervousness a client can feel even though he can’t see your face. But you’ll get over that.”

“Uh… I hope so. I was very nervous!”

“I would rather have an assistant keyed up tight than one who knows it all and is sloppy. But you should be home now and resting. Come along; I’ll drop you off. Where do you robe? The intermediate lounge? I go past it.”

“Oh, don’t bother about me! But I’ll ride with you if I may—then take the car back.”

“Relax! Once off duty, there are no ranks among us who follow the Vocation. Didn’t they teach you that?” They moved past the queue at the public transports, on past the Director’s own, stopped at the smaller bank for executives.

“Yes, but—I’ve never been assigned to anyone of your rank before.”

That got a chuckle. “All the more reason to follow that rule with me—because the higher one is, the more one needs to forget it off duty. Here’s an empty car. In you go and sit down.”

The shorter one went in but did not sit down until the Master Chief Technician was seated. The boss rejuvenator ignored it, set the controls, sprawled out, and sighed, as the car started to move. “I feel the strain myself. Coming off watch, I feel as old as
he
is.”

“I know. I’m wondering if I can take it. Chief?
Why
won’t they let him terminate? He seems so tired.”

The answer was slow and not responsive. “Don’t call me ‘Chief.’ We’re off duty.”

“But I don’t know your name.”

“Nor do you need to know it. Hmm—The situation is not quite as it appears to be; he has suicided four times already.”

“
What?
”

“Oh, he doesn’t remember it. If you think his memory is bad now, you should have seen him three months ago. Actually, it speeds up our work every time he does it. His switch—when he had it—was gimmicked; it simply made him unconscious, then we would go ahead with whatever stage was next while hypnoing more of his memory tapes into him. But we had to stop that—and remove the switch—a few days ago; he remembered who he is.”

“But—That’s not by the Canons! ‘Death is every man’s privileges.’”

The Master Chief Technician touched the emergency control; the car continued on, found a parking pocket, and stopped. “I did not say that it was covered by the Canons. But watch officers do not set policy.”

“When I was accepted, I took the oath…and part of it was to ‘give life freely to those who wish it…and never refuse death to those who yearn for it.’”

“Don’t you think I took the same oath? The Director is so angry that she has gone on leave—she may resign; I wouldn’t venture to guess. But the Chairman Pro Tem is not of our Vocation; he is not bound by our oath, and the motto up over the entrance means nothing to him.
His
motto is—or seems to be—‘Every rule has exceptions.’ Look, I knew I would have to have this talk with you and I’m pleased that you’ve given me an opportunity before our next watch. Now I must ask you—do you wish to opt out? It won’t affect your record; I’ll see to that. Don’t worry about a relief; the Senior will still be asleep when I next go on watch and any assistant will do for that watch—which leaves time for the Skills Board to select your replacement.”

“Uh—I
want
to attend him. It’s a great privilege, one I never dreamed would come my way. But I’m torn. I don’t think he’s being treated fairly. And who is more entitled to fair treatment in this than the Senior?”

“I’m torn by it, too. I was shocked silly the first time I realized that I was being ordered to keep alive a man who had terminated voluntarily. Or who had been allowed to think that he was terminating, rather. But, my dear colleague, the choice is not up to us. This job will be done no matter what we think. Once I realized that—well, I am not lacking in professional confidence—call it conceit. I think I am the best-qualified senior watch officer on the list. I decided that, if the Families’ Senior was going to have this done to him, I would not opt out and let it be done by colleagues less skilled than I am. Bonuses had nothing to do with it; I’ve assigned my bonuses to the Sanctuary for Defectives.”