Time Enough for Love (18 page)

“The catch is this, Lazarus. I’ve been describing the penthouse I had built for my own use on the roof of the Palace, some ninety years back when I decided to keep this job awhile. It can be reached only by vertical transport from my usual quarters a couple of stories below it. I’ve never had time to use it much; you are welcome to it.” I stood up. “But if you won’t take it, then you can consider that I’ve lost the Scheherazade bet, and you are free to use that termination switch whenever you please. For I’m damned if I’ll be a sitting duck for assassination just to cater to your whims.”

“Sit back down!’

“No, thank you. I’ve made a reasonable offer. If you won’t take it, you can go to hell in your own way. I won’t let you ride my shoulders like the Old Man of the Sea. I can be pushed just so far.”

“So I see. How much of your ancestry am I?”

“About thirteen percent. Considerable convergence.”

“Only that much? I would have guessed more. Some ways you sound like my Gramp. Does my suicide switch go along?”

“If you want it,” I answered as indifferently as I could manage to sound. “Or you can jump off the edge. It’s a long drop.”

“I prefer the switch, Ira; I’d hate to change my mind on the way down. Will you fix me up with another transport so that I won’t have to go through your apartment?”

“No.”

“Eh? Is it all that difficult? Let’s ask Minerva.”

“It’s not that I
can’t
—I
won’t.
It’s an unreasonable request. It won’t hurt you to change transports in my foyer. Didn’t I make it clear that I am not catering to any more unreasonable whims?”

“Get your feathers down, Son. I accept. Tomorrow, say. Never mind moving that clutter of books; I like old-fashioned bound books; they have more flavor than speedireads, or projectos, or such. And I’m pleased to find that you’re a rat and not a mouse. Please sit down.”

I did so, pretending reluctance. I felt that I was beginning to gain some grasp of Lazarus. Despite the way he sneered at them the old scoundrel was an equalitarian at heart…and expressed it by attempting to dominate anyone with whom he came into contact—but was contemptuous of anyone who knuckled under to his bullying. So the only answer was to hit back at him, try to maintain a balance of power—and hope that in time it would reach the stability of mutual respect.

I never had cause to change my mind. He was capable of kindness and even affection toward one who accepted a subordinate role—if that person was a child or a female. But he preferred spunk even from them. A grown male who bent the knee he neither liked nor trusted.

I think this quirk in his character made him very lonely.

Presently the Senior said musingly, “Be nice to live in a house for a while. With a garden. Maybe with a spot where I can stretch a hammock.”

“Several such spots.”

“But I’m doing you out of your hideaway.”

“Lazarus, there is enough room on that roof that I could have another cottage assembled out of your sight. If I wanted it. I don’t. I haven’t even been up there for a swim in weeks. It has been at least a year since I slept up there.”

“Well—I hope you’ll feel free to come up and swim. Any time. Or whatever.”

“I expect to be up there every day and all day, for the next thousand days. Have you forgotten our bet?”

“Oh, that. Ira, you were bitching that my whimsical ways were wasting your valuable time. Do you want to be let off the hook? Not on the other, just on that.”

I laughed at him. “Straighten your kilt, Lazarus, your self-interest is showing. Meaning
you
want to be let off the hook. No deal. I intend to get one thousand and one days of your memoirs on record. After that you can jump off the edge, or drown yourself in the pool, or whatever. But I won’t let you welch by pretending to do me a favor. I’m beginning to understand you.”

“You are? That’s more than I’ve ever managed. When you get me figured out, tell me about me; I’ll be interested. That search for something new, Ira—You said you had started it.”

“I didn’t say that, Lazarus.”

“Well, perhaps you just implied it.”

“Nor even that. Want to bet? We can ask Minerva for a full printout, then I’ll accept your verdict.”

“Let’s not tempt a lady into fudging the record, Ira; she’s loyal to you, not to me. Despite any super-duper-overrides.”

“Chicken.”

“At every opportunity, Ira; how do you think I’ve lived so long? I bet only when I’m certain to win or when losing serves my actual purpose. All right, when are you starting that research?”

“I’ve already started it.”

“But you said—No, you didn’t. Damn your impudence, boy. All right, what direction are you pushing it?”

“All directions.”

“Impossible. You don’t have that many people at your disposal, even assuming that all of them are capable—whereas the person capable of creative thought is less than one in a thousand.”

“No argument. But what about the sort of person that you said was just like us—but magnified? Minerva is director of research on this, Lazarus. I talked it over with her; she’s setting it up. All directions. A Zwicky investigation.”

“Hmm. Well…yes. She could—I
think
she could. Whereas even Andy Libby might have found it difficult. How is she designing her morphological box?”

“I don’t know. Shall we ask her?”

“Only if she’s ready to be asked, Ira. People get annoyed when interrupted for progress reports. Even Andy Libby used to get irritable if anyone joggled his elbow.”

“Even the great Libby probably didn’t have the time-share capacity Minerva has. Most brains are merely linear, and I’ve never heard of any human genius who had more than three tracks.”

“Five.”

“So? Well, you’ve met more geniuses than I have. But I don’t know how many simultaneous tracks Minerva can set up; I simply have never seen her overloaded. Let’s ask her. Minerva, have you set up the morpho box for that search for ‘something new’ for the Senior?”

“Yes, Ira.”

“Tell us about it.”

“The preliminary matrix uses five dimensions, but with a certainty that auxiliary dimensions will be needed for some pigeonholes. That being noted, there are now nine by five by thirteen by eight by seventy-three—or three hundred forty-one thousand six hundred forty discrete category pockets before auxiliary expansions. For check, the original trinary readout is unit pair pair comma unit nil nil comma unit pair pair comma unit nil nil point nil. Shall I print out decimal and trinary expressions?”

“I think not, Little Nag; the day you make a mistake in arithmetic, I’ll have to resign. Lazarus?”

“I’m not interested in pigeonholes, just what is in them. Hit any pay dirt, Minerva?”

“As stated, Lazarus, your question does not permit specific answer. Shall I print out the categories for your examination?”

“Uh—
No
! Over three hundred thousand categories and maybe a dozen words to define each one? We’d be hip-deep in paper.” Lazarus looked thoughtful. “Ira, you might ask Minerva to print it somewhere else before she wipes it. As a book. A
big
book, ten or fifteen volumes. You could call it ‘Varieties of Human Experience,’ by, uh, ‘Minerva Weatheral.’ It would be the sort of thing professors argue over for a thousand years. I’m not joking, Ira; it
should
be preserved, I think it’s new. It’s a job too big for flesh-and-blood, and I sort o’ doubt that a computer of Minerva’s caliber has ever before been asked to do this sort of Zwicky.”

“Minerva, would you like that? Preserve your research notes and edit them into a book? Say a few hundred full-size bound copies in a handsome presentation format plus microperms for libraries on Secundus and elsewhere. For the Archives, too—I could ask Justin Foote to write a preface.”

I was intentionally appealing to her vanity—and if you think computers don’t have such human foibles, then I suggest that your experience with them is limited; Minerva always liked to be appreciated, and we two began to be a team only after I realized this. What else can you offer a machine? Higher pay and longer vacations? Let’s not be silly.

But she surprised me still again, answering in a voice almost as shy as Lazarus’ yacht, and quite formally: “Mr. Chairman Pro Tem, would it be proper, and would you grant permission, for me to put on the title page ‘by Minerva
Weatheral’
?”

I said, “Why, certainly. Unless you would rather sign it just ‘Minerva.’”

Lazarus said brusquely, “Don’t be a dumb fool, Son. Dear, sign that title page ‘Minerva
L
. Weatheral.’ The ‘L’ stands for ‘Long’—because you, Ira, had a woodscolt by one of my daughters on some frontier planet back in the careless days of your youth and just recently got around to registering the fact in the Archives. I’ll attest the registration—happens I was there at the time. But Dr. Minerva L. Weatheral is now off somewhere way the hell and gone out, doing research for her next magnum opus—can’t be reached for an interview. Ira, you and I will whip up biographical notes for my distinguished granddaughter. Got it?”

I simply answered Yes.

“That suit you, girl?”

“Yes indeed, Lazarus. Grandfather Lazarus.”

“Don’t bother calling me ‘Grandfather.’ But I want the number-one presentation copy inscribed to me, dear—‘To my Grandfather Lazarus Long, with love, Minerva L. Weatheral.’ Is it a deal?”

“I will be proud and happy to do so, Lazarus. An inscription should be in handwriting, should it not? I can modify the extensional I use to sign official papers for Ira—a mod so that the inscription handwriting will be different from his handwriting.”

“Fine. If Ira behaves himself, you might consider dedicating the book to him and inscribe a copy to him. But
I
get the first copy. I’m senior—and I thought it up. But back to the search itself—I’m never going to read that twenty-volume opus, Minerva; I’m interested only in results. So tell me what you have so far.”

“Lazarus, I have tentatively rejected over half the matrix as representing things the Archives show that you have done, or things that I assume that you would not wish to do—”

“Hold it! As the marine said, ‘If I haven’t done it, I’ll try it.’ What are these things you assume I wouldn’t want to try? Let’s hear ’em.”

“Yes, sir. One submatrix, three thousand six hundred fifty pockets, all involve a probably fatal outcome, probability ninety-nine percent plus. First, exploring in corpus the interior of a star—”

“Scratch that one, I’ll leave that to physicists. Besides, Lib and I did it once.”

“The Archives did not show it, Lazarus.”

“Lots of things not in the Archives. Go on.”

“Modification of your genetic pattern to grow an amphibious clone capable of living in ocean waters.”

“I’m not sure I’m that interested in fish. What’s the catch?”

“Three catches, Lazarus, each hazardous by less than ninety-nine percent but, when taken in series, total almost unity. Such pseudohuman amphibians have been grown, but the viable ones—thus far—strongly resemble very large frogs. The chances of survival of such a creature against other denizens of the deep—figured for Secundus—have been theoretically calculated as even for seventeen days, twenty-five percent for thirty-four days, and so on.”

“I think I could improve those odds. But I never have cared much for Russian roulette. The other hazards?”

“Installing your brain in the modified clone, then reinserting it into a normal clone at a later time. If you survived.”

“Scratch that one. If I have to live underwater, I don’t want to be a frog; I want to be the biggest, meanest shark in the ocean. Besides, I figure that, if living underwater was all that interesting, we would still be there. Give me another sample.”

“A triple sample, sir. Lost in n-space with a ship, without a ship but with a suit, and without even a suit.”

“Scratch ‘em all. I’ve come closer than I like to think to the first two, and the third is just a silly way to drown in vacuum. Thin and unpleasant. Minerva, the All Powerful in His Majestic Wisdom—whatever that means—made it possible for humans to die peacefully. That being so, unless one is forced to, it is silly to do it the hard way. So scratch drowning in caterpillars and self-immolation and all silly ways to die. Very well, dear; you’ve convinced me that you know what you’re talking about concerning those ninety-nine-plus hazards; scratch ’em all. I’m interested only in something
new
—new to me—in which the chances of surviving are better than fifty percent and in which a man who stays alert can enhance his chances. For example, I never hankered to go over high falls in a barrel. You can design the barrel to make it relatively safe; nevertheless, once you start, you are helpless. Which makes it a silly stunt—unless it’s the safest way out of a worse predicament. Racing—cars, steeplechase, skis—is more interesting because each calls for skill. Yet I don’t fancy that sort of danger, either. Danger for the sake of danger is for children who don’t really believe they can be killed. Whereas I
know
I can be. So there are a lot of mountains I’ll never climb. Unless I’m trapped, in which case I’ll do it—have
done
it!—the easiest, safest, most chicken way I can figure out. Don’t bother with
anything
in which the prime novelty is danger—danger is no novelty. It is simply something to be faced when you can’t run. How about other pigeonholes in your box?”

“Lazarus, you could become female.”

“
Eh?
”

I do not think I have ever seen the Senior quite so startled. (So was I, but the statement was not aimed at me.)

He went on slowly, “Minerva, I’m not sure what you mean. Surgeons have been turning inadequate males into fake females for more than two thousand years—and females into fake males almost as long. I’m not attracted by such stunts. For good—or bad—I am male. I suppose that every human has wondered how it would feel to be the other sex. But all the plastic surgery and hormone treatments possible won’t do it—those monsters don’t reproduce.”

“I am not speaking of monsters, Lazarus. A true change in sex.”

“Mmm—You remind me of a tale I had almost forgotten. Not sure it’s true. About a man, oh, must have been around 2000
A.D.
Couldn’t be much later because things went to pieces not long after. Supposed to have had his brain moved into a female body. Killed him, of course. Alien tissue rejection.”