“Certainly. But I had more in mind. What would you say to ‘Seven Hours of Ecstasy’?”
There was a short pause which felt long. The Master Chief Technician said, “Colleague, what sex are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not. I accept. Now?”
“If it suits you.”
“It does. I was simply going to my compartment, read a while, and sleep. Shall we go there?”
“I was thinking of taking you to Elysium.”
“No need to. Ecstasy is in the heart. But thank you.”
“I can afford it. Uh, I’m not dependent on my salary. I can easily afford the best Elysium has to offer.”
“Perhaps another time, dear colleague. But a resident’s compartment here in the Clinic is quite comfortable and at least an hour closer not counting the time we would waste getting out of isolation armor and dressed to face the public. We’ll go straight to my place, I find I’m eager. Goodness, I haven’t chanced this sort of lark in—far too long.”
Four minutes later the Master Chief Technician let them into the compartment—large, as promised, and handsome and airy —a “happy” suite. A simulacrum fire blazed merrily in a corner fireplace and cast dancing lights around the lounging room. “You’ll find a guests’ dressing room through that door,’fresher beyond it. The chute for disposables is on the left, racks for helmets and isolation gear on the right. Need help?”
“No, thank you, I’m quite limber.”
“Well, shout if you need anything. Meet me here in front of the fire in ten minutes, say?”
“Suits.”
The Associate Tech came out in only a little over ten minutes, free at last of isolation armor and looking even shorter in bare feet and without helmet. The Master Chief Tech looked up from the hearth rug. “Oh, there you are! You’re male! I’m surprised. But pleased.”
“And you’re female. And I am very pleased. But I don’t believe for an instant that you are surprised. You’ve seen my records.”
“No, dear,” she denied. “Not your personal dossier, just the brief the Board supplies to a prospective supervisor—and they are meticulously careful to keep name and sex and other irrelevancies out of it; their computer program sees to that. I did not know, and my guess was wrong.”
“I didn’t try to guess. But I certainly am pleased. I don’t know why I have this special liking for tall women. But I do. Stand up and let me look at you.”
She squirmed lazily. “What an irrational criterion. All women are the same height—lying down. So come lie down here: it’s very comfortable.”
“Woman, when I say ‘Stand up!’ I expect action.”
She giggled. “You’re an atavism. But pretty.” She made a long arm, got him by an ankle, snatched him off balance. He went down. “That’s better. Now we’re the same height.”
II
She said. “Would you like a middle-of-the-night lunch? Sleepyhead.”
He said, “I did doze off, didn’t I? I had reason. Yes, I would. What am I being offered?”
“Name it, just name it. If I don’t have it, I’ll send for it. I’m feeling very mellow toward you, dear.”
“All right, how about ten tall sixteen-year-old redheaded virgins? Girls, I mean.”
“Yes, darling. Nothing is too good for my Galahad. Although if you insist on certified virgins, it may take longer. Why this fetish, dear man? Your psych profiles didn’t hint at any exotic abnormality.”
“Cancel that order and make it one dish of mango ice cream.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll send for it at once. Or you can have fresh peach ice cream instantly. Tease. I haven’t been bothered by that sort of teasing since I was sixteen myself. A long time ago.”
“I’ll settle for peach. A very long time ago.”
“Right away, dearest man. Will you eat it with a spoon, or shall I plaster it on your face? Nor by that sort of teasing. I’ve had one rejuvenation just as you have had, and I keep my cosmetic age younger than yours.”
“A man needs to look mature.”
“And a woman prefers to look young; we always have. But I know not only your rejuvenated age but your calendar age, Galahad—and my calendar age is less than yours. Want to know how I know, dear? I recognized you the instant I saw you. I helped rejuvenate you, darling—and I’m most pleased that I did.”
“The devil you say!”
“But I am pleased, dear man. Such a nice bonus, and so unexpected. One so seldom sees a client again. Galahad, do you realize that we did not use any of the routine to insure an ecstatic holiday together? Yet I haven’t missed it. I feel younger and happier than I have in years. Still do.”
“Me, too. Except that I don’t see any peach ice cream.”
“Pig. Beast. Brute. I’m bigger than you are; I’ll trip you and fall on you. How many scoops, dear?”
“Oh, just pile it in until your arm gets tired; I need to restore my strength.”
He followed her into the pantry, served them both with heaping dishes of ice cream. “Just a precaution,” he said, “so I won’t get it plastered in my face.”
“Oh, tut, now! You don’t really think I would do that to my Galahad.”
“You’re a very erratic female, Ishtar. I have bruises to prove it.”
“Nonsense! I was gentle.”
“You don’t know your own strength. And you are bigger than I am, as you noted. Instead of ‘Ishtar’ I should have named you for that—what was her name? Queen of the Amazons in Old Home mythology.”
“‘Hippolyta,’ dear. But I can’t qualify as an Amazon, for reasons you were flattering about . . in an infantile way.”
“Complaints, huh? Over in Surgery they could correct your disqualification in ten minutes and never leave a scar. Never mind, ‘Ishtar’ fits you better. But there is something unfair about this.”
“How, dear? Let’s take this in and eat in front of the fire.”
“Suits. Like this, Ishtar. You tell me I was your client and that you recall both my ages, so by masterly logic I deduce that you know my registered name and Family, and you may even remember some of my genealogy since you must have studied it for my rejuvenation. But by the customs of ‘Seven Hours’ I am precluded from even trying to learn your registered name. I have to tag you in my mind as ‘that tall blond Master Chief Technician who—’ ”
“I still have enough ice cream to plaster you!”
“—‘permitted me to call her “Ishtar” for the happiest seven hours of my life.’ Which are almost over and I don’t know that you will let me take you to Elysium someday.”
“Galahad, you are the most exasperating sweetheart I’ve ever had. Of course you can take me to Elysium. And you don’t have to go home at the end of seven hours. And my registered name is Ishtar. But if you ever mention my rank other than when necessary, on duty, you’ll have real bruises to remember me by. Big ones.”
“Bully. I’m scared. I do think I should leave on time, so that you can get your quota of sleep before we’re due back on watch. But what’s this about your name really being ‘Ishtar’? Did I roll five aces when we named each other?”
“Yes and no.”
“Is that an answer?”
“I had one of the standard Family names of my lineage—and never liked it. But I was delighted and flattered by the pillow name you gave me. So while you were napping, I called Archives and changed my name. I’m ‘Ishtar’ now.”
He stared at her. “Is that true?”
“Don’t look frightened, dear. I won’t trap you, I won’t even bruise you. I’m not domestic, not at all. You would be shocked if you knew how long it has been since a man was last in this compartment. You are free to leave whenever you wish; you committed yourself to me for only seven hours. But you need not leave. You and I are skipping tomorrow’s watch.”
“We are? Why . . Ishtar?”
“I made another call and bucked a supernumerary team into that watch. Should have done so sooner, but you
had me bemused, dear. The Senior won’t need us tomorrow; he’s in deep sleep and won’t know that he has missed a day. But I want to be there when he wakes, so I rearranged the watch list for the following day, too, and we may stay on watch all day; depends on the shape he’s in. That is, I may. I don’t insist that you do a double or triple watch.”
“I can take it if you can. Ishtar? That professional rank you forbade me to mention—You’re actually even higher rank than that. Aren’t you?”
“If I am—I am not affirming it—I forbid you even to speculate about it. If you wish to stay assigned to this client.”
“Whew! You do have a sharp tongue. Did I deserve that?”
“Dear Galahad! I’m sorry. When you are on watch, dear, I want you to think only about our client, not about me. Off watch I am Ishtar and don’t wish to be anything else. This is the most important case we will ever be on. It may go on a long time and be very tiring. So let’s not be edgy with each other. I was trying to say that you—both of us—now have more than thirty hours before we must be back on duty. You are welcome here as many of those hours as you wish. Or leave as soon as you wish and I will smile and not complain.”
“I don’t want to leave, I said so. As long as I don’t keep you from your sleep—”
“You won’t.”
“—and allow an hour to pick up a fresh pack of disposables, robe in, and go through decontam. I wish I had fetched a pack, but I hadn’t planned on this.”
“Oh. We’ll make that an hour and a half. My phone had a message waiting in it. The Senior does not like the way we look in isolation gear; he wants to be able to see anyone around him. So we must plan time to go through body decontam instead, then attend him in ordinary clothes.”
“Uh . . Ishtar, is this wise? We might sneeze on him.”
“Do you think I set this policy? Dear, this message was straight from the Palace. Besides that, females are specifically ordered to look as pretty and be as attractively dressed as possible—so I must think about what I can wear that can go through sterilization. Nudity is not acceptable; that was specified, too. But don’t worry about sneezing. Have you never taken full body decontamination? When that crew gets through with you, you can’t sneeze, no matter how much you need to. But don’t tell the Senior that you’ve had decontam; the assumption is that we simply walk in off the street—no special precautions.”
“How can I tell him when I don’t speak his language? Does he have some fetish against nudity?”
“I don’t know, I am just conveying the order, one that went out to everyone on the watch list.”
He looked thoughtful. “It’s probably not a fetish. All fetishes are contra-survival, that’s elementary. You told me that the principal problem was to break him out of his apathy. You were pleased that he was bad-tempered, even though you said it was a hyperreaction.”
“Certainly I was pleased; it showed that he was responding. Galahad, never mind that now; I don’t have a thing to wear, you’ll have to help me.”
“I’m talking about what you should wear. I think it was the Chairman Pro Tern’s idea, not the Senior’s.”
“Dear man, I don’t try to read his mind; I just carry out his orders. I don’t have any taste in clothes, never did have. Do you think a lab assistant’s coverall would be suitable? It will take sterilization and never show it—and I look quite neat in one.”
“I am trying to read the mind of the Chairman Pro Tern, Ishtar—guess his intentions, at least. No, I don’t think a lab uniform would do; you would not look as if you had ‘simply walked in off the street.’ If we stipulate that a fetish syndrome is not involved, then the only advantage of clothing over nudity in this situation is to lend variety. Contrast. Change. Help shake him loose from that apathy.”
She stared at him with thoughtful interest. “Galahad, up to now, based on my own experience, I’ve always thought that a man’s only interest in a woman’s clothes was to get them off her. I may have to put you in for promotion.”
“I’m not ready to be promoted; I’ve been in the Vocation less than ten years. As I’m sure you know. Let’s take a look at your wardrobe.”
“What are you going to wear, dear?”
“Doesn’t matter what I wear; the Senior is male and all the stories and myths about him indicate that he has remained canalized by the primitive culture he was born in. Not sensually polymorphous.”
“How can you be sure? Myths, dear.”
“Ishtar, all myths tell the truth if you know how to read them. I’m guessing, but it is a reasoned guess, as this is something I used to be somewhat expert in. Until I was rejuvenated —until you rejuvenated me—then I went into something more active.”
“What, dear?”
“Some other time. I was simply saying that I don’t think it matters what I wear. A chiton. Shorts and singlet. Kilt. Even the underwear I had on under isolation gear. Oh, I’ll wear lively colors and something different each watch—but he won’t look at me, he’ll look at you. So let’s pick out something he would like to see you in.”
“How will you know, Galahad?”
“Very simple. I’ll choose something I would like to see a long-legged beautiful blonde wear.”
He was surprised to see how little Ishtar had in her wardrobe. In all his varied experience with women she was the only one he could remember who seemed to lack the vanity needed to buy unnecessary clothes. As he searched, mind preoccupied, he hummed and then sang a snatch of doggerel.
Ishtar said, “You speak his milk language!”
“Eh? What? Whose? The Senior’s? I certainly don’t. But I must learn it, I suppose.”
“But you were singing in it. A little song he always sings when he’s busy with something.”
“You mean this? ‘Therza poolyawl . . Bytha paunshot—’ I have a phonographic ear, that’s all; I don’t understand the words. What do they mean?”
“I’m not sure they mean anything. Most of them are not in the vocabulary I’ve learned so far. I suspect that it is just amphigoric rhythm, a self-tranquilizer. Semantically null.”
“On the other hand, it might be a key to understanding him. Have you tried asking a computer?”
“Galahad, I haven’t been given access to the computer that records what goes on in his suite. But I doubt if anyone can understand him, in depth. He’s a primitive, dear—a living fossil.”
“I would certainly like to try to understand him. This language he uses—Is it difficult?”
“Very. Irrational, complicated syntax, and so loaded with idioms and multivalues that I trip even on words I think I know. I wish I had your recording ear.”
“The Chairman Pro Tem seemed to have no difficulty.”
“I think he has a special talent for languages. But if you want to try, dear, I have the instructional programs here.”
“Accepted! What is this? A party dress?”
“That? That’s not clothing. I bought it as a throw cover for a couch—then got it home and saw that it did not fit my lounging room.”
“It’s a dress. Stand there and hold still.”
“Don’t tickle!”
VARIATIONS ON A THEME
I
Affairs of State
Despite what I told the Senior, my ancestor Grandfather Lazarus, I work hard in governing Secundus. But only in thinking about policy and in judging the work of others. I don’t do donkey work; I leave that to professional administrators. Even so, the problems of a planet with more than a billion people can keep a man busy, especially if his intention is to govern as little as possible—as that means he must keep a sharp eye out and his ear tuned for signs that subordinates are doing unnecessary governing. Half my time is used in the negative work of plucking such officious officials and ordering that they never again serve in any public capacity.
Then I usually abolish their jobs, and all jobs subordinate to them.
I have never noticed any harm from such pruning save that parasites whose jobs are eli
minated must find some other way to avoid starvation. (They are welcome to starve—better if they do. But they don’t.)
The important thing is to spot these malignant growths and remove them while they are small. The more skill a Chairman Pro Tem acquires in this, the more emerging ones he finds, which keeps him busier than ever. Anyone can see a forest fire; skill lies in sniffing the first smoke.
This leaves me too little time for my prime work: thinking about policy. The purpose of my government is never to do good, but simply to refrain from doing evil. This sounds simple but is not. For example, although prevention of armed revolution is obviously part of my main duty, i.e., to keep order, I began to have doubts about the wisdom of transporting potential revolutionary leaders years before Grandfather Lazarus called my attention to it. But the symptom that roused my worry was so null that it took ten years for me to notice it:
During those ten years there was not one attempt to assassinate me.
By the time Lazarus Long returned to Secundus for the purpose of dying this disturbing symptom had continued twenty years.
This was ominous, and I realized it. A population of one billion-plus so contented, so uniform, so smug that not one determined assassin shows up in a double decade is seriously ill no matter how healthy it looks. In the ten years that elapsed after I noticed this lack I worried about it every hour I could spare—and found myself asking myself over and over again: What would Lazarus Long do?
I knew in broad outline what he had done—and that was why I decided to migrate—either lead my people off planet or go alone if none would follow.
(In rereading this, it sounds as if I sought to be assassinated in some mystic The King Must Die sense. Not at all! I am surrounded at all times by powerful and subtle safeguards the nature of which I will not divulge. But there is no harm in mentioning three negative precautions; my facial appearance is not known to the public, I almost never appear in public anyhow, and when I do, it is never announced. The job of ruler is dangerous—or should be—but I don’t intend to die from it. The “disturbing symptom” was not that I am alive but that there are no dead assassins. No one seems to hate me enough to try. Frightening. Where have I failed them?)