The Senior was not the only hero of that Exodus. But in all the varied and sometimes conflicting accounts that have come down to us, he was always the driving force. He was our Moses who led his people out of bondage.
He brought them home again three-quarters of a century later (2210)—but not into bondage. For that date, Year One of the Standard Galactic calendar, marks the opening of the Great Diaspora . . caused by extreme population pressure on Old Home Terra, and made possible by two new factors: the Libby-Sheffield Para-Drive as it was known then (not a “drive” in any true sense, but a means of manipulating n-dimensional spaces), and the first (and simplest) of effective longevity techniques: new blood grown in vitro.
The Howard Families caused this to happen simply by escaping. The short-lived humans back on Terra, still convinced that the long-lived families possessed a “secret,” set about trying to find it by wide and systematic research, and, as always, research paid off serendipitously, not with the nonexistent “secret” but with something almost as good: a therapy, and eventually a sheaf of therapies, for postponing old age, and for extending vigor, virility, and fertility.
The Great Diaspora was then both necessary and possible.
The Senior’s great talent (aside from his ability to lie extemporaneously and convincingly) seems always to have been a rare gift for extrapolating the possibilities of any situation —then twisting it to suit his own purposes. (He calls it: “You have to have a feeling for what makes the frog jump.” Psychometrists who have studied him say that he has an extremely high psi talent expressed as “forerunners” and “luck”—but what the Senior has to say about them is less polite. As a record-keeper, I refrain from opinion.)
The Senior saw at once that this benison of extended youth, although promised to everyone, would in fact be limited to the powerful and their nepots. The billions of helots could not be allowed to live beyond their normal span; there was no room for them—unless they migrated to the stars, in which case there would be room for each human to live as long as he could manage. How the Senior exploited this is not always clear; he seems to have used several names and many fronts. His key corporations wound up in the hands of this Foundation, then were liquidated to move the Foundation and the Howard Families to Secundus—at his behest, he having saved “the best real estate” for his relatives and descendants. Sixty-eight percent of those then living accepted the challenge of new frontiers.
Our genetic debt to him is both indirect and direct. The indirect debt lies in the fact that migration is a sorting device, a forced Darwinian selection, under which superior stock goes to the stars while culls stay home and die. This is true even for those forcibly transported (as in the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth centuries), save that the sorting then takes place on the new planet. In a raw frontier weaklings and misfits die; strong stock survives. Even those who migrate voluntarily still go through this second drastic special selection. The Howard Families have been culled in this fashion at least three times.
Our genetic “debt” to the Senior is even easier to prove. Part of it needs only simple arithmetic. If you live anywhere but on Old Home Terra—and you almost certainly do if you read this, in view of the present miserable state of “The Fair Green Hills of Earth”—and can claim even one member of the Howard Families among your ancestors—and most of you can—then you are most probably descended from the Senior.
By the official Families’ genealogies this probability is 87.3 percent. You are descended from many other twentieth-century members of the Howard Families, too, if you are descended from any of them, but I speak here only of Woodrow Wilson Smith, the Senior. By the Crisis Year 2136 nearly one-tenth of the youngest generation of the Howard Families were descended from the Senior “legitimately”—by which I mean that each linking birth was so recorded in the Families’ records and ancestry confirmed by such tests as were available at the time. (Even blood typing was not known when the breeding experiment started, but the culling process made it strongly to a female’s advantage not to stray, at least not outside the Families.)
By now the cumulative probability is, as I have said, 87.3 percent if you have any Howard ancestor—but if you have a Howard ancestor from a recent generation, your probability climbs toward an effective 100 percent.
But, as a statistician, I have reason to believe (backed by computer analyses of blood types, hair types, eye color, tooth count, enzyme types, and other characteristics responsive to genetic analysis)—strong reason to believe that the Senior has many descendants not recorded in genealogies, both inside and outside the Howard Families.
To put it mildly, he is a shameless old goat whose seed is scattered all through this part of our Galaxy.
Take the years of the Exodus, after he stole the New Frontiers. He was not married even once during those years, and ship’s records and legends based on memoirs of that time suggest that he was, in an early idiom, a “woman hater,” a misogynist.
Perhaps. Biostatistical records (rather than genealogies), when analyzed, suggest that he was not that unapproachable. The computer that analyzed it offered to bet me even money on more than one hundred offspring fathered by him during those years. (I refused the bet; that computer beats me at chess even though I insist on a one-rook advantage.)
I do not find this surprising in view of the almost pathological emphasis placed on longevity among the Families at that time. The oldest male, if still virile—and he certainly was—would have been subjected to endless temptation, endless opportunity, by females anxious to have offspring of his demonstrated superiority—“superiority” by the only criterion the Howard Families respected. We can assume that marital status would not matter much; all Howard Families marriages were marriages of convenience—Ira Howard’s will insured that—and they were rarely for life. The only surprising aspect is that so few fertile females managed to trip him when unquestionably so many thousands were willing. But he was always fast on his feet.
As may be—If today I see a man with sandy red hair, a big nose, an easy disarming grin, and a slightly feral look in his gray-green eyes, I always wonder how recently the Senior has passed through that part of the Galaxy. If such a stranger comes close to me, I put my hand on my purse. If he speaks to me, I resolve not to make wagers or promises.
But how did the Senior, himself only a third-generation member of Ira Howard’s breeding experiment, manage to live and stay young his first three hundred years without artificial rejuvenation?
A mutation, of course—which simply says that we don’t know. But in the course of his several rejuvenations we have learned a little about his physical makeup. He has an unusually large heart that beats very slowly. He has only twenty-eight teeth, no caries, and seems to be immune to infection. He has never had surgery other than for wounds or for rejuvenation procedures. His reflexes are extremely fast—but appear always to be reasoned, so one may question the correctness of the term “reflex.” His eyes have never needed correction either for distance or close work; his hearing range is abnormally high, abnormally low, and is unusually acute throughout his range. His color vision includes indigo. He was born without prepuce, without vermiform appendix, —and apparently without a conscience.
I am pleased that he is my ancestor.
Justin Foote the 45th
Chief Archivist, Howard Foundation
PREFACE TO REVISED EDITION
In this abridged popular edition the technical appendix has been published separately in order to make room for an account of the Senior’s actions after he left Secundus until his disappearance. An apocryphal and obviously impossible tale of the last events in his life has been included at the insistence of the editor of the original memoir, but it cannot be taken seriously.
Carolyn Briggs Chief Archivist
Note: My lovely and learned successor in office does not know what she is talking about. With the Senior, the most fantastic is always the most probable.
Justin Foote the 45th Chief Archivist Emer
itus
PRELUDE
I
As the door of the suite dilated, the man seated staring glumly out the window looked around. “Who the hell are you?”
“I am Ira Weatheral of the Johnson Family, Ancestor, Chairman Pro Tem of the Families.”
“Took you long enough. Don’t call me ‘Ancestor.’ And why just the Chairman Pro Tem?” the man in the chair growled. “Is the Chairman too damn busy to see me? Don’t I rate even that?” He made no move to stand, nor did he invite his visitor to sit down.
“Your pardon, Sire. I am chief executive for the Families. But it has been customary for some time now—several centuries—for the chief executive to hold the title ‘Chairman Pro Tem’ . . against the possibility that you might show up and take the gavel.”
“Eh? Ridiculous. I haven’t presided at a meeting of the Trustees for a thousand years. And ‘Sire’ is as bad as ‘Ancestor’—call me by name. It’s been two days since I sent for you. Did you come by the scenic route? Or has the rule that entitles me to the ear of the Chairman been revoked?”
“I am not aware of that rule, Senior; it was probably long before my time—but it is my honor and duty—and pleasure —to wait on you at any time. I will be pleased and honored to call you by name if you will tell me what your name is now. As for the delay—thirty—seven hours since I received your summons—I have spent it studying Ancient English, as I was told that you were not answering to any other language.”
The Senior looked slightly sheepish. “It’s true I’m not handy with the jabber they speak here—my memory has been playing tricks on me lately. I guess I’ve been sulky about answering even when I understood. Names—I forget what name I checked in by when I grounded here. Mmm, ‘Woodrow Wilson Smith’ was my boyhood name. Never used it much. I suppose ‘Lazarus Long’ is the name I’ve used oftenest—call me ‘Lazarus.’ ”
“Thank you, Lazarus.”
“For what? Don’t be so damned formal. You’re not a kid, or you wouldn’t be Chairman—how old are you? Did you really take the trouble to learn my milk language just to call on me? And in less than two days? Was that from scratch? It takes me at least a week to tack on a new language, another week to smooth out accent.”
“I am three hundred and seventy-two standard years old, Lazarus—just under four hundred Earth years. I learned Classic English when I took this job—but as a dead language, to enable me to read old records of the Families in the original. What I did since your summons was to learn to speak and understand it . . in North American twentieth-century idiom—your ‘milk language’ as you said—as that is what the linguistic analyzer computed that you were speaking.”
“Pretty smart machine. Maybe I am speaking it the way I did as a youngster; they claim that’s the one language a brain never forgets. Then I must be talking in a Cornbelt rasp like a rusty saw . . whereas you’re speaking a sort of Texas drawl with an Oxford British overlay. Odd. I suppose the machine picks the version out of its permanents closest to the sample fed into it.”
“I believe so, Lazarus, although the techniques involved are not my field. Do you have trouble understanding my accent?”
“Oh, none at all. Your accent is okay; it’s closer to educated General American of that time than is the accent I learned as a kid. But I can follow anything from Bluegum to Yorkshire; accent is no problem. It was mighty kind of you to bother. Warming.”
“My pleasure. I have a talent for languages; it was not much trouble. I try to be able to speak to each of the Trustees in his native language; I’m used to swotting up a new one quickly.”
“So? Nonetheless a courteous thing to do—I’ve felt like an animal in a zoo with no one to talk to. Those dummies”—Lazarus inclined his head at two rejuvenation technicians, dressed in isolation gear and one-way helmets, and waiting as far from the conversation as the room permitted—“don’t know English; I can’t talk with them. Oh, the taller one understands a little but not enough for gossip.” Lazarus whistled, pointed at the taller. “Hey, you! A chair for the Chairman—chop chop!” His gestures made his meaning clear. The taller technician touched the controls of a chair nearby; it rolled away, wheeled around, and stopped at a comfortable tête-à-tête distance from Lazarus.
Ira Weatheral said thank you—to Lazarus, not to the tech —sat down, then sighed as the chair felt him out and cuddled him. Lazarus said, “Comfortable?”
“Quite.”
“Anything to eat or drink? Or smoke? You may have to interpret for me.”
“Nothing, thank you. But may I order for you?”
“Not now. They keep me stuffed like a goose—once they force-fed me, damn them. Since we’re comfortable, let’s get on with the powwow.” He suddenly roared, “WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING IN THIS JAIL?”
Weatheral answered quietly, “Not ‘jail,’ Lazarus. The VIP suite of the Howard Rejuvenation Clinic, New Rome.”
“ ‘Jail,’ I said. All it lacks is cockroaches. This window—you couldn’t break it with a crowbar. That door—it opens to any voice . . except mine. If I go to the john, one of those dummies is at my elbow. Apparently afraid I’ll drown myself in the pot. Hell, I don’t even know whether that nurse is a man or a woman—and don’t like it either way. I don’t need somebody to hold my hand while I go pee-pee! I resent it.”
“I’ll see what can be worked out, Lazarus. But the technicians are understandably jumpy. A person can get hurt quite easily in any bathroom—and they all know that, if you are hurt, no matter by what mischance, the technician in charge at the time will suffer cruel and unusual punishment. They are volunteers and are drawing high bonuses. But they’re jumpy.”
“So I figured out. ‘Jail.’ If this is a rejuvenation suite . . WHERE’S MY SUICIDE SWITCH?”
“Lazarus—‘Death is every man’s privilege.’ ”
“That’s what I said! That switch belongs right there; you can see where it has been dismounted. So I’m in jail without trial, with my most basic right taken from me. Why? I’m furious, man. Do you realize what danger you are in? Never tease an old dog; he might have one bite left. Old as I am, I could break your arms before those dummies could reach us.”
“You are welcome to break my arms if it pleases you.”
“Huh?” Lazarus Long looked baffled. “No, it’s not worth the sweat. They would have you patched up good as new in thirty minutes.” He suddenly grinned. “But I could snap your neck, then crush your skull, about as fast. That’s one injury beyond the power of rejuvenators.”
Weatheral did not stir, did not tense. “I feel sure you could,” he said quietly. “But I do not think that you would kill one of your descendants without giving him a chance to parley for his life. You are my remote grandfather, sir, by seven different tracks.”
Lazarus chewed his lip and looked unhappy. “Son, I have so many descendants that consanguinity doesn’t matter. But you’re essentially right. In all my life I have never killed a man unnecessarily. I think.” Then he grinned. “But if I don’t get my suicide switch back, I could make an exception in your case.”
“Lazarus, if you wish, I will have that switch remounted at once. But—‘Ten Words’?”
“Uh—” Lazarus looked ungracious. “Okay. ‘Ten Words.’ Not eleven.”
Weatheral hesitated a split second, then counted on his fingers: “I learned . your . language . to . explain . why . we . need . you.”
“Ten by the Rule,” Lazarus admitted. “But meaning that you need fifty. Or five hundred. Or five thousand.”
“Or none,” Weatheral amended. “You can have your switch without giving me any chance to explain. I promised.”
“Humph!” said Lazarus. “Ira, you old scoundrel, you have me convinced that you really are my kin. You figured that I would not suicide without hearing what you have on your mind—once I knew you had bothered to learn a dead language just to make palaver. All right, talk. You can start by telling me what I’m doing here. I know—I know—that I didn’t apply for rejuvenat
ion. But I woke up here with the job already half over. So I screamed for the Chairman. Okay, why am I here?”
“May we start further back? You tell me what you were doing in a flophouse in the worst part of Old Town.”
“What was I doing? I was dying. Quietly and decently, like a worn-out horse. That is, I was, until your busybodies grabbed me. Can you think of a better place than a flophouse for a man who doesn’t want to be disturbed while he’s busy with it? If his cot is paid for in advance, they leave a man be. Oh, they stole what little I had, even my shoes. But I expected that—would have done the same myself under the same circumstances. And the sort of people who live in flophouses are almost always kind to those worse off than they are—any of ’em will fetch a drink of water to a sick man. That was the most I wanted—that and to be left alone to close out my account in my own way. Until your busies showed up. Tell me, how did they find me?”
“How we found you is not the surprising part, Lazarus, but the fact that SecFor—the cops?—Yes, ‘cops’—that my cops took so long to identify you, then find you, and pick you up. A section chief lost his job over that. I don’t tolerate inefficiency.”
“So you busted him. Your business. But why? I reached Secundus from Out-Far, and I didn’t think I had left any back trail. Different everything since the last time I was in touch with the Families . . as I bought my last rejuvenation on Supreme. Are the Families swapping data with Supreme these days?”
“Heavens, no, Lazarus, we won’t even give them a polite word. There is a strong minority among the Trustees who favor rubbing out Supreme, instead of simply maintaining embargo.”
“Well . . if a nova bomb hit Supreme, I wouldn’t mourn more than thirty seconds. But I did have a reason for having the job done there, even though I had to pay high for forced cloning. But that’s another story. Son, how did you pick me up?”
Time Enough for Love Page 2