“I found it fascinating, Lazarus. I now know all about sex . . in the sense that a man who has always been blind can be taught the physics of a rainbow. I am even a gene surgeon now, in theory, and would not hesitate to be one in practice once I had time to construct the ultramicrominiature waldoes needed for such fine work. I am equally expert as obstetrician and gynecologist and rejuvenator. Erectile reflexes and mechanics of orgasm and the processes of spermogenesis and impregnation are no mystery to me, nor any aspect of gestation and birth.
“ ‘Eros’ alone I cannot know . . and know at last that I am blind.”
VI
The Tale of the Twins Who Weren’t
(Omitted)
—but sky merchant was then my usual occupation, Minerva. That caper in which I moved from slave to high priest was forced on me. I had to be meek a long time, which ain’t my style. Maybe Jesus was right when he said that the meek shall inherit the earth—but they inherit very small plots, about six feet by three.
But the only route from field hand to freedom lay through the church and required meekness all the way, so that’s what I gave’em. Those priests had weird habits—
(9,300 words omitted)
—which got me off their damned planet and I never expected to go back.
—did go back a couple of centuries later-freshly rejuvenated and not looking anything like that high priest whose ship had been lost in space.
I was a sky merchant again, which suits me; it lets you travel and see things. I went back to Blessed for money, not revenge. I’ve never wasted skull sweat on revenge; The Comtede-Monte-Cristo syndrome is too much work and not enough fun. If I tangle with a man and he lives through it, I don’t come back later gunning for him. Instead, I outlive him—which balances the books just as well. I figured that two centuries was enough for my enemies on Blessed to be dead, since I had left most of them sort of dead earlier.
Blessed would not have been on my route other than for business reasons. Interstellar trade is economics stripped to basics. You can’t make money by making money because money isn’t money other than on its planet of issue. Most money is fiat; a ship’s cargo of the stuff is wastepaper elsewhere. Bank credit is worth even less; Galactic distances are too great. Even money that jingles must be thought of as trade goods—not money—or you’ll kid yourself into starvation.
This gives the sky merchant a grasp of economics rarely achieved by bankers or professors. He is engaged in barter and no nonsense. He pays taxes he can’t evade and doesn’t care whether they are called “excise” or “king’s pence” or “squeeze” or straight-out bribes. It is the other kid’s bat and ball and backyard, so you play by his rules—nothing to get in a sweat about. Respect for laws is a pragmatic matter. Women know this instinctively; that’s why they are all smugglers. Men often believe—or pretend—that the “Law” is something sacred, or at least a science—an unfounded assumption very convenient to governments.
I’ve done little smuggling; it’s risky, and you can wind up with money you don’t dare spend where it’s legal tender. I simply tried to avoid places where the squeeze was too high.
By the Law of Supply and Demand a thing has value from where it is as much as from what it is—and that’s what a merchant does; he moves things from where they are cheap to where they are worth more. A smelly nuisance in a stable is valuable fertilizer if you move it to the south forty. Pebbles on one planet can be precious gems on another. The art in selecting cargo lies in knowing where things will be worth more, and the merchant who can guess right can reap the wealth of Midas in one trip. Or guess wrong and go broke.
I was on Blessed because I had been on Landfall and wanted to go to Valhalla in order to go back to Landfall, as I was thinking of marrying and raising another family. But I wanted to be rich enough to be landed gentry when I settled down—which I was not, at the time. All I had was the scout ship Libby and I had used 12 and a modicum of local money.
So it was time to trade.
The trade routes for a two-way swap show minimum profit; they fill up too quickly. But a triangular trade—or higher numbers—can show high profits. Like this: Landfall had something—call it cheese—which was a luxury on Blessed—while Blessed produced—call it chalk—much in demand on Valhalla . . whereas Valhalla manufactured doohickeys that Landfall needed.
Work this in the right direction and get rich; work it backwards and lose your shirt.
I had worked the first leg, Landfall to Blessed, successfully, having sold my cargo of—Now what was it? Durned if I
J.F. 45th
remember; I’ve handled so many things. Anyhow, I got such a nice price that I temporarily had too much money.
How much is “too much”? Whatever you can’t spend before you leave a place you are not coming back to. If you hang onto that excess and come back later, you will usually find—invariably, so far as I recall—that inflation or war or taxes or changes in government or something has wiped out the alleged value of fiat money you may have kept.
As my ship was scheduled to load and I had placed in escrow with the port authority the price of her cargo, what I had left over was burning a hole in my pocket with only a day to get rid of it, that being the time until my ship was to be loaded—I had to be on hand for that; I was my own purser and have an untrusting disposition.
So I took a walk through the retail district, thinking I might buy some doodads.
I was dressed in local high style and had a bodyguard behind me, for Blessed was still a slave economy and in a pyramidal society it is well to be up near the point, or at least look like it. My bodyguard was a slave but not my slave; I had hired him from a rent-a-servant agency. I’m not a hypocrite; this slave didn’t have a durn thing to do but follow me around and eat like a hog.
I had him because my assumed status required a manservant in sight. A “gentleman” could not register at a first-class hilton in Charity or anywhere on Blessed without a valet in evidence; I could not eat in a good restaurant without my own bearer standing behind me—and so forth; when in Rome, you shoot Roman candles. I’ve been places where it was mandatory to sleep with your hostess—which can be dreadful; this Blessed custom wasn’t difficult.
I didn’t rely on him even though the agency supplied him with a knob stick. I was armed six ways and careful where walked; Blessed was more dangerous than it had been when I was a slave there and a “gentleman” is more of a target, even though cops don’t bother him.
I was taking a shortcut through the slave market, it not being an auction day, on my way to the jewelers’ lane, when I saw that a sale was being offered and slowed down—a man who has been sold himself can’t walk past, indifferent to the plight of chattels. Not that I had any intention of buying.
Nor did anyone seem about to buy this pair; the knot around the factor’s tent was rabble; I could tell by their clothes and the fact that there wasn’t a man there with a manservant.
The merchandise was standing on a table, a young woman and a young man. Late adolescence for him and just ripe for her, or the same age in view of the fact that females grow up faster. Call it eighteen measured by my own youth—an age at which a boy should be nailed into a barrel and fed through the bunghole but a girl is ready to marry.
Long sleeveless robes hung from their shoulders—and I knew too well what those robes meant; they would be displayed only to a prospective buyer, not to rabble. Robes signified valuable slaves, not to be knocked down on open bid.
Sure enough, they were being held at Dutch auction, with the minimum bid posted—ten thousand blessings. That amounts to—How can I define money of centuries back on a planet hundreds of light-years away in terms that make sense here and now? Let’s put it this way: Unless these kids were something extraordinary, they were overpriced by a factor of five, as prime young stock, either sex, were fetching around a thousand blessings by the morning’s financial news.
Ever pause in front of a clothing store and get hooked inside? No, of
course you haven’t. But that’s what happened to me.
All I did was say to the factor, “Goodman, is that posted bid a mistake? Or do these two have something special that doesn’t show?” Just curiosity, Minerva, as I neither intended to own slaves nor would the excess in my purse make a dent in a planetwide custom. But I could not see why? The girl was not outstandingly pretty; she would not fetch a high price as an odalisque. The lad wasn’t even heavily muscled. Nor were they a matched pair. Back home I would have picked her for Eyetalian and him for a Swede.
Boom, I’m urged into the tent while the chattels are shoved ahead; the factor’s manner shows that he hasn’t had a live one all day—while my shadow is saying in my ear, “Master, that price is too high. I can take you to a private sale where prices are right and satisfaction is guaranteed.”
I said, “Shut up, Faithful”—all rented body servants were named “Faithful,” probably by contraries—“I want to see what this is.”
As fast as the tent flap is fastened against the rabble, the factor is shoving a chair against my knees and handing me a drink with a bow and a scrape while saying lyrically, “Oh, sweet and gentle master, happy am I that you asked that! I am about to show you a great wonder of science! A thing to astound the very gods! I speak as a pious man, a true son of our Everlasting Church, one who cannot lie!”
A slave factor who can’t lie has yet to be whelped. Meantime the youngsters stationed themselves docilely on a display platform, and Faithful was whispering: “Don’t believe a word, Master. The girl is nothing and I can whip three of that punk without my stick—yet the agency would sell you me for eight hundred blessings and that’s a fact.”
I motioned him to silence. “Goodman, what swindle is this?”
“No swindle, on my mother’s honor, kind sir! Would you believe that these are brother and sister?”
I looked at them. “No.”
“Would you believe that they are not only brother and sister but twins?”
“No.”
“Would you believe the same stud, the same dam, the same womb, born the same hour?”
“Possibly the same womb,” I conceded. “Host-mother?”
“No, no! Exactly the same ancestry. And yet—here is the miracle—” He held my eye and spoke in a hushed voice: “They are nevertheless a sound breeding pair . . for these twins are unrelated to each other! Would you believe it?”
I told him what I would believe, including his losing his license and facing a charge of blasphemy.
His smile grew broader, and he complimented me on my wit and asked me how much—if he proved all of these things —how high a bid I would place against them? Higher than ten thousand since I must realize that the posted figure represented a prior bid. Fifteen thousand, perhaps, with escrow the morrow before noon?
I said, “Forget it, I’m shipping out before noon”—and started to stand up.
He said, “Wait, I beg you! I see that you are a gentleman of education, of science, of deep knowledge and widely traveled—surety you will grant your humble servant a moment to show proof?”
I still would have left; swindles bore me. But he waved a hand, and the kids dropped their robes and fell into display poses, the lad with his arms folded across his chest and his feet planted firmly, the girl in that graceful pose that must be as old as Eve—one knee slightly advanced, hand on hip, other arm hanging easily, chest slightly raised. It almost made her beautiful save that she looked bored—having taken it hundreds of times, no doubt.
But that wasn’t what made me stay; something annoyed me. The lad was bare of course—she was wearing a chastity girdle. Do you know what one is, Minerva?
“Yes, Lazarus.”
Too bad. I said, “Take that damned thing off that kid! Now!” Silly of me; I rarely interfere with anything on a strange planet. But those things are abominations.
“Certainly, gentle sir; I was about to. Estrellita!”
The girl turned her back, with that same bored look. The factor stood so that his back kept the lad from seeing him work the combination lock, saying apologetically, “She must wear it not only because of ruffians but to protect her from her brother; they share the same pallet, for she is—would you believe it, sir, seeing how full ripe she is?—a virgin! Show the gentle master, ‘Trellita.”
Bored as ever, she promptly started to do so. I regard virginity as a correctable perversity of no interest; I motioned her to stop and asked the factor if she could cook.
He assured me that she was the envy of every gourmet chef on Blessed, and started to lock her back into that steel diaper. I said roughly, “Leave it off! Nobody here is going to rape her. What’s this proof you promised?”
Minerva, he proved every word—except about her cooking —with exhibits that made me suspicious only because he showed them; I wouldn’t have boggled had I seen them in the Clinic here.
I should mention that Blessed had a rejuvenation clinic even though it was not settled by the Families. Eventually the clinic was taken over by the church and antigeria techniques that work fairly well even on short-lifers were no longer available to any but big shots. But the planet stayed advanced in biological techniques; the church needed it.
Minerva, I told you what he claimed and you are now as learned in biology and genetics and associated manipulations as Ishtar is—more so; you don’t have her limitations in time and in memory storage. What did he prove to me?
“That they were diploid complements, Lazarus.”
Right! Although he called them “mirror twins.” Can you tell me how these kids were made, Minerva? How would you go about producing such twins?
The computer answered thoughtfully, “ ‘Mirror twins’ would be an inexact term for zygotes satisfying the listed requirements—although it is colorful. I can answer only theoretically as the records in me do not show that it has been attempted on Secundus. But the steps necessary to achieve exact diploid complements would be these: There must be intervention in gametogenesis in each parent just before meiotic division-reduction of chromosome number—that is, one would start with primary spermatocytes and primary oocytes, unreduced diploids.
“In the male parent the intervention presents no theoretical problem but would be difficult because the cells are very small —but I would not hesitate to attempt it given time to construct the necessary fine extensionals.
“The logical place to start, both parents, would be with gonia placed in vitro, and cherished. When a spermatogonium was observed to change to a primary spermatocyte—still diploid—it would be segregated and at the instant it divided into two secondary spermatocytes—haploids, one with an X chromosome and one with a Y chromosome—they would be again segregated and each would be encouraged to develop into spermatozoa.
“It would not be sufficient to intervene at the spermatozoa stage; confusion of gamete pairs could not be avoided, and resulting zygotes could be complementary only by wildest chance.
“Intervention with the female parent is mechanically simpler because of larger cells—but involves a different problem; the primary oocyte must be encouraged, at point of meiosis, to produce two haploid and complementary secondary oocytes, rather than one oocyte and one polar body. Lazarus, this might require many attempts before a reliable technique could be worked out. It would be similar to the process of identical twinning but must take place two stages earlier in the gametogenetic sequence. However, it might turn out to be no more difficult than it is to produce fatherless female rabbits. I do not venture an opinion as I lack former art to draw on—save that I feel certain that it can be done, given time to develop technique.
“At this point we have complementary groups of spermatozoa, one group with Y and one with X, and a complementary pair of ova, each with an X chromosome. Fertilization would be in vitro, with a possibility of choosing either of two potential pairs of female-male complements but with no basis for choice unless the genetic charts of haploids are determined precisely, which is difficult and likely to caus
e genetic damage; I do not think it would be attempted. Instead one sperm would be inserted into one ovum, its complement into the other, on a blind basis.
“One last requirement must be met to justify all of this slave factor’s allegations: The two fertilized ova must be removed from vitro and planted in the womb of the donor of the oogonium, and there allowed to develop as twins through natural gestation and birth.
“Am I right, Lazarus?”
Exactly right! Go to the head of the class, dear; you get a gold star on your report card. Minerva, I don’t know that it happened that way. But that’s what the factor claimed, and that’s what his exhibits—lab reports, holomovies, and so forth —seemed to show. But that thief may have faked those “proofs” and offered a random pair not likely to fetch a price above average—save for his fancy sales talk. The so-called proofs looked good, and lab reports and such carried a bishop’s chop and seal. The stills and movies looked good, too —but how can a layman judge? Even if those exhibits weren’t phony, all they could prove was that such a process had once taken place; they did not prove that these kids were the result. Shucks, they might have been used to sell many slave pairs, with a bishop in on the racket.
I looked over the stuff, including a scrapbook of the kids growing up, said, “Very interesting,” and started to leave.
This pimple teleported himself between me and the tent flap. “Master,” he said urgently. “Kind and generous sir—twelve thousand?”
Minerva, my trader instincts took over. “One thousand!” I snapped. I don’t know why. Yes, I do know. The girl’s body was scarred from that damned Torquemada girdle; I wanted to insult this flesh peddler.
He flinched and looked as if he were giving birth to broken beer bottles. “You jest with me. Eleven thousand blessings, and they are yours—though I won’t make expenses!”
Time Enough for Love Page 21