Time Enough for Love

  That leave was the happiest time I’ve had since I was dropped from the Dora. I took Woodie to an amusement park, primitive but more fun than some sophisticated pleasures of Secundus. I took him on rides and treated him to games and things that were fun for him, and fun for me because he enjoyed them so—wore him out and he slept all the way home. He behaved himself, and now we are chums. I’ve decided to let him grow up; there may be hope for him yet.

  I had long talks with Gramp, got better acquainted with all the others—especially Mama and Pop. The latter was unexpected. I had met Pop for a few minutes at Camp Funston, then he was to come home on leave the day I had to go back, and I didn’t expect to see him. But he got away a few hours early, a bonus an officer can sometimes manage, and we overlapped—and he telephoned to the camp and got me a two-day extension. Why? Tamara and Ira, listen carefully—

  To attend the wedding of—

  Miss Nancy Irene Smith &

  Mr. Jonathan Sperling Weatheral

  Athene, explain to the twins the historic significance of this union. List the famous and important people in that line, dear, not the total genealogies. And Ira and Tamara in our own little family, of course, and Ishtar, and at least five of our children—and I may have missed someone, not having all the genealogical lines in my head.

  I was “best man” to Jonathan, and Pop “gave the bride away,” and Brian was an “usher” and Marie was “ringbearer” and Carol was “maid of honor,” and George was charged with keeping Woodie from setting fire to the church while Mama took care of Dickie and Ethet—Athene can explain terms and ritual; I shan’t try. But it not only gave me two more days of leave, much of which I spent running errands for Mama (these medieval weddings are complex operations), but it also gave me time with Pop, and now I know him better than I ever did as a son under his roof—and like him very much and heartily approve of him.

  Ira, he reminds me of you—brainy, no nonsense, relaxed, tolerant, and warmly friendly.

  Bulletin: The bride was pregnant (a proper Howard wedding!—at a time when all brides are assumed to be virgins)—pregnant with (if memory serves) “Jonathan Brian Weatheral.” Is that right, Justin, and who is descended from him? Remind me, Athene. I’ve met a lot of people over the centuries; I may even have married some descendant of Jonathan Brian at some time. I rather hope so; Nancy and Jonathan are a fine young couple.

  I turned “my” landaulet over to them for a six-day honeymoon, then Jonathan was to (did) join the Army—but too late to get into combat. Nancy’s warrior hero just the same; he tried.

  Some fiddling sergeant who couldn’t find his arse with both hands wants me to round up my squad and do something about a dugout that someone was careless with. So—

  All my love from

  Corporal Buddy Boy

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Mr. Johnson,

  Please give this a second censoring; some of it will have to be explained to the rest of my adopted family.

  I hope that Mrs. Smith received the thank-you note I mailed from Hoboken (and could read it—writing on my knee while bouncing on the C. & A. roadbed does not improve my handwriting). In any case I thank her again for the happiest holiday of my life. And thanks to all of you. Please tell Woodie that I will no longer spot him a horse. From here on we play even or he can find another sucker—four out of five is too many.

  Now for the rest—Note signature and address. My rocker did not last to France, then three chevrons dwindled to two. Can you explain to Mrs. Smith and to Carol (those two in particular) that being busted does not disgrace a man forever?—and that I am still Carol’s own special soldier if she will let me be—and in fact I am far more of a real soldier; I am at last free of being tagged as “instructor” and am now leading a squad in a combat outfit. I wish I could tell her where . . but if I stuck my head up over the parapet, I might see some heinies if one of them didn’t see me first. I’m not goldbricking a hundred miles back.

  I hope you aren’t ashamed of me. No, I’m sure you are not; you are too old a soldier to care about rank. I’m in it and that’s what counts with you. I know. May I say, sir, that you are and have always been as long as I’ve known you an inspiration to me?

  I won’t detail the two negative promotions; in the Army excuses don’t count. But I want you to know that neither resulted from anything dishonorable. The first was in the transport and involved a duty-struck masterat-arms and a poker game in an area for which I was responsible. The second came while I was instructing—dummy trenches, dummy no-man’s land—and a captain told me to dress up that skirmish line and I said, “Hell, Captain, are you trying to save bullets for the Kaiser? Or haven’t you heard of machine guns?”

  (I suppose I shouldn’t have said “Hell.” In fact I used another expression more common among soldiers.)

  So later that day I was a corporal, and my transfer took place when I requested it, again that same day.

  So here I am and feeling fine. It is indeed a fact that the closer a man gets to the front, the better his morale is. I’ve become chummy with cooties, and the mud in France is deeper and stickier than in southern Missouri, and I dream about hot baths and Mrs. Smith’s wonderful guest room for sotdiers—but I’m in good health and good spirits, and I send my love to all of you.

  Respectfully yours,

  Corporal Ted Bronson

  “Hey down in there! Corporal Bronson. Send him out.”

  Lazarus climbed slowly up out the dugout, letting his eyes adjust to darkness. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “Wire-cutting job. I want you to volunteer.”

  Lazarus said nothing.

  “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “I heard you, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “You asked for a volunteer, sir.”

  “No, I said I wanted you to volunteer.”

  “Lieutenant, I volunteered on April sixth last year. That used up my quota for the duration.”

  “A latrine lawyer, eh?”

  Lazarus again said nothing.

  “Sometimes I think you want to live forever.”

  Lazarus still said nothing. (You are so right, you sevenpound bliffy—and so do you, you haven’t been over that parapet even once. God help this platoon when you do.)

  “Very well, since you want it the hard way. I order you to lead this party. Find three more volunteers from your squad. If they don’t volunteer you know what to do. Once you pick ‘em, tell ’em to get ready—then you haul ass to C.P. and I’ll show you the map.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Bronson, make damn sure you do a good job . . because a little bird told me that you’re going to lead the way through the holes. Dismissed.”

  Lazarus went unhurriedly back down below. So we’re going over the top? Big secret. Nobody knows it but Pershing and about a hundred thousand Yanks and twice that many Boches and the Imperial High Command. Why do they advertise a “surprise attack” with three days of “softening-up” bombardment that does nothing worth mentioning but tells the Boche where to bring up his reserves and gives him time to position them? Forget it, Lazarus, you’re not in charge. Put your mind on picking out three who can go out, do it, and come back.

  Not Russell, you’ll need your automatic rifleman before dawn. Wyatt was out last night. Dinkowski might as well have a cowbell around his neck. Fielding is on the sick list, damn it. So it has to be Schultz, Talley, and Cadwallader. Two of them old unkillables and Talley the only repple with too little experience—and a shame Fielding has la grippe or whatever it is; I need him. All right, Schultz, gets Cadwallader; I’ll nurse Talley through it.

  It was a two-squad dugout; his squad was sacked in on the left, the other squad had a card game going by candlelight on their side. Lazarus called his squad into a huddle, waking Cadwallader and Schultz to do so. Russell and Wyatt stayed in their bunks, as the huddle took place against them. “The Lieutenant wants us to cut wire and told me to ask for three volunteers.”

&
nbsp; Schultz nodded at once, as Lazarus knew he would. “I’ll go.” In Lazarus’ opinion his assistant squad leader should have a section. Schultz was forty, a married volunteer, and trying hard to offset his name, his trace of German accent (second generation)—but doing it steadily, methodically, without flash. No glory hound. Lazarus hoped that not many of the Germans they faced were of Schultz’s quality—but he knew they were, especially veterans pulled back from the collapsed Russian front. His only fault in Lazarus’ eyes was that he disliked Dinkowski.

  “That’s one. Don’t all speak at once.”

  “What’s the matter with them?” Cadwallader said loudly, jerking a thumb at the other squad. “Teacher’s pets? They haven’t done anything for a week.”

  Corporal O‘Brien answered for his squad: “ ‘Tell your troubles to Jesus; the Chaplain’s gone over the hill!’ Whose deal?”

  “Who’s next?”

  Dinkowski gulped. “Take me, Corporal.”

  Talley shrugged. “Okay.”

  (Damn you, Dinky—why didn’t you wait and simply make it unanimous? And damn that silly second john for ordering me to ask for volunteers. Better to tell ’em.) “Let’s hear some more voices. This isn’t the S.O.S.” (Lieutenant Birdbrain, you postnasal drip, Cadwallader is right; it’s not our turn. Why didn’t you go through the platoon sergeant and section leader? they’re fair about handing out dirty details.)

  Russell and Wyatt spoke up together. Lazarus waited, then said, “Cadwallader? You’re the only holdout.”

  “Corporal, you asked for three volunteers. How come you want the whole squad?”

  (Because I want you, you unappetizing ape. You’re the best soldier in the squad.) “Because I need you. Will you volunteer?”

  “I ain’t no volunteer, Corporal; I was drafted.”

  “Very well.” (Damn all officers who interfere where they shouldn’t.) “Wyatt, you were out last night; get back in your bunk. Russell, you get some sleep, too; you may be busy soon. Schultz, I’ll take Dinkowski; you take Talley. Black me up first and make it fast; I’ve got to see the Lieutenant. Get out the cork.”

  Lazarus got through their own wire without much trouble by enlarging breaks German shells had made. He did all the work himself, simply requiring Dinkowski to stay flat and follow him. There was the regular crump! of artillery, their own and the German howitzers. Lazarus ignored them, there being nothing better he could do. The chattering cough of machine guns he ignored, too, as long as the sound came from far enough along his flanks. Snipers he did not worry about other than to stay low.

  His prime wariness was directed at German patrols—if any —and at starshells—far too many. The latter were the reason he had Dinkowski stay belly down; he did not trust his assistant to freeze and hold it if caught on his knees when a star shell burst.

  Once past the last of their own entanglements he led Dinkowski, both belly-crawling, into a shell hole, then put his mouth to the private’s ear. “Stay here till I get back.”

  “But, Corporal, I don’t want to stay behind!”

  “Not so loud; you’ll wake the baby. Whisper against my ear. If I’m not back in an hour, go back alone.”

  “But I can’t find my way back!”

  “There’s the Dipper, there’s the Pole Star. Go back southwest. If you miss the gaps, you’ve got wirecutters. Just remember this: When a star shell bursts—freeze! The time to move is just as it goes out, while their eyes are still dazzled. And try to be quiet; you remind me of two skeletons on a tin roof. Don’t get shot by our own people at the last minute. What’s the password?”

  “Uh—”

  “Oh, hell, it’s ‘Charlie Chaplin.’ Forget it again and you’ll get more than a blighty; some of our lads are trigger-happy. Now repeat back.”

  “Corporal, I’m going to cut wire with you.”

  Lazarus sighed inwardly. The clumsy little clown wanted to soldier. If I don’t let him tag along, it can kill his spirit. But if I do let him, it might kill both of us. Cadwallader, I admire your good sense—and hate your guts. And wish I had you along.

  “All right. Not a word from here on. Pat my foot and point if you have to—and stay that close. Remember what I said about star shells. See any Boche, don’t breathe. If they surprise us—surrender at once.”

  “‘Surrender’?”

  “If you want to be a grandfather. You can’t kill a German patrol all by your lonesome. Even if you could, it would make so much racket that their machine guns would chop you in two. Stick close and stay down.”

  Lazarus could almost touch the first German wire when a star shell burst and the private panicked—tried for a shell hole they had just come through and was hit as he fell into it.

  Lazarus lay still and listened to screams as the dazzling star burned above him. One of our own, he mused; a German shell would burst to backlight the American trenches. If that poor little dope doesn’t shut up, the air around here is going to be thick with merry greetings. Can’t cut wire with all that advertising. And—oh, hell, he’s my boy; I’ve got to take care of him. Probably be a favor to Dinky to finish him off—but Maureen wouldn’t like that. Okay, let’s get him back—then come back and finish this crummy detail. No sleep tonight and over the top about oh-four-hundred. Next time join the Navy.

  The flare died out and Lazarus was up fast and moving—as another star shell flared. Machine-gun bullets stitched his side and knocked him into the shell hole. One struck a hard implant in the right side of his belly, tumbled, and chewed its way out just above his left hip. Others did other damage—nothing too difficult to repair in 4291 A.D., but, this being the Dark Ages, any one of them was enough.

  Lazarus felt it only as a mighty blow that knocked him off his feet and into the shell hole. He did not become unconscious at once; he had time to realize that he was mortally wounded. He lay as he had fallen and looked up at his stars, realizing that he had come to his ending place.

  Every animal finds its ending place. Some find it in a trap, another in a fight it cannot win, some happy few in a quiet place to wait for the end. Whatever it is, it is the ending place and most of us know when we reach it. This is mine.

  Did Dinky know? I think so, he’s stopped screaming—I think he looked for his. Odd that it doesn’t hurt. Thanks for making it worthwhile, Maureen . . Llita . . Dorable . . Tamara . . Minerva . . Laz, Lor . . Ira . . Maureen—

  He heard wild geese honking high overhead, looked up at his stars again as they blacked out.

  II

  “You still don’t understand,” the Gray Voice droned on. “There is no time, there is no space. What was, is, and ever shall be. You are you, playing chess with yourself, and again you have checkmated yourself. You are the referee. Morals are your agreement with yourself to abide by your own rules. To thine own self be true or you spoil the game.”

  “Crazy.”

  “Then vary the rules and play a different game. You cannot exhaust her infinite variety.”

  “If you would just let me look at your face,” Lazarus muttered pettishly.

  “Try a mirror.”

  III

  From the Kansas City Post November 7, 1918:

  IV

  “Ira! Galahad! Got him?”

  “Yes! Hoist us in! Oh, what a mess! Ish, about two liters and lots of jelly.”

  “Get him inside and let me see him. Lor, you can get us out of here now.”

  “Seal up, Dora, and bounce it!”

  “Sealed and zooming! Screens down! What the goddamn hell have they done to Boss?”

  “I’m trying to find out, Dora. Be ready with the tank; I may freeze him.”

  “Ready now, Ish. Laz-Lor, I told you we should pick him up sooner. I told you.”

  “Pipe down, Dora. We told him he’d get his ass shot off. But he was having more fun than kittens—”

  “—and wouldn’t have thanked us—”

  “—and wouldn’t have come—”

  “—you know how stubborn he is.”
br />   “Tamara,” said Ishtar, “cuddle his head and talk to him. Keep him alive. I don’t want to freeze him—if at all—until I’ve made temporary repairs. Hamadryad, clamp there! Mm

  Galahad, one slug hit the Finder. That’s how his intestines got so chopped up.”

  “Clone-trans?”

  “Perhaps. The way he regenerates, repair and support may be enough. Justin, you were right; the dates on his letters did prove that he didn’t last through it; losing the Finder’s signal pinpointed when and where. Galahad, are you finding more fragments? I want to close him. Tamara, rouse him, make him talk! I don’t want to have to freeze him. The rest of you shut up and get out! Go help Minerva with the children.”

  “Glad to,” Justin said hoarsely. “I’m about to throw up.”

  “Maureen?” Lazarus murmured.

  “I’m here, darling,” Tamara answered, cradling his head against her breasts.

  “Bad . . dream. Thought . . I was . . dead.”

  “Just a dream, Beloved. You cannot die.”

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  1

  Gregorian Terran dates are used throughout, as no other calendar, not even Standard Galactic, is certain to be known to scholars of every planet. Translators should add local dates for clarification.