Robert Heinlein - To Sail Beyond The Sunset

But there were cries of rage from two groups: a) gays; b) non-gays. I was lucky to get out of town.

(I do wish Pixel would come back.)

On Friday we got my daughter Nancy and Jonathan Weatheral married. The bride wore white over a peanut-sized embryo that qualified her for Howard Foundation benefits, while the brides mother wore a silly grin that resulted from her private activities that week and the groom's mother wore a quiet smile and a faraway look in her eyes from similar (but not identical) private activities.

I had gone to much trouble to slide Eleanor Weatheral under Sergeant Theodore. To their mutual joy, I know (my husband says that Eleanor is a world-class mattress dancer), but not solely for their amusement. Eleanor is a touchstone, able to detect lies when she is sexually linked and en rapport.

Let's go back two days.

On Wednesday my zoo got home from the circus at 6.05 p.m.; we had a picnic dinner in our back yard at 6.30, the exact timing being possible through Carol's having prepared it in the morning. At sundown Brian lit the garden lights and the younger ones played croquet while we elders - Brian, Father, Theodore, and I - sat in the garden glider swing and talked.

Our talk started on the subject of human female fertility. Brian told Father that he wanted him to hear something Captain Long had said about the matter.

But I must note first that I had gone to Father's room the night before (Tuesday) after the house was quiet, pledging him a King's X, then told him about a strange story Sergeant Theodore had given me earlier that night, after that silly unplanned visit to Electric Park, a story in which he claimed to be Captain Lazarus Long, a Howard from the future.

Despite my promise of King's X, Father left the door ajar. Nancy tapped on it and we invited her in. She perched on the other side of Father's bed and facing me listened soberly to my repetition.

Father said, ‘Maureen, I take it you believe him, time travel and ether ship and all.'

‘Father, he knew Woodrow's birth date. Did you tell him?'

‘No. I know your policy.'

‘He knew your birthday, too, not just the year, but the day and the month. Did you tell him?'

‘No, but it's no secret. I've set it down on all sorts of documents.'

‘But how would he know where to find one? And he knew Mother's birthday - day, year, and month:

‘That's harder. But not impossible. Daughter, as you tell me he pointed out: anyone with access to the Foundation's files in Toledo could look up all of these dates.'

‘But why would he know Woodrow's birthday and not Nancy's? Father, he came here knowing quite a bit about al his ancestors - those he claims as ancestors - that is to say, Woodrow and his ancestors but not the birthdays of Woodrow's brothers and sisters.'

‘I don't know. If he did have access to judge Sperling's files, he could have memorised just those data needed to back up his story. But the most interesting item is his assertion that the War will end on 11 November, this year. I would have guessed sometime this summer, with bad news for Britain and worse news for France, and humiliation for us... or not earlier than the summer of 1919, with victory for the Allies but a horribly expensive one. If it turns out that Ted is right - 11 November 1918 - then I'll believe him. Ali of it.'

Nancy said suddenly, ‘I believe him!'

Father said, ‘Why, Nancy?'

‘Grandpa, do you remember - No, you weren't here. It was the day war was declared, a year ago. Papa had kissed us goodbye and left. Grandpa, you went out right after Papa left -‘

Father nodded. I said, ‘I remember.'

‘ - and, Mama, you had gone up to lie down. Uncle Ted telephoned. Oh, I know that he telephoned later and you talked to him, Grandpa. You... You were mean to him -‘

‘Nancy, I'm sorry about that.'

‘Oh, that was a misunderstanding, we all know that. This was before he talked to you, maybe an hour before, maybe longer. I was upset and crying a bit, I guess, and Uncle Ted knew it... and he told me to stop worrying about Papa, because he - Uncle Ted, I mean - had second sight and could tell the future. He told me that Papa would come home safely. And suddenly I quit worrying and have not worried since - not that way. Because I knew that he was telling the truth. Uncle Ted does know the future... because he is from the future.'

‘Father?'

‘How can I tell, Maureen?' Father looked terribly thoughtful. ‘But I think we must assume as least hypothesis - Occam's Razor - that Ted believes his own story. Which of course does not exclude the hypothesis that he is as loony as a June bug.'

‘Grandpa! You know Uncle Ted isn't crazy!'

‘I don't think he is. But his story sounds crazy, Nancy, I'm trying to be rational about this. Now don't scold Grandpa; I'm doing the best I can. At worst we'll know in about five months. November eleventh. Which is little comfort to you now, Maureen, but it may make up somewhat for the dirty trick Woodrow played on you. You should have clobbered him, on the spot.'

‘Not out in the woods at night, Papa, not a child that young. And now it's too late. Nancy, you remember that spot where Sergeant Theodore took you all on a picnic a year ago? We were there.'

Nancy's mouth dropped open. ‘Woodie was with you? Then you didn't - ‘ She chopped off what she was saying. Father put on his draw-poker face.

I looked from one to the other. ‘You darlings! I confided my plans to each of you. But did not tell either of you that I had told the other. Yes, Nancy, I went out there for the precise purpose I told you about: to offer Sergeant Theodore the best warrior's farewell I could manage, if he would let me. And he was about to let me. And it turned out that Woodrow had hidden in the back seat of the car.'

‘Oh, how dreadful!'

‘I thought so. So we got out of there quickly and went to Electric Park and never did have the privacy we needed.'

‘Oh, poor Mama!' Nancy leaned across Father's legs and. grabbed my head and made mother-hen sounds over me, exactly as I had over her for all those years, whenever she needed sympathy.

Then she straightened up. ‘Mama, you should go do it right now!'

‘Here? With a house full of children? My dear! No, no!'

‘I'll jigger for you! Grandpa! Don't you think she should?'

Father kept quiet. I repeated, ‘No, dear, no. Too risky.'

She answered, ‘Mama, if you're scared to, here in the house, I certainly am not. Grandpa knows I'm pregnant, don't you, Grandpa? Or I wouldn't be getting married. And I know what Jonathan would say.' She sat up straight and started to get off the edge of the bed. ‘I'm going straight down and give Uncle Ted a soldier's farewell. And tomorrow I'll tell Jonathan. And - Mama, I have a message for you from Jonathan. But I'll tell you when I come back upstairs.'

I said, weakly and hopelessly, ‘Don't stay down too long. The boys get up at four-thirty; don't get caught by them.'

‘I'll be careful. Bye.'

Father stopped her. ‘Nancy! Sit back down. You are crowding in on your mother's prerogatives.'

‘But, Grandpa -‘

‘Pipe down! Maureen is going downstairs to finish what she started. As she should. Daughter, I will stand jigger and Nancy can help me if she wishes. But take your own advice; don't stay down too long. If you aren't upstairs by three, I'm coming down to tap on the door.'

Nancy said eageriy, ‘Mama, why don't we both go down? I bet Uncle Ted would like that!'

‘I'll bet Uncle Ted would like that, too,' Father said grimly, ‘but he's not going to get it tonight. If you want to give him a soldier's send off, that's fine. But not tonight, and not until after you have consulted Jonathan. Now git for bed, dear... and you, Maureen, go downstairs and see Ted.'