Robert Heinlein - Time Enough For Love

"Mmm...if I consent to the full course, I'll be out of circulation a day or two every now and then."

"I believe current practice calls for one day of deep rest approximately each week, varied to suit the client's condition. My own experience is about a hundred years back; I understand there have been improvements. You've decided to take it, sir?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow-after that switch is installed. Ira, I don't make decisions in haste that don't call for haste. But if I consent, you'll have free time to use as you see fit. G'night, Ira."

"Good night, Lazarus. I hope you decide to accept it." Weatheral turned toward the door, stopped halfway there, and spoke to the technicians-who left the room at once. The dining table scurried after them. Once the door had shut down Weatheral turned and-faced Lazarus Long. "Grandfather," he said softly, his voice somewhat choked. "Uh-may I?"

Lazarus had let his chair sink back into a reclining couch that held him, hammocklike, as tenderly as a mother's arms. At the younger man's words he raised his head. "Huh? What? Oh! All right, all right, come here-Grandson." He reached out one arm to Weatheral.

The Chairman Pro Tem hurried to him, took Lazarus' hand, dropped to his knees and kissed it.

Lazarus snatched his hand back. "For Pete's sake! Don't kneel to me-don't ever do that. If you want to be my grandson, treat me as such. Not that way."

"Yes, Grandfather." Weatheral got to his feet, leaned over the old man, and kissed his mouth.

Lazarus patted his cheek. "You're a sentimentalist, Grandson. But a good boy. Trouble is, there never has been much demand for good boys. Now get that solemn expression off your face and go home and get a good night's rest."

"Yes, Grandfather. I will. Good night."

"Good night. Now beat it."

Weatheral left quickly. The technicians jumped aside as he came out, then went back into the suite. Weatheral continued on, ignoring people around him but with a softer, gentler expression on his face than was his wont. He went past a bank of transports to the Director's private transport; it opened to his voice, then conveyed him quickly into the bowels of the city and directly to the Executive Palace.

Lazarus looked up as his attendants came back in; he motioned the taller one to him. The technician's voice, filtered and distorted by the helmet, said carefully, "Bed...sir?'

"No, I want-" Lazarus paused, then spoke to the air, "Computer? Can you speak? If not, print it out."

"I hear you, Senior," a mellifluous, contralto voice answered. "Tell this nurse that I want whatever they are allowed to give me for pain. I have work to do."

"Yes, Senior." The disembodied voice shifted to Lingua Galacta, was answered in kind, then went on: "Master Chief Technician on duty wishes to know the nature and location of your pain, and adds that you should not work tonight."

Lazarus kept silent while he counted ten chimpanzees in his mind. Then he said softly, "Damn it, I hurt everywhere. And I don't want advice from a child. I have loose ends to tidy up before I sleep...because one never knows that one will wake up again. Forget the painkiller, it ain't all that important. Tell 'em to get out and stay out."

Lazarus tried to ignore the ensuing exchange, as it annoyed him that he almost-not-quite understood it. He opened the envelope Ira Weatheral had returned to him, then opened out his will-a long bellows-fold of computer printout-and started reading it while whistling off key.

"Senior, Master Chief technician on duty states that you have given a null order, which is a true statement by the Clinic's regulations. A general analgesic is forthcoming."

"Forget it." Lazarus went on reading, and shifted to singing softly the tune he had been whistling:

"There's a pawnshop on the corner

Where I usually keep my overcoat.

"There's a bookie

Behind the pawnshop

Who handles my investments" *

(* This doggerel is attributed to the twentieth century. See appendix for semantic analysis. J.F.45th)

The taller technician appeared at his elbow, carrying a shiny disk with attached tubing. "For...pain."

Lazarus made a brush-off gesture with his free hand. "Go 'way, I'm busy."

The shorter technician appeared on his other side. Lazarus looked that way and said, "What do you want?"

As he turned his head the taller technician moved quickly; Lazarus felt a sting in his forearm. He rubbed the spot and said, "Why, you rapscallion. Foxed me, didn't you? All right, beat it. Raus. Scat!" He dismissed the incident from his mind and returned to work. A moment later he said:

"Computer!"

"Awaiting your orders, Senior."

"Record this for printout. I, Lazarus Long, sometimes known as the Senior and listed in the Howard Families' Genealogies as Woodrow Wilson Smith, born 1912, do declare this to be my last will and testament- Computer, go back through my talk with Ira and dig out what I said I wanted to do to help him lead a migration-got it?"

"Retrieved, Senior."

"Fix up the language and tack it onto my opening statement. And-let me see-add something like this: In the event Ira Weatheral fails to qualify for inheritance, then all my worldly wealth of which I die possessed shall go to, uh, to-to found a home for indigent and superannuated pickpockets, prostitutes, panhandlers, piemen, priggers, and other unworthy poor starting with 'P'. Got it?"

"Recorded, Senior. Please be advised that this alternative has a high probability of being nullified if tested by the current rules of this planet."

Lazarus expressed a rhetorical and physiologically improbable wish. "All right, set it up for stray cats or some other useless but legally acceptable purpose. Search your permanents for such a purpose that will get by the courts. Just be certain that the Trustees can't get their hands on it. Understand?'

"There is no way to be certain of that, Senior, but it will be attempted."

"Look for a loophole. Print that out as fast as you can research it and put it together. Now stand by for a memorandum of my assets. Begin." Lazarus started to read the list, found that his eyes were blurring and would not focus. "Damnation! Those dummies slipped me a Mickey and it's taking hold. Blood! I must have a drop of my own blood to thumbprint it! Tell those dummies to help me and tell them why-and warn them that I will bite my tongue to get it if they won't help me. Now print out my will with any feasible alternative-but hurry!"

"Printout starting," the computer answered quietly, then shifted to Galacta.

The "dummies" did not argue with the computer; they moved fast, one snatching the new sheet out of the auxiliary printout the instant it stopped whirring, the other producing a sterile point out of nowhere and stabbing the ball of Lazarus' left little finger after giving Lazarus a split second to see what was being done.

Lazarus did not wait for blood to be taken by pipette. He squeezed the stabbed finger for a drop, rubbed his right thumb in it, then print-signed his will while the shorter technician held it for him.

Then he sank back. "It's done," he whispered. "Tell Ira." He was heavily asleep at once.

The chair gently transferred Lazarus to his bed while the technicians silently supervised. Then the shorter watched the readouts on respiration, heart action, brain rhythms, and other physicals while the taller placed the documents, old will and new, in an impervolope, sealed it, chopped and thumb-printed the seal, marked it "Surrender only to the Senior and/or Mr. Chairman Pro Tem," then retained it until their reliefs arrived.

The relief chief technician listened to the record of the watch, glanced over the physicals, studied the sleeping client.

"Timed," he stated.

"Neolethe. Thirty-four hours."