I Will Fear No Evil by Robert A. Heinlein
Jake said thoughtfully. “The trimaran is the favorite craft of the dropout.”
“Excuse me? I missed something. ‘Dropout’?”
“I don’t mean the barefooted bums in the Abandoned Areas, Eunice, nor the ones skulking around the hills. It takes money to drop out by water. But people do. Millions have. Nobody knows how many because it has been subject to an ‘exception’ for years—the government does not want attention called to it. But take those yachts below us: I’ll bet that at least one out of ten has registration papers for some ‘flag of convenience’ and the owner’s passport is as phony as that of ‘Mr. and Mrs. MacKenzie.’ He has to be registered somewhere and carry some sort of passport, or the Coast Guard wherever he goes will give him a bad time, even impound his craft. But if he takes care of that minimum, he can dodge almost everything else—no income tax, no local taxes except when he buys something, nobody tries to force his kids into public schools, no real estate taxes, no politics—no violence in the streets. That last is the best part, with the cycle of riots swinging up again.”
“Then it is possible to ‘get away from it all.’”
“Mmm, not quite. No matter how much fish he eats, he has to touch land occasionally. He can’t play Vanderdecken; only a ghost ship can stay at sea forever, real ones have to be put up on the ways at intervals.” Jake Salomon looked thoughtful. “But it’s closer to that antithetical combination of ‘peace’ and ‘freedom’ than is possible on land. If it suits one. But, Eunice, I know what I would do—if I were young.”
“What, Jake?”
“Look up there.”
“Where, dear? I don’t see anything.”
“There.”
“The Moon?”
“Right! Eunice, that’s the only place with plenty of room and not too many people. Our last frontier—but an endless one. Anyone under the cut-off age should at least try to out-migrate.”
“Are you serious, Jacob? Certainly space travel is scientifically interesting but I’ve never seen much use in it. Oh, some ‘fallout.’ Videosatellites and so forth. New materials. But the Moon itself?—why, it doesn’t even pay its own way.”
“Eunice, what use is that baby in your belly?”
“I trust that you are joking, sir. I hope you are.”
“Simmer down, Bulgy. Darling, a newborn baby is as useless a thing as one can imagine. It isn’t even pretty—except to its doting parents. It does not pay its own way and it’s unreasonably expensive. It takes twenty to thirty years for the investment to begin to pay off and in many—no, most—cases it never does pay off. Because it is much easier to support a child than it is to bring one up to amount to anything.”
“Our baby will amount to something!”
“I feel sure that it will. But look around you; my generalization stands. But, Eunice, despite these shortcomings, a baby has a unique virtue. It is always the hope of our race. Its only hope.”
She smiled. “Jacob, you’re an exasperating man.”
“I try to be, dear; it’s good for your metabolism. Now look back up at the sky. That’s a newborn baby, too. The best hope of our race. If that baby lives, the human race lives. If we let it die—and it is vulnerable for a few more years—the race dies, too. Oh, I don’t mean H-bombs. We’re faced with far greater dangers than H-bombs. We’ve reached an impasse; we can’t go on the way we’re headed—and we can’t go back—and we’re dying in our own poisons. That’s why that little Lunar colony has got to survive. Because we can’t. It isn’t the threat of war, or crime in the streets, or corruption in high places, or pesticides, or smog, or ‘education’ that doesn’t teach; those things are just symptoms of the underlying cancer. It’s too many people. Not too many souls, or honks, or thirds—just…too many. Seven billion people, sitting in each other’s laps, trying to take in each other’s washing, pick each other’s pockets. Too many. Nothing wrong with the individual in most cases—but collectively we’re the Kilkenny Cats, unable to do anything but starve and fight and eat each other. Too many. So anyone who can ought to go to the Moon as fast as he can manage it.”
“Jacob, in all the years I’ve known you I’ve never heard you talk this way.”
“Why talk about a dream that has passed one by? Eunice—Eunice-Johann, I mean—I was born twenty-five years later than you were. I grew up believing in space travel. Perhaps you did not?”
“No, I didn’t, Jake. When it came along, it struck me as interesting—but slightly preposterous.”
“Whereas I was born enough later that it seemed as natural to me as automobiles. The big rockets were no surprise to my generation; we cut our teeth on Buck Rogers. Nevertheless I was born too soon. When Armstrong and Aldrin landed on Luna, I was pushing forty. When out-migration started, with a cut-off age of forty, I was too old; when they eased it to forty-five, again I was too old—and when they raised it to fifty, I was much too old. I’m not kicking, dear; on a frontier every man-jack must pull his weight, and there is little use for an elderly lawyer.”
He smiled down at her, and went on: “But, darling, if you wanted to out-migrate, I wouldn’t try to dissuade you; I’d cheer you on.”
“Jake!” (He can’t get away from us that easily!) (You’re darn tootin’ he can’t! I’ll fix him.) “Jake my own and only, you can’t get away from me that easily.”
“Eunice, I am serious. I could die happy if I knew our baby was to be born on the Moon.”
She sighed. “Jacob, I promised to obey you and I happily do so. But I can’t go to the Moon—as an out-migrant. Because I’m even farther past the cut-off age than you are—the Supreme Court says so.”
“That could be fixed.”
“And raise an issue over my identity again? Jacob darling, I don’t want to leave you. But”—she patted her belly and smiled—“if he wants to go to the Moon, we’ll help, at the earliest age they’ll take him. All right?”
He smiled and gently patted her slight bulge. “More than all right. Because I don’t want his beautiful mother to go away for any reason. But a father should never stand in the way of his son.”
“You don’t. You aren’t. You won’t. You never would. Jacob Junior goes to the Moon when he’s ready, but not this week. Let’s talk about trimarans and this week. Jake, you know I want to close up our house—I’d sell it but nobody would buy it other than as land; it’s a white elephant’. But two things have bothered me. It has to be left garrisoned, or the Free People will break in despite all armor, and squat—then someday some judge grants them title on adverse possession.”
Jake said, “Certainly. Historically, that’s where all land titles come from. Somebody standing on it, defending it, and saying, ‘This is mine!’ And lately the courts have been cutting down the period of adverse possession. Especially in city cores close to Abandoned Areas—and your house is both.”
“I know, dear—but I don’t want to surrender it to squatters. Darn it, that house cost me more than nine million, not counting taxes and upkeep. The other worry is what to do about our in-house staff. I’m sick of being a feudal lord—erase and correct; lady, now.” (Erase and correct—‘tart’ now.) (Certainly, Eunice, but I haven’t been too tartish since we got married.) (Not much opportunity, twin—but you’re getting restless. Huh?) (Who is getting restless? Never mind, twin sister, the day will come. But we won’t rub darling Jake’s nose in it.) “I can’t just let them go; some have been with me twenty-odd years. But if we buy a yacht—and live in it—I think I have a solution to both problems.”
“So?”
“I think so. It’s an idea I got during our wedding, thinking about that farm.”
“Well! Wench, you were supposed to be thinking about me.”
“I was, dear. But I seem to be able to think about several things at once, since my rejuvenation. Better blood supply, possibly.” (My help, you mean, Boss.) (Yes, dear. Same thing.) “Our banquet hall, dressed as a chapel, looked more like a church than it has ever looked like a place to eat. So here’s
“No difficulty, Eunice, if you really want to unload the house—”
“I do. If you consent.”
“It’s your house, dear, and I decided a long time ago that being a householder in a big city was more headache than pleasure. We could still keep my little house in Safe Harbor—no fear of squatters—if you want a pied-à-terre. We won’t do it quite as you described it but you can give your house to Shorty if you wish to. I’ll get Alec to work out a plan. But I wonder if Shorty can cope with it? Squatters might still move in on him—or rioters break in and wreck the place.”
“Oh. That fits in with the other half of my idea: What to do about our too-faithful retainers. Offer any with twenty years or close to it retirement at full pay. Encourage the in-house guards and maintenance men to work for the trust, same pay—because you’re right; if we hand an illit a place like that, with no one to keep him straight, he’ll soon have a shell, not a church. Father Hugo is the best bodyguard I’ve ever seen…but he’s a child of God and unsophisticated about management. He needs a practical, cynical man as his in-house steward. Cunningham. Or O’Neil. Or Mentone. Alec can work it out. Jake, I want to hand over to Shorty a complete plant, subsidized and maintained, so that he can put his mind solely on preaching and praying and soul-saving. I think you know why.” (I think I know why, Boss—but any of the four would have killed that mugger.) (We’ve managed to thank the other three, beloved—and will go on thanking them. Father Hugo is a special case.)
“Eunice, do you really think Hugo saves souls?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, Jacob; I don’t know Who is in charge of this world. Even if what Hugo does has no more real meaning than our ‘prayer meetings,’ it’s still worthwhile. Darling, this is a screwed-up world. Back in the days of the Model-T Ford the United States was a fine country, brimming with hope. But today the best thing most young people can do is stay home, sit still, not get involved, and chant Om Mani Padme Hum—and it is the best thing most of them are capable of doing, the world being what it is now; it’s far better than dropping out or turning on with drugs. When meditation and a meaningless prayer are better than most action open to them, then what Hugo has to offer is good in the same way. Even if his theology is a hundred percent wrong. But I don’t think Father Hugo is any more mistaken than the most learned theologian and he might be closer to the truth. Jacob, I don’t think anyone knows Who’s in charge.”
“Just wondered, my dear. Sometimes pregnant women get taken with fancies.”
“I’m pregnant down here, dearest; up here is still old Johann. Protects me somewhat, I think.” (Oh, you think so, huh? Boss, if you didn’t have me to keep you straight, you’d be as filled with vapors as a cat trying to have kittens in a wastebasket! Remember, I’ve been through this before.) (I know you have, darling, and that’s why I’m not afraid—otherwise I’d be scared silly.) (No worse than having a tooth drilled, Boss; we’re built for this. Roomy.) “Jake, did I ever tell you about the time I went into politics?”
“Didn’t know you ever had and can’t imagine it, Eunice.”
“Imagine it for ‘Johann,’ not for ‘Eunice.’ Forty years back I let them persuade me that it was my ‘duty.’ I was easy to persuade—but I realize now that my attraction to the Party was that I could pay for my campaign in a district they were going to lose anyhow. But I learned things, Jake. Learned that being a businessman has nothing to do with being a politician and even less to do with being a statesman. They clobbered me, Jake!—and I’ve never been tempted to save the world since. Maybe someone can save this addled planet but I don’t know how and now I know that I don’t know. That’s something even if it isn’t much. Jake, I could worry about Smith Enterprises when I was running it. I can worry now about sixty-odd people and make sure they’re each all right insofar as money can insure it. But no one can solve things for seven billion people; they won’t let you. You go nutty with frustration if you try. Nor can you do much for three hundred million, not when the real problem—as you pointed out—is the very fact that there are three hundred million of them. I can’t see any solution short of compulsory sterilization—and the solution strikes me as worse than the disease. Licensing without sterilization hasn’t solved it.”
Her husband shook his head. “And won’t, Eunice. Licensing is a joke; it has more loopholes than the tax laws. Compulsory methods inevitably involve political tests—no, thanks, I prefer the Four Horsemen. And the only effect that voluntary contraception has ever had has been to change the ratio, unfavorably, between the productive and the parasites; the population climbs anyhow. If we were as hard-boiled about weeding the culls as China is, it might not work that way. But we aren’t, we never have been—and I’m not sure I’d like it if we were.”
“Then there isn’t any solution.”
“Oh, there is, I mentioned it. The Four Horsemen. They never sleep, they’re never off duty. And there.” He pointed at the Moon. “Eunice, I suspect that our race’s tragedy has been played endless times. It may be that an intelligent race has to expand right up to its disaster point to achieve what is needed to break out of its planet and reach for the stars. It may always—or almost always—be a photo finish, with the outcome uncertain to the last moment. Just as it is with us. It may take endless wars and unbearable population pressure to force-feed a technology to the point where it can cope with space. In the universe, space travel may be the normal birth pangs of an otherwise dying race. A test. Some races pass, some fail.”
She shivered. “Gruesome.”
“Yes. And no way to talk to a gal in what used to be called a ‘delicate condition.’ Sorry, darling.”
“A gruesome thought at any time, Jake. I’m not in a ‘delicate condition.’ I’m doing what this body is designed for. Building a baby. Feels good. I’m enjoying it.”
“So it appears and that makes me happy. But, Eunice, before you shut down your house and move into a yacht, I must mention one thing. I think you must put it off until you’ve had this baby.”
“Why, Jake? No morning sickness. I doubt if seasickness will be a problem.”
“Because you are in a delicate condition, no matter how good it feels. I’d feel happier if you were never more than five minutes from medical attention. You’d be okay at home; Bob and Winnie are there. You’re okay here—a hotel resident physician and a good one—believe me, I checked on him—and a modern hospital over there, in sight. But at sea? Suppose you had a seven-month preemie? We’d lose the baby and probably you, too. No, Eunice.”
“Oh.” (Eunice, any point in telling him that you carried your first one full term and no trouble?) (No, twin. How are you going to prove it? If you mention me now, you’re just a female with pregnancy delusions. Boss, this is one argument you’re going to lose. So concede it at once. Fall back and find another route.) “Jacob, I can’t argue. I lost my first wife with her first baby; I know it can happen. But what would you think of this? Could you persuade Roberto and Winnie to come with us? Then not go very far to sea. If we were anchored where that trimaran is, that hospital could be just as close…and Roberto would be aboard. This hotel physician must be all right as you have checked on him but I would rather have Roberto. He knows me inside and out. And never mind wisecracks; I mean as my physician. Or does the fact that you know that Roberto has slept with me make him unacceptable to you as my O.B. man?” (Whew! Twin, that was a foul blow.) (Oh, pooh, Eunice, I’m just confusing the issue.)
Jake Salomon cocked one eyebrow and grinned down at her. “Little one, you can’t embarrass me that easily. If Bob is the baby-cotcher you want, I’ll do my best to persuade him…as long as you don’t mind Bob’s wife being around.”
“Pooh to you, sir. If you and Winnie want to stroll down memo
“Thereby giving you carte blanche later. A woman almost always falls in love with the doctor who delivers her first baby.”
“Pooh again. I’ve loved Roberto a long time and you know it. Are you jealous, Jacob?”
“No. Just curious. I suppose that injunction you laid on me on our wedding day still applies? It occurs to me that, with respect to the day you mentioned, Bob had opportunity before, during, and after.”
“Is that all it takes, dear? Just opportunity?” (Just about, twin!) She grinned at him and wrinkled her nose. “Sweetheart, all I will admit is the possibility that Roberto’s name might be in the hat. But it could have been Finchley. Or Hubert. Or dear Judge Mac. You and Alec were awfully busy that day—but I think you’ll find that Mac adjourned court at his usual hour…and I wasn’t home until much later.”
“Is that a confession?”
“Well, there might be a confession in there somewhere.”
“Quit pulling my leg, my love. There are only two sorts of wives. Those who cheat, and those who have their husbands’ friendly cooperation, in which case—”
“Isn’t there a third sort?”
“Eh? Oh, you mean faithful wives. Oh, certainly. So I’ve heard. But in my twenty years of general practice, much of it divorce cases, I encountered so few of that sort—none I felt certain about—that I cannot venture an opinion. Wives technically faithful form so small a part of the sample that I can’t evaluate them. People being what they are, a rational man should be satisfied if his meals are on time and his dignity not affronted. What I was trying to say is, that if you ever want my friendly cooperation, don’t assault my credibility with a wet firecracker such as Hubert. Judge Mac I could believe. Tom Finchley is a very masculine person too, and one who bathes regularly—even though he sometimes abuses the sacred English tongue in a manner which causes me to flinch. Bob Garcia shows your good taste. But, please, darling, don’t expect me to believe that Hubert’s name could be in the hat.” (Twin, Jake knows us too well. Better not try to fool him too much.) (Ever hear of a ‘red herring,’ love?)