"Shut up, Star!"
"Yes, milord."
"It doesn't make a damn bit of difference!"—and I said it so flatly that I believed it—and do now. "Rufo doesn't know what I think. You are younger than tomorrow's dawn—you always will be. That's the last I want to hear about it!"
"Yes, milord."
"And knock that off, too. Just say, ‘Okay, Oscar.' "
"Yes, Oscar! Okay!"
"Better. Unless you're honing for another spanking. And I'm too tired." I changed the subject. "About this other matter—There's no reason to stretch your pretty tummy if other ways are at hand. I'm a country jake, that's all; I'm not used to big city ways. When you suggested that you do it yourself, did you mean that they could put you back together the way you were?"
"No. I would simply be host-mother as well as genetic mother." She smiled and I knew I was making progress. "But saving a tidy sum of that money you don't want to spend. Those healthy, sturdy women who have other people's babies charge high. Four babies, they can retire—ten makes them wealthy."
"I should think they would charge high! Star, I don't object to spending money. I'll concede, if you say so, that I've earned more than I spend, by my work as a professional hero. That's a tough racket, too."
"You've earned it."
"This citified way of having babies—Can you pick it? Boy, or girl?"
"Of course. Male-giving wigglers swim faster, they can be sorted out. That's why Wisdoms are usually men—I was an unplanned candidate. You shall have a son, Oscar."
"Might prefer a girl. I've a weakness for little girls."
"A boy, a girl—or both. Or as many as you want."
"Star, let me study it. Lots of angles—and I don't think as well as you do."
"Pooh!"
"If you don't think better than I do, the cash customers are getting rooked. Mmm, male seed can be stored as easily as eggs?"
"Much easier."
"That's all the answer we need now. I'm not too jumpy about syringes; I've stood in enough Army queues. I'll go to the clinic or whatever it is, then we can settle it slowly. When we decide"—I shrugged—"mail the postcard and when it goes clunk! -- we're parents. Or some such. From there on the technicians and those husky gals can handle it."
"Yes, milo—Okay, darling!"
All better. Almost her little girl face. Certainly her sixteen-year-old face, with new party dress and boys a shivery, delightful danger. "Star, you said earlier that it was often not the second issue out even the twenty-second that matters."
"Yes."
"I know what's wrong with me. I can tell you—and maybe Her Wisdom knows the answer."
She blinked. "If you can tell me, sweetheart—Her Wisdom will solve it, even if I have to tear the place down and put it back up differently—from here to the next galaxy—or I'll go out of the Wisdom business!"
"That sounds more like my Lucky Star. All right, it's not that I'm a gigolo. I've earned my coffee and cakes, at least; the Soul-Eater did damn near eat my soul, he knew its exact shape—he...it—it knew things I had long forgotten. It was rough and the pay ought to be high. It's not your age, dearest. Who cares how old Helen of Troy is? You're the right age forever—can a man be luckier? I'm not jealous of your position; I wouldn't want it with chocolate icing. I'm not jealous of the men in your life—the lucky stiffs! Not even now, as long as I don't stumble over them getting to the bathroom."
"There are no other men in my life now, milord husband."
"I had no reason to think so. But there is always next week, and even you can't have a Sight about that, my beloved. You've taught me that marriage is not a form of death—and you obviously aren't dead, you lively wench."
"Perhaps not a Sight," she admitted. "But a feeling."
"I won't bet on it. I've read the Kinsey Report."
"What report?"
"He disproved the Mermaid theory. About married women. Forget it. Hypothetical question: If Jocko visited Center, would you still have the same feeling? We should have to invite him to sleep here."
"The Doral will never leave Nevia."
"Don't blame him, Nevia is wonderful. I said If—If he does, will you offer him ‘roof, table, and bed'?"
"That," she said firmly, "is your decision, milord."
"Rephrase it: Will you expect me to humiliate Jocko by not returning his hospitality? Gallant old Jocko, who let us live when he was entitled to kill us? Whose bounty—arrows and many things, including a new medic's kit—kept us alive and let us win back the Egg?"
"By Nevian customs of roof and table and bed," she insisted, "the husband decides, milord husband."
"We aren't in Nevia and here a wife has a mind of her own. You're dodging, wench."
She grinned naughtily. "Does that ‘if' of yours include Muri? And Letva? They're his favorites, he wouldn't travel without them. And how about little what's-her-name? -- the nymphet?"
"I give up. I was just trying to prove that jumping over a sword does not turn a lively wench into a nun."
"I am aware of it, my Hero," she said levelly. "All I can say is that I intend that this wench shall never give her Hero a moment's unease—and my intentions are usually carried out. I am not ‘Her Wisdom' for nothing."
"Fair enough. I never thought you would cause me that sort of unease. I was trying to show that the task may not be too difficult. Damn it, we've wandered off. Here's my real problem. I'm not good for anything. I'm worthless."
"Why, my dearest! You're good for me."
"But not for myself. Star, gigolo or not, I can't be a pet poodle. Not even yours. Look, you've got a job. It keeps you busy and it's important. But me? There is nothing for me to do, nothing at all! -- nothing better than designing bad jewelry. You know what I am? A hero by trade, so you told me; you recruited me. Now I'm retired. Do you know anything in all twenty universes more useless than a retired hero?"
She mentioned a couple. I said, "You're stalling. Anyhow they break up the blankness of the male chest. I'm serious, Star. This is the issue that has made me unfit to live with. Darling, I'm asking you to put your whole mind on it—and all those ghostly helpers. Treat it the way you treat an Imperial problem. Forget I'm your husband. Consider my total situation, all you know about me—and tell me what I can do with hands and head and time that is worth doing. Me, being what I am."
She held still for long minutes, her face in that professional calm she had worn the times I had audited her work. "You are right," she said at last. "There is nothing worth your powers on this planet."
"Then what do I do?"
She said tonelessly, "You must leave."
"Huh?"
"You think I like the answer, my husband? Do you think I like most answers I must give? But you asked me to consider it professionally. I obeyed. That is the answer. You must leave this planet—and me."
"So my shoes get tossed anyhow?"
"Be not bitter, milord. That is the answer. I can evade and be womanish only in my private life; I cannot refuse to think if I agree to do so as ‘Her Wisdom.' You must leave me. But, no, no, no, your shoes are not tossed! You will leave, because you must. Not because I wish it." Her face stayed calm but tears streamed again. "One cannot ride a cat...nor hurry a snail...nor teach a snake to fly. Nor make a poodle of a Hero. I knew it, I refused to look at it. You will do what you must do. But your shoes will remain ever by my bed, I am not sending you away!" She blinked back tears. "I cannot lie to you, even by silence. I will not say that no other shoes will rest here...if you are gone a long time. I have been lonely. There are no words to say how lonely this job is. When you go...I shall be lonelier than ever. But you will find your shoes here when you return."