"Oh. It's a trimaran, a yacht with a triple hull. Can't say that I agree that she's pretty. A sloop with a triangular mains'l is my notion of beauty."
"Does look sort of squarish now. But swooping in with all its—sorry!— ‘her' sails up, she was lovely." (Twin, ask Jake if he thinks there is any way we could go on it?) (On ‘her,' Eunice—not ‘it.' Are you a sailor, hon?) (Never been on a boat in my life, Boss. But I'm getting an idea, maybe.)
(Maybe I have the same idea. Are you thinking about that talk with Jake when he pointed out a farm would mean even more staff and less safety than our house?) (I don't care who thought d it first, Boss—just make sure that Jake thinks of it first.) (I shall, dear—do you think I have to be told that a ship is ‘she'? Or can't recognize a trimaran? The real question is: Do you get seasick? I used to—and it's miserable. But the fact that we haven't had the tiniest bit of morning sickness makes me think you might be immune to motion sickness.) (So ‘let's operate and find out,' as Roberto says.)
"Oh, trimarans have their points, Eunice. You get a lot of boat for your money. Roomy. And they are almost impossible to turn over—safer than most small vessels. I just wouldn't award one a beauty prize."
"Jake, do you think you could get us invited aboard that one? She looks interesting."
"Oh, there's some way to swing it. I might start by talking with the manager. But, Eunice, you can't go aboard a private vessel with your features veiled; it would be rude. Your granddaughters did you no favor when they made you as recognizable as a video star."
"Jacob, a veil doesn't enter into it because I never want to meet anyone as ‘Mrs. MacKenzie.' I'm Mrs. Jacob Moshe Salomon and proud of it—and that's the way I must always be introduced. Jake, I doubt if our marriage is news any longer; it can't matter much if I'm spotted."
"I suppose not. The copters might swarm a mite closer for a while and some would have pixsnoops aboard with telescopic lenses. But. I doubt if even your granddaughters are anxious to take a shot at you. If the snoops fret you, wear pants to sunbathe, and in the pool."
"The hell I will, it's our pool, Jacob. Anyhow, briefies can't conceal the fact that I'm pregnant, and the sooner that's in the news the less it will interest anyone later. Let them sneak a pic, then you have Doctor Bob confirm it—and it stops being news. No huhu, dear; I learned years ago that you can't ‘get away from it all'—you just have to cope. Is it possible, on a boat of that sort, to have a swimming pool?"
"Not one that size. But I've seen trimarans much bigger than that one. Could be done, I suppose, since a trimaran can have so much deck space for its tonnage—I'd have to ask a naval architect. Why the interest, Lively Legs? Do you want me to buy you a yacht?"
"I don't know. But boats look like fun. Jake, I never had much fun in my life—my other life. I'm not sure how one goes about having fun—except that every day is a joy to me now. All that I'm sure of is that I want to do something utterly different this time. Not be a Hetty Green. And not the gay, mad whirl of ‘society'—kark! I'd rather turn whore. Would you like a yacht, lake? Take me around the world and show me all those places you've seen and I never had time for?"
"You mean you didn't take time."
"Maybe it's the same thing. I do know that, if a man acquires too much money, presently it owns him instead of his owning it. Jake, I've been to Europe at least fifty times—yet I've never been inside the Louvre, never seen them change the Guard at Buckingham Palace. All I saw were hotels and boardrooms—and those are the same all over the globe. Would you care to repair my education, dearest? Show me Rio?—you say it's the most beautiful city in the world. The Parthenon by moonlight? The Taj at dawn?"
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—casesit 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 h6pe."
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."