"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, lake. When it came along, it struck me as interesting—but slightly presposterous."
"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 my notion. Give our house to Shorty. Give it to his church in a trust setup, with Alec, maybe, as a trustee, and also Judge Mac if he'll do it. Arrange the trust for perpetual maintenance, with ample funds and a good salary for Hugo as pastor. Is this practical?"
"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-a-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."