years old; they did not look alike then, or nothing anyone would notice. So my son
Woodrow grew up to look like his remote descendant. Strange. I find I’m touched by
it’
Ishtar looked ar Tamara. They exchanged words in a language I did not know (Galada,
it was). But I could hear worry in their voices.
Ishtar said soberly, `Mama Maureen, Lazarus Long is your son Woodrow Wilson.’
‘No, no,’ I said ‘I saw Woodrow just a few months ago. He was, uh, sixty-nine at the
time but looked much younger. He looked just as Captain Long looks in this picture –
an amazing resemblance. But Woodrow is back in the twentieth century. I know.’
‘Yes, he is, Mama Maureen. Was, I mean, although Elizabeth tells me the two tenses
are equivalent. Woodrow Wilson Smith grew up in the twentieth century, spent most of
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the twenty-first century on Mars and on Venus, returned to Earth in the
twenty-second century and -‘ Ishtar stopped and looked up. `Teena?’
‘Who rubbed my lamp? What’ll you have, Ish?’
‘Ask Justin for a print-out in English of the memoirs he prepared on the Senior,
will you, please?’
‘No need to ask Justin; I’ve got ’em in my gizzard. You want them bound or
scrolled?’
‘Bound, I think. But, Teena, let Justin fetch them here; he will be delighted and
honoured.’
‘Who wouldn’t? Mama Maureen, are they treating you right? If they don’t, just tell
me, ’cause I do all the work around here.’
After a while a man came in who reminded me disturbingly of Arthur Simmons. But it
was just a general resemblance combined with a similar personality; in 1982 Justin
Foote would have been a CPA, as Arthur Simmons had been. Justin Foote was carrying a
briefcase. (“Plus ça change, plus c’est ta même chose.”) There was a degree of
awkwardness as Ishtar introduced him; he seemed about to fall over his own feet from
excitement at meeting me.
I took his hand ‘My first great-great-granddaughter, Nancy Jane Hardy, married a boy
named Charlie Foote. That was about 1972, I think; I went to her wedding. Is Charlie
Foote any relation to you?’
‘He is my ancestor, Mother Maureen. Nancy Jane Hardy Foote gave birth to Justin
Foote the First on New Millenium Eve, 31 December, year 2000 Gregorian.’
‘Really? Then Nancy Jane had a nice long run. She was named for her
great-grandmother, my first born.’
‘So the Archives show. Nancy Irene Smith Weatheral, your first born, Ancestress. And
I carry the first name of Nancy’s father-in-law, Justin Weatheral: Justin spoke
excellent English with an odd accent. Bostonian?
`Then I’m your grandma, in some degree. So kiss me, grandson, and quit being so
nervously formal; we’re family.’
He relaxed and kissed me then, a firm buss on the mouth, one I liked If we had not
had company,1 might have let it develop – he did remind me of Arthur.
He added then: I’m descended from you and from Justin Weatheral another way,
Grandma. Through Patrick Henry Smith, to whom you gave birth on 7 July 1932.’
I was startled. ‘Good heavens! So my sins follow me, even here. Oh, of course –
you’re working from the Foundation’s records. I did report that case of bastardy to
the Foundation. Had to keep it straight there.’
Both Ishtar and Tamara were looking puzzled. Justin said, `Excuse me, Grandma
Maureen’ – and spoke to them in that other language. Then he added to me, ‘The
concept of bastardy is not known here; issue from a coupling is either genetically
satisfactory or not satisfactory. The ides that a child could be proscribed by civil
statute is difficult to explain.’
Tamara had looked startled, then giggled when Justin explained bastardy. Ishtar had
simply looked sober: She spoke to Justin, again in Galacta.
He listened, then turned to me. `Dr Ishtar says that it is regrettable that only
once did you accept another father for one of your children. She tells me that she
hopes to get many more children from you, each by a different father. After you are
rejuvenated, she means.’
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