Robert A. Heinlein. All you zombies
Robert A. Heinlein. All you zombies
2217 Time Zone V (EST) 7 Nov. 1970-NTC- “Pop’s Place”: I was polishing a brandy snifter when the Unmarried Mother came in. I noted the time-10: 17 P. M. zone five, or eastern time, November 7th, 1970. Temporal agents always notice time and date; we must.
The Unmarried Mother was a man twenty-five years old, no taller than I am, childish features and a touchy temper. I didn’t like his looks – I never had – but he was a lad I was here to recruit, he was my boy. I gave him my best barkeep’s smile.
Maybe I’m too critical. He wasn’t swish; his nickname came from what he always said when some nosy type asked him his line: “I’m an unmarried mother. — If he felt less than murderous he would add: “at four cents a word. I write confession stories. —
If he felt nasty, he would wait for somebody to make something of it. He had a lethal style of infighting, like a female cop – reason I wanted him. Not the only one.
He had a load on, and his face showed that he despised people more than usual. Silently I poured a double shot of Old Underwear and left the bottle. He drank it, poured another.
I wiped the bar top. — How’s the “Unmarried Mother” racket? —
His fingers tightened on the glass and he seemed about to throw it at me; I felt for the sap under the bar. In temporal manipulation you try to figure everything, but there are so many factors that you never take needless risks.
I saw him relax that tiny amount they teach you to watch for in the Bureau’s training school. — Sorry, ” I said. — Just asking, “How’s business? ” Make it “How’s the weather? —
He looked sour. — Business is okay. I write “em, they print “em, I eat. —
I poured myself one, leaned toward him. — Matter of fact, ” I said, “you write a nice stick – I’ve sampled a few. You have an amazingly sure touch with the woman’s angle. —
It was a slip I had to risk; he never admitted what pen-names he used. But he was boiled enough to pick up only the last: “‘Woman’s angle! “” he repeated with a snort. — Yeah, I know the woman’s angle. I should. –
“So? — I said doubtfully. — Sisters? –
“No. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. –
“Now, now, ” I answered mildly, “bartenders and psychiatrists learn that nothing is stranger than truth. Why, son, if you heard the stories I do-well, you’d make yourself rich. Incredible. –
“You don’t know what “incredible” means! ”
“So? Nothing astonishes me. I’ve always heard worse. –
He snorted again. — Want to bet the rest of the bottle? –
“I’ll bet a full bottle. — I placed one on the bar.
“Well-” I signaled my other bartender to handle the trade. We were at the far end, a single-stool space that I kept private by loading the bar top by it with jars of pickled eggs and other clutter. A few were at the other end watching the fights and somebody was playing the juke box-private as a bed where we were.
“Okay, ” he began, “to start with, I’m a bastard. –
“No distinction around here, ” I said.
“I mean it, ” he snapped. — My parents weren’t married. –
“Still no distinction, ” I insisted. — Neither were mine. –
“When-” He stopped, gave me the first warm look I ever saw on him. — You mean that? –
“I do. A one-hundred-percent bastard. In fact, ” I added, “no one in my family ever marries. All bastards.
“Oh, that. — I showed it to him. — It just looks like a wedding ring; I wear it to keep women off. — It is an antique I bought in 1985 from a fellow operative – he had fetched it from pre-Christian Crete. — The Worm Ouroboros… the World Snake that eats its own tail, forever without end. A symbol of the Great Paradox. —