Affairs of State

Despite what I told the Senior, my ancestor Grandfather Lazarus, I work hard in governing Secundus. But only in thinking about policy and in judging the work of others. I don't do donkey work; I leave that to professional administrators. Even so, the problems of a planet with more than a billion people can keep a man busy, especially if his intention is to govern as little as possible-as that means he must keep a sharp eye out and his ear tuned for signs that subordinates are doing unnecessary governing. Half my time is used in the negative work of plucking such officious officials and ordering that they never again serve in any public capacity.

Then I usually abolish their jobs, and all jobs subordinate to them.

I have never noticed any harm from such pruning save that parasites whose jobs are eliminated must find some other way to avoid starvation. (They are welcome to starve-better if they do. But they don't.)

The important thing is to spot these malignant growths and remove them while they are small. The more skill a Chairman Pro Tem acquires in this, the more emerging ones he finds, which keeps him busier than ever. Anyone can see a forest fire; skill lies in sniffing the first smoke.

This leaves me too little time for my prime work: thinking about policy. The purpose of my government is never to do good, but simply to refrain from doing evil. This sounds simple but is not. For example, although prevention of armed revolution is obviously part of my main duty, i.e., to keep order, I began to have doubts about the wisdom of transporting potential revolutionary leaders years before Grandfather Lazarus called my attention to it. But the symptom that roused my worry was so null that it took ten years for me to notice it:

During those ten years there was not one attempt to assassinate me.

By the time Lazarus Long returned to Secundus for the purpose of dying this disturbing symptom had continued twenty years.

This was ominous, and I realized it. A population of one billion-plus so contented, so uniform, so smug that not one determined assassin shows up in a double decade is seriously ill no matter how healthy it looks. In the ten years that elapsed after I noticed this lack I worried about it every hour I could spare-and found myself asking myself over and over again: What would Lazarus Long do?

I knew in broad outline what he had done-and that was why I decided to migrate-either lead my people off planet or go alone if none would follow. (In rereading this, it sounds as if I sought to be assassinated in some mystic The King Must Die sense. Not at all! I am surrounded at all times by powerful and subtle safeguards the nature of which I will not divulge. But there is no harm in mentioning three negative precautions; my facial appearance is not known to the public, I almost never appear in public anyhow, and when I do, it is never announced. The job of ruler is dangerous-or should be-but I don't intend to die from it. The "disturbing symptom" was not that I am alive but that there are no dead assassins. No one seems to hate me enough to try. Frightening. Where have I failed them?)

When the Howard Clinic notified me that the Senior was awake (with a reminder that only one "night" had passed for him) I was not only awake but had completed necessary work and bucked the rest; I went at once to the Clinic. After they decontaminated me I found him dawdling over coffee, having just finished breakfast.

He glanced up and grinned. "Hi, Ira!"

"Good morning, Grandfather." I went to him ready to offer a respectful salutation such as he had permitted when I bade him goodnight the night "before"-but watching for signs that say Yes, or No, before the mouth speaks. Even among the Families there is wide variety in such customs-and Lazarus is, as always, a law unto himself. So I closed the last of the gap with great deliberation.

He answered me by drawing back so slightly that it would have been unnoticeable had I not been alert for it. He added a gentle warning: "Strangers present, Son."

I stopped at once. "At least I think they are strangers," he added. "I've been trying to get acquainted, but all we share is some pidgin speech plus a lot of handwaving. But it's nice to have people around instead of those zombies-we get along. Hey, dear! Come here, that's a good girl."

He motioned to one of his rejuvenation technicians-two on watch, as usual, and this morning, one was female, one was male. I was pleased to see that my order that females should "dress attractively" had been carried out. This woman was a blonde, graceful and not unattractive if one likes tallness in a female. (I don't dislike it, but there is something to be said for one small enough to fit on one's lap-not that I've had much time for that lately.)

She glided forward and waited, smiling. She was dressed in a something-women's styles don't stay the same long enough for me to keep track, and this was a period when every woman in New Rome seemed to be trying to dress differently from every other woman. Whatever it was, it was an iridescent blue that set off her eyes and fitted her closely where it covered her at all; the effect was pleasing.

"Ira, this is Ishtar-did I get your name right that time, dear?"

"Yes, Senior."

"And that young man over there is, believe it or not, 'Galahad.' Know any legends of Earth, Ira? If he knew its idiomatic meaning, he would change it-the perfect knight who never got any. But I've been trying to remember why Ishtar's face is so familiar. Dear, was I ever married to you? Ask her for me, Ira; she may not have understood."

"No, Senior. Not never. Is certain."

"She understood you," I said.

"Well, it could have been her grandmother-a lively wench, Ira. Tried to kill me, so I left her."

The Chief Master Technician spoke briefly in Galacta. I said, "Lazarus, she says that, while she has never had the honor of being married to you, contractually or informally, she is quite willing if you are."

"Well! A saucy one-it must have been her grandmother. Eight, nine hundred years back, more or less-I lose track of half centuries-and on this planet. Ask her if, uh, Arid Barstow is her grandmother."

The technician looked very pleased and broke into rapid Galacta. I listened and said, "She says that Ariel Barstow is her great-great-great-grandmother and she is joyed to hear you acknowledge the connection as that is the lineage by which she is descended from you...and that she would be supremely honored, both for herself and on behalf of her siblings and cousins, if you would converge the lineage again, with or without contract After your rejuvenation is completed, she adds-she is not trying to rush you. How about it, Lazarus? If she has used up her reproduction quota, I would be happy to grant her an exception so that she would not have to migrate."

"The hell she ain't trying to rush me. And so are you. But she put it politely, so let's give it a polite answer. Tell her that I'm honored and her name goes into the hat-but don't tell her I'm shipping out on Thursday. 'Don't call us, we'll call you' in other words-but make her happy about it; she's a nice kid."

I revised the message diplomatically; Ishtar beamed, curtsied, and backed away. Lazarus said, "Drag up a rock, Son, and sit a while." He lowered his voice and added, "Between ourselves, Ira, I'm pretty sure Ariel slipped one in on me. But with another of my descendants, so this kid is descended from me anyhow, though maybe not as directly. Not that it matters. What are you doing up so early? I said you could have two hours after breakfast to yourself."