Free Time Enough for Love by Robert A. Heinlein Page B

toward you, dear.”
    “All right, how about ten tall sixteen-year-old redheaded virgins? Girls, I mean.”
    “Yes, darling. Nothing is too good for my Galahad. Although if you insist on certified virgins, it may take longer. Why this fetish, dear man? Your psych profiles didn’t hint at any exotic abnormality.”
    “Cancel that order and make it one dish of mango ice cream.”
    “Yes, sir, I’ll send for it at once. Or you can have fresh peach ice cream instantly. Tease. I haven’t been bothered by that sort of teasing since I was sixteen myself. A long time ago.”
    “I’ll settle for peach. A very long time ago.”
    “Right away, dearest man. Will you eat it with a spoon, or shall I plaster it on your face? Nor by that sort of teasing. I’ve had one rejuvenation just as you have had, and I keep my cosmetic age younger than yours.”
    “A man needs to look mature.”
    “And a woman prefers to look young; we always have. But I know not only your rejuvenated age but your calendar age, Galahad—and my calendar age is less than yours. Want to know how I know, dear? I recognized you the instant I saw you. I helped rejuvenate you, darling—and I’m most pleased that I did.”
    “The devil you say!”
    “But I am pleased, dear man. Such a nice bonus, and so unexpected. One so seldom sees a client again. Galahad, do you realize that we did not use any of the routine to insure an ecstatic holiday together? Yet I haven’t missed it. I feel younger and happier than I have in years. Still do.”
    “Me, too. Except that I don’t see any peach ice cream.”
    “Pig. Beast. Brute. I’m bigger than you are; I’ll trip you and fall on you. How many scoops, dear?”
    “Oh, just pile it in until your arm gets tired; I need to restore my strength.”
    He followed her into the pantry, served them both with heaping dishes of ice cream. “Just a precaution,” he said, “so I won’t get it plastered in my face.”
    “Oh, tut, now! You don’t really think I would do that to my Galahad.”
    “You’re a very erratic female, Ishtar. I have bruises to prove it.”
    “Nonsense! I was gentle.”
    “You don’t know your own strength. And you are bigger than I am, as you noted. Instead of ‘Ishtar’ I should have named you for that—what was her name? Queen of the Amazons in Old Home mythology.”
    “‘Hippolyta,’ dear. But I can’t qualify as an Amazon, for reasons you were flattering about…in an infantile way.”
    “Complaints, huh? Over in Surgery they could correct your disqualification in ten minutes and never leave a scar. Never mind, ‘Ishtar’ fits you better. But there is something unfair about this.”
    “How, dear? Let’s take this in and eat in front of the fire.”
    “Suits. Like this, Ishtar. You tell me I was your client and that you recall both my ages, so by masterly logic I deduce that you know my registered name and Family, and you may even remember some of my genealogy since you must have studied it for my rejuvenation. But by the customs of ‘Seven Hours’ I am precluded from even trying to learn your registered name. I have to tag you in my mind as ‘that tall blond Master Chief Technician who—’”
    “I still have enough ice cream to plaster you!”
    “—‘permitted me to call her “Ishtar” for the happiest seven hours of my life.’ Which are almost over and I don’t know that you will let me take you to Elysium someday.”
    “Galahad, you are the most exasperating sweetheart I’ve ever had. Of course you can take me to Elysium. And you don’t have to go home at the end of seven hours. And my registered name is Ishtar. But if you ever mention my rank other than when necessary, on duty, you’ll have real bruises to remember me by. Big ones.”
    “Bully. I’m scared. I do think I should leave on time, so that you can get your quota of sleep before we’re due back on watch. But what’s this about your name really being ‘Ishtar’? Did I roll five aces when we