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All You Zombies

    by  Robert A. Heinlein.   

        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. --

        He barely glanced at it. -- if you're really a bastard, you know how it feels. When I was a little girl-"

        "Wups! " I said. -- Did I hear you