And Ginny said in a level and determined tone, “He’s Charles’s fifty-second-great-grandfather, sir, and Charles hit him. It wasn’t respectful—so I clobbered him.”
The word “clobbered” is not in thirty-fourth century common speech. Ginny had learned it from the reading of this missive to you. She had not known what it meant, but when the emergency arrived she not only knew what to do, but had the word for it. Your great-great-great-etc.-ancestress is a remarkable woman, Charles! She has brains, determination, intuition, clarity of thought, and she is deliciously cuddlesome besides. Even after having been married to her for a considerable time, I like her very, very much!
“What’s that?” demanded your father dazedly. “Great-great—”
Hari and Stan tried to explain, together. I opened my eyes and saw Ginny. My last previous view had been of a hamlike fist gaining momentum before my nose. Ginny was a welcome change. I sat up, staring at her. My mouth dropped open.
I heard myself saying earnestly: “Look, angel! It’s not true there’s no marrying in Heaven, is it? With you around that would be a dirty trick.”
And Ginny kissed me. It was quite proper. She had read this letter, and she knew that she was going to marry me—knew it in fact the instant she saw me—and even that nearly two years later I would still be bragging about it. In fact, I would be—I am—gloating over it in a quite unseemly manner. So her engagement to you, Charles, was automatically terminated by my arrival. In its place an arrangement of much longer standing matured. And while I do not believe in long engagements as a rule, Ginny’s and mine of some fourteen centuries’ duration has worked out all right.
You stirred and rose. I was still there. Ginny was very close to me. You howled and leaped toward me again. I got in one gratifying punch on the nose—which does resemble mine, by the way—and then Harl and Stan and your father grabbed you, and Ginny grabbed me. When she touched me, all my belligerent impulses died. I felt infinite love for all the world. I might even have forgiven you, Charles, temporarily, for being my rival as well as my fifty-two-times removed grandson.
Your father said desperately, “Let me understand this thing!” He pushed you into a chair and looked unhappily at me. My costume was eccentric. Harl and Stan again tried to explain.
But you, Charles, bellowed, “It’s a lie! It’s a trick! It’s a stupid practical joke! I’ll kill—”
Laki said shakily, “Suppose we let the police settle it. If he really is who the book says—”