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to be moved.
"Oh, I guess you haven't heard," Stonar said. "Women will no longer take a
husband's name. Matrilineal descent has been made a matter of law, the
father's name being secondary."
"What law?" Stephen demanded.
"The law of this world. It's a United Nations thing," Stonar said, trying to
press Stephen out of the room.
"I'm not leaving!" Stephen said. "Let go of my arm!"
"Be careful!" Kate cried. "You'll hurt the baby!"
"Let it be," Admiral Delacourt said. "He should be present even though the
request is of the lady."
Stonar released Stephen's arm but remained standing beside him.
"What request?" Stephen asked.
"I lost my entire family in the plague," Delacourt said. "My request is that
this lady give me a child."
Stephen started to move toward him, the baby held foolishly in his arms, but
Stonar restrained him with an arm across his chest. "Be careful of the baby,
you idiot!" Stonar grabbed Stephen's arm and held it firmly.
"Why does such a request shock you?" the admiral asked, looking at Stephen.
"Surely, you must realize it is the norm now . . . there are so few women.
It's just that I do not wish my line to die out."
Kate got to her feet, brushing at her skirt. A glance in the mirror told her
there was a big wet spot from the baby in the middle of her lap. She looked
pale, she saw. "Are there no other women to . . ." She couldn't complete it.
Stonar spoke while still holding Stephen, who permitted it for fear of harming
Gilla.
Tell him, Kate! Stephen thought. Tell him to get the hell out of here with
his evil request!
Stephen grew aware gradually of what Stonar was saying: So few women being
sent to the devastated areas!
"China, Argentina, Brazil and the United States are the only nations that have
consented, by local option, to share their breeding women," Stonar said.
"England will get little more than a thousand of them."
Like cattle, Kate thought. She looked at the admiral. He was a powerful man,
the head of Barrier Command. That meant warships and the backing of the
United Nations. Accepting him could keep worse things from happening. She
looked pleadingly at Stephen. Couldn't he see it? Her resolution of only a
few minutes ago now seemed like a silly, schoolgirl thing that she had
suddenly outgrown.
"Could you return in about a half hour, please, Admiral?" she asked. "Stephen
and I need a little time to talk." She smiled at Stonar. "Mister Stonar,
could you change Gilla for us? The nappies are in that little cabinet at the
foot of her crib."
Stonar took the baby from Stephen's unresisting hands. The admiral smiled at
Kate and bowed over her hand. He had already heard her answer in her tone of
voice. She was a sensible woman, almost French in her manner. Perhaps they
would have more than one child together.
In the other room, Stonar dropped the side of the crib and placed the baby on
it. Gilla kicked her feet at him and gurgled with delight as he removed the
wet diaper. The admiral helped him, both of them smiling at the thought of
this scene -- the two of them doing a nanny's work.
"She's going to accept you," Stonar said.
"You heard that in her voice, too." The admiral lifted the baby and smiled at
her. Was that a smile in return or just gas, as they said?
"I could almost pick her myself," Stonar said. "But I could never forget that
she's Irish."
"Good God, man, you aren't still harping on . . ."
"My only son was killed during the Bloody Amnesty in Belfast . . . after the
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plague. He was a paratroop officer. They tortured him to death."
"Oh, I am sorry!"
The admiral put the baby over his shoulder and patted her, feeling very
fatherly. He had been well briefed on the troubles in Ulster. An
Irish-Canadian had spent several hours at it.
"What was really at the root of it in the North was the Ulsterman's fear that
the Catholics would institute just reprisals for all the oppressions of the
past."
Two generations a Canadian and the man had still sounded like an angry
Irishman as he handed the admiral a copy of an Ulster pamphlet signed by
someone named William Boyce, commander of the Belfast Brigade:
"Now, these were the things we rightly feared should the Catholics of the
South prevail over us -- divorce prohibited, contraception illegal, no health
plans, all of the things you find in the Eire Constitution. We know about the
Catholic families, at least twelve children in every one, all of them living
in hovels and slums, beggars in the streets, the whole dirty lot."
"Do you think we'll really be able to outlaw contraception?" the admiral
asked.
"Of course! With the Church behind us, how can we fail?"
The failure of civilization can be detected by the gap between public and
private morality. The wider the gap, the nearer the civilization to final
dissolution.
-- Jost Hupp
Bill Beckett sat alone in the VIP lounge of Air Force One, insulated from the
jet sounds by expensive soundproofing. The place smelled of leather and good
whiskey. He glanced at his wristwatch: 10:28 EST. The parade was scheduled
to start at 1:00 P.M. in Washington, D.C. He stared at all the empty seats
around him, thinking of what this privileged isolation really meant.
Ruckerman, who slept now back in the private bedroom, had chortled at sight of
the plane.
"Numero Uno, by God!"
The President had sent this plane especially for the two of them, a full
general to escort them and brief them on the ceremonies awaiting them in
Washington: a parade, addresses to the joint session of Congress, medals, a
banquet in the White House. The general, a Walter Monk, had looked too young
for the job -- all smiles and white teeth but cruel eyes, ruthless.
Beckett sighed.
It was all true what Marge had babbled to him over the telephone.
"You're a hero, I tell you!"
What a strange conversation, the girls squealing and crying, telling him how
much they loved him, how famous he was, then passing the phone back to Marge
with: "Mother has something real important to tell you."
"There's talk of running you for President," Marge said.
My God! He couldn't absorb it all. He had been too close to the plague
project for too long, his vision restricted to the day-by-day demands of their
research. And Marge springing the next revelation on him with never a hint to
prepare him, not one single clue in any of their few scanty telephone and
radio contacts -- it had almost overloaded the system.
"Bill, I don't want you to worry. You're my Primary and always will be."
Primary! How quickly the jargon took over. But he knew then what she was
about to announce. The Secondary Marriage between Kate O'Gara and Admiral
Francis Delacourt had set the pattern.
"You'd better know it before you arrive, though, darling," Marge said. "It'll
be so obvious when you see me. I'm pregnant."
He could hear the girls behind her, chattering: "Tell him about . . ." The
rest was lost as Marge continued.
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"Didn't you hear me, Bill?"
"I heard you."
"You sound all tight and angry the way you do. Bill, you've got to accept
this!"
"I accept it."
"The father is Arthur Dalvig, darling. General Dalvig. He's our regional
military commander. You'll like him, I know you will."
"What choice do I have?"
"Bill, don't be that way. He's been very good to us. The girls love him.
And, darling, he has made a great many things possible. When things were at
their worst, he protected us and . . . and everything. Darling, please. He
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