(Eunice, it’s got to stop, somewhere. When I was a boy I was a city kid but I could walk in less than an hour to green fields and uncut woods…woods so private I could play Tarzan in my skin. I wasn’t ‘just lucky’—even in New York City a boy with five cents could ride to farms woods in less time than it took me to walk it.)
(Doesn’t seem possible, Boss.) (I know. It’s taken a fast car and a professional driver to do what I used to do on bare feet—yet this isn’t real farm country; these are open-air food factories with foremen and time clocks and shop stewards and payroll deductions and house-organ magazines and you name it. A dug well and a tin dipper would cause a strike—and they’d be justified; those open wells and tin dippers spread diseased Just the same, the tin-dipper era was a good time in this country…and this one isn’t. Where do we go from here?)
The inner voice failed to answer. Joan waited. (Eunice?)
(Boss, I don’t know!)
(Sorry, just sounding off. Eunice, all my life I did the best I knew how with what I had. I didn’t waste—shucks, even that white-elephant house keeps a lot of people off Welfare. But every year things got worse. I used to get sour consolation from knowing that I wasn’t going to be around when things fell to pieces. Now it looks like I will be. That’s why I say: ‘Where do we go from here?” I don’t know the answer, either.)
(Boss?)
(Yes, dearest?)
(I could see it, too. Moving from an Iowa farm to a big city made me see it. And I did have plans, sort of. I knew you were going to die, I couldn’t help but know, and I figured that Joe would get tired of me someday—no kids and no prospect of any, and me someday no longer with a fine job that took care of everything Joe needed. I underrated Joe; nevertheless I never forgot that he could hand me a pink slip anytime. So I had plans, and saved my money. The Moon.)
(The Moon! Hey, that’s a fine idea! Take one of Pan Am’s package tours—deluxe with private courier and all the trimmings. Do it before we bulge so big we can’t climb through a hatch. What do you say, little imp?)
(If you want to.)
(You don’t sound enthusiastic.) (I’m not against it, Boss. But I wasn’t saving money for a tourist trip. I meant to put my name on the list-and take the selection exams…and be able to pay the difference, since I didn’t have one of the subsidized skills. Out-migrate. Permanently.)
(I’ll be durned! You had this in mind—and never said a word?) (Why talk about if and when? I didn’t plan to do it as long as you or Joe needed me. But I did have reason to be serious. I told you I was licensed for three kids.)
(Yes, surely. I’ve known it since your first security check.) (Well, three is a high quota, Boss—more than half a child over replacement. A woman can be proud of a three-baby license. But I wanted more.)
(So? You can, now. Fines are no problem, even though they’ve upped them again and made them progressive. Eunice, if you want babies, this one is just a starter.)
(Dear Boss. Let’s see how we do with this one first. I knew I could not afford fines . . . but Luna has no restrictions against babies. They want babies, I think we’re there.)
Finchley turned in at a gate—Agroproducts, Inc., Joan noticed—a competitor. He parked so as not to lock the gate, then got out and went to the guard post. He had parked at such an angle that Joan could not see what was going on, the armor between her and the control compartment cut off her view.
Finchley returned, the car rolled through the gate. “Miss Smith, I was told to hold it under twenty miles per hour, so no safety belts is okay now.”
“Thank you, Finchley. How much was the bribe?”
“Oh, nothing to mutter, Miss.”
“So? I expect to see it on O’Neil’s Friday Report. If it is not there, I will have to ask you again.”