“Of course, Finchley. We don’t rat on other people’s employees.”
“Don’t think he believed me but he didn’t push it. He invited you both—assumed there was two and I didn’t correct it—to stop for a drink or coffee on the way out. I let him think you might, or might not.”
“Thank you, Finchley.”
They continued through the farm, came to another high gate; Fred got out and pressed a button, spoke to the security office. The gate rolled back, closed after them. Shortly the car stopped; Finchley unloaded the passenger compartment, offered his hand to Joan Eunice.
She looked around. “Oh, this is lovely! I didn’t know there were such places left.”
The spot was beautiful in a simple fashion. A little stream, clear and apparently unpolluted, meandered between low tanks. On and near its banks were several sorts of trees and bushes, but they were not dense and there was a carpet of grass filling the open spaces. From its lawnlike texture it had apparently been grazed. The sky was blue and scattered fair-weather cumulus and the sunshine was golden warm without being too hot. (Eunice, isn’t it grand?) (Uh huh. ‘Minds me of Iowa before the summer turns hot.)
Joan Eunice stripped off her sandals, tossed them into the car on top of her cloak. She wiggled her toes. “Oh, delicious! I haven’t felt grass under my bare feet for more than twenty years. Finchley, Shorty, Fred—all of you! If you’ve got the sense God promised a doorknob, you’ll take off your shoes and socks and give your feet a treat.”
Shotguns looked impassive; Finchley looked thoughtful. Then he grinned. “Miss Smith, you don’t have to tell me twice!” He reached down and unclicked his boots. Joan Eunice smiled, turned away, and wandered down toward the stream, judging that Shorty would be less shy about it if she did not stare.
(Eunice, is Iowa this beautiful? Still?) (Parts of it, hon. But it’s filling up fast. Take where we lived, between Des Moines and Grinnell. Nothing but farms when I was a baby. But by the time I left home we had more commuter neighbors than farm neighbors. They were beginning to build enclaves, too.) (Dreadful. Eunice, this country is breeding itself to death.) (For a freshly knocked-up broad you have an odd attitude toward reproduction, twin. See that grassy spot where the stream turns?) (Yes, Why?) (It takes me back . . . it looks like a stream bank in Iowa where I surrendered my alleged innocence.) (Well! Nice place for it. Did you struggle?) (Twin, are you pulling my leg? I cooperated.) (Hurt?) (Not enough to slow me down. No reason for it to. Boss darling, I know how it was in your day. But there is no longer any issue over tissue. Girls with smart mothers have it removed surgically when they reach menarche. And some just lose it gradually and never know where it went. But the girl who yells bloody murder and bleeds like a stuck pig is rare bird today.) (Infant, I must again set you straight. Things haven’t changed much. Except that people are more open about it now. Do you suppose that water is warm enough to swim in?)
(Warm enough, Boss. But how do we know it’s clean? No telling what’s upstream.)
(Eunice, you’re a sissy. If you don’t bet, you can’t win.)
(That was true yesterday . . . but today we’re an expectant mother. A babbling brook can be loaded with nineteen sorts of horribles.)
“Uh. . . oh, hell! If it’s polluted, it’d be posted.) (Back here where you can’t reach it without being passed through two electric gates? Ask Finchley; he may know.) (And if he says it’s polluted?) (Then we go swimming anyhow. Boss, as you pointed out, if you don’t bet, you can’t win.) (Mmmm . . . if he knows it’s polluted, I’m chicken. As you pointed out, beloved, we now have responsibilities. Let’s go eat, I’m hungry.) (You’re hungry? I was beginning to think you had given up the habit.) (So let’s eat while we can. How soon does morning sickness start?) (Who dat, Boss? The other time the only effect it had was to make me hungry morning, noon, and night. Let’s eat!)