In Luna City Mrs. Salomon, as with everywoman, reached the end of her nine lunar months. Her lovely navel had long since extruded, her belly was an arching dome of life pushing up the sheet. She waited in the Community Hospital eight levels down. The nurse seated near her was pregnant also but not nearly so far along.
“Winnie?”
“Yes, dear?”
“If it’s a boy it must be Jacob Eunice. . . a girl must be Eunice Jacob. Promise me.”
“I did promise, dear; I wrote it down as you asked me to. And I promised to take care of your baby—and that is all done, too, already recorded—I take care of yours, you take care of mine. Only we won’t need to, dear; both of us are going to be all right—we’ll raise them together.”
“Promise me, it’s important.” (Johann, don’t name that baby ‘Jake.’ Call him ‘Johann—’Johann Eunice.’) (Jake, I will not load down a boy with, ‘Johann’—it forced me to learn to fight too young) (Jock, don’t argue with Boss. She’s always right, you know that.) (Then call him ‘John!’) (His name is ‘Jacob,’ Jake—I won’t have it any other way.) (Joan, you’re the most stubborn old bastard in the entire Solar System—and turning you into a woman didn’t change you. All right already!) (I love you, my husband.) (We both love you, Boss—and Jake is as proud about the names as am.)
“I do promise you, Joan. Cross my heart.”
“My sweet Winsome. We’ve come a long way together, you and I and Roberto.”
“Yes, we have, dear.”
“I’m ill. Am I not?”
“Joan, you’re not ill. A woman never feels good just before she has a baby—I know, I’ve seen hundreds of them. I told you that tube was just for glucose.”
“What tube? Winnie, come close and listen. This is important. My baby’s name must be…”
“—rejection syndrome, Doctor. Atypical but unmistakable.”
“Dr. Garcia, why do you say ‘atypical’?”
“Mmm. Sometimes, when she’s irrational, she speaks in three different voices and—well, two of them are dead. Split personality.”
“So? I’m not a psychiatrist, Dr. Garcia; ‘split personality’ means little to me. But I don’t see that it necessarily affects pregnancy. I’ve delivered some fine, healthy babies from women who were quite irrational.”
“Nor am I a psychiatrist, sir. Let it stand that she is irrational much of the time. . . and that I see this as part of the total clinical picture, which—in my opinion—gives a prognosis of transplant rejection.”
“Dr. Garcia, you know more about transplants than I do; I’ve never managed a transplant case in my life. But this patient seems in fair shape to me. Right here in this hospital I have seen women who appeared to be in much worse shape. . . who had their babies and were up and working in three days. With our low gravity they recover quickly. Did you think this patient was hurt on the trip up from Earth?”
“Oh, no! Those flotation, acceleration cells are wonderful. Mrs. Salomon rode in one, so did my wife. I monitored them; Joan took it even better than Winnie did. I envied them, as I found the ride in a standard chair pretty rough. No, I see no connection; rejection symptoms did not show until this week.” Garcia frowned. “She doesn’t know that her mind isn’t clear—she’s lucid off and on. But motor control is decaying. That strong young body sustains her metabolism—but truthfully, Doctor, I can’t guess how long.” He frowned again. “It could let go any moment—damn it, I wish I had proper support equipment!”
The older doctor shook his head. “This is a frontier, son. I’m not running down your specialty—but this is not the place for it. Here we set bones and take out appendixes and try to keep contagious diseases from racing through the colony. But when it comes time to die, we die—you, me, anybody—and get out of the way of the living. Now suppose we had all of Johns Hopkins here with Jefferson Medical thrown in—could you stop it? Reverse it? Possibility of spontaneous remission if you had your fancy support equipment?”
“No. The best we could do would be to extend the time.”