Mordan forebore to answer this. He went on, making conversation. “The same applies to any technique which makes life easier at the expense of hardiness. Ever hear of a bottle-baby, Felix? No, you would not have-it’s an obsolete term. But it has to do with why the barbarians nearly died out after the Second Genetic War. They weren’t all killed, you know-there are always survivors, no matter how fierce the war. But they were mostly bottle-babies, and the infant-generation thinned out to almost nothing. Not enough bottles and not enough cows. Their mothers could not feed them.”
Hamilton raised a hand irritably. Mordan’s serene detachment-for such he assumed it to be-from the events at hand annoyed him.
“The deuce with that stuff. Got another cigaret?”
“You have one in your hand,” Mordan pointed out.
“Eh? So I have!” Quite unconsciously he snuffed it out, and took another one from his own pouch. Mordan smiled and said nothing.
“What time is it?”
“Fifteen-forty.”
“Is that all? It must be later.”
“Wouldn’t you be less jumpy if you were inside?”
“Phyllis won’t let me. You know how she is, Claude-a whim of steel.” He smiled, but there was no gayety in it.
“You are both rather dynamic and positive.”
“Oh, we get along. She lets me have my own way, and later I find out I’ve done just what she wanted me to do.”
Mordan had no difficulty in repressing his smile. He was beginning to wonder at the delay himself. He told himself that his interest was detached, impersonal, scientific. But he had to go on telling himself.
The door dilated; an attendant showed herself. “You may come in now,” she announced with brisk cheeriness.
Mordan was closer to the door; he started to go in first. Hamilton made a long arm, grabbed him by the shoulder. “Hey! What goes on here? Who’s the father in this deal, anyhow?” He pushed himself into the lead. “You wait your turn.”
She looked a little pale. “Hello, Felix.”
“Hello, Phil.” He bent over her. “You all right?”
“Of course I’m all right-this is what I’m for.” She looked at him. “And get that silly smirk off your face. After all, you didn’t invent fatherhood.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. But I must look a fright.”
“You look beautiful.”
A voice at his ear said, “Don’t you want to see your son?”
“Eh? Oh-sure!” He turned and looked. Mordan straightened up and stood out of the way. The attendant held the baby up, half inviting him to hold it, but he kept his arms down and looked it over gingerly. It seemed to have the usual number of arms and legs, he thought, but that bright orange color-well, he didn’t know. Maybe it was normal.
“Don’t you approve of him?” Phyllis asked sharply.
“Huh? Sure, sure. It’s a beautiful baby. He looks like you.”
“Babies,” said Phyllis, “don’t look like anyone, except other babies.”
“Why, Master Hamilton,” put in the attendant, “how you are sweating! Don’t you feel well?” Transferring the baby with casual efficiency to her left arm, she picked up a pad and wiped his forehead. “Take it easy. Seventy years in this one location and we’ve never lost a father.”
Hamilton started to tell her that the gag was ancient when the establishment was new, but he restrained himself. He felt a little inhibited, a rare thing for him. “We’ll take the child out for a while,” the attendant went on. “Don’t stay too long.”
Mordan excused himself cheerily and left.
“Felix,” she said thoughtfully, “I’ve been thinking about something.”
“So?”
“We’ve got to move.”
“Why? I thought you liked our place.”
“I do. But I want a place in the country.”
He looked suddenly apprehensive. “Now, darling, you know I’m not the bucolic type.”
“You don’t have to move if you don’t want to. But Theobald and I are going to. I want him to be able to get himself dirty and have a dog and things like that.”
“But why be so drastic? All development centers run to the air, sunshine, and the good ‘earth motif.’
“I don’t want him spending all his time in development centers. They’re necessary, but they’re no substitute for family life.”