Through the door, I watched while Lutha took Leely into the room she had chosen and Trompe retreated to the storeroom where he’d made up a bed for himself. By opening my door a little wider, I could see into the room where Leelson was. He had spread his own bed on the bench under the window and had opened the shutters a crack, to let in the evening air. I drew in a deep breath and held it, forbidding myself to go in and close the shutters once more. Not while he was awake. He lay for a long time, eyes open, but at last he wearied, closed the shutters himself, and settled to sleep.
My own sleeping place was near the door, near the outlanders, where, without moving, I could see through the crack. Something was going to happen, because of them or to them, so I had brought my pad and blankets from below. We veiled women have few enough amusements, few enough stories to tell one another. We need to see and hear everything!
The sound of someone moving about woke me in the mid hours of the night. I saw Lutha come out into the little hallway, where she stood looking in on Leelson. Though I could see only his hand, his sleeve, it was enough to tell me he had, as usual, slept only a little before rising to busy himself with Bernesohn’s equipment. Often he spent the night so, muttering to himself and making notes. His back was toward Lutha, and she spent a long time staring at him, fury and longing battling on her face. Later she told me her feelings for him were like surf, love and lust pounding at her, only to recede, leaving pools of chilly, clear anger behind.
I grew weary watching her silent battle, and I had shut my eyes when she spoke at last:
“I can’t understand why you didn’t tell someone!”
The legs of the chair scraped on the floor. It was Bernesohn’s chair, the only chair I had ever seen except in Simidi-ala. We do not use chairs in the hives.
He growled, “You can come in, Lutha.”
She bit her lip as she went into the room to join him. Though I could not see them, I could hear them clearly.
He said, “What I can’t understand is your bringing the child out here.”
She blurted, “I wasn’t given a choice, Leelson!”
“I’m sure the Procurator didn’t force you.”
“He gave me to understand my doing what he asked might have something to do with human survival,” she snarled. “Which would move most of us, even those of us who aren’t Fastigats or Firsters.” She came back into the doorway, half in, half out of the room.
He spoke from behind her. “Your coming, I understand. I said I couldn’t understand your bringing the child.”
Her expression was disbelieving. “Listen to yourself. Damn it, Leely is Famber lineage—”
“No,” said Leelson firmly. “He is not Famber lineage. Not according to Fastigat custom.”
“Your own people are supporting him!”
“Fastigat responsibility is one thing. Famber lineage is another. Each has its own parameters.”
“You only say that because he’s not … ”
“Normal? Of course. Fastigat lineage, under Fastigat law, requires a basic condition of humanity. That’s where we separate from the Firsters. They would accept Leely, we won’t. Humanity, under Fastigat law, has a specific definition.”
She glared at him. “You’re saying your own son is not human!”
“Lutha—”
“Leelson!”
They fell silent simultaneously. I thought at first they were concerned about being overheard, but perhaps it was only to get control of themselves that they stopped when they did.
“My belief concerning the child is at least as sensible as yours,” he said at last, rather sadly. “You’re trying to hope him into superhuman status, into some new avatar of humanity. We Fastigats, on the other hand, say simply he does not meet our definition.”
“You don’t think he’s human!” she charged again.
“No.”
“Even though you and I are—”
“Lutha, we’ve said this—”
“I don’t care … ”
He sighed deeply, wearily. He said:
“Genetic programming sometimes goes awry and produces a nonreplica. At the cellular level, such mistakes are eradicated. We remove warts; we cure cancers. At a slightly higher level, we remove extra limbs resulting from incomplete twinning. We do all this without great emotional hurricanes. But when the mistake is at a neurocortical level, when the body looks human, or even rather human, emotions get mixed in—”