“But why is that, Papa?”
“It’s our genetics, boy. All a Family Man has to do is one act, taking only a few moments if the mama is willing and a little longer if she is not.” Papa flushed. “So our hormones are what might be called simple-minded. They equip us to do that thing, and that’s all. Used to be men attached a lot of importance to that thing, though it’s something every mouse can do just as well. Women, though, they have to bear, and birth, and suckle, and—except among the monied folk—they also have to work alongside the Family Man in the business, tending and rearing. They have to work and plan, morn till night. So, their hormones are more complex, as they have to be.”
“And men get in more trouble, too.” Mouche was quoting his teacher.
“Well, yes, sometimes, in some men, our fine frenzy begets a lustful or murderous violence, and we tend to become contentious over little or nothing. But, as the Hags teach, ‘If you would have breathing space, stay out of one another’s face,’ which is one reason we wear veils, not to threaten one another, so we may stay out of trouble and under control.”
“I thought it was so the women couldn’t see us.”
“The reason they mustn’t see us, Mouche, is that we must not tempt females, or stir their insatiable lusts, for that leads to disorder and mis-mothering. We are the weaker sex, my boy. It is why we must bid high for wives to take us, to show we have learned discipline and self-control.”
“Darn ol’ hormones,” sulked Mouche. “Girls get all the luck.”
“Well, hormones aren’t the only reason,” Papa comforted him. “Women are also valuable because they’re fewer than men. Only one girl is born alive for every two boys, as we know to our sorrow.”
“Then not every man may have a wife, may he, Papa?” Mouche knew this was so, but at this juncture, he thought it wise to have the information verified. “Even if he has a dowry?”
“Only about half, my boy. The oldest sons, usually. The younger ones must keep hand-maids.” Which was an old joke among men, one Mouche already understood. Papa wiped his face with the tail of his veil and went on, “Once, long ago, I heard a story teller’s tale about the world from which our people originally came, that was Old Earth, where men were fewer than women … “
“That’s impossible.”
“The storyteller said it was because many males died young, in wars and gang fights and in dangerous explorations. Anyhow, in his tale, men were worth much more than women. Women sought men as chickens seek grain, gathering around them. A man could father children on several women, if he liked, without even dowering for them.”
“Fairy stories,” said Mouche. “That’s what that is. Who would want a woman you didn’t dower for?” Everyone knew what such women would be like. Old or ugly or both. And probably infertile. And sickly. And certainly stupid, if they didn’t even bother to get a good dowry first. Or even maybe invisible. “Are there more invisible men than there are women?” he asked, the words slipping out before he thought.
Papa stopped in his tracks, and his hand went back to slap, though it did not descend on Mouche’s evil mouth. “Which only a fool would say,” Papa grated instead, thrusting his head forward in warning. “You’re too old to tell stories of invisible people or see such fairies and bug-a-boos as babies do, Mouche. You could be blue-bodied for it.” Mouche ducked his head and flushed, not having to ask what blue-bodying was. When a supernume was incorrigible and his father or master or boss or commander could do nothing with him, he was dyed blue all over and cast naked into the streets for the dogs to bite and the flies to crawl upon, and no man might feed him or help him or employ him thereafter. People who died foolishly were said to be “independent as a blue body.”
Papa hadn’t finished with him. “Such talk could bring the Questioner down on us! Do you want Newholme to end up like Roquamb III? Do you?”