“Your baby?”
“Greg’s, I think. Oh, mine too,, but in fact was in Novy Leningrad. Probably Greg’s, unless Milla got outside help. But didn’t, she’s a home girl. And a wonderful cook.”
Lift rang; took care of it, folded down table, opened chairs, paid bill and sent lift up. “Throw it to pigs?”
“I’m coming! Mind if I don’t do my face?”
“Come in skin for all of me.”
“For two dimes I would, you much-married man.” She came out quickly, blond again and hair slicked back and damp. Had not put on black outfit; again in dress I bought. Red suited her. She sat down, lifted covers off food. “Oh, boy! Mannie, would your family marry me? You’re a dinkum provider.”
“I’ll ask. Must be unanimous.”
“Don’t crowd yourself.” She picked up sticks, got busy. About a thousand calories later she said, “I told you I was a Free Woman. I wasn’t, always.”
I waited. Women talk when they want to. Or don’t.
“When I was fifteen I married two brothers, twins twice my age and I was terribly happy.”
She fiddled with what was on plate, then seemed to change subject. “Mannie, that was just static about wanting to marry your family. You’re safe from me. If I ever marry again–unlikely but I’m not opposed to it–it would be just one man, a tight little marriage, earthworm style. Oh, I don’t mean I would keep him dogged down. I don’t think it matters where a man eats lunch as long as he comes home for dinner. I would try to make him happy.”
“Twins didn’t get along?”
“Oh, not that at all. I got pregnant and we were all delighted . . . and I had it, and it was a monster and had to be eliminated. They were good to me about it. But I can read print. I announced a divorce, had myself sterilized, moved from Novylen to Hong Kong, and started over as a Free Woman.”
“Wasn’t that drastic? Male parent oftener than female; men are exposed more.”
“Not in my case. We had it calculated by the best mathematical geneticist in Novy Leningrad–one of the best in Sovunion before she got shipped. I know what happened to me. I was a volunteeer colonist–I mean my mother was for I was only five. My father was transported and Mother chose to go with him and take me along. There was a solar storm warning but the pilot thought he could make it–or didn’t care; he was a Cyborg. He did make it but we got hit on the ground–and, Mannie, that’s one thing that pushed me into politics, that ship sat four hours before they let us disembark. Authority red tape, quarantine perhaps; I was too young to know. But I wasn’t too young later to figure out that I had birthed a monster because the Authority doesn’t care what happens to us outcasts.”
“Can’t start argument; they don’t care. But, Wyoh, still sounds hasty. If you caught damage from radiation–well, no geneticist but know something about radiation. So you had a damaged egg. Does not mean egg next to it was hurt–statistically unlikely.”
“Oh, I know that.”
“Mmm– What sterilization? Radical? Or contraceptive?”
“Contraceptive. My tubes could be opened. But, Mannie, a woman who has had one monster doesn’t risk it again.” She touched my prosthetic. “You have that. Doesn’t it make you eight times as careful not to risk this one?” She touched my meat arm. “That’s the way I feel. You have that to contend with; I have this–and I would never told you if you hadn’t been hurt, too.”
I didn’t say left arm more versatile than right–she was correct; don’t want to trade in right arm. Need it to pat girls if naught else. “Still think you could have healthy babies.”
“Oh, I can! I’ve had eight.”
“Huh?”
“I’m a professional host-mother, Mannie.”
I opened mouth, closed it. Idea wasn’t strange. I read Earthside papers. But doubt if any surgeon in Luna City in 2075 ever performed such transplant. In cows, yes–but L-City females unlikely at any price to have babies for other women; even homely ones could get husband or six. (Correction: Are no homely women. Some more beautiful than others.)