Late the following morning, in accordance with her pre-maternity
schedule, Lynne paid her daily visit to Dr. Smetana’s office. It
adjoined the gray-walled infirmary in the southeast corner of the
low, sprawling complex of semi-cylindrical buildings that was Nampura
Depot--literally the brain-center of Mars. The doctor was a stocky,
square-jawed man with unexpectedly light-blue eyes and a deceptive
appearance of ill-health, thanks to the refusal of his skin to acquire
the usual Martian sunburn. He put her through the usual run of tests
and shook his head.
“I’ll be _zwirched_,” he said, “if I can figure out how you manage
it, Lynne. According to everything we’ve learned about women on this
ghastly, wonderful planet you should have lost your child four months
ago. Yet everything still looks one hundred percent.”
“If I’m such a freak, what about Rana Willis?” said Lynne, who was
beginning to tire of the “miracle” aspects of her pregnancy.
“We expect miracles to happen once in a long while,” Dr. Smetana told
her, “but not two in a row.”
“Or maybe it’s not such a miracle after all,” Lynne suggested. “I’m
merely following Rana’s technique--with a wrinkle or two of my own
thrown in. If it works for two of us--”
“Remember, you’re both Class-C telepaths,” said the physician. “I’d
hate to recommend this yoga-and-TP technique to anyone less gifted.
And, right now, there are only fifty-three Class-C telepaths, female
gender, on Mars. So....” He lifted one thick, dark eyebrow.
Leaving the doctor, on her way to the dining hall for lunch, Lynne
ran into an old acquaintance--dark-skinned Joanna Wheatley, who had
shared a space-ship cabin with her on her trip out from Earth. The
young animal husbandry expert had, quite by accident, put Lynne on the
track of the E-power source that was already doing so much to increase
the density of the Martian atmosphere, and make successful cultivation
possible on the bleak desert wastes.
Joanna, a buoyantly healthy, good-natured girl who usually wore her
exuberant emotions close to the ebony surface of her skin, seemed to
Lynne strangely subdued. Looking at her in disbelief, Lynne said,
“_Crehut_, Joanna, you can’t be ill. Not you.”
“I’m not,” was the reply. “At least, I don’t think I am. But my chief
at Woomera Station thought your Dr. Smetana had better look me over.”
Then, eying Lynne’s figure, “You look wonderful. Lynne, I’d give
anything to trade places with you. Every woman on Mars would.”
That, Lynne decided, was probably untrue. She interrupted with,
“Woomera Station? I thought you were running the beef garden at
Patagonia since old E gave us enough moisture for pampas.”
“I am,” said the girl with a flash of pride. “But Patagonia is still
under Woomera control. Lynne, what you did to harness E-power was the
most marvelous thing. And now, this!”
“_This_ is one prolonged headache,” said Lynne, looking down at
herself ruefully. “One of these days, when it’s over, I’m coming down
to pay you and your prize shorthorns a visit.”
“That would be wonderful,” Joanna said, her eyes glowing. Then her gaze
fell away, her manner became diffident. “But not too soon,” she said in
an abnormally small voice. “Things are a bit messed up right now. I’d
say they were downright _swackish_.” Another pause, then, “I’ll
let you know when we have everything _purt_. I do want you down
there.”
“I’ll be there--whenever you’re ready,” said Lynne. “Don’t let old
Smetana intimidate you, Joanna. He has a heart of lichen-jelly.”
She gave Joanna’s smooth-fleshed, muscular forearm a friendly squeeze.
Then she went on out and crossed the main patio to the dining hall,
where she joined her twin brother, Revere and his wife, Lao Mei, at one
of the smaller tables. As always, when confronted with Revere, Lynne
wondered why she hadn’t been born a man. To her, the Fenlay face looked
far better in masculine gender. Fortunately, she thought, her husband
did not agree.
Lao Mei, small, exquisitely feminine and endowed not only with quiet
charm but with that combination of fine human ingredients customarily
lumped under the general heading of “character,” was recently back from
Earth, where she had born Revere induced twins. She said, “How is it,
Lynne. Is everything still _purt?_”
Lynne nodded and turned her attention to her soup. “Couldn’t be
_purter_,” she replied, thinking that Lao Mei, with her hard core
of integrity had been a wonderful mate for Revere, who was brilliant,
telepathically gifted, but given to occasional lapses of weakness.
_You can say that again._ Revere’s thought came through to her
clearly across the table. _Everything really_ zwirchy?
_Everything’s fine._ It was not really good manners at Nampura
Depot for two Class-C telepaths, capable of receiving, selecting and
projecting thoughts to indulge in silent dialogue in the presence of a
mere Class-A like Lao Mei. But since it was all in the family....
Lynne went on silently to Revere, who, with non-TP Tony Willis
virtually ran Martian communications while Rolf was away on Earth,
_I’ve got to take an exercise spell after lunch or I’d tend to it
myself. But I wish you’d check Doc Smetana on Joanna Wheatley of
Patagonia Station this pip emma and give me the gen on her._
_Why, something up?_ Revere inquired with a thought-probe.
Lynne told him of her meeting in the doctor’s office, and the girl’s
strange behavior. Then, aloud, she said, “If something _is_ wrong
down there, it might be a good idea to find it out now. You know how
touchy Husbandry has been about our mucking into their _ferkab_
affairs--ever since we had them shut off their atomic transmuter
while we were getting Old E in a harness. It’s probably nothing. But
it didn’t _feel_ like nothing. Joanna was keeping her thoughts
rigidly masked while I talked to her.”
“If you two _marlets_ do any more silent talking while I’m at
this table,” said Lao Mei sternly, “I’m going to dump your food right
over your heads. It’s like being stranded in the middle of a deaf-mute
convention and not knowing sign language.”
“Sorry,” said Lynne.
Revere took his wife’s hand and squeezed it. Then, telepathically, to
Lynne he said: _Will do, female. Go do your exercises and let Brother
Revere ride again._
Lao Mei, looking at them closely, made a move toward a particularly
drippy canalberry salad with leeks, and thereafter the table talk was
just that. When Lynne left them to go to her room, her sister-in-law
said with a sigh, “I’m going to turn my old brain in for a new model-a
TP Class-D one.”
“If you do,” said Revere Fenlay, “you’ll be the only one in all the
worlds. So who will you have to talk to?”
“It’s not _whom_ I’ll have to talk to,” said Lao Mei demurely.
“It’s the _whoms_ I’ll be able to shut out.”