* * * * *
“Gomorrah, my lady.”
Her bags were packed and setting just inside the door. She picked one
up and he took the other. She was wearing a white morning dress, and
her hair made him think more than ever of Martian maize, but her eyes
no longer reminded him of the ice lakes of Frigidia. The ice lakes of
Frigidia never melted....
She followed him down the spiral companionway to the open lock. He
heard her gasp when she looked out over the unexpected vista of fields
and farmhouses, of hills and woods and rivers. “But this can’t be
Gomorrah,” she said. “Where--where’s the spaceport?”
“On the other side of the mountains,” Cross said. “They will be coming
for us soon, and we’ll have to go back and go through all the red tape
ports are noted for. But first, I wanted you to see the monsters.”
She lowered her eyes to the fields surrounding the ship, her face pale.
Presently he heard her gasp again, and then he heard the whir of the
children’s wings and their gay morning laughter. “Why--why they aren’t
monsters at all,” she said. She gazed wide-eyed at the sight before
them.
“Their parents and their parents’ parents are,” Cross said. “At least
in the eyes of the Earth Council and the prostitution corporations.
But then, I suspect that even a bluebird would seem like a monster
to _tyrannosaurus rex_.... You see, the mutation required three
generations for completion--a possibility that the Earth Council failed
to take into consideration.”
“But why don’t they take it into consideration now? Why should such a
marvelous miracle as this be kept secret?”
“The corporation lobbyists are a powerful group--and you can imagine
what a development like this could do to their business. Not only that,
I suspect that they have an inherent fear of angels. But it’s only a
matter of time before the Earth Council will be forced to act, and in
the meantime, the ‘monsters’ will have an opportunity to develop a
society of their own.”
The first Gomorrite, a pretty, blue-eyed girl with cupid-wings, landed
lightly in the lock. “Welcome to Gomorrah,” she said.
The Lady Berenice reached out and took her hand. “Why--she’s adorable!”
“She is, my lady,” Cross said. “All of them are.”
“Stop calling me ‘my lady’!” Then: “Will--will my great-grandchildren
look like that?”
“_Our_ great-grandchildren will, my la--My--Berenice....”