Tinker took her hand. “Come on,” he said. They elbowed their way to the head of the complacent queue and ordered staples from the dispenser. She carried foodstuffs and he shouldered her locker. His walk upspiral had never been so enjoyable before.
Mu Ren smiled approvingly at Tinker’s quarters.
“I only touched on electronics in my studies,” she said. “But I recognize components from city cybers and field mecks. You are very good with your hands.”
Her body’s attraction crowded into his consciousness making rational thought difficult. Nervously, he pointed to some of the larger machines—trying to familiarize her with her new surroundings. She noticed his impatience and turned to him.
“I am going to enjoy living with a man who is good with his hands,” she said. Taking his wrists she moved his trembling fingers over her tunic. Her soft erogenous zones radiated warmly. His autonomic synapses struggled with the increasing excitement. Passion flared somewhat erratically, and then, abruptly, faded. While he stood there, the heat in his loins melted away—leaving fatigue.
She continued to lean against him for a moment. Hugging him briefly, she walked to her locker and began to unpack. He stood in the middle of the room—puzzled. She placed her ESbook on the cot and unrolled her bedding on the floor. Seeing his disappointment, she jumped up and ran back to him… nuzzling warmly.
“You have just recently polarized,” she consoled. “Your meld reflexes need time to synchronize. We will work at it, and it will improve.”
She settled down—adapting quickly to Tinker’s peculiar quarters. Talking to the class thirteen dispenser. Avoiding the big black condenser. Improving their meld.
The Embryoteck probed Mu Ren’s tender forearm and removed her anti-ovulation sponge. Ignoring her winces he prepared the Hi Vol gun with estrogens.
“Can’t have conflicting hormones, now—can we? We’ll have your endometrium all ready for little Tinker Junior in about four weeks. Come back then and we’ll do the implant.”
“Could I see him now?” she asked softly.
The teck brushed her callously towards the door. “No. Nothing to see now except clone soup in foaming nutrients. Be patient. In six months he will be kicking and squirming around in there. You will have a wonderful time.”
Flushed with the follicular phase effect she returned to Tinker. But she did not have a wonderful time. Four weeks after implantation she passed a large clot. Depressed, she noticed that the fullness in her belly was gone. Her breasts no longer tingled. Fearful that she would not be authorized as an incubator again, she searched her footlocker for her Ov earring. Her meld activities became warmer—more purposeful. Hopefully, she watched the earring. Two weeks later she was rewarded with an ovulation. Her belly began to grow again—a little behind schedule, but it grew. Tinker, preoccupied by strange tightbeam signals from the planet’s surface, failed to notice anything unusual. At forty-two weeks post-implantation, the Embryo Clinic summoned her for a check-up. She refused.
“One-half MRBL,” demanded a voice from the doorway.
Mu Ren glanced up fearfully and saw two heavy reliable neuters wearing golden emblems of The Ram—Aries—Security Squad. Her face whitened. She set down her stitching and glanced past them into the crawlway. Three more neuters leaned on their quarterstaffs down by the spiral.
“Reading in the Tee zone,” said the neuter holding a scanner. “This must be Tinker’s quarters.” The two entered and glanced around. The jumble of electronic gear meant little to them. They stayed by the door.
After several long moments of strained silence the SS neuter holding the scanner appeared worried. Mu Ren’s pendulous belly and tremulous movements upset his instrument.
“Relax, please,” he said. “This is just a routine check on communicators. Nothing for you to be concerned about.”
She sighed. Her uterus tightened a little so she stretched out on the cot covering her feet with her wrap. It was a relief to know they weren’t from Embryo—after the fetus.
Tinker arrived carrying staple foodstuffs. Smiling like a Good Citizen, he unloaded onto the pantry shelf and began to answer their questions. Yes, he had noticed unusual radio signals. No, he hadn’t been using a tightbeam transmitter. No, he had no idea where the signals came from. Yes, he’d keep them informed. They left—satisfied.
Mu Ren looked at him, questioning.
He ignored her unspoken question while he fastened a bulky hasp to the door. Stepping to the workbench he pressed one earphone to his right ear.
“Transmissions from the surface—from Outside,” he said, wiggling dials and changing the position of a string on his wall map. “They are not from the usual Huntercraft or Agromecks. I didn’t know what to make of them, but tonite’s SS visit has convinced me of one thing. They are unauthorized transmissions.”
Unauthorized. The term bleached her face again. She moaned weakly and sat down.
“Now, now, there is no danger. Probably just a renegade meck going through an identity crisis with his WIC/RAC. The what-if-circuit and random-association-circuit can be very labile. I’ve heard of class sixes running amok until their power cells are depleted. But nothing is usually lost except a few crops,” he soothed.
His words had little effect on the gravid female. Tears streaked her cheeks.
“Our baby isn’t authorized,” she blurted.
He didn’t hear. Both earphones were on. He swung the biconical antenna around to catch the messages as they filtered down through the walls and organs of the shaft city.
“We’re lucky we have this high cubicle,” he mumbled. “Any deeper in the earth and I wouldn’t be getting any of this.”
A Braxton-Hicks contracture tightened Mu Ren’s fundus. She sat on the cot. Tinker leaned into his earphones listening to feeble sounds—a sing-songy chant.
Verses were separated by the beat of a pounding surf, guitars and the ching, ching, ching of tambourines.
Tinker knew of the Followers of Olga—a cultish fraternal organization discouraged by the Big ES. But he could not understand them broadcasting. If they did violate Big ES law and venture into gardens, the broadcasts would only betray their crime and attract hunters. Security Squads were already investigating. The advice—“Do not trip and fall’—was very appropriate if hunters were tracking. But what was a magic ball? Puzzled, he removed his earphones.
When he found Mu Ren sobbing herself to sleep, he patted her plump buttock and said: “It’s just the partum blues, Mu. Don’t let them get you down.”
“Our baby isn’t authorized,” she wailed.
“Now, now, of course it is,” he said. “I have the papers right here.”
“But we need a class five,” she said.
He put a hand on the belly, feeling a kick. Slowly he calculated the time lapse since implantation.
“A hybrid?” he asked softly.
She nodded through reddened eyes.
He grinned—“A hybrid.” Sitting up in amazement, it took several more seconds for him to realize what she was getting at.