"Oh, dear."
"I guessed that too. Early androgen treatments."
She nods hesitantly. "Yes. We needed the muscle power for some jobs. A few. Kays are quite strong anyway. Whew!" She suddenly stretches her back, wriggles as if she'd been cramped. "Oh, I'm glad you know. It's been such a strain. We couldn't even sing."
"Why not?"
"Myda was sure we'd make mistakes, all the words we'd have to change. We sing a lot." She softly hums a bar or two.
"What kinds of songs do you sing?"
"Oh, every kind. Adventure songs, work songs, mothering songs, roaming songs, mood songs, trouble songs, joke songs-everything."
"What about love songs?" he ventures. "Do you still have, well, love?"
"Of course, how could people not love?" But she looks at him doubtfully. "The love stories I've heard from your time are so, I don't know, so weird. Grim and pluggy. It doesn't seem like love… Oh, yes, we have famous love songs. Some of them are partly sad too. Like Tamil and Alcmene O, they're fated together. Connies are fated too, a little." She grins bashfully. "We love to be with Ingrid Anders. It's more one sided. I hope there'll be an Ingrid on my next hitch…; She's so exciting, she's like a little diamond."
Implications are exploding all about him, sparkling with questions. But Lorimer wants to complete the' darker pattern beyond.
"Eleven thousand genotypes, two million. people: that averages two hundred of each of you alive now." She nods. "I suppose it varies? There's more of some?"
"Yes, some types aren't as viable. But we haven't lost any since early days. They tried to preserve all the genes they could. We have people from all the major races and a lot of small strains. Like me, I'm the Carib Blend. Of course we'll never know what was', lost. But eleven thousand is a lot, really. We all try to know every one, it's a life bobby."
A chill penetrates his ataraxia. Eleven thousand, j period. That is the true population of Earth now. He thinks of two hundred tall olive skinned women named after plants, excited by two hundred little bright Ingrids; two hundred talkative Judys, two hundred self possessed Lady Blues, two hundred Margos and Mydas and the rest. He shivers. The heirs, the happy pallbearers of the human race.
"So evolution ends," he says somberly.
"No, why? It's just slowed down. We do everything much slower than you did, I think. We like to experience things fully. We have time." She stretches again, smiling. "There's all the time."
"But you have no new genotypes. It is the end."
"Oh but there are, now. Last century they worked j out the way to make haploid nuclei combine. We can make a stripped egg cell function like pollen," she says, proudly. "I mean sperm. It's tricky, some don't come out too well. But now we're finding both Xs viable we have over a hundred new types started. Of course. it's hard for them, with no sisters. The donors try to help." Over a hundred, he thinks. Well. Maybe… But "both Xs viable." What does that mean? She must be referring to the epidemic. He had figured it primarily affected the men. His mind goes happily to work on. The new puzzle, ignoring a sound from somewhere that is trying to pierce his calm.
"It was a gene or genes on the X chromosome that was injured," he guessed aloud. "Not the Y. And the lethal trait had to be recessive, right? Thus there would have been no births at all for a time, until some men recovered or were isolated long enough to manufacture undamaged X-bearing gametes. But women carry their lifetime supply of ova, they could never regenerate reproductively. When they mated with the recovered males only female babies would be produced, since the female carries two Xs and the mother's defective gene would be compensated by a normal X from _ the father. But the male is XY, he receives only the mother's defective X. Thus the lethal defect would be expressed, the male fetus would be finished… A planet of girls and dying men. The few odd viables died off."
"You truly do understand," she says admiringly.
The sound is becoming urgent; he refuses to hear it, there is significance here.
"So we'll be perfectly all right on Earth. No problem. In theory we can marry again and have families, daughters anyway."
"Yes," she says. "In theory."
The sound suddenly broaches his defenses, becomes the loud voice of Bud Geirr raised in song. He sounds plain drunk now. It seems to be coming from the main garden pod, the one they use to grow vegetables, not sanitation. Lorimer feels the dread alive again, rising closer. Dave ought to keep an eye on him. But Dave seems to have vanished too; he recalls seeing him go toward Control with Lady Blue.
"OH, THE SUN SHINES BRIGHT ON PRET-TY RED WI-I-ING," carols Bud.
Something should be done, Lorimer decides painfully. He stirs; it is an effort.
"Don't worry," Connie says. "Andy's with them."
"You don't know, you don't know what you've started." He pushes off toward the garden hatchway.
"AS SHE LAY SLE-EEPING, A COWBOY CREE-E-EEPING" General laughter from the hatchway. Lorimer coasts through into the green daz zle. Beyond the radial fence of snap-beans he sees Bud sailing in an exaggerated crouch after Judy Paris. Ђndy hangs by the iguana cages, laughing.
Bud catches one of Judy's ankles and stops them both with a flourish, making her yellow pajamas swirl. o She giggles at him upsidedown, making no effort to free herself.
"I don't like this," Lorimer whispers.
"Please don't interfere." Connie has hold of his arm, anchoring them both to the tool rack. Lorimer's alarm seems to have ebbed; he will watch, let serenity return. The others have not noticed them. "Oh, there once was an Indian maid." Bud sings more restrainedly, "Who never was a-fraid, that some buckaroo would slip it up her, ahem, ahem," he coughs ''a ostentatiously, laughing. "Hey, Andy, I hear them calling you."
"What?" says Judy, "I don't hear anything."
"They're calling you, lad. Out there."
"Who?" asks Andy, listening.
"They are, for Crissake." He lets go of Judy and kicks over to Andy. "Listen, you're a great kid. Can't you see me and Judy have some business to discuss private?" He turns Andy gently around and pushes – him at the bean-stakes. "It's New Year's Eve, dummy."
Andy floats passively away through the fence of:' vines, raising a hand at Lorimer and Connie. Bud is back with Judy.
"Happy New Year, kitten," he smiles.
"Happy New Year. Did you do special things on New Year?" she asks curiously.
"What we did on New Year's." He chuckles, taking her shoulders in his hands. "On New Year's Eve, yes we did. Why don't I show you some of our primitive Earth customs, h'mm?"
She nods, wide eyed.
"Well, first we wish each other well, like this." He draws her to him and lightly kisses her cheek. "Keerist, what a dumb bitch," he says in a totally diff voice. "You can tell you've been out too long when the geeks start looking good. Knockers, ahhh-" His hand plays with her blouse. The man is unaware, Lorimer realizes. He doesn't know he's drugged, he's speaking his thoughts. I must have done that. Oh, god… He takes shelter behind his crystal lens, an observer in the protective light of eternity.
"And then we smooch a little." The friendly voice is back. Bud holds the girl closer, caressing her back. "Fat ass." He puts his mouth on hers; she doesn't resist. Lorimer watches Bud's arms tighten, his hands working on her buttocks, going under her clothes. Safe in the lens his own sex stirs. Judy's arms are waving aimlessly.