"They told us. The Oaklanders told us. And we won that, too – after a bitter argument that Fennimore had to settle." Reaching into the wheelbarrow he brought out a little leather pouch, from it he carefully took a carved pink new-born baby. "We won this too because Fennimore agreed that from a technical standpoint it's literally part of Connie Companion doll at this point."
Hooker stared a long, long time.
"She's married," Fran explained. "To Paul. They're not just going together. She's three months pregnant, Mr. Wynn said. He didn't tell us until after we won; he didn't want to, then, but they felt they had to. I think they were right; it wouldn't have done not to say."
Norm said, "And in addition there's actually an embryo outfit -"
"Yes," Fran said. "You have to open Connie up, of course, to see -"
"No," Jean Regan said. "Please, no."
Hooker said, "No, Mrs. Schein, don't." He backed away.
Fran said, "It shocked us of course at first, but -"
"You see," Norm put in, "it's logical; you have to follow the logic. Why, eventually Perky Pat -"
"No," Hooker said violently. He bent down, picked up a rock from the ash at his feet. "No," he said, and raised his arm. "You stop, you two. Don't say any more."
Now the Regans, too, had picked up rocks. No one spoke. Fran said, at last, "Norm, we've got to get out of here."
"You're right," Tod Morrison told them. His wife nodded in grim agreement.
"You two go back down to Oakland," Hooker told Norman and Fran Schein. "You don't live here any more. You're different than you were. You – changed."
"Yes," Sam Regan said slowly, half to himself. "I was right; there was something to fear." To Norm Schein he said, "How difficult a trip is it to Oakland?"
"We just went to Berkeley," Norm said. "To the Berkeley Fluke-pit." He seemed baffled and stunned by what was happening. "My God," he said, "we can't turn around and push this wheelbarrow back all the way to Berkeley again – we're worn out, we need rest!"
Sam Regan said, "What if somebody else pushed?" He walked up to the Scheins, then, and stood with them. "I'll push the darn thing. You lead the way, Schein." He looked toward his own wife, but Jean did not stir. And she did not put down her handful of rocks.
Timothy Schein plucked at his father's arm. "Can I come this time, Dad? Please let me come."
"Okay," Norm said, half to himself. Now he drew himself together. "So we're not wanted here." He turned to Fran. "Let's go. Sam's going to push the wheelbarrow; I think we can make it back there before nightfall. If not, we can sleep out in the open; Timothy'll help protect us against the do-cats." Fran said, "I guess we have no choice." Her face was pale. "And take this," Hooker said. He held out the tiny carved baby. Fran Schein accepted it and put it tenderly back in its leather pouch. Norm laid Connie Companion back down in the wheelbarrow, where she had been. They were ready to start back.
"It'll happen up here eventually," Norm said, to the group of people, to the Pinole flukers. "Oakland is just more advanced; that's all."
"Go on," Hooker Glebe said. "Get started."
Nodding, Norm started to pick up the handles of the wheelbarrow, but Sam Regan moved him aside and took them himself. "Let's go," he said.
The three adults, with Timothy Schein going ahead of them with his knife ready – in case a do-cat attacked – started into motion, in the direction of Oakland and the south. No one spoke. There was nothing to say.
"It's a shame this had to happen," Norm said at last, when they had gone almost a mile and there was no further sign of the Pinole flukers behind them.
"Maybe not," Sam Regan said. "Maybe it's for the good." He did not seem downcast. And after all, he had lost his wife; he had given up more than anyone else, and yet – he had survived.
"Glad you feel that way," Norm said somberly. They continued on, each with his own thoughts.
After a while, Timothy said to his father, "All these big fluke-pits to the south… there's lots more things to do there, isn't there? I mean, you don't just sit around playing that game." He certainly hoped not.
His father said, "That's true, I guess."
Overhead, a care ship whistled at great velocity and then was gone again almost at once; Timothy watched it go but he was not really interested in it, because there was so much more to look forward to, on the ground and below the ground, ahead of them to the south.
His father murmured, "Those Oaklanders; their game, their particular doll, it taught them something. Connie had to grow and it forced them all to grow along with her. Our flukers never learned about that, not from Perky Pat. I wonder if they ever will. She'd have to grow up the way Connie did. Connie must have been like Perky Pat, once. A long time ago."
Not interested in what his father was saying – who really cared about dolls and games with dolls? – Timothy scampered ahead, peering to see what lay before them, the opportunities and possibilities, for him and for his mother and dad, for Mr. Regan also.
"I can't wait," he yelled back at his father, and Norm Schein managed a faint, fatigued smile in answer.
Stand-by
An hour before his morning program on channel six, ranking news clown Jim Briskin sat in his private office with his production staff, conferring on the report of an unknown possibly hostile flotilla detected at eight hundred astronomical units from the sun. It was big news, of course. But how should it be presented to his several-billion viewers scattered over three planets and seven moons?
Peggy Jones, his secretary, lit a cigarette and said, "Don't alarm them, Jim-Jam. Do it folksy-style." She leaned back, riffled the dispatches received by their commercial station from Unicephalon 40-D's teletypers.
It had been the homeostatic problem-solving structure Unicephalon 40-D at the White House in Washington, D.C. which had detected this possible external enemy; in its capacity as President of the United States it had at once dispatched ships of the line to stand picket duty. The flotilla appeared to be entering from another solar system entirely, but that fact of course would have to be determined by the picket ships.
"Folksy-style," Jim Briskin said glumly. "I grin and say, Hey look comrades – it's happened at last, the thing we all feared, ha ha." He eyed her. "That'll get baskets full of laughs all over Earth and Mars but just possibly not on the far-out moons." Because if there were some kind of attack it would be the farther colonists who would be hit first.
"No, they won't be amused," his continuity advisor Ed Fineberg agreed. He, too, looked worried; he had a family on Ganymede.
"Is there any lighter piece of news?" Peggy asked. "By which you could open your program? The sponsor would like that." She passed the armload of news dispatches to Briskin. "See what you can do. Mutant cow obtains voting franchise in court case in Alabama… you know."
"I know," Briskin agreed as he began to inspect the dispatches. One such as his quaint account – it had touched the hearts of millions – of the mutant blue jay which learned, by great trial and effort, to sew. It had sewn itself and its progeny a nest, one April morning, in Bismark, North Dakota, in front of the TV cameras of Briskin's network.
One piece of news stood out; he knew intuitively, as soon as he saw it, that here he had what he wanted to lighten the dire tone of the day's news. Seeing it, he relaxed. The worlds went on with business as usual, despite this great news-break from eight hundred AUs out.
"Look," he said, grinning. "Old Gus Schatz is dead. Finally."
"Who's Gus Schatz?" Peggy asked, puzzled. "That name… it does sound familiar."
"The union man," Jim Briskin said. "You remember. The stand-by President, sent over to Washington by the union twenty-two years ago. He's dead, and the union -" He tossed her the dispatch: it was lucid and brief. "Now it's sending a new stand-by President over to take Schatz's place. I think I'll interview him. Assuming he can talk."