"Uh, sex change cases? You’re trying to tell me—"
"Don’t interrupt or swelp me, I won’t talk. I was a foundling, left at an orphanage in Cleveland in 1945 when I was a month old. When I was a little girl, I envied kids with parents. Then, when I learned about sex—and, believe me, Pop, you learn fast in an orphanage—"
"I know."
"I made a solemn vow that any kid of mine would have both a pop and a mom. It kept me ‘pure,’ quite a feat in that vicinity—I had to learn to fight to manage it. Then I got older and realized I stood darned little chance of getting married—for the same reason I hadn’t been adopted." He scowled. "I was horse-faced and buck-toothed, flat-chested and straight-haired."
"You don’t look any worse than I do."
"Who cares how a barkeep looks? Or a writer? But people wanting to adopt pick little blue- eyed golden-haired morons. Later on, the boys want bulging breasts, a cute face, and an Oh-youwonderful- male manner." He shrugged. "I couldn’t compete. So I decided to join the W.E.N.C.H.E.S."
"Eh?"
"Women’s Emergency National Corps, Hospitality & Entertainment Section, what they now call ‘Space Angels’—Auxiliary Nursing Group, Extraterrestrial Legions."
I knew both terms, once I had them chronized. Although we now use still a third name; it’s that elite military service corps: Women’s Hospitality Order Refortifying & Encouraging Spacemen. Vocabulary shift is the worst hurdle in time-jumps—did you know that "service station" once meant a dispensary for petroleum fractions? Once on an assignment in the Churchill Era a woman said to me, "Meet me at the service station next door"—which is not what it sounds; a "service station" (then) wouldn’t have a bed in it.
He went on: "It was when they first admitted you can’t send men into space for months and years and not relieve the tension. You remember how the wowsers screamed?—that improved my chances, volunteers were scarce. A gal had to be respectable, preferably virgin (they liked to train them from scratch), above average mentally, and stable emotionally. But most volunteers were old hookers, or neurotics who would crack up ten days off Earth. So I didn’t need looks; if they accepted me, they would fix my buck teeth, put a wave in my hair, teach me to walk and dance and how to listen to a man pleasingly, and everything else—plus training for the prime duties. They would even use plastic surgery if it would help—nothing too good for Our Boys.
"Best yet, they made sure you didn’t get pregnant during your enlistment—and you were almost certain to marry at the end of your hitch. Same way today, A.N.G.E.L.S. marry spacers—they talk the language.
"When I was eighteen I was placed as a ‘mother’s helper.’ This family simply wanted a cheap servant but I didn’t mind as I couldn’t enlist till I was twenty-one. I did housework and went to night school—pretending to continue my high school typing and shorthand but going to a charm class nstead, to better my chances for enlistment.
"Then I met this city slicker with his hundred dollar bills." He scowled. "The no-good actually did have a wad of hundred dollar bills. He showed me one night, told me to help myself.
"But I didn’t. I liked him. He was the first man I ever met who was nice to me without trying to take my pants off. I quit night school to see him oftener. It was the happiest time of my life.
"Then one night in the park my pants did come off."
He stopped. I said, "And then?"
"And then nothing! I never saw him again. He walked me home and told me he loved me—and kissed me good-night and never came back." He looked grim. "If I could find him, I’d kill him!"
"Well," I sympathized, "I know how you feel. But killing him—just for doing what comes naturally—hmm ... Did you struggle?"
"Huh? What’s that got to do with it?"
"Quite a bit. Maybe he deserves a couple of broken arms for running out on you, but—"
"He deserves worse than that! Wait till you hear. Somehow I kept anyone from suspecting and decided it was all for the best. I hadn’t really loved him and probably would never love anybody— and I was more eager to join the W.E.N.C.H.E.S. than ever. I wasn’t disqualified, they didn’t insist on virgins. I cheered up.
"It wasn’t until my skirts got tight that I realized."
"Pregnant?"
"The bastard had me higher’n a kite! Those skinflints I lived with ignored it as long as I could work—then kicked me out and the orphanage wouldn’t take me back. I landed in a charity ward surrounded by other big bellies and trotted bedpans until my time came.
"One night I found myself on an operating table, with a nurse saying, ‘Relax. Now breathe deeply.’
"I woke up in bed, numb from the chest down. My surgeon came m. ‘How do you feel?’ he says cheerfully.
" ‘Like a mummy.’
" ‘Naturally. You’re wrapped like one and full of dope to keep you numb. You’ll get well—but a Caesarian isn’t a hangnail.’
" ‘Caesarian?’ " I said, ‘Doc—did I lose the baby?’
" ‘Oh, no. Your baby’s fine.’
" ‘Oh. Boy or girl?’
" ‘A healthy little girl. Five pounds, three ounces.’
"I relaxed. It’s something, to have made a baby. I told myself I would go somewhere and tack ‘Mrs.’ on my name and let the kid think her papa was dead—no orphanage for my kid!
"But the surgeon was talking. ‘Tell me, uh—’ He avoided my name. ‘—did you ever think your glandular setup was odd?’
"I said, ‘Huh? Of course not. What are you driving at?’
"He hesitated. ‘I’ll give you this in one dose, then a hypo to let you sleep off your jitters. You’ll have ’em.’
" ‘Why?’ I demanded.
" ‘Ever hear of that Scottish physician who was female until she was thirty-five?—then had surgery and became legally and medically a man? Got married. All okay.’
" ‘What’s that got to do with me?’
" ‘That’s what I’m saying. You’re a man.’
"I tried to sit up. ‘What?’
" ‘Take it easy. When I opened you, I found a mess. I sent for the Chief of Surgery while I got the baby out, then we held a consultation with you on the table—and worked for hours to salvage what we could. You had two full sets of organs, both immature, but with the female set well enough developed that you had a baby. They could never be any use to you again, so we took them out and rearranged things so that you can develop properly as a man.’ He put a hand on me. ‘Don’t worry. You’re young, your bones will readjust, we’ll watch your glandular balance—and make a fine young man out of you.’
"I started to cry. ‘What about my baby?’
" ‘Well, you can’t nurse her, you haven’t milk enough for a kitten. If I were you, I wouldn’t see her—put her up for adoption.’
" ‘No!’
"He shrugged. ‘The choice is yours; you’re her mother—well, her parent. But don’t worry now; we’ll get you well first.’
"Next day they let me see the kid and I saw her daily—trying to get used to her. I had never seen a brand-new baby and had no idea how awful they look—my daughter looked like an orange monkey. My feeling changed to cold determination to do right by her. But four weeks later that didn’t mean anything."
"Eh?"
"She was snatched."
" ‘Snatched?’ "
The unmarried mother almost knocked over the bottle we had bet. "Kidnapped—stolen from the hospital nursery!" He breathed hard. "How’s that for taking the last thing a man’s got to live for?"
"A bad deal," I agreed. "Let’s pour you another. No clues?"
"Nothing the police could trace. Somebody came to see her, claimed to be her uncle. While the nurse had her back turned, he walked out with her."
"Description?"
"Just a man, with a face-shaped face, like yours or mine." He frowned. "I think it was the baby’s father. The nurse swore it was an older man but he probably used make-up. Who else would swipe my baby? Childless women pull such stunts—but whoever heard of a man doing it?"
"What happened to you then?"
"Eleven more months of that grim place and three operations. In four months I started to grow a beard; before I was out I was shaving regularly ... and no longer doubted that I was male." He grinned wryly. "I was staring down nurses’ necklines."