know what might happen. She was not certain that she would be a good enough mother to tolerate even a moderately sickly child. She feared that she would not be strong enough to endure a child de-formed or dying.
Abortion was best.
She found that she could think of the word without hesita-tion, without substituting a euphemism such as 'pregnancy termination.'
She imagined her life spreading before her like a river. She could take any one of an infinite number of streams that branched away. Some paralleled the main flow; others turned sharply away into unknown darkness, still others meandered aimlessly into dry lake beds. A child at this point in her life would break her away from the flow, push her into a backwa-ter, stop the momentum her life had gained. The M-G-M lion roared. Eerie electronic tonalities filled the room. She ceased thinking about her life, content to finish her egg and back bacon on toasted muffin, drink her orange juice, and watch the Technicolor world of robots, lust, and Monsters from the Id.
There were no children on Altair IV.
'
The opening and shutting of the front door awakened Valerie from a slumber. At first, she thought it was morning. The out-side world was dark, she was in bed. The TV, though, was on. Then she remembered closing her eyes while watching Rossano Brazzi profess his love for Alida Valli in Noi Vivi. The tape must have run out, for the TV had switched back to cable.
Ron stepped into the bedroom. 'It's five-thirty, Val.' He saw her staring at the TV. 'Are you okay?' Valerie nodded sleepily. It always took her longer to awaken from a nap than it did from a full night's sleep. She took a deep draught of water from the Waterford set on her nightstand, sat up, and smiled at him.
'I'm fine, honey. I just drifted off. I'll be ready in time.' He moved to her side of the bed, threw his arms around her, and squeezed with loving tenderness.
'You don't have to go through with this if you don't want to.'
She returned the hug. 'If I don't, you won't be able to say the same thing in the delivery room.' A silence passed between them for a moment.
'Then you'd better get dressed,' Ron said, giving her a pat on her backside. ' They drove to Bayside in Ron's silver-gray BMW 320i. Valerie wore a loose-fitting cotton sarong skirt in understated forest green purchased just the week before at Banana Republic. The pamphlet told her to avoid tight pants or anything encumber-ing. Her Costa Brava shirt in the same shade came from the identical source.
Though the March evening was warm and the sun had only just set, she wore a mock-aviator's jacket of dark olive cotton and still felt a shiver coming on.
Ron had not bothered to change from his charcoal-gray busi-ness suit. He drove silently, not attempting to engage her in any conversation. For her part, Valerie stared out the window, watching the planes fly in and out of Torrance, their lights bright and fairylike in the twilight. As the car smoothly turned off PCH into the parking lot, past the white and blue sign that read Bayside University Medical Center, Valerie broke the silence by quietly asking, 'This is what you want, isn't it?'
He pulled into the nearest available parking space. 'I want what's best for you, Valerie. You're not ready to be a mother, and I don't think I'm ready to be a father. Maybe in a few years. We have time to think about it. This will give us time to plan it, save for it, prepare our heads.' He killed the engine, pulled the keys, and shut down the lights. 'It's your body. You have to make the final decision.' Valerie nodded and stepped out of the car.
They moved quietly up the walkway to the Reproductive Endocrinology Department. Valerie glanced around, relieved to see that the line of picketers had dispersed for the night. A cool evening breeze ruffled the palms and the trio of giant bird-of-paradise plants, brushing their leaves against the of-fice windows on the second story. The yellow-orange light from low-pressure sodium vapor lamps imparted harsh shadows to the dark corners of the entrance. Only a few lights glowed from the windows. She was so grateful that she would not be walking back to the car alone. She felt that she might have been able to enter the building, moving toward its marginal warmth and protec-tion. To leave it after her surgery, though, to step out into the eerie darkness of a nearly empty, windy parking lot, was some-thing she doubted she could do without a nagging murmur of fear.
Ron held her hand in his warm, firm grasp. The doors opened before them with a pneumatic hiss. Overhead, a tiny red light winked like a knowing, vulgar eye. We know what you're here for. The receptionist, a tired old woman with gray-blue hair and gravity-worn face, checked the calendar, then handed Valerie a clipboard, pen, and form.
'Fill this out, honey,' she said in a voice that could sand furniture, 'and give it back to me when you're done.'
Valerie glanced over the release form, searching for the blanks to fill in. All it required was the date, a few initials, and her signature.
'Wait.' Ron took the form from her. 'Professional curiosity,' he said, carefully reading each paragraph.
'Looks like a standard waiver and release from responsibil-ity,' he muttered. 'Four pages is probably longer than stan-dard, but if those pickets outside have tried any legal mischief, they're probably trying to cover their
