'Anyone who chose,' Ethan answered. 'In time, the culture would be divided and a subculture placed on file in each Reproduction Center on Athos. This time next year, you could have a hundred sons. As soon as I get my designated alternate problems straightened out, I rather fancied—I, uh—' Ethan found himself turning inexplicably red under her level gaze, 'I rather fancied having all my sons from the same culture, you see. I'll have earned four sons altogether by then. I never had a double-brother, from the same culture as me. The practice seems to give a family a certain attractive unity. Diversity in unity, as it were…' He became conscious that he was babbling, and ran down.
'A hundred sons,' she mused. 'But no daughters?'
'Well—no. No daughters. Not on Athos.' He added timidly, 'Are daughters as important to a woman as sons are to a man?'
'There is a certain—ease, in the thought,' she admitted. 'There is no room for either daughters or sons in my line of work, however.'
'Well, there you are.'
'Well. There I am.' The semi-permanent amusement lurking in her eyes had given way to a meditative seriousness. 'I could never see them, could I? My hundred sons. They would never know who I was.'
'Only a culture number. EQ-1. I—I might be able to push my Clearance Level A censorship status far enough to, say, send you a holocube someday, if—if that's something you would like. You could never come to Athos, nor send a message—at least, not under your own identity. You might fudge your sex, and get it past the censors that way…' He'd been associating with Quinn and her rough-and-ready approach to authority too long, Ethan reflected, upon the ease with which this anti-social suggestion fell from his lips. He cleared his throat.
Her eyes glinted, amusement rampant again. 'What a positively revolutionary idea.'
'You know I'm not a revolutionary,' Ethan replied with some dignity. He paused. 'Although—I'm afraid home is going to look a little different, when I go back. I don't want to change out of all fit.'
She glanced around the room, and by implication beyond its walls to the surrounding Station, her former home. 'Your instincts are sound, sir, although I suspect futile. Change is a function of time and experience, and time is implacable.'
'An ovarian culture can defeat time for 200 years—maybe longer now, as we refine our methods of caring for them. You could be having children long after your own death.'
'I could have been dead yesterday. I could be dead this time next month, for that matter. Or this time next year.'
'That's true of anybody.'
'Yeah, but my odds are about six times worse than average. My insurance has it calculated to the third decimal place, y'know.' She sighed. 'Well. Here we are.' Her lips curved. 'And I thought Tav Arata was cheeky. Dr. Urquhart, you've topped them all.'
Ethan's shoulders slumped with disappointment, as he saw his imagined string of dark-haired sons with mirror-bright eyes fading back into the realm of ungraspable dream. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give offense. I'll go.' He began to rise.
'You give up too easily,' she remarked to the air.
He sat back down hastily. His hands clasped each other between his knees, to keep his fingers from nervous drumming. He searched his mind for suppliction. 'The boys would be excellently cared for. Certainly mine would be. We screen our paternal applicants very carefully. A man who does not live up to his trust may have his sons repossessed, a shame and disgrace all strive to avoid.'
'What's in it for me, though?'
Ethan thought this over carefully. 'Nothing,' he had to admit honestly at last. He had a sudden impulse to offer her money—a mercenary, after all—no. That felt all wrong, somehow, he could not say why. He slumped again.
'Nothing.' She shook her head ruefully. 'What woman could resist that appeal? Did I ever tell you that one of my other hobbies was banging my head against brick walls?'
He glanced at her forehead, startled, then realized this was a joke.
She nibbled her last unbitten fingernail, without biting through. 'You sure Athos can take a hundred little Quinns?'
'More than that, in time. It might liven the place up…. Perhaps it would improve our military.'
Quinn looked bemused indeed. 'What can I say? Dr. Urquhart, you're on. '
Ethan lit with joy.
Ethan met Quinn by pre-arrangement at a cafe in a small arcade near the Stationer edge of Transients' Lounge. She had arrived before him, and sat sipping something blue from a small stemmed glass, which she lifted to him in toast as he threaded the tables toward her.
'How are you feeling?' he asked as he sat down beside her.
She rubbed the right side of her abdomen pensively. 'Fine. You were quite correct, I didn't feel a thing. Still don't. Not even a scar to show for my charity.' She sounded faintly disappointed.
'The ovary took the culturing treatment just fine,' he assured her. 'The cells are dividing nicely. It will be ready for freezing for transport in 48 hours. And then, I guess, I'm off to Beta Colony. When will you be leaving?' A faint speculation—hope?—that they might possibly be travelling on the same ship crossed his mind.
'I'm leaving tonight. Before I get into any more trouble with the Station authorities,' she replied, dashing Ethan's nascent scenario of further conversations. He never had had time to ask her about all the planets she had undoubtedly seen in her military pilgrimages. 'I also want to be long, long gone before any Cetagandan follow-up on Millisor's death arrives. Though it seems they are going to get directed back to Jackson's Whole—I wish them all joy of each other.' She stretched, and grinned, like a cat full of bird after a successful hunt and picking a few feathers from its teeth.
'I'd just as soon avoid meeting any more Cetagandans myself,' said Ethan. 'If I can.'
'Shouldn't be too difficult. For your peace of mind, I might mention that before his death Ghem-colonel Millisor managed to send off a confirmation of Helda's destruction of the Bharaputran cultures to his superiors. I doubt the Cetagandans will show any further interest in Athos. Although Mr. Cee is another matter, since the same report also confirmed his presence here on Kline Station.
'But I've got a stack of reports myself that will give Admiral Naismith something to meditate on for months. I'm glad I don't have to decide what to do with it all. I lack but one item to make his day complete—and here it comes, I trust, now.' She nodded past Ethan's shoulder, and he turned in his seat.
Terrence Cee was making his way toward them. His green Stationer coveralls were inconspicuous enough, although his wiry blond intensity turned an older female head or two, Ethan noted.
He sat down with them, nodding at Quinn, smiling briefly at Ethan. 'Good afternoon, Commander, Doctor.'
Quinn smiled back. 'Good afternoon, Mr. Cee. Can I buy you a drink? Burgundy, sherry, champagne, beer…'
'Tea,' said Cee. 'Just tea.'
Quinn put the order on her credit card in the table's auto-waiter. The Station, it seemed, did not import all comforts. The real thing—a pleasant aromatic black variety grown and processed on Kline Station—appeared promptly, steaming in a transparent mug. Ethan ordered some too, the business hiding the little discomfort Cee's presence induced in him. The telepath could have no further interest in Athos now either.
Cee sipped; Quinn sipped. 'Well,' Quinn said. 'Did you bring it?'
Cee nodded, sipped again, and laid three thin data discs and an insulated box perhaps half the size of Ethan's hand upon the table. They all disappeared into Quinn's jacket. At Ethan's look of inquiry, Quinn shrugged, 'We all trade in flesh here, it seems,' by which Ethan understood the box contained the promised tissue sample from the telepath.
'I thought Terrence was going back to the Dendarii Mercenaries with you, ' said Ethan, surprised.
'I've tried to talk him into it—by the way, the offer remains open, Mr. Cee.'
Terrence Cee shook his head. 'When Millisor was breathing down my neck, it seemed the only exit. You've given me a little space to make a choice, Commander Quinn—for which I thank you.' A movement of his finger toward the packets secreted in her jacket indicated the tangible form of his thanks.
'I am too kind,' Quinn sighed wryly. 'If you change your mind later, you can still look us up, you know. Look
