“You get to have kids,” Lily whined. “You rich people!”
“Two children,” Marjorie said. “Only two, Lily. If I had a third child, it would be illegal, just like you. They’d take away my rights, just like they did your mother’s. They’d make my older children repudiate me, just like your brother and sister did to Bellalou.” She said it all wearily, not believing it. Rich people didn’t get in that kind of mess. They never had. Only the poor got trapped: by ignorance, by religion, by self-righteous laws passed by people who broke them with impunity. Marjorie herself had an implant, imported from the Humanist Enclave on the coast. Another thing she hadn’t told Father Sandoval. She hadn’t told Rigo, either, but surely he suspected. Probably his mistress had one as well.
She brushed the wrinkles out of her trousers as she rose. “I brought some clothes for you to wear on the ship,” she told the girl. “And some things you’ll need on Repentance.” She handed the package to Bellalou. “Lily will need these things, Bellalou. Don’t let her trade them for euphies, please.” Despite all efforts to keep them out, dealers in euphoriacs managed to do a good business in St. Magdalen’s.
“Gimme,” whined Lily, snatching at the package.
“Later,” said her mother. “Later on, honey. I’ll give it to you later on.”
Her business with Bellalou finished, Marjorie returned to the clammy air and the mud, glad that one visit was over, not eager to go on to the half dozen other hovels she had scheduled for today. There was so little she could do. Food for hungry children. A few antiseptics and painkillers that weren’t considered really “medical.” The local province was populated largely by the Sanctified, which meant there were provincial laws against both contraception and abortion. Stack that up against the planetary population laws against more than two living children per mother and what did you get? St. Magdalen’s Town. Breedertown. A charitable foundation set up by rich Old Catholics to shelter the unfortunate and unwise who followed either their inclination or their religion. As head of the Visitation Committee, Marjorie saw more of the place than most. Hands smoothing her disordered hair, she corrected herself: She saw more of it than any of them. They had been quick to admire her for her dedication but damned slow to emulate it.
All of which merely increased her doubts. The chairmen before her had been chairmen in name only, or they had been women no wealthier than Marjorie who hired others to do the visitations for them. Why did she insist on doing this herself?
“You’ve got visions of yourself as a saint,” Rigo had sneered. “Being an Olympic gold medalist wasn’t enough for you? Being my wife isn’t enough? You also have to be Saint Marjorie, sacrificing herself for the poor?”
That had stung, though it hadn’t been true, not really. The gold medal had been long ago, before they were married. Young Marjorie Westriding had been a medalist, yes, but a lot of subjective opinion on the part of judges and officials went into deciding who got medals. One might take a great deal of pride without being at all certain of one’s personal merit, at least so Marjorie had tried to explain to an unsympathetic Rigo, who barked laughter, pretended to disbelieve her even as he seized her in a passionate embrace. The truthful answer to his question would have been, no, the gold medal wasn’t enough. Besides, it was a long time ago. She needed something comparable now, something uniquely her own, some perfect achievement. At one time she had thought it might be her family, her children, but seemingly that wasn’t how it worked out….
So she had tried this, and this wasn’t working either. Gritting her teeth, she stepped down into the mud and started for the next hovel.
When she returned to the hover some hours later she was tired and filthy and sunk deep in depression. One of “her” girls had been executed that week by a population patrol. Two children in one family seemed to be dying, probably from something contagious which could have been prevented if immunizations were allowed for illegals, which they weren’t. A thousand years ago the population of Breedertown could have been shipped off to Australia. A few hundred years ago, they might have been allowed to emigrate to wild colony planets. But with Sanctity meddling and threatening whenever people tried to spread out, there was no real colonization anymore. There wasn’t anyplace to send excess people except Repentance, if they stayed alive long enough to get there.
But Repentance really could be worse than the alternative. Now that Marjorie had decided that was true, it seemed rather pointless to go on. So long as Sanctity ruled, there was no legal way to do anything significant. Every week there would be a new girl pregnant or about to be, on and on, forever. If Marjorie spent everything she had, money and blood, it would do no lasting good. Did it matter whether any of them individually escaped from Terra? Lily? Bets, from last month? Dephine, from the month before that? If one didn’t get there, someone else would. What kind of life would they
