Accustomed, except in the case of the degenerate and depraved, to complete privacy—except of course for his partner in the act—for even the most legal and laudable satisfaction of the flesh, people could not adjust themselves, at first, to the possibility or even probability that they were being watched, no matter what precautions they took. Especially since—whatever their own method of procreation—the Martians seemed to be excessively interested in, amused by and disgusted at our method.
The extent to which their influence proved inhibiting is reflected (at least as far as concerns legitimate marital sex relations) in the birth rate for the early months of 1965.
In January of 1965, the month that started a week more than nine months after the Coming, the birth rate in the United States dropped to 3 per cent of normal—and many of the births that did occur were early in the month and were probably due to longer-than-normal pregnancies, conception having taken place before the night of March 26, 1964. In most other countries the drop in the birth rate was almost as great; in England it was greater. Even in France the birth rate dropped to 18 per cent of normal.
In February, the tenth month (plus a week) after the Coming, the birth rate started to climb again. It was 30 per cent of normal in the United States, 22 per cent of normal in England and 49 per cent in France.
By March it was within 80 per cent of normal in all countries. And 137 per cent of normal in France; obviously the French were making up for lost time even while other countries still felt some degree of inhibition.
People were human, even if Martians weren’t. Several Kinsey-type surveys taken in April indicated that almost all married couples were again having at least occasional sex relationships. And since most of the interviews upon which these surveys were based were gleefully kibitzed by Martians who knew the facts, there is no doubt that they were much more nearly accurate in their conclusions than the original Kinsey reports of almost two decades before.
Almost universally, the sex act was practiced only at night, in complete darkness. Matins and matinees, even among newlyweds, were a thing of the past. And ear stopples were almost equally universal; even savages who had no access to drugstores selling stopples discovered the efficacy of kneaded mud for this purpose. So equipped and in complete darkness one (or, more properly, two) could ignore the presence of Martians and fail to hear their running commentaries, usually ribald.
But even under these circumstances, premarital and extra-marital sex relationships were pretty much out of the question because of the danger of being tattled on. Only the completely shameless could risk them.
And even in marriage sex relations were less frequent and, because there was always some degree of self-consciousness, not to mention the futility of whispering endearments to a stoppled ear, less enjoyable.
No, sex was not what it had been in the good old days, but at least there was sex, in marriage, enough of it to keep the race going.
13.
The door of Dr. Snyder’s office was open, but Margie Devereaux paused in the doorway until the doctor looked up and told her to come in. Then he saw that she carried two copies of a bound manuscript and his eyes brightened. “He finished?”
Margie nodded.
“And the last chapter? It’s as good as the rest?”
“I think so, Doctor. You have time to read it now?”
“Of course. I’ll take time. I was only making some notes for a paper.”
“All right. If you’ve got paper and string, I’ll get the package ready to mail while you’re reading the carbon copy.”
“Fine. You’ll find everything you need in the cabinet there.”
They were separately busied for a while. Margie finished first by a few minutes and waited till the doctor finished reading and looked up.
“It’s excellent,” he said. “And not only good writing, but commercially good. It will sell. And—let’s see, you’ve been here a month now?”
“A month tomorrow.”
“Then it took him only five weeks altogether. Your being here with him didn’t slow him down much.”
Margie smiled. “I’ve been careful to keep away from him during his working hours. Which hasn’t been too difficult, since they’re my working hours too. Well, I’ll take this to the post office as soon as I’m off duty.”
“Don’t wait; take it now. And send it airmail. Bernstein will want to rush it into print. And we’ll get by without you for that long. I hope not for longer.”
“What do you mean, Doctor?”
“Do you intend to stay, to keep on working for me?”
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I? Isn’t my work satisfactory?”
“You know perfectly well that it is. And that I want you to stay. But Margie, why should you? Your husband has earned enough in the past five weeks for the two of you to live on for at least two years. With what the Depression has done to living expenses, the two of you can live almost royally on about five thousand a year.”
“But—”
“I know the money isn’t all in yet, but you’ve got plenty to start on. Luke’s fourteen hundred is safely in hand. And since your earnings here have covered my charges for Luke, whatever savings you yourself had are intact. I’ll predict Bernstein will send further advances any time you ask for them, even before the book is in print.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me, Doctor Snyder?”
“You know better than that, Margie. It’s just that I can’t see why a person should want to work when he doesn’t have to. I wouldn’t.”
“Are you sure? While the human race, with the Martians on their necks, needs psychiatric help more than it ever has, you’d retire now if you happened to be able to afford to?”
Dr. Snyder sighed. “I see your point, Margie. As a matter of fact, I could retire, I suppose, if I sold this place. But I didn’t realize a nurse would feel that way.”
“This one does,” Margie said. “Besides, what about Luke? I wouldn’t leave here if he didn’t. And do you think he should?”
Dr. Snyder’s sigh was a really deep one this time. “Margie,” he said, “I believe that’s what’s been worrying me more than anything else—except the Martians. We seem to be remarkably free of them at the moment, by the way.”
“There were six of them in Luke’s room when I got this manuscript.”
“Doing what?”
“Dancing on him. He’s lying on the bed thinking out an idea for his next book.”
“Doesn’t he plan to take a rest first? I wouldn’t want him—” Dr. Snyder smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t want him to overwork. What if he cracked up?”
“He plans to take a week off, starting tomorrow. But he says he wants to get at least a rough plot and maybe a title for his next book first. He says if he does that his subconscious will be playing around with the idea while he’s resting and when he is ready to start working again it’ll be easy for him to get going again.”
“Which doesn’t give his subconscious a rest. Or do many writers work that way?”
“I know some of them do. But I was intending to talk to you about that vacation, Doctor. After I was off duty. Shall I, now?”
“You’re off duty now. And a few minutes isn’t going to matter on betting that manuscript into the mail, so go ahead.”
“Luke and I talked it over last night, after he told me he’d definitely finish the novel today. He says he’s perfectly willing to stay here on two conditions. One, that I take off work for that week too. And the other, that the lock be taken off his door so he can have the run of the grounds. He says he’d as soon rest here as anywhere else provided he didn’t feel shut in and he said we could consider it a second honeymoon if I didn’t have to work either.”