Crispin asked, “Is this a way of cutting out the fathers?”
“Not at all,” said Helen. “But there is always, rightly, a mystery about birth. Men should not be witnesses to it. Oh, I know that sounds like a retrograde step. It has been the fashion for men to be present at bornings, and indeed often enough male doctors have supervised the delivery. But fashions change. We wish to try something different.
“In fact, the Birth Room is an old forgotten idea. It’s a place for female consolation for the rigours of child-bearing. Women will be able to come and go in the Room. They can rest there whether pregnant or not. Female mid-wives will attend the accouchement. More importantly, mothers will be able to stay there after the birth, to be idle, to suckle their child, to chat with other women. No men at all.
“No men until a week after the birth. Women must have their province. Somehow, in our struggle for equality we have lost some of the desirable privileges we once enjoyed in previous times.
“You must allow us to regain this small privilege. You will soon discover that large advantages in behaviour flow from it.”
“And what are husbands supposed to do?” I asked.
Helen’s solemn face broke into a smile. “Oh, husbands will do what they always do. Enjoy their clubs and one another’s company, hobnob, have their own private places. Look, let us try out the Birth Room idea for a year. We are confident it will work well and serve the whole community.”
A Birth Room was built in the subterranean extension, despite male complaints. There women, and not only the pregnant ones, met to socialise. Men were totally excluded. After giving birth, woman and baby remained together in peace, warmth and subdued light for at least a week, or longer if they felt it necessary. When they emerged, to present the husband with his new child, a little ceremony called Reunion developed, with company, cakes and kisses. The cakes were synthetic, the kisses real enough.
The Birth Room soon became an accepted part of social life, and a respected feature of the comforts of the new extension.
18
Weeks turned into months, and months into another year. There were many who, despite the misfortune of their confinement on Mars, regarded our society as a fair and just one. I, on the other hand, came to see Utopia as a condition of becoming, a glow in the distance, a journey for which human limitations precluded an end. Yet there were comforting indications of improvement in our lot.
Kissorian and Sharon were among the first to take advantage of the greater scope for solitude afforded by the subterranean extensions. Their marriage was celebrated to the joy of many (and the envy of some), and they retired for a while from public life.
At the same time, the men who worked on the Smudge Project were experiencing new difficulties. One of the positive results of the recognition of Chimborazo as a life form was a closer union between scientists and non-scientists. Most of the gallant 6,000 realised that ours was one of the great scientific ages, and took pride in sharing its news. So we all felt involved when Dreiser announced that there was a minor glitch in the superfluid. At last, a signal had been received that was interpreted as the passage of a HIGMO through the ring.
Dreiser said that the Mars operation was coming to fruition as planned.
“When we have found just two more HIGMOs, or even one more, we shall finally have an approach towards an estimate of the crucial parameters of the Omega Smudge.”
“How long do we have to wait?” someone asked.
“Depends. We must be patient. Even ten or fifteen more HIGMOs will begin to give us fairly accurate values for these parameters. Various controversial issues will be settled once and for all, among other important things.” He glanced sidelong at Kathi Skadmorr, as if saying “Don’t rock the boat’, when her face now came up on the Ambient.
“We should just say there are some minor anomalies about the glitch detected in the superfluid,” she said. “Maybe we have a signal representing a HIGMO passing through the ring, maybe not. Some of us have a few worries about that. So we are waiting for the second HIGMO. As Dreiser says, we must be patient.”
But a second HIGMO was indicated only two days later.
“Well, it does seem a little fishy,” said Dreiser. “The ring has only been in full working order for a year. I’m talking terrestrial years now, as though we were no more aware than our androids that we are on another planet.” He gave a dry chuckle. “A year till we get a signal, then a second so soon.”
“Can’t they come in groups?” I asked.
He seemed to ignore the question, muttering to someone beyond lens range. Turning to face his audience again, he said, “There’s something particularly odd about the signature of this second glitch. It’s not the form we expected. You see, there’s a gradual oscillatory build-up instead of the anticipated almost clean ‘step-function’ you’d expect from a HIGMO. You have to appreciate that the first glitch took us unawares. Full details of its profile were not obtained.
“We’ll keep you posted.”
So we had to get on with our lives. The betterment of conditions brought about by the development of Lower Ground, as we called it, improved everyone’s morale. But, as with many improvements, these would not guarantee lasting contentment. I had taken a liking to Dayo Obantuji, the anxious young Nigerian, who showed great interest in our circumstances. We often discussed the developments of Lower Ground. Having abandoned musical composition, Dayo proved adept at devising decorative tile patterns, bursting with life and colour, to adorn the main corridor.
But I said to him, “If we look back to the metropolises of the nineteenth century, we see filthy cities. In New York and Paris and London, filth and grit and stench were permanent features of life. These cities—London in particular—were coal-oriented. There was coal everywhere, coal dumped down chutes in the street, coal dragged upstairs, coal spilt and burned in a million grates, grimy smoke, cinders and ash strewn here and there.
“The exudations of coal mingled with the droppings of the horses that dragged the coal carts through the streets and pulled all kinds of carriages and cabs. The whole place was a microclimate of filth. The twentieth century saw vast improvements. Coal was banished, smokeless zones were introduced. The noisome fogs of London became a thing of the past. Electric heating developed into central heating and air-conditioning. Solar-heating panels replaced chimneys. Animals disappeared from the streets, to be replaced by automobiles, which—at least until they multiplied beyond tolerance and were banished from our cities—brought a decided improvement to urban life.
“And was the new comfort and ease of the home, reinforced by vacuum-cleaners and other devices that made homes more hygienic, considered Utopian? Not at all. The improvements came in gradually and, once there, were taken for granted.”
“I wish they could have been taken for granted where I came from,” said Dayo. “Our governments never had the interests of the people at heart.”
“To greater or lesser extent,” I said, “that is the characteristic of all governments. It happened that in Western countries an educated population had a strong enough voice to regulate or become government. That educated class also accumulated the capital to invest in sustained improvement, which has in itself promoted more improvement, often in unanticipated spheres.
“To give an instance of the sort of thing I’m thinking of, back in the 1930s, in the fairly early days of motoring, an ordinary family found that a small car was within its price range; they could buy what was called, in those bygone days, ‘the freedom of the road’.