in all, Gerald felt that he had just undergone an instantaneous role-switch from brave invalid to freak, and he badly needed some reassurance from his first and closest confidant to the effect that other people could ride with the punch.
“That’s repulsive,” said Mark, when he’d finished. “Do they seriously imagine that you’d consent to tissue-reconstruction just so that you can carry the fetus until they’ll condescend to whip it out? Hell, it’s like one of those old twentieth century jokes about homosexual couples, which should have been laid to rest with the Dark Ages. Holy shit, they will keep it quiet, won’t they?”
“I suppose they’ll try,” Gerald replied unhappily. “At least, they will if they remove the fetus. If they don’t...well, news is bound to get around if I have to put in an application for maternity leave.”
“Now who needs reminding that it’s not a joke? Thank God it’s your decision—it will be your decision, won’t it?”
“So the doctor says—but it has to be an informed decision, medically and morally. He was very clear about that. Whatever’s best for baby....”
“Whatever’s best for both of you. The greatest good of the greatest number, remember. Don’t let the bastards talk you into anything. I wouldn’t trust a doctor as far as I could throw a feather into a headwind.”
Neither would I, thought Gerald. That’s why I delayed going to see one, and thus made certain that this would become a matter of some urgency. Aloud, he said: “I won’t. But Dr. McClelland’s right—it does have to be an informed decision, and it has to be taken very carefully.”
Mark stared at him, his grey eyes as hard as flints. Gerald couldn’t figure out, now, just why he’d once thought that those eyes were extraordinarily sexy and sensitive.
“Gerry,” said Mark, in a voice which was suddenly rather cold, “you couldn’t possibly think that you might carry this kid around for the next God-knows-how-long. You couldn’t possibly.”
“It would only be for three months at the most, Mark,” Gerald pointed out. “And when all’s said and done, he ain’t heavy—he’s my brother.” He couldn’t suppress a giggle, despite the fact that he was trying to be serious. The flippancy, in fact, was only a way of concealing just how serious he was.
An informed decision, medically and morally--that was what it was all about. The doctor was right.
“That’s not funny, Gerry,” said Mark, who was of course correct for all the wrong reasons. “That’s not funny at all.”
* * * * * * *
“Your father and I talked about it all night,” said Leonie Duncan positively, “and we’re agreed that there’s only one thing to be done.”
“Oh yes,” said Gerald, hollowly. “And what’s that, mother?”
“The baby has to be transplanted, as soon as possible.”
“Well,” said Gerald, dubiously, “that may turn out to be the best decision—but I’m not sure as yet. Dr. McClelland’s given me the results of the latest tests, and I had a long conversation with the secretary of the Ethics Committee this morning. He’s convening a meeting this evening, so that we can go over the alternatives very carefully. Until then, it just won’t be possible to make a final decision, no matter what you and Dad may think.”
“Committees can’t make decisions, Gerry,” said Leonie, with the casual air of one stating the obvious. “The committee that set out to design the horse came up with the camel. It’s as plain as day what should be done, and we don’t need any committee confusing the issue.”
“But it’s not as plain as day, mother,” said Gerald, wearily. “It’s really rather complicated, medically speaking.”
“Well I’m not speaking medically,” she said. “I’m speaking about right and wrong, and there’s only one rightful place for that baby.”
She was looking at him so assertively, and yet with such awkward embarrassment, that he was quite confused. Several seconds passed before he suddenly realized what she meant.
“Oh my God!” he said. “You can’t be serious!”
“He’s my child,” she said, assertiveness tipping over into naked aggression. “He’s not your child—he’s mine. He doesn’t belong in an artificial womb, and he certainly doesn’t belong inside you. He’s my son, and nobody has any right to put him anywhere else but in my womb. I’m willing to do it, Gerry, and I’m willing to go to court to establish my rights.”
“Mother,” said Gerald, feeling once again that strange sense of the surreality of his condition, “you’re fifty-seven years old. What makes you think your womb’s in any fit condition to carry a fetus?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, darling,” Leonie replied. “I may be menopausal, but I’m in perfect working order—and if I’m not, I’m certain that it would be far easier to reconstruct my tissues than it would be to reconstruct yours. After all, I do have the right equipment, even if it hasn’t been used for a while. And afterwards, the child would be with its natural parents.”
“Dad’s sixty-three. Are you telling me he wants to be a parent again?”
“He already is a parent,” said Leonie decisively. “It’s not a matter of want—it’s a matter of fact.”
“If the fetus is to be transplanted,” Gerald said, trying to sound gentle, “and if we decide against an artificial womb, I think it would be best to look for a younger and healthier surrogate mother.”
“Well I don’t,” she retorted. “And if that’s what your Ethics Committee decides—or if that’s what you decide—I’ll fight it. This is my baby, and no one else has a better right to carry him and give birth to him—and there isn’t a court in the land which would award custody of him to anyone else.”
“Mother,” said Gerald, patiently and soothingly, “I don’t think you ought to be thinking like this. Mark and I would far rather keep the whole thing quiet—we certainly don’t want any tabloid publicity. If you go near a court, you’ll have every newsvid team in the country baying at our heels. Whatever I decide to do will be in the best interests of everyone, I promise you—but you must see how difficult it is. Imagine that it was one of your friends—what would you say if you found out that Margery Lingard was proposing to have a fetus transplanted into her womb? You’d be horrified, wouldn’t you?”
“He’s my baby,” said Leonie Duncan, doggedly. “He’s not yours, he’s mine. My son. My natural son.”
Gerald winced at the double meaning, and saw his mother smile thinly. She knew perfectly well what she’d said; he knew perfectly well what she meant.
He knew, also, what Mark would have said had he been here. “Let the bitch have it, and welcome” he’d have said. Mark didn’t usually want Leonie Duncan to have her own way about anything, but this would be too good to miss—in Mark’s view, it would be killing two birds with one stone. And he’d be right: one stone, two dead birds. Maybe really dead.
“I’m going to see your blessed Ethics Committee,” said Leonie, defiantly. “I’m going to see them right now, and I’m going
