Gateways (57 page)

Laughter came mainly from American and European contingents.

The next subject to be dealt with was the obvious question of what could be done to ameliorate or entirely cure Martian postfetal mortality.

First to speak on the subject was a well-known American surgeon and proctologist, Dr. Susan Khashaba.

“Supposing the precipitating weakness to be due to fetal bone malfunction in continuous lighter gravity, we have to remember that bone is a
living organ, which responds to external influences. It acts as a reservoir for phosphate and calcium. If the fetal bones fail to develop strongly, then a failure of phosphate and calcium may result.

“We should therefore make sure that a supply of these chemicals is available.

“This is my supposition. Unfortunately we can come to no clear conclusion until we are able to examine an infant corpse or, better still, a fetus almost ready for its ejection. Osteomyelitis maybe a different or a concurrent cause, where bacteria lying dormant in the bone may erupt into septicaemia.

“It’s a pity that no trained surgeons were ever dispatched to Mars. Our governments have all been negligent.”

Next came a German speaker from the European contingent.

“I do not like to hear what we may call unspoken allegations. It is bold that we attempt colonization of another planet when the world is beset with financial difficulties. We tried to look ahead when dispatching our pioneers and, in fact, wondered if the Martian environment might have bad effects on pregnant women.

“Our plan was that every pregnant woman should be brought back to Earth in her fourth or fifth month to give birth here, being returned to Mars only when the baby achieved its twelfth month of life.

“You will agree, I’m sure, that this was farsighted. Unfortunately, the expenses of such an operation were too great. We approached both of you two august bodies but no agreement could be secured. So the prospect had to be dropped.”

Niccola Bell passed Skelton a note, which he read hurriedly. He announced that the European scheme had been deemed impractical, not merely on financial grounds but because the shipping of women to and fro between planets would have proved worse than their remaining peacefully on Mars.

Lee Quang Ju said they should not bring up minor quibbles between themselves when they were here to establish a solution to this unexpected problem.

“Our methods may not be yours. All the same, we are now arranging for a number of lead platforms to be sent to Mars. On these platforms, with artificial gravity, pregnant women will be able to live more or less normal lives—and so will their fetuses.

“We respect the suggestion of the well-known surgeon Kashaba, but we suggest strongly that she should be accompanied by our leading specialist in
acu punc ture anaesthesia. He can save much pain, also the considerable expense of relaying old-fashioned Western apparatuses across space.”

There followed a period of whispered consultations between the members of the three contingents.

Finally, a member of the European group spoke up. “We cannot at present see any reasonable method in which Mars could be settled and become a comfortable second home as we had once wished and tried to plan for. Perhaps there is no way.”

Eddie Skelton remarked with a smile that that sounded like a slice of British pessimism.

“Maybe,” was the retort, “but you offer us only American optimism and no solution.”

The conference cheered up at this bit of banter. At which juncture, an old bearded man by the name Angus Campbell rose from the European ranks.

“It could be that, delving into the realms of surgery, or what was that other word? ‘Practocologly,’ was it?—we may find a patch to this wound in the heel of progress. Yet I hear almost no expression of sorrow for these children who have died in the unnatural conditions of a foreign planet, or for their mothers who mourn them. Indeed, I hear next to nothing of a feel for women themselves—women, the better part of the human race . . .

“I take it upon myself—and you must call out to stop me if you cannot bear it—to read you just a paragraph from an old book, first published in 1872, by a man called Winwood Reade, much derided in its time. It’s called,
The Martyrdom of Man.
Here goes. Mr. Reade is speaking of a woman who protests against her sex’s subordinate role in society.

“ ‘It is forbidden to receive her; it is an insult to women to allude to her existence, to pronounce her name. She is condemned without inquiry, as the officer is condemned who has shown cowardice before the foe.

“ ‘For the life of women is a battlefield: virtue is their courage and peace of mind is their reward. It is certainly an extraordinary fact that women should be subjected to a severe social discipline from which men are almost entirely exempt . . . it is due to the ancient subjection of women to the man.

“ ‘But it is not the women who should be pitied; it is they who alone are free . . . Men? What miseries they cause, how many intellects they paralyze, how many families they ruin, how many innocent hearts they—’ ”

“Okay, that’s entirely enough!” someone called.

Angus Campbell shrugged, ceased reading, and sat down.

Shortly after that, the meeting broke up, after proposing to meet again in a month’s time.

Eddie Skelton turned to his second secretary. “Well, we did air the subject . . . Now, dear Niccola, if we can find a secluded nook, come and have a drink with me.”

There are many reasons for liking Fred Pohl—and for liking his work. He is a man of fine discrimination and determination. For instance, at the Brighton Worldcon in ’87, he and Betty stayed at a hotel on the seafront, where the nearby restaurant Wheelers served an excellent Dover sole dish. Moreover, they served it in seventeen different ways. So every evening Fred and his lady ate their way steadily down the menu, until they had pretty well taken all that sole had to offer. . . .

Abandoning gastronomy for literature, I recall sitting on the dais with Fred in Cambridge (U.K.). In those distant days, Fred was against the New Wave—which was exciting British writers. To put it briefly, the writers here seemed more keen to get to bed than to Mars. Fred and I both had a word on the subject. Afterward, he told me he had changed his mind and henceforth would be pro–New Wave. It must have been something I said. We should always respect a man who can change his mind—and admits it. You remember such things. Good for you, Fred! Some of us still read
Space Merchants
once every year. It helps us stay modest. . .

—B
RIAN
W. A
LDISS

“I need a new story!” exclaimed Scheherazade, her lovely almond eyes betraying a rising terror. “By tonight!”

“Daughter of my heart,” said her father, the grand vizier, “I have related to you every tale that I know. Some of them, best beloved, were even true!”

“But, most respected father, I am summoned to the sultan again tonight. If I have not a new tale with which to beguile him, he will cut off my head in the morning!”

The grand vizier chewed his beard and raised his eyes to Allah in supplication. He could not help but notice that the gold leaf adorning the ceiling is his chamber was peeling once more. I must call the workmen again, he thought, his heart sinking.