by John Brunner
Now she was waiting expectantly for Claudia to explain her business.
She was nervous, naturally, but Jake Lafarge had given her an extensive and extremely useful briefing, and she felt her anxiety fade as she sat down, produced her pocket recorder, and reviewed her surroundings prior to conducting the planned interview. An incongruous hi-tech office had been implanted behind the Georgian façade of this building—in Marylebone, about half a mile from the traditional “doctors’ area” of Harley Street and Wimpole Street where Peter had fathered his ten anonymous children, but that, so she had been informed, was because the rents there now precluded occupation by any doctor whose patients were less than millionaires.
Admittedly, with the falling value of money, it was much easier to be a millionaire nowadays…
She forced her mind back to more important matters.
“I ought to start by thanking you for sparing time for me,” she said, switching on the recorder and placing it on the doctor’s desk. “Oh—do you mind?”
A single headshake, and: “Not at all.”
“Thank you. Well, I’m sure you must be very busy, so I won’t waste more time on preliminaries than I have to, but I’m afraid I shall need to give you a bit of background before I start asking questions.”
The lies, honed and polished under Jake’s expert guidance, slid easily off her tongue.
“You see, my editor recently received a letter from a woman who bore a child through artinsem—AID, of course, before the coincidence of initials. Frankly, I think she should have addressed it to the Agony Aunt of one of the women’s magazines, but she’s a Comet reader, so…
“I don’t of course have all the details, but what it seems to boil down to is this. Her son is now in his teens. She and her husband originally intended to tell him the truth when he got to about his present age, but apparently things haven’t worked out too well, and she’s afraid that if they do, he might become obsessed with finding out who his—ah—biological father was. Since people no longer know very much about artinsem… Excuse me: I’m a complete layperson when it comes to matters like these, but I have the impression that it went out of fashion virtually overnight when AIDS appeared on the scene. Is that so?”
Dr. Grant leaned back, her expression thoughtful, and set her fingertips together.
“It’s certainly true that AIDS had a marked effect. Largely thanks to the media, if you’ll excuse my saying so, there was a lot of panic, and prospective parents became very reluctant to accept an anonymous donation. On the other hand, there were a lot of additional factors. The chief, naturally, was the development of in vitro fertilization. Unless the husband has no viable sperm at all, we can now take one of the wife’s own eggs and literally create an embryo which is the natural offspring of both parents. Then it’s implanted and with luck proceeds normally to term.”
“But this is all comparatively recent?”
“How recent is ‘recent,’ these days?” Dr. Grant countered with a thin-lipped smile. “It’s a good decade or so since we reached the stage where it was obvious artinsem was bound to be superseded. Not, you realize, that it wasn’t invaluable in its day. For instance, when I first came into the field, working at the then-famous Chinn-Wilkinson clinic, AID was undoubtedly providing a very useful service to the community. Well over three thousand impregnations were performed successfully each year, in Britain alone. At Chinn-Wilkinson alone we carried out, on average, four or five hundred annually. That meant nearly a thousand contented new parents.”
“Due just to the one clinic? That’s most impressive.” Claudia hoped her tone carried conviction. “Tell me, as a matter of interest: did you have what you might call typical clients? Obviously every case must have been different, but can you make any generalizations?”
“Yes!” Dr. Grant said immediately, with emphasis. “The people who came to Chinn-Wilkinson then were exactly like those who come here now: stable couples, married at least five years and often as long as ten. They’ve tried for a baby the ordinary way; they’ve been to infertility consultants but tend to distrust fertility drugs owing to the risk of multiple births—we do sometimes use them, but only rarely, for precisely that reason—and they’ve tried the alternatives, such as mineral supplements. Quite often they’ve gone the whole alternative route, from acupuncture and even moxa—I ask you!—to herbal remedies and homeopathy. They’re determined, that’s the word. They want a child! In some cases I can recall… Well, I suppose I shouldn’t say this about people who I’m sure are perfectly sincere, but it’s a sad fact that a lot of them don’t know what they’re about. To be blunt, some of the people who finally apply to us turn out to have spent twice as much on techniques that didn’t help as it would have cost to come here in the first place.”
“You mean it’s a field in which the ethics of some practitioners are—shall we say not of the highest?”
“I won’t say anything of the kind,” Dr. Grant smiled. “I prefer to leave it at that. But aren’t we rather straying from the point?”
“Yes, of course. Excuse me.” Claudia dragged her mind back to the fictitious mother worried about her artinsem son. “Obviously what I chiefly need to find out is how donor records were kept. How was it done at the Chinn-Wilkinson, for instance? Were the records computerized?”
Dr. Grant gazed at her visitor for a long moment, her thin fingers still steepled together. Eventually she said, “Let me make a guess. You, or your editor, aren’t totally convinced by this woman’s letter. You suspect she may be spinning a colorable yarn. The true reason for her anxiety is far more likely to be that she’s afraid her son’s biological father may become obsessed with the notion that he has offspring he has never met, and attempt to track down the recipient of his genes. Am I right?”
“Why, we were thinking along precisely those lines,” Claudia murmured, striving to conceal her jubilation. A matter she had expected to have to work up to by a roundabout route was being broached after barely more than a hint. “Of course, one respects the confidentiality of your profession, but when so much of people’s private lives is on computers now, and there are constant stories in the news about how secrets have been unearthed by hackers and used for—well—even blackmail… And since, no doubt, the records were kept on computer…” She let the sentence trail away.
“Well, there did have to be records, obviously,” Dr. Grant said after a moment. “For instance, one wouldn’t have wanted a black baby to turn up in a white family, or vice versa. And yes, in the last few years at least we did keep them on computer. But they were never on-line to anywhere else. They were solely for use within the clinic.” Lowering her arms, Dr. Grant gazed challengingly across her desk.
“So that if the clinic had caught on fire, say, or been—well, bombed by some extremist religious group—there would have been no other copy?”
Claudia waited tensely for the answer.
“Ah…” The doctor suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “Well, to be perfectly frank, we did use to copy our data to a commercial storage center, one that specializes in medical records, and they’re still on file there in case I ever need to consult them. But—”
The nape of Claudia’s neck was tingling. She leaned forward. “Excuse my interrupting! But I deduce from what you just said that you inherited the goodwill of the Chinn-Wilkinson?”
“I—ah… Yes, as a matter of fact, I did take over when the original partnership was dissolved. It’s public knowledge. It was a question of new specializations, more than anything… May I finish?”
“Please!”
“As I was saying, the data center—which we still use—has an excellent reputation. Most fertility clinics in this country, and indeed a good few from overseas, patronize it, because it’s extremely well defended, and there is no way anyone could hack into it given the complexity of its password system. Take my own case by way of example. Someone would have to burgle my home, or that of my head nurse, and steal the password list, then decode it—we both k
eep it in cipher and we each invented our own and neither of us knows what the other’s is—and then try and convince the data-bank that he or she was myself or my head nurse. Which would not be easy. Besides, the traffic is strictly one-way. No one even at the data-bank can access our computers from outside… Hmm! I just remembered something! I wonder whether I can lay hands on it. It used to live in that file cabinet over there.”
Rising, she pulled open the cabinet’s bottom drawer. Claudia waited eagerly. In a moment the doctor exclaimed in satisfaction, producing an oblong box.
“That’s it! The videotape we used at Chinn-Wilkinson to convince doubtful would-be clients. You can play it before you leave. Of course it’s out of date to some extent, but the principles remain the same.”
“That would be most interesting!” Claudia breathed.
“And if your correspondent needs any further reassurance about the security of our records,” the doctor went on, turning to a shelf on which rested two keyboards and a shared monitor, “this will give you some idea of the standard we subscribe to.” She entered a quick command and the monitor lit. “It’s the ethical code of the International Association of Fertility Services, or ‘Yafs’ as we call it. Every reputable clinic in the field, not only in Europe but in North and South America, Australia, New Zealand, too—every reputable clinic adheres to it, and you can see how strict it is just by looking.”
Indeed it was both lengthy and detailed, and Claudia would not have dared to question its integrity. After watching it scroll slowly through three screenfuls, she murmured, “Again I have to say: most impressive. And reassuring, too. May I have a printout, or is it confidential?”
“Oh, the only confidential part is the one I’m not going to show you,” Dr. Grant said with a faint chuckle. “That’s the actual instructions to member clinics explaining how best to protect their records. By all means you can have a copy of the rest.”
“And is there a directory of the member clinics?”
“Of course. Would you like that as well? I’m sure you won’t want to limit your inquiries to one clinic, but I’m sufficiently proud of our services to imagine that you’ll want to feature us rather than the competition. However, I suspect you may want to visit one or two agencies that don’t belong to Yafs and don’t conduct themselves in such a—well—professional manner.”
“The directory would be invaluable,” Claudia said. “And if I hear of an agency that isn’t on the list I’ll treat it with due suspicion.”
“Precisely. Is there enough paper?”—glancing at a printer which reposed on a steel-framed stand at her right. “Oh yes, that should be plenty. This will only take a moment.”
The printer sprang into silent action, and the printout was ready within seconds. Dr. Grant handed it over with a smile.
“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. But do watch this tape before you go. There’s a VCR in the waiting room—on the left of the front door—and there’s no one in there at the moment. If you have any further questions, feel free to get in touch again.”
Accepting the tape, Claudia asked, not without a trace of malice, “Might I inquire, doctor, whether you have children of your own?”
“I carry the gene for cystic fibrosis,” was the answer.
“Oh! I’m sorry!”
“Don’t be. I’ve had years to resign myself to it. And I have an awful lot of godchildren, as it were. More than a hundred couples send me pictures of their kids every Christmas. They don’t half clutter up the drawing room… When the tape is over, my receptionist will show you out. Good afternoon!”
Later, it came as a severe blow to Claudia’s pride when Bernie dismissed the “Yafs” directory as something he had thought of accessing right at the beginning. At least, though, he was pleased to be told about the medical data-bank patronized by so many British fertility clinics, and promised to start hacking at it right away.
Without warning, the offerings at the gate had ceased…
In desperation Roy Crowder bought a couple of piglets and reared them on what sparse fodder his fields afforded, plus household scraps that would ordinarily have gone for compost. The dream he had once had of self-sufficiency, which he had spelt out spellbindingly to Tilly, had vanished under the impact of Garth’s never-ceasing demands. The boy seemed not to understand how much sheer time it took to scrape a living from this unforgiving land. Night and day he was avid for information, tools, materials, more information! A second mortgage had provided him with a computer and a phone line to link it with the outside world; now it looked as though it was going to take a third—impossible—to pay for the use he was making of it…
But his parents dared not refuse, for when he grew angry—! For the past week Tilly had been hobbling around with one leg wrapped in bandages from hip to knee because, dissatisfied with his evening meal, Garth had ordered her to spill a bowlful of boiling soup into her lap.
No. Not “ordered.” That was what, in the intervals of lucidity Roy achieved by driving to the nearby market-town, seemed so terrible. His son seldom descended now to overt commands. He merely suggested, in persuasive tones, and suddenly it seemed right to do as he requested, obligatory, unavoidable.
As today. The piglets were not nearly fat enough to fetch the price that Roy had had in mind, but Garth had declared that he must have more money, now. If he had come to town and worked his incomprehensible power of persuasion on intending buyers, things would have been far different.
But as it had turned out…
On his way home Roy found that he was crying. So blinded was he by his tears, he ran the ancient Citroën off the road at a sharp bend, and because there had been rain the night before and there was a heavy load in the back, the wheels sank into soft mud. Frantically he tried to dig them out and failed, and in the end realized he must trudge up the last few hundred yards of the track and face whatever horrors his son would conjure up as punishment.
“I would rather be dead,” he said to the air. “I would rather cut my throat and join my pigs.”
But he didn’t. Even though he carried a pocket-knife. He couldn’t bear the thought of what Garth might do to Tilly afterward.
“How much did you get for the pigs?” the boy demanded, not glancing away from his computer screen.
“They’re in the back of the car.”
“I told you to sell them!” Now Garth did swing around, his face a mask of fury. “Why the hell didn’t you?”
“Nobody would touch ‘em. Nobody wants pork since they found AIDS in—”
“You bloody fool! Who the hell could possibly imagine you buggering them? I don’t suppose you can bloody get it up any more, not even for a pig!”
“Not me,” Roy said, slumping into a wooden chair. Of a sudden he seemed to have discovered fresh inner resources. Perhaps they were due to absolute despair. “You.”
“What?” Garth erupted from his seat and advanced threateningly.
Cheeks still wet with tears, Roy Crowder raised his head and looked his son straight in the eyes. “You heard what I said,” he forced out. “When I found no one would buy them I was going to put them back in the car so even if we had to sacrifice our principles we might at least eat the meat off them, and maybe use the skin. They say you can use all a pig except the squeal…”
“And—?” Garth was leaning over him now, teeth bared.
“Half a dozen men came after me. I didn’t recognize any of them. They had nylon stockings over their faces, coats made of old sacks to hide their clothes. They cut their throats. Flooded the road with blood. Told me not to come to market any more. Said they’ve found out how you get your power—by fucking animals! It’s one of the things witches and magicians do, one of the ancient rites!”
He was on his feet without intention, face whiter than paper and gleaming with sweat. In that instant he would cheerfully have killed his son.
“Roy?” Tilly called anxiously; she had been in the kitchen garden trying to scrabble up
enough potatoes for their supper. Basket under her arm, she limped in through the back door, and halted in terror on the threshold.
There was a dead pause. Then, making a gallant attempt to maintain her usual pretense that all was normal, she said, “I didn’t hear you drive up.”
“I didn’t. Car’s stuck in mud, halfway down the lane.”
“So, you stupid son-of-a-bitch, you’ve cost us our car as well as our pigs!” Garth was beside himself with fury now. “What I ought to do to you—”
“Hello?”
The voice was the familiar one of Mr. Youngman. With an oath the boy swung to face the door.
I thought I’d cured the bastard of his habit of calling here without warning or permission!
Lately it had seemed unimportant to persuade the authorities that he was being properly educated. Besides, it wasted a lot of time and effort.
Here he was, though, advancing into the kitchen. His face was wax-pale and his hands were tightly locked in front of him as though to stop them shaking. His posture communicated, clear as words: I know you don’t want me to come in, but I must.
Garth felt a dreadful tightening in his chest. By what means had this ineffectual frustrated teacher summoned up such courage? After so long, he must be aware of the risk he was running. He might never have admitted it to himself, but he must realize what power Garth exerted over adults—
And then another boy appeared in the frame of the door.
Not as tall as Garth, but exuding confidence. Expensively dressed, his fashionable—American—shoes stained with mud, but otherwise as smart as though he had been walking city pavement, not a puddly lane.
The tightness in Garth’s chest became agonizing. He had to fumble his way to a chair and sit down. From the corner of his eye he saw his parents exchanging glances pregnant with wild hope.
