Cynda Elizabeth sighed. It was a flawless analysis; the only trouble with it was that it was wrong. And it was wrong for reasons that Cynda dared not mention to Bara Dorothy or anyone else.
It was wrong because Bara Dorothy had never gotten it off with a Pacifican man. She still thought of Pacifican men as local versions of Terran breeders or worse—atavistic machos for the moment, easily convertible to tame mano breeders once the Pacifican sisters fully seized power. And even Cynda’s three secret assignations with Eric had shown her how simplistic that view was, how circumscribed by a strange sort of historical chauvinism.
Oh, all the macho tendencies were there in the nakedness of the night; that was graven in the male genes here as elsewhere. How could a creature whose greatest pleasure came from thrusting a hard piercer into a soft receptive flower fail to sync into a posture of sexual dominance when flesh met flesh, unless he had been conditioned against the natural geometric congruencies for generations? But this same Pacifican male as often as not could work under a female superior, vote for a female Delegate or even Chairman, and form a stable relationship with a socially and economically superior sister without resentment. An atavistic macho when piercer met flower, he was something else again when mind met mind. And this was the natural order that Pacifican women enjoyed.
And though Cynda trembled when she thought about it, it was not hard to think of this arrangement as something beyond faschochauvinism or Femocrat doctrine when her own body flowed so easily into the Pacifican mode. I like having his piercer plunging deep inside me, she thought. I even like sucking it—even though I’ve been conditioned to think of it as perverted and politically regressive.
How much stronger, then, was the sexual bond that linked Pacifican sisters to their men? Didn’t they have all the pleasure of the macho piercer without the pain? Weren’t Pacifican men and women linked by something beyond mere faschochauvinist dominance patterns?
Wasn’t this “Madigan Plan” really a “Madigan-Lind-blad Plan?” Eric was quite an ordinary man—what must it be like for Carlotta Madigan and a man like Royce Lindblad? Bodies linked piercer to flower as in the atavistic past, but minds linked together as near-equals. Almost as sister-to-sisterJ
“Well, Cynda?” Bara Dorothy said coldly. “Do you want to register any further objections?” ,
“I’ve got to admit that your logic is irrefutable, Bara,” Cynda said wanly. How could you ever understand, Bara? she thought. Never having felt a man atop you, his piercer plunging into your depths? How could you ever understand that the sisters of this planet want that even while they’re demonstrating for Femocracy? Without having felt it yourself, how could you ever understand that a piercer in your flower, the way it’s supposed to be, is as strong as ever Sisterhood was? That what Pacifican women want most is precisely what they had before we or the Heisenberg ever came to this planet—their men the way they were!
Roger snapped off the net console and began pacing in small circles around the living room of their Gotham hotel suite. “So the Femocrats are against the Madigan Plan, are they?” he muttered. “So Cynda Elizabeth is going to address Parliament before the vote, is she?” Maria Falkenstein had never seen her husband this agitated before. And over what?
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Isn’t passage of the Madigan Plan a foregone conclusion? Isn’t it to our advantage?”
Roger came to rest nervously on an arm of the couch on which she sat. “Yes, it’s a foregone conclusion,” he said. “No, it’s not what we want.”
“Why not? We’ll get to set up our Institute.”
“Yes, my dear, but on a temporary basis under constant Femocrat media pressure. If we had been able to force an immediate vote on a permanent Institute, we had a good chance of winning it. Thanks to the Femocrats, the buckos were solidly behind us, and they probably would have swung enough female votes to squeak us through. But this.... now we’ll have to win a vote six months from now under radically altered conditions.”
“But once we’ve had an opportunity to show this planet what an Institute can mean—”
“To be sure,” Roger said. “But the problem is that this trial period is going to present us with a dreadful paradox.”
“I just don’t see that. .
Roger studied her in a most peculiar manner, almost as if he were debating something within himself, holding something back that he feared to tell her.
“Come on, Roger,” Maria said uneasily. “Are we keeping secrets from each other now?”
Roger sighed. He slumped forward. After a moment, he sat down on the couch beside her. “Security versus political pragmatism...” he said hesitantly. “The Femocrats are opposing the Madigan Plan on the grounds that the Institute will be a training academy for a male faschochauvinist elite, and they’re going to attack us and our Pacifican supporters on that basis for the next six months.”
“So?”
Roger stared down at the plush blue rug. “So under this Madigan Plan, we’re going to have to risk giving them evidence that would substantiate that charge,” he said quietly. “For unavoidable security reasons...
“What?”
“I said—”
“I know what you said. But what are you talking about?” “Consider the situation,” Roger said, distancing himself into his cold lecturing mode. “An Institute disseminating advanced knowledge coexisting with a highly active Femo-crat mission on the planet in an unstable political situation. A horrendous security problem. Obviously, we must make absolutely certain that every single Pacifican student totally understands the peril of allowing our advanced knowledge to filter into the hands of anyone who is not a dedicated Transcendental Scientist willingly and unquestioningly accepting total Institute discipline.”
“I still don’t see—”
“No Pacifican women may be admitted as Institute students,” Roger said, suddenly staring her full in the face. “We’ll sprinkle in a few women off the Heisenberg among the student body for appearances* sake, but we cannot allow—”
“What? That’s the most—” x
“Further,” Roger said loudly, cutting her off, “the entrance screening, even for the men, must be incredibly rigorous, and even then they must be given psyconditioning and continuous depth-reinforcing, and be thoroughly monitored for a considerable period before they’re allowed to learn anything of technological significance.” He smiled ruefully at her. “You may now call me a deceitful faschochauvinist bastard,” he said.
“After what you’ve just said, that would be totally redundant,” Maria said icily. “I might, however, add ‘disgusting’ to your list of mea culpas. I might also add that as a female Institute graduate, I find it personally insulting.”
“Maria, Maria...oger crooned, trying to place a hand on her knee. Maria angrily pulled away. “Don’t you see that this has nothing to do with you or any female Institute graduate—”
“Who of course are legion!” Maria snarled sarcastically.
“Exactly the sort of female emotionalism that proves the point!” Roger snapped. He paused. He sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, “that was uncalled for. But you must understand, Maria. The women of this planet are and will be under tremendous Femocratic pressure, and the psycho-sexual balance is skewed abnormally toward female dominance in the first place. One female Institute graduate won over to Femocracy, just one, and what will we have? Cloning or the black-hole drive or advanced genetic engineering techniques in the hands of Femocracy? Choose your own nightmare! Call it faschochauvinism if you must, but we simply can’t afford to take the risk.”
Roger shrugged and threw up his hands. “That’s why I must speak out against the Madigan Plan in Parliament in the strongest possible terms. That’s why I must warn the planet that the Femocrats are ruthless Machiavellian meddlers who would not hesitate to tell the most outrageous lie in the service of their pathological ideology and should therefore be banished at once.” He sighed. “Not because I believe I can influence the v
ote, but to help destroy their credibility beforehand in case—”
“In case they should happen to find out what’s going on and tell Pacifica the truth!”
“Precisely,” Roger said. He smiled warmly at her. “You do understand!”
Maria sighed, and all her righteous anger whooshed out of her with it. For despite the loathsomeness of what Roger had told her, the cold, hard political logic of it was inescapable. The Femocrats would be no more troubled by scruples or moral doubts than Roger or the Arkmind itself. It was the logical, scientifically sound, fail-safe policy to follow. Anything else would indeed be “female emotionalism.”
Or perhaps, just perhaps, something that transcended both scientific logic and female emotionalism. Mutual trust, an organic sense of oneness between men and women, the body politic and the private psyche, which if it failed would be called folly, but which if it prevailed must surely be called wisdom. Something that, left to their own devices, these strange Pacificans might actually have, she thought. Something that we with all our advanced knowledge have not yet been able to program into an Arkmind.
“Yes, I understand, Roger,” she said. “But there are times I wish I didn’t”
The high curving sweep of the visitors’ gallery was jammed with more people than Carlotta Madigan had ever seen at a Parliamentary session before. Every seat was filled, and solid masses of people stood in every available aisle space. The media booth behind her was crammed with cameras, and every single Delegate was there in the flesh. Everyone wrho could be here in the flesh was here, and she doubted that there was a single adult on the planet who was not plugged in electronically. As a political act, the vote on the Madigan Plan would be anticlimax, but as a media circus this session would probably draw the highest rating in Pacifican history.
The reasons sat in temporary seats at either side of her: Roger Falkenstein and Cynda Elizabeth, together in the same room for the first time, in the Parliamentary chamber itself, studiously ignoring each other’s existence. In the right front row of the visitors’ seats, Maria Falkenstein sat with a small delegation from the Heisenberg, and sixty degrees around the curve of the row sat a grim phalanx of Femocrats in identical severe blue tunics. The tension in the chamber was so high that you could all but smell the ozone in the air.
The audience had been eerily quiet during the perfunctory Parliamentary debate on the Madigan Plan. The main event would be the speeches of Falkenstein and Cynda Elizabeth; all else was meaningless tedium in this perspective, and even the Delegates acknowledged it. Only five of them had bothered to ask for the floor, and their speeches were short pro forma endorsements of the Madigan Plan, which were received with bored indifference. Partly this lack of real debate was the realization that everyone was waiting for the main event, that the planetary audience was in no mood for political-speeches-as-usual.
But partly, Carlotta thought, it’s because no Delegate wants to take a stand on the real issuses if it can possibly be avoided. With the exception of the delegation from the Cords, every Delegate, male or female, had to face a constituency that was more or less evenly divided between men and women; a strong public stand either way would cost as many potential votes as it would gain, and that was the major reason why the Madigan Plan was assured of overwhelming passage. A neutral vote for the Madigan Plan might not arouse fervent support in any Delegate’s district, but it wouldn’t turn half their constituency against them either. Which was why Falkenstein’s and Cynda Elizabeth’s speeches would be strictly for show. This decision, at least, was entirely in Pacifican hands; the off-worlders could change nothing.
“Well let’s get on to the main event,” Carlotta said. “Both Cynda Elizabeth and Dr. Falkenstein have asked ,
to briefly address this body. Cynda Elizabeth will speak first. Not, I hasten to add, because of the principle of ladies first We tossed a coin.”
A ripple of nervous laughter swept the chamber, undertoned by a rather ominous rumble. It guttered away into silence as Cynda Elizabeth rose, looking, strangely enough, more like a nervous schoolgirl than a fanatic firebrand.
“You will be shortly voting on a proposal that would allow our mission to remain on your planet for six months while permitting an Institute of Transcendental Science to function on a trial basis for the same period,” she said in a thin hesitant voice. “We gratefully accept the invitation extended to us and we intend to accept it, come what may. But we must in all conscience oppose the legislation currently before you and urge its rejection.”
She paused as if waiting for a reaction. When none came, she continued in a higher-pitched and louder tone of voice which seemed to Carlotta to be a mere simulacrum of heightened emotion. “This plan equates free media access for Femocratic principles with the functioning of an Institute of Transcendental Science as if they were somehow mathematical equivalents in a balanced democratic equation. And they are not!! Such a proposition insults Femocracy, insults Pacifican women, and ultimately outrages the principle of free political decisions freely arrived at which this planet professes to hold sacred!” There was a scattering of loud lonely applause from the Femocrat section and a few fanatic supporters in the gallery. When it quickly died of embarrassment, Cynda Elizabeth lowered her voice to a more reasoned tone, but that, too, seemed like a scripted bit of mechanical business.
“Femocracy has operated and will continue to operate entirely in the open on Pacifica. What we have to say, we say openly on the net, under the same constitutional provision that protects all free discourse on your planet. And that is all we intend to do. Any political or social change which our presence here may effect will be entirely the result of ideas we have openly put forth for your own consideration...
Her voice rose again for dramatic emphasis as she shot a scornful glance at Falkenstein, who stared straight ahead with a perfectly blank expression. “A functioning Institute of Transcendental Science, on the other hand, will be an instrument of ruthless, covert, faschochauvinist, undemocratic subversion! It will operate as a state within a state. It will choose its Pacifican student body according to its own secret parameters, and it will not hesitate to use secret mind-control techniques. The result will be a small elite of faschochauvinist agents possessed of advanced scientific knowledge and dedicated to the service of an expansionist ideology determined to expunge your way of life and replace it with a faschochauvinist puppet-regime controlled by Transcendental Science. It has happened on every planet which has allowed these creatures a foothold. Do you think it can’t happen here? Vote down this proposal! Save your planet for yourselves! If you don’t, you won’t be able to say we didn’t warn you!”
A peculiarly unfocused sound reverberated from the visitors’ gallery. The Femocrat delegation was on its feet trying to lead the cheering and applause. Applause there was, and a scattering of boos, too, but also a snarling undercurrent of rumbled indignation and outraged pride. It seemed a somewhat insulting speech to Carlotta, especially toward the end, and a rather wooden performance. Her eyes chanced to fall on Maria Falkenstein, who sat statue-still, staring blankly at God-knew-what with a strange stricken expression on her face, almost as if this mediocre speech had touched some secret Femocrat inside her.
“Dr. Falkenstein?” Carlotta said, after the equivocal audience reaction had died away. Falkenstein rose slowly and dramatically to his feet, a thin sardonic smile creasing his lips, somehow totally in command before he even opened his mouth.
“I’m afraid I must oppose this proposal, too,” he said with an easy ruefulness that seemed expertly designed to establish instant rapport with the great electronic audience. He shrugged. “I had worked out such a marvelous speech explaining why, too. But I’ve been totally upstaged by my worthy opponent” He favored Cynda Elizabeth with a witheringly patronizing smile.
“After what you’ve just heard, I’m afraid that any further explanation on my part would be totally redundant. Were I great Shakespeare himself could I draw with words a more cogent argument for
expelling Femocracy from your planet forthwith than this farrago of bile, pathology, and outright lies which it has just been your displeasure to witness?”
Falkenstein paused to let the rumble of audience reaction wash over him, and when he spoke again, the rueful sarcasm and easy counterpunching was gone, and his voice was steel-hard and gleaming, his eyes burning directly into the cameras.
“I don’t know about you, but if I hear the word fascho-chauvinist one more time, I will probably vomit from boredom. If this planet must continue to be showered with intellectually vapid invective, can’t we have some variety? Might I suggest swine? Beast? Motherfucker? Or that secret swear-word they love to keep to themselves— breeder? It all amounts to the same shrill mindless man-hating scream of ‘Fuck You,’ anyway!”
Boos, cheers, hisses, raucous laughter.
“And aside from shrieking their sexually twisted frustrated rage at the top of their lungs, what does Femocracy offer this planet but a splendid thesaurus of Machiavellian distortions and bald-faced lies? Femocracy operates entirely in the open on Pacifica? Then how did the Femo-cratic League of Pacifica spring into existence overnight? Spontaneous combustion, no doubt! Femocracy seeks only to engage in free intellectual discourse? Then what about what they’ve done to men on their own planets? Their breeders, as they call them—a handful of genetically downbred wretches kept in cages like animals and subject to unspeakable atrocities...
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