"But not often enough. If we don't constantly renew and review our goals, we are going to start down a one-way road. Once genetic traits have been discarded they are gone forever. In a way the team in San Diego New City have an easier job. They have a specific goal. They are out to build new breeds of men, specific types for different environments. Like the spacemen who can live without physical or mental breakdowns during the decade-long trips to the outer planets. Or the low-temperature- and low-pressure-resistant types for Mars settlers. They can discard genes ruthlessly and aim for a clear and well-established goal. We simply aim to improve — and what a vague ambition that is. But while we are making this new race of supermen what will we lose? Will new-man be pink, and if so, what has happened to the Oriental and the Negro—"
"For God's sake, Livermore, let us not start on that again," Sturtevant shouted. "We have fixed charts, rules, regulations, everything carefully mapped out for all the operations."
"I said you had no real knowledge of genetics and that proves it once again. You simply can't get it through your head that genetic selection does not work that way. With each selection the game starts completely over again. As they say in the historical 3V's, it's a brand-new ball game. The entire world is born anew with every child."
"I think you tend to overdramatize," Catherine Ruffin said stolidly.
"Not in the slightest. Genes are not bricks. We can't use them to build a desired structure to order. We just aim for optimum, then see what we have and try again. No directives can lay down the details of every choice or control every random combination. Every technician is a small god, making real decisions of life and death. And some of these decisions are questionable in the long run."
"Impossible," Sturtevant said, and Catherine Ruffin nodded agreement.
"No, it's just going to be very expensive. We must find a closer examination of every change made and get some predictions of where we are going."
"You are out of order, Dr. Livermore," Catherine Ruffin broke in. "Your proposal has been made in the past, a budget forecast was estimated, and the entire matter was then turned down because of cost. This was not our decision you will recall, but came down from Genguidecounchief. We accomplish nothing by raking over these well-raked coals yet another time. There is new business we must consider that I wish to place before this council."
Livermore had the beginnings of a headache, and he fumbled a pill from the carrier in his pocket. The other two were talking, and he paid them no attention at all.
When Leatha Crabb hung up the phone after talking with Dr. Livermore, she felt as though she wanted to cry. She had been working long hours for weeks and not getting enough sleep. Her eyes stung, and she was a little ashamed of this unaccustomed weakness: she was the sort of person who simply did not cry, woman or no. But seventeen bottle failures, seventeen deaths. Seventeen tiny lives snuffed out before they had barely begun to live. It hurt, almost as though they had been real children.
"So small you can't hardly see it," Veazy said. The laboratory assistant held one of the disconnected bottles up to the light and gave it a shake to swish the liquid about inside it. "You sure it's dead?"
"Stop that!" Leatha snapped, then curbed her temper: she had always prided herself on the way that she treated those who worked beneath her. "Yes, they are all dead, I've checked that. Decant, freeze, and label them. I'll want to do examinations later."
Veazy nodded and took the bottle away. She wondered what had possessed her thinking of them as lives, children. She must be tired. They were groups of growing cells with no more personality than the cells grouped in the wart on the back of her hand. She rubbed at it, reminding herself again that she ought to have it taken care of. A handsome, well-formed girl in her early thirties, with hair the color of honey and tanned skin to match. But her hair was cropped short, close to her head, and she wore not the slightest trace of makeup, while the richness of her figure was lost in the heavy folds of her white laboratory smock. She was too young for it, but a line of worry was already beginning to form between her eyes. When she bent over her microscope, peering at the stained slide, the furrow deepened.
The bottle failures troubled her, deeply, more than she liked to admit. The program had gone so well the past few years that she was beginning to take it for granted, already looking ahead to the genetic possibilities of the second generation. It took a decided effort to forget all this and turn back to the simple mechanical problems of ectogenesis.
Strong arms wrapped about her from behind; the hands pressed firmly against the roundness of her body below the waist; hard lips kissed the nape of her neck.
