Baby Is Three (44 page)

Lucinda clasped her hands in a slow, controlled way, as if one of them planned to immobilize the other and thereby keep both occupied.

“And is there any substance … I’m still asking hypothetical questions, you understand—is there anything which could be added to the hydrogen fusion reaction which might bring about these—these new cycles in women?”

“They are not new cycles,” said the doctor flatly. “They are as old as the development of warm-blooded animals. The lack of them is, in biological terms, a very recent development in an atypical mammal; so recent and so small that it is subject to adjustment. As to your hypothetical question”—he smiled—“I should judge that such an effect is perfectly possible. Within the extremes of temperature, pressure, and radiation which take place in a fusion reaction, many things are possible. A minute quantity of certain alloys, for example, introduced into the shell of the bomb itself, or perhaps in the structure of a supporting tower or even a nearby temporary shed, might key a number of phenomenal reaction chains. Such a chain might go through several phases and result in certain subtle isotopic alterations in one of the atmosphere’s otherwise inert gases, say xenon. And this isotope, acting upon the adrenal cortex and the parathyroid, which are instrumental in controlling certain cycles in the human body, might very readily bring about the effect we are discussing in an atypical species.”

Lucinda threw up her hands and turned to Jenny. “Then that’s it,” she said wearily.

“What’s ‘it’? What? I don’t understand,” whimpered Jenny. “What’s he done, Lucinda?”

“In his nasty, cold-blooded hypothetical way,” said Lucinda, “he has put something in or near an H-bomb which was tested today, which is going to have some effect on the air we breathe, which is going to do what we were discussing at your house.”

“Dr. Lefferts,” said Jenny piteously. She went to him, stood looking down at him as he sat primly in his big easy chair. “Why—
why?
Just to annoy us? Just to keep us from having a little, petty influence over you?”

“By no means,” said the doctor. “I will admit that I might have turned my ambition to the matter for such reasons. But some concentrated thought brought up a number of extrapolations which are by no means petty.”

He rose and stood by the mantel, pince-nez in hand, the perfect picture of the Pedant At Home. “Consider,” he said.
“Homo sapiens
, in terms of comparative anatomy, should mature physically at 35 and emotionally between 30 and 40. He should have a life expectancy of between 150 and 200 years. And he unquestionably should be able to live a life uncluttered by such insistent trifles as clothing conventions, unfunctional chivalries, psychic turmoils and dangerous mental and physical escapes into what the psychologists call romances. Women should phase their sexual cycles with those of the seasons, gestate their young longer, and eliminate the unpredictable nature of their psycho-sexual appetites—the very basis of all their insecurity and therefore that of most men. Women will not be chained to these cycles, Jenny, and become breeding machines, if that’s what you fear. You will begin to live in and with these cycles as you live with a wellmade and serviced automatic machine. You will be liberated from the constant control and direction of your somatic existence as you have been liberated from shifting gears in your car.”

“But … we’re not conditioned for such a change!” blazed Lucinda. “And what of the fashion industry … cosmetics … the entertainment world … what’s going to become of these and the millions of people employed by them, and the people dependent on all those people, if you do a thing like this?”

“The thing is done. As for these people …” He paused, “Yes, there will be some disturbance. A considerable one. But in overall historical terms, it will be slight and it will be brief. I like to think that the television serviceman is one who was liberated by the cotton gin and the power loom.”

“It’s … hard to think in historical terms just now,” said Lucinda. “Jenny, come on.”

“Where are you going?”

She faced him, her blued-steel eyes blazing. “Away from you. And I—I think I have a warning to give to the women.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said dryly. “They’ll find out in time. All you’ll succeed in doing is to alert many women to the fact that they will be unattractive to their husbands at times when other women may seem more desirable. Women will not unite with one another, my dear, even to unite against men.”

There was a tense pause. Then Jenny quavered, “How long did you say this—this thing will take?”

“I did not say. I would judge between thirty-six and forty-eight hours.”

“I’ve got to get home.”

“May I come with you?” asked Lucinda.

Jenny looked at her, her full face, her ample, controlled body. A surprising series of emotions chased themselves across her young face. She said, “I don’t think … I mean … no, not tonight; I have to—to—goodnight, Lucinda.”

When she had gone, the doctor uttered one of his rare chuckles. “She has absorbed perhaps a tenth of this whole concept,” he said, “but until she’s sure of herself she’s not going to let you or any woman near her husband.”

“You … you complacent
pig!”
said Lucinda whitely. She stormed upstairs.

“Hello … hello—Jenny?”

“Lucinda! I’m—glad you called.”

Something cold and tense deep inside Lucinda relaxed. She sat down slowly on the couch, leaned back comfortably with the telephone cradled between her cheek and her wide soft shoulder. “I’m glad you’re glad, Jenny darling. It’s been six weeks … how are you?”

“I’m … all right now. It was pretty awful for a while, not knowing how it would be, waiting for it to happen. And when it did happen, it was hard to get used to. But it hasn’t changed things
too
much. How about you?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” said Lucinda. She smiled slowly, touched her tongue to her full lower lip. “Jenny, have you told anyone?”

“Not a soul. Not even Bob. I think he’s a little bewildered. He thinks I’m being very … understanding. Lucinda, is it wrong for me to let him think that?”

“It’s never wrong for a woman to keep her knowledge to herself if it makes her more attractive,” said Lucinda, and smiled again.

“How’s Dr. Lefferts?”

“He’s bewildered too. I suppose I’ve been a little … understanding too.” She chuckled.

Over the phone she heard Jenny’s answering laughter. “The poor things,” she said. “The poor, poor things. Lucinda—”

“Yes, honey?”

“I know how to handle this, now. But I don’t really understand it. Do you?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“How can it be, then? How can this change in us affect men that way? I thought
we
would be the ones who would be turned off and on like a neon sign.”

“What?
Now wait a minute, Jenny! You mean you don’t realize what’s happened?”

“That’s just what I said. How could such a change in women do such a thing to the men?”

“Jenny, I think you’re wonderful, wonderful, wonderful,” breathed Lucinda. “As a matter of fact, I think women are wonderful. I suddenly realized that you haven’t the foggiest notion of what’s happened, yet you’ve taken it in stride and used it
exactly
right!”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Jenny, do you feel any difference in yourself?”

“Why, no. All the difference is in Bob. That’s what I—”

“Honey, there
isn’t
any difference in you, nor in me, nor in any other woman. For the very first time in his scientific life, the great man made an error in his calculations.”

There was a silence for a time, and then the telephone uttered a soft, delighted, long-drawn-out “Oh-h-h-h-h …”

Lucinda said, “He’s sure that in the long run it will have all the benefits he described—the longer life expectancy, the subduing of insecurities, the streamlining of our manners and customs.”

“You mean that all men from now on will …”

“I mean that for about twelve days in every two weeks, men can’t do anything with us, which is restful. And for forty-eight hours they can’t do anything without us, which is”—she laughed—“useful. It would seem that
homo sapiens
is still an atypical mammal.”

Jenny’s voice was awed. “And I thought we were going to lose the battle of the sexes. Bob brings me little presents every single day, Lucinda!”

“He’d better. Jenny, put down that phone and come over here. I want to hug you. And”—she glanced over at the hall closet, where hung the symbol of her triumph—“I want to show you my new fur coat.”

B
UDGIE SLID INTO
the laboratory without knocking, as usual.

She was flushed and breathless, her eyes bright with speed and eagerness. “Whatcha got, Muley?”

Muhlenberg kicked the morgue door shut before Budgie could get in line with it. “Nothing,” he said flatly, “and of all the people I don’t want to see—and at the moment that means all the people there are—you head the list. Go away.”

Budgie pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into an oversized shoulder-bag, which she hurled across the laboratory onto a work-surface. “Come on, Muley. I saw the meat-wagon outside. I know what it brought, too. That double murder in the park. Al told me.”

“Al’s jaw is one that needs more tying up than any of the stiffs he taxis around,” said Muhlenberg bitterly. “Well, you’re not getting near this pair.”

She came over to him, stood very close. In spite of his annoyance, he couldn’t help noticing how soft and full her lips were just then.
Just then—
and the sudden realization added to the annoyance. He had known for a long time that Budgie could turn on mechanisms that made every one of a man’s ductless glands purse up its lips and blow like a trumpet. Every time he felt it he hated himself. “Get away from me,” he growled. “It won’t work.”

“What won’t, Muley?” she murmured.

Muhlenberg looked her straight in the eye and said something about his preference for raw liver over Budgie-times-twelve.

The softness went out of her lips, to be replaced by no particular hardness. She simply laughed good-naturedly. “All right, you’re immune. I’ll try logic.”

“Nothing will work,” he said. “You will not get in there to see
those two, and you’ll get no details from me for any of that
couche-con-carne
stew you call a newspaper story.”

“Okay,” she said surprisingly. She crossed the lab and picked up her handbag. She found a glove and began to pull it on. “Sorry I interrupted you, Muley. I do get the idea. You want to be alone.”

His jaw was too slack to enunciate an answer. He watched her go out, watched the door close, watched it open again, heard her say in a very hurt tone, “But I do think you could tell me
why
you won’t say anything about this murder.”

He scratched his head. “As long as you behave yourself, I guess I do owe you that.” He thought for a moment. “It’s not your kind of a story. That’s about the best way to put it.”

“Not my kind of a story? A double murder in Lover’s Lane? The maudlin mystery of the mugger, or mayhem in Maytime? No kidding, Muley—you’re not serious!”

“Budgie, this one isn’t for fun. It’s ugly. Very
damn
ugly. And it’s serious. It’s mysterious for a number of other reasons than the ones you want to siphon into your readers.”

“What other reasons?”

“Medically. Biologically. Sociologically.”

“My stories got biology. Sociology they got likewise; stodgy truisms about social trends is the way I dish up sex in the public prints, or didn’t you know? So—that leaves medical. What’s so strange medically about this case?”

“Good night, Budgie.”

“Come on, Muley. You can’t horrify
me.”

“That I know. You’ve trod more primrose pathology in your research than Krafft-Ebing plus eleven comic books. No, Budgie. No more.”

“Dr. F.L. Muhlenberg, brilliant young biologist and special medical consultant to the City and State Police, intimated that these aspects of the case—the brutal murder and disfigurement of the embarrassed couple—were superficial compared with the unspeakable facts behind them. ‘Medically mysterious,’ he was quoted as saying.” She twinkled
at him. “How’s that sound?” She looked at her watch. “And I can make the early editions, too, with a head. Something like DOC SHOCKED SPEECHLESS—and a subhead: Lab Sleuth Suppresses Medical Details of Double Park Killing. Yeah, and your picture.”

“If you dare to print anything of the sort,” he raged, “I’ll—”

“All right, all right,” she said conciliatingly. “I won’t. I really won’t.”

“Promise me?”

“I promise, Muley … 
if—
”

“Why should I bargain?” he demanded suddenly. “Get out of here.”

He began to close the door. “And something for the editorial page,” she said. “Is a doctor within his rights in suppressing information concerning a murderous maniac and his methods?” She closed the door.

Muhlenberg bit his lower lip so hard he all but yelped. He ran to the door and snatched it open. “Wait!”

Budgie was leaning against the doorpost lighting a cigarette. “I
was
waiting,” she said reasonably.

“Come in here,” he grated. He snatched her arm and whirled her inside, slamming the door.

“You’re a brute,” she said rubbing her arm and smiling dazzlingly.

“The only way to muzzle you is to tell the whole story. Right?”

“Right. If I get an exclusive when you’re ready to break the story.”

“There’s probably a kicker in that, too,” he said morosely. He glared at her. Then, “Sit down,” he said.

She did. “I’m all yours.”

“Don’t change the subject,” he said with a ghost of his natural humor. He lit a thoughtful cigarette. “What do you know about this case so far?”

“Too little,” she said. “This couple were having a conversation without words in the park when some muggers jumped them and killed them, a little more gruesomely than usual. But instead of being delivered to the city morgue, they were brought straight to you on the orders of the ambulance interne after one quick look.”

“How did you know about it?”