one of the rules.”
“Does the skin itch?”
“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t wear it. You hardly notice it’s on.”
“It’s to protect you from pollutants, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t men at risk from these pollutants?”
“Skins are expensive. Women have to save up for them, and get loans.” A shadow-moe of guilt strummed. She changed the subject. “Did they give you one of those pills? To make you mating-ready?”
“They’re handed out every night. But I hid it under my tongue again. They didn’t bother checking if I swallowed. They think we don’t notice what happens to men who take their pills year after year. They think we’re not capable of working it out.”
“Don’t be cross. I don’t distribute those pills.”
He didn’t reply.
“Ask me a question. I seem to do all the asking,” she went on.
“Why do you call us meets? Why not men?”
“It’s just a word. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Doesn’t it? We have a name for you, too.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you another time.”
“Tell me now.”
“Is that an order?”
“I’m not ordering you to do anything, Harper. I couldn’t.”
“Machines. As in time to oil the machines. It’s what we say when mating time approaches.”
Constance felt demeaned: an all-out moe. She’d had enough – she was going to leave right now. She stepped into her pumps, fingers sliding round the backs of her heels. “Do you call me that in front of the others?”
“I wouldn’t do that. You must trust me.” Deliberately, he batted back the words she’d used earlier.
Rubbing her thumb against the crystal ball in her hand, she wondered about activating it so that she could leave. But she didn’t. Slowly, she sat back down. This man had a knack for stinging her. Yet she still wanted to talk with him. Quietly, she said, “We were interrupted last night. You were just about to tell me about the waterfall in your forest. I’d like to hear about it now, if you’d like to tell me.”
He waited for a few beats, and she thought he might not cooperate. But then he began to describe the frothing torrent and the awe it inspired, and companionship took the place of tension.
Until a bell rang inside the cube. And he stopped in mid-sentence.
Their time was up too soon. Constance looked at Harper. He had a mole on his left cheek, which she felt an impulse to touch. Did he want to touch her, too? She couldn’t tell.
“ Your two hours are up ,” said the automated voice.
“Till tomorrow, Constance?” he mouthed.
It was the first time he’d used her name. She realised she’d been wanting to hear it in his mouth.
And that question in his voice. Maybe he wanted her to come again. As the door creaked open, she sent a smile sailing towards him. Even if he couldn’t see it, she hoped he could sense it.
In the respite room, Constance looked for Benevolence. A page told her she was in a cubicle. When Constance tried to get in, she found the way barred by Humility, one of Charity’s helpers.
“Please,” she said, “I won’t tire her out. I just want to check she’s all right.”
“You can only have a minute,” said Humility.
Benevolence looked wan, but she seemed calm as she sat on a pop-up with her back to the wall, drinking tea from a pottery cup. Constance sat beside her, and accepted a cup. She couldn’t identify the flavour. Wood bark, perhaps? It tasted gritty.
“Before you ask, it’s evening-primrose tea,” said Benevolence. “Supposed to help boost fertility. And it has soothing properties. Apparently, wine overstimulates me. Who knew tea could deliver so much?”
“It doesn’t taste of any kind of flower, especially not primrose.”
“It tastes of pee. But the Mating Mother thinks I ought to drink it, and who am I to argue?” She rolled the pottery container between her hands. “So, mission accomplished in the mating cube?”
Constance lowered her eyes. Twice in a mating cube,
“Does the skin itch?”
“I can’t remember a time when I didn’t wear it. You hardly notice it’s on.”
“It’s to protect you from pollutants, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t men at risk from these pollutants?”
“Skins are expensive. Women have to save up for them, and get loans.” A shadow-moe of guilt strummed. She changed the subject. “Did they give you one of those pills? To make you mating-ready?”
“They’re handed out every night. But I hid it under my tongue again. They didn’t bother checking if I swallowed. They think we don’t notice what happens to men who take their pills year after year. They think we’re not capable of working it out.”
“Don’t be cross. I don’t distribute those pills.”
He didn’t reply.
“Ask me a question. I seem to do all the asking,” she went on.
“Why do you call us meets? Why not men?”
“It’s just a word. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Doesn’t it? We have a name for you, too.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you another time.”
“Tell me now.”
“Is that an order?”
“I’m not ordering you to do anything, Harper. I couldn’t.”
“Machines. As in time to oil the machines. It’s what we say when mating time approaches.”
Constance felt demeaned: an all-out moe. She’d had enough – she was going to leave right now. She stepped into her pumps, fingers sliding round the backs of her heels. “Do you call me that in front of the others?”
“I wouldn’t do that. You must trust me.” Deliberately, he batted back the words she’d used earlier.
Rubbing her thumb against the crystal ball in her hand, she wondered about activating it so that she could leave. But she didn’t. Slowly, she sat back down. This man had a knack for stinging her. Yet she still wanted to talk with him. Quietly, she said, “We were interrupted last night. You were just about to tell me about the waterfall in your forest. I’d like to hear about it now, if you’d like to tell me.”
He waited for a few beats, and she thought he might not cooperate. But then he began to describe the frothing torrent and the awe it inspired, and companionship took the place of tension.
Until a bell rang inside the cube. And he stopped in mid-sentence.
Their time was up too soon. Constance looked at Harper. He had a mole on his left cheek, which she felt an impulse to touch. Did he want to touch her, too? She couldn’t tell.
“ Your two hours are up ,” said the automated voice.
“Till tomorrow, Constance?” he mouthed.
It was the first time he’d used her name. She realised she’d been wanting to hear it in his mouth.
And that question in his voice. Maybe he wanted her to come again. As the door creaked open, she sent a smile sailing towards him. Even if he couldn’t see it, she hoped he could sense it.
In the respite room, Constance looked for Benevolence. A page told her she was in a cubicle. When Constance tried to get in, she found the way barred by Humility, one of Charity’s helpers.
“Please,” she said, “I won’t tire her out. I just want to check she’s all right.”
“You can only have a minute,” said Humility.
Benevolence looked wan, but she seemed calm as she sat on a pop-up with her back to the wall, drinking tea from a pottery cup. Constance sat beside her, and accepted a cup. She couldn’t identify the flavour. Wood bark, perhaps? It tasted gritty.
“Before you ask, it’s evening-primrose tea,” said Benevolence. “Supposed to help boost fertility. And it has soothing properties. Apparently, wine overstimulates me. Who knew tea could deliver so much?”
“It doesn’t taste of any kind of flower, especially not primrose.”
“It tastes of pee. But the Mating Mother thinks I ought to drink it, and who am I to argue?” She rolled the pottery container between her hands. “So, mission accomplished in the mating cube?”
Constance lowered her eyes. Twice in a mating cube,
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