happy in the only world they had ever known. They had been named for moons—Wynken, Blynken and Nod, Rhea, Callisto and Titan. Nod and Titan were the boys, and they and Rhea had Alma’s eyes and hair and sometimes Alma’s odd, brave stillness—a sort of suspension of the body while the mind went out to grapple and conquer instead of fearing.If the turgid air and the radiant ground affected them, they did not show it, except perhaps in their rapid development.
They heard Moira cry out. It was like laughter, but it was pain. Carl sprang to his feet. Tod took his arm and Carl pulled it away. “Why can’t I do something? Do I have to just
sit
here?”
“Shh. She doesn’t feel it. That’s a tropism. She’ll be all right. Sit down, Carl. Tell you what you can do—you can name them. Think. Think of a nice set of names, all connected in some way. Teague used moons. What are you going to—”
“Time enough for that,” Carl grunted. “Tod … do you know what I’ll … I’d be if she—if something happened?”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
“I’d just cancel out. I’m not Teague. I couldn’t carry it. How does Teague do it?…” Carl’s voice lapsed to a mumble.
“Names,” Tod reminded him. “Seven, eight of ’em. Come on, now.”
“Think she’ll have eight?”
“Why not? She’s normal.” He nudged Carl. “Think of names. I know! How many of the old signs of the zodiac would make good names?”
“Don’t remember ’em.”
“I do. Aries, that’s good. Taurus. Gem—no; you wouldn’t want to call a child ‘Twins.’ Leo—that’s
fine!
”
“Libra,” said Carl, “for a girl. Aquarius, Sagittarius—how many’s that?”
Tod counted on his fingers. “Six. Then, Virgo and Capricorn. And you’re all set!” But Carl wasn’t listening. In two long bounds he reached April, who was just stepping into the compound. She looked tired. She looked more than tired. In her beautiful eyes was a great pity, the color of a bleeding heart.
“Is she all right? Is she?” They were hardly words, those hoarse, rushed things.
April smiled with her lips, while her eyes poured pity. “Yes, yes, she’ll be all right. It wasn’t too bad.”
Carl whooped and pushed past her. She caught his arm, and for all her frailty, swung him around.
“Not yet, Carl. Teague says to tell you first—”
“The babies? What about them? How many, April?”
April looked over Carl’s shoulder at Tod. She said, “Three.”
Carl’s face relaxed, numb, and his eyes went round. “Th—what? Three so far, you mean. There’ll surely be more …”
She shook her head.
Tod felt the laughter explode within him, and he clamped his jaws on it. It surged at him, hammered in the back of his throat. And then he caught April’s pleading eyes. He took strength from her, and bottled up a great bray of merriment.
Carl’s voice was the last fraying thread of hope. “The others died, then.”
She put a hand on his cheek. “There were only three. Carl … don’t be mean to Moira.”
“Oh, I won’t,” he said with difficulty. “She couldn’t … I mean it wasn’t her doing.” He flashed a quick, defensive look at Tod, who was now glad he had controlled himself. What was in Carl’s face meant murder for anyone who dared laugh.
April said, “Not your doing either, Carl. It’s this planet. It must be.”
“Thanks, April,” Carl muttered. He went to the door, stopped, shook himself like a big dog. He said again, “Thanks,” but this time his voice didn’t work and it was only a whisper. He went inside.
Tod bolted for the corner of the building, whipped around it and sank to the ground, choking. He held both hands over his mouth and laughed until he hurt. When at last he came to a limp silence, he felt April’s presence. She stood quietly watching him, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. But … it
is
funny.”
She shook her head gravely. “We’re not on Earth, Tod. A
They heard Moira cry out. It was like laughter, but it was pain. Carl sprang to his feet. Tod took his arm and Carl pulled it away. “Why can’t I do something? Do I have to just
sit
here?”
“Shh. She doesn’t feel it. That’s a tropism. She’ll be all right. Sit down, Carl. Tell you what you can do—you can name them. Think. Think of a nice set of names, all connected in some way. Teague used moons. What are you going to—”
“Time enough for that,” Carl grunted. “Tod … do you know what I’ll … I’d be if she—if something happened?”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
“I’d just cancel out. I’m not Teague. I couldn’t carry it. How does Teague do it?…” Carl’s voice lapsed to a mumble.
“Names,” Tod reminded him. “Seven, eight of ’em. Come on, now.”
“Think she’ll have eight?”
“Why not? She’s normal.” He nudged Carl. “Think of names. I know! How many of the old signs of the zodiac would make good names?”
“Don’t remember ’em.”
“I do. Aries, that’s good. Taurus. Gem—no; you wouldn’t want to call a child ‘Twins.’ Leo—that’s
fine!
”
“Libra,” said Carl, “for a girl. Aquarius, Sagittarius—how many’s that?”
Tod counted on his fingers. “Six. Then, Virgo and Capricorn. And you’re all set!” But Carl wasn’t listening. In two long bounds he reached April, who was just stepping into the compound. She looked tired. She looked more than tired. In her beautiful eyes was a great pity, the color of a bleeding heart.
“Is she all right? Is she?” They were hardly words, those hoarse, rushed things.
April smiled with her lips, while her eyes poured pity. “Yes, yes, she’ll be all right. It wasn’t too bad.”
Carl whooped and pushed past her. She caught his arm, and for all her frailty, swung him around.
“Not yet, Carl. Teague says to tell you first—”
“The babies? What about them? How many, April?”
April looked over Carl’s shoulder at Tod. She said, “Three.”
Carl’s face relaxed, numb, and his eyes went round. “Th—what? Three so far, you mean. There’ll surely be more …”
She shook her head.
Tod felt the laughter explode within him, and he clamped his jaws on it. It surged at him, hammered in the back of his throat. And then he caught April’s pleading eyes. He took strength from her, and bottled up a great bray of merriment.
Carl’s voice was the last fraying thread of hope. “The others died, then.”
She put a hand on his cheek. “There were only three. Carl … don’t be mean to Moira.”
“Oh, I won’t,” he said with difficulty. “She couldn’t … I mean it wasn’t her doing.” He flashed a quick, defensive look at Tod, who was now glad he had controlled himself. What was in Carl’s face meant murder for anyone who dared laugh.
April said, “Not your doing either, Carl. It’s this planet. It must be.”
“Thanks, April,” Carl muttered. He went to the door, stopped, shook himself like a big dog. He said again, “Thanks,” but this time his voice didn’t work and it was only a whisper. He went inside.
Tod bolted for the corner of the building, whipped around it and sank to the ground, choking. He held both hands over his mouth and laughed until he hurt. When at last he came to a limp silence, he felt April’s presence. She stood quietly watching him, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. But … it
is
funny.”
She shook her head gravely. “We’re not on Earth, Tod. A
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