Steel Beach by John Varley

Ah, yes, Italian is a fine language for tirades.
    “I guess you’ve known each other a long time,” Brenda said to me.
    “We go way back.”
    She nodded, unhappy about something. Callie shouted, and I turned to see her jump down into the breeding pen and stride toward the crew of helpers, who were chivying the two brutes into final mating position.
    “Not yet, you idiots,” she shouted. “Give them time .” She reached the group of people and started handing out orders right and left. Callie had never been able to find good help. I had been part of that help for a great many years, so I know what I’m talking about. It took me a long time to realize that no one would ever be good enough for her; she was one of those people who never believed anyone could do a job as well as she could do it herself. The maddening thing was, she was usually right.
    “Back off, they’re not ready yet. Don’t rush them. They’ll know when it’s time. Our job is to facilitate , not initiate.”
    “If I have any skills as a lover,” I told Brenda, “it’s because of that.”
    “Because of her?”
    “ ‘Give them time. We’re not on a schedule here. Show a little finesse.’ I heard that so many times I guess I took it to heart.”
    And it did take me back, watching Callie working the stock again. Of the major brontosaur ranchers in Luna, she was the only one who didn’t use artificial insemination at breeding time. “If you think helping a pair copulate is tough,” she always said, “try getting a semen sample from a brontosaur bull.”
    And there was a rough sort of poetry about dinosaur mating, particularly brontosaurs.
    Tyrannosaurs went about it as you might expect, full of sound and fury. Two bulls would butt heads over a prospective mate until one staggered away like a dusted-up nerg addict to nurse an epic headache. I don’t suppose the victor fared a lot better except for the chance to grapple the tiny claw of his lady fair.
    Brontosaurs were more dainty. The male would spend three or four days doing his dance, when he remembered to. These creatures had short attention spans, even when in heat. He would rear up on his hind legs and do a comical samba around and around the female. She typically showed minimal interest for the first two days. Then the seduction moved to the love-bite stage, with the male nipping her around the base of the tail while she placidly chewed her cud. When she finally began rearing up with him, it was time to bring them into the mating pen to pitch some serious woo.
    That was going on now. The two of them were facing each other on their hind legs, doing a little neck-weaving, a little foreleg pawing. It could still be another hour before they were ready, a condition signaled by the emergence of one of the bull’s two hemi-penes.
    Nobody ever told me why a reptile needs two penises. Come to think of it, I never asked. There are limits to curiosity.
    “So how long were you involved with Callie?”
    “What’s that?” Brenda had drawn me out of my reverie, as she had a habit of doing.
    “She said thirty years. That’s a long time. You must have been real serious about her.”
    All right, so I’m dense. But I finally got it. I looked out at the primal scene: two Mesozoic monsters, here through the grace of modern genetic science, and a thin brown woman, likewise.
    “She’s not my lover. She’s my mother. Why don’t you go down there with her? She’ll see you don’t get hurt, and I’m sure she’ll be happy to tell you more than you ever wanted to know about brontosaurs. I’m going to take a break.”
    I noticed as we climbed down the gate on opposite sides that Brenda looked happier than I’d seen her all day.
     
    I assume the mating went off without any trouble. It usually does when Callie’s in charge. I imagine the mating that produced me was equally well-planned and carried out. Sex was never a big deal to Callie. Having me was her nod in the direction of duty. But I have