I should have said, "Yes!" and kissed her. What I did say was, "Uh, let's not rush it."

Her face fell. "As milord Hero husband pleases."

"Look, don't get Nevian and formal. I mean, well, it takes getting used to. Syringes and things, I suppose, and monkeying by technicians. And, while I realize you don't have time to have a baby yourself—"

I was trying to say that, ever since I got straightened out about the Stork, I had taken for granted the usual setup, and artificial insemination was a dirty trick to play even on a cow—and that this job, subcontracted on both sides, made me think of slots in a Horn & Hardart, or a mail-order suit. But give me time and I would adjust. Just as she had adjusted to those damned imprints—

She gripped my hands. "Darling, you needn't!"

"Needn't what?"

"Be monkeyed with by technicians. And I will take time to have your baby. If you don't mind seeing my body get gross and huge—it does, it does, I remember—then happily I will do it. All will be as with other people so far as you are concerned. No syringes. No technicians. Nothing to offend your pride. Oh, I'll have to be worked on. But I'm used to being handled like a prize cow; it means no more than having my hair shampooed."

"Star, you would go through nine months of inconvenience—and maybe die in childbirth—to save me a few moments' annoyance?"

"I shall not die, Three children, remember? Normal deliveries, no trouble."

"But, as you pointed out, that was ‘many years ago.' "

"No matter."

"Uh, how many years?" ("How old are you, woman?" The question I never dared ask.)

She looked upset. "Does it matter, Oscar?"

"Uh, I suppose not. You know more about medicine than I do—"

She said slowly, "You were asking how old I am, were you not?"

I didn't say anything. She waited, then went on, "An old saw from your world says that a woman is as young as she feels. And I feel young and I am young and I have zest for life and I can bear a baby—or many babies—m my own belly. But I know—oh, I know! -- that your worry is not just that I am too rich and occupy a position not easy for a husband. Yes, I know that part too well; my first husband rejected me for that. But be was my age. The most cruel and unjust thing I have done is that I knew that my age could matter to you—and I kept still. That was why Rufo was so outraged. After you were asleep that night in the cave of the Forest of Dragons he told me so, in biting words. He said he knew I was not above enticing young boys but he never thought that I would sink so low as to trap one into marriage without first telling him. He's never had a high opinion of his old granny, he said, but this time—"

"Shut up, Star!"

"Yes, milord."

"It doesn't make a damn bit of difference!"—and I said it so flatly that I believed it—and do now. "Rufo doesn't know what I think. You are younger than tomorrow's dawn—you always will be. That's the last I want to hear about it!"

"Yes, milord."

"And knock that off, too. Just say, ‘Okay, Oscar.' "

"Yes, Oscar! Okay!"

"Better. Unless you're honing for another spanking. And I'm too tired." I changed the subject. "About this other matter—There's no reason to stretch your pretty tummy if other ways are at hand. I'm a country jake, that's all; I'm not used to big city ways. When you suggested that you do it yourself, did you mean that they could put you back together the way you were?"

"No. I would simply be host-mother as well as genetic mother." She smiled and I knew I was making progress. "But saving a tidy sum of that money you don't want to spend. Those healthy, sturdy women who have other people's babies charge high. Four babies, they can retire—ten makes them wealthy."

"I should think they would charge high! Star, I don't object to spending money. I'll concede, if you say so, that I've earned more than I spend, by my work as a professional hero. That's a tough racket, too."

"You've earned it."

"This citified way of having babies—Can you pick it? Boy, or girl?"

"Of course. Male-giving wigglers swim faster, they can be sorted out. That's why Wisdoms are usually men—I was an unplanned candidate. You shall have a son, Oscar."

"Might prefer a girl. I've a weakness for little girls."

"A boy, a girl—or both. Or as many as you want."

"Star, let me study it. Lots of angles—and I don't think as well as you do."

"Pooh!"

"If you don't think better than I do, the cash customers are getting rooked. Mmm, male seed can be stored as easily as eggs?"

"Much easier."

"That's all the answer we need now. I'm not too jumpy about syringes; I've stood in enough Army queues. I'll go to the clinic or whatever it is, then we can settle it slowly. When we decide"—I shrugged—"mail the postcard and when it goes clunk! -- we're parents. Or some such. From there on the technicians and those husky gals can handle it."

"Yes, milo—Okay, darling!"

All better. Almost her little girl face. Certainly her sixteen-year-old face, with new party dress and boys a shivery, delightful danger. "Star, you said earlier that it was often not the second issue out even the twenty-second that matters."

"Yes."

"I know what's wrong with me. I can tell you—and maybe Her Wisdom knows the answer."

She blinked. "If you can tell me, sweetheart—Her Wisdom will solve it, even if I have to tear the place down and put it back up differently—from here to the next galaxy—or I'll go out of the Wisdom business!"

"That sounds more like my Lucky Star. All right, it's not that I'm a gigolo. I've earned my coffee and cakes, at least; the Soul-Eater did damn near eat my soul, he knew its exact shape—he...it—it knew things I had long forgotten. It was rough and the pay ought to be high. It's not your age, dearest. Who cares how old Helen of Troy is? You're the right age forever—can a man be luckier? I'm not jealous of your position; I wouldn't want it with chocolate icing. I'm not jealous of the men in your life—the lucky stiffs! Not even now, as long as I don't stumble over them getting to the bathroom."

"There are no other men in my life now, milord husband."

"I had no reason to think so. But there is always next week, and even you can't have a Sight about that, my beloved. You've taught me that marriage is not a form of death—and you obviously aren't dead, you lively wench."

"Perhaps not a Sight," she admitted. "But a feeling."

"I won't bet on it. I've read the Kinsey Report."

"What report?"

"He disproved the Mermaid theory. About married women. Forget it. Hypothetical question: If Jocko visited Center, would you still have the same feeling? We should have to invite him to sleep here."

"The Doral will never leave Nevia."

"Don't blame him, Nevia is wonderful. I said If—If he does, will you offer him ‘roof, table, and bed'?"

"That," she said firmly, "is your decision, milord."

"Rephrase it: Will you expect me to humiliate Jocko by not returning his hospitality? Gallant old Jocko, who let us live when he was entitled to kill us? Whose bounty—arrows and many things, including a new medic's kit—kept us alive and let us win back the Egg?"

"By Nevian customs of roof and table and bed," she insisted, "the husband decides, milord husband."

"We aren't in Nevia and here a wife has a mind of her own. You're dodging, wench."

She grinned naughtily. "Does that ‘if' of yours include Muri? And Letva? They're his favorites, he wouldn't travel without them. And how about little what's-her-name? -- the nymphet?"

"I give up. I was just trying to prove that jumping over a sword does not turn a lively wench into a nun."

"I am aware of it, my Hero," she said levelly. "All I can say is that I intend that this wench shall never give her Hero a moment's unease—and my intentions are usually carried out. I am not ‘Her Wisdom' for nothing."