Five to Twelve Read Free Page A

lasting affection for each other.
    Dion rarely saw his mother when she was not pregnant. And so he came to think of her as a large rock-like creature, whereas, in fact, she had been basically small and finely formed.
    She managed seventeen successful pregnancies (eleven girls and six boys) before she died of melancholia, anembolism and a totally overloaded heart. She might have been resuscitated, of course, if she had been sufficiently important or if there had been enough lions in her bank account. But thirty-four thousand lions had been just sufficient to buy Dion an education to the point where, against stiff female competition, he won a state scholarship in cybernetics.
    He never took up the scholarship. He attended the funeral, saw the oddly frail body consigned to a cleansing furnace of atomic fire, and felt the shamefully obscene tears course down his cheeks. Then he thumbed his nose at the kind of world that could do this to the only person he had ever loved, and decided to live by his wits.
    He was, at the time, just eighteen years old. He had a long way to go. By the time he had matured, the ratio of men to women was five to twelve.

Three

    D ION Q UERN was drunk and not a little bewildered. He was drunk because he had disposed of more than half a bottle of hock before he had started on the cold chicken. He was bewildered because he was at the mercy of a big blonde Peace Officer who did not look as if she had the slightest intention of calling the dry-cleaners.
    Presently, with a sizeable portion of cold chicken and green salad inside him, he began to feel a little better. Well enough to appreciate the brandy and the black coffee. Well enough to realize that Juno Locke was merely playing with him on a short string. When he ceased to amuse her she would let the dry-cleaners cart him off to another dose of psychoanalysis.
    So what? So it didn’t matter a coprolite. He’d had a grade three analysis before. The psychos were further out and deeper down than the paper dolls they treated. All you had to do was toss them a few pubic shock images, or get all twisted with submission neurosis or womb envy, and they would lay polysyllabic eggs all over the place. Then you got three decent meals a day for a month, ten shots of partial recall, fifty lions and a year’s probation. It was a bit boring, really, but not too inconvenient. Providing you didn’t fracture the probation.
    He tried to remember when he’d had his last grade three. He tried to remember in case the present contretemps was a breach of probation. That could be serious. Grade twoanalysis. Three months and the wide screen treatment, including, maybe, the electronic twitcher. Less than idyllic… But he couldn’t remember. The last dose
seemed
quite a long time ago. But so did yesterday’s breakfast…
    Juno Locke sipped her brandy and coffee, and read his thoughts.
    “I’d say not less than six months, and not more than a year. Bad luck, stripling. It could be a grade two.”
    He jumped as if she had put another laser hole in him. “How the Stopes do you know?”
    “I’ve seen the look before, little one, many times. When a sport falls flat, usually the first thing that happens is the far look. He’s trying to remember when he had the last analysis. He’s trying to work out if he’ll move up a grade… Not being able to remember is a bad sign. It’s a sign of not wanting remember… Now, have some more brandy and make me laugh.”
    “Bulldozer!” he shouted furiously. “Sex zombie! Shrivel-womb!”
    She smiled. “Please. You’re bruising my ego.”
    “I’d prefer it to be your throat.”
    Juno surveyed him calmly. “You’re quite a big little meistersihger, really, I suppose. Care to try?”
    “Nobody is worth a one—not even a Peace Officer.”
    “So,” she said gaily, “at last we’re getting sensible. Have some more brandy…” She poured a large measure into his glass. “Let there be civility all round.” She picked up a