The Ice People by Maggie Gee Read Free Book Online Page B

a moving walkway that carried us along with everyone else. But the Batteries did not have a brilliant success rate, though they boasted of ‘upwards of twentyfivepercent’. This figure meant conceptions rather than births, as old hands knew, and tipped off newcomers.
    ‘At least we’ll make new friends,’ Sarah remarked, after a long intense conversation with a woman in the loo. ‘At least we have something in common with people.’
    ‘I don’t want friends, I want a baby.’
    The men sat silent, while the women confided. I switched my phone on to text and pretended to be absorbed in reading.
    We had plenty of money, at any rate. We chose the top clinic, the bestknown doctor. Dr Zeuss had a global reputation. We put ourselves in his hands completely. We made love when he told us to; abstained when he told us to; ate and drank and slept to order.
    Instead of having two lives, we had only one. We were totally absorbed in the job in hand.
    We whizzed through the tunnels nearly every morning before five am to be injected or tested, making changes of plan at a split second’s notice if the doctors told us they needed us, if eggs could be harvested or sperm donated or any other bits of us removed and twizzled. We said ‘Yes’ to everything. We’d held out too long, and now we yielded our bodies completely, our private parts, our selves, our money.
    What Sarah had said about making new friends began to seem more sensible, for those were the only friends we could have, friends who were equally obsessed, who understood why we could never keep a date or drink coffee or wine or go to bed after nine. Our god, who ran the universe, was Dr Zeuss, and we believed in him, however much the Doctorwatch tried to expose him as a moneygrubber or a charlatan, whatever the disquieting stories onscreen about mixups of sperm or eggs or foetuses, however chilling the articles on rates of deformity in techfix births. We thought they were written by jealous hacks, too poor to afford to get help like us.
    But Sarah began to have dreams, and delusions. She dreamed she had children who sprouted wings, poor thin things with stunted bodies, and as she tried to take them out in the sun she found they were kept alive by tubes, and when she tried to free them, they died. This dream returned night after night.
    She saw women in the hospital carparks with older children she suspected had been techfix births. They were left in the car looking limp and pale, as if they’d been kept too long in the dark. ‘Look at that boy,’ she would hiss to me, as we passed a Mercedes with gleaming paintwork and a dim blonde head in the back behind glass. ‘He didn’t look normal to me.’
    ‘You couldn’t see him properly.’
    ‘I did see. You’re afraid to see them.’
    And yet we never consciously believed our own baby would be less than perfect. Successful people had successful babies, even if they needed Dr Zeuss to help them.
    It was a good time for us, despite the terrible stresses, because we were focused on the same thing. Sarah took a sixmonth vacation from TV, and I gave up the Learning Centre and concentrated on the nanotechnics, where I could put in the hours whenever I wanted, since the labs were open around the clock in an effort to keep up with the Africans.
    I would sit there, sometimes, halfasleep, looking through the electron microscope at tiny machines performing tiny tasks, their incredible completeness, the way they could selfreplicate and grow, and it satisfied me at some deep level, made me feel life was still all right, that men were still in command of things, masters of a friendly universe.
    Well, not entirely in command, perhaps, because the best machines evolved and mutated. One day they would matter, those mute mutations. But then I was proud to help them along. I, Saul, was one of the chosen.
    ‘I feel sick,’ said Sarah, one steamy morning when we felt too hot to pull our clothes on. We had got up at fourthirty to get to the