"Why not? You wouldn't have to really stay here. It could be just a secret agreement between us. And you could come and see me whenever you liked."
"It all seems so unreal," he muttered.
They lapsed into thought, both avoiding looking at the other. There was no sound except a faint sighing of wind in the leaves of the well trimmed shrubbery.
"Suppose," Mark said finally, "suppose other people started doing this thing? This cooperative agreement? Lots of people must want to, just like we do."
"I suppose so," she admitted.
"I went through this once before," he went on absently. "About ninety years ago I met this woman—she was awfully nice. Clever. Understood things. Not like you, of course, but still she was very nice. I thought about it then."
"What happened to her?" Jennette asked numbly.
"She died after a while. She was pretty old. Oh, we didn't do anything," he hastened to add. "We kept it all on a perfectly moral and honest plane—never saw each other except at authorized government sex parties, like this, and all. Fought whenever we ran across each other outside. But I remember thinking at the time that some sort of agreement would be nice. We got along awfully well. I could never understand what she saw in me."
"I can," Jennette whispered.
"This is just the same, only a lot more so," Mark went on thoughtfully. "And it's wrong. You know it's wrong. Suppose a lot of people started it. First thing you know, whole groups of people would be cooperating with each other again. And when they got into trouble outside, or planned an innocent little raid on somebody's shelter, they would all work together on it. And pretty soon, there would be other groups cooperating in fighting back again. They'd have to.