The light moved closer and Marcus could make out the figure of the woman who held it. Behind her were others—all women. But even delicate hands were capable of leveling a tingler. "Don't say anything," he said to his son in a low voice. Wilbur nodded dazedly.
"No whispering," barked the soprano, shining the light directly in his eyes. "Now, are either of you married?"
Marcus sighed; so that was it. Poor Earth was in a bad way when a pudgy unattractive clerk could get a high-salaried job solely because he was male.
"Answer me," demanded the high unsteady voice. "Are either of you married? On Earth, I mean."
Marcus could see her clearly, now that his eyes had become accustomed to the light. She was young, barely out of her teens.
"What kind of question is that? When you're married, you're married. It doesn't matter where you are." On Earth, apparently, it did.
"Outers," she exclaimed happily. "I've always hoped I'd find one. They're real men. Now let's see, which one shall I take?" She flashed the light on Wilbur, who squirmed and blinked.
"He's younger and will probably last longer," she said critically. "On the other hand, he'll be clumsy and inexperienced."
She turned to Marcus. "You need a shave," she said crisply. "Your beard is turning gray. I think I'll take you. Older men are nice."
"You can't have me," said Marcus. She was near and he could have taken both the weapon and the light from her. But he couldn't stand, much less walk, and there were other women in the background, all armed probably, watching the girl who seemed to be their leader. "You see, I am married. Wilma wouldn't like it, if I took another wife."