“You would not!” Kennon said. “That sort of thinking is foolishness. Alexander would have men here within a week, and a week after that you would be smashed. Don’t you realize that there are thousands of millions of men in the galaxy—and to every one of them you would be animals. You know nothing about what you would face. Your puny hundreds couldn’t even stand against a fraction of the power Alexander could mount against you. Have you seen a Burkholtz blaster work? Have you seen remote-control antipersonnel missiles? Have you push-pull projectors, atomic warheads? All of these weapons Alexander can command. Don’t you realize he’s an entrepreneur?—one of the most powerful men in this sector?”
Copper shook her head. “No,” she said in a small voice. “I know nothing about these things.”
“And do you think forty generations of absolute obedience to men can be overcome because one Lani says she is pregnant by a man?”
Copper frowned. “You put that in a different way. You talk as if it were my belief rather than the truth.”
“What is truth?” Kennon said heavily. “Who would believe you? There are hundreds of others with child.
“Sure you’re human. You know it. I know it. I’ve been trying to convince you for the past two months. You’re just as human as I am. But pray that you’re not pregnant. We can’t get out of here in less than four months and by then everybody will know about you. Someone will certainly check the records. And after that will come the psychoprobes. Everything will come to light. The Egg will be destroyed. I will be erased. You will be dead. And that will be the end of it.” He looked down at her with an odd expression of pity on his face. “You see?” he demanded harshly.
Copper nodded. “I didn’t understand,” she said. “Don’t be angry with me. I shouldn’t have told you. I thought you’d be happy.”
“I was never angry with you, but I am with myself. I was stupid. I didn’t figure on the remote possibility that we might be genetically compatible. I should have my head examined for putting you in such danger. However there’s the possibility—the probability—that your body is playing a trick upon you.”
She shook her head. “You are wrong. I am not mistaken. I am with child and the child is yours. But the fault is no more yours than mine. I wanted you before you looked on me. I still do and I do not feel at fault. That I am yours, that my child is yours is a thing of wonder and joy. Never could I have expected so much.”
Kennon looked down at her smudged face, streaked with the sudden rivulets of tears, and bitterness galled his throat. Dear God—let her be wrong, he prayed silently. Let it be pseudopregnancy this time. Let the tests be negative.