Six Moon Dance Part 6

The exhibits were an artful combination of theme park, resort, museum, concert, theater, and zoo. They were even partly, though by far the lesser part, authentic. Late in the fourth millennium of the common era, who was to say what had been real two millennia ago, or three millennia, or even longer than that? Clothing, ideas, fads, convictions, all had been transitory and miscible. Nature itself had been ephemeral. Even religions had shifted, becoming more or less than they had been, or had been thought to have been, but History House offered hints and approximations of the spiritual just as it offered approximations of everything else.

Though they were called "artists" in the puff stuff, the performers who made the displays enjoyable and understandable did not profit from the glitter of the lower floors. Artists who lived in, mostly quota clones, occupied the far upper floors, for people on contract were not important enough to be allocated either luxury or s.p.a.ce, both of which stopped at the 80th floor, just above the suites and gyms and dining rooms allocated to management. Above that were the shops, warehouses, and rehearsal halls, and above them were the dining rooms, grooming suites, and Denti-meds, serving those who lived above. The topmost floors were hives, with artists' cubicles crammed like cells in a honeycomb.

One's cubicle, however sterile and cramped, held all one had of home. Ellin Voy's cubicle, for example. On her narrow bed lay the stuffed bear Mama One had given her when she was three and the dolly Mama One had given her when she left for History House. On the shelf above was a little holo of herself and Mama One and Mama Two when they met at the ballet school for Ellin's thirteenth birthday. There was the book that Mama Two had given her for a sixteenth birthday present: The Wizard, of Oz The Wizard, of Oz, a facsimile of a real book written centuries and centuries ago.

Hung above the shelf were other pictures memorializing brief holidays and ephemeral friendships. There was Ellin standing next to the bionic bull and the real bullfighter, the time she was a.s.signed to History House in Spain; standing next to a handsome guard at the Tower of London when she'd been a.s.signed to History House in England. Artists got rea.s.signed among the History Houses all the time, or their contracts expired, or they paid off their contracts and left. There was no one in the corps de ballet that Ellin had known longer than two years. She looked at the pictures of herself with this one and that one, and sometimes it was hard to recall their names.

At night, the three inner cubicle walls could be set to show views chosen from among an extensive library of landscapes and interiors and events, both Terran and other worldly. Most of the artists chose something from their a.s.signed periods of earthly history, something homey: a fireplace with glowing logs; a summer garden, glorious with flowers; an autumn landscape, with trees changing color and a little wind riffling the surface of the pond; a city with broad avenues where spring blossoms fell gently onto the horses and carriages; views of things that no longer existed and places that no longer were.

Honorable Artist Ellin Voy chose otherwise. The sight of morning sun through autumn leaves made her cry. The sight of a fire burning on a hearth hurt her, as did trees dancing in moonlight. Views that made her think about the walls themselves made her choke, unable to catch her breath. Some fault within her, some unsuspected weakness that should have been eradicated before she was allowed to develop, had escaped the scrutiny of the monitors.

No matter what other artists did, Ellin kept her walls set on patterns only: receding colors of infinite depth, currents full of eddies and swirls, shapes that opened up and ramified and became other shapes, or endless streams of bubbles changing hue as they floated up and away. She curled on her narrow bed after lights out, dissolving in the patterns like a lump of sugar, unskeining like syrup into the liquid movement, becoming clearer and clearer, fading into transparency. Somewhere in that fluid motion was the thing she longed for, the total absorption, the absence of painful memory. In a few moments her eyes would blink, and soon she would fall asleep to dream of the same patterns and of herself as part of them.

She tried never to think of Mama One's house or of infant Ellin. She had chosen to dance, she had been bred to dance, but she had not chosen to leave Mama One. It wasn't quite so painful to remember Mama Two, for that time had been spent here, inside History House, and she still saw Mama Two from time to time. She had felt safe and connected with Mama One and Mama Two. She hadn't really felt safe since.

At six every morning the bells in the dancers' section would ring to introduce la patronne de ballet, her bony face protruding from the walls above each narrow bed, mouth bent into an unmeaning smile, eyes half shut as she crooned, "Did we have good rest, mes enfants? Are we ready for le jour meilleur, the best day ever?"

To which all the dancers, Ellin included, replied aloud with the cheery voice and happy face the occasion required: "Oh, oui, Madame. Bon! The best day ever." Audio pick-ups recorded each response and graded it for wakefulness and enthusiasm as well as for any betrayal of incipient anarchy. Fortunately, the view screens weren't set to pick up silent rebellion. They didn't see fingers crossed behind backs or under sheets, or hear the subvocalized, "Corpulent likelihood, Madumb-dumb ballet-hoo. In a swine's auricular orifice!"

The cheery response to Madame's greeting still echoed in the cubicles when the morning fanfare sounded, segueing into march music as drum and bugle urged on the jagged reds and yellows of the walls, sawing away at any remaining languors. In less than half the time allotted for hygiene and grooming, Ellin had her wealth of silver hair braided and piled on top of her head and had moved from the sonic cleansers to the service module where she un-racked new disposables: tunic, trousers, slippers. The slight limp she'd had last rotation was quite gone. The injured toes were totally healed. Today she would return to dancing.

She hadn't been idle. She'd kept up her exercises, and she'd performed her alternate role. Everyone had alternate roles. If you were injured and couldn't fulfil your primary role, you still had to make every day the best day ever! Otherwise you'd find yourself out of work, and out of work could mean dead. Since Ellin had been raised in at wentieth-century matrix, her alternate roles were all in the twentieth century. This last one had been an elderly shopkeeper, Charlotte Perkins, in the small American town of Smithy's Corners. She'd been Mrs. Perkins for the whole rotation, which was enough.

Awaiting the breakfast gong, Ellin used the basin for a barre as she bent and stretched. Being Charlotte Perkins was easy on her feet, but it had bored her into knots! Smiling, waiting on people, answering their really dumb questions about the twentieth century. "You mean they didn't have a Reproductive Center?" and, "Where's the transporter station?" The days without the discipline of cla.s.s and performance had left her feeling logy and disoriented, as though all her muscles had turned to cloth. She had to get back to the dance before she lost her mind! Besides, if she didn't, they might a.s.sign her coveted role of Dorothy to someone else!

The gong reverberated; the doors snapped open; the music got louder; the marching tempo carried the dancers out into the hall and thence past the gimlet-eyes of Par Reznikoff, Madame's deputy in this little bit of heaven. Ellin carefully kept people between her and him when she pa.s.sed him on her way to the service counter. He wanted to apply for a reproductive contract with her, and she wasn't interested, no matter what it paid.

At the moment, all she was interested in was food. She had to cut intake when she wasn't dancing, but the lowered calories left her feeling hungry all the time. She was so preoccupied with making her breakfast last long enough to calm her hunger pains that she hadn't finished the liquid meal when the work bell clanged. Stage-hands and crew, already in uniform, streamed past the dancers' refectory toward the shafts that would drop them to the lower floors.

She was still holding the cup to her lips when Par came swiveling through the morning mob and took her arm.

"Elleeen," he purred, making an indecency out of her name. "You are looking lovely this morning." He began walking her toward the shafts.

"Par." She nodded, smiling, trying to hold her body away from the intimate contact he intended. No point in being nasty to him. He was Madame's little pet, and he'd get even if she did.

"You have a chance, perhaps, to think about the offer I made?" He c.o.c.ked his head, eyes slitted, lips pursed, as though he were sucking an answer out of her, the answer he wanted.

She kept her voice calm, though she felt anything but. "I don't have the energy, Par. I'm just getting over an injury, and I don't think now's a good time for me."

"It's a lot of money, Ellin. You've got AA genes, pity not to use them for something."

Well, d.a.m.n it, she was using them for something, couldn't the idiot see that? She smiled, shook her head as she tried to look as uninteresting as possible. "Sorry, Par...."

He made a moue at her, patted her shoulder, and wandered away, leaving her at the end of the line. He wouldn't leave it alone. He'd be back, and next time he'd be pushy. She needed a strategy to discourage him, but at the moment she couldn't come up with one.

A dozen more pods came and went before she snagged an empty one, darted into it, felt the shoulder and waist restraints grip her firmly, felt the neck brace fit itself from shoulder to head as she said, "Wardrobe, Twentieth-Century America, the Arts" and remembered too late she was still holding the cup.

She gasped as the pod fell straight down, then shifted left, right, made a quick spiral, a long horizontal run at top speed, then a quick stop that threw the last of her breakfast all over her. Ellin gasped. She had never been able to breathe in transit. Now she felt like a dropped egg!

When the pod side popped open, she almost fell out, steadying herself on the wall, hearing the pod chant, "Make it the best day ever," as it zipped away.

Why did Par want her? It was true that History House paid big bonuses to the women characters who were willing to let tourists observe the actual births. Ellin only knew one person who'd done natural pregnancy and public birth, her friend from infant fosterage, Tutlia Omae, formerly known as Tutsy, who had actually had six babies, earning enough in seven years not only to pay off her contract but also to buy tickets off-world for herself and the two youngest children! Of course, not everyone would have been allowed to have six children, but Tutsy had AA genetics on both sides and the quota for American Indigenes was always sc.r.a.ping the bottom. Also, Tutsy had worked in one of History House's most profitable exhibits, Old Earth, Cowboys and Indians! Old Earth, Cowboys and Indians! and she got hardship bonuses all the time. Ellin had often wondered what there was about sitting around a fire and eating half raw meat that made it more of a hardship than dancing. At least when Tutsy stepped out of the cleanser cubicle at night, her day's work was all washed away, no harm done. When Ellin cleaned up at the end of the day, her feet were often still bleeding. and she got hardship bonuses all the time. Ellin had often wondered what there was about sitting around a fire and eating half raw meat that made it more of a hardship than dancing. At least when Tutsy stepped out of the cleanser cubicle at night, her day's work was all washed away, no harm done. When Ellin cleaned up at the end of the day, her feet were often still bleeding.

Being pregnant might be profitable, but Ellin wouldn't care for it, no thank you! All that bloating and being sick! All those months unable to dance! She'd have to gain ten or twenty pounds even to be fertile, and she hated the idea. Her body was precious. It was her, all she had, and she didn't want it changed. The idea was ridiculous. s.e.x was ridiculous, despite the stories people told about dancers, about their probable s.e.xual habits, spending so many hours cooped up together. That was a laugh. Mostly the female dancers were too tired and half starved to even think about s.e.x. Some of them didn't even menstruate.

She was still carrying the cup when she entered Wardrobe. Taking tableware was against the rules, so she sneaked down the closest aisle to her own dressing area, hid the cup on her locker shelf behind the wigs, and wadded the wet disposables directly into the chute, cursing beneath her breath. She'd expected to get at least three or four days out of this set, and here they were, ruined. Disposables were charged to her contract. Meals were charged to her contract. There was no charge for housing, but then, one couldn't really call a cubicle housing.

Getting into the Dorothy costume took only a moment, the blue-and-white checked skirt, the little ap.r.o.n, the puff-shouldered, high-necked blouse with all the b.u.t.tons. The blouse had been designed for Ellin, with a high neck and long, slender arms. She took the Dorothy wig from its stand and held it ready as she entered the name of the character in the makeup frame that gaped in the locker door and thrust her face into it, holding her breath while it went dabby-dab-dab, plucky-pluck at her. She focused her mind on the Yellow Brick Road sequence, summoning the music, feeling the role, the stretch and release of muscle, the gathering and loosing of sinew and strength.

When the mirror dinged and she stepped back, someone behind her looked over her shoulder into the mirror. Snow Olafson, who'd sneaked up on her and now lifted an eyebrow, giving her a smoky look.

He whispered, "I hear you and Par are signing a contract."

She pulled the Dorothy wig over her hair, pushing her stray locks up under it, as she snapped, "Don't be silly, Snow. That's ridiculous."

"Oh, not the way he tells it."

"He can tell it any way he likes. I am not interested in a reproductive contract with anybody. I'm just beginning to get lead roles, why would I frangle it up?"

He blinked at her like a big cat. "Well, Ellin, if you do decide to ... frangle ... keep me in mind."

And he moved lazily away, glancing at her over his shoulder. Snow danced the role of the Wizard-not at all the kind of Wizard who had been in Ellin's book, but then she wasn't exactly the kind of Dorothy who had been in the book, either-and the two of them had a long, sultry pas de deux in Act II. Snow was not a contractee. Snow had been hired from outside, and the word was he had a sole-use reproductive contract with two licensed nordic type women in the Wisconsin Urbop. So why was he here flirting with her? Why did men get themselves into sole-use reproductive contracts if they didn't intend to honor the terms? That's all Ellin needed, getting dragged into some contract violation case.

She put him out of mind as she put the finishing touches on her wig, tied her shoes, and padded down the stairs. There was a rehearsal studio behind the stage where they could warm up. Below her, she could see Snow arguing with Beise Tonkoff, the ch.o.r.eographer. Probably about that really ugly sequence in the last act, where Dorothy had to choose between staying with the wizard or going home. Both she and Snow hated it. It was ugly! Beise swore it was the same as written originally for the ballet, back right around the end of the twentieth century or start of the twenty-first, though back then it was called Homage to Dorothy, based on the book Ellin had been given.

Snow looked up, caught her eye, and grimaced. Her inclination was to stay away from Snow and never to confront anyone, but in this case ...

Beise was saying, "But I can't simply change something that's authentically in period...."

"It isn't," Ellin said. "There's nothing authentic about the ballet. In the first place, in the book and the two-dee, the wizard is a fat old man and Dorothy is a girl, a child. They never dance together at all. In an authentic version, Dorothy would dance with the metalman, the strawman, the beastman, and possibly one of the witches, but not with the wizard. So for heaven's sake, look at it, and let us fix it!"

He sighed, much put upon. "What in particular?"

"The whole sequence! Look at it. The good witch has just told Dorothy about the red slippers, and Dorothy comes forward, sur les pointes, arms widely back, raising the working foot a little higher each time, looking down at the slipper. She's amazed. She does a grande battement, ending with an att.i.tude an avant, to get the closest possible look at the slipper. That's fine, but all this time the Wizard just stands there like a lump, waiting for the pirouettes, and then he walks around her like a robot, clunk, clunk, clunk. He's not the metalman, for heaven's sake! Both characters look robotic, and there's no motivation for what he's doing! He ought to follow her, then as she pirouettes, he should reach out to her. Maybe a slow lunge and glissade. Something! If he wants Dorothy to stay, his body ought to say so."

Snow raised his eyebrows at her and grinned, leaning toward her yearningly.

She ignored his intent and said, "Yes, maybe like that. Then when we get to the lifts, it's up down, up down, like someone doing exercises, and Dorothy's not even paying attention! The whole sequence makes him look like a robot with ugly legs."

Snow scowled at that, and she quickly turned away. That ought to do it. Snow was very vain about his legs. He wouldn't let go of Beise from now until the end of time. As she stepped away, she caught the director's amused eyes on her. He'd heard her.

Well, maybe it was amusing, but dance was her life, her only love. In her head it was a continuous stream, with eddies and falls and high, sparkling splashes. Certainly it shouldn't ever just glug, glug, glug glug, glug, glug, like a plugged up pipe! Her dream of herself, the dream she'd had since a child, had no glugs in it. When it was right, her body moved without herself being aware of her body, as though she were dissolved in the music.

She walked back across the stage while various back-scenes flicked into and out of existence in the rearstage matrix: fields where the strawman was found; the forest where the metalman appeared; the line of stone where the beastman appeared roaring in the red glow of the sunset, dark against a burning sky. The backscenes used in History House shows were among the best ones anywhere because they were based on tapes of actual landscapes, as they had appeared before all the atectonic land areas were leveled and domed. Somehow computer-generated scenery never looked as real.

She reached the wings just as the tornado flicked into being behind her, first far off, then coming closer and closer while Dorothy and her little dog ran for the house.... Then off and away, the house flying, Dorothy and Toto in it.

Sometimes children were brought backstage to meet the dancers. They always wanted to meet Toto, too, but of course he was only a holo. There were no dogs anymore.

"That twisty wind is great," one candy-smeared small boy had exulted to Ellin-or rather, to Dorothy. "Why don't they let tornadoes happen for real?"

Ellin had told him why, but the boy had seemed unconvinced. Later, Ellin had thought maybe he was right to be so. There was something terrifying about the tornado, even here on stage, but oh, it lent wings to the dancing! Many old books had dangers and excitements in them, but all natural violence was controlled now. Everything was domed over. If there were excitements, they were out on the frontier, which is where, she told herself firmly, she was going to go as soon as her contract was paid off. She was going to find a primitive planet way out there, where the people had no dancers, where she could teach them all about it until she was too old to move.

No one on Earth worked very late in life. History House never kept anyone after they were forty, but Ellin would not quit at forty and spend the rest of her life on her pension, in a cubicle somewhere! Not even if she had to save up and save up and skimp on disposables and serve her whole twenty years to use her money for a ticket out! She dreamed about it all the time, finding a place with real trees, real gra.s.s, real creatures. A place that lasted.

Warmup was short, a kind of abbreviated cla.s.s. Out in the lobby, people were already lined up as Ellin and the others took their places in the wings. The orchestra was tuning up. All History Houses used real people, keeping the various talents alive. A man's voice spoke her name from behind her, and for a moment it sounded like Par's voice, but when she turned, it was a stranger, one of two, both dressed in management blue. That meant they had a right to be here. Or anywhere.

Her mind raced over recent days' activities, searching for something, anything she might have done, might have said. Had someone heard her complaining about the restrictions or the food? Maybe someone had seen her take that cup....

One of the men returned her panicky look with the fractional upturn of lips allowed government functionaries. Since he'd smiled, it probably wasn't anything she'd done. Snow? Par? Who? Then she noticed their lapels and insignias: red-and-gold instead of the green-and-white of the civility monitors. They were from Planetary Compliance!

"Ellin?" one of them asked. "Ellin Nordic-Quota, 29804653?"

She nodded, afraid to trust her voice. Planetary Compliance. You couldn't get any more threatening than that.

He smiled again. "Will you call your subst.i.tute, please. We have a requisition for you."

"Requis ..."

"From the Questioner."

Her mouth dropped open. The man who had smiled uttered a brief, official chuckle, three precise ha's. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror through the cla.s.sroom door and shut her mouth. No wonder he laughed. She looked witless! Actually stupid, and when men in blue were talking at you, it was not the time to be stupid.

Summoning all available poise, she tried to draw herself up and out of character to ask, "The Questioner, gentlemen?" Try though she had, the words came out in what she thought of as Dorothy's voice-wondering and very naive.

The fatter one said, "The "The Questioner, yes." He actually grinned. "Today, girly. This morning. If you'll call your subst.i.tute, please." Questioner, yes." He actually grinned. "Today, girly. This morning. If you'll call your subst.i.tute, please."

He had just committed an incivility, calling her girly, but now probably wasn't a good time to report him. Maybe it would be better to ignore it. Even forget it. Trying not to fumble or seem hesitant, she went to the nearest com and spoke to the panel: "Corps de ballet. Director's office, please. Dorothy character has been called away from backstage by PC officers. Subst.i.tute needed immediately."

"How long will it take?" the man asked.

"Once they call me back, not long," she murmured. "One of the human alternates will have to be dressed for the part. They only use androids in emergencies."

"You have to wait?"

"Once the orchestra starts, no character is supposed to leave the wings, sir. In case the entrance cue comes up...." She stared at the floor, trying to keep her breathing steady. What had she done? What had someone claimed she'd done? Had Par accused her of something?

Down the hallway a door opened and Par Reznikoff came through. "That's Madame's deputy," murmured Ellin, pointing. "I guess you'll have to talk to him."

The two men moved away from her and intercepted Par in mid-stride. Ellin couldn't hear them from where she stood, still poised for the music. Madame's deputy didn't like it, whatever he was hearing. He shook off their reaching hands and came to the wings, where she was standing, pointing his finger at her and saying: "You'll stay right where you are...."

"Reznikoff, perhaps you'd like to call the nearest PCO," said one of the men in blue, who had followed him.

Par turned quite pale, though his mouth was still chewing at the words he hadn't said yet. Evidently he didn't like the idea of the Planetary Compliance Office.

"I suggest, before you say anything actionable, that you do so." The other man in blue looked amused, which would send Par around the far turn. He began furiously punching up com numbers on the panel. Ellin caught one of the men in blue staring at her and she flushed.

"That's all right," he said in a calming voice. "He'll get the word. You're the lead in this ballet, aren't you? The records on you said you were a dancer."

She didn't ask what records. She was saved from having to say anything for Par turned from the com with his jaw set and his lips pale from being pressed together. He stormed away.

"You can change your clothes now," said the less-talkative man in blue, gesturing down the hall. "And you'll want to bring an overnight case."

She shifted uncertainly.

He smiled the government smile once again. "It's all right, dear, really. There's your replacement at the end of the hall. You're not in any trouble. We'll meet you at the gate."

Both of them had been uncivil, calling her girly, calling her dear. She was not a nus, someone with No Useful Skills. She was an honorable, just as they were! She pa.s.sed the subst.i.tute without a glance and went back to wardrobe in what she hoped was a dignified manner. As she removed the wig and the dress, the Dorothy thoughts and worries seemed to dissolve, leaving an aching s.p.a.ce to be filled with some other thought or worry. It didn't take long. As she dropped a clean tunic over her head, she found plenty to worry about in being approached by PCO and requisitioned by the Questioner.

12.

The Amatory Arts: What Women Want.

"One of the most important things you will learn," said Madame, "is how to give a woman what she wants, whether she knows what she wants or not. If you have read your a.s.signment, you know that mankind has a stratified mentality. The ancient lizard mind lies below the mammalian mind, which lies below a primate mind, which is modified by a mind adapted to language, and since these layers have developed in response to differing evolutionary pressures, they often do not function efficiently together. Human civility tries to control ape dominance, human rationality tries to control mammalian s.e.xuality, human social conscience tries to ameliorate reptilian greed, never with total success. Some individuals who could be human give up the struggle and remain mere speaking animals.

"Add to this the complex endocrine makeup of women that drives their cyclical biological systems, and add to that that the fact that women are more likely than men to 'think about situations' in words and symbols which themselves have imprecise meanings, and you will begin to get an idea why women cannot always say, even to themselves, what they desire at any given time." the fact that women are more likely than men to 'think about situations' in words and symbols which themselves have imprecise meanings, and you will begin to get an idea why women cannot always say, even to themselves, what they desire at any given time."

Madame took a sip of water. Mouche sat very still, pen poised, hoping he could figure out what Madame desired at any given time. Keeping up with her was very difficult. Keeping one step ahead was impossible. He looked up to catch her gimlet eye, as though she had read his mind, and flushed, bending quickly over his notebook.

She went on. "At the prelinguistic levels, young females are no different from their brothers. They all eat, sleep, and play in the same way. The female's physical growth is as rapid, her bones and muscles are as strong. The prelinguistic mother makes no differentiation between the male and the female infant.

"Both male and female young play in accordance with their genetic pattern; they run and jump and make noise and copy adult behavior. Primate males, as a group, are more active and noisy and less thoughtful. Primate females, as a group, have longer attention spans and are less likely to engage in rough play. Individual males and females, however, are found at the extremes of both groups, so we must regard these differences not as s.e.x-determined but as gender and culture influenced.

"It is at s.e.xual maturity that real differentiation begins. Among many primates, including primitive hominids, females begin to cl.u.s.ter around infant and nurturing activities, and maturing males tend to a.s.semble into gaming gangs that spend their time in group compet.i.tions and rivalries ...

"Fentrys! Pay attention. You and Egon may finish your quarrel in fencing cla.s.s!

"... and the groups are stratified, with one or more leaders and the rest as followers. This pattern continues even today, though the acquisition of language allows such groups to be inst.i.tutionalized as tribes, armies, political parties, commercial empires, religious hierarches, or sports teams. All of these have rules requiring defense and extension of territory by carrying some play object-a ball, flag, icon, trademark, or belief system-into someone else's territory. From the psychological point of view, there is very little difference between making religious converts, kicking the winning goal, or cornering the market on Thor-bian gigarums.

"Proper gang activity requires the control of members. Gangs cannot tolerate 'loose' persons wandering around. One is either with the church or against it; with the company or against it; with the team or against it. A phrase long in use on Old Earth was, 'Are you with it?' meaning, 'Do you comprehend the behaviors necessary for membership?' Persons inside the group are 'us.' All significant ent.i.ties outside the group, including females, are 'them,' and all them are either property, prey, or opponents.

"Outside persons who have needed or desired talents become property; persons who aren't useful or won't submit become prey. Powerful people and groups, male, may be opponents. Females are not usually regarded as opponents, and on many worlds if a woman acts as an opponent, she risks being raped or maimed in order to redefine her as a prey animal and restore balance to the system.

"Females who agree to be property are the survivors. Belonging to a mature, powerful male guarantees his protection for her and her children and raises the female's rank in the primate society. The higher the rank, the less she is hara.s.sed and the more she gets to eat. Over millions of years, therefore, it has become instinctive for females to mate with the most dangerous, most dominant male they can attract.

"Male hominid group leaders really are dangerous. When they cease being dangerous, they will be overthrown. This too has carried over into current time. Men who are physically dangerous-sports stars, murderers, rapists-often enjoy great s.e.xual success. Even imprisoned serial killers are known to acquire female followers who send them gifts and invent romances about them. The aura of danger was and is s.e.xually stimulating, and the attraction of and 'taming' of a dangerous man lies at the heart of all romance literature.

"While civilized males no longer publicly categorize females as prey or property, the instinct to do so remains strong...."

Mouche wriggled again, fighting boredom. His father had not treated his mother as either prey or property, and he probably didn't think of her as an opponent, either. This time he kept his head down, evading Madame's glance.

"How does this apply to you, Mouche?"