Free Finches of Mars by Brian W. Aldiss Page B

brought about by the failure of children, emerging from the womb, to live. Dying. Flawed fatally, bringers only of grief.
    These gynaecological fatalities had been the one great disaster no one had foreseen.

13
    Some False Dispositions
    The compoutat had just whispered in its lower mode of many people reduced to doing little but sit about and grieve for the deaths of so many babies. ‘I observe in particular the earth-born youth named Squirrel. He seeks out isolated corners. My reading is that he is in an extreme of sorrow or possibly guilt, and may be contemplating suicide. I would advise that someone should contact him. He is at present on your floor beside Closet Six.’
    â€˜Thanks, Comp.’ Noel decided to go to Squirrel herself. Before she could reach the door, someone buzzed from outside. She opened the door.
    There stood a youth brimming with excitement, smacking left palm with right fist. She recognised it was Squirrel, although not from Comp’s gloomy description. She exclaimed in surprise.
    â€˜I want to speak to the compoutat; can I? I’ve just this moment had a brill idea.’
    â€˜You know we can’t have pets, Squirrel. Laws against them. Not enough to feed them on.’
    â€˜No, it’s not pets. Something heaps more slick than that.’
    Of course Noel gave him access. He started off at once, declaring that what was needed was a kind of centrifuge or roundabout. Pregnant women could be whirled round in it for, say, two hours every day. Artificial gravity would be created, enough to set the foetus to building a stronger heart and bones.
    â€˜Two hours, Squirrel! Wouldn’t that make one terribly sick?’
    â€˜You’d do an hour in the morning and an hour in the afternoon.’
    â€˜Well. Let’s go down and discuss your idea with the chief engineer. We’ll see what he says.’
    Troed, chief engineer, listened to Squirrel, lips pursed, not saying a word. Finally, he declared that the centrifuge might be a workable proposition. ‘We’ll simulate it in the compoutat and see what it figures. Don’t be too hopeful, lad.’
    He called Squirrel two hours later. ‘We can make a prototype, okay. Problem is it will gobble up a lot of our electricity reserves. Take my advice, don’t boast about this idea. Don’t even talk about it, lad. If it gobbles up too much juice, the whole thing’s off.’
    A day’s schedule began with the Brightener. All those not on urgent duty gathered for a morning’s discussion of how things were going. The Brightener was intended to chase away any feelings of loneliness or despair. Defying the dire news of continual baby deaths, the objective was to be cheerful and positive, and to talk about future options; tales about how hard life had been on Earth were also welcome.
    Those who had some current troubles preferably stowed them away and showed the brighter side of their personalities. A false disposition, it was found, could be zipped on like an overall; some women never took it off. And yet the problem of depression often worked its way into the talk, serpent-like, unobserved until it struck.
    They could take their turn on Gerint’s next expedition. Gerint was the man in charge of arranging monthly explorations of Martian territory. He was currently organising the next one; yet there were still some who feared the airless emptiness of the outside world.
    People clung to their offices in preference to the barrens comprising the Tharsis bulge and beyond.
    A middle-aged woman called Thirn, who ran a small stall on the ground floor in which UU tokens could be exchanged, spoke up. ‘Back when I was young, I used to have a stall on the sea front. I sold everything—spades, buckets, sticks of rock. Everything. It was fun. My brother helped. The holiday-makers could scarcely drag their kiddies away …
    â€˜I was a shy little thing then. Still am.’ She giggled. ‘I had a