World Without War

"It stands to reason," Mark concluded, "people had to learn to be civilized. They weren't just born that way. It's—it's culture."

"Pouf," said Jennette critically.

"All right," he growled, biting viciously into a pomegranate. "Let's hear your big story if it's so good."

Jennette stretched out her legs and contemplated her wiggling toes. "Oh, I don't know. I don't have any real ideas. But I know better than to believe that sort of nonsense. People just aren't like that, and you know it." She hesitated thoughtfully, then continued. "Maybe a few of them got together now and then for a party or something like this. But not hundreds of them."

When Mark did not reply, she laughed and said, "I guess I'm just feeling risque tonight."

"You sure are," he mumbled.

"Of course there are parts of the old mythology that seem rather interesting—beautiful, even—"

"It's not mythology."

"Like the part that deals with marriage."

She waited. Mark dutifully echoed, "Deals with what?"

"Marriage."

Mark considered it. Then he shook his head. "What's that?"

"See?" she taunted him. "You don't know everything like you think you do. Marriage," she explained, "was a sort of cooperative agreement that the ancient people were supposed to have entered into."

"Sure, just like I said," Mark stated with assurance. "Hundreds of people did it. They got involved in this marriage agreement, and made war on each other with it."

"What a dope. Marriage was an agreement between just two people. And that much I might believe. Hundreds is too much."

"It was hundreds," Mark insisted.

"It was not. It was just two. And what's more, it was between a man and a woman. They lived together with their protobodies and agreed to cooperate together, and they made children and took care of them until they grew up."

"Why that's thirty or forty years," Mark exclaimed. "Even the wars didn't last that long. That's really nonsense. Besides, you can only make children in the Decanting Centers. And it's all done by machines."

"Well, maybe it is a little far fetched. But I think it's cute."

"Humph."

There was a few minutes silence. Then Jennette said softly, "Mark—"

"Yes?"

"Mark, you like me a lot, don't you?"

Mark squirmed uncomfortably, and stared at the artificial moon.

"Don't you?" she insisted. "More than you ever have anybody else?"

"Well, guess that's right," he admitted lamely. "A whole lot more than I should."

She reassuringly patted his hand with her little one. "That's all right, Mark. I won't tell anybody. Besides, I feel just the same way about you."

Mark nodded without speaking, worriedly studying the vague markings on the bright luminous disk in the simulated sky.

"Mark, don't you ever want to see the real me?" she inquired urgently. "Don't you sometimes feel kind of empty because you can never really have me—know me, because all you ever see is a manufactured thing that only somewhat resembles what I am really like?"

Mark blushed. She had come a little too close to the uncomfortable truth. But he refused to admit it, at least to her. He mumbled an indistinct denial.

"Are you sure?" she said, grabbing his hands, gazing intently into his eyes, forcing him to look at her. "Wouldn't you sometime like to come down to my transmitter quarters?"

"But—"

"And see and touch my protobody—the thing I really am?"

"Aw—"

"Scared?"

"Maybe I am."

"That's silly."

Mark swallowed and said stiffly, "Just because there is a no-fight clause in your invitation tonight doesn't necessarily mean I have to follow it, you know. You don't need weapons. I could strangle your protobody easily."

"You wouldn't," she said confidently.

"You sure don't think much of me, do you?"

"I think just the same of you as you do of me," she said simply.

With impulsive hunger, Mark threw his arms around her, holding her tightly against him, nuzzling her, smelling the perfume of her hair, incoherently mumbling into her ear. "Jennette, Jennette," he sang, "I think more of you than anything. I love you. I know it's wrong, but I would never even shoot you, because sometimes it hurts you, and I wouldn't want you to feel even the slightest discomfort." He stopped, took a deep breath, and added meekly, "I'm sorry."

"But Mark," she whispered. "Why is it really so wrong?"

"You know."

"Suppose I told you that this body is my protobody right now?" she asked earnestly.

"But it isn't."

"It is," she said faintly.

Mark's breath hissed as he gasped. Jennette was blushing all over her body, heightening the golden color of it. He let her go, and she slid off his lap onto the shadowed grass beside him. She bit her lip. "I didn't really mean to tell you—yet."

There was silence. Mark said quietly, "That's all right, Jennette."

"You aren't angry with me, are you?"

"No," he said slowly. "Not angry."

"Mark—"

"Yes?"

"Now that we're into this thing," she asked hopefully, "why don't we try this marriage agreement—you know, like the ancients did. It seems like such a beautiful thing to do when two people like us—you know."

"I don't know." Mark shook his head doubtfully. "I just don't know about it."

"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.

"And that, of course, would be the end of civilization. Pretty soon, there would be nothing left, and everybody would be dead."

Jennette did not reply when he stopped. She turned her head away, but Mark could hear her uneven breathing.

"We have a responsibility toward society at large. We know it. We've been well educated and we aren't savages. Neither one of us can get away from it. It might be wonderful at first, but our conscience would come out sooner or later, and the whole thing would be ruined."

She rubbed her face with her cupped hands, shaking her head. "I suppose—" she murmured unhappily.

"You'd hate yourself for it after a while," he said.

For a few minutes, Jennette stared at the grass before her feet, pulling up little blades of it one by one. Then Mark stood up, and she flashed him a small, wistful, damp smile. Together they walked back toward the elevator, stepping quietly and almost furtively on the soft ground. "If it weren't for that—" he started.

"I understand," she replied quickly. Taking hold of his arm, she said, "I'm sorry."

"Sure." Mark grinned affectionately at her. "Come on. Let's see if they've been having any good fights upstairs." They stepped into the elevator and disappeared. The artificial moon continued its regular motion through the simulated sky.