of Cyclone fencing.
The other might have been the Martyr’s father. There was a family resemblance in the withered ruins of this old man who, once or twice a week, took his son’s place, sitting in a lawnchair of nylon webbing and holding the same sign. He had a case of dowager’s hump so bad he couldn’t lift his head above the level of his shoulders, and his jowls sagged far below the level of his jaws. She called him Droopy.
The sign they carried read, STOP GODLESS CLONING. NO FRANKENSTEIN ANIMALS. CALL OR WRITE YOUR CONGRESSMAN .
She would have found it a lot easier to ignore them if there hadn’t been a tiny bit of doubt in her own mind as to the morality of what she was doing. She was no technological alarmist and hardly religious at all, but sometimes at night she lay awake and wondered if she had the right to pull such a trick…such a
stunt
, on innocent beasts.
She wondered what Matt Wright thought about it. Even more to the point, she wondered just what it was he was doing in his sealed-off half of the building. Breeding and keeping elephants, that took some space. What could Wright be up to that took just as much space? Did it have to do with mammoths, too?
She’d never figured out how to ask him.
Now he was gesturing at his sandwich.
“Could I interest you in an Italian bomber with all the trimmings?” he asked.
“No, thanks.” She took off her hat and wiped her brow. “But I’d like a sip of that soda if you don’t mind.”
“I can do better than that.” He opened a small blue six-pack cooler and took out an eight-ounce stubby glass bottle of Coke, twisted off the top. A little foamed over the side, and tiny bits of ice clung to it. Not much else in the world looked quite that good on a scorching day, except maybe a beer, which she wouldn’t drink until almost sundown. She took it gratefully and drained a third, then sat at the table with him.
“I always order the twelve-incher,” he said ruefully. “Then I end up wrapping up half of it.” Susan realized he was talking about the sandwich.
“They’re okay cold.”
“So how many female elephants do you have in there now?” he asked.
“Cows. Female elephants are cows. And Petunia-tu is the fifth.”
“And all of them are…I mean, except Petunia-tu…”
“Pregnant?” She shook her head. “Just Queenie and the second one, Mabel.”
“And I guess you haven’t figured out any way to rush things.”
Susan laughed. “The old-fashioned way is still the only way I know. Twenty-two months. That would probably surprise old Droopy and the Martyr.” He knew immediately who she was talking about, and grinned. “They probably think we’re going to grow a mammoth in a test tube. Most of it is well-established veterinary practice.”
“And he will be…a woolly mammoth?”
She shook her head. “He’ll be half mammoth.”
“Sure, I knew that. But will he have hair?”
“That’s a question Howard asks me about three times a week. Hair, hair, hair, that’s all he’s interested in, that’s what this is really all about. Mammoths had a distinctive body profile,
lots
different than any of the three living elephant species, and they had longer tusks, and—”
“I thought there were only two.”
“No, for quite a while now we’ve divided the African genus into savanna and jungle species. It was determined genetically; they don’t have a lot of differences you can see. Anyway, I’ll tell you what I tell Howard. We don’t know. My guess would be he’ll be fuzzy, at least. He probably won’t have the really long fur coat the frozen sperm donor had. On the other hand…that donor did have a long fur coat, and that was a bit of a surprise, when we finally realized just what it was we had.”
Matt frowned, and shrugged. “A mammoth, right?”
“Yeah, but what kind of mammoth?” She couldn’t stop herself from grinning. “I tell you, Matt, if Howard wasn’t so obsessed with cloning, he could already be a
The other might have been the Martyr’s father. There was a family resemblance in the withered ruins of this old man who, once or twice a week, took his son’s place, sitting in a lawnchair of nylon webbing and holding the same sign. He had a case of dowager’s hump so bad he couldn’t lift his head above the level of his shoulders, and his jowls sagged far below the level of his jaws. She called him Droopy.
The sign they carried read, STOP GODLESS CLONING. NO FRANKENSTEIN ANIMALS. CALL OR WRITE YOUR CONGRESSMAN .
She would have found it a lot easier to ignore them if there hadn’t been a tiny bit of doubt in her own mind as to the morality of what she was doing. She was no technological alarmist and hardly religious at all, but sometimes at night she lay awake and wondered if she had the right to pull such a trick…such a
stunt
, on innocent beasts.
She wondered what Matt Wright thought about it. Even more to the point, she wondered just what it was he was doing in his sealed-off half of the building. Breeding and keeping elephants, that took some space. What could Wright be up to that took just as much space? Did it have to do with mammoths, too?
She’d never figured out how to ask him.
Now he was gesturing at his sandwich.
“Could I interest you in an Italian bomber with all the trimmings?” he asked.
“No, thanks.” She took off her hat and wiped her brow. “But I’d like a sip of that soda if you don’t mind.”
“I can do better than that.” He opened a small blue six-pack cooler and took out an eight-ounce stubby glass bottle of Coke, twisted off the top. A little foamed over the side, and tiny bits of ice clung to it. Not much else in the world looked quite that good on a scorching day, except maybe a beer, which she wouldn’t drink until almost sundown. She took it gratefully and drained a third, then sat at the table with him.
“I always order the twelve-incher,” he said ruefully. “Then I end up wrapping up half of it.” Susan realized he was talking about the sandwich.
“They’re okay cold.”
“So how many female elephants do you have in there now?” he asked.
“Cows. Female elephants are cows. And Petunia-tu is the fifth.”
“And all of them are…I mean, except Petunia-tu…”
“Pregnant?” She shook her head. “Just Queenie and the second one, Mabel.”
“And I guess you haven’t figured out any way to rush things.”
Susan laughed. “The old-fashioned way is still the only way I know. Twenty-two months. That would probably surprise old Droopy and the Martyr.” He knew immediately who she was talking about, and grinned. “They probably think we’re going to grow a mammoth in a test tube. Most of it is well-established veterinary practice.”
“And he will be…a woolly mammoth?”
She shook her head. “He’ll be half mammoth.”
“Sure, I knew that. But will he have hair?”
“That’s a question Howard asks me about three times a week. Hair, hair, hair, that’s all he’s interested in, that’s what this is really all about. Mammoths had a distinctive body profile,
lots
different than any of the three living elephant species, and they had longer tusks, and—”
“I thought there were only two.”
“No, for quite a while now we’ve divided the African genus into savanna and jungle species. It was determined genetically; they don’t have a lot of differences you can see. Anyway, I’ll tell you what I tell Howard. We don’t know. My guess would be he’ll be fuzzy, at least. He probably won’t have the really long fur coat the frozen sperm donor had. On the other hand…that donor did have a long fur coat, and that was a bit of a surprise, when we finally realized just what it was we had.”
Matt frowned, and shrugged. “A mammoth, right?”
“Yeah, but what kind of mammoth?” She couldn’t stop herself from grinning. “I tell you, Matt, if Howard wasn’t so obsessed with cloning, he could already be a
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