"All right. They've changed something in the chemicals they use for the clones in the tanks. Now they can keep on cloning the same person over and over, but he's a neuter. The new clones can't think for themselves; they can't conceive, can't impregnate, they'll never have children of their own. And the council members are afraid they'll lose the scientific skills, the craftsmanship, Miriam's skill at drawing, her eidetic visual memory—all that might be lost if they don't ensure it in the next generation through cloning. Since they can't use the tanks, they'll use the fertile women as hosts. They'll implant you with clones, triplets. And in nine months you'll have three new Andrews, or three new Miriams, or Lawrences, or whatever. They'll use the strongest, healthiest young women for this. And they'll continue to use artificial insemination for the others. When they produce another new talent they can use, they'll clone him several times, implant the clones in your bodies and produce more of him."

She was staring at him now, openly puzzled by his intensity. "What difference does it make?" she asked. "If that's how we can best serve the community, that's what we have to do."

"The new babies from the tanks won't even have names," Mark said. "They'll be the Bennies, or the Bonnies, or the Annes, all of them, and their clones will be called that, and theirs."

She laced her sandal without speaking.

"And you, how many sets of triplets do you think your body can produce? Three? Four?"

She was no longer listening.

Mark climbed the hill over the valley and sat on a limestone rock, looking at the people below, at the sprawling farm that had grown year by year until it filled the whole valley all the way to the bend in the river. Only the old house was an oasis of trees in the autumn fields, which looked like a desert now. Livestock were moving slowly toward the large barns. A group of small boys swept into view, playing something that involved a lot of running, falling down, and running again. Twenty or more of them played together. He was too far away to hear them, but he knew they were laughing.

"What's wrong with it?" he said aloud, and was surprised by the sound of his voice. The wind stirred the trees, but there were no words, no answer.

They were content, happy even, and he, the outsider, in his discontent would destroy that to satisfy what had to be selfish desires. In his loneliness he would disrupt an entire community that was thriving and satisfied.