Yet he
spoke little, gazing wistfully into the small valley at the two women he
had loved: desiring again the one, though he rebuked himself for it,
loving, and at the same time hating, the fallen angel of his heart.
Smith observed this, and failing in his attempts at indirect
conversation, spoke more plainly.
'I guess by now the Doc has explained to you something of our
breeding problem..... Dave Rawlings can be a bit blunt---subtle as a
truck, really---but he generally says the things that need to be said.
About mating, for example, and children.' Kalus turned toward him
curiously, as Smith pretended not to notice.
'He and I were just talking about it last night, and do you know what
he said? ‘Stop screwing around and just ask them. Enough of this
timidity. It's high time for those of us who can still procreate to
get down to some serious fucking.''
If Smith had stopped talking long enough, Kalus would have gotten up and
walked away from what seemed to him a lunatic assault on those things he
held most dear. But he did not stop.
'We've all been in rather a state of shock the past year, sexually
as well as otherwise. And of course we had plenty of other things to
think about first: constructing the shelters, laying up food for the
Winter.'
'Survival,' said Kalus bluntly.
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