10

‘THERE are blood banks,’ Mrs Carter said to Paul Dier. ‘– And bone banks. – And eye banks. And now, I am told, they are thinking of starting a sperm bank.’

Paul was tempted to tease Marion. Who – are ‘they’? he wanted to ask – the mysterious, ubiquitous ‘they’ who kept her so well informed. He had never seen her read a newspaper, not once in his presence had she opened a book or a magazine, there were no radios on Corbodéra except Nicky’s, and yet ‘they’ kept her in constant supply with all kinds of fascinating news, even of their most esoteric activities.

‘They have discovered,’ she continued, ‘that it can be quick-frozen and remain in perfect condition for hundreds of years.’

She sighed with pleasure.

She and Paul were enjoying one of their relaxed ‘alone’ moments together, though she had wondered an hour ago, when he’d refused to join his wife and the others in their walk along the beach, if he hadn’t some special reason for wanting to remain with her. Later, she decided that it was simply their ‘time’. Civilised, sensitive man that he was, he found time for aloneness with everyone. She had seen him chatting with the Countess, and with Robert on occasion, and with Mildred, and Nicky. She knew he even visited Eduard, but in the studio – since the artist could so rarely leave his painting to join the others without pangs of guilt.

‘Of course,’ she went on, ‘it won’t be like our blood banks; they’re not looking for donors. What I mean is – they don’t want just anyone’s sperm; no, there wouldn’t be much point in that, would there, considering the unlimited supply. What they want, naturally, is sperm from men of genius. Take Einstein. Think what it would mean if we had a supply of his sperm.’

She paused, giving Paul time to think, but nothing of any particular significance occurred to him.

‘What would it mean?’ he asked.

‘Why the theory,’ she answered, surprised, ‘is that one day we will be able to create geniuses at will – we will be able to adjust the demand and supply, to to speak. For example. If we are low on brilliant’ scientists at some sociological time or other and need a few men of really exceptional talent to stimulate the age, why we can go to our bank, find Mr Einstein’s sperm, and then – by thawing it out or whatever it is they do to activate it – impregnate through artificial insemination tens or even hundreds of suitably healthy and eugenically correct young women.’

Paul nodded sagely. ‘I see,’ he said. But it was evident he did not see at all, not at all. ‘And after we have impregnated all these eugenically correct young women? . . .’ he asked.

Mrs Carter threw up her hands.

‘Foolish boy! Why we wait; we simply wait. Naturally, each of these women will produce at least one baby, and because all have been sired, in effect, by a man of manifest genius, the law of statistical averages indicates . . .’

‘The what?’ Paul interrupted.

‘The law of . . .’ Mrs Carter looked at him over the top of her glasses. ‘Why are you smiling at me that way? Surely you know that everything is statistical these days; even truth. It all started with dice, I believe, and the laws of chance – though that is one thing I thought very odd that there should be Laws of chance. It seems to me that if chance were really chance, there couldn’t possibly be any laws governing it at all. There would be sheer chaos. – Or am I being stupid?’ She shrugged. ‘In any event, I am fascinated by the whole idea – the sperm bank, that is. And don’t tell me you aren’t.’

Paul laughed. Being with Marion, no matter what they talked about, always gave him pleasure.

‘Very well, I am fascinated,’ he replied. ‘But also doubtful. Men of genius frequently produce quite ordinary sons and daughters.’

‘That,’ Mrs Carter returned promptly, ‘may be environmental. To be reared by a man of genius is to be staggered by his accomplishment. One refuses to compete; indeed, it is very discouraging. One’s ideal, the image to which one aspires, is too monumental.’

Paul shrugged. There was something – if not very much – to that.

‘So we produce – what we need,’ he concluded. ‘– What the age needs. But who will decide?’ He smiled at her again, and it seemed to Mrs Carter that his smile was just a bit crooked. ‘– Will they decide that?’

She looked at him blankly.

‘They?’

Paul laughed again. ‘Yes. Who will decide? Take our own age. How luckless to imagine we need artists if what we truly need is mathematicians. Perhaps we will breed a particular kind of genius who will decide what kind of genius the age lacks.’

The momentary silence between them had the quality of silence that usually follows a very stupid remark. Mrs Carter glanced away and then back at him, finally giving him the benefit of the doubt.

‘Nonsense!’ she replied. ‘Everyone knows what our age lacks. We suffer from a plethora of scientists. And that is the truth. They are the source of our anxiety. Never mind the corrupt politicians; it is the scientists – with their blackboards and chalk – who put the weapons in our hands. All those innocent hieroglyphics! What we need so sorely today is men of religious genius – psychological genius, if you will-through whom we can balance this dreadful excess of physical knowledge.’

The others were coming back; Suzette and Nicky, hand in hand; the Countess and Mildred behind them, followed by Gia and Robert who, together, were carrying a huge piece of driftwood.

‘And that is why,’ Mrs Carter rushed on, anxious to conclude before the others arrived to interrupt her, ‘I am in favour of the sperm bank. I may even endow it if it comes to that. – Though I feel – what a pity, what a great pity, it couldn’t have been started years, even centuries ago. If it had, just think, Paul – I might have borne Socrates’ child. Or a son to Moses! Amenhotep! Why I have only to close my eyes to see all those bottles – or tubes – covered with frost and labelled Zola! Spinoza! Raphael! Beethoven! Bach! Not to mention’ – and she leaned forward in sudden ecstatic triumph – ‘Freud!’