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teens, the women were as controlled as any other women. They went out to the negotiations, certainly; they traveled a great deal. But they were taken to their destinations by men of theirfamily and returned home in the same way, and except in their work they probably had less freedom than other women. When, and where, could this defiant young woman have found an opportunity for illicit sexual congress? Not in the dormitories where the little girls slept, all in rows, with an adult woman always awake and on duty all night long. Not in an interpreting booth, under the eyes of federal employees and Aliens and heaven only knew what else. Not in the big family flyers, trekking back and forth between government buildings and home. Where? And equally as mysterious, with whom?
    They had asked her, of course, and encouraged her to confess the full details of her sin for the sake of her immortal soul. And for the sake of her mother, who had somehow managed to arrange this daughter’s absence and concoct a cover story the males of the house would believe, in itself an extraordinary accomplishment. For the lies she had told, and the punishments she risked, that mother deserved to know who the father was. At least that! But the pregnant girl had looked at them calmly and said that she was grateful for their concern but had no intention of telling them anything at all. And there it had stayed.
    Perhaps now, in her agony, she would cry out the man’s name. That was common enough, and the nuns were prepared to pay close attention to even fragments of cries. And they might learn her real name, perhaps; they doubted very much that it was, as she had told them, just “Jane Jefferson,” although she’d answered to that readily enough through the last four months. The linguists were much given to exotic and elaborate names, especially for their women; perhaps because the family customs forbade them any other ornament, they were almost excessively ornamental with their naming. Sister Antonia did not believe in any “just Janes” among the women of the Lines today. “Patagonia Gloriosa” was more likely, or “Autumn Dawn Crocus,” or some such awful nonsense.
    The girl was healthy, as was any young linguist; the children of the Lines, like expensive race horses (and for similar reasons), followed superb regimens of diet and exercise and health care. Sister Antonia had been sure she would not require much assistance during her labor—thank goodness there’d be no reason to call on Sister Carapace!—and had sent Sisters Claudia and Ruth, both experienced women of even temperament, to see to her. With no expectation that anything more would be needed.
    She was therefore much surprised when Sister Ruth arrived red-faced and breathless from running up the stairs and down the corridors, rushing into the room asking for her to come at once.
    â€œWhatever in the world is the matter?” she asked, already on her feet and headed for the cellar room; if the situation had not been serious, she knew Ruth would never have come for her, and in childbed serious situations could turn into disaster while you discussed them. They could settle the details on the way.
    â€œHemorrhage?” Antonia asked, starting the checklist as they ran for the stairs. “Placenta pr—”
    â€œSister, forgive me for interrupting you, but it’s not that sort of problem.”
    â€œNo? What, then?”
    â€œPlease . . . come and see.”
    â€œYou’re sure you need me, Sister?” Antonia was going to be very annoyed if she’d been called away from her work to tend to a case of ordinary hysterics.
    â€œQuite sure,” said Ruth steadily. “This is beyond me, and Claudia is as much at a loss as I am. We’ve never seen or heard anything like it, not here! ”
    They took the stairs to the basement, and the narrow old stairs to the cellar below, as quickly as the skirts of their