Evolution

Joan remembered guiltily her bland assurance that Bex would have to be desperately unlucky for Rabaul to go pop just when she was in the vicinity. Out here, on this shuddering ground, such certainty seemed foolish. But she might still be right. The mountain might go back to sleep. One way or another, most people didn’t think about it. It was a crowded world, with plenty of problems to worry about even more immediate than a grumbling volcano.

The walk to the terminal seemed endless. The airport apron was a dismal place despite the corporate logos plastered on every surface. The intermittent shuddering of the ground was a primeval disturbance, and the huge whining of the jet engines sounded like the groan of disappointed animals.

And now Joan heard a distant popping, like damp logs thrown on a fire. "Shit. Was that gunfire?"

"There are protesters at the airport fence," said Alyce Sigurdardottir. "I glimpsed them as we came in. A great ragged band of them, like a shantytown."

"Just for us?"

Alyce smiled. "You can’t mount a respectable conference on globalization without the protesters jetting in. Come on, it’s a tradition; they’ve been trashing these conferences so long the veterans have reunions. You should be flattered they’re taking you seriously."

Joan said grimly, "Then we’ll just have to work harder to persuade them that we have something new to offer. I sense you don’t like Alison Scott."

"Scott’s whole life, her work, is show business. Even her children have been co-opted — no, created — to be part of the performance. Look at them."

Joan shrugged. "But you can’t blame her for genriching her children." She stroked her belly. "I don’t think I would want it for Junior here. But people have always wanted to give their children the best chance: the best school, the best stone-tipped spear, the best branch in the fig tree."

That forced a smile from Alyce. But she went on, "Some genriching would be desirable, if all could afford it. There is nothing physiologically inevitable about our bodies’ limited repair capabilities, for instance. Why can’t we regrow amputated limbs like a starfish? Why can’t we have several sets of teeth, instead of just two? Why don’t we replace worn out and arthritic joints?

"But do you really think that’s where Alison Scott has made her money? Look at her kids, their hair, teeth, skin. Innards are invisible. What’s the point of spending money if you can’t show off what you’ve got? Ninety percent of money currently spent on genriching goes on externals, on the visible. Those wretched kids of Scott’s are nothing but walking billboards for her wealth and power. They didn’t put the rich in genrich for nothing. I’ve never seen anything so decadent."

Joan put her arm around Alyce’s waist. "Maybe so. But we have to be a broad church. We need Scott’s contribution just as much as we need yours. You know, I feel like I have a boulder in my belly," she said breathlessly.

Alyce grimaced. "Tell me about it. I had three of them. But I went back to Iceland for them all. Ah, poor timing?"

Joan smiled. "An accident. The conference has been in the planning for two years. As for the baby—"

"Nature will take its course, as it always has, regardless of our petty concerns. The father?"

Another paleontologist, he had been caught in the middle of a meaningless brushflre war raging in the collapsed state of Kenya. He had been trying to protect hominid fossil beds from thieves; a bandit warlord had thought he was guarding silver, or diamonds, or AIDS vaccine. The experience, and the pregnancy that was its legacy, had hardened Joan’s determination to make her conference a success.

But she didn’t want to talk about it now. "A long story," she said.

Alyce seemed to understand. She squeezed Joan’s arm.

At last they got inside the airport terminal. The coolness of the air-conditioning fell on Joan like a cold shower, though she felt a pang of guilt at the thought of the kilowatts of heat that must thereby be pumped out into the murky air somewhere else. A Qantas representative, an Aborigine woman, smoothly guided them to a reception lounge. "There’s been some trouble," she said to the arriving passengers, over and over. "We’re in no danger. There will be an announcement shortly…"

Alyce and Joan made their way wearily to an empty metal couch. Alyce went to fetch them both some soda.

The walls of the lounge were smart, filled up with airline information, news bulletins, entertainment, phone facilities. Passengers were milling about. Many of them were conference attendees; Joan recognized their faces from the program booklet and their net sites. All obviously jet-lagged and disoriented, they looked either exhausted or hyper, or a mix of both.