Frameshift

Once Klimus’s sperm was added, the mixture would be placed in an incubator. Klimus would return tomorrow night at this time to check on what was happening: fertilization should take place pretty quickly in the dish, but it would be a day before it could be detected. He’d phone Pierre, Molly, and Dr. Bacon with the results, and assuming they did have fertilized eggs, they would all return the following night, Sunday evening, by which time the embryos would be at the four-cell stage, ready for implantation. Dr. Bacon would then insert four or five directly into Molly’s uterus through her cervical canal.

If none implanted, they’d try again later. If one or two did implant, a standard pregnancy test should reveal positive results in ten to fourteen days. If more than that implanted, well, Pierre had read about a procedure called “selective reduction” — another reason he hadn’t been keen on having his own sperm generate embryos for IVF. Selective reduction was done many weeks into the pregnancy by using ultrasound to target the most accessible fetuses, then injecting poison directly into their hearts.

“Well,” said Bacon, after scrubbing down and removing her gown, “I’m going home. Keep your fingers crossed.”

“Thank you so much,” said Molly, sitting on a chair across the room.

“Yes, thank you,” said Pierre. “We really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure,” said Bacon. She and her assistants left.

“You two should get going, as well,” said Klimus to Pierre and Molly.

“Go out to dinner; keep yourselves occupied. I’ll call you tomorrow night.”

The phone rang in Pierre and Molly’s living room at 8:52 the following evening. They looked at each other anxiously, not sure for half a second who should answer it.

Pierre nodded at Molly, and she dived for it, bringing the handset to her face. “Hello?” she said. “Yes? Really? Oh, that’s wonderful! That’s marvelous! Thank you, Burian. Thank you so much! Yes, yes, tomorrow.

We’ll be there at eight. Thanks a million! See you then.”

Pierre was already on his feet, his arms around his wife’s waist from behind. She put down the handset. “We’ve got seven fertilized eggs!” she said.

Pierre turned her around and kissed her passionately. Their tongues danced for a while, and his hands fondled her breasts. They collapsed back down on the couch, making wild, hot love, first licking and kissing each other, she taking him into her mouth, he lapping at her, and then, of course, the most important of all, driving his penis into her, pounding, pounding, as if to propel his own sperm through her blocked fallopian tubes, and at last exploding in orgasm, after which the two of them lay spent, cuddling together.

Pierre knew that for the rest of his life, he would think of that spectacular lovemaking session as the real moment his child had been conceived.

Craig Bullen came into the ultramodern office on the thirty-seventh floor of the Condor Health Insurance Tower in San Francisco. Sitting at his desk as he had every weekday for the past four decades was Abraham Danielson, the founder of the company. Bullen had mixed feelings about the old man. He was a crusty bastard, to be sure, but he had handpicked Bullen fifteen years ago, when Bullen had graduated from the Harvard Business School. “You’re the most rapacious kid I’ve seen in years,”

Danielson, who was old even back then, had said — and he’d meant it as a compliment. Danielson had brought Bullen up through the ranks, and now Bullen was CEO. Danielson still kept his hand in, though, and Bullen often turned to the old man for reality checks. But today Danielson’s ancient face was creased more than usual, a frown deepening his myriad wrinkles.

“What’s wrong?” asked Bullen.

Danielson gestured at the spreadsheet printout covering his desk.

“Projections for the next fiscal year,” he said in a gruff, dry voice. “We’ll still be doing fine in Oregon and Washington, but this new anti-genetic-discrimination law will be killing us here in Northern Cal. We got a raft of new policies this year from people we’d never have insured before, so that’s pushed the bottom line up a bit for the time being. But next year and in each subsequent year, many of those people will start showing overt symptoms, and begin filing claims.” He sighed, a rough, papery sound. “I thought that we were in the clear after Hillary Clinton fell flat on her face — the smug bitch — but if Oregon or Washington State adopt a California-style law, well, hell, we might as well close up shop and go home.”

Bullen shook his head slightly. He’d heard Danielson go on like this before, but it was getting worse as the years went by. “We’re lobbying like mad in Salem and Olympia,” Bullen said, trying to calm the old man. “And the HIAA is fighting hard in D.C. against any similar federal regulation.

The California law is an aberration, I’m sure.”

But Danielson shook his head. “Where’s that steely-eyed realism, Craig?