The Solution Is Neither Obvious Nor Pleasant

     I keep seeing queries such as this:

What tool can store owners own to stop this from happening?! 🚨pic.twitter.com/cOKcoVFkZn

— Anti Left Memes (@AntiLeftMemes) November 5, 2025

     My first thought was for stores to invest in security doors. But storefronts almost all incorporate display windows; thieves that know they won’t be opposed by superior force will smash through them. It’s already been done several times, sometimes with a vehicle. Even armor glass will shatter under that kind of force. So that’s no solution.

     My second thought was for stores to close their retain storefronts and go “delivery only.” But a thief can follow a delivery truck, assault its driver wherever he stops to make a delivery, and make free with the truck’s contents. Once again, the absence of a superior opposing force is what matters.

     So there must be a superior opposing force. Such a force must possess lethal armament that it can and will use at need. A sufficiently high probability of death will deter most thieves, even those that travel in packs. But where are we to find such a force?

     Only the readiness to deal death to attackers has any prospect of success. But even that falls short of perfection. Armored cars with armed guards have been successfully attacked, too. If the thief (or gang of thieves) is heavily armed and willing to risk counterfire, he’ll take his chances.

     Amazon’s delivery trucks have been attacked many times. The driver is usually helpless before such an attack. He may even have been instructed not to resist. In a quiet residential neighborhood, most of its residents at their jobs, where would his protection come from?

     Perfection cannot be the standard. Even were all of us to go armed at all times, there would be some forcible thievery. Ironically, many states deem the protection of property an inadequate justification for the use of lethal force. In New York, a homeowner is forbidden to shoot a burglar unless he can convince a jury that his own life was in danger. Else he may spend several years in prison as the price for stopping the burglar. Never mind that such legal protection of the thief’s “right to life” practically licenses home invaders to do as they will.

     Rose Wilder Lane, in The Discovery of Freedom, noted that what protects most of us is other people’s respect for our rights, rather than the prospect of arrest, trial, and incarceration. But when that respect declines, so does the invisible defense of our persons and property it once provided.

     Americans must become a people in arms once again. Yes, there will be consequences. Some people will die – and some of those will be good people. But with the general understanding of and respect for rights of all kinds having declined so sharply, the time has come for Nemesis to return to the stage and teach the villains once again what follows from Hubris.

Muslim Privilege

     A reckoning is due:

     Is there anyone out there who wants to discuss “privilege?”

---

     Islam is an aggressive, imperialist creed. Little about it is even quasi-religious. When Muslims do things like congregate in the street to “pray,” what they’re really doing is asserting their superiority over secular law. Any other fool who would dare to block a public thoroughfare would swiftly be arrested for obstructing traffic, and possibly disturbing the peace as well. When Muslims do it, the “authorities” pretend it isn’t happening. Taking official notice and dispatching law enforcement to clear the obstruction might have... consequences.

     Don’t mumble “freedom of religion” at me. No other creed would be permitted such disturbances of public order. But our lily-livered “authorities” are either too intimidated by Islamic propensity to violence, or find it useful for keeping the rest of us cowed.

     But ordinary Americans find that we’ve had quite enough. Some of us own trucks with plow blades on them. And a whole lot of us own firearms.

---

     You may be familiar with the following passage:

     “What I actually am, Mr. Rearden, is a policeman. It is a policeman’s duty to protect men from criminals—criminals being those who seize wealth by force. It is a policeman’s duty to retrieve stolen property and return it to its owners. But when robbery becomes the purpose of the law, and the policeman’s duty becomes, not the protection, but the plunder of property—then it is an outlaw who has to become a policeman.”

     It’s from Atlas Shrugged, of course. “Pirate” Ragnar Danneskjold is explaining his peculiar occupation to Hank Rearden. But stolen property is only one form of lawbreaking that requires a forcible response. Stolen freedom of transit and stolen public order are no less deserving of our attentions.

     President Trump has approved of the use of significant force when it’s needed to apprehend illegal aliens. Perhaps someone should ask him about these Islamic “street prayers” and what he would approve in response to them. Tear gas, perhaps? Rubber bullets? Or maybe firehoses?

     They must be quelled, and swiftly. If the “authorities” won’t act, private citizens must. Else the law is meaningless, and Islam reigns de facto over these United States.

Important Truths Dept.

     Did you know that millions of people will believe anything at all, however absurd, if it begins with “Did you know that...” -- ?

     No, really! 😉

Could We, Should We Dept.

     Actor Kevin Sorbo asks:

     Muslim militants post selfies with thousands of dead civilians after conquering major Sudanese city! So what are we going to do about it??

     Hm. Sudan, you say? That’s in Africa, isn’t it? What we used to call the “Dark Continent?” Doesn’t Sudan, a sovereignty with a seat in the United Nations General Assembly, have its own military? Couldn’t they do something about the violence? Or is the Sudanese government disinclined to act?

     If that last is the case, an American expeditionary force would have to contend with both the Muslim militants and the Sudanese army. We might have to destroy the latter before we could confront the former. What then? More “nation building?” Perhaps another massive occupation force, to give our precious diplomats and experts time to teach the Sudanese to be civilized members of the global community? That worked out well in Afghanistan, didn’t it?

     And there’s this question to answer: What American interests would be served by intervening in Sudan’s internal chaos?

     Yes, I’m being a bit heavy-handed here, but the impulse demanded some air. We forget so swiftly what our other foreign interventions have wrought. We overlook the savagery that characterizes all of Africa. We think ourselves too powerful to be gainsaid... and too benevolent to be wrong.

     But maybe this time it will be different, you say? What evidence exists for that proposition? And what degree of bloodshed on the part of young Americans would you be willing to invest in the possibility?

     I am so tired of this shit.

---

     Intervenors of every variety call for America to fix other peoples, other nations, other continents. Some of them are genuinely benevolent. Some of them sincerely believe in America’s omnipotence. And some of them see an opportunity for power or baksheesh. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. We can’t do it.

     With all our power and wealth, we cannot raise savages to the level of intelligence and clarity required for the job. I wrote about this long ago:

     America is what it is because it is a made society, founded on clearly understood principles by a pioneer people. The societies of Africa are legacy societies, weighed down by the tribal traditions, superstitions and animosities of thousands of years, unleavened by the Enlightenment from which our core concepts sprang. Until Africa renounces its past, there will be no room in which to build a new future.

     But Africa will not renounce its past. It hasn't yet outgrown its belief in magic. Combatants in the Liberian nightmare are eating their slain enemies' vital organs, in accord with the ancient voodoo belief that this will add the strength of the vanquished to their own. So Liberians look across the Atlantic and cry, "Help us, Lady Liberty! Feed us! We are poor and terrified, you are rich and strong! Bring your breadbasket and your gun and deliver us from the darkness!"

     You cannot have a civilized nation without civilized people. You cannot have a civilized people without both Christian ethics and the Enlightenment. Haven’t our previous ventures into civilizing other lands made that clear yet?

     But that do-gooding impulse can be so strong.

---

     The West can’t help Africa. Nor should we. The record speaks for itself. – Kim Du Toit

     Painful truths are the most aggravating kind. Where’s the Advil? Never mind that; where’s the Oxy? Let’s forget our record of failure at uplift, roll up our sleeves, and get on with it! After all, we’re Americans! And this time, we have experience to draw on, right, guys?

     Experience is supposed to teach. And it does: it tells you why you’ve just busted your skull... after you’ve busted it. But the test comes first; the lesson comes afterward. We’ve had the test several times. We’ve “busted our skull,” figuratively at least, on each occasion. Yet many have failed to absorb the lesson.

     Christian missionaries have strained to bring Christianity to the Dark Continent. Their successes were mostly in European colonies. When the colonial powers retreated, Christianity and its influence began a steady retreat. That wasn’t (and isn’t) because there was something lacking in those missionaries’ efforts, or in Christianity itself. It’s Africa itself: the African mentality in the African environment. Kim Du Toit’s essay, quoted above, delineates the matter too well, and too painfully, for an intelligent reader to miss it.

     Islam found a fallow field in Africa. It appeals to the savage mentality: conversion by the sword! If they won’t accept Allah, kill or enslave them! Scant wonder Islam is sweeping through the continent. Africa couldn’t be more suited to Islam if they’d been designed for each other.

     Continuous tribal warfare is equally well suited to Africa. It’s returned in force in every country where Europeans once ruled and have retreated. Only watchful, unrelenting, greatly superior power can keep the peace when the natives’ fondest wish is to slaughter one another. Well, yes: first they go after any whites that were foolish enough to remain. Then, the fun really begins!

     Islamic forces are rapidly expunging Christianity from Nigeria and any other parts of Africa where it’s hung on. The Enlightenment finds few fans among Africa's savage, bloody-minded natives. There’s one and only one cure:

     So here’s my (tongue-in-cheek) solution for the African fiasco: a high wall around the whole continent, all the guns and bombs in the world for everyone inside, and at the end, the last one alive should do us all a favor and kill himself.

     Kim may have intended that facetiously, but it’s no less true for that.

In Praise Of Ordinary Life

     Recently, I read the following from a supposedly sane and well-balanced young woman:

     “I want to marry the man who gets more excited about my birthday than I do.”
     “I want a man who plans little surprises to make my eyes light up.”
     “I want a man who never treats my joy as an inconvenience.”
     “I want a man who asks how my day is and actually waits for the answer.”
     “I want a man who celebrates my wins louder than anyone else.”
     “I want a man who is proud of me on the days I’m not proud of myself.”
     “I want a man who knows I like my coffee sweet.”
     “I want a man who warms up the car while I tie my shoes.”
     “I want a man who hears me talk about my dreams and then turns them into plans.”
     “I want a man who chooses ‘us’ even when life gets loud.”
     “I want a man who makes ordinary moments feel like magic.”

     That wish list drew a lot of negative commentary. Of course, wish lists are often impractical, but the impractical ones are usually materially oriented. This one demands a fantasy creature for a mate. But, as my favorite late-night TV philosopher has said, wait: there’s more.

     The fantasy mate is expected to deliver a fantasy existence as well.

     I can only speak for myself, but I’m unaware of anyone who enjoys a magical life. Even the very rich have fairly ordinary lives. Granted that they may do less housework than the rest of us. Even so they rise in the morning, spend their days dealing with the necessities of their lives, retire to bed in the evening, sleep through the night, and – if they’re really fortunate – rise the next day to do it again.

     And what on Earth is wrong with that?

---

     Many may dream of a life filled with adventure, excitement, and reward:

     I didn't want to go back to school, win, lose, or draw. I no longer gave a damn about three-car garages and swimming pools, nor any other status symbol or "security." There was no security in this world and only damn fools and mice thought there could be.
     Somewhere back in the jungle I had shucked off all ambition of that sort. I had been shot at too many times and had lost interest in supermarkets and exurban subdivisions and tonight is the PTA supper don't forget dear you promised.
     Oh, I wasn't about to hole up in a monastery. I still wanted—
     What did I want?
     I wanted a Roc's egg. I wanted a harem loaded with lovely odalisques less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels, the rust that never stained my sword. I wanted raw red gold in nuggets the size of your fist and feed that lousy claim jumper to the huskies! I wanted to get up feeling brisk and go out and break some lances, Then pick a likely wench for my droit du seigneur—I wanted to stand up to the Baron and dare him to touch my wench! I wanted to hear the purple water chuckling against the skin of the Nancy Lee in the cool of the morning watch and not another sound, nor any movement save the slow tilling of the wings of the albatross that had been pacing us the last thousand miles.
     I wanted the hurtling moons of Barsoom. I wanted Storisende and Poictesme, and Holmes shaking me awake to tell me, "The game's afoot!" I wanted to float down the Mississippi on a raft and elude a mob in company with the Duke of Bilgewater and the Lost Dauphin.
     I wanted Prester John, and Excalibur held by a moon-white arm out of a silent lake. I wanted to sail with Ulysses and with Tros of Samothrace and eat the lotus in a land that seemed always afternoon. I wanted the feeling of romance and the sense of wonder I had known as a kid. I wanted the world to be what they had promised me it was going to be—instead of the tawdry, lousy, fouled-up mess it is.

     ...but such are dreams. Such are the inventions of professional fantasists. Were it otherwise, there’d be no market for fantasy.

     Nobody promises anyone such an existence. A good thing, too. It would be next to impossible to deliver on such a promise.

     Some soldiers sometimes have excitement-filled lives. For a few years, anyway. Ask them what it costs. Don’t forget to factor in those who paid the ultimate price.

     Ordinary American life, with all its compromises, frustrations, and vicissitudes, is the best bargain going.

---

     The dreams of young women are often extravagant. The young – both sexes – are like that. But there’s a shortage of unmarried handsome princes just now. (Please don’t demand a government program to address the shortfall!) And even the handsomest princes usually come unequipped with magical powers.

     Time was, women – even young women – understood that. They aspired not to adventure, excitement, and the life of a fantasy princess, but to love, comfort, and security. They knew from the start that what they sought would demand work, prioritization of desires, and prudence in their choices. They thrilled to the “demon lovers” they found between the covers of gaudily decorated paperbacks, just as do contemporary American women – but they knew that between those covers was where they must remain.

     It appears that something has gone wrong with the upbringings of young American women. I haven’t raised any myself, so rather than discourse further on it, or prescribe a method for its remediation, I believe I’ll stop here.

Cadences

     Are there any former piano students among my Gentle Readers? Those of you who had to endure piano lessons in your youth will be familiar with a fiendish device called a metronome. That Satanic contrivance was supposed to teach us to respect the time signatures in the pieces we were learning. Get out of sync with the metronome’s peremptory beat and get rapped across the knuckles – usually those on your left hand – until you could catch up again.

     I grew to hate that device. I felt that it was holding me back. But then, I’ve always been in something of a hurry.

     The metronome’s beat was only the most obtrusive of the cadences we learned to respect. There were others that came more “naturally:” the rising and setting of the sun; the regularity of mealtimes; the start and end times of school, and later, of work; the schedule of TV shows; and so on. People have adapted to those cadences for centuries, and have seldom thought much about them. But just this morning one such cadence has been disturbed, which is the justification for this screed.

     When a habitual cadence “jitters,” such that one is briefly “out of step,” it can disturb other things as well. This morning I rose when my bedside clock said it was 4:00 AM. But upon rising I realized that today is “Fall-Back Sunday,” when the nation reverts from Daylight Savings Time to Standard Time. Grumble; time to reset all the BLEEP!ing clocks built into all our BLEEP!ing digital devices. When will this madness end, anyway?

     But that’s just what got me thinking about this subject. What followed was a somewhat more unsettling question.

---

     Which of the cadences by which our lives are structured are inescapable? Which are chosen by those who prefer them? And which are imposed upon us by forces we cannot hope to oppose?

     Most people allow their lives to be rhythmically structured. Some, personally disinclined to be ruled by any metronome, refuse to respect any beat. World Chess Champion Emanuel Lasker was like that: he declared himself unwilling to be “tyrannized by Time.” He ate and slept when he pleased, regardless of the hour. His disdain for all schedules caused him some grief during tournaments.

     We the Cadenced view such individuals as disturbances. Those such who are important to us seem to compel us to conform to their atemporal idiosyncrasies. That’s not really the case, of course, but the way our cadences bind us can distort our perspectives.

     Yet there are lessons to be learned from the clash between us who strive to keep to the beat and those who disregard it.

---

     Today is All Souls Day, the third day of the All Saints Triduum. Today, Catholics pray for the relief of our departed who, at their passing from this life, were deemed to require purification in Purgatory before they can enter heaven. I have no idea what percentage of souls ultimately bound for heaven must suffer for a time in that “waiting area.” At a guess, it would be nearly everyone who dies without mortal sins on his soul. We are sinners, after all, and even those of us who manage to avoid (or expiate) all mortal sin probably die carrying some spiritual burden. Those who loved us in life are supposed to pray that our term in Purgatory will be short, for once we’re there, we cannot pray for ourselves.

     That’s only one of the reasons to cultivate the love and good will of others while we live, but if you’ll pardon the phrasing, it’s a damned good one.

     All Souls Day comes regularly on November 2 each year. That’s the Church’s decision rather than our own. It’s only a reminder, really. Why shouldn’t we pray for the release of our departed into heavenly bliss every day of the year? But of course, human memory is fallible. The living are compelled by so many “important” cadences that something discretionary like prayers for the souls of our departed loved ones can “fall off the back of the stove.”

     Even so, it’s something to ponder, and not just on November 2.

     I’ve lost people I’ve loved. I have so many things on my mind that even remembering my morning and evening prayers can be a struggle. So my departed loved ones often go “unserviced.” And every year on November 2, I’m reminded – painfully – that I’ve promised to pray for them yet have failed to do so all year long.

     Once again in this Year of Our Lord 2025, the cadence of the liturgical year has reminded me of that promise. And once again I’ve resolved to do better than in previous years. Perhaps this is the year I’ll finally make good on that resolution.

     Now if Congress would only put an end to this damned clock-shifting business! Please!

Backing Away

     Beware: I’m furious. I’m about to launch a “rant.” It might turn ugly. All the same, I’m not going to hold anything back. Consider yourselves forewarned, Gentle Readers.

     Large-scale conflicts all have the same genesis: the politicization of some idea or practice. I’ve said this. So has my beloved colleague Linda Fox. We gave the subject our best, but too few of you have taken it to heart. A saddening percentage of you have adopted politicization tactics, not understanding that it will make you indistinguishable from the Left.

     As I’ve made it a working assumption that the politicization of an issue will bring conflict, I’ve been trying to stay clear of such things. Another working assumption is that he who politicizes knows what he’s doing; therefore he seeks the conflict it will bring. And we have no more room for conflict in this conflict-ridden age.

     So I’m distancing myself from politics and political advocacy.

     What? That distresses you? Come on! Surely you don’t read my interminable tirades just to get your glands in a lather. Who needs the agita? I’d rather believe that I’ve made you feel better. I intend to set my fingers to these BLEEP!ing keys with only that in mind henceforward.

     Feel better, Gentle Reader. Feel at ease, at peace. “Peace on Earth and good will toward men,” as the angels sang to the shepherds at Bethlehem. To get that precious feeling, you must back away from anything and everything that’s been politicized. Make all things private, as they were before that noxious nonsense that’s called The State started throwing its weight around.

     Even if you can only do so for yourself, think and act as if no such lunacy as some people ordering others around (and jailing or killing them for disobedience) had ever arisen among us.

---

     Ten years ago, I wrote:

     Virtually every op-ed writer currently blathering has chosen to align himself with some political ideology. Virtually all such persons routinely cheerlead for one or the other of the two major political parties. They might well be sincere in their convictions. They might well be benevolently inclined toward the rest of us: they might sincerely believe that the political agendas they promote and support would be for the best, and that once they’re in place, we would all be as happy as kings.
     It doesn’t matter. They’re pushing politics – the pursuit of power over others – as the cure for everything that ails us. Even those who argue solely for the repeal of this or that oppressive law are pushing politics.

     I was echoing another brilliant thinker and writer:

     This must be said: There are too many "great" men in the world — legislators, organizers, do-gooders, leaders of the people, fathers of nations, and so on, and so on. Too many persons place themselves above mankind; they make a career of organizing it, patronizing it, and ruling it.
     Now someone will say: "You yourself are doing this very thing."
     True. But it must be admitted that I act in an entirely different sense; if I have joined the ranks of the reformers, it is solely for the purpose of persuading them to leave people alone. I do not look upon people as Vancauson looked upon his automaton. Rather, just as the physiologist accepts the human body as it is, so do I accept people as they are. I desire only to study and admire.

     “Great men.” Have you reflected on the inanity of that phrase lately? What qualifies a man as “great?” Is it personal achievement, or is it the ascent to political power? Time was, we honored the first sort; we endured the second, as men have done since States first emerged to bedevil us. Today it’s rather the reverse.

     George Herron had something to say about that:

     The possession of power over others is inherently destructive both to the possessor of power and to those over whom it is exercised. And the great man of the future, in distinction from the great man of the past, is he who will seek to create power in people, and not gain power over them. The great man of the future is he who will refuse to be great at all, in the historic sense; he is the man who will literally lose himself, who will altogether diffuse himself in the life of humanity.

     That is greatness. That is humility: the great and underappreciated Christian virtue. It’s required that a man be humble, if he is to submit himself to the will of God. And damned near no one for whom the trumpets sound their fanfares exemplifies or exercises it.

     I shan’t claim to be an exemplar of humility. I know better. My tendency to think myself superior to others has caused me most of the grief I’ve known. That doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate its importance; rather the reverse. It’s one of the hardest-learned of all my lessons.

     Paradoxically, for Smith to tell Jones to “be humble” usually has the opposite effect. It produces anger, even fury. Imagine telling any of today’s “great men” that they should be humble. What sort of response would you expect? “Guards! Throw this person down the steps. Make it hurt.”

     Time was, it was actually a crime to tell a “great man” to be humble. It was called lèse-majesté. It could get the offender summarily beheaded. Don’t take my word for it; look it up. Look into the history of monarchy; you’ll find it.

     Tells you something about the relationship of humility to “greatness,” doesn’t it?

     Draw the BLEEP!ing moral.

---

     I’ve known a genuinely great man. He was my friend, for a time. He’s passed away, one of the most painful losses of my life... and indeed, one of the greatest recent losses of this world, though the world be unaware of it. Yet his greatness went unrecognized by nearly everyone. That’s as he would have wanted it, too.

     He didn’t care what others were doing. He didn’t care what others said or thought. He simply lived, loved, worked, and created. He made a specialty out of the employment of “obsolete” technologies to build useful, even innovative things. He joked that his mantra should be “There has to be a harder way to do this.” Really, I attach more importance to something else he said once:

     “I have my wife and my mountain. What else does anyone need?”

     As far as I know, he had no political involvements, beyond talking to me – and I’ve often regretted the time we wasted on political subjects. He wanted nothing but to create, to build, and to be left alone with the woman he loved and the few men he held as friends. By dint of great intellect, great imagination, and great labors, he got his wish.

---

     I could go on, but I’ll spare you. I’d originally had a specific example in mind of how the politicization of some phenomenon – i.e., turning it into an “issue” that requires mass approval or disapproval – destroys our peace, but I’m worn out. I suppose I’m sparing myself, too.

     I wish you peace. It’s rare and precious today, like freedom. But they’re complementary assets; each, once achieved, brings the other. Their common prerequisite is the abjuration of all political involvement, however well-intended. The implications are for you to draw.

     Happy Hallowe’en. Feel free to leave the candy corn for me. I like it.

In The Beginning...

     “Live fast. Die young. Leave a good-looking corpse.” – Originally from Knock on Any Door. Also, motto of the Pagans motorcycle gang.

     ...there was a lot of scurrying around and trying to “look busy.” But apart from that, we’re told that God instructed Adam and Eve to “Be fruitful and multiply.” (Genesis 1:28) If He ever countermanded that dictum (“Okay, that’s enough multiplying. You can stop now. Please!”) the Bible doesn’t record it.

     It doesn’t really matter whether you take the Bible literally as the Word of God. (I don’t. It was written by men. They may have been divinely inspired, but they weren’t God Himself.) Reproduction, like survival, is hard-wired into our natures. It takes a lot of disincentive to suppress that impulse.

     Youth culture plus feminism have provided that disincentive, in quantity.

     Youth culture strikes me as the ultimately self-defeating agenda. It literally cannot be fulfilled. Except for those like the persons in the quote at the top of this screed, we will get old. Our bodies will age and weaken. Our faces will wrinkle. And of course, one way or another, we’ll die. All of us. (Yes, you too, Gentle Reader, though I hate to think it.)

     Feminism, once severed from its Susan B. Anthony / Elizabeth Cady Stanton egalitarian roots, coupled to the perversity of youth culture with a tragic synergy. It made women neglect their characters and personalities in favor of obsessive concentration on their bodies and faces. Though it’s seldom labeled as such, that is actually a variety of gluttony.

     It also made women averse to child-bearing.

     This is of particular interest to me just now, owing to my current novel-in-progress.

---

     The possibility of a complete worldwide cessation of child-bearing was broached by the late P. D. James in her quasi-apocalyptic novel The Children of Men. James narrates the consequences for Britain in her usual adroit, subtly gripping manner. It’s a powerful story, well worth reading, though the premise that one day human fertility just ends is rather fanciful.

     Dreams of Days Forsaken revolves around two core ideas: a worldwide decline in birthrates, partly due to a plague of infertility; and the invention of a wholly automated artificial womb. The personal, institutional, and geopolitical consequences would be dramatic, to say the least. I hope my tale delivers on them.) Though I don’t go very deeply into them in the novel, I’m mesmerized by the incentives The Womb would offer to women:

• Those whose marriages are endangered by infertility, whether voluntary or otherwise;
• Those determined to protect their bodies and careers from pregnancy and parturition.

     For there’s no question about it: child-bearing changes a woman. It changes her body, of course, but it also changes her drives. The new person in her life must become a part of her priority structure. Other individuals in that structure will be affected. So will any organizations in which the new mother is a participant.

     Herewith, three vignettes about women whose thinking is being altered, none too subtly, by the prospect of The Womb:

---

     Susan read the employment contract carefully. Her prior experiences with such things had convinced her that they deserve special scrutiny.
     She found herself willing to accept its terms until she came to the clause titled Standards Of Performance. It didn’t take her long to find the scorpion’s sting. She looked up at her interviewer. The gray haired matron’s face was impassive. Her hands were steepled before her.
     “What about pregnancy?” Susan said.
     The interviewer raised an eyebrow. “What about it?”
     “The performance clause makes no provision for it. A gravid woman could never sustain the kind of performance specified here.”
     The interviewer’s nod skirted the edge of perceptibility.
     Adam wants children.
     So do I.
     “I think…” She paused. “Under current labor law, this contract is challengeable at the very least.”
     The interviewer’s smile did not touch her eyes. “Perhaps.”
     But I’d have to sign it and commit to its terms to find out, wouldn’t I?
     “I don’t think I can agree to this, Ma’am.”
     “A shame,” the interviewer said. “Your experience and references made you one of our top picks for this position. But the contract is a condition of employment. Best of luck with your job search.”
     The interviewer rose and held out a hand. Susan passed the stapled pages back to her, rose in her turn, and slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder.
     “Well, thank you for your time.”
     The interviewer did not offer to shake hands or see her out.

#

     Adam was nonplussed.
     “Really?” he said. “I thought contracts like that died with the Nineteenth Century.”
     “Apparently not.” Susan sipped at her rapidly cooling coffee. “They wouldn’t back away from it, either.”
     “‘They?’”
     “Sorry, my interviewer. An older woman. Perfectly polite and pleasant, but there was no give in her at all.”
     “Damn. I know this was the one you wanted.” He refilled his mug and took his habitual seat at their kitchen table. “Well, what’s next?”
     She shrugged. “Keep looking. Engineering shops don’t all require labor contracts. Anyway, this is the first one I’ve hit.”
     Adam didn’t answer. He’d gotten the faraway look she knew meant that he’d gone into problem-solving mode. She clamped her lips tightly together.
     Wait it out, Suzy Creamcheese.
     “Do you really want that job?” he said at last.
     “I… did,” she said, “before I read the contract. I don’t think so now.”
     “But what if we could finesse our way around the contract?”
     She peered at him. “What are you thinking?”
     “The Womb.”
     Her hackles went up at once. “Nope. Never.”
     He frowned. “Why not?”
     “Think about it! No pregnancy means no antibodies for the baby and no lactation from me. He’d be vulnerable to a thousand nearly extinct diseases and bottle-fed from the instant of his, uh, birth. Plus, I wouldn’t get the health bonus women get from going through pregnancy.”
     Or the maternal bond from having him inside me for nine months. Peg said it’s real, and after five kids she’ll know. And I want it!
     Adam’s expression had gone flat. “There might be ways to compensate.”
     “Do you know of any?” Despite her effort to control it, her temper had risen. “This is our child and my life we’re talking about. I’m already thirty-two. He might be the only child we’ll ever have!”
     For sure it’s the only life I’ll ever have.
     “Besides,” she continued, “I want to be home with a new baby. The performance clause didn’t mention any reduction in standards for the post-partum period. The mandated leave is only twelve weeks. I could return from maternity leave and get fired for substandard performance a couple of weeks later.”
     “A lawsuit…” he said, and trailed off.
     “Forget it. A company like that will have lawyers up the wazoo. They might even have fought this battle before.”
     Her husband appeared stricken. She could sense the but on his tongue, barely restrained by his lips.
     She blinked and bore down to fight off a sudden rush of tears.
     “I have to chalk this one up and keep looking,” she said.
     “You don’t have any other possibilities lined up?”
     She shook her head. “Not yet.”
     “What about that place back East that cold-called you?”
     “You mean Arcologics?” He nodded. “We’d have to move and you’d need a new job.”
     “Don’t they have a marketing department?”
     Not if Iverson is as smart as everybody says.
     “I don’t think so.”
     “Damn.”
     Adam’s gaze remained hooded for the rest of the evening. Susan knew The Womb was still uppermost in his thoughts… as it was in hers.
     Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

§

     Laura’s three years as the Hanford Agency’s top model had not prepared her for Bill Hanford’s explosion.
     “Are you out of your mind?”
     She gaped at him, all the words blown out of her.
     “I can’t believe you’re even considering it,” he said. “It wouldn’t be ‘just for a few months,’ stupid. No matter how carefully you restored your figure, it would change everything. Your tits, your skin tension, your posture, the way you move and hold yourself. It would ruin you for anything but fully clothed, and we have practically no demand for that. Are you willing to throw away the rest of your career for a baby?”
     “My career…” She faltered.
     “Indianapolis might not be the big time, but damn it, girl, you own this city. This state!” He turned away and started to pack up his equipment. His movements were staccato, jerky and angry, uncharacteristic for such a poised photographer. It was plain that she had unsettled him. “You want to leave all that on the table for some other girl to pick up just so you can have a baby?”
     She could not answer him. But I want a baby was the only thought her mind could hold. He fulminated silently as he packed the rest of his equipment. She shed her bikini and resumed her street clothes. They left the studio silent and empty behind them.

#

     Carlos was not pleased.
     “He’s right,” she said. “I asked around. Models don’t… come back from pregnancy.”
     “So no son,” he muttered. His arms were crossed like swords over his chest.
     She hung her head.
     “We have to choose, love,” she said. “Besides, without my income—”
     “Is that what matters to you? More than a family?” His Salvadoran accent became more pronounced.
     I don’t want to go back to the escort service.
     “We wouldn’t be able to meet our bills without it.”
     He scowled at her. “Yes we could. You know it.”
     I don’t want you to go back to dealing, either.
     “Carlos,” she said, “I want a baby as much as you do. But we have to be practical.” She rose from her seat at the kitchen table, but she did not dare to approach him. “You came this close to going to prison. The cops had you dead to rights. You were lucky that they were so sloppy. The chain-of-custody issue the D.A. missed was the only thing your lawyer had to work with, even if that was enough to spring you. Don’t you think the cops will have their eyes on you now? I may not want to end my modeling career, but I want to raise a baby alone even less!”
     He glared, but he had no comeback for her.
     A protracted, tension-laden silence ended when he muttered “I must think about this,” grabbed his windbreaker, and stalked out of the apartment. She wandered loosely around their home, uncertain what to do next, until the phone rang and Jill Timman invited her to join her at their favorite after-work watering hole.

#

     “He’s furious.” Laura swished her swizzle stick idly through her pina colada.
     “He’s a tough cookie.” Jill smirked. “But so are you. Stick to your guns, girl. It’s your body and your career.” She looked up and scanned the other patrons in the crowded bistro. “I don’t see anyone who has more right to make those decisions than you do. Not for you, at least.”
     “What if he decides he wants a son more than he wants me?”
     Jill shrugged. “Then you lose him. So?” She paused for a sip from her Cosmopolitan. “You’ve been together what, eight months?” Laura nodded. “Don’t you think you’d find someone else fast enough?”
     Laura swallowed past her fear.
     She doesn’t know. Keep it that way.
     “I know, Jill. ‘Always more fish in the sea.’ I could find someone else. But it’s hard. It’s tiring. I’m tired all the time as things are now. And…”
     Jill nodded in sympathy.
     “And you love him.”
     “I… think I do.”
     “So?” The model-turned-event-planner grinned. “What about The Womb?”

§

     Helen stripped off her apron and tossed it into the back seat before slumping into her car. Ten hours on her feet left her exhausted. It would have done the same to anyone. But her tuition was due at the end of the month, and she’d be damned before she’d let the water and electrical utilities send her any dunning letters.
     She cranked the engine, waited for it to settle into a smooth purr, pulled onto Grand Avenue, and drove through the darkness toward her Amherst Estates apartment.
     At least I know I’ll come home to a clean flat and a hot meal.
     Alicia was a clean freak of the best kind. Rather than see a domestic chore done imperfectly, she’d take it upon herself. She’d assumed their apartment’s cleaning and cooking duties immediately upon moving in. It was a great part of why Helen was happy to support the two of them.
     Well, that and that she thinks my stretch marks are cute. And how good she is with her tongue.
     Theirs was a no-bullshit relationship. They liked each other well enough, but there was no love talk between them, and no mutterings about marriage. Alicia stayed for Helen’s support, and would do so as long as Helen would maintain her in an acceptable style. Helen was willing to pay the bills, and would do so as long as the sexy Latina’s attentions to her needs remained enthusiastic and unflagging.
     It’s just these down periods between surrogacies that spit in the soup. But I have to have them. The agency wouldn’t have it any other way.
     At first, surrogacy had provided Helen a more-than-comfortable living plus substantial savings. With Alicia’s arrival, her lifestyle had swelled to include luxuries and pleasures she’d never before indulged. Helen suspected that an attempt to return to her prior, more modest standard of living would endanger their arrangement. She was too accustomed to Alicia’s services to risk that.
     I can’t take another contract until March. I can hardly wait. Until then it’s short skirts, high heels, “Are you ready to order, sir?” and “Is everything satisfactory, ma’am?” Ten hours a day, six days a week. Dear God.
     Well, my feet haven’t fallen off yet.
     As she turned into the parking lot for the residents of the two Amherst buildings along Arnulfson Way, she noticed that Alicia’s car was not in its assigned spot. She frowned.
     Did she go shopping?
     She unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside. Her gaze arrowed to the answering machine nestled in the entryway bookcase. The messages light was flashing steadily. She pressed the Play button.
     BEEP! “Miss Riordan, this is Marion Michaels at Dreams Fulfilled. Due to recent technological developments, we’re experiencing a retrenchment in our in-vitro and surrogacy operations. In consequence, we don’t expect to engage you as a host mother this coming year. Thank you for your services to this date. You have our best wishes for your continued success.” BEEP!
     The messages light went out and the machine fell silent.
     Helen was still gawking at it when Alicia returned.

#

     “It’s the Womb, babe.” Alicia forked up a bite of roast beef, chewed and swallowed. “If it works as advertised, host mothers will go the way of buggy-whip factories.” She glanced at Helen’s untouched plate. “Aren’t you eating?”
     Helen forced a smile. “Waiting for my stomach to settle.”
     “Oh. It hit you that hard, eh?”
     Helen nodded. “Second semester tuition is due soon. It’ll clean me out. If I can’t bag a surrogacy, I don’t know how I’ll pay for my junior year.”
     Alicia shoveled up some peas. “Can’t you promote your services on your own?”
     “I’ve never tried it. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
     “Ah. Could you use social media?”
     Helen shook her head. “They don’t accept ads about anything related to sex.”
     Alicia grinned. “But there’s no sex involved.”
     “They don’t see it that way. They nix anything that even hints at it, to stay out of trouble with the law.”
     “Well…” Alicia laid down her fork and sat back. “You have other things to sell.”
     “Hm? What are you—”
     “If the Womb really works,” Alicia said, “new industries will spring up around it. New markets. So think sideways. You were selling space in your uterus. What else have you got that the Womb might make marketable, you gorgeous five-foot-nine, hundred and fifteen pound blue-eyed blonde with a killer figure and a one-forty IQ?”
     Helen started to answer, bit it back.
     “Maybe the genes that gave you that stuff might prove marketable,” Alicia said.
     “Maybe…” Helen pondered it, shuddered. “But I’d have to let a man put his thing in me.”
     “Not necessarily, babe.” Alicia’s expression turned sly. “You’ve got plenty of eggs, don’t you?”
     “Yeah… wait a minute! If they’re so valuable, how come Dreams Fulfilled never offered to buy any?”
     Alicia shrugged. “Did you ever hint that you were open to the idea?”
     It stopped Helen’s thought process for a second time.
     Is it legal to sell ova in New York? Was Michaels waiting for me to suggest that mine were available?
     “You… might have something there.” Helen picked up her fork to address her dinner, set it down again. “Maybe the first move has to be mine.” She beamed at her housemate. “Thanks!”
     “De nada. Eat!”
     Helen chuckled and picked up her fork again. “Yeah.”
     She’s smarter than I realized.
     How did she know about my IQ?

---

     We don’t have The Womb today, but it’s in prospect. There are teams working on developing one as you read this. Don’t kid yourself: feminism plus youth culture would play into the reactions to such a development. If it were to be made price-competitive with the costs of pregnancy plus childbirth, it would be a powerful influence.

     And with that, we return to contemporary reality.

     There’s been a resurgence of interest in what might be called prewar femininity: i.e., the model for female decision making held up to them by their mothers, which was followed by most. Marriage, wifedom, homemaking, and motherhood are becoming freshly attractive to some number of young women. What’s propelling that resurgence is, in part, the failure of feminism to satisfy many of its adoptees. They’ve reached middle age; they have careers but no kids; they sense that they’ve “missed out” on a critical feature of the female experience. (Some of them don’t have men, either.) That makes the alternative denigrated by militant feminists decades ago loom large in younger women’s thoughts. But what if the young aspirant to “tradwife” status confronted the prospect of remaining unaltered physically by pregnancy and childbirth: i.e., the prospect held out by The Womb?

     Just some early-morning thoughts from a novelist trying not to think about his novel.

The Storyteller’s Revenge

     Each of us should do what he’s best at. Hearken to one of my best-loved characters:

     “You know how new I am to all this. I understand about one word in twenty.” Holloway suppressed an urge to fidget. “Most of it goes right over my head. Like how the responsibilities get distributed.”
     Redmond flicked a hand. “We each do what we’re best at.”
     “And you’re best at this.”
     Redmond nodded.
     “It doesn’t bother you to get your marching orders from people who could never do what you do?”
     The young engineer’s grin became wider. “Should it?”
     “Well...”
     Redmond chuckled and rose from his chair. He studied the gray fabric wall of his cubicle for a moment, then leaned back against the edge of his desk.
     “They can’t do what I do—well, maybe Rolf could—but I wouldn’t do what they do. In business, people are placed both for their skills and their willingness to accept responsibilities. Rolf accepts responsibility for the productivity and well-being of the whole Simulations group. For that, he gets a title and a bigger cubicle than this one. Joe Brendel accepts responsibility for the whole Software department. For that, he gets a bigger title, a secretary, and an office with a door.” Muscles quivered in the young face. “Your uncle accepts responsibility for the whole Engineering division. For that, he gets a really big title and wood furniture. I might disagree with some of his decisions, but he takes the heat for them, not me.”

     A storyteller should stick to what he’s good at: telling stories. (This assumes that he is good at that, of course.) In our division-of-labor economy, that relegates certain other components of the business of telling stories to other persons with different (hopefully complementary) expertises. And in accordance with this distribution, some persons will adopt the guise of expertise and hawk themselves to us storytellers as the promoters we need.

     Trouble is, storytellers have a hard time distinguishing the con men from the genuine articles. The con men outnumber the gems by about ten to one. I’ve recently been targeted by several. All of them claim “years of experience.” All of them present skeletal promotional schemes designed to exploit the storyteller’s credulity and hope.

     Seining out the real thing from the con artists is a protracting and emotionally taxing process. An “administrator’s approximation” would be to assume that they’re all con artists, and to proceed on that basis. I’ve made that my working assumption.

     Of course, that assumption has implications that must be frankly faced. If an arbitrary writer – let’s call him Fran, for convenience – is confronted by a come-on from a con man, what’s the most appropriate response? From what response would Fran derive the most benefit and endure the least suffering and cost?

     Right! Fran would tell him a story. I’ve been doing exactly that. And it doesn’t feel like a waste of my time or energies. In fact, it’s been a hell of a lot of fun.

     It’s especially fun when you just know that your solicitor is “working from a template” and hasn’t the least sincere interest in your oeuvre. I have a slew of cold-contact emails in my “Promoters” folder that look as if they were generated from a template, perhaps with the help of an AI or a Microsoft Visual Basic for Word Adapt-o-Gram. I respond to each of them with a freshly generated tale of woe, in my best idiom.

     I told the first of them that I’m a church mouse, that my little family subsists on Scraped Icebox and Dishrag Soup, that we have to feed our dogs mice, squirrels, and Jehovah’s Witnesses. I could never justify spending a small fortune on her eminently worthy efforts! That didn’t quite do the trick; she came back with “Well, what could you afford?” I let her think I was considering it.

     I told another that I’m indifferent to the American market – that my books actually sell quite well in translation. That one wanted to know which nations, of course. I told her Iran, North Korea, and Papua New Guinea. I haven’t heard from her since.

     I told the most recent one that I’m not really the author of the books published under my name. In actuality, I said, I’m a “cut-out;” the author is a crazed Albanian dwarf with a harelip who avoids all publicity for obvious reasons. The dwarf doesn’t care whether his books sell. Indeed, the revenues from them go into a trust for his as-yet-unconceived grandchildren. I expected her to call me out on that one. To my surprise, she didn’t. Well, there’s time.

     They get a politely worded decline-of-service; I get a little exercise for my imagination. It works out for both of us... though I’m sure they’d have preferred a “Where have you been all my life?” response and an offer of riches beyond all avarice. Yes, it also means that if there were an honest workman in the bunch, who really, truly could and would apply himself to promoting my tales, I’ve turned him away all unknowing. Well, there has to be a downside for everything. But as a preservative for a storyteller’s sanity and bank balance, I highly recommend it.