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There were numerous other little squares on the form for foot size,
 nose shape, etc., which they carefully discussed before deciding.

       When they had completed the form, they handed it back to the
 clerk, who inserted it in a machine that made a duplicate copy for
 the records. Then he put the seal of the state on the form and told
 them to take it to a gene store to be filled.

       At the gene store, the tubeobstrician commented, out of habit,
on what a nice child this would be, and asked whether they wanted to
 wait nine months for a fully developed baby, or hasten the blessed
event with a six, seven, or eight-month child.

       "Oh, dear," said Odessa. "I hadn't given it much consideration."
       "I think we better take the nine-month baby," spoke up Cleanthes.
"One can't be too careful, you know."
       "Yes, of course," muttered the clerk, making a notation on the
form. "Do you wish to make payment now or later?"
       "Now will do," said Cleanthes, passing him the money.
       That night Odessa restlessly paced the floor. "This waiting is
intolerable," she said.
       "Yes, Odessa," Cleanthes said, looking down from his air-pocket.
"Only it's something with which one must contend."
       Odessa stopped her walking and raised her head in deep thought.
"Won't it be nice when science can make a child right away?"
       "Yes," Cleanthes said, returning to his book, "but you know
that's impossible."
      So near the year 2552 Cleanthes and Odessa Philo received their
nine-month baby, and like any other new parents, proudly showed
their tube baby to all their neighbors and friends on the planets of
the universe, and the friends and neighbors said what a sweet child
and started preparations to order a child for their very own.

                             Fragment

                                    Silence
                                    Is that lack of sound
                                    Which fairly
                                    Screams to be heard
                                    Above the calliope
                                    Of my merry-go-round.

                                               Pat Patterson

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