Brian Aldiss - White Mars

At this point, Cang Hai said, “You are trying to bring back Confucianism!”

“Not so,” replied Choihosla. “Confucianism was too rigid and limited, although it contained many enlightened ideas. But these days we hear much about ‘human rights’ and too little about human responsibilities. In our Utopia, responsibility carries with it satisfaction and a better chance for benevolence.”

“So what is your revised nature of power to be?” someone asked.

“No, no.” He shook his heavy head, as if regretting he had spoken in the first place. “How can I say? I don’t seek to change the nature of power—that’s ridiculous. Only our attitude to power. Power in itself is a neutral thing; it’s the use of it that must be changed from malevolent to benevolent. By thought, by empathy. I am sure it can be done. Then power will provide a chance to increase everyone’s well-being. Given a society already positive in aspect, that will be the greatest satisfaction. Both Prime Architect and citizen will benefit by what I might call a maternal wielding of power.”

He was a big clumsy man. He looked oddly humble as he finished speaking and folded his massive arms across his chest.

After a meditative silence all round, Crispin said, quietly, “You are wanting human nature to change.”

“But not all human nature,” Choihosla replied. “Some of us already hold the concept of power-as-greed in contempt. And I think you are one of them, Mr. Barcunda!”

While the excavations for our extension were in progress, I was busier than ever. Fortunately, our secretary, the silent Elsa Lamont, arranged my appointments and saw that I kept them. She and Suung Saybin dealt personally with all those applying for rooms in the new building.

Unexpectedly, one evening, working late at night when we should both of us have been relaxing, Elsa turned to me and said, “In my love affairs, I have always been the one who was loved.”

I was startled, since I had not associated the rather drab-looking Elsa with affairs of the heart or the body. For me, she was just an ex-commercial artist with a head for figures.

“Why are the figures I paint faceless? Tom, I realise I am not capable of deep love. It’s unfair to my partners, isn’t it?”

Since my eyebrows were already raised, I could only think to ask, “What has prompted this reflection, Elsa?”

She had been thinking about Choihosla’s redefinition of power. Mothers loved deeply, yes, she said. But perhaps for those who were unable to love deeply, power was the next best thing. Perhaps power was a kind of corruption of the reproductive process.

“I can see that the need to be free to reproduce can lead to all kinds of power struggle…” I began.

Elsa repeated the words slowly, as if they were a mantra, “ ‘I can see that the need to be free to reproduce can lead to all kinds of power struggle…’ That’s true throughout nature, isn’t it? We have to hope that we can unite to prove Choihosla’s statement holds some truth.” Then without pause, she added, “A delegation of women has booked a forum in Hindenburg Hall tomorrow, 10 p.m. They wish to talk about better ways—more congenial ways, I suppose—of giving birth. Can you be there?”

“Um … you’re not trying to tell me you’re pregnant, are you, Elsa?”

Perhaps a pallid smile crossed her face. “Certainly not,” she said. “If only I were pregnant with the truth…”

She turned back to her work. And then said, “Could be I prefer detachment, rather than letting go and returning the love of my lovers. Does that give me more power?”

It sounded like a weakness to me, but I cautiously treated her question as rhetorical.

Prompt at ten next morning, a delegation of women met under the giant Hindenburg mural.

The Greek woman, Helen Panorios, spoke on behalf of the group. She placed her hands on her hips and stood without gesture as she spoke.

“We make a demand that may at first seem strange to most of you. Please hear us out. We women require a special apartment in the new extension. It need not be too large, as long as it is properly equipped. We wish to call it the Birth Room, and for no men ever to be allowed inside it. It will be sacred to the processes of birth.”

She was interrupted by Mary Fangold, the hospital personnel manager. “Excuse me. Of course I have heard this notion circulating. It is a ridiculous duplication of work that our hospital’s maternity branch already carries out effectively. We have a splendid record of natal care. Mothers are up and out a day after parturition, without complications. I oppose this so-called ‘Birth Room’ on the grounds that it is unreasonable and a slur against the reputation of our hospital.”

Helen Panorios barely moved a muscle.

“It is your cooperation, not your opposition we hope for, Mary. You condemn your system by your own words. You see, the hospital still carries out production-line methods—mothers in one day, out the next. Just as if we were machines, and babies to be turned out like—like so many hats. It’s all so old-fashioned and against nature.”

Another woman joined in support. “We have spent so much time talking about the upbringing and education of our children without looking at the vital matter of their first few hours in this world. This period is when the bonding process between mother and child must take place.

The bustle of our hospital is not conducive to that process, and may indeed be in part the cause of negligent mothers and disruptive children. The Birth Room will change all that.”

Crispin asked, “Is this a way of cutting out the fathers?”

“Not at all,” said Helen. “But there is always, rightly, a mystery about birth. Men should not be witnesses to it. Oh, I know that sounds like a retrograde step. It has been the fashion for men to be present at bornings, and indeed often enough male doctors have supervised the delivery. But fashions change. We wish to try something different.

“In fact, the Birth Room is an old forgotten idea. It’s a place for female consolation for the rigours of child-bearing. Women will be able to come and go in the Room. They can rest there whether pregnant or not. Female mid-wives will attend the accouchement. More importantly, mothers will be able to stay there after the birth, to be idle, to suckle their child, to chat with other women. No men at all.

“No men until a week after the birth. Women must have their province. Somehow, in our struggle for equality we have lost some of the desirable privileges we once enjoyed in previous times.

“You must allow us to regain this small privilege. You will soon discover that large advantages in behaviour flow from it.”

“And what are husbands supposed to do?” I asked.

Helen’s solemn face broke into a smile. “Oh, husbands will do what they always do. Enjoy their clubs and one another’s company, hobnob, have their own private places. Look, let us try out the Birth Room idea for a year. We are confident it will work well and serve the whole community.”

A Birth Room was built in the subterranean extension, despite male complaints. There women, and not only the pregnant ones, met to socialise. Men were totally excluded. After giving birth, woman and baby remained together in peace, warmth and subdued light for at least a week, or longer if they felt it necessary. When they emerged, to present the husband with his new child, a little ceremony called Reunion developed, with company, cakes and kisses. The cakes were synthetic, the kisses real enough.

The Birth Room soon became an accepted part of social life, and a respected feature of the comforts of the new extension.

Weeks turned into months, and months into another year. There were many who, despite the misfortune of their confinement on Mars, regarded our society as a fair and just one. I, on the other hand, came to see Utopia as a condition of becoming, a glow in the distance, a journey for which human limitations precluded an end. Yet there were comforting indications of improvement in our lot.