"I almost gasp: he's said a forbidden word. Sterile. There is no such thing as a sterile man anymore, not officially. There are only women who are fruitful and women who are barren, that's the law.
'Lots of women do it,' he goes on. 'You want a baby, don't you?'
'Yes,' I say. It's true, and I don't ask why, because I know. Give me children, or else I die. There's more than one meaning to it.
'You're soft,' he says. 'It's time. Today or tomorrow would do it, why waste it? It'd only take a minute, honey.' What he called his wife, once; maybe still does, but really it's a generic term. We are all honey.
I hesitate. He's offering himself to me, his services, at some risk to himself.
'I hate to see what they put you through,' he murmurs. It's genuine, genuine sympathy; and yet he's enjoying thing, sympathy and all. His eyes are moist with compassion, his hand is moving on me, nervously and with impatience.
'It's too dangerous,' I say. 'No. I can't.' The penalty is death. But they have to catch you in the act, with two witnesses. What are the odds, is the room bugged, who's waiting just outside the door?
His hand stops. 'Think about it,' he says. 'I've seen your chart. You don't have a lot of time left. But it's your life.'
'Thank you,' I say. I must leave the impression that I'm not offended, that I'm open to suggestion. He takes his hand away, lazily almost lingeringly, this is not the last word as far as he's concerned. He could fake the tests, report me for cancer, for infertility, have me shipped off to the Colonies, with the Unwomen. None of this has been said, but the knowledge of his power hangs nevertheless in the air as he pats my thigh, withdraws himself behind the hanging sheet.
'Next month,' he says.
I put on my clothes again, behind the screen. My hands are shaking. Why am I frightened? I've crossed no boundaries, I've given no trust, taken no risk, all is safe. It's the choice that terrifies me. A way out, a salvation"(61).