“But woman’s beauty fades, and there are many female mouths to feed, and female bodies to clothe and house. It makes more work for the men and the men do not like to work. And so—” The cynicism had left her voice. A hush fell upon her tragic words. “And so, when a woman can no longer bear children, when her beauty is going, then she is considered a burden. “She has never been trained to work. She is useless; an expense. “Each year our old women are chosen—a certain number of them, depending on the birth-rate—are chosen to die. They are given a blanket, a little food, and are taken to a place we call Death Island. Left there alone, they live a while. Then die. “I’ve seen them draw the death number! I’ve seen, on the island, their wasted bodies lying huddled!” Her voice choked. “But they go away, start for the island so patient, so resigned. “It is that for which we are in rebellion more than anything else! We of this generation now cannot stand it. We will not stand it!” To my mind had come memories of the savages of our earth, not so many centuries ago. They too, had thought it expedient to leave aged members of their tribes to die. The vision Sonya was invoking to my imagination was horrible. I found my voice. “Your men here, Sonya, surely they are not all against you girls? Your cause?” “No,” she said. “But how many are with us at heart, we do not know. And men are very strange. You cannot talk with them; they pretend you are not intelligent enough to be worthy of talking. My cousin Ren—” Ren! It seemed incongruous. She went on, “He is like all the rest. It is not, from his viewpoint, inhuman. It is the way things always have been. His mother died that way. He says, ‘Her life was ended.’ He says that men, brave men, meet death that way. Their life is over, the creator calls them and they go bravely.” “But,” said Dolores, “the man who hands out the death number is not the creator.” “Ah,” said Sonya, “but if you told that to a man he would say you do not understand.” Her hand went to her leg. “You asked me about this band. It is placed upon us when we are just maturing. On it is engraved the name of the man we are to marry. “If he divorces us, that is written here, and the name of the man who next takes us. Our marriage record: written plain that all may see!” Her fingers touched the band’s smooth surface. “There is nothing on mine, as yet. And there never will be, unless we win our case.” Alice said, “Are you one of the rebels?” “I am at heart, and I’m working with them. Technically, legally I am not. It is nearly a year yet, as you on your earth measure time, before I am of the age when I can be forced to marry.” “What have the girls done?” I asked. “Refused to marry?”