“Oh yes,” Moadine told him. “A good many of us have another, as we get on in life--a descriptive one. That is the name we earn. Sometimes even that is changed, or added to, in an unusually rich life. Such as our present Land Mother--what you call president or king, I believe. She was called Mera, even as a child; that means ‘thinker.’ Later there was added Du--Du-Mera--the wise thinker, and now we all know her as O-du-mera--great and wise thinker. You shall meet her.” “No surnames at all then?” pursued Terry, with his somewhat patronizing air. “No family name?” “Why no,” she said. “Why should we? We are all descended from a common source--all one ‘family’ in reality. You see, our comparatively brief and limited history gives us that advantage at least.” “But does not each mother want her own child to bear her name?” I asked. “No--why should she? The child has its own.” “Why for--for identification--so people will know whose child she is.” “We keep the most careful records,” said Somel. “Each one of us has our exact line of descent all the way back to our dear First Mother. There are many reasons for doing that. But as to everyone knowing which child belongs to which mother--why should she?” Here, as in so many other instances, we were led to feel the difference between the purely maternal and the paternal attitude of mind. The element of personal pride seemed strangely lacking. “How about your other works?” asked Jeff. “Don’t you sign your names to them--books and statues and so on?” “Yes, surely, we are all glad and proud to. Not only books and statues, but all kinds of work. You will find little names on the houses, on the furniture, on the dishes sometimes. Because otherwise one is likely to forget, and we want to know to whom to be grateful.” “You speak as if it were done for the convenience of the consumer--not the pride of the producer,” I suggested. “It’s both,” said Somel. “We have pride enough in our work.” “Then why not in your children?” urged Jeff. “But we have! We’re magnificently proud of them,” she insisted. “Then why not sign ’em?” said Terry triumphantly. Moadine turned to him with her slightly quizzical smile. “Because the finished product is not a private one. When they are babies, we do speak of them, at times, as ‘Essa’s Lato,’ or ‘Novine’s Amel’; but that is merely descriptive and conversational. In the records, of course, the child stands in her own line of mothers; but in dealing with it personally it is Lato, or Amel, without dragging in its ancestors.” “But have you names enough to give a new one to each child?” “Assuredly we have, for each living generation.”