Professor Xavier and Magneto sat on opposite sides of the professor's desk, looking at all twenty-four slips of paper, and at Grace's animals.
"Tell me, old friend." Xavier broke the silence. "Why is it you seem so willing to take Ms. Engstrom's voices at face value? Why do you seem to have such a degree of trust?"
"There are too many coincidences here—far more than you know. If I am correct…It cannot be known for months, at any rate. Perhaps years. I have so often, for so many years, hoped for some sign, some portent that someone, something approved my path. I read so much into my slightest successes, straining to hear a whisper… Only it seems that when the universe has a message to get across to one, it doesn't bother to whisper. It shouts and hits one over the head with a brick."
"Erik, are you saying you believe God is speaking to Ms. Engstrom?" Xavier asked, startled and perturbed.
"Which God?" asked Magneto in return, his lips quirking. "Don't forget, I'm not a Christian, and I never was one. No, I don't believe it's God. For one thing, Grace isn't being blessed by these visitations; she's being harassed, which is wholly incompatible with the concept of God. No. I believe the future, the present, and the past—coexist in a sense, separated by no more than a breath. All those yet unborn who will owe their births, their lives, to her are reaching backward to guide her..."
"That's quite a novel theory. How many children do you expect she will have? She is starting rather late in life. The child she's carrying now may not only be her first, but also her last and only."
"That may well be so—but one might be enough." Erik picked up the three slips that had astonished them so much. "I'll make a bargain with you, Charles."
"What sort of bargain?"
"If you'll take your message to heart—I'll take mine." The master of magnetism crossed his arms and looked at Charles Xavier, the light of challenge in his eyes.
The gauntlet had been thrown. It remained to be seen whether it would be picked up.
"I can tell you that you're in excellent health, and you're definitely pregnant. All indications are that your baby is developing normally. You said the first day of your last period was at the very end of June, so you'll probably be due in the first week of April. That puts the date of conception at about the thirteenth or fourteenth of July, by the way."
Grace nodded. "That would be exactly right. Now tell me the bad news."
"The bad news—this is going to seem like a strange question, but did your tan come out of a bottle, or did you get it by laying out in the sun?" Doctor Grey looked at her sternly.
"By laying out in the sun. I've been a sun worshipper all my life."
"With sunscreen or without?"
"I use an SPF 4 these days."
"That explains a lot, because with your healing factor, you ought to look younger than you do. Yours isn't the strongest I've seen, but it is there and it's working. Internally, you're in the 16 to 30 year old range—physically mature, no signs of decrepitude—but your skin is another story. You've been taxing your healing factor's ability to repair damage. As long as it's intact and doing its job, your skin is low down on your body's fix-it-list of repairs to make. If you limit your sun-exposure, use a higher SPF, or, better still, start using the kind of tan you can buy at the drugstore, you'll get a lot more mileage out of your skin."
Grace winced. "You're the first person ever to tell me I ought to look younger than I do. Ouch."
"Hey, you asked for the bad news. You didn't tell me you wanted the sugar pills. As for the rest—you're fine. Don't take up riding broncos on the rodeo circuit or any thing stupid like that, eat a varied and balance diet, and I anticipate no heightened risk of miscarriage or other problems. However—."
I knew there was going to be a 'however' in there, Grace thought.
"All of that applies to a normal human mother and a normal human baby. When you're a mutant—and when your child might be one—all bets are off. I'm asking this as a doctor—is the father of your child a mutant, too?"
"Don't admit anything." admonished the lion.
"But she's a—."
"Zip your lip."
"Can I at least tell—?" him, she was about to say, but:
"Nope. Shut it. Nobody and nothing." The lion looked at her pointedly.
Grace turned back to Dr. Grey, who was looking at her with dismay. "My little friend here says I shouldn't tell you—or anybody else, for that matter." She smiled brightly, if a bit desperately, and held up the toy. "Did Professor Xavier tell you…?"
"He said you were seeing and hearing some very strange things, but he didn't say what. It looked as though you were having a conversation with that toy."
"I was. Sort of. Things like this started talking to me yesterday. Not constantly, or consistently, just when they want to—like when they tell me to do things, or not do things. Or when they're scolding me for not getting off my ass and making the world a better place by now."
"And do you do what they tell you?"
"Once I've figured out what they really mean. They can be unclear. I have learned that not doing it leads to serious trouble. For example, if I had not gone to my doctor yesterday, my house wouldn't have been vandalized, and I'd be at home right now."
"But if that hadn't happened, if I understand correctly, you wouldn't have found out you were a mutant, and you wouldn't know what was going on with the voices." Dr. Grey pointed out.
"I still don't know what's going on with the voices. Anyhow, he's told me not to reveal anything about the father of my child. Sorry."
"The voices haven't told you to set fire to anything or go up on a high building with a rifle, have they?" asked the doctor.
"Professor Xavier asked me a very similar question earlier today. No. On the contrary, they told me to do something about the Toad's cold. That was why you found me looking at him when you came back."
"I was wondering about that."
"I think they not only wanted him to feel better, they wanted me to start looking at people differently, starting with him. For all I know they had a third reason."
"Yours doesn't seem like a comfortable power to have. Well, if you decide to stay with us, and I hope you will, I would like to run tests and take measurements and readings once a week, at least. Even every day, as we get closer to your delivery date."
If anything were to go wrong, she'd be able to spot it as soon as it started. Like pre-eclampsia, or if the placenta detached too soon.
"Also," continued Dr. Grey, "some hospitals won't take mutant patients, and if the baby is obviously a mutant from birth—you've seen the ugliness that can result."
"Yes. Thank you. I'll keep that in mind. Right now—I think the stress of deciding what to have for lunch would bring on a panic attack."
"I understand. I don't want you to feel pressured. Now—for the sensor dots." She produced a sheet of adhesive backed discs, and peeled them off to stick them, one by one, on various spots on Grace's forehead and skull. "Then we'll go back up to the Professor's office. Do you mind if I ask why you happened to take up knitwear design? Was it something you always knew you wanted to do?"
"No, but I figured out that was what I should be doing in college—My grandmother taught me to knit and crochet when I was eight, because I was fidgety when I didn't have something to do. I made a lot of clothes for my dolls, and then sweaters and things for myself and others. What I wanted to do was be an artist."
"A traditional artist, like with oil paints, and things?"
"Yes. I majored in art in college, and while I was good, my work didn't get the attention I wanted. I'd go to shows, and enter exhibitions, contests, and everything—only to have people come up to me wanting to buy my sweater. Sometimes I sold them right off my back. Eventually, the little light bulb came on and it dawned on me: I could either beat my head against the brick wall of fine art, and get nowhere, or I could concentrate on my knitting, where my work was really in demand. I never looked back."
"I had a look at your website this morning. Your work is amazing. That's something I wish I had—a creative talent for something. I had the calling for medicine, but it doesn't offer the freedom of expression something creative does." She affixed the last dot to the base of Grace's skull. "There—all done."
"I could teach you to knit—it's wonderfully relaxing. Dr. Grey—." They left the infirmary and went to the elevator.
"Please. Call me Jean." She pressed the button for the first floor.
"If you'll call me Grace, I will. I have a question. What would you say was the most important difference between Professor Xavier and Magneto?"
"I would say that Professor Xavier teaches, that he builds and leads. Magneto drives people. He destroys, and he manipulates. We spend a lot of time and energy making right what he's done wrong, and stopping him from doing worse."
The elevator doors opened, and they got out. Passing a window, Jean pointed out. "As an example, do you see that girl studying by the fountain, the one with the white streaks in her hair?"
"Yes. The one with the opera gloves on."
"She's Rogue. Her power is to absorb the powers and life energies of others. If you remember about the incident at the Statue of Liberty, Magneto invented a device which induced mutations in ordinary humans. The process was flawed, and it eventually killed those who it mutated. Even if it had worked perfectly, it would still have been wrong to use it as he wanted to: to make the major world leaders mutants without their consent."
"I see."
"He also had to drain himself past exhaustion to use it on one person. Using it on hundreds—even thousands, because it would have reached much of New York—would have killed him. So he kidnapped Rogue, forced his powers on her, and used her to operate the machine instead—even though she would have died in the process."
Oh, god.
That's what I couldn't quite remember. That's what he did that got him sent to prison.
The father of my child is a man who would sacrifice someone else's child, cruelly and wrongly.
He's evil…
"Don't turn your back on him." said the lion. It shook its head at her. "Don't. Evil is something people do; it's not something they are."
"That's easy for you to say. I think this one's too big to swallow. I'm going to choke on it." she replied.
"Don't turn your back on him. It's important. You're all in this together."
"You want me to disregard something that big?"
"It's talking to you, right?" asked Jean. "May I listen in, telepathically?"
"Sure," Grace said to her, abstractly.
"Don't disregard it. Remember it, but forgive him. You're all in this together."
I can read you, but I can't hear a thing from it. said Jean, from inside Grace's head.
Is it still talking?
"Yes, it is. What are we all in together?"
It didn't reply.
"Come on." She shook it. "I need more than that!"
It was silent.
"Great." Grace put it in her pocket. "It's being cryptic again."
"That was strange." Jean said, out loud. "I had the worst difficulty reading you, and I drew a blank on it. I think you might want to concentrate on learning to communicate with them telepathically, because you're going to give people the impression—."
"That my mind has snapped and I've regressed to childhood?"
"I'm glad you're aware it's a problem. Here we are: the Professor's office." Jean opened the door, and they went inside.
