The crowd was a living entity, bucking and straining against the line of police officers. It undulated toward the clusters of picketers but did not touch them, an giant amoeba wary of contact with contamination.

The protesters were predominantly middle-aged, bearded men and plump grandmothers. They were vocal and unorganized. A few held preprinted signs proclaiming, “Shut it down!” and, “Zero Tolerance for Indecency.”

“Governor Hernandez, hear our plea!” shouted others, and, “Obscenity is obscenity!”

“Art is art!” someone in the crowd shouted back. “Go home, you losers!”

A woman dressed in green mink, the latest rage, tightened her grip on her escort’s arm. He averted his face from the protesters and the snapping cameras, and fidgeted with his cummerbund. They joined the trickling line leading into the brightly lit gallery.

The woman craned her neck to better see who was greeting the people as they entered. The heart-shaped face, almond eyes and wide mouth were unmistakable to her. She tugged on the man’s sleeve.

“Look! It’s her!”

“Who? Where?”

“There!” She pointed. “Yvonna!”

His chuckle was low, his lips so close to her ear it tickled. “No, my pet. That’s not the esteemed Yvonna.”

“Yes it is! I saw her picture just yesterday, and...” her voice trailed off. “Oh. Too young. A clone?” Her cheeks grew hot. “I feel so silly, Geoffrey.”

He patted her hand in response.

Geoffrey presented their invitation. “Lucy Hilf and Geoffrey Carothers.” The greeter’s lips parted in a semblance of a smile and she dipped her head. “Such a pleasure to have you with us on opening night. We hope Yvonna’s work touches and inspires you.”

They assured her it would, it most certainly, absolutely would. “Of course we’ll adore it,” Geoffrey said. “All portraits, no landscapes. I simply abhor landscapes.”

Her smile twitched higher on one side. “No, no landscapes.”

A small, white sign by the first exhibit proclaimed it was Yvonna’s, of course, and entitled Mother and Child.

An “Oh!” slipped from Lucy’s mouth. “It’s beautiful!” She stifled the urge to reach out toward it.

The mother was young, hardly more than a girl. Her face held innocence and love but also more - determination. Both arms cradled the nursing infant, whose eyes were open and peeking inquisitively around the swell of a white breast.

“Exquisite,” said Geoffrey. “A Madonna. Simply exquisite. I told you you’d adore her work. Maybe next time you’ll trust me.”

The second exhibit was Neptune’s Daughter. The woman’s arms were stretched up as if reaching for a treasure beyond the rippling water. She was nude, without even the typical, artfully-placed sea shells. Her legs, covered with silvery scales, were fused together, ending in a wide, finned tail.

Geoffrey’s hands shot up, fingers spread wide. “Ahh! Amazing!”

Lucy eyed it with distaste. “I... ” Geoffrey gave her that look, and she scrambled for something positive to say. “I like the, um, the light. It’s like a moonbeam. Look how it sparkles off her tail.”

They were approached by a middle-aged woman in a blue suit, carrying a tray of martinis. “May I serve you?”

Lucy shot out her hand. “Yvonna! Such a pleasure to meet you! Your work is wonderful!”

Geoffrey grabbed her elbow and hissed into her ear. “Lucy! You’re embarrassing me!”

“Perhaps madam has confused me with the artist,” said the woman.

Lucy cringed. “I’m so sorry! Please excuse me.”

The woman smiled a small, impeccable smile. “I’m flattered by your error. If it helps, we were all engineered to have blue eyes. Yvonna’s are green. Also, each of us is either older or younger than she is. You’re familiar, I presume, with age progression? We’ve mastered the technique.”

Geoffrey took one of the glasses. “How many of you does Yvonna employ?” He had adopted the off-hand tone Lucy knew so well.

“Over a hundred, I’m pleased to say.”

“Including a few males, so I’ve read.”

“A few.” She indicated the bartender. “But not many. You know, I’m sure, that Yvonna is a champion of feminist causes. The males were developed primarily as early demonstrations for the public of how profoundly clones can be modified from the original.”

“Are all of you here with her now?”

“By all means, no. Only a few of us assist in her studio work and shows. Some are in domestic services, but most serve as assistants in the medical laboratory on her estate.”

“I’ve read a great deal about Yvonna lately, but, then again, who hasn’t? She’s quite the rising star.”

“Does she pay you?” Lucy blurted out.

Geoffrey’s hand tightened. “Lucy...”

“Our honor at being in her service, madam, is all the compensation we need.”

“Naturally,” Geoffrey said. “What were you thinking, Luce?”

“And her treatment of us far exceeds any legal requirements, I assure you. My housing would please even the most particular. You must excuse me, I have other guests to serve.”

Geoffrey dragged Lucy to the next exhibit, Hunter, without a word. Lucy glanced at the nude male with a bow and arrow, then at Geoffrey, but said nothing. So much for Yvonna’s feminist spirit.

There was a crowd around the next exhibit, hiding it from view. Geoffrey tapped his foot while they waited, alternatively straightening his tie and running his fingers through his hair.

“You know,” he said, “you need to learn not to be so provincial. You’re not in Iowa anymore.”

“We have clones in Iowa, too.”

“Of what? Cows? Wheat? Face it, when you’re in Chicago you’re standing in the technological capital of cloning and age progression. If you want to live here, you should learn to be proud of it.”

“I am, really, I am. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

They amused themselves by pointing out the various clones circling the room, serving drinks, lighting cigarettes, picking up nearly invisible bits of lint and paper from the floor.

The crowd moved on and they could clearly see Husband and Wife. Lucy recoiled in horror. “It’s, it’s... ”

“I believe the word is ‘macabre,’ Dear.”

“It’s awful!”

“No, it’s art. And good art, too. Look at the skill involved!”

The woman’s head was resting against the man’s cheek. Their eyes were closed, arms about each other. They were fused together above the waist, and their single, genderless, trunk ended in one pair of legs and feet.

Lucy shook her head. “It’s awful!”

He pulled her forward. “Be quiet and come on.”

Lucy stopped ten feet away from Woman with Basket, paralyzed. “Geoffrey, take me out of here!”

He was pale. “Shhh. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay!.” The basket was the woman’s own ribs, growing out far beyond the rest of her and intertwining together. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders and filled the basket. “I want to go home!”

His eyes shifted around. “No, no, it’s metaphorical. Art and science woven together. If you think of it that way, she’s, well, she’s, she’s beautiful.”

“Beautiful? She’s suffering.” And indeed, the Woman with Basket’s lips parted and a moan escaped.

“Shhh. She’s not. Remember that article we read? Yvonna grew them with minimal brains. This is just a bundle of involuntary reactions and base emotions; she’s not really sentient, so she can’t suffer. Not like a real human would. Don’t make a scene.”

“Those people outside are right!” Lucy was shouting now. “This is an abomination! An obscenity! The governor should intercede. This should be outlawed!”

The Daughter of Neptune swished in the confines of her tank, gills fluttering, and pushed her face against the glass. Husband and Wife shuffled to the edge of their containment field, drool sliding from the corners of their wide mouths. Mother gripped Child close, mouth agape, almond eyes - once nearly vacant - now touched with confusion and fear. The Hunter belched, twisted his heart-shaped face into contortions and giggled.

A security guard approached. He was broad shouldered and tall, but his eyes, face and lips testified to Lucy that he, as much as the exhibits, had been coaxed into life out of Yvonna’s excess cells.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, Officer,” Lucy heard Geoffrey say as she fled for the door.

She hesitated outside at the sight of manacled protesters being loaded into police vans. Geoffrey grabbed her around the waist as he strode past and shoved her into their waiting limousine.

The limo pulled away from the curb, and Lucy looked out the window for one last glimpse of the crowd. It ebbed and flowed, full of the curious, eager for the second day of Yvonna’s exhibition, when they, too, would be allowed to enter.