KNOCK AT THE DOOR by Craig P. Miller Kyle Nathaniel Ock III stood at his station and held his breath for a second or two to avoid the olfactory tang left by the departing Pilgrims, ozone and ... something else. Angelina says it smells like bacon, whatever that is. He shuddered. Kyle could trust her. The way she looked at him; those ravenous eyes, sent waves of nausea through him. He shuddered again. Another hungry woman. I know what you're after. You want a little boy, a little boy to have and to hold, a little boy all your own. But it never works that way, well, hardly ever, not anymore. You just get girls ... mostly. The odds were shockingly slim. The last published estimates were two hundred and fifty to one and rising. But the steep odds did not deter those hungry women. Eight billion hungry women, all of them aching for a little boy of their own. Kyle swallowed nervously and tried to focus on the task at hand. He took a hesitant breath, sampling the air for that sm...
