“Instructions acknowledged,” answered the circuitry.
He went out to the kennels to help Anne unload the neutroids.
A sprawling concrete barn housed the cages, and the barn was sectioned into three large rooms, one housing the fragile, humanoid chimpanzee-mutants, and another for the lesser breeds such as cat-Qs, dog-Fs, dwarf bears, and foot-high lambs that never matured into sheep. The third room contained a small gas chamber, with a conveyor belt leading from it to the crematorium. He usually kept the third room locked, but he noticed in passing that it was open. Evidently Anne had found the keys in order to let Fred Georges dump his package.
A Noah’s Ark Chorus greeted him as he passed through the animal room, to be replaced by the mindless chatter of the doll-like neutroids as soon as he entered the air conditioned neutroidsection. Dozens of blazing blond heads began dancing about their cages. Their bodies thwacked against the wire mesh as they leaped about their compartments with monkey-grace, in recognition of their feeder and keeper.
Their human appearance was broken only by two distinct features: short beaverlike tails decorated with fluffy curls of fur and an erect thatch of scalp hair that grew up into a bright candle-flame. Otherwise, they appeared completely human, with baby-pink skin, quick little smiles, and cherubic faces. They were sexually neuter and never grew beyond a predetermined age-set which varied for each series. Age-sets were available from one to ten years, human equivalent. Once a neutroid reached its age-set, it remained at this stage of retarded development until death.
“They must be getting to know you pretty well,” Anne said as she came from behind a section of cages. “A big loud welcome for Pappa, huh?”
He frowned slightly as he glanced around the gloomy room and sniffed the animal odors. “That’s funny. They don’t usually get this excited.”
She grinned. “Big confession: it started when I came in.”
He shot her a quick suspicious glance, then walked slowly along a row of cages, peering inside. He stopped suddenly beside a three year old K-76 to stare.
“Apple cores!”
He turned slowly to face his wife, trying to swallow a sudden spurt of anger.
“Well?” he demanded.
Anne reddened. “I felt sorry for them, eating that goo from the mechanical feeders. So I drove down to Sherman III and bought six dozen cooking apples.”
“That was a mistake.”
She frowned irritably. “We can afford it.”
“That’s not the point. There’s a reason for mechanical feedings.”
“Oh? What is it?”
He hesitated, knowing she wouldn’t like the answer. But she was already stiffening.
“Let me guess,” she said coldly. “If you feed them yourself they get to love you. Right?”
“Uh, yeah. They even attach some affection to me because they know that right after I come in, the feeders get turned on.”
“I see. And if they love you, you might get queasy about running them through Room 3’s production line, eh?”
“That’s about the size of it,” he admitted.
“Okay, Terry, I feed them apples, you run your production line,” she announced firmly. “I can’t see anything contradictory about that, can you?”
Her eyes told him that he had damn well better see something contradictory about it, whether he admitted it or not.
“Planning to get real chummy with them, are you?” he inquired stiffly.
“Planning to dispose of any soon?” she countered.
“Honeymoon’s off again, eh?”
She shook her head slowly, came toward him a little. “I hope not, Terry—I hope not.” She stopped again. They watched each other doubtfully amid the chatter of the neutroids.
After a time, he turned and walked to the truck, pulled out the snare-pole and began fishing for the squealing, squeaking doll-things that bounded about like frightened monkeys in the truck’s wire mesh cage. They were one-family pets, always frightened of strangers, and these in the truck remembered him only as the villain who had dragged them away from Mamma into a terrifying world of whirling scenery and roaring traffic.
They worked for a time without talking; then Anne asked casually: “What’s the Delmont case, Terry?”
“Huh? What makes you ask?”
“I heard you mention it on the phone. Anything to do with a black eye and a scratched face?”
He nodded sourly. “Indirectly. It’s a long story. Well—you know about the evolvotron.”
“Only that Anthropos Incorporated uses it to induce mutations.”
“It’s sort of a sub-atomic surgical instrument—for doing ‘plastic surgery’ to reproductive cells—Here! Grab this chimp! Got him by the leg.”
“Oop! Got him…. Go ahead, Terry.”
“Using an evolvotron on the gene-structure of an ovum is likeplaying microscopic billiards—with protons and deuterons and alpha particles for cue-balls. The operator takes the living ovum, mounts it in the device, gets a tremendously magnified image of it with the slow-neutrino shadowscope, compares the image with a gene-map, starts gouging out submolecular tidbits with single-particle shots. He juggles them around, hammers chunks in where nothing was before, plugs up gaps, makes new gaps. Catch?”
She looked thoughtful, nodded. “Catch. And the Lord Man made neutroid from the slime of an ape,” she murmured.
“Heh? Here, catch this critter! Snare’s choking him!”
“Okay—come to Mamma… Well, go on—tell me about Delmont.”
“Delmont was a green evolvotron operator. Takes years of training, months of practice.”
“Practice?”
“It’s an art more than a science. Speed’s the thing. You’ve got to perform the whole operation from start to finish in a few seconds. Ovum dies if you take too long.”
“About Delmont—”
“Got through training and practice tryouts okay. Good rating, in fact. But he was just one of those people that blow up when rehearsals stop and the act begins. He spoiled over a hundred ova the first week. That’s to be expected. One success out of ten tries is a good average. But he didn’t get any successes.”
“Why didn’t they fire him?”
“Threatened to. Guess he got hysterical. Anyhow, he reported one success the next day. It was faked. The ovum had a couple of flaws—something wrong in the nervous system’s determinants, and in the endocrinal setup. Not a standard neutroid ovum. He passed it on to the incubators to get a credit, knowing it wouldn’t be caught until after birth.”
“It wasn’t caught at all?”
“Heh. He was afraid it might not be caught. So he suppressed the testosterone flow to its incubator so that it would be—later on.”
“Why that?”
“All the neutroids are potential females, you know. But male hormone is pumped to the foetus as it develops. Keeps female sexuality from developing, results in a neuter. He decided that the inspectors would surely catch a female, and that would be blamed on a malfunction of the incubator, not on him.”
“So?”
Norris shrugged. “So inspectors are human. So maybe a guy came on the job with a hangover and missed a trick or two. Besides, they all look female. Anyhow, she didn’t get caught.”
“How did they ever find out Delmont did it?”
“He got caught last month—trying it again. Confessed to doing it once before. No telling how many times he really did it.”
Norris held up the final kicking, squealing, tassel-haired doll from the back of the kennel-truck. He grinned down at Anne.
“Now take this little yeep, for instance. Might be a potential she. Might also be a potential murderer. All these kiddos from the truck came from the machines in the section where Delmont worked last year when he passed that fake. Can’t have non-standard models on the loose. Can’t have sexed models either—then they’d breed, get out of hand. The evolvotron could be shut down any time it became necessary, and when that generation of mutants died off… “ He shrugged.