“Are—are you here for the party?” he asked doubtfully.
She seemed not to hear him, but continued to stare at or through him. Her mouth made words out of a quivering hiss of a voice. “I’m looking for him.”
“Who?”
“The doctor.”
He decided from her voice that she had laryngitis. “Doctor Georges? He’ll be here soon, but he’ll be busy tonight. Couldn’t you consult another physician?”
The woman fumbled in her bag and brought out a small parcel to display. “I want to give him this,” she hissed.
“I could—”
“I want to give it to him myself,” she interrupted.
Two guests that he recognized came through the entrance. He glanced toward them nervously, returned their grins, glanced indecisively back at the haggard woman.
“I’ll wait,” she croaked, turned her back, and marched to the nearest chair where she perched like a sick crow, eyes glued to the door.
John Hanley Slade felt suddenly chilly. He shrugged it off and went to greet the Willinghams, who were the first arrivals.
Anne Norris, with her husband in tow, zig-zagged her way through a throng of chattering guests toward the hostess, who now occupied a wheel-chair near the entrance to the delivery room. They were a few minutes late, but the party had not yet actually begun.
“Why don’t you go join the father’s sweating circle?” Anne called over her shoulder. “The men are all over with John.”
Norris glanced at the group that had gathered under a cloud of cigar smoke over by the portable bar. John Slade stood at the focus of it and looked persecuted.
“Job’s counselors,” Terry grunted.
A hand reached out from a nearby conversation-group and caught his arm. “Norris,” coughed a gruff voice.
He glanced around. “Oh—Chief Franklin. Hello!”
Anne released his hand and said “See you later,” then wound her way out of sight in the milling herd.
Franklin separated himself from the small congregation and glanced down coolly at his district inspector. He was a tall man, with shoulders hunched up close to his head, long spindly legs, a face that was exceedingly wide across the cheekbones but narrow at the jaw. Black eyes gazed from under heavy brows, and his unruly black hair was badly cut. His family tree had a few Cherokee Indians among its branches, Norris had heard, and they were frequently on the warpath.
Franklin gulped his drink casually and handed the glass to a passing attendant. “Thought you’d be working tonight, Norris,” he said.
“I got trapped into coming, Chief,” he replied amiably.
“How’re you doing with the Delmont pickup?”
“Nearly finished with record-tracing. I took a break today and picked up nine of them.”
“Mmmph. I wondered why you plastipainted that right eye.” Franklin rolled back his head and laughed loudly toward the ceiling. “Newt’s mamma tossed the crockery at you, did she?”
“Her husband,” he corrected a little stiffly.
“Well—get them in a hurry, Norris. If the newt’s owner knows it’s a deviant, he might hear we’re after something and hide it somewhere. I want them rounded up quickly.”
“Expect to find the one?”
Franklin nodded grimly. “It’s somewhere in this part of the country—or was. It narrows down to about six or eight districts. Yours has a good chance of being it. If I had my way, we’d destroy every Bermuda K-99 that came out during that period. That way, we’d be sure—in case Delmont faked more than one.”
“Be pretty tough on dames like Mary,” Norris reminded him, glancing toward Mrs. Slade.
“Yeah, yeah, five hundred Rachels blubbering for their children, and all on my neck. I’d almost rather let the deviant get away than have to put up with the screaming mommies.”
“The burdens of office, Chief. Bear up under the brickbats. Herod did.”
Franklin glowered at him suspiciously, noticed Norris’s bland expression, muttered “eh heh heh,” and glanced around the room.
“Who’s presiding over the whelping tonight?” Norris asked.
“Local doctor. Georges. You ought to know him.”
Terry’s eyebrows went up. He nodded.
“He’s already here. Saw him come in the doctor’s entrance a few minutes ago. He’s probably getting ready. Well, Norris… if you’ll excuse me…”
Norris wandered toward the bar. He had been to several pseudoparties before. There was nothing to it, really. After the guests had gathered, the medics rolled the mother into delivery, and everyone paced restlessly and talked in hushed voices while she reenacted the age-old drama of Birth—in a way that was only mildly uncomfortable and did nothing to aggravate the population problem. Then, when they rolled her out again—fatigued and emotionally spent—the nurse brought out a newly purchased neutroid, only a few days out of the incubator, and presented it to the mother. When the oohs and awws were finished, the mother went home with her child to rest, and the father whooped it up with the guests. Norris hoped to get away early. He had things to do before dawn.
“Who’s that hag by the door?” a guest grunted in his ear.
Norris glanced incuriously at the thin-lipped woman who sat stiffly with her hands in her lap, not gazing at the guests but looking through and beyond them. He shook his head and moved on to shake hands with his host.
“Glad you came, Norris!” Slade said with a grin, then leaned closer. “Your presence could be embarrassing at a time like this, though.”
“How’s that?”
“You should have brought your net and snare-pole, Norris,” said a man at Slade’s elbow. “Then when they bring the baby out, go charging across the room yelling “That’s it! That’s the one I’m after!’”
The men laughed heartily. Norris grinned weakly and started away.
“Hey, Slade,” a voice called. “They’re coming after Mary.” Norris stood aside to let John hurry toward his wife. Most of the crowd stopped milling about to watch Dr. Georges, a nurse, and an attendant coming from a rear door to take charge of Mary.
“Stop! Stop right there!”
The voice came from near the front entrance. It was a choked and hoarse gasp of sound, not loud, but somehow penetrating enough to command the room. Norris glanced aside during the sudden lull to see the thin-lipped woman threading her way through the crowd, and the crowd folded back to clear a way. The farther she walked, the quieter the room, and Norris suddenly realized that somehow the center of the room was almost clear of people so that he could see Mary and John and the medics standing near the delivery room door. They had turned to stare at the intruder. Georges’ mouth fell open slightly. He spoke in a low voice, but the room was suddenly silent enough so that Norris could hear.
“Why, Sarah—what’re you doing here?”
The woman stopped six feet away from him. She pulled out a small parcel and reached it toward him. “This is for you,” she croaked.
When Georges did not advance to take it, she threw it at his feet. “Open it!” she commanded.
Norris expected him to snort and tell the attendants to toss the nutty old dame out. Instead, he stooped, very slowly, keeping his eyes on the woman, and picked up the bundle.
“Unwrap it!” she hissed when he paused.
His hands fumbled with it, but his eyes never left her face. The package came open. Georges glanced down. He dropped it quickly to the floor.
“An amputated—”
Chubby mouth gaping, he stared at the gaunt woman. “My Primrose had a black cowlick in her tail!”