The doctor swallowed and continued to stare.
“Where is my Primrose?”
The woman had her hand in her purse. The doctor retreated a step.
“Where is my baby?”
“Really, Sarah, there was nothing to do but—”
Her hand brought a heavy automatic out of the purse. It wavered and moved uncertainly, too weighty for her scrawny wrist and arm. The room was suddenly a scramble and a babble.
“You killed my baby!”
“The first shot ricocheted from the ceiling and shattered a window,” said the television announcer. “The second shot went into the wall. The third shot struck Doctor Georges in the back of the head as he ran toward the delivery room door. He died instantly. Mrs. Glubbes fled from the room before any of the guests could stop her, and a dragnet is now combing…”
Norris shuddered and looked away from the television screen that revealed the present state of the reception room where they had been not more than two hours ago. He turned off the set, nervously lit a cigaret, and glanced at Anne who sat staring at nothing on the other end of the sofa.
“How do you feel?” he murmured.
She looked at him dumbly, shook her head. Norris got up, paced to the magazine rack, thumbed idly through its contents, glanced back at her nervously, walked to the window, stood smoking and staring toward the street for a time, moved to the piano, glanced back at her nervously again, tried to play a few bars of Beethoven’s Fifth with one finger, hit a foul note after the opening ta-ta-ta-taaaahh, grunted a curse, banged a crashing discord with his fist, and leaned forward with a sigh to press his forehead against the music rack and close his eyes.
“Don’t blame yourself, Terry,” she said softly.
“If I hadn’t let him have that impounded newt, it wouldn’t have happened.”
She thought that over briefly. “And if my maternal grandfather hadn’t lied to his wife back in 2013, I would never have been born.”
“Why not?”
“Because if he’d told her the truth, she’d have up and left him, and Mother wouldn’t have been born.”
“Oh. Nevertheless—”
“Nevertheless nothing!” She shook herself out of the blue mood. “You come here, Terry Norris!”
He came, and there was comfort in holding her. She was prepared to blame the world all right, but he was in the world, and a part of it, and so was she. And there was no sharing of guilt, but only the whole weight of it on the shoulders of each of them. He thought of the Delmont case, and the way Franklin talked casually of slaughtering five hundred K-99s just to be sure, and how he continued to hate Franklin’s guts for no apparent reason. Franklin was not a pleasant fellow, to be sure, but he had done nothing to Norris personally. He wondered if he hated what Franklin represented, but directed the hate at Franklin’s person because he, Norris, represented it too. Franklin, however, liked the world as he found it, and was glad to help keep it that way.
If I think something’s wrong with the set-up, but keep on being a part of it, then the wrongness is not part mine, he thought, it’s all mine, because I bought it.
“It’s hard to decide,” he murmured.
“What’s that, Terry?”
“Whether it’s all wrong, dead wrong—or whether it’s the best that can be done under the circumstances.”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
He shook himself and yawned. “About going to bed,” he grunted.
They went to bed at midnight. At one o’clock, he became certain she was asleep. He lay in darkness for a time, listening to her even breathing. Then he sat up and eased himself out of bed. There was work to be done. He tiptoed quietly out of the bedroom, carrying his shoes and his trousers. He dressed in the kitchen by the glow of a cigaret ember and stole quietly out into the chilly night. A half-moon hung low in a misty sky, and the wind was sharp out of the north. He walked quietly toward the kennels. There were only three empty cages. He needed twenty-seven to accommodate the doubtful K-99s that were to be picked up during the next few days. There was work to be done.
He went into the neutroid room and flicked a switch. A few sleepy chatters greeted the light.
One at a time he awoke twenty-four of the older creatures and carried them to a large glass-walled compartment. These were the long-time residents; they knew him well, and they came willingly, snuggling sleepily against his chest. He whistled tunelessly while he worked, began carrying them by the tails, two in each hand, to speed the chore.
When he had gotten them in the glass chamber, he sealed the door and turned on the gas. Then he switched off the lights, locked up for the night again, and walked back toward the house through the crisp grass. The conveyor belt from the chamber to the crematorium would finish the job unaided.
Norris felt suddenly ill. He sank down on the back steps and laid his head on his arms across his knees. His eyes burned, but thought of tears made him sicker. When the low chug of the crematorium’s igniter coughed quietly from the kennels, he staggered hurriedly away from the steps to retch.
She was waiting for him in the bedroom. She sat on the window-seat, her small figure silhouetted against the paleness of the moonlit yard.
She was staring silently out at the dull red tongue of exhaust gas from the crematorium chimney when he tiptoed down the hall and paused in the doorway. She looked around. Dead silence between them, then:
“Out for a walk, eh, Terry?”
A resumption of the dead silence. He backed quietly away without speaking. He went to the parlor and lay down on the couch.
After a time, he heard her puttering around in the kitchen, and saw a light. A little later, he opened his eyes to see her dark shadow over him, surrounded by an aura of negligee. She sat down on the edge of the couch and offered him a glass.
“Drink it. Make your stomach rest easy.”
“Alcoholic?”
“Yeah.”
He tasted it: milk, egg yolk, honey, and rum.
“No arsenic?”
She shook her head. He drank it quickly, lay back with a grunt, took her hand. They were silent for a time.
“I—I guess every new wife thinks her husband’s flawless—for a while,” she murmured absently. “Silly—how it’s such a shock to find out the obvious: that he’s no different from the other bull humans of the tribe.”
Norris stiffened, rolled his face quickly away from her. After a moment, her hand crept out to touch his cheek lightly. Her cool fingertips traced a soft line up and along his temple.
“It’s all right, Terry,” she whispered.
He kept his face averted. Her fingers stroked for a moment more, as if she were feeling something new and different in the familiar texture of his hair. Then she arose and padded quietly back to the bedroom.
Norris lay awake until dawn, knowing that it would never be all right Terry, nor all right World—never, as long as the prohibiting, the creating, the killing, the mockery, the falsification of birth, death, and life continued.
Dawn inherited the night mist, gathered it into clouds, and made a gloomy gray morning of it.
Anne was still asleep when he left for work. He backed out the kennel-truck, meaning to get the rest of the Bermuda K-99s as quickly as possible so that he could begin running the normalcy tests and get the whole thing over with. The night’s guilt was still with him as he drove away, a sticky dew that refused to depart with morning. Why should he have to kill the things? Why couldn’t Franklin arrange for a central slaughter house for destroying neutroids that had been deserted, or whose owners could not be located, or that found themselves unclaimed for any other reason? But Franklin would purple at the notion. It was only a routine part of the job. Why shouldn’t it be routine? Why were neutroids manufactured anyhow? Obviously, because they were disposable—an important feature which human babies unfortunately lacked. When the market became glutted with humans, the merchandise could not be dumped in the sea.