He gulped. “Cancel the call,” he told the operator. “It’ll wait till tomorrow.” He dropped the phone hard and sank down in the straight chair. It was the only thing to do: delay it as long as he could.
“We’d better have a little talk,” she said.
“Maybe we’d better,” he admitted.
They went into the living room. Peony’s world had evidently been restricted to the pet shop, and she seemed awed by the clean, neat house, no longer frightened, and curious enough about her surroundings to forget to cry for O’Reilley. She sat in the center of the rug, occasionally twitching her tail as she blinked around at the furniture and the two humans who sat in it.
“The deviant?”
“A deviant.”
“Just what are you going to do?”
He squirmed. “You know what I’m supposed to do.”
“What you were going to do in the hall?”
“Franklin’s bound to find out anyway.”
“How?”
“Do you imagine that Franklin would trust anybody?”
“So?”
“So, he’s probably already got a list of all serial numbers from the District Anthropos Wholesalers. As a double check on us. And we’d better deliver.”
“I see. That leaves you in a pinch, doesn’t it?”
“Not if I do what I’m supposed to.”
“By whose law?”
He tugged nervously at his collar, stared at the child-thing who was gazing at him fixedly. “Heh heh,” he said weakly, waggled a finger at it, held out his hands invitingly. The child-thing inched away nervously.
“Don’t evade, Terry.”
“I wanna go home… I want Dadda.”
“I gotta think. Gotta have time to think.”
“Listen, Terry, you know what calling Franklin would be? It would be M, U, R, D, E, R.”
“She’s just a newt.”
“She?”
“Probably. Have to examine her to make sure.”
“Great. Intelligent, capable of reproduction. Just great.”
“Well, what they do with her after I’m finished with the normalcy tests is none of my affair.”
“It’s not? Look at me, Terry… No, not with that patiently suffering…. Terry!”
He stopped doing it and sat with his head in his hands, staring at the patterns in the rug, working his toes anxiously. “Think—gotta think.”
“While you’re thinking, I’ll feed the child,” she said crisply. “Come on, Peony.”
“How’d you know her name?”
“She told me, naturally.”
“Oh.” He sat trying grimly to concentrate, but the house was infused with Anne-ness, and it influenced him. After a while, he got up and went out to the kennels where he could think objectively. But that was wrong too. The kennels were full of Franklin and the system he represented. Finally he went out into the back yard and lay on the cool grass to stare up at the twilight sky. The problem shaped up quite formidably. Either he turned her over to Franklin to be studied and ultimately destroyed, or he didn’t. If he didn’t, he was guilty of Delmont’s crime. Either he lost Anne and maybe something of himself, or his job and maybe his freedom.
A big silence filled the house during dinner. Only Peony spoke, demanding at irregular intervals to be taken home. Each time the child-thing spoke, Anne looked at him, and each time she looked at him, her eyes said “See?”—until finally he slammed down his fork and marched out to the porch to sulk in the gloom. He heard their voices faintly from the kitchen.
“You’ve got a good appetite, Peony.”
“I like Dadda’s cooking better.”
“Well, maybe mine’ll do for awhile.”
“I wanna go home.”
“I know—but I think your dadda wants you to stay with us for awhile.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why don’t you like it here?”
“I want Dadda.”
“Well maybe we can call him on the phone, eh?”
“Phone?”
“After you get some sleep.”
The child-thing whimpered, began to cry. He heard Anne walking with it, murmuring softly. When he had heard as much as he could take, he trotted down the steps and went for a long walk in the night, stalking slowly along cracked sidewalks beneath overhanging trees, past houses and scattered lights of the suburbs. Suburbs hadn’t changed much in a century, only grown more extensive. Some things underwent drastic revision with the passing years, other things—like walking sticks and garden hoes and carving knives and telephones and bicycles—stayed pretty much as they were. Why change something that worked well as it was? Why bother the established system?
He eyed the lighted windows through the hedges as he wandered past. Fluorescent lights, not much different than those of a century ago. But once they had been campfires, the fires of shivering hunters in the forest, when man was young and the world was sparsely planted with his seed. Now the world was choked with his riotous growth, glittering with his lights and his flashing signs, full of the sound of his engines and the roar of his rockets. He had inherited it and filled it—filled it too full, perhaps.
There was no escaping from the past. The last century had glutted the Earth with its children and grandchildren, had strained the Earth’s capacity to feed, and the limit had been reached. It had to be guarded. There was no escape into space, either. Man’s rockets had touched two planets, but they were sorry worlds, and even if he made them better, Earth could beget children—if allowed—faster than ships could haul them away. The only choice: increase the death rate, or decrease the birth rate—or, as a dismal third possibility—do nothing, and let Nature wield the scythe as she had once done in India and China. But letting-Nature-do-it was not in the nature of Man, for he could always do it better. If his choice robbed his wife of a biological need, then he would build her a disposable baby to pacify her. He would give it a tail and only half a mind, so that she would not confuse it with her own occasional children.
Peony, however, was a grim mistake. The mistake had to be quickly corrected before anyone noticed.
What was he, Norris, going to do about it, if anything? Defy the world? Outwit the world? The world was made in the shape of Franklin, and it snickered at him out of the shadows. He turned and walked back home.
Anne was rocking on the porch with Peony in her arms when he came up the sidewalk. The small creature dozed fitfully, muttered in its sleep.
“How old is she, Terry?” Anne asked.
“About nine months, or about two years, depending on what you mean.”
“Born nine months ago?”
“Mmmh. But two years by the development scale, human equivalent. Newts would be fully mature at nine or ten, if they didn’t stop at an age-set. Fast maturation.”
“But she’s brighter than most two year olds.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ve heard her talk.”
“You can’t make degree-comparisons between two species, Anne. Not easily anyhow. ‘Bright’?—signifying I.Q.?—by what yardstick.”
“Bright—signifying on-the-ball—by my yardstick. And if you turn her over to Franklin, I’ll leave you.”
“Car coming,” he grunted tonelessly. “Get in the house. It’s slowing down.”
Anne slipped out of her chair and hurried inside. Norris lingered only a moment, then followed. The headlights paused in front of a house down the block, then inched ahead. He watched from deep in the hall.
“Shall I take her out to the kennels right quick?” Anne called tensely.
“Stick where you are,” he muttered, and a moment later regretted it. The headlights stopped in front. The beam of a powerful flashlight played over the porch, found the house-number, winked out. The driver cut the engine. Norris strode to the living room.