“Of course I’m sure!” came the muffled reply.
“Leave it on for a minute. We’ll see. I’ll go get the newt. Don’t let the door close, sir. It’ll start the automatics and we can’t get it open for half an hour.”
“I know, Norris. Hurry up.”
Norris left him standing just outside the chamber, propping the door open with his foot. A faint wind was coming through the opening. It should reach an explosive mixture quickly with the hatch ajar.
He stepped into the next room, waited a moment, and jerked the switch. The roar was deafening as the exposed tungsten filament flared and detonated the escaping anesthetic vapor. Norris went to cut off the main line. Peony was crying plaintively. He moved to the door and glanced at the smouldering remains of Franklin.
Feeling no emotion whatever, Norris left the kennels, carrying the sobbing child under one arm. His wife stared at him without understanding.
“Here, hold Peony while I call the police,” he said.
“Police? What’s happened?”
He dialed quickly. “Chief Miler? This is Norris. Get over here quick. My gas chamber exploded—killed Chief Agent Franklin. Man, it’s awful! Hurry.”
He hung up and went back to the kennels. He selected a normal Bermuda-K-99 and coldly killed it with a wrench. “You’ll serve for a deviant,” he said, and left it lying in the middle of the floor.
Then he went back to the house, mixed a sleeping capsule in a glass of water, and forced Peony to drink it.
“So she’ll be out when the cops come,” he explained to Anne. She stamped her foot. “Will you tell me what’s happened?”
“You heard me on the phone. Franklin accidentally died. That’s all you have to know.”
He carried Peony out and locked her in a cage. She was too sleepy to protest, and she was dozing when the police came.
Chief Miler strode about the three rooms like a man looking for a burglar at midnight. He nudged the body of the neutroid with his foot. “What’s this, Norris?”
“The deviant we were about to destroy. I finished her with a wrench.”
“I thought you said there weren’t any deviants.”
“As far as the public’s concerned, there aren’t. I couldn’t see that it was any of your business. It still isn’t.”
“I see. It may become my business, though. How’d the blast happen?”
Norris told him the story up to the point of the detonation. “The light over the door was loose. Kept flickering on and off. Franklin reached up to tighten it. Must have been a little gas in the socket. Soon as he touched it—wham!”
“Why was the door open with the gas on?”
“I told you—we were checking the intakes. If you close the door, it starts the automatics. Then you can’t get it open till the cycle’s finished.”
“Where were you?”
“I’d gone to cut off the gas again.”
“Okay, stay in the house until we’re finished out here.” When Norris went back in the house, his wife’s white face turned slowly toward him.
She sat stiffly by the living room window, looking sick. Her voice was quietly frightened.
“Terry, I’m sorry about everything.”
“Skip it.”
“What did you do?”
He grinned sourly. “I adapted to an era. Did you find the instruments?”
She nodded. “What are they for?”
“To cut off a tail and skin a tattooed foot. Go to the store and buy some brown hair-dye and a pair of boy’s trousers, age two.
Peony’s going to get a crewcut. From now on, she’s Mike.”
“We’re class-C, Terry! We can’t pass her off as our own.”
“We’re class-A, honey. I’m going to forge a heredity certificate.”
Anne put her face in her hands and rocked slowly to and fro. “Don’t feel bad, baby. It was Franklin or a little girl. And from now on, it’s society or the Norrises.”
“What’ll we do?”
“Go to Atlanta and work for Anthropos. I’ll take up where Delmont left off.”
“Terry!”
“Peony will need a husband. They may find all of Delmont’s males. I’ll make her one. Then we’ll see if a pair of chimp-Ks can do better than their makers.”
Wearily, he stretched out on the sofa.
“What about that priest? Suppose he tells about Peony. Suppose he guesses about Franklin and tells the police?”
“The police,” he said, “would then smell a motive. They’d figure it out and I’d be finished. We’ll wait and see. Let’s don’t talk; I’m tired. We’ll just wait for Miler to come in.”
She began rubbing his temples gently, and he smiled.
“So we wait,” she said. “Shall I read to you, Terry?”
“That would be pleasant,” he murmured, closing his eyes.
She slipped away, but returned quickly. He heard the rustle of dry pages and smelled musty leather. Then her voice came, speaking old words softly. And he thought of the small child-thing lying peacefully in her cage while angry men stalked about her. A small life with a mind; she came into the world as quietly as a thief, a burglar in the crowded house of Man.
“I will send my fear before thee, and I will destroy the peoples before whom thou shalt come, sending hornets to drive out the Hevite and the Canaanite and the Hethite before thou enterest the land. Little by little I will drive them out before thee, till thou be increased, and dost possess the land. Then shalt thou be to me a new people, and I to thee a God…”
And on the quiet afternoon in May, while he waited for the police to finish puzzling in the kennels, it seemed to Terrell Norris that an end to scheming and pushing and arrogance was not too far ahead. It should be a pretty good world then.
He hoped Man could fit into it somehow.
1952
THE DARFSTELLER
“Judas, Judas” was playing at the Universal on Fifth Street, and the cast was entirely human. Ryan Thornier had been saving up for, it for several weeks, and now he could afford the price of a matinee ticket. It had been a race for time between his piggy bank and the wallets of several “public-spirited” angels who kept the show alive, and the piggy bank had won. He could see the show before the wallets went flat and the show folded, as any such show was bound to do after a few limping weeks. A glow of anticipation suffused him. After watching the wretched mockery of dramaturgical art every day at the New Empire Theater where he worked as janitor, the chance to see real theater again would be like a breath of clean air.
He came to work an hour early on Wednesday morning and sped through his usual chores on overdrive. He finished his work before one o’clock, had a shower back-stage, changed to street clothes, and went nervously up-stairs to ask Imperio D’Uccia for the rest of the day off.
D’Uccia sat enthroned at a rickety desk before a wall plastered with photographs of lightly clad female stars of the old days. He heard the janitor’s petition with a faint, almost oriental smile of apparent sympathy, then drew himself up to his full height of sixty-five inches, leaned on the desk with chubby hands to study Thornier with beady eyes.
“Off? So you wanna da day off? Mmmph—” He shook his head as if mystified by such an incomprehensible request.
The gangling janitor shifted his feet uneasily. “Yes, sir. I’ve finished up, and Jigger’ll come over to stand by in case you need anything special.” He paused. D’Uccia was studying his nails, frowning gravely. “I haven’t asked for a day off in two years, Mr. D’Uccia,” he added, “and I was sure you wouldn’t mind after all the overtime I’ve—”