for a painless, effective DBal shot and thus resolve his problem, but he does not go; he shudders at the thought. We cannot know what fear of amputation stemming from some early traumatic experience thus prevents him from action, but deep-rooted psychological reasons explain his behavior, we can't be certain.' The class bent over the chronoscope.) And some of George's co-workers slunk away and would not submit to questioning. Young MacBirney, normally open and incisive, muttered vaguely and passed his hand across his brow when George asked him how one went about having a baby—red-tape-wise, that is.
It was Blount, come in for his afternoon screaming match, who spilled the vengeful beans. 'You and your wife just phone P.Q.P. for an appointment,' he told George with a straight face. 'They'll issue you—
everything you need.' George in his innocence thanked him, and Blount turned away and grinned the twisted, sly grin of an author.
A glad female voice answered the phone on behalf of the P.Q.P. It assured George that he and Mrs. McCardle need only drop in any time at the Empire State Building and they'd be well on their way to parenthood.
The next day Mr. and Mrs. McCardle dropped in at the Empire State Building. A receptionist in the lobby was buffing her nails under a huge portrait of His Majesty. A beautifully lettered sign displayed the words with which His Majesty had decreed that P.Q.P. be enacted: 'Ow Racken Theah's a Raht Smaht Ah-dee, Boys.'
'Where do we sign up, please?' asked George.
The receptionist pawed uncertainly through her desk. 'I know there's some kind of book,' she said as she rummaged, but she did not find it.
'Well, it doesn't matter. They'll give you everything you need in Room 100.'
'Will I sign up there?' asked George nervously, conditioned by a lifetime of red tape and uncomfortable without it.
'No,' said the receptionist. :
'But for the tests—'
'There aren't any tests.'
'Then the interviews, the deep probing of our physical and psychological fitness for parenthood, our heredity—'
'No interviews.'
'But the evaluation of our financial and moral standing without which no permission can be—'
'No evaluation. Just Room 100.' She resumed buffing her nails.
In Room 100 a cheerful woman took a Toddler out of a cabinet, punched the non-reversible activating button between its shoulderblades, and handed it to Mrs. McCardle with a cheery: 'It's all yours, madame. Return with it in three months and, depending on its condition, you will, or will not, be issued a breeding permit. Simple, isn't it?'
'The little darling!' gurgled Mrs. McCardle, looking down into the Toddler's pretty face.
It spit in her eye, punched her in the nose and sprang a leak.
'Gracious!' said the cheerful woman. 'Get it out of our nice clean office, if you please.'
'How do you work it?' yelled Mrs. McCardle, juggling the Toddler like a hot potato. 'How do you turn it off?'
'Oh, you can't turn it off,' said the woman. 'And you'd better not swing it like that. Rough handling goes down on the tapes inside it and we read them in three months and now if you please, you're getting our nice office all wet—'
She shepherded them out.
'Do something, George!' yelled Mrs. McCardle. George took the Toddler. It stopped leaking and began a ripsaw scream that made the lighting fixtures tremble.
'Give the poor thing to me!' Mrs. McCardle shouted. 'You're hurting it holding it like that—'
She took the Toddler back. It stopped screaming and resumed leaking.
It quieted down in the car. The sudden thought seized them both—too quiet? Their heads crashed together as they bent simultaneously over the glassy-eyed little object. It laughed delightedly and waved its chubby fists.
'Clumsy oaf!' snapped Mrs. McCardle, rubbing her head.
'Sorry, dear,' said George. 'But at least we must have got a good mark out of it on the tapes. I suppose it scores us good when it laughs.'
Her eyes narrowed. 'Probably,' she said. 'George, do you think if you fell heavily on the sidewalk—?'
'No,' said George convulsively. Mrs. McCardle looked at him for a moment and held her peace.
('Note, young gentlemen,' said the history professor, 'the turning point, the seed of rebellion.' They noted.)
The McCardles and the Toddler drove off down Sunrise Highway, which was lined with filling stations; since their '98 Landcruiser made only two miles to the gallon, it was not long before they had to stop at one.
The Toddler began its ripsaw shriek when they stopped. A hollow-eyed attendant shambled over and peered into the car. 'Just get it?' he asked apathetically.
'Yes,' said Mrs. McCardle, frantically trying to joggle the Toddler, to change it, to burp it, to do anything that would end the soul-splitting noise.
'Half pint of white 90-octane gas is what it needs,' mumbled the attendant. 'Few drops of SAE 40 oil. Got one myself. Two weeks to go.
I'll never make it. I'll crack. I'll—I'll …' He tottered off and returned with the gasoline in a nursing bottle, the oil in an eye-dropper.
The Toddler grabbed the bottle and began to gulp the gas down contentedly.
'Where do you put the oil?' asked Mrs. McCardle.
He showed her.
'Oh,' she said.
'Fill her up,' said George. 'The car, I mean. I … ah …I'm going to wash my hands, dear.'
He cornered the attendant by the cash register. 'Look,' he said. 'What, ah, would happen if you just let it run out of gas? The Toddler, I mean?'
The man looked at him and put a compassionate hand on his shoulder.
'It would scream, buddy,' he said. 'The main motors run off an atomic battery. The gas engine's just for a sideshow and for having breakdowns.'
'Breakdowns? Oh, my God! How do you fix a breakdown?'
'The best way you can,' the man said. 'And buddy, when you burp it, watch out for the fumes. I've seen some ugly explosions …'
They stopped at five more filling stations along the way when the Toddler wanted gas.
'It'll be better-behaved when it's used to the house,' said Mrs.
McCardle apprehensively as she carried it over the threshold.
'Put it down and let's see what happens,' said George.
The Toddler toddled happily to the coffee table, picked up a large bronze ashtray, moved to the picture window and heaved the ashtray through it. It gurgled happily at the crash.
'You little—!' George roared, making for the Toddler with his hands clawed before him.
'George!' Mrs. McCardle screamed, snatching the Toddler away. 'It's only a machine!'
The machine began to shriek.
They tried gasoline, oil, wiping with a clean lint-free rag, putting it down, picking it up and finally banging their heads together. It continued to scream until it was ready to stop screaming, and then it stopped and gave them an enchanting grin.
'Time to put it to—away for the night?' asked George.
It permitted itself to be put away for the night.
From his pillow George said later: 'Think we did pretty well today.
Three months? Pah!'
Mrs. McCardle said: 'You were wonderful, George.'
He knew that tone. 'My Tigress,' he said.
Ten minutes later, at the most inconvenient time in the world, bar none, the Toddler began its ripsaw screaming.
Cursing, they went to find out what it wanted. They found out. What it wanted was to laugh in their faces.
