—”
Yates bellowed lusty laughter in his ear.
“Not funny,” he growled. “I’ve got to get those neutroids. It’s connected with the Delmont case.”
Yates stopped laughing. “Oh? Well… I’ll take care of it.”
“Rush order, Sheriff. Can you get the warrants tonight and pick up the animals in the morning?”
“Easy on those warrants, boy. Judge Charleman can’t be bothered just any time. I can get the newts to you by noon, I guess, provided we don’t have to get a helicopter posse to chase down the mothers.”
“Well, okay—but listen—I want the charges dropped if they cooperate with you. And don’t shake the warrants at them unless you have to. Just get those newts, that’s all I want.”
“Okay, boy. Give me the dope.”
Norris read him the names and addresses of the three unwilling owners, and a precise account of what happened in each case. As soon as he hung up, Anne muttered “Sit still,” perched on his knees, and began stroking chilly ointment across his burning cheek. He watched her cool eyes flicker from his cheek to his own eyes and down again. She was no longer angry, but only gloomy and withdrawn from him. He touched her arm. She seemed not to notice it.
“Hard day, Terry?”
“Slightly. I picked up nine newts out of thirteen, anyhow. They’re in the truck now.”
“Good thing you didn’t get them all. There are only twelve empty cages.”
“Twelve?—oh, Georges picked one up, didn’t he?”
“And sent a package,” she said, eyeing him soberly.
“Package? Where is it?”
“In the crematorium. The boy took it back there.” He swallowed a tight spot in his throat, said nothing.
“Oh, and darling—Mrs. Slade called. Why didn’t you tell me we’re going out tonight?”
“Going—out?” It sounded a little weak.
“Well, she said she hadn’t heard from you. I couldn’t very well say no, so I told her
“You—?”
“Oh, I didn’t say about you, Terry. I said you’d like to go, but you might have to work. I’ll go alone if you don’t want to.”
He stared at her with a puzzled frown. “You want to go to the psuedoparty?”
“Not particularly. But I’ve never been to one. I’m just curious.”
He nodded slowly, felt grim inside. She finished with the ointment, patted his cheek, managed a cheerful smile.
“Come on, Terry. Let’s go unload your nine neutroids.” He stared at her dumbly.
“Let’s forget about this morning, Terry.”
He nodded. She averted her face suddenly, and her lip quivered. “I—I know you’ve got a job that’s got to be —” She swallowed hard and turned away. “See you out in the kennels,” she choked gaily, then hurried down the hall toward the door. Norris scratched his chin unhappily as he watched her go.
After a moment, he dialed the mnemonic register again. “Keep a line on this number,” he ordered after identifying himself. “If Yates or Franklin calls, ring continuously until I can get in to answer. Otherwise, just memorize the call.”
“Instructions acknowledged,” answered the circuitry.
He went out to the kennels to help Anne unload the neutroids.
A sprawling concrete barn housed the cages, and the barn was sectioned into three large rooms, one housing the fragile, humanoid chimpanzee-mutants, and another for the lesser breeds such as cat-Qs, dog-Fs, dwarf bears, and foot-high lambs that never matured into sheep. The third room contained a small gas chamber, with a conveyor belt leading from it to the crematorium. He usually kept the third room locked, but he noticed in passing that it was open. Evidently Anne had found the keys in order to let Fred Georges dump his package.
A Noah’s Ark Chorus greeted him as he passed through the animal room, to be replaced by the mindless chatter of the doll-like neutroids as soon as he entered the air conditioned neutroidsection. Dozens of blazing blond heads began dancing about their cages. Their bodies thwacked against the wire mesh as they leaped about their compartments with monkey-grace, in recognition of their feeder and keeper.
Their human appearance was broken only by two distinct features: short beaverlike tails decorated with fluffy curls of fur and an erect thatch of scalp hair that grew up into a bright candle-flame. Otherwise, they appeared completely human, with baby-pink skin, quick little smiles, and cherubic faces. They were sexually neuter and never grew beyond a predetermined age-set which varied for each series. Age-sets were available from one to ten years, human equivalent. Once a neutroid reached its age-set, it remained at this stage of retarded development until death.
“They must be getting to know you pretty well,” Anne said as she came from behind a section of cages. “A big loud welcome for Pappa, huh?”
He frowned slightly as he glanced around the gloomy room and sniffed the animal odors. “That’s funny. They don’t usually get this excited.”
She grinned. “Big confession: it started when I came in.”
He shot her a quick suspicious glance, then walked slowly along a row of cages, peering inside. He stopped suddenly be-side a three year old K-76 to stare.
He turned slowly to face his wife, trying to swallow a sudden spurt of anger.
Anne reddened. “I felt sorry for them, eating that goo from the mechanical feeders. So I drove down to Sherman III and bought six dozen cooking apples.”
“That was a mistake.”
She frowned irritably. “We can afford it.”
“That’s not the point. There’s a reason for mechanical feedings.”
“Oh? What is it?”
He hesitated, knowing she wouldn’t like the answer. But she was already stiffening.
“Let me guess,” she said coldly. “If you feed them yourself they get to love you. Right?”
“Uh, yeah. They even attach some affection to me because they know that right after I come in, the feeders get turned on.”
“I see. And if they love you, you might get queasy about running them through Room 3’s production line, eh?”
“That’s about the size of it,” he admitted.
“Okay, Terry, I feed them apples, you run your production line,” she announced firmly. “I can’t see anything contradictory about that, can you?”
Her eyes told him that he had damn well better see something contradictory about it, whether he admitted it or not.
“Planning to get real chummy with them, are you?” he inquired stiffly.
“Planning to dispose of any soon?” she countered.
“Honeymoon’s off again, eh?”
She shook her head slowly, came toward him a little. “I hope not, Terry—I hope not.” She stopped again. They watched each other doubtfully amid the chatter of the neutroids.
After a time, he turned and walked to the truck, pulled out the snare-pole and began fishing for the squealing, squeaking doll-things that bounded about like frightened monkeys in the truck’s wire mesh cage. They were one- family pets, always frightened of strangers, and these in the truck remembered him only as the villain who had dragged them away from Mamma into a terrifying world of whirling scenery and roaring traffic.
They worked for a time without talking; then Anne asked casually: “What’s the Delmont case, Terry?”
“Huh? What makes you ask?”
“I heard you mention it on the phone. Anything to do with a black eye and a scratched face?”
He nodded sourly. “Indirectly. It’s a long story. Well—you know about the evolvotron.”
“Only that Anthropos Incorporated uses it to induce mutations.”
