Got the sales receipt and showed it to me. Number checked with the newt’s. Something’s fouled up somewhere.”
“Where’d she get it?”
“O’Reilley’s pet shop—over in Sherman II. Right place, wrong serial number.”
“Anything to worry about, Terry?”
“Well, I’ve got to track down that doubtful Bermuda model.”
“Oh.”
“And—well—” He frowned out the window at the kennels. “Ever think what’d happen if somebody started a black market in neutroids?”
They finished the meal in silence. Apparently there was going to be no further mention of last-night’s mass- disposal, nor any rehash of the nightmare at Slade’s party. He was thankful.
The afternoon’s work yielded seven more Bermuda neutroids for the pound. Except for the missing newt that was involved in the confusion of serial numbers, the rest of them would have to be collected by Yates or his deputies, armed with warrants. The groans and the tears of the owners left him in a gloomy mood, but the pickup phase of the operation was nearly finished. The normalcy tests, however, would consume the rest of the week and leave little time for sleeping and eating. If Delmont’s falsification proved extensive, it might be necessary to deliver several of the animals to central lab for dissection and complete analysis, thus bringing the murderous wrath of the owners upon his head. He had a hunch about why bio-inspectors were frequently shifted from one territory to another.
On the way home, he stopped in Sherman II to check with the dealer about the confusion of serial numbers. Sherman II was the largest of the Sherman communities, covering fifty blocks of commercial buildings. He parked in the outskirts and took a side-walk escalator toward O’Reilley’s address. He had spoken to O’Reilley on the phone, but had not yet visited the dealer’s shop.
It lay on a dingy side street that was reminiscent of centuries past, a street of small bars and bowling alleys and cigar stores. There was even a shop with three gold balls above the entrance, but the place was now an antique store. A light mist was falling when he stepped off the escalator and stood in front of the pet shop. A sign hung out over the sidewalk, announcing:
He frowned at the sign for a moment, then wandered through the entrance into a warm and gloomy shop, wrinkling his nose at the strong musk of animal odors. O’Reilley’s was no shining example of cleanliness.
Somewhere a puppy was yapping, and a parrot croaked the lyrics of
He paused briefly by a tank of silk-draped goldfish. The shop had a customer. An elderly lady haggled with the wizened manager over the price of a half-grown second-hand dog-F. She shook her last dog’s death certificate under his nose and demanded a guarantee of the dog’s alleged F-5 intelligence. The old man offered to swear on a Bible that the dog was more knowledgeable than some humans, but he demurred when asked to swear by his ledger.
The dog was lamenting, “Don’ sell me, Dadda, don’ sell me,” and punctuating the pleas with mournful train- whistle howls.
Norris smiled quietly. The non-human pets were brighter than the neutroids. A K-108 could speak a dozen words, but a K-99 never got farther than “mamma,”
“pappa,” and “cookie.” Anthropos feared making quasi-humans too intelligent, lest sentimentalists proclaim them really human.
He wandered on toward the rear of the building, pausing briefly by the cash register to inspect O’Reilley’s license which hung in a dusty frame on the wall behind the counter: “James Fallon O’Reilley… authorized dealer in mutant animals… all non-predatory mammals including chimpanzee-K series… license expires 15W 3D 2063Y…”
Expiration date approaching, he noticed, but otherwise okay. He headed for a bank of neutroid cages along the opposite wall, but O’Reilley minced across the floor to meet him. The elderly lady was leaving. O’Reilley’s face wore a v-shaped smirk on a loose-skinned face, and his bald head bobbled professionally.
“And a good afternoon to ye, sir. What’ll it be this foine drizzlin’ afternoon? A dwarf kangaroo perhaps, or a —” He paused to adjust his spectacles as Norris flashed a badge and presented his card. O’Reilley’s smile waned. “Inspector Norris it is,” he muttered at the card, then looked up. “What’d they do with the last ‘un, flay him alive?”
“My predecessor was transferred to the Montreal area.”
“And I thought that I spoke to him only yesterday!”
“On the phone? That was me, O’Reilley. About the rundown on the K-99 sales.”
“I gave it to you properly, did I not?” the oldster demanded.
“You gave it to me. Maybe properly.”
O’Reilley seemed to puff up slightly and glower. “Meaning?”
“There’s a mix-up in serial numbers on one of them. May not be your mistake.”
“No mistakes, no mistakes.”
“Okay, we’ll see.” Norris glanced at his list. “Let’s check this number again—K-99-LJZ-35i.”
“It’s nearly closing time,” the oldster protested. “Come back some other day, Norris.”
“Sorry, this one’s rush. It’ll only take a minute. Where’s your book?”
The oldster began to quiver angrily. “Are you suggestin’, sir, that I falsely—”
“No,” he growled, “I’m suggesting that there was a mistake. Maybe my mistake, maybe yours, maybe Anthropos, maybe the owners. I’ve got to find out, that’s all. Let’s have the book.”
“What kind of a mistake? I gave you the owner’s name!”
“She has a different newt.”
“Can I help it if she traded with somebody?”
“She didn’t. She bought it here. I saw the receipt.” Norris was beginning to become impatient, tried to suppress it.
“Then’she traded with one of my other customers!” O’Reilley insisted.
Norris snorted irritably. “You got two customers named Adelia Schultz?—Come on, pop, let’s look at the duplicate receipt. Now.”
“Doubt if it’s still around,” O’Reilley grumbled, refusing to budge.
Norris suddenly erupted. He turned away angrily and began pacing briskly around the shop, looking under cages, inspecting fixtures, probing into feeding troughs with a pencil, looking into feed bags, examining a dog-F’s wiry coat.
“Here there! What do you think you’re doing?” the owner demanded.
Norris began barking off check-points in a loud voice. “Dirty cat-cage… inadequate ventilation… food trough not clean… no water in the newt cages…”
“I water them twice a day!” O’Reilley raged.
“…mouldy rabbit-meal… no signs of disinfectant… What kind of a disease-trap are you running here?”
He came back to face O’Reilley who stood trembling with rage and cursing him with his eyes.
“Not to mention that sign outside,” Norris added casually. “’Dumb blondes’ they outlawed that one the year Kleyton got sent up for using hormones on K-108s, trying to grow himself a harem. Well?”
“Doubt if it’s still around,” O’Reilley repeated.
“Look, pop!” Norris snapped. “You’re required to keep sales receipts until they’re microfilmed. There hasn’t been a micro-filming for over a year.”
“Get out of my shop!”
“If I go, you won’t
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yeah.”
