Dark Benediction

Norris came slowly to his feet. “If you talk to anybody about Peony, you may be responsible for her death.”

“I don’t quite see—”

“You don’t need to.”

Mulreany shrugged.

“Tell O’Reilley the same.”

Mulreany nodded. “You’ve got my word.”

“Your which?”

“Sorry, I forgot. Ancient usage. I won’t mention Peony. I’ll see that O’Reilley doesn’t.”

Norris led him to the door. The priest was obviously suppressing large quantities of curiosity, but contained it well. On the steps, he paused to look back, wearing a curious smirk.

“It just occurred to me—if the child is ‘human’ in the broad sense, she’s rather superior to you and I.”

“Why?”

“Hasn’t picked an apple yet.” Norris shrugged slightly.

“And Inspector—if Delmonte made her—ask yourself: Just what was it that he ‘made’?” He nodded quickly. “Goodnight.”

“What do you make of him?” Anne hissed nervously.

“Backworldsman. Can’t say.”

“Fool, why’d you bring him in?”

“I’m no good at conspiracies.”

“Then you will do it?”

“What?”

“Hide her, or something.”

He stared at her doubtfully. “The only thing I can hope to do is falsify the test reports and send her back to O’Reilley as a standard model.”

“That’s better than nothing.”

“And then spend the rest of our days waiting for it to be uncovered,” he added grimly.

“You’ve got to, Terry.”

Maybe, he thought, maybe.

If he gave her back to O’Reilley, there was a good chance she’d be discovered when the auditor came to microfilm the records and check inventory. He certainly couldn’t keep her himself—not with other Bio-agents wandering in and out every few days. She could not be hidden.

He sat down for a smoke and watched Anne tiptoe to the sofa with the sleeping Peony. It would be easy to obey the law, turn her over to Franklin, and tell Anne that he had done something else with her, something like…

He shuddered and chopped the thought off short. She glanced at him curiously.

“I don’t like the way you’re looking at me,” she muttered. “You imagine things.”

“Uh-uh. Listen to me, Terry, if you let that baby…”

“I’m sick of your ifs!” he barked. “If I hear another goddam threat of your leaving if, then to hell with it, you can leave any time!”

“Terry!”

She puzzled in his direction for a moment, then slowly wandered out, still puzzling. He sank lower in the chair, brooding. Then it hit him. It wasn’t Anne that worried him; it was a piece of himself. It was a piece of himself that threatened to go, and if he let Peony be packed off to Central Lab, it would go, and thereafter he would not be able to stomach anything, even himself.

The morning news from the Scriber was carefully folded be-side his plate when he came to the table for breakfast. It was so deliberately folded that he bothered to notice the advertisement in the center of the displayed portion.

“You lay this out for my benefit?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” she said casually.

He read it with a suspicious frown:

BIOLOGISTS WANTED

by

ANTHROPOS INCORPORATED

for

Evolvotron Operators

Incubator Tenders

Nursery Supervisors

Laboratory Personnel

in

NEW ATLANTA PLANT

Call or write:

Personnel Manager

ANTHROPOS INCORPORATED

Atlanta, Georgia

Note: Secure Labor Department release from present job before applying.

“What’s this supposed to mean to me?” he demanded.

“Nothing in particular. Why? Does it mean something to you?”

He brushed the paper aside and decided to ignore the subtlety, if any. She picked it up, glanced at it as if she had not seen it before. “New jobs, new places to live,” she murmured.

After breakfast, he went down to police headquarters to sign a statement concerning the motive in Doctor Georges’ murder. Sarah Glubbes had been stashed away in a psychopathic ward, according to Chief Miler, and would probably stay awhile.

“Funny thing, Norris,” the cop said. “What people won’t do over a newt! You know, it’s a wonder you don’t get your head blown off. I don’t covet your job.”

“Good.” He signed the paper and glanced at Miler coolly. “Must take an iron gut, huh, Norris?”

“Sure. Just a matter of adaptation.”

“Guess so.” Miler patted his paunch and yawned. “How you coming on this Delmont business? Picked up any deviants yet?”

Norris pitched the fountain pen on the desk, splattering ink. “What made you ask that?” he said stiffly.

“Nothing made me. I did it myself. Touchy today?”

“Maybe.”

Miler shrugged. “Something made you jump when I said ‘deviants.’”

“Nothing made me. I—”

“Ya, ya, sure, but—”

“Save it for a suspect, Fat.” He stalked out of the office, leaving Miler tapping his pencil and gazing curiously after him. A phone rang somewhere behind him. He hurried on—angry with himself for jumpiness and for indecisiveness. He had to make a choice, and make it soon. It was the lack of a choice that left him jumpy, susceptible to a jolt from either side.

“Norris… Hey, Norris…”

Miler’s voice. He whirled to see the cop trotting down the steps behind him, his pudgy face glistening in the morning sun. “Your wife’s on the phone, Norris. Says it’s urgent.”

When he got back to the office, he heard the faint, “Hello, hello!” coming from the receiver on the desk, caught it up quickly.

“Anne? What’s wrong?”

Her voice was low and strained beneath a cheerful overnote. “Nothing’s wrong, darling. We have a visitor.