She stared at him evenly for a moment, glanced down at her feet, paced slowly to the window to stand hugging her arms and looking out into the twilight.
"With a pseudoparty, Terry?"
He swallowed a lump of anxiety, found his voice. "Whatever you want."
"I hear the phone ringing in the house."
He waited.
"It stopped," she said after a moment.
"Well, babe?"
"Whatever I want, Terry?" She turned slowly to lean back against a patch of gray light and look at him.
He nodded. "Whatever you want."
"I want your child."
He stiffened with hurt, stared at her open-mouthed. "I want your child."
He thrust his hand slowly in his hip pocket.
"Oh, don't reach for your social security card. I don't care if it's got 'Genetic triple-Z' on it. I want your child."
"Uncle Federal says 'no,' babe."
"To hell with Uncle Federal! They can't send a human through your Room 3! Not yet, anyhow! If it's born, the world's stuck with it!"
"And the parents are forcibly separated, reduced to common-labor status. Remember?"
She stamped her foot and whirled to the window again. "Damn the whole hellish world!" she snarled.
Norris sighed heavily. He was sorry she felt that way. She was probably right in feeling that way, but he was still sorry. Righteous anger, frustrated, was no less searing a psychic acid than the unrighteous sort, nor did a stomach pause to weigh the moral worth of the wrath that drenched it before giving birth to an ulcer.
"Hey, babe, if we're going to the Slade affair—"
She nodded grimly and turned to walk with him toward the house. At least it was better having her direct her anger at the world rather than at him, he thought.
The expectant mother played three games of badminton before sundown, then went inside to shower and dress before the guests arrived. Her face was wreathed in a merry smile as she trotted downstairs in a fresh smock, her neck still pink from the hot water, her wake fragrant with faint perfume. There was no apparent need for the smock, nor was there any pregnant caution in the way she threw her arms around John's neck and kicked her heels up behind.
"Darling!" she chirped. "There'll be plenty of milk. I never believed in bottle-feeding. Isn't it wonderful?"
"Great. The injections are working, I guess."
She looked around. "It's a lovely resort-hospital. I'm glad you didn't pick Angel's Haven."
"So am I," he grunted. "We'll have the reception room all to ourselves tonight."
"
What time is it?"
"Seven ten. Oh, the doe called to say he'd be a few minutes late. He was busy all day with a sick baby."
She licked her lips and glanced aside uneasily. "Class A couple?"
"No, doll. Class C—and a widow."
"Oh." She brightened again, watched his face teasingly. "Will you pace and chain-smoke while I'm in delivery?"
He snorted amusement. "Hey, it's not as if you were really . . " He stopped amid a fit of coughing.
"Not as if I really what?"
His mouth opened and closed. He stammered helplessly.
"Not as if I were really what?"
she demanded, eyes beginning to brim.
"
Listen, darling, I didn't mean . . .”
A nurse came clicking across the floor. "Mrs. Slade, it's time for your first injection. Doctor Georges just called. Will you come with me please?"
"Not as if I what, John?" she insisted, ignoring the nurse. "Nothing, doll, nothing—"
"Mrs. Slade—"
"All right, nurse, I'm coming." She tossed her husband a hurt glance, walked away dabbing at her eyes.
"Expectant dames is always cranky," sympathized an attendant who sat on a bench nearby. "Take it easy. She won't be so touchy after it comes."
John Hanley Slade shot an irritable glare at the eavesdropper, saw a friendly comedian-face grinning at him, returned the grin uneasily, and went over to sit down.
"Your first?"
John Hanley nodded, stroked nervously at his thin hair. "I see 'em come, I see 'em go. It's always the same." "Whattaya mean?" John grunted.
"Same expressions, same worries, same attitudes, same conversation, same questions. The guy always makes some remark about how it' not
really
having a baby, and the dame always gets sore. Happens every time."
"It's all pretty routine for you, eh?" he muttered stiffly.
The attendant nodded. He watched the expectant father for several seconds, then grunted: "Go ahead, ask me." "Ask you what?"
"If I think all this is silly. They always do."
John stared at the attendant irritably. "Well—?"
"Do I think it's silly? No, I don't."
"Fine. That's settled, then."
"No, I don't think it's silly, because for a dame ain't satisfied if she plunks down the dough, buys a newt, and lets it go at that. There's something missing between bedroom and baby."
"That so?"
John's sarcastic tone was apparently lost on the man. "It's so," he announced. "Physiological change—that's what's missing. For a newt to really take the place of a baby, the mother's got to go through the whole build-up. Doc gives her injections, she craves pickles and mangoes. More injections for morning sickness. More injections, she gets chubby. And finally the shots to bring milk, labor, and false delivery. So then she gets the newt, and everything's right with the world."
"Mmmph."
"Ask me something else," the attendant offered.
John looked around helplessly, spied an elderly woman near the entrance. She had just entered, and stood looking around as if lost or confused. He did not recognize her, but he got up quickly.
"Excuse me, chum. Probably one of my guests."
"Sure, sure. I gotta get on the job anyhow."
The woman turned to stare at him as he crossed the floor to meet her. Perhaps one of Mary's friends, he thought. There were at least a dozen people coming that he hadn't met. But his welcoming smile faded slightly as he approached her. She wore a shabby dress, her hair was disheveled in a gray tangle, her matchstick legs were without make-up, and there were fierce red lines around her eyelids. She stared at him with wide wild eyes—dull orbs of dirty marble with tiny blue patches for pupils. And her mouth was a thin slash between gaunt leathery cheeks.
"Are—are you here for the party?" he asked doubtfully.
She seemed not to hear him, but continued to stare at or through him. Her mouth made words out of a quivering hiss of a voice. "I'm looking for
him."
"Who?"
"The doctor."
He decided from her voice that she had laryngitis. "Doctor Georges? He'll be here soon, but he'll be busy tonight. Couldn't you consult another physician?"
The woman fumbled in her bag and brought out a small parcel to display. "I want to give him this," she hissed.
"I could—"
"I want to give it to him myself," she interrupted.
Two guests that he recognized came through the entrance. He glanced toward them nervously, returned their grins, glanced indecisively back at the haggard woman.
"I'll wait," she croaked, turned her back, and marched to the nearest chair where she perched like a sick crow, eyes glued to the door.
John Hanley Slade felt suddenly chilly. He shrugged it off and went to greet the Willinghams, who were the first arrivals.
Anne Norris, with her husband in tow, zig-zagged her way through a throng of chattering guests toward the hostess, who now occupied a wheel-chair near the entrance to the delivery room. They were a few minutes late, but the party had not yet actually begun.
"
Why don't you go join the father's sweating circle?" Anne called over her shoulder. "The men are all over with John."
Norris glanced at the group that had gathered under a cloud of cigar smoke over by the portable bar. John Slade stood at the focus of it and looked persecuted.
"
Job's counselors," Terry grunted.
A hand reached out from a nearby conversation-group and caught his arm. "Norris," coughed a gruff voice.
He glanced around. "Oh—Chief Franklin. Hello!"
Anne released his hand and said "See you later," then wound her way out of sight in the milling herd.
Franklin separated himself from the small congregation and glanced down coolly at his district inspector. He was a tall man, with shoulders hunched up close to his head, long spindly legs, a face that was exceedingly wide across the cheekbones but narrow at the jaw. Black eyes gazed from under heavy brows, and his unruly black hair was badly cut. His family tree had a few Cherokee Indians among its branches, Norris had heard, and they were frequently on the warpath.
Franklin gulped his drink casually and handed the glass to a passing attendant. "Thought you'd be working tonight, Norris," he said.
"I got trapped into coming, Chief," he replied amiably. "How're you doing with the Delmont pickup?"
"Nearly finished with record-tracing. I took a break today and picked up nine of them."
"Mmmph.
I wondered
why you plastipainted that right eye." Franklin rolled back his head and laughed loudly toward the ceiling. "Newt's mamma tossed the crockery at you, did she?"
"Her husband," he corrected a little stiffly.
"Well—get them in a hurry, Norris. If the newt's owner knows it's a deviant, he might hear we're after something and hide it somewhere. I want them rounded up quickly."
"Expect to find the one?"
Franklin nodded grimly. "It's somewhere in this part of the country—or was. It narrows down to about six or eight districts. Yours has a good chance of being it. If I had my way, we'd destroy every Bermuda
K-99
that came out during that period. That way, we'd be sure—in case Delmont faked more than one."
"Be pretty tough on dames like Mary," Norris reminded him, glancing toward Mrs. Slade.
"Yeah, yeah, five hundred Rachels blubbering for their children, and all on my neck. I'd almost rather let the deviant get away than have to put up with the screaming mommies."
"The burdens of office, Chief. Bear up under the brickbats. Herod did."
Franklin glowered at him suspiciously, noticed Norris's bland expression, muttered "eh heh heh," and glanced around the room.
"Who's presiding over the whelping tonight?" Norris asked.
"Local doctor. Georges. You ought to know him."
Terry's eyebrows went up. He nodded.
"
He's already here. Saw him come in the doctor's entrance a few minutes ago. He's probably getting ready. Well, Norris . . . if you'll excuse me ..."
Norris wandered toward the bar. He had been to several pseudoparties before. There was nothing to it, really. After the guests had gathered, the medics rolled the mother into delivery, and everyone paced restlessly and talked in hushed voices while she reenacted the age-old drama of Birth—in a way that was only mildly uncomfortable and did nothing to aggravate the population problem. Then, when they rolled her out again—fatigued and emotionally spent—the nurse brought out a newly purchased neutroid, only a few days out of the incubator, and presented it to the mother. When the oohs and awws were finished, the mother went home with her child to rest, and the father whooped it up with the guests. Norris hoped to get away early. He had things to do before dawn.
"Who's that hag by the door?" a guest grunted in his ear.
Norris glanced incuriously at the thin-lipped woman who sat stiffly with her hands in her lap, not gazing at the guests but looking through and beyond them. He shook his head and moved on to shake hands with his host.
"Glad you came, Norris!" Slade said with a grin, then leaned closer. "Your presence could be embarrassing at a time like this, though."
"How's that?"
"
You should have brought your net and snare-pole, Norris," said a man at Slade's elbow. "Then when they bring the baby out, go charging across the room yelling "That's it! That's the one I'm after!' "
The men laughed heartily. Norris grinned weakly and started away.
"Hey, Slade," a voice called. "They're coming after Mary." Norris stood aside to let John hurry toward his wife. Most of the crowd stopped milling about to watch Dr. Georges, a nurse, and an attendant coming from a rear door to take charge of Mary.
"Stop! Stop
right there!"
The voice came from near the front entrance. It was a choked and hoarse gasp of sound, not loud, but somehow penetrating enough to command the room. Norris glanced aside during the sudden lull to see the thin-lipped woman threading her way through the crowd, and the crowd folded back to clear a way. The farther she walked, the quieter the room, and Norris suddenly realized that somehow the center of the room was almost clear of people so that he could see Mary and John and the medics standing near the delivery room door. They had turned to stare at the intruder. Georges' mouth fell open slightly. He spoke in a low voice, but the room was suddenly silent enough so that Norris could hear.