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:
J. "DOGGY" O'REILLEY
PETS FOR SALE
DUMB BLONDES AND GOLDFISH
MUTANTS FOR THE CHILDLESS
BUY A BUNDLE OF JOY
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
A Chimp To Call My Own
—theme song of a soap opera about a lady evolvotron operator, Norris recalled.
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
have
a shop after tomorrow."
"Are you threatening me?"
"
Yeah."
For a moment, Norris thought the old man would attack him. But O'Reilley spat a sudden curse, scurried toward the counter, grabbed a fat book from beneath the cash register, then hurried away toward the stairs at the rear of the shop.
"
Hey, pop! Where you going?"
"Get me glasses!"
"You're wearing your glasses!" Norris started after him. "New ones. Can't see through them." O'Reilley bounded up-stairs.
"Leave the book
here
and
I'll
check it!"
Norris stopped with his foot on the bottom step. O'Reilley slammed the door at the head of the stairs, locked it behind him. Grumbling suspiciously, the inspector went back to the counter to wait.
Five minutes passed. The door opened. O'Reilley came downstairs, looking less angry but decidedly nervous. He slammed the book on the counter, riffled its pages, found a place, muttered "Here it is, see for yourself," and held it at a difficult angle.
"Give it here."
O'Reilley reluctantly released it, began babbling about bureaucracy and tin-horn inspectors who acted like dictators and inspection codes that prescribed and circumscribed and prohibited. Norris ignored him and stared at the duplicate receipt.
"
Adelia Schultz . . . received Chimpanzee-K-99-LJZ-35i on..."
It was the number on the list from Anthropos. It was the number of the animal he wanted for normalcy tests. But it was not the number of Mrs. Schultz's neutroid, nor was it the number written on Mrs. Schultz's copy of
this very same invoice.
O'Reilley was still babbling at him. Norris held the book up to his eye, took aim at the bright doorway across the surface of the page. O'Reilley stopped babbling.
"Rub marks," the inspector grunted. "Scrape marks on the paper."
O'Reilley's breathing sounded asthmatic. Norris lowered the book.
"Nice erasure job—for a carbon copy. Do it while you were upstairs?"
O'Reilley said nothing. Norris took a scrap of paper, folded his handkerchief over the point of his pocketknife blade, used the point to clean out the eraser dust from between the receipts, emptied the dust on the paper, folded it and put it in his pocket.
"Evidence."
O'Reilley said nothing.
Norris tore out the erased receipt, pocketed it, put on his hat and started for the door.
"See you in court, O'Reilley."
"
Wait!
"
He turned. "Okay—I'm waiting."
"Let's go sit down first," the deflated oldster muttered weakly.
"Sure."
They walked up the flight of stairs and entered a dingy parlor. He glanced around, sniffed at the smell of cabbage boiling and sweaty bedclothing. An orange-haired neutroid lay sleeping on a dirty rug in the corner. Norris stared down at it curiously. O'Reilley made a whining sound and slumped into a chair, his breath coming in little whiffs that suggested inward sobbing. Norris gazed at him expressionlessly for a moment, then went to kneel beside the newt.
"K-99-LJZ-35i," he read aloud, peering at the sole of the tattooed foot. The newt stirred in its sleep at the sound of a strange voice. When Norris looked at O'Reilley again, the old man was staring at his feet, his forehead supported by a leathery old hand that shielded his eyes.
"Lots of good explanations, O'Reilley?"
"Ye've seen what ye've seen; now do what ye must. I'll say nothing to ye."
"Look, O'Reilley, the newt is what I'm after. So I found it. I don't know what else I've found, but juggling serial numbers is a serious offense. If you've got a story, you better tell it. Otherwise, you'll be telling it behind bars. I'm willing to listen here and now. You'd better grab the chance."
O'Reilley sighed, looked at the sleeping newt in the corner. "What'll ye do with her?"
"
The newt? Take her in."
O'Reilley sat in gloomy silence while he thought things over. "We were class-B, me and the missus," he mumbled suddenly, "allowed a child of our own if we could have 'un. Fancy that, eh? Ugly old coot like me—class-B."
"So?"
"The government said we could have a child, but Nature said we couldn't."
"Tough."
"But since we were class B, we weren't entitled to own a newt. See?"
"Yeah. Where's your wife?"
"With the saints, let's hope."
Norris wondered what sort of sob-story this was getting to be. The oldster went on quietly, all the while staring at the sleeping figure in the corner.
"Couldn't have a kid, couldn't own a newt either—so we opened the pet shop. It wasn't like havin' yer own, though. Missus always blubbered when I sold a newt she'd got to feeling like a mother to. Never swiped one, though—not till Peony came along. Last year this Bermuda shipment come in, and I sold most of 'em pretty quick, but Peony here was puny. People ‘fraid she'd not last long. Couldn't sell her. Kept her around so long that we both loved her. Missus died last year. 'Don't let anybody take Peony,' she kept saying afore she passed on. I promised I wouldn't. So I switched 'em around and moved her up here."
"That all?"
O'Reilley hesitated, then nodded.
"Ever done this before?"
O'Reilley shook his head.
There was a long silence while Norris stared at the child-thing. "Your license could be revoked," he said absently.
"I know."
He ground his fist thoughtfully in his palm, thought it over some more. If O'Reilley told the truth, he couldn't live with himself if he reported the old man . . . unless it wasn't the whole truth.
"I want to take your books home with me tonight."
"Help yourself."
"I'm going to make a complete check, investigate you from stem to stern."
He watched O'Reilley closely. The oldster was unaffected. He seemed concerned—grief-stricken—only by the thought of losing the neutroid.
"If plucking a newt out of stock to keep you company was the only thing you did, O'Reilley, I won't report you."
O'Reilley was not consoled. He continued to gaze hungrily at the little being on the rug.