Lorry said. "Hi, short stuff," and lifted Baby Newcomb--Male, out of his
crib for a cuddling.
Baby Newcomb didn't object. The blue eyes came closer. The week-old eyes
with the hundred-year-old look. Lorry laid the bundle over her shoulder
and smiled into the dimness.
"You want to be president, Shorty?" Lorry felt the warmth of a new life,
felt the little body wriggle in snug contentment. "I wouldn't advise it.
Tough job." Baby Newcomb twisted in his blanket. Lorry stiffened.
_Snug contentment?_
Lorry felt two tiny hands clutch and dig into her throat. Not just
pawing baby hands. Little fingers that reached and explored for the
windpipe.
She uncuddled the soft bundle, held it out. There were the eyes. She
chilled. No imagination here. No spectre from lack of sleep.
Ancient murder-hatred glowing in new-born eyes.
* * * * *
"Careful, you fool! You'll drop this body." A thin piping voice. A
shrill symphony in malevolence.
Fear weakened Lorry. She found a chair and sat down. She held the boy
baby in her hands. Training would not allow her to drop Baby Newcomb.
Even if she had fainted, she would not have let go.
* * * * *