[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
They were such cute synthetic creatures, it
was impossible not to love them. Of course,
that was precisely why they were dangerous!
There was no use hanging around after breakfast. His wife was in a hurt
mood, and he could neither endure the hurt nor remove it. He put on his
coat in the kitchen and stood for a moment with his hat in his hands.
His wife was still at the table, absently fingering the handle of her
cup and staring fixedly out the window at the kennels behind the house.
He moved quietly up behind her and touched her silk-clad shoulder. The
shoulder shivered away from him, and her dark hair swung shiningly as
she shuddered. He drew his hand back and his bewildered face went slack
and miserable.
"Honeymoon's over, huh?"
She said nothing, but shrugged faintly.
"You knew I worked for the F.B.A.," he said. "You knew I'd have charge
of a district pound. You knew it before we got married."
"I didn't know you killed them," she said venomously.
"I won't have to kill many. Besides, they're only animals."
"_Intelligent_ animals!"
"Intelligent as a human imbecile, maybe."
"A small child is an imbecile. Would you kill a small child?"
"You're taking intelligence as the only criterion of humanity," he
protested hopelessly, knowing that a logical defense was useless
against sentimentality. "Baby--"
"Don't call me baby! Call _them_ baby!"
Norris backed a few steps toward the door. Against his better judgment,
he spoke again. "Anne honey, look! Think of the _good_ things about the
job. Sure, everything has its ugly angles. But think--we get this house
rent-free; I've got my own district with no bosses around; I make my
own hours; you'll meet lots of people that stop in at the pound. It's a
_fine_ job, honey!"
She sipped her coffee and appeared to be listening, so he went on.
"And what can I do? You know how the Federation handles employment.
They looked over my aptitude tests and sent me to Bio-Administration.
If I don't want to follow my aptitudes, the only choice is common
labor. That's the _law_."
"I suppose you have an aptitude for killing babies?" she said sweetly.
Norris withered. His voice went desperate. "They assigned me to it
because I _liked_ babies. And because I have a B.S. in biology and an
aptitude for dealing with people. Can't you understand? Destroying
unclaimed units is the smallest part of it. Honey, before the
evolvotron, before Anthropos went into the mutant-animal business,
people used to elect dogcatchers. Think of it that way--I'm just a
dogcatcher."
Her cool green eyes turned slowly to meet his gaze. Her face was
delicately cut from cold marble. She was a small woman, slender and
fragile, but her quiet contempt made her loom.
He backed closer to the door.
"Well, I've got to get on the job." He put on his hat and picked at a
splinter on the door. He frowned studiously at the splinter. "I--I'll
see you tonight." He ripped the splinter loose when it became obvious
that she didn't want to be kissed.
He grunted a nervous good-by and stumbled down the hall and out of the
house. The honeymoon was over, all right.
He climbed in the kennel-truck and drove east toward the highway. The
suburban street wound among the pastel plasticoid cottages that were
set approximately two to an acre on the lightly wooded land. With its
population legally fixed at three hundred million, most of the country
had become one big suburb, dotted with community centers and lined
with narrow belts of industrial development. Norris wished there were
someplace where he could be completely alone.
As he approached an intersection, he saw a small animal sitting on the
curb, wrapped in its own bushy tail. Its oversized head was bald on
top, but the rest of its body was covered with blue-gray fur. Its tiny
pink tongue was licking daintily at small forepaws with prehensile
thumbs. It was a cat-Q-5. It glanced curiously at the truck as Norris
pulled to a halt.