Norris sat on the edge of the bed and thought about it. "No particular
_individual_ wants to, honey. It's the law."
"But _why_?"
"Generally, because deviants are unknown quantities. They can be
dangerous."
"That child--_dangerous_?"
"Dangerous to a concept, a vague belief that Man is something special,
a closed tribe. And in a practical sense, she's dangerous because she's
not a neuter. The Federation insists that all mutants be neuter and
infertile, so it can control the mutant population. If mutants started
reproducing, that could be a real threat in a world whose economy is so
delicately balanced."
"Well, you're not going to let them have her, do you hear me?"
"I hear you," he grumbled.
* * * * *
On the following day, he went down to police headquarters to sign a
statement concerning the motive in Doctor Georges' murder. As a result,
Mrs. Glubbes was put away in the psycho-ward.
"It's funny, Norris," said Chief Miler, "what people'll do over a
neutroid. Like Mrs. Glubbes thinking that newt was her own. I sure
don't envy you your job. It's a wonder you don't get your head blown
off. You must have an iron stomach."
Norris signed the paper and looked up briefly. "Sure, Chief. 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 laid down the pen abruptly. "No! Of course not! What made you
think I had?"
Miler stopped in the middle of his yawn and stared at Norris curiously.
"Touchy, aren't you?" he asked thoughtfully. "When I get that kind of
answer from a prisoner, I right away start thinking--"
"Save it for your interrogation room," Norris growled. He stalked
quickly out of the office while Chief Miler tapped his pencil absently
and stared after him.
He was angry with himself for his indecision. He had to make a choice
and make it soon. He was climbing in his car when a voice called after
him from the building. He looked back to see Chief Miler trotting down
the steps, his pudgy face glistening in the morning sun.
"Hey, Norris! Your missus is on the phone. Says it's urgent."
Norris went back grudgingly. A premonition of trouble gripped him.
"Phone's right there," the chief said, pointing with a stubby thumb.
The receiver lay on the desk, and he could hear it saying,
"Hello--hello--" before he picked it up.
"Anne? What's the matter?"
Her voice was low and strained, trying to be cheerful. "Nothing's the
matter, darling. We have a visitor. Come right home, will you? Chief
Franklin's here."
It knocked the breath out of him. He felt himself going white. He
glanced at Chief Miler, calmly sitting nearby.
"Can you tell me about it now?" he asked her.
"Not very well. Please hurry home. He wants to talk to you about the
K-99s."
"Have the two of them met?"
"Yes, they have." She paused, as if listening to him speak, then said,
"Oh, _that_! The game, honey--remember the _game_?"
"Good," he grunted. "I'll be right there." He hung up and started out.
"Troubles?" the chief called after him.
"Just a sick newt," he said, "if it's any of your business."
* * * * *
Chief Franklin's helicopter was parked in the empty lot next door when
Norris drove up in front of the house. The official heard the truck
and came out on the porch to watch his agent walk up the path. His
lanky, emaciated body was loosely draped in gray tweeds, and his thin
hawk face was a dark and solemn mask. He was a middle-aged man, his
skin seamed with wrinkles, but his hair was still abnormally black. He
greeted Norris with a slow, almost sarcastic nod.
"I see you don't read your mail. If you'd looked at it, you'd have
known I was coming. I wrote you yesterday."
"Sorry, Chief, I didn't have a chance to stop by the message office
this morning."