The robot operator, which had on tape the working habits of each Wylo City citizen, began calling numbers. It found the off-duty sheriff on its third try, in a Wylo pool hall.
“I’m getting so I hate that infernal gadget,” Yates grumbled. “I think it’s got me psyched. What do you want, Norris?”
“Cooperation. I’m mailing you three letters charging three Wylo citizens with resisting a Federal official—namely me—and charging one of them with assault. I tried to pick up their neutroids for a pound inspection—”
Yates bellowed lusty laughter into the phone.
“It’s not funny. I’ve got to get those neutroids. It’s in connection with the Delmont case.”
Yates stopped laughing. “Oh. Well, I’ll take care of it.”
“It’s a rush-order, Sheriff. Can you get the warrants tonight and pick up the animals in the morning?”
“Easy on those warrants, boy. Judge Charleman can’t be disturbed just any time. I can get the newts to you by noon, I guess, provided we don’t have to get a helicopter posse to chase down the mothers.”
“That’ll be all right. And listen, Yates—fix it so the charges will be dropped if they cooperate. Don’t shake those warrants around unless they just won’t listen to reason. But get those neutroids.”
“Okay, boy. Gotcha.”
Norris gave him the names and addresses of the three unwilling mothers. As soon as he hung up, Anne touched his shoulders and said, “Sit still.” She began smoothing a chilly ointment over his burning cheek.
“Hard day?” she asked.
“Not too hard. Those were just three out of fifteen. I got the other twelve. They’re in the truck.”
“That’s good,” she said. “You’ve got only twelve empty cages.”
He neglected to tell her that he had stopped at twelve for just this reason. “Guess I better get them unloaded,” he said, standing up.
“Can I help you?”
He stared at her for a moment, saying nothing. She smiled a little and looked aside. “Terry, I’m sorry—about this morning. I—I know you’ve got a job that has to be—” Her lip quivered slightly.
Norris grinned, caught her shoulders, and pulled her close.
“Honeymoon’s on again, huh?” she whispered against his neck.
“Come on,” he grunted. “Let’s unload some neutroids, before I forget all about work.”
*
They went out to the kennels together. The cages were inside a sprawling concrete barn, which was divided into three large rooms—one for the fragile neuter humanoid creatures, and another for the lesser mutants, such as cat-Qs, dog-Fs, dwarf bears, and foot-high lambs that never matured into sheep. The third room contained a small gas chamber with a conveyor belt leading from it to a crematory-incinerator.
Norris kept the third locked lest his wife see its furnishings.
The doll-like neutroids began their mindless chatter as soon as their keepers entered the building. Dozens of blazing blond heads began dancing about their cages. Their bodies thwacked against the wire mesh as they leaped about their compartments with monkey grace.
Their human appearance was broken by only two distinct features: short beaverlike tails decorated with fluffy curls of fur, and an erect thatch of scalp-hair that grew up into a bright candleflame. Otherwise, they appeared completely human, with baby-pink skin, quick little smiles, and cherubic faces. They were sexually neuter and never grew beyond a predetermined age-set which varied for each series. Age-sets were available from one to ten years human equivalent. Once a neutroid reached its age-set, it remained at the set’s child-development level until death.
“They must be getting to know you pretty well,” Anne said, glancing around at the cages.
Norris was wearing a slight frown as he inspected the room. “They’ve never gotten this excited before.”
He walked along a row of cages, then stopped by a K-76 to stare.
“Apple cores!” He turned to face his wife. “How did apples get in there?”
She reddened. “I felt sorry for them, eating that goo from the mechanical feeder. I drove down to Sherman III and bought six dozen cooking apples.”
“That was a mistake.”
She frowned irritably. “We can afford it.”
“That’s not the point. There’s a reason for the mechanical feeders.” He paused, wondering how he could tell her the truth. He blundered on: “They get to love whoever feeds them.”
“I can’t see—”
“How would you feel about disposing of something that loved you?”
Anne folded her arms and stared at him. “Planning to dispose of any soon?” she asked acidly.
“Honeymoon’s off again, eh?”
She turned away. “I’m sorry, Terry. I’ll try not to mention it again.”
He began unloading the truck, pulling the frightened and squirming doll-things forth one at a time with a snare-pole. They were one-man pets, always frightened of strangers.
“What’s the Delmont case, Terry?” Anne asked while he worked.
“Huh?”
“I heard you mention it on the phone. Anything to do with why you got your face scratched?”
He nodded sourly. “Indirectly, yes. It’s a long story.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, Delmont was a green-horn evolvotron operator at the Bermuda plant. His job was taking the unfertilized chimpanzee ova out of the egg-multiplier, mounting them in his machine, and bombarding the gene structure with sub-atomic particles. It’s tricky business. He flashes a huge enlargement of the ovum on the electron microscope screen—large enough so he can see the individual protein molecules. He has an artificial gene pattern to compare it with. It’s like shooting sub-atomic billiards. He’s got to fire alpha-particles into the gene structure and displace certain links by just the right amount. And he’s got to be quick about it before the ovum dies from an overdose of radiation from the enlarger. A good operator can get one success out of seven tries.
“Well, Delmont worked a week and spoiled over a hundred ova without a single success. They threatened to fire him. I guess he got hysterical. Anyway, he reported one success the next day. It was faked. The ovum had a couple of flaws—something wrong in the central nervous system’s determinants, and in the glandular makeup. Not a standard neutroid ovum. He passed it on to the incubators to get a credit, knowing it wouldn’t be caught until after birth.”
“It wasn’t caught
