Dark Benediction

The invitation had come late, the party would be tonight. He had meant to call Slade today and say that he and Anne would probably drop in for cocktails, but would be unable to get there in time for the delivery. But now that she had reacted so hostilely to the nastier aspects of his job, perhaps he had better keep her away from sentimental occasions involving neutroids.

The battered card reminded him to stop in Sherman III Community Center for his mail. He turned onto the shopping street that paralleled the great highway and drove past several blocks of commercial buildings that served the surrounding suburbs. At the down-ramp he gave the attendant a four-bit bill and sent the truck down to be parked under the street, then went to the message office. When he dropped his code-disk in the slot, the feedway under his box number chattered out a yard of paper tape at him. He scanned it slowly from end to end—note from Aunt Maye, bill from SynZhamilk Products, letter from Anne’s mother. The only thing of importance was the memo from the chief, a troublesome tidbit that he had been expecting for days:

Attention All District Inspectors: Subject: Deviant Neutroid.

You will immediately begin a systematic and thorough survey of all animals whose serial numbers fall in the Bermuda-K-99 series for birth dates during weeks 26 to 32 of year 2062. This is in connection with the Delmont Negligency case. Seize all animals in this category, impound, and run applicable sections of normalcy tests. Watch for signs of endocrinal deviation and non-standard response patterns. Delmont has confessed to passing only one non-standard model, but there may have been others. He disclaims memory of deviant’s serial number. This could be a ruse to bring a stop to investigation when one animal is found. Be thorough.

If allowed to reach age-set or adulthood, such a deviant could be dangerous to its owner or to others. Hold all seized K-99s who exhibit the slightest departure from standard in the normalcy tests. Forward these to Central Lab. Return standard models to their owners. Accomplish entire survey project within seven days.

C. Franklin

“Seven days!” he hissed irritably, wadded the tape in his pocket, stalked out to get the truck.

His district covered two hundred square miles. With a replacement quota of seventy-five neutroids a week, the district would have probably picked up about forty K-99s from the Bermuda factory influx during the six-week period last year. Could he round them up in a week? Doubtful. And there were only eleven empty cages in the kennel. The other forty-nine were occupied by the previous inspector’s “unclaimed” inventory—awaiting destruction. The crematorium behind the kennels would have a busy week. Anne would love that.

He was halfway to Wylo City when the radiophone buzzed on the dashboard. He pulled into the slow lane and answered quickly, hoping for Anne’s voice. A polite professional purr came instead.

“Inspector Norris? Doctor Georges.”

Norris made a sour mouth, managed a jovial greeting.

“Are you extremely busy at the moment?” Georges asked. He paused. Georges usually wanted a favor for some wealthy patient, or for some wealthy patient’s tail-wagger.

“Extremely,” he grunted.

“Eh? Oh well, this won’t take long. One of my patients—a Mrs. Sarah Glubbes—called a while ago and said her baby was sick.”

“So?”

“No baby. I must be getting absent minded, because I forgot she’s class C until I got there.”

“I’ll guess,” Norris muttered. “Turned out to be a neutroid.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Why tell me?”

“It’s dying. Eighteenth order virus. Naturally, I can’t get it admitted to a hospital.”

“Ever hear of vets?”

“You don’t understand. She insists it’s her baby, believes it’s her own. How can I send it to a vet?”

“That’s your worry. Is this an old patient of yours?”

“Why, yes, I’ve known Sarah since—”

“Since you presided at her pseudopart?”

“How did you know?”