Dark Benediction

by Walter Michael Miller

  “How do you feel?” he murmured.

  She looked at him dumbly, shook her head. Norris got up, paced to the magazine rack, thumbed idly through its contents, glanced back at her nervously, walked to the window, stood smoking and staring toward the street for a time, moved to the piano, glanced back at her nervously again, tried to play a few bars of Beethoven’s Fifth with one finger, hit a foul note after the opening ta-ta-ta-taaaahh, grunted a curse, banged a crashing discord with his fist, and leaned forward with a sigh to press his forehead against the music rack and close his eyes.

  “Don’t blame yourself, Terry,” she said softly.

  “If I hadn’t let him have that impounded newt, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  She thought that over briefly. “And if my maternal grandfather hadn’t lied to his wife back in 2013, I would never have been born.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if he’d told her the truth, she’d have up and left him, and Mother wouldn’t have been born.”

  “Oh. Nevertheless—”

  “Nevertheless nothing!” She shook herself out of the blue mood. “You come here, Terry Norris!”

  He came, and there was comfort in holding her. She was prepared to blame the world all right, but he was in the world, and a part of it, and so was she. And there was no sharing of guilt, but only the whole weight of it on the shoulders of each of them. He thought of the Delmont case, and the way Franklin talked casually of slaughtering five hundred K-99s just to be sure, and how he continued to hate Franklin’s guts for no apparent reason. Franklin was not a pleasant fellow, to be sure, but he had done nothing to Norris personally. He wondered if he hated what Franklin represented, but directed the hate at Franklin’s person because he, Norris, represented it too. Franklin, however, liked the world as he found it, and was glad to help keep it that way.

  If I think something’s wrong with the set-up, but keep on being a part of it, then the wrongness is not part mine, he thought, it’s all mine, because I bought it.

  “It’s hard to decide,” he murmured.

  “What’s that, Terry?”

  “Whether it’s all wrong, dead wrong—or whether it’s the best that can be done under the circumstances.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  He shook himself and yawned. “About going to bed,” he grunted.

  They went to bed at midnight. At one o’clock, he became certain she was asleep. He lay in darkness for a time, listening to her even breathing. Then he sat up and eased himself out of bed. There was work to be done. He tiptoed quietly out of the bedroom, carrying his shoes and his trousers. He dressed in the kitchen by the glow of a cigaret ember and stole quietly out into the chilly night. A half-moon hung low in a misty sky, and the wind was sharp out of the north. He walked quietly toward the kennels. There were only three empty cages. He needed twenty-seven to accommodate the doubtful K-99s that were to be picked up during the next few days. There was work to be done.

  He went into the neutroid room and flicked a switch. A few sleepy chatters greeted the light.

  One at a time he awoke twenty-four of the older creatures and carried them to a large glass-walled compartment. These were the long-time residents; they knew him well, and they came willingly, snuggling sleepily against his chest. He whistled tunelessly while he worked, began carrying them by the tails, two in each hand, to speed the chore.

  When he had gotten them in the glass chamber, he sealed the door and turned on the gas. Then he switched off the lights, locked up for the night again, and walked back toward the house through the crisp grass. The conveyor belt from the chamber to the crematorium would finish the job unaided.

  Norris felt suddenly ill. He sank down on the back steps and laid his head on his arms across his knees. His eyes burned, but thought of tears made him sicker. When the low chug of the crematorium’s igniter coughed quietly from the kennels, he staggered hurriedly away from the steps to retch.

  She was waiting for him in the bedroom. She sat on the window-seat, her small figure silhouetted against the paleness of the moonlit yard.

  She was staring silently out at the dull red tongue of exhaust gas from the crematorium chimney when he tiptoed down the hall and paused in the doorway. She looked around. Dead silence between them, then:

  “Out for a walk, eh, Terry?”

  A resumption of the dead silence. He backed quietly away without speaking. He went to the parlor and lay down on the couch.

  After a time, he heard her puttering around in the kitchen, and saw a light. A little later, he opened his eyes to see her dark shadow over him, surrounded by an aura of negligee. She sat down on the edge of the couch and offered him a glass.

  “Drink it. Make your stomach rest easy.”

  “Alcoholic?”

  “Yeah.”

  He tasted it: milk, egg yolk, honey, and rum.

  “No arsenic?”

  She shook her head. He drank it quickly, lay back with a grunt, took her hand. They were silent for a time.

  “I—I guess every new wife thinks her husband’s flawless—for a while,” she murmured absently. “Silly—how it’s such a shock to find out the obvious: that he’s no different from the other bull humans of the tribe.”

  Norris stiffened, rolled his face quickly away from her. After a moment, her hand crept out to touch his cheek lightly. Her cool fingertips traced a soft line up and along his temple.

  “It’s all right, Terry,” she whispered.

  He kept his face averted. Her fingers stroked for a moment more, as if she were feeling something new and different in the familiar texture of his hair. Then she arose and padded quietly back to the bedroom.

  Norris lay awake until dawn, knowing that it would never be all right Terry, nor all right World—never, as long as the prohibiting, the creating, the killing, the mockery, the falsification of birth, death, and life continued.

  Dawn inherited the night mist, gathered it into clouds, and made a gloomy gray morning of it.

  Anne was still asleep when he left for work. He backed out the kennel-truck, meaning to get the rest of the Bermuda K-99s as quickly as possible so that he could begin running the normalcy tests and get the whole thing over with. The night’s guilt was still with him as he drove away, a sticky dew that refused to depart with morning. Why should he have to kill the things? Why couldn’t Franklin arrange for a central slaughter house for destroying neutroids that had been deserted, or whose owners could not be located, or that found themselves unclaimed for any other reason? But Franklin would purple at the notion. It was only a routine part of the job. Why shouldn’t it be routine? Why were neutroids manufactured anyhow? Obviously, because they were disposable—an important feature which human babies unfortunately lacked. When the market became glutted with humans, the merchandise could not be dumped in the sea.

  Anthropos’ mutant pets fulfilled a basic biological need of Man—of all life, for that matter—the need to have young, or a reasonable facsimile, and care for them. Neutroids kept humanity satisfied with the restricted birth rate, and if it were not satisfied, it would breed itself into famine, epidemic, and possibly extinction. With the population held constant at five billions, the Federation could insure a decent living-standard for everyone. And as long as birth must be restricted, why not restrict it logically and limit it to genetic desirables?

  Why not? Norris felt no answer, but he was acutely aware of the “genetic C” on his social security card.

  The world was a better place, wasn’t it? Great strides since the last century. Science had made life easier to live and harder to lose. The populace thoughtlessly responded by pouring forth a flood of babies and doddering old codgers to clutter the earth and make things tougher again by eating and not producing; but again science increased the individual’s chances to survive and augmented his motives for doing so—and again the populace responded with fecundity and long white beards, making more trouble for science again. So it had continued until it b
ecame obvious that progress wasn’t headed toward “the Good Life” but toward more lives to continue the same old meager life as always. What could be done? Impede science? Unthinkable! Chuck the old codgers into the sea? Advance the retirement age to ninety and work them to death? The old codgers still had the suffrage, and plenty of time to go to the polls.

  The unborn, however, were not permitted to vote.

  Man’s technology had created little for the individual. Man used his technology to lengthen his life and sweeten it, but something had to be subtracted somewhere. The lives of the unborn were added unto the years of the aged. A son of Terry Norris might easily live till 100, but he would have damn little chance of being born to do it.

  Neutroids filled the cradles. Neutroids never ate much, nor grew up to eat more or be on the unemployment roles. Neutroids could be bashed with a shovel and buried in the back yard when hard times came. Neutroids could satisfy a woman’s longing for something small and lovable, but they never got in the economic way.

  It was no good thinking about it, he decided. It was a Way Of Doing Things, and most people accepted it, and if it sometimes yielded heartache and horrors such as had occurred at Slade’s pseudoparty, it was still an Accepted Way, and he couldn’t change it, even if he knew what to do about it. He was already adjusted to the world-as-it-was, a world that loved the artificial mutants as children, looked the other way when crematorium flames licked in the night. He had been brought up in such a world, and it was only when emotion conflicted with the grim necessity of his job that he thought to question the world. And Anne? Eventually, he supposed, she would have her pseudo-party, cuddle a neutroid, forget about romantic notions like having a kid of her own.

  At noon he brought home another dozen K-99s and installed them in the cages. Two reluctant mothers had put up a howl, but he departed without protest and left seizure of the animals to the local authorities. Yates had already delivered the three from yesterday.

  “What, no more scratches, bruises, broken bones?” Anne asked at lunch.

  He smiled mechanically. “If Mamma puts up a squawk, I go. Quietly.”

  “Learned your lesson yesterday?”

  “Mmm! One dame pulled a fast one on me though. I think. Told her what I wanted. She started moaning, but she let me in. I got her newt, started out with it. She wanted a receipt. So, I took the newt’s serial number off the check list, made out the receipt. She took one look and squealed ‘That’s not Chichi’s number!’ and grabbed for her tail-wagger. I looked at its foot-tattoo.

  Sure enough—wrong number. Had to leave it. A K-99 all right, but not even from Bermuda Plant.”

  “I thought they were all registered.”

  “They are, babe. Wires get crossed sometimes. I told her she had the wrong newt, and she started boiling. Got the sales receipt and showed it to me. Number checked with the newt’s. Something’s fouled up somewhere.”

  “Where’d she get it?”

  “O’Reilley’s pet shop—over in Sherman II. Right place, wrong serial number.”

  “Anything to worry about, Terry?”

  “Well, I’ve got to track down that doubtful Bermuda model.”

  “Oh.”

  “And—well—” He frowned out the window at the kennels. “Ever think what’d happen if somebody started a black market in neutroids?”

  They finished the meal in silence. Apparently there was going to be no further mention of last-night’s mass-disposal, nor any rehash of the nightmare at Slade’s party. He was thankful.

  The afternoon’s work yielded seven more Bermuda neutroids for the pound. Except for the missing newt that was involved in the confusion of serial numbers, the rest of them would have to be collected by Yates or his deputies, armed with warrants. The groans and the tears of the owners left him in a gloomy mood, but the pickup phase of the operation was nearly finished. The normalcy tests, however, would consume the rest of the week and leave little time for sleeping and eating. If Delmont’s falsification proved extensive, it might be necessary to deliver several of the animals to central lab for dissection and complete analysis, thus bringing the murderous wrath of the owners upon his head. He had a hunch about why bio-inspectors were frequently shifted from one territory to another.

  On the way home, he stopped in Sherman II to check with the dealer about the confusion of serial numbers. Sherman II was the largest of the Sherman communities, covering fifty blocks of commercial buildings. He parked in the outskirts and took a side-walk escalator toward O’Reilley’s address. He had spoken to O’Reilley on the phone, but had not yet visited the dealer’s shop.

  It lay on a dingy side street that was reminiscent of centuries past, a street of small bars and bowling alleys and cigar stores. There was even a shop with three gold balls above the entrance, but the place was now an antique store. A light mist was falling when he stepped off the escalator and stood in front of the pet shop. A sign hung out over the sidewalk, announcing:

  J. “DOGGY” O’REILLEY

  PETS FOR SALE

  DUMB BLONDES AND GOLDFISH

  MUTANTS FOR THE CHILDLESS

  BUY A BUNDLE OF JOY

  He frowned at the sign for a moment, then wandered through the entrance into a warm and gloomy shop, wrinkling his nose at the strong musk of animal odors. O’Reilley’s was no shining example of cleanliness.

  Somewhere a puppy was yapping, and a parrot croaked the lyrics of A Chimp To Call My Own—theme song of a soap opera about a lady evolvotron operator, Norris recalled.

  He paused briefly by a tank of silk-draped goldfish. The shop had a customer. An elderly lady haggled with the wizened manager over the price of a half-grown second-hand dog-F. She shook her last dog’s death certificate under his nose and demanded a guarantee of the dog’s alleged F-5 intelligence. The old man offered to swear on a Bible that the dog was more knowledgeable than some humans, but he demurred when asked to swear by his ledger.

  The dog was lamenting, “Don’ sell me, Dadda, don’ sell me,” and punctuating the pleas with mournful train-whistle howls.

  Norris smiled quietly. The non-human pets were brighter than the neutroids. A K-108 could speak a dozen words, but a K-99 never got farther than “mamma,” “pappa,” and “cookie.” Anthropos feared making quasi-humans too intelligent, lest sentimentalists proclaim them really human.

  He wandered on toward the rear of the building, pausing briefly by the cash register to inspect O’Reilley’s license which hung in a dusty frame on the wall behind the counter: “James Fallon O’Reilley… authorized dealer in mutant animals… all non-predatory mammals including chimpanzee-K series… license expires 15W 3D 2063Y…”

  Expiration date approaching, he noticed, but otherwise okay. He headed for a bank of neutroid cages along the opposite wall, but O’Reilley minced across the floor to meet him. The elderly lady was leaving. O’Reilley’s face wore a v-shaped smirk on a loose-skinned face, and his bald head bobbled professionally.

  “And a good afternoon to ye, sir. What’ll it be this foine drizzlin’ afternoon? A dwarf kangaroo perhaps, or a—” He paused to adjust his spectacles as Norris flashed a badge and presented his card. O’Reilley’s smile waned. “Inspector Norris it is,” he muttered at the card, then looked up. “What’d they do with the last ‘un, flay him alive?”

  “My predecessor was transferred to the Montreal area.”

  “And I thought that I spoke to him only yesterday!”

  “On the phone? That was me, O’Reilley. About the rundown on the K-99 sales.”

  “I gave it to you properly, did I not?” the oldster demanded.

  “You gave it to me. Maybe properly.”

  O’Reilley seemed to puff up slightly and glower. “Meaning?”

  “There’s a mix-up in serial numbers on one of them. May not be your mistake.”

  “No mistakes, no mistakes.”

  “Okay, we’ll see.” Norris glanced at his list. “Let’s check this number again—K-99-LJZ-35i.”


  “It’s nearly closing time,” the oldster protested. “Come back some other day, Norris.”

  “Sorry, this one’s rush. It’ll only take a minute. Where’s your book?”

  The oldster began to quiver angrily. “Are you suggestin’, sir, that I falsely—”

  “No,” he growled, “I’m suggesting that there was a mistake. Maybe my mistake, maybe yours, maybe Anthropos, maybe the owners. I’ve got to find out, that’s all. Let’s have the book.”

  “What kind of a mistake? I gave you the owner’s name!”

  “She has a different newt.”

  “Can I help it if she traded with somebody?”

  “She didn’t. She bought it here. I saw the receipt.” Norris was beginning to become impatient, tried to suppress it.

  “Then she traded with one of my other customers!” O’Reilley insisted.

  Norris snorted irritably. “You got two customers named Adelia Schultz?—Come on, pop, let’s look at the duplicate receipt. Now.”

  “Doubt if it’s still around,” O’Reilley grumbled, refusing to budge.

  Norris suddenly erupted. He turned away angrily and began pacing briskly around the shop, looking under cages, inspecting fixtures, probing into feeding troughs with a pencil, looking into feed bags, examining a dog-F’s wiry coat.

  “Here there! What do you think you’re doing?” the owner demanded.

  Norris began barking off check-points in a loud voice. “Dirty cat-cage… inadequate ventilation… food trough not clean… no water in the newt cages…”

  “I water them twice a day!” O’Reilley raged.

  “…mouldy rabbit-meal… no signs of disinfectant… What kind of a disease-trap are you running here?”

  He came back to face O’Reilley who stood trembling with rage and cursing him with his eyes.

  “Not to mention that sign outside,” Norris added casually. “‘Dumb blondes’ they outlawed that one the year Kleyton got sent up for using hormones on K-108s, trying to grow himself a harem. Well?”