Galaxy Science Fiction Super Pack #2. Edgar Pangborn
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June 1, 2235.”
It seemed in order, although the expiration date was approaching. He started toward a bank of neutroid cages along the opposite wall, but O’Reilley was mincing across the floor to meet him. The customer had gone. The little manager wore an elfin professional smile, and his bald head bobbled in a welcoming nod.
“Good day, sir, good day! May I show you a dwarf kangaroo, or a—” He stopped and adjusted his spectacles. He blinked and peered as Norris flashed his badge. His smile waned.
“I’m Agent Norris, Mr. O’Reilley. Called you yesterday for that rundown on K-99 sales.”
O’Reilley looked suddenly nervous. “Oh, yes. Find ‘em all?”
Norris shook his head. “No. That’s why I stopped by. There’s some mistake on—” he glanced at his list—“on K-99-LJZ-351. Let’s check it again.”
O’Reilley seemed to cringe. “No mistake. I gave you the buyer’s name.”
“She has a different number.”
“Can I help it if she traded with somebody?”
“She didn’t. She bought it here. I saw the receipt.”
“Then she traded with one of my other customers!” snapped the old man.
“Two of your customers have the same name—Adelia Schultz? Not likely. Let’s see your duplicate receipt book.”
O’Reilley’s wrinkled face set itself into a stubborn mask. “Doubt if it’s still around.”
Norris frowned. “Look, pop, I’ve had a rough day. I could start naming some things around here that need fixing—sanitary violations and such. Not to mention that sign—‘dumb blondes.’ They outlawed that one when they executed that shyster doctor for shooting K-108s full of growth hormones, trying to raise himself a harem to sell. Besides, you’re required to keep sales records until they’ve been micro-filmed. There hasn’t been a microfilming since July.”
The wrinkled face twitched with frustrated anger. O’Reilley shuffled to the counter while Norris followed. He got a fat binder from under the register and started toward a wooden stairway.
“Where you going?” Norris called.
“Get my old glasses,” the manager grumbled. “Can’t see through these new things.”
“Leave the book here and I’ll check it,” Norris offered.
But O’Reilley was already limping quickly up the stairs. He seemed not to hear. He shut the door behind him, and Norris heard the lock click. The bio-agent waited. Again the thought of a black market troubled him. Unauthorized neutroids could mean lots of trouble.
*
Five minutes passed before the old man came down the stairs. He said nothing as he placed the book on the counter. Norris noticed that his hands were trembling as he shuffled through the pages.
“Let me look,” said the bio-agent.
O’Reilley stepped reluctantly aside. Norris had memorized the owner’s receipt number, and he found the duplicate quickly. He stared at it silently. “Mrs. Adele Schultz ... chimpanzee-K-99-LJZ-351.” It was the number of the animal he wanted, but it wasn’t the number on Mrs. Schultz’s neutroid nor on her original copy of the receipt.
He held the book up to his eye and aimed across the page at the light. O’Reilley’s breathing became audible. Norris put the book down, folded two thicknesses of handkerchief over the blade of his pocketknife, and ran it down the seam between the pages. He took the sheet he wanted, folded it, and stowed it in his vest pocket. O’Reilley was stuttering angrily.
Norris turned to face him coldly. “Nice erasure job, for a carbon copy.”
The old man prepared himself for exploding. Norris quietly put on his hat.
“See you in court, O’Reilley.”
“Wait!”
Norris turned. “Okay, I’m waiting.”
The old man sagged into a deflated bag of wrinkles. “Let’s sit down first,” he said weakly.
Norris followed him up the stairs and into a dingy parlor. The tiny apartment smelled of boiled cabbage and sweat. An orange-haired neutroid lay asleep on a small rug in a corner. Norris knelt beside it and read the tattooed figures on the sole of its left foot—K-99-LJZ-351. Somehow he was not surprised.
When he stood up, the old man was sagged in an ancient armchair, his head propped on a hand that covered his eyes.
“Lots of good explanations, I guess?” Norris asked quietly.
“Not good ones.”
“Let’s hear them, anyway.”
O’Reilley sighed and straightened. He blinked at the inspector and spoke in a monotone. “My missus died five years back. We were class-B—allowed one child of our own—if we could have one. We couldn’t. But since we were class-B, we couldn’t own a neutroid either. Sorta got around it by running a pet shop. Mary—she always cried when we sold a neut. I sorta felt bad about it myself. But we never did swipe one. Last year this Bermuda shipment come in. I sold most of ‘em pretty quick, but Peony here—she was kinda puny. Seemed like nobody wanted her. Kept her around so long, I got attached to her. ‘Fraid somebody’d buy her. So I faked the receipt and moved her up here.”
“That all?”
The old man nodded.
“Ever done this before?”
He shook his head.
Norris let a long silence pass while he struggled with himself. At last he said, “Your license could be revoked, you know.”
“I know.”
Norris ground his fist thoughtfully in his palm and stared at the sleeping doll-thing. “I’ll take your books home with me tonight,” he said. “I want to make a complete check for similar changes. Any objections?”
“None. It’s the only trick I’ve pulled, so help me.”
“If that’s true, I won’t report you. We’ll just attach a correction to that page, and you’ll put the newt back in stock.” He hesitated. “Providing it’s not a deviant. I’ll have to take it in for examination.”
A choking sound came from the armchair. Norris stared curiously at the old man. Moisture was creeping in the wrinkles around his eyes.
“Something the matter?”
O’Reilley nodded. “She’s a deviant.”
“How do you know?”
The dealer pulled himself erect and hobbled to the sleeping neutroid. He knelt beside it and stroked a small bare shoulder gently.
“Peony,” he breathed. “Peony, girl—wake up.”
Its fluffy tail twitched for a moment. Then it sat up, rubbing its eyes and yawning. It looked normal, like a two-year-old girl with soft brown eyes. It pouted at O’Reilley for awakening it. It saw Norris and ignored him, apparently too sleepy to be frightened.
“How’s my Peony-girl?” the dealer purred.
It licked its lips. “Wanna g’ass o’ water, Daddy,” it said drowsily.
Norris caught his breath. No K-99 should be able to make a speech that long, even when it reached the developmental limit. He glanced at O’Reilley. The old man nodded slowly, then went to the kitchen for a glass of water. She drank greedily and eyed her foster-parent.
“Daddy crying.”
O’Reilley glowered at her and blew his nose solemnly. “Don’t be silly, child. Now get your coat on and go with Mister Norris. He’s taking you