“Bring Napoleon to my lounge.”
“Right away, sir.”
“Now about your Pegasus, Mr. van Vogel . . . I see difficulties but I need expert advice. Dr. Cargrew is the real heart of this organization, the most eminent bio-designer—of terrestrial origin, of course—on the world today.” He raised his voice to actuate relays. “Dr. Cargrew!”
“What is it, Mr. Blakesly?”
“Doctor, will you favor me by coming to my office?”
“I’m busy. Later.”
Mr. Blakesly excused himself, went into his inner office, then returned to say that Dr. Cargrew would be in shortly. In the meantime, Napoleon showed up. The proportions of his noble ancestors had been preserved in miniature; he looked like a statuette of an elephant, come amazingly to life.
He took three measured steps into the lounge, then saluted them each with his trunk. In saluting Mrs. van Vogel he dropped on his knees as well.
“Oh, how cute!” she gurgled. “Come here, Napoleon.”
The elephant looked at Blakesly, who nodded. Napoleon ambled over and laid his trunk across her lap. She scratched his ears; he moaned contentedly.
“Show the lady how you can write,” ordered Blakesly. “Fetch your things from my room.”
Napoleon waited while she finished treating a particularly satisfying itch, then oozed away to return shortly with several sheets of heavy white paper and an oversize pencil. He spread a sheet in front of Mrs. van Vogel, held it down daintily with a forefoot, grasped the pencil with his trunk finger, and printed in large, shaky letters, “I LIKE YOU.”
“The darling!” She dropped to her knees and put her arms around his neck. “I simply must have him. How much is he?”
“Napoleon is part of a limited edition of six,” Blakesly said carefully. “Do you want an exclusive model, or may the others be sold?”
“Oh, I don’t care. I just want Nappie. Can I write him a note?”
“Certainly, Mrs. van Vogel. Print large letters and use Basic English. Napoleon knows most of it. His price, nonexclusive is $350,000. That includes five years’ salary for his attending veterinary.”
“Give the gentleman a check, Brownie,” she said over her shoulder.
“But Martha—”
“Don’t be tiresome, Brownie.” She turned back to her pet and began printing. She hardly looked up when Dr. Cargrew came in.
Cargrew was a chilly figure in white overalls and skull cap. He shook hands brusquely, struck a cigaret and sat down. Blakesly explained.
Cargrew shook his head. “It’s a physical impossibility.”
Van Vogel stood up. “I can see,” he said distantly, “that I should have taken my custom to NuLife Laboratories. I came here because we have a financial interest in this firm and because I was naive enough to believe the claims of your advertisements.”
“Siddown, young man!” Cargrew ordered. “Take your trade to those thumb-fingered idiots if you wish—but I warn you they couldn’t grow wings on a grasshopper. First you listen to me.
“We can grow anything and make it live. I can make you a living thing—I won’t call it an animal—the size and shape of that table over there. It wouldn’t be good for anything, but it would be alive. It would ingest food, use chemical energy, give off excretions, and display irritability. But it would be a silly piece of manipulation. Mechanically a table and an animal are two different things. Their functions are different, so their shapes are different. Now I can make you a winged horse—”
“You just said you couldn’t.”
“Don’t interrupt. I can make a winged horse that will look just like the pictures in the fairy stories. If you want to pay for it; we’ll make it—we’re in business. But it won’t be able to fly.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not built for flying. The ancient who dreamed up that myth knew nothing about aerodynamics and still less about biology. He stuck wings on a horse, just stuck them on, thumb tacks and glue. But that doesn’t make a flying machine. Remember, son, that an animal is a machine, primarily a heat engine with a control system to operate levers and hydraulic systems, according to definite engineering laws. You savvy aerodynamics?”
“Well, I’m a pilot.”
“Hummph! Well, try to understand this. A horse hasn’t got the heat engine for flight. He’s a hayburner and that’s not efficient. We might mess around with a horse’s insides so that he could live on a diet of nothing but sugar and then he might have enough energy to fly short distances. But he still would not look like the mythical Pegasus. To anchor his flying muscles he would need a breast bone maybe ten feet long. He might have to have as much as eighty feet wing spread. Folded, his wings would cover him like a tent. You’re up against the cube-square disadvantage.”
“Huh?”
Cargrew gestured impatiently. “Lift goes by the square of a given dimension; dead load by the cube of the same dimension, other things being equal. I might be able to make you a Pegasus the size of a cat without distorting the proportions too much.”
“No, I want one I can ride. I don’t mind the wing spread and I’ll put up with the big breast bone. When can I have him?”
Cargrew looked disgusted, shrugged, and replied, “I’ll have to consult with B’na Kreeth.” He whistled and chirped; a portion of the wall facing them dissolved and they found themselves looking into a laboratory. A Martian, life-size, showed in the forepart of the three-dimensional picture.
When the creature chirlupped back at Cargrew, Mrs. van Vogel looked up, then quickly looked away. She knew it was silly but she simply could not stand the sight of Martians—and the ones who had modified themselves to a semi-manlike form disgusted her the most.
After they had twittered and gestured at each other for a minute or two, Cargrew turned back to van Vogel. “B’na says that you should forget it; it would take too long. He wants to know how you’d like a fine unicorn, or a pair, guaranteed to breed true?”
“Unicorns are old hat. How long would the Pegasus take?”
After another squeaky-door conversation, Cargrew answered, “Ten years probably, sixteen years on the guarantee.”
“Ten years? That’s ridiculous!”
Cargrew looked shirty. “I thought it would take fifty, but if B’na says that he can do it three to five generations, then he can do it. B’na is the finest bio-micrurgist in two planets. His chromosome surgery in unequalled. After all, young man, natural processes would take upwards of a million years to achieve the same result, if it were achieved at all. Do you expect to be able to buy miracles?”
Van Vogel had the grace to look sheepish. “Excuse me, Doctor. Let’s forget it. Ten years really is too long. How about the other possibility? You said you could make a picture-book Pegasus, as long as I did not insist on flight. Could I ride him? On the ground?”
“Oh, certainly. No good for polo, but you could ride him.”
“I’ll settle for that. Ask Benny Creeth, or whatever his name is, how long it would take.”
The Martian had faded out of the screens. “I don’t need to ask him,” Cargrew asserted. “This is my job—purely manipulation. B’na’s collaboration is required only for rearrangement and transplanting of genes—true genetic work. I can let you have the beast in eighteen months.”
“Can’t you do better than that?”
“What do you expect, man? It takes eleven months to grow a new-born colt. I want one month of design and planning. The embryo will be removed on the fourth day and will be developed in an extra-uterine capsule. I’ll operate ten or twelve times during gestation, grafting and budding and other things you’ve heard of. One year from now we’ll have a baby colt, with wings. Thereafter I’ll deliver to you a six-month-old Pegasus.”
“I’ll take it.”
Cargrew made some notes, then read, “One alate horse, not capable of flight and not to breed true. Basic breed your choice—I suggest a Palomino, or an Arabian. Wings designed after a condor, in white. Simulated pin feathers with a
grafted fringe of quill feathers, or reasonable facsimile.” He passed the sheet over. “Initial that and we’ll start in advance of formal contract.”
“It’s a deal,” agreed van Vogel. “What is the fee?” He placed his monogram under Cargrew’s.
Cargrew made further notes and handed them to Blakesly—estimates of professional man-hours, technician man-hours, purchases, and overhead. He had padded the figures to subsidize his collateral research but even he raised his eyebrows at the dollars-and-cents interpretation Blakesly put on the data. “That will be an even two million dollars.”
Van Vogel hesitated. His wife had looked up at the mention of money, but she turned her attention back to the scholarly elephant.
Blakesly added hastily, “That is for an exclusive creation, of course.”
“Naturally,” van Vogel agreed briskly, and added the figure to the memorandum.
Van Vogel was ready to return, but his wife insisted on seeing the “apes,” as she termed the anthropoid workers. The discovery that she owned a considerable share in these subhuman creatures had intrigued her. Blakesly eagerly suggested a trip through the laboratories in which the workers were developed from true apes.
They were arranged in seven buildings, the seven “Days of Creation.” “First Day” was a large building occupied by Cargrew, his staff, his operating rooms, incubators, and laboratories. Martha van Vogel stared in horrified fascination at living organs and even complete embryos, living artificial lives sustained by clever glass and metal recirculating systems and exquisite automatic machinery.
She could not appreciate the techniques; it seemed depressing. She had about decided against plasto-biology when Napoleon, by tugging at her skirts, reminded her that it produced good things as well as horrors.
The building “Second Day” they did not enter; it was occupied by B’na Kreeth and his racial colleagues. “We could not stay alive in it, you understand,” Blakesly explained. Van Vogel nodded; his wife hurried on—she wanted no Martians, even behind plastiglass.
From there on the buildings were for development and production of commercial workers. “Third Day” was used for the development of variations in the anthropoids to meet constantly changing labor requirements. “Fourth Day” was a very large building devoted entirely to production-line incubators for commercial types of anthropoids. Blakesly explained that they had dispensed with normal birth. “The policy permits exact control of forced variations, such as for size, and saves hundreds of thousands of worker-hours on the part of the female anthropoids.”
Martha van Vogel was delighted with “Fifth Day,” the anthropoid kindergarten where the little tykes learned to talk and were conditioned to the social patterns necessary to their station in life. They worked at simple tasks such as sorting buttons and digging holes in sand piles, with pieces of candy given as incentives for fast and accurate work.
“Sixth Day” completed the anthropoids’ educations. Each learned the particular sub-trade it would practice, cleaning, digging, and especially agricultural semi-skills such as weeding, thinning, and picking. “One Nisei farmer working three neo-chimpanzees can grow as many vegetables as a dozen old-style farm hands,” Blakesly asserted. “They really like to work—when we get through with them.”
They admired the almost incredibly heavy tasks done by modified gorillas and stopped to gaze at the little neo-Capuchins doing high picking on prop trees, then moved on toward “Seventh Day.”
This building was used for the radioactive mutation of genes and therefore located some distance away from the others. They had to walk, as the sidewalk was being repaired; the detour took them past workers’ pens and barracks. Some of the anthropoids crowded up to the wire and began calling to them: “Sigret! Sigret! Preese, Missy! Preese, Boss! Sigret!”
“What are they saying?” Martha van Vogel inquired.
“They are asking for cigarets,” Blakesly answered in annoyed tones. “They know better, but they are like children. Here—I’ll put a stop to it.” He stepped up to the wire and shouted to an elderly male, “Hey! Strawboss!”
The worker addressed wore, in addition to the usual short canvas kilt, a bedraggled arm band. He turned and shuffled toward the fence. “Strawboss,” ordered Blakesly, “get those Joes away from here.”
“Okay, Boss,” the old fellow acknowledged and started cuffing those nearest him. “Scram, you Joes! Scram!”
“But I have some cigarets,” protested Mrs. van Vogel, “and I would gladly have given them some.”
“It doesn’t do to pamper them,” the Manager told her. “They have been taught that luxuries come only from work. I must apologize for my poor children; those in these pens are getting old and forgetting their manners.”
She did not answer but moved further along the fence to where one old neo-chimp was pressed up against the wire, staring at them with soft, tragic eyes, like a child at a bakery window. He had taken no part in the jostling demand for tobacco and had been let alone by the strawboss. “Would you like a cigaret?” she asked him.
“Preese, Missy.”
She struck one which he accepted with fumbling grace, took a long, lung-filling drag, let the smoke trickle out his nostrils, and said shyly, “Sankoo, Missy. Me Jerry.”
“How do you do, Jerry?”
“Howdy, Missy.” He bobbed down, bending his knees, ducking his head, and clasping his hands to his chest, all in one movement.
“Come along, Martha.” Her husband and Blakesly had moved in behind her.
“In a moment,” she answered. “Brownie, meet my friend Jerry. Doesn’t he look just like Uncle Albert? Except that he looks so sad. Why are you unhappy, Jerry?”
“They don’t understand abstract ideas,” put in Blakesly.
But Jerry surprised him. “Jerry sad,” he announced in tones so doleful that Martha van Vogel did not know whether to laugh or to cry.
“Why, Jerry?” she asked gently. “Why are you so sad?”
“No work,” he stated. “No sigret. No candy. No work.”
“These are all old workers who have passed their usefulness,” Blakesly repeated. “Idleness upsets them, but we have nothing for them to do.”
“Well!” she said. “Then why don’t you have them sort buttons, or something like that, such as the baby ones do?”
“They wouldn’t even do that properly,” Blakesly answered her. “These workers are senile.”
“Jerry isn’t senile! You heard him talk.”
“Well, perhaps not. Just a moment.” He turned to the ape-man, who was squatting down in order to scratch Napoleon’s head with a long forefinger thrust through the fence. “You, Joe! Come here.”
Blakesly felt around the worker’s hairy neck and located a thin steel chain to which was attached a small metal tag. He studied it. “You’re right,” he admitted. “He’s not really over age, but his eyes are bad. I remember the lot—cataracts as a result of an unfortunate linked mutation.” He shrugged.
“But that’s no reason to let him grieve his heart out in idleness.”
“Really, Mrs. van Vogel, you should not upset yourself about it. They don’t stay in these pens long—only a few days at the most.”
“Oh,” she answered, somewhat mollified, “you have some other place to retire them to, then. Do you give them something to do there? You should—Jerry wants to work. Don’t you, Jerry?”
The neo-chimp had been struggling to follow the conversation. He caught the last idea and grinned. “Jerry work! Sure mike! Good worker.” He flexed his fingers, then made fists, displaying fully opposed thumbs.
Mr. Blakesly seemed somewhat nonplused. “Really, Mrs. van Vogel, there is no need. You see—” He stopped.
Van Vogel had been listening irritably. His wife’s enthusiasms annoyed him, unless they were also his own. Furthermore he was beginning to blame Blakesly for his own recent extravagance and had a premonition that his wife would find some way to make him pay, very sweetly, for his indulgence.
Being annoyed with both of them, he chucked in the perfect wrong remark. “Don’t be silly, Martha. They don’t retire them; they liquidate them.”
It took a little time for the idea to soak in, but when it did she was furious. “Why . . . why—I never heard of such a thing! You ought to be ashamed. You . . . you would shoot your own grandmother.”
“Mrs. van Vogel—please!”
“Don’t ‘Mrs. van Vogel’ me! It’s got to stop—you hear me?” She looked around at the death pens, at the milling hundreds of old workers therein. “It’s horrible. You work them until they can’t work anymore, then you take away their little comforts, and you dispose of them. I wonder you don’t eat them!”
“They do,” her husband said brutally. “Dog food.”
“What! Well, we’ll put a stop to that!”
“Mrs. van Vogel,” Blakesly pleaded. “Let me explain.”
“Hummph! Go ahead. It had better be good.”
“Well, it’s like this—” His eye fell on Jerry, standing with worried expression at the fence. “Scram, Joe!” Jerry shuffled away.
“Wait, Jerry!” Mrs. van Vogel called out. Jerry paused uncertainly. “Tell him to come back,” she ordered Blakesly.
The Manager bit his lip, then called out, “Come back here.”
He was beginning definitely to dislike Mrs. van Vogel, despite his automatic tendency to genuflect in the presence of a high credit rating. To be told how to run his own business—well, now. Indeed! “Mrs. van Vogel, I admire your humanitarian spirit but you don’t understand the situation. We understand our workers and do what is best for them. They die painlessly before their disabilities can trouble them. They live happy lives, happier than yours or mine. We trim off the bad part of their lives, nothing more. And don’t forget, these poor beasts would never have been born had we not arranged it.”
She shook her head. “Fiddlesticks! You’ll be quoting the Bible at me next. There will be no more of it, Mr. Blakesly. I shall hold you personally responsible.”
Blakesly looked bleak. “My responsibilities are to the directors.”
“You think so?” She opened her purse and snatched out her telephone. So great was her agitation that she did not bother to call through, but signaled the local relay operator instead. “Phoenix? Get me Great New York Murray Hill 9Q-4004, Mr. Haskell. Priority—star subscriber 777. Make it quick.” She stood there, tapping her foot and glaring, until her business manager answered. “Haskell? This is Martha van Vogel. How much Workers, Incorporated, common do I own? No, no, never mind that—what percent? . . . so? Well, it’s not enough. I want 51% by tomorrow morning . . . all right, get proxies for the rest but get it . . . I didn’t ask you what it would cost; I said to get it. Get busy.” She disconnected abruptly and turned to her husband. “We’re leaving, Brownie, and we are taking Jerry with us. Mr. Blakesly, will you kindly have him taken out of that pen? Give him a check for the amount, Brownie.”