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Teething Ring
By JAMES CAUSEY
Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS]
_Anyone can make an error, but the higher the society ... the more disastrous the mistake!_
Half an hour before, while she had been engrossed in the current soapopera and Harry Junior was screaming in his crib, Melinda wouldnaturally have slammed the front door in the little man's face. However,when the bell rang, she was wearing her new Chinese red housecoat, hadjust lustered her nails to a blinding scarlet, and Harry Junior wassleeping like an angel.
Yawning, Melinda answered the door and the little man said, beaming,"Excellent day. I have geegaws for information."
Melinda did not quite recoil. He was perhaps five feet tall, with agleaming hairless scalp and a young-old face. He wore a plain graytunic, and a peddler's tray hung from his thin shoulders.
"Don't want any," Melinda stated flatly.
"_Please._" He had great, beseeching amber eyes. "They all say that. Ihaven't much time. I must be back at the University by noon."
"You working your way through college?"
He brightened. "Yes. I suppose you could call it that. Alienanthropology major."
Melinda softened. The initiations those frats pulled nowadays--shavingthe poor guy's head, eating goldfish--it was criminal.
"Well?" she asked grudgingly. "What's in the tray?"
"Flanglers," said the little man eagerly. "Oscilloscopes. Portableforce-field generators. A neural distorter." Melinda's face was blank.The little man frowned. "You use them, of course? This _is_ a Class IVculture?" Melinda essayed a weak shrug and the little man sighed withrelief. His eyes fled past her to the blank screen of the TV set. "Ah, amonitor." He smiled. "For a moment I was afraid--May I come in?"
* * * * *
Melinda shrugged, opened the door. This might be interesting, like avacuum-cleaner salesman who had cleaned her drapes last week for free.And Kitty Kyle Battles Life wouldn't be on for almost an hour.
"My name is Porteous," said the little man with an eager smile. "I'mdoing a thematic on Class IV cultures." He whipped out a stylus, beganjotting down notes. The TV set fascinated him.
"It's turned off right now," Melinda said.
Porteous's eyes widened impossibly. "You mean," he whispered in horror,"that you're exercising Class V privileges? This is terribly confusing.I get doors slammed in my face, when Class Fours are supposed to have asplendid gregarian quotient--you _do_ have atomic power, don't you?"
"Oh, sure," said Melinda uncomfortably. This wasn't going to be muchfun.
"Space travel?" The little face was intent, sharp.
"Well," Melinda yawned, looking at the blank screen, "they've got SpacePatrol, Space Cadet, Tales of Tomorrow ..."
"Excellent. Rocket ships or force-fields?" Melinda blinked. "Does yourhusband own one?" Melinda shook her blonde head helplessly. "What areyour economic circumstances?"
Melinda took a deep rasping breath, said, "Listen, mister, is this ademonstration or a quiz program?"
"Oh, my excuse. Demonstration, certainly. You will not mind thequestions?"
"Questions?" There was an ominous glint in Melinda's blue eyes.
"Your delightful primitive customs, art-forms, personal habits--"
"Look," Melinda said, crimsoning. "This is a respectable neighborhood,and I'm not answering any Kinsey report, understand?"
The little man nodded, scribbling. "Personal habits are tabu? I soregret. The demonstration." He waved grandly at the tray. "Anti-gravsandals? A portable solar converter? Apologizing for this miserableselection, but on Capella they told me--" He followed Melinda'sentranced gaze, selected a tiny green vial. "This is merely aregenerative solution. You appear to have no cuts or bruises."
"Oh," said Melinda nastily. "Cures warts, cancer, grows hair, Isuppose."
Porteous brightened. "Of course. I see you can scan. Amazing." Hescribbled further with his stylus, glanced up, blinked at the obviousscorn on Melinda's face. "Here. Try it."
"You try it." Now watch him squirm!
Porteous hesitated. "Would you like me to grow an extra finger, hair--"
"Grow some hair." Melinda tried not to smile.
The little man unstopped the vial, poured a shimmering green drop on hiswrist, frowning.
"Must concentrate," he said. "Thorium base, suspended solution. Reallyjolts the endocrines, complete control ... see?"
Melinda's jaw dropped. She stared at the tiny tuft of hair which hadsprouted on that bare wrist. She was thinking abruptly, unhappily, aboutthat chignon she had bought yesterday. They had let her buy that foreight dollars when with this stuff she could have a natural one.
"How much?" she inquired cautiously.
"A half hour of your time only," said Porteous.
Melinda grasped the vial firmly, settled down on the sofa with one legtucked carefully under her.
"Okay, shoot. But nothing personal."
* * * * *
Porteous was delighted. He asked a multitude of questions, most of thempointless, some naive, and Melinda dug into her infinitesimal fund ofknowledge and gave. The little man scribbled furiously, clucking like agravid hen.
"You mean," he asked in amazement, "that you live in these primitivehuts of your own volition?"
"It's a G.I. housing project," Melinda said, ashamed.
"Astonishing." He wrote: _Feudal anachronisms and atomic power, side byside. Class Fours periodically "rough it" in back-to-nature movements._
Harry Junior chose that moment to begin screaming for his lunch.Porteous sat, trembling. "Is that a Security Alarm?"
"My son," said Melinda despondently, and went into the nursery.
Porteous followed, and watched the ululating child with sometrepidation. "Newborn?"
"Eighteen months," said Melinda stiffly, changing diapers. "He's cuttingteeth."
Porteous shuddered. "What a pity. Obviously atavistic. Wouldn't thecreche accept him? You shouldn't have to keep him here."
"I keep after Harry to get a maid, but he says we can't afford one."
"Manifestly insecure," muttered the little man, studying Harry Junior."Definite paranoid tendencies."
"He was two weeks premature," volunteered Melinda. "He's realsensitive."
"I know just the thing," Porteous said happily. "Here." He dipped intothe glittering litter on the tray and handed Harry Junior a translucentprism. "A neural distorter. We use it to train regressives on Rigel Two.It might be of assistance."
Melinda eyed the thing doubtfully. Harry Junior was peering into theshifting crystal depths with a somewhat strained expression.
"Speeds up the neural flow," explained the little man proudly. "Helpstap the unused eighty per cent. The pre-symptomatic memory isunaffected, due to automatic cerebral lapse in case of overload. I'mafraid it won't do much more than cube his present IQ, and anintelligent idiot is still an idiot, but--"
"How dare you?" Melinda's eyes flashed. "My son is _not_ an idiot! Youget out of here this minute and take your--things with you." As shereached for the prism, Harry Junior squalled. Melinda relented. "Here,"she said angrily, fumbling with her purse. "How much are they?"
"Medium of exchange?" Porteous rubbed his bald skull. "Oh, I reallyshouldn't--but it'll make such a wonderful addendum to the chapter onmalignant primitives. What is your smallest denomination?"
"Is a dollar okay?" Melinda was hopeful.
Porteous was pleased with the picture of George Washington. He turnedthe bill over and over in his fingers, at last bowed low and formally,apologized for any tabu violations, and left via the front door.
&nbs
p; "Crazy fraternities," muttered Melinda, turning on the TV set.
* * * * *
Kitty Kyle was dull that morning. At length Melinda used some of theliquid in the green vial on her eyelashes, was quite pleased at theresults, and hid the rest in the medicine cabinet.
Harry Junior was a model of docility the rest of that day. While Melindawatched TV and munched chocolates, did and re-did her hair, Harry Juniorplayed