Second Variety and Other Stories (31 page)

Billings walked slowly over. He bent down and unfastened the corner of the netting. "I'll show
you what they are. If you're interested." He twisted the netting loose and pulled it back.

Tommy came over, his eyes wide.

"Well?" Billings said presently. "You can see what they are."

Tommy whistled softly. "I thought maybe they were." He straightened up slowly, his face pale. "I
thought maybe -- but I wasn't sure. Little tiny men!"

"Not exactly," Mr Billings said. He sat down heavily in the rickety chair. From his coat he took a
pipe and a worn tobacco pouch. He filled the pipe slowly, shaking tobacco into it. "Not exactly men."

Tommy continued to gaze down into the frame. The cocoons were tiny huts, put together by the
little men. Some of them had come out in the open now. They gazed up at him, standing together. Tiny
pink creatures, two inches high. Naked. That was why they were pink.

"Look closer," Billings murmured. "Look at their heads. What do you see?"

"They're so small --"

"Go get the glass from the desk. The big magnifying glass." He watched Tommy hurry into the
study and come out quickly with the glass. "Now tell me what you see."

Tommy examined the figures through the glass. They seemed to be men, all right. Arms, legs -some
were women. Their heads. He squinted. And then recoiled.

"What's the matter?" Billings grunted.

"What's the matter?" Billings grunted.

"Queer?" Billings smiled. "Well, it all depends on what you're used to. They're different -- from
you. But they're not queer. There's nothing wrong with them. At least, I hope there's nothing wrong." His
smile faded, and he sat sucking on his pipe, deep in silent thought.

"Did you make them?" Tommy asked.

"I?" Billings removed his pipe. "No, not I."

"Where did you get them?"

"They were lent to me. A trial group. In fact, the trial group. They're new. Very new."

"You want -- you want to sell one of them?"

Billings laughed. "No, I don't. Sorry. I have to keep them."

Tommy nodded, resuming his study. Through the glass he could see their heads clearly. They
were not quite men. From the front of each forehead antennae sprouted, tiny wire-like projections ending
in knobs. Like the vanes of insects he had seen. They were not men, but they were similar to men.
Except for the antennae they seemed normal -- the antennae and their extreme minuteness.

"Did they come from another planet?" Tommy asked. "From Mars? Venus?"

"No."

"Where, then?"

"That's a hard question to answer. The question has no meaning, not in connection with them."

"What's the report for?"

"The report?"

"In there. The big book with all the facts. The thing you're doing."

"I've been working on that a long time."

"How long?"

Billings smiled. "That can't be answered, either. It has no meaning. But a long time indeed. I'm
getting near the end, though."

"What are you going to do with it? When it's finished."

"Turn it over to my superiors."

"Who are they?"

"You wouldn't know them."

"Where are they? Are they here in town?"

"Yes. And no. There's no way to answer that. Maybe someday you'll --"

"The report's about us," Tommy said.

Billings turned his head. His keen eyes bored into Tommy. "Oh?"

"It's about us. The report. The book."

"How do you know?"

"I looked at it. I saw the title on the back. It's about the earth, isn't it?"

Billings nodded. "Yes. It's about the earth."

"You're not from here, are you? You're from someplace else. Outside the system."

"How -- how do you know that?"

Tommmy grinned with superior pride. "I can tell. I have ways."

"How much did you see in the report?"

"Not much. What's it for? Why are you making it? What are they going to do with it?"

Billings considered a long time before he answered. At last he spoke. "That," he said, 'depends
on those." He gestured toward the wood frame. "What they do with the report depends on how Project
C works."

"Project C?"

"The third project. There've been only two others before. They wait a long time. Each project is
planned carefully. New factors are considered at great length before any decision is reached."

"Two others?"

"Antennae for these. A complete new arrangement of the cognitive faculties. Almost no
dependence on innate drives. Greater flexibility. Some decrease in over-all emotional index, but what
they lose in libido energy they gain in rational control. I would expect more emphasis on individual
experience, rather than dependence on traditional group learning. Less stereotyped thinking. More rapid
advance in situation control."

dependence on innate drives. Greater flexibility. Some decrease in over-all emotional index, but what
they lose in libido energy they gain in rational control. I would expect more emphasis on individual
experience, rather than dependence on traditional group learning. Less stereotyped thinking. More rapid
advance in situation control."

"The others? Project A was a long time ago. It's dim in my mind. Wings."

"Wings."

"They were winged, depending on mobility and possessing considerable individualistic
characteristics. In the final analysis we allowed them too much self-dependence. Pride. They had
concepts of pride and honor. They were fighters. Each against the others. Divided into atomized
antagonistic factions and --"

"What were the rest like?"

Billings knocked his pipe against the railing. He continued, speaking more to himself than to the
boy standing in front of him. "The winged type was our first attempt at high-level organisms. Project A.
After it failed we went into conference. Project B was the result. We were certain of success. We
eliminated many of the excessive individualistic characteristics and substituted a group orientation
process. A herd method of learning and experiencing. We hoped general control over the project would
be assured. Our work with the first project convinced us that greater supervision would be necessary if
we were to be successful."

"What did the second kind look like?" Tommy asked, searching for a meaningful thread in
Billings's dissertation.

"We removed the wings, as I said. The general physiognomy remained the same. Although
control was maintained for a short time, this second type also fractured away from the pattern, splintering
into self-determined groups beyond our supervision. There is no doubt that surviving members of the
initial type A were instrumental in influencing them. We should have exterminated the initial type as soon
--"

"Are there any left?"

"Of Project B? Of course." Billings was irritated. "You're Project B. That's why I'm down here.
As soon as my report is complete the final disposition of your type can be effected. There is no doubt my
recommendation will be identical with that regarding Project A. Since your Project has moved out of
jurisdiction to such a degree that for all intents and purposes you are no longer functional --"

But Tommy wasn't listening. He was bent over the wood frame, peering down at the tiny figures
within. Nine little people, men and women both. Nine -- and no more in all the world.

Tommy began to tremble. Excitement rushed through him. A plan was dawning, bursting alive
inside him. He held his face rigid, his body tense.

"I guess I'll be going." He moved from the porch, back into the room toward the hall door.

"Going?" Billings got to his feet. "But --"

"I have to go. It's getting late. I'll see you later." He opened the hall door. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," Mr Billings said, surprised. "I hope I'll see you again, young man."

"You will," Tommy said.

He ran home as fast as he could. He raced up the porch steps and inside the house.

"Just in time for dinner," his mother said, from the kitchen.

Tommy halted on the stairs. "I have to go out again."

"No you don't! You're going to --"

"Just for awhile. I'll be right back." Tommy hurried up to his room and entered, glancing around.

The bright yellow room. Pennants on the walls. The big dresser and mirror, brush and comb,
model airplanes, pictures of baseball players. The paper bag of bottle caps. The small radio with its
cracked plastic cabinet. The wooden cigar boxes full of junk, odds and ends, things he had collected.

Tommy grabbed up one of the cigar boxes and dumped its contents out on the bed. He stuck the
box under his jacket and headed out of the room.

"Where are you going?" his father demanded, lowering his evening newspaper and looking up.

"Where are you going?" his father demanded, lowering his evening newspaper and looking up.

"Your mother said it was time for dinner. Didn't you hear her?"

"I'll be back. This is important." Tommy pushed the front door open. Chill evening air blew in,
cold and thin. "Honest. Real important."

"Ten minutes." Vince Jackson looked at his wristwatch. "No longer. Or you don't get any
dinner."

"Ten minutes." Tommy slammed the door. He ran down the steps, out into the darkness.

A light showed, flickering under the bottom and through the keyhole of Mr Billings's room.

Tommy hesitated a moment. Then he raised his hand and knocked. For a time there was silence.
Then a stirring sound. The sound of heavy footsteps.

The door opened. Mr Billings peered out into the hall.

"Hello," Tommy said.

"You're back!" Mr Billings opened the door wide and Tommy walked quickly into the room.
"Did you forget something?"

"No."

Billings closed the door. "Sit down. Would you like anything? An apple? Some milk?"

"No." Tommy wandered nervously around the room, touching things here and there, books and
papers and bundles of clippings.

Billings watched the boy a moment. Then he returned to his desk, seating himself with a sigh. "I
think I'll continue with my report. I hope to finish very soon." He tapped a pile of notes beside him. "The
last of them. Then I can leave here and present the report along with my recommendations."

Billings bent over his immense typewriter, tapping steadily away. The relentless rumble of the
ancient machine vibrated through the room. Tommy turned and stepped out of the room, onto the porch.

In the cold evening air the porch was pitch black. He halted, adjusting to the darkness. After a
time he made out the sacks of fertilizer, the rickety chair. And in the center, the wood frame with its wire
netting over it, heaps of dirt and grass piled around.

Tommy glanced back into the room. Billings was bent over the typewriter, absorbed in his work.
He had taken off his dark blue coat and hung it over the chair. He was working in his vest, his sleeves
rolled up.

Tommy squatted beside the frame. He slid the cigar box from under his jacket and laid it down,
lid open. He grasped the netting and pried it back, loose from the row of nails.

From the frame a few faint apprehensive squeaks sounded. Nervous scuttlings among the dried
grass.

Tommy reached down, feeling among the grass and plants. His fingers closed over something, a
small thing that squirmed in fright, twisting in wild terror. He dropped it into the cigar box and sought
another.

In a moment he had them all. Nine of them, all nine in the wood cigar box.

He closed the lid and slipped it back under his jacket. Quickly he left the porch, returning to the
room.

Billings glanced up vaguely from his work, pen in one hand, papers in the other. "Did you want to
talk to me?" he murmured, pushing up his glasses.

Tommy shook his head. "I have to go."

"Already? But you just came!"

"I have to go." Tommy opened the door to the hall. "Goodnight."

Billings rubbed his forehead wearily, his face lined with fatigue. "All right, boy. Perhaps I'll see
you again before I leave." He resumed his work, tapping slowly away at the great typewriter, bent with
fatigue.

Tommy shut the door behind him. He ran down the stairs, outside on the porch. Against his chest
the cigar box shook and moved. Nine. All nine of them. He had them all. Now they were his. They
belonged to him -- and there weren't any more of them, anywhere in the world. His plan had worked

belonged to him -- and there weren't any more of them, anywhere in the world. His plan had worked

He hurried down the street toward his own house, as fast as he could run.

He found an old cage out in the garage he had once kept white rats in. He cleaned it and carried
it upstairs to his room. He spread papers on the floor of the cage and fixed a water dish and some sand.

When the cage was ready he emptied the contents of the cigar box into it.

The nine tiny figures huddled together in the center of the cage, a little bundle of pink. Tommy
shut the door of the cage and fastened it tightly. He carried the cage to the dresser and then drew a chair
up by it so he could watch.

The nine little people began to move around hesitantly, exploring the cage. Tommy's heart beat
with rapid excitement as he watched them.

He had got them away from Mr Billings. They were his, now. And Mr Billings didn't know where
he lived or even his name.

They were talking to each other. Moving their antennae rapidly, the way he had seen ants do.
One of the little people came over to the side of the cage. He stood gripping the wire, peering out into the
room. He was joined by another, a female. They were naked. Except for the hair on their heads they
were pink and smooth.