"Huh uh. Babies are fun. And they're not much trouble. Feed 'em occasionally, help them when they need it, and love them a lot. That's all there is to it."

"I've always favored the bunghole theory myself."

"The what?"

"You take the child at an early age and place it in a barrel. You feed it through the bunghole. At the age of seventeen, you drive in the bung."

She grinned at him. "Filthy, for a nice man you have a nasty sense of humor. Seriously, your method leaves out the most essential part of a child's rearing-the petting he gets from his nurses."

"I don't seem to recall much of it. I thought the basic idea was to take care of its physical needs and otherwise leave it strictly alone."

"You're way out of date. They used to have a notion of that sort, but it was silly-contra-biological." It occurred to her that Hamilton's faulty orientation might have its origin in the injudicious application of that outmoded, unfounded theory. The natural urges of mothers had prevented it ever being applied thoroughly in most cases, but his case was different. He had been what was, to her, the most tragic thing on earth-a baby that never left the development center. When she found one of these exceptions among her own charges she lavished on it extra affection and a little over. But she said nothing of this to him.

"Why," she continued, "do you think animals lick their young?"

"To cleanse them, I suppose."

"Nonsense! You can't expect an animal to appreciate cleanliness. It's a caress, an expression of instinctive affection. So-called instincts are instructive, Felix. They point to survival values."

He shrugged. "We're here."

They entered the restaurant-a pay-restaurant-he had chosen, and went to a private room reserved for them. They started the meal in silence. His usual sardonic humor was dampened by the thing in the back of his mind. This business of the Survivors Club-he had entered into it light-heartedly, but now it was developing ominous overtones which worried him. He wished that Mordan-the government, rather -would act.

He had not gotten ahead as fast in the organization as he had hoped. They were anxious to use him, willing to accept, to demand, his money, but he still had not obtained a clear picture of the whole network. He still did not know who was senior to McFee Norbert, nor did he know the numbers of the whole organization.

Meantime, daily the tightrope became more difficult to walk.

He had been permitted to see one thing which tended to show that the organization was older and larger than he had guessed. McFee Norbert had escorted him personally, as one of the final lessons in his education in the New Order, to a place in the country, location carefully concealed from Hamilton, where he was permitted to see the results of clandestine experiments in genetics.

Beastly little horrors!

He had viewed, through one-way glass, "human" children whose embryonic gills had been retained and stimulated. They were at home in air or water, but required a humid atmosphere at all times. "Useful on Venus, don't you think?" McFee had commented.

"We assumed too readily," he continued, "that the other planets in this system were not useful. Naturally the leaders will live here, most of the time, but with special adaptation, quite useful supporting types could remain permanently on any of the planets. Remind me to show you the anti-radiation and low-gravity types."

"I'd be interested," Hamilton stated truthfully but incompletely. "By the way, where do we get our breeding stock?"

"That's an impertinent and irrelevant question, Hamilton, but I'll answer you. You are a leader type-you'll need to know eventually. The male plasm we supply ourselves. The females were captured among the barbarians-usually."

"Doesn't that mean rather inferior stock?"

"Yes, surely. These are simple experiments. None of them will be retained. After the Change, it will be another story. We'll have superior stock to start with-you, for example."

"Yes, of course." He did not care to pursue that line. "No one has ever told me just what our plans are for the barbarians."

"No need for juniors to discuss it. We'll save some of them for experimentation. In time, the rest will be liquidated."

A neat but sweeping plan, Hamilton had thought. The scattered tribes of Eurasia and Africa, fighting their way back up to civilization after the disasters of the Second War, consigned without their consent or knowledge to the oblivion of the laboratory or death. He decided to cut off McFee's ears a bit at a time.

"This is possibly the most stimulating exhibit," McFee had continued, moving on. Hamilton had looked where he was directed. The exhibit appeared to be a hydrocephalic idiot, but Hamilton had never seen one. His eyes saw an obviously sick child with a head much too big for it. "A tetroid type," McFee stated. "Ninety-six chromosomes. We once thought that was the secret of the hyperbrain, but we were mistaken. The staff geneticists are now on the right track."

"Why don't you kill it?"

"We will, presently. There is still something to be learned from it."

There were other things-things that Hamilton preferred not to think about. He felt now that, if he managed to get through that test without displaying his true feelings, he had been damned lucky!

The proposed extermination of the barbarians reminded him of another matter. Most curiously, the strange advent of John Darlington Smith had had an indirect effect on the plans of the Survivors Club. The compelling logic of the plans for the New Order called automatically for the deaths of the inefficient and sickly control naturals, as well as the deaths of synthesists, recalcitrant geneticists, counterrevolutionaries in general.

The plans for the latter aroused no opposition to speak of, but many of the club members had a sentimental fondness for control naturals. They regarded them with the kindly paternal contempt that members of a ruling class frequently feel for subject "inferior" races. Just what to do about this psychological problem had delayed the zero hour of the Change.

The Adirondack stasis gave a means. McFee had announced the tactical change the evening of the very day that Smith had called on Hamilton. Control naturals were to be placed in stasis for an indefinite period. It was an entirely humane procedure; the prisoners would be unhurt by their stay and would emerge in the distant future. McFee had asked Hamilton what he thought of the scheme, after the meeting.

"It should be popular," Hamilton had admitted. "But what happens after they are let out?"

McFee had looked surprised, then laughed. "We are practical men, you and I," he had said in a low voice.

"You mean ..."

"Surely. But keep your mouth shut." Phyllis decided that it was time to interrupt his morose preoccupation. "What's eating you, Filthy?" she inquired. "You haven't said two words since we sat down."

He returned to his surroundings with a start. "Nothing important," he lied-wishing that he could unburden himself to her. "You haven't been chatty yourself. Anything on your mind?"

"Yes," she admitted, "I've just selected the name for our son."

"Great jumping balls of fire! Aren't you being just a little premature? You know damned well we aren't ever going to have children."

"That remains to be seen."

"Hummph! What name have you picked for this hypothetical offspring?"

"Theobald-'Bold for the People,'" she answered dreamily-

"'Bold for the-' better make it Jabez."

"Jabez? What does it mean?"

"'He will bring sorrow.'"

"'He will bring sorrow!' Filthy, you're filthy!"

"I know it. Why don't you forget all this business, give that noisy nursery a miss, and team up with me?"

"Say that slowly."

"I'm suggesting matrimony."