Spartan Planet - A. Bertram Chandler [3]
"Phillip will be in a bad temper," complained Achron. "I hate him when he's that way."
"All right then, you can relieve your precious Phillip. Are you sure you don't want to stay on for a talk, Brasidus?"
"No, thank you, Telemachus."
"Off you go, then. And try not to make any arrests."
Brasidus followed his friend through long corridors and then into the softly lighted ward where he was supposed to be on duty. They were met at the door by Phillip, a young man who, save for his dark coloring, was almost Achron's twin. He glowered at his relief. "So you've condescended to show up at last. I should give you something to help you to remember to get here on time."
"Do just that," said Brasidus roughly.
Phillip stared insolently at the Sergeant and sneered, "A pity you brought your friend with you. Well, I'm off, dearie. It's all yours, and you're welcome to it."
"What about the handover procedure?" demanded Achron sharply.
"What is there to hand over? Fifty brats, slumbering peacefully—until they all wake up together and start yelling their heads off. Thermostat in the dispenser's on the blink, so you'll have to check bottle temperatures before you break out rations for the little darlings. Clean nappy bin was replenished before the change of watch—or what should have been the change of watch. I'm off."
He went.
"Not really suitable for this profession, is he?" asked Achron softly. "I sometimes think that he doesn't like children." He gestured toward the double row of white cots. "But who couldn't love them?"
"Not you, obviously."
"But come with me, Brasidus. Leave your sandals by the door and walk softly. I don't want them woken." He tiptoed on bare feet over the polished floor. "Now," he whispered, "I'll show you. This is one of them." He paused at the foot of the crib, looked down lovingly.
And Brasidus looked down curiously. What he saw was just a bud, a baby, with a few strands of wispy black hair plastered across the overlarge skull, with unformed features. The eyes were closed, so he could not tell if there were any optical resemblance between himself and the child. The nose? That was no more than a blob of putty. He wondered, as he had often, how Achron and the other nurses ever told their charges apart. Not that it much mattered, not that it would matter until the boys were old enough for aptitude tests—and by that time all characteristics, psychological and physiological, would be well developed.
"Isn't he like you?" murmured Achron.
"Um. Yes."
"Don't you feel . . . proud?"
"Frankly, no."
"Oh, Brasidus, how can you be so insensitive?"
"It's a gift. It goes with my job."
"I don't believe you. Honestly, I don't. But quiet. Heraklion's just come in."
Brasidus looked up and saw the tall, white-robed figure of the Doctor at the end of the aisle. He bowed stiffly, and the salutation was returned. Then Heraklion beckoned. Remembering to walk softly, the young man made his way between the rows of cots.
"Brasidus, isn't it?" asked Heraklion.
"Yes, Doctor."
"What are you doing here, Sergeant?"
"Just visiting, with Achron."
"I really don't approve, you know. Our charges are very . . . delicate. I shall appreciate it if you don't go wandering all over the building."
"I shan't be doing that, Doctor."
"Very well. Goodnight to you, Sergeant."
"Goodnight to you, Doctor."
And as he watched the tall, spare figure of Heraklion striding away along the corridor, Brasidus, the policeman in his makeup suddenly in the ascendant, asked himself, What is he hiding? And then the first of the babies awoke, and almost immediately after the other forty-nine of them. Brasidus bade a hasty farewell to Achron and fled into the night.
Chapter 3
THERE WAS AN ODD, nagging suspicion at the back of Brasidus' mind as he walked slowly through the almost deserted streets to the police barracks. Normally he would have been attracted by the sounds of revelry that still roared from the occasional Club—but the mood that had descended upon him earlier still had not left him, and to it was added this new fretting