Ardmore found that Thomas had still one mare surprise for him; when he shook hands, he did so with the grip of the Dekes, Ardmore’s own fraternity! Ardmore stood staring at the closed portal, busy arranging his preconceptions.
When he turned around, Calhoun was behind him. He felt somewhat as if he had been caught stealing jam. “Oh, hello, Doctor,” he said quickly.
“How do you do, Major,” Calhoun replied with deliberation. “May I inquire as to what is going on?”
“Certainly. I’ve sent Lieutenant Thomas out to reconnoiter. ”
“Lieutenant?”
“Brevet lieutenant. I was forced to use him for work fax beyond his rank; I found it expedient to assign him the rank and pay of his new duties.”
Calhoun pursued that point no further, but answered with another, in the same faintly critical tone of voice. “I suppose you realize that it jeopardizes all of us to send anyone outside? I am a little surprised that you should act in such a matter without consulting with others.”
“I am sorry you feel that way about it, Colonel,” Ardmore replied, in a conscious attempt to conciliate the older man, “but I am required to make the final decision in any case, and it is of prime importance to our task that nothing be permitted to distract your attention from your all-important job of research. Have you completed your experiment?” he went on quickly.
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“The results were positive. The mice. died.”
“How about Wilkie?”
“Oh, Wilkie was unhurt, naturally. That is in accordance with my predictions.”
Jefferson Thomas. Bachelor of Arts magna cum laude, University of California, Bachelor of Law, Harvard Law School, professional hobo, private and cook’s helper, and now a brevet lieutenant, intelligence,
United States army, spent his first night outside shivering on pine needles where dark had overtaken him. Early the next morning he located a ranchhouse.
They fed him, but they were anxious for him to move along. “You never can tell when one of those heathens is going to come snooping around,” apologized his host, “and I can’t afford to be arrested for harboring refugees. I got the wife and kids to think about.” But he followed Thomas out to the road, still talking, his natural garrulity prevailing over his caution. He seemed to take a grim pleasure in bewailing the catastrophe.
“God knows what I’m raising those kids up to. Some nights it seems like the only reasonable thing to do is to put them all out of their sorrow.
But Jessie — that’s my wife — says it’s a scandal and a sin to talk that way, that the Lord will take care of things all in His own good time. Maybe so — but I know it’s no favor to a child to raise it up to be bossed around and lorded over by those monkeys.” He spat. “It’s not American.”
“What’s this about penalties for harboring refugees?”
The rancher stared at him. “Where’ve you been, friend?”
“Up in the hills. I haven’t laid eyes on one of the so-and-so’s yet.”
“You will. But then you haven’t got a number, have you? You’d better get one. No, that won’t do you any good; you’d just land in a labor camp if you tried to get one.”
“Number?
“Registration number. Like this.” He pulled a glassine-covered card out of his pocket and displayed it. It had axed to it a poor but recognizable picture of the rancher, his fingerprints, and pertinent data as to his occupation, marital status, address, etcetera. There was a long, hyphenated number running across the top. The rancher indicated it with a work-stained finger. “That first part is my number. It means I have permission from the emperor to stay alive and enjoy the air and sunshine,” he added bitterly. “The second part is my serial classification. It tells where I live and what I do. If I want to cross the county line, I have to have that changed. If I want to go to any other town than the one I’m assigned to do my marketing in, I’ve got to get a day’s special permit. Now I ask you — is that any way for a man to live?”