He paused miserably. "We've got a few days to think about it, honey. I don't have to make my report for a week." He sidled out the door. Looking back, he saw the hard determination in her eyes as she watched him. He knew somehow that he was going to lose either his job or his wife. Maybe both. He shuffled moodily out to the kennels to care for his charges. * * * * * A great silence filled the house during the evening. Supper was a gloomy meal. Only Peony spoke; she sat propped on two cushions at the table, using her silver with remarkable skill. Norris wondered about her intelligence. Her chronological age was ten months; her physical age was about two years; but her mental age seemed to compare favorably with at least a three year old. Once he reached across the table to touch her forehead. She eyed him curiously for a moment and continued eating. Her temperature was warmer than human, but not too warm for the normally high neutroid metabolism--somewhere around 101°. The rapid rate of maturation made I.Q. determination impossible. "You've got a good appetite, Peony," Anne remarked. "I like Daddy's cooking better," she said with innocent bluntness. "When can I go home?" Anne looked at Norris and waited for an answer. He managed a smile at the flame-haired cherub. "Tell you what we'll do. I'll call your daddy on the phone and let you say hello. Would you like that?" She giggled, then nodded. "Uh-huh! When can we do it?" "Later." Anne tapped her fork thoughtfully against the edge of her plate. "I think we better have a nice long talk tonight, Terry," she said. "Is there anything to talk about?" He pushed the plate away. "I'm not hungry." * * * * * He left the table and went to sit in darkness by the parlor window, while his wife did the dishes and Peony played with a handful of walnuts on the kitchen floor. He watched the scattered lights of the suburbs and tried to think of nothing. The lights were peaceful, glimmering through the trees. Once there had been no lights, only the flickering campfires of hunters shivering in the forest, when the world was young and sparsely planted with the seed of Man. Now the world was infected with his lights, and with the sound of his engines and the roar of his rockets. He had inherited the Earth and had filled it--too full. There was no escape. His rockets had touched two of the planets, but even the new worlds offered no sanctuary for the unborn. Man could have babies--if allowed--faster than he could build ships to haul them away. He could only choose between a higher death rate and a lower birth rate. And unborn children were not eligible to vote when Man made his choice. His choice had robbed his wife of a biological need, and so he made a disposable baby with which to pacify her. He gave it a tail and only half a mind, so that it could not be confused with his own occasional children.