This one was isolated in its own pen, and it looked even stranger than its siblings. In the first place, its hair was thicker, and black. There was an oddness in its shape and a vaguely familiar sinuousness in the way it moved that made Amos' skin prickle. "What's wrong with it?" he asked. "It's healthy except for the way it looks and acts." "Same litter and dosage?" "Yes, sir--all of them got just one dose. The effects seem to be permanent." They were leaning over the fence and the animal was looking up at them. There was an oddity in its eyes; not intelligence exactly, but something unpiglike. Abruptly, it stood up on its hind legs, putting its forefeet against the fence and raising its head toward them. It squealed as if begging for attention. Amos knew that pigs made affectionate pets. Drawn to it as well as repelled, he reached down and patted it, and the squealing stopped. It was standing too easily in that position, and suddenly Amos recognized what was familiar about it. He jerked his hand away, feeling a strong desire for soap and water. "How long's it been this way?" "It's changed fast in the last week." Amos looked toward the doorway of the lab, just inside of which a large black tomcat sat watching them. "Is the cat out here a lot?" Barnes' eyes went to the cat, widened, and turned back to the pig. He looked as ill as Amos felt. * * * * * When Amos got to his office, his sales manager was already waiting. His mind only half present, Amos sized up the stuffed briefcase and the wider-than-necessary smile as he responded automatically to the amenities. "Just get back?" he asked. "Early train. Darned planes grounded again." Detrick looked full of energy, though he'd undoubtedly rushed home, shaved, showered and changed, and hurried to the office with no rest. He sat down, extracted papers from the briefcase, and beamed, "Wrote up the Peach Association." He'll give me the good news first, Amos thought. "Fine, fine," he said. "The whole year?" "Yep. Got a check from the Almond Growers, too. All paid up now." "Good," said Amos, and waited. It came. "Say, I was talking to Frank Barnes about that new hormone he's got and he seemed a little negative about it. When do you think we can have it?" It was a temptation to answer with false optimisms and duck the issue for a while, but Amos said, "The slowest thing will be State and Federal testing and registration. I'd say not less than a year." Detrick nodded. "Competition's selling more and more stuff that's not registered." "Fly-by-night outfits and they're always getting caught." Detrick smiled. "Every night they fly away with more business." Amos managed a smile, though the argument was old and weary. "We'll put it up to Buffalo if you want to, Bill. You know I can't okay it myself."