“I have not broken it. The Supervisor said that the human race would no longer be under surveillance. That is a promise we have kept. I was watching your children, not you.”
It was several seconds before George understood the implications of Rashaverak’s words. Then the colour drained slowly from his face.
“You mean?. ” he gasped. His voice trailed away and he had to begin again.
“Then what in God’s name are my children?”
“That,” said Rashaverak solemnly, “is what we are trying to discover.” Jennifer Anne Greggson, lately known as the Poppet, lay on her back with her eyes tightly closed. She had not opened them for a long time; she would never open them again, for sight was now as superfluous to her as to the many-sensed creatures of the lightless ocean deeps. She was aware of the world that surrounded her: indeed, she was aware of much more than that.
One reflex remained from her brief babyhood, by some unaccountable trick of development. The rattle which had once delighted her sounded incessantly now, beating a complex, ever-changing rhythm in her cot. It was that strange syncopation which had amused Jean from her sleep and sent her flying Into the nursery. But it was not the sound alone that had started her screaming for George.
It was the sight of that commonplace, brightly coloured rattle beating steadily in airy isolation half a metre away from any support, while Jennifer Anne, her chubby fingers clasped tightly together, lay with a smile of calm contentment on her face.
She had started later, but she was progressing swiftly. Soon she would pass her brother, for she had so much less to unlearn.
“You were wise,” said Rashaverak, “not to touch her toy. I do not believe you could have moved it. But if you had succeeded, she might have been annoyed. And then, I do not know what would have happened.”
“Do you mean,” said George dully, “that you can do nothing?”