"For the American Dream, Buy Space Bonds!"
There was eager conviction in the lad's voice:
"Gosh, when will we make it, sir?"
Even Boss Hackett, viewing Camp Jukes in its isolated fold of the Rockland County Ramapos, marveled at the political strings Justin must have pulled to create it. Its spacious gardens studded with miniature rustic cabins stood like a last remnant of heaven in a world gone to hell. But as they watched from a rise of ground the group's calisthenics on the playing field below, Hackett burst out:
"Dammit, man! You bring me clear up here to see a couple dozen children?"
"You'd better look again," Justin said quietly. "They are not children."
Hackett glared—and gasped.
"But I can well remember when they were," Justin went on. "When I took them from various welfare bureaus, their average age was eighteen months. The girls' average height was thirty-one inches, the boys a trifle more. Well, that's still their height, but they are now twenty years old. Their bodies are of perfect proportion, and their health and I.Q. are far above the national average.
"Are you trying to tell me—" Hackett began in horror.