"What do we plan to do? That's quite simple. These material entities will grow. We will remain attached—ingrained, so to speak. When the bodies enlarge sufficiently ..."
"Thirty potential assassins...." Lorry spoke again to herself, then hurled the words back into her own mind as her sickness deepened.
The shrill chirping: "What do you mean, potential? The word expresses a doubt. Here there is none." The entity's chuckle sounded like a baby, content over a full bottle. "Thirty certain assassins."
"But why must you kill?"
Lorry was sure the tiny shoulders shrugged. "Why? I don't know. I never thought to wonder. Why must you join with a man and propagate some day? Why do you feel sorry for what you term an unfortunate? Explain your instincts and I'll explain mine."
Lorry felt herself rising. Stiffly, she put Baby Newcomb back into his basket. As she did so, a ripple of shrill, jerky laughter crackled through the room. Lorry put her hands to her ears. "You know I can't say anything. You'd keep quiet. They'd call me mad."
"Precisely."
Malicious laughter, like driven sleet, cut into her ears as she fled from the room.
Peter Larchmont, M.D., was smoking a quick cigarette by an open fire-escape door on the third floor. He turned as Lorry came down the corridor, flipped his cigarette down into the alley and grinned. "Women shouldn't float on rubber heels," he said. "A man should have warning."