"Definite neurotic symptoms," Mr. Ames murmured, half aloud. By Jupiter, there was only one thing to do. He shut the folder firmly and spun around to the trans-audio. A green light appeared on the panel almost immediately.
"Your connection, please?" the automon said.
"Give me the local Incubator."
There was a pause, then a click. "Federated Health and Service, coordinator speaking. May I help you?"
"Yes. This is Mr. Henry Ames, over at the Amarillo Group Project. I have a complaint to make."
"Yes?" The coordinator, a woman, was carefully polite.
"It's about the child you sent us."
"Specimen please?"
"What? Oh, it's a boy, Class Triple A, breed, nuclear chemistry. We got him about 18 months ago and—"
"What is your number please?"