Dayton had forgotten all the others. David Lombardy was his nemesis and he must catch him. He raced across the dry baked ground after the little boy, red with frustration and exertion.
At last he had clutched the little shoulder, and without rational thought, had shaken the boy, his eyes clouded with rage, biting back the words that threatened to pour out.
Damn them! Damn this boy, in particular! When did he discover ... how will we ever keep them under control? They're so young, such kids, to have so much power over us. We might have known this would happen!
Then David Lombardy had looked up at the anger-ridden features of his teacher. "Bubble-head!" he laughed, pointing to the globe which held Dayton's air. "Bubble-head!"
The other children had picked up the cruel name immediately. Like all seven-year-olds, they had little sense of kindness in them. They were just young animals. But they knew, then, that they had an advantage. They knew they could breathe where Dayton and the others never could, and never would.
By punishment, the scientists had managed to repress the name of "Bubble-head." It had never been uttered outright since that day. But, always, Dayton felt that the growing children remembered, and remembered clearly.
Was it since that day? Or was it since the day when, at age thirteen, David Lombardy had walked up to him and said: "We look different. We talk different. You wanted us to be different, didn't you?"
"Yes, David, that's true." Even then, Dayton had felt a tremor of something half-expected, half-feared. "Why?"
"Well, then, you can't expect us to have the same names as all of you. We want our own names, different from any others."