"As if YOU don't tamper with children," she shouted.
"—and it is the order that there be no appeal from this verdict."
Miss Hippiness sat straighter. In the 20th Century, no matter what—for gangster, for statesman, for teacher—there would have been an appeal, and even another appeal, and perhaps another appeal. Life was still rich and treasured in the 20th Century.
So she held the 20th Century before her angry eyes, letting it blot out the dirty old disintegrator in its corner. How had they learned what she was doing to the sweet children?
Holmes Oneholmes' voice changed texture.
"Miss Hippiness they call you now," he said, almost fondly. "We had another name for you years ago." Almost a chuckle. "It was even better than Miss Hippiness. Don't hate little Charley, Miss Hippiness. He is an android, naturally. We had him made last year after the Freudists began picking up troublesome things in the dreams of the children you've had in class. Charley has been our wiretap, Miss Hippiness."
The old teacher's eyes clamped on Charley Tencharles. But then they softened. She shook her head. It made no difference. If they had allowed her to have a son—
"We caught an affection beyond affection," Holmes Oneholmes was saying, "in your voice when you talked to our android. So, since he has finished his service to us, we—I—decided to send him back to you, Miss Hippiness. He will march into the disintegrator with you."
A faint click told her the recording inside Charley had played itself out. Charley moved almost immediately. His eyes came down from the high wall to her face.