Brenner puffed at the proffered cigar. Something was wrong here—the alien could not be this obvious in his working. Brenner's mind steadily refused to accept the thing that stood before him.
The figure cocked an eye at him. "If you don't get back to the station," it said, "you'll never see Barbara again. Or the kid. You know that, don't you? And you want to see Barbara don't you? Don't you?"
Brenner did not answer.
The figure smiled. "Well, you can see her, if you want to. Right now." And the figure's body and face grew smaller, softened in their lines, and the clothing it wore changed from a severe blue uniform to a light blue dress. "Hello, Will," said Barbara's figure.
Brenner still kept silent, staring at the woman's form before him. It was so like her—and in its arms it held a small bundle, which gurgled softly. Brenner's eyes fell to this bundle.
Barbara's figure saw the direction of his glance. "You haven't seen the baby yet, have you, Will?" she said, moving toward him. "Look." She held the small bundle out toward him.
But as she did, one of her hands dug into the blankets wrapped around the tiny form, wrenched the form from those blankets, and threw it to the floor. Barbara's face, now covered with a too-wide grin, looked up at Brenner as her feet stamped the small figure to a red pulp. "Look, Will," she said, and laughed, stretching her mouth wider, wider, until her face was distorted completely out of shape, and her black hair streamed wildly in the air.
