“They’re—they’re real. They’re alive!” said Harold Potter hoarsely. That was the thing about them. They had the elusive quality of life about them—and of course they were thus infinitely more terrifying than the prop department’s fake monsters.
“They’re alive all right,” said Dr. Mildume chattily. “Took me quite a bit of experimenting to discover what to feed them. They like glass—broken glass. They’re evidently a silicon rather than a carbon form of life.”
“This I’ll buy,” said Mr. Untz, still staring.
“Of course,” said Mildume. “I knew you would. They will cost you exactly ten thousand dollars per day. Per twenty-four hour period.”
“Profiteer—burglar!” said Mr. Untz, glaring at Mildume.
Mildume shrugged.
There was an abrupt, high-pitched squeak. Harold stared at the monsters. The smaller one was quivering.
“They do that when they’re angry,” Dr. Mildume said. “Some sort of skin vibration. This smaller one here seems to take the initiative in things. Must be a male. Unless there’s female dominance, as in birds of prey, wherever these things come from. I’ve—uh—been unable to ascertain 55 which is which, if any.”
Mr. Untz frowned suddenly. “Look—just how dangerous are these things?”
“Don’t know exactly,” said Dr. Mildume. “A pigeon got too near the cages the other day. They seemed to enjoy it. Although, as I say, their staple appears to be silicon forms. I carelessly set a Weston analyzer too near them the other day and they had it for lunch.”