"Neutroid trouble."
"You meet up with a lot of unpleasantness in this business, don't you?"
"Lot of unpleasant emotions tangled up in it," he admitted.
"I know. Well, supper's been keeping hot for two hours. Shall we eat?"
They went to bed at midnight, but it was after one when he became certain that his wife was asleep. He lay in darkness for a time, listening to her even breathing. Then he cautiously eased himself out of bed and tiptoed quietly through the door, carrying his shoes and trousers. He put them on in the kitchen and stole silently out to the kennels. A half moon hung low in a misty sky, and the wind was chilly out of the north.
He went into the neutroid room and flicked a switch. A few sleepy chatters greeted the light.
One at a time, he awoke twenty-three of the older doll-things and carried them to a large glass-walled compartment. These were the long-time residents; they knew him well, and they came with him willingly—like children after the Piper of Hamlin. When he had gotten them in the glass chamber, he sealed the door and turned on the gas. The conveyor would automatically carry them on to the incinerator.
Now he had enough cages for the Bermuda-K-99s.
He hurriedly quit the kennels and went to sit on the back steps. His eyes were burning, but the thought of tears made him sicker. It was like an assassin crying while he stabbed his victim. It was more honest just to retch.