serve a specific function for our country”—he nodded toward General Carmody—“but we must never make the mistake of regarding them as human beings. Granted, they bear a great resemblance to our species, but genetically they are different. So I am not talking about murder, Paul. I am simply talking about plugging what could become a disastrous security leak.” He tinned his attention fully on the general now. “As far as the world knows, what we are doing is not yet possible. That gives us an advantage. It means that our country will soon be able to match biological form to technological function. We will be able to create the people we need. Except that they won’t be people. They will be living robots, designed with specific purposes in mind. It seems to me that we have no choice but to do whatever is necessary to protect the integrity of the project.”
General Carmody nodded and turned to Randolph. “The Department has a very large investment in this project, Paul. I—we expect you to do everything you can to protect that investment. Is that clear?”
“Very.” Paul Randolph sighed. “Do whatever you think is best.” In his heart, Randolph knew that he had just agreed to the murder of a nine-year-old boy.
“I don’t get it,” Mark Malone said. “None of this makes any sense at all.” He stood up, stretched, then poured himself yet one more cup of steaming hot coffee. Taking a careful sip, he glared malevolently as Carl Bronski gulped down half a cup of his remaining supply of cold brew. “Did you know that cold coffee causes cancer?” he taunted.
Carl ignored the bait. “What doesn’t make sense? It seems to me it’s all coming together.”
“It is,” Malone agreed. “And that’s what I don’t get. According to Sally, CHILD chose all these kids for their survey practically on the day they were born. They assigned the numbers, and the numbers show they assigned the children to the groups right away. And with three of the groups, there’s nothing special. But look at Group Twenty-one.”
Jim Corliss repeated what all of them had known for hours. “All the girls are dead. Every one of them, and all before the age of eleven months, and all of SIDS.”
“But nobody knows anything about SIDS,” Malone said doggedly. “It was only a year or so ago that the University of Maryland correlated hormone T-3 with the syndrome, and they still aren’t sure whether the high level of T-3 is a cause or effect. So how did CHILD know those girls were going to die?”
“Maybe they didn’t,” Lucy offered. “Maybe it’s coincidence.”
“It’s no coincidence,” Sally told her. “It can’t be. The odds are astronomical. And it’s not Just the girls,” she reminded them. “It’s some of the boys too. Particularly in the first few years. And then the boys stopped dying, but the girls didn’t.”
“And everywhere you look,” Lucy replied, “it seems to come back to Dr. Wiseman. He was the obstetrician for all forty-six children in Group Twenty-one.”
“About four a year,” Sally mused. “I wonder how many babies he actually delivers each year?”
“It was twenty-seven last year,” Malone replied. His voice suddenly turned grim. “Twenty-seven new little patients for me, and now this.”
A silence fell over the group as, once more, they tried to figure out what it could all mean. Then, as Sally started to speak, the intrusive sound of the telephone interrupted her. Jim Corliss picked it up, spoke for a moment, then handed it to Bronski.
“Bill? Is that you?” Bronski asked.
“Yeah,” the desk sergeant said. “Where the hell did you get that list of names?”
“Never mind. Have we gotten any replies?”
“From all over the place,” the sergeant replied. “And it’s weird. How many names were on that list?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve, huh? Well, eight of ’em are listed as runaways. From towns all over the country.”
“Runaways?” Carl echoed. Lucy Corliss unconsciously moved closer to her ex-husband.
“That’s right All those cases are still open, and none of them have turned up in the morgues.”
“Give me the names and the dates they disappeared.” As the desk sergeant droned out the list, Bronski scribbled names and numbers on a piece of paper. “Got it,” he said, handing the paper to Malone, who immediately started annotating the correlation sheets. “Thanks a lot, Bill, and if any—”
“Carl, there’s more,” the sergeant interrupted. The timbre of his voice had changed. Bronski felt his body tense.
“What is it?”
“The rest of them are dead.”
“Dead?” Bronski repeated. “With police reports on them? You mean homicides?”
“Apparently