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a long lecture on the birth-mechanisms, how they helped a woman in her labor, and how, this time, they short-circuited. There was another man of scientific means present and he gave her a dry little talk on dimensions, holding up his fingers, so! one, two, three, and four. Still another man talked of energy and matter. Another spoke of underprivileged children.
    Polly finally sat up in bed and said, "What's all the talk for? What's wrong with my baby that you should all be talking so long?"
    Wolcott told her.
    "Of course, you can wait a week and see it," he said. "Or you can sign over guardianship of the child to the Institute."
    "There's only one thing I want to know," said Polly.
    Dr. Wolcott raised his brows.
    "Did I make the child that way?" asked Polly.
    "You most certainly did not !"
    "The child isn't a monster, genetically?" asked Polly.
    "The child was thrust into another continuum. Otherwise, it is perfectly normal."
    Polly's tight, lined mouth relaxed. She said, simply, "Then bring me my baby. I want to see him. Please. Now."
    They brought the "child."
    The Horns left the hospital the next day. Polly walked out on her own two good legs, with Peter Horn following her, looking at her in quiet amazement.
    They did not have the baby with them. That would come later. Horn helped his wife into their helicopter and sat beside her. He lifted the ship, whirring, into the warm air.
    "You're a wonder," he said.
    "Am I?" she said, lighting a cigarette.
    "You are. You didn't cry. You didn't do anything."
    "He's not so bad, you know," she said. "Once you get to know him. I can even—hold him in my arms. He's warm and he cries and he even needs his triangular diapers." Here she laughed. He noticed a nervous tremor in the laugh, however. "No, I didn't cry, Pete, because that's my baby. Or he will be. He isn't dead, I thank God for that. He's—I don't know how to explain—still unborn. I like to think he hasn't been born yet. We're waiting for him to show up. I have confidence in Dr. Wolcott. Haven't you?"
    "You're right. You're right." He reached over and held her hand. "You know something? You're a peach."
    "I can hold on," she said, sitting there looking ahead as the green country swung under them. "As long as I know something good will happen, I won't let it hurt or shock me. I'll wait six months, and then maybe I'll kill myself."
    "Polly!"
    She looked at him as if he'd just come in. "Pete, I'm sorry. But this sort of thing doesn't happen. Once it's over and the baby is finally 'born' I'll forget it so quick it'll never have occurred. But if the doctor can't help us, then a mind can't take it, a mind can only tell the body to climb out on a roof and jump."
    "Things'll be all right," he said, holding to the guide-wheel. "They have to be."
    She said nothing, but let the cigarette smoke blow out of her mouth in the pounding concussion of the helicopter fan.
    Three weeks passed. Every day they flew in to the Institute to visit "Py." For that was the quiet calm name that Polly Horn gave to the blue pyramid that lay on the warm sleeping-table and blinked up at them. Dr. Wolcott was careful to point out that the habits of the "child" were as normal as any others; so many hours sleep, so many awake, so much attentiveness, so much boredom, so much food, so much elimination. Polly Horn listened, and her face softened and her eyes warmed.
    At the end of the third week, Dr. Wolcott said, "Feel up to taking him home now? You live in the country, don't you? All right, you have an enclosed patio, he can be out there in the sunlight, on occasion. He needs a mother's love. That's trite, but nevertheless true. He should be suckled. We have an arangement where he's been fed by the new feed-mech; cooing voice, warmth, hands, and all." Dr. Wolcott's voice was dry. "But still I feel you are familiar enough with him now to know he's a pretty healthy child. Are you game, Mrs. Horn?"
    "Yes, I'm game."'
    "Good. Bring him in every third day for a