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tor and slapped it into a lusty bawling, the Senior Mistress of Applied Cytology visited the underground laboratory. Her square jaw was firm and unsympathetic, and her eyes cold. Cordelia sensed, in subdued alarm, a certain critical quality in her attitude.

The Mistress inspected the child, but betrayed no reaction.

"Weight?" she enquired.

"Eight pounds, four ounces," Cordelia announced proudly, as if she personally had given birth to the baby.

The Mistress's eyes traveled the length of the tiny male in the enclosed plastic crib.

"There's no denying the maleness."

Cordelia said nothing; there was an acrid quality in her superior's voice that she did not like. Two or three of the other scientists had gathered round to hear the Mistress's comments. They were impassive in their attitude: the baby might have been a stained specimen on a microscope slide for all the human interest that was apparent in their eyes. Cordelia began to feel angry, and, more surprisingly, protective towards the infant under scrutiny.

"During the past weeks," said the Mistress, "test four-six-five has been discussed at high level throughout the world. A very high level, if I may say so. Needless to say our executive scientists and politicians have acted in close liaison with the world electronic brain network, so you will appreciate that any decision they have reached is the result of long and careful consideration."

Cordelia found herself resenting the label that had been attached to her baby—test four-six-five—and, fearing the somber implication of the word "decision," she said nothing; but waited for the Mistress to continue.

"You will understand that for a long, long time the principal object of scientific research in our world of today has been"—she waved a hand idly towards the crib—"this. What