The entities were utterly, ambitiously evil; theirline of defense, apparently, was absolutely impregnable.
I'll Kill You Tomorrow
By Helen Huber
Illustrated by Kelly Freas
It was not a sinister silence.No silence is sinister until it acquiresa background of understandablemenace. Here there was onlythe night quiet of Maternity, thesilence of noiseless rubber heels onthe hospital corridor floor, thefaint brush of starched whiteskirts brushing through doorwaysinto darkened and semi-darkenedrooms.
But there was something wrongwith the silence in the "basketroom" of Maternity, the glass-walledroom containing row onrow, the tiny hopes of tomorrow.The curtain was drawn across thewindow through which, duringvisiting hours, peered the proudfathers who did the hoping. Thenight-light was dim.
The silence should not have beenthere.
Lorry Kane, standing in thedoorway, looked out over the rowsof silent baskets and felt her blondehair tighten at the roots. The tighteningcame from instinct, even beforeher brain had a chance tofunction, from the instincts andtraining of a registered nurse.
Thirty-odd babies grouped inone room and—complete silence.
Not a single whimper. Not onetiny cry of protest against the annoyingphenomenon of birth.
Thirty babies—dead? That wasthe thought that flashed, unbidden,into Lorry's pretty head. The absurdityof it followed swiftly, andLorry moved on rubber soles betweena line of baskets. She bentdown and explored with practicedfingers.
A warm, living bundle in a whitebasket.
The feeling of relief was genuine.Relief, even from an absurdity,is a welcome thing. Lorrysmiled and bent closer.
Staring up at Lorry from thebasket were two clear blue eyes.Two eyes, steady and fixed in around baby face. An immobile,pink baby face housing two blueeyes that stared up into Lorry'swith a quiet concentration thatwas chilling.
Lorry said, "What's the matterwith you?" She spoke in a whisperand was addressing herself. She'dgone short on sleep lately—the onlyway, really, to get a few hours withPete. Pete was an interne at GeneralHospital, and the kind of ahomely grinning carrot-top a girllike Lorry could put into dreams asthe center of a satisfactory future.
But all this didn't justify a caseof jitters in the "basket room."
Lorry said. "Hi, short stuff," andlifted Baby Newcomb—Male, outof his crib for a cuddling.
Baby Newcomb didn't object.The blue eyes came closer. Theweek-old eyes with the hundred-year-oldlook. Lorry laid the bundleover her shoulder and smiledinto the dimness.
"You want to be president,Shorty?" Lorry felt the warmth ofa new life, felt the little body wrigglein snug contentment. "Iwouldn't advise it. Tough job."Baby Newcomb twisted in his blanket.Lorry stiffened.
Snug contentment?
Lorry felt two tiny hands clutchand dig into her throat. Not justpawing baby hands. Little fingersthat reached and explored for thewindpipe.
She uncuddled the soft bundle,held it out. There were the eyes.She chilled. No imagination here.No spectre from lack of sleep.
Ancient murder-hatred glowingin new-born eyes.
"Careful, you fool! You'lldrop this body." A thin pipingvoice. A shrill symphony inmalevolence.
Fear weakened Lorry. She founda chair and sat down. She held theboy baby in her hands. Trainingwould not allow her to d