Isaac Asimov: The Ugly Little Boy

Miss Fellowes was herself all but savage with waiting. When young Jerry Hoskins showed up for his scheduled playtime with Timmie, she scarcely recognized him. He was not the one she was waiting for.

(The secretary who brought him left hurriedly after the barest nod for Miss Fellowes. She was rushing for a good place from which to watch the climax of Project Middle Ages.—And so ought Miss Fellowes with far better reason, she thought bitterly, if only that stupid girl would arrive.)

Jerry Hoskins sidled toward her, embarrassed. “Miss Fellowes?” He took the reproduction of a news-strip out of his pocket.

“Yes? What is it, Jerry?”

“Is this a picture of Timmie?”

Miss Fellowes stared at him, then snatched the strip from Jerry’s hand. The excitement of Project Middle Ages had brought about a pale revival of interest in Timmie on the part of the press.

Jerry watched her narrowly, then said, “It says Timmie is an ape-boy. What does that mean?”

Miss Fellowes caught the youngster’s wrist and repressed the impulse to shake him. “Never say that, Jerry, Never, do you understand? It is a nasty word and you mustn’t use it.”

Jerry struggled out of her grip, frightened.

Miss Fellowes tore up the news-strip with a vicious twist of the wrist. “Now go inside and play with Timmie. He’s got a new book to show you.”

And then, finally, the girl appeared. Miss Fellowes did not know her. None of the usual stand-ins she had used when businesss took her elsewhere was available now, not with Project Middle Ages at climax, but Hoskins’ secretary had promised to find someone and this must be the girl.

Miss Fellowes tried to keep querulousness out of her voice. “Are you the girl assigned to Stasis Section One?”

“Yes, I’m Mandy Terris. You’re Miss Fellowes, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m sorry I’m late. There’s just so much excitement.”

“I know. Now I want you—”

Mandy said, “You’ll be watching, I suppose.” Her thin, vacuously pretty face filled with envy.

“Never mind that. Now I want you to come inside and meet Timmie and Jerry. They will be playing for the next two hours so they’ll be giving you no trouble. They’ve got milk handy and plenty of toys. In fact, it will be better if you leave them alone as much as possible. Now I’ll show you where everything is located and—”

“Is it Timmie that’s the ape-b—”

“Timmie is the Stasis subject,” said Miss Fellowes firmly.

“I mean, he’s the one who’s not supposed to get out, is that right?”

“Yes. Now, come in. There isn’t much time.”

And when she finally left, Mandy Terris called after her shrilly, “I hope you get a good seat and, golly, I sure hope it works.”

Miss Fellowes did not trust herself to make a reasonable response. She hurried on without looking back.

But the delay meant she did not get a good seat. She got no nearer than the wall-viewing-plate in the assembly hall. Bitterly, she regretted that. If she could have been on the spot; if she could somehow have reached out for some sensitive portion of the instrumentations; if she were in some way able to wreck the experiment—

She found the strength to beat down her madness. Simple destruction would have done no good. They would have rebuilt and reconstructed and made the effort again. And she would never be allowed to return to Timmie.

Nothing would help. Nothing but that the experiment itself fail; that it break down irretrievably.

So she waited through the countdown, watching every move on the giant screen, scanning the faces of the technicians as the focus shifted from one to the other, watching for the look of worry and uncertainty that would mark something going unexpectedly wrong; watching, watching—

There was no such look. The count reached zero, and very quietly, very unassumingly, the experiment succeeded!

In the new Stasis that had been established there stood a bearded, stoop-shouldered peasant of indeterminate age, in ragged dirty clothing and wooden shoes, staring in dull horror at the sudden mad change that had flung itself over him.

And while the world went mad with jubilation, Miss Fellowes stood frozen in sorrow, jostled and pushed, all but trampled; surrounded by triumph while bowed down with defeat.

And when the loud-speaker called her name with strident force, it sounded it three times before she responded.

“Miss Fellowes. Miss Fellowes. You are wanted in Stasis Section One immediately. Miss Fellowes. Miss Fell—”

“Let me through!” she cried breathlessly, while the loud-speaker continued its repetitions without pause. She forced her way through the crowds with wild energy, beating at it, striking out with closed fists, flailing, moving toward the door in a nightmare slowness.

Mandy Terris was in tears. “I don’t know how it happened. I just went down to the edge of the corridor to watch a pocket-viewing-plate they had put up. Just for a minute. And then before I could move or do anything—” She cried out in sudden accusation, “You said they would make no trouble; you said to leave them alone—”

Miss Fellowes, disheveled and trembling uncontrollably, glared at her. “Where’s Timmie?”

A nurse was swabbing the arm of a wailing Jerry with disinfectant and another was preparing an anti-tetanus shot. There was blood on Jerry’s clothes.

“He bit me, Miss Fellowes,” Jerry cried in rage. “He bit me.”

But Miss Fellowes didn’t even see him.

“What did you do with Timmie?” she cried out.

“I locked him in the bathroom,” said Mandy. “I just threw the little monster in there and locked him in.”

Miss Fellowes ran into the dollhouse. She fumbled at the bathroom door. It took an eternity to get it open and to find the ugly little boy cowering in the corner.

“Don’t whip me, Miss Fellowes,” he whispered. His eyes were red. His lips were quivering. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Oh, Timmie, who told you about whips?” She caught him to her, hugging him wildly.

He said tremulously, “She said, with a long rope. She said you would hit me and hit me.”

“You won’t be. She was wicked to say so. But what happened? What happened?”

“He called me an ape-boy. He said I wasn’t a real boy. He said I was an animal.” Timmie dissolved in a flood of tears. “He said he wasn’t going to play with a monkey anymore. I said I wasn’t a monkey; I wasn’t a monkey.

He said I was all funny-looking. He said I was horrible ugly. He kept saying and saying and I bit him.”

They were both crying now. Miss Fellowes sobbed, “But it isn’t true. You know that, Timmie. You’re a real boy. You’re a dear real boy and the best boy in the world. And no one, no one will ever take you away from me.”

It was easy to make up her mind, now; easy to know what to do. Only it had to be done quickly. Hoskins wouldn’t wait much longer, with his own son mangled—

No, it would have to be done this night, this night; with the place four-fifths asleep and the remaining fifth intellectually drunk over Project Middle Ages.

It would be an unusual time for her to return but not an unheard of one. The guard knew her well and would not dream of questioning her. He would think nothing of her carrying a suitcase. She rehearsed the noncommittal phrase, “Games for the boy,” and the calm smile.

Why shouldn’t he believe that?

He did. When she entered the dollhouse again, Timmie was still awake, and she maintained a desperate normality to avoid frightening him. She talked about his dreams with him and listened to him ask wistfully after Jerry.

There would be few to see her afterward, none to question the bundle she would be carrying. Timmie would be very quiet and then it would be a fait accompli. It would be done and what would be the use of trying to undo it. They would leave her be. They would leave them both be.