Isaac Asimov: The Ugly Little Boy

The newsman, Deveney, approached and said, “I’ll hold him, Miss. You won’t get it on yourself.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Fellowes. And it was a battle indeed, but the nightgown went on, and when the boy made as though to rip it off, she slapped his hand sharply.

The boy reddened, but did not cry. He stared at her and the splayed fingers of one hand moved slowly across the flannel of the nightgown, feeling the strangeness of it.

Miss Fellowes thought desperately: Well, what next?

Everyone seemed in suspended animation, waiting for her—even the ugly little boy.

Miss Fellowes said sharply, “Have you provided food? Milk?”

They had. A mobile unit was wheeled in, with its refrigeration compartment containing three quarts of milk, with a warming unit and a supply of fortifications in the form of vitamin drops, copper-cobalt-iron syrup and others she had no time to be concerned with. There was a variety of canned self-warming junior foods.

She used milk, simply milk, to begin with. The radar unit heated the milk to a set temperature in a matter of ten seconds and clicked off, and she put some in a saucer. She had a certainty about the boy’s savagery. He wouldn’t know how to handle a cup.

Miss Fellowes nodded and said to the boy, “Drink. Drink.” She made a gesture as though to raise the milk to her mouth. The boy’s eyes followed but he made no move.

Suddenly, the nurse resorted to direct measures. She seized the boy’s upper arm in one hand and dipped the other in the milk. She dashed the milk across his lips, so that it dripped down cheeks and receding chin.

For a moment, the child uttered a high-pitched cry, then his tongue moved over his wetted lips. Miss Fellowes stepped back.

The boy approached the saucer, bent toward it, then looked up and behind sharply as though expecting a crouching enemy; bent again and licked at the milk eagerly, like a cat. He made a slurping noise. He did not use his hands to lift the saucer.

Miss Fellowes allowed a bit of the revulsion she felt show on her face. She couldn’t help it.

Deveney caught that, perhaps. He said, “Does the nurse know, Dr. Hoskins?”

“Know what?” demanded Miss Fellowes.

Deveney hesitated, but Hoskins (again that look of detached amusement on his face) said, “Well, tell her.”

Deveney addressed Miss Fellowes. “You may not suspect it, Miss, but you happen to be the first civilized woman in history ever to be taking care of a Neanderthal youngster.”

She turned on Hoskins with a kind of controlled ferocity. “You might have told me, Doctor.”

“Why? What difference does it make?”

“You said a child.”

“Isn’t that a child? Have you ever had a puppy or a kitten, Miss Fellowes? Are those closer to the human? If that were a baby chimpanzee, would you be repelled? You’re a nurse, Miss Fellowes. Your record places you in a maternity ward for three years. Have you ever refused to take care of a deformed infant?”

Miss Fellowes felt her case slipping away. She said, with much less decision, “You might have told me.”

“And you would have refused the position? Well, do you refuse it now?” He gazed at her coolly, while Deveney watched from the other side of the room, and the Neanderthal child, having finished the milk and licked the plate, looked up at her with a wet face and wide, longing eyes.

The boy pointed to the milk and suddenly burst out in a short series of sounds repeated over and over; sounds made up of gutturals and elaborate tongue-clickings.

Miss Fellowes said, in surprise, “Why, he talks.”

“Of course,” said Hoskins. “Homo neanderthalensis is not a truly separate species, but rather a subspecies of Homo sapiens. Why shouldn’t he talk? He’s probably asking for more milk.”

Automatically, Miss Fellowes reached for the bottle of milk, but Hoskins seized her wrist. “Now, Miss Fellowes, before we go any further, are you staying on the job?”

Miss Fellowes shook free in annoyance, “Won’t you feed him if I don’t? I’ll stay with him—for a while.”

She poured the milk.

Hoskins said, “We are going to leave you with the boy, Miss Fellowes. This is the only door to Stasis Number One and it is elaborately locked and guarded. I’ll want you to learn the details of the lock which will, of course, be keyed to your fingerprints as they are already keyed to mine. The spaces overhead” (he looked upward to the open ceilings of the dollhouse) “are also guarded and we will be warned if anything untoward takes place in here.”

Miss Fellowes said indignantly, “You mean I’ll be under view.” She thought suddenly of her own survey of the room interiors from the balcony.

“No, no,” said Hoskins seriously, “your privacy will be respected completely. The view will consist of electronic symbolism only, which only a computer will deal with. Now you will stay with him tonight, Miss Fellowes, and every night until further notice. You will be relieved during the day according to some schedule you will find convenient. We will allow you to arrange that.”

Miss Fellowes looked about the dollhouse with a puzzled expression. “But why all this, Dr. Hoskins? Is the boy dangerous?”

“It’s a matter of energy, Miss Fellowes. He must never be allowed to leave these rooms. Never. Not for an instant. Not for any reason. Not to save his life. Not even to save your life, Miss Fellowes. Is that clear?”

Miss Fellowes raised her chin. “I understand the orders, Dr. Hoskins, and the nursing profession is accustomed to placing its duties ahead of self-preservation.”

“Good. You can always signal if you need anyone.” And the two men left.

Miss Fellowes turned to the boy. He was watching her and there was still milk in the saucer. Laboriously, she tried to show him how to lift the saucer and place it to his lips. He resisted, but let her touch him without crying out.

Always, his frightened eyes were on her, watching, watching for the one false move. She found herself soothing him, trying to move her hand very slowly toward his hair, letting him see it every inch of the way, see there was no harm in it.

And she succeeded in stroking his hair for an instant.

She said, “I’m going to have to show you how to use the bathroom. Do you think you can learn?”

She spoke quietly, kindly, knowing he would not understand the words but hoping he would respond to the calmness of the tone.

The boy launched into a clicking phrase again.

She said, “May I take your hand?”

She held out hers and the boy looked at it. She left it outstretched and waited. The boy’s own hand crept forward toward hers.

“That’s right,” she said.

It approached within an inch of hers and then the boy’s courage failed him. He snatched it back.

“Well,” said Miss Fellowes calmly, “we’ll try again later. Would you like to sit down here?” She patted the mattress of the bed.

The hours passed slowly and progress was minute. She did not succeed either with bathroom or with the bed. In fact, after the child had given unmistakable signs of sleepiness he lay down on the bare ground and then, with a quick movement, rolled beneath the bed.

She bent to look at him and his eyes gleamed out at her as he tongue-clicked at her.

“All right,” she said, “if you feel safer there, you sleep there.”

She closed the door to the bedroom and retired to the cot that had been placed for her use in the largest room. At her insistence, a make-shift canopy had been stretched over it. She thought: Those stupid men will have to place a mirror in this room and a larger chest of drawers and a separate washroom if they expect me to spend nights here.

It was difficult to sleep. She found herself straining to hear possible sounds in the next room. He couldn’t get out, could he? The walls were sheer and impossibly high but suppose the child could climb like a monkey? Well, Hoskins said there were observational devices watching through the ceiling.