Tommy picked up the big magnifying glass from the desk. He examined the surface of the desk with it, studying the wood. After a moment he put down the glass and picked up the bone letter knife. He put down the letter knife and examined the broken magic lantern in the corner. The frame of dead butterflies. The drooping stuffed bird. The bottles of chemicals.
He left the room, going out onto the roof porch. The late afternoon sunlight flickered fitfully; the sun was going down. In the center of the porch was a wooden frame, dirt and grass heaped around it. Along the rail were big earthen jars, sacks of fertilizer, damp packages of seeds. An over-turned spray gun. A dirty trowel. Strips of carpet and a rickety chair. A sprinkling can.
Over the wood frame was a wire netting. Tommy bent down, peering through the netting. He saw plants, small plants in rows. Some moss, growing on the ground. Tangled plants, tiny and very intricate.
At one place some dried grass was heaped up in a pile. Like some sort of cocoon.
Bugs? Insects of some sort? Animals?
He took a straw and poked it through the netting at the dried grass. The grass stirred. Something was in it. There were other cocoons, several of them, here and there among the plants.
He took a straw and poked it through the netting at the dried grass. The grass stirred. Something was in it. There were other cocoons, several of them, here and there among the plants.
Tommy leaned closer, squinting excitedly through the netting, trying to see what they were. Hairless. Some kind of hairless animals. But tiny, tiny as grasshoppers. Baby things? His pulse raced wildly. Baby things or maybe -
A sound. He turned quickly, rigid.
Edward Billings stood at the door, gasping for breath. He set down the pail of dirt, sighing and feeling for his handkerchief in the pocket of his dark blue coat. He mopped his forehead silently, gazing at the boy standing by the frame.
"Who are you, young man?" Billings said, after a moment. "I don't remember seeing you before."
Tommy shook his head. "No."
"What are you doing here?"
"Nothing."
"Would you like to carry this pail out onto the porch for me? It's heavier than I realized."
Tommy stood for a moment. Then he came over and picked up the pail. He carried it out onto the roof porch and put it down by the wood frame.
"Thank you," Billings said. "I appreciate that." His keen, faded-blue eyes flickered as he studied the boy, his gaunt face shrewd, yet not unkind. "You look pretty strong to me. How old are you? About eleven?"
Tommy nodded. He moved back toward the railing. Below, two or three stories down, was the street. Mr Murphy was walking along, coming home from the office. Some kids were playing at the corner. A young woman across the street was watering her lawn, a blue sweater around her slim shoulders. He was fairly safe. If the old man tried to do anything -
"Why did you come here?" Billings asked.
Tommy said nothing. They stood looking at each other, the stooped old man, immense in his dark old-fashioned suit, the young boy in a red sweater and jeans, a beanie cap on his head, tennis shoes and freckles. Presently Tommy glanced toward the wood frame covered with netting, then up at Billings.
"That? You wanted to see that?"
"What's in there? What are they?"
"They?"
"The things. Bugs? I never saw anything like them. What are they?"
Billings walked slowly over. He bent down and unfastened the corner of the netting. "I'll show you what they are. If you're interested." He twisted the netting loose and pulled it back.
Tommy came over, his eyes wide.
"Well?" Billings said presently. "You can see what they are."
Tommy whistled softly. "I thought maybe they were." He straightened up slowly, his face pale. "I thought maybe -- but I wasn't sure. Little tiny men!"
"Not exactly," Mr Billings said. He sat down heavily in the rickety chair. From his coat he took a pipe and a worn tobacco pouch. He filled the pipe slowly, shaking tobacco into it. "Not exactly men."
Tommy continued to gaze down into the frame. The cocoons were tiny huts, put together by the little men. Some of them had come out in the open now. They gazed up at him, standing together. Tiny pink creatures, two inches high. Naked. That was why they were pink.
"Look closer," Billings murmured. "Look at their heads. What do you see?"
"They're so small --"
"Go get the glass from the desk. The big magnifying glass." He watched Tommy hurry into the study and come out quickly with the glass. "Now tell me what you see."
Tommy examined the figures through the glass. They seemed to be men, all right. Arms, legs -some were women. Their heads. He squinted. And then recoiled.
"What's the matter?" Billings grunted.
"What's the matter?" Billings grunted.
"Queer?" Billings smiled. "Well, it all depends on what you're used to. They're different -- from you. But they're not queer. There's nothing wrong with them. At least, I hope there's nothing wrong." His smile faded, and he sat sucking on his pipe, deep in silent thought.
"Did you make them?" Tommy asked.
"I?" Billings removed his pipe. "No, not I."
"Where did you get them?"
"They were lent to me. A trial group. In fact, the trial group. They're new. Very new."
"You want -- you want to sell one of them?"
Billings laughed. "No, I don't. Sorry. I have to keep them."
Tommy nodded, resuming his study. Through the glass he could see their heads clearly. They were not quite men. From the front of each forehead antennae sprouted, tiny wire-like projections ending in knobs. Like the vanes of insects he had seen. They were not men, but they were similar to men. Except for the antennae they seemed normal -- the antennae and their extreme minuteness.
"Did they come from another planet?" Tommy asked. "From Mars? Venus?"
"No."
"Where, then?"
"That's a hard question to answer. The question has no meaning, not in connection with them."
"What's the report for?"
"The report?"
"In there. The big book with all the facts. The thing you're doing."
"I've been working on that a long time."
"How long?"
Billings smiled. "That can't be answered, either. It has no meaning. But a long time indeed. I'm getting near the end, though."
"What are you going to do with it? When it's finished."
"Turn it over to my superiors."
"Who are they?"
"You wouldn't know them."
"Where are they? Are they here in town?"
"Yes. And no. There's no way to answer that. Maybe someday you'll --"
"The report's about us," Tommy said.
Billings turned his head. His keen eyes bored into Tommy. "Oh?"
"It's about us. The report. The book."
"How do you know?"
"I looked at it. I saw the title on the back. It's about the earth, isn't it?"
Billings nodded. "Yes. It's about the earth."
"You're not from here, are you? You're from someplace else. Outside the system."
"How -- how do you know that?"
Tommmy grinned with superior pride. "I can tell. I have ways."
"How much did you see in the report?"
"Not much. What's it for? Why are you making it? What are they going to do with it?"
Billings considered a long time before he answered. At last he spoke. "That," he said, 'depends on those." He gestured toward the wood frame. "What they do with the report depends on how Project C works."
"Project C?"
"The third project. There've been only two others before. They wait a long time. Each project is planned carefully. New factors are considered at great length before any decision is reached."
"Two others?"