It was always disappointing to the Rosen family that Chester's eyes are set beneath his nose, and his mouth is up where his eyes ought to be. But blame H-bomb testing in the 'fifties and 'sixties for him--and all the others similar to him in the world today. I can remember, as a kid, reading the many medical books on birth defects--the topic has naturally interested many people for a couple of decades, now--and there are some that make Chester nothing at all. One that always threw me into a week-long depression is where the embryo disintegrates in the womb and is born in pieces, a jaw, an arm, handful of teeth, separate fingers. Like one of those plastic kits out of which boys build a model airplane. Only, the pieces of the embryo don't add up to anything; there's no glue in this world to stick it together.

And there're embryos with hair growing all over them, like a slipper made from yak fur. And one that dries up so that the skin cracks; it looks like it's been maturing outdoors on the back step in the sun. So lay off Chester.

The Jaguar had halted at the curb before the family house, and there we were. I could see lights on inside the house, in the living room; my mother, father and brother were watching TV.

"Let's send the Edwin M. Stanton up the stairs alone," Maury said. "Have it knock on the door, and we'll sit here in the car and watch."

"My dad'll recognize it as a phony," I said, "a mile away. In fact he'll probably kick it back down the steps, and you'll be out the six hundred it cost you." Or whatever it was Maury had paid for it, and no doubt charged against MASA's assets.

"I'll take the chance," Maury said, holding the back door of the car open so that the contraption could get out. To it he said, "Go up there to where it says 1429 and ring the bell. And when the man comes to the door, you say, 'Now he belongs to the ages.' And then just stand."