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been something else entirely. It was impossible to tell how many times he did
it: perhaps eight, perhaps ten.
"Did you see?" Miss Fellowes asked. "Eighty, ninety, a hundred people, I think
he's saying this time. If he's really answering the question at all." "The
number was smaller before." "I know. This is what he's saying now." "It's
impossible. A tribe that primitive couldn't have more than thirty! At most."
Miss Fellowes shrugged. If they wanted to taint the evidence with their own
preconceptions, that wasn't her problem. "Then put down thirty. You're asking
a child who was only around three years old to give you a census report. He's
only guessing, and the amazing thing is that he can even guess what we're
trying to get him to tell us. And he may not be. What makes you think he knows
how to count? That he even understands the concept of number?"
"But he does understand it, doesn't he?" "About as well as any five-
year-old does. Ask the next five-year-old how many people he thinks live on
his street, and see what he tells you." "Well- "
The other questions produced results nearly as uncertain. Tribal structure?
Miss Fellowes managed to extract from Timmie, after a lot of
to know. Timmie didn't know what a wife was.
- How was the chief chosen? Timmie couldn't understand the question. -
What about religious beliefs and practices?
Miss Fellowes was able, by dint of giving Timmie all sorts of scientifically
dubious prompting, to get some sort of description from the boy of a holy
place made of rocks, which he had been forbidden to go near, and a cult which
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might or might not have been run by a high priestess. She was sure it was a
priestess, not a priest, because he kept pointing to her as he spoke; but
whether he really understood what she was trying to learn from him was
something not at all certain to her.
"If only they had managed to bring a child who was older than this across
time!" the anthropologists kept lamenting. "Or a full-grown
Neanderthal, for God's sake! If only! If only! How maddening, to have nothing
but an ignorant little boy as our one source of information."
"I'm sure it is," Miss Fellowes agreed, without much compassion in her tone of
voice. "But that ignorant little boy is one more Neanderthal than any of you
ever expected to have a chance to interrogate. Never in your wildest dreams
did you think you'd have any Neanderthals at all to talk to."
"Even so! If only! If only!"
"If only, yes," said Miss Fellowes, and told them that their time for
interviewing Timmie was over for that day.
confusion. Hoskins wasn't alone. A pale woman, slender and of middle height,
was with him, hovering at the threshold of the Stasis zone. Her fair hair and
complexion gave her an appearance of fragility. Her eyes, a very light blue in
color, were searching worriedly over Miss Fellowes' shoulders, looking
diligently for something, flickering uneasily around the room as though she
expected a savage gorilla to jump out from behind the door to Timmie's
playroom.
Hoskins said, "Miss Fellowes, this is my wife, Annette. Dear, you can step
inside. It's perfectly safe. You'll feel a trifling discomfort at the
threshold, but it passes. -1 want you to meet Miss Fellowes, who has been in
charge of the boy since the night he came here."
(So this was his wife? She wasn't much like what Miss Fellowes would have
expected Hoskins' wife to be; but then, she considered, she had never really
had any clear expectations of what Hoskins' wife ought to be like. Someone
more substantial, a little less fidgety, than this all too obviously
ill-at-ease woman, at any rate. But, then, why? A strong-willed man like
Hoskins might have preferred to choose a weak thing as his foil.
Well, if that was what he wanted, so be it. On the other hand, Miss
Fellowes had imagined Hoskins' wife would be young, young and sleek and
glamorous, the usual sort of second wife that she had been told successful
"Call me Annette, Miss Fellowes. Everyone does. And your name is-"
Hoskins cut in quickly. "What's Timmie doing, Miss Fellowes? Taking a nap? I'd
like my wife to meet him."
"He's in his room," Miss Fellowes said. "Reading."
Annette Hoskins gave a short, sharp, almost derisive-sounding laugh.
"He can read?"
"Simple picture books, Mrs. Hoskins. With short captions. He's not quite ready
for real reading yet. But he does like to look at books. This one's about life
in the far north. Eskimos, walrus-hunting, igloos, that sort of thing.
He reads it at least once a day."
(Reading wasn't exactly the most accurate description of what Timmie did, Miss
Fellowes knew. In fact it was something of a fib. Timmie wasn't reading at
all. As far as she could tell, Timmie only looked at the pictures;
the words printed under them seemed to have no more than a decorative value to
him, mere strange little marks. He had showed no curiosity about them at any
time thus far. Perhaps he never would. But he was looking at books, and
apparently understanding their content. That was the next best thing to actual
reading. For the purpose of this conversation it might just be a good idea to
let Hoskins' wife jump to the conclusion that Timmie really could read, though
surely Hoskins himself was aware of the truth.)
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Miss Fellowes studied Hoskins suspiciously. There was something odd and unreal
about this suddenly grandiose oratorical tone of his. What was he up to? He
knew Tim-mie wasn't really able to read. And why bring his wife here after all
this time, why be making all this insincere-sounding noise about Timmie's
wonderful progress?
And then she understood.
In a more normal voice Hoskins said, "I have to apologize for stopping by so
infrequently of late, Miss Fellowes. But as you can guess I've been tied up
having to deal with all manner of peripheral distractions. Not the least of
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