One of the masked figures – Jane refused to think of them as scientists – turned his head, demanding irritably, ‘Why is she still making that fuss?’ His voice sounded tinny over the intercom.
A technician answered. ‘It’s her kid on your table and I can’t get her to shut up.’
‘Well, do something. How can anyone work in this racket?’
Laying down his clipboard, the technician picked up a metal bowl and banged on the front of the social enrichment unit. ‘Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.’
It had no effect. Her eyes glittered hatred as she rocked back and forth and the wails of her loss rose even higher. And now they were all off. Shouting, roaring, hooting, pounding their fists and throwing themselves against their cage walls. Such was their force that one or two of the cages jerked and shifted. And the noise was overwhelming.
‘For God’s sake, Jenkins, now look what you’ve done. Someone activate the . . .’
Someone already had. Water sprayed into the cages, drenching the inhabitants. The screaming set Jane’s teeth on edge.
‘The water’s icy,’ said Mr Geoffrey complacently. ‘They really don’t like that.’
The screaming reached ear-damaging levels.
Beneath them, out of sight, doors opened and half a dozen overalled figures wearing rubber aprons entered, each armed with what looked like some kind of long cattle prod.
‘And,’ said Mr Geoffrey, ‘they like these even less.’
Men strode around the cages. The air was thick with the smell of burning hair.
It took a while, but eventually things settled down. Except for the female in the corner, shrieking and frantic, glaring with hate-filled eyes at her tormenters. She was repeatedly jolted until she was unconscious. Eventually, finally, silence fell.
‘Thank God for that,’ said someone.
‘Yes, thank you. She was really beginning to get on my nerves.’
‘She’s no good,’ said someone else. ‘We’re going to have to euthanise. Someone see to it.’
The figures bent over the operating table again.
‘What’s happening down there?’ enquired Luke, not because he particularly wanted to know, but because it was all adding to Mr Geoffrey’s charge sheet.
‘Oh, yes. We’re very proud of this one. Sterilisation for infants. Completely reversible later on, of course, but it does do away with the need for contraception entirely. And, although it’s not politically correct to say so, of course, it opens up all sorts of possibilities for population control. No more unwanted pregnancies from certain social groups and so on, and the best bit is that they’ll never know what’s been done. Bit of a delicate procedure on a baby, as you can imagine, but we think we’ve nearly cracked it.’
Jane was unable to speak.
‘What exactly is the problem?’ said Luke, far too casually.
‘Oh, the procedure is fine – mostly – it’s the anaesthetic we have so much difficulty with. Their body mass is very dense, you know, and they’re much more resistant to anaesthetic than we humans are. Especially the bigger ones. Keeping them under is a real problem, so usually we don’t bother. We just strap them down hard and have at it. Fortunately, they don’t feel pain like we do and I have to say, it does help to keep the costs down.’
Jane stepped back from the window. Even now, her mind refused to take it all in. This was impossible. This could not be happening.
She nodded at the female on the end, still unconscious. ‘Do you have to euthanise her?’
‘Speaking as a potential shareholder,’ said Luke, ‘surely that’s a shocking waste of resources, don’t you think? And I don’t suppose any of them volunteered to be here, so I’m assuming you have to go out there and find replacements. And since they’re indigenous and you’re not, I should imagine that takes time and effort on your part.’
Mr Geoffrey shook his head. ‘Well, a couple of high-beam, wide-angled sonics generally do the trick, but again the dose that quells is frequently the dose that kills. The wastage rate is enormous. I mean, yes, people think we get the research material for free, but that’s not so. We have to employ people to capture them – they don’t come willingly, believe me – then we have to feed and house them, and that’s not easy. We tried all sorts of cages and they didn’t respond well to any of them so now we go with what’s best for us. As I said, the buggers try to starve themselves, and having them die halfway through an expensive trial is so infuriating. We have to restrict their rations anyway – we don’t want them strong enough to break out. Which they probably could do if they ever realised it. So we keep them perpetually NQD.’
‘Which means?’ said Jane, certain she knew the answer.
‘Not Quite Dead. The perfect state. And much better for them. They’re more easily handled and much less likely to injure us. We’re quite safety-conscious here, you know. It’s taken some time, but I think we’ve got it pretty much cracked now. Although it hasn’t been easy.’
He paused so they could appreciate how difficult his life was.
Jane’s fingers itched for a tyre iron. Luke’s thoughts were far more dangerous.
‘Of course,’ continued Mr Geoffrey, people-reading possibly not being one of his major talents, ‘this isn’t our only enterprise here. The wildlife provide excellent hunting opportunities. You won’t believe how much we can charge for the opportunity to shoot mammoth. There are people out there who will pay literally anything.’
‘But is it safe?’ demanded Luke. ‘Mammoths are dangerous, surely?’
‘Very much so,’ said Mr Geoffrey. ‘I myself won’t go anywhere near the buggers.’
‘I meant, to the – our – customers.’
Mr Geoffrey shook his head. ‘If you’re thinking of giving it a go, Luke – and I do encourage you to – I can assure you that high-powered weapons mean you don’t have to get any closer than a quarter-mile away. And you’d be escorted by two experienced gamekeepers, as well. There is absolutely no personal risk, take it from me.’
‘Phew,’ said Luke.
‘But,’ continued the oblivious Mr Geoffrey, happily surfing his wave of pride and insensitivity, ‘the most popular prey is . . .’ He gestured at the cages.
‘Really?’ said Luke, tightly. ‘How does that work, then? Do they lie down in the snow too sick to move and people empty their guns into them? That sort of thing?’
‘Oh no, no,’ said Mr Geoffrey, distressed at this misunderstanding. ‘Our customers demand better than that. The big males – the really big ones – we fit them with a tracker and let them go. Our customers are offered the full stalking experience. And then there’s the traditional après-hunt activities afterwards as well, which I have to say we do rather well. Sauna, beers, bragging, you know the sort of thing.’