you." Horn stared at the wall, his eyes wide and sick. He swayed. The doctor talked distantly, with assurance. "The child was somehow affected by the birth pressure. There was a dimensional distructure caused by the simultaneous short-circuitings and malfunctionings of the new birth-mechs and the hypnosis machines. Well, anyway," the doctor ended lamely, "your baby was born into—another dimension." Horn did not even nod. He stood there, waiting. Dr. Wolcott made it emphatic. "Your child is alive, well, and happy. It is lying there, on the table. But because it was born into another dimension it has a shape alien to us. Our eyes, adjusted to a three dimensional concept, cannot recognize it as a baby. But it is. Underneath that camouflage, the strange pyramidal shape and appendages, it is your child." Horn closed his mouth and shut his eyes and wanted to think. "Can I have a drink?" he asked. "Certainly," said Wolcott. "Here." A drink was thrust into Horn's hands. "Now, let me just sit down, sit down somewhere a moment." Horn sank wearily into a chair. It was coming clear. Everything shifted slowly into place. It was his child, no matter what. He shuddered. No matter how horrible it looked, it was his first child. At last he looked up and tried to see the doctor. "What'll we tell Polly?" His voice was hardly a whisper. It was tired. "We'll work that out this morning, as soon as you feel up to it." "What happens after that? Is there any way to—change it back?" "We'll try. That is, if you give us permission to try. After all, it's your child. You can do anything with him you want to do." "Him?" Horn laughed ironically, shutting his eyes. "How do you know it's a him?" He sank down into darkness. His ears roared. Wolcott was visibly upset. "Why, we—that is—well, we don't know, for sure." Horn drank more of his drink. "What if you can't change him back?" "I realize what a shock it is to you, Mr. Horn. If you can't bear to look upon the child, we'll be glad to raise him here, at the Institute, for you."
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