Everything worth while in him had come from mankind.... His love of the arts, of wisdom, of the ‘humanities'! God! Would that wisdom lay rather in ‘caninities'!
—Olaf Stapledon
Pooch's voice has always gathered crowds and either made them silent or set them to humming along. Now all the creatures near her fall silent, the thousands of false Rosemarys and false policemen as well as those, male and female, who are simply being themselves. Even the kazoo band, almost a block away, changes its tune so that it can hum along in harmony with her singing. Pooch's way of singing has changed the meaning of the aria. It has become contemplative and seems to be saying something sad about them all. “Quand je vous aimerai? ... Peut-être jamais, ... L'oiseau rebelle ... c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle.... L'oiseau que tu croyais surprendre, battit de l'aile et s'envola;...” Why, it's not the bird of love at all, but the bird of life. At those words, “batite de l'aile,” Pooch makes little helpless flapping gestures. How can anyone not love this small, fluttering Papagena! She brings to every mind a new thought of what love and life might be. If her master had been there in the crowd, surely he, too, would have changed for the better, if only for the duration of the song.
When Pooch has finished, the pale young man grabs her and hugs her so as to quite crush her feathers, and the crowd yells, “Encore, encore.” Valdoviccini has pushed to the front and is standing just below her, yelling as loud as any of the others.
Looking him right in the eye and still safely enfolded in the arms of her Papageno, Pooch removes her feathered cap and lets her silky ears hang down.
"No,” he shouts, “it can't be!” But she nods, yes.
"I've been a fool,” he says, but then he surprises her. “Oh,” (and there is such pain in his voice) “where is Chloe? I must find her and, dear Pucci, please forgive me, and do you think Chloe ever will?"
He looks so desperate that Pooch believes he is sincere. He might still be thoughtless and selfish, perhaps ignorant (or, more likely, too wise in worldly ways and not ignorant enough), but not actually cruel. Of course the same might be said about the doctor and his dreadful experiment. Perhaps he also was thoughtless and too knowledgeable. Perhaps even the master....
Well, why should she be the judge and jury of such things? “The last I saw Chloe,” she says, “she was there,” and she points, at the Academy of Motherhood. “She and a number of others donated themselves for the motherhood experiments. I would be among them if I had not been taken away."
Just as they turn toward the building, the bombs go off.
First the front doors burst outward in smoke and flying glass. A few seconds later flames are seen deeper inside. Perhaps some of the paraphernalia, regalia, and insignia of motherhood are not as fireproof as advertised. (One cannot help but wonder if this is on purpose, or if some antimotherhood forces have infiltrated the promotherhood staff, or if the motherhood staff itself may have more ambiguous feelings than one would have wished.) At any rate, a fire is well under way and as soon as the two primary blasts go off, other blasts follow.
Creatures scurry hither and yon, some pushing back away from the blaze, others pushing forward toward it. Pooch can see, silhouetted against the smoke and flames, creatures hurrying to rescue those trapped inside. Rosemary in her policeman suit looms above all of them, pushing her way into the building. She is followed by the doctor, also in policeman outfit, and after him by several Rosemarys pulling their skirts up and tucking them inside their policeman pants at the waist. And then Valdoviccini. Pooch wonders how he got to the doors so fast in all this confusion, and after him ... goodness, Isabel! What possesses her to enter that inferno? Can she actually want to rescue someone?
Then Pooch, without a second thought, rushes to the fiery doorway. She doesn't know what is in her mind: whether it is to rescue Isabel one more time or whether she is thinking of Chloe, Phillip, Basenji, Mary Ann, all her friends, and those others not yet friends.
Behind her comes the pale young man, calling out that she must not risk herself or the baby ... that she should let him do it, but Pooch doesn't hear, and, in fact, doesn't realize that she still has the baby on her back until she is halfway up the first flight of the back stairs. Then she feels its grip around her neck. Thinks, too late, to go back. Passing through that doorway again is out of the question by now. Besides, hasn't it been through everything with her: the dirt, the thirst, the hunger, the pound, cages, solitary confinement, even howling at the moon?
She twists her head to give it a lick on the cheek. “Whatever life brings, we'll share,” she says, and “I can do no more than the best I can.” Of course the baby can't understand all this except on an emotional level, but it calls her “Mama” for the first time. Then murmurs it over and over in her ear as she trots up the stairs.
Through all this confusion the three vice presidents are safely encased in their Early-Life pens and are being powdered, air-dried, rocked, and sung to. They have given up struggling with the machinery and now lie exhausted, letting themselves be tickled and petted. The explosions reach them only as dull thunks. They don't even wonder about them, having their own problems with this overzealous mothering.
All three men are beginning to feel that mothering itself may be a more powerful weapon than they had thought. It seems to them now more violent than bombs. They are overwhelmed by it. Each one decides that, when they are let out, they will launch a great campaign to be sure to keep motherhood in the hands of men who can deal with it. (They are sorry now that they gave first prize in mothering to the man who invented this pen.) They have come to believe that motherhood should be dealt out, even to infants, in small, insignificant doses so that it can always be held within reasonable bounds. It's sexy, too. They see that now, and they do not want to sink into that kind of softness, either. They will steel themselves against it and help other men to do the same. The inclination to sink into loving arms must be carefully modulated so that it doesn't get out of hand. How can there be any peace with such a force as this in the world? But if men can stick together, they will prevail against the softness. Meanwhile the vice presidents have no choice but to sink into the great pink breasts and be done to as the machine-mother wishes. It is hoped they will be let out in time.