Solemnly,
and with ceremony, the vote was taken. “We stay here,” Irmgard said, with
firmness. “In this apartment, in this building.” Roy Baty said, “I vote we kill
Mr. Isidore and hide somewhere else.” He and his wife—and John Isidore—now
turned tautly toward Pris. In a low voice Pris said, “I vote we make our stand
here.” She added, more loudly, “I think J. R.’s value to us outweighs his
danger, that of his knowing. Obviously we can’t live among humans without being
discovered; that’s what killed Polokov and Garland and Luba and Anders. That’s
what killed all of them.” “Maybe they did just what we’re doing,” Roy Baty
said. “Confided in, trusted, one given human being who they believed was
different. As you said, special.” “We don’t know that,” Irmgard said. “That’s
only a conjecture. I think they, they—” She gestured. “Walked around. Sang from
a stage like Luba. We trust—I’ll tell you what we trust that fouls us up, Roy;
it’s our goddamn superior intelligence!” She glared at her husband, her small,
high breasts rising and falling rapidly. “We’re so smart—Roy, you’re doing it right
now; goddamn you, you’re doing it now!”
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