Transcriber's note:

This etext was produced from Amazing Science Fiction Stories October1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. 

The Table of Contents is not part of the original book. 

 AMAZING STORIES

 SCIENCE FICTION NOVEL

 THIS

 CROWDED

 EARTH

 By ROBERT BLOCH

 ILLUSTRATOR FINLAY

 BOOK-LENGTH NOVEL COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE

 * * * * *

CONTENTS

1. Harry Collins--19972. Harry Collins--19983. President Winthrop--19994. Harry Collins--20005. Minnie Schultz--20096. Harry Collins--20127. Michael Cavendish--20278. Harry Collins--20299. Eric Donovan--203110. Harry Collins--203211. Jesse Pringle--203912. Littlejohn--2065

 * * * * *

1. Harry Collins--1997

[Illustration: The evils of long and dangerous years finally eruptedin blood. ]

The telescreen lit up promptly at eight a. M. Smiling Brad came on withhis usual greeting. "Good morning--it's a beautiful day in Chicagee!"

Harry Collins rolled over and twitched off the receiver. "This Idoubt, " he muttered. He sat up and reached into the closet for hisclothing. 

Visitors--particularly feminine ones--were always exclaiming over theadvantages of Harry's apartment. "So convenient, " they would say. "Everything handy, right within reach. And think of all the extrasteps you save!"

Of course most of them were just being polite and trying to cheerHarry up. They knew damned well that he wasn't living in one roomthrough any choice of his own. The Housing Act was something you justcouldn't get around; not in Chicagee these days. A bachelor wasentitled to one room--no more and no less. And even though Harry wasmaking a speedy buck at the agency, he couldn't hope to beat theregulations. 

There was only one way to beat them and that was to get married. Marriage would automatically entitle him to two rooms--_if_ he couldfind them someplace. 

More than a few of his feminine visitors had hinted at just that, butHarry didn't respond. Marriage was no solution, the way he figured it. He knew that he couldn't hope to locate a two-room apartment anycloser than eighty miles away. It was bad enough driving forty milesto and from work every morning and night without doubling thedistance. If he did find a bigger place, that would mean a three-hourtrip each way on one of the commutrains, and the commutrains weremurder. The Black Hole of Calcutta, on wheels. 

But then, everything was murder, Harry reflected, as he stepped fromthe toilet to the sink, from the sink to the stove, from the stove tothe table. 

Powdered eggs for breakfast. That was murder, too. But it was a fast, cheap meal, easy to prepare, and the ingredients didn't waste a lot ofstorage space. The only trouble was, he hated the way they tasted. Harry wished he had time to eat his breakfasts in a restaurant. Hecould afford the price, but he couldn't afford to wait in line morethan a half-hour or so. His office schedule at the agency startedpromptly at ten-thirty. And he didn't get out until three-thirty; itwas a long, hard five-hour day. Sometimes he wished he worked in theNew Philly area, where a four-hour day was the rule. But he supposedthat wouldn't mean any real saving in time, because he'd have to livefurther out. What was the population in New Philly now? Something like63, 000, 000, wasn't it? Chicagee was much smaller--only 38, 000, 000, this year. 

_This_ year. Harry shook his head and took a gulp of the Instantea. Yes, this year the population was 38, 000, 000, and the boundaries ofthe community extended north to what used to be the old Milwaukee andsouth past Gary. What would it be like _next_ year, and the yearfollowing?

Lately that question had begun to haunt Harry. He couldn't quitefigure out why. After all, it was none of his business, really. He hada good job, security, a nice place just two hours from the Loop. Heeven drove his own car. What more could he ask?

And why did he have to start the day like this, with a blindingheadache?

Harry finished his Instantea and considered the matter. Yes, it wasbeginning again, just as it had on almost every morning for the pastmonth. He'd sit down at the table, eat his usual breakfast, and end upwith a headache. Why?

It wasn't the food; for a while he'd deliberately varied his diet, butthat didn't make any difference. And he'd had his usual monthlycheckup not more than ten days ago, only to be assured there wasnothing wrong with him. Still, the headaches persisted. Every morning, when he'd sit down and jerk his head to the left like this--

That was it. Jerking his head to the left. It always seemed to triggerthe pain. But why? And where had he picked up this habit of jerkinghis head to the left?

Harry didn't know. 

He glanced at his watch. It was almost nine, now. High time that hegot started. He reached over to the interapartment video and dialledthe garage downstairs. 

"Bill, " he said. "Can you bring my car around to Number Three?"

The tiny face in the hand-screen grinned sheepishly. "Mr. Collins, ain't it? Gee, I'm sorry, Mr. Collins. Night crew took on a new man, he must have futzed around with the lists, and I can't find yournumber. "

Harry sighed. "It's one-eight-seven-three-dash-five, " he said. "Lightblue Pax, two-seater. Do you want the license number, too?"

"No, just your parking number. I'll recognize it when I see it. ButGod only knows what level it's on. That night man really--"

"Never mind, " Harry interrupted. "How soon?"

"Twenty minutes or so. Maybe half an hour. "

"Half an hour? I'll be late. Hurry it up!"

Harry clicked the video and shook his head. Half an hour! Well, youhad to expect these things if you wanted to be independent and do yourown driving today. If he wanted to work his priority through theoffice, he could get his application honored on the I. C. Line within amonth. But the I. C. Was just another commutrain, and he couldn't takeit. Standing and swaying for almost two hours, fighting the crowds, battling his way in and out of the sidewalk escalators. Besides, therewas always the danger of being crushed. He'd seen an old man trampledto death on a Michigan Boulevard escalator-feeder, and he'd neverforgotten it. 

Being afraid was only a partial reason for his reluctance to change. The worst thing, for Harry, was the thought of all those people; theforced bodily contact, the awareness of smothered breathing, odors, and the crushing confinement of flesh against flesh. It was bad enoughin the lines, or on the streets. The commutrain was just too much. 

Yet, as a small boy, Harry could remember the day when he'd loved suchtrips. Sitting there looking out of the window as the scenery whirledpast--that was always a thrill when you were a little kid. How longago had that been? More than twenty years, wasn't it?

Now there weren't any seats, and no windows. Which was just as well, probably, because the scenery didn't whirl past any more, either. Instead, there was a stop at every station on the line, and a constantbattle as people jockeyed for position to reach the exit-doors intime. 

No, the car was better. 

Harry reached for a container in the cabinet and poured out a coupleof aspirystamines. That ought to help the headache. At least until hegot to the office. Then he could start with the daily quota ofyellowjackets. Meanwhile, getting out on the street might help him, too. A shame there wasn't a window in this apartment, but then, whatgood would it do, really? All he could see through it would be thenext apartment. 

He shrugged and picked up his coat. Nine-thirty, time to godownstairs. Maybe the car would be located sooner than Bill hadpromised; after all, he had nine assistants, and not everybody went towork on this first daylight shift. 

Harry walked down the hall and punched the elevator button. He lookedat the indicator, watched the red band move towards the numeral ofthis floor, then sweep past it. 

"Full up!" he muttered. "Oh, well. "

He reached out and touched both sides of the corridor. That wasanother thing he disliked; these narrow corridors. Two people couldscarcely squeeze past one another without touching. Of course, it didsave space to build apartments this way, and space was at a premium. But Harry couldn't get used to it. Now he remembered some of the oldbuildings that were still around when he was a little boy--

The headache seemed to be getting worse instead of better. Harrylooked at the indicator above the other elevator entrance. The redband was crawling upward, passing him to stop on 48. That was the topfloor. Now it was moving down, down; stopping on 47, 46, 45, 44, 43, and--here it was!

"Stand back, please!" said the tape. Harry did his best to oblige, butthere wasn't much room. A good two dozen of his upstairs neighborsjammed the compartment. Harry thought he recognized one or two of themen, but he couldn't be sure. There were so many people, so manyfaces. After a while it got so they all seemed to look alike. Yes, andbreathed alike, and felt alike when you were squeezed up against them, and you were always being squeezed up against them, wherever you went. And you could smell them, and hear them wheeze and cough, and you wentfalling down with them into a bottomless pit where your head began tothrob and throb and it was hard to move away from all that heat andpressure. It was hard enough just to keep from screaming--

Then the door opened and Harry was catapulted out into the lobby. Themob behind him pushed and clawed because they were in a hurry; theywere always in a hurry these days, and if you got in their way they'dtrample you down like that old man had been trampled down; there wasno room for one man in a crowd any more. 

Harry blinked and shook his head. 

He gripped the edge of the wall and clung there in an effort to avoidbeing swept out of the lobby completely. His hands were sticky withperspiration. They slipped off as he slowly inched his way backthrough the crush of the mob. 

"Wait for me!" he called. "Wait for me, I'm going down!" But his voicewas lost in the maelstrom of sound just as his body was lost in themaelstrom of motion. Besides, an automatic elevator cannot hear. It ismerely a mechanism that goes up and down, just like the othermechanisms that go in and out, or around and around, and you getcaught up in them the way a squirrel gets caught in a squirrel-cageand you race and race, and the best you can hope for is to keep upwith the machinery. 

The elevator door clanged shut before Harry could reach it. He waitedfor another car to arrive, and this time he stood aside as the crowdemerged, then darted in behind them. 

The car descended to the first garage level, and Harry stood gulpinggratefully in the comparative isolation. There weren't more than tenpeople accompanying him. 

He emerged on the ramp, gave his number to the attendant, and waved atBill in his office. Bill seemed to recognize him; at least he nodded, briefly. No sense trying to talk--not in this sullen subterranea, filled with the booming echo of exhausts, the despairing shriek ofbrakes. Headlights flickered in the darkness as cars whirled past, ascending and descending on the loading platforms. The signal systemswinked from the walls, and tires screeched defiance to the warningbells. 

Old-fashioned theologians, Harry remembered, used to argue whetherthere really was a Hell, and if so, had it been created by God or theDevil? Too bad they weren't around today to get an answer to theirquestions. There _was_ a Hell, and it had been created by GeneralMotors. 

Harry's temples began to throb. Through blurred eyes, he saw theattendant beckoning him down the line to a platform marked _Check-Out#3_. He stood there with a cluster of others, waiting. 

What was the matter with him today, anyway? First the headache, andnow his feet were hurting. Standing around waiting, that's what didit. This eternal waiting. When he was a kid, the grownups were alwayscomplaining about the long seven-hour work days and how they cut intotheir leisure time. Well, maybe they had reason to gripe, but at leastthere _was_ some leisure before work began or after it was through. Now that extra time was consumed in waiting. Standing in line, standing in crowds, wearing yourself out doing nothing. 

Still, this time it wasn't really so bad. Within ten minutes the lightblue Pax rolled up before him. Harry climbed in as the attendant slidout from behind the wheel and prepared to leave. 

Then a fat man appeared, running along the ramp. He gestured wildlywith a plump thumb. Harry nodded briefly, and the fat man hurledhimself into the seat beside him and slammed the door. 

They were off. Harry read the signals impatiently, waiting for thegreen _Go_. The moment he saw it he gunned his motor and got the carup to twenty-two and zipped away. 

That's what he liked, that's what he always waited for. Of course itwas dangerous, here in the tunnel system under the garage, but Harryalways got a thrill out of speed. The Pax could do thirty-five or evenforty, probably, on a theoretical open road. Still, twenty-two wasenough to satisfy Harry. 

He whizzed up the ramp, turned, headed for the street-level, thenbraked and waited for the signal to emerge. 

Harsh sunlight pierced the smog and he felt his eyes watering. Now thestreet noises assailed his ears; the grinding of gears, the revving ofmotors. But at least the total volume was lower, and with the windowstightly closed against the acrid air, he could hear. 

Turning to the fat man beside him he said, "Hello, Frazer. What's theurgency?"

"Got to get downtown before eleven, " the fat man answered. "Boardmeeting today, but I forgot about it. Knew I wouldn't have time towait for the car, and I was hoping I'd find someone who'd give me alift. Lucky for me that you came along when you did. "

Harry nodded but did not reply. At the moment he was trying to edgeinto the traffic beyond. It flowed, bumper to bumper, in a steadystream; a stream moving at the uniform and prescribed rate of fifteenmiles per hour. He released his brakes and the Pax nosed forward untila truck sounded its horn in ominous warning. The noise hurt Harry'shead; he winced and grimaced. 

"What's the matter?" asked Frazer. 

"Headache, " Harry muttered. He menaced a Chevsoto with his bumper. "Damn it, I thought they didn't allow those big four-passenger jobs onthis arterial during rush hours!" Gradually he managed to turn untilhe was in the righthand lane. "There, " he said. "We're off. "

And so they were, for all of three minutes, with the speed set atfifteen on autopilot. Then a signal went into action somewhere upahead, and the procession halted. Harry flicked his switch. As wascustomary, horns sounded indignantly on all sides--a mechanicalprotest against a mechanical obstruction. Harry winced again. 

"Hangover?" Frazer asked, solicitously. "Try aspirystamine. "

Harry shook his head. "No hangover. And I've already taken three, thanks. Nothing does any good. So I guess it's just up to you. "

"Up to me?" Frazer was genuinely puzzled. "What can I do about yourheadaches?"

"You're on the Board of City Planners, aren't you?"

"That's right. "

"Well, I've got a suggestion for you to give to them. Tell them tostart planning to drop a couple of heavy thermo-nucs on this area. Clean out twenty or thirty million people. We'd never miss 'em. "

Frazer chuckled wryly. "I wish I had a buck for every time I've heard_that_ suggestion. "

"Ever stop to think why you hear it so often? It's because everybodyfeels the same way--we can't take being hemmed in like this. "

"Well, a bomb wouldn't help. You know that. " Frazer pursed his lips. "Robertson figured out what would happen, with the chain-reaction. "

 * * * * *

Harry glanced sideways at his companion as the car started forwardonce again. "I've always wondered about that, " he said. "Seriously, Imean. Is the story really true, or is it just some more of thisgovernment propaganda you fellows like to hand out?"

Frazer sighed. "It's true, all right. There was a scientist namedRobertson, and he did come up with the thermo-nuc formula, way back in'75. Proved it, too. Use what he developed and the chain-reactionwould never end. Scientists in other countries tested the theory andagreed; there was no collusion, it just worked out that way on apractical basis. Hasn't been a war since--what more proof do youwant?"

"Well, couldn't they just use some of the old-fashioned hydrogenbombs?"

"Be sensible, man! Once a war started, no nation could resist thetemptation to go all-out. Fortunately, everyone realizes that. So wehave peace. Permanent peace. "

"I'll take a good war anytime, in preference to this. "

"Harry, you don't know what you're talking about. You aren't so youngthat you can't remember what it was like in the old days. Everybodyliving in fear, waiting for the bombs to fall. People dying of diseaseand worried about dying from radiation and fallout. All theinternational rivalries, the power-politics, the eternal pressures andconstant crises. Nobody in his right mind would want to go back to_that_. We've come a mighty long way in the last twenty years or so. "

Harry switched to autopilot and sat back. "Maybe that's the trouble, "he said. "Maybe we've come too far, too fast. I wasn't kidding aboutdropping those thermo-nucs, either. _Something_ has to be done. Wecan't go on like this indefinitely. Why doesn't the Board come up withan answer?"

Frazer shrugged his heavy shoulders. "You think we haven't tried, aren't trying now? We're aware of the situation as well as youare--and then some. But there's no easy solution. The population justkeeps growing, that's all. No war to cut it down, contagious diseasesat a minimum, average life-expectancy up to ninety years or better. Naturally, this results in a problem. But a bomb won't help bringabout any permanent solution. Besides, this isn't a local matter, oreven a national one. It's global. What do you think those summitmeetings are all about?"

"What about birth control?" Harry asked. "Why don't they really getbehind an emigration movement?"

"We can't limit procreation by law. You know that. " Frazer peered outat the swarming streams on the sidewalk levels. "It's more than areligious or a political question--it's a social one. People wantkids. They can afford them. Besides, the Housing Act is set up so thathaving kids is just about the only way you can ever get into largerliving-quarters. "

"Couldn't they try reverse-psychology? I mean, grant priority topeople who are willing to be sterilized?"

"They tried it, on a limited experimental scale, about three years agoout on the West Coast. "

"I never heard anything about it. "

"Damned right you didn't, " Frazer replied, grimly. "They kept thewhole project under wraps, and for a good reason. The publicity mighthave wrecked the Administration. "

"What happened?"

"What do you suppose happened? There were riots. Do you think a manand his wife and three kids, living in three rooms, liked the idea ofstanding by and watching a sterilized couple enjoy a four-room placewith lawn space? Things got pretty ugly, let me tell you. There was arumor going around that the country was in the hands ofhomosexuals--the churches were up in arms--and if that wasn't badenough, we had to face up to the primary problem. There just wasn't, just isn't, enough _space_. Not in areas suitable for maintaining apopulation. Mountains are still mountains and deserts are stilldeserts. Maybe we can put up housing in such regions, but who can livethere? Even with decentralization going full blast, people must livewithin reasonable access to their work. No, we're just running out ofroom. "

Again the car halted on signal. Over the blasting of the horns, Harryrepeated his query about emigration. 

Frazer shook his head, but made no attempt to reply until the hornshad quieted and they were under way once more. 

"As for emigration, we're just getting some of our own medicine inreturn. About eighty years ago, we clamped down and closed the door onimmigrants; established a quota. Now the same quota is being usedagainst us, and you can't really blame other nations for it. They'refacing worse population increases than we are. Look at the AfricanFederation, and what's happened there, in spite of all thewealth! And South America is even worse, in spite of all thereclamation projects. Fifteen years ago, when they cleared out theAmazon Basin, they thought they'd have enough room for fifty years tocome. And now look at it--two hundred million, that's the latestfigure we've got. "

"So what's the answer?" Harry asked. 

"I don't know. If it wasn't for hydroponics and the Ag Culturecontrols, we'd be licked right now. As it is, we can still supplyenough food, and the old supply-and-demand takes care of the economyas a whole. I have no recommendations for an overall solution, or evena regional one. My job, the Board's job, is regulating housing andtraffic and transportation in Chicagee. That's about all you canexpect us to handle. "

Again they jolted to a stop and the horns howled all around them. Harry sat there until a muscle in the side of his jaw began to twitch. Suddenly he pounded on the horn with both fists. 

"Shut up!" he yelled. "For the love of Heaven, shut up!"

Abruptly he slumped back. "Sorry, " he mumbled. "It's my damnedheadache. I--I've got to get out of this. "

"Job getting you down?"

"No. It's a good job. At least everybody tells me so. Twenty-fivehours a week, three hundred bucks. The car. The room. The telescreenand liquor and yellowjackets. Plenty of time to kill. Unless it's thetime that's killing me. "

"But--what do you _want_?"

Harry stepped on the accelerator and they inched along. Now the streetwidened into eight traffic lanes and the big semis joined theprocession on the edge of the downtown area. 

"I want out, " Harry said. "Out of this. "

"Don't you ever visit the National Preserves?" Frazer asked. 

"Sure I do. Fly up every vacation. Take a tame plane to a tamegovernment resort and catch my quota of two tame fish. Great sport! IfI got married, I'd be entitled to four tame fish. But that's not whatI want. I want what my father used to talk about. I want to drive intothe country, without a permit, mind you; just to drive wherever Ilike. I want to see cows and chickens and trees and lakes and sky. "

"You sound like a Naturalist. "

"Don't sneer. Maybe the Naturalists are right. Maybe we ought to cutout all this phoney progress and phoney peace that passeth allunderstanding. I'm no liberal, don't get me wrong, but sometimes Ithink the Naturalists have the only answer. "

"But what can you do about it?" Frazer murmured. "Suppose for thesake of argument that they _are_ right. How can you change things? Wecan't just _will_ ourselves to stop growing, and we can't legislateagainst biology. More people, in better health, with more free time, are just bound to have more offspring. It's inevitable, under thecircumstances. And neither you nor I nor anyone has the right tocondemn millions upon millions of others to death through war ordisease. "

"I know, " Harry said. "It's hopeless, I guess. All the same, I wantout. " He wet his lips. "Frazer, you're on the Board here. You've gotconnections higher up. If I could only get a chance to transfer to AgCulture, go on one of those farms as a worker--"

Frazer shook his head. "Sorry, Harry. You know the situation there, I'm sure. Right now there's roughly ninety million approvedapplications on file. Everybody wants to get into Ag Culture. "

"But couldn't I just buy some land, get a government contract forfoodstuffs?"

"Have you got the bucks? A minimum forty acres leased from one of thefarm corporations will cost you two hundred thousand at the veryleast, not counting equipment. " He paused. "Besides, there'sVocational Apt. What did your tests show?"

"You're right, " Harry said. "I'm supposed to be an agency man. Anagency man until I die. Or retire on my pension, at fifty, and sit inmy little room for the next fifty years, turning on the telescreenevery morning to hear some loudmouthed liar tell me it's a beautifulday in Chicagee. Who knows, maybe by that time we'll have a hundredbillion people enjoying peace and progress and prosperity. All sittingin little rooms and--"

"Watch out!" Frazer grabbed the wheel. "You nearly hit that truck. " Hewaited until Harry's face relaxed before relinquishing his grip. "Harry, you'd better go in for a checkup. It isn't just a headachewith you, is it?"

"You're not fooling, " Harry told him. "It isn't just a headache. "

He began to think about what it _really_ was, and that helped alittle. It helped him get through the worst part, which was thedowntown traffic and letting Frazer off and listening to Frazer urgehim to see a doctor. 

Then he got to the building parking area and let them take his caraway and bury it down in the droning darkness where the horns hootedand the headlights glared. 

Harry climbed the ramp and mingled with the ten-thirty shift on itsway up to the elevators. Eighteen elevators in his building, to serveeighty floors. Nine of the elevators were express to the fiftiethfloor, three were express to sixty-five. He wanted one of the latter, and so did the mob. The crushing, clinging mob. They pressed andpanted the way mobs always do; mobs that lynch and torture and dancearound bonfires and guillotines and try to drag you down to trampleyou to death because they can't stand you if your name is Harry andyou want to be different. 

They hate you because you don't like powdered eggs and the telescreenand a beautiful day in Chicagee. And they stare at you because yourforehead hurts and the muscle in your jaw twitches and they know youwant to scream as you go up, up, up, and try to think why you get aheadache from jerking your head to the left. 

Then Harry was at the office door and they said good morning when hecame in, all eighty of the typists in the outer office working theirelectronic machines and offering him their electronic smiles, including the girl he had made electronic love to last Saturday nightand who wanted him to move into a two-room marriage and have children, lots of children who could enjoy peace and progress and prosperity. 

 * * * * *

Harry snapped out of it, going down the corridor. Only a few stepsmore and he'd be safe in his office, his own private office, almost asbig as his apartment. And there would be liquor, and the yellowjacketsin the drawer. That would help. Then he could get to work. 

What was today's assignment? He tried to remember. It wasWilmer-Klibby, wasn't it? Telescreenads for Wilmer-Klibby, makers ofwindow-glass. 

_Window-glass. _

He opened his office door and then slammed it shut behind him. For aminute everything blurred, and then he could remember. 

Now he knew what caused him to jerk his head, what gave him theheadaches when he did so. Of course. That was it. 

When he sat down at the table for breakfast in the morning he turnedhis head to the left because he'd always done so, ever since he was alittle boy. A little boy, in what was then Wheaton, sitting at thebreakfast table and looking out of the window. Looking out at summersunshine, spring rain, autumn haze, the white wonder of newfallensnow. 

He'd never broken himself of the habit. He still looked to the leftevery morning, just as he had today. But there was no window any more. There was only a blank wall. And beyond it, the smog and the clamorand the crowds. 

_Window-glass. _ Wilmer-Klibby had problems. Nobody was buyingwindow-glass any more. Nobody except the people who put up buildingslike this. There were still windows on the top floors, just like thewindow here in his office. 

Harry stepped over to it, moving very slowly because of his head. Ithurt to keep his eyes open, but he wanted to stare out of the window. Up this high you could see above the smog. You could see the sun likea radiant jewel packed in the cotton cumulus of clouds. If you openedthe window you could feel fresh air against your forehead, you couldbreathe it in and breathe out the headache. 

But you didn't dare look down. Oh, no, never look _down_, because thenyou'd see the buildings all around you. The buildings below, black andsooty, their jagged outlines like the stumps of rotten teeth. And theystretched off in all directions, as far as the eye could attain; rowafter row of rotten teeth grinning up from the smog-choked throat ofthe streets. From the maw of the city far below came this faint butendless howling, this screaming of traffic and toil. And you couldn'thelp it, you breathed _that_ in too, along with the fresh air, and itpoisoned you and it did more than make your head ache. It made yourheart ache and it made your soul sick, and it made you close your eyesand your lungs and your brain against it. 

Harry reeled, but he knew this was the only way. _Close your brainagainst it. _ And then, when you opened your eyes again, maybe youcould see the way things used to be--

It was snowing out and it was a _wet_ snow, the very best kind forsnowballs and making a snowman, and the whole gang would come outafter school. 

But there was no school, this was Saturday, and the leaves were russetand gold and red so that it looked as if all the trees in the worldwere on fire. And you could scuff when you walked and pile up fallenleaves from the grass and roll in them. 

And it was swell to roll down the front lawn in summer, just rollright down to the edge of the sidewalk like it was a big hill and letDaddy catch you at the bottom, laughing. 

Mamma laughed too, and she said, _Look, it's springtime, the lilacsare out, do you want to touch the pretty lilacs, Harry?_

And Harry didn't quite understand what she was saying, but he reachedout and they were purple and smelled of rain and soft sweetness andthey were just beyond the window, if he reached a little further hecould touch them--

And then the snow and the leaves and the grass and the lilacsdisappeared, and Harry could see the rotten teeth again, leering andlooming and snapping at him. They were going to bite, they were goingto chew, they were going to devour, and he couldn't stop them, couldn't stop himself. He was falling into the howling jaws of thecity. 

His last conscious effort was a desperate attempt to gulp fresh airinto his lungs before he pinwheeled down. Fresh air was good forheadaches. .. . 

2. Harry Collins--1998

It took them ten seconds to save Harry from falling, but it took himover ten weeks to regain his balance. 

In fact, well over two months had passed before he could fully realizejust what had happened, or where he was now. They must have noticedsomething was wrong with him that morning at the office, because twosupervisors and an exec rushed in and caught him just as he was goingout of the window. And then they had sent him away, sent him _here_. 

"This is fine, " he told Dr. Manschoff. "If I'd known how well theytreated you, I'd have gone couch-happy years ago. "

Dr. Manschoff's plump face was impassive, but the little laugh-linesdeepened around the edges of his eyes. "Maybe that's why we take suchcare not to publicize our recent advances in mental therapy, " he said. "Everybody would want to get into a treatment center, and then wherewould we be?"

Harry nodded, staring past the doctor's shoulder, staring out of thewide window at the broad expanse of rolling countryside beyond. 

"I still don't understand, though, " he murmured. "How can you possiblymanage to maintain an institution like this, with all the space andthe luxuries? The inmates seem to lead a better life than the adjustedindividuals outside. It's topsy-turvy. "

"Perhaps. " Dr. Manschoff's fingers formed a pudgy steeple. "But then, so many things seem to be topsy-turvy nowadays, don't they? Wasn't itthe realization of this fact which precipitated your own recentdifficulties?"

"Almost precipitated me bodily out of that window, " Harry admitted, cheerfully. "And that's another thing. I was sent here, I suppose, because I'd attempted suicide, gone into shock, temporary amnesia, something like that. "

"Something like that, " the doctor echoed, contemplating his steeple. 

"But you didn't give me any treatment, " Harry continued. "Oh, I waskept under sedation for a while, I realize that. And you and some ofthe other staff-members talked to me. But mainly I just rested in anice big room and ate nice big meals. "

"So?" The steeple's fleshy spire collapsed. 

"So what I want to know is, when does the real treatment start? Whendo I go into analysis, or chemotherapy, and all that?"

Dr. Manschoff shrugged. "Do you think you need those things now?"

Harry gazed out at the sunlight beyond the window, half-squinting andhalf-frowning. "No, come to think of it, I don't believe I do. I feelbetter now than I have in years. "

His companion leaned back. "Meaning that for years you felt all wrong. Because you were constricted, physically, psychically, andemotionally. You were cramped, squeezed in a vise until the pressurebecame intolerable. But now that pressure has been removed. As aresult you no longer suffer, and there is no need to seek escape indeath or denial of identity. 

"This radical change of attitude has been brought about here in just alittle more than two months' time. And yet you're asking me when the'real treatment' begins. "

"I guess I've already had the real treatment then, haven't I?"

"That is correct. Prolonged analysis or drastic therapy isunnecessary. We've merely given you what you seemed to need. "

"I'm very grateful, " Harry said. "But how can you afford to do it?"

Dr. Manschoff built another temple to an unknown god. He inspected thearchitecture critically now as he spoke. "Because your problem is ararity, " he said. 

"Rarity? I'd have thought millions of people would be breaking downevery month. The Naturalists say--"

The doctor nodded wearily. "I know what they say. But let's dismissrumors and consider facts. Have you ever read any _official_ reportstating that the number of cases of mental illness ran into themillions?"

"No, I haven't. "

"For that matter, do you happen to know of _anyone_ who was ever sentto a treatment center such as this?"

"Well, of course, everybody goes in to see the medics for regularcheck-ups and this includes an interview with a psych. But if they'rein bad shape he just puts them on extra tranquilizers. I guesssometimes he reviews their Vocational Apt tests and shifts them overinto different jobs in other areas. "

Dr. Manschoff bowed his head in reverence above the steeple, as ifsatisfied with the labors he had wrought. "That is roughly correct. And I believe, if you search your memory, you won't recall even amention of a treatment center. This sort of place is virtuallyextinct, nowadays. There are still some institutions for thosesuffering from functional mental disorders--paresis, senile dementia, congenital abnormalities. But regular check-ups and preventativetherapy take care of the great majority. We've ceased concentrating onthe result of mental illnesses and learned to attack the causes. 

"It's the old yellow fever problem all over again, you see. Once upona time, physicians dealt exclusively with treatment of yellow feverpatients. Then they shifted their attention to the _source_ of thedisease. They went after the mosquitoes, drained the swamps, and theyellow fever problem vanished. 

"That's been our approach in recent years. We've developed _social_therapy, and so the need for individual therapy has diminished. 

"What were the sources of the tensions producing mental disturbances?Physical and financial insecurity, the threat of war, the aggressivepatterns of a competitive society, the unresolved Oedipus-situationrooted in the old-style family relationship. These were the swampswhere the mosquitoes buzzed and bit. Most of the swamps have beendredged, most of the insects exterminated. 

"Today we're moving into a social situation where nobody goes hungry, nobody is jobless or unprovided for, nobody needs to struggle forstatus. Vocational Apt determines a man's rightful place and functionin society, and there's no longer the artificial distinction imposedby race, color or creed. War is a thing of the past. Best of all, theold-fashioned 'home-life, ' with all of its unhealthy emotional ties, is being replaced by sensible conditioning when a child reaches schoolage. The umbilical cord is no longer a permanent leash, a strangler'snoose, or a silver-plated life-line stretching back to the womb. "

Harry Collins nodded. "I suppose only the exceptional cases ever needto go to a treatment center like this. "

"Exactly. "

"But what makes _me_ one of the exceptions? Is it because of the waythe folks brought me up, in a small town, with all the old-fashionedbooks and everything? Is that why I hated confinement and conformityso much? Is it because of all the years I spent reading? And why--"

Dr. Manschoff stood up. "You tempt me, " he said. "You tempt mestrongly. As you can see, I dearly love a lecture--and a captiveaudience. But right now, the audience must not remain captive. Iprescribe an immediate dose of freedom. "

 * * * * *

"You mean I'm to leave here?"

"Is that what you want to do?"

"Frankly, no. Not if it means going back to my job. "

"That hasn't been decided upon. We can discuss the problem later, andperhaps we can go into the answers to those questions you just posed. But at the moment, I'd suggest you stay with us, though without therestraint of remaining in your room or in the wards. In other words, Iwant you to start going outside again. "

"Outside?"

"You'll find several square miles of open country just beyond thedoors here. You're at liberty to wander around and enjoy yourself. Plenty of fresh air and sunshine--come and go as you wish. I'vealready issued instructions which permit you to keep your own hours. Meals will be available when you desire them. "

"You're very kind. "

"Nonsense. I'm prescribing what you need. And when the time comes, we'll arrange to talk again. You know where to find me. "

Dr. Manschoff dismantled his steeple and placed a half of the roof ineach trouser-pocket. 

And Harry Collins went outdoors. 

It was wonderful just to be free and alone--like returning to thatfaraway childhood in Wheaton once again. Harry appreciated everyminute of it during the first week of his wandering. 

But Harry wasn't a child any more, and after a week he began to wonderinstead of wander. 

The grounds around the treatment center were more than spacious; theyseemed absolutely endless. No matter how far he walked during thecourse of a day, Harry had never encountered any walls, fences orartificial barriers; there was nothing to stay his progress but thenatural barriers of high, steeply-slanting precipices which seemed torim all sides of a vast valley. Apparently the center itself was setin the middle of a large canyon--a canyon big enough to contain anairstrip for helicopter landings. The single paved road leading fromthe main buildings terminated at the airstrip, and Harry sawhelicopters arrive and depart from time to time; apparently theybrought in food and supplies. 

As for the center itself, it consisted of four large structures, twoof which Harry was familiar with. The largest was made up ofapartments for individual patients, and staffed by nurses andattendants. Harry's own room was here, on the second floor, and fromthe beginning he'd been allowed to roam around the communal hallsbelow at will. 

The second building was obviously administrative--Dr. Manschoff'sprivate office was situated therein, and presumably the otherstaff-members operated out of here. 

The other two buildings were apparently inaccessible; not guarded orpoliced or even distinguished by signs prohibiting access, but merelylocked and unused. At least, Harry had found the doors lockedwhen--out of normal curiosity--he had ventured to approach them. Norhad he ever seen anyone enter or leave the premises. Perhaps thesestructures were unnecessary under the present circumstances, and hadbeen built for future accommodations. 

Still, Harry couldn't help wondering. 

And now, on this particular afternoon, he sat on the bank of thelittle river which ran through the valley, feeling the mid-summer sunbeating down upon his forehead and staring down at the eddying currentwith its ripples and reflections. 

_Ripples and reflections. .. . _

Dr. Manschoff had answered his questions well, yet new questions hadarisen. 

Most people didn't go crazy any more, the doctor had explained, and sothere were very few treatment centers such as this. 

_Question: Why were there any at all?_

A place like this cost a fortune to staff and maintain. In an agewhere living-space and areable acreage was at such a premium, whywaste this vast and fertile expanse? And in a society more and moreopenly committed to the policy of promoting the greatest good for thegreatest number, why bother about the fate of an admittedlyinsignificant group of mentally disturbed patients?

Not that Harry resented his situation; in fact, it was almost too goodto be true. 

_Question: Was it too good to be true?_

Why, come to realize it, he'd seen less than a dozen other patientsduring his entire stay here! All of them were male, and all ofthem--apparently--were recovering from a condition somewhat similar tohis own. At least, he'd recognized the same reticence and diffidencewhen it came to exchanging more than a perfunctory greeting in anencounter in an outer corridor. At the time, he'd accepted theirunwillingness to communicate; welcomed and understood it because of_his_ condition. And that in itself wasn't what he questioned now. 

But why were there so _few_ patients beside himself? Why were they allmales? And why weren't _they_ roaming the countryside now the way hewas?

So many staff-members and so few patients. So much room and luxury andfreedom, and so little use of it. So little apparent purpose to itall. 

_Question: Was there a hidden purpose?_

Harry stared down into the ripples and reflections, and the sun wassuddenly intolerably hot, its glare on the water suddenly blinding andbewildering. He saw his face mirrored on the water's surface, and itwas not the familiar countenance he knew--the features were bloated, distorted, shimmering and wavering. 

Maybe it was starting all over again. Maybe he was getting another oneof those headaches. Maybe he was going to lose control again. 

 * * * * *

Yes, and maybe he was just imagining things. Sitting here in all thisheat wasn't a good idea. 

Why not take a swim?

That seemed reasonable enough. In fact, it seemed like a delightfuldistraction. Harry rose and stripped. He entered the waterawkwardly--one didn't dive, not after twenty years of abstinence fromthe outdoor life--but he found that he could swim, after a fashion. The water was cooling, soothing. A few minutes of immersion and Harryfound himself forgetting his speculations. The uneasy feeling hadvanished. Now, when he stared down into the water, he saw his own facereflected, looking just the way it should. And when he stared up--

He saw her standing there, on the bank. 

She was tall, slim, and blonde. Very tall, very slim, and very blonde. 

She was also very desirable. 

Up until a moment ago, Harry had considered swimming a delightfuldistraction. But now--

"How's the water?" she called. 

"Fine. "

She nodded, smiling down at him. 

"Aren't you coming in?" he asked. 

"No. "

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you, Harry. "

"You know my name?"

She nodded again. "Dr. Manschoff told me. "

"You mean, he sent you here to find me?"

"That's right. "

"But I don't understand. If you're not going swimming, then why--Imean--"

Her smile broadened. "It's just part of the therapy, Harry. "

"Part of the therapy?"

"That's right. _Part. _" She giggled. "Don't you think you'd like tocome out of the water now and see what the rest of it might be?"

Harry thought so. 

 * * * * *

With mounting enthusiasm, he eagerly embraced his treatment andentered into a state of active cooperation. 

It was some time before he ventured to comment on the situation. "Manschoff is a damned good diagnostician, " he murmured. Then he satup. "Are you a patient here?"

She shook her head. "Don't ask questions, Harry. Can't you besatisfied with things as they are?"

"You're just what the doctor ordered, all right. " He gazed down ather. "But don't you even have a name?"

"You can call me Sue. "

"Thank you. "

He bent to kiss her but she avoided him and rose to her feet. "Got togo now. "

"So soon?"

She nodded and moved towards the bushes above the bank. 

"But when will I see you again?"

"Coming swimming tomorrow?"

"Yes. "

"Maybe I can get away for more occupational therapy then. "

She stooped behind the bushes, and Harry saw a flash of white. 

"You _are_ a nurse, aren't you, " he muttered. "On the staff, Isuppose. I should have known. "

"All right, so I am. What's that got to do with it?"

"And I suppose you were telling the truth when you said Manschoff sentyou here. This _is_ just part of my therapy, isn't it?"

She nodded briefly as she slipped into her uniform. "Does that botheryou, Harry?"

He bit his lip. When he spoke, his voice was low. "Yes, damn it, itdoes. I mean, I got the idea--at least, I was hoping--that this wasn'tjust a matter of carrying out an assignment on your part. "

She looked up at him gravely. "Who said anything about an assignment, darling?" she murmured. "I volunteered. "

And then she was gone. 

Then she was gone, and then she came back that night in Harry'sdreams, and then she was at the river the next day and it was betterthan the dreams, better than the day before. 

Sue told him she had been watching him for weeks now. And she had goneto Manschoff and suggested it, and she was very glad. And they had tomeet here, out in the open, so as not to complicate the situation ordisturb any of the other patients. 

So Harry naturally asked her about the other patients, and the wholegeneral setup, and she said Dr. Manschoff would answer all thosequestions in due time. But right now, with only an hour or so tospare, was he going to spend it all asking for information? Matterswere accordingly adjusted to their mutual satisfaction, and it was onthat basis that they continued their almost daily meetings for sometime. 

The next few months were perhaps the happiest Harry had ever known. The whole interval took on a dreamlike quality--idealized, romanticized, yet basically sensual. There is probably such a dreamburied deep within the psyche of every man, Harry reflected, but tofew is it ever given to realize its reality. His early questioningattitude gave way to a mood of mere acceptance and enjoyment. This wasthe primitive drama, the very essence of the male-female relationship;Adam and Eve in the Garden. Why waste time seeking the Tree ofKnowledge?

And it wasn't until summer passed that Harry even thought about theSerpent. 

One afternoon, as he sat waiting for Sue on the river bank, he heard asudden movement in the brush behind him. 

"Darling?" he called, eagerly. 

"Please, you don't know me _that_ well. " The deep masculine voicecarried overtones of amusement. 

Flushing, Harry turned to confront the intruder. He was a short, stocky, middle-aged man whose bristling gray crewcut almost matchedthe neutral shades of his gray orderly's uniform. 

"Expecting someone else, were you?" the man muttered. "Well, I'll getout of your way. "

"That's not necessary. I was really just daydreaming, I guess. I don'tknow what made me think--" Harry felt his flush deepen, and he loweredhis eyes and his voice as he tried to improvise some excuse. 

"You're a lousy liar, " the man said, stepping forward and seatinghimself on the bank next to Harry. "But it doesn't really matter. Idon't think your girl friend is going to show up today, anyway. "

"What do you mean? What do you know about--"

"I mean just what I said, " the man told him. "And I know everything Ineed to know, about you and about her and about the situation ingeneral. That's why I'm here, Collins. "

He paused, watching the play of emotions in Harry's eyes. 

"I know what you're thinking right now, " the gray-haired mancontinued. "At first you wondered how I knew your name. Then yourealized that if I was on the staff in the wards I'd naturally be ableto identify the patients. Now it occurs to you that you've never seenme in the wards, so you're speculating as to whether or not I'mworking out of the administration offices with that psychiatric nogood Manschoff. But if I were, I wouldn't be calling him names, wouldI? Which means you're really getting confused, aren't you, Collins?Good!"

 * * * * *

The man chuckled, but there was neither mockery, malice, nor genuinemirth in the sound. And his eyes were sober, intent. 

"Who are you?" Harry asked. "What are you doing here?"

"The name is Ritchie, Arnold Ritchie. At least, that's the name theyknow me by around here, and you can call me that. As to what I'mdoing, it's a long story. Let's just say that right now I'm here togive you a little advanced therapy. "

"Then Manschoff did send you?"

The chuckle came again, and Ritchie shook his head. "He did not. Andif he even suspected I was here, there'd be hell to pay. "

"Then what do you want with me?"

"It isn't a question of what I want. It's a question of what _youneed_. Which is, like I said, advanced therapy. The sort that dear oldkindly permissive Father-Image Manschoff doesn't intend you to get. "

Harry stood up. "What's this all about?"

Ritchie rose with him, smiling for the first time. "I'm glad you askedthat question, Collins. It's about time you did, you know. Everythinghas been so carefully planned to keep you from asking it. But you_were_ beginning to wonder just a bit anyway, weren't you?"

"I don't see what you're driving at. "

"You don't see what anyone is driving at, Collins. You've been blindedby a spectacular display of kindness, misdirected by self-indulgence. I told you I knew everything I needed to know about you, and I do. NowI'm going to ask you to remember these things for yourself; the thingsyou've avoided considering all this while. 

"I'm going to ask you to remember that you're twenty-eight years old, and that for almost seven years you were an agency man and a good one. You worked hard, you did a conscientious job, you stayed in line, obeyed the rules, never rebelled. Am I correct in my summary of thesituation?"

"Yes, I guess so. "

"So what was your reward for all this unceasing effort and eternalconformity? A one-room apartment and a one-week vacation, once a year. Count your blessings, Collins. Am I right?"

"Right. "

"Then what happened? Finally you flipped, didn't you? Tried to take aheader out of the window. You chucked your job, chucked yourresponsibilities, chucked your future and attempted to chuck yourselfaway. Am I still right?"

"Yes. "

"Good enough. And now we come to the interesting part of the story. Seven years of being a good little boy got you nothing but the promiseof present and future frustration. Seven seconds of madness, ofattempted self-destruction, brought you here. And as a reward forbucking the system, the system itself has provided you with a life ofluxury and leisure--full permission to come and go as you please, livein spacious ease, indulge in the gratification of every appetite, freeof responsibility or restraint. Is that true?"

"I suppose so. "

"All right. Now, let me ask you the question you asked me. What's itall about?"

Ritchie put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Tell me that, Collins. Whydo you suppose you've received such treatment? As long as you stayedin line, nobody gave a damn for your comfort or welfare. Then, whenyou committed the cardinal sin of our present-day society--when yourebelled--everything was handed to you on a silver platter. Does thatmake sense?"

"But it's therapy. Dr. Manschoff said--"

"Look, Collins. Millions of people flip every year. Millions moreattempt suicide. How many of them end up in a place like this?"

"They don't, though. That's just Naturalist propaganda. Dr. Manschoffsaid--"

"_Dr. Manschoff said!_ I know what he said, all right. And youbelieved him, because you wanted to believe him. You wanted thereassurance he could offer you--the feeling of being unique andimportant. So you didn't ask him any questions, you didn't ask anyquestions of yourself. Such as why anybody would consider aninsignificant little agency man, without friends, family orconnections, worth the trouble of rehabilitating at all, let aloneamidst such elaborate and expensive surroundings. Why, men like youare a dime a dozen these days--Vocational Apt can push a few buttonsand come up with half a million replacements to take over your job. You aren't important to society, Collins. You aren't important toanyone at all, besides yourself. And yet you got the red-carpettreatment. It's about time somebody yanked that carpet out from underyou. What's it all about?"

Harry blinked. "Look here, I don't see why this is any of yourbusiness. Besides, to tell the truth, I'm expecting--"

"I know who you're expecting, but I've already told you she won't behere. Because she's expecting. "

"What--?"

"It's high time you learned the facts of life, Collins. Yes, thewell-known facts of life--the ones about the birds and the bees, andbarefoot boys and blondes, too. Your little friend Sue is going tohave a souvenir. "

"I don't believe it! I'm going to ask Dr. Manschoff. "

"Sure you are. You'll ask Manschoff and he'll deny it. And so you'lltell him about me. You'll say you met somebody in the woodstoday--either a lunatic or a Naturalist spy who infiltrated here underfalse pretenses. And Manschoff will reassure you. He'll reassure youjust long enough to get his hands on me. Then he'll take care of bothof us. "

"Are you insinuating--"

"Hell, no! I'm _telling_ you!" Ritchie put his hand down suddenly, andhis voice calmed. "Ever wonder about those other two big buildings onthe premises here, Collins? Well, I can tell you about one of them, because that's where I work. You might call it an experimentallaboratory if you like. Sometime later on I'll describe it to you. Butright now it's the other building that's important; the building withthe big chimney. That's a kind of an incinerator, Collins--a placewhere the mistakes go up in smoke, at night, when there's nobody tosee. A place where you and I will go up in smoke, if you're foolenough to tell Manschoff about this. "

"You're lying. "

"I wish to God I was, for both our sakes! But I can prove what I'msaying. _You_ can prove it, for yourself. "

"How?"

"Pretend this meeting never occurred. Pretend that you just spent theafternoon here, waiting for a girl who never showed up. Then doexactly what you would do under those circumstances. Go in to see Dr. Manschoff and ask him where Sue is, tell him you were worried becauseshe'd promised to meet you and then didn't appear. 

"I can tell you right now what he'll tell you. He'll say that Sue hasbeen transferred to another treatment center, that she knew about itfor several weeks but didn't want to upset you with the news of herdeparture. So she decided to just slip away. And Manschoff will tellyou not to be unhappy. It just so happens that he knows of anothernurse who has had her eye on you--a very pretty little brunette namedMyrna. In fact, if you go down to the river tomorrow, you'll find herwaiting for you there. "

"What if I refuse?"

Ritchie shrugged. "Why should you refuse? It's all fun and games, isn't it? Up to now you haven't asked any questions about what wasgoing on, and it would look very strange if you started at this latedate. I strongly advise you to cooperate. If not, everything is likelyto--quite literally--go up in smoke. "

Harry Collins frowned. "All right, suppose I do what you say, andManschoff gives me the answers you predict. This still doesn't provethat he'd be lying or that you're telling me the truth. "

"Wouldn't it indicate as much, though?"

"Perhaps. But on the other hand, it could merely mean that you knowSue _has_ been transferred, and that Dr. Manschoff intends to turn meover to a substitute. It doesn't necessarily imply anything sinister. "

"In other words, you're insisting on a clincher, is that it?"

"Yes. "

"All right. " Ritchie sighed heavily. "You asked for it. " He reachedinto the left-hand upper pocket of the gray uniform and brought out asmall, stiff square of glossy paper. 

"What's that?" Harry asked. He reached for the paper, but Ritchie drewhis hand back. 

"Look at it over my shoulder, " he said. "I don't want anyfingerprints. Hell of a risky business just smuggling it out of thefiles--no telling how well they check up on this material. "

 * * * * *

Harry circled behind the smaller man. He squinted down. "Hard toread. "

"Sure. It's a photostat. I made it myself, this morning; that's mydepartment. Read carefully now. You'll see it's a transcript of thelab report. Susan Pulver, that's her name, isn't it? After dueexamination and upon completion of preliminary tests, hereby found tobe in the second month of pregnancy. Putative father, HarryCollins--that's you, see your name? And here's the rest of therecord. "

"Yes, let me see it. What's all this about inoculation series? And whois this Dr. Leffingwell?" Harry bent closer, but Ritchie closed hishand around the photostat and pocketed it again. 

"Never mind that, now. I'll tell you later. The important thing is, doyou believe me?"

"I believe Sue is pregnant, yes. "

"That's enough. Enough for you to do what I've asked you to. Go toManschoff and make inquiries. See what he tells you. Don't make ascene, and for God's sake don't mention my name. Just confirm my storyfor yourself. Then I'll give you further details. "

"But when will I see you?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, if you like. Right here. "

"You said he'd be sending another girl--"

Ritchie nodded. "So I did. And so he'll say. I suggest you beg to beexcused for the moment. Tell him it will take a while for you to getover the shock of losing Sue this way. "

"I won't be lying, " Harry murmured. 

"I know. And I'm sorry. Believe me, I am. " Ritchie sighed again. "Butyou'll just have to trust me from now on. "

"Trust you? When you haven't even explained what this is all about?"

"You've had your shock-therapy for today. Come back for anothertreatment tomorrow. "

And then Ritchie was gone, the gray uniform melting away into the grayshadows of the shrubbery above the bank. 

A short time later, Harry made his own way back to the center in thegathering twilight. The dusk was gray, too. Everything seemed graynow. 

So was Harry Collins' face, when he emerged from his interview withDr. Manschoff that evening. And it was still pallid the next afternoonwhen he came down to the river bank and waited for Ritchie toreappear. 

The little man emerged from the bushes. He stared at Harry's drawncountenance and nodded slowly. 

"I was right, eh?" he muttered. 

"It looks that way. But I can't understand what's going on. If thisisn't just a treatment center, if they're not really interested in mywelfare, then what am I doing here?"

"You're taking part in an experiment. This, my friend, is alaboratory. And you are a nice, healthy guinea pig. "

"But that doesn't make sense. I haven't been experimented on. They'velet me do as I please. "

"Exactly. And what do guinea pigs excel at? _Breeding. _"

"You mean this whole thing was rigged up just so that Sue and Iwould--?"

"Please, let's not be so egocentric, shall we? After all, you're notthe _only_ male patient in this place. There are a dozen otherswandering around loose. Some of them have their favorite caves, othershave discovered little bypaths, but all of them seem to have locatedideal trysting-places. Whereupon, of course, the volunteer nurses havelocated _them_. "

"Are you telling me the same situation exists with each of theothers?"

"Isn't it fairly obvious? You've shown no inclination to becomefriendly with the rest of the patients here, and none of them havemade any overtures to you. That's because everyone has his own littlesecret, his own private arrangement. And so all of you go aroundfooling everybody else, and all of you are being fooled. I'll givecredit to Manschoff and his staff on that point--he's certainlymastered the principles of practical psychology. "

"But you talked about breeding. With our present overpopulationproblem, why in the world do they deliberately encourage the birth ofmore children?"

"Very well put. 'Why in the world' indeed! In order to answer that, you'd better take a good look at the world. "

Arnold Ritchie seated himself on the grass, pulled out a pipe, andthen replaced it hastily. "Better not smoke, " he murmured. "Be awkwardif we attracted any attention and were found together. "

 * * * * *

Harry stared at him. "You _are_ a Naturalist, aren't you?"

"I'm a reporter, by profession. "

"Which network?"

"No network. _Newzines. _ There are still a few in print, you know. "

"I know. But I can't afford them. "

"There aren't many left who can, or who even feel the need of readingthem. Nevertheless, mavericks like myself still cling to the ancientand honorable practices of the Fourth Estate. One of which isferreting out the inside story, the news behind the news. "

"Then you're not working for the Naturalists. "

"Of course I am. I'm working for them and for everybody else who hasan interest in learning the truth. " Ritchie paused. "By the way, youkeep using that term as if it were some kind of dirty word. Just whatdoes it mean? What _is_ a Naturalist, in your book?"

"Why, a radical thinker, of course. An opponent of governmentpolicies, of progress. One who believes we're running out of livingspace, using up the last of our natural resources. "

"What do you suppose motivates Naturalists, really?"

"Well, they can't stand the pressures of daily living, or theprospects of a future when we'll be still more hemmed in. "

Ritchie nodded. "Any more than you could, a few months ago, when youtried to commit suicide. Wouldn't you say that _you_ were thinkinglike a Naturalist then?"

Harry grimaced. "I suppose so. "

"Don't feel ashamed. You saw the situation clearly, just as theso-called Naturalists do. And just as the government does. Only thegovernment can't dare admit it--hence the secrecy behind thisproject. "

"A hush-hush government plan to stimulate further breeding? I stilldon't see--"

"Look at the world, " Ritchie repeated. "Look at it realistically. What's the situation at present? Population close to six billion, andrising fast. There was a leveling-off period in the Sixties, and thenit started to climb again. No wars, no disease to cut it down. Thedevelopment of synthetic foods, the use of algae and fungi, rules outfamine as a limiting factor. Increased harnessing of atomic power hasdone away with widespread poverty, so there's no economic deterrent topropagation. Neither church nor state dares set up a legalprohibition. So here we are, at the millennium. In place ofinternational tension we've substituted internal tension. In place ofthermonuclear explosion, we have a population explosion. "

"You make it look pretty grim. "

"I'm just talking about today. What happens ten years from now, whenwe hit a population-level of ten billion? What happens when we reachtwenty billion, fifty billion, a hundred? Don't talk to me about moresubstitutes, more synthetics, new ways of conserving top-soil. Therejust isn't going to be _room_ for everyone!"

"Then what's the answer?"

"That's what the government wants to know. Believe me, they've done alot of searching; most of it _sub rosa_. And then along came this manLeffingwell, with _his_ solution. That's just what it is, ofcourse--an endocrinological solution, for direct injection. "

"Leffingwell? The Dr. Leffingwell whose name was on that photostat?What's he got to do with all this?"

"He's boss of this project, " Ritchie said. "He's the one who persuadedthem to set up a breeding-center. You're _his_ guinea pig. "

"But why all the secrecy?"

"That's what I wanted to know. That's why I scurried around, pulledstrings to get a lab technician's job here. It wasn't easy, believeme. The whole deal is being kept strictly under wraps untilLeffingwell's experiments prove out. They realized right away that itwould be fatal to use volunteers for the experiments--they'd be boundto talk, there'd be leaks. And of course, they anticipated someawkward results at first, until the technique is refined andperfected. Well, they were right on that score. I've seen some oftheir failures. " Ritchie shuddered. "Any volunteer--any military man, government employee or even a so-called dedicated scientist who brokeaway would spread enough rumors about what was going on to kill theentire project. That's why they decided to use mental patients forsubjects. God knows, they had millions to choose from, but they werevery particular. You're a rare specimen, Collins. "

"How so?"

"Because you happen to fit all their specifications. You're young, ingood physical condition. Unlike ninety percent of the population, youdon't even wear contact lenses, do you? And your aberration wastemporary, easily removed by removing you from the tension-sourceswhich created it. You have no family ties, no close friends, toquestion your absence. That's why you were chosen--one of the twohundred. "

"Two hundred? But there's only a dozen others here now. "

"A dozen males, yes. You're forgetting the females. Must be aboutfifty or sixty in the other building. "

"But if you're talking about someone like Sue, she's a nurse--"

Ritchie shook his head. "That's what she was _told_ to say. Actually, she's a patient, too. They're all patients. Twelve men and sixtywomen, at the moment. Originally, about thirty men and a hundred andseventy women. "

"What happened to the others?"

"I told you there were some failures. Many of the women died inchildbirth. Some of them survived, but found out about theresults--and the results, up until now, haven't been perfect. A few ofthe men found out, too. Well, they have only one method of dealingwith failures here. They dispose of them. I told you about thatchimney, didn't I?"

"You mean they killed the offspring, killed those who found out aboutthem?"

Ritchie shrugged. 

"But what are they actually _doing_? Who is this Dr. Leffingwell?What's it all about?"

"I think I can answer those questions for you. "

Harry wheeled at the sound of the familiar voice. 

Dr. Manschoff beamed down at him from the top of the river bank. "Don't be alarmed, " he said. "I wasn't following you with any intentto eavesdrop. I was merely concerned about him. " His eyes flickered ashe directed his gaze past Harry's shoulder, and Harry turned again tolook at Arnold Ritchie. 

 * * * * *

The little man was no longer standing and he was no longer alone. Twoattendants now supported him, one on either side, and Ritchie himselfsagged against their grip with eyes closed. A hypodermic needle in oneattendant's hand indicated the reason for Ritchie's sudden collapse. 

"Merely a heavy sedative, " Dr. Manschoff murmured. "We came prepared, in expectation of just such an emergency. " He nodded at hiscompanions. "Better take him back now, " he said. "I'll look in on himthis evening, when he comes out of it. "

"Sorry about all this, " Manschoff continued, sitting down next toHarry as the orderlies lifted Ritchie's inert form and carried him upthe slanting slope. "It's entirely my fault. I misjudged mypatient--never should have permitted him such a degree of freedom. Obviously, he's not ready for it yet. I do hope he didn't upset you inany way. "

"No. He seemed quite"--Harry hesitated, then went onhastily--"logical. "

"Indeed he is. " Dr. Manschoff smiled. "Paranoid delusions, as theyused to call them, can often be rationalized most convincingly. Andfrom what little I heard, he was doing an excellent job, wasn't he?"

"Well--"

"I know. " A slight sigh erased the smile. "Leffingwell and I are madscientists, conducting biological experiments on human guinea pigs. We've assembled patients for breeding purposes and the government issecretly subsidizing us. Also, we incinerate our victims--again, withfull governmental permission. All very logical, isn't it?"

"I didn't mean that, " Harry told him. "It's just that he said Sue waspregnant and he was hinting things. "

"Said?" Manschoff stood up. "_Hinted?_ I'm surprised he didn't gofurther than that. Just today, we discovered he'd been using theoffice facilities--he had a sort of probationary position, as you mayhave guessed, helping out the staff in administration--to providetangible proof of his artistic creations. He was writing out 'officialreports' and then photostating them. Apparently he intended tocirculate the results as 'evidence' to support his delusions. Look, here's a sample. "

Dr. Manschoff passed a square of glossy paper to Harry, who scanned itquickly. It was another laboratory report similar to the one Ritchiehad shown him, but containing a different set of names. 

"No telling how long this sort of thing has been going on, " Manschoffsaid. "He may have made dozens. Naturally, the moment we discoveredit, we realized prompt action was necessary. He'll need specialattention. "

"But what's wrong with him?"

"It's a long story. He was a reporter at one time--he may have toldyou that. The death of his wife precipitated a severe trauma andbrought him to our attention. Actually, I'm not at liberty to say anymore regarding his case; you understand, I'm sure. "

"Then you're telling me that everything he had to say was a product ofhis imagination?"

"No, don't misunderstand. It would be more correct to state that hemerely distorted reality. For example, there _is_ a Dr. Leffingwell onthe staff here; he is a diagnostician and has nothing to do withpsychotherapy _per se_. And he has charge of the hospital ward in UnitThree, the third building you may have noticed behind Administration. That's where the nurses maintain residence, of course. Incidentally, when any nurses take on a--special assignment, as it were, such asyours, Leffingwell does examine and treat them. There's a new oralcontraception technique he's evolved which may be quite efficacious. But I'd hardly call it an example of sinister experimentation underthe circumstances, would you?"

Harry shook his head. "About Ritchie, though, " he said. "What willhappen to him?"

"I can't offer any prognosis. In view of my recent error in judgmentconcerning him, it's hard to say how he'll respond to furthertreatment. But rest assured that I'll do my best for his case. Chancesare you'll be seeing him again before very long. "

Dr. Manschoff glanced at his watch. "Shall we go back now?" hesuggested. "Supper will be served soon. "

The two men toiled up the bank. 

Harry discovered that the doctor was right about supper. It was beingserved as he returned to his room. But the predictions concerningRitchie didn't work out quite as well. 

It was after supper--indeed, quite some hours afterwards, while Harrysat at his window and stared sleeplessly out into the night--that henoted the thick, greasy spirals of black smoke rising suddenly fromthe chimney of the Third Unit building. And the sight may haveprepared him for the failure of Dr. Manschoff's prophecy regarding hisdisturbed patient. 

Harry never asked any questions, and no explanations were everforthcoming. 

But from that evening onward, nobody ever saw Arnold Ritchie again. 

3. President Winthrop--1999

The Secretary of State closed the door. 

"Well?" he asked. 

President Winthrop looked up from the desk and blinked. "Hello, Art, "he said. "Sit down. "

"Sorry I'm late, " the Secretary told him. "I came as soon as I got thecall. "

"It doesn't matter. " The President lit a cigarette and pursed his lipsaround it until it stopped wobbling. "I've been checking the reportsall night. "

"You look tired. "

"I am. I could sleep for a week. That is, I _wish_ I could. "

"Any luck?"

The President pushed the papers aside and drummed the desk for amoment. Then he offered the Secretary a gray ghost of a smile. 

"The answer's still the same. "

"But this was our last chance--"

"I know. " The President leaned back. "When I think of the time andeffort, the money that's been poured into these projects! To saynothing of the hopes we had. And now, it's all for nothing. "

"You can't say that, " the Secretary answered. "After all, we did reachthe moon. We got to Mars. " He paused. "No one can take that away fromyou. You sponsored the Martian flights. You fought for theappropriations, pushed the project, carried it through. You helpedmankind realize its greatest dream--"

"Save that for the newscasts, " the President said. "The fact remains, we've succeeded. And our success was a failure. Mankind's greatestdream, eh? Read these reports and you'll find out this is mankind'sgreatest nightmare. "

"Is it that bad?"

"Yes. " The President slumped in his chair. "It's that bad. We canreach the moon at will. Now we can send a manned flight to Mars. Butit means nothing. We can't support life in either place. There'sabsolutely no possibility of establishing or maintaining an outpost, let alone a large colony or a permanent human residence. That's whatall the reports conclusively demonstrate. 

"Every bit of oxygen, every bit of food and clothing and material, would have to be supplied. And investigations prove there's no chanceof ever realizing any return. The cost of such an operation isstaggeringly prohibitive. Even if there was evidence to show it mightbe possible to undertake some mining projects, it wouldn't begin todefray expenses, once you consider the transportation factor. "

"But if they improve the rockets, manage to make room for a biggerpayload, wouldn't it be cheaper?"

"It would still cost roughly a billion dollars to equip a flight andmaintain a personnel of twenty men for a year, " the President toldhim. "I've checked into that, and even this estimate is based on themost optimistic projection. So you can see there's no use incontinuing now. We'll never solve our problems by attempting tocolonize the moon or Mars. "

"But it's the only possible solution left to us. "

"No it isn't, " the President said. "There's always our friendLeffingwell. "

 * * * * *

The Secretary of State turned away. "You can't officially sponsor athing like that, " he muttered. "It's political suicide. "

The gray smile returned to the gray lips. "Suicide? What do you knowabout suicide, Art? I've been reading a few statistics on _that_, too. How many actual suicides do you think we had in this country lastyear?"

"A hundred thousand? Two hundred, maybe?"

"Two million. " The President leaned forward. "Add to that, over amillion murders and six million crimes of violence. "

"I never knew--"

"Damned right you didn't! We used to have a Federal Bureau ofInvestigation to help prevent such things. Now the big job is merelyto hush them up. We're doing everything in our power just to keepthese matters quiet, or else there'd be utter panic. Then there's theaccident total and the psycho rate. We can't build institutions fastenough to hold the mental cases, nor train doctors enough to care forthem. Shifting them into other jobs in other areas doesn't cure, andit no longer even disguises what is happening. At this rate, anotherten years will see half the nation going insane. And it's like thisall over the world. 

"This is race-suicide, Art. Race-suicide through sheer fecundity. Leffingwell is right. The reproductive instinct, unchecked, willoverbalance group survival in the end. How long has it been since youwere out on the streets?"

The Secretary of State shrugged. "You know I never go out on thestreets, " he said. "It isn't very safe. "

"Of course not. But it's no safer for the hundreds of millions whohave to go out every day. Accident, crime, the sheer maddeningproximity of the crowds--these phenomena are increasing throughmathematical progression. And they must be stopped. Leffingwell hasthe only answer. "

"They won't buy it, " warned the Secretary. "Congress won't, and thevoters won't, any more than they bought birth-control. And this isworse. "

"I know that, too. " The President rose and walked over to the window, looking out at the sky-scraper apartments which loomed across what hadonce been the Mall. He was trying to find the dwarfed spire ofWashington's Monument in the tangled maze of stone. 

"If I go before the people and sponsor Leffingwell, I'm through. Through as President, through with the Party. They'll crucify me. Butsomebody in authority must push this project. That's the beginning. Once it's known, people will have to think about the possibilities. There'll be opposition, then controversy, then debate. And graduallyLeffingwell will gain adherents. It may take five years, it may taketen. Finally, the change will come. First through volunteers. Then bylaw. I only pray that it happens soon. "

"They'll curse your name, " the Secretary said. "They'll try to killyou. It's going to be hell. "

"Hell for me if I do, yes. Worse hell for the whole world if I don't. "

"But are you quite sure it will work? His method, I mean?"

"You saw the reports on his tests, didn't you? It works, all right. We've got more than just abstract data, now. We've got films for thetelescreenings all set up. "

"Films? You mean you'll actually _show_ what the results are? Why, just telling the people will be bad enough. And admitting thegovernment sponsored the project under wraps. But when they _see_, nothing on earth can save you from assassination. "

"Perhaps. It doesn't really matter. " The President crushed hiscigarette in the ashtray. "One less mouth to feed. And I'm gettingpretty sick of synthetic meals, anyway. "

President Winthrop turned to the Secretary, his eyes brighteningmomentarily. "Tell you what, Art. I'm not planning on breaking theproposal to the public until next Monday. What say we have a littleprivate dinner party on Saturday evening, just the Cabinet members andtheir wives? Sort of a farewell celebration, in a way, but we won'tcall it that, of course? Chef tells me there's still twenty pounds ofhamburger in the freezers. "

"Twenty pounds of hamburger? You mean it?" The Secretary of State wassmiling, too. 

"That's right. " The President of the United States grinned inanticipation. "Been a long time since I've tasted a real, honest-to-goodness hamburger. "

4. Harry Collins--2000

Harry didn't ask any questions. He just kept his mouth shut andwaited. Maybe Dr. Manschoff suspected and maybe he didn't. Anyway, there was no trouble. Harry figured there wouldn't be, as long as hestayed in line and went through the proper motions. It was all amatter of pretending to conform, pretending to agree, pretending tobelieve. 

So he watched his step--_except in the dreams, and then he was alwaysfalling into the yawning abyss_. 

He kept his nose clean--_but in the dreams he smelled the blood andbrimstone of the pit_. 

He managed to retain a cheerful smile at all times--_though, in thedreams, he screamed_. 

Eventually, he even met Myrna. She was the pretty little brunette whomRitchie had mentioned, and she did her best to console him--_only indreams, when he embraced her, he was embracing a writhing coil ofslimy smoke_. 

It may have been that Harry Collins went a little mad, just having topretend that he was sane. But he learned the way, and he managed. Hesaved the madness (_or was it the reality?_) for the dreams. 

Meanwhile he waited and said nothing. 

He said nothing when, after three months or so, Myrna was suddenly"transferred" without warning. 

He said nothing when, once a week or so, he went in to visit with Dr. Manschoff. 

He said nothing when Manschoff volunteered the information thatRitchie had been "transferred" too, or suggested that it would be bestto stay on for "further therapy. "

And he said nothing when still a third nurse came his way; a woman whowas callid, complaisant, and nauseatingly nymphomaniac. 

The important thing was to stay alive. Stay alive and try to learn. 

 * * * * *

It took him almost an additional year to find out what he wanted tofind out. More than eight months passed before he found a way ofsneaking out of his room at night, and a way of getting into thatThird Unit through a delivery door which was occasionally left openthrough negligence. 

Even then, all he learned was that the female patients did have theirliving quarters here, along with the members of the staffand--presumably--Dr. Leffingwell. Many of the women _were_ patientsrather than nurses, as claimed, and a good number of them were invarious stages of pregnancy, but this proved nothing. 

Several times Harry debated the possibilities of taking some of theother men in his Unit into his confidence. Then he remembered what hadhappened to Arnold Ritchie and decided against this course. The riskwas too great. He had to continue alone. 

It wasn't until Harry managed to get into Unit Four that he got whathe wanted (what he _didn't_ want) and learned that reality and dreamswere one and the same. 

There was the night, more than a year after he'd come to the treatmentcenter, when he finally broke into the basement and found theincinerators. And the incinerators led to the operating and deliverychambers, and the delivery chambers led to the laboratory and thelaboratory led to the incubators and the incubators led to thenightmare. 

In the nightmare Harry found himself looking down at the mistakes andthe failures and he recognized them for what they were, and he knewthen why the incinerators were kept busy and why the black smokepoured. 

In the nightmare he saw the special units containing those which werenot mistakes or failures, and in a way they were worse than theothers. They were red and wriggling there beneath the glass, and onthe glass surfaces hung the charts which gave the data. Then Harry sawthe names, saw his own name repeated twice--once for Sue, once forMyrna. And he realized that he had contributed to the successfuloutcome or issue of the experiments (_outcome? Issue? These horrors?_)and that was why Manschoff must have chosen to take the risk ofkeeping him alive. Because he was one of the _good_ guinea pigs, andhe had spawned, spawned living, mewing abominations. 

He had dreamed of these things, and now he saw that they were real, sothat nightmare merged with _now_, and he could gaze down at it withopen eyes and scream at last with open mouth. 

Then, of course, an attendant came running (_although he seemed to bemoving ever so slowly, because everything moves so slowly in a dream_)and Harry saw him coming and lifted a bell-glass and smashed it downover the man's head (_slowly, ever so slowly_) and then he heard theothers coming and he climbed out of the window and ran. 

The searchlights winked across the courtyards and the sirens vomitedhysteria from metallic throats and the night was filled with shadowsthat pursued. 

But Harry knew where to run. He ran straight through the nightmare, through all the fantastic but familiar convolutions of sight andsound, and then he came to the river and plunged in. 

Now the nightmare was not sight or sound, but merely sensation. Icycold and distilled darkness; ripples that ran, then raced and roiledand roared. But there had to be a way out of the nightmare and therehad to be a way out of the canyon, and that way was the river. 

Apparently no one else had thought of the river; perhaps they hadconsidered it as a possible avenue of escape and then discarded thenotion when they realized how it ripped and raged among the rocks asit finally plunged from the canyon's mouth. Obviously, no one couldhope to combat that current and survive. 

But strange things happen in nightmares. And you fight the numbnessand the blackness and you claw and convulse and you twist and turn andtoss and then you ride the crests of frenzy and plunge into thetroughs of panic and despair and you sweep round and round and sinkdown into nothingness until you break through to the freedom whichcomes only with oblivion. 

Somewhere beyond the canyon's moiling maw, Harry Collins found thatfreedom and that oblivion. He escaped from the nightmare, just as heescaped from the river. 

The river itself roared on without him. 

And the nightmare continued, too. .. . 

5. Minnie Schultz--2009

When Frank came home, Minnie met him at the door. She didn't say aword, just handed him the envelope containing the notice. 

"What's the matter?" Frank asked, trying to take her in his arms. "Youbeen crying. "

"Never mind. " Minnie freed herself. "Just read what it says there. "

Frank read slowly, determinedly, his features contorted inconcentration. Vocational Apt had terminated his schooling at the oldgrade-school level, and while like all students he had been taughtenough so that he could read the necessary advertising commercials, any printed message of this sort provided a definite challenge. 

Halfway through the notice he started to scowl. "What kind of monkeybusiness is this?"

"No monkey business. It's the new law. Everybody that gets married inAngelisco takes the shots, from now on. Fella from State Hall, he toldme when he delivered this. "

"We'll see about this, " Frank muttered. "No damn government's gonnatell me how to run my life. Sa free country, ain't so?"

Minnie's mouth began to twitch. "They're coming back tomorra morning, the fella said. To give me the first shots. Gee, honey, I'm scared, like. I don't want 'em. "

"That settles it, " Frank said. "We're getting out of this place, fast. "

"Where'd we go?"

"Dunno. Someplace. Texas, maybe. I was listening to the 'casts at worktoday. They don't have this law in Texas. Not yet, anyway. Come on, start packing. "

"Packing? But how'll we get there?"

"Fly. We'll jet right out. "

"You got prior'ty reservations or something?"

"No. " The scowl returned to Frank's forehead. "But maybe if I pitch'em a sob story, tell 'em it's our honeymoon, you know, then wecould--"

Minnie shook her head. "It won't work, honey. You know that. Takes sixmonths to get a prior'ty clearance or whatever they call it. Besides, your job and all--what'll you do in Texas? They've got your numberlisted here. Why, we couldn't even _land_, like. I bet Texas is evenmore crowded than Angelisco these days, in the cities. And all therest of it is Ag Culture project, isn't it?"

Frank was leaning against the sink, listening. Now he took three stepsforward and sat down on the bed. He didn't look at her as he spoke. 

"Well, we gotta do something, " he said. "You don't want those shotsand that's for sure. Maybe I can have one of those other thingsinstead, those whaddya-call-'ems. "

"You mean where they operate you, like?"

"That's right. A vas-something. You know, sterilize you. Then we won'thave to worry. "

Minnie took a deep breath. Then she sat down and put her arm aroundFrank. 

"But you wanted kids, " she murmured. "You told me, when we gotmarried, you always wanted to have a son--"

Frank pulled away. 

"Sure I do, " he said. "A son. That's what I want. A _real_ son. Not afreak. Not a damned little monster that has to go to the Clinic everymonth and take injections so it won't grow. And what happens to you ifyou take _your_ shots now? What if they drive you crazy or something?"

Minnie put her arm around Frank again and made him look at her. "That's not true, " she told him. "That's just a lot of Naturalisttalk. I know. "

"Hell you do. "

"But I do, honey! Honest, like! May Stebbins, she took the shots lastyear, when they asked for volunteers. And she's all right. You seenher baby yourself, remember? It's the sweetest little thing, and awfulsmart! So maybe it wouldn't be so bad. "

"I'll ask about being operated tomorrow, " Frank said. "Forget it. Itdon't matter. "

"Of course it matters. " Minnie looked straight at him. "Don't youthink I know what you been going through? Sweating it out on that jobday after day, going nuts in the traffic, saving up the ration couponsso's we'd have extra food for the honeymoon and all?

"You didn't have to marry me, you know that. It was just like we couldhave a place of our own together, and kids. Well, we're gonna have'em, honey. I'll take the shots. "

Frank shook his head but said nothing. 

"It won't be so bad, " Minnie went on. "The shots don't hurt at all, and they make it easier, carrying the baby. They say you don't evenget morning sickness or anything. And just think, when we have a kid, we get a chance for a bigger place. We go right on the housing lists. We can have two rooms. A real bedroom, maybe. "

Frank stared at her. "Is that all you can think about?" he asked. "Areal bedroom?"

"But honey--"

"What about the kid?" he muttered. "How you suppose it's gonna feel?How'd you like to grow up and _not_ grow up? How'd you like to be amidget three feet high in a world where everybody else is bigger? Whatkind of a life you call _that_? I want my son to have a decentchance. "

"He will have. "

Minnie stared back at him, but she wasn't seeing his face. "Don't youunderstand, honey? This isn't just something happening to _us_. We'renot special. It's happening to everybody, all over the country, allover the world. You seen it in the 'casts, haven't you? Most states, they adopted the laws. And in a couple more years it'll be the onlyway anyone will ever have kids. Ten, twenty years from now, the kidswill be growing up. Ours won't be different then, because from now onall the kids will be just like he is. The same size. "

"I thought you was afraid of the shots, " Frank said. 

Minnie was still staring. "I was, honey. Only, I dunno. I keepthinking about Grandma. "

"What's the old lady got to do with it?"

"Well, I remember when I was a little girl, like. How my Grandmaalways used to tell me about _her_ Grandma, when _she_ was a littlegirl. 

"She was saying about how in the old days, before there even was anAngelisco--when her Grandma came out here in a covered wagon. Justthink, honey, she was younger than I am, and she come thousands andthousands of miles in a wagon! With real horses, like! Wasn't anyhouses, no people or nothing. Except Indians that shot at them. Andthey climbed up the mountains and they crossed over the deserts andwent hungry and thirsty and had fights with those Indians all theway. But they never stopped until they got here. Because they was thepioneers. "

"Pioneers?"

"That's what Grandma said _her_ Grandma called herself. A pioneer. Shewas real proud of it, too. Because it means having the courage to cutloose from all the old things and try something new when you need to. Start a whole new world, a whole new kind of life. "

She sighed. "I always wanted to be a pioneer, like, but I neverthought I'd get the chance. "

"What are you talking about? What's all this got to do with us, orhaving a kid?"

"Don't you see? Taking these shots, having a baby this new way--it'ssort of being a pioneer, too. Gonna help bring a new kind of peopleinto a new kind of world. And if that's not being a pioneer, like, it's the closest I can come to it. It sounds right to me now. "

Minnie smiled and nodded. "I guess I made up my mind just now. I'mtaking the shots. "

"Hell you are!" Frank told her. "We'll talk about it some more in themorning. "

But Minnie continued to smile. 

And that night, as she lay in the utility bed, the squeaking of thesprings became the sound of turning wheels. The plastic walls andceiling of the eightieth-floor apartment turned to billowing canvas, and the thunder of the passing jets transformed itself into thedrumming hoofbeats of a million buffalo. 

_Let Frank talk to her again in the morning if he liked_, Minniethought. _It wouldn't make any difference now. Because you can't stopus pioneers. _

6. Harry Collins--2012

Harry crouched behind the boulders, propping the rifle up between therocks, and adjusted the telescopic sights. The distant doorway spranginto sharp focus. Grunting with satisfaction, he settled down to hisvigil. The rifle-barrel had been dulled down against detection byreflection, and Harry's dark glasses protected him against the glareof the morning sun. He might have to wait several hours now, but hedidn't care. It had taken him twelve years to come this far, and hewas willing to wait a little while longer. 

_Twelve years. _ Was it really that long?

A mirror might have answered him; a mirror might have shown him theharsh features of a man of forty-two. But Harry needed no mirror. Hecould remember the past dozen years only too easily--though they hadnot been easy years. 

Surviving the river was only the beginning. Animal strength carriedhim through that ordeal. But he emerged from the river as an animal; awounded animal, crawling through the brush and arroyo outside thesouthern Colorado canyon. 

And it was animal cunning which preserved him. He'd wandered severaldays until he encountered Emil Grizek and his outfit. By that time hewas half-starved and completely delirious. It took a month until hewas up and around again. 

But Emil and the boys had nursed him through. They took turns caringfor him in the bunkhouse; their methods were crude but efficient andHarry was grateful. Best of all, they asked no questions. Harry'sstatus was that of a hunted fugitive, without a Vocational Apt recordor rating. The authorities or any prospective employers would inquireinto these things, but Emil Grizek never seemed curious. By the timeHarry was up and around again, he'd been accepted as one of the bunch. He told them his name was Harry Sanders, and that was enough. 

Two months after they found him, he'd signed on with Emil Grizek andfound a new role in life. 

Harry Collins, advertising copywriter, had become Harry Sanders, working cowhand. 

There was surprisingly little difficulty. Grizek had absenteeemployers who weren't interested in their foreman's methods, just aslong as he recruited his own wranglers for the Bar B Ranch. Nobodydemanded to see Apt cards or insisted on making out formalwork-reports, and the pay was in cash. Cowhands were hard to come bythese days, and it was an unspoken premise that the men taking on suchjobs would be vagrants, migratory workers, fugitives from justice andinjustice. A generation or so ago they might have become tramps--butthe last of the hoboes had vanished along with the last of the freighttrains. Once the derelicts haunted the canyons of the big cities;today there was no place for them there, so they fled to the canyonsof the west. Harry had found himself a new niche, and no questionsasked. 

Oddly enough, he fitted in. The outdoor life agreed with him, and in amatter of months he was a passable cowpoke; within a year he was oneof Grizek's top hands. 

He learned to ride a bucking jeep with the best of them, and he couldspot, single out, and stun a steer in forty seconds flat; then use hiselectronic brander on it and have the critter back on its feet in justunder a minute. 

Work was no problem, and neither was recreation. The bunkhouse offeredcrude but adequate facilities for living; old-fashionedair-conditioning and an antique infra-red broiler seemed good enoughfor roughing it, and Cookie at least turned out real man-sized meals. Eating genuine beef and honest-to-goodness baked bread was a treat, and so was having the luxury of all that space in the sleepingquarters. Harry thrived on it. 

And some of the other hands were interesting companions. True, theywere renegades and mavericks, but they were each of them unique andindividual, and Harry enjoyed listening to them fan the breeze duringthe long nights. 

There was Big Phil, who was pushing sixty now. But you'd never knowit, not unless you got him to talking about the old days when he'dbeen a boy in Detroit. His daddy had been one of the last of the UnionMen, back in the days of what they used to call the Organized LaborMovement. He could tell you about wage-hour agreements and theRailroad Brotherhood and contract negotiations almost as if he knew ofthese things through personal experience. He even remembered theDemocratic Party. Phil got out when the government took over and setup Vocational Apt and Industrial Supervision; that's when he driftedwest. 

Tom Lowery's family had been military; he claimed to have been amember of the last graduating class ever to leave West Point. When thearmament race ended, his prospects of a career vanished, and hesettled down as a guard at Canaveral. Finally, he'd headed for theopen country. 

Bassett was the scholar of the outfit. He could sit around and quoteold-time book-authors by the hour--classic writers like Prather andSpillane. In another age he might have been a college professor oreven a football coach; he had an aptitude for the arts. 

And there was Lobo, the misogynist, who had fled a wife and elevenchildren back in Monterey; and Januzki, who used to be mixed up withone of those odd religious cults out on the Coast. He bragged he'dbeen one of the Big Daddy-Os in the Beat Generationists, and he arguedwith Bassett about some old-time evangelist named Kerouac. 

 * * * * *

Best of all, though, Harry liked talking to Nick Kendrick. Nick'shobby was music, and he treasured his second-hand stereophonic unitand collection of tapes. He too was a classicist in his way, and therewas many a long winter night when Harry sat there listening to ancientfolk songs. The quaint atonalities of progressive jazz and thechildishly frantic rhythms of "cool sounds" were somehow soothing andreassuring in their reminder of a simple heritage from a simpler age. 

But above all, these men were wranglers, and they took a peculiarpride in the traditions of their own calling. There wasn't a one ofthem who wouldn't spend hours mulling over the lore of the range andthe prairie. They knew the Great Names from the Great Days--EugeneAutry, Wyatt Earp, the legendary Thomas Mix, Dale Robertson, Paladin, and all the others; men who rode actual horses in the era when theWest was really an untamed frontier. 

And like the cowboys they were, they maintained the customs of otherdays. Every few months they rode a bucking helicopter into some rawwestern town--Las Vegas, or Reno, or even over to Palm Springs--todrink recklessly in the cocktail lounges, gamble wildly at the slots, or "go down the line" with some telescreen model on location foroutdoor ad-backgrounds. There were still half a dozen such sin-citiesscattered throughout the west; even the government acknowledged theneed of lonely men to blow off steam. And though Ag Culture officiallydisapproved of the whole cowhand system, and talked grimly of settingup new and more efficient methods for training personnel and handlingthe cattle ranges, nothing was ever done. Perhaps the authorities knewthat it was a hopeless task; only the outcasts and iconoclasts had thetemperament necessary to survive such loneliness under an open sky. City-dwelling conformists just could not endure the monotony. 

But even Emil Grizek's hands marvelled at the way Harry lived. Henever joined them in their disorderly descent upon the scarlet citiesof the plain, and most of the time he didn't even seem to watch thetelescreen. If anything, he deliberately avoided all possible contactwith civilization. 

Since he never volunteered any information about his own past, theyprivately concluded that he was just a psychopathic personality. 

"Strong regressive and seclusive tendencies, " Bassett explained, solemnly. 

"Sure, " Nick Kendrick nodded, wisely. "You mean a Mouldy Fig, like. "

"Creeping Meatball, " muttered cultist Januzki. Not being religiousfanatics, the others didn't understand the reference. But graduallythey came to accept Harry's isolationist ways as the norm--at least, for him. And since he never quarreled, never exhibited any signs ofdissatisfaction, he was left to his own pattern. 

Thus it was all the more surprising when that pattern was rudely andabruptly shattered. 

Harry remembered the occasion well. It was the day the Leff Law wasofficially upheld by the Supremist Courts. The whole business cameover the telescreens and there was no way of avoiding it--you couldn'tavoid it, because everybody was talking about it and everybody waswatching. 

"Now what do you think?" Emil Grizek demanded. "Any woman wants ababy, she's got to have those shots. They say kids shrink down intonothing. Weigh less than two pounds when they're born, and never growup to be any bigger than midgets. You ask me, the whole thing's plumbloco, to say nothing of psychotic. "

"I dunno. " This from Big Phil. "Reckon they just about have to dosomething, the way cities are filling up and all. Tell me every spotin the country, except for the plains states here, is busting at theseams. Same in Europe, Africa, South America. Running out of space, running out of food, all over the world. This man Leffingwell figureson cutting down on size so's to keep the whole shebang going. "

"But why couldn't it be done on a voluntary basis?" Bassett demanded. "These arbitrary rulings are bound to result in frustrations. And canyou imagine what will happen to the individual family constellations?Take a couple that already has two youngsters, as of now. Suppose thewife submits to the inoculations for her next child and it's born witha size-mutation. How in the world will that child survive as a midgetin a family of giants? There'll be untold damage to the personality--"

"We've heard all those arguments, " Tom Lowery cut in. "The Naturalistshave been handing out that line for years. What happens to the newgeneration of kids, how do we know they won't be mentally defective, how can they adjust, by what right does the government interfere withprivate lives, personal religious beliefs; all that sort of thing. Forover ten years now the debate's been going on. And meanwhile, time isrunning out. Space is running out. Food is running out. It isn't aquestion of individual choice any longer--it's a question of groupsurvival. I say the Courts are right. We have to go according to law. And back the law up with force of arms if necessary. "

"We get the message, " Januzki agreed. "But something tells me there'llbe trouble. Most folks need a midget like they need a monkey on theirbacks. "

"It's a gasser, pardners, " said Nick Kendrick. "Naturalists don't digthis. They'll fight it all along the line. Everybody's gonna be allshook up. "

"It is still a good idea, " Lobo insisted. "This Dr. Leffingwell, hehas made the tests. For years he has given injections and no harm hascome. The children are healthy, they survive. They learn in specialschools--"

"How do you know?" Bassett demanded. "Maybe it's all a lot ofmotivationalist propaganda. "

"We have seen them on the telescreens, no?"

"They could be faking the whole thing. "

"But Leffingwell, he has offered the shots to other governments besideour own. The whole world will adopt them--"

"What if some countries don't? What if our kids become midgets and theAsiatics refuse the inoculations?"

"They won't. They need room even more than we do. "

"No sense arguing, " Emil Grizek concluded. "It's the law. You knowthat. And if you don't like it, join the Naturalists. " He chuckled. "But better hurry. Something tells me there won't be any Naturalistsaround after a couple of years. Now that there's a Leff Law, thegovernment isn't likely to stand for too much criticism. " He turned toHarry. "What do you think?" he asked. 

Harry shrugged. "No comment, " he said. 

But the next day he went to Grizek and demanded his pay in full. 

"Leaving?" Grizek muttered. "I don't understand. You've been with usalmost five years. Where you going, what you intend to do? What's gotinto you all of a sudden?"

"Time for a change, " Harry told him. "I've been saving my money. "

"Don't I know it? Never touched a penny in all this time. " Grizek rana hand across his chin. "Say, if it's a raise you're looking for, Ican--"

"No, thanks. It's not that. I've money enough. "

"So you have. Around eighteen, twenty thousand, I reckon, what withthe bonuses. " Emil Grizek sighed. "Well, if you insist, that's the wayit's got to be, I suppose. When you plan on taking off?"

"Just as soon as there's a 'copter available. "

"Got one going up to Colorado Springs tomorrow morning for the mail. Ican get you aboard, give you a check--"

"I'll want my money in cash. "

"Well, now, that isn't so easy. Have to send up for a special draft. Take a week or so. "

"I can wait. "

"All right. And think it over. Maybe you'll decide to change yourmind. "

But Harry didn't change his mind. And ten days later he rode a 'copterinto town, his money-belt strapped beneath his safety-belt. 

From Colorado Springs he jetted to Kancity, and from Kancity toMemphisee. As long as he had money, nobody asked any questions. Heholed up in cheap airtels and waited for developments. 

It wasn't easy to accustom himself to urbanization again. He had beenaway from cities for over seven years now, and it might well have beenseven centuries. The overpopulation problem was appalling. Theoutlawing of private automotive vehicles had helped, and the clearingof the airlanes served a purpose; the widespread increase in the useof atomic power cut the smog somewhat. But the synthetic food wasfrightful, the crowding intolerable, and the welter of rules andregulations attending the performance of even the simplest humanactivity past all his comprehension. Ration cards were in universaluse for almost everything; fortunately for Harry, the black marketaccepted cash with no embarrassing inquiries. He found that he couldsurvive. 

But Harry's interest was not in survival; he was bent upondestruction. Surely the Naturalists would be organized and planning away!

Back in '98, of course, they'd been merely an articulate minoritywithout formal unity--an abstract, amorphous group akin to the"Liberals" of previous generations. A Naturalist could be a Catholicpriest, a Unitarian layman, an atheist factory hand, a governmentemployee, a housewife with strong prejudices against governmentalcontrols, a wealthy man who deplored the dangers of growingindustrialization, an Ag Culture worker who dreaded the dwindling ofindividual rights, an educator who feared widespread employment ofsocial psychology, or almost anyone who opposed the concept of MassMan, Mass-Motivated. Naturalists had never formed a single class, asingle political party. 

Surely, however, the enactment of the Leffingwell Law would haveunited them! Harry knew there was strong opposition, not only on thehigher levels but amongst the general population. People would beafraid of the inoculations; theologians would condemn the process;economic interests, real-estate owners and transportation magnates andmanufacturers would sense the threat here. They'd sponsor and they'dsubsidize their spokesmen and the Naturalists would evolve into anefficient body of opposition. 

So Harry hoped, and so he thought, until he came out into the cities;came out into the cities and realized that the very magnitude of MassMan mitigated against any attempt to organize him, except as acreature who labored and consumed. Organization springs fromdiscussion, and discussion from thought--but who can think in chaos, discuss in delirium, organize in a vacuum? And the common citizen, Harry realized, had seemingly lost the capacity for group action. Heremembered his own existence years ago--either he was lost in a crowdor he was alone, at home. Firm friendships were rare, and family unitssurvived on the flimsiest of foundations. It took too much time andeffort just to follow the rules, follow the traffic, follow theincessant routines governing even the simplest life-pattern in theteeming cities. For leisure there was the telescreen and theyellowjackets, and serious problems could be referred to the psych inroutine check-ups. Everybody seemed lost in the crowd these days. 

Harry discovered that Dr. Manschoff had indeed lied to him; mentaldisorders were on the increase. He remembered an old, old book--one ofthe very first treatises on sociological psychology. _The LonelyCrowd_, wasn't it? Full of mumbo-jumbo about "inner-directed" and"outer-directed" personalities. Well, there was a grain of truth in itall. The crowd, and its individual members, lived in loneliness. Andsince you didn't know very many people well enough to talk to, intimately, you talked to yourself. Since you couldn't get away fromphysical contact with others whenever you ventured abroad, you stayedinside--except when you had to go to work, had to line up forfood-rations or supplies, had to wait for hours for your check-ups onoff-days. And staying inside meant being confined to the equivalent ofan old-fashioned prison cell. If you weren't married, you lived in"solitary"; if you were married, you suffered the presence offellow-inmates whose habits became intolerable, in time. So youwatched the screen more and more, or you increased your quota ofsedation, and when that didn't help you looked for a real escape. Itwas always available to you if you searched long enough; waiting atthe tip of a knife, in the coil of a rope, the muzzle of a gun. Youcould find it at the very bottom of a bottle of pills or at the verybottom of the courtyard outside your window. Harry recalled lookingfor it there himself, so many years ago. 

But now he was looking for something else. He was looking for otherswho shared not only his viewpoint but his purposefulness. 

Where were the Naturalists?

Harry searched for several years. 

_The press?_

But there were no Naturalists visible on the telescreens. The news andthe newsmakers reflected a national philosophy adopted manygenerations ago by the Founding Fathers of mass-communication in theirinfinite wisdom--"_What's good for General Motors is good for thecountry. _" And according to them, everything happening was good forthe country; that was the cardinal precept in the science ofautobuyology. There were no Arnold Ritchies left any more, and theprinted newzine seemed to have vanished. 

_The clergy?_

Individual churches with congregations in physical attendance, seemeddifficult to find. Telepreachers still appeared regularly everySunday, but their scripts--like everyone else's--had been processed inadvance. Denominationalism and sectarianism had waned, too; all ofthese performers seemed very much alike, in that they were vigorous, forthright, inspiring champions of the _status quo_. 

_The scientists?_

But the scientists were a part of the government, and the governmentwas a one-party system, and the system supported the nation and thenation supported the scientists. Of course, there were still privatelaboratories subsidized for industrial purposes, but the men whoworked in them seemed singularly disinterested in social problems. Ina way, Harry could understand their position. It isn't likely that adedicated scientist, a man whose specialized research has won him aNobel Prize for creating a new detergent, will be worldly enough toface unpleasant realities beyond the walls of his antiseptic sanctum. After all, there was precedent for such isolationism--did the saintedBetty Crocker ever enlist in any crusades? As for physicians, psychiatrists and mass-psychologists, they were the very ones whoformed the hard core of Leffingwell's support. 

_The educators, then?_

Vocational Apt was a part of the government. And the poor pedagogues, who had spent generations hacking their way out of the blackboardjungles, were only too happy to welcome the notion of a comingmillennium when their small charges would be still smaller. Eventhough formal schooling, for most youngsters, terminated at fourteen, there was still the problem of overcrowding. Telescreening andteletesting techniques were a help, but the problem was essentially aphysical one. And Leffingwell was providing a physical solution. Besides, the educators had been themselves educated, throughVocational Apt. And while they, and the government, fervently upheldthe principle of freedom of speech, they had to draw the linesomewhere. As everyone knows, freedom of speech does not mean freedomto _criticize_. 

_Business men?_

Perhaps there were some disgruntled souls in the commercial community, whose secret heroes were the oil tycoons of a bygone era or theold-time Stock Exchange clan united under the totems of the bull orthe bear. But the day of the rugged individualist was long departed;only the flabby individualist remained. And he had the forms to fillout and the inspectors to contend with, and the rationing to worryabout and the taxes to meet and the quotas to fulfill. But in the longrun, he managed. The business man worked for the government, but thegovernment also worked for him. His position was protected. And if thegovernment said the Leff Shots would solve the overpopulationproblem--_without_ cutting down the number of consumers--well, wasthat really so bad? Why, in a generation or so there'd be even _more_customers! That meant increased property values, too. 

It took Harry several years to realize he'd never find Naturalistsorganized for group action. The capacity for group action had vanishedas the size of the group increased. All interests were interdependent;the old civic, fraternal, social and anti-social societies had nopresent purpose any more. And the once-familiar rallying-points--whetherthey represented idealistic humanitarianism or crass self-interest--hadvanished in the crowd. Patriotism, racialism, unionism, had all beenlost in a moiling megalopolitanism. 

There were protests, of course. The mothers objected, some of them. AgCulture, in particular, ran into difficulties with women who revivedthe quaint custom of "going on strike" against the Leff Law andrefused to take their shots. But it was all on the individual level, and quickly coped with. Government medical authorities met the womenat checkup time and demonstrated that the Leff Law had teeth in it. Teeth, and scalpels. The rebellious women were not subdued, slain, orsegregated--they were merely sterilized. Perhaps more would have comeof this if their men had backed them up; but the men, by and large, were realists. Having a kid was a headache these days. This newbusiness of injections wasn't so bad, when you came right down to it. There'd still be youngsters around, and you'd get the same allotmentfor extra living space--only the way it worked out, there'd be moreroom and the kids would eat less. Pretty good deal. And it wasn't asif the young ones were harmed. Some of them seemed to be a lot smarterthan ordinary--like on some of the big quizshows, youngsters of eightand nine were winning all those big prizes. Bright little ones. Ofcourse, these must be the ones raised in the first special school thegovernment had set up. They said old Leffingwell, the guy who inventedthe shots, was running it himself. Sort of experimenting to see howthis new crop of kids would make out. .. . 

It was when Harry learned about the school that he knew what he mustdo. 

And if nobody else would help him, he'd act on his own. There mightnot be any help from organized society, but he still had disorganizedsociety to turn to. 

 * * * * *

He spent the next two years and the last of his money finding a way. The pattern of criminality had changed, too, and it was no easy matterto find the assistance he needed. About the only group crime stillflourishing was hijacking; it took him a long while to locate a smallunder-cover outfit which operated around St. Louie and arrange toobtain a helicopter and pilot. Getting hold of the rifle was stillmore difficult, but he managed. And by the time everything wasassembled, he'd found out what he needed to know about Dr. Leffingwelland his school. 

As he'd suspected, the school was located in the old canyon, right inthe same buildings which had once served as experimental units. Howmany youngsters were there, Harry didn't know. Maybe Manschoff wasstill on the staff, and maybe they'd brought in a whole new staff. These things didn't matter. What mattered was that Leffingwell was onthe premises. And a man who knew his way about, a man who worked aloneand to a single purpose, could reach him. 

Thus it was that Harry Collins crouched behind the boulder that brightMay morning and waited for Dr. Leffingwell to appear. The helicopterhad dropped him at the upper end of the canyon the day before, givinghim a chance to reconnoitre and familiarize himself with the terrainonce again. He'd located Leffingwell's quarters, even seen the manthrough one of the lower windows. Harry had no trouble recognizinghim; the face was only too familiar from a thousand 'casts viewed on athousand screens. Inevitably, some time today, he'd emerge from thebuilding. And when he did, Harry would be waiting. 

He shifted behind the rocks and stretched his legs. Twelve years hadpassed, and now he'd come full circle. The whole business had startedhere, and here it must end. That was simple justice. 

_And it is justice_, Harry told himself. _It's not revenge. _ Becausethere'd be no point to revenge; that was only melodramatic nonsense. He was no Monte Cristo, come to wreak vengeance on his crueloppressors. And he was no madman, no victim of a monomaniacalobsession. What he was doing was the result of lengthy and logicalconsideration. 

If Harry Collins, longtime fugitive from a government treatmentcenter, tried to take his story to the people, he'd be silencedwithout a hearing. But his story must be heard. There was only one wayto arrest the attention of a nation--with the report of a rifle. 

A bullet in Leffingwell's brain; that was the solution of the problem. Overnight the assassin would become a national figure. They'dundoubtedly try him and undoubtedly condemn him, but first he'd havehis day in court. He'd get a chance to speak out. He'd give all thevoiceless, unorganized victims of the Leff Law a reason forrebellion--and offer them an example. If Leffingwell had to die, itwould be in a good cause. Moreover, he deserved to die. Hadn't hekilled men, women, infants, without mercy?

_But it's not revenge_, Harry repeated. _And I know what I'm doing. Maybe I was disturbed before, but I'm sane now. Perfectly logical. Perfectly calm. Perfectly controlled. _

Yes, and now his sane, logical, calm, controlled eyes noted that thedistant door was opening, and he sighted through the 'scope andbrought his sane, logical, calm, controlled hand up along the barrelto the trigger. He could see the two men emerging, and the shorter, plumper of the two was Leffingwell. He squinted at the high foreheadwith its receding hairline; it was a perfect target. A little squeezenow and he knew what would happen. In his sane, logical, calm, controlled mind he could visualize the way the black hole would appearin the center of that forehead, while behind it would be the torn anddripping redness flecked with gray--

"What are you doing?"

Harry whirled, staring; staring down at the infant who stood smilingbeside him. It _was_ an infant, that was obvious enough, and implicitin the diminutive stature, the delicate limbs and the oversized head. But infants do not wear the clothing of pre-adolescent boys, they donot enunciate with clarity, they do not stare coolly and knowingly attheir elders. They do not say, "Why do you want to harm Dr. Leffingwell?"

Harry gazed into the wide eyes. He couldn't speak. 

"You're sick, aren't you?" the child persisted. "Let me call thedoctor. He can help you. "

Harry swung the rifle around. "I'll give you just ten seconds to clearout of here before I shoot. "

The child shook his head. Then he took a step forward. "You wouldn'thurt me, " he said, gravely. "You're just sick. That's why you talkthis way. "

Harry leveled the rifle. "I'm not sick, " he muttered. "I know what I'mdoing. And I know all about you, too. You're one of them, aren't you?One of the first of Leffingwell's brood of illegitimates. "

The child took another step forward. "I'm not illegitimate, " he said. "I know who I am. I've seen the records. My name is Harry Collins. "

Somewhere the rifle exploded, the bullet hurtling harmlessly overhead. But Harry didn't hear it. All he could hear, exploding in his ownbrain as he went down into darkness, was the sane, logical, calm, controlled voice of his son. 

7. Michael Cavendish--2027

Mike was just coming through the clump of trees when the boy began towave at him. He shifted the clumsy old Jeffrey . 475, cursing theweight as he quickened his pace. But there was no help for it, he hadto carry the gun himself. None of the boys were big enough. 

He wondered what it had been like in the old days, when you could getfullsized bearers. There used to be game all over the place, too, anda white hunter was king. 

And what was there left now? Nothing but pygmies, all of them, scurrying around and beating the brush for dibatags and gerenuks. Whenhe was still a boy, Mike had seen the last of the big antelopes go;the last of the wildebeestes and zebra, too. Then the carnivoresfollowed--the lions and the leopards. _Simba_ was dead, and just aswell. These natives would never dare to come out of the villages ifthey knew any lions were left. Most of them had gone to Cape and theother cities anyway; handling cattle was too much of a chore, excepton a government farm. Those cows looked like moving mountainsalongside the average boy. 

Of course there were still some of the older generation left; Kikiyuand even a few Watusi. But the free inoculations had begun many yearsago, and the life-cycle moved at an accelerated pace here. Nativesgrew old and died at thirty; they matured at fifteen. Now, with theshortage of game, the elders perished still more swiftly and only theyoung remained outside the cities and the farm projects. 

Mike smiled as he waited for the boy to come up to him. He wasn'tsmiling at the boy--he was smiling at himself, for being here. Heought to be in Cape, too, or Kenyarobi. Damned silly, this business ofbeing a white hunter, when there was nothing left to hunt. 

But somehow he'd stayed on, since Dad died. There were a fewcompensations. At least here in the forests a man could still moveabout a bit, taste privacy and solitude and the strange, exotictropical fruit called loneliness. Even _that_ was vanishing today. 

It was compensation enough, perhaps, for lugging this damned Jeffrey. Mike tried to remember the last time he'd fired it at a living target. A year, two years? Yes, almost two. That gorilla up in Ruwenzoricountry. At least the boys swore it was _ingagi_. He hadn't hit it, anyway. Got away in the darkness. Probably he'd been shooting at ashadow. There were no more gorillas--maybe _they_ had been taking theshots, too. Perhaps they'd all turned into rhesus monkeys. 

Mike watched the boy run towards him. It was a good five hundred yardsfrom the river bank, and the short brown legs couldn't move veryswiftly. He wondered what it felt like to be small. One's sense ofproportion must be different. And that, in turn, would affect one'ssense of values. What values applied to the world about you when youwere only three feet high?

Mike wouldn't know. He was a big man--almost five feet seven. 

Sometimes Mike reflected on what things might be like if he'd beenborn, say, twenty years later. By that time almost everyone would be aproduct of Leff shots, and he'd be no exception. He might stay withpeople his own age in Kenyarobi without feeling self-conscious, clumsy, conspicuous. Pressed, he had to admit that was part of thereason he preferred to remain out here at Dad's old place now. Hecould tolerate the stares of the natives, but whenever he venturedinto a city he felt awkward under the scrutiny of the young people. The way those teen-agers looked up at him made him feel a monster, rather. 

Better to endure the monotony, the emptiness out here. Yes, and waitfor a chance to hunt. Even though, nine times out of ten, it turnedout to be a wild goose-chase. During the past year or so Mike hadhunted nothing but legends and rumors, spent his time stalkingshadows. 

Then the villagers had come to him, three days ago, with their wildstory. Even when he heard it, he realized it must be pure fable. Andthe more they insisted, the more they protested, the more he realizedit simply couldn't be. 

Still, he'd come. Anything to experience some action, anything tocreate the illusion of purpose, of--

"_Tembo!_" shrieked the boy, excited beyond all pretense of caution. "Up ahead, in river. You come quick, you see!"

No. It couldn't be. The government surveys were thorough. The lastrecord of a specimen dated back over a half-dozen years ago. It wasimpossible that any survivors remained. And all during the safarithese past days, not a sign or a print or a spoor. 

"_Tembo!_" shrilled the boy. "Come quick!"

Mike cradled the gun and started forward. The other bearers shuffledbehind him, unable to keep pace because of their short legs and--hesuspected--unwilling to do so for fear of what might lie ahead. 

Halfway towards the river bank, Mike halted. Now he could hear therumbling, the unmistakable rumbling. And now he could smell the rankmustiness borne on the hot breeze. Well, at least he was down-wind. 

The boy behind him trembled, eyes wide. He _had_ seen something, allright. Maybe just a crocodile, though. Still some crocs around. And hedoubted if a young native would know the difference. 

Nevertheless, Mike felt a sudden surge of unfamiliar excitement, halfexpectancy and half fear. _Something_ wallowed in the river; somethingthat rumbled and exuded the stench of life. 

Now they were approaching the trees bordering the bank. Mike checkedhis gun carefully. Then he advanced until his body was aligned withthe trees. From here he could see and not be seen. He could peer downat the river--or the place where the river had been, during the rainyseason long past. Now it was nothing but a mudwallow under the glaringsun; a huge mudwallow, pitted with deep, circular indentations anddotted with dung. 

But in the middle of it stood _tembo_. 

_Tembo_ was a mountain, _tembo_ was a black block of breathing basalt. _Tembo_ roared and snorted and rolled red eyes. 

Mike gasped. 

He was a white hunter, but he'd never seen a bull elephant before. Andthis one stood eleven feet at the shoulders if it stood an inch; thebiggest creature walking the face of the earth. 

It had risen from the mud, abandoned its wallowing as its trunk curledabout, sensitive to the unfamiliar scent of man. Its ears rose likethe outspread wings of some gigantic jungle bat. Mike could see theflies buzzing around the ragged edges. He stared at the great tusksthat were veined and yellowed and broken--once men had huntedelephants for ivory, he remembered. 

But how could they? Even with guns, how had they dared to confront amoving mountain? Mike tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. Thestock slipped through his clammy hands. 

"Shoot!" implored the boy beside him. "You shoot, now!"

Mike gazed down. The elephant was aware of him. It turneddeliberately, staring up the bank as it swayed on the four blackpillars of its legs. Mike could see its eyes, set in a mass of grayishwrinkles. The eyes had recognized him. 

They knew, he realized. The eyes knew all about him; who he was andwhat he was and what he had come here to do. The eyes had seen manbefore--perhaps long before Mike was born. They understood everything;the gun and the presence and the purpose. 

"Shoot!" the boy cried, not bothering to hold his voice down anylonger. For the elephant was moving slowly towards the side of thewallow, moving deliberately to firmer footing, and the boy was afraid. Mike was afraid, too, but he couldn't shoot. 

"No, " he murmured. "Let him go. I can't kill him. "

"You must, " the boy said. "You promise. Look--all the meat. Meat fortwo, three villages. "

Mike shook his head. "I can't do it, " he said. "That isn't meat. That's life. Bigger life than we are. Don't you understand? Oh, thebloody hell with it! Come on. "

The boy wasn't listening to him. He was watching the elephant. And nowhe started to tremble. 

For the elephant was moving up onto solid ground. It moved slowly, daintily, almost mincing as its legs sampled the surface of the shore. Then it looked up and this time there was no doubt as to the directionof its gaze--it stared intently at Mike and the boy on the bank. Itsears fanned, then flared. Suddenly the elephant raised its trunk andtrumpeted fiercely. 

And then, lowering the black battering-ram of its head, the beast cameforward. A deceptively slow lope, a scarcely accelerated trot, andthen all at once it was moving swiftly, swiftly and surely andinexorably towards them. The angle of the bank was not steep and theelephant's speed never slackened on the slope. Its right shoulderstruck a sapling and the sapling splintered. It was crashing forwardin full charge. Again it trumpeted, trunk extended like a flail ofdoom. 

"Shoot!" screamed the boy. 

Mike didn't want to shoot. He wanted to run. He wanted to flee themountain, flee the incredible breathing bulk of this grotesque giant. But he was a white hunter, he was a man, and a man is not a beast; aman does not run away from life in any shape or size. 

The trunk came up. Mike raised the gun. He heard the monster roar, faraway, and then he heard another sound that must be the gun'sdischarge, and something hit him in the shoulder and knocked him down. Recoil? Yes, because the elephant wasn't there any more; he could hearthe crashing and thrashing down below, over the rim of the river bank. 

Mike stood up. He saw the boy running now, running back to the bearershuddled along the edge of the trail. 

He rubbed his shoulder, picked up his gun, reloaded. The sounds frombelow had ceased. Slowly, Mike advanced to the lip of the bank andstared down. 

The bull elephant had fallen and rolled into the wallow once more. Ithad taken a direct hit, just beneath the right ear, and even as Mikewatched, its trunk writhed feebly like a dying serpent, then fellforward into the mud. The gigantic ears twitched, then flickered andflopped, and the huge body rolled and settled. 

Suddenly Mike began to cry. 

Damn it, he hadn't _wanted_ to shoot. If the elephant hadn't chargedlike that--

But the elephant _had_ to charge. Just as he _had_ to shoot. That wasthe whole secret. The secret of life. And the secret of death, too. 

Mike turned away, facing the east. Kenyarobi was east, and he'd begoing there now. Nothing to hold him here in the forests any longer. He wouldn't even wait for the big feast. To hell with elephant-meat, anyway. His hunting days were over. 

Mike walked slowly up the trail to the waiting boys. 

And behind him, in the wallow, the flies settled down on the lifelesscarcass of the last elephant in the world. 

8. Harry Collins--2029

The guards at Stark Falls were under strict orders not to talk. Eachprisoner here was exercised alone in a courtyard runway, and mealswere served in the cells. The cells were comfortable enough, and whilethere were no telescreens, books were available--genuine, old-stylebooks which must have been preserved from libraries dismantled fiftyyears ago or more. Harry Collins found no titles dated later than1975. Every day or so an attendant wheeled around a cart piled highwith the dusty volumes. Harry read to pass the time. 

At first he kept anticipating his trial, but after a while he almostforgot about that possibility. And it was well over a year before hegot a chance to tell his story to anyone. 

When his opportunity came, his audience did not consist of judge orjury, doctor, lawyer or penologist. He spoke only to Richard Wade, afellow-prisoner who had been thrust into the adjoining cell on theevening of October 11th, 2013. 

Harry spoke haltingly at first, but as he progressed the words camemore easily, and emotion lent its own eloquence. His unseen auditor onthe other side of the wall did not interrupt or question him; it wasenough, for Harry, that there _was_ someone to listen at last. 

"So it wasn't a bit like I'd expected, " he concluded. "No trial, nopublicity. I've never seen Leffingwell again, nor Manschoff. Nobodyquestioned me. By the time I recovered consciousness, I was here inprison. Buried alive. "

Richard Wade spoke slowly, for the first time. "You're lucky. Theymight have shot you down on the spot. "

"That's just what bothers me, " Harry told him. "Why didn't they killme? Why lock me up _incommunicado_ this way? There aren't many prisonsleft these days, with food and space at such a premium. "

"There are _no_ prisons left at all--officially, " Wade said. "Just asthere are no longer any cemeteries. But important people are stillgiven private burials and their remains secretly preserved. All amatter of influence. "

"I've no influence. I'm not important. Wouldn't you think they'dconsider it risky to keep me alive, under the circumstances? Ifthere'd ever be an investigation--"

"Who would investigate? Not the government, surely. "

"But suppose there's a political turnover. Suppose Congress want tomake capital of the situation?"

"There is no Congress. "

Harry gasped. "No Congress?"

"As of last month. It was dissolved. Henceforth we are governed by theCabinet, with authority delegated to department heads. "

"But that's preposterous! Nobody'd stand still for something likethat!"

"They did stand still, most of them. After a year of carefulpreparation--of wholesale _exposes_ of Congressional graft andcorruption and inefficiency. Turned out that Congress was the villainall along; the Senators and Representatives had finagledtariff-barriers and restrictive trade-agreements which kept our foodsupply down. They were opposing international federation. In plainlanguage, people were sold a bill of goods--get rid of Congress andyou'll have more food. That did it. "

"But you'd think the politicians themselves would realize they werecutting their own throats! The state legislatures and the governors--"

"Legislatures were dissolved by the same agreement, " Wade went on. "There are no states any more; just governmental districts. Based uponsensible considerations of area and population. This isn't theold-time expanding economy based on obsolescence and conspicuousconsumption. The primary problem at the moment is sheer survival. Ina way, the move makes sense. Old-fashioned political machinerycouldn't cope with the situation; there's no time for debate wheninstantaneous decisions are necessary to national welfare. You'veheard how civil liberties were suspended during the old wars. Well, there's a war on right now; a war against hunger, a war against theforces of fecundity. In another dozen years or so, when the Leff shotgeneration is fullgrown and a lot of the elderly have died off, thetensions will ease. Meanwhile, quick action is necessary. Arbitraryaction. "

"But you're defending dictatorship!"

Richard Wade made a sound which is usually accompanied by a derisiveshrug. "Am I? Well, I didn't when I was outside. And that's why I'mhere now. "

Harry Collins cleared his throat. "What did you do?"

"If you refer to my profession, I was a scripter. If you refer to myalleged criminal activity, I made the error of thinking the way youdo, and the worse error of attempting to inject such attitudes in myscripts. Seems that when Congress was formally dissolved, there wassome notion of preparing a timely show--a sort of historical review ofthe body, using old film clips. What my superiors had in mind was acomedy of errors; a cavalcade of mistakes and misdeeds showing justwhy we were better off without supporting a political sideshow. Well, I carried out the assignment and edited the films, but when I drafteda rough commentary, I made the mistake of taking both a pro and conslant. Nothing like that ever reached the telescreens, of course, butwhat I did was promptly noted. They came for me at once and hustled meoff here. I didn't get a hearing or a trial, either. "

"But why didn't they execute you? Or--" Harry hesitated--"is that whatyou expect?"

"Why didn't they execute _you_?" Wade shot back. He was silent for amoment before continuing. "No, I don't expect anything like that, now. They'd have done it on the spot if they intended to do so at all. No, I've got another idea about people like you and myself. And about someof the Congressmen and Senators who dropped out of sight, too. I thinkwe're being stockpiled. "

"Stockpiled?"

"It's all part of a plan. Give me a little time to think. We can talkagain, later. " Wade chuckled once more. "Looks as if there'll be ampleopportunity in the future. "

And there was. In the months ahead, Harry spoke frequently with hisfriend behind the wall. He never saw him--prisoners at Stark Fallswere exercised separately, and there was no group assembly orrecreation. Surprisingly adequate meals were served in surprisinglycomfortable cells. In the matter of necessities, Harry had nocomplaints. And now that he had someone to talk to, the time seemed togo more swiftly. 

He learned a great deal about Richard Wade during the next few years. Mostly, Wade liked to reminisce about the old days. He talked aboutworking for the networks--the _commercial_ networks, privately owned, which flourished before the government took over communications mediain the '80s. 

"That's where you got your start, eh?" Harry asked. 

"Lord, no, boy! I'm a lot more ancient than you think. Why, I'mpushing sixty-five. Born in 1940. That's right, during World War II. Ican almost remember the atomic bomb, and I sure as hell remember thesputniks. It was a crazy period, let me tell you. The pessimistsworried about the Russians blowing us up, and the optimists were surewe had a glorious future in the conquest of space. Ever hear that oldfable about the blind men examining an elephant? Well, that's the waymost people were; each of them groping around and trying to determinethe exact shape of things to come. A few of us even made a littlemoney from it for a while, writing science fiction. That's how I gotmy start. "

"You were a writer?"

"Sold my first story when I was eighteen or so. Kept on writing offand on for almost twenty years. Of course, Robertson's thermo-nucformula came along in '75, and after that everything went to pot. Itknocked out the chances of future war, but it also knocked out theinterest in speculation or escape-fiction. So I moved over intotelevision for a while, and stayed with it. But the old sciencefiction was fun while it lasted. Ever read any of it?"

"No, " Harry admitted. "That was all before my time. Tell me, though--did any of it make sense? I mean, did some of those writersforesee what was really going to happen?"

"There were plenty of penny prophets and nickel Nostradamuses, " Wadetold him. "But as I said, most of them were assuming war with theCommunists or a new era of space travel. Since Communism collapsed andspace flight was just an expensive journey to a dead end and deadworlds, it follows that the majority of fictional futures were foundedon fallacies. And all the rest of the extrapolations dealt withsuperficial social manifestations. 

"For example, they wrote about civilizations dominated by advertisingand mass-motivation techniques. It's true that during my childhoodthis seemed to be a logical trend--but once demand exceeded supply, the whole mechanism of _stimulating_ demand, which was advertising'schief function, bogged down. And mass-motivation techniques, today, are dedicated almost entirely to maintaining minimum resistance to asystem insuring our survival. 

"Another popular idea was based on the notion of an expandingmatriarchy--a gerontomatriarchy, rather, in which older women wouldtake control. In an age when women outlived men by a number of years, this seemed possible. Now, of course, shortened working hours andmedical advances have equalized the life-span. And since privateproperty has become less and less of a factor in dominating ourcollective destinies, it hardly matters whether the male or the femalehas the upper hand. 

"Then there was the common theory that technological advances wouldresult in a push-button society, where automatons would do all thework. And so they might--if we had an unlimited supply of rawmaterials to produce robots, and unlimited power-sources to activatethem. As we now realize, atomic power cannot be utilized on a minutescale. 

"Last, but not least, there was the concept of a medically-orientatedsystem, with particular emphasis on psychotherapy, neurosurgery, andparapsychology. The world was going to be run by telepaths, psychosiseliminated by brainwashing, intellect developed by hypnoticsuggestion. It sounded great--but the conquest of physical disease hasoccupied the medical profession almost exclusively. 

"No, what they all seemed to overlook, with only a few exceptions, wasthe population problem. You can't run a world through advertising whenthere are so many people that there aren't enough goods to go aroundanyway. You can't turn it over to big business when big government hasvirtually absorbed all of the commercial and industrial functions, just to cope with an ever-growing demand. A matriarchy loses itsmeaning when the individual family unit changes character, under thestress of an increasing population-pressure which eliminates theold-fashioned home, family circle, and social pattern. And the more wemust conserve dwindling natural resources for people, the less we canexpend on experimentation with robots and machinery. As for thepsychologist-dominated society, there are just too many patients andnot enough physicians. I don't have to remind you that the militarycaste lost its chance of control when war disappeared, and thatreligion is losing ground every day. Class-lines are vanishing, andracial distinctions will be going next. The old idea of a WorldFederation is becoming more and more practical. Once the politicalbarriers are down, miscegenation will finish the job. But nobodyseemed to foresee this particular future. They all made the mistake ofworrying about the hydrogen-bomb instead of the sperm-bomb. "

Harry nodded thoughtfully, although Wade couldn't see his response. "But isn't it true that there's a little bit of each of these conceptsin our actual situation today?" he asked. "I mean, government andbusiness _are_ virtually one and the same, and they do use propagandatechniques to control all media. As for scientific research, look athow we've rebuilt our cities and developed synthetics for food andfuel and clothing and shelter. When it comes to medicine, there'sLeffingwell and his inoculations. Isn't that all along the lines ofyour early science fiction?"

"Where's your Underground?" Richard Wade demanded. 

"My _what_?"

"Your Underground, " Wade repeated. "Hell, every science fiction yarnabout a future society had its Underground! That was the whole gimmickin the plot. The hero was a conformist who tangled with the socialorder--come to think of it, that's what _you_ did, years ago. Onlyinstead of becoming an impotent victim of the system, he'd meet upwith the Underground Movement. Not some sourball like your friendRitchie, who tried to operate on his own hook, without real plans orsystem, but a complete _sub rosa_ organization, bent on starting arevolution and taking over. There'd be wise old priests and wise oldcrooks and wise old officers and wise old officials, all playing adouble game and planning a _coup_. Spies all over the place, get me?And in no time at all, our hero would be playing tag with the topfigures in the government. That's how it worked out in all thestories. 

"But what happens in real life? What happened to you, for example? Youfell for a series of stupid tricks, stupidly perpetrated--because thepeople in power _are_ people, and not the kind of syntheticsuper-intellects dreamed up by frustrated fiction-fabricators. Youfound out that the logical candidates to constitute an Undergroundwere the Naturalists; again, they were just ordinary individuals withno genius for organization. As for coming in contact with key figures, you were actually on hand when Leffingwell completed his experiments. And you came back, years later, to hunt him down. Very much in theheroic tradition, I admit. But you never saw the man except throughthe telescopic sights of your rifle. That was the end of it. Nomodern-day Machiavelli has hauled you in to play cat-and-mouse gameswith you, and no futuristic Freud has bothered to wash your brain orsoft-soap your subconscious. You just aren't that important, Collins. "

"But they put me in a special prison. Why?"

"Who knows? They put me here, too. "

"You said something once, about stockpiling us. What did you mean?"

"Well, it was just an old science fiction idea, I suppose. I'll tellyou about it tomorrow, eh?"

And so the matter--and Harry Collins--rested for the night. 

The next day Richard Wade was gone. 

Harry called to him and there was no answer. And he cried out and hecursed and he paced his cell and he walked alone in the courtyard andhe begged the impassive guards for information, and he sweated and hetalked to himself and he counted the days and he lost count of thedays. 

Then, all at once, there was another prisoner in the adjacent cell, and his name was William Chang, and he was a biologist. He wasreticent about the crime he had committed, but quite voluble about thecrimes committed by others in the world outside. Much of what he said, about genes and chromosomes and recessive characteristics andmutation, seemed incomprehensible to Harry. But in their talks, onething emerged clearly enough--Chang was concerned for the future ofthe race. "Leffingwell should have waited, " he said. "It's the_second_ generation that will be important. As I tried to tell mypeople--"

"Is that why you're here?"

Chang sighed. "I suppose so. They wouldn't listen, of course. Overpopulation has always been the curse of Asia, and this seemed tobe such an obvious solution. But who knows? The time may come whenthey need men like myself. "

"So you were stockpiled too. "

"What's that?"

Harry told him about Richard Wade's remarks, and together they triedto puzzle out the theory behind them. 

But not for long. Because once again Harry Collins awoke in themorning to find the adjoining cell empty, and once again he was alonefor a long time. 

At last a new neighbor came. His name was Lars Neilstrom. Neilstromtalked to him of ships and shoes and sealing-wax and the thousand andone things men will discuss in their loneliness and frustration, including--inevitably--their reasons for being here. 

Neilstrom had been an instructor under Vocational Apt, and he was at aloss to explain his presence at Stark Falls. When Harry spoke of thestockpiling theory, his fellow-prisoner demurred. "It's more likeKafka than science fiction, " he said. "But then, I don't supposeyou've ever read any Kafka. "

"Yes, I have, " Harry told him. "Since I came here I've done nothingbut read old books. Lately they've been giving me microscans. I'vebeen studying up on biology and genetics; talking to Chang got meinterested. In fact, I'm really going in for self-education. There'snothing else to do. "

"Self-education! That's the only method left nowadays. " Neilstromsounded bitter. "I don't know what's going to become of our heritageof knowledge in the future. I'm not speaking of technological skill;so-called scientific information is carefully preserved. But thehumanities are virtually lost. The concept of the well-roundedindividual is forgotten. And when I think of the crisis to come--"

"What crisis?"

"A new generation is growing up. Ten or fifteen years from now we'llhave succeeded in erasing political and racial and religiousdivisions. But there'll be a new and more dangerous differentiation; a_physical_ one. What do you think will happen when half the world isaround six feet tall and the other half under three?"

"I can't imagine. "

"Well, I can. The trouble is, most people don't realize what theproblem will be. Things have moved too swiftly. Why, there were morechanges in the last hundred years than in the previous thousand! Andthe rate of acceleration increases. Up until now, we've been concernedabout too rapid technological development. But what we have to worryabout is social development. "

"Most people have been conditioned to conform. "

"Yes. That's our job in Vocational Apt. But the system only works whenthere's a single standard of conformity. In a few years there'll be adouble one, based on size. What then?"

Harry wanted some time to consider the matter, but the question wasnever answered. Because Lars Neilstrom went away in the night, as hadhis predecessors before him. And in succeeding interludes, Harry cameto know a half-dozen other transient occupants of the cell next tohis. They came from all over, and they had many things to discuss, butalways there was the problem of _why_ they were there--and the memoryof Richard Wade's premise concerning stockpiling. 

There came a time when the memory of Richard Wade merged with thememory of Arnold Ritchie. The past was a dim montage of life at theagency and the treatment center and the ranch, a recollection of lyingon the river bank with women in attitudes of opisthotonos or of lyingagainst the boulders with a rifle. 

Somewhere there was an image of a child's wide eyes and a voicesaying, "My name is Harry Collins. " But that seemed very far away. What was real was the cell and the years of talking and reading themicroscans and trying to find a pattern. 

Harry found himself describing it all to a newcomer who said his namewas Austin--a soft-voiced man who became a resident of the next cellone day in 2029. And eventually he came to Wade's theory. 

"Maybe there were a few wiser heads who foresaw a coming crisis, " heconcluded. "Maybe they anticipated a time when they might need a fewnonconformists. People like ourselves who haven't been passive orpersuaded. Maybe we're the government's insurance policy. If anemergency arises, we'll be freed. "

"And then what would _you_ do?" Austin asked, softly. "You're againstthe system, aren't you?"

"Yes. But I'm _for_ survival. " Harry Collins spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "You see, I've learned something through the years ofstudy and contact here. Rebellion is not the answer. "

"You hated Leffingwell. "

"Yes, I did, until I realized that all this was inevitable. Leffingwell is not a villain and neither is any given individual, inor out of government. Our road to hell has been paved with only thevery best of intentions. Killing the engineers and contractors willnot get us off that road, and we're all on it together. We'll have tofind a way of changing the direction of our journey. The young peoplewill be too anxious to merely rush blindly ahead. Most of mygeneration will be sheeplike, moving as part of the herd, because oftheir conditioning. Only we old-time rebels will be capable ofplotting a course. A course for all of us. "

"What about your son?" Austin asked. 

"I'm thinking of him, " Harry Collins answered. "Of him, and of all theothers. Maybe he does not need me. Maybe none of them need me. Maybeit's all an illusion. But if the time ever comes, I'll be ready. Andmeanwhile, I can hope. "

"The time has come, " Austin said, gently. 

And then he was standing, miraculously enough, outside his cell andbefore the door to Harry's cell, and the door was opening. And onceagain Harry stared into the wide eyes he remembered so well--the samewide eyes, set in the face of a fullgrown man. A fullgrown man, threefeet tall. He stood up, shakily, as the man held out his hand andsaid, "Hello, Father. "

"But I don't understand--"

"I've waited a long time for this moment. I had to talk to you, findout how you really felt, so that I'd be sure. Now you're ready to joinus. "

"What's happening? What do you want with me?"

"We'll talk later. " Harry's son smiled. "Right now, I'm taking youhome. "

9. Eric Donovan--2031

Eric was glad to get to the office and shut the door. Lately he'd hadthis feeling whenever he went out, this feeling that people werestaring at him. It wasn't just his imagination: they did stare. Everyyounger person over a yard high got stared at nowadays, as if theywere freaks. And it wasn't just the staring that got him down, either. 

Sometimes they muttered and mumbled, and sometimes they called names. Eric didn't mind stuff like "dirty Naturalist. " That he couldunderstand--once upon a time, way back, everybody who was against theLeff Law was called a Naturalist. And before that it had still anothermeaning, or so he'd been told. Today, of course, it just meant anyonewho was over five feet tall. 

No, he could take the ordinary name-calling, all right. But sometimesthey said other things. They used words nobody ever uses unless theyreally hate you, want to kill you. And that was at the bottom of it, Eric knew. They did hate him, they _did_ want to kill him. 

Was he a coward? Perhaps. But it wasn't just Eric's imagination. Younever saw anything about such things on the telescreens, butNaturalists were being killed every day. The older people were stillin the majority, but the youngsters were coming up fast. And therewere so many _more_ of them. Besides, they were more active, and thiscreated the illusion that there were Yardsticks everywhere. 

Eric sat down behind his desk, grinning. _Yardsticks. _ When he was akid it had been just the other way around. He and the rest of them whodidn't get shots in those early days considered themselves to be thenormal ones. And _they_ did the name-calling. Names like "runt" and"half-pint" and "midgie. " But the most common name was the one thatstuck--Yardstick. That used to be the worst insult of all. 

But now it wasn't an insult any more. Being taller was the insult. Being a dirty Naturalist or a son-of-a-Naturalist. Times certainly hadchanged. 

Eric glanced at the communicator. Almost noon, and it had not flickedyet. Here he'd been beaming these big offers, you'd think he'd getsome response to an expensive beaming program, but no. Maybe that wasthe trouble--nobody liked _big_ things any more. Everything was small. 

He shifted uneasily in his chair. That was one consolation, at least;he still had old-time furniture. Getting to be harder and harder tofind stuff that fitted him these days. Seemed like most of the firmsmaking furniture and bedding and household appliances were turning outthe small stuff for the younger generation. Cheaper to make, lessmaterial, and more demand for it. Government allocated size prioritiesto the manufacturers. 

It was even murder to ride public transportation because of thespace-reductions. Eric drove his own jetter. Besides, that way wassafer. Crowded into a liner with a gang of Yardsticks, with only a fewother Naturalists around, there might be trouble. 

Oh, it was getting to be a Yardstick world, and no mistake. Smallerfurniture, smaller meals, smaller sizes in clothing, smallerbuildings--

That reminded Eric of something and he frowned again. Dammit, whydidn't the communicator flick? He should be getting some kind ofinquiries. Hell, he was practically _giving_ the space away!

But there was only silence, as there had been all during this pastweek. That's why he let Lorette go. Sweet girl, but there was no workfor her here any more. No work, and no pay, either. Besides, the placespooked her. She'd been the one who suggested leaving, really. 

"Eric, I'm sorry, but I just can't take this any more. All alone inthis huge building--it's curling my toes!"

At first he tried to talk her out of it. "Don't be silly, luscious!There's Bernstein, down on ten, and Saltonstall above us, and Wallabyand Son on fourteen, I tell you, this place is coming back to life, Ican feel it! I'll beam for tenants next week, you'll see--"

Actually he'd been talking against his own fear and Lorette must haveknown it. Anyway, she left. And now he was here alone. 

_Alone. _

Eric didn't like the sound of that word. Or the absence of soundbehind it. Three other tenants in a ninety-story building. Three othertenants in a place that had once held three thousand. Why, fifty yearsago, when this place went up, you couldn't buy a vacancy. Where hadthe crowds gone to?

He knew the answer, of course. The Leff shots had created the newgeneration of Yardsticks, and they lived in their own world. Theirshrunken, dehydrated world of doll-houses and miniatures. They'ddeserted the old-fashioned skyscrapers and cut the big apartmentbuildings up into tiny cubicles; two could occupy the space formerlyreserved for one. 

That had been the purpose of the Leff shots in the first place--to putan end to overcrowding and conserve on resources. Well, it had workedout. Worked out too perfectly for people like Eric Donovan. EricDonovan, rental agent for a building nobody wanted any more; aninety-storey mausoleum. And nobody could collect rent from ghosts. 

_Ghosts. _

Eric damned near jumped through the ceiling when the door opened andthis man walked in. He was tall and towheaded. Eric stared; there wassomething vaguely familiar about his face. Something about those ears, that was it, those ears. No, it couldn't be, it wasn't possible--

Eric stood up and held out his hand. "I'm Donovan, " he said. 

The towheaded man smiled and nodded. "Yes, I know. Don't you rememberme?"

"I thought I knew you from someplace. You wouldn't be--Sam Wolzek?"

The towheaded man's smile became a broad grin. "That's not what youwere going to say, Eric. You were going to say 'Handle-head, ' weren'tyou? Well, go on, say it. I don't mind. I've been called a lot worsethings since we were kids together. "

"I can't believe it, " Eric murmured. "It's really you! Old Handle-headWolzek! And after all these years, turning up to rent an office fromme. Well, what do you know!"

"I didn't come here to rent an office. "

"Oh? Then--"

"It was your name that brought me. I recognized it on the beamings. "

"Then this is a social call, eh? Well, that's good. I don't get muchcompany these days. Sit down, have a reef. "

Wolzek sat down but refused the smoke. "I know quite a bit about yoursetup, " he said. "You and your three tenants. It's tough, Eric. "

"Oh, things could be worse. " Eric forced a laugh. "It isn't as if mybucks depended on the number of tenants in the building. Governmentsubsidizes this place. I'm sure of a job as long as I live. "

"As long as you live. " Wolzek stared at him in a way he didn't like. "And just how long do you figure that to be?"

"I'm only twenty-six, " Eric answered. "According to statistics, thatgives me maybe another sixty years. "

"Statistics!" Wolzek said it like a dirty word. "Your life-expectancyisn't determined by statistics any more. I say you don't have sixtymonths left. Perhaps not even sixty days. "

"What are you trying to hand me?"

"The truth. And don't go looking for a silver platter underneath it, either. "

"But I mind my own business. I don't hurt anybody. Why should I be inany danger?"

"Why does a government subsidy support one rental manager to sit herein this building every day--but ten guards to patrol it every night?"

Eric opened his mouth wide before shaping it for speech. "Who told youthat?"

"Like I said, I know the setup. " Wolzek crossed his legs, but hedidn't lean back. "And in case you haven't guessed it, this is abusiness call, not a social one. "

Eric sighed. "Might have figured, " he said. "You're a Naturalist, aren't you?"

"Of course I am. We all are. "

"Not I. "

"Oh yes--whether you like it or not, you're a Naturalist, too. As faras the Yardsticks are concerned, everyone over three feet high is aNaturalist. An enemy. Someone to be hated, and destroyed. "

"Think I'd believe that? Sure, I know they don't like us, and whyshould they? We eat twice as much, take up twice the space, and Iguess when we were kids we gave a lot of them a hard time. Besides, outside of a few exceptions like ourselves, all the younger generationare Yardsticks, with more coming every year. The older people holdthe key positions and the power. Of course there's a lot of frictionand resentment. But you know all that. "

"Certainly. " Wolzek nodded. "All that and more. Much more. I know thatup until a few years ago, no Yardstick held any public office orgovernment position. Now they're starting to move in, particularly inEuropasia. But there's so many of them now--adults, in their earlytwenties--that the pressure is building up. They're impatient, gettingout of hand. They won't wait until the old folks die off. They wantcontrol now. And if they ever manage to get it, we're finished forgood. "

"Impossible!" Eric said. 

"Impossible?" Wolzek's voice was a mocking echo. "You sit here in thistomb and when somebody tells you that the world you know has died, yourefuse to believe it. Even though every night, after you sneak homeand huddle up inside your room trying not to be noticed, ten guardspatrol this place with subatomics, so the Yardstick gangs won't breakin and take over. So they won't do what they did down south--overrunthe office buildings and the factories and break them up, cut themdown to size for living quarters. "

"But they were stopped, " Eric objected. "I saw it on the telescreen, the security forces stopped them--"

"Crapola!" Wolzek pronounced the archaicism with studied care. "Yousaw films. Faked films. Have you ever traveled, Eric? Ever been downsouth and seen conditions there?"

"Nobody travels nowadays. You know that. Priorities. "

"I travel, Eric. And I know. Security forces don't suppress anythingin the south these days. Because they're made up of Yardsticks now;that's right, Yardsticks exclusively. And in a few years that's theway it will be up here. Did you ever hear about the Chicagee riots?"

"You mean last year, when the Yardsticks tried to take over thesynthetic plants at the Stockyards?"

"Tried? They _succeeded_. The workers ousted management. Over fiftythousand were killed in the revolution--oh, don't look so shocked, that's the right word for it!--but the Yardsticks won out in the end. "

"But the telescreen showed--"

"Damn the telescreen! I know because I happened to be there when ithappened. And if _you_ had been there, you and a few million otherostriches who sit with your heads buried in telescreens, maybe wecould have stopped them. "

"I don't believe it. I can't!"

"All right. Think back. That was last year. And since the first ofthis year, what's happened to the standard size meat-ration?"

"They cut it in half, " Eric admitted. "But that's because of Agshortages, according to the telescreen reports--" He stood up, gulping. "Look here, I'm not going to listen to any more of this kindof talk. By rights, I ought to turn your name in. "

"Go ahead. " Wolzek waved his hand. "It's happened before. I wasreported when I blasted the Yardsticks who shot my father down when hetried to land his jet in a southern field. I was reported when theykilled Annette. "

"Annette?"

"You remember that name, don't you, Eric? Your first girl, wasn't she?Well, I'm the guy who married her. Yes, and I'm the guy who talked herinto having a baby without the benefit of Leff shots. Sure, it'sillegal, and only a few of us ever try it any more, but we both agreedthat we wanted it that way. A real, life-sized, normal baby. Orabnormal, according to the Yardsticks and the stupid government. 

"It was a dirty scum of a government doctor who let her die on thetable when he discovered the child weighed seven pounds. That's when Ireally woke up, Eric. That's when I knew there was going to be onlyone decision to make in the future--kill or be killed. "

"Annette. She died, you say?"

Wolzek moved over and put his hand on Eric's shoulder. "You nevermarried, did you, Eric? I think I know why. It's because you felt theway I did about it. You wanted a regular kid, not a Yardstick. Onlyyou didn't quite have the guts to try and beat the law. Well, you'llneed guts now, because it's getting to the point where the law can'tprotect you any more. The government is made up of old men, andthey're afraid to take action. In a few years they'll be pushed out ofoffice all over the world. We'll have Yardstick government then, allthe way, and Yardstick law. And that means they'll cut us down tosize. "

"But what can you--we--do about it?"

"Plenty. There's still a little time. If we Naturalists can only gettogether, stop being just a name and become an organized force, maybethe ending will be different. We've got to try, in any case. "

"The Yardsticks are human beings, just like us, " Eric said, slowly. "We can't just declare war on them, wipe them out. It's not their_fault_ they were born that way. "

Wolzek nodded. "I know. Nothing is anybody's fault, really. This wholebusiness began in good faith. Leffingwell and some of the othergeniuses saw a problem and offered what they sincerely believed was asolution. "

"But it didn't work, " Eric murmured. 

"Wrong. It worked only too well. That's the trouble. Sure, weeliminated our difficulties on the physical level. In less than thirtyyears we've reached a point where there's no longer any danger ofovercrowding or starvation. But the psychological factor is somethingwe can't cope with. We thought we'd ended war and the possibilities ofwar a long time ago. But it isn't foreign enemies we must fear today. We've created a nation divided into Davids and Goliaths--and David andGoliath are always enemies. "

"David killed Goliath, " Eric said. "Does that mean we're going todie?"

"Only if we're as stupid as Goliath was. Only if we wear ourtelescreens like invincible armor and pay no attention to theslingshot in David's hands. "

Eric lit a reef. "All right, " he said. "You don't have to lecture. I'mwilling to join. But I'm no Goliath, really. I never had a fight in mylife. What could I do to help?"

"You're a rental agent. You have the keys to this building. The guardsdon't bother you by day, do they? You come and go as you please. Thatmeans you can get into the cellars. You can help us move the stuffdown there. And we'll take care of the guards some night, after that. "

"I don't understand. "

The friendly pressure on Eric's shoulder became a fierce grip. "Youdon't have to understand. All you do is let us plant the stuff in thecellars and let us get rid of the guards afterwards in our own way. The Yardsticks will do the rest. "

"You mean, take over the building when it's not protected?"

"Of course. They'll take it over completely, once they see there's noopposition. And they'll remodel it to suit themselves, and within amonth there'll be ten thousand Yardsticks sitting in this place. "

"The government will never stand still for that. "

"Wake up! It's happening all over, all the time, and nothing is beingdone to prevent it. Security is too weak and officials are too timidto risk open warfare. So the Yardsticks win, and I'm going to see thatthey win this place. "

"But how will that help us?"

"You don't see it yet, do you? And neither will the Yardsticks. Until, some fine day three or four months from now, we get around to whatwill be planted in the cellars. Somebody will throw a switch, milesaway, and--boom!"

"Wolzek, you couldn't--"

"It's coming. Not only here, but in fifty other places. We've got tofight fire with fire, Eric. It's our only chance. Bring this thing outinto the open. Make the government realize this is war. Civil war. That's the only way to force them to take real action. We can't do itany other way; it's illegal to organize politically, and petitions dono good. We can't get a hearing. Well, they'll have to listen to theexplosions. "

"I just don't know--"

"Maybe you're the one who should have married Annette after all. "Wolzek's voice was cold. "Maybe you could have watched her, watchedher scream and beg and die, and never wanted to move a muscle to doanything about it afterwards. Maybe you're the model citizen, Eric;you and the thousands of others who are standing by and letting theYardsticks chop us down, one by one. They say in Nature it's thesurvival of the fittest. Well, perhaps you're not fit to survive. "

Eric wasn't listening. "She screamed, " he said. "You heard herscream?"

Wolzek nodded. "I can still hear her. I'll always hear her. "

"Yes. " Eric blinked abruptly. "When do we start?"

Wolzek smiled at him. It was a pretty good smile for a man who canalways hear screaming. "I knew I could count on you, " he murmured. "Nothing like old friends. "

"Funny, isn't it?" Eric tried to match his smile. "The way things workout. You and I being kids together. You marrying my girl. And then, usmeeting up again this way. "

"Yes, " said Wolzek, and he wasn't smiling now. "I guess it's a smallworld. "

10. Harry Collins--2032

Harry's son's house was on the outskirts of Washington, near what hadonce been called Gettysburg. Harry was surprised to find that it _was_a house, and a rather large one, despite the fact that almost all thefurniture had been scaled down proportionately to fit the needs of aman three feet high. 

But then, Harry was growing accustomed to surprises. 

He found a room of his own, ready and waiting, on the second floor;here the furniture was of almost antique vintage, but adequate insize. And here, in an atmosphere of unaccustomed comfort, he couldtalk. 

"So you're a physician, eh?" Harry gazed down into the diminutiveface, striving to accept the fact that he was speaking to a matureadult. His own son--his and Sue's--a grown man and a doctor! It seemedincredible. But then, nothing was more incredible than the knowledgethat he was actually here, in his child's home. 

"We're all specialists in one field or another, " his son explained. "Every one of us born and surviving during the early experimentalperiod received our schooling under a plan Leffingwell set up. It waspart of his conditional agreement that we become wards of the state. He knew the time might come when we'd be needed. "

"But why wasn't all this done openly?"

"You know the answer to that. There was no way of educating us underthe prevailing system, and there was always a danger we might besingled out as freaks who must be destroyed--particularly in thoseearly years. So Leffingwell relied on secrecy, just as he did duringhis experimentation period. You know how _you_ felt about that. Youbelieved innocent people were being murdered. Would you have listenedto his explanations, accepted the fact that his work was worth thecost of a few lives so that future billions of human beings might besaved? No, there was no time for explanation or indoctrination. Leffingwell chose concealment. "

"Yes, " Harry sighed. "I understand that better now, I think. But Icouldn't see it then, when I tried to kill him. " He flushed. "And Istill can't quite comprehend why he spared me after that attempt. "

"Because he wasn't the monster you thought him to be. When I pleadedwith him--"

"_You_ were the one!"

Harry's son turned away. "Yes. When I was told who you really were, Iwent to him. But I was only a child, remember that. And he didn'tspare you out of sentimentality. He had a purpose. "

"A purpose in sending me to prison, letting me rot all these yearswhile--"

"While I grew up. I and the others like myself. And while the worldoutside changed. " Harry's son smiled. "Your friend Richard Wade wasright, you know. He guessed a great deal of the truth. Leffingwell andManschoff and the rest of their associates deliberately set out toassemble a select group of nonconformists--men of specialized talentsand outlooks. There were over three hundred of you at Stark Falls. Richard Wade knew why. "

"And so he was dragged off and murdered. "

"Murdered? No, Father, he's very much alive, I assure you. In fact, he'll be here tonight. "

"But why was he taken away so abruptly, without any warning?"

"He was needed. There was a crisis, when Dr. Leffingwell died. "Harry's son sighed. "You didn't know about that, did you? There's somuch for you to learn. But I'll let him tell you himself, when you seehim this evening. "

Richard Wade told him. And so did William Chang and Lars Neilstrom andall the others. During the ensuing weeks, Harry saw each of themagain. But Wade's explanation was sufficient. 

"I was right, " he said. "There was no Underground when we were atStark Falls. What I didn't realize, though, was that there was anOverground. "

"Overground?"

"You might call it that. Leffingwell and his staff formed the nucleus. They foresaw the social crisis which lay ahead, when the world becamephysically divided into the tall and the short, the young and the old. They knew there'd be a need of individuality then--and they _did_create a stockpile. A stockpile of the younger generation, speciallyeducated; a stockpile of the older generation, carefully selected. Weconspicuous rebels were incarcerated and given an opportunity to thinkthe problem through, with limited contact with one another'sviewpoints. "

"But why weren't we told the truth at the beginning, allowed to meetface-to-face and make some sensible plans for the future?"

Harry's son interrupted. "Because Dr. Leffingwell realized this woulddefeat the ultimate purpose. You'd have formed your own in-group, asprisoners, dedicated to your own welfare. There'd be emotional ties--"

"I still don't know what you're talking about. What are we supposed toprepare for now?"

Richard Wade shrugged. "Leffingwell had it all planned. He foresawthat when the first generation of Yardsticks--that's what they callthemselves, you know--came of age, there'd be social unrest. The youngpeople would want to take over, and the older generation would try toremain in positions of power. It was his belief that tensions could bealleviated only by proper leadership on both sides. 

"He himself had an important voice in government circles. He set up anarrangement whereby a certain number of posts would be assigned topeople of his choice, both young and old. Similarly, in the variousprofessions, there'd be room for appointees he'd select. Given a yearor two of training, Leffingwell felt that we'd be ready for thesepositions. Young men, like your son, would be placed in key spotswhere their influence would be helpful with the Yardsticks. Older mensuch as yourself would go into other assignments--in communicationsmedia, chiefly. The skillful use of group-psychological techniquescould avert open clashes. He predicted a danger-period lasting abouttwenty years--roughly, from 2030 to 2050. Once we weathered that span, equilibrium would be regained, as a second and third generation camealong and the elders became a small minority. If we did our work welland eliminated the sources of prejudice, friction and hostility, thetransition could be made. The Overground in governmental circles wouldfinance us. This was Leffingwell's plan, his dream. "

"You speak in the past tense, " Harry said. 

"Yes. " Wade's voice was harsh. "Because Leffingwell is dead, ofcerebral hemorrhage. And his plan died with him. Oh, we still havesome connections in government; enough to get men like yourself out ofStark Falls. But things have moved too swiftly. The Yardsticks arealready on the march. The people in power--even those we reliedupon--are getting frightened. They can't see that there's time left totrain us to take over. And frankly, I'm afraid most of them have noinclination to give up their present power. They intend to useforce. "

"But you talk as though the Yardsticks were united. "

"They are uniting, and swiftly. Remember the Naturalists?"

Harry nodded, slowly. "I was one, once. Or thought I was. "

"You were a liberal. I'm talking about the _new_ Naturalists. The onesbent on actual revolution. "

"Revolution?"

"That's the word. And that's the situation. It's coming to a head, fast. "

"And how will we prevent it?"

"I don't know. " Harry's son stared up at him. "Most of us believe it'stoo late to prevent it. Our immediate problem will be survival. TheNaturalists want control for themselves. The Yardsticks intend todestroy the power of the older generation. And we feel that if matterscome to a head soon, the government itself may turn on us, too. They'll have to. "

"In other words, " said Harry, "we stand alone. "

"Fall alone, more likely, " Wade corrected. 

"How many of us are there?"

"About six hundred, " said Harry's son. "Located in private homesthroughout this eastern area. If there's violence, we don't have achance of controlling the situation. "

"But we can survive. As I see it, that's our only salvation at themoment--to somehow survive the coming conflict. Then, perhaps, we canfind a way to function as Leffingwell planned. "

"We'll never survive here. They'll use every conceivable weapon. "

"But since there's no open break with the government yet, we couldstill presumably arrange for transportation facilities. "

"To where?"

"Some spot in which we could weather the storm. What aboutLeffingwell's old hideout?"

"The units are still standing. " Harry's son nodded. "Yes, that's apossibility. But what about food?"

"Grizek. "

"What?"

"Friend of mine, " Harry told him. "Look, we're going to have to workfast. And yet we've got to do it in a way that won't attract anyattention; not even from the government. I suggest we set up anorganizing committee and make plans. " He frowned. "How much time doyou think we have--a year or so?"

"Six months, " his son hazarded. 

"Four, at most, " Wade said. "Haven't you been getting the full reportson those riots? Pretty soon they'll declare a state of nationalemergency and then nobody will be going anywhere. "

"All right. " Harry Collins grinned. "We'll do it in four months. "

 * * * * *

Actually, as it worked out, they did it in just a day or so underthree. 

Five hundred and forty-two men moved by jetter to Colorado Springs;thence, by helicopter, to the canyon hideaway. They moved in smallgroups, a few each week. Harry himself had already established theliaison system, and he was based at Grizek's ranch. Grizek was dead, but Bassett and Tom Lowery remained and they cooperated. Food would beready for the 'copters that came out of the canyon. 

The canyon installation itself was deserted, and the only problem itpresented was one of rehabilitation. The first contingent took over. 

The jetters carried more than their human cargo; they were filled withequipment of all sorts--microscans and laboratory instruments anddevices for communication. By the time the entire group was assembled, they had the necessary implementation for study and research. It was awell-conceived and well-executed operation. 

To his surprise, Harry found himself acting as the leader of theexpedition, and he continued in this capacity after they wereestablished. The irony of the situation did not escape him; to allintents and purposes he was now ruling the very domain in which he hadonce languished as a prisoner. 

But with Wade and Chang and the others, he set up a provisional systemwhich worked out very well. And proved very helpful, once the newsreached them that open revolt had begun in the world outside. 

A battered 'copter landed one evening at dusk, and the wounded pilotpoured out his message, then his life's blood. 

Angelisco was gone. Washington was gone. The Naturalists had struck, using the old, outlawed weapons. And it was the same abroad, accordingto the few garbled reports thereafter obtainable only _via_ ancientshortwave devices. 

From then on, nobody left the canyon except on weekly 'copter-lifts tothe ranch grazing lands for fresh supplies. Fortunately, that area wasundisturbed, and so were its laconic occupants. They neither knew norcared what went on in the world outside; what cities were reporteddestroyed, what forces triumphed or went down into defeat, whatactivity or radioactivity prevailed. 

Life in the canyon flowed on, more peacefully than the river cleavingits center. There was much to do and much to learn. It was, actually, a monastic existence, compounded of frugality, abstinence, continenceand devotion to scholarly pursuits. Within a year, gardens flourished;within two years herds grazed the grassy slopes; within three yearscloth was being woven on looms in the ancient way and most of thehomespun arts of an agrarian society had been revived. Men fell sickand men died, but the survivors lived in amity. Harry Collinscelebrated his sixtieth birthday as the equivalent of a second-yearstudent of medicine; his instructor being his own son. Everyone wasstudying some subject, acquiring some new skill. One-time rebelliousnatures and one-time biological oddities alike were united by thecommon bond of intellectual curiosity. 

It was, however, no Utopia. Some of the younger men wanted women, andthere were no women. Some were irked by confinement and wandered off;three of the fleet of eleven 'copters were stolen by groups ofmalcontents. From time to time there would be a serious quarrel. Sixmen were murdered. The population dwindled to four hundred and twenty. 

But there was progress, in the main. Eventually Banning joined thegroup, from the ranch, and under his guidance the study-system wasformalized. Attempts were made to project the future situation, toprepare for the day when it would be possible to venture safely intothe outside world once again and utilize newly-won abilities. 

Nobody could predict when that would be, nor what kind of world wouldawait their coming. By the time the fifth year had passed, evenshortwave reports had long since ceased. Rumors persisted thatradioactive contamination was widespread, that the population had beenvirtually decimated, that the government had fallen, that theNaturalists had set up their own reign only to fall victim to internalstrife. 

"But one thing is certain, " Harry Collins told his companions as theyassembled in the usual monthly meeting on the grounds before the oldheadquarters building one afternoon in July. "The fighting will endsoon. If we hear nothing more within the next few months, we'll sendout observation parties. Once we determine the exact situation, we canplan accordingly. The world is going to need what we can give. It willuse what we have learned. It will accept our aid. One of these days--"

And he went on to outline a carefully-calculated program of makingcontact with the powers that be, or might be. It sounded logical andeven the chronic grumblers and habitual pessimists in the group wereencouraged. 

If at times they felt the situation fantastic and the hope forlorn, they were heartened now. Richard Wade summed it up succinctlyafterwards, in a private conversation with Harry. 

"It isn't going to be easy, " he said. "In the old science fictionyarns I used to write, a group like this would have been able toprevent the revolution. At the very least, it would decide who won iffighting actually broke out. But in reality we were too late toforestall revolt, and we couldn't win the war no matter on whose sidewe fought. There's just one job we're equipped for--and that's to winthe peace. I don't mean we'll step out of here and take over theworld, either. We'll have to move slowly and cautiously, dispersing inlittle groups of five or six all over the country. And we'll have tosound out men in the communities we go to, find those who are willingto learn and willing to build. But we can be an influence, and animportant one. We have the knowledge and the skill. We may not bechosen to lead, but we can _teach_ the leaders. And that's important. "

Harry smiled in agreement. They _did_ have something to offer, andsurely it would be recognized--even if the Naturalists had won, evenif the entire country had sunk into semi-barbarism. No useanticipating such problems now. Wait until fall came; then they'dreconnoitre and find out. Wait until fall--

It was a wise decision, but one which ignored a single, importantfact. The Naturalists didn't wait until fall to conduct theirreconnaissance. 

They came over the canyon that very night; a large group of them in alarge jetter. 

And they dropped a large bomb. .. . 

11. Jesse Pringle--2039

They were after him. The whole world was in flames, and the buildingswere falling, the mighty were fallen, the Day of Judgment was at hand. 

He ran through the flames, blindly. Blind Samson. Eyeless in Gaza, treading at the mill. The mills of the gods grind slowly, but theygrind exceedingly small. 

Small. They were all small, but that didn't matter. They had the gunsand they were hunting him down to his doom. Day of doom. Doomsday. Thegreat red dragon with seven heads and ten horns was abroad in theland. 

They had unleashed the dragon and his breath was a fire that seared, and his tail was a thunder that toppled towers. The dragon wassearching him out for his sins; he would be captured and set to laborin the mill. 

But he would escape, he must escape! He was afraid of them, small asthey were, and great oaks from little acorns grow, it's the littlethings that count, and he dare not go a-hunting for fear of littlemen. 

Jesse crouched against the dock, watching the grain-elevators burn. The whole city was burning, Babylon the mighty, the whole world wasburning in God's final wrath of judgment. 

Nobody believed in God any more, nobody read the Bible, and that's whythey didn't know these things. Jesse knew, because he was an old manand he remembered how it had been when he was a little boy. A littleboy who learned of the Word of God and the Wrath of God. 

He could see the reflection of the flames in the water, now, and thereflection was shimmery and broken because of the black clustersfloating past. Large clusters and small clusters. There were bodies inthe water, the bodies of the slain. 

Thunder boomed from the city behind him. Explosions. That's how it hadstarted, when the Naturalists began blowing up the buildings. And thenthe Yardsticks had come with their weapons, hunting down theNaturalists. Or had it been that way, really? It didn't matter, now. That was in another country and besides, the wench was dead. 

The wench _is_ dead. His wench, Jesse's wench. She wasn't so old. Onlyseventy-two. But they killed her, they blew off the top of her headand he could feel it when they did. It was as if something hadhappened in _his_ head, and then he ran at them and screamed, andthere was great slaughter amongst the heathen, the forces ofunrighteousness. 

And Jesse had fled, and smote evil in the name of the Lord, for heperceived now that the time was at hand. 

_How the mighty are fallen. _

Jesse blinked at the water, wishing it would clear, wishing histhoughts would clear. Sometimes for a moment he could remember back tothe way things _really_ were. When it was still a real world, withreal people in it. When he was just a little boy and everybody elsewas big. 

Strange. Now he was an old man, a big old man, and almost everybodyelse was little. 

He tried to think what it had been like, so long ago. It was too long. All he could remember about being small was that he had been afraid. Afraid of the bigger people. 

And now he was big, and afraid of the smaller people. 

Of course they weren't real. It was just part of the prophecy, theywere the locusts sent to consume and destroy. He kept telling himselfthere was nothing to fear; the righteous need not fear when the day ofjudgment is at hand. 

Only somewhere inside of him was this little boy, crying, "Mama, Mama, Mama!" And somewhere else was this old man, just staring down into thewater and waiting for them to find him. 

Another explosion sounded. 

This one was closer. They must be bombing the entire city. Or else itwas the dragon, lashing his tail. 

Somebody ran past Jesse, carrying a torch. No, it wasn't a torch--hishair was on fire. He jumped into the water, screaming, "They'recoming! They're coming!"

Jesse turned and blinked. They were coming, all right. He could seethem pouring out of the alleyway like rats. Rats with gleaming eyes, gleaming claws. 

Suddenly, his head cleared. He realized that he was going to die. Hehad, perhaps, one minute of life left. One minute out of eighty years. And he couldn't fool himself any longer. He was not delirious. Day ofjudgment--that was nonsense. And there was no dragon, and these werenot rats. They were merely men. Puny little men who killed becausethey were afraid. 

Jesse was a big man, but he was afraid, too. Six feet three inchestall he was, when he stood up straight as he did now, watching themcome--but he knew fear. 

And he resolved that he must not take that fear with him into death. He wanted to die with something better than that. Wasn't theresomething he could find and cling to, perhaps some memory--?

A minute is so short, and eighty years is so long. Jesse stood there, swaying, watching them draw nearer, watching them as they caught sightof him and raised their weapons. 

He scanned rapidly into the past. Into the past, before the time thewench was dead, back to when you and I were young, Maggie, back stillearlier, and earlier, seeking the high point, the high school, thatwas it, the high school, the highlight, the moment of triumph, thegame with Lincoln. Yes, that was it. He hadn't been ashamed of beingsix feet three inches then, he'd been proud of it, proud as he raisedhis arms and--

_Splashed down into the water as the bullets struck. _

And that was the end of Jesse Pringle. Jesse Pringle, championbasketball center of the Class of '79. .. . 

12. Littlejohn--2065

The helicopter landed on the roof, and the attendants wheeled it overto one side. They propped the ladder up, and Littlejohn descendedslowly, panting. 

They had a coasterchair waiting and he sank into it, grateful for therest. Hardy fellows, these attendants, but then they were almost threefeet tall. More stamina, that was the secret. Common stock, of course, but they served a purpose. Somebody had to carry out orders. 

When they wheeled the coasterchair into the elevator, Littlejohndescended. The elevator halted on the first floor and he breathed asigh of relief. Great heights always made him faint and dizzy, andeven a short helicopter trip took its toll--the mere thought ofsoaring two hundred feet above the ground was enough to paralyze him. 

But this journey was vital. Thurmon was waiting for him. 

Yes, Thurmon was waiting for him here in the council chamber. Thecoasterchair rolled forward into the room and again Littlejohn felt atwinge of apprehension. The room was vast--too big for comfort. Itmust be all of fifty feet long, and over ten feet in height. How couldThurmon stand it, working here?

But he had to endure it, Littlejohn reminded himself. He was head ofthe council. 

Thurmon was lying on the couch when Littlejohn rolled in, but he satup and smiled. 

"I greet you, " he said. 

"I greet you, " Littlejohn answered. "No, don't bother to stay seated. Surely we don't need to be ceremonious. "

Thurmon pricked up his ears at the sound of the unfamiliar word. Hewasn't the scholarly type, like Littlejohn. But he appreciatedLittlejohn's learning and knew he was important to the council. Theyneeded scholars these days, and antiquarians too. One has to look tothe past when rebuilding a world. 

"You sent for me?" Littlejohn asked. The question was purelyrhetorical, but he wanted to break the silence. Thurmon lookedtroubled as he replied. 

"Yes. It is a matter of confidence between us. "

"So be it. You may speak in trust. "

Thurmon eyed the door. "Come nearer, " he said. 

Littlejohn pressed a lever and rolled up to the couchside. Thurmon'seyes peered at him through the thick contact lenses. Littlejohn notedthe deep wrinkles around his mouth, but without surprise. After all, Thurmon was an old man--he must be over thirty. 

"I have been thinking, " Thurmon said, abruptly. "We have failed. "

"Failed?"

Thurmon nodded. "Need I explain? You have been close to the councilfor many years. You have seen what we've attempted, ever since theclose of the Naturalist wars. "

"A magnificent effort, " Littlejohn answered politely. "In less thanthirty years an entire new world has risen from the ruins of the old. Civilization has been restored, snatched from the very brink of abarbarism that threatened to engulf us. "

"Nonsense, " Thurmon murmured. 

"What?"

"Sheer nonsense, Littlejohn. You're talking like a pedant. "

"But I _am_ a pedant. " Littlejohn nodded. "And it's true. When theNaturalists were exterminated, this nation and other nations wereliterally destroyed. Worse than physical destruction was the threat ofmental and moral collapse. But the Yardstick councils arose to takeover. The concept of small government came into being and saved us. Webegan to rebuild on a sensible scale, with local, limited control. Thelittle community arose--"

"Spare me the history lesson, " said Thurmon, dryly. "We rebuilt, yes. We survived. In a sense, perhaps, we even made certain advances. Thereis no longer any economic rivalry, no social distinctions, no externalpressure. I think I can safely assume that the danger of futurewarfare is forever banished. The balance of power is no longer afactor. The balance of Nature has been partially restored. And onlyone problem remains to plague mankind. "

"What is that?"

"We face extinction, " Thurmon said. 

"But that's not true, " Littlejohn interrupted. "Look at history and--"

"Look at us. " Thurmon sighed. "You needn't bother with history. Theanswer is written in our faces, in our own bodies. I've searched thepast very little, compared to your scholarship, but enough to knowthat things were different in the old days. The Naturalists, whateverelse they might have been, were strong men. They walked freely in theland, they lived lustily and long. 

"Do you know what our average life-expectancy is today, Littlejohn? Ashade under forty years. And that only if one is fortunate enough tolead a sheltered existence, as we do. In the mines, in the fields, inthe radioactive areas, they die before the age of thirty. "

Littlejohn leaned forward. "Schuyler touches on just that point in his_Psychology of Time_, " he said, eagerly. "He posits the relationshipbetween size and duration. Time is relative, you know. Our lives, short as they may be in terms of comparative chronology, neverthelesshave a subjective span equal to that of the Naturalists in theirheyday. "

"Nonsense, " Thurman said, again. "Did you think that is what concernsme--whether or not we feel that our lives are long or short?"

"What then?"

"I'm talking about the basic elements essential to survival. I'mtalking about strength, stamina, endurance, the ability to function. That's what we're losing, along with the normal span of years. Theworld is soft and flabby. Yardstick children, they tell us, werehealthy at first. But _their_ children are weaker. And theirgrandchildren, weaker still. The effect of the wars, the ravages ofradiation and malnutrition, have taken a terrible toll. The world issoft and flabby today. People can't walk any more, let alone run. Wefind it difficult to lift and bend and work--"

"But we won't have to worry about such matters for long, " Littlejohnhazarded. "Think of what's being done in robotics. Those recentexperiments seem to prove--"

"I know. " Thurmon nodded. "We can create robots, no doubt. We have alimited amount of raw materials to allocate to the project, and if wecan perfect automatons they'll function quite adequately. Virtuallyindestructible, too, I understand. I imagine they'll still be able tooperate efficiently a hundred or more years from now--if only theylearn to oil and repair one another. Because by that time, the humanrace will be gone. "

"Come now, it isn't that serious--"

"Oh, but it is!" Thurmon raised himself again, with an effort. "Yourstudy of history should have taught you one thing, if nothing else. The tempo is quickening. While it took mankind thousands of years tomove from the bow and arrow to the rifle, it took only a few hundredto move from the rifle to the thermonuclear weapon. It took agesbefore men mastered flight, and then in two generations they developedsatellites; in three, they reached the moon and Mars. "

"But we're talking about _physical_ development. "

"I know. And physically, the human race altered just as drastically inan equally short span of time. As recently as the nineteenth century, the incidence of disease was a thousandfold greater than it is now. Life was short then. In the twentieth century disease lessened andlife-expectancy doubled, in certain areas. Height and weight increasedperceptibly with every passing decade. Then came Leffingwell and hisinjections. Height, weight, life-expectancy have fallen perceptiblyevery decade since then. The war merely hastened the process. "

"You appear to have devoted a great deal of time to this question, "Littlejohn observed. 

"I have, " answered the older man. "And it is not a question. It is afact. The one fact that confronts us all. If we proceed along ourpresent path, we face certain extinction in a very short time. Thestrain is weakening constantly, the vitality is draining away. Wesought to defeat Nature--but the Naturalists were right, in theirway. "

"And the solution?"

Thurmon was silent for a long moment. Then, "I have none, " he said. 

"You have consulted the medical authorities?"

"Naturally. And experiments have been made. Physical conditioning, systems of exercise, experimentation in chemotherapy are still beingundertaken. There's no lack of volunteers, but a great lack ofresults. No, the answer does not lie in that direction. "

"But what else is there?"

"That is what I had hoped you might tell me, " Thurmon said. "You are ascholar. You know the past. You speak often of the lessons ofhistory--"

Littlejohn was nodding, but not in agreement. He was trying tocomprehend. For suddenly the conviction came to him clearly; Thurmonwas right. It was happening, had happened, right under their smugnoses. The world was weakening. It was slowing down, and the race isonly to the swift. 

He cursed himself for his habit of thinking in platitudes andquotations, but long years of study had unfitted him for less prosaicphraseology. If he could only be practical. 

_Practical. _

"Thurmon, " he said. "There is a way. A way so obvious, we've alloverlooked it--passed right over it. "

"And that is--?"

"Stop the Leffingwell injections!"

"But--"

"I know what you'll say. There have been genetic mutations. Very true, but such mutations can't be universal. A certain percentage ofoffspring will be sound, capable of attaining full growth. And wedon't have the population-problem to cope with any more. There's roomfor people again. So why not try it? Stop the injections and allowbabies to be born as they were before. " Littlejohn hesitated beforeadding a final word, but he knew he had to add it; he knew it now. "Normally, " he said. 

Thurmon nodded. "So that is your answer. "

"Yes. I--I think it will work. "

"So do the biologists, " Thurmon told him. "A generation of normalinfants, reared to maturity, would restore mankind to its formerstature, in every sense of the word. And now, knowing the lessons ofthe past, we could prepare for the change to come. We could rebuildthe world for them to live in, rebuild it psychically as well asphysically. We'd plan to eliminate the rivalry between the large andthe small, the strong and the weak. It wouldn't be difficult becausethere's plenty for all. There'd be no trouble as there was in the olddays. We've learned to be psychologically flexible. "

Littlejohn smiled. "Then that _is_ the solution?" he asked. 

"Yes. Eliminating the Leffingwell injections will give us a goodproportion of normal children again. _But where do we find the normalwomen to bear them?_"

"Normal women?"

Thurmon sighed, then reached over and placed a scroll in the scanner. "I have already gone into that question with research technicians, " hesaid. "And I have the figures here. " He switched on the scanner andbegan to read. 

"The average nubile female, aged thirteen to twenty-one, is two feet, ten inches high and weighs forty-eight pounds. " Thurmon flicked theswitch again and peered up. "I don't think I'll bother with pelvicmeasurements, " he said. "You can already see that giving birth to asix or seven-pound infant is a physical impossibility under thecircumstances. It cannot be done. "

"But surely there must be _some_ larger females! Perhaps a system ofselective breeding, on a gradual basis--"

"You're talking in terms of generations. We haven't got that muchtime. " Thurmon shook his head. "No, we're stopped right here. We can'tget normal babies without normal women, and the only normal women arethose who began life as normal babies. "

"Which comes first?" Littlejohn murmured. "The chicken or the egg?"

"What's that?"

"Nothing. Just an old saying. From history. "

Thurmon frowned. "Apparently, then, that's all you can offer in yourprofessional capacity as an historian. Just some old sayings. " Hesighed. "Too bad you don't know some old prayers. Because we need themnow. "

He bowed his head, signifying the end of the interview. 

Littlejohn rolled out of the room. 

His 'copter took him back to his own dwelling, back across therooftops of New Chicagee. Ordinarily, Littlejohn avoided looking down. He dreaded heights, and the immensity of the city itself was somehowappalling. But now he gazed upon the capital and center ofcivilization with a certain morbid affection. 

New Chicagee had risen on the ashes of the old, after the war's end. Use of thermo-nucs had been limited, fortunately, so radioactivity didnot linger, and the vast craters hollowed out by ordinary warheads hadbeen partially filled by rubble and debris. Artificial fill had donethe rest of the job, so that now New Chicagee was merely a flatprairie as it must have been hundreds of years ago--a flat prairie onwhich the city had been resurrected. There were almost fifty thousandpeople here in the capital; the largest congregation of population onthe entire continent. They had built well and surely this time, builtfor the security and certainty of centuries to come. 

Littlejohn sighed. It was hard to accept the fact that they had beenwrong; that all this would end in nothingness. They had eliminatedwar, eliminated disease, eliminated famine, eliminated socialinequality, injustice, disorders external and internal--and in sodoing, they had eliminated themselves. 

The sun was setting in the west, and long shadows crept over the citybelow. Yes, the sun was setting and the shadows were gathering, thenight was coming to claim its own. Darkness was falling, eternaldarkness. 

It was quite dark by the time Littlejohn's 'copter landed on therooftop of his own dwelling; so dark, in fact, that for a moment hedidn't see the strange vehicle already standing there. Not until hehad settled into his coasterchair did he notice the presence of theother 'copter, and then it was too late. Too late to do anythingexcept sit and stare as the gigantic shadow loomed out of the night, silhouetted against the sky. 

The shadow shambled forward, and Littlejohn gaped, gaped in terror atthe titanic figure. He opened his mouth to speak, but words did notform; there were no words to form, for how does one address anapparition?

Instead, it was the apparition which spoke. 

"I have been waiting for you, " it said. 

"Y-yes--"

"I want to talk to you. " The voice was deep, menacing. 

Littlejohn shifted in his coasterchair. There was nowhere to go, noescape. He gazed up at the shadow. Finally he summoned a response. "Shall we go inside?" he asked. 

The figure shook its head. "Where? Down into that dollhouse of yours?It isn't big enough. I've already been there. What I have to say canbe said right here. "

"W-who are you?"

The figure stepped forward, so that its face was illuminated by thefluorescence streaming from the open door which led to the inclinedchairway descending to Littlejohn's dwelling. 

Littlejohn could see the face, now--the gigantic, wrinkled face, scarred and seared and seamed. It was a human face, but utterly aliento the humanity Littlejohn knew. Faces such as this one haddisappeared from the earth a lifetime ago. At least, history hadtaught him that. History had not prepared him for the actual livingpresence of a--

"Naturalist!" Littlejohn gasped. "You're a Naturalist! Yes, that'swhat you are!"

The apparition scowled. 

"I am not a Naturalist. I am a man. "

"But you can't be! The war--"

"I am very old. I lived through your war. I have lived through yourpeace. Soon I shall die. But before I do, there is something elsewhich must be done. "

"You've come here to kill me?"

"Perhaps. " The looming figure moved closer and stared down. "No, don'ttry to summon help. When your servants saw me, they fled. You're alonenow, Littlejohn. "

"You know my name. "

"Yes, I know your name. I know the names of everyone on the council. Each of them has a visitor tonight. "

"Then it is a plot, a conspiracy?"

"We have planned this very carefully, through the long years. It's allwe lived for, those few of us who survived the war. "

"But the council wasn't responsible for the war! Most of us weren'teven alive, then. Believe me, we weren't to blame--"

"I know. " The gigantic face creased in senile simulation of a smile. "Nobody was ever to blame for anything, nobody was ever responsible. That's what they always told me. I mustn't hate mankind formultiplying, even though population created pressure and pressurecreated panic that drove me mad. I mustn't blame Leffingwell forsolving the overpopulation problem, even though he used me as aguinea-pig in his experiments. I mustn't blame the Yardsticks forpenning me up in prison until revolution broke out, and I mustn'tblame the Naturalists for bombing the place where I took refuge. Sowhose fault was it that I've gone through eighty years of assortedhell? Why did I, Harry Collins, get singled out for a lifetime ofmisery and misfortune?" The huge old man bent over Littlejohn'shuddled form. "Maybe it was all a means to an end. A way of bringingme here, at this moment, to do what must be done. "

"Don't harm me--you're not well, you're--"

"Crazy?" The old man shook his head. "No, I'm not crazy. Not now. ButI _have_ been, at times, during my life. Perhaps we all are, when weattempt to face up to the complications of an average existence, tryto confront the problems which are too big for a single consciousnessto cope with in a single life-span. I've been crazy in the city, andcrazy in the isolation of a cell, and crazy in the welter of war. Andperhaps the worst time of all was when I lost my son. 

"Yes, I had a son, Littlejohn. He was one of the first, one ofLeffingwell's original mutations, and I never knew him very well untilthe revolution came and we went away together. He was a doctor, myboy, and a good one. We spent almost five years together and I learneda lot from him. About medicine, but that wasn't important then. I'mthinking of what I learned about love. I'd always hated Yardsticks, but my son was one, and I came to love him. He had plans forrebuilding the world, he and I and the rest of us. We were going towait until the revolution ended and then help restore sanity incivilization. 

"But the Naturalists flew over and dropped their bomb, and my boydied. Over four hundred of our group died there in the canyon--fourhundred who might have changed the fate of the world. Do you think Ican forget that? Do you think I and the few others who survived haveever forgotten? Can you blame us if we did go crazy? If we hid awayout there in the western wilderness, hid away from a world that hadoffered us nothing but death and destruction, and plotted to bringdeath and destruction to that world in return?

"Think about it for a moment, Littlejohn. We were old men, all of us, and the world had given us only its misery to bear during ourlifetimes. The world we wanted to save was destroying itself; whyshould we be concerned with its fate or future?

"So we changed our plans, Littlejohn. Perhaps the shock had been toomuch. Instead of plotting to rebuild the world, we turned our thoughtsto completing its destruction. Our tools and texts were gone, buriedin the rubble with the bodies of fine young men. But we had our minds. Crazed minds, you'd call them--but aware of reality. The grim realityof the post-revolutionary years. 

"We burrowed away in the desert. We schemed and we dreamed. From timeto time we sent out spies. We knew what was going on. We knew theNaturalists were gone, that six-footers had vanished from a Yardstickworld. We knew about the rehabilitation projects. We watched yourpeople gradually evolve new patterns of living and learning. Some ofthe former knowledge was rescued, but not all. Our little group hadfar more learning than you've ever dreamed of. Fifty of us, betweenourselves, could have surpassed all your scientists in every field. 

"But we watched, and we waited. And some of us died of privation andsome of us died of old age. Until, at last, there were only a dozen ofus to share the dream. The dream of destruction. And we knew that wemust act swiftly, or not at all. 

"So we came into the world, cautiously and carefully, movingunobtrusively and unobserved. We wanted to contemplate the corruption, seek out the weaknesses in your degenerate civilization. And we foundthem, immediately. Those weaknesses are everywhere apparent, for theyare physical. You're one of a dying race, Littlejohn. Mankind's daysare numbered. There's no need for grandiose schemes of reactivatingwarheads in buried missile-centers, of loosing thermo-nucs upon theworld. Merely by killing off the central council here in New Chicagee, we can accomplish our objective. A dozen men die, and there's notenough initiative left to replace them. It's as simple as that. And ascomplicated. "

Harry Collins nodded. "Yes, as complicated. Because the onlyweaknesses we've observed _are_ physical ones. We've seen enough ofthe ways of this new civilization to realize that. 

"All of the things I hated during my lifetime have disappearednow--the crowding, the competition, the sordid self-interest, thebigotry, intolerance, prejudice. The anti-social aspects of societyare gone. There is only the human race, living much closer to theconcept of Utopia than I ever dreamed possible. You and the othersurvivors have done well, Littlejohn. "

"And yet you come to kill us. "

"We came for that purpose. Because _we_ still retained the flaws andfailings of our former cultures. We looked for targets to blame, forvillains to hate and destroy. Instead, we found this reality. 

"No, I'm not crazy, Littlejohn. And I and my fellows aren't here toexecute revenge. We have returned to the original plan; the planLeffingwell had, and my son, and all the others who worked in theirown way for their dream of a better world. We come now to help you. Help you before you die--before we die. "

Littlejohn looked up and sighed. "Why couldn't this have happenedbefore?" he murmured. "It's too late now. "

"But it isn't too late. My friends are here. They are telling yourfellow council-members the same thing right now. We may be old, but wecan still impart what we have learned. There are any number oftechnological developments to be made. We can help you to increaseyour use of atomic power. There's soil reclamation and irrigationprojects and biological techniques--"

"You said it yourself, " Littlejohn whispered. "We're a dying race. That's the primary problem. And it's an insoluble one. Just thisafternoon--" And he told him about the interview with Thurmon. 

"Don't you understand?" Littlejohn concluded. "We have no solution forsurvival. We're paying the price now because for a while we wouldn'theed history. We tried to defeat Nature and in the end Nature hasdefeated us. Because we would not render unto Caesar the things whichare--"

Harry Collins smiled. "That's it, " he said. 

"What?"

"Caesar. That's the answer. Your own medical men must have records. Iknow, because I learned medicine from my son. There used to be anoperation, in the old days, called a caesarean section--used on normalwomen and on dwarfs and midgets too, in childbirth. If your problem ishow to deliver normal children safely, the technique can be revived. Get hold of some of your people. Let's see what data you have on this. I'll be glad to furnish instruction--"

There was excitement after that. Too much excitement for Littlejohn. By the time the council had assembled in emergency session, by thetime plans were formulated and he returned to his own dwelling in thehelicopter, he was completely exhausted. Only the edge of elationsustained him; the realization that a solution had been found. 

As he sank into slumber he knew that he would sleep the clock around. 

And so would Harry Collins. The old man and his companions, now guestsof the council, had been temporarily quartered in the council-chambers. It was the only structure large enough to house them and even so theyhad to sleep on the floor. But it was sufficient comfort for the moment. 

It was many hours before Harry Collins awoke. His waking wasautomatic, for the tiny telescreen at the end of the council roomglowed suddenly, and the traditional voice chirped forth to interrupthis slumber. 

"Good morning, " said the voice. "It's a beautiful day in NewChicagee!"

Harry stared at the screen and then he smiled. 

"Yes, " he murmured. "But tomorrow will be better. "

THE END

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