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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78907 ***
+
+
+
+
+                             Crack of Doom
+
+                            by Milton Lesser
+
+
+  _Sam’s little boy was only three years old. He stood there in his
+  T-shirt and shorts, his hair messy, strawberry-jam stains all over
+  his lips. He didn’t come up to Sam’s belt buckle. But he looked at
+  his father sternly, and the words crackled coldly from his taut lips:_
+
+  _“Go to your room!”_
+
+  _Sam didn’t feel insane. Yet there was a frigidly adult gleam of
+  righteous anger in little Henry’s eyes. And the world outside had
+  become a topsy-turvy place where anyone over thirteen could be
+  considered senile and a candidate for euthanasia._
+
+  _It almost made one approve of infanticide...._
+
+[Illustration: Illustrator: Everett Raymond Kinstler]
+
+
+
+
+Sam Weber got his first shock early in the morning. He padded softly
+down the hall, past the door to Henry’s room, on his way to the
+bathroom. He heard Henry call:
+
+“It’s all right, Pop, I’m up. Come on in.”
+
+Little Henry sat up in bed, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. His hair
+was combed neatly, with plenty of stickum, and his scrubbed, shining
+face wore an earnest expression.
+
+“Good morning,” he said. “For the present we’ll keep things unchanged
+to a certain extent. Much easier that way.”
+
+Sam Weber’s mouth fell open. Henry was three.
+
+“Of course,” Henry continued, “there’ll be minor changes here at the
+outset. I’ll want an allowance, for one thing. Nothing big, say, not
+for another year or so. Twenty dollars a week should suffice.” He stood
+up and waddled over to Sam, punching at his father’s kneecap playfully
+with a pudgy fist. “Don’t worry, Pop. We’ll get along fine. Just fine.
+Anything you want, let me know. I mean that: any little thing and I’ll
+be happy to oblige.”
+
+Henry turned his back and reached for a book which was lying
+half-hidden under the coverlet. He opened it with a satisfied little
+sigh and proceeded to read. Sam peered over his shoulder and read the
+title. Arnold Toynbee’s _A Study of History_, Volume I.
+
+Mechanically, Sam walked on into the bathroom. He took off his robe and
+pajamas, draped them over a towel rack, stepped out of his slippers
+and climbed into the shower stall. His attempt at whistling was only
+half-hearted, and he gave it up after a few bars, concentrating instead
+on the pleasant cascade of warm water.
+
+Afterwards he shaved and dressed, then headed for the kitchen. Martha
+had orange juice, coffee, and a plate of golden pancakes waiting for
+him. “A little late this morning, Sam,” she observed.
+
+“I--I had a talk with Henry.” It would be best simply to state the
+objective fact, to wait for further developments.
+
+“How’d he take it, Sam?”
+
+“Take what? Our talk?”
+
+“No, silly. The trip. The strange orientation.”
+
+Sam never answered a question unless he understood it. Now he asked one
+of his own. “Did you know that Henry’s been reading?”
+
+“Certainly. It is a bit early in the morning, but he had me get Toynbee
+down from the shelf at about seven. He wants to do history this week,
+politics next week. Good idea, I think.”
+
+Sam was getting nowhere. He drank his orange juice and buttered his
+pancakes, digging in with a definite lack of relish. “Where’s my
+bacon?” he said.
+
+“You’re joking, of course.”
+
+“No. No, I’m not. You know I don’t like pancakes without bacon.”
+
+“Hah, hah. Actually, that’s going to be the biggest problem. A lot of
+the economy here depends upon meat and meat products, and millions of
+people will be thrown out of work. Well, they’ll get over it. In a few
+years everything will be fine.”
+
+Sam’s household seemed on the brink of insanity, and he clung to the
+one thing which he could understand. “I want my bacon.”
+
+“Now, Sam, that’s enough. I threw out all the bacon this morning.
+Steaks, too.”
+
+Sam stood up from the table. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll grab a bite
+downtown.” He left the pancakes in their plate, almost untouched.
+
+“Well, suit yourself. Oh, Sam, do me a favor?”
+
+“What?”
+
+“On your way to the subway, stop in at the butcher’s and cancel our
+account with him. We owe him fifteen dollars. Of course, he may not
+even be opened, but if he is, you cancel our account. Okay?”
+
+Sam said it was okay. He had always left such matters in Martha’s
+hands, and if she wasn’t satisfied with their present butcher, he’d
+take care of it for her.
+
+On his way out, Sam couldn’t resist the impulse to peek into Henry’s
+room. His boy’s little head was still buried deep in Toynbee.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+“Hello, Mr. Adams,” Sam said. There was a big crowd in the butcher shop
+and, Sam noticed with some surprise, no meat on any of the counters.
+
+“I’d, uh....”
+
+“Like to cancel your business here? Naturally. I guess it will be
+interesting, looking for some other kind of work.”
+
+Sam felt dizzy. “Yes, that’s it. We owe you fifteen dollars, Martha
+said. Umm-mm, why are you giving up the meat business? I always thought
+it was good....”
+
+“Well, have your little joke, Mr. Weber. Fifteen, that’s right. You
+know, I’m thinking of joining the police. I was an M.P. over in Korea.
+That is, if my son doesn’t mind.”
+
+Sam thought it was nice, the way Mr. Adams would consult his son before
+he took any new job. He said so.
+
+Mr. Adams smiled. “Nice of him to let me make my own choice, you mean.
+After all, he’s only five, Mr. Weber. You know what _that_ means.”
+
+Sam blanched. Maybe he had had the wrong idea on kids all these years.
+Maybe they grew up a lot faster than he realized in this modern
+generation. “Your boy read much?” he demanded.
+
+“Read? Don’t be silly.”
+
+Sam liked the butcher’s answer. It made the world come spinning back, a
+little closer to reality.
+
+“Of course he doesn’t read, Mr. Weber. He doesn’t have the time.
+He’s started writing a book this morning, showing what’s wrong
+with Einstein’s unified field theory. It’s a good theory, but not
+particularly sound. But I guess you know its flaws as well as my son
+Jerry. Thinks he can make a best seller out of it....”
+
+Sam mumbled something which was a cross between “Good luck” and a
+confused gurgle, took his receipt, and trudged out the door. He headed
+slowly for the subway entrance, but he changed his mind. He had seen
+enough of people, for a while at least, and although the taximeter
+would register a dollar fifty downtown, he could afford the luxury this
+one time.
+
+It was a bright yellow cab with a little fat man at the wheel. “Where
+to, friend?”
+
+“Bartlett Building,” said Sam, and the cab purred out into the early
+morning traffic.
+
+“It takes my breath away,” the driver said.
+
+“What does?”
+
+“All these growing green things. What a beautiful world, so young and
+fresh. And the way those flowers smell! Man, I could sniff them all
+day.”
+
+Sam thought the man had missed his vocation. He should have been a
+poet, or at least a gardener. “Yes,” Sam agreed. “I always liked late
+May....”
+
+“No. That ain’t what I mean. It’s everything, the whole world. What a
+change: couldn’t be more than two billion years old, I’d say.”
+
+Sam didn’t understand, but he’d be polite. “What couldn’t be more than,
+uh, two billion years old?”
+
+“This planet, stupid. This planet. Say, how old are you? You don’t look
+more than thirty, not much more.”
+
+“I’m thirty-two,” Sam said, mildly annoyed.
+
+“Well, the way you talk, you could be past seventy. Me, I’m pushing
+forty-five, but I understand. My mother’s a little confused, but even
+she can understand if I explain things to her real slow. Maybe you’re
+sick. They said some people might get sick....”
+
+“I am not sick,” Sam assured him. But he wasn’t too sure: he felt as
+if the whole world was crushing in on him from all directions, making
+it difficult for him to breathe. Perhaps the radio would help. Sam
+always liked to listen to the radio when he was feeling blue. “Why
+don’t you turn on the news?” he suggested. “Should be able to catch the
+eight-thirty over W--”
+
+“Sure,” the driver said, and Sam heard the click of the radio button.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It would be his favorite commentator, Harry Groton, and already the
+prospect of hearing the man’s familiar voice made him feel better. He
+listened.
+
+“...Sorry that there can be no commercial this morning, folks, but our
+sponsor was a producer of canned meat products. At any rate, let’s get
+on with the news. The big item, of course--” Sam liked Harry Groton
+because he was so informal, just as if he sat next to you, chatting
+pleasantly about the doings of the day. “--is the fact that the
+transfer has been achieved so successfully. There have been reported
+a few isolated instances in which the subject’s mind was temporarily
+deranged, and scientists even expect one or two cases in which there
+has been no transfer at all, although until now none has been reported.
+
+“Also, we’ll have to get used to the fact that our children are our
+mental superiors. But naturally, it makes good sense. The best minds
+should last the longest, especially in these difficult times....”
+
+“Turn it off!” Sam cried.
+
+“Hunh? You just asked me to put it on. Better make up your mind,
+mister. On, then off, then--aw, I think I’m gonna change my work. Well,
+here’s the Bartlett Building. Better take it easy, friend. You heard
+what he said about deranged minds.”
+
+Sam paid his fare, then watched a middle-aged woman get into the cab
+with a little tot who could not have been two years old. Sam heard the
+child’s voice quite distinctly:
+
+“Museum of Art, please. What? Yes, Grandmother, we might as well see
+their art first hand. Only way to really understand their culture, and
+it’s _our_ culture now, you know.”
+
+Sam wasn’t particularly hungry, but he thought that some sizzling bacon
+strips fresh from the griddle, toast, and coffee might make him feel
+better. He entered the revolving doors and walked through the lobby of
+the Bartlett Building, past the newsstand, the elevators, the shoeshine
+booth, all the way across the lobby to the little luncheonette in the
+rear. He even began to hum a little.
+
+The sign stopped him cold. It was done crudely, in big red letters, but
+he couldn’t miss it. It said:
+
+_Don’t worry! Come right in!_
+
+_We serve no meat or meat products._
+
+Sam almost ran back to the elevators. He waited for the express that
+would take him to the eighteenth floor, watched the little knot of
+people gather, waiting with him. They all seemed normal--if any of
+them had heard or seen any of the fantastic, impossible things Sam had
+witnessed, they didn’t look it. Sam suppressed a sob. What was it Harry
+Groton had said about deranged minds?
+
+He didn’t make up his mind until the elevator door opened. The little
+crowd of people began to enter, but Sam hung back, and finally the
+starter spread his arms across the entrance. “Sorry, sir. No more room.
+Next car, please.”
+
+Sam nodded absently. He didn’t care. He didn’t feel that he could take
+Mr. Southerton’s shenanigans today, anyway. Martha’s uncle Gregory (on
+her father’s side, as he remembered it) was a psychiatrist, and perhaps
+the man might be able to help him. Nothing like psychoanalysis, of
+course--he didn’t need anything as thorough as that. But perhaps he had
+been working too hard lately--Mr. Southerton had a way of driving him.
+Just a little talk, Sam thought, because he’d understand this thing
+much better.... Perhaps all he needed was a little vacation.
+
+He stepped into a phone booth, dialed home. The receiver buzzed three
+times in his ear, then it clicked. He heard Henry’s childish treble.
+
+“Hello?”
+
+“It’s me, your pop.” Sam felt mildly ridiculous.
+
+“Good morning again, Pop. What’s on your mind?”
+
+“I’d--I’d like to speak with your mother, please, Henry.”
+
+“Can’t. She’s out. Maybe I can help you. Say, this Toynbee is
+fascinating reading. Really helps to explain the culture, on all
+levels. I’ll show you when you get home. Meanwhile, Mom went to the
+library to get me some more books--sent her after some history source
+material. Well, can I help?”
+
+Sam began to sweat in the confined quarters of the phone booth. “I
+doubt it, Henry. I wanted your great uncle Gregory’s address, but....”
+
+“Where’s the address-book?”
+
+Numbly, Sam told him. There was a brief silence, then Henry’s
+little-boy voice again:
+
+“That’s Gregory Thorne?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“One-two-five West End, Pop. What do you want with a psychiatrist?
+Trouble?”
+
+“No. No, nothing like that. Just some business.” Sam felt more
+ridiculous all the time. “I’ll see you tonight, son. And, uh, thanks.”
+
+Sam heard the boy say something about not mentioning it, then there
+was a little click, Sam hung up the receiver, and left the booth on
+unsteady feet. He wondered how long a thorough psychoanalysis took,
+wondered further if he could afford it.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Dr. Gregory Thorne was a small, balding man, with a small red spot on
+each cheek which almost looked like it was painted there. “Sam!” he
+said. “Sam Weber. Long time no see. Very long. Won’t you come in?” Sam
+said thanks and came in. He smiled weakly, but knew it was worse than
+not smiling at all.
+
+“Hey, Sam, what’s the trouble? You look scared to me--mighty scared.
+Go ahead, talk: I haven’t got a patient coming in for about an hour.
+Anyway, I’m just the receptionist now--my granddaughter’s taking over
+this mind business. Ever meet her? Cute little trick.”
+
+Sam groaned. “That’s the trouble, Doc. Your granddaughter.”
+
+“Eh, what’s that? What did she do?”
+
+“How old is she, Doc?”
+
+“Umm-mm, I don’t know exactly. Around seven, I’d say. Yes, Jack and
+Mary got married in forty-two, then they waited a couple of years. Yes,
+about seven. Why?”
+
+Sam spilled all of it, in a rush of words. He didn’t know that kids
+matured so fast, he said, but all of a sudden, today, they seemed as
+intelligent--more intelligent ... Also meat. What the devil was wrong
+with meat? He couldn’t get it anywhere. Not even a couple of strips
+of bacon. Not even at home from Martha. The butcher was going out of
+business. And everyone acted so--peculiar. The news broadcast made less
+sense than a scrambled jigsaw puzzle, and Henry Groton....
+
+“Whoa, Sam. Take it easy. I get the general drift. Care to answer a few
+questions?”
+
+Sam said certainly, he’d like to. He took out a handkerchief and mopped
+his brow as Dr. Thorne flicked a switch and called into the interoffice
+phone on his desk. “Betty? Want to come in, please?”
+
+Sam heard the door open, and a scrawny little girl with freckles and
+buck teeth entered the room. Dr. Thorne was right--about seven. And she
+had the most earnest look on her face....
+
+“Betty, this is Sam Weber, sort of a cousin’s husband. I’d like you to
+listen for a while, and then see what can be done.”
+
+The little girl nodded, put her lollipop down in an ashtray. “Hi, Sam,”
+she said. “It’s funny how strong physical habit can be sometimes--like
+this lollipop thing. I like it. Well, go ahead with it, gentlemen.”
+
+Dr. Thorne cleared his throat, lit a cigarette and puffed nervously.
+“Now, then, Sam, you say you like meat? You have a strong desire for
+it?”
+
+“You bet, Doc. Just bacon, that’s all I’d want for now. A couple of
+sizzling strips....”
+
+“Uh-oh,” Betty mumbled, taking her lollipop out of the ashtray and
+sucking on it furiously. “Better go ahead, Grandpa Gregory.”
+
+“And children, Sam. You think it’s peculiar that they’re so intelligent
+for, ah, their years? Impossibly so, all of a sudden?”
+
+Sam nodded. “Yes. Something like that. Sounds silly, I know. But all
+you have to do is look at Betty. Go ahead, look at Betty. I’m not
+crazy--it’s the truth.”
+
+The girl put down her lollipop. “I’ll take over from this point,
+Grandpa Gregory. Take it down in shorthand, please.”
+
+Dr. Thorne rummaged through a desk drawer and came up with a pad and
+pencil. “Go ahead,” he said.
+
+Betty’s voice was just right for the part of Goldilocks in a school
+play. “Sam,” she said, “what do you remember of your life on Alpha
+Centauri Gee?”
+
+“I--uh. Hey, Doc, cut it out! If this is a gag, please get on with your
+questions.”
+
+“It isn’t a gag,” Dr. Thorne said, suddenly very serious. “Answer her
+questions as well as you can.”
+
+“Well, I--oh, this is stupid.”
+
+“Answer me,” Betty told him. “Please.” She worked the melting lollipop
+back and forth from cheek to cheek inside her mouth.
+
+“Well--I don’t remember a thing. I don’t even know what you’re talking
+about. What is Alpher Century G?”
+
+“Never mind,” Betty told him. “Another question. Do you resent children
+being your mental superiors?”
+
+Dr. Thorne said, “It was necessary, you know. There’s bound to be
+some difficulties the first generation or so, Sam, and we figured the
+longer our better minds lasted, the better off we’d be. Those poor
+Earthmen--suddenly transferred to our bodies, on a cold, dry desert of
+a world. I wonder what they think....”
+
+“Please be quiet, Grandpa,” Betty said. “I’m asking the questions, and
+you’ll only confuse him. I think I know what happened, too.” She shook
+her head sadly, took the white stick from her mouth and put it in the
+ashtray. “I think I’ll take up smoking,” she said.
+
+“Please,” Sam said, not without difficulty. “I think I’ll go home.” He
+stood up.
+
+“In a little while,” Betty told him. “We’d like to do something first;
+only take a minute, Sam. Okay?”
+
+Sam nodded vaguely, and they led him into the next room. “Lie down on
+that couch, please,” Betty said. “We’ll give you a quick temporal EEG.”
+
+Dr. Thorne nodded. “Electroencephalogram, eh? And then you’ll....”
+
+“Please get him ready, Grandpa.”
+
+Dr. Thorne dabbed the area in front of Sam’s ears with something wet
+and slimy, then he placed something over Sam’s head which looked like a
+couple of sturdy, curving wires with a small antenna for each temple.
+From this a wire ran to a drum covered with graph paper.
+
+Sam felt nothing, but in a few moments it was over. Dr. Thorne took the
+antennae from his head, and then he was busy bending over the graph
+paper with his granddaughter.
+
+“See?” she said. “See. Plenty of low magnitude, quick stuff, Alpha,
+Beta, and Gamma. But you don’t see any Delta waves, do you. Look, there
+isn’t a wave here with a frequency of less than ten a second, and most
+of them are more.”
+
+“Tch-tch,” Dr. Thorne shook his head. “A shame.”
+
+“Umm-mm. It’s simple to see what happened. Actually, the transfer
+experts expected this. Probably there are a few hundred of them all
+over the planet, men like Sam here, who haven’t been transferred. He’s
+still an Earthman, Grandpa.”
+
+“So? So what can be done about it?”
+
+“Unfortunately, he can’t be helped. The transfer is a finished product
+now. Nothing can be done. Of course, he can’t be permitted to remain.
+Look at the simplest things, Grandpa. He eats meat. _Meat._ He eats it.
+Probably a hundred other little things. He couldn’t be happy now, ever.”
+
+“Well what can we do?”
+
+“Nothing. It’s not up to us at all. There are the authorities.
+Elimination probably will be painless ... Has he got a child, Grandpa?”
+
+“Yes. A son, about three, I think.”
+
+“Obviously, a brilliant mind. You can send Sam home now, but notify his
+son by telephone. Poor Sam.”
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Sam didn’t know what was going on. He had a few drinks first, and then
+he took a long walk in the park. He bought a bag of peanuts and fed
+the pigeons for a time, and then he grew tired of it. He’d take Martha
+and little Henry to the country. Although Dr. Thorne hadn’t prescribed
+anything in particular, Sam knew he needed a vacation, a long vacation.
+But that girl, Betty. It was eerie. And Sam didn’t relish the idea of
+going home to his suddenly brilliant little son.
+
+He entered their house by the side door, and he heard Martha in the
+kitchen, weeping. “Hallo!” he called. “I’m home.”
+
+Martha ran into his arms and hugged him for a moment. “My Sam,” she
+cried. “My poor, poor Sam.”
+
+“Easy, Martha. Nothing’s wrong with me. Nothing that a little vacation
+won’t fix. By the way, I stopped in at Adams’ and canceled your orders
+there.”
+
+“Thank you, Sam. Thank you....” And then she was crying again.
+
+Henry came into the room, looking ludicrously grim for his three years.
+“Hello, Pop. I’m sorry,” he said.
+
+Martha wailed, “It isn’t fair....”
+
+“One of those unfortunate things,” Henry told her. “You’ll get over
+it. It’s just too bad that the only way we’d get the transfer in this
+way--with the memories of these Earth people, with their emotions. But
+you’ll get over it, Mother. Stop sniffling. It will all be over soon.”
+
+Sam stood by, saying nothing, balancing on one foot and then the other.
+Henry looked at him. “Pop, you’ll have to go to your room now. Please
+go to your room.”
+
+The boy still wore his tee shirt and shorts. His hair was messy and he
+had strawberry-jam stains all over his lips. The top of his head didn’t
+come up to Sam’s belt buckle. He said, again, “Go to your room.”
+
+Sam turned and walked from the room. He heard Martha sobbing again,
+but he did not wheel about to face her. He continued on up the stairs,
+entered his bedroom, and closed the door behind him. He sat for a long
+time on the edge of the bed, looking out into the bright sunshine,
+watching the very old men and women playing with their mudpies in the
+street.
+
+He must have dozed. When he awoke, he saw two green and white cars
+pulling over in front of the house. Police. They were very grim.
+
+Sam heard voices. “Does Henry Weber live here?”
+
+“I’m Weber,” Henry told them.
+
+“Your father is....”
+
+“Yes. Still human. No transfer, unfortunately. The EEG clearly shows
+it. I’m afraid he’ll have to be....”
+
+“Of course, sir. He will be eliminated as painlessly as possible.
+Downtown, a bullet in the brain at point-blank range. Quite painless,
+I’m told.”
+
+“The best way,” Henry said in his childish treble.
+
+Sam heard them coming up the stairs, slowly, with their measured steps.
+Something told him, quite suddenly, that this was more than a hideous
+joke. Much more....
+
+There was silence. They stood outside his door a long time, and then
+the door opened, just a thin crack. Sam saw an eye peer within the room.
+
+The crack opened wider and he saw his son Henry’s little face. Behind
+the face he could see some uniformed blue figures.
+
+Sam smiled bravely. He pushed at the door and the crack opened all the
+way, admitting Henry and the policemen.
+
+Henry looked just like a little man.
+
+
+
+
+  Transcriber’s note:
+
+
+  This etext was produced from Avon Science Fiction and Fantasy Reader,
+  April 1953 (Vol. 1, no. 2).
+
+  Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but
+  minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed.
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78907 ***