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| author | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-06-21 16:05:36 -0700 |
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| committer | www-data <www-data@mail.pglaf.org> | 2026-06-21 16:05:36 -0700 |
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diff --git a/crack.html b/crack.html new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8a3d8d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/crack.html @@ -0,0 +1,684 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="format-detection" content="telephone=no,date=no,address=no,email=no,url=no"> + <title> + Crack of Doom | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .5em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + + +blockquote { + margin-top: 0; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} + + +figcaption {font-weight: bold;} +figcaption p {margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: .2em; text-align: inherit;} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + +.f15 {font-size: 1.5em;} +img.w20 {width: 20em;} + + +/* Illustration classes */ +.illowp50 {width: 50%;} +.x-ebookmaker .illowp50 {width: 100%;} +.illowp51 {width: 51%;} +.x-ebookmaker .illowp51 {width: 100%;} + </style> +</head> +<body> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp50" id="cover" style="max-width: 107.5625em;"> + <img class="w20" src="images/cover.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p>Transcribed from Avon Science Fiction and Fantasy Reader, April 1953 (Vol. 1, no. 2).</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"></div> +<h1> +Crack of Doom +</h1> + + +<p class="center f15">by <strong>Milton Lesser</strong></p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"></div> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>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:</i></p> + +<p><i>“Go to your room!”</i></p> + +<p><i>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.</i></p> + +<p><i>It almost made one approve of infanticide....</i></p> +</blockquote> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"></div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp51" id="80" style="max-width: 46.875em;"> + <img class="w20" src="images/80.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption> + <p>Illustrator: Everett Raymond Kinstler</p> + </figcaption> +</figure> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"></div> + + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“It’s all right, Pop, I’m up. Come on in.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Good morning,” he said. “For the present we’ll keep things unchanged +to a certain extent. Much easier that way.”</p> + +<p>Sam Weber’s mouth fell open. Henry was three.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>A Study of History</i>, Volume I.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I—I had a talk with Henry.” It would be best simply to state the +objective fact, to wait for further developments.</p> + +<p>“How’d he take it, Sam?”</p> + +<p>“Take what? Our talk?”</p> + +<p>“No, silly. The trip. The strange orientation.”</p> + +<p>Sam never answered a question unless he understood it. Now he asked one +of his own. “Did you know that Henry’s been reading?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“You’re joking, of course.”</p> + +<p>“No. No, I’m not. You know I don’t like pancakes without bacon.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Sam’s household seemed on the brink of insanity, and he clung to the +one thing which he could understand. “I want my bacon.”</p> + +<p>“Now, Sam, that’s enough. I threw out all the bacon this morning. +Steaks, too.”</p> + +<p>Sam stood up from the table. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll grab a bite +downtown.” He left the pancakes in their plate, almost untouched.</p> + +<p>“Well, suit yourself. Oh, Sam, do me a favor?”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“I’d, uh....”</p> + +<p>“Like to cancel your business here? Naturally. I guess it will be +interesting, looking for some other kind of work.”</p> + +<p>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....”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Sam thought it was nice, the way Mr. Adams would consult his son before +he took any new job. He said so.</p> + +<p>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 <i>that</i> means.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Read? Don’t be silly.”</p> + +<p>Sam liked the butcher’s answer. It made the world come spinning back, a +little closer to reality.</p> + +<p>“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....”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It was a bright yellow cab with a little fat man at the wheel. “Where +to, friend?”</p> + +<p>“Bartlett Building,” said Sam, and the cab purred out into the early +morning traffic.</p> + +<p>“It takes my breath away,” the driver said.</p> + +<p>“What does?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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....”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Sam didn’t understand, but he’d be polite. “What couldn’t be more than, +uh, two billion years old?”</p> + +<p>“This planet, stupid. This planet. Say, how old are you? You don’t look +more than thirty, not much more.”</p> + +<p>“I’m thirty-two,” Sam said, mildly annoyed.</p> + +<p>“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....”</p> + +<p>“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—”</p> + +<p>“Sure,” the driver said, and Sam heard the click of the radio button.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“...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.</p> + +<p>“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....”</p> + +<p>“Turn it off!” Sam cried.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“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 <i>our</i> culture now, you know.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The sign stopped him cold. It was done crudely, in big red letters, but +he couldn’t miss it. It said:</p> + +<p><i>Don’t worry! Come right in!</i></p> + +<p><i>We serve no meat or meat products.</i></p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Hello?”</p> + +<p>“It’s me, your pop.” Sam felt mildly ridiculous.</p> + +<p>“Good morning again, Pop. What’s on your mind?”</p> + +<p>“I’d—I’d like to speak with your mother, please, Henry.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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....”</p> + +<p>“Where’s the address-book?”</p> + +<p>Numbly, Sam told him. There was a brief silence, then Henry’s little-boy +voice again:</p> + +<p>“That’s Gregory Thorne?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“One-two-five West End, Pop. What do you want with a psychiatrist? +Trouble?”</p> + +<p>“No. No, nothing like that. Just some business.” Sam felt more +ridiculous all the time. “I’ll see you tonight, son. And, uh, thanks.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Sam groaned. “That’s the trouble, Doc. Your granddaughter.”</p> + +<p>“Eh, what’s that? What did she do?”</p> + +<p>“How old is she, Doc?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“Whoa, Sam. Take it easy. I get the general drift. Care to answer a few +questions?”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“You bet, Doc. Just bacon, that’s all I’d want for now. A couple of +sizzling strips....”</p> + +<p>“Uh-oh,” Betty mumbled, taking her lollipop out of the ashtray and +sucking on it furiously. “Better go ahead, Grandpa Gregory.”</p> + +<p>“And children, Sam. You think it’s peculiar that they’re so intelligent +for, ah, their years? Impossibly so, all of a sudden?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>The girl put down her lollipop. “I’ll take over from this point, +Grandpa Gregory. Take it down in shorthand, please.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Thorne rummaged through a desk drawer and came up with a pad and +pencil. “Go ahead,” he said.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“I—uh. Hey, Doc, cut it out! If this is a gag, please get on with +your questions.”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t a gag,” Dr. Thorne said, suddenly very serious. “Answer her +questions as well as you can.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I—oh, this is stupid.”</p> + +<p>“Answer me,” Betty told him. “Please.” She worked the melting lollipop +back and forth from cheek to cheek inside her mouth.</p> + +<p>“Well—I don’t remember a thing. I don’t even know what you’re talking +about. What is Alpher Century G?”</p> + +<p>“Never mind,” Betty told him. “Another question. Do you resent children +being your mental superiors?”</p> + +<p>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....”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Please,” Sam said, not without difficulty. “I think I’ll go home.” He +stood up.</p> + +<p>“In a little while,” Betty told him. “We’d like to do something first; +only take a minute, Sam. Okay?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Thorne nodded. “Electroencephalogram, eh? And then you’ll....”</p> + +<p>“Please get him ready, Grandpa.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Tch-tch,” Dr. Thorne shook his head. “A shame.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“So? So what can be done about it?”</p> + +<p>“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. <i>Meat.</i> He eats it. +Probably a hundred other little things. He couldn’t be happy now, +ever.”</p> + +<p>“Well what can we do?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing. It’s not up to us at all. There are the authorities. +Elimination probably will be painless ... Has he got a child, +Grandpa?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. A son, about three, I think.”</p> + +<p>“Obviously, a brilliant mind. You can send Sam home now, but notify his +son by telephone. Poor Sam.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He entered their house by the side door, and he heard Martha in the +kitchen, weeping. “Hallo!” he called. “I’m home.”</p> + +<p>Martha ran into his arms and hugged him for a moment. “My Sam,” she +cried. “My poor, poor Sam.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Sam. Thank you....” And then she was crying again.</p> + +<p>Henry came into the room, looking ludicrously grim for his three years. +“Hello, Pop. I’m sorry,” he said.</p> + +<p>Martha wailed, “It isn’t fair....”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Sam heard voices. “Does Henry Weber live here?”</p> + +<p>“I’m Weber,” Henry told them.</p> + +<p>“Your father is....”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Still human. No transfer, unfortunately. The EEG clearly shows +it. I’m afraid he’ll have to be....”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“The best way,” Henry said in his childish treble.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The crack opened wider and he saw his son Henry’s little face. Behind +the face he could see some uniformed blue figures.</p> + +<p>Sam smiled bravely. He pushed at the door and the crack opened all the +way, admitting Henry and the policemen.</p> + +<p>Henry looked just like a little man.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"></div><div class="transnote"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_note"> + Transcriber’s note: + </h2> + + +<blockquote> +<p>This etext was produced from Avon Science Fiction and Fantasy Reader, +April 1953 (Vol. 1, no. 2).</p> + +<p>Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but +minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed.</p> +</blockquote> +</div> +</body> +</html> |