1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677
678
679
680
681
682
683
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>
|
