What Rough Beast?

by Jefferson Highe

I've had enough. Stay here and stew if you like, but I'm goingback to my class. I turned the hypno-gas on them before I took my dive.They should be nice and gentle for me by this time." He turned awaydefiantly.

  "I know how you feel," Allenby said when McCarthy was gone. "He's a holyterror, John. Shouldn't be around here. But I have to keep him, since hewas recommended by the 3Rs and the Educational League. He gives theschool a bit of protective coloration. Perhaps he's why they haven'tclosed us down yet."

  "I know--I'm not blaming you. Do you suppose we can go back to our jobs?It sounds as if it's wearing itself out." He gestured up at the windows.

  "Can't do anything more today."

  "No, you're probably right."

  * * * * *

  For a moment Allenby was silent as they went toward the gate of theQuad. Then he said, "John, you're a good man. I don't want you todespair. What we're attempting--to bring education back into ourculture--is a good and noble cause. And you can't really blame thekids." He nodded up at the walls. "They've just had too many Spellcasts,too many scares in the Pretend War--they can't believe in any future andthey don't know anything about their past. Don't blame them."

  "No, sir--I don't."

  "Just do our best," Allenby said. "Try to teach them the forgottenthings. Then, in their turn, in the next generation...."

  "Yes, we have to believe that. But, Dr. Allenby, we could go a lotfaster if we were to screen them. If they were all like young Tomkins,we'd be doing very well. But as long as we have people like young Cressor Hodge or Rottke--well, it's hard to do anything with them. They gostraight from school into their fathers' firms--after all, if you'reguaranteed a business success in life, you don't struggle to learn. And,anyway, you don't need much education to be a dope salesman or a numbersconsultant."

  "I'd like to have the place run only for the deserving and theinterested," Allenby said. "But we haven't much choice. We must havesome of these boys who are from the best families. More protectivecoloration--like McCarthy. If we were only to run the place for thebrilliant ones, you know we'd be closed down in a week."

  "I suppose so," Ward agreed. He wondered whether he should tell hissuspicions to Allenby. Better not, he decided. Allenby had enough tothink about.

  The last of the shouting had died. As Ward went out the gate of theQuad, he felt his heart lift a little the way it always did when hestarted for home. Out here, miles from the city, the air was clean andthe Sun was bright on the hills, quilted now with the colors of autumn.There was a tang of wood smoke in the air and, in the leaves beside thepath, he saw an apple. It was very cold and damp and there was a wildtaste to it as he bit into the fruit. He was a tired teacher, glad to begoing home after a hard day in the school. He hoped that no one had beenhurt by the tigers.

  * * * * *

  John Ward pushed the papers across his desk, reached for his pipe andsighed. "Well, that does it, Bobby," he said.

  He looked at the red-headed six-year-old boy sitting in the too-bigchair across from him. Bobby was a small boy with a freckled face andskinned knees. He sat in the big chair with his feet sticking straightout in front of him and played with a slide rule.

  "I've taught you all the math I know," Ward said. "Differential,integral, topology, Maddow's Theory of Transfinite Domains--that's asfar as I go. What's next?"

  "I don't know, John. I was thinking of going in for nuclear physics,but...."

  "Go on, but what?" Ward prompted.

  "Well...." Bobby gave him an embarrassed look. "I'm kind of tired ofthat stuff. It's easy and not very interesting. What I'd really like--"He broke off and began fiddling with the slide rule again.

  "Yes, Bobby, what would you like?"

  "You won't be mad?"

  "No." Ward smiled.

  "Well, I'd really like to try to write a poem--a real poem, I mean, notadvertiverse--a real poem, with rhymes and everything." He paused andlooked to see how Ward was taking it and then went on with a rush. "Iknow it's almost illegal, but I want to try. I really want to."

  "But why?"

  "Oh, I dunno--I just want to. I remember that an old poet named Yeatssaid something about writing poems--the fascination with what'sdifficult. Maybe that's it."

  "Well," Ward said, "it's a dangerous occupation." He looked at the boywith wonder and pride. "Sure, Bobby, give it a try if you want to."

  "Gee, thanks!" the boy said. He jumped out of the chair and startedtoward the door of the study.

  "Bobby," Ward called. "Tell me--can you teleport?"

  "Not exactly," Bobby said. The papers on the desk in front of Wardsuddenly fluttered into the air. They did a lazy circle of the room,swung into an echelon and performed a slow chandelle, before droppinginto Bobby's hand. "I can do that stuff. But I didn't do the tigers."

  "I'm sure you didn't."

  "It was a good stunt, but I wouldn't do that to you, John."

  "I know. Do you know who did?"

  "I'm not sure." Bobby didn't look at him now. "Anyway, it'd besnitching."

  "I'm not asking you to tell."

  "Gee, I'm sorry," Bobby said. "I wanted to tell you in the yard. I knewthere was going to be a rumble, but I couldn't snitch."

  "No, of course not." Ward shooed him off. "Go write your poem."

  * * * * *

  "But tigers!" Ann said. "Why tigers, John?"

  "I suppose they were convenient."

  "Tigers are never convenient."

  He crossed the room, picked up the phone and dialed. After a briefconversation, he turned back to her. "Well, now we know where they camefrom," he said. "The zoo. Disappeared for about half an hour. Thenreappeared again."

  "I don't care where they came from," his wife said. Her dark head wasbent over some work in her lap. "What difference does it make whetherthey came from the zoo or from Burma? The point is, bringing them in isdangerous--it's hooliganism, and don't tell me that boys will be boys."

  "It doesn't show very mature judgment," he admitted. "But Bobby and hispals aren't very old."

  "Only about four hundred and eighty-five years old, according to hisI.Q. Do you think it was Bobby?"

  "Bobby isn't the only genius we've got. There's Danny, remember, andWilliam Tender--and Bobby said he couldn't teleport big stuff."

  "Well?"

  John Ward had to confide his theory. He felt that he had to tell Anneverything, all the speculation and suspicion he'd carried around withhim for so long.

  "I think we're being invaded," he said.

  Ann looked at him steadily for a moment. "You mean the Outspacers?"

  "Yes--but not in the way you're thinking. It's been reported that theSaucers are Russian or Argentine or Brazilian or Chinese--that's whatwe're told. But that's simply Pretend War propaganda and almost no onebelieves it any longer. Most of us think of them as Outspacers."

  "And you think they're moving in?"

  "I think they're watching--sort of--well, sort of monitoring."

  "Monitoring us? What for?"

  "No, not us. I think they've planted children among us. I think theOutspacers are _school-teachers_."

  Ann got briskly to her feet. "I think," she said, "that we'll take yourtemperature and see if perhaps you shouldn't be in bed."

  "Wait, Ann, I'm serious. I know it sounds crazy, but it isn't. Think ofit this way--here's a race, obviously humanoid, on another star system.For some reason, overpopulation or whatever, they have to find room onanother planet. Let's assume they're a highly civilized race--they'dhave to be to have interstellar travel--so, of course, they can't simplytake over Earth in an act of aggression. That would be repugnant tothem.

  "So they _seed_ our planet with their children. These children aregeniuses. When they grow up, they are naturally the leaders of theworld's governments and they're in a position to allow the Outspacers tolive with us on Earth. To live peacefully with us, whereas now, if theOutspacers were to try to live here, it would mean war
."

  "And you think Bobby is one of these--these seedlings?"

  "Maybe. He's unbelievingly intelligent. _And_ he's a foundling."

  "What has that to do with