by Jerry
That is what has happened. There dwells upon earth today a race representing the next step in man’s progress. A people to whom our thoughts are as immature and elementary as to us is the prattling of infants.
They begin where we leave off. Our vaunted physics and mathematics are their nursery ABC’s; the hard-won learning of our best brains is theirs intuitively. They sense what we must study; and what they must study, we cannot even begin, to grasp. They are the new lords of creation—homo superior!
How they came to be, that is one thing even they do not know. There is a force called “mutation” which you, as a doctor, must understand better than I. By mutation a white rose appears among red, and the white breed true from that time on. The new men are mutants. They—or the first of them—were born of normal parents. But from the cradle they sensed that they were different.
Having a telepathic instinct, they were able to discern their brothers in a crowd—or even over long distances—and they banded together.
Long ago—how long Dr. Grove did not tell me—the new men decided they must isolate themselves from us. It was a logical decision. They had no more in common with us than we have with our pets. Few men, by choice, dine with dogs or sleep in stables.
So they sought this secluded island in the Pacific, far from lesser man’s civilization. They went underground to escape detection. There they live, and study, and learn, and wait with infinite patience for the day when they must emerge and take over the world which is theirs by inheritance—even as homo sapiens took it from his beetle-browed forebear, the ape man.
“We are few in number,” Grove told me, “but we increase with each passing year. Some are born here; others come from the four corners of the earth, drawn to us by mental rapport. Soon we will be many enough, and strong enough, to accept the responsibility of government of all the earth.”
“You mean,” I said, “destroy man? And claim the entire world for yourselves?”
Grove said almost sadly: “How little you understand us, you humans. Do you destroy the animals of the field just because they are not your intellectual peers? Our obligation is to keep and protect you; to act as your friendly guardians in a world that will be strange to you, and frightening.
“Yes, frightening,” he went on as I began some protest. “I saw the dread and horror in your eyes when I walked into the room. You did not understand how I passed through a wall that to you seems solid. Not understanding, you feared.
“Yet there is nothing supernatural or fearful about what I did; about what any of us can do at will.
There is no such thing as a solid in a universe wherein all things—size and dimension and substance—are but relative. We know there is room and to spare for the molecules comprising our persons to pass unhindered through the molecules comprising these walls. We simply make a necessary mental adjustment and walk where we will. It is an ability as basic, as fundamental, to us as breathing is to a person like you.”
“Then what,” I asked him, “is your plan for man?”
“Your question should be,” he replied gently, “what is Nature’s plan for man? And I believe the question answers itself. The answer lies in history. What became of Nature’s earlier experiments: the giant reptiles, the anthropoids, the men who dwelt in caves and trees?”
“They died out,” I said. “Civilization passed them by. They fell before the onrush of higher life forms.”
“Even so,” Grove said regretfully. “Even so. But you have our pledge that we will be kind. We will be kind.”
You see, that was the essence of the matter. These new men are intelligent, a thousandfold more intelligent than we. And being that great step farther along the path to perfection, they are born with the instinct to gentleness. That is why their weapons anesthetize, but do not harm. They will not, they cannot, kill.
I could go on for hours relating what I heard and saw during the three weeks I was prisoner in the subterranean refuge of the new men. I’ll tell only a few things, because I can see you—like all the others—think I am mad. But there are some things you should know.
Those metal cells hold more than two hundred humans like you and me, men and women who have stumbled by accident upon the hideaway island and have been restrained there lest they go back and tell the world of the conquest to come.
They are comfortable, of course. They are well fed and housed, entertained and made as happy as possible—under the circumstances. Men do not ruthlessly destroy their pets. And on that island, men are the wards of supermen.
I could quote names that would amaze you. A famous author and traveler whose ship disappeared some years ago in the Pacific—a big-game hunter supposedly killed—an aviatrix for whom a dozen fleets sought in vain. They are there.
I could tell you something else that would make the small hairs creep on the back of your neck—
if you dared let yourself believe it. They are here among us already, the new men. As their hour of ascendancy approaches, they are paving the way for their bloodless conquest. Some of them have left the island and taken their places in our world. You can see the master plan. A handful of them settled in key spots—here a politician, there are industrial magnate, there an author whose every word is gospel to his readers—what chance has a race of underlings to combat them when they strike?
And they will strike, and soon. When they do, that will be our end as the rulers of earth. For they cannot fail in anything they try. We, as a people, are strong. But They are omnipotent!
“That is why,” concluded Brady, “you’ve got to make yourself believe me, no matter how crazy this sounds. You’ve got to, Doctor. From the broader point of view; perhaps it’s better they should inherit the earth. But I am a human. And as a member of my race, I do not want to fall before a higher culture, no matter how superior.
“I want to live! And if we want to live, They must die. Their island must be destroyed, utterly and completely. An atomic bomb—”
“You have said,” interrupted Dr. Gorham, “that they are omnipotent. You have called them wise with the wisdom of demigods. Yet you escaped from their island without outside help. Is that proof of their superhuman intelligence?”
Brady shook his head.
“It is proof of their great kindness, and my animal cunning.
“There is a chink in their armor. I took advantage of it. They cannot willfully cause any creature pain. Knowing this, I begged Grove to take me to the surface so I could get some things from the Ardent Alice one day. Some personal belongings, I told him. Pictures of my loved ones that I had hidden in a secret compartment of the plane.
“He agreed. We had been on friendly terms for some weeks, and he suspected no treachery. That is a human trait. They cannot conceive of guile or deceit.
“He was careless, and I was desperate. He turned to look when I cried out and pointed to something behind him; he never knew what hit him. I don’t know whether my rock killed him or not. I hope not.
“The plane, of course, was useless. But there were self-inflating life rafts, and the water was only yards away. I paddled from that devil’s shore with the strength of a madman. You know the rest: How my food and water ran out. How they found me raving deliriously days or maybe weeks later, bearded and sun-blistered and more than half dead.”
Dr. Gorham nodded and quietly closed the memo book in which he had scratched only doodles.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes. It must have been a terrible experience.”
He rose.
“Well, Lieutenant—” he said awkwardly.
Lieutenant Brady stared at him with hopeless eyes.
“You don’t believe me, either,” he said. “Do you?”
“It’s been a pleasure listening to your story,” the medico said. “I’ll make a report to my superiors.
Please be patient and try not to worry. Good day, Lieutenant.”
“Go to hell!” said Lieutenant Brady dully. “Oh, go hell—” he added mechanically, “sir.”
/> The doctor stiffened, then gazed compassionately at the younger man for an instant, shrugged, and left the narrow chamber.
Outside, another medical officer greeted him.
“Ah, there, Gorham! You’ve talked with him? What’s the verdict?”
Gorham touched his forehead. “A clear case of persecution mania—an amazing form. I’ve never heard a tale so complete and logical, but—” He shrugged. “Do what you can for him. I’m afraid he’s going to be here for a long time—perhaps for as long as he lives. Turned loose, he might be dangerous.”
The other medical officer shook his head.
“Tough! A nice boy, too. But it does nasty things to a man, floating for weeks in a life raft. He was the only one of his crew to survive. Well, Doctor—will you lunch with me?”
“No, thanks,” said Gorham. “I’ve got to run along. Have to turn in a report and a recommendation on this case.”
“Of course. See you later, then.”
The other medico disappeared down the spotless corridor of the mental ward. Gorham pondered briefly, orienting himself. He was in the west wing of the hospital, facing the street. His car stood at the curb just outside. He was very busy. There was so much work to be done; so much.
And if he walked through the anteroom, some fool was sure to delay him, drag him into a longwinded discussion. He didn’t feel a bit like talking. He wanted to get out of this place and forward his report—his report that the Brady case was closed. That there would be no more trouble from that source.
He glanced swiftly up and down the corridor. There was no one in sight. His senses told him the street was also deserted. There was no danger of his being seen. So—
So Dr. Gorham turned and walked quietly through the wall.
FOR THE PUBLIC
Bernard I. Kahn
The story of a doctor of the Lunar Quarantine Station and his routine job. And the routine was death—
The laughter was thin, sardonic and, to his hypertrophied sense of mental receptivity of the moment, acutely painful. Dr. David Munroe walked slowly back to his desk. It was a ritual to laugh, to accept such orders with a scornful grin.
The public demanded an insouciant bravery, callous indifference, perfect self-abasement in those destined to die for its own interests. The clerical crew were laughing at him now. They had to, or they would experience his own mind-chilling fear and know the symptoms of agonizing frustration.
Dr. David Munroe sat behind his desk, fingers whitened at their tips as he clasped and unclasped the elastic plastic arms of his chair; his mind a tight vortex of numbing, impotent anger. The flow of anger clutching his abdomen was like the painful waves of a gastric spasm.
He wanted to scream a defiant refusal at those powers representing the public who casually changed the order of his life and intended to dispose of its planned process with such indifference. But he put the heresy of such thoughts into the inner deeps of his subconscious mind. He had been too well schooled, too artfully conditioned by these same powers for anything but the most shallow type of emotional protest. The pain of it was: he knew it. Knew he could do nothing.
His thin fingers jabbed nervously at the phone box on his desk. The fatuous face of his blonde-haired secretary appeared immediately. “Get the Office of Industrial Endocrinology.” His mouth tightened to a narrow ridge of indignant resentment. “This call is not for the public. Tell the Lunar Operator to put the charges on my bill.”
“Yes, sir.” The secretary’s face was bovinely expressionless. “You wish to speak to Dr. Roberta Wallace?”
As she blanketed the phone he could hear the thin, derisive laughter of the clerks, heard one of them saying: “. . . the boss won’t be alive much longer.”
He stared at the various colored phones, panels and screens which brought him visual, vocal contact with the subsidiary activities of his quarantine station, as if he had never seen them before. His fingers caressed the communication tapes emerging from the desk as if touching them for the last time. The metronomic clicking of the filing cabinet behind him was now as depressing as a requiem.
By sheer effort of will he channeled his mind into cortico-thalamic patterns, sought analysis of his emotional chaos. It wasn’t, he realized, the terror that comes with the foreknowledge of impending death which aroused such high emotivity. Nor was it the anger in protest of having to go to Exotic for the third time, an order which was in violation of the mores of the Bureau. He was far too well integrated for such thalamic emotions. It was the cerebration of the fear of disease before death.
It was the cold unescapable fact that by all the laws of chance he would be diseased before he did die; and the lack of the knowledge of what disease it might be, perhaps a new one, was cause enough for his cortical unrest.
He leaned back in the softly padded chair, placed sweaty palms together, realized he had to adjust his affairs. He curtained his cold, black thoughts with reality, wondered with a wry sense of humor to whom he would will his ski car.
The gong of the operations vodaphone erupted sharply into his mind. His schizoid preoccupation vanished instantly as he punched knobs on his phone, brought the duty officer to focus.
“S. S. Sylvestrus; PF-704: Interglobal Lines is standing off requesting pratique. Senior Medical Officer is Dr. Guerdian Lilly: Professional 32-56-2134. You will contact the ship and take such action as is necessary for the public.”
Dr. Munroe swung to the filing cabinet behind his desk, punched name and number of the ship’s doctor. The microcard slid into the viewer, was projected on the screen. Dr. Munroe scanned the professional qualifications of the medical officer. He dialed the ship’s medical number.
The face of the gray-haired, alert-eyed physician appeared on the screen instantly. “This is Lilly, Medical Officer of the Sylvestius requesting pratique.”
Munroe transferred the image of the photograph on his card with the picture of the man on the screen to the analyzer. Automatically the pictures blended. He looked at the likeness calibrator. The point of feature differential was well within the margin of error allowed for aging difference. Apparently they had not been out very long. He waited while a new photograph was made, became a part of the doctor’s master card.
“This is Munroe, Senior Medical Officer, Ninth Lunar Quarantine Station. Report point of departure, duration, and nature of voyage. List all patients with their diseases. This demand is made for the public.”
“Earthing from Ferenzia, Planet II; Albrecht System. Freight has been subjected to approved routine decontamination procedures. Holds are now under three atmospheres of chloropoxsine. Ship’s company consists of two-twenty officers and ratings. Passengers twelve hundred and ten. One birth en route. No deaths. One case of ondecca fever, cured without sequelae. Request clearance.”
“Pratique granted.”
He turned to the other phone announcing the arrival of a freighter from Halseps. His mind leafed through the pages of memory to recall the planet. He was forced to go to the planetary index file. It was a small planet of a distant sun on the very periphery of man’s growing empire. Operations could tell him nothing about the ship or the medical officer.
When he called the ship, the grooved face of a snarl-haired, black-browed, square-chinned man appeared. An officer’s cap was cocked on the ragged remnant of one ear. His beady, black eyes were venomously sadistic. “I’m Bill Blackbern, medical officer of the ship,” his voice was angrily resentful, “don’t remember my number. We ain’t got any disease aboard. We want to clear for Earth. Is that satisfactory with you boys?” he finished sarcastically.
Dave Munroe punched out the name and from more than five million medical cards in his filing cabinet, two photomicrographs slid into the projector. One of them was a new graduate. The face of the freighter’s medical officer was similar to the other card but feature correlation was ejected by the analyzer.
“Place your face one inch from the screen,” Dave ordered, “and open your eyes wide.” He slid an op
hthalmoscopic camera over his screen, photographed the eye grounds of the doctor, compared those with the prints he had. They tallied.
“Look, Doc,” Blackbern’s voice was a rasping growl, “I said we want to clear Earthwards. Our ship is clean in and out. Our holds are filled with treated nalyor skins. Soft beautiful pelts that glow in the dark like each strand was made of platinum. The finest things ever to come from an animal. The gals will go wild over them. Give us clearance and I’ll see you get one. They’re worth a thousand stellars each. Nice thing for your wife.”
At the mention of wife a sick feeling of anguish followed by a surge of unreasoning anger swept him. He ignored the bribe. “My records fail to show me what ship you’re in. My last entry is dated seven years ago when you were expelled from practice on Dynia.”
“I was railroaded by one of the big companies,” Blackbern exploded. “I got a job on this ship and we cruised about the Aldebaran nucleus. We’re Earthing from Halseps. We’ve got thirty officers and men—”
“How many did you start with?”
“We started with about a hundred but—”
“What happened to them?” Dave asked sharply.
Blackbern grinned unpleasantly. “You ain’t been out among the lesser rocks. Out there, there ain’t no law, no God and the boys play for keeps. If you land on an airless planet and you got an enemy, you might find he’s put metal filings in your atmosphere regenerator; or if it’s a virulent planet why he might burn a weld in your armor.” He laughed rudely. “The Canaberra is a clean ship, in and out.”
“I’m familiar with conditions at the periphery,” Dave said coldly. “Do you have any disease of any type in your ship?”
“If we do have, does it mean we can’t go to Earth? We’ve got a fortune in skins. We’ll take care of any spacemen—” He stopped suddenly.
Dave’s nimble fingers danced over switches on his desk. Attention in the Station! Attention Earth Guard! Attention Exotic Disease Control! The ship to which I’m now talking, the freighter Canaberra, Earthing from Halseps has been denied pratique. The professional ability and standards of the medical officer are open to doubt. Cradle ship for examination; begin routine external hull wash. This is for the public.”