by David Palmer
Oho! Finally—explanation of what triggered Daddy's reaction that day—and of friends' inexplicable night-blindness, even during summer. Of course, could understand difficulty seeing at night during winter; is dark outside on cold night. Only perceptible glow comes from faces, hands; and after short exposure to cold, cheeks, noses dim perceptibly.
And remember also that testing session. Salient feature was expressions of other staff as repeated tests done on previous (conspicuously unmentioned) occasion: utterly deadpan.
It was only after the tests (performed fully this time) identified you as a Homo post hominem; after the doctor had diffidently broached this fact to Mrs. Foster and she, giggling helplessly, confessed to him; and, finally, we also came clean, that further testing demonstrated that you were substantially more advanced in intellectual development than the profile developed by our studies suggested you should be at that age.
How nice. Even as superkid can't be normal; still genius. Is no justice.
Detailed analysis of this phenomenon brought forth two unassessable factors: One, you had experienced ten months of unmonitored parentage; and two, your subsequent upbringing had been AA from your mother but BB from your father. Since we could neither analyze nor affect the first of these, we chose to continue the second factor unaltered, observing you closely and hoping that in some way, then unknown, the whipsaw combination of indulgent spoiling and accelerated, motivational education you had received to this point would continue to produce these outstanding results.
Momma's death terminated experiment; but before she left, made Teacher promise would take over overt management of education, keep pushing me as hard as would accept while Daddy (apparently) continued classic BB father rôle. Momma felt hunger for knowledge already implanted; abetted by Daddy's careful negative psychology, seeding of environment with selected books (Ha!—always suspected something fishy about circumstances surrounding steady discovery of wanted, needed study materials, always just in time, just as finishing previous volume [not complaining; just wish planting had gone faster]), would carry on through interim without lost momentum. Was right, too—but now know how puppet must feel when wires too thin to discern.
Phase Two of scheme hit snag, though; was not anticipated would take four years for Teacher to extricate self from complications attendant profession(s), "retire."
Fortunately the delay appeared to be without consequences. Mrs. Foster's opinion of you was borne out: Dr. Foster reported that you located every book he planted—and not a few that he didn't. He said it was rarely necessary to "steer" you; that you were quite self-motivated, distinctly tenacious, and could be quite devious when it came to tracking down knowledge in spite of the "barriers" he placed in your way.
By the time I managed to delegate all my other responsibilities to my successors and devote my entire attention to you, your advantage over other AAs had increased impressively. There were only a very few individuals showing anywhere near as much promise. And by the time the blunderings of our late friends behind the Iron Curtain put an end to all such research, you were—for your age—quite the most advanced of our hominems.
If I seem to harp on that point, it is because you must remember that this study was initiated some 20 years ago. You are ten years younger than the next youngest in our group; and as advanced as you are for your age, you still have considerable catching up to do—see that you keep at it.
Yes, I know; the exigencies of solo survival will occupy much of your time, but do not neglect your studies entirely. Cut back if you must, but do not terminate them.
Now, if I may presume to advise a singularly gifted member of an advanced species, there is security and comfort in numbers. You will doubtless find the preservation and extension of knowledge more convenient once a group of you has been assembled. Within the body of the Tarzan File you will find a complete listing of known Homo post hominems. I can anticipate no logical reason why most should not be alive and in good health.
Pawed through File with shaking hands. Found listing referred to: collection of minidossiers. One had small note attached. Read:
Dear Candy,
It is now almost time for me to leave, and a number of things still remain undone, so I must be brief.
The subject of this dossier; Peter Bell, is the direct, almost line-bred descendant of Alexander Graham Bell (would that I could have tested him). A measure of his intellect is the fact that he, alone of our hominems, deduced the existence and purpose of our study, the implications regarding himself, and most of the characteristics of his and your species.
To him, not long ago, I confided your existence, along with my impressions of your potential.
As well as probably being your equal (after you reach maturity, of course), he is also nearest to your own age, at 21; and of all our subjects, I predict he is the most likely to prove compatible with you as you continue your unrelenting search for knowledge in the future—in fact, he may give you quite a run for it; he is a most motivated young man.
However, I was unable to reach him following the attack; therefore he does not know that you are alive and well in the shelter. The burden is upon you to establish contact, if such is possible—and I do urge you to make the attempt; I feel that a partnership consisting of you two would be most difficult to oppose, whatever the future may bring you.
Love,
Teacher
Hands shook, blood pounded in head as turned back to first letter. Balance consisted of advice on contacting other hominems—AAs from study.
Cautioned that, based on (terribly loose) extrapolation of known data, should be perhaps 150,000 of us on North American continent—but virtually all must be considered ABs, replete with implications: high proportion of maladjusteds, discontents, rebels, borderline (or worse, after shock of depopulation) psychotics, plus occasional genius. Plus rare occurrences of surviving Homo sapiens.
Teacher suggested moving very deliberately when meeting strangers: Evaluate carefully, rapidly, selfishly. If decide is not sort would like for neighbor, hit first; kill without hesitation, warning. No place in consideration for racial altruism. Elimination of occasional bad apple won't affect overall chances for lifting species from endangered list; are enough of us to fill ranks after culling stock—but only one me. Point well taken.
Letter continued:
Well, time grows short. So much remains to be accomplished before I leave, so I had best hurry.
I leave with confidence; I know the future of the race is in hands such as yours and Peter's. You will prosper and attain levels of development I cannot even envision; of that I am certain. I hope those heights will include much joy and contentment.
I might add this in parting: When your historians tell future generations about us, I hope they will not be unduly severe. True, we did not last the distance; also true, we did exterminate ourselves, apparently in a display of senseless, uncontrolled aggression; equally true, we did many other things that were utterly wrong.
But we did create a mighty civilization; we did accumulate a fund of knowledge vast beyond our capacity to absorb or control; we did conceive and aspire to a morality unique in history, which placed the welfare of others ahead of our own self-interest—even if most of us didn't practice it.
And we did produce you!
It may well be that we were not intended to last more than this distance. It may even be that your coming triggered seeds of self-destruction already implanted in us for that purpose; that our passing is as necessary to your emergence as a species as was our existence to your genesis.
But whatever the mechanism, or its purpose, I think that when all are Judged at the end of Time, Homo sapiens will be adjudged, if not actually a triumph, then at least a success, according to the standards imposed by the conditions we faced and the purposes for which we were created; just as the Cro-Magnon, Neanderthal, and Pithecanthropus—and even the brontosaur—were successful in their time when judged in the light of the challenges they overcame a
nd the purposes they served.
Single page remained. Hesitated; was final link with living past. Once read, experienced, would become just another memory. Sighed, forced eyes to focus:
Candy, my beloved daughter-in-spirit, this is most difficult to bring to a close. Irrationally I find myself grieving over losing you; "irrationally," I say, because it is obviously I who must leave. But leave I must, and there is no denying and little delaying of it.
It will be well with you and yours. Your growth has been sound, your direction right and healthy; you cannot fail to live a life that must make us, who discovered and attempted to guide you this far, proud of our small part in your destiny, even though we are not to be permitted to observe its fulfillment. I think I understand something of how Moses must have felt as he stood looking down that last day on Nebo.
Always know that I, the doctor, and Mrs. Foster could not have loved you more had you sprung from our own flesh. Remember us fondly, but see that you waste no time grieving after us.
The future is yours, my child; go mold it as you see the need.
Good-bye, my best and best-loved pupil.
Love forever,
Soo Kim McDivott
P.S.: By the authority vested in me as the senior surviving official of the United States Karate Association, I herewith promote you to Sixth Degree. You are more than qualified; see to it that you practice faithfully and remain so.
Read, reread final page until tears deteriorated vision, made individual word resolution impossible. Placed letter reverently on desk, went upstairs, outside onto balcony porch. Was Teacher's favorite meditation setting. Settled onto veranda swing, eased legs into Lotus.
Terry understood; moved silently from shoulder to lap, pressed close, started random-numbers recitation of vocabulary in barely audible, tiny baby-girl voice. Held twin nestled in arms as pain escalated, tears progressed to silent, painful, wracking sobs. Sibling's uncritical companionship, unquestioning love all that stood between me and all-engulfing blackness, fresh awareness of extent of losses threatening to overwhelm soul.
Together we watched early-afternoon cumulonimbus form up, mount into towering thunderheads, roil and churn, finally develop lightning flickers in gloom at bases, arch dark shafts of rain downward to western horizon; watched until fading light brought realization how long had sat there. Brighter stars already visible in east.
Reviewed condition with mounting surprise: eyes dry, pain gone from throat, heart; blackness hovering over soul mere memory. Apparently had transcendentalized without conscious intent, resolved residual grief. All that remained was sweet sadness when contemplated Daddy, Momma, Teacher; were gone along with everything, everybody else, leaving only memories. Suddenly realized was grateful being permitted to keep those.
Cautiously moved exploratory muscle, first in hours. Terry twitched, fretted; then woke, set up justifiable protest over starved condition. Arose, shifted twin to shoulder; went inside, downstairs.
Picked up Tarzan File, Teacher's letter, went back to Daddy's house. Fed birdbrain, self; settled down, skimmed File's contents.
Presently concluded Teacher correct (profound shock, that): Peter Bell doubtless best prospective soulmate of lot. Very smart, very interested, very conscious; educational credits to date sound like spoof (nobody that young could have learned that much, except, uh . . . perhaps me—okay); very strong, quick; very advanced in study of Art (Eighth Degree!); plus (in words of Teacher): "Delightfully unconcerned about his own accomplishments; interested primarily in what he will do next." And, ". . . . possessed of a wry sense of humor." Sounds like my kind of guy. Hope turns out can stand him.
Sat for long moments working up nerve. Then picked up phone, deliberately dialed area code, number. Got stranded after a few moments' clicking, hissing when relay somewhere Out There stuck. Tried again; hit busy circuit (distinct from busy number; difference audible—also caused by sticky relay). Tried again, muttering in beard. Stranded again. Tried again. Failed again.
"That's bad!" offered Terry enthusiastically, bobbing head cheerfully.
Took deep breath, said very bad word, tried again.
Got ring tone! Once, twice, three times; then: "Click. Hello, is that you, Candy? Sure took you long enough. This is Peter Bell. I can't come to the phone right now; I'm outside taking care of the stock. But I've set up this telephone-answering machine to guard my back. It's got an alarm on it that'll let me know you've called so I can check the tape.
"When you hear the tone at the end of my message, give me your phone number if you're not at home—don't forget the area code if it's different from your home—and I'll call you back the moment I get back and find your message. Boy, am I glad you're all right."
"Beep!"
Caught agape by recording. Barely managed regroupment in time to stutter out would be home; add if not, would be at farm, give number before machine hung up, dial tone resumed.
Repeated bad word. Added frills tailored specifically for answering machine.
Did dishes, put away. Refilled twin's food dish, changed water; moved stand into study, placed next to desk, within convenient head-scratching range.
Settled into Daddy's big chair, opened journal, brought record up-to-date. Have done so. Now up-to-date. Current. Completely. Nothing further to enter. So haven't entered anything else. For quite a while.
Midnight. Might as well read a book.
Stupid phone.
Awoke to would-be rooster's salute to dawn's early light. Found self standing unsteadily in middle of study, blinking sleep from eyes, listening to echoes die away. Glared at twin; received smug snicker in return.
Took several moments to establish location, circumstances leading to night spent in chair with clothes on. When succeeded, opened mouth, then didn't bother—realized bad word wouldn't help; no longer offered relief adequate to situation.
Casual approach had worn out about one A. M.—by which time had read possibly ten pages (of which couldn't remember single word). Featherhead snored on stand; nothing within reach to disassemble, had lost interest.
Yawning prodigiously myself by time abandoned pretense, grabbed phone, dialed number.
Got through first try. But was busy!
Repeated attempt at five-minute intervals for two hours or until fell asleep—whichever came first.
Have just tried line again. Still busy. Better go make breakfast.
Contact problem no longer funny. In two months since last entry have averaged five tries daily. Result: Either (usually) busy signal or transistorized moron spouts same message. One possible explanation (among many): Recorded message mentions no dates; could have been recorded day after Armageddon, yesterday—anytime.
Not that am languishing, sitting wringing hands by phone, however; have been busy. Completed move to farm; padded supply reserves; shored weaknesses; collected additional livestock, poultry. Have electrified fences, augmented where appeared marginally dogproof; trucked in additional grain (learned to drive semi, re-re-re-replete with 16-speed transmission—truly sorry about grain company's gatepost, but was in way; should have been moved long ago); located, trucked in two automatic diesel generators, connected through clever relay system so first comes on line (self-starting) if power fails, second kicks in if first quits. So far has worked every time tested, just as book said.
Have accumulated adequate fuel for operation: Brought in four tankers brim full of diesel (6,000 gallons each); rigged up interconnecting hose system guaranteeing gravity feed to generators—whichever needs, gets. At eight gallons hourly (maximum load), should provide over four months' operation if needed. (However, farm rapidly taking on aspect of truck lot. Must think about disposing of empties soon; otherwise won't be able to walk through yard.)
Overkill preparations not result of paranoia. Attempting to make place secure in absence; improve odds of finding habitable, viable farm on return, even if sortie takes longer than expected. Which could; is over 900 miles (straight-line) to File's address on
Peter Bell. And he's only first on AA list; others scattered all over.
Have attempted to cover all bets, both home and for self on trip. Chose vehicle with care: four-wheel-drive Chevy van. Huge snow tires bulge from fenders on all four corners, provide six inches extra ground clearance, awesome traction. Front bumper mounts electric winch probably capable of hoisting vehicle bodily up sheer cliff. Interior has bed, potty, sink, stove, sundry cabinets—and exterior boasts dreadful baroque murals on sides.
Though might appear was built specifically to fill own needs (except for murals—and need for buildups on pedals), was beloved toy of town banker. When not pinching pennies, frittered time away boonies-crawling in endless quest for inaccessible, impassable terrain. Bragged hadn't found any. Hope so; bodes well for own venture.
Personal necessities, effects aboard. Include: ample food, water for self, Terry; bedding, clothing, toiletries; diverse tools, including ax, bolt cutters, etc.; spares for van; siphon, pump, hose for securing gas; small, very nasty armory, including police chief's sawed-off riot gun, two magnum revolvers, M-16 with numerous clips and scope.. Not expecting trouble, but incline toward theory that probably won't rain if carry umbrella.
Leaving this journal here in shelter for benefit of archeologists; keep separate book on trip. Can consolidate on return; but if plans go awry, this account still available for Posterity.
Well, time to go: Unknown beckons.
But have never felt so small. Awfully big world waiting out there.
For me.
* * *
VOLUME II
Seeking