by David Palmer
Hi again, Posterity. Happy to see me? Or just surprised? Wish could be happier to see you. Should be, of course, and perhaps one day will be again. But just now view prospect of commencing this record with less than enthusiasm.
Appreciably less: Present overdue status not question of mere sloth, inefficiency; delay is product of sober consideration, sound reasoning. Entirely deliberate: been stalling.
But before condemning dilatory scribe out of hand, please attend, one, all; explanation follows, to wit:
Scared. No, not shaking-in-boots scared, not blood-turns-to-cottage-cheese scared; more an ominous-disquiet scared, two shivers qualmier than knock-on-wood scared. Leery of tempting fate.
See: commensurate with tenacious optimism expected of journeyman-grade Pollyanna, intend this record (together with previous journal [Vol. I], plus all subsequent memoirs) for future study by, ultimate benefit of, future generations—if any—tended in respectful, unhurried fashion by historians, students, archeologists in suitably dignified setting: Smith-Foster Post-Armageddon Historical Library & Archives.
Fond aspirations envision lots of subsequent volumes, eventually amassing truly impressive collection covering very long time span; accumulated in orderly manner by Library courtesy of Yours Truly through regular donations, personal delivery. (Key words here are regular and personal: Want no gaps—and especially don't want final volume dropped off by unwashed, travel-weary, buckskin-clad, intrepid explorer-of-unknown, plucked from God-knows-where.)
Foregoing tidy scenario intrinsic to present emotional well-being; implying, as does, long-range goals; own demise postponed many, many years hence; arriving (if ever) long after achieving revered status as beloved silver-haired old counselor; authentic sage, oracle senectutis causa, expiring gracefully in own bed amidst tearful mob of properly devoted descendants, admirers.
However (follow logic closely now): Longer journal commencement deferred, longer am able to ignore alternate possibilities—perhaps even probabilities—that impending events may interrupt record midchapter. Even midsentence. Until begun, this volume cannot be last in series. (Cannot be discovered incomplete amongst own bones somewhere on depopulated planet.)
Which is uncomfortable notion at best. Much prefer waiting until events justify more positive outlook, reasonable expectation of survival, living Happily-Ever-After.
(Curious behavior, must admit, for certified genius.)
However, personal problems are no excuse to compromise record; responsible histographer must face darkest prospects squarely, do job. True, this journal meant for proper delivery to proper audience; and if such be assured, could be prepared as well after the fact, at leisure, as minor adjunct to activities comprising Happy Ending. But if not—assuming worst: found under grisly circumstances by fellow involuntary ragtag explorer—even he entitled to complete account, within limits imposed by conditions.
Not least of which: very real doubt typical Bold Wanderer able to decipher Pitman shorthand. But would be no record in longhand: So inefficient, agonizingly slow; results bulky, burdensome to carry.
Besides, not my problem: shorthand system identified on cover, together with author, subject matter. Texts available at any library (most should stand, protect contents for centuries). My notes clear, straightforward; without unusual briefs, nonstandard phrase linkages. Given time, motivation, legible to anyone.
And must demand some effort from Posterity (regardless of whom may consist). Being furnished, after all, valuable detailed information on End of World. Not available at every corner newsstand.
As may be.
Peter Bell, trustworthy, reliable, responsible (according to Tarzan File—along with brilliant, sensitive, witty, handsome). Distinctly not sort to ignore constantly ringing phone. Or 50 messages on answering machine. To say nothing of known damsel (distress or otherwise quite immaterial; evidence suggests ain't many of us). Would have returned call had been home, gotten message. Since didn't, wasn't.
Certainly. I knew that.
But human—pardon, mean Homo post hominem—psyche surely most perversely useless corner of entire mind. Unreasonable beastie, downright illogical. Makes no sense at all for naked-eye confirmation of months-ago deduced fact to precipitate funk.
Move-out deliberate, unhurried, thorough; signs unmistakable: Doors, windows neatly shut; closets emptied, personal effects removed; utilities switched off at fuse box. Obviously had business elsewhere, went; had ample time to. Nothing about absence to create ominous doubts, assumptions, speculations. Simply moved. Period.
Granting which, enigma remains: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster, superkid, prize intellect in or out of research project—coldly analytical, logical; rational, etc., etc.—agitatedly pacing through Peter Bell's empty house; repeatedly peeking into empty closets, endlessly ransacking empty drawers; playing back empty answering-machine tape over, over again; wringing hands, streaming tears, sniffling, blubbering—
For almost three solid hours . . . !
Disgraceful performance: Behaving like maiden forsaken at altar. Atavistic. No justification.
Terry endured in relative silence, occasionally moving from one shoulder to other, shifting weight, intermittently shrugging to settle feathers. Comments limited to single low whistle when we entered obviously vacant premises, occasional "How 'bout that" as time passed. No doubt embarrassed for me.
Wait. No justification?
Correction, please: Atavistic, true, but partially justified. . . .
Justified.
Entirely justified.
Justi-damn-fied all to pieces!
Why not upset? Months of hopes, anticipations, expections; long, hard trip—for nothing! Nary a clue—not even faintest hint remains to suggest destination, whereabouts.
Some superman . . . ! Inconceivable could go off without leaving note—self-respecting five-year-old human would expect me on doorstep eventually (if alive), leave forwarding address.
But perhaps being too harsh. . . . Should take comfort instead from apparent discovery that certain fundamental behavioral principles transcend interspecies gulf; continue unchanged, intact, eternal; intrinsic to new race as was old. Datum no doubt scientifically fascinating in own right; of great satisfaction to researcher. But frankly, until now never troubled head over whether new species might boast thoughtless, self-centered, imbecilic male twits!
Oh, dear. Just look—ink hardly dry following wallow through well-intentioned (if debatable) solicitude for plight of hypothetical NonScheduled Reader (NSR) and already hip-deep in tirade comprehensible only to proper audience. So sorry; will try to do better. Really.
By now NSR probably wondering what H. post hominem might be. Or Tarzan File. Or perhaps who Peter Bell is. Or Teacher. Or Terry. Or (at very least) me.
All right. Fair questions; deserve straight answers. So shall endeavor to bear in mind possible audience other than intended: Fellow survivor, perhaps—but demonstratedly better at it—someone lacking vantage of orderly progression from Vol. I (left in shelter library beneath address on cover, Index No. 1.1.1). Viewed in that light, however reluctantly, introductions are in order:
Name: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster. (Note: Nothing "sinister" about "bar"; used here proudly to honor adoptive parents together with kin.) Born 11 years ago to Smiths; orphaned ten months later; adopted by Dr. and Mrs. Foster—Daddy and Momma. Been known as Candy since first breath.
Beyond that (briefly): Homo post hominem is new species; originating during great influenza pandemic of 1918-19 through viral recombination of unborns' genes; apparently immune to all "human" disease, plus smarter, stronger, faster, etc.; discovered accidentally by researchers headed by Teacher (next-door neighbor, genius), aided by Daddy, while hunting for clues identifying genius-level children as newborns; emerging to inherit Earth after H. sapiens eliminated selves in short, efficient bionuclear war. Tarzan File Teacher's record of said research; identifying, profiling, locating all known hominems. Peter Bell H. post hominem associated with T
eacher's research project; closest of project hominems to own age; best prospect of lot for future soulmate, according to matchmaking Teacher in letter constituting Last Words. Terry is own adopted twin brother (full name Terry D. Foster—initial stands for Dactyll); identical but for mental retardation and being Hyacinthine Macaw. Am myself Homo post hominem. Rode out war in Daddy's marvelous shelter; now engaged in walkabout, searching for fellow survivors. Of which reader must be one.
There. Clear enough?
No? Complaints—from NSR? Too brief? More confused now than before explanation?
Some nerve! If reader truly nonscheduled, then writer almost certainly dead . . . !
Wait, please don't sulk; surely can't expect sympathy from corpse—should be grateful for simple courtesy. . . . True, could repeat entire background each time begin new journal—of course, volumes soon rival Tarzan File's bulk even before commencing new entries. But then why bother writing Vol. 1 in first place? So shan't; have better things to do.
Now: Tarzan File lists names, addresses of all AA, known AB hominems. But specifically, Teacher referred me to Peter Bell—AA superkid, smart as me (intimated might be smarter; hurled gauntlet to prove him wrong). Had told him about me, too. Suggested I get in touch.
Now, current scope of interest in "future soulmate" limited to practical matters: food, shelter, protection, survival—short-term essential stuff; deferring obvious racial continuity issue until puberty, completion of glandular development, make pertinent. (And probably unavoidable—have no valid basis to doubt will be just as tiresomely boy-crazy, once plumbing commences normal function, as next ingénue. But can hope.)
However, long experience (relativistic expression, of course, considering modest life span thus far) amply justifies habit of equating Teacher's least hint with Revelation From On High. Certainly adequate incentive to make attempt. Phone system still functioning in many portions of country (according to aural evidence: Ring tone obtainable using most area codes, random numbers); so tried number listed in Tarzan File.
No luck. True, answering machine camped on line picked up phone, spouted message for me; but Peter never returned calls.
For two and a half months!
(Oversensitive soul might; by this time, ponder reciprocity of interest. Might even [given modest encouragement] contemplate feeling neglected, unattractive; launch into spate of mouthwash, deodorant changes; file teeth, fluff nails, polish hair, etc.)
Nonsense, of course. Endless possible explanations: Defective answering machine, talking but not recording; phone system itself finally disintegrating (not unreasonably: six months without maintenance—even in system based on hydroelectric power, with computerized call routing automatically diverting calls around trouble spots, time must come when trouble spots constitute norm, system collapses). Perhaps, too—certainly equally likely—Peter simply not home, for own good purposes. No more reason now to wallow in morbid speculation than during months since initial contact attempt frustrated.
Though, granted, too busy then to spare attention for proper moping. Not easy, in only two and a half months, to locate suitable farm convenient to Daddy's house (and shelter treasures beneath); catch up all chores necessary to improve chances that livestock, structures survive Wisconsin winter's ravages.
Nor did trip from Dairy State heartland to Peter's Cornell campus (New York State) residence provide much time to reflect unsettling possibilities, generally inequitable nature of life. Physical fragility of human civilization becoming evident after only six months' neglect: Road system in sorry state, getting rapidly worse. Trees down here, there; poles broken, lines draped elegantly in inconvenient places; surprising numbers of washed-out culverts, impassable bridges.
Four-wheel-drive Chevy van wonderfully capable, easy to drive—with lifts on pedals to accommodate own modest stature. High ground clearance, awesome traction make easy work of marginal terrain. Solved many blockages simply by driving around—through fences; across fields, small streams; up hill, down dale, etc.—but spent fully as much time on shanks' mare, cutting, prying, winching, digging, etc., as driving. (Educational travel mode: Really get "feel" for countryside—feel it under nails, in shoes, tangled in hair, 'embedded in clothing. . . .)
Well, journal commencement, however belated, yielding usual result: Hurt, rage, disappointment discharged on paper; blood pressure lowered, practical state of mind restored along with perspective: Crying over spilled milk null exercise; benefits neither spiller nor spillee.
Okay. So Peter Bell not here. Elsewhere. Gone. Now what?
Prime objective obviously unaffected; unchanged from very first day we stuck nose outside shelter following expiration of predicted maximum contagion factor after World Ended: Find somebody else.
Somebody smarter, bigger, stronger; with broad shoulders, laughing eyes, windblown blond hair; font of wisdom concerning all aspects of establishing bright new civilizations for fun and profit. (Be nice, too, if knows location of Yellow Brick Road.)
But Teacher's statistics project only 150,000 hominems on North American continent. (Entire continent-8,795,052 square miles [National Geographic World Atlas figures].) Another perspective, same problem: 58.63 square miles per person.
One solution: Rule off continent graph-paper style, in squares 7.6575 miles per side; pick square at random; stand at center; yell through bullhorn. Then repeat—150,000 times.
However viewed, awful lot of elbow room. Population spread terribly thin. Accidental meeting probability effectively zilch—which fact may, upon reflection, be disguised blessing. . . .
Don't really want to meet ABs; not until securely ensconced within bosom of AA community. Hate to sound prejudiced, but am; can't forget Teacher's opinion that majority laboring under some form of emotional problem, high percentage downright pathological. Not unreasonable, then, to assume every contact but AAs, absent convincing evidence to contrary, possibly hauling unsecured payload—potentially dangerous.
Which revives burning issue: Peter Bell not here; no hint of how long gone, where to. May even be dead—from available data; likely as not. Speculation pointless.
But I'm alive. Very much so. Firmly resolved to maintain trend. Ergo, logical next step: Pick another AA from File. Doesn't matter which; only Peter Bell personally recommended, described. Others only represented by impersonal File entries. Okay, but faceless.
However, close to 100 AAs recorded, scattered all over U.S. No assurance any address still valid and random visits could take forever, or longer. Only reasonable procedure: Plot locations on map; lay out most efficient meander touching all bases, shortest time, distance—reserving, of course, right to fly off on wild tangent should events offer even most tenuous clue.
Intend just that. Tomorrow morning, though; not now. Tired. Disappointed. Probably still vexed, too, if had energy. Even Terry subdued—for him. Perhaps senses mood. Perhaps just bad day: too long, too many expectations. Too much letdown.
Never mind. Tomorrow is another day—Pollyanna lives . . . !
Good morning, Posterity! Night's sound sleep; huge, well-balanced, delicious breakfast (prepared by gourmet chef, with—or despite—intensive assistance of manic twin [laughing hugely, grabbing at everything in sight]) produced usual result: Energy, optimism restored—along with independence:
Who needs Peter Bell . . . !
Plenty of fish in sea; Tarzan File full of alternatives—or failing that, might well be more fun to go out, locate, stalk, capture indigenous AB buck in native habitat; then housebreak, domesticate, teach rudiments of coherent thought, civilized speech. Why not? Might work. (And if not, gently separate cervical vertebrae [to discourage kiss-and-tell; wouldn't want to acquire "reputation"], throw back, try again.)
True, simpler to find AAs, settle again into secure little-girl/student rôle; allow others to make important decisions, feed, clothe, house, protect. (Sometimes wearisome, being master of own destiny. Worse than being genius. Lonely, too. Need hug.)
Enough! Used u
p whole year's sniveling ration yesterday. Brace up chin! Square off shoulders! Forward ho!
So this morning, following breakfast, scrounged campus (carrying crowbar, sledge hammer; implements intrinsic, these days, to serious pursuit of scrounging trade); located large-scale U.S. map, plotted AA locations, connected with straight lines.
And discovered predictable trend: All grouped about top-line schools, leading research centers. Harvard, M.I.T., Johns Hopkins, etc., on East Coast. UCLA, U. of California (Davis), etc., on West. Kansas State U., U. of Minnesota, U. of Colorado, U. of Illinois, U. of Chicago, etc., etc., about Midwest. Plus AEC, NASA, JPL facilities all over country. Appears nation's recent progress muchly traceable to AAs. (Hope didn't also figure in downfall.)
Okay. So much for short-term strategy: Hunt proceeds hence by-the-numbers.
But what about long-term? Good point. What if, at last, search comes up dry? As might. . . .
Indeed—what if . . . ? Not most comfortable premise for dyed-in-wool Pollyanna to contemplate, but valid. Every coin has two sides. Rankest stupidity to ignore possibility might lose toss; fail to plan for exigencies lurking on dark side.
Very well. Reflecting as pessimist, grimly: Wise to leave notes all over, wherever might stop, pass through, visit; where other survivors (of whatever stripe) might find. True, probably—certainly—come to attention of itinerant ABs. Can't be helped.
But so what? Candy Smith-Foster, youngest-ever wearer of Sixth Degree Black Belt, uneasy at prospect of meeting strangers? Even potentially dangerous strangers? Yes. (But pretty potentially dangerous own self; harbor no genuine doubts about ability to cope with aberrant behavior as necessary. Will reach peaceful understanding, accommodation with fellow survivors; will live in altruistic, gentle harmony with neighbors, whomever may be, whatever background. Or else.)
College utilities still working; administration building well stocked with modern communications media marvels: electric typewriters, photocopiers, etc. Convenient opportunity; shall take advantage, spend next few days here; compose most utterly bare-bones, boiled-down condensation possible: message to leave about countryside during travels.