by James Gunn
“Without her this organization would be nothing,” she said.
“What's her position with this organization?” Johnson asked.
“She is the organization. Executive director,” the woman said shortly as if impatient with Johnson's presence.
“She's very young to have such a responsibility. And very beautiful."
“What's wrong with that?” the woman at the desk asked sharply. “She's very smart, too."
“I can see that,” Johnson said. “It's just that from her appearance and her way with children, she looks as if she should be adding to the population, not trying to reduce it."
“That's all you men think about,” the woman said, biting off her words. “Well, she's got more important ambitions, and you ought to be thankful she has. Overpopulation is the most important problem of our time.” Clearly the subject was the focus of her life, and she was just getting warmed up to it.
Johnson held up his hands in submission. “I'm a convert,” he said.
“People take advantage of Sally,” the woman said, almost as if to herself. There was no doubt that she included Johnson in that group. “Someday, unless there's some providence watching over her, she's going to have a bad experience—and then I'm afraid of what will happen."
“Yes,” Johnson said. He paused and added, “I'd like to help. I'd like to look after her."
“You?” the woman asked skeptically.
“I may not seem impressive at the moment,” Johnson said, “but I do feel a sense of commitment to what this woman is doing. It's terribly important. And I feel as if there is some danger to her and to what she is doing that I might be able to help with. I would work cheap—for nothing, if I could live on it."
The woman looked at him as if she was impressed in spite of herself. “Do you want that application?” she asked.
“How about the place to stay first—not too far away, perhaps, and not too expensive."
A few minutes and a few telephone calls later, Johnson was back on the sidewalk with an address and directions on a slip of paper in his pocket. He still had the piece of cardboard in his hand. He paused at the first corner to unfold it and read: “Your name is Bill Johnson. You have just helped solve the problem of political terrorism and launched humanity toward the stars, and you don't remember. You may find the newspapers filled with reports of what happened, but you will find no mention of the part you played.
“For this there are several possible explanations, including the likelihood that I may be lying or deceived or insane. But the explanation on which you must act is that I have told you the truth: you are a man who was born in a future that has almost used up all hope; you were sent to this time and place to alter the events that created that future.
“Am I telling the truth? The only evidence you have is your apparently unique ability to foresee consequences—it comes like a vision, not of the future because the future can be changed, but of what will happen if events take their natural course, if someone does not act, if you do not intervene.
“But each time you intervene, no matter how subtly, you change the future from which you came. You exist in this time and outside of time and in the future, and so each change makes you forget.
“I wrote this message last night to tell you what I know, just as I learned about myself this morning by reading a message printed in lipstick on a bathroom mirror, for I am you and we are one, and we have done this many times before."
The man named Bill Johnson stared unseeing down the long street until he stirred himself, tore the piece of cardboard into pieces, and stuffed them into a trash receptacle. When he looked up he saw the older boy in the jeans and dirty jacket. He still had his thumb hooked over his waistband. But he wasn't watching Johnson. He was watching the front door of People, Limited.
* * * *
The hotel was half a dozen blocks away, on the uneasy edge between the White-House-Mall-Capitol-Hill area of massive stone government buildings and the decaying slums teeming with children and crime and poverty that half encircled it. The edge was continually shifting, like an uncertain battlefield between armies of ancient antagonists, as old areas deteriorated into near-abandonment or were torn down to make way for big new structures, some of them commemorating the dead and gone, some of them dedicated to a dream of things to come.
The battle for the soul of the hotel was still in doubt, but the dusty lobby, presided over by an elderly clerk all alone in what had once been bustle and glitter, was haunted by a premonition of defeat. The room to which Johnson admitted himself was a little cleaner, but it too had the kind of embedded dirt and irrepressible odors that nothing but total renewal could ever obliterate. It held an old bed, a couple of tattered understuffed chairs, a floor lamp, a telephone and a table lamp on a nightstand beside the bed, and a bathroom with pitted porcelain tub, cracked lavatory, and stained toilet, a single towel but no washcloth, and a hand-sized bar of Ivory soap that crackled with age when Johnson unwrapped it.
The one new object in the room was a color television set, some owner's forlorn attempt at remodeling. Johnson stared at it for a moment when he came out of the bathroom and turned it on. A soap opera titled “All My Children” swam into view. Johnson ignored it and began to go through his pockets. The billfold that he already had glanced at was remarkably bare of identification other than a Visa card and a social security card enclosed in plastic; he also had a few coins, a few bills, some of them oddly colored and labeled “King Scrip,” which he crumpled and threw in the wastebasket, a pocket comb, and the receipt for a one-way airline ticket from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C., arriving at Dulles Airport. It had a baggage claim check stapled to it.
Johnson looked up the telephone number for the airline, dialed it, and asked the disinterested clerk if she could have his bag delivered to him at the hotel. At first she refused to do it, but when he insisted he didn't have transportation, something must have clicked in her memory, for she suddenly asked if he had been on the plane whose mobile lounge had been hijacked.
“All I want is my bag,” he said. “I don't have any clothes."
“But if you were—"
“It doesn't matter,” he said. “Do me a favor. Mark it up to public relations. I'll leave the claim check with the desk clerk in case I'm not here."
When he turned back to the television set, the soap opera was over. A commercial had already started. It showed vast numbers of children covering all the curved surface of what seemed to be part of a globe. They were all races, all colors, well-dressed and ragged, but many of them looked hungry and misshapen and sad. They were all moving toward the viewer, and as they got closer and bigger, more of them kept coming behind, and there was no end to them and they blotted out the screen.
In the darkness that followed, a woman's voice said, “Children are a blessing and a joy. But not when there are more of them than a family can feed and care for and love. Then they are a reproach and a tragedy and a sin. And the human family has been having too many of them recently.” The screen cleared and revealed Sally Franklin dressed in a neat, pale-blue suit standing in front of a full-color reproduction of the Earth as seen from space. “World population was two and a half billion in 1950, three and two-thirds billion in 1970, nearly four and a half billion in 1980, six billion in 2000.” The view of Earth that had been bright with sunshine, streaks of clouds, and blue seas steadily darkened. “The end is in sight. And the answer is up to you, every one of you. Before you create more babies—think! Think about not only whether you can care for them, but whether this world of ours has room for them. It's better to have one or two happy children than three or four that don't have enough, better to have two billion people on Earth with a chance for the future than eight billion or eighteen billion with no chance at all. It's our decision. All of us. It is not the problem of people who live somewhere else whose skin is a different color or who belong to a different race. It's our problem. All of us. And we've got to solve it. All of us. Or else....
” The circle of the Earth had turned completely black and so, with startling suddenness, did the entire television screen. With equal suddenness, white words sprang out upon the screen that read “People, Limited,” and a man's voice said, “The preceding message was brought to you by this network as a public service. It is being shown, in appropriate translations, in every part of the world reached by television, and elsewhere by film or other means."
Johnson reached over and turned off the television set, picked up his jacket, and left the room.
* * * *
The receptionist at People, Limited, looked up from the employment form and said, “What can I do with this? Outside of your name, there's no information on it."
Johnson smiled. “If I were trying to deceive anybody, I would have made up something. It's just that I have a problem with my memory. If I have a past, I don't remember it. If I have a work record, I don't know what it is. If I have an education, I don't know where. If I have skills, I don't know what they are.” Before she could speak, he went on, “But I do have a commitment to what this organization and Ms. Franklin are doing. And I would do anything honorable to help them succeed."
She frowned and then sighed. “But what can I do? Our personnel people will just throw this out."
“I'll work as a volunteer,” Johnson said. “Anything that would let me watch over Ms. Franklin."
Neat and unthreatening, he stood in front of the reception desk in the polished, well-lighted lobby, looking directly into the eyes of the dark-haired receptionist.
“How would you live?” she asked.
“That's not important."
She sighed again. “I'll put you on the temporary employment list. The personnel people don't have to approve that for a week. Maybe by that time you'll have proven yourself of some value."
“Oh, I will,” Johnson said.
“It only pays minimum wage. Just turn in your hours to me at the end of the day...."
“Don't worry,” he said. “My goals are the same as yours."
“I hope so,” she said.
The elevator doors opened, and Sally Franklin came out followed by a man and a woman talking rapidly to her. She had an attaché case in her hand, and she was listening and responding in fragments when she saw Johnson. She stopped. “You're still here?” she said.
“I'm back,” he said. “To be your bodyguard, your personal assistant, your porter, your gopher...."
Franklin looked sharply at the receptionist. “But I don't need anybody like that."
The receptionist looked embarrassed and helpless. “He—I...."
Johnson shrugged and spread his hands. “It seems I'm not good for anything else."
Franklin looked at him and shook her head. “Oh, all right. But we've got to find something else for you to do.” She turned to the other two. “I think I've got it all. Johnson will go with me to the press conference. You can stay here and work on the Delhi meeting."
Outside, Johnson reached for Franklin's attaché case, and after a brief resistance she let it go. “It gives me something to do,” he said.
“Oh, all right. It isn't far. But I don't know what I'm going to do with you."
“Nothing,” Johnson said. “Nothing at all. You won't even know I'm around."
“What brought you here?” she asked.
“I don't know,” he said. “I only know what I'm doing here."
“And what is that?"
“Trying to protect you—and what you're trying to do.” She shook her head. “What makes you think you can do that?"
He laughed. “Do you want me to list my qualifications?"
They were walking east on the broad avenue and Franklin kept glancing sideways at Johnson as if trying to understand him. “I usually have a feeling about people,” she said, “but I can't get a handle on you. You're going to have to tell me something about yourself—all these mysterious statements about not knowing where you belong or if you have a job or what brought you here. That was all right as long as you were a...."
“A stray?” Johnson suggested.
“Yes. But if you're going to be—"
“Your faithful servant?"
“—I need to know more about you.” She finished breathlessly. “Why do you make me feel so frustrated?"
“It's because I have a queer memory. It works only one way."
“It's the same with everybody."
“Mine works forward, not back.” He hesitated for the first time. “I'd rather not tell you any more. It will make you sorry for me, and I don't want that. The result—"
“Hang the result,” she said, almost angrily. “You can't stop now."
“I remember the future,” he said. “But I don't remember the past. I seem to wake up periodically without any personal memories, but I have glimpses of what the future might be like."
She gave him a sidelong glance. “That must be—disturbing."
“I know it's hard to believe, and I'm not asking you to believe it. Only to believe that I hope to do good and that I would never do you harm."
“Can you see my future?” she asked.
“Are you teasing me?"
“Can't you tell? No, that's unfair. I'm trying not to."
“I'd rather not tell you. Believe me, it's a burden."
“Tell me,” she commanded. “What's in my future?"
“I see only flashes,” he said reluctantly. “That's the way it always comes—a vision, not of the future because there are many futures, but of the natural consequence of any set of circumstances. And it shifts, like the image in a kaleidoscope, from moment to moment, as individual actions and decisions reshape it. One can't look at it steadily without getting dizzy."
“You can turn it off then?” She spoke as if she was beginning to believe him.
“Only partly. Like not looking at something. You know it's there, but only as a background."
“You haven't told me my future,” she reminded him.
“Some people are more important to the future than others—not more important as people but more important in that their actions and choices have more influence in shaping the future. I sense them as a kind of nexus, a place where lines to the future converge and make the individual and the area immediately surrounding the individual more vivid, more colorful, more—real."
“And that attracts you?"
“Like a moth to the flame,” he said and smiled. “The serious answer is: Sometimes."
“What decides?"
“The future,” Johnson said simply. “Sometimes I can't stand to look at it, and then I have to do something."
“To make it better?"
“To help others make it better. I'm speaking theoretically, of course, because I can't remember what has happened before—if it has happened before, and I am not just living a great delusion. But I can't perceive the consequences of my own actions except as they are related to someone else. It's as if I had a blind spot, like being able to see everybody but yourself. So I can't know what would happen if I did something. Only if someone else does something."
“You still haven't told me anything about myself."
“You're starting to believe me."
“Shouldn't I?"
“You see the consequences in me."
“You're not so bad. You're thoughtful, gentle, kind...."
“Troubled, sad, distant....” He smiled. “You see? I said that one of us would end up feeling sorry for me."
“You said I would, and you're right. You haven't told me in so many words, but apparently you see me as one of those persons you were talking about."
“Do you really want to know how important you are?"
She thought about it. “I guess not,” she said and smiled in a way that seemed to brighten the air around her. “Besides, we're here."
“Here” was the side entrance to a large public building. They went through the doorway and through a backstage area to the wings of a small auditorium. A harried, balding little man was waiting
for them. “Sally,” he said, “they're waiting for you. This is a tough bunch, and they're getting tougher. I've been listening. I think they're going to give you a hard time."
Franklin patted him on the shoulder and winked. “Don't worry, Fred. It does them good to wait for a few minutes. And I'm not worried about a few cynical reporters.” She turned to Johnson and retrieved her attaché case. “How am I going to do?” she asked softly.
“Great,” Johnson said.
She smiled at him and walked to the center of the stage where a wooden lectern, so massive it looked as if it had been built into the hall, had been placed. Although the auditorium was small, the audience filled only the first few rows. The overhead lights were pitiless. Franklin looked lost behind the lectern as she opened her attaché case and removed a handful of papers, though she never afterward referred to them, and stood for a moment looking out at the puddle of skeptical faces. “I'm Sally Franklin, executive director of People, Limited, and I've been asked to make myself available for questions about our new program for population control. By ‘our’ I mean not only People, Limited, but Zero Population Growth, Planned Parenthood, and half a dozen other groups dedicated to the problem of overpopulation. Each of our organizations has its own program, but we are coordinating our educational efforts for this drive.
“The year coming up has been designated the International Population Year. Every cooperating nation will be conducting a census that is expected to be more accurate than anything presently available. Each one also will gather data on population growth, resources, and resource projections. All of this information will be placed in databanks for further study and reference. The mission assigned to People, Limited, and other privately supported groups concerned with overpopulation is to educate people to the need and means for family planning. We have prepared extensive campaigns, for which the commercials on television that you may have been seeing lately are the first contributions by People, Limited. We are preparing others, including what we call a ‘Pop Quiz.’ Are there questions? The gentleman in the first row."