The Astounding Science Fiction Anthology

by John W. Campbell Jr.

  “What are you doing?” Calderon said.

  “No.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I understand it,” Alexander said. “That’s enough.”

  “I see.” Calderon regarded the prodigy with faint apprehension. “You don’t want to tell me.”

  “No.”

  “Well, all right.”

  “Get me a drink,” Alexander said. For a moment Calderon had a mad idea that the infant was demanding a highball. Then he sighed, rose, and returned with a bottle.

  “Milk,” Alexander said, refusing the potation.

  “You said a drink. Water’s a drink, isn’t it?” My God, Calderon thought, I’m arguing with the kid. I’m treating him like… like an adult. But he isn’t. He’s a fat little baby squatting on his behind on the carpet, playing with a tinkertoy.

  The tinkertoy said something in a thin voice. Alexander murmured, “Repeat.” The tinkertoy did.

  Calderon said, “What was that?”

  “No.”

  “Nuts.” Calderon went out to the kitchen and got milk. He poured himself another shot. This was like having relatives drop in suddenly—relatives you hadn’t seen for ten years. How the devil did you act with a superchild?

  He stayed in the kitchen, after supplying Alexander with his milk. Presently Myra’s key turned in the outer door. Her cry brought Calderon hurrying.

  Alexander was vomiting, with the air of a research man absorbed in a fascinating phenomenon.

  “Alexander!” Myra cried. “Darling, are you sick?”

  “No,” Alexander said. “I’m testing my regurgitative processes. I must learn to control my digestive organs.”

  Calderon leaned against the door, grinning crookedly. “Yeah. You’d better start now, too.”

  “I’m finished,” Alexander said. “Clean it up.”

  Three days later the infant decided that his lungs needed developing. He cried. He cried at all hours, with interesting variations—whoops, squalls, wails, and high-pitched bellows. Nor would he stop till he was satisfied. The neighbors complained. Myra said, “Darling, is there a pin sticking you? Let me look—”

  “Go away,” Alexander said. “You’re too warm. Open the window. I want fresh air.”

  “Yes, d-darling. Of course.” She came back to bed and Calderon put his arm around her. He knew there would be shadows under her eyes in the morning. In his crib Alexander cried on.

  So it went. The four little men came daily and gave Alexander his lessons. They were pleased with the infant’s progress. They did not complain when Alexander indulged in his idiosyncrasies, such as batting them heavily on the nose or ripping their paper garments to shreds. Bordent tapped his metal helmet and smiled triumphantly at Calderon.

  “He’s coming along. He’s developing.”

  “I’m wondering. What about discipline?”

  Alexander looked up from his rapport with Quat. “Homo sap discipline doesn’t apply to me, Joseph Calderon.”

  “Don’t call me Joseph Calderon. I’m your father, after all.”

  “A primitive biological necessity. You are not sufficiently well developed to provide the discipline I require. Your purpose is to give me parental care.”

  “Which makes me an incubator,” Calderon said.

  “But a deified one,” Bordent soothed him. “Practically a logos. The father of the new race.”

  “I feel more like Prometheus,” the father of the new race said dourly. “He was helpful, too. And he ended up with a vulture eating his liver.”

  “You will learn a great deal from Alexander.”

  “He says I’m incapable of understanding it.”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  “Sure. I’m just the papa bird,” Calderon said, and subsided into a sad silence, watching Alexander, under Quat’s tutelary eye, put together a gadget of shimmering glass and twisted metal. Bordent said suddenly, “Quat! Be careful of the egg!” And Finn seized a bluish ovoid just before Alexander’s chubby hand could grasp it.

  “It isn’t dangerous,” Quat said. “It isn’t connected.”

  “He might have connected it.”

  “I want that,” Alexander said. “Give it to me.”

  “Not yet, Alexander,” Bordent refused. “You must learn the correct way of connecting it first Otherwise it might harm you.”

  “I could do it.”

  “You are not logical enough to balance your capabilities and lacks as yet. Later it will be safe. I think now, perhaps, a little philosophy, Dobish—eh?”

  Dobish squatted and went en rapport with Alexander. Myra came out of the kitchen, took a quick look at die tableau, and retreated. Calderon followed her out.

  “I will never get used to it if I live a thousand years,” she said with slow emphasis, hacking at the doughy rim of a pie. “He’s my baby only when he’s asleep.”

  “We won’t live a thousand years,” Calderon told her. “Alexander will, though. I wish we could get a maid.”

  “I tried again today,” Myra said wearily. “No use. They’re all in war plants. I mention a baby—”

  “You can’t do all this alone.”

  “You help,” she said, “when you can. But you’re working hard too, fella. It won’t be forever.”

  “I wonder if we had another baby… if—”

  Her sober gaze met his. “I’ve wondered that, too. But I should think mutations aren’t as cheap as that. Once in a lifetime. Still, we don’t know.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now, anyway. One infant’s enough for the moment.”

  Myra glanced toward the door. “Everything all right in there? Take a look. I worry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “I know, but that blue egg—Bordent said it was dangerous, you know. I heard him.”

  Calderon peeped through the door-crack. The four dwarfs were sitting facing Alexander, whose eyes were closed. Now they opened. The infant scowled at Calderon.

  “Stay out,” he requested. “You’re breaking the rapport.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Calderon said, retreating. “He’s O. K., Myra. His own dictatorial little self.”

  “Well, he is a superman,” she said doubtfully.

  “No. He’s a super-baby. There’s all the difference.”

  “His latest trick,” Myra said, busy with the oven, “is riddles. Or something like riddles. I feel so small when he catches me up. But he says it’s good for his ego. It compensates for his physical frailness.”

  “Riddles, eh? I know a few too.”

  “They won’t work on Alexander,” Myra said, with grim assurance.

  Nor did they. “What goes up a chimney up?” was treated with the contempt it deserved; Alexander examined his father’s riddles, turned them over in his logical mind, analyzed them for flaws in semantics and logic, and rejected them. Or else he answered them, with such fine accuracy that Calderon was too embarrassed to give the correct answers. He was reduced to asking why a raven was like a writing desk, and since not even the Mad Hatter had been able to answer his own riddle, was slightly terrified to find himself listening to a dissertation on comparative ornithology. After that, he let Alexander needle him with infantile gags about the relations of gamma rays to photons, and tried to be philosophical. There are few things as irritating as a child’s riddles. His mocking triumph pulverizes itself into the dust in which you grovel.

  “Oh, leave your father alone,” Myra said, coming in with her hair disarranged. “He’s trying to read the paper.”

  “That news is unimportant.”

  “I’m reading the comics,” Calderon said. “I want to see if the Katzenjammers get even with the Captain for hanging them under a waterfall.”

  “The formula for the humor of an incongruity predicament,” Alexander began learnedly, but Calderon disgustedly went into the bedroom, where Myra joined him. “He’s asking me riddles again,” she said. “Let’s see what the Katzenjammer
s did.”

  “You look rather miserable. Got a cold?”

  “I’m not wearing make-up. Alexander says the smell makes him ill.”

  “So what? He’s no petunia.”

  “Well,” Myra said, “he does get ill. But of course he does it on purpose.”

  “Listen. There he goes again. What now?”

  But Alexander merely wanted an audience. He had found a new way of making imbecilic noises with his fingers and lips. At times the child’s normal phases were more trying than his super periods. After a month had passed, however, Calderon felt that the worst was yet to come. Alexander had progressed into fields of knowledge hitherto untouched by homo sap, and he had developed a leechlike habit of sucking his father’s brains dry of every scrap of knowledge the wretched man possessed.

  It was the same with Myra. The world was indeed Alexander’s oyster. He had an insatiable curiosity about everything, and there was no longer any privacy in the apartment. Calderon took to locking the bedroom door against his son at night—Alexander’s crib was now in another room—but furious squalls might waken him at any hour.

  In the midst of preparing dinner, Myra would be forced to stop and explain the caloric mysteries of the oven to Alexander. He learned all she knew, took a jump into more abstruse aspects of the matter, and sneered at her ignorance. He found out Calderon was a physicist, a fact which the man had hitherto kept carefully concealed, and thereafter pumped his father dry. He asked questions about geodetics and geopolitics. He inquired about monotremes and monorails. He was curious about biremes and biology. And he was skeptical, doubting the depth of his father’s knowledge. “But,” he said, “you and Myra Calderon are my closest contacts with homo sap as yet, and it’s a beginning. Put out that cigarette. It isn’t good for my lungs.”

  “All right,” Calderon said. He rose wearily, with his usual feeling these days of being driven from room to room of the apartment, and went in search of Myra. “Bordent’s about due. We can go out somewhere. O. K.?”

  “Swell.” She was at the mirror, fixing her hair, in a trice. “I need a permanent. If I only had the time—!”

  “I’ll take off tomorrow and stay here. You need a rest.”

  “Darling, no. The exams are coming up. You simply can’t do it.”

  Alexander yelled. It developed that he wanted his mother to sing for him. He was curious about the tonal range of homo sap and the probable emotional and soporific effect of lullabies. Calderon mixed himself a drink, sat in the kitchen and smoked, and thought about the glorious destiny of his son. When Myra stopped singing, he listened for Alexander’s wails, but there was no sound till a slightly hysterical Myra burst in on him, dithering and wide-eyed.

  “Joe!” She fell into Calderon’s arms. “Quick, give me a drink or… or hold me tight or something.”

  “What is it?” He thrust the bottle into her hands, went to the door, and looked out. “Alexander? He’s quiet. Eating candy.”

  Myra didn’t bother with a glass. The bottle’s neck clicked against her teeth. “Look at me. Just look at me. I’m a mess.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. Alexander’s turned into a black magician, that’s all.” She dropped into a chair and passed a palm across her forehead. “Do you know what that genius son of ours just did?”

  “Bit you,” Calderon hazarded, not doubting it for a minute.

  “Worse, far worse. He started asking me for candy. I said there wasn’t any in the house. He told me to go down to the grocery for some. I said I’d have to get dressed first, and I was too tired.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me to go?”

  “I didn’t have the chance. Before I could say boo that infantile Merlin waved a magic wand or something. I…I was down at the grocery. Behind the candy counter.”

  Calderon blinked. “Induced amnesia?”

  “There wasn’t any time-lapse. It was just phweet—and there I was. In this rag of a dress, without a speck of make-up on, and my hair coming down in tassels. Mrs. Busherman was there, too, buying a chicken—that cat across the hall. She was kind enough to tell me I ought to take more care of myself. Meow,” Myra ended furiously.

  “Good Lord.”

  “Teleportation. That’s what Alexander says it is. Something new he’s picked up. I’m not going to stand for it, Joe. I’m not a rag doll, after all.” She was half hysterical.

  Calderon went into the next room and stood regarding his child. There was chocolate smeared around Alexander’s mouth.

  “Listen, wise guy,” he said. “You leave your mother alone, hear me?”

  “I didn’t hurt her,” the prodigy pointed out, in a blobby voice. “I was simply being efficient.”

  “Well, don’t be so efficient. Where did you learn that trick, anyhow?”

  “Teleportation? Quat showed me last night. He can’t do it himself, but I’m X Free super, so I can. The power isn’t disciplined yet. If I’d tried to teleport Myra Calderon over to Jersey, say, I might have dropped her in the Hudson by mistake.”

  Calderon muttered something uncomplimentary. Alexander said, “Is that an Anglo-Saxon derivative?”

  “Never mind about that. You shouldn’t have all that chocolate, anyway. You’ll make yourself sick. You’ve already made your mother sick. And you nauseate me.”

  “Go away,” Alexander said. “I want to concentrate on the taste.”

  “No. I said you’d make yourself sick. Chocolate’s too rich for you. Give it here. You’ve had enough.” Calderon reached for the paper sack. Alexander disappeared. In the kitchen Myra shrieked.

  Calderon moaned despondently, and turned. As he had expected, Alexander was in the kitchen, on top of the stove, hoggishly stuffing candy into his mouth. Myra was concentrating on the bottle.

  “What a household,” Calderon said. “The baby teleporting himself all over the apartment, you getting stewed in the kitchen, and me heading for a nervous breakdown.” He started to laugh. “O.K., Alexander. You can keep the candy. I know when to shorten my defensive lines strategically.”

  “Myra Calderon,” Alexander said. “I want to go back into the other room.”

  “Fly in,” Calderon suggested. “Here, I’ll carry you.”

  “Not you. Her. She has a better rhythm when she walks.”

  “Staggers, you mean,” Myra said, but she obediently put aside the bottle, got up, and laid hold of Alexander. She went out. Calderon was not much surprised to hear her scream a moment later. When he joined the happy family, Myra was sitting on the floor, rubbing her arms and biting her lips. Alexander was laughing.

  “What now?”

  “H-he sh-shocked me,” Myra said in a child’s voice. “He’s like an electric eel. He d-did it on purpose, too. Oh, Alexander, will you stop laughing!”

  “You fell down,” the infant crowed in triumph. “You yelled and fell down.”

  Calderon looked at Myra, and his mouth tightened. “Did you do that on purpose?” he asked.

  “Yes. She fell down. She looked funny.”

  “You’re going to look a lot funnier in a minute. X Free super or not, what you need is a good paddling.”

  “Joe—” Myra said.

  “Never mind. He’s got to learn to be considerate of the rights of others.”

  “I’m homo superior,” Alexander said, with the air of one clinching an argument.

  “It’s homo posterior I’m going to deal with,” Calderon announced, and attempted to capture his son. There was a stinging blaze of jolting nervous energy that blasted up through his synapses; he went backwards ignominiously, and slammed into the wall, cracking his head hard against it. Alexander laughed like an idiot.

  “You fell down, too,” he crowed. “You look funny.”

  “Joe,” Myra said. “Joe. Are you hurt?”

  Calderon said sourly that he supposed he’d survive. Though, he added, it would probably be wise to lay in a few splints and a supply of blood plasma. “In case he gets inter
ested in vivisection.”

  Myra regarded Alexander with troubled speculation. “You’re kidding, I hope.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  “Well—here’s Bordent. Let’s talk to him.”

  Calderon answered the door. The four little men came in solemnly. They wasted no time. They gathered about Alexander, unfolded fresh apparatus from the recesses of their paper clothes, and set to work. The infant said, “I teleported her about eight thousand feet.”

  “That far, eh?” Quat said. “Were you fatigued at all?”

  “Not a bit.”

  Calderon dragged Bordent aside. “I want to talk to you. I think Alexander needs a spanking.”

  “By voraster!” the dwarf said, shocked. “But he’s Alexander! He’s X Free type super!”

  “Not yet. He’s still a baby.”

  “But a superbaby. No, no, Joseph Calderon. I must tell you again that disciplinary measures can be applied only by sufficiently intelligent authorities.”

  “You?”

  “Oh, not yet,” Bordent said. “We don’t want to overwork him. There’s a limit even to super brain power, especially in the very formative period. He’s got enough to do, and his attitudes for social contacts won’t need forming for a while yet.”

  Myra joined them. “I don’t agree with you there. Like all babies, he’s antisocial. He may have superhuman powers but he’s subhuman as far as mental and emotional balance go.”

  “Yeah,” Calderon agreed. “This business of giving us electric shocks—”

  “He’s only playing,” Bordent said.

  “And teleportation. Suppose he teleports me to Times Square when I’m taking a shower?”

  “It’s only his play. He’s a baby still.”

  “But what about us?”

  “You have the hereditary characteristic of parental tolerance,” Bordent explained. “As I told you before, Alexander and his race are the reason why tolerance was created in the first place. There’s no great need for it with homo sap. I mean there’s a wide space between normal tolerance and normal provocation. An ordinary baby may try his parents severely for a few moments at a time, but that’s about all. The provocation is far too small to require the tremendous store of tolerance the parents have. But with the X Free type, it’s a different matter.”