Young Mutants

by Asimov, Isaac

  YOUNG MUTANTS

  EDITED BY

  Isaac Asimov, Martin Greenberg and Charles Waugh

  HARPER & ROW, PUBLISHERS

  * * *

  To Dr. Janet Jeppson

  * * *

  Young Mutants

  Copyright © 1984 by Nightfall, Inc., Martin Greenberg, and Charles Waugh All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Printed in the United States of America. For information address

  Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10022. Published simultaneously in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside Limited, Toronto.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Main entry under title: Young mutants.

  Summary: A collection of short stories by a variety of authors about children with one common characteristic —they are all mutants.

  1. Science fiction. 2. Children’s stories.

  [1. Science fiction. 2. Short stories] I. Asimov, Isaac, 1920- . II. Greenberg, Martin Harry. HL Waugh, Charles.

  YK PZ5.Y844 1984 [Fic] 83-48444

  ISBN 0-06-020157-6 (lib. bdg.)

  ISBN 0-06-020156-8 (pbk.)

  Designed by Barbara Fitzsimmons

  o 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “Hail and Farewell’’ by Ray Bradbury. Copyright © 1953 by Ray Bradbury; copyright renewed 1981 by Ray Bradbury. Reprinted by permission of Don Congdon Associates, Inc.

  “Keep Out’’ by Fredric Brown. Copyright © 1954 by Ziff-Davis Publications. Reprinted by permission of International Creative Management.

  “What Friends Are For” by John Brunner. Copyright © 1974 by John Brunner. Reprinted by permission of Paul R. Reynolds, Inc.

  “The Wonder Horse” by George Byram. Copyright © 1957 by The Atlantic Monthly Company. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd.

  “He That Hath Wings” by Edmond Hamilton. Copyright © 1938 by Popular Fiction Company; copyright renewed by Edmond Hamilton. Reprinted by permission of the agents for the author’s estate, the Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

  “I Can’t Help Saying Goodbye” by Ann Mackenzie. Copyright © 1978 by Ann Mackenzie. First appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Second Sight” by Alan E. Nourse. Copyright © 1951, 1952, 1953, 1956, 1957, 1961 by Alan E. Nourse. Reprinted by permission of Brandt & Brandt Agents, Inc.

  “The Listening Child” by Idris Seabright. Copyright © 1950 by Margaret St. Clair; copyright renewed 1978 by Margaret St. Clair. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “The Children’s Room” by Raymond F. Jones. Copyright © 1947 by Ziff-Davis Publications; copyright renewed by the author. Reprinted by permission of the Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

  “The Lost Language” by David H. Keller, M.D. Copyright © 1934 by Teck Publications, Inc. Reprinted by arrangement with the Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

  “Prone” by Mack Reynolds. Copyright © 1954 by Mercury Press, Inc. From The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Reprinted by permission of the Scott Meredith Literary Agency, Inc.

  “Come On, Wagon!” by Zenna Henderson. Copyright © renewed 1979 by Mercury Press, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd.

  INTRODUCTION

  by Isaac Asimov

  Human beings in their past history must have had mutations, sudden changes in their structure because of changes in their genes. Such things must be happening all the time. Perhaps every one of us has one or more mutations, a gene that changed in the body of one of our parents and was inherited by us.

  Such mutations can be very small, and pass unnoticed. Sometimes, however, they can be very noticeable, and then they are usually harmful. Once in a while, though, a mutation might be beneficial, produce something useful. Such mutations result in a human being who is better off, more capable, who may live longer and have more children, so that the mutation is passed on to an increased number of individuals. Each of these passes it on, too, to more and more, until, in the end, almost all human beings have it. The mutation becomes part of an evolving humanity through “natural selection.”

  What are the most important and useful mutations that have taken place in the past? What are the mutations that have made human beings what they are today?

  The key mutation took place four million years ago or more, when a certain apelike creature was born with a spine that curved in such a way that it was easier for him to stand up on his hind legs and balance on them for a long period of time.

  Modern apes can stand on their hind legs when they want to. So can bears and some other animals. All of them, however, have spines that curve like shallow arches. Such spines are not well adapted to being tipped on end. It’s an effort for the animals to stand on two legs, and they quit after a while. A human spine isn’t a simple arch, however. It is S-shaped. We can stand upright for hours at a time, balancing on that spine. We can walk and run on two legs with ease. It’s not a perfect mutation, for it puts a great strain on the spine, so that many people develop pains in the lower back as they grow older, but on the whole it serves us well.

  We don’t know how this mutation came about because we weren’t there to watch, and only very few human bones have survived from all those millions of years ago. It probably happened in steps. Every time someone was born with a spine that made it easier to stand on two legs, he was better off. Possibly that was because it raised his eyes higher, and he could see food, or enemies at greater distances. Each of these mutations spread by natural selection and, finally, there were small apelike creatures that walked upright as well as you and I.

  It might seem to you that this is a mutation that affected only the physical body, but strangely enough it didn’t. Everything we think of as human may have come about because of this ability to stand on two legs.

  Our eyes being higher, they were used more to see long distance, so more information continually flooded into the brain. What’s more, the forelimbs, which human beings no longer used for standing on, were free to hold things, pick them up, manipulate them, feel them, carry them to the mouth or eyes. Again, a great deal of new information flooded into the brain.

  As a result, any new mutation that made the brain larger or more efficient was very useful to the two-legged creature, for the brain could then handle the flood of information more easily. Such a mutation would, therefore, spread rapidly by natural selection. The brain, under those conditions, would (and did) increase in size. Over the last half million years, for instance, the human brain just about tripled in size until it is now enormous for a creature no larger than ourselves.

  In this way, a mutation that seemed to be a purely physical one resulted in further physical mutations that ended in making us the most intelligent creature that has ever existed on Earth. Only we learned how to develop speech and make use of fire, and then work out an advanced science and technology.

  And what now? Can we expect further mutations?

  Of course! They happen all the time, as I said earlier. I wonder, though, if further physical mutations are likely to be incorporated into human structure by natural selection very often. After all, our physical bodies are not the important thing about us anymore. Our bodies can’t fly as birds can, for instance, but who cares? We have airplanes that can go faster than any bird, and we even have rockets that will take us to the moon, and no bird can fly there.

  No, what is important about human beings is their enormous brain. What if there were mutations that affected it— small changes that could improve the efficiency of the brain or give it new powers? We do
n’t have any record of such changes; at least no changes that are big enough to notice, but then—

  Perhaps we don’t look carefully. Or perhaps we don’t quite understand what we see. Perhaps people with changed brains simply seem weird to us, so that they try to hide their powers from us.

  That may not seem very likely, but science fiction writers think about such things, and in this book, we have collected twelve fictional stories about those who have been born with mutations, and many of them are about mental and psychological mutations. The results are not always what one might expect.

  Hail and Farewell

  by Ray Bradbury

  During childhood days sometimes seem to last forever. But what would it be like if childhood lasted forever?

  * * *

  But of course he was going away, there was nothing else to do, the time was up, the clock had run out, and he was going very far away indeed. His suitcase was packed, his shoes were shined, his hair was brushed, he had expressly washed behind his ears, and it remained only for him to go down the stairs, out the front door, and up the street to the small-town station where the train would make a stop for him alone. Then Fox Hill, Illinois, would be left far off in his past. And he would go on, perhaps to Iowa, perhaps to Kansas, perhaps even to California; a small boy, twelve years old with a birth certificate in his valise to show he had been born forty-three years ago.

  “Willie!” called a voice downstairs.

  “Yes!” He hoisted his suitcase. In his bureau mirror he saw a face made of June dandelions and July apples and warm summer-morning milk. There, as always, was his look of the angel and the innocent, which might never, in the years of his life, change.

  “Almost time,” called the woman’s voice.

  “All right!” And he went down the stairs, grunting and smiling. In the living room sat Anna and Steve, their clothes painfully neat.

  “Here I am!” cried Willie in the parlor door.

  Anna looked like she was going to cry. “Oh, good Lord, you can’t really be leaving us, can you, Willie?”

  “People are beginning to talk,” said Willie quietly. “I’ve been here three years now. But when people begin to talk, I know it’s time to put on my shoes and buy a railway ticket.”

  “It’s all so strange. I don’t understand. It’s so sudden,” Anna said. “Willie, we’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll write you every Christmas, so help me. Don’t you write me.”

  “It’s been a great pleasure and satisfaction,” said Steve, sitting there, his words the wrong size in his mouth. “It’s a shame it had to stop. It’s a shame you had to tell us about yourself. It’s an awful shame you can’t stay on.”

  “You’re the nicest folks I ever had,” said Willie, four feet high, in no need of a shave, the sunlight on his face.

  And then Anna did cry. “Willie, Willie.” And she sat down and looked as if she wanted to hold him but was afraid to hold him now; she looked at him with shock and amazement and her hands empty, not knowing what to do with him now.

  “It’s not easy to go,” said Willie. “You get used to things. You want to stay. But it doesn’t work. I tried to stay on once after people began to suspect. ‘How horrible!’ people said. ‘All these years, playing with our innocent children,’ they said, ‘and us not guessing! Awful!’ they said. And finally I had to just leave town one night. It’s not easy. You know darned well how much I love both of you. Thanks for three swell years.”

  They all went to the front door. “Willie, where’re you going?”

  “I don’t know. I just start traveling. When I see a town that looks green and nice, I settle in.”

  “Will you ever come back?”

  “Yes,” he said earnestly with his high voice. “In about twenty years it should begin to show in my face. When it does, I’m going to make a grand tour of all the mothers and fathers I’ve ever had.”

  They stood on the cool summer porch, reluctant to say the last words. Steve was looking steadily at an elm tree. “How many other folks’ve you stayed with, Willie? How many adoptions?”

  Willie figured it, pleasantly enough. “I guess it’s about five towns and five couples and over twenty years gone by since I started my tour.”

  “Well, we can’t holler,” said Steve. “Better to’ve had a son thirty-six months than none whatever.”

  “Well,” said Willie, and kissed Anna quickly, seized at his luggage, and was gone up the street in the green noon light, under the trees, a very young boy indeed, not looking back, running steadily.

  The boys were playing on the green park diamond when he came by. He stood a little while among the oak-tree shadows, watching them hurl the white, snowy baseball into the warm summer air, saw the baseball shadow fly like a dark bird over the grass, saw their hands open in mouths to catch this swift piece of summer that now seemed most especially important to hold onto. The boys’ voices yelled. The ball lit on the grass near Willie.

  Carrying the ball forward from under the shade trees, he thought of the last three years now spent to the penny, and the five years before that, and so on down the line to the year when he was really eleven and twelve and fourteen and the voices saying: “What’s wrong with Willie, missus?”

  “Mrs. B., is Willie late a-growin’?”

  “Willie, you smokin’ cigars lately?” The echoes died in summer light and color. His mother’s voice: “Willie’s twenty-one today!” And a thousand voices saying: “Come back, son, when you’re fifteen; then maybe we’ll give you a job.”

  He stared at the baseball in his trembling hand, as if it were his life, an interminable ball of years strung around and around and around, but always leading back to his twelfth birthday. He heard the kids walking toward him; he felt them blot out the sun, and they were older, standing around him.

  “Willie! Where you goin’?” They kicked his suitcase.

  How tall they stood in the sun. In the last few months it seemed the sun had passed a hand above their heads, beckoned, and they were warm metal drawn melting upward; they were golden taffy pulled by an immense gravity to the sky, thirteen, fourteen years old, looking down upon Willie, smiling, but already beginning to neglect him. It had started four months ago:

  “Choose up sides! Who wants Willie?”

  “Aw, Willie’s too little; we don’t play with ‘kids.’ ”

  And they raced ahead of him, drawn by the moon and the sun and the turning seasons of leaf and wind, and he was twelve years old and not of them any more. And the other voices beginning again on the old, the dreadfully familiar, the cool refrain: “Better feed that boy vitamins, Steve.”

  “Anna, does shortness run in your family?” And the cold fist knocking at your heart again and knowing that the roots would have to be pulled up again after so many good years with the “folks.”

  “Willie, where you goin’?”

  He jerked his head. He was back among the towering, shadowing boys who milled around him like giants at a drinking fountain bending down.

  “Goin’ a few days visitin’ a cousin of mine.”

  “Oh.” There was a day, a year ago, when they would have cared very much indeed. But now there was only curiosity for his luggage, their enchantment with trains and trips and far places.

  “How about a coupla fast ones?” said Willie.

  They looked doubtful but, considering the circumstances, nodded. He dropped his bag and ran out; the white baseball was up in the sun, away to their burning white figures in the far meadow, up in the sun again, rushing, life coming and going in a pattern. Here, there! Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hanlon, Creek Bend, Wisconsin, 1932, the first couple, the first year! Here, there! Henry and Alice Boltz, Limeville, Iowa, 1935! The baseball flying. The Smiths, the Eatons, the Robinsons! 1939! 1945! Husband and wife, husband and wife, husband and wife, no children, no children! A knock on this door, a knock on that.

  “Pardon me. My name is William. I wonder if—”

  “A sandwich? Come in, sit down. Where you
from, son?” The sandwich, a tall glass of cold milk, the smiling, the nodding, the comfortable, leisurely talking.

  “Son, you look like you been traveling. You run off from somewhere?”

  “No.”

  “Boy, are you an orphan?”

  Another glass of milk.

  “We always wanted kids. It never worked out. Never knew why. One of those things. Well, well. It’s getting late, son. Don’t you think you better hit for home?”

  “Got no home.”

  “A boy like you? Not dry behind the ears? Your mother’ll be worried.”

  “Got no home and no folks anywhere in the world. I wonder if—I wonder—could I sleep here tonight?”

  “Well, now, son, I don’t just know. We never considered taking in—” said the husband.

  “We got chicken for supper tonight,” said the wife, “enough for extras, enough for company. …”

  And the years turning and flying away, the voices, and the faces, and the people, and always the same first conversations. The voice of Emily Robinson, in her rocking chair, in summer-night darkness, the last night he stayed with her, the night she discovered his secret, her voice saying:

  “I look at all the little children’s faces going by. And I sometimes think: What a shame, what a shame, that all these flowers have to be cut, all these bright fires have to be put out. What a shame these, all of these you see in schools or running by, have to get tall and unsightly and wrinkle and turn gray or get bald, and finally, all bone and wheeze, be dead and buried off away. When I hear them laugh I can’t believe they’ll ever go the road I’m going. Yet here they come! I still remember Wordsworth’s poem: ‘When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.’ That’s how I think of children, cruel as they sometimes are, mean as I know they can be, but not yet showing the meanness around their eyes or in their eyes, not yet full of tiredness. They’re so eager for everything! I guess that’s what I miss most in older folks, the eagerness gone nine times out of ten, the freshness gone, so much of the drive and life down the drain. I like to watch school let out each day. It’s like someone threw a bunch of flowers out the school front doors. How does it feel, Willie? How does it feel to be young forever? To look like a silver dime new from the mint? Are you happy? Are you as fine as you seem?”