But after a moment, Andy’s suspicions and weariness were reawakened. Perhaps his second judgment was not so sure, either. The shaggy giant could be a true friend-yes. But couldn't he, just as well, have an ulterior motive in his efforts to save Jack? What if Jack happened to be an essential link in a chain of conquest—one that it had taken years to develop to the point of usefulness? Naturally, in that case, the furry enigma would want to preserve the boy’s life, wouldn't he?
It was almost a quandary, as dark as the myriad questions of the stars. But the clear truth was there :n his pocket. The little tube of pictures. Oh, they scared a man when he lint examined them—sure! Because they were so unfamiliar. But if you thought about them a little, you got a milder slant on their significance. They were like postcards sent to a kid nephew!
Andy’s suspicions wilted when he saw their ridiculousness. He got a new ^rasp on the nature of the unknown. The shaggy thing out there had lost the aspect of omnipotence, created for Andy by the fantastic circumstances under which he had first glimpsed the mystery with which his boy was involved. . . .
The monster was finite. And with all the rest ol his kind gone, lonely. Maybe he'd worked and groped lor years to find a companion—a means to read) another mind—one of die right form to receive and transmit thoughts readily. Jack hadn’t been harmed through the years of contact—except by his own father!
Andy's original stark fear had left him, to be replaced by a new worry. The aura of healing strain still clung in the room—evidence of terrific effort. And the monster was finite. Besides, he was bemused, now, by that tremendous concentration. Probably he would not be watching some of his instruments. While above his head, on the outside of the crystal sphere that enclosed him, was another apparatus. A wheel of rods. And across space were coming two thermos bottles intended to destroy. . . .
Andy moved slowly, trying thus to hide the worry, and the driving need for haste that throbbed in his blood. He edged toward the door of the hospital room.
"Jane," he said, facing his wife briefly. "There’s something I've got to look after. It’s very important. I'll be back in an hour.”
She looked at him with weary contempt for his desertion—now. She didn't know anything about the real depth of the situation. Nor could he try to explain.
He drove like blazes back to the farm. All the way he kept muttering: “Dynamite! Those flasks are full of dynamite! Look out!"
Getting out of the truck, Andy slammed through the garden gate by the garage. At the farther end of the garden he stopped, staring.
The peach box apparatus he had left active there had ceased to function. No green flame coursed along its wires, though its switch remained closed.
There was no use now to shift the blade of that double-throw switch to its opposite pole to reverse the action o( the machine, as he had intended. Andy bent down, touching the radial filaments. They were still a little warm. The power must have ended just a moment ago, its far-off source broken off.
There wasn’t anything to do but go back to town and the hospital, now. Andy reasoned that there must have been corresponding developments there, too. Flushed with a confused excitement, he arrived, and hurried to Jack's room.
Jane was alone there with the .boy, who looked just as before—asleep and breathing evenly. But Jane was smiling-
"What happened?" Andy snapped. "Something happened. I know it!"
Jane looked at him oddly. ‘‘You must be the psychic one,” she said. "I was frightened at first. Jack had a kind of sudden convulsion. I called the doctor in. But he said nothing was wrong, except maybe a nightmare. He said he thought Jack was sure to recover now, and that he wouldn't be crippled. . . . That it was just the shock of the emergency operation that was so dangerous. Oh. Andy—I—hardly believe it; but I—I'm so glad—"
Andy Matthews took her in his arms then—briefly. He could surely not have denied his own happiness at that moment. But he was looking deep into the texture of a mystery, and feeling an odd ache of regret over something that could have driven his wife to hysteria, had she known. . . .
Half an hour later, Andy took Jane out to a restaurant. A radio was going there, giving news-flashes; and Andy particularly wanted to listen.
“Take it or leave it, friends," the announcer was saying. "The moon’s dead old volcanoes have still got a few kirks left in them, that make Vesuvius and Aetna look sick! A half-dozen observatories, in Australia and Asia, where of course it's still night there. and where the moon is still above the horizon have just reported some very interesting phenomena. Two small puffs of dust were observed in a lunar crater called Plato. These puffs were followed by a tremendous blast that demolished nearly a quarter of the old volcano. . . ."
Here’s the lesson that tomorrow’s lovers learn: Some boundaries can never be crossed
DEATH IS THE PENALTY
By Judith Merril
You come to a twisting path in the still shade of the giant trees, through random patches of green and brown coolness. A last sudden turn delivers you into the clearing, and waves of heat shimmer before you. The sun's rays are too white, the little stream impossibly blue. Squinting, your eyes seek relief and find it.
By the side of the stream, the two black figures have made an island of quiet for themselves. The area inside the unrepaired old fence is filled with the calm inwardness of their tender cold embrace.
The guide will stop here and wait, until everyone is in the clearing, until each face has turned questioningly toward the dark mystery. And when he speaks, the guide's voice will be quiet. Under the great trees he shouted, but in the presence of the lovers, a man does not speak too loudly.
"The permanents here," the guide will tell his crowd of sightseers, "are a memorial to the Boundaries." Over to the left, high above even the giant trees, a Boundary rises white in the sun. Nobody looks at it; all eyes are on the black figures in the clearing. But it is there, always there, a thing no one ever forgets completely.
"The incident," he says, still quietly, "was the last of many that resulted finally in the erection of the Boundaries. The permanents were left here, guarded by a fence for the visitor's safety, instead of being disposed of in the usual fashion. They are safe now, so you may examine them as closely as you like. The names of these two were David Carman and Janice Block ..."
David wandered down the path between the trees, his thoughts on the stream ahead, remembering its brilliant blueness; his body, hot and sticky, even in the shade, remembering the tingle of the water. It was a long walk from the lodge — but worth it when you got here. He came out in the clearing, and immediately disappointment struck at him. On the bank there was a book and a robe. From somewhere around the curve splashing sounded. He had wanted to be alone.
He walked over slowly, and stood over the swimmer's possessions on the shore. Then he saw the book, recognized it, and smiled a little.
He stripped off his own robe, and entered the water noisily, deliberately, to let the earlier swimmer know he was there. And in a moment, a brown arm flashed around the bend, cleaving through the bright blue. And then they met, for the first time.
It was a girl. A girl with brown limbs glistening from the fresh water, and bright brown hair tumbling in loose waves out of her bathing cap. A girl in a yellow bathing suit. A girl with a diffident, uneven-toothed smile and snapping brown eyes, lashes wet still from the water. They both stood up, facing each other in the water, and the magic must have hit them both at once, because neither one spoke a word.
They stood, a few feet apart, and then he laughed aloud, in delight, and she began to laugh, too. They both turned and walked up to the shore. He treasured the seconds, the feel of water pulling against his legs, the shore waiting ahead, the girl walking near him, the water pulling at her the same way, the shore looking the same to her. They sat down where she had left her robe, and he pulled cigarettes out of the pocket of his own. He handed her the pack, took one himself, and they smoked quietly, companionably.
She leaned back resting on one elbow, watching the man's face as he dragged deep on the cigarette. He was thin, tall and too thin, and when he sucked in the smoke, the concavities of his cheeks became deep hollows. His hair was tousled, sandy-colored, and she wondered about his eyes, shadowed under the bony brow-ridge. He was altogether a bony man, his cheek-bones standing out in sharp relief from the long planes of his face, his jaw a stubborn angular challenge to the world, his long lean hands thin enough to reveal the fine structure of tiny bones and veins. She watched him, quietly, not wanting to talk, to find out something that might spoil it, just thinking, "This is how it is. This is how it hits you, and some day, the man is the right one, and you stay hit."
He took the cigarette out of his mouth, held it in front of him watching the blue smoke turn white in the hot air, and disappear, and she knew he would speak. Desperately, she willed him not to.
Let him not say anything wrong. Please, please, let him not spoil it. Let him sit quiet for me to look at and pretend with.
"What do you think of his theory on the correlations on mass and individual reactions?"
She had been so afraid for him to speak that she didn't really hear the words at first. "His?" she said, stupidly.
"Mercken's." His voice was impatient. He turned toward her slowly, and she saw a shadow of disappointment fall over his face. "I saw the book," he said, now politely. "I thought it was yours —Psychology of The Mass —
Intelligence came into her eyes, and she saw the smile return in answer to his face. "It is mine," she said, breathless now. This was too much, too good. "You don't mean," she rushed on, not answering him, "it's your field, too? You… "
"Of course!" He was impatient again. "How far are you. . . "
She let herself breathe again. She stopped wondering and willing anything. She let go, and they were talking. She never remembered afterwards what they talked about that first half-hour. Some of it was psychology, and some of it themselves. Some of it was the woods, the trees and the sun and the brook. But when she began to think clearly again, she knew his name was David, and she was talking shop — again. She stopped, abashed.
"You have your own worries," she said. "I can handle my own job — I guess," then, because she wanted to tell him, she rushed on to explain. Maybe she'd been saying stupid things, and it was important to explain. She was telling him how she had worried about his talking, how she had been afraid whatever he said would spoil the wonderful minute. She could say that without worry; she knew he'd felt it, too. And then how impossibly perfect it was when he did begin to talk. He listened gravely. He didn't say anything; he nodded but in the nod she saw he knew about all the years, and all about the men who were just a little silly, a little juvenile, who came running when she smiled, but backed off in fright when she talked.
He listened, and nodded, and understood, and then as soon as she was done, he said, "I've been thinking about that problem of yours. We've been using inferentials on our work. Have you tried applying them to the quiz-reactions, to test ... "
"Inferentials?" she broke in, puzzled.
He took a stick, sketched the math of it quickly in the sand, and she watched with delight, as the simplicity and beauty of it emerged.
He moved the stick rapidly, wiped out what he had and started again. "You take the first four symbols… "
And then he stopped. "Janice," he said quickly, very low, and a deathly stillness fell, "Janice, where did you say you worked?"
"I didn't." She was sober. She didn't know, she didn't want to know, but she did know, even before she answered him. "California Open Labs," she said, letting each word fall flat to the ground, letting it ring with its leaden weight as it fell. There had had to be something; she'd known there would be something; so this was it. "You're at the Restricted Lodge?" It was a question as she said it, but it needed no answer. She knew.
Without looking at him, she stood up. "I'll try to forget it," she said, watching the shadows of the treetops on the ground, "I'll try not to let it —" She stopped. "You better go now," she said. Then she pulled the bathing cap down hard over her ears, and dashed for the water.
She ran, but he was faster than she. He caught her by the shoulders, roughly, before she got to the bank, swung her around, and waited till she lifted her eyes to his. His mouth opened but there was no word in it. There was nothing he could say. So instead of speaking, he pulled her close, and she was floating away from facts up into a world he brought her with the pressure of his lips.
He let her go slowly, and they sat down again, both of them shaken, too much moved to look at each other, or touch each other.
They tried.
They didn't ask any more questions, and they made no plans. It was the last time they would see each other — only it wasn't. Each of them came back alone, again and again, to the brook in the woods, came and sat alone and thought of how it might have been. And the day came, as it had to, when, rounding the twisting path through the trees, they were face to face again.
They stood without moving, and took no step toward each other. Then from both of them came a curious sigh, an exhalation as if each had held his breath too long. He reached out an arm, slowly, as if to make certain that this time his mind was not playing tricks. The shining brown hair, the sparkling brown eyes — this time they were real. His hands touched her shoulder, lightly, seeking, and then not so lightly, and they were wrapped in each other's arms, alone in a pounding beating universe, a private world of safety and companionship.
It could have been a minute or an hour, when, finally, he said, "Janice, I think I love you. It's crazy and it shouldn't have happened, but I love you."
Then she turned and met his eyes once more. "I love you, David." She heard the melody in her own voice, and wondered how it could sound that way when the world was crashing around her ears. "There's nothing we can do, is there?" she said facing it, putting it in words, the fact, for both of them.
"Nothing," he said.
The words were right. The words were true, but the music was wrong. Wrong because it was happy. Because all the truths in the world couldn't pull them apart now.
They walked back to the brook, arms entwined like children, and sat on the edge of the bright blue water for the rest of the afternoon, savoring each other's presence, talking only a little.
Still they made no plans. Not even an agreement — but after that they met every week. They met and sat there close by the edge of the brook, almost afraid to talk for fear of the things that might pass from him to her, but still not able to stay away altogether.
But it went on, and after a while the first fear slipped away. They were still cautious. They talked about themselves, their hopes, their dreams, anything but work. Once they thought they had found a safe subject. Something he had worked on that had since been released for Open research, and was now a problem in her hands. But that led them dangerously close to the borderline — the things he knew, that she could not. So they shied away, and talked again about themselves.
For Janice it was the first time. She knew he had understood from the beginning, so she poured out to him now all the lonely years. She told him how the exams in Secondary had just barely passed her by for Restricted work, how she was left among men who were pleasant, friendly, good at their work. But always, when she met someone, he stayed a little while, then went away. She was too good — too smart, too quick. A man doesn't want a woman who is greater than he is.
Janice had subjected them, one by one, to the hot inquiring searchlight of her intellect, probed at their minds, and, when she was not herself discarded, she had discarded them, each in turn. Because a woman doesn't want a man who is less than she is.
After a while, they all knew she was cold, that she somehow had missed the secret of soft womanliness — and then she was alone. Until David.
Now something had happened, the hot intensity of the searchlight had diffused as the sun did when you left the clearing for the woods. She had found a man, t
he man; she had stopped picking and judging and weighing, and she was learning to be still, to watch, to lean back. There was also, obscurely, a new vitality to her, and though she had never been beautiful, a kind of beauty. She worked well, too. The inquiring light played now sharply only on her work, and the job gained from it, as her personality gained from the gentle radiance it reflected. And it did not seem to impede her efficiency that she would stop sometimes for a moment to think of the warm spot in the clearing, of David, and of the sheltered loneliness of their love.
Clinically, she was curious about the happiness they had gathered from the total impossibility of their being together. Objectively, she knew it could not last, but resolutely, she shut her mind, as he was doing, to what the end must be.
Each week she went to the brook and sat, talking a little, close by David's side, telling him her secrets, listening to his. Each time she came back renewed in a daze of happiness. But each time, also, she came back troubled, aware of the consciousness that she had shut out, knowing things could not go on as they were, not forever. Some day there would have to be resolution — or an end.
The day came, of course, as it had to come, when they met, and suddenly let loose on each other the growing misery of the weeks, the unhappiness they had each hidden even from themselves. It was noon when they met. They talked, and she sobbed a little, on the bank of the stream, until the sun was half-way down in the sky. And by that time they knew what they had known at the start. There was no way, no possible way, that they could ever have more than what they had now — and even that much was too dangerous.
For Janice there was a new realization. "But I'm not risking a thing, David," she said. "It's all you.You're the only one who'll be punished. If I were — but I'm not. So they won't do a thing to me, when they — if —"
Beyond the End of Time (1952) Anthology Page 34
