The Ugly Little Boy

by Isaac Asimov

  “Yes,” Mannheim said. “I do.”

  He was quiet a long while. He seemed to be working out some profound calculation in his mind.

  Finally he said, “When is he supposed to be shipped back? Do you know?”

  “Perhaps not for months, Dr. Hoskins told me. I can’t say whether that means two months or six.”

  “Not much time, either way. We’d have to organize a campaign, a Save Timmie campaign—letters to the newspapers, demonstrations, an injunction, maybe a Congressional investigation into the whole Stasis Technologies operation.—Of course, it would be useful if you’d take part by testifying to Timmie’s essential humanity, by providing us with videos showing how he reads and looks after himself. But you’d probably have to resign your post there if you were to do that, and that would cut you off from Timmie, which you wouldn’t want, and which wouldn’t be useful to us, either. A problem. On the other hand, suppose—”

  “No,” Miss Fellowes said. “It’s no good.”

  Mannheim glanced up, surprised. “What?”

  “A campaign of the kind you’re talking about. It’ll backfire. The moment you start with your protests and your talk of demonstrations and injunctions, Dr. Hoskins will simply pull the switch on Timmie. That’s all it is—a switch, a handle. You yank it and whatever’s in the cubicle goes back where it came from. The Stasis people couldn’t afford to let things get to the point where you have them tied up with an injunction. They’d act right away and make the whole thing a moot issue.”

  “They wouldn’t dare.”

  “Wouldn’t they? They’ve already decided the Timmie experiment is over. They need his Stasis facility for something else. You don’t know them. They’re not sentimental people, not really. Hoskins is basically a decent man, but if it’s a choice between Timmie and the future of Stasis Technologies, Ltd., he wouldn’t have any problem choosing at all. And once Timmie’s gone, there’s no bringing him back. It’ll be a fait accompli. They could never find him in the past a second time. Your injunction would be worthless. And somebody who lived forty thousand years ago and died before civilization was ever imagined wouldn’t have any recourse in our courts.”

  Mannheim nodded slowly. He took a long, reflective sip of his wine. The waiter came by, hovering with his order pad at the ready, but Mannheim waved him away.

  “There’s only one thing to do,” he said.

  “And that is?”

  “We have people in Canada who’d be glad to raise Timmie. In England, in New Zealand also. Concerned, loving people. Our organization could provide a grant that would cover the cost of employing you as his full-time nurse. Of course, you’d have to make a total break with your present existence and start all over again in some other country, but my reading of you is that for Timmie’s sake you’d have no problem with—”

  “No. That wouldn’t be possible.”

  “No?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  Mannheim frowned. “I see.” Though it was apparent that he didn’t. “—Well, then, Edith, even if you have a problem yourself about leaving the country, and I completely understand that, I think we can count on you at least to help us in smuggling Timmie out of the Stasis facility, can’t we?”

  “I don’t have any problem with leaving the country, if that’s what I’d need to do to save Timmie. I’d do whatever I could and go wherever I had to, for Timmie’s sake. It’s smuggling him out of the Stasis facility that isn’t possible.”

  “Is it as tightly guarded as all that? I assure you, we’d find ways of infiltrating the security staff, of working out a completely foolproof plan for taking Timmie from you and getting him out of that building.”

  “It can’t be done. Scientifically, it can’t.”

  “Scientifically?”

  “There’s something about temporal potential, an energy build-up, lines of temporal force. If we moved a mass the size of Timmie out of Stasis it would blow out every power line in the city. Hoskins told me that and I don’t question the truth of it. They’ve got a bunch of pebbles and dirt and twigs that they brought here when they scooped Timmie out of the past, and they don’t even dare take that stuff out and throw it away. It’s all stored in the back of the Stasis bubble.—Besides all that, I’m not even sure whether moving Timmie outside of Stasis would be safe for him. I’m not certain about that part, but maybe it could be dangerous for him. I’m only guessing at this part. For all I know, he might undergo some kind of temporal-force effect too if he was brought out of the bubble into our universe. The bubble isn’t in our universe, you know. It’s in some special place of its own. You can feel the change when you pass through the door, remember? So your idea of kidnapping Timmie from Stasis and sending him to people overseas—No, no, the risks are too big. Not for you or for me, really, but maybe for Timmie.”

  Mannheim’s face was bleak.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I offer to raise a legal firestorm in Timmie’s defense and you say it won’t work, they’ll simply pull the switch on him the moment we make any trouble. Then I come up with the completely illegal resort of stealing Timmie from Stasis and putting him beyond Hoskins’ jurisdiction and you tell me we can’t do that either, because of some problem in the physics of it. All right. I want to help, Edith, but you’ve got me stymied and right now I don’t have any further ideas.”

  “Neither do I,” Miss Fellowes said miserably.

  They sat there in silence as the rain hammered at the windows of the restaurant.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Going

  [52]

  PROJECT MIDDLE AGES—that was all that anyone was talking about at Stasis Technologies, Ltd. now. It was the beginning of an amazing new phase for the time-travel operation, everyone agreed. The unique process that Stasis Technologies controlled would open the gateway to the historical past—would bring new and astounding knowledge of antiquity pouring into the twenty-first century, an incredible intellectual treasure. And perhaps treasure of another kind, some said: if they could reach back into any century of historic times and bring people back, why not scoop up works of art, rare books and manuscripts, valuable objects of all sorts? Overnight the resources of the museums of the world could be doubled, tripled, quadrupled! And everything in perfect condition—and at no expense other than the energy costs.

  Everyone in the company prayed that Project Middle Ages would come off without a hitch. Everyone but Edith Fellowes, who quietly prayed that it would fail. That Hoskins’ theories would be wrong, or that the equipment would not be equal to the task. It was the only thing she could cling to, now—the only hope she had that Timmie would not die. If the attempt to bring a man forward from the fourteenth century turned out to be a flop, there’d be no need to vacate the Stasis bubble that Timmie occupied. Then everything could go on as before.

  So she hoped for the failure of the project; but the rest of the world hoped for its success. And, irrationally, Miss Fellowes hated the world for it. Project Middle Ages was reaching a climax of white-hot publicity now. The media and the public both were obsessed with it. It was a long time since Stasis Technologies, Ltd. had had anything to catch their attention. A new rock or another ancient fish would hardly stir them. The little dinosaur had caused a ripple in its time, but then they had forgotten about it. As for Timmie the Neanderthal, little Timmie the cave-boy, well, he might have held the public fancy for a while longer if he had been anything like the ferocious ape-child that some people had anticipated. But Stasis Technologies’ Neanderthal had turned out not to be an ape-child at all, just an ugly little boy. An ugly little boy who wore overalls and had learned to read picture-books—what was exciting about that? There was nothing very prehistoric about him any longer. Maybe if he bellowed in anger and hammered his fists against his chest, yes, and roared some savage primordial gibberish, that might have held their interest a little longer. But that wasn’t Timmie’s style.

  A historical human, though—a full-grown person stepping out of the pa
st, someone who had looked with his own eyes upon Joan of Arc or Richard the Lion-Hearted or Saladin—someone who could speak a known language, someone who could bring the pages of history to life—

  The weeks went by. The time came closer.

  And now the day of Zero Hour for Project Middle Ages was at hand.

  Hoskins and his associates had learned a good deal about the techniques of public relations since the day of Timmie’s arrival three years before. This time it wouldn’t be a matter of a handful of onlookers on a balcony. This time the technicians of Stasis Technologies, Ltd., would play out their role before nearly all of mankind.

  Miss Fellowes herself was all but savage with anticipation. She wanted the suspense to be over; she wanted to know whether the project would succeed or fail. She meant to be there in the assembly hall as the final switches were being thrown. If only the new relief orderly would show up so that she would be free to go over there—Mandy Terris was her name, she had been taken on last week, a replacement for Ms. Stratford, who had gone on to a better-paying job in another state—

  “Miss Fellowes?”

  She whirled, hoping it was Mandy Terris at last. But no, it was just Dr. Hoskins’ secretary, bringing Jerry Hoskins for his scheduled playtime with Timmie. The woman dropped Jerry off and hurried away. She, too, was rushing for a good place from which to watch the climax of Project Middle Ages.

  Jerry sidled toward Miss Fellowes, looking embarrassed.

  “Miss Fellowes?”

  “What is it, Jerry?”

  The boy took a ragged news-strip cutting from his pocket and held it out to her.

  “This is a picture of Timmie, isn’t it?”

  Miss Fellows glanced at it quickly. It was Timmie, all right, grinning out from the page. The excitement over Project Middle Ages had brought about a pale revival of interest in Timmie on the part of the press. The news-strip picture was a photo that had been taken not long ago, on the third anniversary of his arrival. Timmie’s birthday party, they had called it—celebrating his “birth” into the twenty-first century, a few of the scientists and a few reporters and Jerry and Timmie. Timmie was holding one of his “birthday” presents, a shining robot toy.

  “What about it?” Miss Fellowes asked.

  Jerry watched her narrowly. “It says Timmie is an ape-boy. They aren’t supposed to say that, are they?”

  “What?”

  She snatched the clipping from young Hoskins’ hand and stared at it. There was a caption that she had not bothered to read before:

  PREHISTORIC APE-BOY

  GETS TOY ROBOT

  FOR HIS BIRTHDAY

  Ape-boy, Ape-boy, Prehistoric ape-boy. Miss Fellowes’ eyes brimmed with hot tears of rage. With a vicious twist of the wrist, she tore the news-strip into a dozen pieces and threw them on the floor.

  “Why’d you do that, Miss Fellowes? Because it said Timmie was an ape-boy? He isn’t an ape-boy, is he? Or is he?”

  She caught the youngster’s wrist and repressed the impulse to shake him. “No, he isn’t an ape-boy! And I don’t want you ever to say those words again. Never, do you understand? It’s a nasty thing to say and you mustn’t do it.”

  Jerry struggled out of her grip, looking frightened.

  Her heart was pounding. Miss Fellowes fought to get control of herself.

  “Go inside and play with Timmie,” she said. “He’s got a new book to show you.”

  “You hurt me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  “I’ll tell my fa—”

  “Go inside! Quick! I told you I was sorry.” The boy scurried away, through the door of the bubble, turning once to look back at her with anger in his eyes. Miss Fellowes heard footsteps from the other direction and turned to see Mandy Terris approaching. About time, she thought.

  “You’re a little late, aren’t you?” she said, trying to keep querulousness out of her voice. “Jerry Hoskins is here already. Inside, playing with Timmie.”

  “I know, Miss Fellowes. I was trying to hurry, but there are crowds everywhere. There’s just so much excitement.”

  “I know. Now, I want you—”

  Mandy said, “I guess you’re in a rush to go off and watch, aren’t you?” Her thin, vacuously pretty face filled with envy. “Of all times for me to have to be on duty—”

  “You can watch it on the evening news,” Miss Fellowes said curtly. “Let’s go inside, shall we?” It would be the first time she had left Mandy Terris alone with Timmie. “The boys won’t give you any trouble. They’ve got milk handy and all the toys they’ll need. In fact, it’ll be better if you leave them alone as much as possible.”

  “I understand. And I’ll be sure not to let him get out, either. I know how important that is.”

  “Good. Now come in.”

  Miss Fellowes opened the Stasis door for her and showed her in. Timmie and Jerry were busy with their games in the back room and paid no attention. She showed Mandy Terris what needed to be done in the next couple of hours, the requisition forms to fill out, the record-keeping.

  As Miss Fellowes was about to leave, the girl called after her, “I hope you get a good seat! And, golly, I sure hope it works!”

  Miss Fellowes did not trust herself to make a reasonable response. She hurried on without looking back.

  But the delay meant that she did not get a good seat. She got no nearer than the wall-viewing-plate in the assembly hall. She regretted that bitterly. If only she could have been on the spot; if she could somehow have reached out for some sensitive portion of the instrumentation; if she were in some way able to sabotage the experiment—

  No. That was madness. She summoned her strength and beat the foolish ideas back.

  Simple destruction would accomplish nothing. They would simply rebuild and reconstruct and make the effort again. And she would have cut herself off from Timmie forever.

  Nothing would help.

  Nothing but the failure of the experiment itself—its irretrievable breakdown, its fundamental impossibility—something of that sort.

  So she waited through the countdown, watching every move on the giant screen, scanning the faces of the technicians as the focus shifted from one to the other, watching for the look of worry and uncertainty that would tell her that something had unexpectedly gone wrong.

  Watching—watching—

  Nobody looked uncertain. No one seemed particularly worried. They had tested the equipment many times. They had run a thousand simulations; they had already satisfied themselves that a close-range temporal fix was feasible.

  The count ran all the way out, down to zero.

  And—very quietly, very unspectacularly—the experiment succeeded.

  In the new Stasis that had been established there stood a bearded, stoop-shouldered peasant of indeterminate age, in ragged dirty clothing and wooden shoes, staring in dull horror at the sudden mad change that had flung itself over him.

  And while the world went mad with jubilation, Miss Fellowes stood frozen in sorrow, jostled and pushed, all but trampled. Surrounded on all sides by triumph while she herself was bowed down with defeat.

  When the loudspeaker began to call her name with strident force, it sounded three times before she reacted.

  “Miss Fellowes. Miss Fellowes. You are wanted in Stasis Section One immediately. Miss Fellowes. Miss Fell—”

  What had happened?

  “Let me through!” she cried, while the loudspeaker continued its repetitions without pause. With wild energy she cut a path for herself through the crowds, beating at the people in her way, striking out with closed fists, flailing desperately, moving toward the door in a nightmare slowness.

  “Miss Fellowes, please—Miss Fellowes—urgent—”

  [53]

  Mandy Terris was in tears in the corridor outside the bubble. “I don’t know how it happened. I just went down to the edge of the corridor to watch a pocket viewing-plate they had set up. Just for a minute. And then before I could move or do
anything—” She cried out in sudden accusation, “You said they wouldn’t make any trouble; you said I should leave them alone—”

  Miss Fellowes, disheveled and trembling uncontrollably, glared at her. “Where’s Timmie?”

  Mortenson had appeared from somewhere and was swabbing the arm of a wailing Jerry with disinfectant. Elliott was there, too, preparing an anti-tetanus shot. There was a bright bloodstain on Jerry’s clothes.

  “He bit me, Miss Fellowes,” Jerry screamed in rage. “He bit me!”

  But Miss Fellowes looked right through him.

  “What did you do with Timmie?” she cried out.

  “I locked him in the bathroom,” Mandy Terris said. “I just threw the little monster in there and barricaded it with some chairs.”

  Miss Fellowes ran into the dollhouse, scarcely even noticing the ripple of disorientation as she entered Stasis. She pushed the chairs aside and fumbled at the bathroom door. It took an eternity to get it open.

  At last. She looked down on the ugly little boy, cowering miserably in the corner.

  “Don’t whip me, Miss Fellowes,” Timmie said huskily. His eyes were red. His lips were quivering. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. You aren’t going to whip me, are you?”

  “Oh, Timmie, who told you about whips?” She drew him to her, hugging him wildly.