Short Stories Vol.1

by Isaac Asimov

  And then, finally, the girl appeared. Miss Fellowes did not know her. None of the usual stand-ins she had used when business took her elsewhere was available now, not with Project Middle Ages at climax, but Hoskins' secretary had promised to find someone and this must be the girl.

  Miss Fellowes tried to keep querulousness out of her voice. "Are you the girl assigned to Stasis Section One?"

  "Yes, I'm Mandy Terris. You're Miss Fellowes, aren't you?"

  "That's right."

  "I'm sorry I'm late. There's just so much excitement."

  "I know. Now I want you-"

  Mandy said, "You'll be watching, I suppose." Her thin, vacuously pretty face filled with envy.

  "Never mind that. Now I want you to come inside and meet Timmie and Jerry. They will be playing for the next two hours so they'll be giving you no trouble. They've got milk handy and plenty of toys. In fact, it will be better if you leave them alone as much as possible. Now I'll show you where everything is located and-"

  "Is it Timmie that's the ape-b-"

  "Timmie is the Stasis subject," said Miss Fellowes firmly.

  "I mean, he's the one who's not supposed to get out, is that right?"

  "Yes. Now, come in. There isn't much time."

  And when she finally left, Mandy Terris called after her shrilly, "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 she did not get a good seat. She got no nearer than the wall-viewing-plate in the assembly hall. Bitterly, she regretted that. If she could have been on the spot; if she could somehow have reached out for some sensitive portion of the instrumentations; if she were in some way able to wreck the experiment-

  She found the strength to beat down her madness. Simple destruction would have done no good. They would have rebuilt and reconstructed and made the effort again. And she would never be allowed to return to Timmie.

  Nothing would help. Nothing but that the experiment itself fail; that it break down irretrievably.

  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 mark something going unexpectedly wrong; watching, watching-

  There was no such look. The count reached zero, and very quietly, very unassumingly, 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 by triumph while bowed down with defeat.

  And when the loud-speaker called her name with strident force, it sounded it three times before she responded.

  "Miss Fellowes. Miss Fellowes. You are wanted in Stasis Section One immediately. Miss Fellowes. Miss Fell-"

  "Let me through!" she cried breathlessly, while the loud-speaker continued its repetitions without pause. She forced her way through the crowds with wild energy, beating at it, striking out with closed fists, flailing, moving toward the door in a nightmare slowness.

  Mandy Terris was in tears. "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 put up. Just for a minute. And then before I could move or do anything-"

  She cried out in sudden accusation, "You said they would make no trouble; you said to leave them alone-"

  Miss Fellowes, disheveled and trembling uncontrollably, glared at her. "Where's Timmie?"

  A nurse was swabbing the arm of a wailing Jerry with disinfectant and another was preparing an anti-tetanus shot. There was blood on Jerry's clothes.

  "He bit me, Miss Fellowes," Jerry cried in rage. "He bit me."

  But Miss Fellowes didn't even see him.

  "What did you do with Timmie?" she cried out.

  "I locked him in the bathroom," said Mandy. "I just threw the little monster in there and locked him in."

  Miss Fellowes ran into the dollhouse. She fumbled at the bathroom door. It took an eternity to get it open and to find the ugly little boy cowering in the corner.

  "Don't whip me, Miss Fellowes," he whispered. His eyes were red. His lips were quivering. "I didn't mean to do it."

  "Oh, Timmie, who told you about whips?" She caught him to her, hugging him wildly.

  He said tremulously, "She said, with a long rope. She said you would hit me and hit me."

  "You won't be. She was wicked to say so. But what happened? What happened?"

  "He called me an ape-boy. He said I wasn't a real boy. He said I was an animal." Timmie dissolved in a flood of tears. "He said he wasn't going to play with a monkey anymore. I said I wasn't a monkey; I wasn 't a monkey. He said I was all funny-looking. He said I was horrible ugly. He kept saying and saying and I bit him."

  They were both crying now. Miss Fellowes sobbed, "But it isn't true. You know that, Timmie. You're a real boy. You're a dear real boy and the best boy in the world. And no one, no one will ever take you away from me."

  It was easy to make up her mind, now; easy to know what to do. Only it had to be done quickly. Hoskins wouldn't wait much longer, with his own son mangled-

  No, it would have to be done this night, this night; with the place four-fifths asleep and the remaining fifth intellectually drunk over Project Middle Ages.

  It would be an unusual time for her to return but not an unheard of one. The guard knew her well and would not dream of questioning her. He would think nothing of her carrying a suitcase. She rehearsed the noncommittal phrase, "Games for the boy," and the calm smile.

  Why shouldn't he believe that?

  He did. When she entered the dollhouse again, Timmie was still awake,

  and she maintained a desperate normality to avoid frightening him. She talked about his dreams with him and listened to him ask wistfully after Jerry.

  There would be few to see her afterward, none to question the bundle she would be carrying. Timmie would be very quiet and then it would be a fait accompli. It would be done and what would be the use of trying to undo it. They would leave her be. They would leave them both be.

  She opened the suitcase, took out the overcoat, the woolen cap with the ear-flaps and the rest.

  Timmie said, with the beginning of alarm, "Why are you putting all these clothes on me, Miss Fellowes?"

  She said, "I am going to take you outside, Timmie. To where your dreams are."

  "My dreams?" His face twisted in sudden yearning, yet fear was there, too.

  "You won't be afraid. You'll be with me. You won't be afraid if you're with me, will you, Timmie?"

  "No, Miss Fellowes." He buried his little misshapen head against her side, and under her enclosing arm she could feel his small heart thud.

  It was midnight and she lifted him into her arms. She disconnected the alarm and opened the door softly.

  And she screamed, for facing her across the open door was Hoskins!

  There were two men with him and he stared at her, as astonished as she.

  Miss Fellowes recovered first by a second and made a quick attempt to push past him; but even with the second's delay he had time. He caught her roughly and hurled her back against a chest of drawers. He waved the men in and confronted her, blocking the door.

  "I didn't expect this. Are you completely insane?"

  She had managed to interpose her shoulder so that it, rather than Timmie, had struck the chest. She said pleadingly, "What harm can it do if I take him, Dr. Hoskins? You can't put energy loss ahead of a human life?"

  Firmly, Hoskins took Timmie out of her arms. "An energy loss this size would mean millions of dollars lost out of the pockets of investors. It would mean a terrible setback for Stasis, In
c. It would mean eventual publicity about a sentimental nurse destroying all that for the sake of an ape-boy."

  "Ape-boy!" said Miss Fellowes, in helpless fury.

  "That's what the reporters would call him," said Hoskins.

  One of the men emerged now, looping a nylon rope through eyelets along the upper portion of the wall.

  Miss Fellowes remembered the rope that Hoskins had pulled outside the room containing Professor Ademewski's rock specimen so long ago.

  She cried out, "No!"

  But Hoskins put Timmie down and gently removed the overcoat he was

  wearing. "You stay here, Timmie. Nothing will happen to you. We're just going outside for a moment. All right?"

  Timmie, white and wordless, managed to nod.

  Hoskins steered Miss Fellowes out of the dollhouse ahead of himself. For the moment, Miss Fellowes was beyond resistance. Dully, she noticed the hand-pull being adjusted outside the dollhouse.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Fellowes," said Hoskins. "I would have spared you this. I planned it for the night so that you would know only when it was over."

  She said in a weary whisper, "Because your son was hurt. Because he tormented this child into striking out at him."

  "No. Believe me. I understand about the incident today and 1 know it was Jerry's fault. But the story has leaked out. It would have to with the press surrounding us on this day of all days. I can't risk having a distorted story about negligence and savage Neanderthalers, so-called, distract from the success of Project Middle Ages. Timmie has to go soon anyway; he might as well go now and give the sensationalists as small a peg as possible on which to hang their trash."

  "It's not like sending a rock back. You'll be killing a human being."

  "Not killing. There'll be no sensation. He'll simply be a Neanderthal boy in a Neanderthal world. He will no longer be a prisoner and alien. He will have a chance at a free life."

  "What chance? He's only seven years old, used to being taken care of, fed, clothed, sheltered. He will be alone. His tribe may not be at the point where he left them now that four years have passed. And if they were, they would not recognize him. He will have to take care of himself. How will he know how?"

  Hoskins shook his head in hopeless negative. "Lord, Miss Fellowes, do you think we haven't thought of that? Do you think we would have brought in a child if it weren't that it was the first successful fix of a human or near-human we made and that we did not dare to take the chance of unfixing him and finding another fix as good? Why do you suppose we kept Timmie as long as we did, if it were not for our reluctance to send a child back into the past? It's just"-his voice took on a desperate urgency-"that we can wait no longer. Timmie stands in the way of expansion! Timmie is a source of possible bad publicity; we are on the threshold of great things, and I'm sorry, Miss Fellowes, but we can't let Timmie block us. We cannot. We cannot. I'm sorry, Miss Fellowes."

  "Well, then," said Miss Fellowes sadly. "Let me say good-by. Give me five minutes to say good-by. Spare me that much."

  Hoskins hesitated. "Go ahead."

  Timmie ran to her. For the kst time he ran to her and for the last time Miss Fellowes clasped him in her arms.

  For a moment, she hugged him blindly. She caught at a chair with the toe of one foot, moved it against the wall, sat down.

  "Don't be afraid, Timmie."

  "I'm not afraid if you're here, Miss Fellowes. Is that man mad at me, the man out there?"

  "No, he isn't. He just doesn't understand about us. -Timmie, do you know what a mother is?"

  "Like Jerry's mother?"

  "Did he tell you about his mother?"

  "Sometimes. I think maybe a mother is a lady who takes care of you and who's very nice to you and who does good things."

  "That's right. Have you ever wanted a mother, Timmie?"

  Timmie pulled his head away from her so that he could look into her face. Slowly, he put his hand to her cheek and hair and stroked her, as long, long ago she had stroked him. He said, "Aren't you my mother?"

  "Oh, Timmie."

  "Are you angry because I asked?"

  "No. Of course not."

  "Because I know your name is Miss Fellowes, but-but sometimes, I call you 'Mother' inside. Is that all right?"

  "Yes. Yes. It's all right. And I won't leave you any more and nothing will hurt you. I'll be with you to care for you always. Call me Mother, so I can hear you."

  "Mother," said Timmie contentedly, leaning his cheek against hers.

  She rose, and, still holding him, stepped up on the chair. The sudden beginning of a shout from outside went unheard and, with her free hand, she yanked with all her weight at the cord where it hung suspended between two eyelets. *i And Stasis was punctured and the room was empty.

  Nightfall

  If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore, and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God?'

  EMERSON

  Aton 77, director of Saro University, thrust out a belligerent lower lip and glared at the young newspaperman in a hot fury.

  Theremon 762 took that fury in his stride. In his earlier days, when his now widely syndicated column was only a mad idea in a cub reporter's mind, he had specialized in 'impossible' interviews. It had cost him bruises, black eyes, and broken bones; but it had given him an ample supply of coolness and self-confidence. So he lowered the outthrust hand that had been so pointedly ignored and calmly waited for the aged director to get over the worst. Astronomers were queer ducks, anyway, and if Aton's actions of the last two months meant anything; this same Aton was the queer-duckiest of the lot.

  Aton 77 found his voice, and though it trembled with restrained emotion, the careful, somewhat pedantic phraseology, for which the famous astronomer was noted, did not abandon him.

  'Sir,' he said, 'you display an infernal gall in coming to me with that impudent proposition of yours.' The husky telephotographer of the Observatory, Beenay 25, thrust a tongue's tip across dry lips and interposed nervously, 'Now, sir, after all -- '

  The director turned to him and lifted a white eyebrow.

  'Do not interfere, Beenay. I will credit you with good intentions in bringing this man here; but I will tolerate no insubordination now.'

  Theremon decided it was time to take a part. 'Director Aton, if you'll let me finish what I started saying, I think -- '

  'I don't believe, young man,' retorted Aton, 'that anything you could say now would count much as compared with your daily columns of these last two months. You have led a vast newspaper campaign against the efforts of myself and my colleagues to organize the world against the menace which it is now too late to avert. You have done your best with your highly personal attacks to make the staff of this Observatory objects of ridicule.'

  The director lifted a copy of the Saro City Chronicle from the table and shook it at Theremon furiously. 'Even a person of your well-known impudence should have hesitated before coming to me with a request that he be allowed to cover today's events for his paper. Of all newsmen, you!'

  Aton dashed the newspaper to the floor, strode to the window, and clasped his arms behind his back.

  'You may leave,' he snapped over his shoulder. He stared moodily out at the skyline where Gamma, the brightest of the planet's six suns, was setting. It had already faded and yellowed into the horizon mists, and Aton knew he would never see it again as a sane man. He whirled. 'No, wait, come here!' He gestured peremptorily. I'll give you your story.'

  The newsman had made no motion to leave, and now he approached the old man slowly. Aton gestured outward.

  'Of the six suns, only Beta is left in the sky. Do you see it?'

  The question was rather unnecessary. Beta was almost at zenith, its ruddy light flooding the landscape to an unusual orange as the brilliant rays of setting Gamma died. Beta was at aphelion. It was small; smaller than Theremon had ever seen it before, and for the moment it was undisputed ruler of Lagash's sky.

&nbs
p; Lagash's own sun. Alpha, the one about which it revolved, was at the antipodes, as were the two distant companion pairs. The red dwarf Beta -- Alpha's immediate companion -- was alone, grimly alone.

  Aton's upturned face flushed redly in the sunlight. 'In just under four hours,' he said, 'civilization, as we know it, comes to an end. It will do so because, as you see. Beta is the only sun in the sky.' He smiled grimly. 'Print that! There'll be no one to read it.'

  'But if it turns out that four hours pass -- and another four -- and nothing happens?' asked Theremon softly.

  'Don't let that worry you. Enough will happen.'

  'Granted! And still -- if nothing happens?'

  For a second time, Beenay 25 spoke. 'Sir, I think you ought to listen to him.'

  Theremon said, 'Put it to a vote, Director Aton.'

  There was a stir among the remaining five members of the Observatory staff, who till now had maintained an attitude of wary neutrality.

  'That,' stated Aton flatly, 'is not necessary.' He drew out his pocket watch. 'Since your good friend, Beenay, insists so urgently, I will give you five minutes. Talk away.'

  'Good! Now, just what difference would it make if you allowed me to take down an eyewitness account of what's to come? If your prediction comes true, my presence won't hurt; for in that case my column would never be written. On the other hand, if nothing comes of it, you will just have to expect ridicule or worse. It would be wise to leave that ridicule to friendly hands.'

  Aton snorted. 'Do you mean yours when you speak of friendly hands?'

  'Certainly!' Theremon sat down and crossed his legs.

  'My columns may have been a little rough, but I gave you people the benefit of the doubt every time. After all. this is not the century to preach "The end of the world is at hand" to Lagash. You have to understand that people don't believe the Book of Revelations anymore, and it annoys them to have scientists turn aboutface and tell us the Cultists are right after all -- '

  'No such thing, young man,' interrupted Aton. 'While a great deal of our data has been supplied us by the Cult, our results contain none of the Cult's mysticism. Facts are facts, and the Cult's so-called mythology has certain facts behind it. We've exposed them and ripped away their mystery. I assure you that the Cult hates us now worse than you do.'