by Howard Fast
When you find a child, inform us immediately. Air transport will be at your disposal—and we are making all arrangements for wet nurses and other details of child care. We shall also have medical aid at your immediate disposal. On the other hand, we want healthy children—within the general conditions of health within any given area.
Now good luck to you. We are depending on you and we love you. And a merry Christmas.
Jean
By diplomatic pouch
Copenhagen, Denmark
February 4, 1946
Mrs. Jean Arbalaid
Washington, D. C.
Dear Jean:
I seem to have caught your silly top-secret and classified disease, and I have been waiting for a free day and a diplomatic pouch to sum up my various adventures. From my “guarded” cables, you know that the professor and I have been doing a Cook’s Tour of the baby market. My dear sister, this kind of shopping spree does not sit at all well with me. However, I gave my word, and there you are. I will complete and deliver.
By the way, I suppose I continue to send these along to Washington, even though your “environment,” as you call it, has been established. I’ll do so until otherwise instructed.
There was no great difficulty in finding the professor. Being in uniform—I have since acquired an excellent British wardrobe—and having all the fancy credentials you were kind enough to supply, I went to the War Office. As they say, every courtesy was shown to Major Harry Felton, but I feel better in civilian clothes. Anyway, the professor had been working with a child reclamation project, living among the ruins of the East End, which is pretty badly shattered. He is an astonishing little man, and I have become quite fond of him. On his part, he is learning to tolerate me.
I took him to dinner—you were the lever that moved him, my dear sister. I had no idea how famous you are in certain circles. He looked at me in awe, simply because we share a mother and father.
Then I said my piece, all of it, no holds barred. I had expected your reputation to crumble into dust there on the spot, but no such thing. Goldbaum listened with his mouth and his ears and every fibre of his being. The only time he interrupted me was to question me on the Assamese girl and the Bantu boy; and very pointed and meticulous questions they were. When I had finished, he simply shook his head—not in disagreement but with sheer excitement and delight. I then asked him what his reaction to all this was.
“I need time,” he said. “This is something to digest. But the concept is wonderful—daring and wonderful. Not that the reasoning behind it is so novel. I have thought of this—so many anthropologists have. But to put it into practice, young man—ah, your sister is a wonderful and remarkable woman!”
There you are, my sister. I struck while the iron was hot, and told him then and there that you wanted and needed his help, first to find the children and then to work in the environment.
“The environment,” he said; “you understand that is everything, everything. But how can she change the environment? The environment is total, the whole fabric of human society, self-deluded and superstitious and sick and irrational and clinging to legends and phantasies and ghosts. Who can change that?”
So it went. My anthropology is passable at best, but I have read all your books. If my answers were weak in that department, he did manage to draw out of me a more or less complete picture of Mark and yourself. He then said he would think about the whole matter. We made an appointment for the following day, when he would explain his method of intelligence determination in infants.
We met the next day, and he explained his methods. He made a great point of the fact that he did not test but rather determined, within a wide margin for error. Years before, in Germany, he had worked out a list of fifty characteristics which he noted in infants. As these infants matured, they were tested regularly by normal methods—and the results were checked against his original observations. Thereby, he began to draw certain conclusions, which he tested again and again over the next fifteen years. I am enclosing an unpublished article of his which goes into greater detail. Sufficient to say that he convinced me of the validity of his methods. Subsequently, I watched him examine a hundred and four British infants—to come up with our first choice. Jean, this is a remarkable and brilliant man.
On the third day after I had met him, he agreed to join the project. But he said this to me, very gravely, and afterwards. I put it down exactly as he said it:
“You must tell your sister that I have not come to this decision lightly. We are tampering with human souls—and perhaps even with human destiny. This experiment may fail, but if it succeeds it can be the most important event of our time—even more important and consequential than this war we have just fought. And you must tell her something else. I had a wife and three children, and they were put to death because a nation of men turned into beasts. I watched that, and I could not have lived through it unless I believed, always, that what can turn into a beast can also turn into a man. We are neither. But if we go to create man, we must be humble. We are the tool, not the craftsman, and if we succeed, we will be less than the result of our work.”
There is your man, Jean, and as I said, a good deal of a man. Those words are verbatim. He also dwells a great deal on the question of environment, and the wisdom and judgement and love necessary to create this environment. I think it would be helpful if you could send me a few words at least concerning this environment you are establishing.
We have now sent you four infants. Tomorrow, we leave for Rome—and from Rome to Casablanca.
But we will be in Rome at least two weeks, and a communication should reach me there.
More seriously—
And not untroubled,
Harry
By diplomatic pouch
Via Washington, D. C.
February 11, 1946
Mr. Harry Felton
Rome, Italy
Dear Harry:
Just a few facts here. We are tremendously impressed by your reactions to Professor Goldbaum, and we look forward eagerly to his joining us. Meanwhile, Mark and I have been working night and day on the environment. In the most general terms, this is what we plan.
The entire reservation—all eight thousand acres—will be surrounded by a wire fence and will be under army guard. Within it, we shall establish a home. There will be between thirty and forty teachers—or group parents. We are accepting only married couples who love children and who will dedicate themselves to this venture. That they must have additional qualifications goes without saying.
Within the proposition that somewhere in man’s civilized development, something went wrong, we are returning to the pre-history form of group marriage. That is not to say that we will cohabit indiscriminately—but the children will be given to understand that parentage is a whole, that we are all their mothers and fathers, not by blood but by love.
We shall teach them the truth, and where we do not know the truth, we shall not teach. There will be no myths, no legends, no lies, superstitions, no premises and no religions. We shall teach love and cooperation and we shall give love and security in full measure. We shall also teach them the knowledge of mankind.
During the first nine years, we shall command the environment entirely. We shall write the books they read, and shape the history and circumstances they require. Only then, will we begin to relate the children to the world as it is.
Does it sound too simple or too presumptuous? It is all we can do, Harry, and I think Professor Goldbaum will understand that full well. It is also more than has ever been done for children before.
So good luck to both of you. Your letters sound as if you are changing, Harry—and we feel a curious process of change within us. When I put down what we are doing, it seems almost too obvious to be meaningful. We are simply taking a group of very gifted children and giving them knowledge and love. Is this enough to break through to that part of man which is unused and unknown? Well, we shall see. Bring us the children, Harry, a
nd we shall see.
With love,
Jean
In the early spring of 1965, Harry Felton arrived in Washington and went directly to the White House. Felton had just turned fifty; he was a tall and pleasant-looking man, rather lean, with greying hair. As President of the Board of Shipways, Inc.—one of the largest import and export houses in America—he commanded a certain amount of deference and respect from Eggerton, who was then Secretary of Defense. In any case, Eggerton, who was nobody’s fool, did not make the mistake of trying to intimidate Felton.
Instead, he greeted him pleasantly; and the two of them, with no others present, sat down in a small room in the White House, drank each other’s good health, and talked about things.
Eggerton proposed that Felton might know why he had been asked to Washington.
“I can’t say that I do know,” Felton said.
“You have a remarkable sister.”
“I have been aware of that for a long time,” Felton smiled.
“You are also very close-mouthed, Mr. Felton,” the secretary observed. “So far as we know, not even your immediate family has ever heard of man-plus. That’s a commendable trait.”
“Possibly and possibly not. It’s been a long time.”
“Has it? Then you haven’t heard from your sister lately?”
“Almost a year,” Felton answered.
“It didn’t alarm you?”
“Should it? No, it didn’t alarm me. My sister and I are very close, but this project of hers is not the sort of thing that allows for social relations. There have been long periods before when I have not heard from her. We are poor letter writers.”
“I see,” nodded Eggerton.
“I am to conclude that she is the reason for my visit here?”
“Yes.”
“She’s well?”
“As far as we know,” Eggerton said quietly.
“Then what can I do for you?”
“Help us, if you will,” Eggerton said, just as quietly. “I am going to tell you what has happened, Mr. Felton, and then perhaps you can help us.”
“Perhaps,” Felton agreed.
“About the project, you know as much as any of us, more perhaps, since you were in at the inception. So you realize that such a project must be taken very seriously or laughed off entirely. To date, it has cost the government eleven million dollars, and that is not something you laugh off. Now you understand that the unique part of this project was its exclusiveness. That word is used advisedly and specifically. Its success depended upon the creation of a unique and exclusive environment, and in terms of that environment, we agreed not to send any observers into the reservation for a period of fifteen years. Of course, during those fifteen years, there have been many conferences with Mr. and Mrs. Arbalaid and with certain of their associates, including Dr. Goldbaum.
“But out of these conferences, there was no progress report that dealt with anything more than general progress. We were given to understand that the results were rewarding and exciting, but very little more. We honored our part of the agreement, and at the end of the fifteen year period, we told your sister and her husband that we would have to send in a team of observers. They pleaded for an extension of time—maintaining that it was critical to the success of the entire program—and they pleaded persuasively enough to win a three year extension. Some months ago, the three year period was over. Mrs. Arbalaid came to Washington and begged a further extension. When we refused, she agreed that our team could come into the reservation in ten days. Then she returned to California.”
Eggerton paused and looked at Felton searchingly.
“And what did you find?” Felton asked.
“You don’t know?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well—” the secretary said slowly, “I feel like a damn fool when I think of this, and also a little afraid. When I say it, the fool end predominates. We went there and we found nothing.”
“Oh?”
“You don’t appear too surprised, Mr. Felton?”
“Nothing my sister does has ever really surprised me. You mean the reservation was empty—no sign of anything?”
“I don’t mean that, Mr. Felton. I wish I did mean that. I wish it was so pleasantly human and down to earth. I wish we thought that your sister and her husband were two clever and unscrupulous swindlers who had taken the government for eleven million. That would warm the cockles of our hearts compared to what we do have. You see, we don’t know whether the reservation is empty or not, Mr. Felton, because the reservation is not there.”
“What?”
“Precisely. The reservation is not there.”
“Come now,” Felton smiled. “My sister is a remarkable woman, but she doesn’t make off with eight thousand acres of land. It isn’t like her.”
“I don’t find your humor entertaining, Mr. Felton.”
“No. No, of course not. I’m sorry. Only when a thing makes no sense at all—how could an eight-thousand-acre stretch of land not be where it was? Doesn’t it leave a large hole?”
“If the newspapers get hold of it, they could do even better than that, Mr. Felton.”
“Why not explain?” Felton said.
“Let me try to—not to explain but to describe. This stretch of land is in the Fulton National Forest, rolling country, some hills, a good stand of redwood—a kidney-shaped area. It was wire-fenced, with army guards at every approach. I went there with our inspection team, General Meyers, two army physicians, Gorman, the psychiatrist, Senator Totenwell of the Armed Services Committee, and Lydia Gentry, the educator. We crossed the country by ’plane and drove the final sixty miles to the reservation in two government cars. A dirt road leads into it. The guard on this road halted us. The reservation was directly before us. As the guard approached the first car, the reservation disappeared.”
“Just like that?” Felton whispered. “No noise—no explosion?”
“No noise, no explosion. One moment, a forest of redwoods in front of us—then a gray area of nothing.”
“Nothing? That’s just a word. Did you try to go in?”
“Yes—we tried. The best scientists in America have tried. I myself am not a very brave man, Mr. Felton, but I got up enough courage to walk up to this gray edge and touch it. It was very cold and very hard—so cold that it blistered these three fingers.”
He held out his hand for Felton to see.
“I became afraid then. I have not stopped being afraid.” Felton nodded. “Fear—such fear,” Eggerton sighed.
“I need not ask you if you tried this or that?”
“We tried everything, Mr. Felton, even—I am ashamed to say—a very small atomic bomb. We tried the sensible things and the foolish things. We went into panic and out of panic, and we tried everything.”
“Yet you’ve kept it secret?”
“So far, Mr. Felton.”
“Airplanes?”
“You see nothing from above. It looks like mist lying in the valley.”
“What do your people think it is?”
Eggerton smiled and shook his head. “They don’t know. There you are. At first, some of them thought it was some kind of force field. But the mathematics won’t work, and of course it’s cold. Terribly cold. I am mumbling. I am not a scientist and not a mathematician, but they also mumble, Mr. Felton. I am tired of that kind of thing. That is why I asked you to come to Washington and talk with us. I thought you might know.”
“I might,” Felton nodded.
For the first time, Eggerton became alive, excited, impatient. He mixed Felton another drink. Then he leaned forward eagerly and waited. Felton took a letter out of his pocket.
“This came from my sister,” he said.
“You told me you had no letter from her in almost a year!”
“I’ve had this almost a year,” Felton replied, a note of sadness in his voice. “I haven’t opened it. She enclosed this sealed envelope with a short letter, which only said that she
was well and quite happy, and that I was to open and read the other letter when it was absolutely necessary to do so. My sister is like that; we think the same way. Now, I suppose it’s necessary, don’t you?”
The secretary nodded slowly but said nothing. Felton opened the letter and began to read aloud.
June 12, 1964
My dear Harry:
As I write this, it is twenty-two years since I have seen you or spoken to you. How very long for two people who have such love and regard for each other as we do! And now that you have found it necessary to open this letter and read it, we must face the fact that in all probability we will never see each other again. I hear that you have a wife and three children—all wonderful people. I think it is hardest to know that I will not see them or know them.
Only this saddens me. Otherwise, Mark and I are very happy—and I think you will understand why.
About the barrier—which now exists or you would not have opened the letter—tell them that there is no harm to it and no one will be hurt by it. It cannot be broken into because it is a negative power rather than a positive one, an absence instead of a presence. I will have more to say about it later, but possibly explain it no better. Some of the children could likely put it into intelligible words, but I want this to be my report, not theirs.
Strange that I still call them children and think of them as children—when in all fact we are the children and they are adults. But they still have the quality of children that we know best, the strange innocence and purity that vanishes so quickly in the outside world.
And now I must tell you what came of our experiment—or some of it. Some of it, for how could I ever put down the story of the strangest two decades that men ever lived through? It is all incredible and it is all commonplace. We took a group of wonderful children, and we gave them an abundance of love, security and truth—but I think it was the factor of love that mattered most. During the first year, we weeded out each couple that showed less than a desire to love these children. They were easy to love. And as the years passed, they became our children—in every way. The children who were born to the couples in residence here simply joined the group. No one had a father or a mother; we were a living functioning group in which all men were the fathers of all children and all women the mothers of all children.
