Children of Tomorrow

by A. E. van Vogt

  From where he stood, he could see a clock on the table beside her. It showed 3.12 a.m.

  As gently as he could, Lee closed the door. Went to the bed. Crawled into it. Slept.

  It was a night when the watchful Lab ships swung low again over the city. Their enormously sensitive instruments ceaselessly probed the sky above and the land below. They searched for signals of any type. Particularly, they sought for the K energy that had battled so silently and powerfully with the tractor beams of Unit 67-A, the ground vehicle that had delivered Commander Lane to his home.

  Nothing. Not a flicker of response on any dial. The great night was at peace. Earth turned on its axis without incident. Soft winds blew fleecy clouds . . . normally. The stars twinkled from the usual, mild atmospheric disturbances.

  The night wore on. A new morning presently dawned in the east. It was dim at first, but it soon grew brighter.

  In the bathroom adjoining the spare bedroom, John Lane turned on a faucet. Rapidly, he washed, shaved, dressed. And started along the corridor heading for the front door. It was as his hand reached for the front door release that ... he heard a sound behind him. For a moment, he froze. The expression on his face showed the unmistakable conviction that he knew who it was - who it had to be. Slowly, he turned. As he had expected, Estelle had come along the corridor, and was now standing in the doorway that led into the anteroom.

  She wore a flimsy robe over her nightdress. She had evidently heard him, and made a hasty run to catch him. There was no makeup on her face. It was still a pretty face. The ravages of time had not done any real damage — yet. But it was a woman that stood there, and not the half-woman half-girl that he had left ten years before.

  It was the gentle womanly voice that spoke now. ‘Is this the

  end?’ she said, and abruptly there was grief in her voice.

  The words with their tragic emotion, instantly irritated the man. He made an impatient gesture with his hands. He tilted his head, and murmured something as if importuning some heavenly being to witness that he was a sorely beset individual. Then: ‘Of course, it’s not the end.’

  ‘But what happened?’ Estelle frowned in genuine bewilderment, as she asked the question. ‘At dinner you were a reasonable man. Then, abruptly, insanity, five hours later.’

  Lane felt impelled to correct her. ‘Sanity, you mean,’ he said grimly.

  ‘All right, all right.’ She was impatient now, “What drove you sane so quickly?’

  The man’s eyes clouded as those words were uttered. His wife was beginning to show that penchant for quick thinking, which he had extravagantly admired in her when they first met. But which unfortunately could lead to dialogue that came from her tongue with the verbal weapon capability of slashing his point of view with deadly ease.

  He said defensively, ‘Really, my dear, I don’t wish to get into one of those meaningless discussions that you always win with your wit, and I win with my determination not to be bamboozled any longer.’

  ‘This time,’ she flashed, ‘you’ve bamboozled yourself.’

  ‘Look,' he said flatly, ‘it’s awfully simple. I don’t believe in children raising children. And when I don’t believe in something ... I mean it.’

  The blonde woman was shaking her head with a kind of wondering grief. ‘I can’t believe this is all there is to it. Teenagers were raising each other and some younger children, and doing it by rules, yesterday and the day before, and for most of the ten years that people like you goofed off out in space somewhere. So why the crisis at midnight last night?’

  ‘Could it be,’ said Lane, ‘that because I was away, I’m the only one able to take a clear view of this whole outfit mess?’ Estelle sighed. ‘The Neanderthal man looks at modem civilisation and longs for his cave again.’ She broke off, ‘All right/ she said, ‘let’s quit this double talk. What are you going to do?’ There was silence. Somehow, in talking to this woman, he found himself one instant tingling from some horrid insult, and the next answering questions like a good little boy; and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it.

  ‘I’m going to the office.’ He spoke sullenly.

  ‘Are you coming home for dinner tonight?’

  ‘Yes ... Of course.’ He spoke irritably. ‘This is my home.

  Where else should I go?’

  ‘Is there any chance/ said the woman, ‘that you would have a discussion with me on this matter at dinner time tonight, and meanwhile not take any steps that can lead you irrevocably into trouble with the outfits?’

  For just a moment after those words were spoken, Lane was curious. For that moment, he found himself wondering what did an outfit facing lead to? The moment of weakness went by, and he stiffened. ‘Nothing,’ he said grimly, ‘that the outfits can do will ever influence my action in what I believe to be right. So let’s just leave it at that. May I go now?’

  His final sentence was spoken in a facetious tone. It was intended to turn the tables on his wife, so to say, verbally. In its way, it seemed as if it had the potentiality of accomplishing that feat, so rare for him. The implication was that she was a mother talking to a child, and presumably nothing could irritate a woman more than to be escalated from wifeness, which was a cozy, romantic, modem, equal status, to motherness - which always suggested stuffiness, old-fashioned ideas, and advancing age.

  The woman smiled with her instant understanding of such matters. ‘If you need my permission/ she said, ‘you have it. But be sure you come home in time to wash your face. Don’t play too hard. And don’t get into any fights, or take candy from strangers.’

  The man shrugged. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you. In the battle of wits, you’re the complete master. So you win again.’

  She shook her head briefly, ‘In this world/ she said, ‘men always have the last word. You were gone ten years. So I lost completely.’

  He was irritated again. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He opened the door impatiently. ‘See you tonight.’ He departed hastily, leaving his wife to close the door. Which she did, softly.

  Arrived at his office, Lane found waiting for him the same question that had been there the day before: The question: What shall we do?

  It had to be something, was the attitude of the Committee . . . So Andrew Scott reported to Lane. Looks like we can’t mark time much longer, sir/ he said.

  The commander’s lips curled sarcastically. He said, ‘I’ve invited them to go along if they vote for an attack. Accordingly, I’ve done my bit to forestall foolishness.’ He broke off, impatiently, "We tried for three months to bring these creatures to battle, or to a dialogue - preferably the latter. But they destroyed our patrol vessels, and our peace missions were ignored. ’ve got to mark time whether we like it or not. You can only explain

  that two dozen times. After that, it begins to sound ridiculous.’- He made a body movement of dismissal. And changed the subject. ‘Any report on Mr Jaeger?’

  The thick-jowled face smiled with a faint smugness. The expression in those dark brown eyes somehow implied that Mr Andrew Scott always had an up-to-date account on any subject. The details were: Len Jaeger had left the hospital shortly after 7 a.m. ‘He stopped in at his place of work,’ said Scott, ‘and quit his job.’ It seemed that Jaeger had informed his bench mates that he planned to leave Spaceport within a day or two.

  ‘That’s what he said he would do,’ said Lane. He walked to his desk, and sat down. There was a faraway expression in his eyes. ‘I’m considering,’ he said finally, without looking up, ‘if there is any reason why we should restrain him from departing. But I can’t really think of anything decisive. However’ - he nodded, decisively - ‘we should know where he goes. So check on that.’ "Very well,’ said Andrew Scott, in exactly the right convincing tone of voice.

  About nine o’clock, Estelle Lane walked noiselessly to Susan’s bedroom, and found the girl sleeping. The blonde woman shook her head, sighed at the tragedy that she believed was occurring, and stood for a bit with eyes closed, leaning
against the door jamb. Then she went back to the kitchen, and to a cup of coffee. She was still sitting there half an hour later, when Susan came through the door. The girl seemed to be in a cheerful frame of mind. She refused to allow her mother to make breakfast for her. And, in fact, made herself toast, cooked two eggs, and sat down to them with relish. ‘I’m starving,’ she said.

  Estelle remained silent, hopeful. After one egg and one piece of toast, Susan looked up, and said, ‘So that’s what hooters are like.’ The woman was recovering. ‘One tends to forget,’ she confessed. ‘In ten years, the intensity of it faded somewhat. But it’s been forcing itself on me, and there it was last night in all its subjective reality.’

  More food was masticated. Then; ‘Don't do anything foolish, mother,’ said Susan.

  ‘Such as what?’ she asked in astonishment.

  'Such as leaving him on my account.’

  Her mother was startled. Was struck briefly dumb by the lucidity of the conversation. Finally, because she was, after all, dealing with a teenager, she was suspicious. “What are you going to do - commit suicide?’ she said sharply.

  ‘Oh, mother, don’t be silly.’ The girl sounded indignant.

  The blonde woman was not to be put off. ‘There is a page in the outfit rulebook about jabbers who are confronted by heavy emotion at home. The book says that under such circumstances said jabber often comes to a deeply felt self-sacrificing decision. In short, commits a kind of suicide.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, mother!’ The pretty young face was almost brick red. ‘I just suddenly decided I’d better snap out of my scaredy cat blue funk, and behave a little more maturely,’ ‘Does that mean you’ll be going back to school?’

  ‘Well, no - not this week.’ Susan made a face. ‘After all, that’s a complicated thing to confront, particularly since I’m not guilty.’ Estelle persisted. ‘All right, what are you going to do? Tell me word for word. The rest of today?’

  ‘I’m going to return to bed, and I plan to stay there, I probably won’t show for dinner, if dad is here.’

  ‘AH right, that’s today. Tomorrow?’

  The girl sighed. ‘Mother, it’s hard enough for me to think about one day in detail, let alone a second.’

  ‘All that tells me,’ said Estelle, ‘is that tomorrow is the decisive day. So, I hope you don’t object if I keep a sharp eye on you tomorrow, and follow you wherever you go.’

  Susan had recovered. “You may do that if you wish/ she said with dignity.

  ‘Of course/ said her mother, ‘I’ll also watch you like a hawk today.’

  The smile that came into the girl’s face had just a little of the irritation in it that occasionally creased the face of her father when he was talking to Estelle. But all she said was, ‘That won’t be hard. I’ll be in bed, either reading or sleeping.’- ‘Why not studying?’ asked the blonde woman.

  Susan nodded. ‘I might even study/ she said. She pushed her chair back, and stood up. ‘Anyway, whichever it is, starts right now.’

  She thereupon departed from the kitchen, looking not quite as chcerful as when she had entered.

  Shortly after noon, Andrew Scott reported via intercom that a Captain Alex Mijnalen wanted to see Commander Lane briefly. It was a familiar name to Lane. Though he had never met the officer, he knew him to be someone who had been on several of the long expeditions. ‘Tell him to drop over/ he said into the intercom.

  Mijnalen arrived within minutes. ‘I’m actually very close to you - only two floors below, almost directly under,’ His face, streaked with numerous pink bloodlines, crinkled into a smile. “I sometimes have the impression that my office is the muffler system which keeps the noise of all this away from you.’ His right arm and hand waved vaguely at the computer and the view- plate. “We vibrate all the time.’

  He was a man in his middle fifties. A little on the thin side, perhaps. But in a way that was to be commended for a man of his age. Lane shook hands with him silently, and then waited politely.

  ‘You’ll be wondering,’ said Mijnalen, ‘what I’m doing here. Well’ - he grinned - ‘I’ve come to welcome you to the club.’

  It was a totally unexpected remark. Meaningless and non- seqmtur. ‘Club?’ echoed Lane helplessly.

  ‘At noon today,’ said Mijnalen, ‘your name was posted at Outfit Central. It will be displayed there for twenty-four hours. After that, outfit rules require that no further publicity be given any person at odds with the outfits. Of course’ - again that crinkly, pink-streaked grin - ‘all the hidden consequences continue.’ Lane had not forgotten the deadline named at his outfit facing. But when twelve noon had come and gone without even a phone call, he had shrugged contemptuously. But now he stared at the other man, and the thought was suddenly in his mind that this was why Mijnalen had come to see him. He was an outfit sup- porter-messenger. As he had that thought, his expression hardened. Perhaps, this captain didn’t know it, but the rest of his career might well be at the mercy of Commander John Lane.

  As he reached that point in his reaction, it occurred to him that the other’s dialogue and attitude, as well as tone of voice, did not match such purpose. Instantly, Lane’s bewilderment returned. But unerringly his attention went back to the key word. ‘Club?’ He said it this time in a much stronger, and even more questioning tone.

  ‘Oh!’ said the older man. ‘We club members get every posted name, and contact the individual so that he’ll know there are other persons with the same ideas that he has.’ He shrugged. ‘I was posted seven years ago, and I’ve got one daughter to go two years ... well, one and a half now.’

  A dazzling light was dawning. Lane said, ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ He stood there; then: ‘Obviously,’ he said, ‘I should have guessed I was not alone.’ Once more, a pause. He could feel the sense of pleasure growing through his body. Finally, with a smile, ‘What do we club members do?’ he asked.

  ‘We give moral support to each other.’

  ‘And how many of we are there?’ said Lane.

  The long, thin face in front of him acquired a kind of disgusted look. ‘Commander,’ Mijnalen said in a critical tone, ‘you wouldn’t think that in a city like Spaceport, presumably filled with brave men, there would be so many chickens. But the fact is, the battle is probably lost in the bedroom at home. It’s a little difficult to spend year after year making love to a woman whose muscles are slightly contracted, pulling her away from you in disapproval of your point of view.’

  The smile had faded from Lane’s face, as these words were spoken. Now, he scowled, remembering Estelle’s muscles doing exactly that. ‘Okay,’ he said bluntly, ‘let’s have it. What is the club’s hard core membership?’

  £3t averages about two hundred and fifty.’

  Lane was visibly shocked. His brows drew together in a startled frown. ‘In a city with 400,000 families?’ he said. ‘Good God!’ ‘This is an outfit-oriented city,’ said the older officer. ‘Knuckle under, sir - or join the club.’

  Lane’s jaws tightened. Even his body grew harder. Tm in right now,’ he said grimly.

  Mijnalen held out his hand. ‘Call me any time you want information. I just thought I’d drop by and brief you on our organisation. Anything you want to know right now?’

  Lane shook his head. The thought had already crossed his mind that this man would be able to tell him what the consequences were of an outfit facing. But the truth was, he was slightly unhappy with himself for having gone into a situation without knowing what it might lead to. Other people could have the reaction that a fleet commander ought to have considered such matters. In the present stress circumstances, accordingly, it would be unwise to have any more doubts about his competence creep into the minds of the Committee members. They were being irrational enough as it was.

  As he shook hands with Mijnalen, Lane said, ‘You seem to be doing all right - after seven years.’

  ‘Never felt healthier in my life,’ was the reply.

  It seemed an odd remark
, but Lane did not pursue the matter. He stood watching as the older man went out of the door, and closed it behind him. Then he sat down again. In a few moments he was busy with the innumerable details of an administrative officer. His impression, of course, was that the pile of papers in front of him never really diminished.

  About three thirty that afternoon, a disturbed-sounding woman’s voice was on the phone to Outfit Central. The voice identified itself to the Police Sergeant on the incoming-call desk as Mrs Len Jaeger. In a hushed voice, Mrs Jaeger said, ‘I’ve sneaked off to make this call. My husband has just forbidden our boy, Bud, to leave the house for any reason for the next day or so until we move out of town some time this week.’

  The sergeant asked quickly, ‘Is he threatening the boy with violence.’

  “Yes.’

  Has there been any violence yet?’

  ‘No. Bud is not resisting. I report this matter because he has outfit duties, and of course should go to school tomorrow.’

  “What outfit does he belong to?’

  ‘To the Red Cats, Will you tell them that - ’ The voice ceased. There was a sharp inhalation of breath. Then: ‘Good-bye!’ A click of disconnection followed.

  The police officer hung up also, and made a notation on a chart in front of him. He used a red marking pencil. And it was noticeable on the chart that there were several other notations in red clustered around the space in which he was entering the new symbols.

  Seeing these, the man looked up and beckoned another officer at a nearby desk. ‘Take a look at this, Dan.’

  The other man came over, and studied the chart where the sergeant’s finger was pointing. ‘This isn’t a good week for the Red Cats, is it?’ he commented finally.