So Mike entered an empty kitchen without incident. Without glancing back, he beckoned Lee, who came running. Moments later, Lee followed, gas gun poised, while Mike went forward along a hallway to the living room.
Thus it was Mike, in front, who actually saw an event that had been building up inside the Jaeger house for the previous four minutes.
Bud, who had been ordered to remain in his bedroom, was of course in a state. He was due to be at one of the Omnivulture hangars by nine o’clock for the takeoff with Captain Sennes . .. and his escape from earth. Len Jaeger’s unreasoning attitude toward the outfits - which had been considered an excellent screening emotion that would in a crisis be a protection for the alien boy - was now revealed as a madness sufficient to endanger the escape plan.
Bud had been standing at his bedroom door, watching his ‘father’ with the poised shotgun. Through the window he could see Marianne as she opened the gate. Moments later, the girl started along the walk toward the house, and disappeared from the line of sight visible through the window.
In the front room, Len Jaeger opened the outside door a crack, and poked the barrel of the shotgun through it. Mrs Jaeger, who had been crouching in a chair in the dining room alcove, ran forward as her husband pointed the gun. The man saw her, or heard her, coming. As she grabbed at him, he made a thrust with one hand and arm. The blow caught her on the shoulder, and spun her even as it shoved her back the way she had come. She ended up, sprawled on the floor, screaming at the man. But she made no further move; did not try to get up.
For Bud, it was a moment of confusion. He was unaware of the police across the street. To him, Marianne was unprotected, ‘Hey!’ he protested, ‘you wouldn’t shoot a girl!’
‘Get back into your bedroom!’ snarled the man. He spoke without glancing away from what he was doing. His jaw tightened with determination. The shotgun came up.
For Bud, it had the look of the moment of decision. He had not been a jabber long enough to realise that outfits had dealt with equally dangerous threats, and had a technique for it. That even the way Marianne was coming toward the door, was a method: to aim at her Jaeger would have to open the door wider, so that he could point the gun to the left. But so far as Bud was concerned, it was up to him. It was a great responsibility, too much for a boy, alien or human. As he ran forward, the severity of what he had to do made him forget the intricate play act of being Bud Jaeger.
The first lapse was his arms. The steel-strong tentacles that coiled around an instantly astonished man bore no resemblance to human arms and hands at the moment of attack.
Once more, it was not Len Jaeger’s hour, or day. He defended himself with a convulsive gesture. Actually threw Bud off of him. But the required effort simultaneously did several disastrous things. The shotgun automatically jerked up and sideways, opening the door wide. Through this, precipitated by reaction from the muscular effort of freeing himself from the python-like arms of his ‘son,’ the man staggered. Since he was still clinging to the gun, to those outside it looked as if he was charging forth with mayhem intent.
Over in the panel truck, Henry and his companion - operating at two different peepholes - didn’t have time to decide which of them should fire. As a result, both gas guns discharged. The two gas pellets, like a pair of poison darts, bridged the hundred or so feet from the truck to the target. The man jumped as those frozen crystals of anesthetic gas penetrated his clothes and made their icy entry into his body. After that first instant, the rebellion of Len Jaeger was a thing of the past. He staggered like a man who has been mortally wounded. But he fell by sinking to his knees. Slowly, then, he leaned forward. He lay down on the walk in front of Marianne as if it were a bed, and he was seeking it for a long, cozy sleep.
Inside the house, Bud was still out of control. As he fought to retain his balance, even his legs reverted to tentacle shape. While an amazed Mike watched - and, seconds later, Lee also - the alien boy bobbed up and down, and sideways, like a creature on springs. His clothes only partially concealed how truly inarticulated and boneless his limbs were.
During those prolonged moments, his face lost most of its Bud Jaeger resemblance. He recovered his balance at a point when he was partly facing Mike and Lee. And there must have been something in their expressions.
Two things, then.
He tried to recover. The face came back. The legs straightened. The arms made a vague effort toward being bone as well as muscle, and each with an elbow and wrist.
That was one thing.
The second: he realised from what he saw in their widened eyes that it was too late. Or, at least, he thought he saw that.
He turned and ran out of the door.
It was the awkward, human version of his run. And so he burst forth from the doorway, slamming the door shut behind him, and locking it. His flight had a human look about it to the other Red Catters.
Nobody tried to stop him. Because, after all, he was the one they were trying to free, so that he could go to school. And the sooner he was out of the way, the better, perhaps. Albert even looked after him, and said, ‘Let him go. We’ll ^ee him at school. And no use him being around while we deal with his dad.’
So Bud ran the short half-block to the nearest comer. And then he ran the long block to the Subsurface. Into the elevator he darted, and down he went, and gone, he was - safe.
He left behind him, principally, confusion in the minds of Mike and Lee. They were far from being as clear about what they had seen as Bud feared they had. And with each passing moment, the memory grew more blurred.
Because, of course, it was impossible.
Back to the hospital went Len Jaeger. And the Red Cat outfit members headed for school, most of them subconsciously anticipating that some time during the day they would see Bud. Certainly, this would be true after final class, they believed.
Except Mike was not that certain. In Mike memories stirred. He visualised the first time he had chased Bud, and brought him down with a football-style tackle. Several recollections followed, of Bud running, or walking, in his awkward fashion. And finally, recurring several times - as he sat in class at his mechanised desk, with its computer connections, and other electronic teaching equipment - the memory of Bud that morning.
Yet Mike did nothing. He moved through the day like an automaton. His haunted face with the inwardly looking eyes periodically confronted kids that he knew. And turned away, expression unchanged, almost unnoticing. In a vague fashion he communicated. Each time, it was a variation of the same question: ‘Have you seen Bud Jaeger?’
Nobody had.
The school clocks moved slowly around to 2.09 p.m. Mike was on his way back to his class room after the brief intermission. Suddenly . . . his feeling and memories and thoughts coalesced. He stopped. Turned. Then he was racing along corridors that were rapidly emptying thousands of students back into their classrooms for the final class of the day.
By the time Mike came to Lee’s room, the class was in session . . . after the manner of such classes, of course. It was a senior group, and accordingly there was no supervising instructor permanently in the room. Mike stood at the open door, and beckoned Lee. The blond boy got up, and came over. The two youths thereupon had a brief but earnest conversation. Finally, Lee reentered the room, shut off his equipment. When he came out again, the two of them hastened along the corridor to the nearest exit. A minute later, they left the school grounds. And, shortly, they were entering the elevator of a Subsurface.
Estelle and John Lane had breakfast - just the two of them - about half past eight that morning. ‘Not a sound from Susan,’ said the woman, ‘so I think I’ll just let her sleep.’
Her husband made a neutral noise, indicating that he had heard the words but had no opinion on the matter. The woman stared at him accusingly, but if he was pleased at the development, he was careful not to show the thought. And he kept his eyes pretty well looking down at his plate.
His wife accompanied him presently to the fron
t door. And when he tentatively bent to kiss her, she cringed but did not turn her lips away. So they shared a good-bye kiss. It was a reconciliation of sorts. And the woman was somewhat more cheerful as she went about her housework. First, the kitchen, of course. Next, the dining room. Then - biggest job - the living room. It was a long job, and she was only half done, when she decided to have a cup of her delightful coffee. She made the coffee, poured it, and was replacing the coffee maker in its cradle, when she saw the clock. The time was a few minutes after ten.
Her eyes frowned a little. She pursed her lips. Decision. With purposeful steps, she left the kitchen and walked to Susan’s bedroom. Found it unoccupied, of course. After a blank period, she searched the room for a message. Nothing.
Her alarm had been increasing. So, rapidly now - for a dignified lady - she ran back to the kitchen, straight to the phone.
In the middle of pressing out a number, she paused.
Her eyes changed, losing their fear. She grew thoughtful. Her lips formed, and murmured the words, ‘Maybe she’s at school, and he won’t like that.’
She replaced the receiver, and forced herself to sit down. She drank her coffee, then, and stared off into the infinite spaces of her mind.
Her face and eyes grew tired. ‘Maybe,’ she muttered, ‘I should lie down for a while.’
It cost her an effort to go to her bedroom. And when she got there she sort of poured herself onto it. She lay there like a large lump of jelly.
After a while she slept.
It was shortly after 10.00 a.m. that the intercom buzzed on Lane’s huge desk. It was Andrew Scott with the information that Len Jaeger was again in the hospital.
The man at the desk in the big communication room, said, What happened to Mr Jaeger?’
From his end, the secretary said, ‘According to the report I have, Mr Jaeger attempted to stop his son from going to school this morning.’
“What are his injuries?’ Lane asked grimly.
‘Well, none - exactly. He was rendered unconscious with two gas anesthetic pellets, and after he sleeps it off he will be free to go home.’ The smooth voice broke off. ‘You asked me to keep you informed about this man, sir.’
‘Yes, yes.’ He nodded half to himself. A decision was forming. It was not entirely of the moment, of course, but his manner had in it a sort of impatient the-time-has-come-to-do-something. He continued, ‘Mr Scott, I find myself puzzled - and that is a mild word - by the privileges which seem to have been accorded outfits while I was absent from earth. Apparently, these groups can at will damage adults, without penalty.’
‘There are rules, sir, governing these matters.’
‘They seem to be very elastic,’ the officer retorted with asperity. 'Anyway, will you ask a member of - what is it called? - the Outfit Training Center, to come over here some time today and brief me on this whole matter?’
‘Very well.’
The appointment was made for 1,30 p.m. that afternoon. ‘A Mr Portanyi will represent the Outfit Training Center,’ said the secretary. -
The fleet comander said with a sardonic smile, ‘I have a feeling that my wife would be very happy to hear of this meeting.’
’Shall I call her and tell her?’
‘No, no, of course not.’ Lane spoke hastily. “Under no circumstances!
Lane was still at his desk a few minutes before noon, when a voice spoke from the big viewplate. It was a man’s voice, very tense. ‘Commander Lane/ it said, ‘a patrol craft of the 20,000 SA series has just advised that the alien fleet has crossed the orbit of Neptune and is moving toward zero.’ Zero was earth.
It was electrifying news; and Lane jumped to his feet. “What disposition are you in?’
‘In depth, sir, as ordered. Formation at the moment is Plan T.23. First collision is probably not before midnight.’
The fleet commander had control of himself again. “Very good.’ he said, ‘keep Oriole close to zero. I may come aboard some time this evening.’
‘Very well, Commander.’ The bodiless voice fell silent.
Lane turned to his desk, and made another call to his secretary. 'Mr Scott/ he said, ‘have a space-lift on the ready for me all day and evening,®
Yes sir.’
'And then contact the Space Committee, and ask for an immediate emergency session.'
'Indeed, sir.’
The Committee meeting, as usual, ate up time. The usual stupid people, with their infinite need to ask questions, asked them. In the end, a sardonic Lane, restraining his impatience, reissued his invitation to the members to join him aboard the Oriole that evening. ‘Be ready for space-lift takeoff at thirty minutes notice,’ he said blandly.
By the time he returned to his office, it was a few minutes after 1.30 p.m. In entering, Lane happened to glance toward the glass enclosed conference chamber under the viewplate. He glimpsed a man sitting there and stopped in astonishment. Obviously, somebody to see him. But who could it be? Frowning, he opened the door, and entered the sound-proof room. ‘Yes?’ he asked courteously.
The other man had stood up. He was about Lane’s age and height. He said, ‘I’m Mr Portanyi from the Outfit Training Center.’
Naturally, the whole memory burst forth at that point. Lane said, ‘Oh!’ And hesitated. It was not a good moment for the interview; that was his first reaction. Yet after a brief consideration, it occurred to him that he had actually nothing to do in connection with the emergency but await developments. His hesitation ended. ‘Sit down,’ he said.
‘After you, Commander/ was the reply.
Lane obliged. A minute after that he was listening to his first explanation of the outfits.
A normal adult (began Mr Portanyi) is a reasoning being. If he is normal, he easily sees that men must cooperate, be totally truthful, not take advantage, be responsible, and never do anything that will interfere with another normal person’s rights.
When an adult does not do this, it is because he got twisted in his early years. Thus, the teen period - and earlier - is decisive for the person’s whole life.
For example, it is in the preeighteen group that courage is intensely important. It is here that the term of opprobrium, ‘yellow,’ has meaning. Adults, who have this complex as a carryover in some form of supermasculinity, are teenagers emotionally. Hence, all work which requires unusual expression of the masculinity principle, should logically be done by boys under eighteen. Observation had proved that boys and girls were equally capable provided they were in the mixed group situation.
It followed that all police work of the simpler kind should be done by teens organised into outfits, who operate by rules. For teen boys, the bravery urge is normal, and in the girls, admiration of brave boys (and an odd, echoing bravery) is normal.
But for an adult, any obsession about masculinity is a teen-age hang-up.
Similarly, adults twisted during their own early years, can only damage children by trying to raise them. Therefore, the outfits should raise the children, according to rules which they along with the help - in emergencies - of neutral witnesses, are at the right age to do so naturally.
There is a strange look which comes into a man’s face when he discovers that the brand of courage, which he has displayed his entire lifetime, is regarded by a new theory as being a carryover from his teen-age male need to be an adult. And is not of itself an adult state.
A brick-red flush was the first signal. Then rage — and rejection of the whole line of reasoning. ‘Who should go on these space expeditions?’ Lane demanded. ‘Boys or men?’
‘Basically, young people, girls as well as boys,’ was the unexpected reply, ‘with adult couples along to play the neutral role, and to act as creative brains at key moments, and of course to do those things that only highly trained, grown people can do.’ ‘But what is there left for adults to do?’ Lane was suddenly more bewildered than angry.
‘It is our conviction,’ said the other man smoothly, ‘that human beings, and I’m referring e
xclusively to normal adults when I say that - a teen being considered an embryo human, only - will eventually find their place in the universe.’
The fleet commander said quickly, ‘After eight and a half years, there must be some statistics available. By your standards, juvenile delinquency?’ He paused, uncertain.
‘Nine years ago,’ said Pontanyi, ‘thousands of rebellious youngsters passed through the hands of the juvenile authorities each year. Today, we have about two hundred kids in what are called camps. These are individuals who have resisted outfit authority, and have been turned over to us by their oufits. Other than that’ - he made a dismissing gesture - ‘there is no juvenile delinquency in Spaceport today.’
Lane stood up, He had heard enough, and in his abrupt, decisive fashion, he said coldly, ‘I’m sorry to tell you, but my impression is that the entire outfit movement borders on juvenile delinquency. So by your view you have reduced delinquency. By mine, you have expanded the delinquency situation to include the entire teen population.’ He made a dismissing gesture. ‘I really haven’t time today to consider the madness you have outlined to me. But, shortly, I’m going to give my full attention to you, your training school, and its vicious trainees.’
The other man was a little bit more pale. ‘Commander/ he said earnestly, ‘I doubt if at this stage any one person, however powerful, can stop the outfits.’- ‘We’ll see,’ said Lane curtly.
Pontanyi was recovering. He bowed politely. ‘The information I have given you, sir is the best we can do for you.’
Qn that note, the highly unsatisfactory - from Lane’s point of view - interview, ended. Mr Pontanyi departed. And Lane returned to his desk.
It was now three minutes after two o’clock.
Children of Tomorrow Page 22
