In the instant before those parted lips spoke, Bill knew him, and his throat closed on an unuttered cry of recognition—recognition of this face he had never seen before, yet could not mistake. The deep welling of love and pride in his heart would have told him the boy’s identity, he thought, had he not known at sight who he was—would be—might one day be—
He heard his own voice saying doubtfully, “Son—?”
But if the boy heard he must not have understood. He was handicapped by no such emotion as stirred Bill. His clipped, metallic voice spoke as clearly as if indeed through an opened window: “Greetings from the United World, William Vincent Cory! Greetings from the Fifteenth Leader in the Fifth New Century, A. G.”
Behind the disciplined, stern-featured young face others crowded, men with steel-hard features under steel caps. As the boy’s voice paused, a dozen right arms slanted high, a dozen open palms turned forward in a salute that was old when Caesar took it in ancient Rome. A dozen voices rolled out in clipped accents, “Greetings, William Vincent Cory!”
Bill’s bewildered stammer was incoherent, and the boy’s face relaxed a little into a smile. He said: “We must explain, of course. For generations our scientists have been groping in the past, Dr. Cory. This is our first successful two-way contact, and for its demonstration to our Council, connection with you was selected as the most appropriate and fitting contact possible. Because your name is holy among us; we know all there is to know of your life and work, but we have wished to look upon your face and speak to you of our gratitude for molding mankind into the patterns of the United World.
“As a matter of record, I have been instructed to ask first at what point we have intersected the past. What date is it in your calendar?”
“Why, it’s July 7, 2240,” Bill heard his own voice stammer a little as he answered, and he was conscious of a broad and rather foolish grin overspreading his face. He couldn’t help it. This was his boy—the child who wouldn’t be born for years yet, who might, really, never be born. Yet he knew him, and he couldn’t help smiling with pride, and warm, delighted amusement. So stern-faced, so conscious of his own responsibility! Marta’s son and his—only of course it couldn’t be, exactly. This scene he looked into must be far ahead in time—
“Twenty-two forty!” exclaimed the boy who was not his son. “Why, the Great Work isn’t even finished yet then! We’re earlier than we knew!”
“Who are you, son?” Bill couldn’t keep the question back any longer.
“I’m John Williams Cory IV, sir,” said the boy proudly. “Your direct descendant through the Williams line, and—First in the Candidates Class.” He said it proudly, a look of almost worshiping awe lighting his resolute young face. “That means, of course, that I shall be the Sixteenth Leader when the great Dunn retires, and the sixth Cory—the sixth, sir!—to be called to that highest of all human stations, the Leadership!” The violet eyes so incongruous in that disciplined young face blazed with almost fanatic exaltation.
Behind him, a heavy-faced man moved forward, lifting the Roman salute, smiling wintrily beneath his steel helmet.
“I am Dunn, sir,” he said in a voice as heavy as his features. “We’ve let Candidate Cory contact you because of the relationship, but it’s my turn now to extend greetings from the System you made possible. I want to show it to you, but first let me thank you for founding the greatest family the United World has ever known. No other name has appeared more than twice on the great rôle of Leaders, but we have had five Corys—and the finest of them all is yet to come!”
Bill saw a wave of clear red mount his boy’s proud, exalted face, and his own heart quickened with love and pride. For this was his son, by whatever name he went here. The memory of his lovely daughter had been drowned out momentarily in the deep uprushing of pride in this tall, blue-eyed boy with his disciplined face and his look of leashed eagerness. There was drive and strength and power of will in that young face now.
He scarcely heard Dunn’s heavy voice from the room beyond the cube, so eagerly was he scanning the face of this son he yet might never have, learning almost hungrily the already familiar features, at once hard and eager and exultant. That mouth was his, tight and straight, and the cheeks that creased with deep hollows when he smiled, but the violet eyes were his mother’s eyes, and the gentle inflexibility of Marta’s courage at once strengthened and softened the features that were Bill’s own. The best of them both was here, shining now with something more than either had ever known—an almost fanatic devotion to some stern purpose as exalting as worship, as inflexible as duty—
“Your own future, sir,” Dunn was saying. “But our past, of course. Would you like to see it. Dr. Cory, so that you may understand just how directly we owe to you all that our world is today?”
“Yes—v-very much.” Bill grinned at his own stammer, suddenly light-hearted and incredulous. All this was a dream. He knew that, of course. Why, the very coincidences in it proved that. Or—were they coincidences? Desperately he tried to clarify the thought taking form in his own mind, a terrifyingly vast thought, terrifyingly without explanation. And yet it must be a dream—If it were real, then there was more than chance here. It could be no accident that these two children of his, groping blindly in the dark for contact with him, had succeeded at so nearly the same moment. There would be reason behind it, reason too vast for comprehension. He parted his lips to speak, but Dunn was already speaking.
“Look then, William Vincent Cory! Watch your own greatness unfolding in the years that lie ahead.”
Hazily the scene in the cube blurred. The beloved, blue-eyed face of the boy he might never have, faded as a dream fades—a dream fading in a dream, he thought dimly—
This time it was Marta coming down the church aisle toward him, looking like a violet-eyed madonna coifed and veiled in white lace. He knew that he did not love her, now. His heart was still sore with the memory of Sallie. But love would come; with a woman like this it could not but come. There was tenderness and humor and passion on that raptly lifted face, and a strength that would call out the strength in him, not a weakness such as dimpled in Sallie’s face to evoke an underlying weakness in himself. For weakness was in him. He knew it. It would depend upon the woman who shared his life which quality overcame the other.
Life would be good with Marta. He saw it unfolding before him in a long succession of days, work and play and companionship that brought out the best in both. And the memory of the strange vision in which he thought he loved Sallie faded. This was the woman he loved. Her courage and humor, her violet eyes bright with pride of him—
Life went by—clear, condensed, swift. He saw his own work moving steadily toward success, Marta’s eager encouragement tiding him over the low ebbs when difficulties threatened. She was so full of pride in her brilliant young husband that her enthusiasm almost ran away with her. It was she who insisted upon making the discovery public.
“I want to flaunt you before the world!” she urged. “Let’s report to the Council now, darling. Aw, please, Bill!”
“We’re not ready yet,” he protested feebly. “Let’s wait—”
“What for? Look.” She shook a record sheet under his nose. “A hundred per cent success in the last dozen experiments! What more do you want? It’s time to make an official report—announce what you’re doing to the world! You’ve been all the way from fruit flies to monkeys. You’ll have to make a report to the Council anyhow before you can take the next step. And remember, darling, when you come to that, I’m first in line as a candidate.”
He seized her shoulders in a heavy grip, frowning down into the eagerness of her lifted face. “There’ll be no guinea pigs in this family! When Junior Cory comes into the world he—or she—will do it without benefit of X-rays. Understand?”
“But darling, I thought the whole idea was to give parents their choice of boys or girls in the family.”
“The thing’s not perfected yet to the point where I’d want to risk my
own wife. And anyhow…anyhow, I’ve got a funny notion I’d rather just take what comes. Don’t know why, exactly, but—”
“Bill, I do believe you’re superstitious! Well, we’ll fight that out later. But right now, you’re going to make a full report of your success to the Council, and I’m going to be the proudest wife in the City. And that’s final!”
So the report was made public. It created a tremendous furor; the world clamored for the magical stuff that would put the molding of the future into their hands. Bill Cory blushed and grinned for a delighted public in the telenews screens, promising the great gift soon, and Marta glowed with vicarious pride.
By the time he had made his first experiment with a human subject, the puppies which were the result of his first successful mammalian experiment were beginning to worry him a little. Miss Brown was the first to notice it. She came in from the kennels one day with a frown behind her steel-rimmed spectacles.
“Dr. Cory, has someone been training those dogs?”
“Training them?” Bill looked up, puzzled. “Of course not. Why?”
“Well, they’ve got the makings of the finest trained dogs on Earth. Either the whole lot of them is exceptionally intelligent or…or…something. They just fall over each other obeying every command you can make clear to them.”
Bill straightened from his microscope. “Um-m-m…funny. Usually one or two dogs in a litter are more intelligent and obedient than the rest. But to have every one in six litters a canine genius is something pretty queer. What do you make of it?”
“I wouldn’t call it genius, exactly. As I say, I’m not sure if it’s unusual intelligence or…well, maybe a strong strain of obedience, or lack of initiative, or…it’s too soon to say. But they’re not normal dogs, Dr. Cory.”
It was too soon to say. Tests simply showed the pups to be extraordinarily amenable to training, but what quality in them made this so was difficult to determine. Bill was not sure just what it implied, but an uneasiness in him woke and would not be quieted.
The first “X-ray” babies began to be born. Without exception they were fine, strong, healthy infants, and without exception of the predetermined sex. The Council was delighted; the parents were delighted; everyone was delighted except Bill. The memory of those oddly obedient pups haunted him—
Within three years the Cory System was available to the public. The experimental babies had made such an excellent showing that, in the end, Bill gave in to the insistent world, though something in the recesses of his mind urged delay. Yet he couldn’t explain it. The babies were all healthy, normal, intelligent children. Unusually amenable to authority, yes, but that was an asset, not a liability.
Presently all over the world the first crops of Cory System babies began to appear, and gradually Bill’s misgivings faded. By then Bill Junior had arrived to take his mind off other people’s children, but even now he was obscurely glad that little Bill was a boy on his own initiative, not because his parents had forced masculinity upon him. There was no rhyme or reason to Bill’s queer obsession that his own child should not be a product of the X-ray system, but he had been firm about it.
And in later years he had reason to be glad. Bill Jr. grew up fast. He had Marta’s violet eyes and his father’s darkly blond hair, and a laughing resolution all his own. He was going to be an architect, and neither his mother’s shocked protest at this treason to the family profession, nor Bill’s not wholly concealed disappointment could swerve him. But he was a good lad. Between school terms he and his father had entirely marvelous vacations together, and for Bill the world revolved about this beloved, talented, headstrong youngster whose presence upon Earth seemed reason enough for Bill’s whole existence.
He was glad, even, that the boy was stubborn. For there could be no question now about a weakness in the children of the Cory System births. In all ways but one they were quite normal, it was true, but initiative seemed to have been left out of them. It was as if the act of predetermining their sex had robbed them of all ability to make any decisions of their own. Excellent followers they were—but no leaders sprang up among them.
And it was dangerous to fill with unquestioning followers of the strongest man a world in which General George Hamilton controlled the United States. He was in his fourth term as president as the first great group of Cory System children came to maturity. Fiercely and sincerely he believed in the subjugation of the many to the State, and this new generation found in him an almost divinely inspired leader.
General George dreamed of a United World in which all races lived in blind obedience and willing sacrifice for the common good. And he was a man to make his dreams come true. Of course, he admitted, there would be opposition at first. There might be bloody wars, but in his magnificent dreams he believed sincerely that no price could be too high, that the end justified any means necessary to achieve it. And it seemed like the coöperation of Heaven itself to find almost an entire generation coming into adulthood ready to accept his leadership implicitly.
He understood why. It was no secret now what effect the Cory System had upon the children it produced. They would follow the strongest leader with blind faith. But upon this one generation of followers General George knew he could build a future that would live after him in the magnificent fulfillment of his most magnificent dreams. For a war lord needs a nation of soldiers, a great crop of boy babies to grow into armies, and surprisingly few saw the real motive behind General George’s constant cry for boys, boys, boys—huge families of them. Fathers of many sons were feted and rewarded. Everybody knew there was the certainty of war behind this constant appeal for families of sons, but comparatively few realized that since the best way to be sure of boys was the use of the Cory System, the whole new generation would be blind followers of the strongest leader, just as their fathers were. Perhaps the Cory System might have died of its own great weakness, its one flaw, had not General George so purposefully demanded sons of his followers.
General George died before the first great war was over. His last words, gasped in the bursting tumult of a bomb raid over Washington were, “Carry on—unite the world!” And his vice-president and second in command, Phillip Spaulding, was ready to snatch up the falling torch and light the world to union.
Half the United States lay in smoking ruins before the Great War ended. But General George had built well upon that most enduring of all foundations—the faith of men. “Be fruitful and multiply,” was a command his followers had obeyed implicitly, and Spaulding had mighty resources of human brawn and human obedience to draw upon.
The great general had died gladly for his dream, and he had not died in vain. Half the world was united under his starry banners within a decade after his death; the United World of his vision came into being less than fifty years later.
With peace and blind faith and prosperity, Science City indeed came into its own. And because a taste of power had made the Leaders hungry, the eyes of the City turned upward toward starry space. During the command of the Fourth Leader after the immortal General George, the first successful space voyage was achieved. The first living man stood knee-deep in the dead pumice dust of the moon and a mighty forward stride for mankind was recorded.
It was only a step. Mars came next, three generations later. After a brief and bloody war, its decadent inhabitants surrendered and the Seventh Leader began to have giddily intoxicating dreams of a United Solar System—
Time telescoped by. Generation melted into generation in changing tides over a world population that seemed unaltering in its by now age-old uniforms of George Blue. And in a sense they were unaltering. Mankind was fixed in a mold—a good enough mold for the military life of the U. W.—the United World. The Cory System had long ago become compulsory, and men and women were produced exactly in the ratio that the Leaders decreed. But it was significant that the Leader class came into the world in the old haphazard fashion of the days before the legendary Dr. Cory’s discovery.
The name of Cory was
a proud one. It had long been a tradition in that famous family that the founder’s great System should not be used among themselves. They were high among the Leader class. Several of the Leaders had borne the surname of Cory, though the office of course was not hereditary, but passed after rigid training and strict examination to the most eligible of the Candidates Class when an old Leader passed his prime.
And among the mighty Corys, family resemblance was strong. Generations saw the inevitable dilution of the original strain, but stubbornly through the years the Cory features came and went. Sometimes only the darkly blond hair of the first great Bill, sometimes the violet eyes which his pretty Marta had bequeathed her son, sometimes the very face of young Bill Jr. himself, that had roused an ache of pride and love in his father’s heart whenever he saw those beloved features.
The Cory eyes looked now upon two worlds, triumphantly regimented to the last tiny detail. Mankind was proving his supremacy over himself—over his weaknesses and his sentimental, selfish desires for personal happiness as opposed to the great common good. Few succumbed to such shameful yearnings, but when they did, every man was a spy against his neighbor, as stern as the Leader himself in crushing these threats to the U. W.’s strength. It should be the individual’s holiest and most mystically passionate dream to sacrifice his happiness for the Leader and the U. W., and the Leader and the United World lived for the sole purpose of seeing that he did.
Marvelous was the progress of mankind. The elements had long since been conquered; the atom had yielded up its incalculable power in the harness of the machines, space itself was a highway for the vehicles of the U. W.
Under the blue-black skies of Mars, mankind’s checkerboard cities patterned the hot red soil; under the soft gray clouds of Venus, those roofed and checkered cities spread from a common center through jungles steaming in more than tropic heat. Many-mooned Jupiter was drawing the covetous eyes of the Leaders in their sky-high cities of glass and steel.
The Best of C.L. Moore & Henry Kuttner Page 20
