Young Mutants

by Asimov, Isaac

  She simply held her brother the tighter as she replied, “Because I love him.”

  Prone

  by Mack Reynolds

  Here’s how a clever person may turn a liability into an asset.

  * * *

  SupCom Bull Underwood said in a voice ominously mild, “I continually get the impression that every other sentence is being left out of this conversation. Now, tell me, General, what do you mean things happen around him?”

  “Well, for instance, the first day Mitchie got to the Academy a cannon burst at a demonstration.”

  “What’s a cannon?”

  “A pre-guided-missile weapon,” the commander of the Terra Military Academy told him. “You know, shells propelled by gunpowder. We usually demonstrate them in our history classes. This time four students were injured. The next day sixteen were hurt in ground-war maneuvers.”

  There was an element of respect in the SupCom’s tone. “Your course must be rugged.”

  General Bentley wiped his forehead with a snowy handkerchief even as he shook it negatively. “It was the first time any such thing happened. I tell you, sir, since Mitchie Farthingworth has been at the academy things have been chaotic. Fires in the dormitories, small arms exploding, cadets being hospitalized right and left. We’ve just got to expel that boy!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the SupCom growled. “He’s the apple of his old man’s eye. We’ve got to make a hero out of him if it means the loss of a battle fleet. But I still don’t get this. You mean the Farthing worth kid is committing sabotage?”

  “It’s not that. We investigated. He doesn’t do it on purpose, things just happen around him. Mitchie can’t help it.”

  “Confound it, stop calling him Mitchie!” Bull Underwood snapped. “How do you know it’s him if he doesn’t do it? Maybe you’re just having a run of bad luck.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Bentley said, “until I ran into Admiral Lawrence of the Space Marines Academy. He had the same story. The day Mitchie—excuse me, sir—Michael Farthing worth set foot in Nuevo San Diego, things started happening. When they finally got him transferred to our academy the trouble stopped.”

  It was at times like these that Bull Underwood regretted his shaven head. He could have used some hair to tear. “Then it must be sabotage if it stops when he leaves!”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  The SupCom took a deep breath, snapped to his secretarobot, “Brief me on Cadet Michael Farthingworth, including his early life.” While he waited he growled under his breath, “A stalemated hundred-year war on my hands with those Martian makrons and I have to get things like this tossed at me.”

  In less than a minute the secretarobot began: “Son of Senator Warren Farthingworth, Chairman War Appropriations Committee. Twenty-two years of age. Five feet six, one hundred and thirty, blue eyes, brown hair, fair. Born and spent early youth in former United States area. Early education by mother. At age of eighteen entered Harvard but schooling was interrupted when roof of assembly hall collapsed killing most of faculty. Next year entered Yale, leaving two months after when 90 percent of the university’s buildings were burnt down in the holocaust of ’85. Next attended University of California but failed to graduate owing to the earthquake which completely …”

  “That’s enough,” the SupCom rapped. He turned and stared at General Bentley. “What is it? Even if the kid was a psychokinetic saboteur he couldn’t accomplish all that.”

  The academy commander shook his head. “All I know is that, since his arrival at the Terra Military Academy, there’s been an endless series of casualties. And the longer he’s there the worse it gets. It’s twice as bad now as when he first arrived.” He got to his feet wearily. “I’m a broken man, sir, and I’m leaving this in your hands. You’ll have my resignation this afternoon. Frankly, I’m afraid to return to the school. If I do, some day I’ll probably crack my spine bending over to tie my shoelaces. It just isn’t safe to be near that boy.”

  For a long time after General Bentley had left, SupCom Bull Underwood sat at his desk, his heavy underlip in a pout. “And just when the next five years’ appropriation is up before the committee,” he snarled at nobody.

  He turned to the secretarobot. “Put the best psychotechnicians available on Michael Farthingworth. They are to discover … well, they are to discover why things happen around him. Priority one.”

  Approximately a week later the secretarobot said, “May I interrupt you, sir? A priority-one report is coming in.”

  Bull Underwood grunted and turned away from the star chart he’d been studying with the two Space Marine generals. He dismissed them and sat down at his desk.

  The visor lit up and he was confronted with the face of an elderly civilian. “Doctor Duclos,” the civilian said. “Case of Cadet Michael Farthingworth.”

  “Good,” the SupCom rumbled. “Doctor, what in the devil is wrong with young Farthingworth?”

  “The boy is an accident prone.”

  Bull Underwood scowled at him. “A what?”

  “An accident prone.” The doctor elaborated with evident satisfaction. “There is indication that he is the most extreme case in medical history. Really a fascinating study. Never in my experience have I been—”

  “Please, Doctor. I’m a layman. What is an accident prone?”

  “Ah, yes. Briefly, an unexplained phenomenon first noted by the insurance companies of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. An accident prone has an unnaturally large number of accidents happen either to him, or less often, to persons in his vicinity. In Farthingworth’s case, they happen to persons about him. He himself is never affected.”

  The SupCom was unbelieving. “You mean to tell me there are some persons who just naturally have accidents happen to them without any reason?”

  “That is correct,” Duclos nodded. “Most prones are understandable. Subconsciously, the death wish is at work and the prone seeks self-destruction. However, science has yet to discover the forces behind the less common type such as Farthingworth exemplifies.” The doctor’s emphatic shrug betrayed his Gallic background. “It has been suggested that it is no more than the laws of chance at work. To counterbalance the accident prone, there should be persons at the other extreme who are blessed with abnormally good fortune. However …”

  SupCom Bull Underwood’s lower lip was out, almost truculently. “Listen,” he interrupted. “What can be done about it?”

  “Nothing,” the doctor said, his shoulders raising and lowering again. “An accident prone seems to remain one as a rule. Not always, but as a rule. Fortunately, they are rare.”

  “Not rare enough,” the SupCom growled. “These insurance companies, what did they do when they located an accident prone?”

  “They kept track of him and refused to insure the prone, his business, home, employees, employers, or anyone or anything connected with him.”

  Bull Underwood stared unblinkingly at the doctor, as though wondering whether the other’s whole explanation was an attempt to pull his leg. Finally he rapped, “Thank you, Doctor Duclos. That will be all.” The civilian’s face faded from the visor.

  The SupCom said slowly to the secretarobot, “Have Cadet Farthingworth report to me.” He added sotto voce, “And while he’s here have all personnel keep their fingers crossed.”

  The photoelectric-controlled door leading to the sanctum sanctorum of SupCom Bull Underwood glided quietly open and a lieutenant entered and came to a snappy attention. The door swung gently shut behind him.

  “Well?” Bull Underwood growled.

  “Sir, a Cadet Michael Farthingworth to report to you.”

  “Send him in. Ah, just a minute, Lieutenant Brown. How do you feel after talking to him?”

  “Me, sir? I feel fine, sir.” The lieutenant looked blankly at him.

  “Hmmm. Well, send him in, confound it.”

  The lieutenant turned and the door opened automatically before him. “Cadet Farthingworth,” he announced
.

  The newcomer entered and stood stiffly before the desk of Earth’s military head. Bull Underwood appraised him with care. In spite of the swank Academy uniform, Michael Farthingworth cut a wistfully ineffectual figure. His faded blue eyes blinked sadly behind heavy contact lenses.

  “That’ll be all, Lieutenant,” the SupCom said to his aide.

  “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant about-faced snappily and marched to the door—which swung sharply forward and quickly back again before the lieutenant was halfway through.

  SupCom Bull Underwood winced at the crush of bone and cartilage. He shuddered, then snapped to his secretarobot, “Have Lieutenant Brown hospitalized … and, ah … see he gets a Luna Medal for exposing himself to danger beyond the call of duty.”

  He swung to the newcomer and came directly to the point. “Cadet Farthingworth,” he rapped, “do you know what an accident prone is?”

  Mitchie’s voice was low and plaintive. “Yes, sir.”

  “You do?” Bull Underwood was surprised.

  “Yes, sir. At first such things as the school’s burning down didn’t particularly impress me as being personally connected with me, but the older I get, the worse it gets, and after what happened to my first date, I started to investigate.”

  The SupCom said cautiously, “What happened to the date?”

  Mitchie flushed. “I took her to a dance and she broke her leg.”

  The SupCom cleared his throat. “So finally you investigated?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mitchie Farthingworth said woefully. “And I found I was an accident prone and getting worse geometrically. Each year I’m twice as bad as the year before. I’m glad you’ve discovered it too, sir. I … didn’t know what to do. Now it’s in your hands.”

  The SupCom was somewhat relieved. Possibly this wasn’t going to be as difficult as he had feared. He said, “Have you any ideas, Mitchie, ah, that is …”

  “Call me Mitchie if you want, sir. Everybody else does.”

  “Have you any ideas? After all, you’ve done as much damage to Terra as a Martian task force would accomplish.”

  “Yes, sir. I think I ought to be shot.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m expendable,” Mitchie said miserably. “In fact, I suppose I’m probably the most expendable soldier that’s ever been. All my life I’ve wanted to be a spaceman and do my share toward licking the Martians.” His eyes gleamed behind his lenses. “Why, I’ve …”

  He stopped and looked at his commanding officer pathetically. “What’s the use? I’m just a bust. An accident prone. The only thing to do is liquidate me.” He tried to laugh in self-deprecation but his voice broke.

  Behind him, Bull Underwood heard the glass in his office window shatter without seeming cause. He winced again, but didn’t turn.

  “Sorry, sir,” Mitchie said. “See? The only thing is to shoot me.”

  “Look,” Bull Underwood said urgently, “stand back a few yards farther, will you? There on the other side of the room.” He cleared his throat. “Your suggestion has already been considered, as a matter of fact. However, due to your father’s political prominence, shooting you had to be ruled out.”

  From a clear sky the secretarobot began to say, “ ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.”

  SupCom Bull Underwood closed his eyes in pain and shrank back into his chair. “What?” he said cautiously.

  “The borogoves were mimsy as all get-out,” the secretarobot said decisively and shut up.

  Mitchie looked at it. “Slipped its cogs, sir,” he said helpfully. “It’s happened before around me.”

  “The best memory bank in the system,” Underwood protested. “Oh, no.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mitchie said apologetically. “And I wouldn’t recommend trying to repair it, sir. Three technicians were electrocuted when I was …”

  The secretarobot sang, “ ‘O frabjous day! Callooh! Cal-lay!’ ”

  “Completely around the corner,” Mitchie said.

  “This,” said Bull Underwood, “is too frabjous much! Senator or no Senator, appropriations or no appropriations, with my own bare hands—”

  As he strode impulsively forward, he felt the rug giving way beneath him. He grasped desperately for the edge of the desk, felt ink bottle and water carafe go crashing over.

  Mitchie darted forward to his assistance.

  “Stand back!” Bull Underwood roared, holding an ankle with one hand, shaking the other hand in the form of a fist. “Get out of here, confound it!” Ink began to drip from the desk over his shaven head. It cooled him not at all. “It’s not even safe to destroy you! It’d wipe out a regiment to try to assemble a firing squad! It—” Suddenly he paused, and when he spoke again his voice was like the coo of a condor.

  “Cadet Farthing worth,” he announced, “after considerable deliberation on my part I have chosen you to perform the most hazardous operation that Terra’s forces have undertaken in the past hundred years. If successful, this effort will undoubtedly end the war.”

  “Who, me?” Mitchie said.

  “Exactly,” SupCom Underwood snapped. “This war has been going on for a century without either side’s being able to secure that slight edge, that minute advantage which would mean victory. Cadet Farthingworth, you have been chosen to make the supreme effort which will give Terra that superiority over the Martians.” The SupCom looked sternly at Mitchie.

  “Yes, sir,” he clipped. “What are my orders?”

  The SupCom beamed at him. “Spoken like a true hero of Terra’s Space Forces. On the spaceport behind this building is a small spycraft. You are to repair immediately to it and blast off for Mars. Once there you are to land, hide the ship, and make your way to their capital city.”

  “Yes, sir! And what do I do then?”

  “Nothing,” Bull Underwood said with satisfaction. “You do absolutely nothing but live there. I estimate that your presence in the enemy capital will end the war in less than two years.”

  Michael Farthing worth snapped him a brilliant salute.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Spontaneous combustion broke out in the wastebasket.

  Through the shards of his window, SupCom Bull Underwood could hear the blast-off of the spyship. Half a dozen miles away the flare of a fuel dump going up in flames lighted up the sky.

  Seated there in the wreckage of his office he rubbed his ankle tenderly. “The only trouble is when the war is over we’ll have to bring him home.”

  But then he brightened. “Perhaps we could leave him there as our occupation forces. It would keep them from ever recovering to the point where they could try again.”

  He tried to get to his feet, saying to the secretarobot, “Have them send me in a couple of medical corpsmen.”

  “ ‘Beware the Jabberwock,’ ” the secretarobot sneered.

  Come On, Wagon!

  by Zenna Henderson

  The capacity for fantasy often decreases with age but the results aren’t always beneficial.

  * * *

  I don’t like kids—never have. They’re too uncanny. For one thing, there’s no bottom to their eyes. They haven’t learned to pull down their mental curtains the way adults have. For another thing, there’s so much they don’t know. And not knowing things makes them know lots of other things grownups can’t know. That sounds confusing and it is. But look at it this way. Every time you teach a kid something, you teach him a hundred things that are impossible because that one thing is so. By the time we grow up, our world is so hedged around by impossibilities that it’s a wonder we ever try anything new.

  Anyway, I don’t like kids, so I guess it’s just as well that I’ve stayed a bachelor.

  Now take Thaddeus. I don’t like Thaddeus. Oh, he’s a fine kid, smarter than most—he’s my nephew—but he’s too young. I’ll start liking him one of these days when he’s ten or eleven. No, that’s still too young. I guess when his voice starts cracking and he begins to slick his hair dow
n, I’ll get to liking him fine. Adolescence ends lots more than it begins.

  The first time I ever really got acquainted with Thaddeus was the Christmas he was three. He was a solemn little fellow, hardly a smile out of him all day, even with the avalanche of everything to thrill a kid. Starting first thing Christmas Day, he made me feel uneasy. He stood still in the middle of the excited, squealing bunch of kids that crowded around the Christmas tree in the front room at the folks’ place. He was holding a big rubber ball with both hands and looking at the tree with his eyes wide with wonder. I was sitting right by him in the big chair and I said, “How do you like it, Thaddeus?”

  He turned his big solemn eyes to me, and for a long time, all I could see was the deep, deep reflections in his eyes of the glitter and glory of the tree and a special shiningness that originated far back in his own eyes. Then he blinked slowly and said solemnly, “Fine.”

  Then the mob of kids swept him away as they all charged forward to claim their Grampa-gift from under the tree. When the crowd finally dissolved and scattered all over the place with their playtoys, there was Thaddeus squatting solemnly by the little red wagon that had fallen to him. He was examining it intently, inch by inch, but only with his eyes. His hands were pressed between his knees and his chest as he squatted.

  “Well, Thaddeus.” His mother’s voice was a little provoked. “Go play with your wagon. Don’t you like it?”

  Thaddeus turned his face up to her in that blind, unseeing way little children have.

  “Sure,” he said, and standing up, tried to take the wagon in his arms.

  “Oh, for pity sakes,” his mother laughed. “You don’t carry a wagon, Thaddeus.” And aside to us, “Sometimes I wonder. Do you suppose he’s got all his buttons?”

  “Now, Jean.” Our brother Clyde leaned back in his chair. “Don’t heckle the kid. Go on, Thaddeus. Take the wagon outside.”