Children of Tomorrow Read online

  A chorus of 'sacks’ greet his query - all except Mike, who was silent, but who finally said reluctantly, ‘If that’s the way you want it.’

  The blue-eyed Lee gave the slightly younger boy a quick, challenging glance, as if questioning the other’s tone, A moment later, he asked, 'What’s the push, Mike?5 Once more, Mike hesitated, then: ‘No push.'

  Lee replied instantly, ‘There’s a doubt pushing out of you. Jack it out, so we can scan it.’

  Mike’s expression was clearing. He removed his hand from the grip it had on Bud’s coat collar. ‘All unpacked, Lee/ he said. A warm, friendly smile creased his face. ‘All sack/

  Lee said, ‘Sack.’ He turned to the others, made a dispersal gesture. ‘Sack,’ he said once again. He turned and walked quickly over to Susan. ‘Let’s go, moocher,’ he said.

  Susan caught his arm. ‘Sack, everybody,’ she said.

  All except Bud answered, ‘Sack.’

  The pert, little brunette took hold of Mike’s arm, stood beside him and with him watched Lee and Susan walk hurriedly away. Mike, watching, shook his head, but he was tolerant now. ‘Too bad,’ he said.

  Marrianne gave him a quick glance. 'What’s the push, Mike?’ Mike shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you when I take you home,’ he said. Without waiting for a further comment, he turned toward Bud. ‘Sack, Bud.’

  Bud asked anxiously, Does that mean I can go?’

  Mike nodded.

  ‘But who’s going to go home with me, and face my old man? He said he’d beat the tar out of me if I went with an outfit.’ His tone was one of rising fear.

  Mike said, ‘Bud, we’ve explained the choice. We can take you to the Hall, or take you home. Make up your mind.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got to go home,’ Bud shrilled. ‘I’ve got to. I wouldn’t dare stay out all night.’

  Mike pursed his lips, and turned to the heavyset boy. ’Albert, take Bud home.’ He handed Albert a tiny instrument. ‘If his father makes trouble, press this button. You’ll have help in three minutes. Sack?’

  Bud was not to be reassured. ‘What kind of help?’ he half yelled.

  Mike gazed at him steadily. ‘Sack, Bud,’ he said, in a steady voice.

  The tone arrested Bud’s attention. His small face twisted up toward Mike. 'What docs that mean?’ he asked.

  ‘It means that I want an answer that shows that you’ve heard what I said.’

  ‘What kind of an answer?’ Bud seemed transfixed.

  'Say, “Sack, Mike”.’

  ‘And if I say "Sack”!’ Bud’persisted, 'that means I’ve heard

  you, and that I believe you, and that ends our conversation, and I go home.’

  ‘You’re pretty sharp, Bud. That’s what it means.’

  ‘But I don't believe it,’ said Bud.

  Mike said placatingly, ‘You’ll soon have confidence in our word, Bud. Except very occasionally, we speak what we think.’

  ‘How do I know this is not one of the occasions when you don’t?’

  ‘Because I tell you it isn’t.’ Abruptly impatient, Mike broke off. ‘Sack, Bud.’ He spoke in a deliberate tone.

  There was a long pause, during which the watcher telepathed the alien child:

  Say it, boy!

  I’m still testing.

  I know. But I analyse that, with Mike, the moment has come for agreement.

  Nevertheless, my father, I really will have trouble when I get home. You selected Mr Jaeger because he was a man who would resist outfit control of children. He’s already told me that so long as I stay with him, Fd better not get in with an outfit. I’m not sure I can handle a grown human being without giving myself away,

  ‘Til go over there with you, my son. So don't worry.

  The alien child replied:

  Fm not afraid for myself. But I don't want to be found out before my mission is completed. I should tell you, however, that I already believe that I, a mere boy of my race, overmatch these human beings completely, and I might even deduce that they have no defense against people like us. I already feel, my father, that we could capture this planet.

  The watcher was disturbed by what seemed to it to be a too- rapid judgement.

  Don't be hasty, my son. Things are not always what they seem, Take the allotted time. Complete your espionage mission.

  The rapid interchange ended and Bud looked up at Mike, and said aloud, slowly, ‘Sack - Mike.’

  Alike Sutter and Marianne Baker stood side by side as Bud walked off beside Albert. When they were out of earshot, Mike said, half to himself, ‘Funny kid. Look at the way he walks. Kind of shuffling.’

  The watcher, who was still focused on them, waited grimly. Was it possible the boy suspected? That the close contact situation had not been properly handled?

  Mike was shaking his head. Well, there’s another problem, Looks like there’s no end to them.’

  Marianne caught his arm. Her pretty little egg of a face looked up at him worshipfully. ‘Alike, what’s the push about Lee?’

  The watcher was relieved to realise that her words distracted the human boy. Mike shrugged. ‘He ended the evening before it was time for a private reason that he didn’t jack out.’- ‘Then why didn’t you push?’

  Mike was thoughtful, the tolerant expression back on his face. 'It’s not always easy to know when to push, and when not to. Susan’s dad came home today after the longest hike in the history of Spaceport.’

  ‘Oh! You think Lee -1

  Mike nodded. ‘I think Lee wanted Susan to get home early.’ ‘What’s wrong with that? Why didn’t we just let Susan off for the evening? We’ve done it before.’

  The boy shook his head. His Ups tightened. ‘No. Her old man is a booter, if there ever was one - just like my dad. The outfits cannot compromise with people like that, became they don’t compromise. And a concession merely looks like weakness.’

  He had started walking as he spoke these words. Marianne hastily fell in beside him. Mike finished his thought: ‘Looks like we’ve got lots of problems coming up just about when I figured there’d be some peace. So I could use a little mooching, moocher.' ‘Sack, Mooch.’

  They mooched.

  Approximately ten minutes had gone by. Inside the Lane house, during that time, Estelle nervously retreated into her bedroom, undressed, hesitated - half expecting that her husband would be anxious to join her — but when there was not a sound, her Ups tightened. With determination, suddenly, she put on a pair of pajamas and then slipped into a lounging robe.

  And, still, she half expected him to come to her; and so, once more, sitting there on the edge of the bed, a little uncertain as the seconds went by, she went from anticipation to wonder through the old, old resentment, and finally - again - an outraged anger.

  But in her, such an emotion could not remain long. She thought abruptly: That man, that incredible man!

  With that, the anger faded, and she got up and went out of

  the bedroom and into the book-lined room with the bar. Her husband was silhoueted against the window behind the bar, and she saw that he was in the final stages of mixing himself a drink,

  With his usual instant courtesy, he held his own glass out to her. When she shook her head, not trusting herself to speak - yet - he asked, ‘May I pour you your favorite?’

  For a moment the expression on her face toyed with the thought of testing whether he did, in fact, remember her favourite cocktail. She decided against that. It might weaken her resolve, might make her feel that he did care for hear in his fashion — which was not good enough, thank you.

  Whereupon, she shook her head, no. As she did so, she grew aware that the man was gazing at her, as if taking her in with his whole vision. In the past, she had thought of it as being eaten by his eyes; and from him, she had enjoyed the sensation. With it, always, there had been the implication that she was indeed a tasty dish. Unfortunately, after a moment, she was impatient with his stereotype. Truth was, after ten years she no longer felt herself to be delicious and
delightful to the taste, and his long absence actually proved that that was his real opinion also.

  Despite her rejection of his pattern, she could not quite bring herself to say rejecting words about it. She thought: After all, I’ve been making my peace with this villain all day . . . and, of course for a decade before that. The time to leave had been when he accepted the distant-space assignment six years before without coming home.

  I’ve paid my debt to society, she thought humorously, standing there. I’ve served my time ... It would be rather foolish to wipe it all out in a sudden peeve.

  Lane suddenly put down his glass, and said, as if realising what her thoughts had been earlier: ‘After all, dear1 - his voice was gentle - ‘we can’t go to bed until Susan is in, and safely in her room.’

  Normally, that wouldn’t be true. But Estelle had to admit, now, that the awareness of Susan not being home had been there in the back of her mind, restraining her from being totally outraged by her husband’s behaviour. Tonight - she had to admit it

  Susan, failing to find them up, would undoubtedly come bursting into the bedroom; and it would be unfortunate if they were in some compromising man-woman relation. Fact was, these jabbers were a little bit - just a little - naive. Not in some things, but they were not really up to the adult male-female business.

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. And her face showed that the concession, though grudgingly given, was real.

  Lane gave her a quick glance; and he, now, was relieved. In his eyes was an awareness that something of her ten-year anger had faded with that agreement. He said quickly, as if he felt the instant need to take advantage of what he must have decided was surrender: ‘Dear, why don’t you go to bed, and when I’ve had my little meeting with Susan, I’ll join you?’

  The woman hesitated. Then: ‘Your little meeting?’ she echoed. The prospect seemed to be wearying to her.

  Lane said, anxious to please, ‘I’ll make it very gentle. First a nice reunion. The very light suggestion, next, that it’s wrong for a young lady to be out so late. And then the intimation that now that I’m home, she can withdraw from this gang.’ He spread his hands. ‘After all, she’s still only a teenager. It seems very simple to me.’

  Estelle shook her head, and sighed. “The same, going-to-have- his-own-way, John Lane. Never a doubt in your mind that you have the answer to a problem you’ve never even taken the trouble to understand.’

  Slowly, Lane walked back to where his glass rested. He picked it up, and he was visibly fighting a return of irritation. He took a long sip of the brown liquid, and evidently had control of himself again. “Now, see here, darling, I just have to tell you that you cannot protect Susan from having a talk with her father. So why don’t you go to bed?’

  Estelle’s manner stiffened in a kind of surprised understanding. ‘Oh,’ she said, and her eyes lighted, ‘so that’s what you’ve missed in all that Mr Reid and I tried to say.’

  ‘Missed?’ Lane’s tone was puzzled.

  ‘Susan doesn’t need any protection from me,’ the woman said, simply.

  Lane stared at her, puzzled. ‘1 guess I don't get it. What are you talking about?’

  The wife said, ‘The outfits will protect Susan.’

  The husband’s determined face took on a strange, blank expression. Her words must have been totally incomprehensible, for he just stood there, blinking a little.

  The wife continued, and her voice had an arguing quality in it as if she was trying to penetrate his fog. She said, ‘Don’t you see, honey? The outfits are established. No single person can resist them. Not you ... Not anyone.’

  That reached the man. He was suddenly immensely astonished. He said, ‘You’ve been arguing with me for my protection?’ He spoke slowly.

  A pause. Lane had put his glass down again, and on his face, now, was a look. It was as if the meaning of her words was tangling inside him with all of those steely, positive ideas by which he conducted his life. The conflict, whatever its form, was brief. The firm lips tightened decisively. He said, grimly, ‘Now,

  I know the situation is serious. I’ll... talk to Susan.’

  Estelle sighed, ‘I must have said the wrong thing. Please . . , let me put it in simple words. Outfits are raising the children of Spaceport, and have been doing so for the past eight and a half years.’

  Lane shook his head. He was impatient, but also smiling in a tolerant, superior fashion. ‘I began to get the picture. Some idiots have started another fad and the kids are living it up.’

  The woman was also impatient, suddenly. ‘The idiots were those who went out into the universe, and left their children here to fend for themselves, and never gave them another thought.’ Lane said in an even tone, ‘I thought I left my daughter in a beautiful home, to be cared for by her mother and a daily school schedule that would keep her out of trouble.’

  The woman’s color was high. ‘What you thought, and the reality, are not related. The school and the mother were not enough - get it! In fact’ -she was calmer - ‘it is believed that the presence of some type fathers is probably as harmful to a child as his absence.’

  ‘My type?’ Lane asked.

  There was that in his tone which made her give him a sharp, searching look. And then she was suddenly griefy, and she said, ‘Don’t you hurt Susan.’

  The surprise of that brought a halt to whatever hardness was building up in the man. He was taken aback. ‘Hurt my own daughter! Of course, I won’t hurt her. I love her very dearly. Her picture and yours were always on my desk on every ship I commanded.’

  Silence, As if they had arrived at an impasse. The woman looked resigned, even a little tired - as if the unaccustomed argument had been too much for her. But it was she who finally spoke. ‘All right,’ she said. She turned way, and moved toward the bedroom.

  ‘ ’Night,’ Lane called after her.

  She did not reply, did not turn. As the man watched, ‘he disappeared into the hallway toward her bedroom. Lane now carried his drink to a table beside a chair. He had to adjust the light for his own way of sitting. But presently he was in the chair, and he picked up the newspaper that was there, and he began impatiently to read.

  Time went by. One section of the paper was discarded, and fell to the right side of the chair. More time. Lane pushed the paper aside, climbed to his feet, and deliberately walked over to the bar and in the same deliberate fashion made himself another drink. Then back to the chair. Another section of the newspaper struck the floor and lay there.

  A lot of anger had built up. He let the paper drop, reached to his collar with both hands, and loosened it with a jerk. Down came the hands, picked up the paper from his lap, but instead of reading, he glanced at his watch. His jaw automatically tightened as he saw that it was eleven fifty-eight.

  Abruptly, he tossed the rest of the paper to the floor, and holding the liquor glass tightly, as if it were an extension of his fist, brought it up to his mouth and forced a sip through his clenched mouth. It was as he set the glass down that he heard a sound.

  Footsteps were coming up the walk outside. Lane stood up and went to the window beside the bar. It was the kind of plastic that could be adjusted to admit light in either direction, separately or together, and at the moment it was adjusted so that what light there was outside could come in. As Lane peered out, he heard muffled voices. A female soprano with a lot of youthfulness in it, and a husky male voice that was harder to evaluate in terms of age.

  Now, he could see them on the front porch. There was a light over the door. A tall - five foot six - slender, blonde girl of unmistakable teen-age appearance and a strongly built boy of perhaps eighteen, also a blond, were standing with their arms around each other. It was not a close embrace: more like a dancing closeness.

  The girl kissed the boy on the left cheek, and said softly, f ’Night, Lee.’

  The boy kissed the girl on the right cheek, and said tenderly, 'Good-night, sweet moocher.'

  Whereupon,' he released h
er. He stepped closer to the house, out of Lane’s line of sight. There was a sound of a key in the lock. The click of it came to him from inside the house. So, a moment later, did the noise of the door itself opening. Lane stayed at the window. The boy stepped into view again. He

  handed the girl what must have been the key. Whatever it was, she slipped it into her purse. Now, she disappeared from Lane’s view, and there was the sound of the front door closing. The boy turned, walked rapidly toward the street, let himself out of the gate, and went off to the right.

  There were small sounds coming from the entrance hallway. Lane made his way across the den to the door that led to the hallway, which was broad here, almost as big as a small, longer- than-wide room. He stopped; and it was evident, then, that the carpet floor had muffled his approach. Because Susan was already in the hallway, and her back was to him.

  A kitten lay asleep on the big chair, which stood just to the right of entrance hall doorway. She bent down, and gently picked it up, cuddling it in her arms. Still holding the kitten, she turned, saw Lane - and stopped, teetering. Then:

  ‘Dad!’ She came forward a little shyly, and, still holding the kitten, put one arm around his neck and shoulder, pressed against him, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Oh, dad, you are back. At last.’

  Something of the previous hour’s rigidity went out of Lane. Awkwardly, he put his arms around her, and was about to kiss her on the lips, when she turned her right cheek to him, and said, ‘The right cheek, dad. Boyfriends and parents kiss a girl’s right cheek. Other girls and younger kids kiss her left cheek. You might as well learn right now.’

  Lane was taken by surprise. He completed his kiss, his lips involuntarily pressing her right cheek exactly on the spot that she held out for him. He would have stepped back and away, then, but she still had her arm around his neck, and her blue eyes were misty.

  ‘Oh, dad,’ she whispered, I’m so glad you’re back. I missed you.’

  Lane was recovering. A lot of the anger was gone, and there was a touch of mist in his eyes, also. He spoke gruffly, ‘So am I, my dear. And this time it’s for good, I hope you’ll be glad to know. We’ll all three of us have a normal family life for a change.’