Nine Tomorrows

  She found herself almost maudlinly grateful to Hoskins when she brought Jerry to him.

  She searched for ways to thank him but his very formality was a rebuff. Perhaps he could not forgive her for making him feel like a cruel father. Perhaps the bringing of his own child was an attempt, after all, to prove himself both a kind father to Timmie and, also, not his father at all. Both at the same time!

  So all she could say was, "Thank you. Thank you very much."

  And all he could say was, "It's all right. Don't mention it."

  It became a settled routine. Twice a week, Jerry was brought in for an hour's play, later extended to two hours' play. The children learned each other's names and ways and played together.

  And yet, after the first rush of gratitude, Miss Fellowes found herself disliking Jerry. He was larger and heavier and in all things dominant, forcing Timmie into a completely secondary role. All that reconciled her to the situation was the fact that, despite difficulties, Timmie looked forward with more and more delight to the periodic appearances of his playfellow.

  It was all he had, she mourned to herself.

  And once, as she watched them, she thought: Hoskins' two children, one by his wife and one by Stasis.

  While she herself—

  Heavens, she thought, putting her fists to her temples and feeling ashamed: I'm jealous!

  "Miss Fellowes," said Timmie (carefully, she had never allowed him to call her anything else) "when will I go to school?"

  She looked down at those eager brown eyes turned up to hers and passed her hand softly through his thick, curly hair. It was the most disheveled portion of his appearance, for she cut his hair herself while he sat restlessly under the scissors. She did not ask for professional help, for the very clumsiness of the cut served to mask the retreating fore part of the skull and the bulging hinder part.

  She said, "Where did you hear about school?"

  "Jerry goes to school. Kin-der-gar-ten." He said it carefully. "There are lots of places he goes. Outside. When can I go outside, Miss Fellowes?"

  A small pain centered in Miss Fellowes' heart. Of course, she saw, there would be no way of avoiding the inevitability of Timmie's hearing more and more of the outer world he could never enter.

  She said, with an attempt at gaiety, "Why, whatever would you do in kindergarten, Timmie?'

  "Jerry says they play games, they have picture tapes. He says there are lots of children. He says—he says—" A thought, then a triumphant upholding of both small hands with the fingers splayed apart. "He says this many."

  Miss Fellowes said, "Would you like picture tapes? I can get you picture tapes. Very nice ones. And music tapes too."

  So that Timmie was temporarily comforted.

  He pored over the picture tapes in Jerry's absence and Miss Fellowes read to him out of ordinary books by the hours.

  There was so much to explain in even the simplest story, so much that was outside the perspective of his three rooms. Timmie took to having his dreams more often now that the outside was being introduced to him.

  They were always the same, about the outside. He tried haltingly to describe them to Miss Fellowes. In his dreams, he was outside, an empty outside, but very large, with children and queer indescribable objects half-digested in his thought out of bookish descriptions half-understood, or out of distant Neanderthal memories half-recalled.

  But the children and objects ignored him and though he was in the world, he was never part of it, but was as alone as though he were in his own room—and would wake up crying.

  Miss Fellowes tried to laugh at the dreams, but there were nights in her own apartment when she cried, too.

  One day, as Miss Fellowes read, Timmie put his hand under her chin and lifted it gently so that her eyes left the book and met his.

  He said, "How do you know what to say, Miss Fellowes?"

  She said, "You see these marks? They tell me what to say. These marks make words."

  He stared at them long and curiously, taking the book out of her hands. "Some of these marks are the same."

  She laughed with pleasure at this sign of his shrewdness and said, "So they are. Would you like to have me show you how to make the marks?"

  "All right. That would be a nice game."

  It did not occur to her that he could learn to read. Up to the very moment that he read a book to her, it did not occur to her that he could learn to read.

  Then, weeks later, the enormity of what had been done struck her. Timmie sat in her lap, following word by word the printing in a child's book, reading to her. He was reading to her!

  She struggled to her feet in amazement and said, "Now Timmie, I'll be back later. I want to see Dr. Hoskins."

  Excited nearly to frenzy, it seemed to her she might have an answer to Timmie's unhappiness. If Timmie could not leave to enter the world, the world must be brought into those three rooms to Timmie—the whole world in books and film and sound. He must be educated to his full capacity. So much the world owed him.

  She found Hoskins in a mood that was oddly analogous to her own; a kind of triumph and glory. His offices were unusually busy, and for a moment, she thought she would not get to see him, as she stood abashed in the anteroom.

  But he saw her, and a smile spread over his broad face. "Miss Fellowes, come here." He spoke rapidly into the intercom, then shut it off.

  "Have you heard?—No, of course, you couldn't have. We've done it. We've actually done it. We have intertemporal detection at close range."

  "You mean," she tried to detach her thought from her own good news for a moment, "that you can get a person from historical times into the present?"

  "That's just what I mean. We have a fix on a fourteenth century individual right now. Imagine. Imagine! If you could only know how glad I'll be to shift from the eternal concentration on the Mesozoic, replace the paleontologists with the historians—But there's something you wish to say to me, eh? Well, go ahead; go ahead. You find me in a good mood. Anything you want you can have."

  Miss Fellowes smiled. "I'm glad. Because I wonder if we might not establish a system of instruction for Timmie?"

  "Instruction? In what?"

  "Well, in everything. A school. So that he might learn."

  "But can he learn?"

  "Certainly, he is learning. He can read. I've taught him so much myself."

  Hoskins sat there, seeming suddenly depressed. "I don't know, Miss Fellowes."

  She said, "You just said that anything I wanted—"

  "I know and I should not have. You see, Miss Fellowes, I'm sure you must realize that we cannot maintain the Timmie experiment forever."

  She stared at him with sudden horror, not really understanding what he had said. How did he mean "cannot maintain"? With an agonizing flash of recollection, she recalled Professor Ademewski and his mineral specimen that was taken away after two weeks. She said, "But you're talking about a boy. Not about a rock—"

  Dr. Hoskins said uneasily, "Even a boy can't be given undue importance, Miss Fellowes. Now that we expect individuals out of historical time, we will need Stasis space, all we can get."

  She didn't grasp it. "But you can't. Timmie—Timmie—"

  "Now, Miss Fellowes, please don't upset yourself. Timmie won't go right away; perhaps not for months. Meanwhile we'll do what we can."

  She was still staring at him.

  "Let me get you something, Miss Fellowes."

  "No," she whispered. "I don't need anything." She arose in a kind of nightmare and left.

  Timmie, she thought, you will not die. You will not die.

  It was all very well to hold tensely to the thought that Timmie must not die, but how was that to be arranged? In the first weeks, Miss Fellowes clung only to the hope that the attempt to bring forward a man from the fourteenth century would fail completely. Hoskins' theories might be wrong or his practice defective. Then things could go on as before.

  Certainly, that was not the hope of the rest of the world an
d, irrationally, Miss Fellowes hated the world for it. "Project Middle Ages" reached a climax of white-hot publicity. The press and the public had hungered for something like this. Stasis, Inc. had lacked the necessary sensation for a long time now. A new rock or another ancient fish failed to stir them. But this was it.

  A historical human; an adult speaking a known language; someone who could open a new page of history to the scholar.

  Zero-time was coming and this time it was not a question of three onlookers from the balcony. This time there would be a world-wide audience. This time the technicians of Stasis, Inc. would play their role before nearly all of mankind.

  Miss Fellowes was herself all but savage with waiting. When young Jerry Hoskins showed up for his scheduled playtime with Timmie, she scarcely recognized him. He was not the one she was waiting for.

  (The secretary who brought him left hurriedly after the barest nod for Miss Fellowes. She was rushing for a good place from which to watch the climax of Project Middle Ages. —And so ought Miss Fellowes with far better reason, she thought bitterly, if only that stupid girl would arrive.)

  Jerry Hoskins sidled toward her, embarrassed. "Miss Fellowes?" He took the reproduction of a news-strip out of his pocket.

  "Yes? What is it, Jerry?"

  "Is this a picture of Timmie?"

  Miss Fellowes stared at him, then snatched the strip from Jerry's hand. The excitement of Project Middle Ages had brought about a pale revival of interest in Timmie on the part of the press.

  Jerry watched her narrowly, then said, "It says Timmie is an ape-boy. What does that mean?"

  Miss Fellowes caught the youngster's wrist and repressed the impulse to shake him. "Never say that, Jerry, Never, do you understand? It is a nasty word and you mustn't use it."

  Jerry struggled out of her grip, frightened.

  Miss Fellowes tore up the news-strip with a vicious twist of the wrist. "Now go inside and play with Timmie. He's got a new book to show you."

  And then, finally, the girl appeared. Miss Fellowes did not know her. None of the usual stand-ins she had used when businesss took her elsewhere was available now, not with Project Middle Ages at climax, but Hoskins' secretary had promised to find someone and this must be the girl.

  Miss Fellowes tried to keep querulousness out of her voice. "Are you the girl assigned to Stasis Section One?"

  "Yes, I'm Mandy Terris. You're Miss Fellowes, aren't you?"

  "That's right."

  "I'm sorry I'm late. There's just so much excitement."

  "I know. Now I want you—"

  Mandy said, "You'll be watching, I suppose." Her thin, vacuously pretty face filled with envy.

  "Never mind that. Now I want you to come inside and meet Timmie and Jerry. They will be playing for the next two hours so they'll be giving you no trouble. They've got milk handy and plenty of toys. In fact, it will be better if you leave them alone as much as possible. Now I'll show you where everything is located and—"

  "Is it Timmie that's the ape-b—"

  "Timmie is the Stasis subject," said Miss Fellowes firmly.

  "I mean, he's the one who's not supposed to get out, is that right?"

  "Yes. Now, come in. There isn't much time."

  And when she finally left, Mandy Terris called after her shrilly, "I hope you get a good seat and, golly, I sure hope it works."

  Miss Fellowes did not trust herself to make a reasonable response. She hurried on without looking back.

  But the delay meant she did not get a good seat. She got no nearer than the wall-viewing-plate in the assembly hall. Bitterly, she regretted that. If she could have been on the spot; if she could somehow have reached out for some sensitive portion of the instrumentations; if she were in some way able to wreck the experiment—

  She found the strength to beat down her madness. Simple destruction would have done no good. They would have rebuilt and reconstructed and made the effort again. And she would never be allowed to return to Timmie.

  Nothing would help. Nothing but that the experiment itself fail; that it break down irretrievably.

  So she waited through the countdown, watching every move on the giant screen, scanning the faces of the technicians as the focus shifted from one to the other, watching for the look of worry and uncertainty that would mark something going unexpectedly wrong; watching, watching—

  There was no such look. The count reached zero, and very quietly, very unassumingly, the experiment succeeded!

  In the new Stasis that had been established there stood a bearded, stoop-shouldered peasant of indeterminate age, in ragged dirty clothing and wooden shoes, staring in dull horror at the sudden mad change that had flung itself over him.

  And while the world went mad with jubilation, Miss Fellowes stood frozen in sorrow, jostled and pushed, all but trampled; surrounded by triumph while bowed down with defeat.

  And when the loud-speaker called her name with strident force, it sounded it three times before she responded.

  "Miss Fellowes. Miss Fellowes. You are wanted in Stasis Section One immediately. Miss Fellowes. Miss Fell—"

  "Let me through!" she cried breathlessly, while the loud-speaker continued its repetitions without pause. She forced her way through the crowds with wild energy, beating at it, striking out with closed fists, flailing, moving toward the door in a nightmare slowness.

  Mandy Terris was in tears. "I don't know how it happened. I just went down to the edge of the corridor to watch a pocket-viewing-plate they had put up. Just for a minute. And then before I could move or do anything—" She cried out in sudden accusation, "You said they would make no trouble; you said to leave them alone—"

  Miss Fellowes, disheveled and trembling uncontrollably, glared at her. "Where's Timmie?"

  A nurse was swabbing the arm of a wailing Jerry with disinfectant and another was preparing an anti-tetanus shot. There was blood on Jerry's clothes.

  "He bit me, Miss Fellowes," Jerry cried in rage. "He bit me."

  But Miss Fellowes didn't even see him.

  "What did you do with Timmie?" she cried out.

  "I locked him in the bathroom," said Mandy. "I just threw the little monster in there and locked him in."

  Miss Fellowes ran into the dollhouse. She fumbled at the bathroom door. It took an eternity to get it open and to find the ugly little boy cowering in the corner.

  "Don't whip me, Miss Fellowes," he whispered. His eyes were red. His lips were quivering. "I didn't mean to do it."

  "Oh, Timmie, who told you about whips?" She caught him to her, hugging him wildly.

  He said tremulously, "She said, with a long rope. She said you would hit me and hit me."

  "You won't be. She was wicked to say so. But what happened? What happened?"

  "He called me an ape-boy. He said I wasn't a real boy. He said I was an animal." Timmie dissolved in a flood of tears. "He said he wasn't going to play with a monkey anymore. I said I wasn't a monkey; I wasn't a monkey.

  He said I was all funny-looking. He said I was horrible ugly. He kept saying and saying and I bit him."

  They were both crying now. Miss Fellowes sobbed, "But it isn't true. You know that, Timmie. You're a real boy. You're a dear real boy and the best boy in the world. And no one, no one will ever take you away from me."

  It was easy to make up her mind, now; easy to know what to do. Only it had to be done quickly. Hoskins wouldn't wait much longer, with his own son mangled—

  No, it would have to be done this night, this night; with the place four-fifths asleep and the remaining fifth intellectually drunk over Project Middle Ages.

  It would be an unusual time for her to return but not an unheard of one. The guard knew her well and would not dream of questioning her. He would think nothing of her carrying a suitcase. She rehearsed the noncommittal phrase, "Games for the boy," and the calm smile.

  Why shouldn't he believe that?

  He did. When she entered the dollhouse again, Timmie was still awake, and she maintained a despe
rate normality to avoid frightening him. She talked about his dreams with him and listened to him ask wistfully after Jerry.

  There would be few to see her afterward, none to question the bundle she would be carrying. Timmie would be very quiet and then it would be a fait accompli. It would be done and what would be the use of trying to undo it. They would leave her be. They would leave them both be.

  She opened the suitcase, took out the overcoat, the woolen cap with the ear-flaps and the rest.

  Timmie said, with the beginning of alarm, "Why are you putting all these clothes on me, Miss Fellowes?"

  She said, "I am going to take you outside, Timmie. To where your dreams are."

  "My dreams?" His face twisted in sudden yearning, yet fear was there, too.

  "You won't be afraid. You'll be with me. You won't be afraid if you're with me, will you, Timmie?"

  "No, Miss Fellowes." He buried his little misshapen head against her side, and under her enclosing arm she could feel his small heart thud.

  It was midnight and she lifted him into her arms. She disconnected the alarm and opened the door softly.

  And she screamed, for facing her across the open door was Hoskins!

  There were two men with him and he stared at her, as astonished as she.

  Miss Fellowes recovered first by a second and made a quick attempt to push past him; but even with the second's delay he had time. He caught her roughly and hurled her back against a chest of drawers. He waved the men in and confronted her, blocking the door.

  "I didn't expect this. Are you completely insane?"

  She had managed to interpose her shoulder so that it, rather than Timmie, had struck the chest. She said pleadingly, "What harm can it do if I take him, Dr. Hoskins? You can't put energy loss ahead of a human life?"

  Firmly, Hoskins took Timmie out of her arms. "An energy loss this size would mean millions of dollars lost out of the pockets of investors. It would mean a terrible setback for Stasis, Inc. It would mean eventual publicity about a sentimental nurse destroying all that for the sake of an ape-boy."