Our Children's Children

  “I’m not so sure of that,” said Chapman. “Maybe that’s what you were told. Maybe that’s true now. But my physicists assured me this afternoon that if you can move in time at all, you can move in both directions. They were sure of that. Sure it could be worked out. It simply makes no sense, they said, for the flow to go only one way. If you can go into the past, you certainly can go futureward, for that would seem the preferred direction. That’s what we have right now.”

  “Clint, I can’t go along on this.”

  “You can think about it. You can see how things develop. You can keep me well informed. If it should work out, there would be something very worthwhile in it for you.”

  25

  “So now you’ll explain to me, perhaps,” said Alice Gale, “what a picnic is. You told me this afternoon you had been going on a picnic.”

  The Secret Service man hunched forward on the seat. “Has Steve been talking picnic to you? Don’t ever chance it with him.…”

  “But, Mr. Black,” she said, “I don’t even know what a picnic is.”

  “It’s fairly simple,” Wilson told her. “You pack a lunch and you go out in a park or woods and you eat it there.”

  “But we did that up in our time,” she said. “Although we did not call it picnic. I don’t think we called it anything at all. I never heard it called anything at all.”

  The car rolled slowly down the drive, heading for the gate. The driver, in the seat up front, sat erect and straight. The car slowed to a halt and a soldier came up to the driver’s window. There were other military men stationed by the gate.

  “What is going on?” asked Wilson. “I had not heard of this.”

  Black shrugged. “Someone got the wind up. This place is closed in tight. It’s stiff with military. There are mortars scattered through the park and no one knows what else.”

  “Does the President know about it?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Black. “No one might have thought to tell him.”

  The soldier stepped back and the gate came open and the car went through. It proceeded silently along the street, heading for the bridge.

  Wilson peered out the window. “Where is everyone?” he asked. “A Sunday night and the tourist season and there’s no one here.”

  “You heard the news,” said Black.

  “Of course I heard the news.”

  “Everyone’s holed up. Everyone’s indoors. They expect a monster to come leaping out at them.”

  “We had such lovely places we could go out on picnics,” said Alice Gale. “So many parks, so much wild land. More open spaces than you have. Not as crowded as you have it now, although somehow I like it crowded. There are so many people; there is so much to see.”

  “You are enjoying it,” said Wilson.

  “Yes, of course, enjoying it. Although I have the feel of guilt in my enjoyment. My father and I should be with our people. But I was telling you of our time. It was a good time to live in. Until the aliens came, of course. And even then part of the time, in the earlier days, before there were so many of them. They were not at our throats all the time, you know, except in the last few years. Although I don’t think we ever were unaware of them. We always talked about them. We never really forgot them, no matter what. All my life, I think, they have been in my mind. There were times, in the later years, when we were obsessed with them. We continually looked over our shoulders to see if they were there; we were never free of them. We talked of them and studied them.…”

  “You say you studied them,” said Wilson. “Exactly how did you study them? Who studied them?”

  “Why,” she said, “biologists, of course. At times they came into possession of an alien’s body. And the psychologists and psychiatrists, as well. The evolutionists.…”

  “Evolutionists?”

  “Certainly, evolutionists. For these aliens were very strange evolutionarily. They seemed to be creatures that were consciously in control of their evolutionary processes. There are times when you are inclined to suspect they can order their evolutionary processes. My father, I think, explained some of this to you. In all their long history of evolution they apparently gave up no evolutionary advantage they had gained. They made no compromises, trading one thing for another. They kept what they had and needed and added whatever else they could develop. This, of course, means they are adaptive creatures. They can adapt to almost any condition or situation. They respond almost instantly to stresses and emergencies.…”

  “You almost sound,” said Black, “as if you—well, not you, perhaps, but your people—might admire these creatures.”

  She shook her head. “We hated them and feared them. That is quite apparent, for we ran away from them. But, yes, I suppose we might have felt something like awed admiration, although we did not admit it. I don’t think anyone ever said it.”

  “Lincoln is coming up ahead,” said Wilson. “Naturally, you know Lincoln.”

  “Yes,” she said. “My father has Lincoln’s bedroom.”

  The memorial loomed ahead, softly lit against the night-black sky. The statue sat deep within the recess, brooding in the marble chair.

  The car moved past and the memorial was left behind.

  “If we can find the time,” said Wilson, “in the next few days, we’ll go out and see it. Or, perhaps, you may have seen it. But you said the White House.…”

  “The memorial, too,” she said. “Part of it is left, but less than half it it. The stones are fallen down.”

  “What is this?” asked Black.

  “Up in the time the people of the tunnel came from,” said Wilson, “Washington had been destroyed. The White House is a wilderness.”

  “But that’s impossible. I don’t understand. A war?”

  “Not a war,” said Alice Gale. “It’s hard to explain, even if you know it and I have little understanding of it—I have read little of it. Economic collapse, perhaps, is the best name for it. Probably some ethical collapse as well. A time of mounting inflation that reached ridiculous heights, matched by a mounting cynicism, a loss of faith in government, which contributed to the failure of government, a growing gap of resources and understanding between the rich and poor. It all grew up and up and then it all collapsed. Not this nation only, but all the major powers. One after one they fell. The economy was gone and government was gone and mobs ran in the street. Blind mobs striking out, not at anything in particular, but at anything at all. You must excuse me, please; I tell it very badly.”

  “And this is all ahead of us?” asked Black.

  “Not now,” said Wilson. “Not any more it isn’t. Or at least it doesn’t have to be. We’re on a different time track now.”

  “You,” said Black, “are as bad as she is. You don’t, either one, make sense.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Black,” said Alice.

  “Don’t mind me,” said Black. “I’m not the intellectual sort. I’m just an educated cop. Steve will tell you that.”

  26

  The Reverend Dr. Angus Windsor was a good man. He stood in grace and was distinguished in good works. He was pastor of a church that had its roots in wealth, a long history and a certain elegance and yet this did not prevent him from going where the need was greatest—outside his own parish, certainly, for in that particular parish there was little need. He was seen in the ghettos and he was present where the young demonstration marchers fell beneath the rain of clubs wielded by police. When he heard of a family that had need of food he showed up at the door with a bag of groceries and before he left managed to find a few dollars in his pockets that he could get along without. He was a regular visitor at prisons, and the lonely old folks put away to die in rest homes were familiar with his stately tread, his stooped shoulders, his long white hair and patient face. That he was not at all averse to good publicity, sometimes even seemed to court it, was held against him by some of the influential members of his congregation, who subscribed to the belief that this characteristic was unseemly in him, but he
went his way with no attention paid to this criticism; once he was supposed to have told an old, dear friend that it was a small price to pay for the privilege of doing good—although whether he meant the publicity or the criticism was not entirely clear.

  So it was thought by the newsmen present not at all unusual when, late in the evening, he appeared at the site where the tunnel had been closed upon the emergence of the monsters.

  The newsmen clustered around the old man.

  “What are you doing here, Dr. Windsor?” asked one of them.

  “I came,” said Dr. Angus, “to offer to these poor souls the small shreds of comfort it is in my power to dispense. I had a slight amount of trouble with the military. I understand they are letting no one in. But I see they let you people in.”

  “Some of us talked our way in. Others parked a mile or so away and walked.”

  “The good Lord interceded for me,” said Dr. Angus, “and they let me through the barricade.”

  “How did He intercede for you?”

  “He softened their hearts toward me and then they let me go. But now I must speak to these poor folks.”

  He motioned at the scattered groups of refugees standing in the yards and along the street.

  The dead monster lay upon its back, with its clawed feet sticking in the air and its limp tentacles lying snakelike along the ground. Most of the human bodies at the tunnel mouth had been moved. A few still lay here and there, shadowed lumps upon the grass, covered by blankets. The gun lay where it had been toppled on its side.

  “The army is sending out a team,” said one of the newsmen, “to haul in the monster. They want to have a good look at him.”

  The spotlights mounted in the trees cast a ghastly radiance over the area where the tunnel mouth had lain. Off in the darkness the generator engine coughed and sputtered. Trucks pulled in, loaded up and left. On occasion the bullhorn still roared out its orders.

  Dr. Windsor, with an instinct born of long practice, headed unerringly for the largest group of refugees, huddled at an intersection beneath a swaying streetlamp. Most of them were standing on the pavement, but others sat upon the curbs and there were small groups of them scattered on the lawns.

  Dr. Windsor came up to a group of women—he always zeroed in on women; they were more receptive to his particular brand of Christianity than were men.

  “I have come,” he said, making a conscious effort to hold down his pomposity, “to offer you the comfort of the Lord. In times like this, we should always turn to Him.”

  The women stared at him in some amazement. Some of them instinctively backed away.

  “I’m the Reverend Windsor,” he told them, “and I came from Washington. I go where I am called. I go to meet a need. I wonder, would you pray with me?”

  A tall, slender grandmotherly woman stepped to the forefront of the group. “Please go away,” she said.

  Dr. Windsor fluttered his hands, stricken off balance. “But I don’t understand,” he said. “I only meant.…”

  “We know what you meant,” the woman told him, “and we thank you for the thought. We know it was only kindness in you.”

  “You can’t mean what you are saying,” said Dr. Windsor, who, by now, was flustered. “You cannot hope, by your word alone, to deprive all the others.…”

  A man came thrusting through the crowd and seized the pastor by the arm. “My friend,” he said, “let us keep it down.”

  “But this woman.…”

  “I know. I heard what you said to her. It is not her choice only. She speaks for the rest of us.”

  “I fail to understand.”

  “There is no need for you to understand. Now will you please go.”

  “You reject me?”

  “Not you, sir. Not personally. We reject the principle you stand for.”

  “You reject Christianity?”

  “Not Christianity alone. In the Logic Revolution of a century ago, we rejected all religions. Our non-belief is as firm a faith as is your belief. We do not thrust our principles on you. Will you please not thrust yours on us?”

  “This is incredible,” said the Reverend Dr. Windsor. “I can’t believe my ears. I will not believe it. There must be some mistake. I had only meant to join with you in prayer.”

  “But, parson, we no longer pray.”

  Dr. Windsor turned about, went blundering up the street, toward the waiting newsmen, who had trailed after him. He shook his head, bewildered. It was unbelievable. It could not be right. It was inconceivable. It was blasphemous.

  After all the years of man’s agony, after all the searching for the truth, after all the saints and martyrs, it could not come to this!

  27

  General Daniel Foote, commandant at Fort Myer, was waiting for them with the three men in his office.

  “You should not have come alone,” he said to Wilson. “I said so to the President, but he would not listen. I offered to send an escort, but he vetoed the idea. He said he wanted to draw no attention to the car.”

  “There was little traffic on the road,” said Wilson.

  The commandant shook his head. “These are unsettled times,” he said.

  “General Foote, may I present Miss Alice Gale. Her father is the man who contacted us.”

  The general said, “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Gale. These three gentlemen have told me something of your father. And Mr. Black. I’m glad you are along with them.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Black.

  “I should like the privilege,” Alice said, “of introducing my own people. Dr. Hardwicke, Dr. Nicholas Hardwicke, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Black. Dr. Hardwicke is a sort of Albert Einstein of our time.”

  The big, ungainly, bear-like man smiled at her. “You must not praise me unduly, my dear,” he said. “They’ll expect far too much of me. Gentlemen, I am very pleased to be here and to meet you. It is time we were getting on in this matter which must be somewhat unpleasant to you. I am glad to see you reacting so promptly and so positively. Your president must be a most unusual man.”

  “We think so,” Wilson said.

  “Dr. William Cummings,” said Alice. “Dr. Hardwicke was a fellow townsman of ours, but Dr. Cummings came from the Denver region. My father and the others thought it would be best if he were with Dr. Hardwicke when they met your scientists.”

  Cummings was a shrimp—small, bald, with a wrinkled, elfin face. “I am glad to be here,” he said. “We all are glad to be here. We must tell you how deeply we regret what happened at the tunnel.”

  “And, finally,” said Alice, “Dr. Abner Osborne. He is a longtime family friend.”

  Osborne put an arm about the girl’s shoulders and hugged her. “These other gentlemen,” he said, “are physicists, but I’m a more lowly creature. I am a geologist. Tell me, my dear, how is your father? I looked for him after we came through, but couldn’t seem to find him.”

  The commandant plucked at Wilson’s sleeve and the press secretary moved to one side with him.

  “Tell me,” said General Foote, “what you know of the monster.”

  “We’ve heard nothing further. We have assumed it would head for the mountains.”

  Foote nodded. “I think you may be right. We have had a few reports. Not reports, really. More like rumors. They all came from the west. Harpers Ferry. Strasburg. Luray. They must be wrong. Nothing could travel that fast. Are you absolutely sure there was only one of them?”

  “You should know,” said Wilson, curtly. “Your men were there. Our report was that one was killed. The other got away.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” said Foote. “We are bringing in the dead one.”

  The general was upset, thought Wilson. He was jittery. Was there something he knew that the White House did not know?

  “Are you trying to tell me something, General?”

  “No. Not at all,” he said.

  The son of a bitch, Wilson told himself. All he was doing was trying to wangle something straight out of t
he White House. Something that, at some later time, he could talk about when he was sitting in the officers’ club.

  “I think,” said Wilson, “that we had best get started.”

  Outside they got into the car, Black in front with the driver, Wilson and Osborne on the jump seats.

  “You may think it strange,” said Osborne, “that there’s a geologist in the group.”

  “I had wondered,” Wilson said. “Not that you aren’t welcome.”

  “It was thought,” said Osborne, “that there might be some questions about the Miocene.”

  “About us going there, you mean. About us going back as well as you.”

  “It is one way in which the problem could be solved.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you were fairly sure some of the monsters would get through? That enough of them might get through that we’d be forced to leave?”

  “Certainly not,” said the geologist. “We had hoped none would get through. We’d set up precautions. I can’t imagine what could have happened. I’m not inclined to think that this single monster.…”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “You’re right. They’re monstrous clever things. Very capable. Some of our biologists could tell you more.”

  “Then why this feeling we should go back into the Miocene?”

  “You’re nearing a danger point,” said Osborne. “Our historians could explain it better than I can, but all the signs are there. Oh, I know that now you’ve been switched over to a different time track and will travel a different road than we. But I think that the changeover may have come too late.”

  “What you’re talking about is the economic and social collapse. Alice told us Washington, up in your time, is gone. I suppose New York, as well, and Chicago and all the rest.…”

  “You’re top-heavy,” said Osborne. “You’ve gotten out of balance. I think it’s gone too far to stop. You have a runaway economy and the social cleavages are getting deeper by the day and.…”

  “And going back to the Miocene would put an end to it?”