Collected Fiction, page 525
“You must let me be the judge of that, son.”
“Maybe,” Absalom said. “I wish I’d gong to a quizkid creche, though.”
“Aren’t you happy here?” Abigail asked, hurt, and the boy gave her a quick, warm look of affection.
“Sure I am, Abbie. You know that.”
“You’d be a lot less happy with dementia praecox,” Locke said sardonically. “Entropic logic, for instance, presupposes a grasp of temporal variations being assumed for problems involving relativity.”
“Oh, that gives me a headache,” Abigail said. “And if you’re so worried about Absalom’s overtraining his mind, you shouldn’t talk to him like that.” She pressed buttons and slid the cloisonné metal dishes into the compartment. “Coffee, Brother Locke . . . milk, Absalom . . . and I’ll take tea.”
Locke winked at his son, who merely looked solemn. Abigail rose with her teacup and headed toward the fireplace. Seizing the little hearth broom, she whisked away a few ashes, relaxed amid cushions, and warmed her skinny ankles by the wood fire. Locke patted back a yawn.
“Until we settle this argument, son, matters must stand. Don’t tackle that book on entropic logic again. Or anything else on the subject. Right?”
There was no answer.
“Right?” Locke insisted.
“I’m not sure,” Absalom said after a pause. “As a matter of fact, the book’s already given me a few ideas.”
Looking across the table, Locke was struck by the incongruity of that incredibly developed mind in the childish body.
“You’re still young,” he said. “A few days won’t matter. Don’t forget that legally I exercise control over you, though I’ll never do that without your agreement that I’m acting justly.”
“Justice for you may not be justice for me,” Absalom said, drawing designs on the tablecloth with his fingernail.
Locke stood up and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“We’ll discuss it again, until we’ve thrashed it out right. Now I’ve some papers to correct.”
He went out.
“He’s acting for the best, Absalom,” Abigail said.
“Of course he is, Abbie,” the boy agreed. But he remained thoughtful.
The next day Locke went through his classes in an absent-minded fashion and, at noon, he televised Dr. Ryan at the Wyoming Quizkid Creche. Ryan seemed entirely too casual and noncommital. He said he had asked the quizkids if they had been communicating with Absalom, and they had said no.
“But they’ll lie at the drop of a hat, of course, if they think it advisable,” Ryan added, with inexplicable amusement.
“What’s so funny?” Locke inquired.
“I don’t know,” Ryan said. “The way the kids tolerate me. I’m useful to them at times, but—originally I was supposed to be supervisor here. Now the boys supervise me.”
“Are you serious?”
RYAN sobered.
“I’ve a tremendous respect for the quizkids. And I think you’re making a very grave mistake in the way you’re handling your son. I was hi your house once, a year ago. It’s your house. Only one room belongs to Absalom. He can’t leave any of his possessions around anywhere else. You’re dominating him tremendously.”
“I’m trying to help him.”
“Are you sure you know the right way?”
“Certainly,” Locke snapped. “Even if I’m wrong, does that mean I’m committing fil—filio—”
“That’s an interesting point,” Ryan said casually. “You could have thought of the right words for matricide, parricide, or fratricide easily enough. But it’s seldom one kills his son. The word doesn’t come to the tongue quite as instantly.”
Locke glared at the screen. “What the devil do you mean?”
“Just be careful,” Ryan said. “I believe in the mutant theory, after running this Creche for fifteen years.”
“I was a child genius myself,” Locke repeated.
“Uh-huh,” Ryan said, his eyes intent. “I wonder if you know that the mutation’s supposed to be cumulative? Three generations ago, two percent of the population were child geniuses. Two generations ago, five percent. One generation—a sine curve, Brother Locke. And the I.Q. mounts proportionately. Wasn’t your father a genius too?”
“He was,” Locke admitted. “But a maladjusted one.”
“I thought so. Mutations take time. The theory is that the transition is taking place right now, from homo sapiens to homo superior.”
“I know. It’s logical enough. Each generation of mutations—this dominant mutation at least—taking another step forward till homo superior is reached. What that will be—”
“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Ryan said quietly. “I don’t think we’d understand. How long will it take, I wonder? The next generation? I don’t think so. Five more generations, or ten or twenty? And each one taking another step, realizing another buried potentiality of homo, until the summit is reached. Superman, Joel.”
“Absalom isn’t a superman,” Locke said practically. “Or a superchild, for that matter.”
“Are you sure?”
“Good Lord! Don’t you suppose I know my own son?”
“I won’t answer that,” Ryan said. “I’m certain that I don’t know all there is to know about the quizkids in my Creche. Beltram, the Denver Creche supervisor, tells me the same thing. These quizkids are the next step in the mutation. You and I are members of a dying species, Brother Locke.”
Locke’s face changed. Without a word he clicked off the televisor.
The bell was ringing for his next class. But Locke staved motionless, his cheeks and forehead slightly damp.
Presently, his mouth twisted in a curiously unpleasant smile, he nodded and turned from the televisor . . .
He got home at five. He came in quietly, by the side entrance, and took the elevator upstairs. Absalom’s door was closed, but voices were coming through it faintly. Locke listened for a time. Then he rapped sharply on the panel.
“Absalom. Come downstairs. I want to talk to you.”
In the living room he told Abigail to stay out for a while. With his back to the fireplace, he waited until Absalom came.
The enemies of my lord the king, and all that rise against thee to do thee hurt, be as that young man is . . .
The boy entered without obvious embarrassment. He came forward and he faced his father, the boy-face calm and untroubled. He had poise, Locke saw, no doubt of that.
“I overheard some of your conversation, Absalom,” Locke said.
“It’s just as well,” Absalom said coolly. “I’d have told you tonight anyway. I’ve got to go on with that entropic logic course.”
Locke ignored that. “Who were you vising?”
“A boy I know. Malcolm Roberts, in the Denver quizkid Creche.”
“Discussing entropic logic with him, eh? After what I’d told you?”
“You’ll remember that I didn’t agree.”
Locke put his hands behind him and interlaced his fingers.
“Then you’ll also remember that I mentioned I had legal control over you.”
“Legal,” Absalom said, “yes. Moral, no.”
“This has nothing to do with morals.”
“It has, though. And with ethics. Many of the youngsters—younger than I—at the quizkid creches are studying entropic logic. It hasn’t harmed them. I must go to a creche, or to Baja California. I must.”
LOCKE bent his head thoughtfully.
Wait a minute,” he said. “Sorry, son. I got emotionally tangled for a moment. Let’s go back on the plane of pure logic.”
“All right,” Absalom said, with a quiet, imperceptible withdrawal.
“I’m convinced that that particular study might be dangerous for you. I don’t want you to be hurt. I want you to have every possible opportunity, especially the ones I never had.”
“No,” Absalom said, a curious note of maturity in his high voice. “It wasn’t lack of opportunity. It was incapability.”
“What?” Locke said.
“You could never allow yourself to be convinced I could safely study entropic logic. I’ve learned that. I’ve talked to other quizkids.”
“Of private matters?”
“They’re of my race,” Absalom said, “You’re not. And please don’t talk about filial love. You broke that law yourself long ago.”
“Keep talking,” Locke said quietly, his mouth tight. “But make sure it’s logical.”
“It is. I didn’t think I’d ever have to do this for a long time, but I’ve got to now. You’re holding me back from what I’ve got to do.”
“The step mutation. Cumulative. I see.” The fire was too hot. Locke took a step forward from the hearth. Absalom made a slight movement of withdrawal. Locke looked at him intently.
“It is a mutation,” the boy said. “Not the complete one, but Grandfather was one of the first steps. You, too—farther along than he did. And I’m farther than you. My children will be closer toward the ultimate mutation. The only psychonamic experts worth anything are the child geniuses of your generation.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re afraid of me,” Absalom said. “You’re afraid of me and jealous of me.” Locke started to laugh. “What about logic now?”
The boy swallowed. “It is logic. Once you were convinced that the mutation was cumulative, you couldn’t bear to think I’d displace you. It’s a basic psychological warp in you. You had the same thing with Grandfather, in a different way. That’s why you turned to psychonamics, where you were a small god, dragging out the secret minds of your students, molding their brains as Adam was molded. You’re afraid that I’ll outstrip you. And I will.”
“That’s why I let you study anything you wanted, I suppose?” Locke asked. “With this exception?”
“Yes, it is. A lot of child geniuses work so hard they burn themselves out and lose their mental capacities entirely. You wouldn’t have talked so much about the danger if—under these circumstances—it hadn’t been the one thing paramount in your mind. Sure you gave me my head. And, subconsciously, you were hoping I would burn myself out, so I wouldn’t be a possible rival any more.”
“I see.”
“You let me study math, plane geometry, calculus, non-Euclidean, but you kept pace with me. If you didn’t know the subject already, you were careful to bone up on it, to assure yourself that it was something you could grasp. You made sure I couldn’t outstrip you, that I wouldn’t get any knowledge you couldn’t get. And that’s why you wouldn’t let me take entropic logic.”
There was no expression on Locke’s face.
“Why?” he asked coldly.
“You couldn’t understand it yourself,” Absalom said. “You tried it, and it was beyond you. You’re not flexible. Your logic isn’t flexible. It’s founded on the fact that a second-hand registers sixty seconds. You’ve lost the sense of wonder. You’ve translated to much from abstract to concrete. I can understand entropic logic. I can understand it!”
“You’ve picked this up in the last week,” Locke said.
“No. You mean the rapports. A long time ago I learned to keep part of my mind blanked off under your probing.”
“That’s impossible!” Locke said, startled.
“It is for you. I’m a further step in the mutation. I have a lot of talents you don’t know anything about. And I know this—I’m not far enough advanced for my age. The boys in the creches are ahead of me. Their parents followed natural laws—it’s the role of homo sapiens to protect homo superior, as it’s the role of any parent to protect its young. Only the immature parents are out of step—like you.”
LOCKE was still quite impassive.
“I’m immature? And I hate you? I’m jealous of you? You’ve quite settled on that?”
“Is it true or not?”
Locke didn’t answer. “You’re still inferior to me mentally,” he said, “and you will be for some years to come. Let’s say, if you want it that way, that your superiority lies in your—flexibility—and your homo superior talents. Whatever they are. Against that, balance the fact that I’m a physically mature adult and you weigh less than half of what I do. I’m legally your guardian. And I’m stronger than you are.”
Absalom swallowed again, but said nothing. Locke rose a little higher, looking down at the boy. His hand went to his middle, but found only a lightweight zipper.
He walked to the door. He turned.
“I’m going to prove to you that you’re my inferior,” he said coldly and quietly. “You’re going to admit it to me.”
Absalom said nothing.
Locke went upstairs. He touched the switch on his bureau, reached into the drawer, and withdrew an elastic lucite belt. He drew its cool, smooth length through his fingers once. Then he turned to the dropper again.
His lips were white and bloodless by now.
At the door of the living room he stopped, holding the belt. Absalom had not moved, but Abigail Schuler was standing beside the boy.
“Get out, Sister Schuler,” Locke said.
“You’re not going to whip him,” Abigail said, her head held high, her lips purse-string tight.
“Get out.”
“I won’t. I heard every word. And it’s true, all of it.”
“Get out, I tell you!” Locke screamed.
He ran forward, the belt uncoiled in his hand. Absalom’s nerve broke at last. He gasped with panic and dashed away, blindly seeking escape where there was none.
Locke plunged after him.
Abigail snatched up the little hearth broom and thrust it at Locke’s legs. The man yelled something inarticulate as he lost his balance.
He came down heavily, trying to brace himself against the fall with stiff arms.
His head struck the edge of a chair seat. He lay motionless.
Over his still body, Abigail and Absalom looked at each other. Suddenly the woman dropped to her knees and began sobbing.
“I’ve killed him,” she forced out painfully. “I’ve killed him—but I couldn’t let him whip you, Absalom! I couldn’t!”
The boy caught his lower lip between his teeth. He came forward slowly to examine his father.
“He’s not dead.”
Abigail’s breath came out in a long, shuddering sigh.
“Go on upstairs, Abbie,” Absalom said, frowning a little. “I’ll give him first aid. I know how.”
“I can’t let you—”
“Please, Abbie,” he coaxed. “You’ll faint or something. Lie down for a bit. It’s all right, really.”
At last she took the dropper upstairs. Absalom, with a thoughtful glance at his father, went to the televisor.
He called the Denver Creche. Briefly he outlined the situation.
“What had I better do, Malcolm?”
“Wait a minute.” There was a pause. Another young face showed on the screen. “Do this,” an assured, high-pitched voice said, and there followed certain intricate instructions. “Got that straight, Absalom?”
“I have it. It won’t hurt him?”
“He’ll live. He’s psychotically warped already. This will just give it a different twist, one that’s safe for you. It’s projection. He’ll externalize all his wishes, feelings, and so forth. On you. He’ll get his pleasure only out of what you do, but he won’t be able to control you. You know the psychonamic key of his brain. Work with the frontal lobe chiefly. Be careful of Broca’s area. We don’t want aphasia. He must be made harmless to you, that’s all. Any killing would be awkward to handle. Besides, I suppose you wouldn’t want that.”
“No,” Absalom said. “H-he’s my father.”
“All right,” the young voice said. “Leave the screen on. I’ll watch and help.”
Absalom turned toward the unconscious figure on the floor.
* * * * *
FOR a long time the world had been shadowy now. Locke was used to it. He could still fulfill his ordinary functions, so he was not insane, in any sense of the word.
Nor could he tell the truth to anyone. They had created a psychic bloc. Day after day he went to the university and taught psychonamics and came home and ate and waited in hopes that Absalom would call him on the televisor.
And when Absalom called, he might condescend to tell something of what he was doing in Baja California. What he had accomplished. What he had achieved. For those things mattered now. They were the only things that mattered. The projection was complete.
Absalom was seldom forgetful. He was a good son. He called daily, though sometimes, when work was pressing, he had to make the call short. But Joel Locke could always work at his immense scrapbooks, filled with clippings and photographs about Absalom. He was writing Absalom’s biography, too.
He walked otherwise through a shadow world, existing in flesh and blood, in realized happiness, only when Absalom’s face appeared on the televisor screen. But he had not forgotten anything. He hated Absalom, and hated the horrible, unbreakable bond that would forever chain him to his own flesh—the flesh that was not quite his own, but one step farther up the ladder of the new mutation.
Sitting there in the twilight of unreality, his scrapbooks spread before him, the televisor set never used except when Absalom called, but standing ready before his chair, Joel Locke nursed his hatred and a quiet, secret satisfaction that had come to him.
Some day Absalom would have a son. Some day. Some day.
CALL HIM DEMON
Deep in his fourth dimensional lair crouches the hungry monster—while only a band of children guards helpless adult victims from his grim and insatiable exactions!
CHAPTER I
Wrong Uncle
A LONG time afterward she went back to Los Angeles and drove past Grandmother Keaton’s house. It hadn’t changed a great deal, really, but what had seemed an elegant mansion to her childish, 1920 eyes now a big ramshackle frame structure, gray with scaling paint.
After twenty-five years the—insecurity—wasn’t there any more, but there still persisted a dull, irrational, remembered uneasiness, an echo of the time Jane Larkin had spent in that house when she was nine, a thin, big-eyed girl with the Buster Brown bangs so fashionable then.
