Collected Short Fiction, page 228
The woman went on as if she had not been listening, “Does what you have said mean that you disapprove of the Indian solution of compulsory sterilization and the Chinese solution of surveillance and social pressure?”
“Different cultures may require different approaches,” Franklin said. “I’m not sure that compulsory sterilization ever was an official policy in India, and if it were I’m not sure that it or what you call the Chinese solution provide any final answers. I know they wouldn’t work in this country or in most countries with a tradition of individual freedom; and I’m pretty sure that the only answer in the long term is individual responsibility. How one provides the individual with the information necessary to reach a responsible decision, and the means to implement it, may differ from culture to culture, but unless the necessity of limiting our family size is accepted as a truth in every culture then no solution will work. Repression ultimately breaks down, and social repression of basic instincts can only lead to the destruction of the society that represses them.”
A short pudgy man in the fifth row stood up. “Harry Hopper, Associated Press. Isn’t it true that overpopulation is primarily a problem of the developing countries, and. if so, aren’t your missionary efforts wasted on people who already are converted, so to speak?”
“In terms of population control, you are correct. The developed countries already have reached the goal of zero population growth or dropped below it. Some Scandinavian countries have expressed concern about the fact that their reproduction rate has dropped so far that their nations may be in danger of extinction. It is a fact that the only places where population has been effectively controlled have been in industrialized nations with high standards of living, and some observers have speculated that the only way to achieve a decline in population growth is by raising the standard of living to the point where everyone recognizes that the large family, useful in an agrarian society, is an economic handicap in one that is industrialized. Raising the standard of living worldwide is a desirable goal in itself, but we believe that while efforts must continue to do so we cannot wait for that to produce the desired effect.” A group of reporters were on their feet asking for the floor, but Franklin silenced them with a raised hand. “Of course population control is only one side of the problem. The other side is resources. In the presence of unlimited resources, there can be no overpopulation, and the unfortunate fact is that the developed nations, and particularly this country, consume far more of the world’s resources, per capita, than the developing countries. In fact, it has been estimated that an American baby has several hundred times the impact on the environment and the world’s resources of one born in India or China. We must not only limit our numbers, we must learn to live less wastefully, to use resources more efficiently, and we must find or develop new resources and nonpolluting ways to use them.”
The plump woman in the front row shouted above the others, “Are you going to take this message to the developing nations? And how will they accept it from a wealthy American?”
“It will be communicated everywhere by local leaders in their own way, with whatever help we can give them.”
“What is the source of your financial support?” someone shouted.
“Contributions, large and small,” Franklin said. “Our brief financial statement is available as a handout at the end of this conference. Anyone who wishes to check our books is welcome at any time at the People, Limited headquarters.”
“Are you married? Do you have children?”
“The answer to both is no. My biography is available at the headquarters as well. I can’t promise that the answer to those personal questions will always be no, but if the time ever comes when I can’t in good conscience continue this struggle, I will step aside and let someone else take over. But my personal apostasy or keeping of the faith is immaterial. Humanity is what matters: if we cannot control our numbers, our numbers will control us. I think we’ve reached the end of this session. Thank you for your attention and your thoughtful questions. The world will appreciate your help in solving the single greatest problem of our time.”
The audience stood and applauded as she picked up her papers and her attache case and left the stage.
Outside the building Franklin handed Johnson the attache case and asked, “How did it go?”
“I was right,” Johnson said. “You were great.”
She blushed, though it was clear from her tone that she had expected it. “It did go well, didn’t it.”
“Superbly. Nobody else could have done it as well.”
“Aw, shucks,” she said and laughed. It was afternoon, the day was warm, the sun was shining, and it was clear that she felt relieved and happy, and that Johnson’s presence somehow made it better.
The afternoon that followed was ordinary in its details but unusual in the way they responded to it. She had several potential contributors to call upon, and they traversed the streets of downtown Washington, entering doorways, ascending elevators, waiting in reception rooms, requesting grants and gifts from philanthropists and corporate directors. Sally Franklin was good at it. She presented her requests simply and without apologies, as if she were doing the donors a favor by accepting their contributions; and, in addition, on this particular day, there was beneath her efficient and serious presentation a kind of suppressed merriment that produced an unusually generous response.
Johnson spent his time listening, though his presence did nothing to diminish Franklin’s effect on her contacts. They seemed to observe the way he listened and their attention was heightened. And there was talk between the two of them, although it was mostly Franklin’s talk and Johnson’s listening. He was a good listener, his attention all on her, perhaps because he had no distractions, no concerns of his own, no memories to interfere with the importance of the moment.
She told him about her childhood in Minneapolis, her parents, her school days, her boyfriends, and the glorious moment when a population expert came to lecture at the University and described a future that changed her life. It was reinforced a few months later when she spent a summer in crowded, overpopulated Mexico City and then, after graduation a year later, worked in social welfare in the slums of Washington. It was then she knew what her life work would be. “Poverty would not be so bad,” she said, “if it did not include children. A child without food or shelter or love, without opportunity, without hope, is enough to break the heart of the world.”
Johnson’s look said that it broke his heart.
“This has been the best day of my life,” she said exuberantly. “I think I owe it to you.”
“That’s nonsense,” he said. “You’ve done it all.”
“I must leave for India tonight. My bags are packed. Jessie will see that they get to the airport. I’m too excited to go home and sit. Let’s have dinner. I’d like to spend a few more hours with you before we have to part.” She laughed, “After all. with your history I might not see you again.”
He did not look into her eyes. “Of course,” he said.
They ate paella and drank sangria at a Spanish restaurant in an old house located not far from Capitol Hill but in an area of older homes, narrow, set close together, and now infecting each other with the disease of poverty and the stench of decay. Diners were scattered through a number of rooms, small and large, and singers with guitars and dancers with castanets and iron heels wandered through the rooms entertaining. Mostly Franklin and Johnson ignored everyone else; when they could not hear each other they waited, and when they could she continued to talk to him as if they were alone, to describe her plans, to ask for his advice and his vision of the future. “This isn’t a gypsy tea room,” she said merrily, “and I have no tea leaves for you to read, but perhaps we can pretend . . .”
It was clear that pretending, that getting away from the pressures of the real world, was important to her tonight.
“You will do all the things that you have planned,” he said, “if you are careful.”
“Careful?”
“Many things can deflect a person from accomplishment. Things can happen to change the kind of person they are or their understanding of the kind of world they live in. Or what seemed completely clear can become hazy and muddled when alternatives appear. Do you want to tell me why you’ve never married?”
“I’ve had a few opportunities,” she said.
“I can believe that.”
“But when I was young I didn’t love any of them,” she said thoughtfully, “or not enough. And since then I haven’t loved any of them as much as I loved what I’m doing.” She looked up at him. “Are you telling me that marriage might change me?”
“What do you think?”
“As long as I don’t have children,” she began and stopped. “You’re saying that if I loved somebody enough to marry him I’d want to have his children. Surely that wouldn’t be fatal.”
“Not if you were the kind of person who could compartmentalize your life and not let the family part distract you from your goals.”
“And I’m not that kind of person?” she asked.
“Are you?”
“No, I guess I’m not.”
“The world could forgive a few children from a person who was trying to get women to restrict their childbearing, it might cause awkward moments and persistent questions from skeptics, but the world can overlook inconsistencies. What it can’t forgive is failure of leadership.”
“I’m not the only person around who can do this. I’m not even the best one and certainly not the most important one. If I got married and retired to domesticity, someone else would step in and carry on the fight.”
“Don’t deceive yourself. You are important. Without you the battle would be lost.”
“That’s nonsense,” she said, and then her face brightened into a smile. “Oh, I see. Now you’re going to give me that prediction.”
“I haven’t wanted to do it,” he said softly, “because knowledge like this—if you believe it—can change people, too. But you are a special person, so special that it frightens me.”
“Why me?” she asked. She sounded as if it were frightening her.
“I’ve asked the same question myself,” Johnson said, “and so did Hamlet. ‘The time is out of joint; O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.’ But there are people whose lives have the potential to affect the future more than others. They are possessed by great ideas, taken over by missions larger than themselves: Mostly the founders of religions, but there were also conquerors and kings, political leaders and rebels, occasionally a philosopher, and once in a while an inventor or discoverer who had no intention of changing the world but changed it anyway.”
“But I’m not like that.” she said. “Most of them were remarkable people, driven men, some of them bitter, hard, hungry, single-minded . . . And you’re not like that. But you have the same quality of being possessed by an idea and the ability to pass your possession on to others. Your—forgive me—your remarkable beauty and your renunciation of its traditional values are a part of your total impact on the future, but more important are your concern for other people, your ability to communicate with them at all levels, your excellent mind, your dedication, and most of all your presence. You have the ability. because of who you are and where you stand, to be larger than life, to move people and change the world just by being yourself.”
She said softly, “I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want it.”
“Nobody ever asks for it, and you don’t have to keep it,” Johnson said, “although I have to tell you the future will be an unhappier place if you give it up.” He paused and then added, “But knowing the future is not the way to happiness.”
She reached across the table and took his hand. “Oh, Bill, it must be worse for you, and I’ve only been thinking about myself.”
“You believe my strange story then?” he asked.
“How can I help but believe,” she said. “Your face, your eyes, your wisdom—”
“Then believe this, too. There are other dangers, not simply to you, though that is bad enough, but to what you can accomplish. You trust people—and that is one reason for your success—but you must learn caution, not expose yourself to danger unnecessarily, have people around whose only job is to look after you.”
“I thought that was the job you picked out for yourself,” she said lightly but as if she was growing to like the idea.
“I’ve made it my job, but I may not always be around.”
“Don’t say that!” she said. “I know this is crazy. I found you in an alley this morning, got you as an unwanted employee by noon, and now you’ve become indispensable. By tomorrow I’ll want to marry you.” She was joking, but there was an edge of truth to her words that made an expression of something like pain pass across Johnson’s face. She patted his hand. “Don’t worry. Bill, that wasn’t a proposal.”
She was exuberant again, and she stood up quickly. The bill had long ago been paid. “I’ll race you to People, Limited. If you catch me, maybe there will be a prize.”
“Sally, don’t—” he began, getting up. “This is a dangerous part of town. Be—”
But she had already threaded her way between tables toward the front door, and he had to follow quickly, trying to catch up. When he reached the front door, he looked quickly down either side of the narrow and poorly lighted street, but she was nowhere to be seen. He went down the flight of worn stone steps, and hesitated at the bottom, looking right and left as if he were seeing farther than the nearest streetlight, as if he could peer past the shadowy present into the bright future. He ran quickly to the left, down cobbled pavement, through pools of darkness.
“Sally!” he called. “Sally!”
He heard a muffled sound and raced toward it. “Sally,” he said, and stopped at the entrance to a dark alley between old houses. “Tommy? I know you’re there, and I know you’ve got Ms. Franklin.”
A boy’s voice came from the shadows. “How you know that, man?”
“I have an unusual kind of vision,” Johnson said.
“You see that, you see I got a knife at her throat, and I use it, just like that, you make a move.” A vague scuffling sound came from a place about ten feet away from Johnson. “And you keep quiet, lady, or you get it now.”
“Let her go, Tommy,” Johnson said. “Nothing good will come of this—only bad, all bad.”
“I can kill her and get you, too. Nobody ever knows . . . How you know my name?”
“You were in the group that found me this morning in the alley,” Johnson said.
“You can’t see me now.” The voice was hard and suspicious. It seemed less boyish with each passing moment.
“I know a great many things, Tommy,” Johnson said earnestly. “I know that you come from a large family, that your father is dead and your mother is sick and your brothers and sisters don’t have enough to eat.”
“You a cop?” the voice from the shadows asked suspiciously. “You been keeping track of me?”
“I won’t lie to you. Tommy. No, I’m all alone. I’m just a man with a peculiar way of knowing what is going to happen. And I have to tell you that the future will be very bad for you if you do to Ms. Franklin what you have in your mind.”
“She everything I can’t have,” the boy said. “I get something. I ought to get something.”
“Not this way, Tommy,” Johnson said. “That’s violence, not sex. All you’ll get is death for yourself and a bad experience for her that may change her life and the lives of a lot of people. And you’ll kill your mother. She’ll die when she finds out what you’ve done. And your brothers and sisters—what small chance they have for happiness will be gone.”
“Ah-h-h!” the boy’s voice snarled, but a note of doubt had crept in. “How you know that stuff?”
“I told you that I have this strange vision,” Johnson said evenly. “I have another future for you. You let Ms. Franklin go and tomorrow you go to the place where she works—you know where it is. Tommy, because I saw you watching it this morning—and you ask for a job.”
“How they gonna let me have a job after what I done?”
“You haven’t done anything yet, Tommy. Ms. Franklin is frightened, but she hasn’t been harmed. She understands the kind of life you’ve had, the anger built up in you, the hate that strikes at anybody. You’ve seen her before. She’s worked in this city with people who are poor and struggling. She wants to make things better.”
“Why they hire me?”
“Because I’ll ask them to, and Ms. Franklin will ask them.”
“I show up, maybe they throw me in jail.”
“What for? You haven’t done anything yet. And how can you be worse off than you are now?”
“They hire me, what I do?”
“My idea is that you guard Ms. Franklin, keep her from harm. You’d be good at it. You know how it can happen. You know what to look for.”
“Not like you, man.”
“You have other talents. You could be something. You could make things better, not worse.”
“Ah, man, you talk too much,” the voice said. It sounded boyish again. And out of the darkness came Franklin, reeling as if she had been shoved, holding her throat.
Johnson caught her in his arms. “You show up tomorrow,” he called after the sound of running feet. “Are you all right?” he asked the woman trembling in his arms.
She held on to him. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. Thanks to you.”
“He might not have done it.”
“I didn’t think he would do it. I’ve seen him around. I didn’t think he was dangerous.”
“Maybe he wasn’t.”
“I’m afraid he was.”
“Only because he was scared.” He led her back down the dark street toward the lights of the busier avenue that crossed it.
“Will he show up tomorrow?”
“There’s a good chance.”
“You really want me to hire him?”
