Childhood's End

  Charles Yan Sen was quite exhausted when, long after midnight, he had seen the Inspector back to the flyer which was serving as his base. There, no doubt, he would continue to work throughout the night while his human hosts indulged in the frailty of sleep.

  Mrs Sen greeted her husband anxiously on his return.

  They were a devoted couple, despite his playful habit of calling her Xantippe when they were entertaining guests. She had long ago threatened to make the appropriate retort by brewing him a cup of hemlock, but fortunately this herbal beverage was less common in the New Athens than the old.

  “Was it a success?” she asked as her husband settled down to a belated meal.

  “I think so — but you can never tell what goes on inside those remarkable minds. He was certainly interested, even complimentary. I apologised, by the way, for not inviting him here. He said he quite understood, and had no wish to bang his head on our ceiling.”

  “What did you show him today?”

  “The bread-and-butter side of the colony, which he didn’t seem to find as boring as I always do. He asked every question you could imagine about production, how we balanced our budget, our mineral resources, the birth rate, how we got our food, and so on. Luckily I had Secretary Harrison with me, and he’d come prepared with every Annual Report since the colony began. You should have heard them swapping statistics… The Inspector’s borrowed the lot, and I’m prepared to bet that when we see him tomorrow he’ll be able to quote any figure back at us. I find that kind of mental performance frightfully depressing.”

  He yawned and began to peck half-heartedly at his food.

  “Tomorrow should be more interesting. We’re going to do the schools and the Academy. That’s when I’m going to ask some questions for a change. I’d like to know how the Overlords bring up their kids — assuming, of course, that they have any.”

  That was not a question that Charles Sen was ever to have answered, but on other points the Inspector was remarkably talkative. He would evade awkward queries in a manner that was a pleasure to behold, and then, quite unexpectedly, would become positively confiding.

  Their first real intimacy occurred while they were driving away from the school that was one of the colony’s chief prides. “It’s a great responsibility,” Dr Sen had remarked, “training these young minds for the future. Fortunately, human beings are extraordinarily resilient; it takes a pretty bad upbringing to do permanent damage. Even if our aims are mistaken, our little victims will probably get over it. And as you’ve seen, they appear to be perfectly happy.” He paused for a moment, then glanced mischievously up at the towering figure of his passenger. The Inspector was completely clothed in some reflecting silvery cloth so that not an inch of his body was exposed to the fierce sunlight. Behind the dark glasses, Dr Sen was aware of the great eyes watching him emotionlessly — or with emotions which he could never understand. “Our problem in bringing up these children must, I imagine, be very similar to yours when confronted with the human race. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “In some ways,” admitted the Overlord gravely. “In others, perhaps a better analogy can be found in the history of your colonial powers. The Roman and the British Empires, for that reason, have always been of considerable interest to us. The case of India is particularly instructive. The main difference between us and the British in India was that they had no real motives for going there — no conscious objectives, that is, except such trivial and temporary ones as trade or hostility to other European powers. They found themselves possessors of an Empire before they knew what to do with it, and were never really happy until they had got rid of it again.”

  “And will you,” asked Dr Sen, quite unable to resist the opportunity, “get rid of your empire when the time arises?”

  “Without the slightest hesitation,” replied the Inspector.

  Dr Sen did not press the point. The forthrightness of the reply was not altogether flattering; moreover, they had now arrived at the Academy, where the assembled pedagogues were waiting to sharpen their wits on a real, live Overlord.

  “As our distinguished colleague will have told you,” said Professor Chance, Dean of the University of New Athens, “our main purpose is to keep the minds of our people alert, and to enable them to realise all their potentialities. Beyond this island” — his gesture indicated, and rejected, the rest of the globe — “I fear that the human race has lost its initiative. It has peace, it has plenty — but it has no horizons.”

  “Yet here, of course…?” interjected the Overlord blandly.

  Professor Chance, who lacked a sense of humour and was vaguely aware of the fact, glanced suspiciously at his visitor.

  “Here,” he continued, “we do not suffer from the ancient obsession that leisure is wicked. But we do not consider that it is enough to be passive receptors of entertainment. Everybody on this island has one ambition, which may be summed up very simply. It is to do something, however small it may be, better than anyone else. Of course, it’s an ideal we don’t all achieve. But in this modern world the great thing is to have an ideal. Achieving it is considerably less important.”

  The Inspector did not seem inclined to comment. He had discarded his protective clothing, but still wore dark glasses even in the subdued light of the Common Room. The Dean wondered if they were physiologically necessary, or whether they were merely camouflage. Certainly they made quite impossible the already difficult task of reading the Overlord’s thoughts. He did not, however, seem to object to the somewhat challenging statements that had been thrown at him, or the criticisms of his race’s policy with regard to Earth which they implied.

  The Dean was about to press the attack when Professor Sperling, Head of the Science Department, decided to make it a three-cornered fight.

  “As you doubtless know, sir, one of the great problems of our culture has been the dichotomy between art and science. I’d very much like to know your views on the matter. Do you subscribe to the view that all artists are abnormal? That their work — or at any rate the impulse behind it — is the result of some deep-seated psychological dissatisfaction?”

  Professor Chance cleared his throat purposefully, but the Inspector forestalled him.

  “I’ve been told that all men are artists to a certain extent, so that everyone is capable of creating something, if only on a rudimentary level. At your schools yesterday, for example, I noticed the emphasis placed on self-expression in drawing, painting and modelling. The impulse seemed quite universal, even among those clearly destined to be specialists in science. So if all artists are abnormal, and all men are artists, we have an interesting syllogism…”

  Everyone waited for him to complete it. But when it suited their purpose the Overlords could be impeccably tactful.

  The Inspector came through the symphony concert with flying colours, which was a good deal more than could be said for many human members of the audience. The only concession to popular taste had been Stravinsky’s “Symphony of Psalms”; the rest of the programme was aggressively modernistic. Whatever one’s views on its merits, the performance was superb, for the colony’s boast that it possessed some of the finest musicians in the world was no idle one. There had been much wrangling among the various rival composers for the honour of being included in the programme, though a few cynics wondered if it would be an honour at all. For all that anyone knew to the contrary, the Overlords might be tone deaf.

  It was observed, however, that after the concert Thanthalteresco sought out the three composers who had been present, and complimented them all on what he called their “great ingenuity”. This caused them to retire with pleased but vaguely baffled expressions.

  It was not until the third day that George Greggson had a chance of meeting the Inspector. The theatre had arranged a kind of mixed grill rather than a single dish — two one-act plays, a sketch by a world-famous impersonator, and a ballet sequence. Once again all these items were superbly executed and one critic’s prediction — “Now at least
we’ll discover if the Overlords can yawn” — was falsified. Indeed, the Inspector laughed several times, and in the correct places.

  And yet — no one could be sure. He might himself be putting on a superb act, following the performance by logic alone and with his own strange emotions completely untouched, as an anthropologist might take part in some primitive rite. The fact that he uttered the appropriate sounds, and made the expected responses, really proved nothing at all.

  Though George had been determined to have a talk with the Inspector, he failed utterly. After the performance they exchanged a few words of introduction, then the visitor was swept away. It was completely impossible to isolate him from his entourage, and George went home in a state of extreme frustration. He was by no means certain what he wished to say even if he had had the chance, but somehow, he felt sure, he could have turned the conversation round to Jeff. And now the opportunity had gone.

  His bad temper lasted two days. The Inspector’s flyer had departed, amid many protestations of mutual regard, before the sequel emerged. No one had thought of questioning Jeff, and the boy must have been thinking it over for a long time before he approached George.

  “Daddy,” he said, just prior to bedtime. “You know the Overlord who came to see us?”

  “Yes,” replied George grimly.

  “Well, he came to our school, and I heard him talk to some of the teachers. I didn’t really understand what he said — but I think I recognised his voice. That’s who told me to run when the big wave came.”

  “You are quite sure?”

  Jeff hesitated for a moment.

  “Not quite — but if it wasn’t him, it was another Overlord. I wondered if I ought to thank him. But he’s gone now, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said George. “I’m afraid he has. Still, perhaps we’ll have another chance. Now go to bed like a good boy and don’t worry about it any more.”

  When Jeff was safely out of the way, and Jenny had been attended to, Jean came back and sat on the rug beside George’s chair, leaning against his legs. It was a habit that struck him as annoyingly sentimental, but not worth creating a fuss about.

  He merely made his knees as nobly as possible.

  “What do you think about it now?” asked Jean in a tired, flat voice. “Do you believe it really happened?”

  “It happened,” George replied, “but perhaps we’re foolish to worry. After all, most parents would be grateful — and of course, I am grateful. The explanation may be perfectly simple. We know that the Overlords have got interested in the colony, so they’ve undoubtedly been observing it with their instruments — despite that promise they made. Suppose one was just prowling round with that viewing gadget of theirs, and saw the wave coming. It would be natural enough to warn anyone who was in danger.”

  “But he knew Jeff’s name, don’t forget that. No, we’re being watched. There’s something peculiar about us, something that attracts their attention. I’ve felt it ever since Rupert’s party. It’s funny how that changed both our lives.”

  George looked down at her with sympathy, but nothing more. It was strange how much one could alter in so short a time. He was fond of her; she had borne his children and was part of his life. But of the love which a not-clearly-remembered person named George Greggson had once known towards a fading dream called Jean Morrel, how much remained?

  His love was divided now between Jeff and Jennifer on the one hand — and Carolle on the other. He did not believe that Jean knew about Carolle, and he intended to tell her before anyone else did. But somehow he had never got round to it.

  “Very well — Jeff is being watched — protected, in fact. Don’t you think that should make us proud? Perhaps the Overlords have planned a great future for him. I wonder what it can be?”

  He was talking to reassure Jean, he knew. He was not greatly disturbed himself only intrigued and baffled. And quite suddenly another thought struck him, something that should have occurred to him before. His eyes turned automatically towards the nursery.

  “I wonder if it’s only Jeff they’re after,” he said.

  * * *

  In due course the Inspector presented his report. The Islanders would have given much to see it. All the statistics and records went into the insatiable memories of the great computers which were some, but not all, of the unseen powers behind Karellen. Even before these impersonal electric minds had arrived at their conclusions, however, the Inspector had given his own recommendations. Expressed in the thoughts and language of the human race, they would have run as follows: “We need take no action regarding the colony. It is an interesting experiment, but cannot in any way affect the future. Its artistic endeavours are no concern of ours, and there is no evidence that any scientific research is progressing along dangerous channels.

  “As planned, I was able to see the school records of subject Zero, without arousing curiosity. The relevant statistics are attached, and it will be seen that there are still no signs of any unusual development. Yet, as we know, breakthrough seldom gives much prior warning.

  “I also met the subject’s father, and gathered the impression that he wished to speak with me. Fortunately I was able to avoid this. There is no doubt that he suspects something, though of course he can never guess the truth nor affect the outcome in any way.

  “I grow more and more sorry for these people.”

  * * *

  George Greggson would have agreed with the Inspector’s verdict that there was nothing unusual about Jeff. There was just that one baffling incident, as startling as a single clap of thunder on a long, calm day. And after that — nothing.

  Jeff had all the energy and inquisitiveness of any other seven-year-old. He was intelligent — when he bothered to be — but was in no danger of becoming a genius. Sometimes, Jean thought a little wearily, he filled to perfection the classic recipe for a small boy: “a noise surrounded by dirt”. Not that it was very easy to be certain about the dirt, which had to accumulate for a considerable time before it showed against Jeff’s normal sunburn.

  By turns he could be affectionate or morose, reserved or ebullient. He showed no preference for one parent rather than the other, and the arrival of his little sister had not produced any signs of jealousy. His medical card was spotless; he had never had a day’s illness in his life. But in these times, and in such a climate, there was nothing unusual about this.

  Unlike some boys, Jeff did not grow quickly bored by his father’s company and desert him whenever possible for associates of his own age. It was obvious that he shared George’s artistic talents, and almost as soon as he was able to walk had become a regular backstage visitor to the colony’s theatre, Indeed, the theatre had adopted him as an unofficial mascot and he was now highly skilled at presenting bouquets to visiting celebrities of stage and screen.

  Yes, Jeff was a perfectly ordinary boy. So George reassured himself as they went for walks or rides together over the Island’s rather restricted terrain. They would talk as sons and fathers had done since the beginning of time — except that in this age there was so much more to talk about. Though Jeff never left the island, he could see all that he wished of the surrounding world through the ubiquitous eyes of the television screen. He felt, like all the colonists, a slight disdain for the rest of mankind. They were the elite, the vanguard of progress. They would take mankind to the heights that the Overlords had reached — and perhaps beyond. Not tomorrow, certainly, but one day.

  They never guessed that that day would be all too soon.

  Chapter 18

  The dreams began six weeks later.

  In the darkness of the sub-tropical night, George Greggson swam slowly upwards towards consciousness. He did not know what had awakened him, and for a moment he lay in a puzzled stupor. Then he realised that he was alone. Jean had got up and gone silently into the nursery. She was talking quietly to Jeff, too quietly for him to hear what she was saying.

  George heaved himself out of bed and went to join her. The
Poppet had made such nocturnal excursions common enough, but then there had been no question of his remaining asleep through the uproar. This was something quite different and he wondered what had disturbed Jean.

  The only light in the nursery came from the fluoropaint patterns on the walls. By their dim glow, George could see Jean sitting beside Jeff’s bed. She turned as he came in, and whispered, “Don’t disturb the Poppet.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I knew that Jeff wanted me, and that woke me up.”

  The very matter-of-fact simplicity of that statement gave George a feeling of sick apprehension. “I knew that Jeff wanted me.” How did you know? he wondered. But all he asked was:

  “Has he been having nightmares?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Jean, “he seems all right now. But he was frightened when I came in.”

  “I wasn’t frightened, Mummy,” came a small, indignant voice. “But it was such a strange place.”

  “What was?” asked George. “Tell me all about it.”

  “There were mountains,” said Jeff dreamily. “They were ever so high and there was no snow on them, like on all the mountains I’ve ever seen. Some of them were burning.”

  “You mean — volcanoes?”

  “Not really. They were burning all over, with funny blue flames. And while I was watching, the sun came up.”

  “Go on — why have you stopped?”

  Jeff turned puzzled eyes towards his father.

  “That’s the other thing I don’t understand, Daddy. It came up so quickly, and it was much too big. And — it wasn’t the right colour. It was such a pretty blue.”

  There was a long, heart-freezing silence. Then George said quietly, “Is that all?”

  “Yes. I began to feel kind of lonely, and that’s when Mummy came and woke me up.”