Authors: David Palmer
Decided, in view of events, might be best if continued explorations in less vulnerable mode. Decided was time I soloed. Had driven cars before, of course; country kids all learn vehicular operation basics soonest moment eyes (augmented by cushions) clear dashboard, feet reach pedals.
Question of which car to appropriate gave pause. Have no particular hang-ups: Familiar (for nondriver) with automatics, three-, four-speed manuals, etc. But would be poking nose down vestigial country roads, venturing up driveways more accustomed (suitable) to passage of tractor, horses; squeezing in, out of tight places; doubtless trying hard to get very stuck. Granted, had been relatively dry recently; ground firm most places. But—considering potential operating conditions, physical demands. . . .
Would take Daddy's old VW. Happy selection: Answered physical criteria (maneuverable, good traction, reliable, etc.); besides, had already driven—for sure could reach pedals, see out. Did give thought to Emerson's Jeep, but never had opportunity to check out under controlled conditions. Further, has plethora of shift levers (three!). True, might be more capable vehicle, but sober reflection suggested unfamiliar advantages might prove trap; seemed simpler, more familiar toy offered better odds of getting back.
Pedaled home quickly, keeping weather eye out for predators (can take hint). Arrived without incident. Found key, established blithe sibling on passenger's seatback; adjusted own seat for four-foot-ten-inch stature, turned key.
Results would have warmed ad writer's heart: After standing idle three months, Beetle cranked industriously about two seconds, started.
Gauge showed better than three-quarters full, but wanted to make sure; lonely country road frequented by hungry dog packs wrong place to discover faulty gauge. So backed gingerly down drive (killed only twice), navigated cautiously to Olly's. Stuck in hose, got two gallons in before spit back. Beetle's expression seemed to say, ". . .
told
you so," as capped tank, hung up hose.
Went about tracking down suitable farm in workmanlike fashion, for beginner. Picked up area USGS Section Map from sheriff's office. Methodically plotted progress as went; avoided circling, repetition. Drove 150 miles; visited 30, 35 farms; marked off on map as left, graded on one-to-ten basis.. Were many nice places; some could make do in pinch. But none rated above seven; nothing rang bell until almost dark.
Found self at terminus of cowpath road. Had wound through patchy woods, hills; felt must go somewhere, so persevered to end, where found mailbox, driveway. Turned in; shortly encountered closed gate. Opened, drove through, resecured. Followed drive through woods, over small rise, out into clearing, farmyard. Stopped abruptly.
Knew at once was
home . . . .
To right stood pretty, almost new red-brick house; to left, brand-new, modern steel barn, hen house; two silos (one new), three corn cribs—all full.
Got out, walked slowly around house, mouth open, heart pounding. No broken windows, doors closed, shingles all in place—grass
cut!
For glorious moment heart stopped altogether; thought had stumbled on nest of survivors. Then rounded corner, bumped into groundskeepers—sheep.
Owners quite dead. Found remains of man in chair on porch. Apparently spent last conscious moments reflecting upon happy memories. Picture album in lap suggested four impromptu graves short distance from house were wife, three children; markers confirmed. Fine-looking people; faces showed confidence, contentment, love; condition of farm corroborated, evidenced care, pride.
Grew misty-eyed looking through album. Resolved to operate farm in manner founders would approve. Had handed me virtual "turnkey" homestead; immeasurably advanced schedule, boosted odds for self-sufficiency, survival. Least I could do in return.
Farm nestles snugly in valley amidst gently rolling, wooded countryside. Clean, cold, fast-running brook meanders generally through middle, passes within hundred yards of house; and by clever fence placement, zigs, zags, or loops through all pastures. Perimeter fence intact; strong, heavy-gauge, small-mesh fabric. Probably not entirely dogproof, but highly resistant; with slight additional work, should be adequate.
Contents of silos, cribs, loft, product of season's first planting; second crop still in fields—primary reason stock still alive, healthy. Internal gates open throughout; allowed access to water, varied grazing (including nibbling minor leakages from cribs, silos). Beasties spent summer literally eating "fat of land"; look it.
Besides five sheep are nine cows (two calves, one a
bull),
two mares, one gelding, sundry poultry (rooster, two dozen chickens, motley half dozen ducks, geese). No pigs, but no tears; don't like pigs, not wild about pork either.
From evidence, losses over summer low. Found only three carcasses: two cows, one horse. Bones not scattered; doubt caused by dogs. More likely disease, injury, stupidity—salient characteristic of domestic ruminants: Given opportunity, will gorge on no-no, pay dearly later.
Wandered grounds, poked through buildings until light gone. Found good news everywhere looked. Nothing I can't use as is, put right with minor work.
Clocked distance on return: 17 miles by road. Not too bad; can walk if necessary—should breakdown occur while commuting—but perhaps wiser to hang bike on bumper.
Still, machines can't last forever; only matter of time before forced back to horseback technology. Will have occasion to visit shelter often. Map shows straight-line distance only nine miles; guess better learn bulldozer operation, add road-building to skills. (Goodness—future promises such varied experiences; may vary me to death . . . .)
Was late when finally got back to shelter, tired but glowing all over at prospect. Can hardly wait for morning, start packing, moving in; start of new life.
Demented twin shares view; hardly shut up whole time were at farm. Or since. Lectured stock, dictated to poultry, narrated inspection tour throughout. Hardly took time out for snack, drink. Must be country boy at heart. So urbane, never suspected.
Hey—am really
tired!
Good night.
Oh!
Hurt places didn't even know I had. Suspect must have come into being just for occasion.
Six trips to farm. Count 'em.
Light failed just before self. Packing stuff from house no problem: Eight, ten trips to car; all done. Stuff in shelter is rub. Aye.
Two hundred feet straight up, arms loaded. Repeatedly.
Must
be better way.
Good night.
This is embarrassing; guess is time quit posing as genius. Proof in pudding. What matters 200-plus IQ if actions compatible with mobile vegetable?
Occurred this morning to ponder (after third trip upstairs) how excavated material removed during construction. Hand-carried in buckets . . . ?
Counting stairwell, material involved amounts to 200,000 cubic feet plus. At half cube per bucket, assuming husky lad carrying doubles, fifteen-minute round trips, that's 32 cubic feet every eight hours. Would take ten-man crew 625 days—not counting down time due to heart attacks, hernias, fallen arches . . . .
And what about heavy stuff? Doubt nuclear generator carried down by hand—must weigh couple tons.
Okay. Obviously done some other way. But how? Oh—shelter manual; had forgotten. Thumbed through quickly, found answer:
elevator!
Of course. Missed significance of small, odd-shaped, empty storeroom during first inspection. Other things on mind; didn't notice controls.
Balance of day much easier. Still tired tonight but not basket case.
Tomorrow is another day . . . !
STOP THE PRESSES!
Strike the front page! Scoop! I'm not me—I'm something else. No—we're not us—no— Oh, bother; not making
any
sense. But can't help it; hard to organize thoughts—so
DAMNED
excited . . . ! Will try,
must
try. Otherwise will end up leaving out best parts, most important stuff. Then, by time get feathers settled, blood pressure reduced, will have forgotten
everything! Oh,
must stop this
blithering.
Must get back to chronology. So . . .
Deep breath . . . release slo-o-ow-ly . . . heart slowed to normal. Physical tranquility . . . serenity . . . ohm-m-m . . .
Amazing, worked again.
Okay. Resumed packing this morning. Took two loads over, returned for third. Finished; everything in car, at farm, that felt would need. But still fidgeting; couldn't decide why. No question of something forgotten; farm only short drive away; omission not crisis.
Finally recognized source of unscratchable itch: Was time I did duty. Had avoided at first; knew couldn't face prospect. Then got so busy, slipped mind. But now remembered: Soo Kim McDivott. Teacher. Friend.
To friend falls duty of seeing to final resting place.
Generally inured now to face of death per se; unaffected last few days by myriad corpses have stepped over during course of running errands. Had no problem, for instance, removing Mr. Haralsen from porch to proper place beside wife, children; even finished job with warm feeling inside. (Suspect original trauma caused by sudden shock of events; enormity, completeness of isolation.) Condition improved now; felt could perform final service for old friend—more, felt need to.
Went next door, looked for body. Checked entire house: upstairs, downstairs, basement—even stuck head in attic.
Finally returned to library. Teacher had used as study; desk located there, most of favorite dog-eared references close at hand. Hoped might find clue regarding whereabouts amidst clutter.
First thing to catch eye was "Tarzan File" standing on desk. Large envelope taped to top, printing on face. Glanced at wording. Blood froze.
Was addressed to me!
Pulled loose, opened with suddenly shaking fingers. Teacher's meticulous script, legible, beautiful as Jefferson's on Declaration, read:
Dearest Candidia,
It is the considered opinion of several learned men familiar with your situation, among them Dr. Foster and myself, that you will survive the plague to find and read this. The viral complex employed by the enemy cannot harm you, we know; it was created as a specific against Homo sapiens.
Almost dropped letter. Surely required no genius to note implications. Took deep breath, read on:
I know, my child, that that statement must sound like the ramblings of an old man in extremis . . .
Ramble?
Teacher?
Ha! True, was old; condition intrinsic to amount of water over dam—of which lots (all deep, too). Probably also in extremis; lot of that going around when wrote this. But ramble?
Teacher?
Day Teacher rambles will be day Old Nick announces cooling trend, New Deal, takes up post as skiing instructor on glorious powder slopes of Alternate Destination.
I
ramble; Teacher's every word precise, correct.
Precise, correct letter went on:
. . . but please, before forming an opinion, humor me to the extent of reading the balance of this letter and reviewing the supporting evidence, which documents 25 years of painstaking investigation by me and others.
Note that of the 1,284 incidents wherein wild animals of varying descriptions "adopted" human children, none (with the exception of the very youngest—those recovered from the wild below age three) developed significantly beyond the adoptive parents. They could not be taught to communicate; they evinced no abstract reasoning; they could not be educated. IQ testing, where applicable, produced results indistinguishable from similar tests performed on random members of the "parents" species. Further, except for the 29 cases where the adoptive parents were of a species possessing rudimentary hands (apes, monkeys, the two raccoon incidents; to a lesser degree the badger and the wolverine), the children possessed no awareness of the concept of grasping, nor did it prove possible to teach them any manual skills whatever.
Finally, most authorities (note the citations in the file) are agreed that Man is born devoid of instincts, save (a point still in contention) suckling; therefore, unlike lesser animals, human development is entirely dependent upon learning and, therefore, environment.
This principle was deeply impressed upon me during the years I spent studying a number of these children; and it occurred to me to wonder what effect this mechanism might have within human society—whether average parents, for instance, upon producing a child possessing markedly superior genetic potential, might raise such a child (whether through ignorance, unconscious resentment or envy, deliberate malice, or some unknown reason) in such a manner as to prevent his development from exceeding their own attainments; and if such efforts took place, to what extent the child would in fact be limited.
Then followed narrative of early stages of investigation, solo at first, but producing preliminary findings so startling that shortly was directing efforts of brilliant group of associates. (including
Daddy!),
whole project funded by bottomless government grant. Object of search: reliable clues, indicators upon which testing program could be based enabling identification of gifted children (potential geniuses) shortly after birth, before retardation (if such truly existed) began operation.
Efforts rewarded: Various factors pinpointed which, encountered as group, were intrinsic to genetically superior children. Whereupon study shifted to second phase. As fast as "positives" found, identified, were assigned to study group. Were four:
AA (positive/advantaged), potentially gifted kids whose parents were in on experiment; guided, subsidized, assisted every way possible to provide optimum environment for learning, development. AB (positive/nonadvantaged), potential geniuses whose parents weren't let in on secret; would have to bloom or wither, depending on qualities of vine. BA (negative/advantaged), ordinary babies, random selection, whose parents were encouraged (for which read "conned") to think offspring were geniuses; also received benefit of AA-type parental coaching (and coaches didn't know whether dealing with AA or BA parents), financial assistance. And BB (negative/nonadvantaged), control group: ordinary babies raised ordinary way. Whatever that is.