Race Against Time (2 page)

"But now I am convinced that shallow, artificial happiness is not the answer, either. You can get that from drugs. If everyone settled for that estate, the world would shortly come to an end."

John considered that. Betsy was a pretty smart girl. She refused to accept the easy answers. She knew she wanted happiness, but she was choosy how she got it. Here was something he could comment on. It tied in, not too remotely, with his own problem: that of the inconsistencies in his surroundings. In fact, what he had here
was
a kind of make-believe happiness that he found empty in practice. He didn't want satisfaction in ignorance. He wanted to know the truth. It might be ugly; it might even hurt him, but....

"Supper, John," Mom called.

The important chain of thought had been broken again! He grasped at the last link, determined to have the meaning. The truth might be ugly, painful, but it would be
real.
Not a cardboard....

"John?"

"Coming, Mom!"

Talk of three wishes! He wished he had a decent chance to
think!
Morosely, he went downstairs.

After supper John washed the dishes. This was not a chore he had to do. He had volunteered one evening, surprising and pleasing Mom. Then, ashamed to confess that he had only needed a pretext to postpone particularly dull homework, he had stayed with it, night after night. This time it provided him with another mindless exercise while he thought things out.

He had been pondering things he couldn't explain. Betsy had written of the fallacy of artificial happiness. The two jibed, almost. He had drawn a mental parallel between them, made them add up to something significant... almost.

Something was wrong. He had to find a situation that accounted for a cat with a prehensile tail, a tree-climbing dog, and the strange restrictions on his freedom.

Betsy's letter-essay suggested that the best wish of all was for information. Well, it didn't say so in so many words, but it seemed to be leading up to that. To know, or to have the means to discover, the truth, whatever it might be. And if the truth made the knower miserable, that was still better than contented ignorance.

He agreed with her. He didn't exactly
like
her, but he realized that she could be a valuable ally. By pooling their two sets of information they might indeed come at the truth. Maybe that was why they weren't allowed to meet yet. They might compare notes and discover something vital. If their letters were censored... well, it might be possible to get around that.

He finished the dishes and called Canute for the evening walk. He still needed thinking time. The only way he could communicate with Betsy was by letter, censored or not. He could not just put his suspicions into writing, so what could he do?

Canute stopped to sniff at a tree. John was momentarily tempted to tell the dog to climb it, but he suppressed the urge. He was lucky the hidden watchers—the ones that he had long ago invented as a game but now firmly believed in—hadn't been alert during that first climb,
If
they had missed it; if not, the dog might be gone in the morning, like the kitten.... No! He wouldn't let anyone take Canute! He would be alert and stop them somehow, even if he had to fight in the night!

He needed more information before deciding anything. Betsy might help. If he could just write to her privately....

A code! One she would comprehend, but not the censor. It would have to be a very simple code, and that increased the risk. He couldn't work it out on paper in advance, either, because a watcher might see his notes. That made it a real challenge. Every tenth word? She would never pick that up unless she were looking for just that type of thing. Forlorn hope. First word in each sentence? Maybe, but still pretty clumsy. Either way he'd have to write a long, wordy letter to put across a short message—a message that would probably be wasted.

If he could only give her some hint—but the censor would pick it up, too! He was still stuck.

And when he came down to it, how could he be sure that Betsy herself was real? He had never met her. All he knew of her was her letters and her picture. Obviously
somebody
wrote the one and posed for the other, but that was hardly proof that Betsy-as-he-knew-her existed. Maybe his correspondent
was
the censor!

But again: If Betsy were
not
real, why should they have taken all the trouble to invent her? He hadn't wanted to correspond. There were girls in school, some fairly attractive, even if their skins weren't real. There was no point in signing him up with a stranger, particularly not another imitation.

He had picked up a useful rule of thumb from his readings: Accept the simplest explanation he could find—for anything. He chuckled. By that token his whole project was useless! The simplest explanation for Betsy was that his folks thought she was a better match for him than any of the local girls, but she lived too far away for immediate visits. For Canute's climbing, the simplest explanation was that dogs
could
climb trees, and the encyclopedia hadn't thought this needed mentioning. For the kitten....

The kitten was harder, because cats were
not
supposed to have prehensile tails, and his folks
had
been upset when he mentioned it (upset but not surprised?!), and the cat
had
disappeared. It was pushing coincidence to dismiss the connection. It was as though the cat had not been a cat at all, and once he was on the verge of discovering that....

He felt the chill across his shoulders, up his neck.
Not a real cat!
Talk of simple explanations!

Maybe Canute was not a real dog, either. And the kids at school were not real kids. And his folks not real parents. Maybe the whole town of Newton.... But this line of thinking didn't seem to lead to any answers.

He would query Betsy. Two heads were better than one. She might not answer, or she might not exist as a person, but the effort wouldn't cost him much, and it might bring out something important.

Canute was sniffing his way back toward the house. John had to set up his message and his code before he got there so that he could type without seeming to make much of it.

Let's see... something simple and direct for the message. "Let's compare notes. Something is wrong. Does your dog climb trees?" But she didn't have a dog. She had a bird. Great show! All right: "Have you ever been out of town?" Not good, but he was pressed for time. Now how to encode it. Why not every third word? That wouldn't be too complicated to figure out. With an opening hint: "Sometimes I think we'd learn more just by reading every third word." Yes, that was good. He was at the doorstep. He'd have to work out the rest extemporaneously.

In his room he began the letter:

"Dear Betsy, I've been thinking about your recent comments but must admit they confuse me. Sometimes I think we'd do better just reading every third word. I mean, let's start to compare some such notes. I think something might develop. Is there any wrong or right—does any of your—" Oops! He had started on the dog query instead of the out-of-town query. And the letter wasn't too bright, generally. This was harder to fit together than he had thought. His third words, after the key sentence, were okay: "let's... compare... notes... something... is... wrong... does... your"—but the overall text was ridiculously clumsy. Well, he was stuck with it now.

"...does any of your thinking." Stuck again. How could he fit in "dog" without being too obvious. And he didn't even want to ask her about her nonexistent dog! He kept confusing himself, trying to concentrate on three things at once.

He could write a horrible letter, then make a show of rereading it and tearing it up in disgust. If he had to. That might fool the watchers.

"...does any of your thinking fly bird or moth like out the strange cage of stuff?" Ugh! This was getting ridiculous. He had to stop.

"Sorry," he typed. "I can't seem to organize my thoughts tonight. Maybe you get the idea." Up to "does... your... bird... like... strange... stuff?" anyway. That would have to do.

He filled out the letter with routine chaff: how he looked forward to meeting her, the recent weather, etc. He had pretty well mangled his code letter; it wasn't as good an idea as it had seemed at first, but he was too stubborn to give it up now. He addressed the envelope, sealed it, stuck on a postage stamp, and put it in the box at the front door for the mailman to pick up next day. At least that took care of his weekly missive!

Betsy's reply, a few days later, amazed him. She had picked up the gambit and replied in kind. Her message, spaced every third word far more skillfully than his own blundering effort, was this:

"I have known for some time that it wasn't real. All the pets are alien creatures. You and I are zoo specimens, due to be mated next year so as to preserve the species in captivity. I tried to break out last year, so they watch me closely now. I will help you escape if you agree to rescue me in return."

John pondered the letter, so innocent on the surface, so forceful in code. Was she pulling his leg? He hadn't really
believed
this watchers business, had he? Was she laughing her head off over his gullibility?

Maybe—but somehow he didn't think so. Her bluff was too easily called, and what she said jibed too nicely with his own observations. All he had asked her was whether her bird acted strangely; he had not mentioned his suspicion that everything else, including the people, was a mock-up. And if Betsy were the censor, she certainly wouldn't encourage his suspicions!

She must be like him, with similar experiences and suspicions. Now she proposed to bargain with him, and why not? But there was one more check he had to make before he committed himself.

That night he did something he had not done in years: He sneaked out. He simply waited until the household was asleep, then got up and walked out the front door. He didn't think about the watchers.

He heard a noise just as he was closing the door. Canute had heard him and wanted to come along. If he shut the door, the dog would scratch at it and howl, alerting everybody. He had either to let Canute join him or to give up the venture. Also, he suddenly realized that he dared not leave the dog alone, tonight or any night. That would be the moment Canute disappeared....

"Quiet!" he whispered, opening the door and feeling a marked relief. However alien the dog might be in reality, he was comforting to have along. There was no question about Canute's personal loyalty. Together they faced the cool, still, dark outside.

They walked toward the township limit. John used his flashlight once he was clear of the house. He had never been beyond the Newton line, but tonight it would be different. Something had always happened to stop him before—the road would be temporarily blocked, or a severe storm would come up, or he would meet someone going the other way and be distracted. He had been frustrated but not suspicious—until now.

Betsy claimed they were both zoo specimens. Well, modern zoos put their animals in superficially compatible habitats so that the stupid ones might not even be aware of their confinement. They were supposed to be happier and healthier that way and would breed in captivity. Rage surged through him. Not
this
animal!

Canute woofed, thinking John's reaction meant danger. John reached down to pat the speckled shoulder reassuringly. If Newton were a zoo, Canute was still a friend!

This was too slow. John switched off the flashlight and let his eyes adapt to the night. There was some moonglow, hazed by clouds. "Lead the way, Canute!" he whispered, beginning to run. "To the fence!"

Canute led. He had done this before, picking out the best trail. John followed with confidence, knowing the dog would not betray him into any rut or bush. The strikingly marked fur was easy to see, in contrast to the ground. He judged they were making ten or twelve miles an hour before he got winded and had to take a walk-break.

In half an hour they reached the fence that marked the town limit. It was not an auspicious barrier—just a four-foot-high wire mesh with a double strand of barbed wire along the top. To keep the cows clear, he had been told. He paced along it, pretty sure the fence was bugged. If he touched it anywhere, someone would come. It would seem accidental, but his exploration would be halted. He was sure of that. He had to get through without any contact.

He used his flash, casting about in the growing-up pasture here. He might construct a stile, but that would take time, and he didn't have a hatchet or any cord or hammer or nails, and he couldn't afford the noise even if he knew how to assemble it, and he would have real trouble in the dark. He had to get over that fence in a hurry.

He walked farther, frustrated. Such simple things were balking him! The flash splashed against a rock. There was an old stone wall, falling apart. These massive but ineffective barriers had been used, he understood, to fence in sheep, maybe a century ago. Pretty dumb animal to be restrained by no more than this. Anybody could climb over! Just how stupid did the keepers figure John Smith was?

He realized that he had come to accept Betsy's theory, even though he had not verified it yet. Anyway, here was his stile: He could build a rampart of rocks.

Half an hour later he was dirty and tired, but he had a crude pyramid as high as the fence. He could jump over easily from its top, and so could Canute. Coming back would be more of a problem, but that was the least of his worries at the moment.

He flung himself over, landing hard and rolling before he could get righted. "Come, Canute!" he called softly. The dog leaped down with surprising finesse.

They were outside the township of Newton—the presumed limit of his prison. But John couldn't detect any difference. He let Canute lead the way through the semidarkness, away from the fence. He felt let down. He had been keyed up for something spectacular, or at least a change. If there were nothing but empty countryside....

There
had
to be something else! Dad had to go somewhere when he drove off for work. The truck supplying the local stores had to come from somewhere. Newton could not exist in a vacuum. It didn't matter whether it was a legitimate town or a zoo; there was a framework of some kind.