Arthur Clarke - Childhood’s End

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 recognized 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 knobbly 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 to 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 back-stage 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 eye 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.

The dreams began six weeks later.

In the darkness of the subtropical 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 realized 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.