David Palmer - Emergence

But have never felt so small. Awfully big world waiting out there.

For me.

Hi again, Posterity. Happy to see me? Or just surprised? Wish could be happier to see you. Should be, of course, and perhaps one day will be again. But just now view prospect of commencing this record with less than enthusiasm.

Appreciably less: Present overdue status not question of mere sloth, inefficiency; delay is product of sober consideration, sound reasoning. Entirely deliberate: been stalling.

But before condemning dilatory scribe out of hand, please attend, one, all; explanation follows, to wit:

Scared. No, not shaking-in-boots scared, not blood-turns-to-cottage-cheese scared; more an ominous-disquiet scared, two shivers qualmier than knock-on-wood scared. Leery of tempting fate.

See: commensurate with tenacious optimism expected of journeyman-grade Pollyanna, intend this record (together with previous journal [Vol. I], plus all subsequent memoirs) for future study by, ultimate benefit of, future generations — if any — tended in respectful, unhurried fashion by historians, students, archeologists in suitably dignified setting: Smith-Foster Post-Armageddon Historical Library Archives.

Fond aspirations envision lots of subsequent volumes, eventually amassing truly impressive collection covering very long time span; accumulated in orderly manner by Library courtesy of Yours Truly through regular donations, personal delivery. (Key words here are regular and personal: Want no gaps — and especially don’t want final volume dropped off by unwashed, travel-weary, buckskin-clad, intrepid explorer-of-unknown, plucked from God-knows-where.)

Foregoing tidy scenario intrinsic to present emotional well-being; implying, as does, long-range goals; own demise postponed many, many years hence; arriving (if ever) long after achieving revered status as beloved silver-haired old counselor; authentic sage, oracle senectutis causa, expiring gracefully in own bed amidst tearful mob of properly devoted descendants, admirers.

However (follow logic closely now): Longer journal commencement deferred, longer am able to ignore alternate possibilities — perhaps even probabilities — that impending events may interrupt record midchapter. Even midsentence. Until begun, this volume cannot be last in series. (Cannot be discovered incomplete amongst own bones somewhere on depopulated planet.)

Which is uncomfortable notion at best. Much prefer waiting until events justify more positive outlook, reasonable expectation of survival, living Happily-Ever-After.

(Curious behavior, must admit, for certified genius.)

However, personal problems are no excuse to compromise record; responsible histographer must face darkest prospects squarely, do job. True, this journal meant for proper delivery to proper audience; and if such be assured, could be prepared as well after the fact, at leisure, as minor adjunct to activities comprising Happy Ending. But if not — assuming worst: found under grisly circumstances by fellow involuntary ragtag explorer — even he entitled to complete account, within limits imposed by conditions.

Not least of which: very real doubt typical Bold Wanderer able to decipher Pitman shorthand. But would be no record in longhand: So inefficient, agonizingly slow; results bulky, burdensome to carry.

Besides, not my problem: shorthand system identified on cover, together with author, subject matter. Texts available at any library (most should stand, protect contents for centuries). My notes clear, straightforward; without unusual briefs, nonstandard phrase linkages. Given time, motivation, legible to anyone.

And must demand some effort from Posterity (regardless of whom may consist). Being furnished, after all, valuable detailed information on End of World. Not available at every corner newsstand.

As may be.

Peter Bell, trustworthy, reliable, responsible (according to Tarzan File — along with brilliant, sensitive, witty, handsome). Distinctly not sort to ignore constantly ringing phone. Or 50 messages on answering machine. To say nothing of known damsel (distress or otherwise quite immaterial; evidence suggests ain’t many of us). Would have returned call had been home, gotten message. Since didn’t, wasn’t.

Certainly. I knew that.

But human — pardon, mean Homo post hominem — psyche surely most perversely useless corner of entire mind. Unreasonable beastie, downright illogical. Makes no sense at all for naked-eye confirmation of months-ago deduced fact to precipitate funk.

Move-out deliberate, unhurried, thorough; signs unmistakable: Doors, windows neatly shut; closets emptied, personal effects removed; utilities switched off at fuse box. Obviously had business elsewhere, went; had ample time to. Nothing about absence to create ominous doubts, assumptions, speculations. Simply moved. Period.

Granting which, enigma remains: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster, superkid, prize intellect in or out of research project — coldly analytical, logical; rational, etc., etc. — agitatedly pacing through Peter Bell’s empty house; repeatedly peeking into empty closets, endlessly ransacking empty drawers; playing back empty answering-machine tape over, over again; wringing hands, streaming tears, sniffling, blubbering -

For almost three solid hours…!

Disgraceful performance: Behaving like maiden forsaken at altar. Atavistic. No justification.

Terry endured in relative silence, occasionally moving from one shoulder to other, shifting weight, intermittently shrugging to settle feathers. Comments limited to single low whistle when we entered obviously vacant premises, occasional “How ’bout that” as time passed. No doubt embarrassed for me.

Wait. No justification?

Correction, please: Atavistic, true, but partially justified…

Justified.

Entirely justified.

Justi-damn-fied all to pieces!

Why not upset? Months of hopes, anticipations, expections; long, hard trip — for nothing! Nary a clue — not even faintest hint remains to suggest destination, whereabouts.

Some superman…! Inconceivable could go off without leaving note — self-respecting five-year-old human would expect me on doorstep eventually (if alive), leave forwarding address.

But perhaps being too harsh… Should take comfort instead from apparent discovery that certain fundamental behavioral principles transcend interspecies gulf; continue unchanged, intact, eternal; intrinsic to new race as was old. Datum no doubt scientifically fascinating in own right; of great satisfaction to researcher. But frankly, until now never troubled head over whether new species might boast thoughtless, self-centered, imbecilic male twits!

Oh, dear. Just look — ink hardly dry following wallow through well-intentioned (if debatable) solicitude for plight of hypothetical NonScheduled Reader (NSR) and already hip-deep in tirade comprehensible only to proper audience. So sorry; will try to do better. Really.

By now NSR probably wondering what H. post hominem might be. Or Tarzan File. Or perhaps who Peter Bell is. Or Teacher. Or Terry. Or (at very least) me.

All right. Fair questions; deserve straight answers. So shall endeavor to bear in mind possible audience other than intended: Fellow survivor, perhaps — but demonstratedly better at it — someone lacking vantage of orderly progression from Vol. I (left in shelter library beneath address on cover, Index No. 1.1.1). Viewed in that light, however reluctantly, introductions are in order:

Name: Candidia Maria Smith-Foster. (Note: Nothing “sinister” about “bar”; used here proudly to honor adoptive parents together with kin.) Born 11 years ago to Smiths; orphaned ten months later; adopted by Dr. and Mrs. Foster — Daddy and Momma. Been known as Candy since first breath.