Damon Knight - Orbit 14

“We shall teach them to live by ethics. No more religion. No sects. No discrimination. A pure system of ethics.”

“What do you mean? How can you teach them ethics without religion? A contradiction in terms, isn’t it?” Walter glares at Sid, who turns away scowling.

“We’ll teach them all religions, in a historical sense, so they’ll grasp the allusions in the books they’ll read.”

“And democracy . . .”

“What do you know about democracy? What we have, what’s worked for us is pure anarchy, nothing more or less.”

At the telescope Mary Halloran suddenly screams softly and backs away from the eyepiece, her hands over her mouth. “Lew! Look at them!”

He looks and sees that they have built a fire, and they are roasting rats. He can see the rats clearly; they are not yet dead, but writhe and squirm, and he imagines he can hear their shrill cries. The children are squatting in a circle about the fire, watching intently. The blond girl’s face is still, and a spot appears at the corner of her mouth and catches the light, glistens in the light. She is drooling.

“Savages!” Mary whispers in horror. “They’re savages! Let them go back to the wilderness where they belong.”

“They’re survivors!” Sid yells at her, suddenly furious. “Look at us! Tons of freeze-dried food, enough to feed thousands of people. Warm buildings. Water. Plenty of clothes. Books. And they’ve got nothing except courage. I’m going down there!”

Harry stops him at the door. “You’re right. We have to try, but maybe we shouldn’t bring them here. You know? Why let them know exactly where we are, where our stuff is until we’re sure about them? There could be others still hiding.”

And so it is agreed. Sid and Harry and two of the women will meet the children and take them to the far end of the park, to the hospital, over a mile from the nearest home. The old man will join them later in the afternoon. He will examine the children. The old man is the nearest thing they have to a doctor. He was in his first year of medical school when the end came. He knows his limitations, but he also knows he can do little harm with what is available to him; sometimes he can do a little good. No one expects miracles. He is very good at tooth extractions. The people’s teeth are all very bad. Those who had dentures before are the lucky ones.

Myra pleads to be allowed to go with Harry and Sid, but they won’t let her; they know she cannot walk that far. Mary and Eunice are chosen, and they decide to take a gift of food with them. They ask the old man for some of Boy’s wild honey, but he refuses. Let Boy offer it if he wants, he tells them, and they have to be content with that. Boy has never told anyone where he finds the honey; he can barter it for clothes and music. He will listen to Myra play her violin for as long as she is willing to play. He gives honey freely to the old man, asking nothing in return.

The old man stays with the telescope until the children vanish among the buildings, and then he returns to his apartment on the fourth floor. Monica is there with Ruth and Dore Shurman. Ruth is seventy and Dore a little older. It is the first time in ten years that he has entertained them in his home. He is very pleased to have them here. Monica has already given them food, flat cakes baked on a grill. The cakes are nutty, crisp, very good.

“We want to go north,” Ruth says. “Remember? Where the cottages are still standing? They won’t come there. Too much rubble between the city and the suburbs.”

“But why?”

“I think Boy was telling the truth when he said they tried to catch him. I think they’re dangerous.”

The old man pities Ruth; he knows she will never be able to travel even to the edge of her own district, much less the ten miles or more to the suburb she is talking about. He looks at Dore and knows he also understands.

“You have nothing to fear,” he says finally. “Even if they are wild, they wouldn’t bother any of us. Why should they? There’s enough food for all of us. Enough shelter. God knows, we won’t go out of our way to harm them.”

“You never know what will threaten someone else,” Ruth says firmly.

Thirty-two years ago, when the old man first came to the city, Ruth was lovely, with abundant chestnut-colored hair, mature figure, and no trace of the fear that turned her husband into an invalid. Ruth had had three children, and she was still fertile, she told Lew. Perhaps they could produce yet another child or two, she and Lew. For three years he lived with them, cared for Dore and made love to Dore’s wife, until suddenly Ruth stopped menstruating. There was no menopause; she simply stopped, and she went back to her husband. Slowly Dore regained his sanity, but he has no memory of the bad years. The old man has always thought Dore understands much more than he has ever indicated by word or action. A firm friendship has grown up between the two. When Ruth turned away from Lew, she changed. Terror seized her with the realization that there would be no more children, and gradually Dore has come to be her support, as she had been his while there was still hope. Time has healed her fears, and resignation is the scar. But now she is terrified again.

“Lew, come with us. Don’t go to the children, today or ever. Let them live or die as God wills, don’t help them.”

The old man doesn’t look at her. He can’t tell her that she will never make it out of the city; her heart is bad, she has grown too fat, her blood pressure is too high.

“There are only seven of them, for heaven’s sake,” Monica says reasonably. “Even if they breed like guppies, we’ll all be dead long before they could be a threat to us.”

“Lew, please come with us,” Ruth pleads. “I’m afraid to go without you. What if Dore has an attack, or I do?”

“Look, Ruth, go home and stay inside for the next few days. All right? No one will tell them where any of us live, I promise you. This was a city of over a million people. And there are only seven of them, and three of them are very little.” He visualizes again the small girl’s intent face as she waited for the rat to stop jerking on the stick. “Very little,” he repeats. “They could never find us in such a big city.”

They finally leave him and Monica in his apartment. “Are you so sure they aren’t dangerous?” Monica asks. She is elegant in a long gown that she made out of a heavy blue brocade. She sews beautifully, always has new clothes. She does her hair up in intricate swirls; it is so white it looks false.

“They’re too few and too young,” he says impatiently. “Unless they’re full of disease germs, something like that. They could be.”

She clutches her throat. For many years no one in the city has had a cold, flu, sore throat. Nothing but age, he thinks. Boy is the youngest resident of the city, or was before today.

“I have to get back,” she says hastily. “I have to water my trees.”

The old man sits at his work table for a long time after Monica leaves him. He wonders for the first time why he is working on a concise edition of the Bible. For whose benefit? And isn’t it blasphemy? Supposing, of course, that one believed in God. He is puzzled by the repetitions in the Bible, the same story told over and over in different versions. With proper editing, he has reasoned, the Bible will be an eighth of its present length.

Boy has not come out of hiding by the time the old man leaves for the hospital. He knows it would be futile to try to find him. He walks under the golden sycamores with his usual long, unhurried stride. He tries not to think of the children yet. He thinks instead of the fear shown by Mary, by Monica, Ruth and Dore. The others will come to feel it also, he knows, just as he is feeling it.