FROM THE REVIEWS OF
Anywhere, Anywhen
Stories of Tomorrow
“The stories are well-written, deeply thought out and a pleasure to read.” —Sunday Advocate, Baton Rouge, Louisiana
“The stories deal with tomorrow, but also with people.” —The Oregonian, Portland, Oregon
“A interesting look at what it might mean to grow up in tomorrow’s world.” —Children’s Books of the Year, Child Study Press, New York
“For nonfans as well as readers of science fiction. . .. Robert Pierik portrays a technically oriented society in which persons showing artistic talent are routinely reconditioned mentally. Rick Roberson . . . contributes a tale about contact between space explorers and a more primitive society that wants to develop in its own way; and Engdahl, writing in collaboration with Mildred Butler, explores an intriguing use of time travel.” —Booklist
“Carol Farley’s ‘The DILOPs are Coming’ focuses on a young girl who encounters the caution of an anxious and overprotective mother while seeking to find her niche in an adult world. . . . Certainly one of the better stories in the collection, ‘The Mooncup’ by Shirley Rousseau Murphy, describes the meeting of two young people from different planets and cultures who are both gifted with the power of thought transmission.” —The World of Children’s Books, University of Alberta
“Roberson’s quick moving, easy style, the nicely delineated characters, and the provocative themes make ‘The Astoria Incident’ a success.” —Delap’s F & SF Review
Universe Ahead
Stories of the Future
(From which two stories are included in this ebook)
“Rick Roberson suggests in his story ‘Cloudlab’ that only in dreaming can our future ever take form as it is intended. . . . And then there is that superb story ‘The Beckoning Trail’ by Sylvia Engdahl and Rick Roberson in which a few of the crew members are able to comprehend the alien species which had signaled Earth. . . . Somewhat similar to 2001: A Space Odyssey, with a final act of courage and abandon, the more sensitive and accepting members of the group allow themselves to become consciously involved in the alien form of communication and thus leave ordinary earthlings far behind.” —The World of Children’s Books, University of Alberta
Anywhere, Anywhen
Stories of Tomorrow
(Expanded Edition)
Edited by
Sylvia Engdahl
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 1976 by Sylvia L. Engdahl
“Cloudlab” and “The Beckoning Trail” copyright 1975 by Sylvia Engdahl and Rick Roberson
“Tranquility” copyright 1957 by Sylvia Engdahl
All rights reserved. For information contact sle@sylviaengdahl.com. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be resold, given away, or altered.
Atheneum edition (hardcover) published in 1976
Ad Stellae Books edition (ebook) published in 2011
(This ebook also contains two stories from Universe Ahead: Stories of Tomorrow, edited by Sylvia Engdahl and Rick Roberson and published in hardcover by Atheneum in 1975, plus one story not previously published.)
CONTENTS
Foreword to the 2011 Edition by Sylvia Engdahl
The Left-Handed Boy by Robert Pierik
The DILOPs Are Coming by Carol Farley
The Mooncup by Shirley Rousseau Murphy
Timescape by Sylvia Engdahl and Mildred Butler
Cloudlab by Rick Roberson
The Astoria Incident by Rick Roberson
The Beckoning Trail by Sylvia Engdahl and Rick Roberson
Tranquility by Sylvia Engdahl
by
Sylvia Engdahl
This is a book for teens about the future—or at least, about things that might happen in the future. Usually, all such stories are called “science fiction.” But that is often a misleading label, not only because some science fiction has nothing about science in it, but because different readers have different ideas of what science fiction is. Even experts in the field of SF do not agree in their definitions of it. I myself would prefer not to categorize this book as “science fiction.” I feel that to do so gives the impression that it is a book meant for a special group of readers with special background, when actually it is intended for readers who usually avoid that genre.
Personally, I do not believe that the future is something that should be set apart and mentioned only in literature of one particular type, directed to one specific audience. To me, past, present and future are all parts of an unbroken thread, the thread of human experience. Almost everybody is interested in the future. All of the authors represented here are interested in it, although most of them had not happened to write about it before. When I asked them to contribute to this volume, I did not ask them to adopt the traditions of the SF genre; instead, I asked for stories that readers of their previously published fiction would enjoy.
I do not mean to imply that I don’t admire good science fiction or that I question its literary value. But tastes differ, and books published in that genre simply do not appeal to everybody, because to please that audience they must take into account what its fans have read before, as well as their interest in ideas far removed from everyday life. There are many other people with the opposite preference—and those people don’t even look at books on the “science fiction” shelves of libraries or bookstores.
However, the original publisher of this book, under the theory that “science fiction sells,” did call it science fiction and gave it a jacket designed to attract SF fans, thereby ensuring that it would fall into the hands of the readers least apt to enjoy it and be passed over by those for whom it was meant. It was generally given to science fiction specialists for review, and not surprisingly, most of them didn’t like it. A major journal remarked on “overused themes” without considering that these themes have not been overused—or in most cases used at all—in fiction for the intended audience. The person who said he could think of better anthologies to “turn kids on to SF” was right, but that was never the aim of this one. It is not an “introduction” to more sophisticated material; it’s supposed to stand on its own.
Librarians not familiar with science fiction praised the book, and each of the stories—they are all quite different from each other—was singled out as the favorite of different reviewers. Unfortunately, since these were internal reviews from separate schools and library systems, they were not seen elsewhere and couldn’t be quoted in blurbs. As a result, this was the only book of mine that didn’t earn its initial advance. I hope that this time around, it will be found by the sort of readers that the authors had in mind.
In one sense the stories included here are about future or imaginary worlds, yet in another sense, no story is really about the world in which its action takes place. Authors write not about worlds, but about people. The people in a story are more important than where—or when—they live. Of course, the ways people live in the future will not be like the ways they live now, and the differences will be greater than the obvious ones like development of interplanetary travel and new inventions. If authors could actually foresee the future, they would see much that would seem strange. Science fiction is made to seem as strange as possible for that reason; some readers feel that to show tomorrow’s ways as similar to today’s is unrealistic. But for many others, strangeness serves to separate SF from real life. I believe that stories for the mainstream readers of today should seem “real” today, even when they are about people of tomorrow. Strange accounts of strange, imaginary ways are not pictures of real life, alter all. Differences between present and future imagined merely for the sake of strangeness are no closer to tomorrow’s reality than similarities that aren’t apt to exist.
Furthermore, some similarities will exist. Despite the passage of time, certain things never change. Customs vary from place to place and from era to era, yet human feelings stay the same. The importance of human beings remains the same, even on different worlds, and even, perhaps, among human races different from the human race of planet Earth.
The stories in this book are not meant to be “true” in the sense of being predictions. Nevertheless, I think that they do have truth in them. No author can predict what the future is going to bring. Realizing that, we who’ve contributed to this book have chosen not to speculate too much about the details of what we don’t know, and to focus instead on what we do know, what we believe has lasting significance: the unchanging truths about how people feel and what they value. Truth of this kind applies, and will always apply, anywhere and anywhen.
In addition to the stories from the hardcover edition of the book, this ebook edition contains the two original stories from my earlier anthology Universe Ahead, co-edited with Rick Roberson, since that book—consisting mainly of reprinted fiction by other authors to which I no longer have any rights—can never be republished. I have also included one previously-unpublished story of my own, which has an outdated premise that puts it into the “alternate history” category but which in other respects is more timely than it was when my anthologies first appeared.
No changes have been made to any of the stories, except minor wording changes in a few places to replace “mankind” with “humankind” and modernize references to computer technology. Apart from this, there was nothing in them that would have been different if they had been written today.
by
Robert Pierik
Editor’s Comment: During the middle of twentieth century computers were commonly viewed as huge, impersonal manchines, the effect of which would be to enforce conformity; so they often became symbols of a lack of human feeling. In 1976, when this story was first published, home computers did not yet exist. Hardly anyone imagined that before long young people would have their own, and would use them less for computing than for communication with their friends, as well as for all sorts of creative projects. It was feared that in the future, as computers took over more and more tasks, the value placed on individuality and personal expression would decrease. That particular fear has proved unfounded—but the threat of forced conformity remains. Though computers are no longer the focus of it, the attempt of well-meaning authorities to make everyone act and think in the way defined as “normal” has become more dangerous than ever, now that it is common to prescribe drugs for every physical or emotional deviation from that norm. The references to outdated computer technology in this story in no way detract from its current relevance.
* * * * * *
I knew that something was wrong when Instructor Andiers contacted me on Visafon for the second time in a week. The first time, he’d called to say that my son had been spending most of his valuable time daydreaming; now, Mr. Andiers was telling me that Nyong had failed to meet the standards of Computscript. Naturally, I was embarrassed, but I had to agree that non-standard writing was inexcusable, and I admitted to myself that every school age child should be capable of learning Computscript correctly, especially a boy on the Fourth Level whose father held the important position of Manager of Interplanetary Finance.
My daughter Adanza, who’s the delight of her father’s days, had learned Computscript by the Second Level. The system of coded writing is simple: letters are all very much alike—so high and so wide and spaced just so. Any schoolboy, I had thought, could master the skill. Then why wasn’t my Nyong able to do it? Like any mother, I suppose, I took his part, and perhaps I even became overly protective, for Mr. Andiers seemed to think that I’d made a personal attack upon him.
“Mrs. Thebquoe,” he said defensively, “I am considered one of the best teachers at the Academy. There is nothing wrong with my methods.” Mr. Andiers began raising his voice and flailing his arms about excitedly like an Artist, so I blanked him out on the Visafon and turned down the decibles. “Your son,” the teacher concluded in a haughty tone, “is either unwilling or totally incapable of learning Computscript or anything else!”
“You’ve gone too far,” I said angrily. “Remember that my husband is in a position to have you removed from the Academy. You make it sound as if you think Nyong should be mentally reconditioned.”
The teacher backed down and even apologized to me, saying that he hadn’t meant to suggest that Nyong needed a Personality Alteration. “And please,” he added with a touch of anxiety in his voice, “don’t say anything about this to the Manager.”
Later that day, when Nyong had been transported home, I looked over his Computscript. As the teacher had led me to expect, my son’s writing was quite shoddy; instead of being straight up and down, it slanted—one line to the left, another to the right. And the letter size varied. Some small letters were larger than the large letters were supposed to be; also, the shapes and widths were wrong, and spacing between letters and words changed as many as six times a line. The work appeared more whimsical than methodical.
“Nyong,” I said with exasperation, “can’t you follow the model you’ve been shown? Is it so difficult? You should have learned Computscript a long time ago.”
He hung his head and didn’t say anything for a minute. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
“Sorry you can’t do it? Or sorry you won’t?”
“I—I can’t.” Tears started down his cheeks. “Something in me wants to do it differently,” he sobbed.
“Nyong, you know your mother loves you. But you’re behaving just like an Artist!” Even skilled graphologists, I went on to tell him, had difficulty translating the slipshod style of writing before Computscript. Having had my say, I felt content that I’d done my motherly duty, and I fully expected that I’d be seeing a marked improvement in my son’s work.
Instructor Andiers called me on the Visafon again the early part of the following week. “Mrs. Thebquoe,” he informed me in a voice that showed his chagrin, “Nyong has begun to write with his left hand.”
“What? Didn’t you try to change—?”
“Of course I tried. Your child,” said the teacher with a mixture of anger and frustration, “is being unreasonably stubborn, if not malicious.”
“Malicious? Mr. Andiers,” I warned, “I told you before—”
“I’m sorry,” he said, without sounding as if he had meant it. “But I agree with those ancient Romans who thought that there’s something sinister about left- handedness.”
“How can you think such a thing about my son? Now I will speak to the Manager about you, Mr. Andiers. You’re the one who should have a Personality Alteration!”
“Please,” he begged. “Don’t tell Mr. Thebquoe. Forgive me. It’s just that it has been proven beyond doubt that all of us are ambidextrous and are able to become right-handed.”
Since the teacher promised to be more patient with Nyong, I let the matter drop. It was a mother’s pride, I suppose, that prevented me from owning up to the fact that he had shown a tendency to use his left hand during the First and Second Levels. I had carefully guarded the secret from my husband, and I saw no reason to upset him with it now. While Phegmor was away at work, I devoted every minute I could spare to helping Nyong overcome his left-handed habit. When praise didn’t get the needed results, I used reproof, reminding him that he was his father’s only son and that he surely didn’t want to disappoint him.
As I was helping him after school one afternoon, his sister barged into the compartment, and as usual tried to interfere. Adanza, I’m afraid, sometimes acts as if she’s superior to everyone else; she’d often complained how humiliated it made her feel to have Nyong attending the same Academy.
“I learned to write Computscript by the Second Level,” she boasted.
“We know that Adanza,” I said coolly. “You don’t have to remind us. Nyong finds Computscript a bit difficult.”
“All his studies are too difficult for him,” she said cruelly. “Why don’t you take him out of the Academy?”
“That’ll be enough,” I said.
Nyong’s lip trembled. “I’m going to b-be a Manager like Father some day.”
“Manager?” Adanza laughed mockingly. “You’ll be lucky to end up a Helper to a Technician!”
Once my daughter started giving advice, she found it hard to stop. “He needs a Personality Alteration,” Adanza said. “If he acted more like everyone else I wouldn’t have to be ashamed of him at school.”
Nyong seemed to shrink within himself. Tears flooded his eyes, and he looked small and helpless. “B-but I don’t want to b-be like the others.”
Reason told me that there might be some justification for Adanza’s remark, but instinctively I had an aversion to the idea of his personality being changed.
“Get out!” I said angrily to her. “And I don’t want you ever to come into your brother’s compartment!”
For the next few days I continued to work with Nyong on his Computscript. He began using his right hand like any other normal boy, but he acted moody and depressed; and there was something else. He began to stutter.
The stuttering, I hoped, was merely a temporary condition that Mr. Andiers wouldn’t have to know about. So the morning after it began, instead of sending Nyong to school, I thought it might cheer him up to visit his father at work. He had never visited the office before; even the Manager of Interplanetary Finance needs a special pass for his family. Phegmor was pleased by Nyong’s enthusiasm when I asked for one.
It had never occurred to me that my son would be interested in interplanetary finance. He pestered the guards to take us on a tour of every vault—those containing computer printouts of credits, those holding precious metals, and those filled with such unusual commodities as antiques, sculptures, and other art works. I was completely worn out by the time we’d seen everything, but Nyong seemed strangely exhilarated. That night he bombarded his father with endless questions.
“Why do you k-keep the sculptures and paintings c-crated, Father?”
“For one thing,” said my husband, “they are protected.”
“Aren’t there t-transparent protective coverings?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you have to c-crate them?”
Phegmor said, “Partly for concealment. You see, they’re so valuable someone might try to steal them. Also, the paintings can be readily transported when crated.”
“But,” Nyong objected, “how can anyone enjoy s-seeing them?”
“We have digital images and prints of them. Anyway, who in this world but Artists would enjoy such things? They are merely products to be sold or traded on the interplanetary market.”
Nyong’s face took on a dreamy expression. “I s-saw a painting that was being re-crated for shipment to a b-buyer on another planet.”
“Oh,” said my husband. “How old was it?”
“I don’t know,” my son said.
“Who was the Artist?”
“I read the name on the p-plate, but I f-forgot.”
“Do you remember the number of the painting?” asked Phegmor.
“No, but I can d-describe it,” said Nyong excitedly. “It’s setting is an old b-barn or stable. A mother and her baby are s-surrounded by people in robes. And there are sheep and oxen s-standing nearby.”
“If you could only remember the number.”
Nyong seemed puzzled. “Don’t you know w-what the paintings look like, Father?”
“What difference does that make?” grumbled Phegmor. “Isn’t it enough that I know their value?”
It seemed a good idea to change the subject at the moment, so I mentioned to Phegmor that if he hadn’t been so busy we would have gone to lunch with him. He explained that he’d been tied up with some eccentric doctor who wanted to buy a painting for a friend on another planet.
“I can imagine what kind of friends he must have,” I said. “Let me guess what he bought. One of those decadent Dutch paintings from the Renaissance period.”
“Worse than that. He picked some outlandish work of Garmonteau!”
“If word ever gets out,” I commented, “that doctor won’t have a patient left.”
“That won’t happen. He was a sly devil,” said my husband. “Didn’t let me transport it because it’d be a matter of record. Said he’d arrange for the shipment himself.”
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Doctor Markois. I’m told he’s one of the best in the city, in spite of his strange friends.”
*
I was wrong in thinking that my son’s stuttering would stop, and now there were added problems; his appetite became poor. No matter how appetizing I tried to make his food, he just picked at it. And after school he’d spend hours alone in his living compartment, showing no interest in playing outside with his friends—not that Nyong has many friends from the Academy.
When he started looking pale and thin, I became quite concerned. Nyong, I knew, required the services of a doctor; but I hesitated to call upon Doctor Tragiron from the Academy, not merely because Phegmor and I did not like him but also because Mr. Andiers might have spoken to him about Nyong and suggested a Personality Alteration at the Academy treatment center. Phegmor would be very much upset if word spread that the Manager of Interplanetary Finance had a son who was not happy and normal like other boys. Phegmor had confided to me that he’d stretched the truth a bit about Nyong’s record of success at the Academy, and for the real facts to leak out would make my husband a laughingstock.
Nyong, I had to admit to myself, was different from other children, and yet I’d been like him in some ways as a child: I was quiet and kept to myself and certainly did my share of daydreaming. Perhaps, though, I’d been more lighthearted. Nyong was terribly serious. If he went on being so unhappy and misdirected, a PA might be necessary. Still, it would be sad to erase his special nature.
Then I remembered my husband telling me about Doctor Markois. The thought occurred to me that he might be just the one for us. The doctor had asked Phegmor to keep quiet about his purchase of the Garmonteau painting, and now we wanted an efficient medical man who’d keep quiet about our son. I felt that if Markois was as clever as my husband seemed to think, he’d be able to cure Nyong without mental reconditioning. If, though, Nyong were to need a Personality Alteration, Doctor Markois could take care of it without embarrassment to the family.
Doctor Markois, I must say, proved to be an impressive-looking man with dark, piercing eyes and a lionlike mane of hair; he was tall and carried himself with the dignity of a leader, although he dressed casually, almost carelessly. His clothes were somewhat spotted and quite gaudy for a Professional, I thought. Nyong’s stuttering, the doctor agreed, was merely a temporary condition; but he was concerned with the weight loss. He prescribed a diet supplement.
It didn’t help much. My boy turned very quiet and continued to keep to himself—moping around daydreaming in his compartment. One afternoon when I walked in, I found him staring vacantly at the walls; then, the next day, I caught him tearing up some of his father’s color-coded computer punch cards and arranging the pieces into peculiar patterns.
“Are you going to leave that mess on the floor?” I asked.
“What?” He hadn’t heard me.
“Pick up that mess.”
“M-must I, Mother?”
“Of course you must,” I said irritably. “We can’t leave all that paper scattered around your living compartment, can we?”
“If you d-don’t mind, I like it there.”
“Like it?” Such strange behavior, I must confess, was beginning to alarm me. “Whatever for?” I asked.
“The colors are n-nice.”
“Colors?”
Nyong squinted. “My room is all white. It makes it feel c-cold and w-wintry in here all the t-time.”
“White is functional,” I tried to explain. “It reflects the light.”
He squinched up his eyes again. “I w-wish my compartment was a color that’s w-warm and s-soft like early autumn.”
“Sometimes, Nyong,” I said, “you act just like an Artist. Why can’t you model yourself after the Technicians or the Managers? Your father sets a fine example for you to follow.”
“I know he d-does, Mother. I’ll try to b-be more like him.” Then he started blinking his eyes rapidly, the way he always does when he’s deep in thought.
“What is it?” I asked. “What are you wondering about?”
“Have I ever m-met an Artist?”
“I hope not.”
“Who are they, M-Mother?”
“They’re impractical dreamers that have to be taken care of like helpless children.”
“Why d-do they? Have to be t-taken care of, I mean?”
“Artists have no ability for organization like Managers, no special knowledge like Professionals, and no skills like Technicians.”
“B-But aren’t p-paintings valuable?”
“Very few Artists make paintings good enough for your father to sell to other planets. So we end up supporting most of them. Artists consider our planet a playground on which they can do what they wish, in spite of the needs of the rest of us.”
Nyong didn’t ask any more questions but his eyes kept blinking.
Gradually, his appetite increased and the color came back into his cheeks; yet he continued his stuttering. He must have been making an improvement in his school work, though, because I hadn’t heard from Mr. Andiers in two weeks. At last, I dared to hope, Nyong had settled down to being like any other normal boy his age. And why shouldn’t he? I asked myself. His sister had been a model student from the beginning.
I should have known that things were going too smoothly. When Mr. Andiers got in touch with me again, I was sure that Nyong had started using his left hand once more.
“It’s not that,” the teacher said curtly. “Now your son has adopted his own style of Computscript.”
“Own style? What do you mean?”
“He’s putting in odd curves and loops,” the teacher muttered. “The machines, of course, are rejecting it.”
“Curves and loops?” I said, aghast.
“That’s right. Not only is your son’s writing rate the slowest at the Academy, his work is the most illegible!”
I had no way of knowing when I requested examples of Nyong’s work sent home that Phegmor would get hold of one of them. He was horrified at the worthless writing with all its individual embellishments.
“Just look at this,” Phegmor growled. “All this scratching and scribbling in the margins.”
“It’s not scratching and s-scribbling, Father,” said Nyong, hurt at this description. “It’s c-called calligraphy. I saw it in an old b-book that the Academy was d-discarding.”
“If it had been discarded, didn’t you have sense enough to leave it alone?” I asked.
“Stay out of this,” Phegmor snapped at me.
“Why are you angry at me?” I asked. “What did I do?”
“It’s what you didn’t do,” my husband said accusingly.
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Andiers from the Academy told me of all the trouble he’s been having with Nyong. You’ve kept this from me, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“I’ve put up with Nyong’s stuttering and strange behavior, but when he begins to develop the quirks of an Artist—”
Nyong smiled shyly. “That’s right, F-Father. This writing is decorative art.”
“Where’s that book?” Phegmor asked.
“In my c-compartment,” said Nyong. “Why?”
“It must be destroyed at once!”
“But Father—” Nyong started to cry.
“What if word got back to the office that I had a son who—?”
“So that’s it,” I said.
“Nyong, bring the book to me,” demanded Phegmor.
Our son stormed out unhappily.
“Be patient with him,” I pleaded.
“It was my hope,” said Phegmor, the anger suddenly gone from him, “that my boy would become a Manager like me some day. Or a Professional at the very least.”
“Perhaps he will,” I replied without conviction.
Later, I think my husband was trying to make up for the argument when he invited Nyong and me to lunch with him. After eating, the three of us took a walk and, for the first time in a long while, had a chance to talk. But it amused me that Phegmor still carried his compulsion for work with him, for he used the occasion to stop by a recently erected City Treasury building. After he had talked with a head Technician, we went on until Nyong pleaded for us to take time to see a decadent medieval cathedral, which somehow had survived the last Building Renovation. Phegmor grumbled about how much space the old Gothic structure occupied.
Nyong tilted his head toward the lofty cathedral spires. “One . . . three . . . f-five . . .”
“What are you counting?” I asked.
“Those little c-columns. They multiply as they r-rise. It’s like seeing a tree with b-branches.”
Phegmor snorted. “It would have been better if a tree had been planted.”
“Just look at that whole w-wall of colored glass,” exclaimed Nyong.
“Most impractical,” I pointed out.
Then my son’s eyes started blinking rapidly. “It’s so b-beautiful. One part seems to f-flow into the next. And do you know s-something, Mother?”
“What, Nyong?”
“It feels like the cathedral’s m-moving or growing.”
As we went around the edge of the building, Phegmor said, “You do say the oddest things, son.” Then, observing the walls, “Look here, Nyong. Some good examples of Computscript.”
Nyong stared at the writing on the walls of the cathedral. Both children and adults, it appeared, had made contributions. “B-but should people be d-doing that?”
“What difference does it make?” asked Phegmor, starting to add a couple of letters of his own. “No one ever pays to visit here any more. And people didn’t come when it was free either. Besides—the cathedral’s being torn down next week.”
My son was difficult to understand. I’d taken him out to be with his father, which I’d thought would surely cheer him up, and now I noticed his eyes filling with tears. It worried me to think of what would become of him. There’s no place for such emotion in our rational society.
*
Nyong’s stuttering grew worse and his lack of appetite returned; his face looked as though all blood had drained from it. Although he was willing to go to school—to try to live up to what his father expected of him—I kept him home and made him stay in bed. It didn’t take me long to realize that we needed Doctor Markois.
When I led the doctor into my son’s compartment, I was embarrassed to find that Nyong had gotten out of bed and had begun to act irrationally again. Tiny bits of color-coded computer punch cards lay about the floor.
Doctor Markois observed him for a few minutes without saying anything. Then he asked, “Why did you do that?”
Nyong blinked his eyes rapidly. “I like to see the c-colors.”
It made me nervous the way the doctor kept staring at Nyong, as though he were a butterfly to be mounted. “Why didn’t you lay out the whole notes?” he asked. “Was it necessary to tear them?”
“I like putting the p-pieces down in different sh-shapes.”
I wondered if the doctor was thinking that the scattered pieces of paper reflected the disorder in Nyong’s mind. As he examined him, I noticed that Doctor Markois’s hands were not as smooth and soft as those of most Professionals.
“When did you and the Manager last take your son out of the city?” he asked.
“When Nyong was four,” I answered, “we visited Central Treasury.”
The doctor frowned. “No, what I had in mind was a complete change of scene.”
“That’s quite impossible. You know how hard my husband works. You can’t ask him to suddenly abandon his responsibilities, like an Artist.”
I thought I detected a faint smile on the doctor’s lips. “No, I suppose not. We’re all indebted to the Manager for the healthy state of our economy. Nevertheless, if your husband is not available, I suggest you or someone else accompany Nyong out of the city for the sake of his health.”
“Doctor Markois, are you worried about my boy’s physical or mental condition?”
“Both.”
“And you think a change necessary?”
“Yes, unless you’d prefer that Nyong receive the usual treatment called for in cases like his.”
“Do you mean a Personality Alteration?”
He nodded.
I tried to swallow my disappointment. This doctor, I had hoped, would surely have seen that although Nyong was an unusual boy with original thoughts and actions, he wasn’t abnormal to the point of requiring mental reconditioning. Phegmor, I felt certain, would be concerned, too, but for different reasons from mine. Unless a PA was absolutely necessary, he wouldn’t want to risk word getting back to his office about Nyong.
The thought of Doctor Tragiron at the Academy prompted me to say, “Of course, if you find later on that a Personality Alteration is the best thing, I’d like you to go ahead with it.”
“Naturally,” the doctor said, smiling. “We wouldn’t want him to develop the traits of an Artist.” At that moment, and I must have been mistaken, I could have sworn that Doctor Markois winked at Nyong.
That week I took my son to the coast, to a remote seaside place that I’d known as a girl. We went outdoors early on our first morning there. It had been years since I’d walked along the beach, and childhood memories stirred within me. It was just turning light, my favorite time. The earth appeared to have taken a moment to pause, jealously holding back the dawn; the ocean seemed to be breathing and sighing, stalling before starting the labor of another day. Appearing from nowhere, sandpipers began their business, scootching along the shore on skinny stilt legs, grubbing for morsels with their long beaks.
Nyong seemed fascinated as he watched a wispy fog spook in from the sea. This was all new to him. He stood motionless on the sand, and I began to wonder if he was enjoying himself. Then suddenly, before I could stop him, he let out a loud cry and, although fully clothed, plunged into the foaming surf and was swallowed up by fog and water.
My first instinct as a mother was to leap in after Nyong, but the awful clap of waves terrified me. Anyway, the offshore fog made it impossible for me to see him. It seemed insane to think that I could rescue Nyong. I’m not much of a swimmer and he had never swum a meter in his life. Find help, that’s what I had to do!
Quickly, I surveyed the beach. I could barely make out a lone figure in the distance. My breath came in hot gasps as I ran, sinking and falling in the sand. I tried to push away the thought that it was already too late. Nyong must have tried to kill himself. What else could I think? All evidence pointed to it: his recent erratic behavior, his apparent depression and withdrawal, and his misery at school. Why hadn’t I let Doctor Markois perform the PA?
Finally, I reached a shabbily dressed man hunched over something. Viewing him closer, I was dismayed to discover that he was an Artist painting at his easel! I feared that such a social outcast would refuse to help me. Except for us, the beach was deserted. There was no one else to save Nyong.
“Oh, please!” I shouted, trying to conceal the contempt I felt for him. “My son is drowning!”
The Artist immediately turned away from his work. “Where? Show me! Hurry!”
He followed me, shouting encouragement, and we struggled back to the place where Nyong had lunged into the water. To my astonishment he was right there, grinning happily, casually scratching with a stick in the wet sand.
“Nyong, why did you throw yourself into the sea like that?” I demanded, surprised at my anger. “You might have been killed!”
“I’m s-sorry, Mother. I didn’t think, I g-guess.”
“You guess. That’s your trouble,” I flared up. “You never think. You just do things from impulse like an Artist!” For a moment I’d forgotten the man and wondered if I’d hurt his feelings.
If the Artist had taken offense, he showed no sign of it. “How did you manage to get ashore?” he asked Nyong.
“I w-walked,” replied Nyong, making another stroke with his stick. “The water was only as high as my knees.”
Observing Nyong playing in the sand, the man said, “You have quite a talent for art.”
I had to keep from laughing because my son had scribbled a few childlike lines that were scarcely distinguishable; perhaps he’d intended to draw a sea bird, I’m not sure. While the two of them talked, I moved off several meters, for the man’s grubby appearance was offensive to me.
I was about to call Nyong away from the dreadful fellow when he asked, “Would you like to see a few of my paintings?”
“C-could we, Mother?” begged Nyong.
“All right,” I agreed reluctantly, and we trudged after the man. He showed us a seascape that was half completed; to the side of the easel, I noted two finished canvases that looked about the same as the one he was working on. But to hear the Artist talk, you’d think he considered each of them a distinct masterpiece!
Rubbing a paint-smeared thumb over his scraggly beard he asked, “Do you think I’ve captured it?”
“What?” I asked.
“The power of the sea?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, humoring him. “The paintings are worth a good deal, I’m sure.”
“Would you like to buy one?” he asked, grinning.
“Could we, M-Mother?” Nyong said enthusiastically.
“Certainly not.”
“Wouldn’t one of them look nice in my c-compartment?”
I shuddered at the thought. I could imagine Phegmor’s reaction!
Nyong had to be almost dragged away because he’d become completely absorbed in watching the Artist at work. The next day I headed for a different part of the beach, and fortunately we didn’t see the man again.
But when the time came for us to return home, Nyong cried, and I agreed to join him in one last walk along the beach. I even let him persuade me to take off my shoes and loosen my tightly wound plaits; sand squiggled between my toes and an offshore breeze gently lifted my hair. All at once, I had the irresistible urge to run along the sand like a little child, and I realized that I must be feeling the same kind of impulse as Nyong had when he’d plunged into the sea.
We raced to an outcropping of rocks, where we discovered a tidal pool. For several minutes we watched as a sea anemone opened and closed like a flowering plant; then a hermit crab crawled into an abandoned shell where he stayed hidden from us. Nyong picked up a stick and quickly etched something on the sand, but before I could see it he’d wiped it away.
*
Phegmor and Adanza had hardly missed us. It wasn’t long before the routine of our lives went on as before. Nyong’s health had been restored, although he still stuttered and spent long hours alone in his compartment. Happily, there were no more complaints from Mr. Andiers, so I felt hopeful that my son had finally settled down to being a serious, well-adjusted student.
Then one morning, Nyong said that he didn’t feel well. Doctor Markois came over at once and examined him but found nothing whatsoever wrong with the boy; in fact, the doctor thought Nyong looked better than he’d ever seen him, and it was easy to see why. He had put on weight and his color was good.
“Nyong,” Doctor Markois concluded, “is in excellent condition.”
“Then why does he say he’s ill?” I asked.
The doctor grinned. “What’s wrong with any healthy boy who doesn’t want to go to school?”
“You mean, he’s pretending to be sick?”
“Something like that. Why don’t you allow him to stay home a day?” Doctor Markois rumpled Nyong’s hair. “Are you still tearing up color-coded computer punch cards?”
Smiling shyly, Nyong unrolled a paper and handed it to the doctor. Doctor Markois’s eyes widened in surprise or alarm—I don’t know which.
“What is it?” I asked. “What did he show you?”
The doctor passed the paper to me. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Nyong had drawn a sea anemone in such lifelike detail that it looked as though it would close at the touch of my hand.
“Where did you get the paint?” I asked.
“The m-man on the beach. He gave me a few t-tubes.”
That despicable Artist! I tore up the paper at once, for I knew how upset Phegmor would be if he had any idea that his son had wasted his time in such a pursuit.
Because of a two-day Planet Federation holiday, there was no school that weekend and all government offices were supposed to be closed. I thought it would be nice if our family could be together during that time, but Phegmor said that there were far too many official matters that he had to take care of outside regular work hours. Adanza announced that she had to finish a computer assignment for school, although she’s already far ahead of her class. Nyong asked if he could go with his father to the office, but I had no intention of giving up my holiday in wandering around inside vaults, and Phegmor, I knew, would be unable to supervise him. So I thought the matter was ended.
Nyong, though, insisted that he could stay in the office near Phegmor. “But son,” my husband hedged, “I’ll be there the whole day.”
“I w-wouldn’t mind, Father. I’ll 1-look at the images and p-prints you told me about.”
They returned late that night. I expected that Nyong would be weary after such a long day—which I thought must have become boring to him—but I was wrong. He was so filled with things to say that I thought he’d never stop talking, in spite of his stumbling speech. His comments frightened me. Nyong spoke of works of art that burned brighter than comets, of dimensions not seen in our ordinary worlds.
“Meaningless tricks that Artists play upon canvas,” Phegmor scoffed. “It’s always been a wonder to me that there are planets willing to pay such outlandish prices for mere nonsense!”
“But some of the p-paintings are so beautiful, Father.”
“Beautiful.” Phegmor seemed to spit back the word. “If civilizations were left to impractical Artists, our whole efficient system would cease to exist. It’s the Technicians and Managers who’ve made the great contributions.”
Nyong looked at him innocently. “Are Artists b-bad?”
“They’re social irritants,” grumbled Phegmor.
“What does that mean, F-Father?”
“Artists are always dissatisfied. They can’t find perfection in their own work, but they expect our civilization to be perfect.”
“And Artists are different,” I added. “They don’t fit in.”
Nyong blinked. “Why is it b-bad to be different?”
“Can you imagine a society made up of individuals who didn’t think alike or act alike? Why, there’d be chaos.” Afterward, I wondered to myself if what I’d said to Nyong was really true.
Then Nyong asked, “Isn’t an Artist creative?”
“How creative can any individual be?” Phegmor commented. “Not as creative as a group.”
The boy seemed puzzled. “A group is more creative?”
Phegmor was amused. “Of course. Why do you suppose our whole interplanetary system is run so efficiently?”
I could tell that it pleased my husband to see that his son was capable of carrying on an intelligent discussion, even though Nyong did speak haltingly. That must have been why Phegmor remained so good-natured, for Nyong had never openly questioned his father’s word on anything before.
“What Artist did you like best?” Phegmor asked.
“Garmonteau,” answered Nyong without hesitation.
Phegmor laughed mockingly. “Garmonteau’s paintings are ugly, but I like the prices I can get for them.”
“Do you know his w-work?” my son asked.
“Not personally.” Phegmor scowled. “But I understand it’s called Cosmic Art.”
“W-What’s that?”
“Cosmic Art?” sneered Phegmor. “I consider it a ridiculous joke—an insult to the intelligence.”
I asked Nyong, “Could you tell what the paintings were supposed to be?”
“They d-didn’t look like anything I’d ever s-seen before.”
Now Phegmor roared with laughter. “Cosmic Art doesn’t look like anything anybody has seen before!”
“Why do you like Garmonteau best?” I asked.
“I c-can’t exactly explain. It’s mostly a f-feeling. One p-painting made me want to laugh and another made me very s-sad.” Even though he hadn’t understood them, he claimed that he sometimes knew what the Artist was trying to say. And he liked the colors, one shade right next to another that made him feel either excited or restful.
I’d read an article on the psychology of Artists, and since Nyong seemed so earnest in his quest for knowledge, I tried to tell him what I remembered. “To a Cosmic Artist, the meaning is in the work itself, in the process of self-expression. He claims it shows his inner nature and spirit.”
Phegmor guffawed. “Whatever that is!”
My efforts were rewarded, for my son suddenly broke into a smile. “Thank you, M-Mother. I think I understand better now.”
I suppose I should have been more tactful because my husband’s pride was hurt by not being able to explain more about Cosmic Art himself. Perhaps he was trying to make up for it later when he brought home some discs containing images of Garmonteau’s work.
“I may not be as uninformed about this Artist as you think,” said Phegmor to Nyong. “Notice the slant of his brush strokes.”
“W-What do they show?”
“Garmonteau,” Phegmor said triumphantly, “is one of those left-handed Artists!”
*
If I had thought that Nyong had stayed in his living compartment too much before, I now felt he’d become a regular recluse. What he did in there I don’t know. But we allowed his eccentricity, for his progress at the Academy had taken a sudden spurt; in fact, Mr. Andiers’ reports were actually becoming complimentary. My daughter showed signs of jealousy, which was unusual because Adanza had been ignoring Nyong since that day I’d forbidden her to enter his compartment.
One evening Phegmor came home in a bad mood because he felt duty bound to attend an art sales display that was featuring, of all things, Garmonteau’s work. Garmonteau himself, in fact, was to be present, at the request of the interplanetary buyers.
“I only wish there was a way I could make a brief appearance and then leave,” Phegmor sighed.
The idea hit me that if we took our children, there would be a legitimate excuse for leaving early. Adanza didn’t care to go, but Nyong, of course, was enthusiastic.
There were dealers from several planets, testifying to the high value placed on Garmonteau’s work—in spite of how my husband felt about it. Phegmor’s staff was doing a brisk business; within an hour, it appeared as if nearly half the paintings had been sold.
One particular work was attracting an especially large crowd. When we finally got close enough to see the painting, Phegmor and I had to keep from laughing. What an absurd monstrosity!
“It’s a landscape,” whispered a staff member, out of the hearing of the dealers from other planets.
“No,” another staff person disagreed, “it’s a seascape.”
When Garmonteau was asked what he’d intended, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s whatever you think it is.”
It was obscure, of that I was positive. Garmonteau’s use of symbolic meanings in this painting was even more pronounced than in the others; so it was little wonder that the viewers were confused. I overheard one woman say that it appeared as if fish were swimming in a dry desert. Alongside of the fish, as far as I could tell, seemed to be some kind of mythical birds or animals.
We were about to leave when the Artist approached Nyong, the only child present. “What do you think it is, boy?”
“I’m not s-sure,” answered my son, his eyes wide with innocence. “Maybe it’s a shepherd feeding his f-flock, like in a fable I r-read once.”
“But Nyong,” I said, “sheep don’t eat fish.”
My son cast his head down in embarrassment. “I f-forgot. I guess I was w--wrong.”
Garmonteau looked at Nyong with interest. “Art has neither right nor wrong. It’s created for its own sake.”
“No,” disagreed Phegmor with an edge to his voice, “it’s created to sell like any other negotiable product.”
“I beg to contradict you, Manager Thebquoe,” said the Artist. “Perhaps on our planet my work has no value except as a commodity, but on some planets I hear my work provides human values.”
“How could it?” snorted Phegmor. “It’s ugly.”
Garmonteau tensed. “No art is good because it has beauty. It has beauty because it is good.”
Phegmor laughed mockingly. “It’s good when it can bring a good price on the interplanetary market!”
“Come Phegmor,” I urged, sensing that there might be heated words in a minute. “Nyong needs to get to bed.”
*
My son continued to make progress at the Academy. Phegmor and I were pleased to discover that he had abilities that we’d never suspected. Then, unexpectedly, Mr. Andiers paid me a visit. I could tell by his manner that something was terribly wrong.
“Your son,” he said solemnly, “is scrawling on the margins of his Computscript again.”
“Scrawling?”
“Nonsense designs that don’t look like anything. Mrs. Thebquoe, your son’s wild behavior can’t go on.” Then the teacher said that he’d already taken the first necessary step in handling the situation: he’d summoned Doctor Tragiron, who had given Nyong extensive tests.
“You did this without consulting me?” I said heatedly.
Mr. Andiers gave me that smug look that infuriates me. “The situation required immediate action.”
“What,” I asked with mounting concern, “did the doctor decide?”
“He is convinced that the only solution is a Personality Alteration.”
My mind churned with conflicting thoughts. Should I withdraw Nyong from the Academy? Or should I have Phegmor remove Andiers from the teaching staff? No, it would be best not to stir up a controversy that would only end in hurting our family. Doctor Tragiron had been Phegmor’s political enemy for many years. I wondered if the doctor would try to humiliate him by making it known that the Manager of Interplanetary Finance had a boy with a psychological problem.
Although Andiers hadn’t come right out and said it, it was obvious that our son would be required to have a Personality Alteration before he’d be allowed to reenter school. What should I say? Years of living with a Manager stood me in good stead. My plan formed as I spoke.
“Well, of course if it’s what is best for Nyong, it should be done.”
The instructor’s jaw went slack. “You’re not angry?”
“I’ll admit I was when you first suggested it several weeks ago. But I’ve come to the conclusion that you’ve been right all along.”
“Thank you,” purred Mr. Andiers, no doubt feeling completely vindicated.
I went on to say that I’d prefer to have the PA done by a private doctor and asked Mr. Andiers if it would be all right if I kept Nyong out of school till afterward. The teacher, I knew, wanted to avoid any trouble with Phegmor; he didn’t give me an argument.
By the time I’d finished talking with Mr. Andiers, I’d completed my plan. If Doctor Markois agreed that a PA was in order, we’d let him perform it instead of the Academy doctor; if Markois didn’t think a Personality Alteration was necessary, we’d nevertheless tell the school that it had been done. It was a source of satisfaction to me to realize that either way, Doctor Tragiron would not be able to say that he’d treated Nyong and Mr. Andiers would be satisfied that his recommendation had been complied with.
The Academy, of course, would want proof. But I’d even figured out a way around that. Since purchasing his first Garmonteau painting, Doctor Markois had returned twice to buy other works; and both times, desiring to keep his transactions secret, he had arranged for his own delivery. Phegmor had bent a few corners for the doctor in not requiring regular interplanetary transportation; in addition, he’d allowed Doctor Markois to use a fictitious name to protect his reputation. Therefore, I was sure that Phegmor was now in a position to ask the doctor to return the favor by forging the proper medical documents. My husband had called the doctor a sly devil, but I didn’t think he was so clever. If we wanted, we could blackmail him.
There was a slight hitch to my plan. Doctor Markois, I learned, was to be out of the city for the next couple of days. This, though, merely meant that Nyong would miss school a little longer.
During this time, Nyong hardly came out of his compartment; he seemed completely self-absorbed in some occupation—just what, I had no idea. Then one morning when he joined us for breakfast, he didn’t seem hungry and he appeared nervous or excited, I couldn’t tell which. I was sorry that Doctor Markois had been delayed, for I was beginning to think there might be a real cause for him to see Nyong now.
That night at the evening meal Phegmor said to him, “Your mother tells me you’ve been keeping to yourself too much.”
“I’m s-sorry, Father.”
“What have you been doing?”
“It’s a s-surprise,” said Nyong, with a secret smile.
“If it takes every minute of the day,” I remarked, “it must be quite a surprise.”
“Do your mother and I get to see it?” asked Phegmor.
“It’s not r-ready yet.”
Phegmor’s curiosity was piqued. “What is it?”
The smile returned. “I told you. It’s a s-surprise.”
My husband was much more patient than I. “Aren’t you even going to give us a hint?” he asked.
Nyong laughed happily. You’d never have known that he needed the help of a Personality Alteration. “It’s like s-something you have at w-work.”
“I know,” said Phegmor. “You’ve programmed a system of some kind.”
“N-No.”
“Financial computations?” my husband guessed again.
Nyong was enjoying the game. “N-No.”
“Don’t guess any more,” said my daughter, jealous of the importance being put on Nyong’s surprise. “It’s probably nothing anyway.”
“It is s-so,” stuttered Nyong.
“How could it be?” snickered Adanza. “Any boy who has to be taken out of school—”
“That’s enough,” said Phegmor sternly.
Nyong asked, “May I go to my c-compartment?”
“Eat your dinner first,” I said.
I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed it before: Nyong was holding his fork in his left hand. I suppose I should have mentioned it to him, but he seemed so happy in spite of Adanza’s cruel remark that I didn’t have the heart to spoil the moment for him. I decided he was excited about the surprise that he was getting ready for us; so though he ate little of the food on his plate, I let him go to his compartment anyway.
Since Doctor Markois still hadn’t returned the next day, I kept Nyong out of school again, and he spent the entire time secluded in his compartment. Just before dinner that night, I heard my children arguing. A few minutes later Adanza came pounding in, screaming at the top of her voice.
“Father, you should see what’s in Nyong’s compartment!”
“Your mother’s forbidden you to go in there,” Phegmor said sharply. “You disobeyed her, didn’t you?”
Adanza set her mouth in a hard line. “But just wait until you see what a dreadful thing he’s done. Nyong should be punished.”
“You’re the one who should be punished,” I said.
Phegmor asked, “What did Nyong do?”
I could tell that Adanza was savoring the moment. “Come and I’ll show you.”
Phegmor and I followed her. Adanza, I felt sure, was merely trying to get attention.
At first Nyong seemed startled to see all of us; then he suddenly smiled. “Have you come to see my s-surprise?”
Adanza pointed her finger and, in a self-satisfied voice, said: “Look at that!”
Never in my wildest imagination could I have anticipated what Nyong’s surprise would be. And yet, logically, if I had pieced together the pattern of his actions, I should have known that something like this would eventually happen. I stared in disbelief at a series of wall paintings rendered in vivid colors, a child’s version of a Cosmic Art style, influenced, no doubt, by the work of Garmonteau.
“S-See, Mother,” said Nyong proudly. “My compartment’s no longer c-cold and w-wintry. Doesn’t it feel w-warm and s-soft like early autumn?”
“Oh, Nyong,” I said, horrified. “What have you done? Don’t you realize what this means?”
Phegmor stood speechless for several minutes, stunned by the mural. “I can’t believe it. My own son. An Artist!”
*
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“No one must ever know,” muttered Phegmor half to himself. “This could ruin my career. Who would believe that I didn’t encourage him?”
Tears flooded Nyong’s eyes; he seemed hurt and confused. “F-Father, you did encourage m-me. You let me s-see the microfilms. D-don’t you like my surprise?”
“Oh, Nyong!” I cried. “Why did you do it?”
“I couldn’t h-help myself, M-Mother. It was like when I p-plunged into the ocean.”
Mr. Andiers, I hated to admit, had been right from the start about Nyong. His actions had become so erratic that there was only one thing left to do now: give him a Personality Alteration. I reminded myself that a PA would be the best possible cure for him; it would make Nyong well and happy like other children. It was unreasonable, I know, but I couldn’t stop shaking.
Within an hour of his return to the city, Doctor Markois arrived at our home. When we showed him our son’s mural, he showed deep concern and said that without proper treatment Nyong’s mind would be forever occupied with thoughts of art that would separate him from the life of other people. The doctor pointed out that Nyong had used a silent language, which, when developed later, might reflect the ideas of discontented poets or philosophers who were seldom satisfied with the normal existence that everyone else enjoyed.
Then he examined Nyong’s mural for a few minutes without saying a word. Finally, half to himself, the doctor commented, “Notice how your son’s use of color suggests space, solidity, and a sensation of light. There’s a texture of pure tones that unites the whole surface.”