The helicopter landed on the roof, and the attendants wheeled it over
to one side. They propped the ladder up, and Littlejohn descended
slowly, panting.
They had a coasterchair waiting and he sank into it, grateful for the
rest. Hardy fellows, these attendants, but then they were almost three
feet tall. More stamina, that was the secret. Common stock, of course,
but they served a purpose. Somebody had to carry out orders.
When they wheeled the coasterchair into the elevator, Littlejohn
descended. The elevator halted on the first floor and he breathed a
sigh of relief. Great heights always made him faint and dizzy, and
even a short helicopter trip took its toll--the mere thought of
soaring two hundred feet above the ground was enough to paralyze him.
But this journey was vital. Thurmon was waiting for him.
Yes, Thurmon was waiting for him here in the council chamber. The
coasterchair rolled forward into the room and again Littlejohn felt a
twinge of apprehension. The room was vast--too big for comfort. It
must be all of fifty feet long, and over ten feet in height. How could
Thurmon stand it, working here?
But he had to endure it, Littlejohn reminded himself. He was head of
the council.
Thurmon was lying on the couch when Littlejohn rolled in, but he sat
up and smiled.
"I greet you," he said.
"I greet you," Littlejohn answered. "No, don't bother to stay seated.
Surely we don't need to be ceremonious."
Thurmon pricked up his ears at the sound of the unfamiliar word. He
wasn't the scholarly type, like Littlejohn. But he appreciated
Littlejohn's learning and knew he was important to the council. They
needed scholars these days, and antiquarians too. One has to look to
the past when rebuilding a world.
"You sent for me?" Littlejohn asked. The question was purely
rhetorical, but he wanted to break the silence. Thurmon looked
troubled as he replied.
"Yes. It is a matter of confidence between us."
"So be it. You may speak in trust."
Thurmon eyed the door. "Come nearer," he said.
Littlejohn pressed a lever and rolled up to the couchside. Thurmon's
eyes peered at him through the thick contact lenses. Littlejohn noted
the deep wrinkles around his mouth, but without surprise. After all,
Thurmon was an old man--he must be over thirty.
"I have been thinking," Thurmon said, abruptly. "We have failed."
"Failed?"
Thurmon nodded. "Need I explain? You have been close to the council
for many years. You have seen what we've attempted, ever since the
close of the Naturalist wars."
"A magnificent effort," Littlejohn answered politely. "In less than
thirty years an entire new world has risen from the ruins of the old.
Civilization has been restored, snatched from the very brink of a
barbarism that threatened to engulf us."
"Nonsense," Thurmon murmured.
"What?"
"Sheer nonsense, Littlejohn. You're talking like a pedant."
"But I _am_ a pedant." Littlejohn nodded. "And it's true. When the
Naturalists were exterminated, this nation and other nations were
literally destroyed. Worse than physical destruction was the threat of
mental and moral collapse. But the Yardstick councils arose to take
over. The concept of small government came into being and saved us. We
began to rebuild on a sensible scale, with local, limited control. The
little community arose--"
"Spare me the history lesson," said Thurmon, dryly. "We rebuilt, yes.
We survived. In a sense, perhaps, we even made certain advances. There
is no longer any economic rivalry, no social distinctions, no external
pressure. I think I can safely assume that the danger of future
warfare is forever banished. The balance of power is no longer a
factor. The balance of Nature has been partially restored. And only
one problem remains to plague mankind."
"What is that?"
"We face extinction," Thurmon said.
"But that's not true," Littlejohn interrupted. "Look at history and--"
"Look at us." Thurmon sighed. "You needn't bother with history. The
answer is written in our faces, in our own bodies. I've searched the
past very little, compared to your scholarship, but enough to know
that things were different in the old days. The Naturalists, whatever
else they might have been, were strong men. They walked freely in the
land, they lived lustily and long.
"Do you know what our average life-expectancy is today, Littlejohn? A
shade under forty years. And that only if one is fortunate enough to
lead a sheltered existence, as we do. In the mines, in the fields, in
the radioactive areas, they die before the age of thirty."
Littlejohn leaned forward. "Schuyler touches on just that point in his
_Psychology of Time_," he said, eagerly. "He posits the relationship
between size and duration. Time is relative, you know. Our lives,
short as they may be in terms of comparative chronology, nevertheless
have a subjective span equal to that of the Naturalists in their
heyday."
"Nonsense," Thurman said, again. "Did you think that is what concerns
me--whether or not we feel that our lives are long or short?"
"What then?"
"I'm talking about the basic elements essential to survival. I'm
talking about strength, stamina, endurance, the ability to function.
That's what we're losing, along with the normal span of years. The
world is soft and flabby. Yardstick children, they tell us, were
healthy at first. But _their_ children are weaker. And their
grandchildren, weaker still. The effect of the wars, the ravages of
radiation and malnutrition, have taken a terrible toll. The world is
soft and flabby today. People can't walk any more, let alone run. We
find it difficult to lift and bend and work--"
"But we won't have to worry about such matters for long," Littlejohn
hazarded. "Think of what's being done in robotics. Those recent
experiments seem to prove--"
"I know." Thurmon nodded. "We can create robots, no doubt. We have a
limited amount of raw materials to allocate to the project, and if we
can perfect automatons they'll function quite adequately. Virtually
indestructible, too, I understand. I imagine they'll still be able to
operate efficiently a hundred or more years from now--if only they
learn to oil and repair one another. Because by that time, the human
race will be gone."
"Come now, it isn't that serious--"
"Oh, but it is!" Thurmon raised himself again, with an effort. "Your
study of history should have taught you one thing, if nothing else.
The tempo is quickening. While it took mankind thousands of years to
move from the bow and arrow to the rifle, it took only a few hundred
to move from the rifle to the thermonuclear weapon. It took ages
before men mastered flight, and then in two generations they developed
satellites; in three, they reached the moon and Mars."
"But we're talking about _physical_ development."
"I know. And physically, the human race altered just as drastically in
an equally short span of time. As recently as the nineteenth century,
the incidence of disease was a thousandfold greater than it is now.
Life was short then. In the twentieth century disease lessened and
life-expectancy doubled, in certain areas. Height and weight increased
perceptibly with every passing decade. Then came Leffingwell and his
injections. Height, weight, life-expectancy have fallen perceptibly
every decade since then. The war merely hastened the process."
"You appear to have devoted a great deal of time to this question,"
Littlejohn observed.
"I have," answered the older man. "And it is not a question. It is a
fact. The one fact that confronts us all. If we proceed along our
present path, we face certain extinction in a very short time. The
strain is weakening constantly, the vitality is draining away. We
sought to defeat Nature--but the Naturalists were right, in their
way."
"And the solution?"
Thurmon was silent for a long moment. Then, "I have none," he said.
"You have consulted the medical authorities?"
"Naturally. And experiments have been made. Physical conditioning,
systems of exercise, experimentation in chemotherapy are still being
undertaken. There's no lack of volunteers, but a great lack of
results. No, the answer does not lie in that direction."
"But what else is there?"
"That is what I had hoped you might tell me," Thurmon said. "You are a
scholar. You know the past. You speak often of the lessons of
history--"
Littlejohn was nodding, but not in agreement. He was trying to
comprehend. For suddenly the conviction came to him clearly; Thurmon
was right. It was happening, had happened, right under their smug
noses. The world was weakening. It was slowing down, and the race is
only to the swift.
He cursed himself for his habit of thinking in platitudes and
quotations, but long years of study had unfitted him for less prosaic
phraseology. If he could only be practical.
_Practical._
"Thurmon," he said. "There is a way. A way so obvious, we've all
overlooked it--passed right over it."
"And that is--?"
"Stop the Leffingwell injections!"
"But--"
"I know what you'll say. There have been genetic mutations. Very true,
but such mutations can't be universal. A certain percentage of
offspring will be sound, capable of attaining full growth. And we
don't have the population-problem to cope with any more. There's room
for people again. So why not try it? Stop the injections and allow
babies to be born as they were before." Littlejohn hesitated before
adding a final word, but he knew he had to add it; he knew it now.
"Normally," he said.