"That will be all, gentlemen," Allenby said. He did not raise his voice,
but McCarthy was silent and Ward marveled, as he had on other occasions,
at the authority the old man carried.
"Well," McCarthy said after a moment, "what are you going to do about
_this_?" He gestured toward the windows from which shouts still rang.
"Nothing. Let it run its course."
"But you can't do _that_, man!"
"I can and I will. What do you think, John?"
"I agree," Ward said. "They won't hurt each other--they never have yet.
It'll wear itself out and then, tomorrow, we'll try again." He did not
feel optimistic about how things would be the next day, but he didn't
want to voice his fears. "The thing that worries me," he said, "are
those tigers. Where'd they come from?"
"What tigers?" McCarthy wanted to know.
Ward told him.
"First it was cats," McCarthy said, "then birds ... now tigers. Either
you're seeing things or someone's using a concealed projector."
"I thought of the projector, but these seemed real. Stunned at first--as
if they were as surprised as I was."
"You have a teleport in your class," Allenby said.
"Yes--maybe that's the way it was done. I don't know quite what to make
of it," Ward said. If he voiced his real suspicion now, he knew it would
sound silly. "I know some of them can teleport. I've seen them. Small
things, of course...."
"Not in _my_ classes," McCarthy said indignantly. "I absolutely forbid
that sort of thing."
"You do wrong, then," Allenby said.
"It's unscientific!"
"Perhaps. But we want to encourage whatever wild talents they possess."
"So that they can materialize tigers in--in our bedrooms, I suppose.
Well, I've had enough. Stay here and stew if you like, but I'm going
back to my class. I turned the hypno-gas on them before I took my dive.
They should be nice and gentle for me by this time." He turned away
defiantly.
"I know how you feel," Allenby said when McCarthy was gone. "He's a holy
terror, John. Shouldn't be around here. But I have to keep him, since he
was recommended by the 3Rs and the Educational League. He gives the
school a bit of protective coloration. Perhaps he's why they haven't
closed us down yet."
"I know--I'm not blaming you. Do you suppose we can go back to our jobs?
It sounds as if it's wearing itself out." He gestured up at the windows.
"Can't do anything more today."
"No, you're probably right."
* * * * *
For a moment Allenby was silent as they went toward the gate of the
Quad. Then he said, "John, you're a good man. I don't want you to
despair. What we're attempting--to bring education back into our
culture--is a good and noble cause. And you can't really blame the
kids." He nodded up at the walls. "They've just had too many Spellcasts,
too many scares in the Pretend War--they can't believe in any future and
they don't know anything about their past. Don't blame them."
"No, sir--I don't."
"Just do our best," Allenby said. "Try to teach them the forgotten
things. Then, in their turn, in the next generation...."
"Yes, we have to believe that. But, Dr. Allenby, we could go a lot
faster if we were to screen them. If they were all like young Tomkins,
we'd be doing very well. But as long as we have people like young Cress
or Hodge or Rottke--well, it's hard to do anything with them. They go
straight from school into their fathers' firms--after all, if you're
guaranteed a business success in life, you don't struggle to learn. And,
anyway, you don't need much education to be a dope salesman or a numbers
consultant."
"I'd like to have the place run only for the deserving and the
interested," Allenby said. "But we haven't much choice. We must have
some of these boys who are from the best families. More protective
coloration--like McCarthy. If we were only to run the place for the
brilliant ones, you know we'd be closed down in a week."
"I suppose so," Ward agreed. He wondered whether he should tell his
suspicions to Allenby. Better not, he decided. Allenby had enough to
think about.
The last of the shouting had died. As Ward went out the gate of the
Quad, he felt his heart lift a little the way it always did when he
started for home. Out here, miles from the city, the air was clean and
the Sun was bright on the hills, quilted now with the colors of autumn.
There was a tang of wood smoke in the air and, in the leaves beside the
path, he saw an apple. It was very cold and damp and there was a wild
taste to it as he bit into the fruit. He was a tired teacher, glad to be
going home after a hard day in the school. He hoped that no one had been
hurt by the tigers.
* * * * *
John Ward pushed the papers across his desk, reached for his pipe and
sighed. "Well, that does it, Bobby," he said.
He looked at the red-headed six-year-old boy sitting in the too-big
chair across from him. Bobby was a small boy with a freckled face and
skinned knees. He sat in the big chair with his feet sticking straight
out in front of him and played with a slide rule.
"I've taught you all the math I know," Ward said. "Differential,
integral, topology, Maddow's Theory of Transfinite Domains--that's as
far as I go. What's next?"
"I don't know, John. I was thinking of going in for nuclear physics,
but...."
"Go on, but what?" Ward prompted.
"Well...." Bobby gave him an embarrassed look. "I'm kind of tired of
that stuff. It's easy and not very interesting. What I'd really like--"
He broke off and began fiddling with the slide rule again.
"Yes, Bobby, what would you like?"
"You won't be mad?"
"No." Ward smiled.
"Well, I'd really like to try to write a poem--a real poem, I mean, not
advertiverse--a real poem, with rhymes and everything." He paused and
looked to see how Ward was taking it and then went on with a rush. "I
know it's almost illegal, but I want to try. I really want to."
"But why?"
"Oh, I dunno--I just want to. I remember that an old poet named Yeats
said something about writing poems--the fascination with what's
difficult. Maybe that's it."
"Well," Ward said, "it's a dangerous occupation." He looked at the boy
with wonder and pride. "Sure, Bobby, give it a try if you want to."
"Gee, thanks!" the boy said. He jumped out of the chair and started
toward the door of the study.
"Bobby," Ward called. "Tell me--can you teleport?"
"Not exactly," Bobby said. The papers on the desk in front of Ward
suddenly fluttered into the air. They did a lazy circle of the room,
swung into an echelon and performed a slow chandelle, before dropping
into Bobby's hand. "I can do that stuff. But I didn't do the tigers."
"I'm sure you didn't."
"It was a good stunt, but I wouldn't do that to you, John."
"I know. Do you know who did?"
"I'm not sure." Bobby didn't look at him now. "Anyway, it'd be
snitching."
"I'm not asking you to tell."
"Gee, I'm sorry," Bobby said. "I wanted to tell you in the yard. I knew
there was going to be a rumble, but I couldn't snitch."
"No, of course not." Ward shooed him off. "Go write your poem."
* * * * *
"But tigers!" Ann said. "Why tigers, John?"
"I suppose they were convenient."
"Tigers are never convenient."
He crossed the room, picked up the phone and dialed. After a brief
conversation, he turned back to her. "Well, now we know where they came
from," he said. "The zoo. Disappeared for about half an hour. Then
reappeared again."
"I don't care where they came from," his wife said. Her dark head was
bent over some work in her lap. "What difference does it make whether
they came from the zoo or from Burma? The point is, bringing them in is
dangerous--it's hooliganism, and don't tell me that boys will be boys."
"It doesn't show very mature judgment," he admitted. "But Bobby and his
pals aren't very old."
"Only about four hundred and eighty-five years old, according to his
I.Q. Do you think it was Bobby?"
"Bobby isn't the only genius we've got. There's Danny, remember, and
William Tender--and Bobby said he couldn't teleport big stuff."
"Well?"
John Ward had to confide his theory. He felt that he had to tell Ann
everything, all the speculation and suspicion he'd carried around with
him for so long.
"I think we're being invaded," he said.