World Without Children

V

GEORGE’S beard itched. He had had it for almost a month now, but it didn’t appear that he was ever going to get used to it. Or to the wax Art Levinson had injected under the skin at the bridge of his nose, to give him a new profile. He kept compulsively scratching the area and it seemed to have set up some kind of local irritation. He had a plastiskin bandage over it now, which increased the hump and made the disguise better, though still more annoying, but at least it kept his fingernails away. After this weekend, when he’d meet the other three in Seville to compare notes, he’d have it attended to; meanwhile, there was nothing to do but bear it. There were doctors in Paris to whom it would be safe to go, but George didn’t know them; that was Levinson’s department. They had decided to work apart as much as possible, so that the capture of one might hinder their activities, but wouldn’t stop them altogether.

At the moment, ironically enough, both the itches, as well as the skin dye and new hairline, were entirely unnecessary. George, mingling as usual with the largest crowd he could find anywhere, was attending the annual Beaux Arts Ball as one of approximately three hundred robed, tinted and masked pseudo-African witch doctors—this costume being, for no discoverable reason, the season’s favorite.

Aside from the itches, he was enjoying himself thoroughly. He danced with all the prettiest women, who, according to immemorial custom, concealed about as much of themselves as the male guests left uncovered. He flirted with them, kissed them if they seemed amenable, and, whenever a fold of bustle or headdress gave him the opportunity, concealed leaflets on their persons.

It was a safe method: most of the pamphlets probably would not be found until the costumes were removed. And although he observed that more of the ladies than he had counted on were dispensing with concealment at the ball itself, he was further protected by his costume and his excellent French. In case of extreme emergency, he had thoughtfully provided himself with a skin-tight Lucifer suit under the witch-doctor’s robes.

Temporarily without a partner, George made his way through the press of bodies to a pillar, where he steadied himself long enough to look at his watch. It was getting on toward the unmasking hour. He looked around, over the heads of the crowd, to make sure he knew where the nearest side exit was. He was expecting something of a rumpus when it came time to unmask; there might be arrests.

A masked man in S. P. uniform went by, closely clasped by a sumptuous dark girl at least a foot taller than himself. There were a good many S. P. costumes in the hall, and George suspected that the greater part of them were genuine.

He turned, and his elbow sank into something soft and warm. He heard a stifled “Ah!” and saw that he had knocked the wind out of a young woman with astonishingly large eyes and an even more surprising bosom. He apologized, profusely.

“Large pig,” she shouted in his ear. “I forgive you. Embrace me.”

He did so, and felt her hands passing inquisitively over his flanks and chest, under the robe. She murmured, “Mmm,” and kissed him a little harder.

He broke away gently, feeling that reconciliation had gone as far as it respectably could. She gave him an impish smile and disappeared into the crowd.

George put two fingers cautiously under his robe and discovered a tiny oblong of folded paper. He opened it and saw the familiar headline: naissance ou MORT! It was a copy of his own leaflet, printed on the same sort of home copier he used himself.

He put it away with the rest of his supply. The movement he had started was growing wonderfully well.

He went around the periphery of the crowd in the opposite direction to the one the girl had taken. Just ahead of him, near the bar, he saw a slender woman jostled by a passing man in a frog suit. Her glass slipped out of her fingers, and the liquor spread a dark stain over her flowing taffeta skirt.

George whipped out his handkerchief and moved forward to help. Then he paused. The woman’s hair was coppery and abundant, and the mouth below her half-mask was of a particular perfection he had seen only once in his life. Hilda.

Caution told him to avoid her, but he had to be sure. He moved forward again, knelt beside her and dabbed at the stained skirt.

“Thank you so much,” she said In French, “but I’m afraid it’s a hopeless mess now.”

It was her voice: George felt the customary tingling down his backbone. He had not seen Hilda since the night Art arrived in Venice, and had not hoped to see her for a long time to come. But it wasn’t safe to let her recognize him. He stood up, bowed, and turned away without speaking.

She caught suddenly at his arm, turned him around again. “George!” she said. “It is you. Where have you been hiding? I’ve looked everywhere. And Luther and Morey … What is all this nonsense?”

George felt a little relieved, in spite of himself. Of course, she would know him from his youth alone, just as he knew her by her mouth. He said, “Hello, Hilda. I’ve missed you.”

“George.” She put her lips close to his ear. “You won’t hide from me any more, will you? We’ve got such a lot to tell each other—”

A shattering blare of trumpets from the center of the room interrupted her. A much-amplified voice cried, “Mesdames et messieurs, the hour of unmasking is at hand. Choose your partners!”

The babel of voices, which had subsided for a moment, rose, again. George glanced at his. watch, then at the rafters high above. He could just make out a tiny gray-blue dot there, hanging among the clustered lanterns. It was time, this minute, this second—

A new voice blared out, not as loud as the first, but clear and sharp. “Citizens of the world!” it cried. “The future of mankind is in your hands! The government tells you that there is no danger—that the human race is not becoming sterile. The government lies! Find out the truth for yourself! Go to your doctor, have him examine you. Only one in ten is now capable of having children. If you are that lucky one, do not throw away your priceless heritage. Have children! Now, before it is too late!”

Men were running toward the center of the room; George heard shouts and a few screams. The voice — George’s own, recorded through a filter to make it unrecognizable—went on: “If the government is telling the truth, why is it afraid of open debate? Why are your newspapers censored? Why are you yourselves subject to illegal arrest and imprisonment without trial? Why—”

A flat explosion drowned the voice, then another. There was a new outburst of feminine screams, and a sudden violent movement away from the center. The S. P.s, George guessed, were shooting at the playback mechanism he had bribed a workman to set up among the lanterns. It was time to get away.

His recorded voice went on, but another drowned it out. “No one is to leave! Unmask, everyone, and stand where you are!”

The movement away from the center continued. In the press, Hilda was clinging to his arm, shouting something at him. He broke away and dived into the crowd, heading for the side exit he had spotted before.

He was a little too late. The crowd was in full motion now, as irresistible as a charging herd of cattle. Ahead of him, he saw an S. P. man vainly struggling to turn and halt those behind. He saw the flash of a revolver; then someone clubbed the man in the neck and he went down under the feet of the crowd.

George had a sudden, terrified thought: What it that should happen to Hilda? But he was caught in the tide of bodies; it was useless even to think of turning back.

The wide doors of the main entrance had been thrown open, but there was still a bottleneck. The pressure grew until George thought his ribs would crack; then he was out and running desperately to keep from being trampled.

An S. P. car was pulled up at the opposite curb and, as he watched, another joined it. S. P.s tumbled out, tried to form a line. The crowd overwhelmed them. There were shouts of “A bas les flics!” and roars of laughter scattered among the screams.

The crowd’s temper was changing from fear to defiance. There would be broken windows and broken heads in Paris tonight.

George’s devil costume was now as dangerous as the witch doctor robes; anybody in carnival dress who was unlucky enough to meet a policeman would be arrested. He stopped in an alley to strip them both off—he wore a singlet and shorts underneath and then put the noise of the rioting behind him before he crossed the Seine to his hotel.

On the sidewalk in front of the hotel a huge N/M! was chalked—the symbol of the Committee Against Human Extinction, N/M in French and Spanish, G/T in German, B/D in English: Birth or Death! They had begun it themselves, flying from city to city, one to a continent; the people had taken it up.

He thought again of Hilda, and looked at his wrist phone. They no longer used the personal phones to communicate among themselves, since it was possible that the S. P. was monitoring all such calls; but it would do no harm to call Hilda, especially if he kept the contact short. He pressed the buttons that coded her number.

“Yes?” said her warm voice. “This is Hilda Place.”

“It’s George,” he told her. “Are you all right?”

“George, where are you? I must see you. Joe is here with me. Tell me where you are and we’ll dash over.”

“It wouldn’t do,” said George regretfully. “I only wanted to know if you got out all right.”

“Yes, George, of course. But—”

“Good night, Hilda,” he said, and broke the connection.

It was almost time for the hourly newscast, but George sat for a few moments staring at the dead vision set, thinking about Hilda. Then he began thinking about himself and Hilda, which was more complicated.

He hardly knew what it was he felt about Hilda, except that he wanted her. He knew that there was no basis for a settled relationship between them, but his mind rebelled at the knowledge.

Well, if they succeeded in this, things would be different. Everybody would have to revise his view of life. The family would revive; religion with it, probably. The changes would go deep into the social structure, as Art and Luther said: affecting manners, morals, ultimately every department of human life.

Not all at once, of course. For one thing, fewer than one person in ten would manage to become a parent before reaching the sterile age; and not all of those would be able, or want, to equate parenthood with marriage.

George’s own part in the new world was still hazy to him. He tried valiantly once more to see himself happily married to Hilda, and once more failed. The picture was simply wrong, in every way. He didn’t have the conjugal temperament, and neither, he was sure, did Hilda. What was going to become of them, who had been born into this childless world of cautious carelessness and sage superficiality, and knew no other?

That was rather good, George told himself. He was surprised and pleased; his wit was ordinarily of the evanescent variety, not worth using more than once. When he wrote his memoirs—

There was a knock on the door.

“Entrez,” said George, and the door, keyed to his voice, swung open. Two S. P. men stood there. They did not hesitate, but strode rapidly toward him.

With an effort, George relaxed his tensed muscles and looked at the advancing officers with what he hoped was the right mixture of alarm and indignation.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” he demanded.

The taller officer had a sheaf of photographs in his hand. He riffled them rapidly, selected one, and looked keenly from it to George’s face several times. He said something in an undertone to the other man.

The short, stocky one drew his gun and stepped aside. “I shall have to request you to come with us, monsieur. A formality only. If you are innocent, you will be freed.”

“But what is the charge?” asked George.

“You are wanted for questioning in connection with the riot at the Beaux Arts Ball, monsieur.”

“I wasn’t even there!” George protested.

The officer shrugged. “That may be, monsieur. It is believed that the instigator of the riot is not a native of Paris. Therefore, we are investigating all guests of hotels. Those whose appearances are similar to those on these photographs are to be brought in for questioning. You are not under formal arrest, monsieur, unless you insist.”

George felt a hollowness at the pit of his stomach. Such an obvious move and they had not thought of it! He said, “Very well,” and moved toward the door. The tall officer grasped his arm, the other fell in behind them.

At the doorway, George lunged forward. As the tall officer instinctively pulled back, George followed his motion, turning at the same time and putting the heel of his hand under the other man’s chin. He shoved, hard, and the officer went reeling back into the room. George slammed the door in their faces and ran.

The elevator was not at this floor. He dived down the staircase, took the first flight four steps at a time, and doubled back on the floor below’ to the other staircase. He guessed that the S. P.s had come by car; for a house-to-house search, it would be more efficient than ’copters. If he was right, he had a fair chance of hailing a cab and getting away before they found him.

Back on his own floor, he peered cautiously around the corner before emerging from the stairway. His room door was open, but there was no one in the corridor. He heard nothing. He darted out and up the ascending staircase.

The roof was silent and deserted under the stars, glowing at his feet in a wash of light from the tubes that outlined the roof. Traffic went by inaudibly, high overhead in the dark sky.

He saw the yellow riding lights of an unoccupied cab, not directly above, but bearing a little to one side. He took out his flashlight and blinked at it, trying hard to get the aim right; it was a long distance and a difficult angle.

The ’copter did not turn. It kept its course and disappeared finally down toward the Eiffel Tower.

He heard a sound down the stairwell. It was an ambiguous, uncomfortable sort of sound. He listened, but it was not repeated.

He walked quietly behind the stair entrance and tried again. Another empty cab was approaching, no nearer than the first. He aimed the flashlight tube at it, blinked it rapidly on and off.

After a heart-stopping moment, the cab turned toward him. And then he heard stealthy sounds in the stairwell. He listened. Footsteps, coming up.

He glanced at the oncoming cab. Too late; too far away. He went quickly to the nearest parapet, and holding the tiny flashlight like a dagger, stabbed it at the glow tube. Glass tinkled and fell, and the light died along that edge of the roof. The corner was only a few steps away; he broke the next tube as well. Now the roof was lighted only on the two sides farthest from him, and the, stair entrance cast a long, deep shadow.

He heard them step out onto the roof. They must have had a third man waiting in the car downstairs, George thought; when they learned that he had not appeared down there, they had turned back to search upstairs.

The cab had turned away, now that the signal had stopped and the edge-lights gone out. George watched its tiny lights dwindle.

The footsteps came toward him, slowly, one pair on either side of the entrance. Two beams of light shot out, illuminating all the roof except the rear wall of the entranceway where he stood.

“You had better surrender, monsieur,” said a voice. “Otherwise we are obliged to shoot.”

George pressed himself thin against the wall and tried to breathe quietly. The voice had come from the right; that was the spokesman, the stocky man with the gun. Therefore, he guessed, the other would step out first. He moved silently to the left, raised his arm and waited.

The tall man stepped suddenly into view, swinging his flash around. George brought the edge of his palm down with all his strength, aiming for the man’s wrist, but hitting the flashlight instead. Pain rolled up his arm as the metal tube fell; then, blinded by the light that had shone in his eyes, he was struggling with the tall S. P. man. He struck out furiously, feeling a blow in return that numbed his side, and then the two of them toppled to the roof.

George struck the other man once more, felt the grip loosen, and scrambled desperately to his feet. As he started to turn, a crushing pain struck him at the base of his skull. He saw the roofs surface rising toward him, but felt nothing when it hit him.