Simak, Clifford D - Our Children' s children

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Title: Our children's children

Author: Clifford D. Simak

Original copyright year: 1974

Genre: science fiction

Book price (of scanned edition): US$ 2.50

Comments: to my knowledge, this is the only available e-text of this book

Source: scanned and OCR-read from a paperback edition with Xerox TextBridge Pro 9.0, proofread in

MS Word 2000.

Date of e-text: July 17, 1999

Prepared by: Anada Sucka

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Our children's children

Clifford D. Simak

Bentley Price, photographer for Global News Service, had put a steak on the broiler and settled

down in a lawn chair, with a can of beer in hand, to watch it, when the door opened underneath an

ancient white oak tree and people started walking out of it.

It had been many years since Bentley Price had been astounded. He had come, through bitter

experience, to expect the unusual and to think but little of it. He took pictures of the unusual,

the bizarre, the violent, then turned around and left, sometimes most hurriedly, for there was

competition such as the AP and the UPI, and an up-and-coming news photographer could allow no

grass to grow beneath his feet, and while picture editors certainly were not individuals to be

feared, it was often wise to keep them mollified.

But now Bentley was astounded, for what was happening was not something that could easily be

imagined, or ever reconciled to any previous experience. He sat stiff in his chair, with the beer

can rigid in his hand and with a glassy look about his eyes, watching the people walking from the

door. Although now he saw it wasn't any door, but just a ragged hole of darkness which quivered at

the edges and was somewhat larger than any ordinary door, for people were marching out of it four

and five abreast.

They seemed quite ordinary people, although they were dressed a bit outlandishly, as if they might

be coming home from a masquerade, although they weren't masked. If they all had been young, he

would have thought they were from a university or a youth center or something of the sort, dressed

up in the crazy kind of clothes that college students wore, but while some of them were young,

there were a lot of them who weren't.

One of the first who had walked out of the door onto the lawn was a rather tall and thin man, but

graceful in his thinness when he might have gangled. He had a great unruly mop of iron-gray hair

and his neck looked like a turkey's. He wore a short gray skirt that ended just above his knobby

knees and a red shawl draped across one shoulder and fastened at his waist by a belt that also

held the skirt in place and he looked, Bentley told himself, like a Scot in kilts, but without the

plaid.

Beside him walked a young woman dressed in a white and flowing robe that came down to her sandaled

feet. The robe was belted and her intense black hair, worn in a ponytail, hung down to her waist.

She had a pretty face, thought Bentley-the kind of prettiness that one very seldom saw, and her

skin, what little could be seen of it, was as white and clear as the robe she wore.

The two walked toward Bentley and stopped in front of him.

"1 presume," said the man, "that you are the proprietor." There was something wrong with the way

he talked. He slurred his words around, but was entirely understandable.

"I suppose," said Bentley, "you mean do I own the joint."

"Perhaps I do," the other said. "My speech may not be of this day, but you seem to hear me

rightly."

"Sure I do," said Bentley, "but what about this day? You mean to tell me you speak different every

day?"

"I do not mean that at all," said the man. "You must pardon our intrusion. It must appear

unseemly. We'll endeavor not to harm your property."

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"Well, I tell you, friend," said Bentley, "I don't own the place. I'm just holding down the

homestead for an absent owner. Will you ask those people not to go tramping over flower beds?

Joe's missus will be awful sore if she comes home and finds those flowers messed up. She sets

store by them."

All the time that they'd been talking, people had been coming through the door and now they were

all over the place and spilling over into the yards next door and the neighbors were coming out to

see what was going on.

The girl smiled brightly at Bentley. "I think you can be easy about the flowers," she said. "These

are good people, well-intentioned folks, and on their best behavior."

"They count upon your sufferance," said the man. "They are refugees."

Bentley took a good look at them. They didn't look like refugees. In his time, in many different

parts of the world, he had photographed a lot of refugees. Refugees were grubby people and they

usually packed a lot of plunder, but these people were neat and clean and they carried very

little, a small piece of luggage, perhaps, or a sort of attaché case, like the one the, man who

was speaking with him had tucked underneath one arm.

"They don't look like refugees to me," he said. "Where are they refugeeing from?"

"From the future," said the man. "We beg utmost indulgence of you. What we are doing, I assure

you, is a matter of life and death."

That shook Bentley up. He went to take a drink of beer and then decided not to and, reaching down,

set the beer can on the lawn. He rose slowly from his chair.

"I tell you, mister," he said, "if this is some sort of publicity stunt I won't lift a camera. I

wouldn't take no shot of no publicity stunt, no matter what it was."

"Publicity stunt?" asked the man, and there could be no doubt that he was plainly puzzled. "I am

sorry, sir. What you say eludes me."

Bentley took a close look at the door. People still were coming out of it, still four and five

abreast, and there seemed no end to them. The door still hung there, as he first had seen it, a

slightly ragged blob of darkness that quivered at the edges, blotting out a small section of the

lawn, but behind and beyond it he could see the trees and shrubs and the play set in the back yard

of the house next door.

If it was a publicity stunt, he decided, it was a top-notch job. A lot of PR jerks must have beat

their brains out to dream up one like this. How had they rigged that ragged hole and where did all

the people come from?

"We come," said the man, "from five hundred years into the future. We are fleeing from the end of

the human race. We ask your help and understanding."

Bentley stared at him. "Mister," he asked, "you wouldn't kid me, would you? If I fell for this, I

would lose my job."

"We expected, naturally," said the man, "to encounter disbelief. I realize there is no way we can

prove our origin. We ask you, please, to accept us as what we say we are."

"I tell you what," said Bentley. "I will go with the gag. I will take some shots, but if I find

it's publicity..."

"You are speaking, I presume, of taking photographs.'-'

"Of course I am," said Bentley. "The camera is my business."

"We didn't come to have photographs taken of us. If you have some compunctions about this matter,

please feel free to follow them. We will not mind at all."

"So you don't want your pictures taken," Bentley said fiercely. "You're like a lot of other

people. You get into a jam and then you scream because someone snaps a picture of you."

"We have no objections," said the man. "Take as many pictures as you wish."

"You don't mind?" Bentley asked, somewhat confused.

"Not at all."

Bentley swung about, heading for the back door. As he turned, his foot caught the can of beer and

sent it flying, spraying beer out of the hole.

Three cameras lay on the kitchen table, where he had been working with them before he'd gone out

to broil the steak. He grabbed up one of them and was turning back toward the door when he thought

of Molly. Maybe he better let Molly know about this, he told himself. The guy had said all these

people were coming from the future and if that were true, it would be nice for Molly to be in on

it from the start. Not that he believed a word of it, of course, but it was mighty funny, no

matter what was going on.

He picked up the kitchen phone and dialed. He grumbled at himself. He was wasting time when he

should be taking pictures. Molly might not be home. It was Sunday and a nice day and there was no

reason to expect to find her home.

Molly answered.

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"Molly, this is Bentley. You know where I live?"

"You're over in Virginia. Mooching free rent off Joe while he is gone."

"It ain't like that at all. I'm taking care of the place for him. Edna, she has all these

flowers..."

"Ha!" said Molly.

"What I called about," said Bentley, "is would you come over here?"

"I will not," said Molly. "If you have in mind making passes at me, you have to take me out."

"I ain't making passes at no one," Bentley protested. "I got people walking out of a door all over

the back yard. They say they're from the future, from five hundred years ahead."

"That's impossible," said Molly.

"That's what I think, too. But where are they coming from? There must be a thousand of them out

there. Even if they're not from the' future, it ought to be a story. You better haul your tail out

here and talk with some of them. Have your byline in all the morning papers."

"Bentley, this is on the level?"

"On the level," Bentley said. "I ain't drunk and I'm not trying to trick you out here and. . .

"All right," she said. "I'll be right out. You better call the office. Manning had to take the

Sunday trick himself this week and he's not too happy with it, so be careful how you greet him.

But he'll want to get some other people out there. If this isn't just a joke ."

"It's not any joke," said Bentley. "I ain't crazy enough to joke myself out of any job."

"I'll be seeing you," said Molly.

She hung up.

Bentley had started to dial the office number when the screen door slammed. He looked around and

the tall, thin man stood just inside the kitchen.

"You'll pardon me," the tall man said, "but there seems to be a matter of some urgency. Some of

the little folks need to use a bathroom. I wonder if you'd mind. . ."

"Help yourself," said Bentley, making a thumb in the direction of the bath. "If you need it,

there's another one upstairs."

Manning answered after a half a dozen rings.

"I got a story out here," Bentley told him. "Out where?"

"Joe's place. Out where I am living."

"O.K. Let's have it."

"I ain't no reporter," said Bentley. "I ain't supposed to get you stories. All I do is take the

pictures. This is a big story and I might make mistakes and I ain't paid to take the heat..."

"All right," said Manning wearily. "I'll dig up someone to send out. But Sunday and overtime and

all, it better be a good one."

"I got a thousand people out in the backyard, coming through a funny door. They say they're from

the future. . ."

"They say they're from the what!" howled Manning.

"From the future. From five hundred years ahead."

"Bentley, you are drunk."

"It don't make no never mind to me," said Bentley. "It's no skin off me. I told you. You do what

you want."

He hung up and picked up a camera.

A steady stream of children, accompanied by some adults, were coming through the kitchen door.

"Lady," he said to one of the women, "there's another one upstairs. You better form two lines."

Steve Wilson, White House press secretary, was heading for the door of his apartment and an

afternoon with Judy Gray, his office secretary, when the phone rang. He retraced his steps to pick

it up.

"This is Manning," said the voice at the other end.

"What can I do for you, Tom?" "You got your radio turned on?"

"Hell no. Why should I have a radio turned on?"

"There's something screwy going on," said Manning. "You should maybe know about it. Sounds like

we're being invaded."

"Invaded!"

"Not that kind of invasion. People walking out of nothing. Say they're from the future."

"Look here-if this is a gag. . ."

"I thought so, too," said Manning. "When Bentley first called in..."

"You mean Bentley Price, your drunken photographer?"

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"That's the one," said Manning, "but Bentley isn't drunk. Not this time. Too early in the day.

Molly's out there now and I have sent out others. AP is on it now and. . ."

"Where is this all going on?"

"One place is over across the river. Not far from Falls Church."

"One place, you say. . ."

"There are others. We have it from Boston, Chicago, Minneapolis. AP just came in with a report

from Denver."

"Thanks, Tom. I owe you."

He hung up, strode across the room and snapped on a radio.

"...so far known," said the radio. "Only that people are marching out of what one observer called

a hole in the landscape. Coming out five and six abreast. Like a marching army, one behind the

other, a solid stream of them. This is happening in Virginia, just across the river. We have

similar reports from Boston, the New York area, Minneapolis, Chicago, Denver, New Orleans, Los

Angeles. As a rule, not in the cities themselves, but in the country just beyond the cities. And

here is another one-Atlanta, this time."

There was a quiver in the deadpan voice, betraying momentary unprofessional excitement.

"No one knows who they are or where they come from or by what means they are coming. They are

simply here, walking into this world of ours. Thousands of them and more coming every minute. An

invasion, you might call it, but not a warlike invasion. They are coming empty-handed. They are

quiet and peaceable. They're not bothering anyone. One unconfirmed report is that they are from

the future, but that, on the face of it, is impossible. . ."

Wilson turned the radio to a whisper, went back to the phone and dialed.

The White House switchboard answered.

"That you, Della? This is Steve. Where is the President?"

"He's taking a nap."

"Could you get someone to wake him? Tell him to turn on the radio. I am coming in."

"But, Steve, what is going on? What is. . ."

He broke the connection, dialed another number. After a time, Judy came on the line.

"Is there something wrong, Steve? I was just finishing packing the picnic basket. Don't tell me. .

"No picnic today, sweetheart. We're going back to work."

"On Sunday!"

"Why not on Sunday? We have problems. I'll be right along. Be outside, waiting for me."

"Damn," she said. "There goes my plan. I had planned to make you, right out in the open, on the

grass, underneath the trees."

"I shall torture myself all day," said Wilson, "thinking what I missed."

"All right, Steve," she said. "I'll be outside waiting on the curb."

He turned up the radio. " . . . fleeing from the future. From something that happened in their

future. Fleeing back to us, to this particular moment. There is, of course, no such thing as time

travel, but there are all these people and they must have come from somewhere.

Samuel J. Henderson stood at the window, looking out across the rose garden, bright in the summer

sun.

Why the hell, he wondered, did everything have to happen on Sunday, when, everyone was scattered

and it took no end of trouble to get hold of them? It had been on another Sunday that China had

exploded and on still another that Chile had gone down the drain and here it was again-whatever

this might be.

The intercom purred at him and, turning from the window, he went back to the desk and flipped up

the key.

"The Secretary of Defense," said his secretary, "is on the line."

"Thank you, Kim," he said.

He picked up the phone. "Jim, this is Sam. You've heard?"

"Yes, Mr. President. Just a moment ago. On the radio. Just a snatch of it."

"That's all I have, too. But there seems no doubt. We have to do something, do it fast. Get the

situation under control."

"I know. We'll have to take care of them. Housing. Food."

"Jim, the armed forces have to do the job. There is no one else who can move fast enough. We have

to get them under shelter and keep them together. We can't let them scatter. We have to keep some

sort of control over them, for a time at least. Until we know what is going on."

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"We may have to call out the guard."

"I think," said the President, "perhaps we should. Use every resource at your command. You have

inflatable shelters. How about transportation and food?"

"We can handle things for a few days. A week, maybe. Depends upon how many there are of them. In a

very short time, we'll need help. Welfare. Agriculture. Whoever can lend a hand. We'll need a lot

of manpower and supplies."

"You have to buy us some time," said the President. "Until we have a chance to look at what we

have. You'll have to handle it on an emergency basis until we can settle on some plan. Don't worry

too much about procedures. If you have to bend a few of them, we'll take care of that. I'll be

talking to some of the others. Maybe we can all get together sometime late this afternoon or early

evening. You are the first to call in. I've heard from none of the others."

"The CIA? The FBI?"

"I would imagine they both might be moving. I haven't heard from either. I suppose they'll be

reporting in."

"Mr. President, do you have any idea. . ."

"None at all. I'll let you know as soon as possible. Once you get things moving, get in touch

again. I'll need you, Jim."

"I'll get on it immediately," said the Secretary. "Fine, then. I'll be seeing you."

The intercom purred.

"Steve is here," said the President's secretary. "Send him in."

Steve Wilson came through the door.

Henderson motioned toward a chair. "Sit down, Steve. What have we got?"

"It's spreading, sir. All over the United States and Europe. Up in Canada. A few places in South

America. Russia. Singapore. Manila. Nothing yet from China or Africa. So far, no explanation. It's

fantastic, sir. Unbelievable. One is tempted to say it can't be happening. But it is. Right in our

laps."

The President removed his glasses, placed them on the desk top, pushed them back and forth with

his fingertips.

"I've been talking with Sandburg. The army will have to get them under shelter, feed them, care

for them. How's the weather?"

"I didn't look," Wilson said, "but if I remember correctly from the morning broadcasts, good

everywhere except the Pacific Northwest. It's raining there. It's always raining there."

"I tried to get State," said the President. "But, hell, you never can get State. Williams is out

at Burning Tree. I left word. Someone's going 'out to get him. Why does everything always have to

happen on Sunday? I suppose the press is gathering."

"The lounge is filling up. In another hour they'll be pounding at the door. I will have to let

them in, but I can hold them for a while. By six o'clock, at the latest, they'll expect some sort

of statement."

"Tell them we're trying to find out. The situation is under study. You can tell them the armed

services are moving rapidly to help these people. Stress the help. Not detention - help. The guard

may have to be called out to do the job. That is up to Jim."

"Maybe, sir, in another hour or two we'll know more of what is going on."

"Maybe. You have any thoughts on the matter, Steve?" The press secretary shook his head. '

"Well, we'll find out. I expect to be hearing from a lot of people. It seems incredible we can sit

here, knowing nothing."

"You'll probably have to go on TV, sir. The people will expect it." '

"I suppose so."

"I'll alert the networks."

"I suppose I had better talk with London and Moscow. Probably Peking and Paris. We're all in this

together; we should act together. Williams, soon as he calls in, will know about that. I think I'd

better phone Hugh, at the UN. See what he thinks."

"How much of this for the press, sir?"

"The TV, I guess. Better keep the rest quiet for the moment. You have any idea how many of these

people are invading us?"

"UPI had an estimate. Twelve thousand an hour. That's in one place. There may be as many as a

hundred places. The count's not in."

"For the love of God," said the President, "a million an hour. How will the world take care of

them? We have too many people now. We haven't got the housing or the food. Why, do you suppose,

are they coming here? If they are from the future, they would have historical data. They would

know the problems they'd create."

"A compelling reason," said the secretary. "Some sort of desperation. Certainly they'd know we are

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limited in our capacity to put them up and keep them. It would have to be life or death for them

to do it."

"Children of our children," said the President, "many times removed. If they're truly from the

future, they are our descendants. We can't turn our backs on them."

"I hope everyone feels the same about it," said Wilson. "They'll create an economic pinch if they

keep coming and in an economic pinch there will be resentment. We talk about the present

generation gap. Think of how much greater that gap will be when not two generations, but a number

are involved."

"The churches can help a lot," said the President, "if they will. If they don't, we could be in

trouble. Let one loudmouthed evangelist start some pulpit thumping and we've had it.''

Wilson grinned. "You're talking about Billings, sir. If you think it would be all right, I could

get in touch with him. We knew one another back in college days. I can talk with him, but I don't

know what good I'll do."

"Do what you can," said the President. "Reason with him. If he refuses to see reason, we'll find

someone who can really lean on him. What really bothers me is the welfare population. Bread out of

their mouths to feed all these extra mouths. It'll take fast footwork to keep them in line. The

labor unions may be scared by all the extra manpower, but they are hardheaded people, all of them.

A man can talk to them. They understand economics and you can make some sense to them."

The intercom came to life. The President thumbed the lever.

"Secretary Williams on the line, sir."

Wilson stood up to leave. The President reached for the phone. He looked up at Wilson.

"Stay close," said the President.

"I intend to, sir," said Wilson.

All the buttons on Judy's phone were blinking. She was talking quietly into the transmitter. The

spindle on her desk was festooned with notes.

When Wilson came into the office, she hung up. The lights kept on with their blinking.

"The lounge is full," she said. "There is one urgent message. Tom Manning has something for you.

Said it is top important. Shall I ring him?"

"You carry on," said Wilson. "I'll get him." He sat down at his desk, hauled the phone close and

dialed. "Tom, this is Steve. Judy said it is important." "I think it is," said Manning. "Molly has

someone. Seems to be a sort of leader of the gang out in Virginia. Don't know how his credentials

run, if there are credentials. But the thing is, he wants to talk with the President. Says he can

explain. In fact, he insists on explaining."

"Has he talked with Molly?"

"Some. But not important stuff. He is reserving that."

"It has to be the President?"

"He says so. His name is Maynard Gale. He has a daughter with him. Name of Alice."

"Why don't you ask Molly to bring them along. Back way, not out in front. I'll notify the gate.

I'll see what can be done."

"There's just one thing, Steve."

"Yes?"

"Molly found this guy. She has him hidden out. He is her exclusive."

"No," said Wilson.

"Yes," insisted Manning. "She sits in on it. It has to be that way. God damn it, Steve, it is only

fair. You can't ask us to share this. Bentley snagged him first and Molly hung onto him."

"What you're asking me to do would ruin me. You know that as well as I do. The other press

associations, the Times, the Post, all the rest of them..."

"You could announce it," said Manning. "You'd get the information. All we want is an exclusive

interview with Gale. You owe us that much, Steve."

"I'd be willing to announce that Global brought him in," said Wilson. "You'd be given full credit

for it."

"But no exclusive interview."

"You have the man right now. Get your interview. Get it first, then bring him in. That would be

your privilege. I might not like it, Tom, but there's not a thing I could do to stop it."

"But he won't talk until he's seen the President. You could release him to us once he's talked."

"We have no hold on him. Not at the moment, anyhow. We would have no right to release him to

anyone. And how do you know he's what he says he is?"

"I can't be sure, of course," said Manning. "But he knows what is going on. He's part of what is

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going on. He has things all of us need to know. You wouldn't have to buy his story. You could

listen, then exercise your judgment."

"Tom, I can't promise anything at all. You know I can't. I'm surprised you asked."

"Call me back after you've thought it over." Manning said.

"Now, wait a second, Tom."

"What is it now?"

"It seems to me you might be running on thin ice. You're withholding vital information."

"We have no information."

"A vital source of information, then. Public policy may be at issue. And what is more, you are

holding the man against his will."

"We're not holding him. He's sticking tight to us. He figures we are the only ones who can get him

to the White House."

"Well, impeding him. Refusing to give him the assistance that he needs. And - I can't be sure of

this, I can only guess - you might be dealing with the equivalent of an ambassador."

"Steve, you can't lean on me. We've been friends too long. . .

"Let me tell you something, Tom. I'm not going along with this. Friendship or not. I have a hunch

I could get a court order within the hour."

"You couldn't get away with it."

"You'd better talk to your lawyer. I'll look forward to hearing from you."

He slammed down the phone and stood up.

"What was that all about?" asked Judy.

"Tom tried to bluff me."

"You were pretty rough on him."

"Damn it, Judy, I had to be. If I had knuckled under - I couldn't knuckle under. In this job, you

don't make any deals."

"They're getting impatient out there, Steve."

"OK. You better let them in."

They came in with a rush, quietly, orderly, finding their accustomed seats. Judy closed the doors.

"You have anything for us, Steve?" AP asked.

"No statement," said Wilson. "Really not anything at all. I guess all I have to say is that I'll

let you know as soon as there is anything to tell. As of less than half an hour ago, the President

knew no more about this than you do. He will have a statement later, as soon as he has some data

to base a statement on. I guess the only thing I can tell you is that the armed forces will be

assigned the job of getting these people under shelter and providing food and other necessities

for them. This is only an emergency measure. A more comprehensive plan will be worked out later,

perhaps involving a number of agencies."

"Have you any idea," asked the Washington Post, "who our visitors are?"

"None at all," said Wilson. "Nothing definite. Not who they are, or where they come from, or why

they came or how."

"You don't buy their story they are coming from the future?"

"I didn't say that, John. We maintain the open mind of ignorance. We simply do not know."

"Mr. Wilson," said the New York Times, "has any contact been made with any of the visitors who can

supply us facts? Have any, conversations been initiated with these people?"

"At the moment, no."

"Can we assume from your answer that such a conversation may be imminent?"

"Actually, no such assumption would be justified. The administration is anxious, naturally, to

learn what it's all about, but this event began happening not a great deal longer than an hour

ago. There simply has been no time to get much done. I think all of you can understand that."

"But you do anticipate there'll be some conversations."

"I can only repeat that the administration is anxious to know what is going on. I would think that

sometime soon we may be talking with some of the people. Not that I know of any actual plans to do

so, but simply that it seems it would be an early logical course of action to talk with some of

them. It occurs to me that members of the press may already have talked with some of them; you may

be way ahead of us."

"We have tried," said UPI, "but none of them is saying much. It's almost as if they had been

coached to say as little as possible. They will simply say they have come from the future of five

hundred years ahead and they apologize for disturbing us, but explain it was a matter of life and

death for them to come. Beyond that nothing. We are simply getting nowhere with them. I wonder,

Steve, will the President be going on television?"

"I would think he might. I can't tell you when. I'll let you know immediately that a time is set."

"Mr. Wilson," asked the Times, "can you say whether the President will talk with Moscow or London

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or some of the other governments?"

"I'll know more about that after he talks with State."

"Has he talked with State?"

"By now, perhaps he may have. Give me another hour or so and I may have something for you. All I

can do now is assure you I'll give you what I have as soon as the situation develops."

"Mr. Press Secretary," said the Chicago Tribune, "I suppose it has occurred to the administration

that the addition to the world's population of some two and a half million an hour..."

"You're ahead of me there," said Wilson. "My latest figure was something over a million an hour."

"There are now," said the Tribune, "about two hundred of the tunnels or openings or whatever you

may call them. Even if there should be no more than that, it means that within less than forty-

eight hours more than a billion people will have emerged upon the earth. My question is how is the

world going to be able to feed that many additional people?"

"The administration," Wilson told the Tribune, "is very acutely aware of the problem. Does that

answer your question?"

"Partially, sir. But how is it proposed to meet the problem?"

"That will be a matter for consultation," said Wilson, stiffly.

"You mean you won't answer it?"

"I mean that, at the moment, I can't answer it."

"There is another similar question," said the Los Angeles Times, "concerning the advanced science

and technology that must exist in a world five hundred years ahead. Has there been any

consideration given. . ."

"There has not," said Wilson. "Not yet."

The New York Times arose. "Mr. Wilson," he said, "we seem now to be moving far afield. Perhaps

later some similar questions will be possible to answer."

"I would hope so, sir," said Wilson.

He stood and watched the press corps file back into the lobby.

The army was having trouble.

Lieutenant Andrew Shelby phoned Major Marcel Burns. "Sir, I can't keep these people together," he

reported. "They are being kidnapped."

"What in hell are you talking about, Andy? Kidnapped?"

"Well, maybe not being kidnapped, actually. But people are taking them in. There is one big house

full of them. There must be twenty or more of them inside of it. I talked with the owner. Look

here, I told him, I have to keep these people together. I can't let them get scattered. I've got

to load them up and take them where they have shelter and food. Lieutenant, said this man, you

don't have to worry about the people I have here. If food and shelter is your only worry, you can

stop your worrying. They are my house guests, sir, and they have food and shelter. And he was not

the only one. That was only one house. Other houses, all up and down the street, they have them,

too. The whole neighborhood has them. Everyone is taking them in. That's not the whole story,

either. People are driving in from miles away to load them up and take them off to take care of

them. They're being scattered all over the countryside and I can't do a thing about it."

"Are they still coming out of that door or whatever it is?"

"Yes, sir, they are still coming out of it. They have never stopped. It's like a big parade. They

just keep marching out of it. I try to keep them together, sir, but they wander and they scatter

and they are taken up by all the people in the neighborhood and I can't keep track of them."

"You've been transporting some of them?"

"Yes, sir. As fast as I can load them up."

"What kind of people are they?"

"Just ordinary people, sir. Far as I can see. No different from us, except that they got a sort of

funny accent. They dress funny. Some of them in robes. Some of them in buckskins. Some of them in -

oh, hell, they have all kinds of clothes. Like they were at a masquerade. But they are polite and

cooperative. They don't give us no trouble. It's just that there are so many of them. More of them

than I can haul away. They scatter, but that ain't their fault. It's the people who invite them

home. They are friendly and real nice, but there are just too many of them."

The major sighed. "Well, carry on," he said. "Do the best you can."

The buttons on Judy's telephone had never stopped their blinking. The lounge was jammed with

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waiting newsmen. Wilson got up from his desk and moved over to the row of clacking teletypes.

Global News was coming up with its fifth new lead.

WASHINGTON (GN)-Millions of visitors who say they are from 500 years in the future continued to

come to the present world this afternoon, pouring in steady streams from more than 200 "time

tunnels."

There has been general public reluctance to accept their explanation that they are from the

future, but it is now beginning to gain some acceptance in official quarters, not so much in

Washington as in some capitals abroad. Beyond the assertion that they are from the future,

however, the refugees will add little else in the way of information. It is confidently expected

that in the next few hours more information may be forthcoming. So far, in the confusion of the

situation, no one who can be termed a leader or a spokesman has emerged from the hordes of people

pouring from the tunnels. But there are some indications that such a spokesman may now have been

located and that soon his story will be told. The distribution of the tunnels are worldwide and

have been reported from every continent.

An unofficial estimate places the number of people passing through them at close to two million an

hour. At this rate . . .

"Steve," said Judy, "Tom Manning is on the phone." Wilson went back to his desk.

"Have you got your court order yet?" Manning asked. "Not yet. I gave you time."

"Well, you can get it any time you want to. Our attorney says you can."

"I don't think I'll need it."

"Matter of fact, you won't. Molly is already on her way. With Gale and his daughter. She'll be

there in twenty minutes, more or less, depending on the traffic. It is getting hairy out there.

Sightseers pouring in and a slew of army trucks."

"Tom," said Wilson, "there is something I want to say. I know why you had to do it. You simply had

to try."

"Steve, there's one thing more."

"What is it, Tom?"

"Gale talked a little to Molly. Not much. There was one thing he asked her to pass along.

Something that he said couldn't wait."

"You're passing it along?"

"He said to station an artillery piece in front of each of the time tunnels. High explosive

rounds. If anything happens, fire straight into the tunnel. Don't pay any attention to the people

who may be in it, but fire. If necessary, keep on firing."

"Any idea of what could happen?"

"He wouldn't say. Just that we would know. Said the explosion would knock out the tunnel, collapse

it, put an end to it. You'll take it from here?"

"I'll take it from here."

"I'm not going to use it now," said Manning. "Not right away."

Wilson hung up, picked up the Presidential phone.

"Kim," he asked. "when can I get in?"

"He's on the phone now. There are other calls holding. There are people with him. How important is

this, Steve?"

"Top important. I have to see the man."

"Come on in. I'll slip you in as soon as possible."

"Judy," said Wilson, "Molly Kimball is coming in the back way. She'll have two of the refugees

with her."

"I'll call the gate," said Judy. "And security. When they get here?"

"If I'm not back; send them in to Kim."

Sandburg, Secretary of Defense, and. Williams, Secretary of State, sat on a davenport in front of

the President's desk. Reilly Douglas, Attorney General, was in a chair at its corner. They nodded

to Wilson when he came into the room.

"Steve," said the President, "I know that what you have must be important." It was just short of a

rebuke.

"I think so, Mr. President," said Wilson. "Molly Kimball is bringing in one of the refugees who

says he is a spokesman for at least the Virginia group. I thought you might want to see him, sir."

"Sit down, Steve," said the President. "What do you know about this man? Is he really a spokesman?

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An accredited spokesman?"

"I don't know," said Wilson. "I would suppose he might have some credentials."

"In any case," said the Secretary of State, "we should listen to what he has to say. God knows,

no one else has been able to tell us anything."

Wilson took a chair next to the Attorney General and settled into it.

"The man sent a message ahead," he said. "He thought we should know as soon as possible. He

suggested an artillery piece, firing high explosive rounds, be placed in front of every door or

time tunnel or whatever the people are coming out of."

"There is some danger, then?" asked the Secretary of Defense.

Wilson shook his head. "I don't know. He apparently was not specific. Only if anything happened at

any tunnel we should fire an explosive charge directly into it. Even if there were people in it.

To disregard the people and fire. He said it would collapse the tunnel."

"What could happen?" asked Sandburg.

"Tom Manning passed on the word from Molly. Quoted the spokesman as saying we would know. I got

the impression it was precautionary only. He'll be here in a few minutes. He could tell us."

"What do you think?" the President asked the others. "Should we see this man?"

"I think we have to," said Williams. "It's not a matter of protocol, because in the situation as

it stands we have no idea what protocol might be. Even if he isn't what he says he is, he can give

us information, and so far we have none at all. It isn't as if we were accepting him as an

ambassador or official representative of those people out there. We could use our judgment as to

how much of his story we'd accept."

Sandburg nodded gravely. "I think we should have him in."

"I don't like the idea of a press association bringing him in," said the Attorney General. "They'd

not be particularly disinterested parties. There would be a tendency to palm their own man off on

us."

"I know Tom Manning," said Wilson. "Molly, too, for that matter. They won't trade on it. Maybe

they would have if he had talked to Molly, but he wouldn't talk to anyone. The President, he said,

was the only man he'd talk with."

"The act of a public-spirited citizen," said the Attorney General.

"If you're talking about Manning and Molly," said Wilson, "yes, I think so. Your opinion may

differ from mine."

"After all," said the Secretary of State, "we'd not be seeing him in any official capacity unless

we made it so. We'd not be bound by anything we say."

"And," said the Secretary of Defense,' "I want to hear more about blowing up those tunnels. I

don't mind telling you they have bothered me. I suppose it is all right so long as only people are

coming out of them. But what would we do if something else started coming through?"

"Like what?" asked Douglas.

"I don't know," said Sandburg.

"How deeply, Reilly, does your objection go?" the President asked the Attorney General.

"Not deeply," said Douglas. "Just a lawyer's reaction against irregularity."

"Then I think," said the President, "that we should see him." He looked at Wilson. "Do you know,

has he got a name?"

"Maynard Gale," said Wilson. "He has his daughter with him. Her name is Alice."

The President nodded. "You men have the time to sit in on this?"

They nodded.

"Steve," said the President. "You as well. He's your baby."

The village had known hunger, but now the hunger ended. For, sometime in the night, a miracle had

happened. High up in the sky, just beyond the village, a hole had opened up and out of the hole

poured a steady stream of wheat. The foolish boy with the crippled leg, who belonged to no one,

who had simply wandered into the village, who was crippled in his mind as well as in his body, had

been the first to see it. Skulking through the night, skulking as well as he could with one leg

that dragged, unable to sleep, looking for the slightest husk that he could steal and chew upon,

he had seen the grain plunging from the sky in the bright moonlight. He had been frightened and

had turned about to run, but his twisting hunger would not let him run. He had not known what it

was to start with, but it was something new and it might be something he could eat and he could

not run away. So, frightened still, he had crept upon it and finally, seeing what it was, had

rushed upon it and thrown himself upon the pile that had accumulated. He had stuffed his mouth,

chewing and gasping, gulping to swallow the half-chewed grain, strangling and coughing, but

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file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Our%20children's%20children.txtTitle:Ourchildren'schildrenAuthor:CliffordD.SimakOriginalcopyrightyear:1974Genre:sciencefictionBookprice(ofscannededition):US$2.50Comments:tomyknowledge,thisistheonlyavailablee-textofthisboo\kSource:scannedandOCR-readfromapaperbackedit...

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Simak, Clifford D - Our Children' s children

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