The SF Hall of Fame Volume Two B (66 page)

There isn't much time left. One of the soldiers guarding us
will get this to you, I hope, in time.

A long time ago we gave you a key, and hoped we would never
have to ask you to use it. But now is the time. That key fits a box at the
Detroit Savings Bank. In that box are letters. Mail them, not all at once, or
in the same place. They'll go all over the world, to men we know, and have
watched well; clever, honest, and capable of following the plans we've
enclosed.

But you've got to hurry! One of these bright days someone is
going to wonder if we've made more than one machine. We haven't, of course.
That would have been foolish. But if some smart young lieutenant gets hold of
that machine long enough to start tracing back our movements they'll find that
safety deposit box, with the plans and letters ready to be scattered broadside.
You can see the need for haste—if the rest of the world, or any particular
nation, wants that machine bad enough, they'll fight for it. And they will!
They must! Later on, when the Army gets used to the machine and its
capabilities, it will become obvious to everyone, as it already has to Mike and
me, that, with every plan open to inspection as soon as it's made, no nation or
group of nations would have a chance in open warfare. So if there is to be an
attack, it will have to be deadly, and fast, and sure. Please God that we
haven't shoved the world into a war we tried to make impossible. With all the
atom bombs and rockets that have been made in the past few years—
Joe, you've
got to hurry!

GHQ  TO  9TH  ATTK GRP

Report report report report report report report report
report report

CMDR 9TH ATTK GRP  TO  GHQ

begins: No
other
manuscript found. Searched body of Lefko immediately upon landing. According to
plan Building Three untouched. Survivors insist both were moved from Building
Seven previous day defective plumbing. Body of Laviada identified definitely
through fingerprints. Request further instructions,
ends

GHQ  TO   CMDR   32ND  
SHIELDED  RGT

begins:
Seal
area Detroit Savings Bank. Advise immediately condition safety deposit boxes.
Afford coming technical unit complete cooperation,
ends

LT.   COL.  TEMP.  ATT.  32ND 
SHIELDED  RGT

begins:
Area
Detroit Savings Bank vaporized direct hit. Radioactivity lethal. Impossible
boxes or any contents survive. Repeat, direct hit. Request permission proceed
Washington Area,
ends
GHQ.   TO  LT.   COL.  TEMP.  ATT.   32ND SHIELDED RGT

begins:
Request
denied. Sift ashes if necessary regardless cost. Repeat, regardless cost,
ends

GHQ.   TO  ALL UNITS 
REPEAT  ALL  UNITS

begins:
Lack
of enemy resistance explained misdirected atom rocket seventeen miles SSE
Washington. Lone survivor completely destroyed special train claims all top
ofl&cials left enemy capital two hours preceding attack. Notify local
governments where found necessary and obvious cessation hostilities. Occupy
present areas Plan Two. Further Orders follow,
ends

Peter Welles, psychiatrist, eyed the boy thoughtfully. Why
had Timothy Paul's teacher sent him for examination?

"I don't know, myself, that there's really anything
wrong with Tim," Miss Page had told Dr. Welles. "He seems perfectly
normal. He's rather quiet as a rule, doesn't volunteer answers in class or
anything of that sort. He gets along well enough with other boys and seems
reasonably popular, although he has no special friends. His grades are
satisfactory—he gets B faithfully in all his work. But when you've been
teaching as long as I have, Peter, you get a feeling about certain ones. There
is a tension about him—a look in his eyes sometimes— and he is very
absentminded."

"What would your guess be?" Welles had asked.
Sometimes these hunches were very valuable. Miss Page had taught school for
thirty-odd years; she had been Peter's teacher in the past, and he thought
highly of her opinion.

"I ought not to say," she answered. "There's
nothing to go on— yet. But he might be starting something, and if it could be
headed off-"

"Physicians are often called before the symptoms are
sufficiently marked for the doctor to be able to see them," said Welles.
"A patient, or the mother of a child, or any practiced observer, can often
see that something is going to be wrong. But it's hard for the doctor in such
cases. Tell me what you think I should look for."

"You won't pay too much attention to me? It's just what
occurred to me, Peter; I know I'm not a trained psychiatrist. But it could be
delusions of grandeur. Or it could be a withdrawing from the society of others.
I always have to speak to him twice to get his attention in class—and he has no
real chums."

Welles had agreed to see what he could find, and promised
not to be much influenced by what Miss Page herself called "an old woman's
notions."

Timothy, when he presented himself for examination, seemed
like an ordinary boy. He was perhaps a little small for his age, he had big
dark eyes and close-cropped dark curls, thin sensitive fingers and— yes, a
decided air of tension. But many boys were nervous on their first visit to
the—psychiatrist. Peter often wished that he was able to concentrate on one or
two schools, and spend a day a week or so getting acquainted with all the
youngsters.

In response to Welles' preliminary questioning, Tim replied
in a clear, low voice, politely and without wasting words. He was thirteen
years old, and lived with his grandparents. His mother and father had died when
he was a baby, and he did not remember them. He said that he was happy at home,
and that he liked school "pretty well," that he liked to play with
other boys. He named several boys when asked who his friends were.

"What lessons do you like at school?"

Tim hesitated, then said: "English, and arithmetic . .
. and history . . . and geography," he finished thoughtfully. Then he
looked up, and there was something odd in the glance.

"What do you like to do for fun?"

"Read, and play games."

"What games?"

"Ball games . . . and marbles . . . and things like that.
I like to play with other boys," he added, after a barely perceptible
pause, "anything they play."

"Do they play at your house?"

"No; we play on the school grounds. My grandmother
doesn't like noise."

Was that the reason? When a quiet boy offers explanations,
they may not be the right ones.

"What do you like to read?"

But about his reading Timothy was vague. He liked, he said,
to read "boys' books," but could not name any.

Welles gave the boy the usual intelligence tests. Tim seemed
willing, but his replies were slow in coming.
Perhaps,
Welles thought,
I'm imagining this, but he is too careful—too
cautious.
Without taking time
to figure exactly, Welles knew what Tim's I.Q. would be—about 120.

"What do you do outside of school?" asked the
psychiatrist.

"I play with the other boys. After supper, I study my
lessons."

"What did you do yesterday?"

"We played ball on the school playground."

Welles waited a while to see whether Tim would say anything
of his own accord. The seconds stretched into minutes.

"Is that all?" said the boy finally. "May I
go now?"

"No; there's one more test I'd like to give you today.
A game, really. How's your imagination?"

"I don't know."

"Cracks on the ceiling—like those over there—do they
look like anything to you? Faces, animals, or anything?"

Tim looked.

"Sometimes. And clouds, too. Bob saw a cloud last week
that was like a hippo." Again the last sentence sounded like something
tacked on at the last moment, a careful addition made for a reason.

Welles got out the Rorschach cards. But at the sight of
them, his patient's tension increased, his wariness became unmistakably
evident. The first time they went through the cards, the boy could scarcely be
persuaded to say anything but, "I don't know."

"You can do better than this," said Welles.
"We're going through them again. If you don't see anything in these
pictures, I'll have to mark you a failure," he explained. "That won't
do. You did all right on the other things. And maybe next time we'll do a game
you'll like better."

"I don't feel like playing this game now. Can't we do
it again next time?"

"May as well get it done now. It's not only a game, you
know, Tim; it's a test. Try harder, and be a good sport."

So Tim, this time, told what he saw in the ink blots. They
went through the cards slowly, and the test showed Tim's fear, and that there
was something he was hiding; it showed his caution, a lack of trust, and an
unnaturally high emotional self-control.

Miss Page had been right; the boy needed help.

"Now," said Welles cheerfully, "that's all
over. We'll just run through them again quickly and I'll tell you what other
people have seen in them."

A flash of genuine interest appeared on the boy's face for a
moment.

Welles went through the cards slowly, seeing that Tim was
attentive to every word. When he first said, "And some see what you saw
here," the boy's relief was evident. Tim began to relax, and even to
volunteer some remarks. When they had finished he ventured to ask a question.

"Dr. Welles, could you tell me the name of this
test?"

"It's sometimes called the Rorschach test, after the
man who worked it out."

"Would you mind spelling that?"

Welles spelled it, and added: "Sometimes it's called
the inkblot test."

Tim gave a start of surprise, and then relaxed again with a visible
effort.

"What's the matter? You jumped."

"Nothing."

"Oh, come on! Let's have it," and Welles waited.

"Only that I thought about the ink-pool in the Kipling
stories," said Tim, after a minute's reflection. "This is
different."

"Yes, very different," laughed Welles. "I've
never tried that. Would you like to?"

"Oh, no, sir," cried Tim earnestly.

"You're a little jumpy today," said Welles.
"We've time for some more talk, if you are not too tired."

"No, I'm not very tired," said the boy warily.

Welles went to a drawer and chose a hypodermic needle. It
wasn't usual, but perhaps—"I'll just give you a little shot to relax your
nerves, shall I? Then we'd get on better."

When he turned around, the stark terror on the child's face
stopped Welles in his tracks.

"Oh, no! Don't! Please, please, please, don't!"

Welles replaced the needle and shut the drawer before he
said a word.

"I won't," he said, quietly. "I didn't know
you didn't like shots. I won't give you any, Tim."

The boy, fighting for self-control, gulped and said nothing.

"It's all right," said Welles, lighting a
cigarette and pretending to watch the smoke rise. Anything rather than appear
to be watching the badly shaken small boy shivering in the chair opposite him.
"Sorry. You didn't tell me about the things you don't like, the things
you're afraid of."

The words hung in the silence.

"Yes," said Timothy slowly. "I'm afraid of
shots. I hate needles. It's just one of those things." He tried to smile.

"We'll do without them, then. You've passed all the
tests, Tim, and I'd like to walk home with you and tell your grandmother about
it. Is that all right with you?"

"Yes, sir."

"We'll stop for something to eat," Welles went on,
opening the door for his patient. "Ice cream, or a hot dog."

They went out together.

Timothy Paul's grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Davis,
lived in a large old-fashioned house that spelled money and position. The
grounds were large, fenced, and bordered with shrubbery. Inside the house there
was little that was new, everything was well-kept. Timothy led the psychiatrist
to Mr. Davis's library, and then went in search of his grandmother.

When Welles saw Mrs. Davis, he thought he had some of the
explanation. Some grandmothers are easy-going, jolly, comparatively young. This
grandmother was, as it soon became apparent, quite different.

"Yes, Timothy is a pretty good boy," she said,
smiling on her grandson. "We have always been strict with him, Dr. Welles,
but I believe it pays. Even when he was a mere baby, we tried to teach him
right ways. For example, when he was barely three I read him some little
stories. And a few days later he was trying to tell us, if you will believe it,
that he could read! Perhaps he was too young to know the nature of a lie, but I
felt it my duty to make him understand. When he insisted, I spanked him. The
child had a remarkable memory, and perhaps he thought that was all there was to
reading. Well! I don't mean to brag of my brutality," said Mrs. Davis,
with a charming smile. "I assure you, Dr. Welles, it was a painful
experience for me. We've had very little occasion for punishments. Timothy is a
good boy."

Welles murmured that he was sure of it.

"Timothy, you may deliver your papers now," said
Mrs. Davis. "I

am sure Dr. Welles will excuse you." And she settled
herself for a good long talk about her grandson.

Timothy, it seemed, was the apple of her eye. He was a quiet
boy, an obedient boy, and a bright boy.

"We have our rules, of course. I have never allowed
Timothy to forget that children should be seen and not heard, as the good
old-fashioned saying is. When he first learned to turn somersaults, when he was
three or four years old, he kept coming to me and saying, 'Grandmother, see
me!' I simply had to be firm with him. Timothy,' I said, 'let us have no more of
this! It is simply showing off. If it amuses you to turn somersaults, well and
good. But it doesn't amuse me to watch you endlessly doing it. Play if you
like, but do not demand admiration.'"