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Authors: Frank M. Robinson

BOOK: Waiting
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Perhaps the Old People deserved the earth. Perhaps they had been meant to own it after all, at least for a while. Evolution had stopped for
Homo sapiens;
there were no isolated pockets of them that could throw up a mutation and then breed true. The world of
Homo sapiens
was all one; the constant mixing would have diluted it all too soon. But it hadn’t been like that for the Old People. They had lived in tiny patches scattered around the world, isolated socially if not geographically. Evolution might have hesitated for them, but it had never stopped. And they’d had thirty-five thousand years for a change to show up. Time enough plus the tides of chance.
Artie turned away from the railing. The world would continue. The genus would continue. Hominids would continue. But
Homo sapiens
would disappear and so, eventually, would the Old People. Mark’s genes would dominate, and after so many millennia the Old People would be replaced themselves, like every species was slated to be.
With Mark, nature had thrown the dice once again, willing to try a new combination rather than giving up the game altogether.
Artie smiled to himself.
Mark would be a surprise to them, one the Old People hadn’t counted on. But at least they would let him live rather than burn him at the stake or dissect him in a laboratory or cage him in a zoo.
He wondered what their scientists would call Mark.
Homo
what?
Sometimes at night I think one can feel even the pressure of
mice waiting in the walls of old houses. All that
concentrated life around us and above us, held in check,
surging impatiently, ready for a new experiment, tired of us,
waiting our passing … . It is perhaps significant that even
we ourselves feel a growing inadequacy. Perhaps that is
really the secret. Perhaps we are going away.
 
—From “The Fire Apes,” by Loren C. Eiseley
 
The author is indebted to the following for their suggestions and help in the research for
Waiting
.
Dr. Mark Hall of the anthropology department of the University of California at Berkeley for information relating to primitive man.
Pam and Terry Floyd for insights concerning the operation of hospital emergency rooms as well as medical practices in general.
Randy Alfred, who knows a great deal about a lot of things and especially about the operation of television newsrooms.
Richard Lupoff, fellow writer and pasta cook extraordinaire, for helpful suggestions regarding plotting, characterization, comma placement, and other esoterica of the storyteller’s craft.
And last but far from least, my editor, David Hartwell, who helped make what I considered a good book even better.
For those readers who may wonder what makes a writer tick: I’m fond of didactic novels, books that inform as well as (hopefully) entertain. And yes, many of my characters reflect different aspects of myself. You pick which ones. And finally: Do I personally believe in the major premise of
Waiting
?
You bet.
 
—Frank M. Robinson
San Francisco
August 1998
Also by Frank M. Robinson
 
The Power
The Dark Beyond the Stars
Death of a Marionette
(with Paul Hull)
 
A Top 10 Book for the Summer
—NPR’s “All Things Considered”
 
“Frank M. Robinson, a wonderfully bold and inventive writer, has created a masterful work of fiction.
Waiting
is a novel of impeccably mounting suspense which leads to an utterly original revelation. Step by step, Robinson takes us on an absorbing and ever-deepening fairground ride and drops us through a startling trap door in evolutionary history.”
—Peter Straub
 
“
Waiting
is a thriller with smarts, and it is a pleasure to recommend. Characters are richly detailed, and the plot twists are fascinating as well as credible in this very fine novel. Robinson creates terror in everyday settings—there is no safe harbor.
Waiting
is a novel of suspense that makes you think about the large questions of illusion and reality. What happens to your sense of self and its place in the world when you learn that someone you’ve known all your life is nothing like you knew … . Read
Waiting
with all the lights on and all the doors and windows locked, not that mere locks and lights will save you.”
—
Bay Area Reporter
 
“A truly frightening and plausible story about another species of human beings, in hiding for 35,000 years and now ready to take control of the planet … . Robinson grips his readers by combining visceral fear with intellectual inquiry. This creepily credible tale will have his readers looking more closely at their so-called friends.”
—Publishers Weekly
(starred review)
 
“A thriller about the distant past and terrifying future, set in a vividly drawn San Francisco all too plausible.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
 
“Frank M. Robinson writes an ice-cold story of our future, yours and mine. Two million years of humanoid history point to one inevitable conclusion and now Robinson explores that coming event. Many of us will be involved, like it or not.”
—Wilson Tucker
 
“Rich with character, suspense, and constant surprise. This is one of the best chillers of the entire decade. It is guaranteed to give you nightmares. Reading this book was a pure pleasure.”
—Ed Gorman,
Mystery Scene
Don’t miss Frank M. Robinson’s novel
 
The Power
 
Now available
 
“If we’re all here.”
Grossman grunted heavily, “why should we delay?”
Tanner nodded to Petey, who started to read the minutes of the last meeting.
“Saturday, May twenty-second. The meeting of the Navy Committee for Human Research was called to order …”
Tanner waited until she had finished reading the minutes, then made a show of fumbling with his pipe, wondering briefly how many of them knew it was Young Man with Prop.
“During the last year,” he started easily, “we’ve been doing primarily survival research—why some men live and some men die under different stresses and environments. Under battle conditions, certain men are smarter, more efficient, and more capable than others. Having determined the qualities necessary for survival, we’ve been trying to figure out how the successful ones, the ones who
do
survive, get that way, what factors play a part.”
He champed a little harder on his pipe and squinted through the smoke. “Hunting for people with these characteristics has been a little like hunting for a needle in a haystack, so John Olson suggested a questionnaire-where you can cover a lot of people quickly at a small coast. Those who showed promise on the questionnaire could be given more exhaustive physical tests later. As you recall, the questionnaire we drew up covered an individual’s past medical history, psychological outlook, family background, and heredity—all the items we had agreed were important, and many of which can hardly be tested in a physical sense anyway.” He smiled cautiously. “We all agreed to take the test ourselves last week—sort of as a dry run. None of us signed our names, for which I’m sorry. John’s compiled the results and I must admit there were some pretty fantastic answers on one of them.”
DeFalco looked curious. “Like what?”
Tanner held up one of the questionnaires. “The person who filled it out, if we take it at face value, has never been sick, never had any serious personal problems, never worried, and has an IQ close to the limits of measurability. His parents came from two distinct racial stocks and for what it might be worth, his father was a water dowser and his mother a faith healer.”
There was a ripple of laughter around the table and even Professor Scott was grinning. Tanner put the questionnaire aside. It had been good for a chuckle at least.
“If there are no more suggestions, I’ll have Petey send the form to the printers, then …”
“Professor Tanner!”
He glanced down at the end of the table. Olson’s pudgy face was covered with a light sheen of sweat that glistened in the sunlight coming through the windows.
“Do you think that questionnaire was on the level?”
Tanner felt annoyed. If Olson had had doubts about it, why hadn’t he asked him about it in private, rather than bring it up now?
“You mean, did I fill it out as a gag? No, I didn’t—but obviously somebody did.”
Olson wet his lips again. “Are you so sure of that?”
There was an uneasy silence, then Professor Scott snorted, “Rubbish!”
Olson didn’t give ground. “Maybe there’s something to it. I think we ought to … look into it.”
Nordlund edged into the conversation. “If it’s on the level …”
“It isn’t,” Tanner said curtly.
“But if it was?”
One layman in the crowd and you spent the whole damned afternoon explaining the ABCs.
“If it was on the level it would mean the person who filled it out was a very unusual human being, perhaps a very superior one. But I hardly think we should take it seriously. And there are a lot of important things to cover today.”
Olson’s voice rose to a nervous squeak. “Maybe you don’t want to admit what it means, Tanner!”
They were all staring at Olson now. His face was damp and his eyes a little too wide. The eyes of a man scared half to death, Tanner thought cynically. Then he could feel the sweat start on his own brow. He had a hunch that Olson was going to blow his stack right in the committee room.
He tried to head him off, to get the frightened man to talk it out. “All right, John, just what do you think it means?”
“I think it means the human race is all washed up!”
Tanner glanced over at the Navy man and could see that Olson’s outburst was going over like a lead balloon with Nordlund; there was a look of shocked surprise on the other faces. A moment of embarrassed silence followed, then Petey, looking as if she were about to cry, said, “John, I think we better …”
Olson didn’t look at her. “Shut up, Pat.”
Nobody said anything. They were going to let him handle it, Tanner thought uneasily. It was his baby. He held up the questionnaire. “Who filled this one out?”
Another strained silence, one where a slight, uneasy movement in a chair or an embarrassed fumbling with papers sounded very loud.
“Don’t you think we ought to skip this?” Van Zandt said impatiently. “I don’t see how it’s getting us any place.”
Tanner flushed. He was trying to humor Olson and Van Zandt knew it but then, this was the academic jungle. Van had won his spurs a long time ago, but he still liked to keep in practice.
He dropped the questionnaire. “All right, we’ll forget it for now.” He nodded to Olson. “See me after the meeting, John, and we’ll talk about it then.”
“You’re scared!” Olson screamed in a hysterical voice. “You don’t want to believe it!”
Tanner could feel the hair prickle at the back of his neck. Take the survival tests and couple them with an inferiority complex and maybe you ended up with a superman fetish. Something half akin to religion—a willingness and desire to believe in something greater than yourself. But why was Olson so frightened about it?
Olson was trembling. “Well? What are you going to do about it?”
It was like watching an automobile accident. It repelled you but you couldn’t tear your eyes away. There was a sort of horrible fascination to this, too—the sight of a man going to pieces. He waited for Van Zandt to say something, to squelch his younger colleague with a few broadsides of logic. But Van said nothing and only stared at Olson with a curious, speculative look in his eyes. Nobody knew Olson better than Van Zandt, Tanner thought, but for reasons of his own, Van was letting John dig his own grave and wasn’t going to argue him out of it.
He was sweating. There was nothing left to do but go along with Olson. He turned to Marge. “Do you have a pin?”
She found one in her purse and handed it over. He stood a book on end on the table, imbedding the head of the pin between the pages so the point projected out about an inch. Then he tore off a tiny fragment of newspaper, folded it into a small, umbrella shape, and placed it on the pin point.
“Maybe we can prove something this way, John. I’m assuming that our … superman … has mental powers such that he could make this paper revolve on the pin merely by concentrating on it. The paper is light, it’s delicately balanced, and it wouldn’t take much to move it. Okay?”
There was a round of snickers but Olson nodded and Tanner felt relieved. It was the only thing he could think of on the spur of the moment. A kid’s game.
“Anybody care to try?”
Marge said, “I’m willing if everybody else is.”
The others nodded and she stared intently at the pin. The paper hung there quietly, not stirring. After a minute she leaned back, holding her hands to her head. “All I’m doing is getting a headache.”
“Van?”
Van Zandt nodded and glared at the paper umbrella. If sheer will power could do it, Tanner thought, Van Zandt was his man. But the paper didn’t move. Van Zandt leered. “My superior talents apparently aren’t in evidence this morning.”
Olson himself and then DeFalco tried and failed. Nordlund stared intently at the pin and then looked bored when the paper didn’t even tremble. It was Professor Scott’s turn next.
The paper hat tilted slightly.
There was a thick, frightened silence. The condescending attitude had vanished like a snap of the fingers and Tanner could feel the tenseness gather in the room. All eyes were riveted on the suddenly trembling old man.
“My God, I didn’t …”
“Very simply explained,” Grossman said quickly. “A door slammed down the hall, though I doubt that any of you heard it in your concentration. I am sure that a slight draft would be enough to affect our little piece of paper.”
The old man looked enormously relieved and some of the tenseness drained away. Grossman tried it next, with no result.
Tanner shrugged. “Well, John?”
Olson was suddenly on his feet, leaning his knuckles on the table and glaring down the length of it.
“He
won’t admit it, he hasn’t got the guts! If he wouldn’t admit he had filled out the questionnaire, he wouldn’t show himself in a test like this!” His pudgy face was red. “He hasn’t got the nerve, Tanner, he’s hiding!”
What the hell do you do in a case like this?
Tanner thought. They were babying a neurotic but they had gone this far and it wouldn’t hurt to go a little farther. He’d play along just once more.
I feel embarrassed for the poor guy. And it’s partly my fault; I should have done something about it a week ago.
“We’ll try it again, only this time all together.” Olson’s superman could still hide and yet reveal his powers—if he wanted to take on Olson’s dare. When nothing happened, maybe then John would be convinced. Except that you could never dissuade a neurotic when they wanted to believe in something … .
He nodded to the others.
On the street outside there were the faint sounds of automobile traffic and the muted vibrations of conversation. Some place far away tires screeched. Equally remote were the indignant complaints of a housewife, shortchanged at a sidewalk fruit stand. In the room itself, there were no sounds, not even the muffled sighs of breathing. And there was no motion, other than that of the small motes of dust floating in the bars of sunlight that streamed through the window.
And the tiny paper umbrella which trembled, tilted, and then spun madly.

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