Where are we going? What will the world be like in the days—perhapsnot too distant—when we have tested and tested the bombs to the finitedegree? Joe L. Hensley, attorney in Madison, Indiana, and increasinglywell known in SF, returns with this challenging story of that Tomorrow.
It didn't matter that he had quit. He was still one of theguilty. He had seen it in her eyes and in the eyes of others.
John Rush smoothedthe covers over his wife, tuckingthem in where her restlessmoving had pulled themaway from the mattress. Thetwins moved beside him, theirsmooth hands following his inthe task, their blind eyes intenton nothingness.
"Thank you," he said softlyto them, knowing they couldnot hear him. But it made himfeel better to talk.
His wife, Mary, was quiet.Her breathing was smooth,easy—almost as if she weresleeping.
The long sleep.
He touched her forehead,but it was cool. The doctorhad said it was a miracle shehad lived this long. He stoodaway from the bed for a momentwatching before he wenton out to the porch. Thetwins moved back into whathad become a normal positionfor them in the past months:One on each side of the bed,their thin hands holdingMary's tightly, the milkyblind eyes surveying somethingthat could not be seenby his eyes. Sometimes theywould stand like this forhours.
Outside the evening wascool, the light not quite gone.He sat in the rocking chairand waited for the doctorwho had promised to come—andyet might not come. Thebitterness came back, the self-hate.He remembered a youngman and promises made, butnot kept; a girl who had believedand never lost faitheven when he had retreatedback to the land away fromeverything. Long sullen silences,self-pity, brooding overthe news stories that gotworse and worse. And thechildren—one born dead—twoborn deaf and dumb andblind.
Worse than dead.
You helped, he accusedhimself. You worked forthose who set off the bombsand tested and tested whilethe cycle went up and up beyondhuman tolerance—notthe death level, but the levelwhere nothing was sure again,the level that made cancer athing of epidemic proportions,replacing statisticallyall of the insane multitude ofthings that man could do tokill himself. Even the goodthings that the atom hadbrought were destroyed inthe panic that ensued. Nomatter that you quit. You arestill one of the guilty. Youhave seen it hidden in hereyes and you have seen it inthe milky eyes of the twins.
Worse than dead.
Dusk became night and finallythe doctor came. It hadbegun to lightning and a fewlarge drops of rain strokedRush's cheek. Not agood year for the farming hehad retreated to. Not a goodyear for anything. He stoodto greet the doctor and theother man with him.
"Good evening, doctor," hesaid.
"Mr. Rush—" the doctorshook hands gingerly, "I hopeyou don't mind me bringingsomeone along—this is Mr.North. He is with the CountyJuvenile Office." The youngdoctor smiled. "How is thepatient this evening?"
"She is the same," JohnRush said to the doctor. Heturned to the other man,keeping his face emotionless,hands at his side. He had expectedthis for some time. "Ithink you will be wanting tolook at the twins. They areby her bed." He opened thedoor and motioned them inand then followed.
He heard the Juvenile mancatch his breath a little. Thetwins were playing again.They had left their vigil atthe bedside and they weremoving swiftly around thesmall living room, their