Before the Fact

  Universe Science Fiction – January 1955

  (1955)*

  Zenna Henderson

  Renwick, with too much time on his hands, was bored. He turned to Mead, in his discontent, only to discover some frightening aspects of his friend's hobby of collecting children's games and rhymes.

  -

  RENWICK looked out over the beautiful, orderly city. He watched, without seeing, the planes sliding down the power beams to the airport. If he had been in the mood for noting, he would have noted the sharp, clear mountains beyond the city, the green tracery of summer threading every street and alley with cool, rustling shade that darkened the soft pastels of the low gracious buildings. But, in the depths of one of his more and more frequent restless moods, he rapped his knuckles sharply against the window sill and turned his back on the out-of-doors.

  "Anything specific?" Mead glanced up from his book.

  "No, everything in general." Renwick perched briefly on the couch, but was back at the window almost immediately, staring blindly at nothing. With a mutter, he turned around again.

  "Don't just sit there reading! Do something!"

  Mead laid his book aside and gave Renwick his whole attention, folding his hands like an attentive child.

  "Meaning, tell you something to do," he smiled. "Travel?"

  "I just got back. The planets are no more interesting than earth. It's too far to go to be bored. Might as well stay here."

  "Sports?"

  "I'm tired of them."

  "Work?"

  "I've finished my days for this quarter."

  "It's too bad you never felt drawn to the arts—say painting or sculpturing or ceramics. Or even writing. They say artisans can always find something to occupy themselves."

  "Well, as far as that goes, I suppose I could occupy myself too, but I don't see any point to it. It isn't—isn't necessary."

  "There's always marriage and a family."

  "Yes, there's that, but why bother? Why perpetuate the race? What use is life?"

  "There you have asked an immortal question," said Mead, tapping his finger tips together. "I imagine our remotest ancestors had the same query. Maybe life's like beauty—its own excuse for being."

  Renwick came back to the couch and sank down, wearily.

  "Everything is too finished. There are no more frontiers any more."

  "Another immortal remark," smiled Mead. "You might at least amend it to no apparent frontiers."

  "Well, look at us," said Renwick. "No more war, no more poverty, no more crime except killings, occasionally, and suicide — which, incidentally, are on the increase. No more worries about tomorrow. Health and certainty and security till it comes out our ears. Practically no government except in a coordinating capacity."

  The corners of Mead's mouth lifted a little. "Of course you know you're describing paradise as it looked to our ancestors."

  "Then I'd rather live in a time with less paradise and more interest." said Renwick petulantly.

  "Quite a number of our people are finding their frontiers and interest in research into man's relationship to God and the Universe and inquiry into the nature of death and what follows."

  Renwick squirmed uncomfortably, his face reddening.

  "Um, yes—but it isn't—exactly in my line. I mean, it's all right, but I— I don't care for that particular type—"

  Mead half smiled as he nodded thoughtfully. "Yes," he said. "Yes. If there has to be a reason, that could be why, perhaps."

  "Why what?" Renwick was on the defensive. "Just because I don't go in for—"

  "Just because you, like so many of us, are still embarrassed by the mention of God."

  "I'm not embarrassed," protested Renwick, "I'm just—"

  "Embarrassed," Mead smiled.

  "Well, let it pass.

  "I've recently come across something of considerable interest in connection with my hobby."

  "Your hobby? Oh—ah yes, something about children's literature isn't it?"

  "Not exactly. It's more child's play." Mead's lips lifted to his slight joke. "I have a wonderful collection of play chants, for instance, jumping rope rhythms and counting out rhymes and clapping rhythms. I recently ran down an intriguing rhythm-rhyme that begins—

  In nineteen forty-four

  My father went to war

  "Imagine children singing and rhyming as far back as 1944. It's hard to imagine warm, laughing children mixed in with those chaotic times, isn't it?"

  "Very interesting." Renwick's tone belied his words.

  Mead smiled. "No, that isn't the particular interesting matter I mentioned.

  "As you know, one phase of my hobby has been the relationship of children's games and toys to their society—how society is reflected in their games. It was in the course of my research into the twentieth century that I noticed something odd. I think it has implications that should interest even you, along with a lot more of our restless citizens, many of whom, as you indicated, are choosing their own exits.

  "I take a lot of interesting of late." Renwick relaxed on the couch. "But your voice is soothing." He smiled in genuine liking at Mead.

  "Well," continued Mead, tapping his finger tips together again. "Early in the twentieth century as nearly as we can ascertain, this country had a horse-drawn economy. Horses loomed large in the picture, not only for riding and racing but as beasts of burden and as motive power in transportation. Naturally children's toys included horses and items pertaining to them, and suitable wheeled vehicles—echoing their culture.

  "Then came the gasoline engine era and corresponding toy conveyances and games. These two eras did very little overlapping except in the 'cowboy' area of interest—but that's beside the point.

  "Air travel came almost simultaneously with the gasoline era as historic time goes. And toy aircraft, dolls relating to air personnel and other game activities followed, based on air transport.

  "So far—everything as expected. "But—" and Mead leaned forward— "Coincident with this expected development, came the first Anticipation."

  "Anticipation?" Renwick roused enough to echo.

  "Yes. That is what I call the type of phenomenon I observed for the first time in the era. For the first time, I found where children's toys and games pre-dated a development!"

  Mead sat back in his chair, glowing with satisfaction.

  "I'm sorry," Renwick shifted uncomfortably. "I don't get it."

  "Let me explain further. After the air age began, space travel became a dream possible of achievement. As we know, space travel did develop in the twentieth century, but—now mark this—" Mead leaned forward and his finger tapped emphasis on Renwick's knee. "Children were playing with space guns and space ships and space helmets and space suited dolls for at least fifteen years before there was actual space travel!"

  Mead sat back and waited. Renwick smiled ruefully. "So?"

  "Don't you see?" Mead was impatient. "Horses—toy horses. Gasoline cars—toy cars. Aircraft—toy aircraft. Spacers—space travel! The children anticipated space travel in their toys, their games, their thinking before there was space travel. The whole basic order was reversed."

  "But—" protested Renwick. "There must have been adult talk and planning and writing about space travel even fifteen years before it happened and even before the toys were made. And adults made the toys!"

  "Of course, of course, granted," Mead fanned his fingers impatiently. "Adults are always in evidence, but try to make a child play with a toy it doesn't want. Try to force an interest that isn't there. Something anticipated long enough in advance for us to be able to see the gap from this far away in history, and it anticipated in such a way that it found expression among the children.

  "Now, that isn't all. I started tracing major developments in history, correlating them with my chronology of toys and games. It was interesting— and a little frightening.

  "Remember when they finally got to Venus? The first historic words spoken by man on that planet were—if you'll pardon the language— 'Hell-a-mighty! Look at the Smooleys!' Because the first moving live thing they saw was a herd of Smooleys.

  "Not important? But did you know that at that time the children of earth had been playing with toy Smooleys for ten years? Almost identical. Those on Venus were four times as big, of course, and lacking the lavender stripe down the back; but when photographs were brought back to earth, the real Smooleys looked wrong because they lacked the stripe. And that was the second instance of anticipation I found."

  "It was the same before the establishment of the under-sea mining towns. For years before the towns were planned on a do-it-someday basis, children played in diving helmets. They clumped along in weighted shoes. They shouted their games nasally because of nose clips. Some, I imagine, even managed to sleep in their sea suits. When the towns became actualities, children were permitted incredibly soon. And I'll wager they felt very little oddness about the restrictions laid upon them. They were used to them already from their play, except now they couldn't carelessly strip off a helmet when mother called them to meals.

  "Even in your own lifetime there has been a good example. Remember?"

  Renwick smiled. "Sorry, Mead. I seldom associate with children. Never did like them too much."

  "You wouldn't have associated with these anyway," said Mead. "They were children of the Mars Colonists."

  "Oh, the Caveners?"

  "Yes, you remember—or probably don't— that about ten years ago the children all started to deck themselves out with narrow strips of lunium. The

craze grew until they looked like animated Christmas trees. Every article of clothing was fringed with lunium, head bands and bracelets and anklets and belts. And this was before the Break-Through four years ago. Remember that?"

  "Why yes," Renwick straightened slowly. "They broke through into that cave where those unspeakable, horrible Guglins lived and had a time wiping them out before they got wiped out themselves."

  "Yes," nodded Mead, "Though as a matter of fact, they didn't wipe them out, they walled them back in where they came from. And?"

  "And their only defense," said Renwick in a tone of surprise, "Was to cover themselves with lunium fringe. Something about the glitter or the movement or the metal itself fended the Guglins off till they could figure out counter measures."

  "Yes, exactly. But the children's play anticipated the need far enough ahead that some of the youngsters couldn't remember when children didn't dress in lunium fringe."

  "Well!" Renwick's face was amused through its surprise. "Maybe you've hit on something after all!"

  "Yes." Mead smiled at the unconscious betrayal of Renwick's words. "I think so. Of course there were other instances more remote from our times. Some, but not too many. I curtailed my 'report' because my grandchildren should be home any minute."

  Renwick scrambled to his feet. "Oh, then I'll be going. Don't want to intrude."

  "Not at all." Mead motioned him back to his seat. "I would like to have you meet them. They're not so bad as grandchildren go. They've spent the day in Africa at that new lake in the interior. I can't remember its name. It's quite popular at this time of year for its water lilies."

  A sudden shout of laughter echoed down the hall and there was the swift clatter of running feet and the door was flung open.

  To Renwick it felt like an invasion. Five minutes later he had held somewhat tentatively three fairly grubby hands—two female and one male, had been weighed by three pairs of piercingly blue eyes, cataloged competently and set aside briskly and impersonally, before the three descended again upon Mead from all points of the compass. The riot was finally stopped by the intervention of a feminine echo of Mead who detached the children and, after introductions, collected them with a "Don't kill your Grandad completely."

  "We're not killing him, Mother," protested the older girl. "We're only giving him our water lilies."

  "Well, thanks for remembering me," laughed Mead, "But I think they'd be happier in the pond or even in your bath tub, than around my neck or behind my ears."

  "Okay, Grandad."

  The children gathered up the multicolored blossoms and started away. The older girl turned at the door, her brief skirts gathered up in both hands to make a lap for carrying the flowers.

  "Oh, are you through with my dolls yet, Grandad?"

  "Not quite, Chica. Maybe this evening."

  "Well, okay." Her face was disappointed and her voice floated back to them as she left. "It seems to me Grandad's pretty old to be playing with dolls."

  Mead and Renwick laughed together, but Mead sobered quickly.

  "I want to show the dolls to you," he said.

  "To me?" Renwick's eyebrows lifted.

  "Yes." Mead went to his desk and got a small box from the bottom drawer. "This is the item I thought might be of interest to you, Oh Citizen of a Finished World!"

  His slight smile mocked Renwick gently. He sat down again, the box on his knees. "It leaves me a little breathless," he said, pausing with the lid half lifted. "To think that I have detected an Anticipation before it became widely apparent. Even in view of the probable brevity of my pride—"

  He laid the lid aside.

  "Chica made the first of these dolls two years ago for herself when she was eight." He stood it up on the desk, where it wavered and then slid flat.

  "She received the second for her birthday last year. Her mother finally found it in an out-of-the-way toy shop." He placed the second doll on the desk and it stood staunchly, returning Renwick's startled stare.

  "This one she received for her birthday last week. It's number 16 in a series of 24, available at any toy shop." The third doll completed the row.

  "Why I know what those are supposed to be!" cried Renwick. "I went through a museum last week in a moment of desperation. Those are ancient people who lived in caves. And wore fur garments, if any. And used clubs to—" His voice ran down and stopped. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. His eyes went to Mead and clung.

  "You mean you think that these—"

  "I can only judge by the past," said Mead. "But I'm sure this is a genuine Anticipation. Stubby— that's my grandson—has been practicing, along with his contemporaries, with a sling-shot and a throwing club until he is uncannily accurate. I suggested bows and arrows to him and he only looked at me with that flat-lidded patience children assume in the face of adult stupidity, and informed me that bows 'didn't belong' in the game."

  "But—but we're so secure! How could a whole world—?"

  "Your despised security," smiled Mead. "As to a whole world—even you learned in your youth what happened to the world during the Dark Days—the reason why earth is not over-run with excess population today. I imagine before those days the teeming billions couldn't conceive of 'how.'

  "Something more. The girls have an interesting jumping rope rhythm-rhyme:

  Which do I get

  The cave or the grave?

  Lift foot, light foot

  Run to be saved.

  The cows and the sows

  And the sheep and the rams

  All taste the blood

  Of the wooly, white lambs.

  Fumble-y stumble-y

  Alas, my friend

  I run, I run

  It is the end.

  "Try analysing that little gem in one of your lack-luster hours. I asked Chica what it meant. She told me it didn't mean anything. Then she added 'yet.' and couldn't explain."

  "Oh nonsense, nonsense!" cried Renwick. "You're just like all the other hobbyists, reading world shattering significances into your particular craze. It makes a pretty story but don't try to pass it off as the truth!" He stalked. angrily to the window and back.

  Mead lifted his book from the arm of the chair and settled back. Placidly he thumbled through for his place and paused, one finger between the pages.

  "You're frightened," he said. "I don't blame you. So am I. Most particularly since I asked the children yesterday what they wanted to be when they grew up. They exchanged patient, forebearing looks with one another. Stubby answered for them.

  "He said, 'Alive'."

  The End

 

 

  Jack, Untitled

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