After: Four Fables of the Post-bomb World

Doctor: The employment advisor exchanged his professional calm for unprofessional exasperation. "There must be something you can do, Doctor," he said, "a man of your educational background. The war hasn't made savages out of all of us. If anything, the desire for teachers has increased a thousand times since A-day."

Dr. Meigham leaned back in the chair and sighed. "You don't understand. I am not a teacher in the ordinary sense; there is no longer a demand for the subject I know best. Yes, people want knowledge; they want to know how to deal with this shattered world they inherited. They want to know how to be masons and technicians and construction men. They want to know how to put the cities together, and make the machines work again, and patch up the radiation burns and the broken bones. They want to know how to make artificial limbs for the bomb victims, how to train the blind to be self-sufficient, the madmen to reason again, the deformed to be presentable once more. These are the things they wish to be taught. You know that better than I."

"And your specialty, Doctor? You feel there is no longer a demand?"

Dr. Meigham laughed shortly. "I don't feel, I know. I've tried to interest people in it, but they turn away from me. For twenty-five years, I have trained my students to develop a perfect memory. I have published six books, at least two of which have become standard textbooks at universities. In the first year after the armistice, I advertised an eight-week course and received exactly one inquiry. But this is my profession; this is what I do. How can I translate my life's work into this new world of horror and death?"

The Employment Advisor chewed his lip; the question was a challenge. By the time Dr. Meigham left, he had found no answer. He watched the bent, shuffling figure leave the room at the end of the interview, and felt despair at his own failure. But that night, rousing suddenly from a familiar nightmare, he lay awake in his shelter and thought of Dr. Meigham again. By morning, he knew the answer.

A month later, a public notice appeared in the government press, and the response was instantaneous.

Hugo Meigham, PH.D.

Announces an Accelerated 8-week Course

"How to Forget"

Enrollment begins Sept. 9.

Lawyer: "I'll be honest with you," Durrel said to his client. "If times were any different, if A-day had never happened, I could guarantee you a verdict no worse than manslaughter. But with things as they are – –" He dropped a weary hand on the young man's shoulder. McAllister might have been a statue for all the response he got.

"So what happens now?" he said bitterly. "Do they throw the book at me?"

"Try and understand the way the court feels," the lawyer said. "Since the war, the population has been reduced by ninety percent. Even worse, the female-to-male ratio is almost eight hundred to one and not getting any better." He arched an eyebrow. "There is no official statute regarding it, but I can tell you this – if it was a woman you'd killed in that brawl, the judgment wouldn't be nearly so harsh. That's the way the world is, son. That's what we've come down to."

"Then I don't have a chance? I get the full penalty?"

"That's up to the jury, of course, but I wanted to warn you in advance. When you go back into that room, I want you to be prepared for the worst."

The door opened, and the square face of the bailiff appeared. "Jury's in, McAllister. Come on."

The lawyer shook his hand, without speaking.

The verdict was: guilty of murder in the first degree. Sentence was announced immediately by the judge, in order that no time be wasted in its execution. The following day, McAllister, his teeth clenched and his face blanched, was married in civil ceremony to his victim's eighteen wives, giving him a total of thirty-one.

Merchant: Swanson came into the board room, sustaining an air of executive nonchalance that even his enemies found admirable. It was common knowledge that this was the day he would have to answer for his failure as President of the United Haberdashery Corporation. But Swanson was at ease; even if his opposition knew his attitude to be a pose, they stirred restlessly at his casual manner.

The Chairman began the meeting without fanfare, and called at once for a report from Sales. They all knew the contents of the report; it had been circulated privately to each member. Instead of listening to the dreary recitation of losses, the board watched the face of Swanson to see his reaction to this public accusation of his poor management.

Finally, it was Swanson's turn to speak.

"Gentlemen," he said, without a tremor in his voice, "as we have heard, haberdashery sales have been crippled badly since the war. The loss of revenue has been no surprise to any of us, but it is not this loss which concerns us today. It is the prediction that sales will decline even further in the future. Gentlemen, I contest the prognostication of the Sales Department; it is my contention that sales will be greater than ever!"

The board buzzed; at the end of the long table, someone chuckled dryly.

"I know my prediction sounds hard to credit," Swanson said, "and I intend to give you a full explanation before we leave this room today. But first, I wish you to hear a very special report from a very special man, Professor Ralph Entwiller of the American Foundation of Eugenics."

For the first time, the pale-cheeked man sitting in the chair of honor beside the President rose. He nodded to the assemblage, and began speaking in a voice almost too low to be heard.

"Mr. Swanson asked me to speak to you today about the future," he said hesitantly. "I know nothing about the haberdashery business. My field is eugenics, and my specialty is the study of radiation biology . . ."

"Would you be more specific?" Swanson said.

"Yes, of course. I deal with mutations, gentlemen, mutations which will soon become the norm of birth. Already, the percentage of mutated births is close to sixty-five, and we believe it will increase as time goes by."

"I don't understand this," the Chairman growled. "What does all this have to do with us?"

Swanson smiled. "Ah, but a great deal." He held the lapel of his jacket, and surveyed the curious, upturned faces around the table. "For one thing, gentlemen, we're going to be selling twice as many hats."

Chief: Mboyna, chieftain of the Aolori tribe, showed no fear as the longboat approached the island. But it was more than the obligation of his rank which kept his face impassive; he alone of his tribesmen had seen white men before, when he was a child of the village half a century ago.

As the boat landed, one of the whites, a scholarly man with a short silver beard, came toward him, his hand raised in a gesture of friendship. His speech was halting, but he spoke in the tongue of Mboyna's fathers. "We come in peace," he said. "We have come a great distance to find you. I am Morgan, and these are my companions, Hendricks and Carew; we are men of science."

"Then speak!" Mboyna said in a hostile growl, wishing to show no weakness before his tribe.

"There has been a great war," Morgan said, looking uneasily at the warriors who crowded about their chief. "The white men beyond the waters have hurled great lightning at each other. They have poisoned the air, the sea and the flesh of men with their weapons. But it was our belief that there were outposts in the world which war had not touched with its deadly fingers. Your island is one of these, great chief, and we come to abide with you. But first, there is one thing we must do, and we beg your patience."

From the store of supplies in their longboat, the white men removed strange metal boxes with tiny windows. They advanced hesitatingly toward the chief and his tribesmen, pointing the curious devices in their direction. Some of them cowered, others raised their spears in warning. "Do not fear," Morgan said. "It is only a plaything of our science. See how they make no sound as their eyes scan you? But watch." The white men pointed the boxes at themselves, and the devices began clicking frantically.

"Great magic," the tribesmen whispered, their faces awed. "Great magic," Mboyna repeated reverently, bowing before the white gods and the proof of their godhood, the clicking boxes. With deference, they guided the white men to their village, and after the appropriate ceremony, they were beheaded, cleaned and served at the evening meal.

For three days and nights, they celebrated their cleverness with dancing and bright fires; for now, they too were gods. The little boxes had begun to click magically for them, also.