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Title: Crack of doom
Author: Stephen Marlowe
Illustrator: Everett Raymond Kinstler
Leo Manso
Release date: June 21, 2026 [eBook #78907]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Stratford Novels Inc., 1953
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78907
Credits: Tom Trussel (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CRACK OF DOOM ***
Crack of Doom
by Milton Lesser
_Sam’s little boy was only three years old. He stood there in his
T-shirt and shorts, his hair messy, strawberry-jam stains all over
his lips. He didn’t come up to Sam’s belt buckle. But he looked at
his father sternly, and the words crackled coldly from his taut lips:_
_“Go to your room!”_
_Sam didn’t feel insane. Yet there was a frigidly adult gleam of
righteous anger in little Henry’s eyes. And the world outside had
become a topsy-turvy place where anyone over thirteen could be
considered senile and a candidate for euthanasia._
_It almost made one approve of infanticide...._
[Illustration: Illustrator: Everett Raymond Kinstler]
Sam Weber got his first shock early in the morning. He padded softly
down the hall, past the door to Henry’s room, on his way to the
bathroom. He heard Henry call:
“It’s all right, Pop, I’m up. Come on in.”
Little Henry sat up in bed, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. His hair
was combed neatly, with plenty of stickum, and his scrubbed, shining
face wore an earnest expression.
“Good morning,” he said. “For the present we’ll keep things unchanged
to a certain extent. Much easier that way.”
Sam Weber’s mouth fell open. Henry was three.
“Of course,” Henry continued, “there’ll be minor changes here at the
outset. I’ll want an allowance, for one thing. Nothing big, say, not
for another year or so. Twenty dollars a week should suffice.” He stood
up and waddled over to Sam, punching at his father’s kneecap playfully
with a pudgy fist. “Don’t worry, Pop. We’ll get along fine. Just fine.
Anything you want, let me know. I mean that: any little thing and I’ll
be happy to oblige.”
Henry turned his back and reached for a book which was lying
half-hidden under the coverlet. He opened it with a satisfied little
sigh and proceeded to read. Sam peered over his shoulder and read the
title. Arnold Toynbee’s _A Study of History_, Volume I.
Mechanically, Sam walked on into the bathroom. He took off his robe and
pajamas, draped them over a towel rack, stepped out of his slippers
and climbed into the shower stall. His attempt at whistling was only
half-hearted, and he gave it up after a few bars, concentrating instead
on the pleasant cascade of warm water.
Afterwards he shaved and dressed, then headed for the kitchen. Martha
had orange juice, coffee, and a plate of golden pancakes waiting for
him. “A little late this morning, Sam,” she observed.
“I--I had a talk with Henry.” It would be best simply to state the
objective fact, to wait for further developments.
“How’d he take it, Sam?”
“Take what? Our talk?”
“No, silly. The trip. The strange orientation.”
Sam never answered a question unless he understood it. Now he asked one
of his own. “Did you know that Henry’s been reading?”
“Certainly. It is a bit early in the morning, but he had me get Toynbee
down from the shelf at about seven. He wants to do history this week,
politics next week. Good idea, I think.”
Sam was getting nowhere. He drank his orange juice and buttered his
pancakes, digging in with a definite lack of relish. “Where’s my
bacon?” he said.
“You’re joking, of course.”
“No. No, I’m not. You know I don’t like pancakes without bacon.”
“Hah, hah. Actually, that’s going to be the biggest problem. A lot of
the economy here depends upon meat and meat products, and millions of
people will be thrown out of work. Well, they’ll get over it. In a few
years everything will be fine.”
Sam’s household seemed on the brink of insanity, and he clung to the
one thing which he could understand. “I want my bacon.”
“Now, Sam, that’s enough. I threw out all the bacon this morning.
Steaks, too.”
Sam stood up from the table. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll grab a bite
downtown.” He left the pancakes in their plate, almost untouched.
“Well, suit yourself. Oh, Sam, do me a favor?”
“What?”
“On your way to the subway, stop in at the butcher’s and cancel our
account with him. We owe him fifteen dollars. Of course, he may not
even be opened, but if he is, you cancel our account. Okay?”
Sam said it was okay. He had always left such matters in Martha’s
hands, and if she wasn’t satisfied with their present butcher, he’d
take care of it for her.
On his way out, Sam couldn’t resist the impulse to peek into Henry’s
room. His boy’s little head was still buried deep in Toynbee.
* * * * *
“Hello, Mr. Adams,” Sam said. There was a big crowd in the butcher shop
and, Sam noticed with some surprise, no meat on any of the counters.
“I’d, uh....”
“Like to cancel your business here? Naturally. I guess it will be
interesting, looking for some other kind of work.”
Sam felt dizzy. “Yes, that’s it. We owe you fifteen dollars, Martha
said. Umm-mm, why are you giving up the meat business? I always thought
it was good....”
“Well, have your little joke, Mr. Weber. Fifteen, that’s right. You
know, I’m thinking of joining the police. I was an M.P. over in Korea.
That is, if my son doesn’t mind.”
Sam thought it was nice, the way Mr. Adams would consult his son before
he took any new job. He said so.
Mr. Adams smiled. “Nice of him to let me make my own choice, you mean.
After all, he’s only five, Mr. Weber. You know what _that_ means.”
Sam blanched. Maybe he had had the wrong idea on kids all these years.
Maybe they grew up a lot faster than he realized in this modern
generation. “Your boy read much?” he demanded.
“Read? Don’t be silly.”
Sam liked the butcher’s answer. It made the world come spinning back, a
little closer to reality.
“Of course he doesn’t read, Mr. Weber. He doesn’t have the time.
He’s started writing a book this morning, showing what’s wrong
with Einstein’s unified field theory. It’s a good theory, but not
particularly sound. But I guess you know its flaws as well as my son
Jerry. Thinks he can make a best seller out of it....”
Sam mumbled something which was a cross between “Good luck” and a
confused gurgle, took his receipt, and trudged out the door. He headed
slowly for the subway entrance, but he changed his mind. He had seen
enough of people, for a while at least, and although the taximeter
would register a dollar fifty downtown, he could afford the luxury this
one time.
It was a bright yellow cab with a little fat man at the wheel. “Where
to, friend?”
“Bartlett Building,” said Sam, and the cab purred out into the early
morning traffic.
“It takes my breath away,” the driver said.
“What does?”
“All these growing green things. What a beautiful world, so young and
fresh. And the way those flowers smell! Man, I could sniff them all
day.”
Sam thought the man had missed his vocation. He should have been a
poet, or at least a gardener. “Yes,” Sam agreed. “I always liked late
May....”
“No. That ain’t what I mean. It’s everything, the whole world. What a
change: couldn’t be more than two billion years old, I’d say.”
Sam didn’t understand, but he’d be polite. “What couldn’t be more than,
uh, two billion years old?”
“This planet, stupid. This planet. Say, how old are you? You don’t look
more than thirty, not much more.”
“I’m thirty-two,” Sam said, mildly annoyed.
“Well, the way you talk, you could be past seventy. Me, I’m pushing
forty-five, but I understand. My mother’s a little confused, but even
she can understand if I explain things to her real slow. Maybe you’re
sick. They said some people might get sick....”
“I am not sick,” Sam assured him. But he wasn’t too sure: he felt as
if the whole world was crushing in on him from all directions, making
it difficult for him to breathe. Perhaps the radio would help. Sam
always liked to listen to the radio when he was feeling blue. “Why
don’t you turn on the news?” he suggested. “Should be able to catch the
eight-thirty over W--”
“Sure,” the driver said, and Sam heard the click of the radio button.
* * * * *
It would be his favorite commentator, Harry Groton, and already the
prospect of hearing the man’s familiar voice made him feel better. He
listened.
“...Sorry that there can be no commercial this morning, folks, but our
sponsor was a producer of canned meat products. At any rate, let’s get
on with the news. The big item, of course--” Sam liked Harry Groton
because he was so informal, just as if he sat next to you, chatting
pleasantly about the doings of the day. “--is the fact that the
transfer has been achieved so successfully. There have been reported
a few isolated instances in which the subject’s mind was temporarily
deranged, and scientists even expect one or two cases in which there
has been no transfer at all, although until now none has been reported.
“Also, we’ll have to get used to the fact that our children are our
mental superiors. But naturally, it makes good sense. The best minds
should last the longest, especially in these difficult times....”
“Turn it off!” Sam cried.
“Hunh? You just asked me to put it on. Better make up your mind,
mister. On, then off, then--aw, I think I’m gonna change my work. Well,
here’s the Bartlett Building. Better take it easy, friend. You heard
what he said about deranged minds.”
Sam paid his fare, then watched a middle-aged woman get into the cab
with a little tot who could not have been two years old. Sam heard the
child’s voice quite distinctly:
“Museum of Art, please. What? Yes, Grandmother, we might as well see
their art first hand. Only way to really understand their culture, and
it’s _our_ culture now, you know.”
Sam wasn’t particularly hungry, but he thought that some sizzling bacon
strips fresh from the griddle, toast, and coffee might make him feel
better. He entered the revolving doors and walked through the lobby of
the Bartlett Building, past the newsstand, the elevators, the shoeshine
booth, all the way across the lobby to the little luncheonette in the
rear. He even began to hum a little.
The sign stopped him cold. It was done crudely, in big red letters, but
he couldn’t miss it. It said:
_Don’t worry! Come right in!_
_We serve no meat or meat products._
Sam almost ran back to the elevators. He waited for the express that
would take him to the eighteenth floor, watched the little knot of
people gather, waiting with him. They all seemed normal--if any of
them had heard or seen any of the fantastic, impossible things Sam had
witnessed, they didn’t look it. Sam suppressed a sob. What was it Harry
Groton had said about deranged minds?
He didn’t make up his mind until the elevator door opened. The little
crowd of people began to enter, but Sam hung back, and finally the
starter spread his arms across the entrance. “Sorry, sir. No more room.
Next car, please.”
Sam nodded absently. He didn’t care. He didn’t feel that he could take
Mr. Southerton’s shenanigans today, anyway. Martha’s uncle Gregory (on
her father’s side, as he remembered it) was a psychiatrist, and perhaps
the man might be able to help him. Nothing like psychoanalysis, of
course--he didn’t need anything as thorough as that. But perhaps he had
been working too hard lately--Mr. Southerton had a way of driving him.
Just a little talk, Sam thought, because he’d understand this thing
much better.... Perhaps all he needed was a little vacation.
He stepped into a phone booth, dialed home. The receiver buzzed three
times in his ear, then it clicked. He heard Henry’s childish treble.
“Hello?”
“It’s me, your pop.” Sam felt mildly ridiculous.
“Good morning again, Pop. What’s on your mind?”
“I’d--I’d like to speak with your mother, please, Henry.”
“Can’t. She’s out. Maybe I can help you. Say, this Toynbee is
fascinating reading. Really helps to explain the culture, on all
levels. I’ll show you when you get home. Meanwhile, Mom went to the
library to get me some more books--sent her after some history source
material. Well, can I help?”
Sam began to sweat in the confined quarters of the phone booth. “I
doubt it, Henry. I wanted your great uncle Gregory’s address, but....”
“Where’s the address-book?”
Numbly, Sam told him. There was a brief silence, then Henry’s
little-boy voice again:
“That’s Gregory Thorne?”
“Yes.”
“One-two-five West End, Pop. What do you want with a psychiatrist?
Trouble?”
“No. No, nothing like that. Just some business.” Sam felt more
ridiculous all the time. “I’ll see you tonight, son. And, uh, thanks.”
Sam heard the boy say something about not mentioning it, then there
was a little click, Sam hung up the receiver, and left the booth on
unsteady feet. He wondered how long a thorough psychoanalysis took,
wondered further if he could afford it.
* * * * *
Dr. Gregory Thorne was a small, balding man, with a small red spot on
each cheek which almost looked like it was painted there. “Sam!” he
said. “Sam Weber. Long time no see. Very long. Won’t you come in?” Sam
said thanks and came in. He smiled weakly, but knew it was worse than
not smiling at all.
“Hey, Sam, what’s the trouble? You look scared to me--mighty scared.
Go ahead, talk: I haven’t got a patient coming in for about an hour.
Anyway, I’m just the receptionist now--my granddaughter’s taking over
this mind business. Ever meet her? Cute little trick.”
Sam groaned. “That’s the trouble, Doc. Your granddaughter.”
“Eh, what’s that? What did she do?”
“How old is she, Doc?”
“Umm-mm, I don’t know exactly. Around seven, I’d say. Yes, Jack and
Mary got married in forty-two, then they waited a couple of years. Yes,
about seven. Why?”
Sam spilled all of it, in a rush of words. He didn’t know that kids
matured so fast, he said, but all of a sudden, today, they seemed as
intelligent--more intelligent ... Also meat. What the devil was wrong
with meat? He couldn’t get it anywhere. Not even a couple of strips
of bacon. Not even at home from Martha. The butcher was going out of
business. And everyone acted so--peculiar. The news broadcast made less
sense than a scrambled jigsaw puzzle, and Henry Groton....
“Whoa, Sam. Take it easy. I get the general drift. Care to answer a few
questions?”
Sam said certainly, he’d like to. He took out a handkerchief and mopped
his brow as Dr. Thorne flicked a switch and called into the interoffice
phone on his desk. “Betty? Want to come in, please?”
Sam heard the door open, and a scrawny little girl with freckles and
buck teeth entered the room. Dr. Thorne was right--about seven. And she
had the most earnest look on her face....
“Betty, this is Sam Weber, sort of a cousin’s husband. I’d like you to
listen for a while, and then see what can be done.”
The little girl nodded, put her lollipop down in an ashtray. “Hi, Sam,”
she said. “It’s funny how strong physical habit can be sometimes--like
this lollipop thing. I like it. Well, go ahead with it, gentlemen.”
Dr. Thorne cleared his throat, lit a cigarette and puffed nervously.
“Now, then, Sam, you say you like meat? You have a strong desire for
it?”
“You bet, Doc. Just bacon, that’s all I’d want for now. A couple of
sizzling strips....”
“Uh-oh,” Betty mumbled, taking her lollipop out of the ashtray and
sucking on it furiously. “Better go ahead, Grandpa Gregory.”
“And children, Sam. You think it’s peculiar that they’re so intelligent
for, ah, their years? Impossibly so, all of a sudden?”
Sam nodded. “Yes. Something like that. Sounds silly, I know. But all
you have to do is look at Betty. Go ahead, look at Betty. I’m not
crazy--it’s the truth.”
The girl put down her lollipop. “I’ll take over from this point,
Grandpa Gregory. Take it down in shorthand, please.”
Dr. Thorne rummaged through a desk drawer and came up with a pad and
pencil. “Go ahead,” he said.
Betty’s voice was just right for the part of Goldilocks in a school
play. “Sam,” she said, “what do you remember of your life on Alpha
Centauri Gee?”
“I--uh. Hey, Doc, cut it out! If this is a gag, please get on with your
questions.”
“It isn’t a gag,” Dr. Thorne said, suddenly very serious. “Answer her
questions as well as you can.”
“Well, I--oh, this is stupid.”
“Answer me,” Betty told him. “Please.” She worked the melting lollipop
back and forth from cheek to cheek inside her mouth.
“Well--I don’t remember a thing. I don’t even know what you’re talking
about. What is Alpher Century G?”
“Never mind,” Betty told him. “Another question. Do you resent children
being your mental superiors?”
Dr. Thorne said, “It was necessary, you know. There’s bound to be
some difficulties the first generation or so, Sam, and we figured the
longer our better minds lasted, the better off we’d be. Those poor
Earthmen--suddenly transferred to our bodies, on a cold, dry desert of
a world. I wonder what they think....”
“Please be quiet, Grandpa,” Betty said. “I’m asking the questions, and
you’ll only confuse him. I think I know what happened, too.” She shook
her head sadly, took the white stick from her mouth and put it in the
ashtray. “I think I’ll take up smoking,” she said.
“Please,” Sam said, not without difficulty. “I think I’ll go home.” He
stood up.
“In a little while,” Betty told him. “We’d like to do something first;
only take a minute, Sam. Okay?”
Sam nodded vaguely, and they led him into the next room. “Lie down on
that couch, please,” Betty said. “We’ll give you a quick temporal EEG.”
Dr. Thorne nodded. “Electroencephalogram, eh? And then you’ll....”
“Please get him ready, Grandpa.”
Dr. Thorne dabbed the area in front of Sam’s ears with something wet
and slimy, then he placed something over Sam’s head which looked like a
couple of sturdy, curving wires with a small antenna for each temple.
From this a wire ran to a drum covered with graph paper.
Sam felt nothing, but in a few moments it was over. Dr. Thorne took the
antennae from his head, and then he was busy bending over the graph
paper with his granddaughter.
“See?” she said. “See. Plenty of low magnitude, quick stuff, Alpha,
Beta, and Gamma. But you don’t see any Delta waves, do you. Look, there
isn’t a wave here with a frequency of less than ten a second, and most
of them are more.”
“Tch-tch,” Dr. Thorne shook his head. “A shame.”
“Umm-mm. It’s simple to see what happened. Actually, the transfer
experts expected this. Probably there are a few hundred of them all
over the planet, men like Sam here, who haven’t been transferred. He’s
still an Earthman, Grandpa.”
“So? So what can be done about it?”
“Unfortunately, he can’t be helped. The transfer is a finished product
now. Nothing can be done. Of course, he can’t be permitted to remain.
Look at the simplest things, Grandpa. He eats meat. _Meat._ He eats it.
Probably a hundred other little things. He couldn’t be happy now, ever.”
“Well what can we do?”
“Nothing. It’s not up to us at all. There are the authorities.
Elimination probably will be painless ... Has he got a child, Grandpa?”
“Yes. A son, about three, I think.”
“Obviously, a brilliant mind. You can send Sam home now, but notify his
son by telephone. Poor Sam.”
* * * * *
Sam didn’t know what was going on. He had a few drinks first, and then
he took a long walk in the park. He bought a bag of peanuts and fed
the pigeons for a time, and then he grew tired of it. He’d take Martha
and little Henry to the country. Although Dr. Thorne hadn’t prescribed
anything in particular, Sam knew he needed a vacation, a long vacation.
But that girl, Betty. It was eerie. And Sam didn’t relish the idea of
going home to his suddenly brilliant little son.
He entered their house by the side door, and he heard Martha in the
kitchen, weeping. “Hallo!” he called. “I’m home.”
Martha ran into his arms and hugged him for a moment. “My Sam,” she
cried. “My poor, poor Sam.”
“Easy, Martha. Nothing’s wrong with me. Nothing that a little vacation
won’t fix. By the way, I stopped in at Adams’ and canceled your orders
there.”
“Thank you, Sam. Thank you....” And then she was crying again.
Henry came into the room, looking ludicrously grim for his three years.
“Hello, Pop. I’m sorry,” he said.
Martha wailed, “It isn’t fair....”
“One of those unfortunate things,” Henry told her. “You’ll get over
it. It’s just too bad that the only way we’d get the transfer in this
way--with the memories of these Earth people, with their emotions. But
you’ll get over it, Mother. Stop sniffling. It will all be over soon.”
Sam stood by, saying nothing, balancing on one foot and then the other.
Henry looked at him. “Pop, you’ll have to go to your room now. Please
go to your room.”
The boy still wore his tee shirt and shorts. His hair was messy and he
had strawberry-jam stains all over his lips. The top of his head didn’t
come up to Sam’s belt buckle. He said, again, “Go to your room.”
Sam turned and walked from the room. He heard Martha sobbing again,
but he did not wheel about to face her. He continued on up the stairs,
entered his bedroom, and closed the door behind him. He sat for a long
time on the edge of the bed, looking out into the bright sunshine,
watching the very old men and women playing with their mudpies in the
street.
He must have dozed. When he awoke, he saw two green and white cars
pulling over in front of the house. Police. They were very grim.
Sam heard voices. “Does Henry Weber live here?”
“I’m Weber,” Henry told them.
“Your father is....”
“Yes. Still human. No transfer, unfortunately. The EEG clearly shows
it. I’m afraid he’ll have to be....”
“Of course, sir. He will be eliminated as painlessly as possible.
Downtown, a bullet in the brain at point-blank range. Quite painless,
I’m told.”
“The best way,” Henry said in his childish treble.
Sam heard them coming up the stairs, slowly, with their measured steps.
Something told him, quite suddenly, that this was more than a hideous
joke. Much more....
There was silence. They stood outside his door a long time, and then
the door opened, just a thin crack. Sam saw an eye peer within the room.
The crack opened wider and he saw his son Henry’s little face. Behind
the face he could see some uniformed blue figures.
Sam smiled bravely. He pushed at the door and the crack opened all the
way, admitting Henry and the policemen.
Henry looked just like a little man.
Transcriber’s note:
This etext was produced from Avon Science Fiction and Fantasy Reader,
April 1953 (Vol. 1, no. 2).
Obvious errors have been silently corrected in this version, but
minor inconsistencies have been retained as printed.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CRACK OF DOOM ***
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