The tomorrow people

In the conference room, Dr. Christensen sat at one end of the table; Dr. Chen sat at the other. Down one side of the table were ranged the U.S.A.A. staff, including Trovi, Kutler, Wendt, Bourgnese. Down the other side were S.U.A.R. men in equal numbers—and Harounian.

The last of the tapes slid to an end, and turned itself off. There was silence. Then Kutler rose and started to speak.

He explained in detail what he knew of the development of Lisa Trovi’s ability.

He sat down, and the Soviet’s Gregoriev rose, and told a rather more methodical and experimental tale of the discovery of Maria Harounian’s talent. “We came to the conclusion, tentative, that the pregnancy might be a factor,” he finished. “It now seems this is justified.”

Lisa whispered to Phil. He rose again. “Miss Trovi suggests that the particular pregnancy that was operative was hers—only because the child carried genes familiar to the—the Martian. She understands that it might be possible for a mind which has not yet developed semantic centers to—receive?—more readily. Thus, she believes her unborn child and Miss Harounian’s might have been in contact more easily than two adults.”

The first stir of reaction across the table subsided; there were nods of slow agreement.

Bourgnese rose: “Begging the pardon of the two ladies,” he said, “I’d like to call attention to another matter. It happens these two infants were conceived prior to a certain—ah, noticeable change in—well, I’m sure you gentlemen have all been aware of the furor in our press about our—ah, morals, here? Of course, we don’t know how things are at your Dome, but—?” He stood a moment, grinned, found two, then three and four answering grins across the table. “My suggestion was that perhaps the—emanations? callings?—from the—Martian—might have been in part responsible for—shall we say?—an extraordinary goodwill in the two Domes blessed with—Martian extensions?”

As he sat down, one of the Chinese delegates leaned forward. “I was just thinking,” he said, without bothering to rise, “I wonder how good this Martian is at PK?”

The words raced round the table, with the thought right behind. In a moment, a babble of voices was following. After a short time, John Wendt stood up.

The room quieted slowly. Slowly, and with precision, he told the story of the fuelless half-track.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “It appears that we may have at hand a fuel—if you call it that—which will make any kind of space travel more practical. Excuse me; I am doing my best to understate. Assuming this—fuel—does not exist, we now know—” He swallowed, opened his mouth, cleared his throat. “Oh Hell. What I’m trying to say is: I’d like to volunteer three of the crew for the next trip out—anywhere.”

—THE END—