By MARK CLIFTON
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction July 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There is no past or future, the children said;
it all just is! They had every reason to know!
Friday—June 11th
At three years of age, a little girl shouldn't have enough functioning intelligence to cut out and paste together a Moebius Strip.
Or, if she did it by accident, she surely shouldn't have enough reasoning ability to pick up one of her crayons and carefully trace the continuous line to prove it has only one surface.
And if by some strange coincidence she did, and it was still just an accident, how can I account for this generally active daughter of mine—and I do mean active—sitting for a solid half hour with her chin cupped in her hand, staring off into space, thinking with such concentration that it was almost painful to watch?
I was in my reading chair, going over some work. Star was sitting on the floor, in the circle of my light, with her blunt-nosed scissors and her scraps of paper.
Her long silence made me glance down at her as she was taping the two ends of the paper together. At that point I thought it was an accident that she had given a half twist to the paper strip before joining the circle. I smiled to myself as she picked it up in her chubby fingers.
"A little child forms the enigma of the ages," I mused.
But instead of throwing the strip aside, or tearing it apart as any other child would do, she carefully turned it over and around—studying it from all sides.
Then she picked up one of her crayons and began tracing the line. She did it as though she were substantiating a conclusion already reached!
It was a bitter confirmation for me. I had been refusing to face it for a long time, but I could ignore it no longer.
Star was a High I.Q.
For half an hour I watched her while she sat on the floor, one knee bent under her, her chin in her hand, unmoving. Her eyes were wide with wonderment, looking into the potentialities of the phenomenon she had found.
It has been a tough struggle, taking care of her since my wife's death. Now this added problem. If only she could have been normally dull, like other children!
I made up my mind while I watched her. If a child is afflicted, then let's face it, she's afflicted. A parent must teach her to compensate. At least she could be prepared for the bitterness I'd known. She could learn early to take it in stride.
I could use the measurements available, get the degree of intelligence, and in that way grasp the extent of my problem. A twenty point jump in I.Q. creates an entirely different set of problems. The 140 child lives in a world nothing at all like that of the 100 child, and a world which the 120 child can but vaguely sense. The problems which vex and challenge the 160 pass over the 140 as a bird flies over a field mouse. I must not make the mistake of posing the problems of one if she is the other. I must know. In the meantime, I must treat it casually.
"That's called the Moebius Strip, Star," I interrupted her thoughts.
She came out of her reverie with a start. I didn't like the quick way her eyes sought mine—almost furtively, as though she had been caught doing something bad.
"Somebody already make it?" she disappointedly asked.
She knew what she had discovered! Something inside me spilled over with grief, and something else caught at me with dread.
I kept my voice casual. "A man by the name of Moebius. A long time ago. I'll tell you about him sometime when you're older."
"Now. While I'm little," she commanded with a frown. "And don't tell. Read me."
What did she mean by that? Oh, she must be simply paraphrasing me at those times in the past when I've wanted the facts and not garbled generalizations. It could only be that!
"Okay, young lady." I lifted an eyebrow and glared at her in mock ferociousness, which usually sent her into gales of laughter. "I'll slow you down!"
She remained completely sober.
I turned to the subject in a physics book. It's not in simple language, by any means, and I read it as rapidly as I could speak. My thought was to make her admit she didn't understand it, so I could translate it into basic language.
Her reaction?
"You read too slow. Daddy," she complained. She was childishly irritable about it. "You say a word. Then I think a long time. Then you say another word."
I knew what she meant. I remember, when I was a child, my thoughts used to dart in and out among the slowly droning words of any adult. Whole patterns of universes would appear and disappear in those brief moments.
"So?" I asked.
"So," she mocked me impishly. "You teach me to read. Then I can think quick as I want."
"Quickly," I corrected in a weak voice. "The word is 'quickly,' an adverb."
She looked at me impatiently, as if she saw through this allegedly adult device to show up a younger's ignorance. I felt like the dope!
September 1st
A great deal has happened the past few months. I have tried, a number of times to bring the conversation around to discuss Star's affliction with her. But she is amazingly adroit at heading me off, as though she already knows what I am trying to say and isn't concerned. Perhaps, in spite of her brilliance, she's too young to realize the hostility of the world toward intelligence.
Some of the visiting neighbors have been amused to see her sit on the floor with an encyclopedia as big as she is, rapidly turning the pages. Only Star and I know she is reading the pages as rapidly as she can turn them. I've brushed away the neighbors' comments with: "She likes to look at the pictures."
They talk to her in baby talk—and she answers in baby talk! How does she know enough to do that?
I have spent the months making an exhaustive record of her I.Q. measurements, aptitude speeds, reaction, tables, all the recommended paraphernalia for measuring something we know nothing about.
The tables are screwy, or Star is beyond all measurement.
All right, Pete Holmes, how are you going to pose those problems and combat them for her, when you have no conception of what they might be? But I must have a conception. I've got to be able to comprehend at least a little of what she may face. I simply couldn't stand by and do nothing.
Easy, though. Nobody knows better than you the futility of trying to compete out of your class. How many students, workers and employers have tried to compete with you? You've watched them and pitied them, comparing them to a donkey trying to run the Kentucky Derby.
How does it feel to be in the place of the donkey, for a change? You've always blamed them for not realizing they shouldn't try to compete.
But this is my own daughter! I must understand.
October 1st
Star is now four years old, and according to State Law her mind has now developed enough so that she may attend nursery school. Again I tried to prepare her for what she might face. She listened through about two sentences and changed the subject. I can't tell about Star. Does she already know the answers? Or does she not even realize there is a problem?