Progressive mutations are much more rare, but they are not unknown. The most usual progressive mutation we are aware of is so-called hyperintelligence syndrome (HIS). Babies displaying this syndrome exhibit certain common characteristics: they are extremely aware even at birth and are generally capable of lifting their heads, smiling, and making organized sounds within a few hours of being born. This initial precociousness is not followed up, however, at least not evenly. There are HIS children three years old who can read Shakespeare but are still mastering the art of walking. A common problem in HIS children is difficulty acclimatizing to extreme stimuli such as loud sounds or bright colors. HIS children generally learn reading and mathematics by passive assimilation by the age of two or three. The oldest known HIS child, Charlie B., is now four. He was born in Philadelphia eleven months after Warday, six months before that city was temporarily evacuated due to high radiation levels caused by the Washington and New York strikes. Charlie B. is physically developed to the size of a normal four-year-old. He is the clear intellectual superior of all adults who work with him. He has no formal education; indeed, there is no educational system yet devised that can help him. He reads four languages, is conversant in the most abstruse mathematics and physics, and has what his parents describe as a “vast” memory. He is often despondent. His family has plans to move from its present home in Los Angeles to England if Charlie is accepted, at the age of seven, by Oxford.
There are eighteen identified HIS children in the United States.
Twenty-four are known to have been born, but one was killed in a home fire and five have died for other reasons. Poor reporting and record-keeping may mean that there are undiagnosed HIS children.
These two are the basic “mutant/super-beast” rumors that are current in California. Variations are many, including the Hopping Devil rumor that seems to be a variant of the Giant Bat story, and the story of the secret think-tank at Cal Tech where Japanese scientists exploit HIS children in the development of ever more extraordinary technologies, which they do not share with the Americans.
Since there cannot be any HIS children older than four, this last rumor appears to be without real substance, though the exploitation of HIS children is something that the Relief or some responsible U.S. agencies should certainly examine very closely.
The Immigrant Quickstep
Father Dougherty explained to us that the only way to evade the California authorities was to keep moving from city to city or, even better, to leave the state at once. He warned us that we were taking great risks staying in L.A. even long enough to go downtown so Jim could gather documents from the remains of the old federal government, which has its offices in the L.A. Federal Complex.
When it became clear to him that we weren’t going to change our minds, he insisted on driving us. He felt that, without help, we had no chance of staying out of the hands of the police.
On the way into the center of the city, Father Dougherty told us that, like it or not, he was leaving us at Union Station after Jim got his documents. He briefed us about how to contend with the various travel zones.
“You have Red Zones, Yellow Zones, Blue Zones, and Green Zones. Stick to the Greens. They lead to the intrastate tracks, which will be on your left as you pass through the main waiting room. Yellow Zones are for incoming trains from our sister restricted-immigration states, Washington and Oregon. Red Zones are for trains arriving from abroad, which means the rest of the United States. Don’t even look as if you might be interested in them. Remember that the IPs are just dying to check you out. Need I add that there is also a White Zone in the waiting room? It’s for the outgoing Southwest and Sunset Limiteds, and the Desert Wind. Nobody will bother you in the White Zone.”
We arrived at the Federal Complex and parked. There were plenty of empty spaces. Father Dougherty and I would wait while Jim looked up a few likely parties in the government. He had some contacts he had met during the years he researched and wrote about atomic weapons and the community of men around them.
The federal government takes up only the lower floors of the federal building. Most of the structure is given over to the California State Department of Small-Scale Agricultural Control (Southern Region), an organization devoted to the licensing and regulation of private gardens.
According to Father Dougherty, Jim had at all costs to avoid straying into any part of the complex controlled by the state. “The President and the Governor aren’t friends,” was the way he put it.
“This is a state in name only. Within five years it’s going to be accrediting ambassadors. Already there’s an Embassy Row in Sacramento. But as far as the Feds are concerned, you’ll be subject to their laws on their territory—which means you’ll have full constitutional rights below the eighth floor of the building. If somebody on the federal floors asks for your ID, ask for his warrant. But, for God’s sake, don’t go upstairs.”
As he crossed the parking lot, I could see that Jim was edgy. I did not envy him this duty. We hoped for the chance of an interview with the President, or at least with some senior officials. So little is known nowadays about the federal government, we felt that anything we could get would be of enormous value.
The silence of waiting settled into the car. Father Dougherty turned on the radio, a new Sony. There were about ten stations up and down the dial. Twisting it, I heard the Beach Boys. Their voices, the tone and feel of the music, evoked the past, summer weather. How anybody can bear to listen to the Beach Boys for very long these days, I cannot imagine.
It is interesting that the past has come to seem so beautiful. I wish we could remember it clearly enough to avoid its mistakes.
But I am coming to recall it more for its laughter than its danger. I remember how Anne and I used to enjoy SoHo, and the East Village galleries that were gaining a foothold by about ’84. Extremes in art spoke to us then, though I cannot now remember why. America was sunshine, wasn’t it?
It was also excitement. I remember, for example, space exploration. At the time I took at most mild interest, but now I’m fascinated. What wonders we accomplished: the moon landings and Viking, and the Space Shuttle. Most of all, the confirmation by the Infrared Astronomy Satellite in ’85 of the planetary system around Barnard’s Star, with a fifth planet that might be very like Earth.
Suddenly Father Dougherty started the car. Jim was hurrying toward us, a thick manila envelope under his arm.
“I didn’t manage to see the President,” he said as he got in, “but I got good stuff. Some Presidential papers on radiation, and a report on the state of the upper atmosphere.”
“Meaning you two will finally do the sensible thing and leave Los Angeles?”
Jim nodded. “I still don’t have many California state documents, but maybe I’ll pick some up in San Francisco.”
“So you still intend to remain in California, do you? I can’t bear the thought of people getting arrested for nothing. I wish you’d reconsider. The moment you buy a White Zone ticket, the IPs will leave you alone.”
We had been through this at the rectory. We didn’t need him to convince us of how poor our odds were. But the book could not be complete without a visit to San Francisco.