Bright Islands — Edition Insights

Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

_The future enters into us, in order to transform itself in us, long before it happens._--RAINER MARIA RILKE

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, June 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

When the two Geno-Doctors were gone, Miryam took the red capsule from under the base of the bedlamp and slipped it between her dry lips.

Reason told her to swallow the capsule quickly, but instead she held it under her tongue, clinging, against her will, to the last few moments of life.

She knew she was being weak, that she was still seeking hope where there was no hope, and she prayed to the ancient God of the Ghetto that the gelatin coating would dissolve quickly.

Pain interrupted the prayer, spreading like slow fire from deep within her young body, where the unwanted child of Genetics Center stirred so restlessly, so impatient to be born.

The white walls of her Center room blurred in and out of focus. Shadows merged together in brief, uncertain patterns. Lights flickered where there were no lights, and the darkness was so intense it had a glare of its own.

At the worst of the pain cycle, Miryam bit down on her under lip until the flesh showed as white as her teeth. She fought off temptation to crunch the capsule and put an end to all pain, all fear.

No, she would not go that way. She would go in a moment of blinding clarity, knowing why, savoring the last bitter sweet second of her triumph.

With a subconscious gesture of femininity, Miryam brushed the dark, damp hair from her forehead, and wiped the perspiration from her lips.

"Pretty little thing," one of the Geno-Service agents had called her, when she was arrested last fall in the Warsaw suburb where she had taught nursery school since escaping from the Ghetto.

"Doesn't look a bit like one of her kind," another agent had said, putting his hand under her chin and turning her face to the glare of his flashlight. "No wonder she fooled the Psycho and Chemico squads.... Lucky for us!"

"What's the matter, little one?" the first agent had spoken again. "Didn't you know we were coming? I thought all of you people were supposed to be telepaths.... Or doesn't it work when you're asleep?"

He flipped the covers off her trembling body and whistled.

"Hands off!" the Geno-Sergeant had warned sharply. "She's for Center!"

Now the capsule under her tongue was moist and soft. Time fled on swift, fluttering wings. Soon the horror would be done.

But the stubborn spark still glowed, and Miryam allowed her mind to drift down the long, shining corridor to the room where the younger of the two Geno-Doctors was changing into a white coat. The older man, who wore the gold trefoil of Geno-Sar on his collar, tilted back in his chair.

"She should be just about due," he said cheerfully.

"Yes, Sir," replied the young doctor, sounding the proper note of deference for a man who communed daily with the political elite.

"What do you think of her?"

"Well, Sir, frankly--I was surprised--" The young doctor twisted muscular arms to button the back of his jacket. He had but recently come from the Genetics Sanitarium on the Black Sea, and his face was tanned deep brown. "From reading the weekly reports of your staff, I didn't know she was that--that young--"

Miryam trembled with a hope she dared not recognize, but it was crushed out of her by the Geno-Sar's booming voice.

"Not only one of the youngest--but one of the very best specimens we've had to work with at Center! You read her psi rating?"

"Yes, Sir. Seventy-two point four, wasn't it?"

"Seventy-two point six! Absolutely phenomenal! Closest thing to a pure telepath our agents have ever turned up for us! This could be a big night for Center, my boy.... A big night!"

The young doctor shook his head to clear away the lingering image of a tragic, lovely face against a tear-stained pillow. Miryam was startled to find this image in his mind, and her pulse leaped again.

In a carefully professional tone, the young doctor asked:

"What was her rating after insemination? Did the emotional shock...?"

"Not at all! Oh, naturally, she was uncooperative in the tests, but pentathol and our cross-references gave us a true picture!"

"And the spermatozoa?"

"Best we could get! Refrigerated about thirty years ago from a specimen that tested forty-seven point eight."

The Geno-Sar paused, and because a comment was obviously in order, the young doctor said: