50 in 50

Sean's eyes widened and his words were muffled into silence as Captain Power slipped a soft but strong gag over his mouth. The captain continued.

"And there you have it. Complete sensory deprivation so the subject cannot gesticulate or point his fingers or walk about. Communication is damaged by that. Communication and the flow of language damned up completely by the gag. So what do we have, you ask? We have, I answer, a mighty torrent of expression seeking a way out. We have a genius for communication without an outlet. But— wait, an outlet is still left. The brain! With no other way of expressing the pressure of thoughts churning in the mighty Irish brain, the mighty Irish brain expresses itself by direct contact with the outside world. That glass on the table — would you please, Sean?"

The glass lifted suddenly into the air, swooped about like a bird and landed again on the table with ease.

"Direct manipulation of matter by the mind. But much graver than conjurer's tricks like this one. Sean, and the others on his team, reach deep into the molten heart of the earth with their minds, miles deep, and open a hole to the surface. The magma, liquid rock, is forced through this hole, a solid rod of lava being ejected into the tank out there. Or rather it would be a solid rod if the opening was not opened and closed regularly to cut the rod into the bricks you have already seen. At other times, delving deeper, they tap the molten iron core of our planet and bring the purest iron into our rolling mills. It is a wonder indeed."

He smiled at Giulio and signaled to Sean. "Now, lightly, touch his memories and excise this day."

Giulio jumped to his feet, tried to run, to flee, but blackness fell.

"Chi e lei!" Giulio said to the officer behind the desk, who was industriously studying a computer printout.

"No games, please, this is a busy office," Captain Power told him. "We have your complete record here. You are Dr. Giulio Balietti, an atomic physicist. You were sent here by the CIA to unearth our technical secrets. This is espionage and you could be shot for it… Here, sit down, you're so pale. A glass of water? No? That's better. But we are a kindly people and we are giving you a choice. You may return home now and tell the CIA to leave us alone. Or you may remain here as long as you refrain from further espionage. There is an opening for a lecturer in atomic physics at Trinity College. Just part-time I'm afraid, a few hours a week. Until there is a better position you will have to do other work as well. We have found that academics enjoy peat cutting. Healthy, outdoor occupation, very relaxing when you are used to it. A lot of our older people like to have peat fires of handcut turf and it is not too much of an effort to indulge them. So what do you say?"

What did he say? A memory of Hoboken, the endless gray poverty, the plankton and soy food, the drab existence. Stay, why not, he wasn't being asked to give his word. He could still keep his eyes open, look for the Irish secret, bring it back to the U.S. if he could. His duty was to stay.

"Trinity and the peat bog," he said, firmly.

"Good man. Here, this way, I want you to meet Herr Professor Doktor Schmidt. A physicist also…"

"Nein, you forget, my captain. It is Ivan who is the Physikei. I am simple chemist. Come — Giulio is your name? — we have a good chat and I show you how to use the peat shovel. A most satisfactory tool."

They left, arm in arm, out into the falling rain.

The Day After the End of the World

It wasn't a very big piece of the world, but it was all that was left. Around it in space floated other fragments of the destroyed planet, just chunks of rock and dirt and bits of debris. But the large piece had the best part of a farmhouse on it, with a tree in front, and a patch of grass with a frozen sheep standing on it. The sheep was staring in a very fixed manner. That was all there was. The sheer edge dropped away on all sides, just bare dirt with bits of roots sticking out of it. The man sat on the edge of the world, his legs dangling, and dropped a twig over. It fell swiftly from sight. His name was Frank and the girl, in the swing hanging from the branch of the tree, was named Gwenn.

"It's not like I tried to force you or anything," Frank said, looking very glum. "You know, or be beastly. I was just upset, you should understand that, what with the end of the world and everything. Feeling very lonely. I thought maybe, you know, a little kiss would help me forget. Help us both forget."

"Yes, Frank," Gwenn said and pushed with her foot so she swung a bit.

"So you really had no cause to slap me. We are shipmates after all."

"I said that I was sorry I hit you, Frank. I'm a little upset too, you should understand that. It's not every day that this sort of thing happens."

"No, not every day."

"You shouldn't be angry at me. Can you give me a push?"