Slowly the armored bus wound its way among the ruins of the Outside. The sun was just setting, a copper ball in a sand-coloured sky tainted with rustbrown smudges and haunted by the large, ominous forms of the Gryphons that circled about on languid wings. Sometimes they made a dive at the bus, which would instantly respond with machine-gun fire, seldom hitting anything.
The children on the bus were silent, as always. They were returning from a lengthy test day and it had left its marks on their pale, aged faces. Especially on that of little Timothy de Vries. He was one of the lesser pupils, for whom each test day was yet one more struggle with death.
Withdrawn in himself he sat in a corner at the rear of the bus, lost in thought, gazing through a small pane of reinforced glass. Today had cost him another 3 points; now he only had 12 left. If things went wrong tomorrow, it would be the last day of his life. He shuddered and quickly opened the textbook on his knees. Similarly charged bodies repel each other, dissimilarly charged bodies attract each other. He closed his eyes to repeat it to himself but was disturbed by a violent burst from the machine-gun. Something bulky banged on the roof of the bus and caused some muted excitement among the kids.
Looking out of the rear window Timothy saw a wounded Gryphon tumble to the ground, whipping up clouds of dust with its frantically beating wings while other Gryphons swooped down on it from all sides. Timothy returned to his book. Only 12 points left. O God, tomorrow scared him so. His lower lip began to tremble. Similarly charged bodies attract each other... Darn, no... repel. Tears came to his eyes. Why did he have to be so stupid? Why did it always take him so long to remember things? It wasn't fair.
The boy beside him, Johnny Fisher, his best pal, nudged him.
"Hey Tim, what's wrong?"
He held up the book. "This is."
"Ah, bloody fizz."
"And then there's the race. If only I could run like you."
"Big deal. Don't forget it's about the only thing I do well. I'm much worse at fizz than you are."
A sudden upsurge of engine noise made it impossible to talk on. The bus had reached the clearing that surrounded the hostel grounds and was picking up speed for the final spurt to the decontamination lock. It safely reached this and was sprayed with purple foam for several minutes before being allowed to proceed to the Inside. Here the children clambered from the vehicle, formed a disciplined column behind their teacher and were marched to the main building. Over their heads, on the transparent dome that spanned the area, sat the eerie silhouettes of the Gryphons. Now and then sparks shot through the dome wall, but the creatures took little notice. They only rose for as long as the electric current lasted and then alighted again.
In the stark dining-hall the children silently shuffled past the kitchen-hatch, received a bowl of food and sat down with it at their desks. When everybody was seated a big antiquated tv set in a corner of the hall was switched on, so that the children could watch the latest propaganda new while they ate. It was always the same: scenes from Armageddon, battles against the encroaching monstrosities bravely fought and lost by mankind, the great city domes collapsing, doom and disaster everywhere, the news reader often sounding like a medieval minstrel lamenting the deaths of epic heroes.
"Meanwhile the battle at sea is getting more desperate by the hour. Ocean Dwellers are breaking through at numerous points. Because of this the Marine Agency has raised its admission threshold to an IQ of 134. If some drastic improvement in our defences is not found soon our ports will come under threat. Hopefully this will stimulate our youngsters to work even harder at their education. Man's destiny lies in their hands and it can... "
A siren howled and the screen went blank. Hurriedly the children spooned op the last scraps of their meal, pushed aside their bowls and took out their books, over which they pored for the remainder of the evening, without speaking a single word, until the siren of eleven released them for the night.
In the dorm Timothy lay awake in the dark for a long time. He was so scared he could have wept. But he had to be strong. After all, he wasn't a five-year old kid any more. He knew what was what. If he was not good enough to help mankind survive, he would have to make room for those who were. It could not be helped. There simply wasn't enough for everyone, so only the fittest were allowed to survive. The weak had to sacrifice themselves, bravely, proudly, willingly. But it wasn't easy, not
even for a big fellow of seven.
He lay in the dark worrying about his physics test and his lack of running speed, as he gazed out at the blueness of the night beyond the broken window panes of the dorm. Silence reigned. All the other boys were asleep. It made him feel lonely. In his arms he tightly clutched his only possession: Cyclops, his teddybear, with its one remaining eye. It was threadbare and had a sickly smell from the many times that it had been soiled during nightmares. Still, he would not have parted with it for all the
candy in the world. If, by some miracle, he ever got the bonus that came with 30 points he would spend it on a new eye for Cyclops.
A soft crackle broke the stillness and a faint shimmering paled the night: sparks against the Gryphons. Not that it did much good. Only a week ago they had mobbed a bus and ripped it apart. They were getting stronger by the day. Tomorrow he would have to run for his life. He knew it had to be but still it didn't seem right somehow. He sobbed a little, hating himself for being so weak and childish, and finally fell asleep, one cheek pressed against his shabby, one-eyed bear. He dreamt a fine dream, of Christmas at home, that one precious holiday a year, of his mighty 200-point father, of victories, of flowering candy fields, and of his own unexpected bravery and mention on tv. A Hero of the Nation he became, that night.
But the following morning, when he stood on the pock-marked track among 49 other nervous boys, he trembled with fear again. Beside him stood Johnny, relaxed and smiling, brimful of confidence.
"All you gotta do is keep cool, pace yourself, just pace yourself," Johnny said, with a grin and a pat on his shoulder. "You'll be fine, just fine. Don't worry."
But Timothy could not even bring himself to return the grin. He felt wobbly all over.
The gun cracked and the boys were off.
Slowly, so as to force nothing, Timothy started. If he was to live he would have to finish 43rd at least. He ran as calmly as he could, in spite of his fear that urged him to run like a madman. But he knew that doing so would kill him for sure. And he did not want to be killed, no matter how bleak and hopeless life might seem. For a long time he ran last, saving his strength, sometimes on the brink of panic, as he saw the others draw away from him, only just managing to restrain himself.
Halfway through the race his tactics began to pay off. The first over-ambitious starters began falling back. The horrified glances they shot at him when he overtook them almost made him sick, but it was either them or him. And he would live.
When he had four boys behind him, he got into trouble: the bounce left his stride, he couldn't catch his breath and felt a long cold needle poking in his side. He gritted his teeth. He had to hold on. He simply had to. Cyclops needed that eye, Cyclops would have it. Just then the boy in front of him stumbled, fell and did not get up again. This made Timothy 45th and gave him new courage. Suddenly he felt the bounce return and accelerated on a surge of hope.
As he entered the final round he was in a comfortable 40th position, when he saw Johnny limping in front of him, barely able to put his left foot to the ground. Timothy slowed down at once.
"Johnny!" he gasped. "Johnny, what's wrong?"
His pal stopped and looked back, helplessly, eyes big with fright and bewilderment.
"I dunno. Sprained or something? but, Jesus, what the hell do you think you're doing? Run on, you moron!"
"No, I'll help you," Timothy panted, as the first stragglers began to overtake them. "Here lean on me."
"Don't be daft. I'm a goner. Run, dummy!" Furiously Johnny pushed his pal away, even throwing a punch, which only just missed. "Get on with it!" he screamed, "For chrissakes, will you get going!?"
For one, tantalizing moment Timothy stood in an agony of doubt. Then he turned and started running again, in tears, but faster than ever before, plunging through a wall of exhaustion and sorrow. He crossed the finish line as 38th and fell down sobbing. A teacher dragged him to his feet.
"Good show, De Vries, there's hope for you yet," he said. But Timothy did not listen. Although he did not really want to, he looked aside at a small group of boys that was being led off to a small black armoured car. One of them limped and was being supported by others. Just before they boarded the car, Johnny turned round and waved.
Wildly Timothy waved back, bursting into tears like a child.
"Steady now, De Vries," the teacher said, "Pull yourself together. You'll need all your energy for the physics test."
Timothy hung his head and nodded. Obediently he fought back his tears and stumbled to his place in the waiting column.