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diff --git a/32633-0.txt b/32633-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7a8ff72 --- /dev/null +++ b/32633-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,273 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIME ENOUGH AT LAST *** + +Transcriber's Note: + +This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction January 1953. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright +on this publication was renewed. + + + + + _The atomic bomb meant, to most people, the end. To Henry Bemis it + meant something far different--a thing to appreciate and enjoy._ + + + + + Time Enough At Last + + By Lynn Venable + + +For a long time, Henry Bemis had had an ambition. To read a book. Not +just the title or the preface, or a page somewhere in the middle. He +wanted to read the whole thing, all the way through from beginning to +end. A simple ambition perhaps, but in the cluttered life of Henry +Bemis, an impossibility. + +Henry had no time of his own. There was his wife, Agnes who owned that +part of it that his employer, Mr. Carsville, did not buy. Henry was +allowed enough to get to and from work--that in itself being quite a +concession on Agnes' part. + +Also, nature had conspired against Henry by handing him with a pair of +hopelessly myopic eyes. Poor Henry literally couldn't see his hand in +front of his face. For a while, when he was very young, his parents +had thought him an idiot. When they realized it was his eyes, they got +glasses for him. He was never quite able to catch up. There was never +enough time. It looked as though Henry's ambition would never be +realized. Then something happened which changed all that. + +Henry was down in the vault of the Eastside Bank & Trust when it +happened. He had stolen a few moments from the duties of his teller's +cage to try to read a few pages of the magazine he had bought that +morning. He'd made an excuse to Mr. Carsville about needing bills in +large denominations for a certain customer, and then, safe inside the +dim recesses of the vault he had pulled from inside his coat the +pocket size magazine. + +He had just started a picture article cheerfully entitled "The New +Weapons and What They'll Do To YOU", when all the noise in the world +crashed in upon his ear-drums. It seemed to be inside of him and +outside of him all at once. Then the concrete floor was rising up at +him and the ceiling came slanting down toward him, and for a fleeting +second Henry thought of a story he had started to read once called +"The Pit and The Pendulum". He regretted in that insane moment that he +had never had time to finish that story to see how it came out. Then +all was darkness and quiet and unconsciousness. + + * * * * * + +When Henry came to, he knew that something was desperately wrong with +the Eastside Bank & Trust. The heavy steel door of the vault was +buckled and twisted and the floor tilted up at a dizzy angle, while +the ceiling dipped crazily toward it. Henry gingerly got to his feet, +moving arms and legs experimentally. Assured that nothing was broken, +he tenderly raised a hand to his eyes. His precious glasses were +intact, thank God! He would never have been able to find his way out +of the shattered vault without them. + +He made a mental note to write Dr. Torrance to have a spare pair made +and mailed to him. Blasted nuisance not having his prescription on +file locally, but Henry trusted no-one but Dr. Torrance to grind those +thick lenses into his own complicated prescription. Henry removed the +heavy glasses from his face. Instantly the room dissolved into a +neutral blur. Henry saw a pink splash that he knew was his hand, and a +white blob come up to meet the pink as he withdrew his pocket +handkerchief and carefully dusted the lenses. As he replaced the +glasses, they slipped down on the bridge of his nose a little. He had +been meaning to have them tightened for some time. + +He suddenly realized, without the realization actually entering his +conscious thoughts, that something momentous had happened, something +worse than the boiler blowing up, something worse than a gas main +exploding, something worse than anything that had ever happened +before. He felt that way because it was so quiet. There was no whine +of sirens, no shouting, no running, just an ominous and all pervading +silence. + + * * * * * + +Henry walked across the slanting floor. Slipping and stumbling on the +uneven surface, he made his way to the elevator. The car lay crumpled +at the foot of the shaft like a discarded accordian. There was +something inside of it that Henry could not look at, something that +had once been a person, or perhaps several people, it was impossible +to tell now. + +Feeling sick, Henry staggered toward the stairway. The steps were +still there, but so jumbled and piled back upon one another that it +was more like climbing the side of a mountain than mounting a +stairway. It was quiet in the huge chamber that had been the lobby of +the bank. It looked strangely cheerful with the sunlight shining +through the girders where the ceiling had fallen. The dappled sunlight +glinted across the silent lobby, and everywhere there were huddled +lumps of unpleasantness that made Henry sick as he tried not to look +at them. + +"Mr. Carsville," he called. It was very quiet. Something had to be +done, of course. This was terrible, right in the middle of a Monday, +too. Mr. Carsville would know what to do. He called again, more +loudly, and his voice cracked hoarsely, "Mr. Carrrrsville!" And then +he saw an arm and shoulder extending out from under a huge fallen +block of marble ceiling. In the buttonhole was the white carnation Mr. +Carsville had worn to work that morning, and on the third finger of +that hand was a massive signet ring, also belonging to Mr. Carsville. +Numbly, Henry realized that the rest of Mr. Carsville was under that +block of marble. + +Henry felt a pang of real sorrow. Mr. Carsville was gone, and so was +the rest of the staff--Mr. Wilkinson and Mr. Emory and Mr. Prithard, +and the same with Pete and Ralph and Jenkins and Hunter and Pat the +guard and Willie the doorman. There was no one to say what was to be +done about the Eastside Bank & Trust except Henry Bemis, and Henry +wasn't worried about the bank, there was something he wanted to do. + +He climbed carefully over piles of fallen masonry. Once he stepped +down into something that crunched and squashed beneath his feet and he +set his teeth on edge to keep from retching. The street was not much +different from the inside, bright sunlight and so much concrete to +crawl over, but the unpleasantness was much, much worse. Everywhere +there were strange, motionless lumps that Henry could not look at. + +Suddenly, he remembered Agnes. He should be trying to get to Agnes, +shouldn't he? He remembered a poster he had seen that said, "In event +of emergency do not use the telephone, your loved ones are as safe as +you." He wondered about Agnes. He looked at the smashed automobiles, +some with their four wheels pointing skyward like the stiffened legs +of dead animals. He couldn't get to Agnes now anyway, if she was safe, +then, she was safe, otherwise ... of course, Henry knew Agnes wasn't +safe. He had a feeling that there wasn't anyone safe for a long, long +way, maybe not in the whole state or the whole country, or the whole +world. No, that was a thought Henry didn't want to think, he forced it +from his mind and turned his thoughts back to Agnes. + + * * * * * + +She had been a pretty good wife, now that it was all said and done. It +wasn't exactly her fault if people didn't have time to read nowadays. +It was just that there was the house, and the bank, and the yard. +There were the Jones' for bridge and the Graysons' for canasta and +charades with the Bryants. And the television, the television Agnes +loved to watch, but would never watch alone. He never had time to read +even a newspaper. He started thinking about last night, that business +about the newspaper. + +Henry had settled into his chair, quietly, afraid that a creaking +spring might call to Agnes' attention the fact that he was momentarily +unoccupied. He had unfolded the newspaper slowly and carefully, the +sharp crackle of the paper would have been a clarion call to Agnes. He +had glanced at the headlines of the first page. "Collapse Of +Conference Imminent." He didn't have time to read the article. He +turned to the second page. "Solon Predicts War Only Days Away." He +flipped through the pages faster, reading brief snatches here and +there, afraid to spend too much time on any one item. On a back page +was a brief article entitled, "Prehistoric Artifacts Unearthed In +Yucatan". Henry smiled to himself and carefully folded the sheet of +paper into fourths. That would be interesting, he would read all of +it. Then it came, Agnes' voice. "Henrrreee!" And then she was upon +him. She lightly flicked the paper out of his hands and into the +fireplace. He saw the flames lick up and curl possessively around the +unread article. Agnes continued, "Henry, tonight is the Jones' bridge +night. They'll be here in thirty minutes and I'm not dressed yet, and +here you are ... _reading_." She had emphasized the last word as +though it were an unclean act. "Hurry and shave, you know how smooth +Jasper Jones' chin always looks, and then straighten up this room." +She glanced regretfully toward the fireplace. "Oh dear, that paper, +the television schedule ... oh well, after the Jones leave there won't +be time for anything but the late-late movie and.... Don't just sit +there, Henry, hurrreeee!" + +Henry was hurrying now, but hurrying too much. He cut his leg on a +twisted piece of metal that had once been an automobile fender. He +thought about things like lock-jaw and gangrene and his hand trembled +as he tied his pocket-handkerchief around the wound. In his mind, he +saw the fire again, licking across the face of last night's newspaper. +He thought that now he would have time to read all the newspapers he +wanted to, only now there wouldn't be any more. That heap of rubble +across the street had been the Gazette Building. It was terrible to +think there would never be another up to date newspaper. Agnes would +have been very upset, no television schedule. But then, of course, no +television. He wanted to laugh but he didn't. That wouldn't have been +fitting, not at all. + +He could see the building he was looking for now, but the silhouette +was strangely changed. The great circular dome was now a ragged +semi-circle, half of it gone, and one of the great wings of the +building had fallen in upon itself. A sudden panic gripped Henry +Bemis. What if they were all ruined, destroyed, every one of them? +What if there wasn't a single one left? Tears of helplessness welled +in his eyes as he painfully fought his way over and through the +twisted fragments of the city. + + * * * * * + +He thought of the building when it had been whole. He remembered the +many nights he had paused outside its wide and welcoming doors. He +thought of the warm nights when the doors had been thrown open and he +could see the people inside, see them sitting at the plain wooden +tables with the stacks of books beside them. He used to think then, +what a wonderful thing a public library was, a place where anybody, +anybody at all could go in and read. + +He had been tempted to enter many times. He had watched the people +through the open doors, the man in greasy work clothes who sat near +the door, night after night, laboriously studying, a technical journal +perhaps, difficult for him, but promising a brighter future. There had +been an aged, scholarly gentleman who sat on the other side of the +door, leisurely paging, moving his lips a little as he did so, a man +having little time left, but rich in time because he could do with it +as he chose. + +Henry had never gone in. He had started up the steps once, got almost +to the door, but then he remembered Agnes, her questions and shouting, +and he had turned away. + +He was going in now though, almost crawling, his breath coming in +stabbing gasps, his hands torn and bleeding. His trouser leg was +sticky red where the wound in his leg had soaked through the +handkerchief. It was throbbing badly but Henry didn't care. He had +reached his destination. + +Part of the inscription was still there, over the now doorless +entrance. P-U-B--C L-I-B-R---. The rest had been torn away. The place +was in shambles. The shelves were overturned, broken, smashed, tilted, +their precious contents spilled in disorder upon the floor. A lot of +the books, Henry noted gleefully, were still intact, still whole, +still readable. He was literally knee deep in them, he wallowed in +books. He picked one up. The title was "Collected Works of William +Shakespeare." Yes, he must read that, sometime. He laid it aside +carefully. He picked up another. Spinoza. He tossed it away, seized +another, and another, and still another. Which to read first ... there +were so many. + +He had been conducting himself a little like a starving man in a +delicatessen--grabbing a little of this and a little of that in a +frenzy of enjoyment. + +But now he steadied away. From the pile about him, he selected one +volume, sat comfortably down on an overturned shelf, and opened the +book. + +Henry Bemis smiled. + +There was the rumble of complaining stone. Minute in comparison with +the epic complaints following the fall of the bomb. This one occurred +under one corner of the shelf upon which Henry sat. The shelf moved; +threw him off balance. The glasses slipped from his nose and fell with +a tinkle. + +He bent down, clawing blindly and found, finally, their smashed +remains. A minor, indirect destruction stemming from the sudden, +wholesale smashing of a city. But the only one that greatly interested +Henry Bemis. + +He stared down at the blurred page before him. + +He began to cry. + + + THE END + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIME ENOUGH AT LAST ***
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