THE chasm
BY BRYCE WALTON
It was a war of survival. Children
against old men. And not a chance
in the world to bridge——
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, December 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The old man's face was turning gray with fatigue under the wrinkledbrown. He was beginning to get that deadly catching pain in his leftchest. But he forced himself to move again, his ragged dusty uniformof the old Home Guard blending into the rubble the way a lizard mergeswith sand.
He hobbled behind a pile of masonry and peered through the crack.He angled his bald head, listening. His hands never really stoppedquivering these days and the automatic rifle barrel made a flutteringcrackle on the concrete. He lowered the barrel, then wiped his facewith a bandanna.
He'd thought he heard a creeping rustle over there. But he didn't seeany sign of the Children.
He'd been picked to reconnoiter because his eyes were onlycomparatively good. The truth was he couldn't see too well, especiallywhen the sun reflecting on the flat naked angles of the ruined townmade his eyes smart and water and now his head was beginning to throb.
A dust devil danced away whirling a funnel of dust. Sal Lemmon lookedat it, and then he slid from behind the rubble and moved along downthe shattered block, keeping to the wall of jagged holes and brokenwalls that had once been the Main Street of a town.
He remembered with a wry expression on his face that he had passed hisninety-fourth birthday eight days back. He had never thought he couldbe concerned with whether he lived to see his ninety-fifth, becausethere had always been the feeling that by the time he was ninety-fourhe would have made his peace with himself and with whatever was outside.
He moved warily, like a dusty rabbit, in and out of the ruins,shrinking through the sun's dead noon glare.
He stopped, and crouched in the shade behind a pile of slag that hadonce been the iron statue of some important historical figure. Hecontacted Captain Murphy on the walkie-talkie.
"Don't see any signs of Children."
"Max said he saw some around there," Murphy yelled.
"Max's getting too old. Guess he's seeing things."
"He saw them right around there somewhere."
"Haven't seen him either."
"We haven't heard another word from Max here, Sal."
The old man shrugged. "How could the Children have gotten through ourpost defenses?" He looked away down the white glare of the street.
"You're supposed to be finding out," Murphy yelled. He had a good voicefor a man two months short of being a hundred. He liked to show it off.
Then Sal thought he saw an odd fluttery movement down the block.
"I'll report in a few minutes," he said, and then he edged along nextto the angled wall. A disturbed stream of plaster whispered down andran off his shoulder.
Near the corner, he stopped. "Max," he said. He whispered it severaltimes. "Max ... that you, Max?"
He moved nearer to the blob on the concrete. Heat waves radiatedup around it and it seemed to quiver and dance. He dropped thewalkie-talkie. There wasn't even enough left of Max to take back in orput under the ground.
He heard the metallic clank and the manhole cover moved and then hesaw them coming up over the edge. He ran and behind him he could heartheir screams and cries and their feet striking hard over the blis