The mind-picture burst upon him vividly and with electrifying effect: a vision of a tall, white-haired, stern-faced old man with a tubular weapon propped upon his shoulder while it spat fire upward. A white-haired old man! An adult!
His grip was tight on the other’s arm. “What is this oldster to you?”
“Nothing much. He lives near us in the shelters.”
Picture of a long, dusty concrete burrow, badly damaged, its ceiling marked with the scars of a lighting system which had rotted away to nothing. The old man living hermitlike at one end; the children at the other. The old man was sour, taciturn, kept the children at a distance, spoke to them seldom but was quick to respond when they were menaced. He had guns. Once he had killed many wild dogs that had eaten two children.
“People left us near shelters because Old Graypate was there, and had guns,” informed Speedy.
“But why does he keep away from children? Doesn’t he like children?”
“Don’t know.” He mused a moment. “Once told us that old people could get very sick and make young ones sick—and then we’d all die. Maybe he’s afraid of making us die.” Speedy wasn’t very sure about it.
So there was some much-feared disease around, something contagious, to which adults were peculiarly susceptible. Without hesitation they abandoned their young at the first onslaught, hoping that at least the children would live. Sacrifice after sacrifice that the remnants of the race might survive. Heartbreak after heartbreak as elders chose death alone rather than death together.
Yet Graypate himself was depicted as very old. Was this an exaggeration of the child-mind?
“I must meet Graypate.”