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                               SURVIVORS

                        By Arthur Dekker Savage

            When man embarks upon the final atomic war his
            civilization may be destroyed; yet, there will
          be survivors. Would you want to be one of them?...

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                               May 1952
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


"Oluf!"

"Bowron!"

They recognized each other simultaneously, there in the thin fringe of
tangled brush skirting a hidden lake.

"Oluf, it's good to see you again--I thought there was nothing but
mountains, wolves and Wild Ones between me and civilization!" They
picked their way slowly toward the shore together.

Oluf dropped gratefully to the warm sand. The sunset highlighted his
reddish hair. "You're not far wrong--there was wolf spoor back on that
north ridge. But what in the name of the Moon are you doing so far from
New York?"

"Heading south, to stay," Bowron said. He scanned the brush and trees
behind them cautiously, then stretched out beside his companion,
sighing. "I'm getting too old for the winters, and the canned foods in
the ruins are getting scarcer every year."

Oluf looked at him in disbelief. "You're traveling alone?"

"Aren't you?" The retort was sharp, with the keen edge of elderly pride.

Something like a weary chuckle sounded deep in Oluf's throat. He spoke
with easy candor. "Yes, but--look, Bowron, I'm a hunter by choice. And
I'm big and in my prime. I can run half a day at top speed, and I'm not
too bad in a free-for-all. You're a teacher--wise, but not in the ways
of the wilds; your senses are dull and your reactions slow, like all
city folk."

Bowron's eyes looked suddenly tired, older. He gazed out over the
placid water. "I could persuade no one to accompany me," he said
simply. "You made a good choice, Oluf, to terminate your education and
seek the freedom of the wilds--the natural life that I think all must
someday embrace." He sighed deeply. "Of course, there is the dream of
achievement that the city dwellers entertain. We've grown soft in
our dependence upon the buried food in the rubble--spending our time
in study of the books and other god-things, always hoping that we can
understand and duplicate the old civilization. But our best thinkers,
since they are the most eager searchers, stumble most often into the
hidden pockets of radioactivity that endure even yet; and they die, and
their knowledge dies with them, and our dreams and aspirations become
dimmer with each generation."

       *       *       *       *       *

Oluf grunted, and Bowron went on as though to himself. "I've come
to believe that it's useless to follow in the footsteps of the
gods--that we must wait, and think, and work, each in his own way,
until we learn what is possible for us through our own trials and
the further development of our simple tools. We've learned much from
the god-things, slowly, over the years. But we also know that we're
mutants, changed by the radiation of the great war areas, breeding true
at last, and that we are different from the Wild Ones. True, we're
superior, but--we're not gods. Whether we can ever--"

Oluf had sprung to his feet and was gone with incredible speed. Bowron
sat up tensely, listened to the crashing of brush, and, finally, to
a shrill squeal of departing life. He relaxed and waited until Oluf,
grinning, returned with a rabbit.

"Our dinner, old-timer. Sorry I wasn't listening too closely to what
you were saying."

Later, after they had eaten and were stretched comfortably on the
moon-drenched shore, Oluf grew reminiscent. "I remember your teachings,
Bowron. And I recall well our endless attempts to operate the
god-things--the machines and mechanisms. But all that always seemed
strange. Best of all I liked the tales of the old days--the stories of
our ancestors."

Bowron nodded thoughtfully. "It was that way with most of my pupils. It
was more comfortable to dream of the past than to cope with the current
hardships. It seemed to arouse some dormant instinct in all of us--" He
broke off and sighed. "Would you like to hear another of the stories?"

"Very much!"

Bowron studied the bright moon. "Well--once in the far and long ago,
there was a man named Smith, who lived in a big city...."

When the tale was done, Oluf seemed deeply moved. "I believe," he said
slowly, "that I'll go with you to the Southland. You might easily
perish on the way, and such words as yours must live to give others
comfort and hope--for we may yet find living gods in some remote corner
of the world. It must have been wonderful," he mused sleepily, "to
have lived in companionship with the gods--with men." He curled up
comfortably, paws tucked in, and laid his nose across his bushy tail.

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