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What do you get when you cross Lao Tzu and an application for a university teaching application? What do you get when you give W. G. Sebald and Clarice Lispector the ability to speak from the afterlife? What happens if a girl is stopped at a red light for an entire year? In on the Great Joke is a palace of hybridity, where film structure informs poetry, poetry alters the essay, and the essay recalibrates the joke. Broadbent has lent her ear to the dead, the living, the voiceless, to give us the punchline of what it means to be intellectually alive.

[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 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 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 blisters,cracks, and dried out holes in the dead town's skin.

He dodged into rubble and fell and got up and kept on running. Thepain was like something squeezing in his belly, and he kept on runningbecause he wanted to live and because he had to tell the others thatthe Children were indeed inside the post defenses.

He knew now how they had come in. Through the sewers, under thedefenses. He began to feel and hear them crawling, digging, movingall over beneath the ruins, waiting to come out in a filthy screamingstream.

Captain Murphy was pacing in a circle, looking like something sewnquickly together by a nervous seamstress. Doctor Cartley sat on acanvas chair, elbows on knees, chin in his hands. He kept looking atthe floor. He was in his early eighties and sometimes seemed like ayoung man to Sal. His ideas maybe. He thought differently about theChildren and where things were going.

"Another hour's all we need. If they attack before then we can holdthem off long enough to get that barge into the river. Once we get intothe river with it, we'll be safe. We can float her down and into thesea. Somewhere along the coast we'll land and wherever it is will befine for us. We'll have licked the Children. They know we've found theonly eatable food stores in God knows how many thousands of miles inthis goddamned wasteland. They can't live another month without thisstuff, and we're taking it all down the river. That's right isn't it,Doc?"

Cartley looked up. "But as I said before, squeezing a little more lifeout of ourselves doesn't mean anything to me. What do we want to getaway and live a little longer for? It doesn't make sense, except in aridiculous selfish way. So we live another month, maybe six months, ora year longer? What for?"

"We ought to try. Running off, taking all this food, that means they'resure to die inside a few weeks. They might catch a few rats or birds,but there aren't even enough of those around to sustain life beyonda few days. So we kill the future just so we can go on living for alittle longer. We've got no reason to live when we know the race willdie. My wife refused to fight them. They killed her, that's true,but I still think she was right. We've got to make one more attemptto establish some kind of truce with the Children. If we had that,then we might be able to start building up some kind of relationship.The only way they can survive, even if they had food, is to absorbour knowledge. You know that. Without our knowledge and experience,they'll die anyway, even if they had a thousand years of food supplies."

Cartley looked at the shadows for a long time. Finally he shook hishead. "I don't have any idea how to do it. But we should try. We can'tuse discipline and power because we're too weak. And too outnumbered.We'd have to do that first in order to teach them, and we can't. Sothere has to be some other way."

"Faith?" Sal said. He shook his head. "They don't believe in anything.You can't make any appeal to them through faith, or ethics, any kind ofcode of honor, nothing like that. They're worse than animals."

Cartley stood up wearily and started to walk away. "They hate us," hesaid. "That's the one thing we're sure of. We're the means and they'rethe ends. We made them what they are. They're brutalized and motivatedalmost completely by hatred. And what's underneath hatred?" He fumedback toward Murphy. "Fear."

"That doesn't matter," Murphy said. "It's the hate and viciousbrutality we have to deal with. You do whatever you want to do,Cartley. We've voted, and we've voted to move the stuff out tonight onthe barge. The world we helped make is dead, Cartley. The Children grewup in a world we killed. We've all got bad consciences, but we can't doanything about it. The chasm between them and us is too wide. It waswide even before the bombs fell. And the bombs made it a hell of a lotwider. Too wide to put any kind of bridge across now."

The barge was about loaded. All outer defense units had been pulled inand were concentrated on the head of the pier behind walls of sandbags.Burp guns and machine guns were ready, and the barge lay along the sideof the pier in the moonlight like a dead whale. There were severalsewer openings near the head of the pier. Men were stationed aroundthese sewers with automatic rifles, hand grenades and flame throwers.

"We'll need a little time," Cartley said. "We'll have to wait. I figurewe'll row upstream maybe a few hundred yards, and hole up in one ofthose caves. We can watch, Sal. We can watch and wait and try to figureit out."

"The Children," Cartley said, "never had a chance to be any other way.But we're the oldsters, and we've got this obligation, Sal. Man's acultural animal. He isn't born with any inherent concepts of right,or wrong, or good or bad, or even an ability to survive on an animallevel. We have to be taught to survive by the elders, Sal. And we'rethe elders." He hesitated, "We're the only ones left."

A flare of horrid light exploded over the warehouse down river and itlit up Cartley's face and turned it a shimmering crimson. His handswidened to perfect roundness and he raised his hands in a voicelessscream to stop the sudden explosions of burp guns, grenades, machineguns, and rifles.

Looking down river then, Sal could see the flames eating up through thewarehouse. The pier, the barge, everything for a hundred square yardswas lit up as bright as day, and the flare spread out over the riverand made a black ominous shadow of the opposite bank.

Sal watched the barge move out. The Children came screaming out of theblazing warehouse, overran the pier, streamed into the water. But asteady blast of fire from the barge drove them back, and in a few moreminutes the barge dissolved downriver into darkness.

Only the oldest and the youngest had been saved. The old out ofpity and because they were helpless, had been granted the safety ofshelters. The young because they were the symbols of hope had beengranted shelters, too.

"No," Cartley said. "It started long before that. The chasm wasbuilding up long before the war. This alienation between the young andthe old. Between the sun and the seed. That's what we've got to bringback, Sal. Between us, we have stored up a hundred and seventy-nineyears of human culture. There isn't a kid back there, Sal, more thantwelve years old."

Cartley heard the sound first and turned, his face white. When Sallooked toward the bank, he saw the girl. She came on out from thecurtain of reeds and looked at them. She was perfectly clear in themoonlight standing there. She wore a short ragged print dress and shehad long hair that seemed silken and soft and golden in the moonlighteven though it, her dress, her little legs and her face were streakedwith mud.

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