The Complete Serials

by Clifford D. Simak

  “Oh, it’s Sutton, all right,” Anderson admitted. “There is no doubt of that. Sutton on the outside. Sutton in the flesh. The same body, or at least part of the same body, that left Earth twenty years ago.”

  “What are you getting at?” asked Clark. “If he’s the same, he’s human.”

  “You take an old spaceship,” said Anderson, “and you juice it up. Add a gadget here and another there, eliminate one thing, modify another. What have you got?”

  “A rebuilt job,” said Clark.

  “That’s just the phrase I wanted,” Anderson told them. “Someone or something has done the same to Sutton. He’s a rebuilt job. And the best human job I have ever seen. He’s got two hearts and his nervous system’s haywire . . . well, not haywire exactly, but different. Certainly not human. And he’s got an extra circulatory system. Not a circulatory system, either, but that is what it looks like. Only it’s not connected with the heart. Right now, I’d say, it’s not being used. Like a spare system. One system starts running down and you can switch to the spare one while you tinker with the first.”

  ANDERSON pocketed his pipe, rubbed his hands together almost as if he were washing them. “Well, there,” he said, “you have it.”

  Blackburn blurted out: “It sounds impossible.”

  Anderson appeared not to have heard him, and yet answered him. “We had Sutton under for the best part of an hour and we put every inch of him on tape and film. It takes some time to analyze a job like that. We aren’t finished yet. But we failed in one thing. We used a psychonometer on his mind and we didn’t get a nibble. Not a quaver, not a thought. Not even mental seepage. His mind was closed, tight shut.”

  “Some defect in the meter,” Adams suggested.

  “No,” said Anderson. “We checked that.” He looked around the room, from one face to another. “Maybe you don’t realize the implication. When a man is drugged or asleep . . . or in any case where he is unaware, a psychonometer will turn him inside out. It will dig out things that his waking self would swear he didn’t know. Even when a man fights against it, there is a certain seepage and that seepage widens as his mental resistance wears down.”

  “But it didn’t work with Sutton,” Shulcross said.

  “That’s right. It didn’t work with Sutton. I tell you, the man’s not human.”

  “And you think he’s different enough, physically, so that he could live in space without air, food and water?”

  “I don’t know,” said Anderson.

  He licked his lips and stared around the room. “I don’t know. I simply don’t.”

  Adams spoke softly. “We must not get upset. Alienness is no strange thing to us, Once it might have been, when the first humans went out into space. But today . . .”

  Clark interrupted impatiently. “Alien things themselves don’t bother me. But when a man turns alien . . .” He gulped, appealed to Anderson. “Do you think he’s dangerous?”

  “Possibly,” said Anderson.

  “Even if he is, he can’t do much to harm us,” Adams told them calmly. “That place of his is simply clogged with spy rigs.”

  “Any reports in yet?” asked Blackburn.

  “Just general. Nothing specific. Sutton has been taking it easy. Had a few calls. Made a few himself. Had a visitor or two.”

  “He knows he’s being watched,” said Clark. “He’s putting on an act.”

  “There’s a rumor around,” said Blackburn, “that Benton challenged him.”

  Adams nodded. “Yes, he did. Ash tried to back out of it. That doesn’t sound as if he’s dangerous.”

  “Maybe,” speculated Clark, almost hopefully, “Benton will close our case for us.”

  Adams smiled thinly. “Somehow I think Ash may have spent the afternoon thinking up a dirty deal for our Mr. Benton.”

  Anderson had fished the pipe out of his pocket, was loading it from his pouch. Clark was fumbling for a cigarette.

  ADAMS looked at Shulcross. “You have something?”

  The language expert nodded. “But it’s not too exciting. We opened Sutton’s case and we found a manuscript. We photostated it and replaced it exactly as it was. But so far it hasn’t done us any good. We can’t read a word of it.”

  “Code,” said Blackburn.

  Shulcross shook his head. “If it was code, our robots would have cracked it in an hour or two. But it’s not a code. It’s language. And until you get a key, a language can’t be cracked.”

  “You’ve checked, of course.” Shulcross smiled glumly. “Back to the old Earth languages . . . back to Babylon and Crete. We crosschecked every lingo in the galaxy. None of them came close.”

  “Language,” said Blackburn. “A new language. That means Sutton found something.”

  “Sutton would,” said Adams. “He’s the best agent I ever had.” Anderson stirred restlessly in his chair. “You like Sutton?” he asked. “I do,” said Adams.

  “Adams,” said Anderson, “I’ve been wondering. It’s a thing that struck me funny from the first.”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “You knew Sutton was coming back. Knew almost to the minute when he would arrive. And you set g mousetrap for him. How come?”

  “Just a hunch,” said Adams.

  For a long moment all four of them sat looking at him. Then they saw he meant to say no more. They rose and left the room.

  IX

  ACROSS the room a woman’s laughter floated, sharpedged with excitement.

  The lights changed from the dusk-blue of April to the purple-gray of madness, and the room was another world that floated in a hush that was not exactly silence. Perfume came down a breeze that touched the cheek with ice . . . perfume that called to mind black orchids in an outland of breathless terror.

  The floor swayed beneath Sutton’s feet and he felt Eva’s-small fist digging hard into his arm.

  The Zag spoke to them—an android with specialized psychic development—and his words were dead and hollow sounds dripping from a mummied husk. “What is it that you wish? Here you live the lives you yearn for . . . find any escape that, you may seek . . . possess the things you dream of.”

  “There was a stream,” said Sutton. “A little creek that ran . . .” The light changed to green, a faery green that glowed with soft, quiet life, exuberant, springtime life and the hint of things to come, and there were trees, trees that were fringed and haloed with the glistening, sun-kissed green of first-bursting buds.

  Sutton wiggled his toes and knew the grass beneath them, the first tender grass of spring, and smelled the hepatieas and bloodroot that had almost no smell at all . . . and the stronger scent of sweet Williams blooming on the hill across the creek.

  He told himself: “It’s too early for sweet Williams to be in bloom.”

  The creek gurgled at him as it ran across the shingle down into the Big Hole, and he hurried forward across the meadow grass, cane pole tight-clutched in one hand, the can of worms in the other.

  A bluebird flashed through the trees that climbed the bluff across the meadow and a robin sang high in the top of the mighty elm that grew above the Big Hole.

  Sutton found the worn place in the bank, like a chair with the elm’s trunk serving as a back, and he sat down in it and leaned forward to peer into the water. The current ran strong and dark and deep.

  Sutton drew in his breath and held it with pent-up anticipation. With shaking hands he found the biggest worm and pulled it from the can, baited up the hook.

  Breathlessly, he dropped the hook into the water, canted the pole in front of him for easy handling. The bobber drifted down the swirling slide of water, floated in an eddy where the current turned back upon itself. It jerked, almost disappeared, then bobbed to the surface and floated once again.

  Sutton leaned forward, arms aching with tension. But even through the tension, he knew the goodness of the day. The water talked to him and he felt himself grow and become a being that comprehended and became a part of the clean, white ecstasy
that was the hills and stream and meadow . . . earth, cloud, water, sky and sun.

  And the bobber went clear under!

  He felt the weight and strength of the fish that he had caught. It sailed in an arc above his head and landed in the grass behind him. He laid down his pole, scrambled to his feet and ran.

  The chub flopped in the grass and he grabbed the line and held it up. It was a whopper! Sobbing in excitement, he dropped to his knees and grasped the fish,. removed the hook with fingers that fumbled in their trembling.

  “Hello,” said a childish voice.

  Sutton twisted around, still on his knees.

  A LITTLE girl stood by the elm tree, and it seemed for a moment that he had seen her somewhere before. But then he realized that she was a stranger and he frowned a little, for girls were no good when it came to fishing. He hoped she wouldn’t stay. It would be just like a girl to hang around and spoil the day for him.

  “I am . . .” she said, speaking a name he did not catch, for she lisped a little.

  He did not answer.

  “I am eight years old,” she said.

  “I am Asher Sutton,” he told her, “and I am ten . . . going on eleven.”

  She stood and stared at him, one hand plucking nervously at the figured apron that she wore. The apron, he noticed, was clean and stanched, very stiff and prim, and she was messing it all up with her nervous plucking.

  “I am fishing,” he said and tried very hard to keep from sounding too important. “And I just caught a whopper.”

  He saw her eyes go large in sudden terror at the sight of something that came up from behind him and he wheeled around, no longer on his knees, but on his feet, and his hand was snaking into the pocket of his coat.

  The place was purple-gray and there was shrill woman-laughter and there was a face in front of him . . . a face he had seen that afternoon and never would forget.

  A fat and cultured face that twinkled even now with good fellowship, twinkled despite the deadly squint, and the gun already swinging upward in his hairy, pudgy fist.

  Sutton felt his own fingers touch the grip on the gun he carried, felt them tighten around it and jerk it from the pocket. But he was too late, he knew, to beat the spat of flame from a gun that had long seconds start.

  Anger flamed within him, cold, desolate, deadly anger. Anger at the pudgy fist, at the smiling face . . . the face that would smile across a chess board or from behind a gun. The smile of an egotist who would try to beat a robotic that was designed to play a perfect game of chess . . . an egotist who believed that he could shoot down Asher Sutton.

  THE anger, he realized, was something more than anger . . . something greater and more devastating than the mere working of human adrenal. It was a part of him and something that was more than him, more than the mortal thing of flesh and blood that was Asher Sutton. A terrible thing. plucked from non-humanity.

  The face before him melted . . . or it seemed to melt. It changed and the smile was gone, and Sutton felt the anger whip from his brain and slam bullet-hard against the wilting personality that was Geoffrey Benton.

  Benton’s gun coughed loudly and the muzzle-flash was blood red in the purple light. Then Sutton felt the thud of his own gun slamming back against the heel of his hand as he pulled the trigger.

  Benton was falling, twisting forward, bending at the middle as if he had hinges in his stomach, and Sutton caught one glimpse of the purple-tinted face before it dropped to the floor. There were surprise and anguish and a terrible over-riding fear printed on the features that had been twisted out of shape.

  The crashing of the guns had smashed the place to silence, and through the garish light that swirled with powder smoke, Sutton saw the white blobs of many faces staring at him. Faces that mostly were without expression, although some of them had mouths and the mouths were round and open.

  He felt a tugging at his elbow and he moved, guided by the hand upon his arm. Suddenly he was limp and shaken and the anger was no more and he told himself: “I have just killed a man.”

  “Quick,” said Eva Armour’s voice.

  “We must get out of here. They’ll be swarming at you now. The whole hell’-s pack of them.”

  “It was you,” he told her. “I remember now. I didn’t catch the name at first. You mumbled it . . . or I guess you lisped, and I didn’t hear it.”

  The girl tugged at his arm. “They had Benton-conditioned to kill you. They figured that was all they needed. They never dreamed you could match him in a duel.”

  “You were the little girl,” Sutton told her blankly. “You wore a checkered apron and you kept twisting it nervously.”

  “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

  “I was fishing,” Benton said, “and I had just caught a big one when you came along . . .”

  “You’re crazy,” said the girl. “Fishing? Here?”

  She pushed open a door and pulled him out and the cool air of night slapped him briskly and shockingly across the face.

  “Wait a second,” he cried. He wheeled around and caught the girl’s arms roughly in his hands. “They?” he yelled at her. “What are you talking about? Who are they . . .”

  She stared at him wide-eyed. “You mean you don’t know?”

  He shook his head, bewildered. “Poor Ash,” she said.

  Her copper hair was a reddish flame, burnished and alive in the flicker of the sign that flashed on and off above the Zag House facade:

  DREAMS TO ORDER

  Live the Life You Missed!

  Dream Up a Tough One for Us!

  AN android doorman spoke to them softly. “You wished a cab, sir?” Even as he spoke, the car was there, sliding smoothly and silently up the driveway, like a black beetle winging from the night. The doorman reached out a hand and swung wide the door. “Quick is the word,” he said.

  There was something in the soft, slurred tone that made Sutton move. He stepped inside the car and pulled Eva after him. The android slammed the door.

  Sutton tramped on the accelerator and the car screamed down the curving driveway, slid into the highway, roared with leashed impatience as it took the long road curving toward the hills.

  “Where?” asked Sutton.

  “Back to the Arms,” she said. “They wouldn’t dare to try for you there. Your room is rigged with rays.”

  Sutton chuckled. “I have to be careful or I would trip on them. But how come you know?”

  “It is my job to know.”

  “Friend or foe?” he asked. “Friend,” she said.

  He turned his head and studied her. She had slumped down in the seat and was a little girl again . . . but she didn’t have a checkered apron and she wasn’t nervous.

  “I don’t suppose,” said Sutton, “that it would be any use for me to ask you questions?”

  She shook her head.

  “If I did, you’d probably lie to me.”

  “If I wanted to,” she said.

  “I could shake it out of you.”

  “You could, but you won’t. You see, Ash, I know you very well.”

  “You just met me yesterday.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said, “but I’ve studied you for all of twenty years.”

  X

  THE trunk came in the morning when Sutton was finishing his breakfast.

  It was old and battered, the ancient rawhide covering hanging in tatters to reveal. the marred steel skeleton, flecked here and there with rust. A key was in the lock and the straps were broken. Mice had gnawed the leather completely off one end.

  Sutton remembered it. It was the one that had stood in the far corner of the attic when he had been a boy and gone there to play on rainy afternoons.

  He picked up the neatly folded copy of the morning edition of the Galactic Press that had come with his breakfast tray and shook it out.

  The article he was looking for was on the front page, the third item in the Earth news column:

  Mr. Geoffrey Befit on was killed last nig
ht in an informal meeting at one of the amusement centers in the university district. The victor was Mr. Asher Sutton, who returned only yesterday from a mission to 61 Cygni.

  There was a final sentence, the most damning that could be written of a duelist:

  Mr. Benton fired first and missed.

  Sutton folded the paper again and laid it carefully on the table. He lit a cigarette.

  I thought it would be me, he told himself. I never fired a gun like that before . . . scarcely knew such a gun existed. Of course, I didn’t really kill Benton. He killed himself. If he hadn’t missed . . . and there was no excuse for missing . . . the item would have read the other way around.

  We’ll make an evening of it, the girl had said, and she probably knew. We’ll have dinner and make an evening of it and Geoffrey Benton will kill you by appointment at the Zag House.

  YES, said Sutton to himself, she might have known. She knows too many things. About the spy traps in this room, for instance. And about someone who had Benton psychologically conditioned to challenge me and kill me.

  She said friend when I asked her friend or foe, but a word is an easy thing. There is no way to know if it is true or false.

  She said she had studied me for twenty years and that is false, of course, for twenty years ago I was setting out for Cygni and I was unimportant. Just a cog in a great machine. I am unimportant still, unimportant to everyone but myself, and to a great idea that no human but myself could possible know about. For no matter if the manuscript was photostated; there is not a soul can read it.

  He snubbed out the cigarette and rose and walked over to the trunk. The lock was rusty. and the key turned hard, but he finally got it open and lifted up the lid.

  The trunk was half full of papers neatly piled. Sutton, looking at them, chuckled. Buster always was a methodical soul. But, then, all robots were methodical. It was the nature of them. Methodical and—what was it Herkimer had said?—stubborn.

  He squatted on the floor beside the trunk and rummaged through the contents. Old letters tied neatly in bundles. An old notebook from his college days. A sheaf of clipped-together documents that undoubtedly were outdated. A scrapbook littered with clippings that had not been pasted up. An album half filled with a cheap stamp collection.