The Complete Serials

by Clifford D. Simak

  And that was true, Blaine thought. Even with just one extra mind, he was cluttered up. He wondered—

  Yes, of course, the Pinkness told him. You’ll get it straightened out in time. It takes a little while. You’ll become one mind, not two. You’ll get together. You’ll make a team. You like it this way, don’t you?

  It’s been a little rough, this mirror business.

  I’m not bent on causing trouble, said the Pinkness. I only do the best I can. So I make mistakes. So I fix it up. I take the mirror off, I cancel it. O.K.?

  O.K., said Blaine.

  I sit here, said the Pinkness, and I go visiting. Without stirring from this place, I go any place I wish and you’d be surprised how few minds I find that I’d care to trade for.

  In ten thousand years, however, you’d pick up a lot of them.

  Ten thousand years, said the creature, startled. Ten thousand years, my friend, is only yesterday.

  He sat there, mumbling, reaching back and back and not reaching the beginning and he finally gave it up.

  And there are so few of them, he complained, that can handle a second mind. I must be careful of them. There are a lot of them that think they are possessed. Some of these would go insane if I traded with them. You, perhaps, can understand.

  Readily, said Blaine.

  Come, said the Pinkness, and sit down here beside me.

  I’m scarcely, Blaine explained, in a condition to do much sitting.

  Oh, yes, I see, the creature said. I should have thought of that. Well, then, move over closer. You came for a visit, I presume.

  Naturally, said Blaine, not knowing what to say.

  Then, said the creature grimly, leave us start to visit.

  Certainly, said Blaine, moving somewhat closer.

  Now, where shall I start? the creature asked. There are so many places and so many times and so many different creatures. It always is a problem. I suppose it comes because of a desire for neatness, an orderliness of mind. The thought persists to plague me that if I could put it all together I might arrive at something of significance. You would not mind, I presume, if I should tell you about those strange creatures that I ran into out at the edge of the galaxy.

  Not at all, said Blaine.

  They are rather extraordinary, said the Pinkness, in that they did not develop machines as your culture did, but became, in effect, machines themselves—

  Sitting there in the bright blue room, with the alien stars flaming overhead, with the faint, far-off sound of the raging desert wind a whisper in the room, the Pinkness talked—not only of the machines entities, but of many others. Of the insect tribes that piled up over endless centuries huge reserves of food for which they had no need, slaving on an endless treadmill of a blind economic mania. Of the race that made their art forms the basis of a weird religion. Of the listening posts manned by garrisons of a galactic empire that had long since been forgotten by all except the garrisons themselves. Of the fantastic and complicated sexual arrangements of yet another race of beings who, faced with the massive difficulties of procreation, thought of little else. Of planets that never had known life, but rolled along their courses as gaunt and raw and naked as the day they had been formed. And of other planets that were a boiling brew pot of chemical reactions which stretched the mind to think on, let alone to understand, and of how these chemical reactions of themselves gave rise to an unstable, ephemeral sort of sentience that was life one moment and just failed of life another.

  This—and yet a great deal more.

  Blaine, listening, realized the true fantastic measure of this creature which he had stumbled on—an apparently deathless thing, which had no memory of its beginning, no concept of an end; a creature with a roving mind that had mentally explored, over billions of years, millions of stars and planets for millions of light-years, in this present galaxy and in some of the neighbor ones; a mind that had assembled a gigantic grab-box of assorted information, but information which it had made no effort to put to any use. That it, more than likely, had no idea of how to put to use, yet troubled by the nagging of a vague idea that some use should be made of it.

  The sort of creature that could sit in the sun for endless time and spin eccentric yarns of all that it had seen.

  And for the human race, thought Blaine, here squatted an encyclopedia of galactic knowledge, here lounged an atlas that had mapped uncounted cubic light-years. Here was the sort of creature that the tribe of Man could use. Here was a running-off of mouth that would pay human dividends—dividends from an entity which seemed without emotion, other than a certain sense of friendliness—an entity that, perhaps, in years of armchair observation, had had all emotion, if any had existed, worn away until they were so much dust—who had not used any of the knowledge it had gained, but had not been the loser. For in all its observation, in its galactic window-peeping, it had gained a massive tolerance and an understanding, not of its own nature, not of human nature, but of every nature, an understanding of life itself, of sentience and intelligence. And a sympathy of all motives and all ethics, and of each ambition, no matter how distorted in the eyes of other life.

  And all of this, as well, Blaine realized with a start, was likewise stored in the mind of one human being, of one Shepherd Blaine, if he could only separate it and classify and store it and then could dig it out and put it to proper use.

  Listening, Blaine lost all sense of time, lost all knowing of what he was or where he was or why he might be there, listening as a boy might listen to some stupendous tale spun by an ancient mariner from far and unknown land.

  The room became familiar and the Pinkness was a friend and the stars were no longer alien and the far-off howling of the desert wind was a cradle song that he had always known.

  It was a long time before he realized he was listening only to the wind and that the stories of far away and long ago had ceased.

  He stirred, almost sleepily, and the Pinkness said: That was a nice visit that we had. I think it was the best that I have ever had.

  There is one thing, said Blaine. One question—

  If it is the shield, the Pinkness said, you needn’t worry. I took it away. There is nothing to betray you.

  It wasn’t that, said Blaine. It was time. I . . . that is, the two of us . . . have some control of time. Twice it saved my life—

  It is there, the Pinkness said. The understanding’s in your mind. You only have to find it.

  But, time—

  Time, the creature said, is the simplest thing there is. I’ll tell you—

  XVII

  Blaine lay for a long time, soaking in the feel of body, for now he had a body. He could feel the pressure on it, he could sense the movement of the air as it touched the skin, knew the hot damp of perspiration prickle along his arms and face and chest.

  He was no longer in the blue room, for there he had no body and there was no longer the far-off sound of the desert wind. There was, instead, a regular rasping sound that had a slobber in it. And there was a smell, an astringent smell, an aggressively antiseptic odor that filled not only the nostrils, but the entire body.

  He let his eyelids come up slowly against possible surprise, set to snap them shut again if there should be a need. But there was only whiteness, plain and unrelieved. There was no more than the whiteness of a ceiling.

  His head was on a pillow and there was a sheet beneath him and he was dressed in some sort of garment that had a scratchiness.

  He moved his head and he saw the other bed and upon it lay a mummy.

  Time, the creature on that other world had said. Time is the simplest thing there is. And it had said that it would tell him, but it hadn’t told him, for he hadn’t stayed to hear.

  It was like a dream, he thought—thinking back on it, it had the unreal, flat-planed quality of a dream, but it had not been any dream. He had been in the blue room once again and he’d talked with the creature that was its habitant. He had heard it spin its yarns and he still retained within his min
d the details of those yarns. There was no fading of the detail as there would have been if it had been a dream.

  The mummy lay upon the bed swathed in bandages. There were holes in the bandages for the nostrils and the mouth, but no holes for the eyes. And as it breathed it slobbered.

  The walls were of the same whiteness as the ceiling and the floors were covered with ceramic tile and there was a sterility about the place that shrieked its identity.

  He was in a hospital room with a slobering mummy.

  Fear moved in on him, a sudden wash of fear, but he lay there quietly while it washed over him. For even in the fear, he knew that he was safe. There was some reason he was safe. There was some reason if he could think of it.

  Where had he been, he wondered; where had he been other than the blue room? His mind went tracking back and he remembered where he’d been—in the willow thicket in the gully beyond the edge of town.

  There were footsteps in the hall outside and a man with a white jacket came into the room.

  The man stopped inside the door and stood there looking at him.

  “So you’ve come around at last,” the doctor said. “How do you feel?”

  “Not too bad,” said Blaine, and actually he felt fine. There didn’t seem to be a thing the matter. “Where did you pick me up?”

  The doctor did not answer. He asked another question: “Did anything like this ever happen to you before?”

  “Like what?”

  “Blacking out,” the doctor said. “Falling into coma.”

  Blaine rocked his head from side to side upon the pillow. “Not that I recall.”

  “Almost,” the doctor said, “as if you were the victim of a spell.” Blaine laughed. “Witchcraft, doctor?”

  The doctor grimaced. “No, I don’t imagine so. But one never knows. The patient sometimes thinks so.” He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m Dr. Wetmore,” he told Blaine. “You’ve been here two days. Some boys were hunting rabbits east of town. They found you. You had crawled underneath some willows. They thought that you were dead.”

  “And so you hauled me in.”

  “The police did. They went out and got you.”

  “And what is wrong with me?” Wetmore shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “I haven’t any money. I can’t pay you, doctor.”

  “That,” the doctor told him, “is not of any moment.”

  He sat there, looking at him. There is one thing, however. There were no papers on you. Do you remember who you are?”

  “Sure. I’m Shepherd Blaine.”

  “And you live where?”

  “No where,” said Blaine. “I just wander round.”

  “How did you get to this town?”

  “I don’t somehow recall.” He sat up in bed. “Look, doctor, how about getting out of here. I’m taking up a bed.”

  The doctor shook his head. “I’d like you to stick around. There are several tests—”

  “It’ll be a lot of trouble.”

  “I’ve never run across a case like yours,” the doctor said. “You’d be doing me a favor. There was nothing wrong with you. Nothing organically, that is. Your heartbeat was retarded. Your breathing a little shallow. Your temperature off a point or two. But otherwise all right, except that you were out. No way of waking you.” Blaine jerked his head toward the mummy. “He’s in bad shape, isn’t he?”

  “Highway accident,” the doctor said.

  “That’s a bit unusual. Not many any more.”

  “Unusual circumstance,” the doctor explained. “Driving an old truck. Tire blew when he was going fast. One of the curves above the river.” Blaine looked sharply at the man on the other bed, but there was no way to tell. None of him was showing. His breath went slobbering in and out and there was a rasping to it, but there was no way to tell who he might be.

  “I could arrange another room,” the doctor offered.

  “No need. I won’t be around too long.”

  “I wish you’d stay a while. You might flop over once again. And not be found this time.”

  “I’ll think on it,” Blaine promised.

  He lay back on the bed.

  The doctor rose and went to the other bed. He bent over it and listened to the breathing. He found a wad of cotton and dabbed it at the lips. He murmured at the man who lay there, then he straightened up.

  “Anything you need?” he inquired of Blaine. “You must be getting hungry.”

  Blaine nodded. Now that he thought of it, he was.

  “No hurry, though,” he said.

  “I’ll speak to the kitchen,” said the doctor. “They’ll find something for you.”

  He turned about and walked briskly from the room and Blaine lay listening to his crisp, quick footsteps going down the hall.

  And suddenly he knew—or remembered—why he now was safe. The flashing signal light was gone, for the creature of the far star had taken it from him. Now there was no longer need to skulk, no need of hiding out.

  He lay and thought about and felt a bit more human—although, to tell the truth, he had never felt anything but human. Although now, for the first time, beneath the humanness, he felt the quick, tense straining of new knowledge, of a deep strata of new knowledge that was his to tap.

  Across, in the other bed, the mummy wheezed and rasped and slobbered.

  “Riley!” whispered Blaine.

  There was no break in the breathing, no sign of recognition.

  Blaine swung on the bed and thrust out his feet. He sat on the edge of the bed and let his feet down to the floor and the patterned tile was chill. He stood up and the scratchy hospital gown hung obscenely around his shanks.

  At the other bed, he bent close above the white-swathed thing that lay there.

  “Riley! Is it you? Riley, do you hear me?”

  The mummy stirred.

  The head tried to turn toward him, but it couldn’t. The lips moved with an effort. The tongue fought to frame a sound.

  “Tell—” it said, dragging out the word with the effort of its saying.

  It tried again. “Tell Finn,” it said.

  There was more to say. Blaine could sense that there was more to say. He waited. The lips moved again, laboriously, and yet again. The tongue writhed heavily inside the slobbering cavern. But there was nothing more.

  “Riley!” But there was no answer.

  Blaine backed away until the edge of his bed caught him back of the knees and he sat down upon it.

  He stayed there, staring at the swathed figure motionless on the bed.

  And the fear, he thought, had caught up with the man at last, the fear that he had raced across half a continent. Although, perhaps, not the fear he ran from, but another fear and another danger.

  Riley gasped and panted.

  And there he lay, thought Blaine, a man who had some piece of information to pass on to a man named Finn. Who was Finn and where? What had he to do with Riley?

  There had been a Finn.

  Once, long ago, he’d known the name of Finn.

  Blaine sat stiff and straight upon the bed, remembering what he knew of Finn.

  Although it might be a different Finn.

  For Lambert Finn had been a Fishhook traveler, too, although he’d disappeared, even as Godfrey Stone had disappeared, but many years before Stone had disappeared, long before Blaine himself had ever come to Fishhook.

  And now he was a whispered name, a legend, a chilling character in a chilling story, one of the few Fishhook horror tales.

  For, so the story ran, Lambert Finn had come back from the stars one day a screaming maniac!

  XVIII

  Blaine lay back upon the bed and stared up at the ceiling. A breeze came sniffing through the window and leaf shadows from a tree outside played fitfully upon the wall. It must be a stubborn tree, Blaine thought, among the last to lose its leaves, for it was late October now.

  He listened to the muffled sounds that came
from the hushed corridors beyond the room and the biting antiseptic smell was still hanging in the air.

  He must get out of here, he thought; he must be on his way. But on his way to where? On his way to Pierre, of course—to Pierre and Harriet, if Harriet were there. But Pierre might know, there was no purpose in it. So far as he could know, it was just a place to run to.

  For he was running still, in blind and desperate flight. He’d been running since that moment when he’d returned from his mission to the stars. And worst of all, running without purpose, running only to be safe, just to get away.

  The lack of purpose hurt. It made him an empty thing. It made him a wind-blown striving that had no free will of its own.

  He lay there and let the hurt sink in—and the bitterness and wonder, the wonder if it had been wise to run from Fishhook, if it had been the thing to do. Then he remembered Freddy Bates and Freddy’s painted smile and the glitter in his eyes and the gun in Freddy’s pocket. And he knew there was no doubt about it: It had been the thing to do.

  But somewhere there must be something he could lay his fingers on, something he could grasp, some shred of hope or promise he could cling to. He must not go on forever floating without purpose. The time must come when he could stop his running, when he could set his feet, when he could look around.

  On the bed Riley gasped and wheezed and gurgled and was silent.

  There was no sense in staying, Blaine told himself, as the doctor wished, for there was nothing that the doc could find and nothing Blaine could tell him and there was no profit in it for either one of them.

  He got off the bed again and walked across the room to the door that more than likely led into a closet.

  He opened the door and it was a closet and his clothes hung there.

  There was no sign of underwear, but his pants and shirt were hanging there and his shoes sat underneath t them. His jacket had fallen off the hook and lay in a crumpled heap upon the floor.

  He stripped off the hospital gown and reached for his trousers. He stepped into them and cinched them I tight about his middle.