The Complete Serials

by Clifford D. Simak

  Grumbling, Oakes let himself sink back into the chair.

  “One thing has occurred to me,” said Able. “There is the possibility that no matter what it costs us we may get value received. The refugees come from a time period where many technological problems have been worked out, new approaches have been developed. One thing that has been mentioned is fusion power. We are nowhere near that yet—it may take us years to get there. For us fusion power would be a great leap forward. I would assume that, in return for what we propose to do for them, they’d be willing to acquaint us with the basics of their technological advances.”

  “It would ruin us,” Oakes said wrathfully. “It would finish up the job they’ve started. Take fusion power—there, gentlemen, in the twinkling of an eye, the gas and oil and coal industries go down the drain.”

  “And,” said Able, “I suppose the medical profession as well—if these people could give us the cure for cancer.”

  Dixon said, “What the Congressman says is true. If we had the advantages of all their scientific and technological advances—perhaps their social and political advances—we would be much better off than we are today. To whom, I wonder, would the new knowledge and principles belong? To the man who was able to acquire the information by whatever means? Or to his government? Or to the world at large? And if the last—how would the information be handled or implemented? It seems to me that at best we would have many thorny problems to work out.”

  Congressman Smith put in, “This is all speculation. Right now, it seems to me, we have two immediate problems. We have to dispose of the aliens and do whatever is possible to send our guests back to the Miocene. Is this the way you read it, Mr. President?”

  “Exactly,” Henderson said.

  “I understand, Oakes rumbled, “that the Russian ambassador is coming over to have a pow-wow with you.”

  “You were not supposed to know that, Andy.”

  “Well, you know how it is, Mr. President. You stay up on the Hill long enough and you get a lot of pipelines. You get told things. Even what you’re not supposed to know.”

  “The ambassador’s visit is no secret,” Henderson said. “I have no idea why he’s coming, but we are trying to work closely with everyone. I have had phone conversations with a number of heads of state. I take it that the ambassador’s visit is no more than an extension of these talks.”

  “Perhaps,” said Oakes. “Perhaps. I just tend to get a mite nervous when the Russians become too interested in anything at all.”

  36. There was something in the hazel thicket at the edge of the tiny cornfield—a vague sense of a presence, a tantalizing outline that never quite revealed itself. Something lurked there, waiting. Sergeant Gordy Clark was quite sure of that. Just how he knew he could not be sure. But he was sure—or almost sure. Some instinct born out of hundreds of patrols into enemy country, something gained through the sharp, hard objectivity that was necessary for an old soldier to keep himself alive while others died—something that he or no one else could define told him there was a lurker in the thicket.

  He lay silent, almost unbreathing, stretched out on the little ridge that rose above the cornfield, his rocket launcher steadied on an ancient, rotted log and the crosshairs centered on the thicket. It could be a dog, he told himself, or a child, perhaps even nothing—but he could not bring himself to think it was nothing.

  The drooping sumac bush bent close above him, shielding him from the view of whatever might be in the thicket. He could hear the faint mutter of the mountain brook that ran just beyond the cornfield. And from the hollow between the hills, where the farm buildings were located, came the senseless cackling of a hen.

  There was no sign of any other member of the patrol. He knew several of them must be close, but they were being careful not to betray their presence. They were regulars, every one of them, and they knew their business. They could move through these woods like shadows. They would make no noise, disturb no bush or branch.

  The sergeant smiled grimly to himself. They were good men. He had trained them all. The captain thought himself the one who had trained them, but it had not been the captain. Sergeant Gordon Fairfield Clark had beaten their business into these men. They all hated him, of course, and he wanted it no other way. For out of hatred could sometimes come respect. Fear or respect, he thought—either one would serve. There were some, perhaps, who had cherished the fantasy of putting a bullet through his skull. They must have had opportunities, but they had never done it. For they needed him, the sergeant told himself—although not really him, of course, but the hatred they had for him. There was nothing like a good strong hatred to hold a man together.

  The farmer at the buildings in the hollow thought he had seen something. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it had been pretty awful from the glimpse he had gotten of it. A kind of thing he had never seen before. Something no man could imagine. The farmer had shivered as he talked.

  The thing in the thicket came out so fast that it seemed to blur. Then, as quickly as it had moved, it stopped. It stood in the little open space of ground between the thicket and the corn.

  Sergeant Clark caught his breath and his guts turned over, but even so he moved the launcher to center the cross-hairs on the creature’s great paunch and his finger began the steady squeeze.

  Then it was gone. The crosshairs centered on nothing except the ragged clump of brush beyond the cornfield’s edge. Clark didn’t stir. He lay looking through the sight, but his finger slacked off the trigger.

  The monster had not moved. He was sure of that. It had simply disappeared. One microsecond there—the next, gone. Nothing could move that fast.

  Sergeant Clark raised his head, levered himself to his knees. He wiped his face and was astonished to find that his hand came away greasy wet. He had not been aware that he was sweating.

  37. Fyodor Morozov was a good diplomat and a decent man, the two not being incompatible, and he hated what he had to do. Besides, he told himself, he knew Americans and his present errand simply would not work. It would, of course, embarrass them and point out their sins for all the world to see and, under ordinary circumstances, he would not have been averse to this. But under present conditions, he knew, the Americans were in no position to observe the niceties of diplomatic games and there was no way to gauge reactions.

  The President was waiting for him when he was ushered in and beside Henderson as was to be expected, stood Secretary of State Williams. The President was all open blandness, but Thornton Williams, Fyodor could see, was a somewhat puzzled man, although he was doing an excellent job of hiding what he felt.

  When they had “shaken hands and sat down the President opened the conversation. “It’s always good to see you, Mr. Ambassador,” he said, “for any reason—or even for no reason. But tell me, is there something we can do for you?”

  “My government,” said Fyodor, “has asked me to confer with your government—as unofficially as our official positions can make possible—concerning a matter of security I would assume is of some concern to both of us—in fact, to everyone.”

  He paused and they waited for him to go on. They did not respond—they asked no questions. They were no help at all.

  “It is the matter,” he said, “of the alien creature that escaped from the Congo tunnel. There is no question that it must be hunted down. Since the Congo does not have sufficient military or police forces to accomplish this, my government is offering to supply some troops and we are about to sound out both Britain and France and perhaps other nations as well to determine if they might want to contribute to a joint expeditionary force against the monster.”

  “Certainly, Ambassador Morozov,” said Williams, “your government does not feel compelled to seek our permission to embark on so neighborly an undertaking.

  I would imagine that you are prepared to make guarantees that you’ll withdraw all forces after the alien has been taken.”

  “Of course we are.”

  “Then I fa
il to grasp your point.”

  “There is also, said Fyodor, “the matter of the aliens—or monsters—on your own territory. We are prepared to make the same offer to you as we will make the Congo.”

  “You mean,” said the President, amused, “that you would be willing to lend us some of your forces to hunt down the aliens?”

  “We would go, I think,” said the ambassador, “somewhat beyond the word you use—willing. I would think that, unless you can guarantee absolute effectiveness in containing and disposing of the creatures, we might possibly insist. This is not a national matter—the international community is concerned. The invaders must be obliterated. If you can’t accomplish this, then you must accept any help that’s offered.”

  “You know, of course,” said Williams, “that we are bringing home our troops.”

  “I know that, Mr. Secretary, but the question is how quickly can you bring them home. Our military people estimate it will take you thirty days at least and that may not be fast enough. There also is the question of whether you have personnel enough to cover the required territory.”

  The President said, “I can assure you that we appreciate your concern.”

  “It is the position of my government,” said Fyodor, “that many more men would be placed on the ground—and more quickly—if you accepted the aid we offer—”

  “Mr. Ambassador,” said the President, interrupting, “I am certain you know better than to come to us with such an impudent suggestion. Surely you are aware that if there had been genuine good will on the part of your government a different approach would have been employed. There is no question in my mind that the sole purpose of this call is to embarrass us. In that, of course, you’ve failed. We are not in the least embarrassed.”

  “I am delighted that you’re not,” said Fyodor, unruffled. “We thought it was only the decent thing to approach you first in private.”

  “I assume,” said Williams, “you mean you now will bring the matter up before the U.N., where you’ll seek to embarrass us in public.”

  “You gentlemen,” said the ambassador, “persist in placing a wrong interpretation on this matter. It is true, of course, that our countries have had their differences in the past. We have not always seen exactly eye to eye. Under present circumstances, however, the entire world needs to stand together. It is quite clear to us—if not to you—that solving the alien problem quickly is in the international interest and that it is your duty to accept such aid as may be needed. We should be reluctant to report to the United Nations that you neglect your duty.”

  “We would not attempt,” said Williams stiffly, “to suggest what you might tell the U.N.”

  ““If you should decide to accept our offer,” said the ambassador, “it would be agreeable to us to leave the initiative with you. If you should ask other nations—perhaps Canada, Britain, France and us—to supply the additional forces that you need nothing has to be said about this conversation.”

  “I suppose,” Henderson said, “you will want to relay an answer to your government.”

  “We would imagine you might want to deliberate on its nature. The U.N. does not meet until tomorrow noon.”

  “And if we asked some of our friends among the community of nations to supply us troops and did not include your government among them you would be offended?”

  “I cannot answer that with any surety—but I would presume we might be.”

  “It seems to me,” Williams said, “that all of this is no more than official mischief-making. I have known you for some years and have held a high regard for you. You have been here among us for three years—or is it four?—and surely you have grown to know us in that length of time. I think that your heart may not be entirely in these proceedings.”

  Fyodor Morozov rose slowly to his feet. “I have delivered the message from my government,” he said. “Thank you both for seeing me.”

  38. In New York, Chicago and Atlanta, mobs hurled themselves against police lines. The signs read: WE DIDN’T ASK THEM TO COME. They read: WE HAVE LITTLE ENOUGH AS IT IS. They read: WE REFUSE TO STARVE. The crowds threw stones, bricks, tin cans battered into tin shinny pucks with cutting edges, plastic bags filled with garbage. The ghetto areas roiled with violence. Some died—many were injured. Bonfires were kindled. Houses burned and when fire rigs tried to reach the blazes they were stopped by barricades. Great areas were given over to looting.

  In little towns throughout the country grim-faced men talked on benches in front of general stores, at filling stations, feed stores, street corners, at coffee breaks in the corner drug store and while waiting their turns in barber shops. They said to one another: It don’t seem right, somehow. It don’t seem possible. It ain’t like the old days, when you knew what was going on. There ain’t no telling these days what will happen next. Too much is new-fangled now. The old days are going fast. There is nothing left for a man to hang to.

  They said judiciously: Of course if it is the way they say, we got to do our best for them. You heard the President say it last night. Children of our children. That’s what he said. Although I don’t know how we’re going to do it. Not with taxes what they are. We can’t pay no more taxes, and them tunnels are about to cost a mint. Taxes on everything you buy. On everything you do. On everything you own. Seems no matter how hard a man may scratch he can’t keep ahead of taxes.

  They said sanctimoniously: That preacher down in Nashville hit it on the head. If a man loses his religion he has lost everything worthwhile. He has nothing left to live for. You lose the Good Book and you have lost it all. It don’t seem possible that even in five hundred years men would have given up their God. It’s the evil in the world today, right now, that’s made it possible. It’s big-city living. The meanness of it. Out here you could never lose your God. No, sir, He’s with you all the time. You feel Him in the wind. You see Him in the color of the eastern sky just before the break of dawn. You sense Him in the hush of evening. I feel sorry for these people from the future. I do feel purely sorry for them. They don’t know what they lost.

  They said angrily of the riots: Ought to shoot them down. I wouldn’t fool around with stuff like that. Not for a minute would I. Those people, some of them, ain’t never done a lick of work in their entire lives. They just stand there with their hands out. You can’t tell me, if a man really wants to work—or a woman either—he or she can’t find a job. Out here we scratch and dig and sweat and we get next to nothing, but we don’t riot, we don’t burn, we don’t stand with hands out.

  They said of the young people with the signs in Lafayette Park: If they want to go to the Miocene or whatever this place is, why don’t we let them go? We won’t never miss them. We would be better off without them. .

  The village banker said with ponderous judiciousness: Mark my word, we’ll be lucky if these future folks don’t ruin the entire country. Yes, sir, the entire country—maybe the entire world. The dollar will be worth nothing and prices will go up.

  And inevitably some got around to whispering their blackest thoughts: You just wait and see. It’s a Commie plot, I tell you. A dirty Commie plot. I don’t know how they worked it, but when the wash comes out we’ll find these Russians at the bottom of it.

  There was marching in the land, a surge toward Washington by hitch-hiking, by bus, by old beat-up clunkers. An inward streaming of the counter-cultural young. Some of them reached the city before the fall of night and marched with banners saying BACK TO THE MIOCENE—BRING ON THE SABERTOOTHS! Others continued through the night or rested briefly in haystacks or on park benches, wolfing hamburgers, seeking out alliances, talking in hushed tones around campfires.

  In the streets of Washington bands formed around young men staggering under the weight of heavy crosses, stumbling and falling, staggering up again to continue on their way. Some wore crowns of thorns, blood trickling down their foreheads. Late in the afternoon a furious fight broke out in Lafayette Park when an indignant crowd, among them many of the hopefully
Miocene-bound youngsters, moved to stop a crucifixion, with the victim already lashed to the cross and the hole half dug for its planting. Police charged in and after a bloody fifteen minutes cleared the park. When this was over four crudely fashioned crosses were gathered up and carted off.

  “These kids are crazy,” said one panting officer. “I wouldn’t give you a dime for the whole lot of them.”

  Senator Andrew Oakes phoned Grant Wellington. “Now is the time,” he said in a conspiratorial voice, “to lie low. Don’t say a word. Don’t even look as if you were interested. The situation, you might say, is fluid. Nothing is set. No one knows which way the cat will jump. But something is going on. The Russian was at the White House this morning and that bodes no good for anyone. Something we don’t understand is very much afoot.”

  Clinton Chapman phoned Reilly Douglas. “You know anything, Reilly?”

  “Nothing except that there really is time travel and we have the blueprints for it.”

  “You have seen the blueprints?”

  “No, I haven’t. It’s all under wraps. No one is saying anything. The scientists who talked with the future people aren’t talking.”

  “But you—”

  “I know, Clint. I’m the attorney general, but, hell, in a thing like this that doesn’t count for anything. This is top secret. A few of the Academy crowd are in on it and that is all. Not even the military—and even if the military wanted it I have my doubts—”

  “But they have to let someone know. You can’t build a thing until you know how.

  “The blueprints show how to build it, but that’s all. Not what it really is. Not how it works. Not why it works. Not the principle.”