The Complete Serials

by Clifford D. Simak

  “But it took time tunnels, mechanical contraptions, for the humans to do it,” Wilson objected. “It took technology and engineering—”

  Manning shrugged. “Hell, Steve, I don’t know. I don’t pretend to know. But the photo says the monsters are escaping to another time. Maybe they’ll all escape to another time, probably to the same time. The escape time bracket may be implanted on their instinct. Maybe the Cretaceous is a better place for them. Maybe they have found this era too tough for them to crack, the odds too great.”

  “I just thought of something,” said Wilson. “The dinosaurs died out—”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Manning. He zipped the briefcase shut. “We better go,” he said. “We have work to do. Thanks for seeing us.”

  “No, Tom,” said Wilson. “The thanks are to you and Bentley. Thanks for coming over. It might have taken days to get this puzzled out. If we ever did—”

  He stood and watched them go, then sat down again.

  It was incredible, he thought. Yet it did make a lopsided sort of sense. Humans were too prone to think in human grooves. Aliens would be different. Again and again the refugees from the future had emphasized the creatures must not be regarded as simple monsters, but rather as highly intelligent beings. And that intelligence, no doubt, would be as alien as their bodies. Their intelligence and ability would not duplicate human intelligence and ability. Hard as it might be to understand, they might be able to do by instinct what humans would need a machine to accomplish.

  Maynard Gale and Alice came into the room so quietly that he did not know they were there until he looked up and saw them standing beside the desk.

  “You asked for us,” said Gale.

  “I wanted you to look at these,” said Wilson. “The top one first. The others are detail blowups. Tell me what you think.”

  He waited while they studied the photos. Finally Gale said, “This is the Cretaceous, Mr. Wilson. How was the photo taken? And what has the monster to do with it?”

  “The photographer was taking a picture of the monster. As he took it—at the moment he took it—the monster disappeared.”

  “The monster disappeared?”

  “This is the second—or third or fourth—report of one disappearing. The second that I know of. There may have been others. I don’t know.”

  “Yes,” said Gale, “I suppose that it is possible. They’re not like_ us, you know. The one that came through the tunnel experienced time travel—an experience that would have lasted for only a fraction of a second. But that may have been enough.” He shuddered. “If that is true—if after such an exposure they are able to travel independently in time, if their progeny is able to travel independently in time, if they can sense and learn and master such a complex thing so well, so quickly, it’s a wonder that we were able to stand up against them for these twenty years. They must have been playing with us, keeping us, protecting us for their sport. A game preserve. That is what we must have been. A game preserve.”

  “You can’t be sure of that,” said Wilson.

  “No, I suppose not. Dr. Wolfe is the man you should consult about this. He would know. At least he could make an educated guess.”

  “But you have no doubt?”

  “None,” said Gale. “This could be a hoax?”

  Wilson shook his head. “Not Tom Manning. We know one another well. We worked on the Post, right here, together. We were drinking companions. We were brothers until this damn job came between us. Not that he has no sense of humor. But he wouldn’t use it in a thing like this. And Bentley? The camera is his god. He wouldn’t use it for an unworthy purpose. He lives and breathes his cameras. He bows down before them each night before he goes to bed.”

  “So we have evidence the aliens flee into the past—even as we fled.”

  “I think so,” said Wilson. “I wanted your opinion. You know these creatures and we do not.”

  “You’ll still talk with Wolfe?”

  “Yes, we’ll do that.”

  “There is another matter, Mr. Wilson, that we have wanted to talk with you about. My daughter and I have talked it over and we are agreed.”

  “What is that?” asked Wilson. “An invitation,” said Gale. “We’re not sure you will accept. Perhaps you won’t. We may even offend you with it. But many other people, I think, would accept the invitation. To many it would have a great attraction. I find it rather awkward to phrase it, but it is this: When we go back into the Miocene—if you wished to do so you would be welcome to go along with us. With our particular group. We should be glad to have you.”

  Wilson did not move. He tried to find words and could not.

  Alice said, “You were our first friend, perhaps our only real friend. You arranged the matter of the diamonds. You have done so many things.”

  She stepped quickly around the desk, bent to kiss him on the cheek.

  “We do not need an answer now,” said Gale. “You will want to think about it. If you decide not to go with us we’ll not speak of this again. The invitation, I think, is issued with the knowledge that in all probability, your people will be using the time tunnels to go back into an era some millions of years in the past. I have the feeling you will not be able to escape the crisis that overtook our ancestors (I refer to you, of course) on the original time track.”

  “I don’t know,” said Wilson. “I honestly do not know. You will let me think about it.”

  “Certainly,” said Gale.

  Alice bent close, her words a whispers. “I do so hope you’ll decide to come with us,” she said.

  Then they were gone as silently and unobtrusively as they had come.

  Dusk was creeping into the room. In the press lounge a typewriter clicked hesitantly as the writer sought words. Against the wall the teletypes muttered querulously. One button on Judy’s phone console kept flashing—not Judy’s console any more, he thought. Judy was gone. The plane that was taking her to Ohio was already heading westward.

  Judy, he said to himself. For the love of God, what got into you? Why did you have to do it?

  He would be lonely without her, he knew. He had not known until now, he realized, how much she had kept him from feeling alone.

  She had not needed to be with him—the mere thought that she was somewhere nearby had been quite enough to bring gladness to his heart.

  She still would be near, he thought. Ohio was not far—in this day no place on Earth was distant. Phones still worked and letters went by mail, but there was a difference now. He thought of how he might phrase a letter if he wrote to her, but he knew he would never write.

  The phone rang. Kim said, “The meeting’s over. He can see you now.”

  45. “Thank you, Kim,” said Wilson. That he had asked to see the President had slipped his mind. So much had happened since.

  When he entered the office the President said, “I’m sorry you were kept waiting, Steve. There was so much that had to be talked over. What do you have?”

  Wilson grinned. “Nothing quite as grim as what I had when I tried to reach you earlier. I think the situation is better now. There was a rumor out of the U.N.”

  “This Russian business?”

  “Yes, the Russian business. Tom Manning, phoned. His U.N. man—Max Hale, you know him?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met him. I read him. He is sound.”

  “Hale heard that the Russians would push for the international dropping of nuclear weapons on the areas where the monsters might be.”

  “I had expected something of that sort,” said the President. “They’d never be able to pull it off.”

  “I think the question is academic now anyhow,” said Wilson. “These just came in.” He laid the photos on the desk. “Bentley Price took the shot.”

  “Price,” said the President. “Is he the one—”

  “He’s the one all the stories are about. Drunk a good part of the time, but a topnotch photographer. The best there is.”

  The President studied the firs
t photo, frowning. “Steve, I’m not sure I understand this.”

  “There’s a story that goes with it sir. It goes something like this—”

  The President listened closely, not interrupting. When Wilson finished he asked, “You really think that’s the explanation, Steve?”

  “I’m inclined to think so, sir. So does Gale. He said we should talk with Wolfe. But there was no question in Gale’s mind. All we have to do is keep pushing them. Push enough of them into the past and the rest will go. If there were more of them—if we had as few weapons as the people of five hundred years from now had when they first reached Earth—they probably would try to stay on here. We’d offer plenty of fighting, be worthy antagonists. But I think they may know when they are licked. And back in the Cretaceous, they’ll still have worthy opponents. Formidable ones. Tyrannosaurus rex and all his relatives. The triceratops. The coelurosaurs. The hunting dinosaurs. Hand-to-hand combat, face-to-face. They might like that better than what humans have to offer. More glory in it for them.”

  The President sat thoughtfully silent. Then he said, “As I recollect, the scientists have never figured out what killed off the dinosaurs; Maybe now we know.”

  “That could be,” said Wilson. Henderson reached for the call box, then pulled back his hand.

  “No,” he said. “Fyodor Morozov is a decent sort of man. What he did this morning was in the line of duty—he had to carry out orders. No use phoning him. He’ll find out when the picture hits the street. So will the people at the U.N. I’d like to see their faces. I’d say it spikes their guns.”

  “I would say so, sir,” said Wilson. “I’ll take no more of your time—”

  “Stay for a minute, Steve. There’s something you should know. A sort of precautionary knowledge. The question may come up and you should know how to field it. No more than a halfdozen of our people—all scientists—know this and they won’t talk. Neither will the future people. There is no record. State doesn’t know. Defense doesn’t know.”

  “I wonder, sir, if I should—”

  “I want you to know,” said the President. “Once you hear it you are bound by the same secrecy as the others. You’ve heard of the Clinton Chapman proposal?”

  “I have heard of it. I don’t like it. The question came up this morning and I refused comment.

  Said it was only rumor and I had no knowledge of it.”

  “Neither do I like it,” said the President. “But as far as I am concerned he’s going to be encouraged to go ahead. He thinks he can buy time travel—thinks he has it in his hand. He can fairly taste it. I have never seen a more obvious case of naked greed. I’m not too sure his great good friend, Reilly Douglas, may not have a touch of that same greed.”

  “But if it’s greed—”

  “It’s greed, all right,” said the President. “But I know something he doesn’t know and if I can manage it, he won’t know it until it’s too late to do him any good. And that is this: What the future people used was not time travel as we think of it—it is something else. It serves the same purpose, but it’s not time travel as traditionally conceived. I don’t know if I can explain this too well, but it seems there is another universe, coexistent with ours. The people of the future know it’s there, but there is only one thing they really know about it. That is that the direction of time’s flow in the second universe is exactly the opposite of ours. Its future flows toward our past. The people of the future traveled into their past by hooking onto the future flow of this other universe—”

  “But that means you can travel in only one direction.”

  “Exactly,” said the President.

  “It means that you can go into the past, but you can’t come back.”

  “If Chapman knew this the deal would be off.”

  “I suppose it would be. He’s not proposing to build the tunnels from patriotic motives. He’s been told, of course, that the tunnels work only one way, but he doesn’t know why. Do you think badly of me, Steve, for my deception—my calculated dishonesty?”

  “I’d think badly of you, sir, if there really were a chance for Chapman to do what he means to do and you did not stop him. This way, however the world gets help and the only ones who are hurt are men who, for once, will have overreached themselves. No one will feel sorry for them.”

  “Some day,” Henderson said, “it will be known. Some day my dishonesty will catch up with me.”

  “When it does,” said Wilson, “a great guffaw will go around the world. You’ll be famous, sir. They’ll build statues of you.”

  The President smiled. “I hope so, Steve. I feel a little sneaky.”

  “One thing, sir,” said Wilson. “Just how tight is this secret of yours?”

  “I feel it’s solid,” said the President. “The people you brought up from Myer told our National Academy people—only three of them. The future scientists and the men who talked with them reported back to me. To me alone. By this time, I had gotten wind of Chapman’s deal and I asked them to say nothing. Only a few of the refugee scientists worked on the project that sent the people back—only a handful of them know what is actually involved. And, as it happens, they all are here in the United States. Something like the diamonds. They all are here because they felt we were the one nation they could trust. The word has been passed along at Myer. The future scientists won’t talk. Neither will our men.” Wilson nodded. “It sounds all right. You mentioned the diamonds. What became of them?”

  “We have accepted temporary custody. They are locked away. Later, after all of this is over, we’ll see what can be done with them. Probably discreet sales will dispose of them, with a suitable cover story provided. The money will be put in escrow for later distribution to other nations.”

  Wilson rose and moved toward the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned. “I’d say, Mr. President, that things are going very well.”

  “Yes,” said the President. “After a bad start events are moving well. There’s still a lot to do, but we are on the way.”

  Someone was at Judy’s desk when Wilson returned. The room was dark. There were only the flashing lights on the console and they were not being answered.

  “Judy?” Wilson asked hesitantly. “Judy, is that you?” Knowing that it couldn’t be, for by now she was probably landing in Ohio.

  “I came back,” said Judy. “I got on the plane and then got off again. I sat at the airport for hours, wondering what to do. You are a son of a bitch, Steve Wilson, and you know you are. I don’t know why I got off the plane. Getting off, I don’t know why I came here.”

  He strode across the room and stood beside her.

  “But, Judy—”

  Judy pouted. “You never asked me Jo stay. You never really asked me.”

  “But I did. I asked you.”

  “You were noble about it. That’s the trouble with you. Noble. You never got down on your knees and begged me. And now my baggage is headed for Ohio and I—”

  He reached down and lifted her from the chair, held her close.

  “It’s been a rough two days,” he said. “It’s time for the two of us to be going home.”

  THE VISITORS

  First contact may be quite different from the way it’s usually imagined.

  1. LONE PINE, MINNESOTA

  George, the barber, slashed his scissors in the air, snipped their blades together furiously.

  “I tell you, Frank, I don’t know what goes with you,” he said to the man who sat in the barber chair. “I read your article on what the fish and wildlife people did up on the reservation. You didn’t seem too upset about it.”

  “Actually, I’m not,” said Frank Norton. “It doesn’t mean that much. If people don’t want to pay the reservation license, they can go fishing someplace else.”

  Norton was publisher-editor-advertising manager-circulation manager-general sweeper-out of the Lone Pine Sentinel, which had its offices just across the street from the barber shop.

  “It galls me,” s
aid the barber. “It ain’t right to give them redskins control over the hunting and fishing rights on the reservation. As if the reservation wasn’t a part of the state of Minnesota or even of these here United States. Now a white man can’t go fishing on the reservation on the regular state license. He’ll have to buy a license from the tribe. And the tribe will be allowed to set up their own rules and regulations. It ain’t right, I tell you.”

  “It shouldn’t make much difference to people such as you and I,” said Norton. “If we want to go fishing, we have this trout stream right at the edge of town. In the pool below the bridge, there are rainbow of a size to scare you.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing,” the barber said. “The fish and wildlife people say the redskins own the land. Their land, hell! It’s not their land. We’re just letting them live there. When you go to the reservation, they will charge you to fish or hunt; they’ll charge you plenty for the license. Probably more than you pay the state. They’ll put on their own limits and restrictions. We’ll have to live by their laws, laws that we had nothing to do with making. And they’ll hassle us. You just watch, they’ll hassle us.”

  “George, you’re getting yourself all worked up,” said Norton. “I don’t think they’ll hassle anyone. They’ll want people to come up there. They’ll do everything they can to attract fishermen. It’ll be money in their pockets.”

  George, the barber, snipped his scissors. “Them goddamn redskins,” he said. “Always bellyaching about their rights. And putting on airs. Calling themselves native Americans. Not Indians any more. Oh, Christ, no, now they’re native Americans. And saying we took away their land.”

  Norton chuckled. “Well, when you come right down to it, I would suppose we did take away their land. And no matter how you feel about it, George, they are native Americans. If that is what they want to call themselves, it appears to me that they have a right to. They were here first and we did take away their land.”

  “We had a right to it,” said George. “It was just lying there. They weren’t using it. Once in a while, they’d harvest a little wild rice or shoot a duck or kill a beaver for its fur. But they weren’t really using the land. They were letting it go to waste. They didn’t know how to use it. And we did. So we came and used it. I tell you, Frank, we had a right to take it over and use it. We have the right to use any land that isn’t being used. But, even now, we aren’t allowed to.