They Walked Like Men

by Clifford D. Simak

  “But breaking in!” he said.

  And there it was, I thought. Even in the face of desperation, a man still held regard for the laws of property. You do not steal, you don’t break in, you don’t touch a thing that belongs to someone else. And it was this very thing which had brought us where we were. It was these very laws, so revered that we still obeyed them even when they had turned into a trap that would take our birthright from us.

  “You need a place for your kids to sleep,” I said. “You need a place to shave.”

  “But someone will be around and—”

  “If someone comes around,” I said, “and tries to push you out, use a gun on them.”

  “I haven’t got a gun,” he said.

  “Get one, then,” I told him. “First thing in the morning.”

  And I was surprised at how smoothly and how easily I had slipped from a law abiding citizen into another man, quite ready to write another law and stand or fall by it.

  XXIX

  The sun was slanting down between the slats on the Venetian blinds, shining into the silence and the warmth and comfort of a room I could not immediately recall.

  I lay there with my eyes half open, not thinking, not wondering, not doing anything, just glad to be lying there. There was the sunlight and the silence and the softness of the bed and faint hint of perfume.

  And that perfume, I thought to myself, was the kind that Joy wore.

  “Joy!” I said suddenly, sitting up in bed, for now it all came back—the night and the rain and everything that had happened.

  The door to the adjoining room stood open, but there was no sign of anyone.

  “Joy!” I cried, tumbling out of bed.

  The floor was cold when I put my feet on it, and there was a bit of chilliness in the breeze that blew through the barely open window.

  I went to the door of the adjoining room and looked in. The bed had been slept in and had not been made, except that someone had pulled up the blanket. There was no sign of Joy. And then I saw the note on the door, stuck there with a pin.

  I jerked it off and read:

  Dear Parker: I took the car and went to the office. A story for the Sunday paper that I have to check. I’ll be back this afternoon. And where is that vaunted manhood? You never even made a pass at me. Joy.

  I went back and sat down on the edge of the bed, still holding the note. My trousers and shirt and jacket were draped across a chair and my shoes, with the socks stuffed inside of them, sat underneath it. Over in one corner was the rifle that I had picked up from Stirling’s lab. It had been, I remembered, in the car. Joy must have gotten it out of there and brought it in and left it before she set out for the office.

  I’ll be back this afternoon, she’d written. And her bed was still unmade. As if she had accepted that this was the way we’d live from now on. As if there were, in fact, no other way of life. As if she already had adjusted to the changes that had come.

  And Man, himself, perhaps would adjust as easily as at first, happy to find any solution out of the bitter harassment and the shattering of his hope. But after that first temporary adjustment would come the anger and the bitterness and the realization of his loss and hopelessness.

  Joy had gone back to the office to check on a Sunday story. The man next door had kept on working at his insurance job even at a time when his personal world had been falling apart about him. And; of ceurse, one had to do these things, for one had to eat, one had to live somehow, one had to have the money. But it was, I thought, perhaps a great deal more than that. It was one way, perhaps the only way that was left, to hang on to reality, to tell one’s self that only a part of life had changed, that some of the old and ordered routine of one’s life had not been disturbed.

  And I, I asked myself—what was I to do?

  .1 could go back to the office and sit down at my desk and try to turn out a few more columns against my coming trip. It was funny when I thought about the trip, for I’d forgotten all about it. It was almost as if it were something new, something I’d never known about before, or, if I had known of it, something from so long ago that it was natural I should have forgotten it.

  I could go back to the office, but what would be the purpose? To write columns that would be never read in a paper that in a few more days might be no longer printed?

  It all was so damned futile. It was something you didn’t want to think about. And maybe that was why no one would listen, for if people didn’t know about it, they need not think of it.

  . I dropped Joy’s note and it fluttered to the floor. I reached out to the chair and got my shirt. And even then I didn’t know what I was going to do, but before I did anything I had to get my clothes on.

  I went outside and stood on the stoop and it was a fine, sunshiny day, more like a summer than an autumn day. The rain had disappeared and the court was dry again, with only a tiny puddle here and there to show it had ever rained.

  I looked at my watch and it was almost noon.

  The insurance man’s car stood before the second unit down, but there was no sign of him or his family. It was Saturday and probably his day off and the family must be sleeping late. They had it coming to them, I told myself—a little decent rest with a roof above their heads.

  Up the street I saw a restaurant sign and realized that I was hungry. And there probably was a phone there and I should call Joy.

  It was just a little quick and greasy, but the place was crowded. I wriggled my way through and grabbed a stool up against the counter when a man finished and moved out.

  The waitress came and I gave my order, then got up and made my way through the crowd again to the phone booth in one corner. I managed to squeeze in and get the door closed behind me. I fed in my coin and dialed. When the operator answered, I asked for Joy.

  “Get that story checked?” I asked her.

  “Sleepyhead,” she chided. “When did you get up?”

  “Just a while ago. What is going on?”

  “Gavin’s in a tizzy. There’s a story and he can’t get his mitts on it.”

  “Something about—”

  “I don’t know,” said Joy, apparently knowing what I was about to ask. “Maybe. There’s a money shortage in the banks. We know—”

  “A money shortage! Dow told me yesterday they were knee-deep in money.”

  “I guess that was true,” she said. “But not any more. A lot of it is gone. They had it at noon yesterday, but when they closed up last night great chunks of it had simply disappeared.”

  “No one will talk,” I guessed.

  “That’s exactly it. The ones Gavin and Dow can get hold of stay absolutely mum. They don’t know a thing. A lot of them—the big, important ones—they can’t reach at all. You know how bankers are on Saturday. You can’t get hold of

  them.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Out playing golf or fishing.”

  “Parker, do you think Atwood could somehow be involved?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I wouldn’t be surprised. I’ll do some

  checking.”

  “What can you do?” she asked a little sharply.

  “I could go out to the Belmont place. Atwood said—”

  “I don’t like it,” she told me bluntly. “You were out there once before.”

  “I’ll keep out of trouble. I can handle Atwood.”

  “You haven’t got a car.”

  “I can take a cab.”

  “You haven’t money for a cab.”

  “The cabby’ll take me out,” I said. “And he’ll bring me back On the way back, he can stop at the office and I’ll pick up his fare.”

  “You think of everything,” she said.

  “Well, almost everything.”

  I wondered, as I hung up, if I thought of anything.

  XXX

  The first thing that I noticed was that the window had been closed. When I had fled the place the night before I had left it open, but not without the ridiculous feeling that, d
espite everything, I should go back and shut it.

  But the window now was closed and there were draperies at the windows and I tried to recall, but with no success, whether there had been draperies there before.

  The house stood old and gaunt in the pale sunlight, and from the east I could hear the distant sound of water lapping on the shore. I stood and looked at the house and there was nothing, I kept telling myself, for me to be afraid of. It was just an old and ordinary house, its gaunt bones softened by the sunlight.

  “You want,” the driver asked, “that I should wait for you?”

  “I won’t be long,” I told him.

  “Look, Mac, it’s up to you. I don’t care. The meter keeps on running.”

  I went up the walk. Underneath my feet, the dried and fallen leaves crunched on the paving brick.

  First I’d try the door, I decided. I’d do it civilized and decent. And if no one answered when I rang the bell, then I’d go through the window as I had before. The cabdriver, more than likely, would wonder what I might be up to. But it was none of his damn business. All he had to do was wait and take me back.

  Although, I told myself, someone had closed the window and now it might be locked. But that wouldn’t stop me. There was nothing that was going to stop me now. Although, I realized, if I’d taken time enough to figure out why I wanted to get in, what possible reason I had for wanting to see Atwood, I’d probably find no answers. Instinct? I wondered. Joy had said something about the human instinct—or had it been Atwood who’d said it? I could not remember. Was it, then, instinct that drove me up the walk to see Atwood once again — not knowing why, not with the least idea of what I’d say to him or what purpose I might have in the saying of it?

  I mounted the step and rang the bell and waited. And as I put out my finger to ring it once again, I heard footsteps in the hall.

  And the bell, I remembered, had been out of order when I’d been here the night before. It had been loose and had wobbled underneath my finger when I had tried to ring it. But now it was all right and the window had been closed and there were footsteps in the hall, coming toward the door.

  The door came open and a girl stood there, dressed in the stark black-and-whiteness of a maid’s uniform.

  I just stood and stared.

  The maid stood without moving, waiting for me. There was a pert look on her face.

  “I had hoped,” I finally said, “to find Mr. Atwood here.”

  “Sir,” she said, “won’t you please come in?”

  I stepped into the hall and there was a difference there as well. Last night the house had been dusty and untenanted, with covers over what little furniture there was. But now the place had a lived-in look. The dust was gone and the wood and tile of the hall shone with cleanliness and polish. There was an ancient hall tree, standing lone and empty, and beside it was a full-length mirror that gleamed with recent washing.

  “Your hat and coat, sir,” said the maid. “Madam’s in the study.”

  “But Atwood. It was Atwood—”

  “Mr. Atwood is not here, sir.”

  She took my hat out of my hand. She waited for the coat.

  I took it off and handed it to her.

  “That way, sir,” she said.

  The door was open and I walked through it, into a room where books jammed shelves from floor tb ceiling. At the desk beside the windows sat the icy blonde I’d met in the bar, the one who’d handed me the card that said “We Deal in Everything.”

  “Good day, Mr. Graves,” she said. “I am glad you came.”

  “Atwood told me—”

  “Mr. Atwood, unfortunately, is not with us any more.” “And you, of course, are about to take his place.” The iciness was there, and the smell of violets. She was part blond goddess, part efficient secretary. And she was, as well, a thing from another world and a tiny, perfect doll I’d held within my hands.

  “You are astounded, Mr. Graves?”

  “No,” I said. “Not now. Once perhaps. But not any longer.” “You came to talk with Mr. Atwood. We had hoped that you would come. We have need of people like you.” “You need me,” I said, “like I need an extra head.” “Mr. Graves, won’t you have a chair? And please don’t be facetious.”

  I sat down in the chair just across the desk from her. “What do you want me to do?” I asked. “Should I break

  down and weep?”

  “There is no need of your doing anything,” she said. “Please just be yourself. Let us talk exactly as if we were two humans.” “Which, of course, you’re not.” “No, Mr. Graves, I’m not.”

  We sat there looking at one another and it was damned uncomfortable. There wasn’t a flicker of movement or emotion in her face: it was just graven beauty.

  “If you were a different kind of man,” she said, “I’d try to make you forget I am anything but human. But I don’t suppose it would do me any good with you.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry about it, loo,” I told her. “Believe me, I am sorry. I would like nothing better than to think of you as human.”

  “Mr. Graves, if I were human, that would be the nicest compliment I ever had been paid.” “And since you’re not?”

  “I believe it’s still a compliment.”

  I looked sharply at her. It was not only what she’d said but the way she’d said it. “Maybe, after all,” I said, “there may be some human in you.”

  “No,” she said. “Let’s not start kidding ourselves, either one of us. Basically you should hate me, and I suppose you do. Although maybe not entirely. And basically I should have a great contempt for you, but I can’t say honestly I do. And yet, I think, we should talk together, if possible, with some rationality.”

  “Why be rational with me? There are a lot of others—”

  “But, Mr. Graves,” she said, “you know about us. And few of the others do. A very, very few throughout the entire world. You’d be surprised how few.”

  “And I’m to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Really, Mr. Graves. You know better than all that. How many people have you found so far who would listen to you?”

  “Exactly one,” I told her.

  “That would be the girl. You’re in love with her and she’s in love with you.” I nodded.

  “So, you see,” she said, “the only acceptance for your story has been emotional.”

  “I suppose that you could say so.” I felt like an utter fool.

  “So let’s be businesslike,” she said. “Let us say we’re giving you a chance to make the best bargain that you can. We’d not have approached you if you’d not known of us, but since you do, there’s nothing to be lost.”

  “Bargain?” I asked stupidly.

  “Why, of course,” she told me. “You’re in on—what do you call it? The ground floor; is that right?”

  “But, perhaps, on a deal like this—”

  “Listen, Mr. Graves. You must not have illusions. I suspect you do, but you must get rid of them. There is no way you can stop us. There’s nothing that can stop us. The operation has simply gone too far. There was a time, perhaps, when you could have stopped us. But not any longer. Believe me, Mr. Graves, it is far too late.”

  “Since it is too late, why do you bother with me?”

  “We have use of you,” she said. “There are certain things that you can do for us. The humans, once they know what is going on, are going to resent what is being done to them. Is that not right, Mr. Graves?”

  “Sister,” I told her, “you don’t know the half of it.” “But we, you understand, want to have no trouble. Or as little trouble as is possible. We feel that we stand on firm moral and legal ground, that we have abided by all the injunctions set up by your own society. We have violated none of the rules and we have no wish to be forced to go through a program of pacification. I am sure the humans would not want it, either, for it can become, I must assure you, very, very painful. We want to get this project finished and go on to something else. We want to terminat
e it as smoothly as lies within our power. And you can help us do that.” “But why should I?”

  “Mr. Graves,” she said, “you would be performing a service, not for us alone, but for the human race as well. Anything that you can do to make this go smoothly for us would be of benefit to your people, too. For no matter what they do, their fate in the end will be the very same. There is no reason for them to be subjected to unnecessarily harrowing experiences to achieve that end. Consider this: you are an expert in mass communications—”

  “Not as expert as you think,” I said.

  “But you know the methods and the techniques. You can write convincingly …”

  “There are others who would be more convincing.” “But, Mr. Graves, you are the one we have.” I didn’t like the way she said it.

  “What you want me to do,” I said, “is keep the people quiet. Keep them lulled asleep.”

  “That, and any counsel you may have about how we should react in different situations. A consultative position, you might say.”

  “But you know. You know as well as I do.” “You are thinking, Mr. Graves, perhaps, that we have absorbed the human viewpoint in its entirety. That we can think as humans think and act as humans act. But this is simply not the case. We know what you call business, certainly. Perhaps you would agree that we know it rather thoroughly. We are well versed in your laws. But there are many areas we have not had the time to study. We know human nature only to a point—insofar as it reacts in the world of commerce. But we know it otherwise most imperfectly. We have no good idea how the humans will react when they learn the truth.” “Cold feet?” I asked.

  “No, we haven’t got cold feet. We are prepared to be as ruthless as may be necessary. But it would take time. We don’t want to take the time.”

  “OK. So I write the stuff for you. What good would it do to write it? Who would publish it? How would you get it to the people?”

  “Write it,” said this blond iceberg. “We’ll take it on from there. We’ll get it to the people. We’ll distribute it. That is not your worry.”

  I was afraid. Perhaps a little angry. But mostly afraid. For not until this moment had I really realized the sheer implacability of these’ aliens. They were not vindictive and they were not hateful. They were scarcely an enemy in the sense we used the word. They were a malignant force and there was no pleading that would move them. They simply did not care. To them the Earth was no more than a piece of property and the humans less than nothing.