Dusty Zebra: And Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  “So do I,” said Webster.

  And he stared into the darkness and wondered—wondered how man, cooped up in Geneva, should have lost touch with the world. How man should not have known about what the dogs were doing, about the little camps of busy robots, about the castles of the feared and hated mutants.

  We lost touch, Webster thought. We locked the world outside. We created ourselves a little niche and we huddled in it—in the last city in the world. And we didn’t know what was happening outside the city—we could have known, we should have known, but we didn’t care.

  It’s time, he thought, that we took a hand again.

  We were lost and awed and at first we tried, but finally we just threw in the hand.

  For the first time the few that were left realized the greatness of the race, saw for the first time the mighty works the hand of man had reared. And they tried to keep it going and they couldn’t do it. And they rationalized—as man rationalizes almost everything. Fooling himself that there really are no ghosts, calling things that go bumping in the night the first suave, sleek word of explanation that comes into his mind.

  We couldn’t keep it going and so we rationalized, we took refuge in a screen of words and Juwainism helped us do it. We came close to ancestor worship. We sought to glorify the race of man. We couldn’t carry on the work of man and so we tried to glorify it, attempted to enthrone the men who had. As we attempt to glorify and enthrone all good things that die.

  We became a race of historians and we dug with grubby fingers in the ruins of the race, clutching each irrelevant little fact to our breast as if it were a priceless gem. And that was the first phase, the hobby that bore us up when we knew ourselves for what we really were—the dregs in the tilted cup of humanity.

  But we got over it. Oh, sure, we got over it. In about one generation. Man is an adaptable creature—he can survive anything. So we couldn’t build great spaceships. So we couldn’t reach the stars. So we couldn’t puzzle out the secret of life. So what?

  We were the inheritors, we had been left the legacy, we were better off than any race had ever been or could hope to be again. And so we rationalized once more and we forgot about the glory of the race, for while it was a shining thing, it was a toilsome and humiliating concept.

  “Jenkins,” said Webster, soberly, “we’ve wasted ten whole centuries.”

  “Not wasted, sir,” said Jenkins. “Just resting, perhaps. But now, maybe, you can come out again. Come back to us.”

  “You want us?”

  “The dogs need you,” Jenkins told him. “And the robots, too. For both of them were never anything other than the servants of man. They are lost without you. The dogs are building a civilization, but it is building slowly.”

  “Perhaps a better civilization than we built ourselves,” said Webster. “Perhaps a more successful one. For ours was not successful, Jenkins.”

  “A kinder one,” Jenkins admitted, “but not too practical. A civilization based on the brotherhood of animals—on the psychic understanding and perhaps eventual communication and intercourse with interlocking worlds. A civilization of the mind and of understanding, but not too positive. No actual goals, limited mechanics—just a groping after truth, and the groping is in a direction that man passed by without a second glance.”

  “And you think that man could help?”

  “Man could give leadership,” said Jenkins.

  “The right kind of leadership?”

  “That is hard to answer.”

  Webster lay in the darkness, rubbed his suddenly sweating hands along the blankets that covered his body.

  “Tell me the truth,” he said and his words were grim. “Man could give leadership, you say. But man also could take over once again. Could discard the things the dogs are doing as impractical. Could round the robots up and use their mechanical ability in the old, old pattern. Both the dogs and robots would knuckle down to man.”

  “Of course,” said Jenkins. “For they were servants once. But man is wise—man knows best.”

  “Thank you, Jenkins,” said Webster. “Thank you very much.”

  He stared into the darkness and the truth was written there.

  His track still lay across the floor and the smell of dust was a sharpness in the air. The radium bulb glowed above the panel and the switch and wheel and dials were waiting, waiting against the day when there would be need of them.

  Webster stood in the doorway, smelled the dampness of the stone through the dusty bitterness.

  Defense, he thought, staring at the switch. Defense—a thing to keep one out, a device to seal off a place against all the real or imagined weapons that a hypothetical enemy might bring to bear.

  And undoubtedly the same defense that would keep an enemy out would keep the defended in. Not necessarily, of course, but—

  He strode across the room and stood before the switch and his hand went out and grasped it, moved it slowly and knew that it would work.

  Then his arm moved quickly and the switch shot home. From far below came a low, soft hissing as machines went into action. The dial needles flickered and stood out from the pins.

  Webster touched the wheel with hesitant fingertips, stirred it on its shaft and the needles flickered again and crawled across the glass. With a swift, sure hand, Webster spun the wheel and the needles slammed against the farther pins.

  He turned abruptly on his heel, marched out of the vault, closed the door behind him, climbed the crumbling steps.

  Now if it only works, he thought. If it only works. His feet quickened on the steps and the blood hammered in his head.

  If it only works!

  He remembered the hum of machines far below as he had slammed the switch. That meant that the defense mechanism—or at least part of it—still worked.

  But even if it worked, would it do the trick? What if it kept the enemy out, but failed to keep men in?

  What if—

  When he reached the street, he saw that the sky had changed. A gray, metallic overcast had blotted out the sun and the city lay in twilight, only half relieved by the automatic street lights. A faint breeze wafted at his cheek.

  The crinkly gray ash of the burned notes and the map that he had found still lay in the fireplace and Webster strode across the room, seized the poker, stirred the ashes viciously until there was no hint of what they once had been.

  Gone, he thought. The last clue gone. Without the map, without the knowledge of the city that it had taken him twenty years to ferret out, no one would ever find that hidden room with the switch and wheel and dials beneath the single lamp.

  No one would know exactly what had happened. And even if one guessed, there’d be no way to make sure. And even if one were sure, there’d be nothing that could be done about it.

  A thousand years before it would not have been that way. For in that day man, given the faintest hint, would have puzzled out any given problem.

  But man had changed. He had lost the old knowledge and old skills. His mind had become a flaccid thing. He lived from one day to the next without any shining goal. But he still kept the old vices—the vices that had become virtues from his own viewpoint and raised him by his own bootstraps. He kept the unwavering belief that his was the only kind, the only life that mattered—the smug egoism that made him the self-appointed lord of all creation.

  Running feet went past the house on the street outside and Webster swung away from the fireplace, faced the blind panes of the high and narrow windows.

  I got them stirred up, he thought. Got them running now. Excited. Wondering what it’s all about. For centuries they haven’t stirred outside the city, but now that they can’t get out—they’ re foaming at the mouth to do it.

  His smile widened.

  Maybe they’ll be so stirred up, they’ll do something about it. Rats in a trap will do some funny thin
gs—if they don’t go crazy first.

  And if they do get out—well, it’s their right to do so. If they do get out, they’ve earned their right to take over once again.

  He crossed the room, stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at the painting that hung above the mantel. Awkwardly, he raised his hand to it, a fumbling salute, a haggard goodbye. Then he let himself out into the street and climbed the hill—the route that Sara had walked only days before. The Temple robots were kind and considerate, soft-footed and dignified. They took him to the place where Sara lay and showed him the next compartment that she had reserved for him.

  “You will want to choose a dream,” said the spokesman of the robots. “We can show you many samples. We can blend them to your taste. We can—”

  “Thank you,” said Webster. “I do not want a dream.” The robot nodded, understanding. “I see, sir. You only want to wait, to pass away the time.”

  “Yes,” said Webster. “I guess you’d call it that.”

  “For about how long?”

  “How long?”

  “Yes. How long do you want to wait?”

  “Oh, I see,” said Webster. “How about forever?”

  “Forever!”

  “Forever is the word, I think,” said Webster. “I might have said eternity, but it doesn’t make much difference. There is no use of quibbling over two words that mean about the same.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the robot.

  No use of quibbling. No, of course, there wasn’t. For he couldn’t take the chance. He could have said a thousand years, but then he might have relented and gone down and flipped the switch.

  And that was the one thing that must not happen. The dogs had to have their chance. Had to be left unhampered to try for success where the human race had failed. And so long as there was a human element they would not have that chance. For man would take over, would step in and spoil things, would laugh at the cobblies that talked behind a wall, would object to the taming and civilizing of the wild things of the earth.

  A new pattern—a new way of thought and life—a new approach to the age-old social problem. And it must not be tainted by the stale breath of man’s thinking.

  The dogs would sit around at night when the work was done and they would talk of man. They would spin the old, old story and tell the old, old tales and man would be a god.

  And it was better that way.

  For a god can do no wrong.

  Guns on Guadalcanal

  Of the five stories of World War II air combat that Clifford D. Simak wrote during the war era, this was the fourth—and the first to be written after the United States entered that war. And whereas the earlier ones all took place in the European theater, this one, as well as the one that followed, featured Americans in action against the Japanese. This story was sent to American Eagle in October 1942 (following a hiatus caused at least in part by Cliff’s short-lived job with an American intelligence organization), but it would first appear in a magazine called Air War, in fall 1943.

  The issue had a ten-cent cover price, and it was a good deal thinner than most pulp magazines, most likely the result of wartime paper shortages, but the issue carried reassuring notices that although changes in the customary typography and layout made the magazine look smaller, it had the normal content.

  —dww

  Mason saw the Zeroes first and spoke to Foster through the phones.

  “Three rat cages high up, Steve. Getting ready to gang us.”

  The pilot craned his neck and looked, finally spotted the dots far overhead.

  “O.K.,” he said. “Let them think we haven’t seen them. They’ll come sliding in for a kill. We’ll nail them then.”

  Mason hunkered down behind his gun and waited, watching the planes with eyes narrowed against the setting sun. Up ahead, Foster drove the throbbing Avenger along its serene way. Off to the right was the shoreline of Guadalcanal, a mass of jungle green, with a strip of white sand between the green and the darkening blue of the ocean.

  “The Old Man has the right hunch, all right,” Foster said quietly. “Those yellow rats have a hidden base somewhere on the island. Otherwise those planes of theirs couldn’t make such quick appearances and then disappear as completely as they do. Those babies up there probably are from that very field.”

  Mason wasn’t too interested in conversation. The Zeroes were edging in closer.

  One of them slid off in a knifelike power dive.

  “Here they come,” yelped Mason, getting braced.

  For what seemed an eternity, Foster held the Avenger on course. The second Zero was diving now and the third was wheeling over. Mason huddled grimly, waiting. He knew the Avenger wouldn’t keep sailing along like this until Jap slugs reached out for it.

  Any minute now …

  Suddenly the Avenger came to life, snapped skyward, stood on its tail and climbed, the Wright Cyclone shrieking a challenge to the diving enemy.

  The leading Zero twisted desperately to follow the American plane, skidding a sharp angle that almost tore it apart. Calmly Mason lined his sights with the pool of light that was the Jap’s propeller as the plane came about, pressed the trips.

  Fifty calibre slugs slammed into that pool of whirling steel and the Zero came unstuck.

  The wash of light disappeared in an explosion of shattered metal. Long strips peeled off the cowling and the plexiglass that housed the pilot disappeared in shreds of flying debris that glinted in the sun.

  For a split second something was punching holes along the Avenger’s left wing as the second Zero flashed past, guns still smoking.

  Then the wing guns of the Grumman opened up and Mason flipped his turret around.

  The Avenger still was climbing and the wing guns were stabbing out at the third Jap, storming straight down upon them.

  The red mouths of the Zero’s guns flickered at them wickedly and the Avenger shuddered slightly as bullets struck home.

  Ducking, Mason got behind his sights and swung his guns to bear, but even as he did, there was a thudding wham, the Grumman bucked to the recoil of the cannon in its nose and then rolled over, tumbling out of the Zero’s way.

  The Jap ship shook for a moment in the sky, seemed to stall in its downward dive, then slowly fell apart. One wing came off and tumbled seaward. The plane sideslipped and started screaming down, whirling and twisting, heaving wreckage as it fell, part of the second wing, the tail assembly, the motor, wrenched from the mountings, falling free.

  But Mason did not watch it. There was other business at hand.

  “Where is the other one?” he yelled at Foster.

  Apparently Foster didn’t know, for there was no answer.

  There was not long to wonder.

  Mason straightened up to sweep the sky and a moment later a hurricane of slashing, ripping steel caught the American ship—just a brief two second burst, but one that slivered chunks of metal off the wings, that shattered the plexiglass, that punched the tail full of gaping holes.

  The Jap had attacked from below, even now was swinging up on the side of them, motor full out to make his getaway.

  Mason whipped the guns around, got set as the Jap climbed into view. It was sheer luck, of course, that the Zero happened to climb straight into his sights.

  Mason took advantage of that luck. He pressed the trips and kept them down.

  The 50 calibres raked the rat cage from prop to tail, chewed it into a sieve-like hulk.

  It went on climbing for a moment, faltered, wobbled for a second, then slid in a long slanting dive down toward the water.

  Mason rubbed his hands gleefully.

  “Well, that’s that,” he announced, but even before the words were out of his mouth he knew something was wrong. Something wrong with the throbbing of the Cyclone. As if the motor had the hiccoughs.

  “Steve,
” he yelled. “Steve! Are you all right?”

  “I’m all right,” said Foster, “but the motor isn’t. Acts like it can’t get gas.”

  “Feed-line,” suggested Mason.

  “Yeah,” agreed Foster. “That last monkey must have messed us up a bit.”

  “Nothing,” said Mason, “like we messed him up.”

  Foster was craning his head over the side, trying to figure something out. The motor was choking and gasping.

  “How does that beach down there look to you?” asked Foster.

  Mason studied it carefully. “Ought to get her down. Might smack into a boulder or a hole or something. Never can tell.”

  “There’s nothing else we can do,” said Foster. “Hang onto your hat and cross your fingers. Here we go.”

  The motor gasped one last time and stopped, the prop circling idly, then hanging dead. The silence was terrifying. Wind whistled eerily along the ship’s metal skin and they were going fast.

  Mason, fascinated, watched and tried to relax. Mentally he made bets with himself whether they would make it.

  The sea was coming up at them. The beach was off to the right. They would never make it …

  And then they were above the beach, Foster fighting to keep the ship level. The Avenger struck the sand with a force that jarred Mason’s teeth, leaped and struck again, threatening to nose over, then was rolling free, gliding to a stop.

  Foster stood up, took off his helmet, wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He looked at Mason and grinned. “What are we going to do now?” asked the gunner.

  “Take a look. Maybe we can patch her up.”

  It was the feed-line, all right. Sliced in two and not too hard to patch, but that wasn’t all.

  Foster, stepping back in the ship, switched on the ignition, stared at the gauges for a while and then snapped it off again.

  “What’s wrong now?” demanded Mason.

  “The gas,” said the pilot. “We lost practically all of it.”

  He snapped the ignition on again. The needle on the fuel gauge barely quivered.