The Complete Serials

by Clifford D. Simak

  Then there was a movement in the shadow underneath a tree and a moment later the thing that had made the movement trotted out into the open. It glittered in the moonlight and it had about it a sense of fiendish strength and ferocity. It was the size of a calf, perhaps, although because of the moonlight and the distance the size was hard to judge. It was lithe and quick, with a nervousness about it, stepping high and daintily, but there was in its metal body a feel of power that could be perceived even from some hundreds of feet away. It quartered nervously about, as if it might be seeking out a scent and for a moment it switched about and stared directly at us—stared and seemed to strain toward us, as if someone might have held it on a leash and it yearned to break away.

  Then it turned and took up its running back and forth and all at once there were three instead of one of them—slipping through the moonlight, running in the woods.

  One of them, as it turned toward us in its running, opened its mouth, or what would have been its mouth had it been a biologic creature, exposing a serried rank of metal teeth. When it shut its mouth, the clash of the teeth coming back together came clear to us, crouching in the cave.

  Cynthia was pressing close against me and I disengaged my hand from hers, put my arm about her and held her very close, not thinking of her, I am sure, as a woman in that moment, but as another human being, another thing of flesh and blood that metal teeth could rend. Clutching one another, we watched the wolves, seeking, running—I got the impression they were slavering—and, somehow the idea crept into my mind that they knew we were nearby and were seeking for us.

  Then they were gone. As quickly as they had appeared, they disappeared, and we did not see them go. But we still stayed crouching there, afraid to speak, afraid to move, for how long I don’t know.

  Then fingers tapped against my shoulder. “They are gone,” the census taker said. I had, until he tapped me, forgotten about the census taker.

  “They were confused,” he said. “Undoubtedly the horses milled around down there while you were being installed in the cave before your companions went away. It took them a while to work out the trail.”

  Cynthia tried to speak and choked, the words dying in her throat. I knew exactly how it was; my own mouth was so dry I wondered if I would ever speak again.

  She tried again and made it. “I thought they were looking for us. I thought they knew we were somewhere near.”

  “It is over now,” the census taker said. “The present danger’s past. Why don’t we move back into the cave and be comfortable?”

  I rose, dragging Cynthia up with me. My muscles were tense and knotted from staying still so long in such an uncomfortable position. After staring so long out into the moonlight, the cave was dark as pitch, but I groped along the wall, found our piles of sacks and baggage and, sitting down, leaned against them. Cynthia sat down beside me.

  The census taker squatted down in front of us. We couldn’t really see him because the robe he wore was as black as the inside of the cave. All one could see of him was the whiteness of his face, a pasty blob in the darkness, a blob without any features.

  “I suppose,” I said, “that we should thank you.”

  He made a shrugging motion. “One seldom comes on allies,” he said. “When one does he makes the most of it, does whatever is possible to do.”

  There were moving shadows in the cave, flickering shadows. Either they had just arrived or I had failed to notice them before. Now they were everywhere.

  “Have you called in your people?” Cynthia asked and from the tightness of her voice I guessed what it must have cost to keep it level.

  “They have been here all the time,” said the census taker. “It takes them a little while to show themselves. They come on slow and easy. They have no wish to frighten.”

  “It is difficult,” said Cynthia, “not to be frightened by ghosts. Or do you call them something else?”

  “A better term,” said the census taker, “might be shades.”

  “Why shades?” I asked.

  “The reason,” said the census taker, “is one of somewhat involved semantics that would require an evening to explain. I am not sure I entirely understand myself. But it is the term they do prefer.”

  “And you?” I asked. “Exactly what are you?”

  “I do not understand,” said the census taker.

  “Look, we are humans. These other folks are shades. The creatures we were watching were robots—metal wolves. A matter of classification. How are you classified?”

  “Oh, that,” said the census taker.

  “That really is quite simple. I am a census taker.”

  “And the wolves,” said Cynthia. “I suppose they are Cemetery.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” said the census taker, “although now only rarely used. In the early days there was much work for them to do.”

  I was puzzled. “What kind of work?” I asked.

  “Monsters,” said the census taker and I could see that he did not want to talk about it.

  The shades had stopped their incessant fluttering and were beginning to settle down so that one could see, or at least guess at the shape of them.

  “They like you,” said the census taker. “They know you’re on their side.”

  “We’re not on anyone’s side,” I told him. “We’re just running like hell to keep from getting clipped. Ever since we arrived there has been someone taking potshots at us.”

  One of the shades had squatted down beside the census taker, shedding, as it did so, some of its nebulous, misty quality and becoming not solid by any means, but a little more solid. One still had a sense of being able to see through them, but the swirly lines had stilled and the outlines were sharper and this squatting thing looked something like a rather arty drawing made upon a blackboard with a piece of chalk.

  “If you do not mind,” said the arty piece of drawing, “I will introduce myself. My name was one that in the days long ago struck terror on the planet Prairie, which is a strange name for a planet, but easily explained, because it is a very great planet, somewhat larger than the Earth and with land masses that are considerably larger than the areas of the oceans and all that land is flat, with no mountain, and all the land is prairie. There is no winter since the winds blow wild and free and the heat from the planet’s sun is equitably distributed over the entire planetary surface. We settlers of Prairie lived in an eternal summer. We were, of course, humans from the planet Earth, our forebears landing on Prairie in their third migration outward into the galaxy, hopping from one planet to another in an attempt to find better living space, and on Prairie we found it—but perhaps not the way you think. We built no great cities, for reasons which I may explain later, but not now, since it would take too long to tell. Rather, we became roaming nomads with our flocks and herds, which is, perhaps, a more satisfactory way of life than any other man has been able to devise. There dwelt upon this planet a native population of most slimy, most ferocious and sneaky devils that refused to cooperate in any way with us and which did their best, in various nefarious ways, to do away with us. I started out, I think, to introduce myself, then forgot to tell my name. It is a good Earth name, for my family and my clan were always very careful to keep alive the heritage of Earth and . . .”

  “His name,” said the census taker, interrupting, “is Ramsay O’Gillicuddy, which is, in all conscience, a good Earth name. I tell it to you because, if left to him, he’d never manage to get around to it.”

  “And now,” said the shade of Ramsay O’Gillicuddy, since I have been introduced, I’ll tell you the story of my life.”

  “No, you won’t,” said the census taker. “We haven’t got the time. There is much we must discuss.”

  “Then the story of my death.”

  “All right,” the census taker said, “if you keep it short.”

  “They caught me,” said Ramsay O’Gillicuddy’s shade, “and made me a captive, these slimy, greasy natives. I shall not detail the situation whic
h led to this shameful thing, for it would require the explanation of certain circumstances which the census taker infers there is not the time to tell. But they caught me, anyhow, and then they held a long, deliberate discussion, within my hearing, which I did not at all enjoy, about how best to dispose of me. None of the suggested procedures calculated to bring about my demise were pretty for the prospective victim to hold in contemplation. Nothing simple, you understand, such as a blow upon the head or a cutting of the throat, but all rather long, drawn-out and intricate operations. Finally, after hours of talking back and forth, during which they politely invited my personal reactions to each plan put forward, they decided upon skinning me alive, explaining that they would not really be killing me and that because of this I should bear them no ill will and that if I could manage to survive without my skin they would be glad to let me go. Once they had my skin, they informed me, they intended tanning it to make a drum upon which they could beat out a message of mockery to my clan.”

  “With all due respect,” I said, “with a lady present . . .” but he paid no attention to me.

  “After I died,” he said, “and my body was found, my clan decided to do a thing that had never been done before. All our honored dead had been buried on the prairie, with the graves unmarked, in the thought that a man could ask no more than to become one with the world that he had trod. Word had come to us some years ago of the Cemetery here on Earth, but we had paid slight attention to it because it was not our way. But now the clan met in council and decided that I should be accorded the honor of sleeping in the soil of Mother Earth. So a large barrel was made to house my poor remains which, pickled in alcohol, was carted to the planet’s one poor spaceport where it was stored for many months, awaiting the arrival of a ship, on which it was finally taken to the nearest port where a funeral ship made regular calls.”

  “You cannot comprehend,” said the census taker, “what this decision cost his clan. They are poor people on the planet Prairie and their only wealth is counted in their flocks and herds. It took them many years to build back the livestock that was required for Cemetery to perform its services. It was a noble sacrifice and it’s a pity that it came out so sadly. Ramsay, as you may guess, was and still is the only inhabitant of Prairie ever to be buried in Cemetery—not that he was really buried there, not at least in quite the manner that had been intended. The officials of Cemetery, not the present management, but one of many years ago, happened at that time to need an extra casket to hide away certain items of . . .”

  “You mean artifacts,” I said.

  “You know of this?” asked the census taker.

  “We suspected it,” I said.

  “Your suspicions are quite correct,” said the census taker, “and our poor friend here was one of the victims of their treachery and greed. His casket was used for artifacts and what was left of him was thrown into a deep gorge, a natural charnel pit, at the Cemetery’s edge and ever since that day his shade has wandered the Earth, as do so many others . .

  “You tell it well,” said O’Gillicuddy, “and in very simple truth.”

  “You tell it well,” I said, “except for one essential point.”

  “You do not believe the shades? You have doubts of them? You feel put upon?”

  “Somewhat put upon,” I said. “Ghosts are human folklore, old Earth stories . . .”

  “They are more than that,” said the census taker.

  “How more than that?” I asked.

  “Let us for a moment,” said the census taker, “take notice of the shortcomings of our understanding. Even of ourselves. Perhaps particularly of ourselves. Let us consider the miracle of life. It is, I think you would agree, a chemical reaction—and the somewhat more complex phenomenon that we are wont to call intelligence may be, as well, a chemical reaction of slightly different stripe. This, of course, is no more than our recognition of a situation and an educated guess as to what may be responsible for setting it in motion. But we have, so far, no inkling of that strange set of circumstances which makes awareness possible, that makes each of us think of himself as I, the mechanism that gives us personal identity and sets each of us apart from the rest of the universe.”

  “Sure, I agree with all of that,” I said, “but what does it have to do with shades?”

  “Let us postulate,” said the census taker, “a force called life. Let us term it a force because we have no idea what it is. Certainly, it may be the result of certain chemical reactions, but we don’t know what it is.”

  “You’re talking utter nonsense,” I protested, “and I do not . . .”

  “Because you cannot pin it down? We must deny everything because we cannot pin it down? You will have to agree, I think, that there is an unexplainable factor that we call life and that life gives each living thing identity, sharp identity for creatures such as you and I, somewhat less well-defined, let us say, for the protozoa.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I would agree to that.”

  “Then, let us postulate a little further. When the body dies where does that life force go? To any number of mythical places, perhaps, depending on which religion one embraces. Into a nothingness, say others who admit to no spiritual belief. Both of these viewpoints, I think it only fair to say, are no better than nebulous assumptions. Let us advance another. Under certain circumstances, it would seem to me, the life force, driven from the body by this process we call death, may still linger near. What circumstances would bring this about, I do not pretend to know. The character of the individual, perhaps, the manner of his death, some strong emotional drive that existed while the individual still held the force of life . . .”

  “Hut even if such a force existed, it would not be seen.”

  “Let us say,” said the census taker, “that in order to maintain its organization, it should be necessary that it associate itself with energy and that it had the means to do this—that it could trap certain energies, create for itself a field of energy, and that it could, at will, shape these energies into a simulation of its former physical self or into other forms . . .”

  “Now just a minute there,” I said. “Are you just imagining all of this, or do you know?”

  “If I said I knew,” said the census taker, “you would not believe me. You would want to argue with me. So why go to the trouble? And furthermore, we have no more time for this. We must now deliberate upon what further action the two of you should take. For once the wolves catch up with your two good friends, they will realize immediately that you are not with them, and since Cemetery cares nothing about the two robots, but only for you . . .”

  “They’ll come back for us,” said Cynthia, sounding scared.

  I wasn’t too brave about it, either. I did not like the thought of those great metal brutes snapping at our heels.

  “How do they follow?” I asked. “They have a sense of smell,” said the census taker. “Not the same kind you humans have, but the ability to pick up and recognize the chemicals of odors. They have sharp sight. They might have trouble if you kept to high and stony ground, where you’d leave little trace and the scent of your passing would not cling. I had feared they might catch the scent of you when they came by a while ago, but you were higher than they were and a kindly updraft of air must have carried the smell away from them.”

  “They will be following the horses,” I said. “The trail will be wide open. They’ll travel fast. It may be only a few hours from now when they’ll find we’re not with the others.”

  “You’ll have a little time,” said the census taker. “It’s a few hours yet till dawn and you can’t start until it’s light. You’ll have to travel fast and you can carry little with you.”

  “We’ll take food,” said Cynthia, “and blankets . . .”

  “Not too much food,” said the census taker. “Only what you must. You’ll find food along the way. You have fishhooks, have you not?”

  “Yes, we have a few fishhooks,” said Cynthia. “I bought a box of them, almost
as an afterthought. But we can’t live on fish.”

  “There are roots and berries.”

  “But we don’t know which roots and berries.”

  “You do not need to know,” said the census taker. “I know all of them.”

  “You’ll be going with us?”

  “We’ll be going with you,” said the census taker.

  “Of course we will,” said O’Gillicuddy. “Every one of us. It’s little we can do, but we’ll be of some slight service. We can watch for followers . . .”

  “But ghosts . . .” I said.

  “Shades,” said O’Gillicuddy.

  “But shades are not abroad in daylight.”

  “That is a human fallacy,” said O’Gillicuddy. “We cannot, of course, be seen in daylight. But neither can we be at night if it is not our wish.”

  The other shades made mutters of agreement.

  “We’ll make up our packs,” said Cynthia, “and leave all the rest behind. Elmer and Bronco will come looking for us here. We’ll leave a note for them. We’ll pin it to one of the packs, where they’ll be sure to see it.”

  “We’ll have to tell them where we’re heading,” I said. “Does anyone have any idea where we’ll be going?”

  “Into the mountains,” said the census taker.

  “Do you know a river,” Cynthia asked, “that is called the Ohio?”

  “I know it very well,” said the census taker. “Do you want to go to the Ohio?”

  “Now, look here,” I said, “we can’t go chasing . . .”

  “Why not?” asked Cynthia. “If we’re going somewhere we might as well go where we wish to go . . .”

  “But I thought we agreed . . .”

  “I know,” said Cynthia. “You made it very plain. Your composition has first claim and I suppose it will still have to have it. But you can make it anywhere, can’t you?”

  “Certainly. Within reason.”

  “All right,” said Cynthia. “We’ll head toward the Ohio. If that is all right with you,” she said to the census taker.