The Complete Serials

by Clifford D. Simak

  Wilson let the long sheaf of paper fall and went back to his desk. He switched on the light and, picking up the phone, dialed the switchboard.

  “Jane—I thought I recognized your voice. This is Steve Wilson. Will you put in a call to Nashville for the Rev. Jake Billings? Yes, Jane, I know what time it is. I know he probably is asleep—we’ll simply have to wake him up. No, I don’t know his number. Thank you, Jane. Thank you very much.”

  He settled back in the chair and growled at himself. When he had talked with the President early in the afternoon Jake Billings had been mentioned. Steve had promised he would call him and then the matter had not crossed his mind again. But who in hell would have thought a thing like this would happen?

  Windsor, he thought. It would take an old busybody, a meddling fool like Windsor to go messing into it. And then, when he got his face pushed in, to go bawling to the newsmen, telling what had happened.

  Christ, that’s all we need, Steve thought, to get the Windsors and the Billings of the country all mixed up in this, wringing their hands and crying for a crusade. . . A crusade, he grimly told himself, was the last thing that was needed. There was trouble enough without a gang of pulpit-thumpers adding to the dustup.

  The phone tinkled at him and he picked up the receiver. Jane said, “The Rev. Mr. Billings is on the line, sir.”

  “Hello,” said Wilson. “Is this Reverend Billings?”

  “Yes, God bless you,” said the deep, solemn voice. “What can I do for you?”

  “Jake, this is Steve Wilson.”

  “Wilson? Oh, yes, the press secretary. I should have known it was you. They didn’t say who was calling. They just said the White House.”

  The bastard, Wilson told himself. He’s disappointed. He thought it was the President.

  “It’s been a long time, Jake,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Billings. “How long ago? Ten years?”

  “More like fifteen,” said Wilson.

  “I guess you’re right at that,” said Billings. “The years do have the habit—”

  “I’m calling you,” said Wilson, “about this crusade you’re drumming up.”

  “Crusade? Oh, you mean the one to get the future people back onto the track. I am so glad you called. We need all the help we can get. I view it as fortunate that they came back to us, for whatever reason. When I think of the human race, a mere five hundred years from now, forsaking the human faith that has sustained us all these years I get a cold shiver up my spine. I’m so glad that you are with us. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you—”

  “I’m not with you, Jake.”

  “You’re not with us? What do you mean, you’re not with us?”

  “I’m not with you, Jake—that is what I mean. I’m calling to ask that you call off this silly crusade.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. We have trouble enough without some damn fool crusade. You’ll be doing the country a disservice if you keep it up. We have problems up to here and we don’t need any more. This isn’t just a situation that will allow Jake Billings to show off his piety. This is life and death, not only for the refugees, but for every one of us.”

  “It seems to me, Steve, you’re using an approach that is unnecessarily rough.”

  “If I am,” said Wilson, “it’s because I’m upset at what you’re doing. This is important, Jake. We have a job—to get the refugees to where they want to go before they upset our economy. And while we do that we’ll be getting plenty of flack. We’re going to get it from industry, from labor, from people on welfare, from politicians who will grab the chance to take cheap shots at us. With all of this we can’t face flack from you. What difference can it possibly make to you? You’re not dealing with a present situation, a present people. You’re dealing with the future, with a segment of time that ordinarily would be out of your reach. The refugees are back here, sure, but the windmill you are tilting at wasn’t even built until long after you and I were dead.”

  “God moves,” said Billings, “in many mysterious ways.”

  Wilson said, “Climb down from your pulpit. You’re not going to impress me, Jake. You never did.”

  “Steve, are you calling for the President?”

  “If you mean did he ask me to make this call, the answer is no. He probably doesn’t know as yet what you have done. But when he finds out about it he is going to be sore. The two of us talked about you earlier in the day. We were afraid you-might take some sort of hand. We couldn’t, of course, foresee what happened. But you do take a hand in everything that happens. I was supposed to phone you, to head you off beforehand. But so many things were coming up I never found the time.”

  “I can see your position,” said Billings soberly. “I think I can even understand it. But you and I see things from different viewpoints. To me the thought that the human race became a godless people is a personal agony. It goes against everything I have been taught, everything I’ve lived by, all that I’ve believed in.”

  “You can rest easy,” Wilson said. “It will go no further. The human future is ending five hundred years from now.”

  “But they’ll be going back in time.”

  “We hope they will,” Wilson said bitterly. “They’ll go back if we aren’t completely hogtied by people like you.”

  “If they go-back,” protested Billings, “they’ll make a new start. We’ll give them what they need to make a new start. Into a new land and a new time where they’ll build a godless culture. They may in time go out in space, out to other stars, and they’ll go as godless people. We can’t allow that, Steve.”

  “Maybe you can’t. I can. It doesn’t bother me. There are a hell of a lot of other people it won’t bother either. You’re blind if you can’t see the beginning, the roots of their rejection of religion in the present. Maybe that is what is really bugging you.”

  “That may be so,” Billings admitted. “I haven’t had time to think it through. Even if what you say were true it would make no difference. I still would have to do exactly what I’m doing.”

  “You mean you intend to go ahead? Even knowing what it means to all of us? Stirring up people, riding that white horse—”

  “I have to do it, Steve. My conscience—”

  “You’ll think it over? I can call again?”

  For there was no use arguing further. No point in trying to talk reason to this pious madman. Steve had known Billings since their undergraduate years. And he should have known from the very first that it would be useless to try to make Jake see another’s point of view.

  “Yes, call again,” said Billings, “if you wish. But I won’t reconsider. I know what I must do. You cannot persuade me otherwise.”

  “Good night, Jake. Sorry that I woke you up.”

  “You didn’t wake me up. I expect no sleep this night. It was good to hear your voice, Steve.”

  Wilson hung up and sat quietly in his chair. Maybe, he thought, if he had spoken differently—if he had not come on so strong—he might have accomplished something. Although he doubted it. There was no such thing as talking reason to Jake Billings—never had been. Perhaps if he had phoned this afternoon, after he first had talked with the President, he might have been able at least to have moderated Billings’ action, but he doubted that as well. It had been, he told himself, a hopeless business from the start. Billings himself was hopeless.

  He looked at his watch. It was almost two o’clock. Picking up the phone, he dialed Judy’s number. Her sleepy voice answered.

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “No, I’ve been waiting for you. Steve, you’re awful late. What happened?”

  “I had to go to Fort Myer to pick up some refugees. Scientists. They’re here, talking to the academy people. I won’t make it, Judy.”

  “You’re not coming out?”

  “I should stay in touch. Too much is happening.”

  “You’ll be dead on your feet, come morning.”

  “I’ll stretch out
on a couch in the lounge and get some rest.”

  “I could come down. Stand watch.”

  “No need. Someone will get hold of me if I’m needed. You go to bed. Be a little late in the morning if you want. I can get along.”

  “Steve?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not going good, is it?”

  “It’s too soon to tell.”

  “I saw the President on TV. It’ll be an awful mess. We’ve never faced anything like this before.”

  “No, not quite like this before.”

  “I’m scared, Steve.”

  “So am I,” said Wilson. “It’ll be different in the morning. We’ll feel different in the morning.”

  “I have a terrible sensation,” Judy said, “that the solid ground is slipping out from under my feet. I’ve been thinking about my mother and sister out in Ohio. I haven’t seen Mom in a long time.”

  “Phone her. Talk, with her. You’ll feel better.”

  “I tried to. I tried and tried. But the circuits are jammed. Everyone is calling everyone. Like a holiday. The country is upset.”

  “I just made a long-distance call.”

  “Sure you did. You’re the White House. They clear the lines for you.”

  “You can call her tomorrow. Things will quiet down tomorrow.”

  “Steve, you’re sure you can’t come out. I need you.”

  “Sorry, Judy. Truly sorry. I have this horrible feeling that I should stay in reach. I don’t know why, but I do.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

  “Try to get some sleep.”

  “You, too. Try to shut this out, try to get some sleep. You’ll need it. Tomorrow will be bad.”

  They said good night and he put the receiver back into its cradle. He wondered why he was staying here. There was at the moment no real need for him to stay. Although one could never know. Hell could break loose at any time.

  He should try to get some sleep, he told himself, but somehow he resisted sleep. He didn’t need it—he was too strung out, too tense to sleep. Later he’d need sleep, when there was no chance of sleep. A few hours from now sill this would catch up with him. But right now his nerves were too tight, his brain too busy to allow for sleep.

  He went out and around the walk to the front lawn. The night was soft, resting for the heat and turmoil of the coming day. The city was quiet. Somewhere a motor growled, but there were no cars on the avenue. The pillars of the portico gleamed softly in the night. The sky was clear and a million stars hung there. A red light went blinking across the sky and from far overhead came the thrum of motors.

  A dark figure stirred at the edge of a group of trees.

  “You all right, sir?” a voice asked.

  “Yes,” said Wilson. “Just out for a breath of air.”

  He saw now that the dark figure was a soldier, his rifle held aslant his chest.

  “Don’t go wandering,” said the soldier. “There are a lot of us out here. Some of the boys might be a little nervous.”

  “I won’t,” said Wilson. “I’ll go back indirectly.”

  He stood listening to the quietness of the city, feeling the softness of the night. Something was different about it. Despite the quiet and the softness a certain tenseness seemed to reach out to touch him.

  28. A sound brought Elmer Ellis out of a sound sleep. He sat up in bed, befuddled, unable for a moment to orient himself. On the night table beside the bed the clock was ticking loudly ancT beside him his wife, Mary, was levering herself up on her elbows.

  Her sleepy voice asked, “What is it, Elmer?”

  “Something’s at the chickens,” he said, for now the reason for his waking came churning into his consciousness.

  The sound came again, the frightened flapping, squawking of the chickens. He threw back the covers and his feet hit the cold floor so hard they hurt.

  He groped for his trousers, got his legs into them, slid his feet into his shoes, did not stop to tie the laces. The squawking still went on.

  “Where is Tige?” asked Mary.

  “Damn dog,” he growled. “Probably off chasing possum.”

  He charged out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Groping, he found the shotgun, lifted it from its pegs. From the game bag that hung beneath the pegs he took a handful of shells, jammed them into a pocket, found two more and thrust them into the chambers of the double-barrel.

  Bare feet pattered toward him. “Here’s the flashlight, Elmer. You can’t see a thing without it.”

  She thrust it at him and he took it.

  The night was pitch black outside and he switched on the light to see his way down the porch steps. The squawking in the henhouse continued and there was no sign of Tige.

  This was strange. In a flare of anger he had said the dog was probably out hunting possum and that couldn’t be true. Tige never went out hunting on his own. He was too old and stiff in the joints and he loved his bed under the porch.

  “Tige,” he said, not too loudly.

  The dog whined from under the porch.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” asked Elmer. “What is out there, boy?”

  Suddenly he was afraid—more afraid than he had ever been before. Even more afraid than that time he had run into the Vietcong ambush. This was a different kind of fear—like a cold hand reaching out and gripping him and holding him and he knowing he’d never get away.

  The dog whined again.

  “Come on, boy,” said Elmer. “Come on out and get them.”

  Tige did not come out.

  “All right, then,” said Elmer. “Stay there.”

  He went across the farmyard, shining his light ahead of him, picking out the henhouse door.

  The frightened squawking was louder than ever now, insane and frantic.

  Long ago, he told himself, he should have repaired the henhouse, plugged up the holes. The shape it was in, a fox would have no trouble gaining entry. Although it was strange, if what bothering the chickens were a fox, that the animal should still be there. At the first flash of light, the first sound of a human voice, a fox would have been gone.

  What was in there? A weasel, maybe, or a mink? Even a raccoon?

  Outside the door he paused, reluctant to go on. But he couldn’t turn back now. He’d never be able to live with himself if he did. Why, he wondered, should he be so frightened? It . was Tige, he thought. Tige was so scared that he refused to come from beneath the porch and some of that fright had rubbed off on him.

  “Damn that dog,” he said.

  He reached out and lifted the latch, slammed the door back against the side of the building. He balanced-the gun in his right hand and directed the flash with his left.

  The first thing he saw in the circle of light were feathers—feathers floating in the air. Then the running, squawking, flapping chickens and in among the chickens . . .

  Elmer Ellis dropped the flash and screamed and in mid-scream jerked the gun to his shoulder and fired blindly into the henhouse, first the right barrel, then the left, the shots so close together that they sounded as one explosion.

  Then they were coming at him, leaping from the open door, hundreds of them, it seemed, faintly seen in the light of the flash that lay on the ground—horrible little monsters such as one would never see except in some sweating dream. He reversed the gun, scarcely realizing that he did so, grasping the barrels in both his hands, using it as a club, flailing with it blindly as they came swarming out at him.

  Jaws fastened on an ankle and a heavy body struck him in the chest. Claws raked his left leg from hip to knee and he knew that he was going down and that once he was down they would finish him.

  He sagged to his knees and now one of them had him by the arm and he tried to fight it off, while another clawed his back to ribbons. He tipped over on one side and ducked down his head, covering it with his one free arm, drawing up his knees to protect his belly.

  And that was all. They no longer chewed or ripped him. H
e jerked up his head and saw them, flitting shadows, moving out into the dark. The beam of the fallen, flashlight caught one of them momentarily and for the first time he really saw the sort of creatures that had been in the henhouse and at the sight of it he bawled in utter terror.

  Then it was gone—all of them were gone—and he was alone in the yard. He-tried to get up. Halfway there, his legs folded under him and he fell heavily. He crawled toward the house, clawing at the ground to pull himself along. He felt a wetness on one arm and one leg and a stinging pain was beginning in his back.

  The kitchen window glowed with a lighted lamp. Tige came out from beneath the porch and crawled toward him, belly flat against the ground, whining. Mary, in her nightgown, was running down the stairs.

  “Get the sheriff!” he yelled at her, gasping with the effort. “Phone the sheriff—”

  She raced across the yard and kneeled beside him, trying to get her hands under his body to lift him.

  He pushed her away. “Get the sheriff. The sheriff has to know right away.”

  “You’re hurt. You’re bleeding.”

  “I’m all right,” he told her fiercely. “They’re go tie. But the others must be warned. You didn’t see them. You don’t know.”

  “I have to get you in and call the doctor.”

  “The sheriff first,” he said. “Then the doctor.”

  She rose and raced back to the house.

  He tried to crawl, covered only a few feet and then lay still. Tige came crawling out to meet him, edged in close to him and began to lick his face.

  TO BE CONCLUDED

  CONCLUSION

  WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE

  BENTLEY PRICE, Global News Service photographer, is relaxing before a Sunday afternoon backyard barbeque when a hole appears in the suburban landscape and people start marching through, four and five abreast. They are outlandishly costumed in garb ranging from long robes to buckskin, seem of all ages, peaceful and carry little or no luggage. When Bentley protests their lawn-trampling their spokesman introduces himself as MAYNARD GALE, and his daughter, ALICE. He and his followers have just come are still arriving—from five hundred years in the future—and could the children please use the bathroom?