New Folks' Home: And Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  Blaine heard them running now, and shouting; he knew it would not be long. He huddled in the bushes and tried to plan what he should do, but everywhere he ran into blank walls and there was nothing he could do.

  A voice hissed at him, a whisper from the wall. Blaine started, pressing himself further back into the clump of bushes.

  “Psst, “ said the voice once again.

  A trick, he thought, wildly. A trick to lure me out. Then he saw the rope, dangling from the wall, where it was lighted by the broken window.

  “Psst,” said the voice.

  Blaine took the chance. He leaped from the bushes and across the path toward the wall. The rope was real and was anchored. Spurred by desperation, Blaine went up it like a monkey, flung out an arm across the top of the wall and hauled himself upward. A gun cracked angrily; a bullet hit the wall and ricocheted, wailing, out into the night.

  Without thinking of the danger, he hurled himself off the wall. He struck hard ground that drove the breath from him and he doubled up with agony, retching, gasping to regain his breath, while stars wheeled with tortuous deliberation in the center of his brain.

  He felt hands lifting him and carrying him and heard the slamming of a door, then the flow of speed as a car howled through the night.

  XI

  A face was talking to him and Norman Blaine tried to place it; he knew that he’d seen it once before. But he couldn’t recognize it; he shut his eyes, tried to find soft, cool blackness. The blackness was not soft, but harsh and painful; he opened his eyes again.

  The face still was talking to him and it had shoved itself up close to him. He felt the fine spray of the other’s saliva fly against his face. Once before, when a man had talked to Blaine, this had happened. That morning at the parking lot a man had buttonholed him. And here he was again, with his face thrust close and the words pouring out of him.

  “Cut it out, Joe,” said another voice. “He’s still half out. You hit him too hard; he can’t understand you.”

  And Blaine knew that voice too. He put out his hand, pushed the face away, and hauled himself to a sitting position, with a rough wall against his back.

  “Hello, Collins,” he said to the second voice. “How did you get here?”

  “I was brought,” said Collins.

  “So I heard.”

  Blaine wondered where he was: An old cellar, apparently—a fit place for conspirators. “Friends of yours?” he asked.

  “It turns out that they are.”

  The face of the Buttonholer popped up once again.

  “Keep him away from me,” said Blaine.

  Another voice told Joe to get away. And he knew that voice, too.

  Joe’s face left.

  Blaine put up his arm and wiped his own face. “Next,” he said, “I’ll find Farris here.”

  “Farris is dead,” said Collins.

  “I didn’t think you had the guts,” said Lucinda Silone.

  He turned his head against the roughness of the wall and he saw them now, standing to one side of him—Collins and Lucinda and Joe and two others that he did not know.

  “He won’t laugh again,” said Blaine. “I smashed the laugh off him.”

  “Dead men never laugh,” said Joe.

  “I didn’t hit him very hard.”

  “Hard enough.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We made sure,” said Lucinda.

  He remembered her from the morning, sitting across the desk from him, and the calmness of her. She still was calm. She was one, Blaine thought, who could make sure—very sure—that a man was dead.

  It would not have been too hard to do. Blaine had been seen going over the wall and there would have been a chase. While the guard poured out after him it would have been a fairly simple matter to slip into the house and make entirely certain that Farris was dead.

  He reached up a hand and felt the lump on his head, back of the ear. They had made certain of him, too, he thought—certain that he would not wake too soon and that he’d make no trouble. He stumbled to his feet and stood shakily, putting out a hand against the wall to support himself.

  He looked at Lucinda. “Education,” he said, and he looked at Collins and said, “You too.”

  And he looked at the rest of them, from one to another. “And you?” he asked. “Every one of you?”

  “Education has known It for a long time,” Lucinda told him. “For a century or more. We’ve been working on you; and this time, my friend, we have Dreams nailed down.”

  “A conspiracy,” said Blaine, grim laughter in his throat. “A wonderful combination—Education and conspiracy. And the Buttonholers. Oh, God, don’t tell me the Buttonholers! “

  She held her chin just a little tilted and her shoulders were straight. “Yes, the Buttonholers, too.”

  “Now,” Blaine told her, “I’ve heard everything.” He flicked a questioning thumb at Collins.

  “A man,” said the girl, “who took a Dream before we ever knew; who took you at the outward value that you give yourselves. We got to him …”

  “Got to him!”

  “Certainly. You don’t think that we’re without—well, you might call them representatives, at Center.”

  “Spies.”

  “All right; call them spies.”

  “And I—where do I work in? Or did I just stumble in the way?”

  “You in the way? Never! You were so conscientious, dear. So smug and self-satisfied, so idealistic.”

  So he’d not been entirely wrong, then. It had been an Education plot—except that the plot had run headlong into a Center intrigue and he’d been caught squarely in the middle. And oh, the beauty of it, he thought—the utter, fouled-up beauty of it! You couldn’t have worked a tangled mass like this up intentionally if you’d spent a lifetime at it.

  “I told you, pal,” said Collins, “that there was something wrong. That the dream was made to order for a certain purpose.”

  Purpose, Blaine thought. The purpose of collecting data from hypothetical civilizations, from imaginary cultures, of having first-hand knowledge as to what would happen under many possible conditions; to collect and co-ordinate that data and pick from it the factors that could be grafted onto the present culture; to go about the construction of a culture in a cold-blooded, scientific manner, as a carpenter might set out to build a hen-coop. And the lumber and the nails used in that hen-coop culture would have been fabricated from the stuff of dreams dreamt by reluctant dreamers.

  And the purpose of Education in exposing the plot? Politics, perhaps. For the union which could unmask such duplicity would gain much in the way of public admiration, would thus be strengthened for the coming showdown. Or perhaps the purpose might be more idealistic, honestly motivated by a desire to thwart a scheme which would most surely put one union in unquestioned domination of all the rest of them.

  “Now what?” Blaine asked.

  “They want me to bring a complaint,” said Collins.

  “And you are going to do it.”

  “I suppose I shall.”

  “But why you? Why now? There were others with substituted dreams; you were not the first. Education must have sleepers planted by the hundreds.”

  He looked at the girl. “You applied,” he said; “you tried to plant yourself.”

  “Did I?” she asked.

  And had she? Or had her application been aimed at him—for now it was clear that he had been selected as one weak link in Dreams. How many other weak links, now and in the past, had Education used? Had her application been a way to contact him, a means of applying some oblique pressure to make him do a thing that Education might want someone like him to do?

  “We are using Collins,” said Lucinda, “because he is the first independent grade A specimen we have found, who is untainted with the brush of Ed
ucation espionage. We used our own sleepers to build up the evidence, but we could not produce in court evidence collected by admitted spies. But Collins is clean; he took the sleep before we even suspected what was going on.”

  “He is not the first; there have been others. Why haven’t you used them?”

  “They were not available.”

  “Not …”

  “Dreams could tell what happened. Perhaps you might know what happened to them, Mr. Blaine.”

  He shook his head. “But why am I here? You certainly don’t expect me to testify. What made you grab me off?”

  “We saved your neck,” said Collins; “you keep forgetting that.”

  “You may leave,” Lucinda told him, “any time you wish.”

  “Except,” Joe said, “you are a hunted man. The goons are looking for you.”

  “If I were you,” said Collins, “I do believe I’d stay.”

  They thought they had him. He could see they thought so—had him tied and haltered, had him in a corner where he would have to do anything they said. A cold, hard anger grew inside of him—that anyone should think so easily to trap a man of Dreams and bend him to their will.

  Norman Blaine took a slow step forward, away from the wall, and stood unsupported in the dim-lit cellar. “Which way out?” he asked.

  “Up those steps,” said Collins.

  “Can you make it?” Lucinda asked.

  “I can make it.”

  He walked unsteadily toward the stairs, but each step seemed to be a little surer and he knew he’d make it, up the stairs and out into the coolness of the night. Suddenly he yearned for the first breath of the cool, night air, to be out of this dank hole that smelled of dark conspiracy.

  He turned and faced them, where they stood like big-eyed ghosts against the cellar wall. “Thanks for everything,” he said.

  He stood there for another instant, looking back at them. “For everything,” he repeated.

  Then he turned and climbed the stairs.

  XII

  The night was dark, though dawn could not be far off. The moon had set, but the stars burned like steady lamps and a furtive dawn-wind had come up to skitter down the street.

  He was in a little village, Blaine saw—one of the many shopping centers scattered across the countryside, with its myriad shop fronts and their glowing night lights.

  He walked away from the cellar opening, lilting his head so the wind could blow against it. The air was clean and fresh after the dankness of the cellar; he gulped in great breaths of it, and it seemed to clear his head of fog and put new strength into his legs.

  The street was empty; he trudged along it, wondering what he should do next. Obviously, he had to do something. The move was up to him. He couldn’t be found, come morning, still wandering the streets of this shopping center.

  He must find some place to hide from the hunting goons!

  But there was no way in which he could hide from them. They’d be relentless in their search for Blaine. He had killed their leader—or had seemed to kill him—and that was a precedent they could not allow to go unpunished.

  There’d be no public hue or outcry, for the Farris killing could not be advertised; but that would not mean the search would be carried on with any less ferocity. Even now they would be hunting for him, even now they would have covered all his likely haunts and contacts. He could not go home, or to Harriet’s home, or to any of the other places—

  Harriet’s home!

  Harriet was not home; she was off somewhere, tracking down a story that he must somehow stop. There was a greater factor here than his personal safety. There was the honor and the integrity of the Dream guild; if any of its honor and integrity were left.

  But there was, Norman Blaine told himself. It still was left in the thousands of workers, and in the departmental heads who had never heard of substituted dreams. The basic purpose of the guild still remained what it had been for a thousand years, so far as the great majority of its members were concerned. To them the flame of service, the pride and comfort of that service, and the dedication to it burned as bright and clear as it ever had.

  But not for long; not for many hours. The first headline in a paper, the first breath of whispered scandal, and the bright, clear light of purpose would be a smoky flare, glaring redly in the murk of shame.

  There was a way—there had to be a way—to stop it. There must be a way in which the Dream guild could be saved. And if there were a way, he must be the one to find it; of them all, Blaine was the only one who knew the imminence of dishonor.

  The first step was to get hold of Harriet, to talk with her, to make her see the right and wrong.

  The goons were hunting for him, but they would be on their own; they could not enlist the help of any other union. It should be safe to phone.

  Far up the street, he saw a phone booth sign and he headed there, hurrying along, his footsteps ringing sharply in the morning chill.

  He dialed the number of Harriet’s office.

  No, the voice said, she wasn’t there. No, he had no idea. Should he have her call back if she happened to come in.

  “Never mind,” said Blaine.

  He called another number.

  “We’re closed,” a voice told him; “there’s no one here at all.”

  He called another and there was no answer.

  Another. “There ain’t no one here, mister. We closed up hours ago. It’s almost morning now.”

  She wasn’t at her office; she wasn’t at her favorite night spots.

  Home, perhaps?

  He hesitated for a moment, then decided it wasn’t safe to call her there. The goons, in defiance of all Communications regulations, would have her home line tapped, and his home line as well.

  There was that little place out by the lake where they’d gone one afternoon. Just a chance, he told himself.

  He looked up the number, dialed it. “Sure she’s here,” said the man who answered.

  He waited.

  “Hello, Norm,” she said, and he could sense the panic in her voice, the little quick catch in her breath.

  “I have to talk with you.”

  “No,” she said. “No. What do you mean by calling? You can’t talk with me. The goons are hunting you …”

  “I’ve got to talk to you; that story …”

  “I’ve got the story, Norm.”

  “But you have to listen to me. The story’s wrong. It’s not the way you have it; that’s not the way it was at all. “

  “You better get away, Norm. The goons are everywhere …”

  “Damn the goons,” he said.

  “Goodbye, Norm,” she said; “I hope you get away.”

  The line was dead.

  He sat stunned, staring at the phone.

  I hope you get away. Goodbye, Norm. I hope you get away.

  She had been frightened when he’d called. She wouldn’t listen; she was sorry, now, that she had ever known him—a man disgraced, a killer, hunted by the goons.

  She had the story, she had told him; and that was all that mattered. A story wormed out of the whispered word, out of a gin and tonic or a Scotch and soda. The old, wise story garnered from many confidences, from knowing the right people, from having many pipelines.

  “Ugly,” he said.

  So she had the story and would write it soon and it would be splashed in garish lettering for the world to read.

  There must be a way to stop it—there had to be a way to stop it.

  There was a way to stop it!

  He shut his eyes and shivered, suddenly cold with the horror. “No, no,” he said.

  But it was the only answer. Blaine got up, groped his way out of the booth, and stood in the loneliness of the empty sidewalk, with the splashes of light thrown across the concrete from the many sho
p fronts with the first dawn wind stirring in the sky above the roofs.

  A car came creeping down the street, with its lights off, and he did not see it until it was almost opposite him. The driver stuck out his head. “Ride, mister?”

  He jumped, startled by the car and the voice. His muscles bunched but there was no place to go, no place to duck, nowhere to hide. They had him cold, he knew. He wondered why they didn’t shoot.

  The back door popped open. “Get in here,” said Lucinda Silone. “Don’t stand and argue. Get in, you crazy fool.”

  He moved swiftly, leaped into the car and slammed the door.

  “I couldn’t leave you out there naked,” said the girl. “The way you are, the goons would have you before the sun was up.”

  “I have to go to Center,” Blaine told her. “Can you take me there?”

  “Of all the places …”

  “I have to go,” he said; “if you won’t take me …”

  “We can take you.”

  “We can’t take him and you know it,” said the driver.

  “Joe, the man wants to go to Center.”

  “It’s a stupid business,” said Joe. “What does he want to go to Center for? We can hide him out. We …”

  “They won’t be looking for me there,” said Blaine. “That’s the last place in the world they’d expect to find me.”

  “You can’t get in …”

  “I can get him in,” Lucinda said.

  XIII

  They came around a curve and were confronted by the road block. There was no time to stop, no room to turn around and flee. “Get down!” yelled Joe.

  The motor howled in sudden fury at an accelerator jammed tight against the boards. Blaine reached out an arm and pulled Lucinda to him, hurling both of them off the seat and to the floor.

  Metal screamed and grated as the car slammed into the block. Out of the corner of his eye, Norman Blaine saw timber go hurtling past the window. Something else smashed into a window and they were sprayed with glass.

  The car bucked and slewed, then was through. One tire was flat, thumping and pounding on the pavement.

  Blaine reached up a hand and grasped the back of the seat. He hauled himself up, pulling Lucinda with him.