Out of Their Minds

by Clifford D. Simak

  They all were looking at me and a good many of them, I knew, were angry with me for being about to insult their intelligence, and there were others who plainly were amused, knowing very well there was no such thing as a Devil and waiting for the punch line. And I think, as well, that some of them were frightened, but that made little difference, for they had been frightened before the Devil and myself had come into the room.

  “There are some things I am going to tell you,” I said, “that you can check on.” I looked at the Secretary of State. “Phil’s death, for instance.” I saw his start of surprise, but I didn’t give him a chance to say anything, but kept right on. “For the most part, however,” I told them, “there is no way of checking. I’ll tell you the truth, or as close to the truth as I can come. As for believing any of it, or all of it, that is up to you …”

  Now that I had made a start, it was easy to go on. I pretended that I wasn’t in the cabinet room, but that I was in a studio and that when I got through with what I had to say, I’d get up and leave.

  They sat and listened quietly, although there were several times that some of them stirred uneasily, as if they were ready to break in on me. But the President raised his hand and shushed them and allowed me to go on. I didn’t check my time, but I would guess it didn’t take much more than fifteen minutes. I packed a lot of meat into what I had to say; I left out everything except the basics of it.

  When I was finished, no one said anything for a moment and I sat there, looking around the table at them.

  Finally, the FBI director stirred. “Most interesting,” he said.

  “Yes, isn’t it,” said the general, acidly.

  “What I gather,” said Commerce, “is that this friend of yours objects to the fact that we have introduced so many diverse elements into this mythical land of his that we’ve played hob with any attempt to set up a decent kind of government.”

  “Not a government,” I said quickly, aghast that the man should think in terms of a government for such a place as I had described. “A culture. Perhaps, you’d call it a way of life. A purpose—for there seems no purpose in the land. Each goes his merry, zany way. There is no direction. You’ll understand, of course, that I had only a few hours there and so I can’t …”

  Treasury turned a look of horror upon Commerce. “You can’t mean,” he cried, “that you place any credence in this—this fairy tale—this …”

  “I don’t know if I do or not,” said Commerce. “We have here a credible witness who, I am convinced, would not give perjured testimony.”

  “He’s been duped!” cried Treasury.

  “Or it’s a publicity stunt of some sort,” declared HEW.

  “If you gentlemen will permit me,” said State, “there is one statement that struck me rather forcibly. Philip Freeman died, so the coroner said, of a heart attack. There was some very puzzling talk that he’d been shot by an arrow—an arrow fired by a man dressed as an ancient archer might have been. But no one, of course, believed it. It was too incredible. Just as this story we have heard seems incredible and if so …”

  “You believe this story?” HEW demanded.

  “It’s hard to believe,” said State, “but I would warn against sweeping it all aside, brushing it underneath the carpet without a second glance. We should, at least, discuss it.”

  The general said, “Perhaps we should ask our panel of distinguished scientists what they think of it.” He swung around in his chair and nodded at the line of men in chairs against the wall.

  Slowly one of them got to his feet. He was a fussy and feeble old man, white-haired and, in a strange manner, very dignified. He spoke carefully, making little motions with his blue-veined hands. “I may not speak for all my colleagues,” he said, “and if I do not, I presume they will correct me. But in my view, my most considered view, I must say that a situation such as has been outlined here violates all known scientific tenets. I’d say it was impossible.”

  He sat down as carefully as he had gotten up, putting down his hands to grasp the chair arms firmly before he lowered himself into the seat.

  Silence filled the room. One or two of the scientists nodded their heads, but none of the others stirred.

  The Devil said to me, “These stupid jerks don’t believe a word of it!”

  The room was quiet and he said it loud enough so that all could hear him and while there was ample reason to believe that at one time or another, politics being what they are, they’d all been characterized as stupid jerks by someone, this was the first time, more than likely, they’d been called it to their faces.

  I shook my head at him, both as a rebuke for the language he had used and to let him know that no, they did not believe it. I knew they didn’t dare believe it; anyone who believed it would be laughed out of public office.

  The Devil leaped to his feet and banged a massive, hairy fist upon the table. Little jets of smoke spurted from his ears.

  “You created us,” he yelled at them. “With your dirty little evil minds and your beautifully fuzzy minds and your fumbling, uncertain, yearning, fearful minds you created us and the world you put us in. You did it without knowing it and for that you can’t be blamed, although one would think that personages so clever with the physics and chemistry would have run to earth these impossible things your savants say can’t happen. But now that you do know, now that the knowing has been forced upon you, you are morally obligated to come up with a remedy to the deplorable conditions you have forced upon us. You can …”

  The President sprang to his feet and, like the Devil, thumped the table with his fist—although the total effect was lost since no smoke spouted from his ears.

  “Monsieur Devil,” he shouted, “I want some answers from you. You say you stopped the cars and the radios and …”

  “You’re damned right I stopped them,” roared the Devil. “All over the world I stopped them, but it was a warning only, a showing of what could be done. And I was humane about it. The cars came to smooth and even stops and not a soul was injured. The planes I let get to the ground before I made them not to run. The factories I left working so there would be jobs and wages and goods still being made …”

  “But without transportation we are dead,” yelled Agriculture, who had been silent heretofore. “If food can’t be moved, the people will starve. If goods can’t move, business will come to a standstill.”

  “Our armies in the field,” the general cried. “They have no planes nor armor and communications are cut off …”

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” the Devil told them. “Next time around the wheel will be outlawed. No wheel will turn. No factories, no bicycles, no roller skates, no …”

  “Monsieur Devil, please,” screamed the President, “will you lower your voice? Will all of us lower our voices? There is nothing gained in screaming. We must be reasonable. I had one question and now I have another. You say you did this. Now tell us how you did it.”

  “Why, I,” the Devil stammered, “why, I just did it, that is all. I said let it happen and it happened. I do a lot of things that way. You see, you wrote it into me and you thought it into me and you talked it into me. A devil can do anything at all, so long as it is bad. I doubt exceedingly I’d be so successful doing good.”

  “Enchantment, gentlemen,” I told them. “That is the only answer for it. And don’t blame the Devil for it; we thought it up ourselves.”

  The old gentleman who had spoken for the scientists lurched to his feet. He raised clenched fists above his head. “Enchantment,” he squeaked. “There can’t be enchantment. There is no law of science …” He meant to say more, but his voice choked and he stood for a moment, fighting for breath and voice, but giving up, sat down.”

  “Maybe not,” the Devil said. “Maybe not any science law. But what care we for science? The wheel next, then electricity and after that, most likely, fire, although I haven’t thought that far ahead. And once that is done, back to the feudal manor, back to the good old Dark
Ages, where there was some honest thinking done and …”

  “Now, sir,” said the President, “another question, please, if you have done with threats.”

  “Most excellent sir,” said the Devil, trying very hard to be polite, “I do not deal in threats. I only tell what can be done and what shall be done and …”

  “But why?” asked the President. “What exactly is your grievance?”

  “Grievance!” bellowed the Devil, in a rage and forgetful of politeness. “You ask me for grievance. Horton Smith, who has a wound from Gettysburg, who jousted barehanded with Quixote, who chased a vicious witch through a fearsome woods, has outlined my grievance.”

  As a sign of his honest reason, he let his voice sink from a bellow to a roar. “Once,” he said, “our land was peopled by a hardy folk, some of them honestly good and some of them as honestly evil. I kid you not, my friends; I was and am one of the evil ones. But at least we had purpose and between the good and bad, between the imps and fairies, we made a life of it. But now what have we got? I’ll tell you what we have. We have Li’l Abner and Charley Brown and Pogo. We have Little Orphan Annie and Dagwood Bumstead and the Bobbsey Twins, Horatio Alger, Mr. Magoo, Tinkerbell, Mickey Mouse, Howdy Doody …”

  The President waved him silent. “I think you have made your point,” he said.

  “They have no character,” said the Devil. “They have no flavor nor any style. They are vapid things. There’s not an honestly evil one among them and none is really good—the goodness that is in them is enough to turn one’s stomach. I ask you in great sincerity how one is to build a worthwhile civilization with inhabitants such as that?”

  “This gentleman’s stomach,” said HEW, “is not the only one’s that’s turned. I am aghast that we sit here and listen to his buffoonery.”

  “Just a little more,” said the President. “I’m trying to make something out of this. With your indulgence, please.”

  “I suppose,” the Devil said, “that you are wondering now what can be done about it.”

  “Precisely,” said the President.

  “You can put an end to all this foolishness. You can halt the Li’l Abners and the Mickey Mouses and the Howdy Doodies. You can return to honest fantasy. You can think about some evil things and others that are good and you can believe in them …”

  Agriculture was on his feet. “I have never in my life,” he yelled, “heard such an infamous suggestion. He is suggesting thought control. He would have us dictate entertainment values and he would have us throttle artistic and literary creativity. And even if we agreed to do this, how would we go about it? Laws and edicts would not be enough. A secret campaign would have to be launched, a most secret one, and I would guess it would be impossible to keep it secret for longer than three days. But even if we could, it would take billions of dollars and years of Madison Avenue’s most devious and devoted efforts and I don’t think even then that it would catch on. These are not the Dark Ages, the honest thought of which this gentleman seems to admire so greatly. We cannot bring our people, or the people of the world, to believe again in devils or in imps, or in angels, either. I propose that we close out this discussion.”

  “My friend,” said Treasury, “takes this incident too seriously. I cannot bring myself, nor, I suspect, can many others in this room, to regard it as of any validity at all. To give the color of acceptance to this ridiculous situation by debating it on even the most hypothetical grounds seems to me to be degrading and not in keeping with the dignity of orderly procedure.”

  “Hear! Hear!” the Devil said.

  “We have taken enough of your impudence,” the FBI said to the Devil. “It is not in the best American tradition for a council of state to be insulted by such outbursts of malicious nonsense delivered by something, or someone, who can have no actual basis in fact.”

  “That does it!” the Devil raged. “No basis in fact, you say. I’ll show you nincompoops. Next comes the wheel and electricity and then I will be back and we have a better basis, maybe, for some forthright dealing.”

  Saying which, he reached out and grabbed me by the arm. “Leave us go,” he said.

  We went, no doubt in a flash of evil-smelling light and smoke. In any case, the world went away again and there was the blackness and the howling of the winds and when the blackness fell away we were back on the sidewalk outside the White House fence.

  “Well,” the Devil said, triumphantly, “I guess I told them, kid. I took the pompous hides off their four-flushing backs. Did you see their faces when I called them nincompoops?”

  “Yes, you did well,” I said, disgusted. “You have all the finesse of a hog.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “And now,” he said, “the wheels.”

  “Lay off it,” I warned him. “You’ll wreck this world of ours and then what will happen to that precious world of yours …”

  But the Devil wasn’t listening to me. He was looking over my shoulder and down the street and there was a funny look upon his face. The crowd that had ringed the Devil in when I first had found him had disappeared, but there were a number of people in the park across the street and these people now were shouting in an excited fashion.

  I swung around to look.

  Less than half a block away and bearing down upon us with great rapidity was Don Quixote astride the running bag of bones that served him as a charger. His helmet was down and the shield was up. The leveled lance was aglitter in the sun. Behind him Sancho Panza applied an enthusiastic whip to his donkey, which humped along in a stiff-legged gait not unlike a startled rabbit. While he applied the whip with one hand, Sancho Panza held the other arm out stiffly to one side, clutching a bucket. There was some sort of liquid in the bucket and it slopped alarmingly as the donkey tried its best to keep up with the storming charger. And behind the two of them came a prancing unicorn, shining white in the brilliant sunlight, with its slender horn a breathtaking lance of silver. It moved daintily and easily and was a thing of utter grace, and seated upon it, riding it sidesaddle fashion, was Kathy Adams.

  The Devil reached out a hand for me, but I knocked his arm away and made a grab at him. I clutched him about the middle and as I did so I kicked my foot backward, forcing it between two iron palings of the fence. I didn’t really think what I was doing; I didn’t plan it, and I’m not sure I knew at the time exactly why I did it. But apparently there was some subconscious thought inside of me that informed me that it just possibly might work. If I could divert the Devil from taking off to some other place for no longer than a second, Don Quixote would be down upon him and, if his aim were true, he’d have the Devil spitted on his lance. And there was also something about being securely anchored if I were to do it and another something about the effect of iron upon the Devil, and that, I suppose, was the reason I struck my foot between the palings.

  The Devil was squirming to get away, but I hung onto him, with my arms locked about his middle. His hide stank and my face, where I had it pressed against his chest, was wet with his greasy sweat. He was struggling and cursing horribly and beating at me with his fists, but out of the corner of one eye I saw the lance point flashing in toward us. The beat of clopping hooves came closer and then the lance point struck with a squashy sound and the Devil fell away. I let go of him and fell upon the sidewalk, with my foot still between the palings.

  I twisted around and saw that the lance had caught the Devil in the shoulder and had him pinned against the fence. He was squirming and mewling. He waved his arms and froth ran out of the corners of his mouth.

  Don Quixote raised a hand and tried to flip his visor up. It stuck. He wrenched at it so hard that he jerked the entire helmet off his head. It flew from his fingers and clanked upon the sidewalk.

  “Varlet,” Don Quixote cried, “I call on you to yield and to give your bounden pledge you will henceforth desist from any further interference in the world of man.”

  “To hell and damnation with you,” the Devil raged. “I will yield to no
busybody of a do-gooder that spends his time sniffing out crusades. And of all of them, there is none worse than you, Quixote. You can sense a good deed a million light years off and you are off hell-bent to do it. And I’ll have none of it. You understand that, I’ll have none of it!”

  Sancho Panza had leaped off the donkey and was running forward with the bucket which, I now saw, had a dipper in it. In front of the Devil, he halted and with the dipper splashed some of the liquid on the Devil. The liquid boiled and hissed and the Devil writhed in agony.

  “Water!” Sancho Panza cried in glee. “Blessed by the good St. Patrick and most potent stuff.”

  He let the Devil have another dipper of it. The Devil writhed and screamed.

  “Pledge!” Don Quixote shouted.

  “I yield,” the Devil yelled. “I yield and pledge.”

  “And further pledged,” said Don Quixote grimly, “that all mischief you here have caused will end—and that immediately.”

  “I will not,” the Devil screamed. “Not all my work undone!”

  Sancho Panza flung the dipper on the sidewalk and clutched the pail in both his hands, poised to hurl its entire contents on the Devil.

  “Hold!” the Devil shouted. “Avast that cursed water! I do entirely yield and pledge everything you ask.”

  “Then,” Don Quixote said, with a certain courtliness, “our mission here is done.”

  I didn’t see them go. There wasn’t even a flicker of their going: They just suddenly were gone. There was no Devil, no Don Quixote, no Sancho Panza and no unicorn. But Kathy was running toward me and I thought it strange she could run so well with her ankle sprained. I tried to jerk my foot free of the fence so I could get up to greet her, but the foot was tightly stuck between the palings and I could not get it loose.

  She went down on her knees beside me. “We’re home again!” she cried. “Horton, we are home!”