No Life of Their Own: And Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  “I can’t go into space,” said Webster.

  “Anyone can go into space,” snapped Clayborne. “It’s not like it used to be. Conditioning of any sort desired is available.”

  “But you don’t understand,” pleaded Webster. “You—”

  “No, I don’t,” said Clayborne. “Frankly, I don’t. That anyone should refuse to save the life of his friend—”

  The two men stared at one another for a long moment, neither speaking.

  “I shall tell the committee to send the ship straight to your home,” said Clayborne finally. “I hope by that time you will see your way clear to come.”

  Clayborne faded and the wall came into view again—the wall and books, the fireplace and the paintings, the well-loved furniture, the promise of spring that came through the window.

  Webster sat frozen in his chair, staring at the wall in front of him.

  Juwain, the furry, wrinkled face, the sibilant whisper, the friendliness and understanding that was his. Juwain, grasping the stuff that dreams are made of and shaping them into logic, into rules of life and conduct. Juwain using philosophy as a tool, as a science, as a stepping stone to better living.

  Webster dropped his face into his hands and fought the agony that welled up within him.

  Clayborne had not understood. One could not expect him to understand since there was no way for him to know. And even knowing, would he understand? Even he, Webster, would not have understood it in someone else until he had discovered it in himself—the terrible fear of leaving his own fire, his own land, his own possessions, the little symbolisms that he had erected. And yet, not he, himself, alone, but those other Websters as well. Starting with the first John J. Men and women who had set up a cult of life, a tradition of behavior.

  He, Jerome A. Webster, had gone to Mars when he was a young man, and had not felt or suspected the psychological poison that ran through his veins. Even as Thomas a few months ago had gone to Mars. But twenty-five years of quiet life here in the retreat that the Websters called a home had brought it forth, had developed it without him even knowing it. There had, in fact, been no opportunity to know it.

  It was clear how it had developed—clear as crystal now. Habit and mental pattern and a happiness association with certain things—things that had no actual value in themselves, but had been assigned a value, a definite, concrete value by one family through five generations.

  No wonder other places seemed alien, no wonder other horizons held a hint of horror in their sweep.

  And there was nothing one could do about it—nothing, that is, unless one cut down every tree and burned the house and changed the course of waterways. Even that might not do it—even that—

  The televisor purred and Webster lifted his head from his hands, reached out and thumbed the tumbler.

  The room became a flare of white, but there was no image. A voice said: “Secret call. Secret call.”

  Webster slid back a panel in the machine, spun a pair of dials, heard the hum of power surge into a screen that blocked out the room.

  “Secrecy established,” he said.

  The white flare snapped out and a man sat across the desk from him. A man he had seen many times before in televised addresses, in his daily paper.

  Henderson, president of the World Committee.

  “I have had a call from Clayborne,” said Henderson.

  Webster nodded without speaking.

  “He tells me you refuse to go to Mars.”

  “I have not refused,” said Webster. “When Clayborne cut off the question was left open. I had told him it was impossible for me to go, but he had rejected that, did not seem to understand.”

  “Webster, you must go,” snapped Henderson. “You are the only man with the necessary knowledge of the Martian brain to perform this operation. If it were a simple operation, perhaps someone else could do it. But not one such as this.”

  “That may be true,” said Webster, “but—”

  “It’s not just a question of saving a life,” said Henderson. “Even the life of so distinguished a personage as Juwain. It involves even more than that. Juwain is a friend of yours. Perhaps he hinted of something he has found.”

  “Yes,” said Webster. “Yes, he did. A new concept of philosophy.”

  “A concept,” declared Henderson, “that we cannot do without. A concept that will remake the solar system, that will put mankind ahead a hundred thousand years in the space of two generations. A new direction of purpose that will aim toward a goal we heretofore had not suspected, had not even known existed. A brand new truth, you see. One that never before had occurred to anyone.”

  Webster’s hands gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles stood out white.

  “If Juwain dies,” said Henderson, “that concept dies with him. May be lost forever.”

  “I’ll try,” said Webster. “I’ll try—”

  Henderson’s eyes were hard. “Is that the best that you can do?”

  “That is the best,” said Webster.

  “But, man, you must have a reason! Some explanation.”

  “None,” said Webster, “that I would care to give.”

  Deliberately he reached out and flipped up the switch.

  Webster sat at the desk and held his hands in front of him, staring at them. Hands that had skill, held knowledge. Hands that could save a life if he could get them to Mars. Hands that could save for the solar system, for mankind, for the Martians an idea—a new idea—that would advance them a hundred thousand years in the next two generations.

  But hands chained by a phobia that grew out of this quiet life. Decadence—a strangely beautiful—and deadly—decadence.

  Man had forsaken the teeming cities, the huddling places, two hundred years ago. He had done with the old foes and the ancient fears that kept him around the common campfire, had left behind the hobgoblins that had walked with him from the caves.

  And yet—and yet—

  Here was another huddling place. Not a huddling place for one’s body, but one’s mind. A psychological campfire that still held a man within the circle of its light.

  Still, Webster knew, he must leave that fire. As the men had done with the cities two centuries before, he must walk off and leave it. And he must not look back.

  He had to go to Mars—or at least start for Mars. There was no question there, at all. He had to go.

  Whether he would survive the trip, whether he could perform the operation once he had arrived, he did not know. He wondered vaguely, whether agoraphobia could be fatal. In its most exaggerated form, he supposed it could.

  He reached out a hand to ring, then hesitated. No use having Jenkins pack. He would do it himself—something to keep him busy until the ship arrived.

  From the top shelf of the wardrobe in the bedroom, he took down a bag and saw that it was dusty. He blew on it, but the dust still clung. It had been there for too many years.

  As he packed, the room argued with him, talked in that mute tongue with which inanimate but familiar things may converse with a man.

  “You can’t go,” said the room. “You can’t go off and leave me.”

  And Webster argued back, half pleading, half explanatory. “I have to go. Can’t you understand? It’s a friend, an old friend. I will be coming back.”

  Packing done, Webster returned to the study, slumped into his chair.

  He must go and yet he couldn’t go. But when the ship arrived, when the time had come, he knew that he would walk out of the house and toward the waiting ship.

  He steeled his mind to that, tried to set it in a rigid pattern, tried to blank out everything but the thought that he was leaving.

  Things in the room intruded on his brain, as if they were part of a conspiracy to keep him there. Things that he saw as if he were seeing them for the first time. Old, remembe
red things that suddenly were new. The chronometer that showed both Earthian and Martian time, the days of the month, the phases of the moon. The picture of his dead wife on the desk. The trophy he had won at prep school. The framed short snorter bill that had cost him ten bucks on his trip to Mars.

  He stared at them, half unwilling at first, then eagerly, storing up the memory of them in his brain. Seeing them as separate components of a room he had accepted all these years as a finished whole, never realizing what a multitude of things went to make it up.

  Dusk was falling, the dusk of early spring, a dusk that smelled of early pussy willows.

  The ship should have arrived long ago. He caught himself listening for it, even as he realized that he would not hear it. A ship, driven by atomic motors, was silent except when it gathered speed. Landing and taking off, it floated like thistledown, with not a murmur in it.

  It would be here soon. It would have to be here soon or he could never go. Much longer to wait, he knew, and his high-keyed resolution would crumble like a mound of dust in beating rain. Not much longer could he hold his purpose against the pleading of the room, against the flicker of the fire, against the murmur of the land where five generations of Websters had lived and died.

  He shut his eyes and fought down the chill that crept across his body. He couldn’t let it get him now, he told himself. He had to stick it out. When the ship arrived he still must be able to get up and walk out the door to the waiting port.

  A tap came on the door.

  “Come in,” Webster called.

  It was Jenkins, the light from the fireplace flickering on his shining metal hide.

  “Had you called earlier, sir?” he asked.

  Webster shook his head.

  “I was afraid you might have,” Jenkins explained, “and wondered why I didn’t come. There was a most extraordinary occurrence, sir. Two men came with a ship and said they wanted you to go to Mars.”

  “They are here,” said Webster. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  He struggled to his feet.

  “I didn’t think, sir,” said Jenkins, “that you would want to be bothered. It was so preposterous.”

  Webster stiffened, felt chill fear gripping at his heart. Hands groping for the edge of the desk, he sat down in the chair, sensed the walls of the room closing in about him, a trap that would never let him go.

  “I had a rather strenuous time, sir,” said Jenkins. “They were so insistent that finally, much as I disliked it, I resorted to force. But I finally persuaded them you never went anywhere.”

  To Walk a City’s Street

  “To Walk a City’s Street” was originally written for the anthology Infinity Three, which was published in 1972 by Lancer Books. For some reason, the story has not appeared in print very often. Its greatest implausibility involves members of Congress not seeking control of Ernie’s mutant powers. Too bad.

  —dww

  Joe stopped the car.

  “You know what to do,” he said.

  “I walk down the street,” said Ernie. “I don’t do nothing. I walk until someone tells me it is time to stop. You got the other fellows out there?”

  “We have the fellows out there.”

  “Why couldn’t I just go alone?”

  “You’d run away,” said Joe. “We tried you once before.”

  “I wouldn’t run away again.”

  “The hell you wouldn’t.”

  “I don’t like this job,” said Ernie.

  “It’s a good job. You don’t have to do anything. You just walk down the street.”

  “But you say which street. I don’t get a pick of streets.”

  “What difference does it make what streets you walk?”

  “I can’t do anything I want, that’s the difference that it makes. I can’t even walk where I want to walk.”

  “Where would you want to walk?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ernie. “Any place you weren’t watching me. It used to be different. I could do what I wanted.”

  “You’re eating regular now,” said Joe. “Drinking regular, too. You have a place to sleep each night. You got money in your pocket. You have money in the bank.”

  “It don’t seem right,” said Ernie.

  “Look, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you want to help people?”

  “I ain’t got no beef against helping people. But how do I know I help them? I only got your say-so. You and that fellow back in Washington.”

  “He explained it to you.”

  “A lot of words. I don’t understand what he tells me. I’m not sure I believe what he tells me.”

  “I don’t understand it, either,” said Joe, “but I have seen the figures.”

  “I wouldn’t know even if I seen the figures.”

  “Are you going to get started? Do I have to push you out?”

  “No, I’ll get out by myself. How far you want I should walk?”

  “We’ll tell you when to stop.”

  “And you’ll be watching me.”

  “You’re damned right we will,” said Joe.

  “This ain’t a nice part of town. Why do I always have to walk the crummy parts of all these crummy towns?”

  “It’s your part of town. It’s the kind of place you lived before we found you. You wouldn’t be happy in any other part of town.”

  “But I had friends back there where you found me. There was Susie and Jake and Joseph, the Baboon and all the other people. Why can’t I ever go back and see my friends?”

  “Because you’d talk. You’d shoot off your mouth.”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  “Should we trust you, Ernie?”

  “No, I guess not,” said Ernie.

  He got out of the car.

  “But I was happy, see?” he said.

  “Sure, sure,” said Joe. “I know.”

  There was one man sitting at the bar and two sitting at a table in the back. The place reminded Ernie of the place where he and Susie and Joseph, the Baboon, and sometimes Jake and Harry used to spend an evening drinking beer. He climbed up on a stool. He felt comfortable and almost as if he were back in the good old days again.

  “Give me a shot,” he said to the bartender.

  “You got money, friend?”

  “Sure, I got money.” Ernie laid a dollar on the bar. The bartender got a bottle and poured a drink. Ernie gulped it down. “Another one,” he said. The man poured another one.

  “You’re a new one,” the bartender said.

  “I ain’t been around before,” said Ernie.

  He got a third drink and sat quietly, sipping it instead of throwing it right down.

  “You know what I do?” he asked the bartender.

  “Naw, I don’t know what you do. You do like all the rest of them. You don’t do nothing.”

  “I cure people.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I walk around and I cure people when I walk.”

  “Well, great,” said the bartender. “I got the beginning of a cold. So cure me.”

  “You’re already cured,” said Ernie.

  “I don’t feel no different than when you walked in here.”

  “Tomorrow. You’ll be all right tomorrow. It takes a little time.”

  “I ain’t going to pay you,” said the bartender.

  “I don’t expect no pay. Other people pay me.”

  “What other people?”

  “Just other people. I don’t know who they are.”

  “They must be nuts.”

  “They won’t let me go home,” said Ernie.

  “Well, now, ain’t that too bad.”

  “I had a lot of friends. I had Susie and Joseph, the Baboon—”

  “Everyone got friends,” the bartender
said.

  “I got an aura. That is what they think.”

  “You got a what?”

  “An aura. That is what they call it.”

  “Never heard of it. You want another drink?”

  “Yeah, give me another one. Then I got to go.”

  Charley was standing on the sidewalk outside the joint, looking in at him. He didn’t want Charley walking in and saying something to him, like get going. It would be embarrassing.

  He saw the sign in an upstairs window and darted up the stairs. Jack was across the street and Al just a block or so ahead. They would see him and come running, but maybe he could get to the office before they caught up with him.

  The sign on the door said: Lawson & Cramer, Attorneys-at-Law. He moved in fast.

  “I got to see a lawyer,” he told the receptionist.

  “Have you an appointment, sir?”

  “No, I ain’t got no appointment. But I need a lawyer quick. And I got money, see.”

  He brought out a handful of crumpled bills.

  “Mr. Cramer is busy.”

  “What about the other one? Is he busy, too?”

  “There isn’t any other lawyer. There used to be—”

  “Look, lady, I can’t fool around.”

  The door to the inner office came open and a man stood in it.

  “What’s going on out here?”

  “This gentleman—”

  “I ain’t no gentleman,” said Ernie. “But I need a lawyer.”

  “All right,” said the man. “Come in.”

  “You’re Cramer?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You’ll help me?”

  “I’ll try.”

  The man closed the door and went around the desk and sat down.

  “Have a chair,” he said. “What is your name?”

  “Ernie Foss.”

  The man wrote on a yellow pad.

  “Ernie. That would be Ernest, would it?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Your address, Mr. Foss.”

  “I ain’t got no address. I just travel around. Once I had an address. I had friends. Susie and Joseph, the Baboon, and—”

  “What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Foss?”