Banners of light in the east were pushing away the grayness of the dawn.
From far below came the first cry of a newsboy. From somewhere far off came the drone of an early worker’s flier.
The city was awakening to a new day.
The Trouble with Ants
First published under the title «The Trouble with Ants,» when it appeared in the January 1951 issue of the magazine Fantastic Adventures, this story would appear in subsequent publications (including in the volume edition of City ) under the title «The Simple Way»; from that, I infer that «The Simple Way» was Cliff Simak’s preferred title. There is no other information in his files that bears on that question. But I present the story here in its magazine version, and so I will keep the first title.
This was the only one of the original eight City stories that did not appear in John W. Campbell’s Astounding Science Fiction (see volume 14 of this collection for «Epilog,» the later-added City story). This has led to uncorroborated suspicions that Simak and Campbell, after a long and intense partnership, were drifting apart—and it is certainly true that within a few years of this story’s publication, more Simak stories would be going first to Galaxy rather than to Astounding.
You will see from this story how Cliff Simak planned for the City stories to come to a close—but events would lead to a change of plans.
—dww
Archie, the little renegade raccoon, crouched on the hillside, trying to catch one of the tiny, scurrying things running in the grass. Rufus, Archie’s robot, tried to talk to Archie, but the raccoon was too busy and he did not answer.
Homer did a thing no Dog had ever done before. He crossed the river and trotted into the wild robots’ camp and he was scared, for there was no telling what the wild robots might do to him when they turned around and saw him. But he was worried worse than he was scared, so he trotted on.
Deep in a secret nest, ants dreamed and planned for a world they could not understand. And pushed into that world, hoping for the best, aiming at a thing no Dog, or robot, or man could understand.
In Geneva, Jon Webster rounded out his ten-thousandth year of suspended animation and slept on, not stirring. In the street outside, a wandering breeze rustled the leaves along the boulevard, but no one heard and no one saw.
Jenkins strode across the hill and did not look to either left or right, for there were things he did not wish to see. There was a tree that stood where another tree had stood in another world. There was the lay of ground that had been imprinted on his brain with a billion footsteps across ten thousand years.
And, if one listened closely, one might have heard laughter echoing down the ages … the sardonic laughter of a man named Joe.
Archie caught one of the scurrying things and held it clutched within his tight-shut paw. Carefully he lifted the paw and opened it and the thing was there, running madly, trying to escape.
«Archie,» said Rufus, «you aren’t listening to me.»
The scurrying thing dived into Archie’s fur, streaked swiftly up his forearm.
«Might have been a flea,» said Archie. He sat up and scratched his belly.
«New kind of flea,» he said. «Although I hope it wasn’t. Just the ordinary kind are bad enough.»
«You aren’t listening,» said Rufus.
«I’m busy,» said Archie. «The grass is full of them things. Got to find out what they are.»
«I’m leaving you, Archie.»
«You’re what!»
«Leaving you,» said Rufus. «I’m going to the Building.»
«You’re crazy,» fumed Archie. «You can’t do a thing like that to me. You’ve been tetched ever since you fell into that ant hill …»
«I’ve had the Call,» said Rufus. «I just got to go.»
«I’ve been good to you,» the raccoon pleaded. «I’ve never overworked you. You’ve been like a pal of mine instead of like a robot. I’ve always treated you just like an animal.»
Rufus shook his head stubbornly. «You can’t make me stay,» he said. «I couldn’t stay, no matter what you did. I got the Call and I got to go.»
«It isn’t like I could get another robot,» Archie argued. «They drew my number and I ran away. I’m a deserter and you know I am. You know I can’t get another robot with the wardens watching for me.»
Rufus just stood there.
«I need you,» Archie told him. «You got to stay and help me rustle grub. I can’t go near none of the feeding places or the wardens will nab me and drag me up to Webster Hill. You got to help me dig a den. Winter’s coming on and I will need a den. It won’t have heat or light, but I got to have one. And you’ve got to …»
Rufus had turned around and was walking down the hill, heading for the river trail. Down the river trail … travelling toward the dark smudge above the far horizon.
Archie sat hunched against the wind that ruffled through his fur, tucked his tail around his feet. The wind had a chill about it, a chill it had not held an hour or so before. And it was not the chill of weather, but the chill of other things.
His bright, beady eyes searched the hillside and there was no sign of Rufus.
No food, no den, no robot. Hunted by the wardens. Eaten up by fleas.
And the Building, a smudge against the farther hills across the river valley.
A hundred years ago, so the records said, the Building had been no bigger than the Webster House.
But it had grown since … a place that never was completed. First it had covered an acre. And then a square mile. Now finally a township. And still it grew, sprawling out and towering up.
A smudge above the hills and a cloudy terror for the little, superstitious forest folks who watched it. A word to frighten kit and whelp and cub into sudden quiet.
For there was evil in it … the evil of the unknown, an understood evil, an evil sensed and attributed rather than seen or heard or smelled. A sensed evil, especially in the dark of night, when the lights were out and the wind keened in the den’s mouth and the other animals were sleeping, while one lay awake and listened to the pulsing otherness that sang between the worlds.
Archie blinked in the autumn sunlight, scratched furtively at his side.
Maybe someday, he told himself, someone will find a way to handle fleas.
Something to rub on one’s fur so they will stay away. Or a way to reason with them, to reach them and talk things over with them. Maybe set up a reservation for them, a place where they could stay and be fed and not bother animals. Or something of the sort.
As it was, there wasn’t much that could be done. You scratched yourself.
You had your robot pick them off, although the robot usually got more fur than fleas. You rolled in the sand or dust. You went for a swim and drowned some of them … well, you really didn’t drown them; you just washed them off and if some of them drowned that was their own tough luck.
You had your robot pick them off … but now there was no robot.
No robot to pick off fleas.
No robot to help him hunt for food.
But, Archie remembered, there was a black haw tree down in the river bottom and last night’s frost would have touched the fruit. He smacked his lips, thinking of the haws. And there was a cornfield just over the ridge. If one was fast enough and bided his time and was sneaky about it, it was no trouble at all to get an ear of corn. And if worse came to worse there always would be roots and wild acorns and that patch of wild grapes over on the sand bar.