Webster stood in the doorway, smelled the dampness of the stone through the dusty bitterness.
Defense, he thought, staring at the switch. Defense—a thing to keep one out, a device to seal off a place against all the real or imagined weapons that a hypothetical enemy might bring to bear.
And undoubtedly the same defense that would keep an enemy out would keep the defended in. Not necessarily, of course, but—
He strode across the room and stood before the switch and his hand went out and grasped it, moved it slowly and knew that it would work.
Then his arm moved quickly and the switch shot home. From far below came a low, soft hissing as machines went into action. The dial needles flickered and stood out from the pins.
Webster touched the wheel with hesitant fingertips, stirred it on its shaft and the needles flickered again and crawled across the glass. With a swift, sure hand, Webster spun the wheel and the needles slammed against the farther pins.
He turned abruptly on his heel, marched out of the vault, closed the door behind him, climbed the crumbling steps.
Now if it only works, he thought. If it only works. His feet quickened on the steps and the blood hammered in his head.
If it only works!
He remembered the hum of machines far below as he had slammed the switch. That meant that the defense mechanism—or at least part of it—still worked.
But even if it worked, would it do the trick? What if it kept the enemy out, but failed to keep men in?
What if—
When he reached the street, he saw that the sky had changed. A gray, metallic overcast had blotted out the sun and the city lay in twilight, only half relieved by the automatic street lights. A faint breeze wafted at his cheek.
The crinkly gray ash of the burned notes and the map that he had found still lay in the fireplace and Webster strode across the room, seized the poker, stirred the ashes viciously until there was no hint of what they once had been.
Gone, he thought. The last clue gone. Without the map, without the knowledge of the city that it had taken him twenty years to ferret out, no one would ever find that hidden room with the switch and wheel and dials beneath the single lamp.
No one would know exactly what had happened. And even if one guessed, there’d be no way to make sure. And even if one were sure, there’d be nothing that could be done about it.
A thousand years before it would not have been that way. For in that day man, given the faintest hint, would have puzzled out any given problem.
But man had changed. He had lost the old knowledge and old skills. His mind had become a flaccid thing. He lived from one day to the next without any shining goal. But he still kept the old vices—the vices that had become virtues from his own viewpoint and raised him by his own bootstraps. He kept the unwavering belief that his was the only kind, the only life that mattered—the smug egoism that made him the self-appointed lord of all creation.
Running feet went past the house on the street outside and Webster swung away from the fireplace, faced the blind panes of the high and narrow windows.
I got them stirred up, he thought. Got them running now. Excited. Wondering what it’s all about. For centuries they haven’t stirred outside the city, but now that they can’t get out—they’ re foaming at the mouth to do it.
His smile widened.
Maybe they’ll be so stirred up, they’ll do something about it. Rats in a trap will do some funny things—if they don’t go crazy first.
And if they do get out—well, it’s their right to do so. If they do get out, they’ve earned their right to take over once again.
He crossed the room, stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at the painting that hung above the mantel. Awkwardly, he raised his hand to it, a fumbling salute, a haggard goodbye. Then he let himself out into the street and climbed the hill—the route that Sara had walked only days before. The Temple robots were kind and considerate, soft-footed and dignified. They took him to the place where Sara lay and showed him the next compartment that she had reserved for him.
“You will want to choose a dream,” said the spokesman of the robots. “We can show you many samples. We can blend them to your taste. We can—”
“Thank you,” said Webster. “I do not want a dream.” The robot nodded, understanding. “I see, sir. You only want to wait, to pass away the time.”
“Yes,” said Webster. “I guess you’d call it that.”
“For about how long?”
“How long?”
“Yes. How long do you want to wait?”
“Oh, I see,” said Webster. “How about forever?”
“Forever!”
“Forever is the word, I think,” said Webster. “I might have said eternity, but it doesn’t make much difference. There is no use of quibbling over two words that mean about the same.”
“Yes, sir,” said the robot.
No use of quibbling. No, of course, there wasn’t. For he couldn’t take the chance. He could have said a thousand years, but then he might have relented and gone down and flipped the switch.
And that was the one thing that must not happen. The dogs had to have their chance. Had to be left unhampered to try for success where the human race had failed. And so long as there was a human element they would not have that chance. For man would take over, would step in and spoil things, would laugh at the cobblies that talked behind a wall, would object to the taming and civilizing of the wild things of the earth.
A new pattern—a new way of thought and life—a new approach to the age-old social problem. And it must not be tainted by the stale breath of man’s thinking.
The dogs would sit around at night when the work was done and they would talk of man. They would spin the old, old story and tell the old, old tales and man would be a god.
And it was better that way.
For a god can do no wrong.
Guns on Guadalcanal
Of the five stories of World War II air combat that Clifford D. Simak wrote during the war era, this was the fourth—and the first to be written after the United States entered that war. And whereas the earlier ones all took place in the European theater, this one, as well as the one that followed, featured Americans in action against the Japanese. This story was sent to American Eagle in October 1942 (following a hiatus caused at least in part by Cliff’s short-lived job with an American intelligence organization), but it would first appear in a magazine called Air War, in fall 1943.
The issue had a ten-cent cover price, and it was a good deal thinner than most pulp magazines, most likely the result of wartime paper shortages, but the issue carried reassuring notices that although changes in the customary typography and layout made the magazine look smaller, it had the normal content.
Mason saw the Zeroes first and spoke to Foster through the phones.
“Three rat cages high up, Steve. Getting ready to gang us.”
The pilot craned his neck and looked, finally spotted the dots far overhead.
“O.K.,” he said. “Let them think we haven’t seen them. They’ll come sliding in for a kill. We’ll nail them then.”
Mason hunkered down behind his gun and waited, watching the planes with eyes narrowed against the setting sun. Up ahead, Foster drove the throbbing Avenger along its serene way. Off to the right was the shoreline of Guadalcanal, a mass of jungle green, with a strip of white sand between the green and the darkening blue of the ocean.