“Finally you realized they were footsteps?”
“No. I didn’t know what they were until I saw the native.”
“Just one native?”
“Just one. An old one. His coat was all gray and he had a scar across his face. You could see the jagged white line.”
“You’re sure about that scar?”
“Yes.”
“Sure about his being old?”
“He looked old. He was all gray. He walked slowly and he had a limp.”
“And you weren’t afraid?”
“Yes, afraid, of course. But not as afraid as I would have expected.”
“You would have killed him if you could?”
“No, I wouldn’t have killed him.”
“Not even to save your life?”
“Oh, sure. But I didn’t think of that. I just…well, I just didn’t want to tangle with him, that is all.”
“You got a good look at him?”
“Yes, a good look. He passed me no farther away than you are now.”
“You would recognize him again if you saw him?”
“I did recognize…”
Falkner stopped, befuddled.
“Just a minute,” he said. “Just a minute now.”
He put up his hand and rubbed hard against his forehead. His eyes suddenly had a stricken look.
“I did see him again,” he said. “I recognized him. I know it was the same one.”
Warren burst out angrily: “Why didn’t you tell…”
But Barnes rushed in and headed him off:
“You saw him again. When?”
“In my tent. When I was sick. I opened my eyes and he was there in front of me.”
“Just standing there?”
“Standing there and looking at me. Like he was going to swallow me with those big yellow eyes of his. Then he…then he…”
They waited for him to remember.
“I was sick,” said Falkner. “Out of my head, maybe. Not all there. I can’t be sure. But it seemed that he stretched out his hands, his paws rather—that he stretched them out and touched me, one paw on each side of my head.”
“Touched you? Actually, physically touched you?”
“Gently,” said Falkner. “Ever so gently. Just for an instant. Then I went to sleep.”
“We’re ahead of our story,” Warren said impatiently. “Let’s go back to the trail. You saw the native—”
“We’ve been over that before,” said Falkner bitterly.
“We’ll try it once again,” Warren told him. “You say the native passed quite close to you when he went by. You mean that he stepped out of the path and circled past you…”
“No,” said Falkner, “I don’t mean that at all. I was the one who stepped out of the path.”
You must maintain human dignity, the manual said. Above all else, human dignity and human prestige must be upheld. Kindness, yes. And helpfulness. And even brotherhood. But dignity was ahead of all.
And too often human dignity was human arrogance.
Human dignity did not allow you to step out of the path. It made the other thing step out and go around you. By inference, human dignity automatically assigned all other life to an inferior position.
“Mr. Barnes,” said Warren, “it was the laying on of hands.”
The man on the cot rolled his head on the pillow and looked at Warren, almost as if he were surprised to find him there. The thin lips worked in the pallid face and the words were weak and very slow in coming.
“Yes, Warren, it was the laying on of hands. A power these creatures have. Some Christ-like power that no human has.”
“But that was a divine power.”
“No, Warren,” said the chaplain, “not necessarily. It wouldn’t have to be. It might be a very real, a very human power, that goes with mental or spiritual perfection.”
Warren hunched forward on his stool. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “I simply can’t. Not those owl-eyed things.”
He looked up and glanced at the chaplain. Barnes’ face had flushed with sudden fever and his breath was fluttery and shallow. His eyes were closed and he looked like a man already dead.
There had been that report by the third expedition’s psychologist. It had said dignity and an exact code of honor and a rather primitive protocol. And that, of course, would fit.
But Man, intent upon his own dignity and his own prestige, had never accorded anyone else any dignity. He had been willing to be kind if his kindness were appropriately appreciated. He stood ready to help if his help were allowed to stand as a testament to his superiority. And here on Landro he had scarcely bothered to be either kind or helpful, never dreaming for a moment that the little owl-eyed native was anything other than a stone age creature that was a pest and nuisance and not to be taken too seriously even when he turned out, at times, to be something of a menace.
Until one day a frightened kid had stepped out of a path and let a native by.
“Courtesy,” said Warren. “That’s the answer: courtesy and the laying on of hands.”
He got up from the stool and walked out of the tent and met Falkner coming in.
“How is he?” Falkner asked.
Warren shook his head. “Just like the others. It was late in coming, but it’s just as bad.”
“Two of us,” said Falkner. “Two of us left out of twenty-six.”
“Not two,” Warren told him. “Just one. Just you.”
“But, sir, you’re all…”
Warren shook his head.
“I have a headache,” he said. “I’m beginning to sweat a little. My legs are wobbly.”
“Maybe…”
“I’ve seen it too many times,” said Warren, “to kid myself about it.”
He reached out a hand, grasped the canvas and steadied himself.
“I didn’t have a chance,” he said. “I stepped out of no paths.”
The Voice in the Void
One of the earliest of Clifford Simak’s stories, “The Voice in the Void” is a melodramatic account of obsession, set largely on a fictional version of the planet Mars that probably indicates Cliff Simak had read the John Carter novels of Edgar Rice Burroughs. One of Cliff’s journals shows that a story named “The Bones of Kell-Rabin” was sent to Hugo Gernsback’s Wonder Stories on January 12—but no year is indicated in that entry. However, since the story then appeared in the Spring 1932 issue of Wonder Stories Quarterly, one can only conclude that either the story was rushed into print—or that it was purchased the preceding year (which would indicate that it had been written in 1930, which in turn might make it Cliff’s oldest known story—perhaps information will turn up one day to clarify that matter).
A different journal entry indicates that Cliff was paid $37 “on account” in June 1932, which would have, by itself, been a terribly small price for a story of this length: Does this mean he received a larger total price for the story, and was paid in installments? Again, it cannot be told from the available record. Or was Gernsback having difficulty in making payments?
The format of the magazine at that time was to include a line drawing of each author at the beginning of his story. The drawing of Cliff shows a very young face; and I believe it was drawn by legendary science fiction artist Frank R. Paul, who was the magazine’s art director, and who apparently also created the cover and all interior illustrations. That same issue included stories by Manley Wade Wellman and Jack Williamson.