And there had been, as well, a house upon the Earth. But the house was dim in his memory as well. What did the house look like, he wondered.
How does another human being look? What is a river like?
«You do not need to see things to paint them,» she said. «You can paint out of your mind.»
Perhaps he could, he thought. But how do you paint loneliness? How does one depict dejection and abandonment?
When he made no answer, she asked, «There is nothing you want to do?»
He made no answer to her. Why bother to answer a simulated voice produced by a data core that was crammed with social welfare concepts and with little else? Why, he wondered, did they go to so much trouble to take good care of him? Although, come to think of it, perhaps it was not so much trouble as if might seem. The satellite would be out here, anyhow, gathering and monitoring data, perhaps performing other tasks of which he was not aware. And if such satellites could also serve to get the useless aged off the Earth, the care would cost them nothing.
He remembered how he and Nancy had been persuaded to make the satellite their home by a clever young man with a sincere and authoritative voice, carefully reciting all the benefits of it. Perhaps, even so, they would not have gone if their little house had not been condemned to make way for a transportation project. After that it had not really mattered where they’d gone or where they might be sent, for their home was gone. You’ll be out of this world’s rat race, the sincere young man had said. You’ll have peace and comfort in your final years; everything will be done for you. All your friends are gone, and the changes that you see must be distressful to you; there’s no reason you should stay. Your son? Why, he can come and see you as often, perhaps oftener, than you see him now—but, of course, he’d never come. Up there, you’ll have everything you need. You’ll never have to cook or clean; it’ll be done for you. No more bother going to a doctor; there’ll be a diagnostic cubicle just a step away. There’ll be music and reading tapes and all your favorite programs, just like here on Earth.
Once a man gets old, he thought, he gets somewhat confused, and he’s not sure of his rights and, even if he is, doesn’t have the courage to stand up for them, not the courage to face down authority, no matter how much he may despise authority. His strength is gone and the sharpness of his mind, and he is tired of fighting for his heritage.
Now, he thought, there was nothing left but the sweet authority (more hateful, perhaps, because it was so sweet) and the scarcely concealed contempt for the old, although the sweetness tried to hide it.
«Well then,» said the social-worker voice, «since you do not care to do anything, I’ll leave you sitting here, by the port, where you can look out.»
«There is no sense of looking out,» he said. «There’s nothing one can see.»
«But there is,» she said. «There are all the pretty stars.»
Sitting by the port, he watched the pretty stars.
The Gunsmoke Drummer Sells a War
If the title of this story does not seem like a Clifford Simak creation, that’s probably because the title was created by someone at Ace-High Western Stories, to whom Cliff sent the story, and who published it in their January 1946 issue. And the magazine’s editor (whose name does not appear on the masthead) apparently liked it well enough to make it the lead story in the issue, giving it top billing on the cover and the first position among the stories inside.
In keeping with his desire to feature characters other than cowboys and Indians in his Westerns, Cliff created his protagonist as a drummer—that is, a peddler, a person who drove a wagon from town to town, carrying goods to sell and performing the occasional service, such as sharpening scissors.
But for there to be a story at all, Johnny Harrison had to ride into a bad situation; and he drove his wagon into an effort to take control of the county.
—dww
Chapter One
A Deadly Message
There was no time to draw a gun.
The horseman with the blue shirt and the blue bandana tied across his face simply rode out of the brush that screened the trail and was there, sitting the sorrel, a six-gun in his hand.
Johnny Harrison pulled the team to a halt and sat motionless on the seat of the peddler rig, staring at the man.
The bushes rustled and another man rode out, a man with a red shirt and a blue handkerchief, mounted on a bay horse with a blaze slashed across its face from nose to ears. And then another rustle and another man, big and beefy in a black coat, with red whiskers sticking out beneath the mask.
«Everybody here?» asked Harrison.
The gun tilted in the first man’s hand, belched sudden smoke and thunder.
Harrison felt the hat twitch from his head, go rolling in the dust. He fought the startled team to quietness with firm hands on the reins.
«That goes to show you,» the gunman told him, «that we aren’t fooling. So you better listen close.»
«That hat was plumb new, mister,» said Harrison. «It will cost you just ten bucks.»
«He’s got a nice horse tied on behind the wagon,» said the man with the black coat and red whiskers. «We might just as well take it along when we up and leave.»
The first man snarled behind the mask. «Shut up,» he snapped. «And leave the horse alone.» Then he said to Harrison: «We’ve got a little message we’d like you to deliver.»
«Speak your piece,» Harrison said, curtly, «and fork over that ten bucks.»
He was feeling better now, for he knew they wouldn’t kill him. Men who want one to deliver a message don’t shoot the messenger.
«There’s a hombre in jail over at Sundown,» said the man, «that ain’t got no call to be there. You go and see the marshal and tell him this: Tell him that if he don’t turn Jim Westman loose we’ll be over and take care of it ourselves.»
«But …» said Harrison.
«He’ll understand,» the man assured him. «You won’t have to draw no pictures.»
«All right, I’ll tell him first thing I get to town,» Harrison promised. «And now that we got that off our chest, how about some business? Need any pots or pans? Got some …»
The horseman in the black coat spurred forward, big and burly on his shaggy mount, face red with sudden anger.
«You go getting gay,» he shouted, «and we’ll shoot your pans so full of holes you can put them up for sieves.»
«Shut up!» yelled the first man, angrily.
«No stinking peddler can go getting gay with …»
The man’s words broke off and he coughed and swayed jerkily in his saddle. From the barren hilltop that rose like a bald man’s head above the brushy hillside came the snarling chuckle of a high power rifle.
The first man spun his horse around with a vicious hand, raised his six-gun in a flashing arc. From the ridge the rifle coughed and a bumbling thing howled above the men grouped on the trail and crashed into the brush.
On his feet, Harrison fought the rearing team with one hand, clawed for one of his six-guns with the other. A .45 crashed beside the wagon and out of the corner of his eye, Harrison saw the bullet raise a trail of dust clouds as it ground-skipped across the ridge-top.
The rifle spat like an angry cat and the horse of the wounded man bolted, the black-coated rider doubled up in his saddle as if a taloned fist were tearing at his vitals. He bounced like a wobbly sack of oats as the horse tore into the brush and wallowed down the hillside.