Grant shrugged in defeat. «I suppose not. I suppose I should have known. A man like you—»
«I,» said Joe, «can use this thing myself.»
He rose slowly, idly swung his foot, plowing a furrow through the ant hill, toppling the smoking chimneys, burying the toiling carts.
With a cry, Grant leaped to his feet, blind anger gripping him, blind anger driving the hand that snatched out his gun.
«Hold it!» said Joe.
Grant’s arm halted with the gun still pointing toward the ground.
«Take it easy, little man,» said Joe. «I know you’d like to kill me, but I can’t let you do it. For I have plans, you see. And, after all, you wouldn’t be killing me for the reason that you think.»
«What difference would it make why I killed you?» rasped Grant. «You’d be dead, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t be loose with Juwain’s philosophy.»
«But,» Joe told him, almost gently, «that’s not why you would kill me. You’d do it because you’re sore at me for mussing up the ant hill.»
«That might have been the reason first,» said Grant. «But not now—»
«Don’t try it,» said Joe. «Before you ever pressed the trigger you’d be meat yourself.»
Grant hesitated.
«If you think I’m bluffing,» Joe taunted him, «go ahead and call me.»
For a long moment the two stood face to face, the gun still pointing at the ground.
«Why can’t you throw in with us?» asked Grant. «We need a man like you. You were the one that showed old Tom Webster how to build a space drive. The work you’ve done with ants—»
Joe was stepping forward, swiftly, and Grant heaved up the gun. He saw the fist coming at him, a hamlike, powerful fist that fairly whistled with its vicious speed.
A fist that was faster than his finger on the trigger.
Something wet and hot was rasping across Grant’s face and he lifted a hand and tried to brush it off.
But it went on, licking across his face.
He opened his eyes and Nathaniel did a jig in front of them.
«You’re all right,» said Nathaniel. «I was so afraid—»
«Nathaniel!» croaked Grant. «What are you doing here?»
«I ran away,» Nathaniel told him. «I want to go with you.»
Grant shook his head. «You can’t go with me. I have far to go. I have a job to do.»
He got to his hands and knees and felt along the ground. When his hand touched cold metal, he picked it up and slid it in the holster.
«I let him get away,» he said, «and I can’t let him go. I gave him something that belonged to all mankind and I can’t let him use it.»
«I can track,» Nathaniel told him. «I track squirrels like everything.»
«You have more important things to do than tracking,» Grant told the dog. «You see, I found out something today. Got a glimpse of a certain trend—a trend that all mankind may follow. Not today nor tomorrow, nor even a thousand years from now. Maybe never, but it’s a thing we can’t overlook. Joe may be just a little farther along the path than the rest of us and we may be following faster than we think. We may all end up like Joe. And if that is what is happening, if that is where it all will end, you dogs have a job ahead of you.»
Nathaniel stared up at him, worried wrinkles on his face.
«I don’t understand,» he pleaded. «You use words I can’t make out.»
«Look, Nathaniel. Men may not always be the way they are today. They may change. And, if they do, you have to carry on; you have to take the dream and keep it going. You’ll have to pretend that you are men.»
«Us dogs,» Nathaniel pledged, «will do it.»
«It won’t come for thousands and thousands of years,» said Grant. «You will have time to get ready. But you must know. You must pass the word along. You must not forget.»
«I know,» said Nathaniel. «Us dogs will tell the pups and the pups will tell their pups.»
«That’s the idea,» said Grant.
He stooped and scratched Nathaniel’s ear and the dog, tail wagging to a stop, stood and watched him climb the hill.
Auk House
In the very first paragraph of this story, Clifford Simak uses the names of three towns that were part of his life—but he uses the names only, for the towns he referred to are actually located far from the East Coast.
But that’s not important, that’s a mere detail. The fact is, this story, although clearly about the abuse of economic power by rich corporations, is really an exploration of the reactions of the victims of that abuse. And the ending to this exploration is one that led me to blink.
«Auk House» was originally written for Judy-Lynn del Rey, editor of Stellar 3, an original anthology that was published in 1977. Judy-Lynn and her husband, Lester, were longtime friends of Cliff’s, in addition to being the editors who handled much of the work he did for Ballantine Books.
This is a deep and thoughtful story. And it’s for adults.
—dww
David Latimer was lost when he found the house. He had set out for Wyalusing, a town he had only heard of but had never visited, and apparently had taken the wrong road. He had passed through two small villages, Excelsior and Navarre, and if the roadside signs were right, in another few miles he would be coming into Montfort. He hoped that someone in Montfort could set him right again.
The road was a county highway, crooked and narrow and bearing little traffic. It twisted through the rugged headlands that ran down to the coast, flanked by birch and evergreens and rarely out of reach of the muted thunder of surf pounding on giant boulders that lay tumbled on the shore.
The car was climbing a long, steep hill when he first saw the house, between the coast and road. It was a sprawling pile of brick and stone, flaunting massive twin chimneys at either end of it, sited in front of a grove of ancient birch and set so high upon the land that it seemed to float against the sky. He slowed the car, pulled over to the roadside, and stopped to have a better look at it.
A semicircular brick-paved driveway curved up to the entrance of the house. A few huge oak trees grew on the well-kept lawn, and in their shade stood graceful stone benches that had the look of never being used.
There was, it seemed to Latimer, a pleasantly haunted look to the place—a sense of privacy, of olden dignity, a withdrawal from the world. On the front lawn, marring it, desecrating it, stood a large planted sign:
FOR RENT OR SALE
See Campbell’s Realty—Half Mile Down the Road
And an arrow pointing to show which way down the road.
Latimer made no move to continue down the road. He sat quietly in the car, looking at the house. The sea, he thought, was just beyond; from a second-story window at the back, one could probably see it.
It had been word of a similar retreat that had sent him seeking out Wyalusing—a place where he could spend a quiet few months at painting.
A more modest place, perhaps, than this, although the description he had been given of it had been rather sketchy.
Too expensive, he thought, looking at the house; most likely more than he could afford, although with the last couple of sales he had made, he was momentarily flush. However, it might not be as expensive as he thought, he told himself; a place like this would have small attraction for most people.
Too big, but for himself that would make no difference; he could camp out in a couple of rooms for the few months he would be there.
Strange, he reflected, the built-in attraction the house had for him, the instinctive, spontaneous attraction, the instant knowing that this was the sort of place he had had in mind. Not knowing until now that it was the sort of place he had in mind. Old, he told himself—a century, two centuries, more than likely. Built by some now forgotten lumber baron. Not lived in, perhaps, for a number of years. There would be bats and mice. He put the car in gear and moved slowly out into the road, glancing back over his shoulder at the house. A half mile down the road, at the edge of what probably was Montfort, although there was no sign to say it was, on the right-hand side, a lopsided, sagging sign on an old, lopsided shack, announced Campbell’s Realty. Hardly intending to do it, his mind not made up as yet, he pulled the car off the road and parked in front of the shack.