At the other end of the book, look at The Thing in the Stone'. Here an archetypal Simak hero makes friends with what… the faithful pet of something that may be close to being a fallen angel?
But that story also is typical of CDS's work. Wallace Daniels is hurt, his wife and daughter taken from him by an accident which injured him as well and has given him an ability to see and move in the past. He has retreated to the (Simak) farm among the hills, and walks the ridges, fields and streams. (Cat Den Point, as I said, was on the Simak farm.) In the cave he becomes aware of the Thing, trapped and dreaming. He is trapped there by the malice of man and yet attempts to help whatever it is he can 'hear', and thus gains himself both a friend and rescue from his own predicament. This is pure Simak. Theme and counterpoint, pacing and orchestration — unmistakable and satisfying.
Other familiar Simak elements are in these pages. In 'Party Line' there are the Listeners to the Stars, people you would find in Ring Around the Sun (1952) or Project Pope (1986). Indeed in both 'Party Line' and Project Pope a Mary finds heaven, though how differently in the story here. Again the robot, Richard Daniel, ranks with Jenkins, Hezekiah and Cardinal Theodosius, and Doctor Kelly, the country doctor has other incarnations in other stories.
And ever and again there is the idea, the image, the thought that strikes deep. Allow yourself to consider Richard Daniel on the outside of the spaceship heading through hyperspace and becoming one with the Universe. Consider also his new ability to see and adjust diagrams. How will he benefit his new home? Go from there to 'Shotgun Cure' and think again — is intelligence a disease we would be better to have cured? Would you decide as Doc Kelly does?
I regret that there will be no more Simak stories; that he was not able even to put on tape the thoughts of his last few months. But here is a representative selection of his legacy to us. I hope you will enjoy them.
F. Lyall.
Aberdeen, Scotland. August, 1993.
The Creator
FOREWORD
This is written in the elder days as the Earth rides close to the rim of eternity, edging nearer to the dying Sun, into which her two inner companions of the solar system have already plunged to a fiery death. The Twilight of the Gods is history; and our planet drifts on and on into that oblivion from which nothing escapes, to which time itself may be dedicated in the final cosmic reckoning.
Old Earth, pacing her death march down the corridors of the heavens, turns more slowly upon her axis. Her days have lengthened as she crawls sadly to her tomb, shrouded only in the shreds of her former atmosphere. Because her air has thinned, her sky has lost its cheerful blue depths and she is arched with a dreary gray, which hovers close to the surface, as if the horrors of outer space were pressing close, like ravening wolves, upon the flanks of this ancient monarch of the heavens. When night creeps upon her, stranger stars blaze out like a ring of savage eyes closing in upon a dying campfire.
Earth must mourn her passing for she has stripped herself of all her gaudy finery and proud trappings. Upon her illimitable deserts and twisted ranges she has set up strange land sculptures. And these must be temples and altars before which she, not forgetting the powers of good and evil throughout the cosmos, prays in her last hours, like a dying man returning to his old faith. Mournful breezes Play a hymn of futility across her barren reaches of sand and rocky ledges. The waters of the empty oceans beat out upon the treeless, bleak and age-worn coast a march that is the last brave gesture of an ancient planet which has served its purpose and treads the path to Nirvana.
Little half-men and women, final survivors of a great race, which they remember only through legends handed down from father to son, burrow gnomelike in the bowels of the planet which has mothered their seed from dim days when the thing which was destined to rule over all his fellow creatures crawled in the slime of primal seas. A tired race, they wait for the day legend tells them will come, when the sun blazes anew in the sky and grass grows green upon the barren deserts once again. But I know this day will never come, although I would not disillusion them. I know their legends lie, but why should I destroy the only solid thing they have left to round out their colorless life with the everlasting phenomena of hope?
For these little folks have been kind to me and there is a bloodbond between us that even the passing of a million years cannot erase. They think me a god, a messenger that the day they have awaited so long is near. I regret in time to come they must know me as a false prophet.
There is no point in writing these words. My little friends asked me what I do and why I do it and do not seem to understand when I explain. They do not comprehend my purpose in making quaint marks and signs upon the well-tanned pelts of the little rodents which overrun their burrows. All they understand is that when I have finished my labor they must take the skins and treasure them as a sacred trust I have left in their hands.
I have no hope the things I record will ever be read. I write my experiences in the same spirit and with the same bewildered purpose which must have characterized the first ancestor who chipped a runic message upon a stone.
I realize that I write the last manuscript. Earth's proud cities have fallen into mounds of dust. The roads that once crossed her surface have disappeared without a trace. No wheels turn, no engines drone. The last tribe of the human race crouches in its caves, watching for the day that will never come.
FIRST EXPERIMENTS
There may be some who would claim that Scott Marston and I have blasphemed, that we probed too deeply into mysteries where we had no right.
But be that as it may, I do not regret what we did and I am certain that Scott Marston, wherever he may be, feels as I do, without regrets.
We began our friendship at a little college in California. We were naturally drawn together by the similitude of our life, the affinity of our natures. Although our lines of study were widely separated (he majored in science and I in psychology), we both pursued our education for the pure love of learning rather than with a thought of what education might do toward earning a living.
We eschewed the society of the campus, engaging in none of the frivolities of the student body. We spent happy hours in the library and study hall. Our discussions were ponderous and untouched by thought of the college life which flowed about us in all its colorful pageantry.
In our last two years we roomed together. As we were poor, our quarters were shabby, but this never occurred to us. Our entire life was embraced in our studies. We were fired with the true spirit of research.
Inevitably, we finally narrowed our research down to definite lines. Scott, intrigued by the enigma of time, devoted more and more of his leisure moments to the study of that inscrutable element. He found that very little was known of it, beyond the perplexing equations set up by equally perplexed savants.
I wandered into as remote paths, the study of psycho-physics and hypnology. I followed my research in hypnology until I came to the point where the mass of facts I had accumulated trapped me in a jungle of various diametrically opposed conclusions, many of which verged upon the occult.
It was at the insistence of my friend that I finally sought a solution in the material rather than the psychic world. He argued that if I were to make any real progress I must follow the dictate of pure, cold science rather than the elusive will-o'-the-wisp of an unproven shadow existence.