Clifford Simak - Time is the Simplest Thing

He caught a glimpse of Riley’s face, and the man was yammering. His jaw went up and down in a devil’s tattoo and there were little flecks of foam at each corner of his mouth. His eyes were wild and rolling and his face was stiff, with the muscles bunched and tensed, like a grotesque mask. His hooked fingers made clawing motions to get back the gun.

“Snap out of it!” roared Blaine. “They’re only levitators.”

But the word meant nothing to a man like Riley. All reason and all understanding were lost in the roll of fearful thunder that hammered in his brain.

And even as he spoke to Riley, Blaine became aware of voices in the night — soundless voices reaching out to him, a medley of voices that were talking to him.

Friend — -one of us is hit (a line of oozing red across a shapely shoulder) — not bad — he has (a gun with its muzzle limp and drooping and turning suddenly into a rather melancholy and very phallic symbol). Safe — our friend has the gun. Let us get the other (a snarling dog backed into a corner, a skunk with its tail uplifted, a rattler coiled and set to strike).

Wait, yelled Blaine. Wait! Everything’s all right. There’ll be no more shooting.

He pressed down with his elbow against the door latch, and the door swung open. He pushed Riley from him and half fell out of the cab, still clutching the gun. He broke the weapon, and the shells jumped out; he threw the gun into the road and backed against the truck.

Suddenly the night was deadly silent except for the sounds of moaning and of wailing that came from Riley in the cab.

Everything is clear, said Blaine. There is no more danger.

They came plunging down out of the sky, as if they might be jumping from some hidden platform, but they landed lightly on their feet.

They moved slowly forward, catfooted in the night, and they were silent now.

That was a damn fool thing to do, Blaine told them. Next time one of you will get your head blown off (a headless human walking casually with the stump of neck frothing furiously).

He saw that they were young, not out of their teens, and that they wore what appeared to be bathing suits and he caught the sense of fun and the scent of prank.

They moved in cautiously, and he sought for other signs, but there were no other signs.

Who are you? one asked.

Shepherd Blaine of Fishhook.

And you are going?

Up to South Dakota.

In this truck?

And with this man, said Blaine. I want him left alone.

He took a shot at us. He hit Marie.

Not bad, said Marie. Just a scratch is all.

He’s a frightened man, said Blaine. He’s using silver shot.

He sensed the merriment of them at the thought of silver shot.

And caught the weirdness of the situation, the moonlit night and the deserted road, the car slewed across the highway, the lonely wind that moaned across the prairie, and the two of them, he and Riley, encircled, not by Sioux nor by Comanche nor by Blackfeet, but by a ring of paranormal teen-agers out on a midnight lark.

And who was there to blame or censure them? he asked himself. If in this small action of defiance they found some measure of self-assertion in their hunted lives, if in this manner they snatched at something resembling human dignity, it was then no more than a very human action and not to be condemned.

He studied the faces, the ones that he could see, indistinct in the moon-and-headlamp-light, and there was indecision in them — faces on hair trigger.

From the cab still came the moaning of a man in mental agony.

Then: Fishhook? (The towered buildings on the hill, the acre upon acre of them, massive, majestic, inspiring . . .)

That is right, said Blaine.

A girl moved out of the huddled group and walked close to Blaine. She held out her hand.

Friend, she said. We had not expected one. All of us are sorry that we troubled you.

Blaine put out his hand and felt the firm, strong pressure of young fingers.

We do not often find someone on the road at night, said another one.

Just having fun, another said. There’s little chance for fun.

I know how little chance, said Blaine. I’ve seen how little chance.

We halloween, still another said.

Halloween? Oh, yes, I see. (A fist banging on a closed shutter, a garden gate hanging in a tree, a hex sign upside down.)

It’s good for them. They’ve got it coming to them.

I agree, said Blaine. But it’s dangerous.

Not very. They are all too scared.

But it doesn’t help the situation.

Mister, there is nothing that can help.

But Fishhook? asked the girl who stood in front of Blaine.

He studied her and saw that she was beautiful — blue eyes and golden hair and the sort of shape that in the ancient days would have won her beauty contests, one of the old paganisms that had been happily forgotten in the rush to PK fads.

I cannot tell you, said Blaine. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.

Trouble? Danger?

Not at the moment, no.

We could help.

No need, making it as casual as he could, as unworried as he could.

We could take you anywhere you wished.

I’m not a levitator.

No need for you to be. We could (himself flying through the air, dragged along by two levitators, each hanging to an arm).

Blaine shuddered. No, thanks. I think I’d rather not.

Someone opened up the door of the cab, and another one reached in and hurled Riley to the ground.

The trucker crawled along the ground on hands and knees and sobbed.

Leave him alone! yelled Blaine.

The girl turned around. Her thoughts were level, sharp: Keep away from him! Don’t touch him! Don’t do a thing to him.

But, Anita . . .

Not a thing, she said.

He’s a dirty reefer. He’s using silver shot.

No!

They backed away.

We’ll have to go, Anita said to Blaine. Will you be all right?

With him, you mean?

She nodded.

I can handle him, he told her.

My name is Anita Andrews. I live in Hamilton. My phone number is 276. Tattoo it.

Tattooed, said Blaine, showing her the words and numbers.

If you need help . . .

I’ll call.

Promise?

Promise (cross upon a throbbing heart).

Riley lunged and had the gun, was staggering to his feet, a hand groping in his pocket for a shell.

Blaine flattened in a dive. He caught the man just above the knees, his shoulder slamming hard, one arm about the body, the other slashing at the gun and missing.

And as he leaped, he yelled: Get out of here! Every one of you!

He hit the ground and skidded, face down, on the broken pavement. He felt the shattered blacktop scraping on his flesh, tearing at his clothes. But he still kept his grip on Riley and dragged the man down with him.

The skidding stopped, and Blaine groped blindly for the gun, and the gun barrel came lashing down out of the darkness and struck him across the ribs. He swore and grasped for it, but Riley had it raised again for another blow. Blaine punched out desperately in the darkness, and his fist caught yielding flesh that grunted at the blow. The gun thudded down, missing his face by the fraction of an inch.

His hand snaked out and grasped it and jerked, twisting as he jerked, and the gun came free.