Clifford Simak - Time is the Simplest Thing

“It took you plenty long,” said Blaine, “to catch up with me. Are you, maybe, losing your grip? Or were you just amused?”

Rand frowned. “We almost lost you, Shep. We had you pegged in that town where they were about to hang you.”

“You were even there that night?”

“Well, not personally,” said Rand, “but I had some men there.”

“And you were about to let me hang?”

“Well, I tell you honestly, we were of divided mind. But you took the decision right out of our hands.”

“But if not . . .”

“I think most likely we would have let you hang. There was the possibility, of course, that if we grabbed you off, you could have led us to the star machine. But we were fairly confident, at that point, we could spot it for ourselves.”

He crashed his glass down on the table. “Of all the crazy things!” he yelled. “Hauling a machine like that in the rattletrap you used. Whatever—”

“Simple,” said Blaine, answering for Stone. “And you know the answer just as well as I do. No one would be that crazy. If you had stolen something very valuable, you’d get it as far away and as fast as possible. . . .”

“Anybody would,” said Rand.

He saw Blaine grinning at him and grinned back.

“Shep,” he said, “come clean with me. We were good friends once. Maybe, for all I know, we’re still the best of friends.”

“What do you want to know?”

“You took that machine someplace just now.”

Blaine nodded.

“And you can get it back again.”

“No,” Blaine told him. “I’m pretty sure I can’t. I was — well, just sort of playing a joke on someone.”

“On me, perhaps?”

“Not you. On Lambert Finn.”

“You don’t like Finn, do you?”

“I’ve never met the man.”

Rand picked up the bottle and filled the glasses once again. He drank half of the liquor in his glass and then stood up.

“I have to leave,” he said, looking at his watch. “One of Charline’s parties. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You’re sure that you won’t come? Charline would be glad to have you.”

“No, thanks. I’ll stay right here. Give Freddy my regards.”

“Freddy,” said Rand, “isn’t with us any more.”

Blaine got up and walked with Rand over to the transo. Rand opened the door. The inside of it looked something like a freight elevator.

“Too bad,” said Rand, “we can’t use these out in space. It would free a lot of manpower.”

“I suppose,” Blaine said, “that you are working on it.”

“Oh, certainly,” Rand told him. “It’s just a matter of refining the controls.”

He held out his hand. “So long, Shep. I’ll be seeing you.”

“Good-by, Kirby,” said Blaine. “Not if I can help it.”

Rand grinned and stepped into the machine and closed the door. There was no flashing light — nothing to show the machine had operated.

And yet by now, Blaine knew, Kirby Rand was back in Fishhook.

He turned from the transo and started back for the chair beside the fire.

The door from the store up front swung open, and Grant came into the room. He had a striped robe folded on his arm.

“I’ve got just the thing,” he announced. “I had forgotten that I had it.”

He lifted the robe off his arm and shook it out.

“Isn’t it a beauty?” he demanded.

It was all of that. It was a fur of some sort and there was something about the fur itself that made it glitter in the firelight, as if someone had dusted it with tiny diamond fragments. It was a golden yellow with black stripes that ran diagonally and it had the look of silk rather than of fur.

“It’s been around for years,” said Grant. “There was this man camping on the river and he came in and ordered it. Fishhook had a bit of trouble locating one immediately, but they finally delivered. As you know, sir, they always do.”

“Yes, I know,” said Blaine.

“Then the man never did show up. But the fur was so beautiful I could never send it back. I kept it on inventory, pretending that someday I’d have a chance to sell it. I never will, of course. It costs too much money for a one-horse town like this.”

“What is it?”

“The warmest, lightest, softest fur in the universe. Campers carry it. Better than a sleeping bag.”

“I couldn’t use it,” protested Blaine. “Just an ordinary blanket—”

“But you must,” Grant told him. “As a favor to me, sir. My accommodations are so poor, I feel deeply shamed. But if I knew you were sleeping in a luxury item . . .”

Blaine laughed and held out his hand.

“All right,” he said. “And thanks.”

Grant gave him the robe, and Blaine weighed it in his hand, not quite believing it could be so light.

“I’ve still got a little work,” the factor told him. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go back and finish it. You can bed down anywhere.”

“Go ahead,” said Blaine. “I’ll finish up my drink and then turn in. Would you have one with me?”

“Later on,” the factor said. “I always have a snort before I go to bed.”

“I’ll leave the bottle for you.”

“Good night, sir,” the factor said. “See you in the morning.”

Blaine went back to the chair and sat down in it, with the robe lying in his lap. He stroked it with his hand and it was so soft and warm that it gave the illusion of being still alive.

He picked up the glass and worked leisurely on the liquor and puzzled over Rand.

The man was probably the most dangerous man on earth, despite what Stone had said of Finn — the most dangerous personally, a silky, bulldog danger, a bloodhound of a man who carried out the policies of Fishhook as if they had been holy orders. No enemy of Fishhook was ever safe from Rand.

And yet he had not insisted that Blaine go back with him. He had been almost casual in his invitation, as if it had been no more than a minor social matter, and he had displayed no resentment nor no apparent disappointment upon Blaine’s refusal. Nor had he made a move toward force, although that, Blaine told himself, was more than likely due to his lack of knowledge with what he might be dealing. Along the trail, apparently, he had happened on enough to put him on his guard, to know that the man he followed had some secret abilities entirely new to Fishhook.

So he’d move slowly and cautiously, and he’d cover up with a nonchalance that fooled no one at all. For Rand, Blaine knew, was a man who would not give up.

He had something up his sleeve, Blaine knew — something so well hidden that no corner of it showed.

There was a trap all set and baited. There was no doubt of it.

Blaine sat quietly in his chair and finished off the liquor in his glass.

Perhaps it was foolish of him to remain here in the Post. Perhaps it would be better if he just got up and left. And yet that might be the very thing Rand would have figured him to do. Perhaps the trap was outside the door and not in the Post at all. It could be very likely that this room was the one safe place in all the world for him to spend the night.

He needed shelter, but he did not need the sleep. Perhaps the thing to do was stay here, but not to go to sleep. He could lie on the floor, with the robe wrapped tight about him and pretend to sleep, but keeping watch on Grant. For if there were a trap in this room, Grant was the one to spring it.

He put his glass back on the table beside the one that Rand has used, still a quarter full of liquor. He moved the bottle over to make a set piece out of the bottle and the glasses, the three of them together. He bundled the robe underneath his arm and walked over to the fire. He picked up the poker and pushed the burning logs together to revive their dying flame.