Clifford Simak - Time is the Simplest Thing

The guard still was standing to one side of the door and the noises in his throat had changed to gagging noises.

Blaine walked close to Finn and there, beside the out-flung hand, was the instrument of death — an old-fashioned, straight-edge razor that should have been safely tucked away in a museum.

Now, Blaine knew, all hope was gone. There could be no bargain made. For Lambert Finn was beyond all bargaining.

To the very last the man had stayed in character, had remained his harsh, stern self. No easy way for him, but the toughest way of all for a man to take his life.

But even so, Blaine thought, staring in chilled horror at the red gash in the throat, there had been no need to do the job so thoroughly, to keep on slashing with the razor even as he died.

Only a man of hate would do that, a man insane with the hate of self — a man who despised and loathed what he had become.

Unclean — unclean with an alien mind inside his antiseptic skull. A thing like that would drive a man like Finn to death; a fastidious fanatic who could become obsessed with his self-conceived idea of a perfect state could not live with nor survive the disorderly enigma of an alien mind.

Blaine turned on his heel and walked out of the room. In the corridor the guard was in a corner, doubled over, retching.

“You stay here,” Blaine told him. “I’ll call the cops.”

The man turned around. His eyes were glazed with horror. He wiped feebly at his chin.

“My God,” he said, “I ask you, did you ever see a mess—”

“Sit down,” said Blaine, “and take it easy. I’ll be right back.”

Although he wouldn’t be. Now was the time to blow. He needed time and he’d get a little time. For the guard was too shaken to do anything for quite a little while.

But as soon as the news was known, all hell was bound to break.

God help the parry, Blaine thought, who is caught this night! He went swiftly down the corridor and ran down the stairs. The lobby still was empty and he set out across it briskly.

As he reached the door, it came open suddenly and someone came through it, walking briskly, too.

A purse clattered to the floor, and Blaine’s hands reached out to steady the woman who had come through the doorway.

Harriet! Get out of here! Get out!

My purse!

He stooped to scoop it up and as he lifted it, the catch came open and something black and heavy fell. His free hand snapped at it and had it and he worked it back along his palm so that it was hidden.

Harriet had turned around and was going out the door. Blaine hurried after her and caught her by the elbow, urging her along.

He reached his car and stooped to open the door. He pushed her to the seat.

But, Shep, my car is just a block —

No time. We’re getting out of here.

He ran around the car and got in. He jerked it from the curb and out into the street. Moving far more slowly than he wanted, he eased it down the block, turned at the intersection, heading for the highway.

Just ahead stood the gutted structure of the Trading Post. He had been holding the purse in his lap and now he gave it to her.

“How about the gun?” he asked.

“I was going to kill him,” she shouted. “I was going to shoot him dead.”

“No need to do that now. He is already dead.”

She turned toward him quickly.

“You!”

“Well, now, I guess that you could say so.”

“But, Shep, you know. You either killed him or you—”

“All right,” he said. “I killed him.”

And it was no lie. No matter by what hand Lambert Finn had died, he, Shepherd Blaine, had killed him.

“I had reason to,” he said. “But you?”

“He had Godfrey killed. That itself would have been enough.”

“You were in love with Godfrey.”

“Yes, I suppose I was. He was such a great guy, Shep.”

“I know how great he was. We were friends in Fishhook.”

“It hurts,” said Harriet. “Oh, Shep, how it hurts!”

“And that night . . .”

“There was no time for tears,” she said. “There’s never time for tears.”

“You knew about all this . . .”

“For a long time. It was my job to know.”

He reached the highway and turned down it, back toward Hamilton. The sun had set. Twilight had crept across the land and in the east one star was twinkling, just above the prairie.

“And now?” he asked.

“Now I have a story. As much of it as I ever can.”

“You’re going to write it. Will your paper run it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I have to write it. You understand that I have to write it. I’m going to New York. . . .”

“Wrong,” he said. “You’re going to Fishhook. Not by car. From the nearest airport. . . .”

“But, Shep—”

“It’s not safe,” Blaine told her. “Not for anyone who has the faintest hint of parry. Even minor telepaths, like you.”

“I can’t do it, Shep. I—”

“Listen, Harriet. Finn had set up a Halloween outbreak by the parries, a sort of counterintelligence move. The other parries, when they learned about it, tried to stop it. They did stop part of it, but I don’t know to what extent. Whatever happens will be happening tonight. He would have used the outbreak to step up intolerance, to trigger rigid legislation. There would have been some violence, of course, but that was not, by and large, Finn’s purpose. But now, with Finn dead . . .”

Harriet drew in her breath. “They’ll wipe us out,” she said.

“They’ll do their best. But there is a way. . . .”

“Knowing this, you still killed Finn!”

“Look, Harriet, I didn’t really kill him. I went to bargain with him. I found a way to take the parries off Earth. I was going to promise to clean every parry off the Earth, clean out of his way, if he’d hold off his dogs for a week or two. . . .”

“But you said you killed him.”

“Maybe,” said Blaine, “I better fill you in. So when you come to write your story you can write it all.”

Hamilton was silent and so empty you could feel the emptiness.

Blaine stopped the car in the square and got out of it. Not a light was showing, and the soft sound of the river came clearly to his ears.

“They are gone,” he said.

Harriet got out of the car and came around it to stand beside him.

“All right, pal,” she said. “Get onto your horse.”

He shook his head.

“But you have to go. You have to follow them. You belong with them.”

“Someday,” said Blaine. “Someday, years from now. There’s still work to do. There’ll be pockets of parries all up and down the land. Fearful and in hiding. I have to search them out. I have to save as many as I can.”

“You’ll never live to do it. You’ll be a special target. Finn’s men will never rest. . . .”

“If the pressure gets too bad, I’ll go. I’m no hero, Harriet. Basically, I’m a coward.”

“You’ll promise that?” she asked.

“Of course. Cross my heart. And you’re going back to Fishhook. You’ll be safe in Fishhook. Straight to the airport up in Pierre.”

She turned and went back to the car, started to get in, then turned back again.

“But you’ll need the car.”

He chuckled. “If I need one, there’s a village full of cars. I can pick the one I want. They couldn’t take their cars.”

She got behind the wheel and turned her head to say good-by.

“One thing,” said Blaine. “What happened to you when I was in the shed?”

Her laughter had a sharpness to it. “When Rand drove up, I pulled out. I went to get some help. I figured I should get on the phone to Pierre. There’d been men up there who’d helped us.”