Clifford Simak - Out of Their Minds

"And you? Was the business of Justin.. **

"I think it was," I said.

"What should I do?" she asked. Not particularly frightened, perfectly matter-of-fact, perhaps somewhat unbelieving.

"You can get into your car and come and pick me up. Bring along the envelope, so no one else can get it."

"Pick you up. Then what?"

"Then head for Washington. There are people there to see."

"Like who?"

"Like the FBI, for one," I said.

"But you can simply pick up a phone…"

"Not on this one," I shouted. "Not on something like this. To start with, they'd not believe a phone call. They get a lot of crank calls."

"But you think you can convince them."

"Maybe not," I said. "Apparently you are not convinced."

"I don't know if I am or not. I'd have to think about it."

"There's no time to think," I warned her. "You either come and pick me up, or you don't. It might be safer if we traveled together, although I can't guarantee it would be. You're traveling east in any case and…"

"Where are you now?" she asked. "Woodman. A town down the river." "I know where it is. Do you want me to pick up some of your stuff at the motel?"

"No," I said. "I think time may be important. We can take turns driving. Only stop for gas and food." "Where will I find you?"

"Just drive slowly down the main street. It's the only street there is—the state highway. I'll be watching for you. There won't be many cars through here tonight, I would imagine."

"I feel foolish," she said. "This is so…"

"Melodramatic," I suggested.

"I suppose you could call it that. But, as you say, I am driving east in any case."

"I'll be watching for you."

"I'll be there," she said, "in half an hour. Maybe a little more."

Out of the phone booth, I found that the muscles of my legs were cramped from being hunched in the crowded space. I limped across to the bar.

"You took your time," the bartender said, sourly. "I already threw Joe out and it's closing time. Here's your drink. Don't linger over it."

I picked up the glass. "I'd be honored if you'd join me."

"You mean have a drink with you?"

I nodded.

He shook his head. "I don't drink," he said.

I finished off the drink and paid him and walked out. Behind me, the lights went out and a moment later the bartender came out and locked the door. He tripped over something as he stepped out on the sidewalk, but righted himself and reached down and picked up what he had stumbled over. It was a baseball bat.

"Damn kids were playing out in back after suppertime," he said. "One of them left it here."

Disgusted, he pitched it onto a bench that stood beside the door.

"I don't see your car," he said.

"I haven't got a car."

"But you said…"

"I know. But if I'd told you I didn't have a car it would have required a lot of explanation and I had to get those phone calls made."

He looked at me, shaking his head—a man who popped out of nowhere and didn't have a car.

"I came by canoe," I said. "I tied up at the landing."

"And what are you going to do now?"

"Stay right here," I said. "I'm waiting for a friend."

"The one you called?"

"Yes," I said. "The one I called."

"Well, good night," he said. "I hope you don't have to wait too long."

He went down the street, heading home, but several times he slowed and half turned, to look back at me.

Somewhere in the wood along the river an owl muttered querulously. The night wind held a biting edge and I turned up the collar of my shirt to gain a little warmth against it. A prowling cat came pussyfooting down the street, stopped when it caught sight of me, and then angled over to the opposite side of the street to disappear in the darkness between two buildings.

With the disappearance of the bartender, Woodman took on the feel of a deserted village. I had not paid much attention to it before, but now, with time to be used up, I saw that the place was tattered and down-at-heels, another one of those dying little towns, somewhat further along the road to oblivion than was Pilot Knob. The sidewalks were breaking up and in places grass and weeds grew in the cracks. The buildings bore the marks of time, unpainted and unrepaired, and the architecture, if the shape of them could be dignified by such a word, dated to a century before. There had been a time—there must have been a time—when the town had been brand-new and hopeful; there must then have been some economic reason for its planting and existence. And the reason, I knew, must have been the river, at a time when the river still served as an artery of commerce, when the produce of the farm or mill was brought to the river landing to be loaded on the steamboats, when the same steamboats freighted all the goods that were needed by the countryside. But the river had long since lost its economic role and had been turned back to the wildness of its strip of bottomland. The railroad and the high-speed highways, the planes flying far above it, had robbed it of all significance except the primal, basic significance it had always held in the land's ecology.

And now Woodman stood forlorn, as truly a backwater in the fabric of society as the many little backwaters which meandered out from the mainstream of the river. Once prosperous, perhaps, but now in poverty, it hung on doggedly as a small dot upon the map (although not on every map), as a living place for people who had as much lost touch with the world as had the town itself. The world had gone marching on, but little, dying towns such as this had not done any marching; they had dozed and fallen out of step and perhaps they no longer cared much about the world or the other people in it. They had retained, or created, or clung to a world that belonged to them, or that they belonged to. And thinking about it, I realized that the definition of what had happened here did not really matter, for the town itself no longer really mattered. It was a pity, I thought, that this should be, for hi these little dozing, forgotten and forgetting towns there still existed a rare touch of human caring and compassion, of human value, that the world had need of and could use, but which it had largely lost.

Here, in towns such as this, people still heard the imagined baying of the were-pack, while the rest of the world listened for an uglier sound that might precede the thunderclap of atomic doom. Between the two of them, it seemed to be, the were-pack might be the saner sound to hear. For if the provincialism of little towns like this was madness, it was a very gentle, even a pleasant, madness, while the madness of the outer world was stripped of any gentleness.

Kathy would be arriving soon—or I hoped she would arrive. If she failed to show up, it would be understandable. She had said she would, but on second thought, I warned myself, she might decide against it. I, myself, I recalled, had questioned very seriously what my old friend had written, although I had more reason at the time to believe it than Kathy would have now.

And if she did not show up, what should I do then? Go back to Pilot Knob, most likely, gather up my things and head for Washington. Although I was not entirely sure how much good going there would do. The FBI, I wondered, or the CIA? Or who? Someone who would listen, someone who would pay attention and not brush it off as the raving of a madman.

I was leaning against the side of the building which housed the bar, looking up the street, hoping that Kathy would show up very soon, when I saw the wolf come trotting down the road.

There is something about a wolf, some deep-buried instinct from man's distant past, that triggers at once a chill of fright and a raising of' the hackles. Here, immediately, is an implacable enemy, a killer as terrible and remorseless as is man himself. There is nothing noble about this killer. He is sly and tricky and ruthless and relentless. There can be no compromise between him and man, for the enmity is one of too long standing.