Clifford Simak - A Heritage of Stars

"And they'll be coming straight in from the west?"

"Laddie boy, I do not know, but that is what I think."

"So we do have a little time?"

"The margin is close enough," she warned him. "There is no sense in the cutting of it finer. We can breathe the easier once we reach the valley."

Cushing moved off again and the two fell in behind him.

The land was empty. An occasional rabbit popped out of cover and went leaping in the moonlight. At times, a disturbed bird would twitter sleepily. Once, from down in the river valley, they heard the whicker of a coon.

Behind Cushing, Andy snorted suddenly. Cushing came to a stop. The horse had heard or seen something and it would be wise to heed his warning.

Meg came up softly. "What is it, laddie boy?" she asked. "Andy sensed something. Do you see anything?"

"Don't move," he said. "Get down, close against the ground. Keep quiet. Don't move."

There seemed to be nothing. Mounds that once had been houses. Thickets of shrubs. The long lines of old boulevard trees.

Behind him, Andy made no further sound.

Directly ahead of them, planted in the center of what once had been a street, a boulder squatted. Not too big a boulder, reaching perhaps as high as a man's waist. Funny that there should be a boulder in the middle of a street.

Meg, crouching close against the ground, reached out to touch his leg. She whispered at him. "There is someone out there. I can sense them. Faint, far off."

"How far?"

"I don't know. Far and weak."

"Where?"

"Straight ahead of us.

They waited. Andy stamped a foot and then was quiet.

"It's frightening," said Meg. "Cold shivers. Not like us."

"Us?"

"Humans. Not like humans."

In the river valley the coon whickered once again. Cushing's eyes ached as he concentrated on seeing the slightest motion, the faintest sign.

Meg whispered, "It's the boulder."

"Someone hiding behind it," Cushing said.

"No one hiding. It's the boulder. Different."

They waited.

"Funny place for that rock to be," said Cushing. "In the middle of the street. Who would have moved it there? Why would they have moved it there?"

"The rock's alive," said Meg. "It could have moved itself."

"Rocks don't move," he said. "Someone has to move them."

She said nothing.

"Stay here," he said.

He dropped the bow, pulled the hatchet from his belt, then ran swiftly forward. He stopped just short of the boulder. Nothing happened. He ran forward again, swung around the boulder. There was nothing behind it. He put out a hand and touched it. It was warm, warmer than it should have been. The sun had been down for hours and by now the rock should have lost all the solar radiation that it had picked up during the day, but it was still faintly warm. Warm and smooth, slippery to the touch. As if someone had polished it.

Andy shuffled forward, Meg walking with him.

"It's warm," said Cushing.

"It's alive," said Meg. "Write that one down, my bucko. It's a living stone. Or it's not a stone, but something that looks like one.

"I don't like it," said Cushing. "It smells of witchery."

"No witchery," said Meg. "Something else entirely. Something very dreadful. Something that should never be. Not like a man, not like anything at all. Frozen memories. That is what I sense. Frozen memories, so old that they are frozen. But there is no telling what they are. An uncaring, maybe. A cold uncaring."

Cushing looked around. All was peaceful. The trees were etched against the sky in the whiteness of the moonlight. The sky was soft and there were many stars. He tried to fight down the terror that he felt rising in him, like a bitter gall Cushing in his throat.

"You ever hear of anything like this before?" he asked.

"No, never, laddie. Never in my life."

"Let's get out of here," he said.

A great wind sweeping across the valley at some time earlier in the year had cut a narrow swath through the trees that grew between the river's bank and the bluff top. Great monarchs of the forest lay in a giant hedge, twisted and uprooted. Shriveled, drying leaves still clung to many of the branches.

"We'll be safe here," said Cushing. "Anyone coming from the west, even if they wanted to come down to the river, would have to swing around these trees."

By' holding branches to one side so he could get through, they cleared the way for Andy to work his way through the tangle into a small clear area where there would be room for him to lie down and enough grass for him to make a meal.

Cushing pointed to a den formed by the uprooting of a huge black oak, the rooted stump canted at an angle, overhanging the cavity gouged out of the earth by its uprooting.

"In there," he said, "we won't be seen if anyone comes nosing around."

Meg said, "I'll cook breakfast for you, laddie. What do you want? Hot bread and bacon, maybe?"

"Not yet," he said. "Not now. We have to be careful with a fire. Nothing but the driest wood, so there'll be no smoke, and not too big a fire. I'll take care of it after I get back. Don't try it yourself. I want to be sure about the fire. Someone gets a whiff of smoke and they'll start looking."

"After you get back. Where you be going, sonny?"

"Up on the bluff," he said. "I want to have a look. See if there's anyone about."

"Take the spyglass with you, then."

Atop the bluff, he looked across a stretch of rolling prairie, with only occasional clumps of trees. Far to the north was what once had been a group of farm buildings, standing in a small grove. Of the buildings there was little left. Through the glasses he could make out what once had been a barn, apparently a sturdily built structure. Part of the roof had collapsed, but otherwise it still stood. Beyond it was a slight mound that probably marked the site of another, less substantial building. Part of a pole fence still existed, raggedly running nowhere.

Squatting in a clump of brush that would serve to break up his outline if anyone should be watching, he patiently and methodically glassed the prairie, taking his time, working from the west to the east.

A small herd of deer were feeding on the eastern side of a small knoll. He caught a badger sitting at its burrow's mouth. A red fox sat on a stone that jutted from a low hillside, watching the countryside for any game that might be picked up easily.

Cushing kept on watching. There must be no sloppiness, he told himself; he needed to be sure there was nothing but the animals. He started in the west again and moved slowly eastward. The deer were still there, but the badger had disappeared. More than likely it had popped into its den. The fox was gone, as well.

To one side he caught a sense of motion. Swiveling the glasses smoothly, he caught the motion in the field. It was far off, but seemed to be moving fast. As it came nearer, he saw what it was: a body of horsemen. He tried to count them, but they were still too far away. They were not, he saw, coming directly toward him, but angling to the southeast. He watched in fascination. Finally he could count them. Either nineteen or twenty; he could not be absolutely sure. They were dressed in furs and leathers, and carried shields and spears. Their little, short-coupled horses moved at a steady lope.

So Meg had been right. The horde was on the move. The band out of the prairie were perhaps no more than out flankers for the main force, which probably was to the north.

He watched until they had moved out of sight, then searched the prairie again for other possible bands. None showed up, and satisfied, finally, he replaced the glasses in the case and moved off the hill and down the bluff. There might be other small bands, he knew, but there was no point in waiting for them. Meg was probably right: they'd stay out on the prairie, headed for the city and away from the river valley.