Clifford Simak - A Death in the House - And Other Stories

He tried to envision the outcome of such a war and failed. It would be far-ranging and fought out on a grand strategy, and was beyond the scientific comprehension of a man untrained in the military. Planets would take the place of cities in the old and now obsolete and outmoded concept of global war and would be blasted into nothingness as a mere tactical maneuver by one side or the other.

And it could be stopped. It could be made to never happen. Once time travel had been achieved, Paradox would proceed to implement the plan that it had all worked out and ready, could travel back through time to undo those things which were a dark and tragic blot upon Earth’s diplomatic record. For the ideological struggle which was now in progress was a battle for the minds of many different planets. And that, Wolfe thought, must be a dilly of a job. For what might be considered correct thinking on one planet might be treason on another.

Wolfe suddenly found himself going over the Hourglass record of accomplishment point by point. It had the Telmont Evidences—the records found on an abandoned, long-dead planet out in the Sower System. Those invaluable tablets seemed to indicate that the race which had once occupied Sower III had made use of time travel to enrich and enlarge their daily lives. But there was a catch to it. Time travel had apparently been so much a matter of course with them that they had neglected to mention what kind of time travel it was.

Wolfe swore quietly to himself—remembering how frantically Hourglass had worked to break the written language of the Telmont people. And how, once the key had been found, the great abundance of existing inscriptions had been searched to no avail.

They had it, Wolfe thought, pounding his fist upon the desk top. What was it that they had? Mechanical process? Natural ability? Mental exercise? Or what?

And the Whitherers, brought back twenty years before from the Jigsaw area—what about the Whitherers? And the Munn equations—the work of a little shriveled gnome of a man who persisted in the insane, old-fashioned belief that everything in the universe could be explained by simple mathematics.

And now two men had disappeared!

There was work to do, he told himself. He should be up and at it, instead of sitting here speculating in bitter anger and frustration. But he didn’t want to work.

He wanted to go fishing.

He sat and thought of the green slide of water, the darkness of the pools, the languor of the sunshine and the fascination of the bobbing float. There were sunnies and bluegills waiting for him and as quarry they were poor indeed. But they had therapeutic value and he wanted to go fishing.

By God, he thought, I’ll go. I’ll sneak away from Nancy and all the rest of them and catch me a mess of fish.

He got to his feet and put out his hand to pick up the file that Hughes had flung upon the desk. Tuckerman, he thought. How had it been with Antony Tuckerman on that October day of thirty years before.

Had he meant to leave, or had he met with some unforeseen, wholly inexplicable accident? What had he done to send himself tumbling back into the past? What had he done or seen or felt or thought? And what had happened to Sartwell Henderson just ten short days ago? What had Tuckerman and Henderson done that was unique, different? Why should something have happened to them that had happened to no one else on Earth?

And yet that wasn’t exactly right!

How long, he wondered, can a man stay blind? He laid the folder back on the desk and was surprised and outraged to find that his hand was shaking.

He stood tensed for a moment, to give his hand a chance, and when it had stopped its shaking he picked up the phone and said to the operator, “Get me Central Information.”

He waited and the voice came on.

“Wolfe, Hourglass,” he said. “I shall want all the vital breakdown data that you have in your files on missing persons. Over the last ten years, let’s say.”

“It will take a little time, sir.”

“Okay. Call me back when you’ve got it.”

“You don’t want the actual cases? Just the statistics and the distribution and the few more simple breakdowns?”

“Yes, naturally. It would take a dozen men a month to go over every report completely.”

“Any detail you want us to pay particular attention to? If we knew your reason. …”

“No reason,” said Wolfe. “Call it a passing whim.”

“But, sir—”

“Damn it, can’t you do just a simple research job without jacking it up into a priority production? Get me that data, and call me back when you have it.”

He slammed down the phone and stamped out of the room.

When he reached the central hall he could hear Nancy quarreling with the cook. Good Lord, he thought, can’t she even keep her nose out of the kitchen? That’s a first-rate cook she’s insulting. If she runs him off with her bossiness—

He went out behind the barn that housed the Whitherers, and took down the long cane pole from its place beneath the eaves. But when he looked for the spade he couldn’t find it. He cursed fluently and, still grumbling, found an old soup can and headed for the orchard. Driven to it, he told himself he could dig enough worms for an hour or two of fishing with his bare hands and, perhaps, a handy stick.

Under the favorite apple tree he found the missing spade. It was attached to a little gnome-like man who had leaned a fishing pole against the tree and was now strenuously engaged in digging worms.

“Hello, Doc,” said Wolfe.

Dr. Oscar Munn took one indignant look at him and flung down the spade.

“I quit,” cried Munn. “I’m resigning from the project right here and now.”

He started to walk back toward the barns, but Wolfe stepped quickly in front of him. Munn halted inches away, with his bristling, ridiculous little beard pointed directly at Wolfe’s chest.

“What’s eating you, Doc?” Wolfe demanded.

“The figures,” said Munn fiercely. “They simply would not march. They refused to stay in straight lines. They went around in circles. So I decided to go fishing for a while and clear away the cobwebs. But the minute I get there the place is crowded.”

“You’d rather I didn’t go fishing today, Doc?”

“You can do anything you want,” said Munn, “just so long as you don’t insist on doing it with me.”

“You’re a man of great discernment,” Wolfe told him, “and I admire you for it. I’m no fit companion. I’ve been snapping at everyone all day.”

“So have I,” conceded Munn.

“What’s the matter with us, Doc?”

“We don’t go fishing half enough,” said Munn. “Not nearly half enough. Let’s get at those worms.”

“You’ve dug your share,” said Wolfe. “I will do the rest.”

“I’ll pick them up,” Munn offered. “It takes an agile angleworm to get away from me.”

Wolfe picked up the spade and plunged it in the ground. “I just had a brainstorm, Doc.”

“So,” said Munn.

“I called up Central Information and asked for a missing persons breakdown.”

Munn grunted. “How long have you been here, Gil?”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with it? Five years, if you must know.”

Munn chuckled. “It’s been done before,” he said. “About every five years or so someone gets a brainstorm. You just missed the last one.”

Wolfe turned over a spade full of dirt and Munn dived into it like a wrathful terrier. He garnered four large worms, two small ones and one that had been sliced in half.

“So I was a fool to do it,” said Wolfe.

“Not a fool,” Munn told him.

“Maybe I should call back and stop them.”

“Would you break their hearts?” asked Munn. “Would you show disrespect for that great encyclopedic setup with all the lovely push-buttons and all the files arranged so neatly?”