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

He closed his hand upon it and the happiness stayed on—and it was all wrong, for there was not a single reason that he should be happy. The critter finally had left him and his money was all gone and he had no friends, but still he kept on feeling good.

He put the ball into his pocket and stepped spryly for the house to get the milking pails. He pursed up his whiskered lips and began to whistle and it had been a long, long time since he had even thought to whistle.

Maybe he was happy, he told himself, because the critter had not left without stopping to take his hand and try to say good-by.

And a gift, no matter how worthless it might be, how cheap a trinket, still had a basic value in simple sentiment. It had been many years since anyone had bothered to give him a gift.

It was dark and lonely and unending in the depths of space with no Companion. It might be long before another was obtainable.

It perhaps was a foolish thing to do, but the old creature had been such a kind savage, so fumbling and so pitiful and eager to help. And one who travels far and fast must likewise travel light. There had been nothing else to give.

Written at the request of Judy-Lynn del Rey especially for Stellar 1 , the first issue of her original anthology series from Ballantine Books, “The Birch Clump Cylinder” (1974) is a truly professional effort. Every word, every sentence, moves the story forward; there is nothing here that is dross or surplusage. And the new and intriguing ideas are presented in a story in which the characters, so sharply delineated, seem to be the main thing. The only thing missing is, well, more.

Even when his story needed a place of advanced learning, Cliff managed to place it in Simak country.…

As Bronson drove the car up the curving road that led to the front of Cramden Hall, I became aware that there had been some change, although it took a moment to figure what it was.

“The pagoda’s gone,” I said.

“Blew down one night several years ago,” said Bronson. “High wind came up. Flimsy thing, it was.”

Nothing else had changed, it seemed. Coon Creek didn’t change. It stayed stodgy and a bit ramshackle and tried its humble best to seem of no account.

“Just as well it’s gone,” said Bronson. “It never seemed to fit. Just a little flighty for my taste.”

The car wheeled up and stopped in front of the pillared portico.

“You go on in,” said Bronson. “Old Prather’s waiting for you. I’ll put away the car and bring in your bags.”

“Thanks for meeting me,” I said. “It’s been a long time, Bronson.”

“Fifteen years,” said Bronson. “Maybe nearer twenty. None of us gets any younger. You never have been back.”

“No,” I said, “I haven’t.”

The car pulled away, and as it moved out of my line of vision I saw I had been wrong. For the pagoda wasn’t gone; the pagoda was still there. It squatted in the evening light exactly as I remembered it, standing in the park-like area inside the driveway curve, with a pine at one corner of it and a sprawling yew along the side.

“Charles,” a voice said behind me. “Charles, it’s good to see you.”

I turned and saw it was Old Prather, fumbling down the steps towards me.

I went rapidly up to meet him, and we stood there for a moment, looking at one another in the fading light. He hadn’t changed too much—a little older, perhaps, a bit more frazzled at the edges, but the same erect, stiff posture that barely escaped being military. The imagined scent of chalk dust still clung to him; he was as imperious as ever, but, I thought, looking at him, perhaps a shade more kindly, mellowed with the years.

“The place looks the same as ever,” I said. “Too bad the pagoda—”

“The pesky thing blew down,” he said. “Gave us no end of trouble cleaning up the mess.”

We went trudging up the steps together. “It was kind of you to come,” he said. “As you may have gathered, we have a spot of trouble. On the phone, you understand, I couldn’t be specific.”

“I jumped at the chance to come,” I said. “Not doing anything, of course. Not since I was booted out of Time Research.”

“But that was two years ago. And you weren’t booted.”

“It is three years,” I said, “and I most emphatically was booted.”

“Dinner, I think, is ready,” he said, “and we had best get to it. Old Emil—”

“Emil is still here?” I asked.

Old Prather chuckled thinly. “We carry on,” he said. “Bronson and myself and Emil. Young men coming up, but they are not quite ready. We all get crotchety and at times a little prickly. Emil, especially. He is crustier than ever and is apt to scold you if you’re late for meals or don’t eat quite enough. He takes it as a slur on his cooking.”

We reached the door and went into the foyer.

“And now,” I said, “suppose you spell out this pagoda mummery.”

“You saw it, then?” he said.

“Of course I saw it. After Bronson had told me it had blown down. And it was still there when you said it had blown down. If this is some elaborate gag, just because I worked on Time Research—”

“It is no trick,” he said. “It’s part of the reason you are here. We’ll talk about it later, but now we must go in to dinner or Emil will be outraged. Did I mention, by the way, that a couple of your classmates will be dining with us? Leonard Asbury. You remember him, of course.”

“Dr. Prather,” I said, “I have spent all these years trying not to remember him. He was a little twerp. And what other assorted alumni have you hauled in on this pagoda business?”

He said, without any shame at all, “Only one other. Mary Holland.”

“She was the one who broke your heart. She went into music.”

“Charles,” he said, “you mistake my function and the purpose of this institute if you think she broke my heart. The world could ill have afforded to lose the kind of music she has written.”

“So,” I said, “a famous mathematician, a talented composer, a down-at-the-heels time researcher. When it comes to picking a team, you really go all out.”

His eyes took on a merry twinkle. “Come on in to dinner,” he said, “or Emil will wear out his tongue on us.”

The dinner had been a good one, simple and hearty—vichyssoise, a salad, prime ribs and a baked potato, with wine that was not bad at all.

Old Prather had done a lot of inconsequential and rather pompous talking. The man was a good host; you have to give him that. The rest of us said little—the kind of tentative, exploratory talk that old acquaintances, too long separated, are likely to engage in.

I studied the two of them, and I knew that they were studying me as well. I could imagine both were wondering why Old Prather had invited me, for which I could not blame them.

Leonard Asbury, I decided, was still a little twerp. His thin black hair was slicked down against his skull. His face had a hard and foxy look. When he spoke, his thin lips scarcely moved. I didn’t like the bastard a bit more than I ever did.

Mary was something else again. She had been a pretty girl, and we had had some dates—nothing serious, just dates. But now her beauty had settled into a sort of matronly composure, and I had the feeling there was a lot of emptiness behind that contented face.

It was damned unsettling—the two of them. I was uneasy and wished I had not come.

“And now,” said Old Prather, “let us get down to business. For I suppose you must guess that there is some business. A rather urgent matter.”