Clifford Simak - New Folks' Home - And Other Stories

“But this, as everyone must recognize, is a situation which has lasted longer than could normally have been expected. For years the stronger unions have been building up their strength—and not trying to use it. You may be sure that none of them will attempt to use their strength until they’re absolutely sure of themselves. Just where any of them stand, strength-wise, is impossible to say, for it is not good strategy that any union should let its strength be known. The day cannot be too far distant when there must be a matching of this strength. The situation, as it stands, must seem intolerable to some of the stronger unions with ambitious leaders …”

Blaine turned off the radio and was astonished at the solemn peace of the autumn evening. It was all old stuff, anyway. So long as he could remember, there had been commentators talking thus. There were eternal rumors which at one time would name Transportation as the union that would take over, and at another time would hint at Communications, and at still another time would insist—just as authoritatively—that Food was the one to watch.

Dreams, he told himself smugly, were beyond that kind of politics. The guild—his guild—stood for public service. It was represented on Central, as was its right and duty, but it had never played at politics.

It was Communications that was always stirring up a fuss with articles in the papers and blatting commentators. If he didn’t miss his guess, Blaine told himself, Communications was the worst of all—in there every minute waiting for its chance. Education, too; Education was always fouling up the detail, and what a bunch of creeps!

He shook his head, thinking of how lucky he was to be with Dreams—not to have to feel a sense of guilt when the rumors came around. You could be sure that Dreams never would be mentioned; of all the unions, Dreams was the only one that could stand up straight and tall.

He’d argued with Harriet about Communications, and at times she had gotten angry with him; she seemed to have the stubborn notion that Communications was the union which had the best public service record and the cleanest slate.

It was natural, of course, Blaine admitted, that one should think his own particular union was all right. Unions were the only loyalty to which a man could cling. Once, long ago, there had been nations and the love of one’s own nation was known as patriotism. But now the unions had taken their place.

He drove into the valley that wound among the hills, and finally turned off the highway and followed the winding road that climbed into the hills.

Dinner would be waiting and Ansel would be cross (he was a cranky robot at the best). Philo would be waiting for him at the gate and they’d ride in together.

He passed Harriet’s house and stared briefly at it, set well back among the trees, but there were no lights. Harriet wasn’t home. An assignment, she had said; an interview with someone.

He turned in at his own gate and Philo was there, barking out his heart. Norman Blaine slowed the car and the dog jumped in, reached up to nuzzle his master’s cheek just once, then settled sedately in the seat while they wheeled around the drive to stop before the house.

Philo leaped out quickly and Blaine got out more slowly. It had been a tiring day, he told himself. Now that he was home, he suddenly was tired.

He stood for a moment, looking at the house. It was a good house, he thought; a good place for a family—if he ever could persuade Harriet to give up her news career.

A voice said: “All right. You can turn around now. And take it easy; don’t try any funny stuff.”

Slowly Blaine turned. A man stood beside the car in the gathering dusk. He held a glinting object in his hand and he said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of; I don’t intend you any harm. Just don’t get gay about it.”

The man’s clothes were wrong; they seemed to be some sort of uniform. And his words were wrong. The inflection was a bit off color, concise and crisp, lacking the slurring of one word into another which marked the language. And the phrases— funny stuff; don’t get gay.

“This is a gun I have. No monkey business, please.”

Monkey business .

“You are the man who escaped,” said Blaine.

“That I am.”

“But how …”

“I rode all the way with you. Hung underneath the car; those dumb cops didn’t think to look.”

The man shrugged. “I regretted it once or twice. You drove further than I hoped. I almost let go a time or two. “

“But me? Why did you …”

“Not you, mister; anyone at all. It was a way to hide—a means to get away.”

“I don’t read you,” Blaine told him. “You could have made a clean break; you could have let go at the gate. The car was going slow then. You could have sneaked away right now. I’d never noticed you.”

“And been picked up as soon as I showed myself. The clothes are a giveaway. So is my speech. Then there’s my eating habits, and maybe even the way I walk. I would stick out like a bandaged thumb.”

“I see,” said Blaine. “All right, then; put up the gun. You must be hungry. We’ll go in and eat.”

The man put away the gun. He patted his pocket. “I still have it, and I can get it fast. Don’t try any swifties.”

“O.K.,” said Blaine. “No swifties.” Thinking: Picturesque. Swifties . Never heard the word. But it had a meaning; there could be no doubt of that.

“By the way, how did you get that gun?”

“That’s something,” said the man, “I’m not telling you.”

His name, the fugitive said, was Spencer Collins. He’d been in suspension for five hundred years; he’d come out of it just a month before. Physically, he said, he was as good a man as ever—fifty-five, and well preserved. He’d paid attention to himself all his life—had eaten right, hadn’t gone without sleep, had exercised both mind and body, knew something about psychosomatics.

“I’ll say this for your outfit,” he told Blaine, “you know how to take care of a sleeper’s body. I was a little gaunt when I came out; a little weak; but there’d been no deterioration.”

Norman Blaine chuckled. “We’re at work at it constantly. I don’t know anything about it, of course, but the biology boys are at it all the time—it’s a continuing problem with them. A practical problem. During your five hundred years you probably were shifted a dozen times or more—to a better receptacle each time, with improvements in the operation. You got the benefit of the new improvements as soon as we worked them out.”

Collins had been a professor of sociology, he said, and he’d evolved a theory. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t go into what it was.”

“Why certainly,” said Blaine.

“It’s not of too much interest except to the academic mind. I presume you’re not an academic mind.”

“I suppose I’m not.”

“It involved long-term social development,” Collins told him. “I figured that five hundred years should show some indication of whether I had been right or wrong. I was curious. It’s rough to figure out a thing, then up and die without ever knowing if it comes true or not.”

“I can understand.”

“If you doubt me in any detail you can check the record.”

“I don’t doubt a word of it,” said Blaine.

“You are used to screwball cases.”

“Screwball?”

“Loopy. Crazy.”

“I see many screwball cases,” Blaine assured him.

But nothing quite so screwball as this, he thought. Nothing quite so crazy as sitting on the patio beneath the autumn stars, on his own home acres, talking to a man five centuries out of time. If he were in Readjustment, of course, he’d be accustomed to it, would not think it strange at all; Readjustment worked continually with cases just like this.