Clifford Simak - New Folks' Home - And Other Stories

Collins was fascinating. His inflection betrayed the change in the spoken language, and there were those slang words always cropping up—idioms of the past that had somehow missed fire and found no place within the living language, although many others had survived.

At dinner there had been dishes the man had tackled with distrust, others that he’d eaten with disgust showing on his face, yet too polite to refuse them outright—determined, perhaps, to do his best to fit into the culture in which he found himself.

There were certain little mannerisms and affectations that seemed pointless now; performed too often, they could become distinctly irritating. These were actions like stroking his chin when he was thinking, or popping joints by pulling at his fingers. That last one, Blaine told himself, was unnerving and indecent. Perhaps in the past it had not been ill-bred to fiddle with one’s body. He’d have to look that one up, he told himself, or maybe ask someone. The boys in Readjustment would know—they’d know a lot of things.

“I wonder if you’d tell me,” Blaine asked,—”this theory of yours. Did it work out the way you thought it would?”

“I don’t know. You’ll agree, perhaps, that I’ve scarcely been in a position to find out.”

“I suppose that’s true. But I thought you might have asked.”

“I didn’t ask,” said Collins.

They sat in the evening silence, looking out across the valley.

“You’ve come a long way in the last five hundred years,” Collins finally said. “When I went to sleep, we were speculating on the stars and everyone was saying that the light speed limit had us licked on that. But today …”

“I know,” said Blaine. “Another five hundred years …”

“You could go on forever and forever—sleep a thousand years and see what had happened. Then another …”

“It wouldn’t be worth it.”

“You’re telling me,” said Collins.

A nighthawk skimmed above the trees and planed into the sky in jerky, fluttering motions, busy catching insects. “That doesn’t change,” said Collins. “I can remember nighthawks …”

He paused, then asked, “What are you going to do with me?”

“You’re my guest.”

“Until the keepers come.”

“We’ll talk about it later; you are safe tonight.”

“There is one thing you’ve been wondering about; I’ve watched it gnawing at you.”

“Why you ran away.”

“That is it,” said Collins.

“Well?”

“I chose a dream,” said Collins, “such as you might expect. I asked a professorial retreat—a sort of idealized monastery where I could spend my time in study, where I could live with other men who could talk my language. I wanted peace—a walk along a quiet river, a good sunset, simple food, time for reading and for thinking …”

Blaine nodded appreciatively. “A good choice, Collins; there should be more like it.”

“I thought so, too,” said Collins. “It was what I wanted.”

“It proved enjoyable?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Wouldn’t know?”

“I never got it.”

“But the Dream was fabricated …”

“I got a different dream.”

“There was some mistake.”

“No mistake,” said Collins; “I am sure there wasn’t.”

“When you ask a certain dream,” Blaine began, speaking stiffly, but Collins cut him short. “There was no mistake, I tell you. The dream was substituted.”

“How could you know that?”

“Because the dream they gave me wasn’t one that anyone would ask for. Not even one that ever would be thought of. It was one that was deliberately tailored for some reason I can’t figure out. It was a different world.”

“An alien world!”

“Not alien; it was Earth, all right—but a different culture. I lived five hundred years in that world, every minute of five hundred years. The dream pattern was not shortened as I understand they often are, telescoping a thousand years of Sleep into a normal lifetime. I got the works, the full five hundred years. I know what the score is when I tell you that it was a deliberately fashioned dream—no mistake at all—but fashioned for a purpose.”

“Now let’s not rush ahead so fast,” protested Blaine. “Let us take it easy. The world had a different culture?”

“It was a world,” said Collins, “in which the profit motive had been eliminated, in which the concept of profit never had been thought of. It was the same world that we have, but lacking in all the factors and forces which in our world stem from the profit motive. To me, of course, it was utterly fantastic, but to the natives of the place—if you can call them that—it seemed the normal thing.”

He watched Blaine closely. “I think you’ll agree,” he said, “that no one would want to live in a world like that. No one would ask a Dream like that.”

“Some economist, perhaps …”

“An economist would know better. And, aside from that, there was a terribly consistent pattern to the dream that no one without prior knowledge could ever figure out to put into a dream.”

“Our machine …”

“Your machine would have no more prior knowledge than you yourself. No more, at least, than your best economist. And another thing—that machine is illogical; that’s the beauty of it. It needn’t think in logic. It shouldn’t, because that would spoil the Dream. A Dream should not be logical.”

“And yours was logical?”

“Very logical,” said Collins. “You can figure out the factors hell to breakfast and you can’t tell what will happen until you see a thing in action. That is logic for you.”

He rose and walked across the patio, then walked back again, stood facing Blaine. “That’s why I ran away. There’s something dirty going on; I can’t trust that gang of yours.”

“I don’t know,” said Blaine. “I simply do not know.”

“I can clear out if you want me to; no need to get yourself messed up in a deal like this. You took me in and fed me, gave me clothes, and you listened to me. I don’t know how far I can get, but …”

“No,” said Blaine, “you’re staying here. This is something that needs investigation, and I may need you later on. Keep out of sight. Don’t mind the robots. We can trust them; they won’t talk.”

“If they smell me out,” said Collins, “I’ll manage to get off your land before they nab me. Caught, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Norman Blaine rose slowly and held out his hand. Collins took it in a swift, sure grip. “It’s a deal.”

“It’s a deal,” echoed Blaine.

At night, the Center was a place of ghosts, its deserted corridors ringing with their emptiness. Men worked throughout the building, Blaine knew—the Readjustment force; the Conditioners; the Tank Room gang, but there was no sign of them.

A robot guard stepped out of his embrasure. “Who goes there?”

“Blaine. Norman Blaine.”

The robot stood for a second, whirring gently, searching through its memory banks to find the name of Blaine. “Identification,” it said.

Blaine held up his identification disk. “Pass, Blaine,” the robot said, then tried an amenity. “Working late?”

“Something I forgot,” Blaine told it.

He went along the corridor and took the elevator, got out at the sixth.

Another robot stopped him. He identified himself.

“You’re on the wrong floor, Blaine.”

“New appointment.” He showed the robot the form.

“All right, Blaine,” it said.

Blaine went along the corridor and found the door to Records. He tried six keys before he hit the right one and the door swung open.

He closed the door behind him and waited until he could see a little before he found the light switch.