Clifford Simak - New Folks' Home - And Other Stories

First, there had been the Buttonholer who had collared him; then Lucinda Silone who had wished a dream of dignity and peace; and after that, Lew Giesey, dead behind his battered desk—and finally the man who had spent five hundred years in a culture that had not discovered profit.

“But Farris …”

“Paul Farris is a friend of mine.”

“He is no one’s friend.”

“Just like that,” said Blaine, thrusting out two fingers, pressed very close together.

“I’d be careful just the same.”

“Since this afternoon, Farris and I are conspiratorial pals. We are in a deal together; Giesey died …”

“I know. What has that to do with this sudden friendship?”

“Before he died, Giesey put an appointment through. I’m moving up to Records.”

“Oh, Norm. I’m so glad!”

“I had hoped you’d be.”

“Then what is it all about?” she asked. “Tell me what is going on. Who was that man the goons dragged out of here?”

“I told you—they weren’t goons.”

“Who was the man. Don’t try to duck the question.”

“An escapee. A man who ran away from Center.”

“And you were helping him.”

“Well, no …”

“Norm, why should anyone want to escape from Center? Have you got folks locked up?”

“This one was an awakened suspendee …”

He knew he’d said too much, but it was too late. He saw the glint in her eyes—the look he’d grown to know. “It’s not a story,” he said. “If you use this …”

“That’s what you think.”

“This was in confidence.”

“Nothing’s in confidence; you can’t talk to News in confidence.”

“You’d just be guessing.”

“You’d better tell me now,” she said. “I can find out, anyhow.”

“That old gag!”

“You may as well go ahead and tell me. It’ll save me a lot of trouble, and you’ll know I have it straight.”

“Not another word.”

“All right, smart guy,” she said.

She stood on tiptoe, kissed him swiftly, then ducked away.

“Harriet!” he cried, but she had stepped back into the shadow of the shrubbery and was gone. He took a quick step forward, then halted. There was no use going after her. He could never find or catch her, for she knew the gardens and the woods that stretched between their houses full as well as he did.

Now he’d let himself in for it. By morning, the story would be in the papers.

He knew that Harriet had meant exactly what she said. Damn the woman. Fanatical, he told himself. Why couldn’t she see things in their right perspective? Her loyalty to Communications was utterly fantastic.

And yet it was no more so than Norman Blaine’s to Dreams. What had the commentator said when he’d been driving home? The unions were building up their strength, and it was this very fanatic loyalty—his to Dreams, Harriet’s to Communications—which was the basis of that growing strength.

He stood in the puddle of light before the door and shivered at the thought of the story with 96-point headlines screaming from Page One.

Not a breath of scandal, he had said that afternoon. For Dreams was built on public confidence; any hint of scandal would bring it tumbling down. And here was scandal—or something that could be made to sound very much like scandal.

There were two things he could do. He could try to stop Harriet—how, he did not know. Or he could unmask this intrigue for what it really was—a plot to eliminate Dreams in the struggle for power, a move in that Central Labor struggle about which the commentator had held forth so pontifically.

Now Blaine was sure that he knew how it all tied up, was sure that he could trace the major plot-lines that ran through these fantastic happenings. But if he meant to prove what he suspected, he didn’t have much time. Harriet was already off on a hunt for the facts of which he’d given her a hint. Perhaps she’d not have them for the morning editions, but by evening the story would be broken.

And before that happened, Dreams must have its story to combat the flying rumors.

There was one fact he had to verify. A man should know his history, Blaine told himself. It should not be a thing to be looked up in books, but carried in one’s head, a ready tool for use.

Lucinda Silone had said she was Education and she would have told the truth. That was something which could be checked, one of the facts that would be checked automatically. Spencer Collins was Education, too. A professor of sociology, he had said, who had evolved a theory.

There was something in the history of the guilds concerning Dreams and Education, something about a connection that had once existed between them—and it might apply.

He went swiftly up the walk and through the hall, trudging down the hall to the study, with Philo following after. He thumbed up the switch and went quickly to the shelves. He ran a finger along a row of books until he found the one he wanted.

At the desk, he turned on the lamp and ran quickly through the pages. He found what he wanted—the fact he’d known was there, read long ago and forgotten, dimmed out by the years of never being needed.

Farris’ house was surrounded by a great metallic wall, too high to jump, too smooth to climb. A guard was posted at the gate and another at the door.

The first guard frisked Blaine; the second demanded identification. When he was satisfied, he called a robot to take the visitor to Farris.

Paul Farris had been drinking. The bottle on the table beside his chair was better than half empty. “You took your time in coming,” he growled.

“I got busy.”

“Doing what, my friend?”

Farris pointed at the bottle. “Help yourself. There are glasses in the rack.”

Blaine poured out liquor until the glass was almost full. He said casually, “Giesey was murdered, wasn’t he?”

The liquor in Farris’ glass slopped slightly, but there was no other sign. “The verdict was suicide.”

“There was a glass on the desk,” said Blaine. “He’d just had a drink out of the carafe; there was poison in the water.”

“Why don’t you tell me something I don’t know?”

“And you’re covering up for someone.”

“Could be,” Farris said. “Could be, too, it’s none of your damn business.”

“I was just thinking. Education …”

“What’s that!”

“Education has been carrying a knife for us for a long time now. I looked up the history of it. Dreams started as a branch of Education, a technique for learning while you were asleep. But we got too big for them, and we got some new ideas—a thousand years ago. So we broke away, and …”

“Now, wait a minute; say that slow, again.”

“I have a theory.”

“You have a head, too, Blaine. A good imagination. That’s what I said this afternoon; you think standing.”

Farris lifted his glass and emptied it in a single gulp. “We’ll stick the knife into them,” he said, dispassionately. “Clear up to their gizzard.”

Still dispassionately, he hurled the glass against the wall. It exploded into dust. “Why the hell couldn’t someone have thought of that to start with? It would have made it simple … Sit down, Blaine. I think we got it made.”

Blaine sat down and suddenly was sick—sick at the realization that he had been wrong. It was not Education which had engineered the murder. It had been Paul Farris—Farris and how many others? For no one man—even with the organization the goon leader had at his command—could have worked on a thing like this alone.

“One thing I want to know,” said Farris. “How did you get that appointment? You didn’t get it the way you said; you weren’t meant to get it.”