Clifford Simak - New Folks' Home - And Other Stories

“Spies.”

“All right; call them spies.”

“And I—where do I work in? Or did I just stumble in the way?”

“You in the way? Never! You were so conscientious, dear. So smug and self-satisfied, so idealistic.”

So he’d not been entirely wrong, then. It had been an Education plot—except that the plot had run headlong into a Center intrigue and he’d been caught squarely in the middle. And oh, the beauty of it, he thought—the utter, fouled-up beauty of it! You couldn’t have worked a tangled mass like this up intentionally if you’d spent a lifetime at it.

“I told you, pal,” said Collins, “that there was something wrong. That the dream was made to order for a certain purpose.”

Purpose, Blaine thought. The purpose of collecting data from hypothetical civilizations, from imaginary cultures, of having first-hand knowledge as to what would happen under many possible conditions; to collect and co-ordinate that data and pick from it the factors that could be grafted onto the present culture; to go about the construction of a culture in a cold-blooded, scientific manner, as a carpenter might set out to build a hen-coop. And the lumber and the nails used in that hen-coop culture would have been fabricated from the stuff of dreams dreamt by reluctant dreamers.

And the purpose of Education in exposing the plot? Politics, perhaps. For the union which could unmask such duplicity would gain much in the way of public admiration, would thus be strengthened for the coming showdown. Or perhaps the purpose might be more idealistic, honestly motivated by a desire to thwart a scheme which would most surely put one union in unquestioned domination of all the rest of them.

“Now what?” Blaine asked.

“They want me to bring a complaint,” said Collins.

“And you are going to do it.”

“I suppose I shall.”

“But why you? Why now? There were others with substituted dreams; you were not the first. Education must have sleepers planted by the hundreds.”

He looked at the girl. “You applied,” he said; “you tried to plant yourself.”

“Did I?” she asked.

And had she? Or had her application been aimed at him—for now it was clear that he had been selected as one weak link in Dreams. How many other weak links, now and in the past, had Education used? Had her application been a way to contact him, a means of applying some oblique pressure to make him do a thing that Education might want someone like him to do?

“We are using Collins,” said Lucinda, “because he is the first independent grade A specimen we have found, who is untainted with the brush of Education espionage. We used our own sleepers to build up the evidence, but we could not produce in court evidence collected by admitted spies. But Collins is clean; he took the sleep before we even suspected what was going on.”

“He is not the first; there have been others. Why haven’t you used them?”

“They were not available.”

“Not …”

“Dreams could tell what happened. Perhaps you might know what happened to them, Mr. Blaine.”

He shook his head. “But why am I here? You certainly don’t expect me to testify. What made you grab me off?”

“We saved your neck,” said Collins; “you keep forgetting that.”

“You may leave,” Lucinda told him, “any time you wish.”

“Except,” Joe said, “you are a hunted man. The goons are looking for you.”

“If I were you,” said Collins, “I do believe I’d stay.”

They thought they had him. He could see they thought so—had him tied and haltered, had him in a corner where he would have to do anything they said. A cold, hard anger grew inside of him—that anyone should think so easily to trap a man of Dreams and bend him to their will.

Norman Blaine took a slow step forward, away from the wall, and stood unsupported in the dim-lit cellar. “Which way out?” he asked.

“Up those steps,” said Collins.

“Can you make it?” Lucinda asked.

“I can make it.”

He walked unsteadily toward the stairs, but each step seemed to be a little surer and he knew he’d make it, up the stairs and out into the coolness of the night. Suddenly he yearned for the first breath of the cool, night air, to be out of this dank hole that smelled of dark conspiracy.

He turned and faced them, where they stood like big-eyed ghosts against the cellar wall. “Thanks for everything,” he said.

He stood there for another instant, looking back at them. “For everything,” he repeated.

Then he turned and climbed the stairs.

The night was dark, though dawn could not be far off. The moon had set, but the stars burned like steady lamps and a furtive dawn-wind had come up to skitter down the street.

He was in a little village, Blaine saw—one of the many shopping centers scattered across the countryside, with its myriad shop fronts and their glowing night lights.

He walked away from the cellar opening, lilting his head so the wind could blow against it. The air was clean and fresh after the dankness of the cellar; he gulped in great breaths of it, and it seemed to clear his head of fog and put new strength into his legs.

The street was empty; he trudged along it, wondering what he should do next. Obviously, he had to do something. The move was up to him. He couldn’t be found, come morning, still wandering the streets of this shopping center.

He must find some place to hide from the hunting goons!

But there was no way in which he could hide from them. They’d be relentless in their search for Blaine. He had killed their leader—or had seemed to kill him—and that was a precedent they could not allow to go unpunished.

There’d be no public hue or outcry, for the Farris killing could not be advertised; but that would not mean the search would be carried on with any less ferocity. Even now they would be hunting for him, even now they would have covered all his likely haunts and contacts. He could not go home, or to Harriet’s home, or to any of the other places—

Harriet’s home!

Harriet was not home; she was off somewhere, tracking down a story that he must somehow stop. There was a greater factor here than his personal safety. There was the honor and the integrity of the Dream guild; if any of its honor and integrity were left.

But there was, Norman Blaine told himself. It still was left in the thousands of workers, and in the departmental heads who had never heard of substituted dreams. The basic purpose of the guild still remained what it had been for a thousand years, so far as the great majority of its members were concerned. To them the flame of service, the pride and comfort of that service, and the dedication to it burned as bright and clear as it ever had.

But not for long; not for many hours. The first headline in a paper, the first breath of whispered scandal, and the bright, clear light of purpose would be a smoky flare, glaring redly in the murk of shame.

There was a way—there had to be a way—to stop it. There must be a way in which the Dream guild could be saved. And if there were a way, he must be the one to find it; of them all, Blaine was the only one who knew the imminence of dishonor.

The first step was to get hold of Harriet, to talk with her, to make her see the right and wrong.

The goons were hunting for him, but they would be on their own; they could not enlist the help of any other union. It should be safe to phone.

Far up the street, he saw a phone booth sign and he headed there, hurrying along, his footsteps ringing sharply in the morning chill.

He dialed the number of Harriet’s office.

No, the voice said, she wasn’t there. No, he had no idea. Should he have her call back if she happened to come in.