Clifford Simak - New Folks' Home - And Other Stories

“We have a story here,” said Central News, “from one of our branches. We’ve been checking it. We held it up, in fact, to check it …”

“Put me on transcription. I want you to get this right; I don’t want to be misquoted.”

“You’re on transcription sir.”

“Then here you are …”

Then here you are.

Here is the end of it—

“Go ahead, Blaine.”

Blaine said, “Here it is, then. For seven hundred years, the Dreams guild has been carrying out a series of experiments aimed at the study of parallel cultures …”

“That is what the story we have says, sir; you are sure that that is right?”

“You disbelieve it?”

“No, but …”

“It’s true. We’ve worked on it for seven hundred years—under strict security because of certain continuing situations which made it seem unwise to say anything about it …”

“The story I have here …”

“Forget the story that you have!” Blaine shouted. “I don’t know what it’s all about; I called you up to tell you that we’re giving it away. Do you understand that? We’re giving it away. Within the next few days, we plan to make all our data available to a commission we’ll ask to be set up. Its membership will be chosen from the various unions, to assess the data and decide where use may best be made of it.”

“Blaine. Wait a minute, Blaine.”

Roemer reached out for the phone. “Let me finish it; you’re beat out. Take it easy now. I will handle it.”

He lifted the receiver, smiling. “They’ll want your authority, and all the rest of it.”

He smiled again. “This was what Giesey wanted, Blaine. That’s why Farris made him fire me; that’s why Farris killed him …”

Roemer spoke into the phone. “Hello, sir. Blaine had to leave; I’ll fill in the rest …”

The rest? There wasn’t any more. Couldn’t they understand? He’d made it very simple.

Dreams was giving up its one last chance at greatness. It was all Dreams had, and Norman Blaine had given it away. He had beaten Harriet and Farris and the hunting goons, but it was a bitter, empty victory.

It saved the pride of Dreams; and that was all it saved.

Something—some thought, some impulse, made him lift his head, almost as if someone had called to him from across the room.

Lucinda stood beside the door, looking at him, with a gentle smile upon her mud-streaked face, and her eyes were deep and soft. “Can’t you hear them cheering?” she asked. “Can’t you hear the whole world cheering you? It’s been a long time, Norman Blaine, since the whole world cheered together!”

Clifford D. Simak sent a story named “Blood Buys Barb Wire” to Charles Tilden in late May 1945, and it appeared, under a new title, in the November 1945 issue of Ace-High Western Stories , where it was the lead story. I particularly like this tale because it evokes the feelings of being always outdoors, of living in the wind and, often, in the rain.

And it’s the only traditional western tale I’ve ever seen that contains the word robot, no doubt a slip-up on Cliff’s part. …

Charley Cornish read trouble in the grim faces of the trio as they came slowly towards him. Bracing his back against the bar, he knew the thing he’d fought against had come, the thing he’d run a race with time against had happened. Here was the fate of Anderson out on the Yellowstone and the end of Melvin in the Bighorn foothills—the thing that had whisked those two into an eternity of silence was walking toward him in the tramping boots and the hard, set faces. Steve knew this was the showdown.

And just when he was on the verge of sending in an order that would make old man Jacobs’ eyes pop out of the dried-up skull that was his face.

Cornish’s eyes flicked swiftly to one side, saw the bottle standing on the bar. He knew that he could reach it with one swift motion if need be. But he hoped he wouldn’t be forced to such action.

The three stopped in front of him and stood silently, menacing shapes looming in the saloon’s twilight shadow, and behind him Cornish heard the wheezing breath of Steve, the bartender.

The tall, raw-boned giant in front was Titus, foreman of the Tumbling K.

And the scowling man must be Squint Douglas, who went everywhere with Titus. But the third man, with the flaming mop of red hair writhing from beneath his pushed back hat, was a total stranger.

“You’re Cornish?” asked Titus.

Cornish nodded.

“You sell barb wire?” asked Titus.

Cornish forced a grin upon his lips. “You gents in the market? No better wire to be had anywhere.”

Titus interrupted him. “We don’t like barb wire,” he said.

“Now,” said Cornish, smoothly, “that’s a matter of opinion. Boys over on Cottonwood creek figure it is just the thing.”

“I told you,” snarled Titus, “that we don’t like no kind of wire.”

Cornish sucked in his breath. “Well, gents, that’s just too bad!”

His hand shot out for the bottle as Titus took the first step forward, swung it high above his head as Titus took the second. It whistled in the air as the angular foreman closed in on him, struck as groping fingers touched his shirt, struck and exploded with a dull, thudding sound, spraying broken glass and a spume of whiskey.

Titus slumped against Cornish’s knees, then slid to the floor.

Squint Douglas was coming in, a charging bull, with his face twisted into a mask of mingled anger and surprise. Behind him was the red-haired man, open mouth bawling something that failed to penetrate the roaring thunder of excitement that surged through Cornish’s mind.

Squint’s fist was a black ball aiming at his face and almost unconsciously Cornish swung up with his right hand to fend it off—a hand still clutching the broken whiskey bottle. Squint screamed as the jagged glass scraped across his face. He staggered backward blood streaming down his beard.

Cornish hurled the broken bottle at the red-haired man. The bottle slammed against the wall and smashed like a hundred tinkling bells all ringing at once.

Cornish picked up a chair and waited. Squint was crawling along the floor, whimpering. Blood ran down his beard and ripped onto the sawdust. The red-haired man was fumbling at his belt, fumbling in haste, his eyes smoky with fear and hatred.

“Give it here,” snapped a voice and Cornish flicked his eyes toward the bar.

Steve, the bartender, leaned across it and in his hand he held a heavy six-gun that pointed straight at the red-haired man.

“Toss it to me,” said Steve, “and take it easy when you do it. You hombres can wrestle around all that you’ve a mind to, but it just ain’t fair to be using guns.”

The red-haired man growled at him. “Keep out of this, Steve.”

“The hell I will,” said Steve. “Three to one is bad enough without dragging out your irons.”

Cornish poised the chair, watching the man’s gun slide out, watching the cunning fox look that slid across his face.

Slowly the gun came out, rasping on the leather, inch by inch. Then the man’s arm jerked swiftly and Cornish stepped toward him, with the chair above his head. The gun exploded in a coughing gush of flame and the chair was coming down. It smashed and splintered against the flesh and bone beneath it. One leg came off and spun along the floor, kicking up a spray of sawdust. A rung came loose and clattered to the boards.

Cornish stepped back, with the wreckage of the chair dangling in his hands. The red-haired man reeled to his feet, stood unsteadily, rocking on his heels. Cornish stepped in, swung the chair again. The man dropped like a pole-axed ox.