Clifford Simak - Dusty Zebra - And Other Stories

The radio shut off abruptly and the man got out from the car. He slammed the door behind him and went striding down the street.

Harrington opened the front door and climbed behind the wheel. He had the strangest sense that he had forgotten something. He tried to remember what it was, but it was gone entirely.

He sat with his hands clutched upon the wheel and he felt a little shiver running through his body. Like a shiver of relief, although he could not imagine why he should feel relief.

Perhaps over that news about Enright. he told himself. For it was very good news. Not that Enright was the wrong man for the post, for he surely was the right one. But there came a time when a man had the right and duty to be himself entirely.

And the human race, he told himself, had that same right.

And the shift of government in China was a most amazing thing. As if, he thought, evil geniuses throughout the world might be disappearing with the coming of the dawn.

And there was something about geniuses, he told himself, that he should remember. Something about how a genius came about.

But he could not recall it.

He rolled down the window of the car and sniffed the brisk, fresh breeze of morning. Sniffing it, he consciously straightened his body and lifted up his chin. A man should do a thing like this more often, he told himself contentedly. There was something in the beginning of a day that sharpened up one’s soul.

He put the car in gear and wheeled it out into the street.

Too bad about Madison, he thought. He was really, after all, a very decent fellow.

Hollis Harrington, final gentleman, drove down the morning street.

Originally published in the March 1955 issue of Galaxy Science Fiction , this story comes from the time of the Cold War, when the looming threat of nuclear war was oppressing many, including newspapermen—and so represents another variation on Cliff Simak’s occasional theme of the use of time travel to find sanctuary. But those purported historians of science fiction who state that this story was later expanded to create the novel Mastodonia clearly have never read both.

The chief of protocol said, “Mr. Hudson of—ah—Mastodonia.”

The secretary of state held out his hand. “I’m glad to see you, Mr. Hudson. I understand you’ve been here several times.”

“That’s right,” said Hudson. “I had a hard time making your people believe I was in earnest.”

“And are you, Mr. Hudson?”

“Believe me, sir, I would not try to fool you.”

“And this Mastodonia,” said the secretary, reaching down to tap the document upon the desk. “You will pardon me, but I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a new nation,” Hudson explained, “but quite legitimate. We have a constitution, a democratic form of government, duly elected officials and a code of laws. We are a free, peace-loving people and we are possessed of a vast amount of natural resources and—”

“Please tell me, sir,” interrupted the secretary, “just where are you located?”

“Technically, you are our nearest neighbors.”

“But that is ridiculous!” exploded Protocol.

“Not at all,” insisted Hudson. “If you will give me a moment, Mr. Secretary, I have considerable evidence.”

He brushed the fingers of Protocol off his sleeve and stepped forward to the desk, laying down the portfolio he carried.

“Go ahead, Mr. Hudson,” said the secretary. “Why don’t we all sit down and be comfortable while we talk this over?”

“You have my credentials, I see. Now here is a propos—”

“I have a document signed by a certain Wesley Adams.”

“He’s our first president,” said Hudson. “Our George Washington, you might say.”

“What is the purpose of this visit, Mr. Hudson?”

“We’d like to establish diplomatic relations. We think it would be to our mutual benefit. After all, we are a sister republic in perfect sympathy with your policies and aims. We’d like to negotiate trade agreements and we’d be grateful for some Point Four aid.”

The secretary smiled. “Naturally. Who doesn’t?”

“We’re prepared to offer something in return,” Hudson told him stiffly. “For one thing, we could offer sanctuary.”

“Sanctuary!”

“I understand,” said Hudson, “that in the present state of international tensions, a foolproof sanctuary is not something to be sneezed at.”

The secretary turned stone cold. “I’m an extremely busy man.”

Protocol took Hudson firmly by the arm. “Out you go.”

General Leslie Bowers put in a call to State and got the secretary.

“I don’t like to bother you, Herb,” he said, “but there’s something I want to check. Maybe you can help me.”

“Glad to help you if I can.”

“There’s a fellow hanging around out here at the Pentagon, trying to get in to see me. Said I was the only one he’d talk to, but you know how it is.”

“I certainly do.”

“Name of Huston or Hudson or something like that.”

“He was here just an hour or so ago,” said the secretary. “Crackpot sort of fellow.”

“He’s gone now?”

“Yes. I don’t think he’ll be back.”

“Did he say where you could reach him?”

“No, I don’t believe he did.”

“How did he strike you? I mean what kind of impression did you get of him?”

“I told you. A crackpot.”

“I suppose he is. He said something to one of the colonels that got me worrying. Can’t pass up anything, you know—not in the Dirty Tricks Department. Even if it’s crackpot, these days you got to have a look at it.”

“He offered sanctuary,” said the secretary indignantly. “Can you imagine that!”

“He’s been making the rounds, I guess,” the general said. “He was over at AEC. Told them some sort of tale about knowing where there were vast uranium deposits. It was the AEC that told me he was heading your way.”

“We get them all the time. Usually we can ease them out. This Hudson was just a little better than the most of them. He got in to see me.”

“He told the colonel something about having a plan that would enable us to establish secret bases anywhere we wished, even in the territory of potential enemies. I know it sounds crazy….”

“Forget it, Les.”

“You’re probably right,” said the general, “but this idea sends me. Can you imagine the look on their Iron Curtain faces?”

The scared little government clerk, darting conspiratorial glances all about him, brought the portfolio to the FBI.

“I found it in a bar down the street,” he told the man who took him in tow. “Been going there for years. And I found this portfolio laying in the booth. I saw the man who must have left it there and I tried to find him later, but I couldn’t.”

“How do you know he left it there?”

“I just figured he did. He left the booth just as I came in and it was sort of dark in there and it took a minute to see this thing laying there. You see, I always take the same booth every day and Joe sees me come in and he brings me the usual and—”

“You saw this man leave the booth you usually sit in?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you saw the portfolio.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You tried to find the man, thinking it must have been his.”

“That’s exactly what I did.”

“But by the time you went to look for him, he had disappeared.”

“That’s the way it was.”

“Now tell me—why did you bring it here? Why didn’t you turn it in to the management so the man could come back and claim it?”

“Well, sir, it was like this. I had a drink or two and I was wondering all the time what was in that portfolio. So finally I took a peek and—”