Clifford Simak - Grotto of the Dancing Deer - And Other Stories

Slowly he stood up and wrapped his cloak about him and raised the hood to protect his neck and ears.

On the near side of the flashing area, at the bottom of the hill, was some sort of foursquare structure looming darkly in the dusk. And it seemed as well that a massive hazy bowl lay inverted above the entire area, although it was too dark to make out what it was.

Paxton grunted softly to himself and went quickly down the hill until he reached the building. It was, he saw, a sort of observation platform, solidly constructed and raised well above the ground, with the top half of it made of heavy glass that ran all the way around. A ladder went up one side to the glassed-in platform.

“What’s going on up there?” he shouted, but his voice could be scarcely heard above the crashing and thundering that came from out in front.

So he climbed the ladder.

When his head reached the level of the glassed-in platform area, he halted. A boy, not more than fourteen years of age, stood at the front of the platform, staring out into a noisy sea of fire. A pair of binoculars was slung about his neck and to one side of him stood a massive bank of instruments.

Paxton clambered up the rest of the way and stepped inside the platform.

“Hello, young man!” he shouted.

The youngster turned around. He seemed an engaging fellow, with a cowlick down his forehead.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear you.”

“What is going on here?”

“A war,” said the boy. “Pertwee just launched his big attack. I’m hard-pressed to hold him off.”

Paxton gasped a little. “But this is most unusual!” he protested.

The boy wrinkled up his forehead. “I don’t understand.”

“You are Nelson Moore’s son?”

“Yes, sir, I am Graham Moore.”

“I knew your father many years ago. We went to school together.”

“He will be glad to see you, sir,” the boy said brightly, sensing an opportunity to rid himself of this uninvited kibitzer. “You take the path just north of west. It will lead you to the house.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Paxton, “you could come along and show me.”

“I can’t leave just yet,” said Graham. “I must blunt Pertwee’s attack. He caught me off my balance and has been saving up his firepower and there were some maneuvres that escaped me until it was too late. Believe me, sir, I’m in an unenviable position.”

“This Pertwee?”

“He’s the enemy. We’ve fought for two years now.”

“I see,” said Paxton solemnly and retreated down the ladder.

He found the path and followed it and found the house, set in a swale between two hillocks. It was an old and rambling affair among great clumps of trees.

The path ended on a patio and a woman’s voice asked: “Is that you, Nels?”

She sat in a rocking chair on the smooth stone flags and was little more than a blur of whiteness—a white face haloed by white hair.

“Not Nels,” he said. “An old friend of your son’s.”

From here, he noticed, through some trick of acoustics in the hills, one could barely hear the sound of battle, although the sky to the east was lighted by an occasional flash of heavy rockets or artillery fire.

“We are glad to have you, sir,” the old lady said, still rocking gently back and forth. “Although I do wish Nelson would come home. I don’t like him wandering around after it gets dark.”

“My name is Stanley Paxton. I’m with Politics.”

“Why, yes,” she said, “I remember now. You spent an Easter with us, twenty years ago. I’m Cornelia Moore, but you may call me Grandma, like all the rest of them.”

“I remember you quite well,” said Paxton. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Heavens, no. We have few visitors. We’re always glad to see one. Theodore especially will be pleased. You’d better call him Granther.”

“Granther?”

“Grandfather. That’s the way Graham said it when he was a tyke.”

“I met Graham. He seemed to be quite busy. He said Pertwee had caught him off his balance.”

“That Pertwee plays too rough,” said Grandma, a little angrily.

A robot catfooted out onto the patio. “Dinner is ready, madam,” it said.

“We’ll wait for Nelson,” Grandma told it.

“Yes, madam. He should be in quite soon. We shouldn’t wait too long. Granther has already started on his second brandy.”

“We have a guest, Elijah. Please show him to his room. He is a friend of Nelson’s.”

“Good evening, sir,” Elijah said. “If you will follow me. And your luggage. Perhaps I can carry it.”

“Oh, course you can,” said Grandma drily. “I wish, Elijah, you’d stop putting on airs when there’s company.”

“I have no luggage,” Paxton said, embarrassed.

He followed the robot across the patio and into the house, going down the central hall and up the very handsome winding staircase.

The room was large and filled with old-fashioned furniture. A sedate fireplace stood against one wall.

“I’ll light a fire,” Elijah said. “It gets chilly in the autumn, once the sun goes down. And damp. It looks like rain.”

Paxton stood in the center of the room, trying to remember.

Grandma was a painter and Nelson was a naturalist, but what about old Granther?

“The old gentleman,” said the robot, stooping at the fireplace, “will send you up a drink. He’ll insist on brandy, but if you wish it, sir, I could get you something else.”

“No, thank you. Brandy will be fine.”

“The old gentleman’s in great fettle. He’ll have a lot to tell you. He’s just finished his sonata, sir, after working at it for almost seven years, and he’s very proud of it. There were times, I don’t mind telling you, when it was going badly, that he wasn’t fit to live with. If you’d just look here at my bottom, sir, you can see a dent…”

“So I see,” said Paxton uncomfortably.

The robot rose from before the fireplace and the flames began to crackle, crawling up the wood.

“I’ll go for your drink,” Elijah said. “If it takes a little longer than seems necessary, do not become alarmed. The old gentleman undoubtedly will take this opportunity to lecture me about hewing to civility, now that we have a guest.”

Paxton walked to the bed, took off his cloak and hung it on a bedpost. He walked back to the fire and sat down in a chair, stretching out his legs toward the warming blaze.

It had been wrong of him to come here, he thought. These people should not be involved in his problems and his dangers. Theirs was the quiet world, the easygoing, thoughtful world, while his world of Politics was all clamor and excitement and sometimes agony and fear.

He’d not tell them, he decided. And he’d stay just the night and be off before the dawn. Somehow or other he would work out a way to get in contact with his party. Somewhere else he’d find people who would help him.

There was a knock at the door. Apparently it had not taken Elijah as long as it had thought.

“Come in,” Paxton called.

It was not Elijah; it was Nelson Moore.

He still wore a rough walking jacket and his boots had mud upon them and there was a streak of dirt across his face where he’d brushed back his hair with a grimy hand.

“Grandma told me you were here,” he said, shaking Paxton by the hand.

“I had two weeks off,” said Paxton, lying like a gentleman. “We just finished with an exercise. It might interest you to know that I was elected President.”

“Why, that is fine,” said Nelson enthusiastically.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Let’s sit down.”

“I’m afraid I may be holding up the dinner. The robot said—”

Nelson laughed. “Elijah always rushes us to eat. He wants to get the day all done and buttoned up. We’ve come to expect it of him and we pay him no attention.”