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

“Not a thing illegal,” Max declared. “All of it’s defensive. That is still the rule.”

“Yes, that is the rule,” said Pollard, “but it seems to me that there are times you become a mite too enthusiastic. A full load in the fence, no doubt.”

“Why, certainly,” said Max. “Would you have it otherwise?”

“A kid grabs hold of it and he could be electrocuted, at full strength.”

“Would you rather I had it set just to tickle them?”

“You’re playing too rough, Max.”

“I doubt it rather much,” said Max. “I watched from here, five years ago, when they stormed Thompson stronghold. Did you happen to see that?”

“I wasn’t here five years ago. My beat was Farview Acres.”

“They took it apart,” Max told him. “Stone by stone, brick by brick, timber by timber. They left nothing standing. They left nothing whole. They cut down all the trees and chopped them up. They uprooted all the shrubs. They hoed out all the flower beds. They made a desert of it. They reduced it to their level. And I’m not about to let it happen here, not if I can help it. A man has got the right to grow a tree and a patch of grass. If he wants a flower bed, he has a right to have a flower bed. You may not think so, but he’s even got the right to keep other people out.”

“Yes,” said the officer, “all you say is true. But these are kids you are dealing with. There must be allowances. And this is a neighborhood. You folks and the others like you wouldn’t have this trouble if you only tried to be a little neighborly.”

“We don’t dare be neighborly,” said Max. “Not in a place like this. In Oak Manor, and in all the other manors and all the other acres and the other whatever-you-may-call-thems, neighborliness means that you let people overrun you. Neighborliness means you give up your right to live your life the way you want to live it. This kind of neighborliness is rooted way back in those days when the kids made a path across your lawn as a shortcut to the school bus and you couldn’t say a thing for fear that they would sass you back and so create a scene. It started when your neighbor borrowed your lawn mower and forgot to bring it back and when you went to get it you found that he had broken it. But he pretended that he hadn’t and, for the sake of neighborliness, you didn’t have the guts to tell him that he had and to demand that he pay the bill for the repairing of it.”

“Well, maybe so,” said Pollard, “but it’s gotten out of hand. It has been carried too far. You folks have got too high and mighty.”

“There’s a simple answer to everything,” Max told him stoutly. “Get the Punks to lay off us and we’ll take down the fence and all the other stuff.”

Pollard shook his head. “It has gone too far,” he said. “There is nothing anyone can do.”

He started to go back to the car, then turned back.

“I forgot,” he said. “Tomorrow is your Truce Day. Myself and a couple of the other men will be here early in the morning.”

Max didn’t answer. He stood in the driveway and watched the car pull off down the street. Then he went up the driveway and around the house to the back door.

Nora had a place laid at the table for him and he sat down heavily, glad to be off his feet. By this time of the evening he was always tired. Not as young, he thought, as he once had been.

“You’re late tonight,” said the cook, bringing him the food. “Is everything all right?”

“I guess so. Everything is quiet. But we may have trouble tomorrow. They’re bringing in a bomb.”

“A bomb!” cried Nora. “What will you do about it? Call in the police, perhaps.”

Max shook his head. “No, I can’t do that. The police aren’t on our side. They’d take the attitude we’d egged on the Punks until they had no choice but to bring in the bomb. We are on our own. And, besides, I must protect the lad who told me. If I didn’t, the Punks would know and he’d be worthless to me then. He’d never get to know another thing. But knowing they are bringing something in, I can watch for it.”

He still felt uneasy about it all, he realized. Not about the bomb itself, perhaps, but something else, something that was connected with it. He wondered why he had this feeling. Knowing about the bomb, he all but had it made. All he’d have to do would be to locate it and dig it out from beneath the sun dial. He would have the time to do it. The day-long celebration would end at six in the evening and the Punks could not set the bomb to explode earlier than midnight. Any blast before midnight would be a violation of the truce.

He scooped fried potatoes from the dish onto his plate and speared a piece of meat. Nora poured his coffee and, pulling out a chair, sat down opposite him.

“You aren’t eating?” he asked.

“I ate early, Max.”

He ate hungrily and hurriedly, for there still were things to do. She sat and watched him eat. The clock on the kitchen wall ticked loudly in the silence.

Finally she said: “It is getting somewhat grim, Max.”

He nodded, his mouth full of food and unable to speak.

“I don’t see,” said the cook, “why the Crawfords want to stay here. There can’t be much pleasure in it for them. They could move into the city and it would be safer there. There are the juvenile gangs, of course, but they mostly fight among themselves. They don’t make life unbearable for all the other people.”

“It’s pride,” said Max. “They won’t give up. They won’t let Oak Manor beat them. Mr. and Mrs. Crawford are quality. They have some steel in them.”

“They couldn’t sell the place, of course,” said Nora. “There would no one buy it. But they don’t need the money. They could just walk away from it.”

“You misjudge them, Nora. The Crawfords in all their lives have never walked away from anything. They went through a lot to live here. Sending Johnny off to boarding school when he was a lad, since it wouldn’t have been safe for him to go to school with the Punks out there. I don’t suppose they like it. I don’t see how they could. But they won’t be driven out. They realize someone must stand up to all that trash out there, or else there’s no hope.”

Nora sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But it is a shame. They could live so safe and comfortable and normal if they just moved to the city.”

He finished eating and got up.

“It was a good meal, Nora,” he said. “But then you always fix good meals.”

“Ah, go on with you,” said Nora.

He went into the basement and sat down before the short-wave set. Systematically, he started putting in his calls to the other strongholds. Wilson stronghold, over in Fair Hills, had had a little trouble early in the evening—a few stink bombs heaved across the fence—but it had quieted down. Jackson stronghold did not answer. While he was trying to get through to Smith stronghold in Harmony Settlement, Curtis stronghold in Lakeside Heights began calling him. Everything was quiet, John Hennessey, the Curtis custodian told him. It had been quiet for several days.

He stayed at the radio for an hour and by that time had talked with all the nearby strongholds. There had been scattered trouble here and there, but nothing of any consequence. Generally it was peaceful.

He sat and thought about the time bomb and there was still that nagging worry. There was something wrong, he knew, but he could not put his finger on it.

Getting up, he prowled the cavernous basement, checking the defense material—extra sections of fencing, piles of posts, pointed stakes, rolls of barb wire, heavy flexible wire mesh and all the other items for which some day there might be a need. Tucked into one corner, hidden, he found the stacked carboys of acid he had secretly cached away. Mr. Crawford would not approve, he knew, but if the chips ever should be down, and there was need to use those carboys, he might be glad to have them.