Clifford Simak - I Am Crying All Inside - And Other Stories

An utter lack of ethics and the transference machines were the trumps Galactic held.

What had really happened, he wondered, to all the people who had lived on this planet? Where had they really gone when they followed the podars into those machines?

Could the Galactic boys, by chance, have ferreted out a place where there would be a market for several million slaves?

Or had they simply planned to get the Garsonians out of the way as an effective means of cutting off the podar supply for Central Trading, thus insuring a ready and profitable sale for their supply of drugs?

Or had they lured the Garsonians away so they themselves could take over the planet?

And if that was the case—perhaps in any case—Galactic Enterprises definitely had lost this first encounter. Maybe, Sheridan told himself, they are really not so hot.

They gave us exactly what we need, he realized with a pleased jolt. They did us a favor!

Old blundering, pompous Central Trading had won the first round, after all.

He got to his feet and headed for the door. He hesitated and turned back to the native.

“Maybe, friend,” he said, “you were the lucky one.”

The native did not hear him.

Gideon was waiting at the door.

“How is he?” he asked.

“He’s dead,” Sheridan said. “I wonder if you’d arrange for burial.”

“Of course,” said Gideon. “You’ll let me see the data. I’ll have to bone up on the proper rites.”

“But first do something else for me.”

“Name it, Steve.”

“You know this Tobias, the messenger that Central Trading sent? Find him and see that he doesn’t leave.”

Gideon grinned. “You may rest assured.”

“Thank you,” said Sheridan.

On his way to the tent, he passed the courier’s ship. It was, he noted, a job that was built for speed—little more than an instrument board and seat tacked onto a powerful engine.

In a ship like that, he thought, a pilot could really make some time.

Almost to the tent, he met Hezekiah.

“Come along with me,” he said. “I have a job for you.”

Inside the tent, he sat down in his chair and reached for a sheet of paper.

“Hezekiah,” he said, “dig into that chest. Find the finest diplomatic transmog that we have.”

“I know just where it is, sir,” said Hezekiah, pawing through the chest.

He came out with the transmog and laid it on the desk.

“Hezekiah,” said Sheridan, “listen to me carefully. Remember every word I say.”

“Sir,” replied Hezekiah, a little huffily, “I always listen carefully.”

“I know you do. I have perfect faith and trust in you. That is why I’m sending you to Central.”

“To Central, sir! You must be joking, surely. You know I cannot go. Sir, who would look after you? Who would see that you—”

“I can get along all right. You’ll be coming back. And I’ll still have Napoleon.”

“But I don’t want to go, sir!”

“Hezekiah, I must have someone I can trust. We’ll put that transmog in you and—”

“But it will take me weeks, sir!”

“Not with the courier ship. You’re going back instead of the courier. I’ll write an authorization for you to represent me. It’ll be as if I were there myself.”

“But there is Abraham. Or Gideon. Or you could send any of the others …”

“It’s you, Hezekiah. You are my oldest friend.”

“Sir,” said Hezekiah, straightening to attention, “what do you wish me to do?”

“You’re to tell Central that Garson IV is now uninhabited. You’re to say that such being the case, I’m possessing it formally in the name of Central Trading. Tell them I’ll need reinforcements immediately because there is a possibility that Galactic Enterprises may try to take it from us. They’re to send out one sled loaded with robots as an initial occupying and colonizing force, and another sledload of agricultural implements so we can start our farming. And every last podar that they have, for seed. And, Hezekiah …”

“Yes, sir?”

“That sledload of robots. They’d better be deactivated and knocked down. That way they can pile on more of them. We can assemble them here.”

Hezekiah repressed a shudder. “I will tell them, sir.”

“I am sorry, Hezekiah.”

“It is quite all right, sir.”

Sheridan finished writing out the authorization. “Tell Central Trading,” he said, “that in time we’ll turn this entire planet into one vast podar field. But they must not waste a minute. No committee sessions, no meetings of the board, no dawdling around. Keep right on their tail every blessed second.”

“I will not let them rest, sir,” Hezekiah assured him.

The courier ship had disappeared from sight. Try as he might, Sheridan could catch no further glimpse of it.

Good old Hezekiah, he thought, he’ll do the job. Central Trading will be wondering for weeks exactly what it was that hit them.

He tilted his head forward and rubbed his aching neck.

He said to Gideon and Ebenezer: “You can get up off him now.”

The two arose, grinning, from the prostrate form of Tobias. Tobias got up, outraged. “You’ll hear of this,” he said to Sheridan.

“Yes, I know,” said Sheridan. “You hate my guts.”

Abraham stepped forward, “What is next?” he asked.

“Well,” Sheridan said, “I think we should all turn gleaners.”

“Gleaners?”

“There are bound to be some podars that the natives missed. We’ll need every one we can find for seed.”

“But we’re all physicists and mechanical engineers and chemists and other things like that. Surely you would not expect such distinguished specialists—”

“I think I can remedy that,” said Sheridan. “I imagine we still can find those spacehand transmogs. They should serve until Central sends us some farmer units.”

Tobias stepped forward and ranged himself alongside of Abraham. “As long as I must remain here, I demand to be of use. It’s not in a robot’s nature just to loaf around.”

Sheridan slapped his hand against his jacket pocket, felt the bulge of the transmog he’d taken out of Hezekiah.

“I think,” he told Tobias, “I have just the thing for you.”

Created for inclusion in The Last Dangerous Visions ™, which was to have been the final entry in Harlan Ellison’s acclaimed series of original anthologies, this story has never actually seen print until now because the anthology has never been published.

This story, as is often the case with Simak stories, provides new takes on themes Cliff touched on elsewhere, but I keep thinking that it’s a story about life after life.

And it’s sad, for the line “You were so badly made” has more than a single meaning.

He had been Charlie Tierney, but was no longer. He had been a man, but was no longer. Now he was something else, something cobbled together. Now he had no head, had no arms, and his eyes were floating on stalks above his awakening body.

When he had been Charlie Tierney there had been only two really important things to know about him: he was venal, and he was alone. Venal to the point of it being a sickness, a poison that infected his every act. Alone, through years as a child, years as a man, years in space. So alone he could never learn that his ability to be bought was an illness.

Now he was more alone than he had ever been … and he was no longer venal. Venality was a human quality, and he was no longer human. Alone, because he was the only one like himself in the universe.