Authors: Clifford D. Simak
“How did you do it?” he asked. “These robots? Why did you do it, John?”
“Giesey’s dead,” said Roemer; “so is Farris. No one has been appointed to their posts. Chain of command, my friend. Business agent, Protection, Records—you’re the big boss now; you’ve been the head of Dreams since the moment Farris died.”
“Oh, my God,” said Blaine.
“The robots are loyal,” Roemer went on. “Not to any man; not to any one department. They are conditioned to be loyal to Dreams. And you, my friend, are Dreams. For how long, I don’t know; but at the moment you are Dreams.”
They stared at one another for a long moment.
“The authority is yours,” said Roemer; “go ahead and make your call.”
So that was why,
Blaine thought,
the goons assumed I would return.
That was why they’d set up the road block, not on one road only, perhaps, but on all of them—so that he could not get back and take over before someone could be named.
I should have thought of it,
he told himself.
I knew it. I thought of it this very afternoon, how I was third in line—
The operator was saying: “Number, please. Number, please. What number do you wish, please.”
Blaine gave the number and waited.
Lucinda had laughed at him and said: “You are a dedicated man.” Perhaps not those words exactly but that had been what she meant. Mocking him with his dedication; prodding him to see what he would do. A dedicated man, she’d said. And now, here finally, was the price of dedication.
“News” said a voice. “This is Central News.”
“I have a story for you.”
“Who is speaking, please?”
“Norman Blaine. I am Blaine, of Dreams.”
“Blaine?” A pause. “You said your name was Blaine?”
“That’s right.”
“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!”
Barb Wire Brings Bullets!
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. …
—dww
Chapter One
Fighting Odds—Three to One
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.
Cornish stopped, picked up the gun and tossed it across the bar to Steve.
Squint clawed his way erect beside the bar, stood clinging to it with one hand, while he wiped the blood out of his eyes with the other.
“Why the hell,” demanded Steve, “don’t you go ahead and finish off the dirty coyotes? They came in asking for it.”
Cornish shook his head.
“Guess they had enough.”
But even as he spoke, he saw Squint’s hand streaking for the holster, saw the glint of metal flashing in the light.
Cornish flung the battered chair with all his might, then lunged to one side. The gun roared and a window crashed with a muted sound as the bullet smashed the glass.
The chair slammed into Squint and staggered him, sent him reeling back along the bar. Cornish dived, arms looping for the legs of the reeling man. One arm missed, but the other caught and he hugged the legs against his chest, carried the yelling Squint to the floor with him.
Quickly Cornish sprang to his feet. He saw his antagonist rising in front of him. Blued steel flashed in a vicious arc and Cornish ducked, caught the blow of the smashing six-gun on his shoulder, swung his right with the hunched power of a pivoting heel behind it. His fist scraped Squint’s elbow, angled down against the ribs, skidded across them, slammed into the stomach. He heard the whoosh of the breath going out of the man before him.
Cornish leaned against the bar, gasping for breath.
The doorway, he saw, was crowded with watching faces, while others peered through the windows, men pushing one another to get a better look. News of the fight in the Longhorn bar apparently had spread rapidly through the little town of Silver Bow.
Titus had crawled against the bar and propped himself against it. The red-haired man lay still in the center of the room.
Squatted on top of the bar, Steve was talking to Titus.
“Make one move for that gun, Titus, and I’ll put one through your brisket.”
The bartender blew fiercely through his nostrils.
“This fight,” he announced to the crowd, “has been fair so far and I’m plumb set on seeing that it keeps on being fair.”
Cornish pushed himself away from the bar, picked up another chair, spoke to Squint Douglas.
“I don’t just fight for fun,” he said. “Don’t fight often, but when I do, I fight for keeps. What’s your pleasure, Squint?”
Squint stared sourly at him, dabbing at his bloody beard.
He didn’t answer Cornish, spoke to Titus instead. “Let’s get going, Jim.”
Slowly Titus heaved himself erect, stooped to pick up his hat. He socked it on his head and tottered to the door.
“Maybe,” suggested Steve, “some of you gents would get Red out of here. He clutters up the place.”
Two volunteers came in, lifted the unconscious man and carried him out. The others streamed into the saloon.
Steve hopped off the bar, stood back of it.
“Drinks are on the house,” he said.
Slowly, Cornish swung around, walked to a card table in the back of the room, sat down on a chair. Suddenly he felt tired.
The thing that he feared had come and he’d won the first round, but this, he knew, was no more than a mere beginning. After this the Tumbling K would be out for blood. The trio who had walked in the door a while ago had meant to rough him up, to scare him out of town. Next time they would play for keeps.
Maybe Anderson out in the Yellowstone country had won the first round, too. But Anderson had disappeared. Back in Jacobs’ office, there was little doubt as to what had finally happened.
Most of the crowd had drifted away—only a few had gone up to the bar. Even one on the house had been no attraction when staying there and drinking might have been construed as approval of what had happened to the three men from the Tumbling K.
Got the town in the hollow of their hand, thought Cornish bitterly. One big cow outfit rules the whole damn country. Even those nesters out on the Cottonwood had been scared to death. It had taken some fast talking to make them even admit that they wanted barb wire.
One man came slowly from the bar, drink in hand, crossed the room and stood in front of Cornish’s table.
“You don’t scare easy, son,” he said.
“Hell, no,” said Cornish, shortly. “There were only three of them.”
The man turned around and went back to the bar.
One by one they drifted away and the room was empty.
Steve came out from behind the bar and sat down across from Cornish.
“You stuck out your neck,” said Cornish. “You shouldn’t have done that, using the gun on them.”
Steven laughed a little bitterly.
“I’m sick of the job, anyhow,” he said. “Time to be moving on.”
He drummed his fingers along the table.
“First time anyone stood up to the Tumbling K,” he said. “First time anyone ever pushed them around a little. They won’t like it, Charley. They’ll come loaded for bear next time. You better buckle on a gun.”
Cornish shook his head. “My job is selling wire,” he said. “Not fighting. Besides, I won’t be around long. The nesters are having a meeting tonight at Russell’s.”
“To decide whether they’ll buy the wire or not?”
“That’s the idea. And they better buy it, or they won’t be here next year. Without the wire, the Tumbling K will push their stock down into the valley and every nester will be starved out.”
The bartender shook his head. “There’ll be fresh blood on the wire,” he said slowly.
Cornish got up, walked to the bar and came back with a bottle and two glasses.
“Feel like I need that one on the house,” he said.
“I shouldn’t have offered it to them,” Steve declared, moodily. “Look at the ones that turned it down. Spooked of their own shadows, that’s what’s the matter with them. The Tumbling K gang has run this town too long. Every one of them jumps ten feet high whenever Titus snaps the whip.”
“Titus just the foreman, ain’t he?”
“That’s everything he is,” said Steve. “Fellow by the name of Armstrong, Cornelius Armstrong, owns the spread. Ain’t here except a week or two each summer. Lives somewhere in the east.”
“Titus just as good as owns it, then, so far as running it is concerned.”
Steve gulped his drink and nodded. “That’s the way it is, Charley. And he’d cut his own grandma’s throat if it put ten dollars in his pocket.”
Cornish downed his own drink and got up.
“I owe you for one chair,” he said.
“Ah, forget it,” snapped Steve.
He twirled the glass in his hand, considering. “It was worth a chair,” he decided, “to see them three bullies get the hell beat out of them.”
Chapter Two
Hanging by Moonlight
The campfire glowed brightly in the dusk, a speck that stood out like a too-low star in the gentle swells of the heaving prairie.
Cornish saw it first when he was a mile or two away, lost it when the trail dipped down into a swale. And he wondered who would be building a campfire out there when town was so close and darkness was just falling.
The dusk was deeper and the fire glowed brighter when he topped the next swell, and riding across the level land, he saw the canted top of the small covered wagon that stood beside the fire—the covered wagon with the canvas gleaming rosy-white in the reflection of the leaping flames, the scraggy shape of two old crowbaits grazing at their picket pins, the hunched, black figure of a man with a tattered hat bending over the frying pan and coffee pot.
The man hailed him as he drew opposite the fire. Cornish swung the horse off the trail, trotted it toward the wagon.
The man straightened up beside the fire and Cornish saw that he was as much a crowbait as the horses. His clothes were little more than rags that hung about his scrawny frame, his hat was something that any other man would have thrown away many years before. The haggardness of his face showed through the ragged, unkempt beard that hung almost to his chest.
“Good evening,” said Cornish.
“The peace of the Lord be on you,” the scarecrow replied.
Startled, Cornish sat in the saddle, staring at the man.
“A preacher?” he asked.
“That’s right, my friend. I carry the Word to strange corners of the earth.”
“Nothing strange about this corner of the earth,” protested Cornish.
“Any place that has not heard the Word is strange,” the old man told him. “This Silver Bow, now, it has no church?”
Cornish shook his head. “I don’t believe it has. Five saloons, but not a single church.”
“And no man of God?”
“That’s right,” said Cornish. “Not a single preacher.”
“Then,” declared the scarecrow, “it is the place for me.”
“What denomination?” asked Cornish.
The old man made a gesture that was almost contempt. “I just heard the call and went. I said to myself, if old Joe Wicks can do anything that will please the Lord, he’ll bust a gut a-trying.”
Loco, thought Cornish. Loco as a pet coon.
“And you, my friend,” the old man asked. “What might be your calling?”
“Me?” said Cornish. “I’m just a barb wire salesman.”