Clifford D. Simak - Day of Truce

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Title : Day of Truce

Author : Clifford D. Simak

Original copyright year: 1963

Genre : science fiction

Comments : to my knowledge, this is the only available e-text of this

book

Source : scanned and OCR-read from a paperback edition with Xerox

TextBridge Pro 9.0, proofread in MS Word 2000.

Date of e-text : January 5, 2000

Prepared by : Anada Sucka

======================================================================

Day of Truce

Clifford D. Simak

THE evening was quiet. There was no sign of the Punks. Silence lay heavily

across the barren and eroded acres of the subdivision and there was nothing

moving - not even one of the roving and always troublesome dog packs.

It was too quiet, Max Hale decided.

There should have been some motion and some noise. It was as if everyone

had taken cover against some known and coming violence - another raid,

perhaps. Although there was only one place against which a raid could possibly

be aimed. Why should others care, Max wondered; why should they cower indoors,

when they had long since surrendered?

Max stood upon the flat lookout-rooftop of the Crawford stronghold and

watched the streets to north and west. It was by one of these that Mr.

Crawford would be coming home. No one could guess which one, for he seldom

used the same road. It was the only way one could cut down the likelihood of

ambush or of barricade. Although ambush was less frequent now. There were

fewer fences, fewer trees and shrubs; there was almost nothing behind which

one could hide. In this barren area it called for real ingenuity to effect an

ambuscade. But, Max reminded himself, no one had ever charged the Punks with

lack of ingenuity.

Mr. Crawford had phoned that he would be late and Max was getting nervous.

In another quarter hour, darkness would be closing in. It was bad business to

be abroad in Oak Manor after dark had fallen. Or, for that matter, in any of

the subdivisions. For while Oak Manor might be a bit more vicious than some of

the others of them, it still was typical.

He lifted his glasses again and swept the terrain slowly. There was no

sign of patrols or hidden skulkers. There must be watchers somewhere, he knew.

There were always watchers, alert to the slightest relaxation of the vigilance

maintained at Crawford stronghold.

Street by street he studied the sorry houses, with their broken window

panes and their peeling paint, still marked by the soap streaks and the gouges

and the red-paint splashes inflicted years before. Here and there dead trees

stood stark, denuded of their branches. Browned evergreens, long dead, stood

rooted in the dusty yards - yards long since robbed of the grass that once had

made them lawns.

And on the hilltop, up on Circle Drive, stood the ruins of Thompson

stronghold, which had fallen almost five years before. There was no structure

standing. It had been leveled stone by stone and board by board. Only the

smashed and dying trees, only the twisted steel fence posts marked where it

had been.

Now Crawford stronghold stood alone in Oak Manor. Max thought of it with a

glow of pride and a surge of painful memory. It stood because of him, he

thought, and he would keep it standing.

In this desert it was the last oasis, with its trees and grass, with its

summer houses and trellises, with the massive shrubbery and the wondrous sun

dial beside the patio, with its goldfish-and-lily pond and the splashing

fountain.

'Max,' said the walkie-talkie strapped across his chest.

'Yes, Mr. Crawford.'

'Where are you located, Max?'

'Up on the lookout, sir.'

'I'll come in on Seymour Drive,' said Mr. Crawford's voice. 'I'm about a

mile beyond the hilltop. I'll be coming fast.'

'The coast seems to be quite clear, sir.'

'Good. But take no chances with the gates.'

'I have the control box with me, sir. I can operate from here. I will keep

a sharp lookout.'

'Be seeing you,' said Crawford.

Max picked up the remote control box and waited for his returning master.

The car came over the hill and streaked down Seymour Drive, made its

right-hand turn on Dawn, roared toward the gates.

When it was no more than a dozen feet away. Max pushed the button that

unlocked the gates. The heavy bumper slammed into them and pushed them open.

The buffers that ran along each side of the car held them aside as the machine

rushed through. When the car had cleared them, heavy springs snapped them shut

and they were locked again.

Max slung the control-box strap over his shoulder and went along the

rooftop catwalk to the ladder leading to the ground.

Mr. Crawford had put away the car and was closing the garage door as Max

came around the corner of the house.

'It does seem quiet.' said Mr. Crawford. 'Much quieter, it would seem to

me, than usual.'

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