Clifford D. Simak - The Creator and Other Stories

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The Creator and Other Stories

Clifford D. Simak

This first world edition published in Great Britain 1993 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey SMI IDF.

First published in the USA 1993 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS INC., of

475 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10017.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

1985 by Clifford D. Simak.

1986 by Clifford D. Simak.

the Estate of Clifford D. Simak

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Simak, Clifford D.

Creator. - New ed

I. Title

813.54 [F]

ISBN 0-7278-4569-1 [cased] ISBN 0-7278-9004-2 [paper]

All situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

Typeset by Hewer Text Composition Services, Edinburgh. Printed and bound in Great Britain by Redwood Books,

Trowbridge, Wiltshire.

Contents

Introduction

The Creator

Shotgun Cure

All the Traps of Earth

Death Scene

Reunion on Ganymede

The Money Tree

Party Line

The Answers

The Thing in the Stone

Introduction

This is the sixth collection of the short stories of Clifford D. Simak that I have had

the privilege and pleasure of editing. The pleasure lies in being able to reveal the

stories to the modern science fiction audience. Some of these tales have been included

in collections assembled by Cliff himself or by others, but those collections (which I

myself in my time eagerly bought) are now not available. Some tales are from my

own library, some are mined from the magazines through the assistance of Joyce Day

of the Science Fiction Foundation (to whom UK sf lovers should be grateful), and

others have come from the considerable collection of a fellow-enthusiast here in

Aberdeen. To him I owe a considerable debt.

The privilege lies in being able to work with the stories of one of my favourite

authors. I well remember the trepidation with which I first wrote to CDS, the courtesy

of his reply, and then meeting for breakfast in Hopkins House Motor Hotel in

Minnetonka/Minneapolis in 1981. I was nervous and he was (I think) slightly anxious

lest he had made a mistake in allowing access to this Scottish academic lawyer. But

we got on well: our interests and enthusiasms meshed - so did our dislikes. He bore

me off to his house and I still recall asking if the Way Station had anything to do with

Andrew Wyeth's painting 'Christina's World' and the joy with which Cliff dug out

from a pile of books on the coffee table in front of us an album of Wyeth's paintings.

It was indeed so: Way Station is not unconnected with that weatherbeaten-grey slatted

house on the rise above the meadow.

We corresponded for the rest of Cliff's life, with all the affection of shared interest

and enjoyment. I still cannot bring myself to erase from my computer disc the letter I

wrote on 26 April 1988, speaking of the spring: two days later a colleague asked if I

had seen word of Cliff's death. Cliff must have died as I was writing. The news was

carried in the Press and Journal, a newspaper circulating in the northern half of

Scotland, and a full obituary ran in the London Times (a courtesy extended first to

James Blish in 1975 and two weeks after Cliff to Robert Heinlein).

Like others I grieved for the passing of one whose niche in sf is unique, and the

flavour of whose tales has never been approached. Indeed, the Simak style has never

been successfully emulated. Not for nothing has he been termed the pastoral poet of

sf. His voice, his way of looking at things and the quiet sanity and morality of even

his most abstruse flights of fancy, were unique in his lifetime. Modern sf would be the

healthier were someone filling his shoes, but, though there is some promise, I see no

true successor to CDS. Were justification needed - and it is not, for the tales stand on

their own - that alone would justify these collections.

CDS's skill as a weaver of tales is incontrovertible. He was a newspaperman for

the bulk of his long working life, yet, despite a very busy and successful professional

life he published over two hundred stories and twenty-seven novels. City of 1952 and

Way Station of 1963 are perhaps the best known novels. City won the International

Fantasy Award in 1953 and his other awards and nominations from the sf writing and

the sf reading communities include three Hugos (for The Big Front Yard', 1959; Way

Station, 1964; and The Grotto of the Dancing Deer', 1980) and a Nebula (for The

Grotto of the Dancing Deer', 1980 - which also won the Locus short story award for

that year). In 1977 he received the Nebula Grand Master award of the Science Fiction

Writers of America as well as the Jupiter Award (for A Heritage of Stars, 1977). Cliff

retired in 1976, but kept on writing, his last novel being Highway of Eternity (1986).

He died in April 1988.

I said CDS's skill as a weaver of tales is incontrovertible. The wording was

deliberate, for it is the story not the style that usually sticks in the mind. His style is

workmanlike, efficiently transmitting ideas but no more. Unlike some more modern

writers, in CDS the style is not part of the experience. On the contrary, the

unobtrusiveness of his writing reflects his professional training and serves to enhance

the ideas he offers. It is the style of the story-teller of old, grasping your attention

without histrionic display.

The ideas, the people and the Simak locations (often the countryside) linger in the

mind. Like all good tellers of tales, one forgets the precise words, but the flavour of

the story persists. In Tolkein's terms the story becomes myth, for the story remains

while its precise formulation in words vanishes.

Practice alone will not produce good stories which so transcend their immediate

vehicle. A basic skill is needed, though that is a skill which itself needs to be honed

by frequent practice. Cliff was always thinking of stories - in his last letter to me he

spoke of regret that he had not the strength to write, but he was enjoying thinking of

fresh stories. He had done that from an early age, his brother Carson often being the

audience.

CDS was formed by his early life in the rural communities of south-west

Wisconsin. He was born on the ridge country of Millville township above the

Wisconsin river. He was reared on his father's farm there, and the 'stone house' his

father built still gazes over to Prairie du Chien. He was educated in Patch Grove, and

taught school for a few years in other small communities in the neighbourhood. All

that grounded his country of the imagination, 'Simak Country', which is as real as the

inventions of others. I have gone over this ground, guided by friends, by Cliff's

instruction and by his brother Carson, and it is startling and instructive to recognise

some scenes precisely as delineated, and in others to see how the artist has shifted and

shaped to his requirements. In this collection, The Thing in the Stone' is embedded m

the Platteville Limestone of Simak coutry, and Cat Den

Point and the tree to the cave, although moved laterally, are features of the Simak

farm.

Simak country is also the people that live there. Not for nothing does Daniel find

his place in a rural community as he flees 'All the Traps of Earth'. Nor is it an accident

that those who know The Answers' live simply. The caring and an underlying respect

for traditional ways and moral values which suffuse most of the stories can be traced

to rural community life. On the other hand the raw evil that can also lurk in the

country community is also known and exposed in, for example, the Adams family in

The Thing in the Stone'. And, from a different side - Cliffs long interest in

government - there is Brown and Russell in 'Party Line'.

One reads stories for different reasons. In this collection I have tried to provide a

representative 'buffet' for various tastes and requirements. For fun try 'Reunion on

Ganymede' and The Money Tree'. For relaxation: try 'All the Traps of Earth'. But,

having made my selection, I am conscious that most of the stories here touch

something deeper. Cliff usually has a secondary (or primary, but concealed) element,

an interest which he approaches most fully in the novels A Choice of Gods and

Project Pope. There is a questioning and a probing of fundamental matters - What is

it all about? and, What am I for? There is also the notion of some higher power, being

or purpose. Theologically these are the questions of the nature of existence together

with the sense of the numinous, but CDS presents them in story form - a medium

which can often be more illuminating than the tomes of the professionals. Consider

'Death Scene' and The Answers' as a pair. They involve a serenity which has its own

loveliness whether or not that is how you yourself would react to the facts of the

story.

CDS was not always serene in his attitude to such questions. The Creator' is very

different. In its time it was notorious. CDS wrote it in 1933 or '34 after he had more or

less decided that his dalliance with sf was over. The editor W.L. Crawford persuaded

him to write one more. It was not the first time CDS had brushed with the orthodoxies

of religion (see The Voice in the Void' of 1932), but this presentation of God as a

none too pleasant experimental scientist eventually killed by his creation was, for its

time, startling. And, though it bears the stamp of its era, and though it is a product of

a young writer, it stands as a stimulus to thought even today.

At the other end of the book, look at The Thing in the Stone'. Here an archetypal

Simak hero makes friends with what ... the faithful pet of something that may be close

to being a fallen angel?

But that story also is typical of CDS's work. Wallace Daniels is hurt, his wife and

daughter taken from him by an accident which injured him as well and has given him

an ability to see and move in the past. He has retreated to the (Simak) farm among the

hills, and walks the ridges, fields and streams. (Cat Den Point, as I said, was on the

Simak farm.) In the cave he becomes aware of the Thing, trapped and dreaming. He is

trapped there by the malice of man and yet attempts to help whatever it is he can

'hear', and thus gains himself both a friend and rescue from his own predicament. This

is pure Simak. Theme and counterpoint, pacing and orchestration - unmistakable and

satisfying.

Other familiar Simak elements are in these pages. In 'Party Line' there are the

Listeners to the Stars, people you would find in Ring Around the Sun (1952) or

Project Pope (1986). Indeed in both 'Party Line' and Project Pope a Mary finds

heaven, though how differently in the story here. Again the robot, Richard Daniel,

ranks with Jenkins, Hezekiah and Cardinal Theodosius, and Doctor Kelly, the country

doctor has other incarnations in other stories.

And ever and again there is the idea, the image, the thought that strikes deep.

Allow yourself to consider Richard Daniel on the outside of the spaceship heading

through hyperspace and becoming one with the Universe. Consider also his new

ability to see and adjust diagrams. How will he benefit his new home? Go from there

to 'Shotgun Cure' and think again - is intelligence a disease we would be better to

have cured? Would you decide as Doc Kelly does?

I regret that there will be no more Simak stories; that he was not able even to put

on tape the thoughts of his last few months. But here is a representative selection of

his legacy to us. I hope you will enjoy them.

F. Lyall.

Aberdeen, Scotland. August, 1993.

The Creator

FOREWORD

This is written in the elder days as the Earth rides close to the rim of eternity,

edging nearer to the dying Sun, into which her two inner companions of the solar

system have already plunged to a fiery death. The Twilight of the Gods is history; and

our planet drifts on and on into that oblivion from which nothing escapes, to which

time itself may be dedicated in the final cosmic reckoning.

Old Earth, pacing her death march down the corridors of the heavens, turns more

slowly upon her axis. Her days have lengthened as she crawls sadly to her tomb,

shrouded only in the shreds of her former atmosphere. Because her air has thinned,

her sky has lost its cheerful blue depths and she is arched with a dreary gray, which

hovers close to the surface, as if the horrors of outer space were pressing close, like

ravening wolves, upon the flanks of this ancient monarch of the heavens. When night

creeps upon her, stranger stars blaze out like a ring of savage eyes closing in upon a

dying campfire.

Earth must mourn her passing for she has stripped herself of all her gaudy finery

and proud trappings. Upon her illimitable deserts and twisted ranges she has set up

strange land sculptures. And these must be temples and altars before which she, not

forgetting the powers of good and evil throughout the cosmos, prays in her last hours,

like a dying man returning to his old faith. Mournful breezes Play a hymn of futility

across her barren reaches of sand and rocky ledges. The waters of the empty oceans

beat out upon the treeless, bleak and age-worn coast a march that is the last brave

gesture of an ancient planet which has served its purpose and treads the path to

Nirvana.

Little half-men and women, final survivors of a great race, which they remember

only through legends handed down from father to son, burrow gnomelike in the

bowels of the planet which has mothered their seed from dim days when the thing

which was destined to rule over all his fellow creatures crawled in the slime of primal

seas. A tired race, they wait for the day legend tells them will come, when the sun

blazes anew in the sky and grass grows green upon the barren deserts once again. But

I know this day will never come, although I would not disillusion them. I know their

legends lie, but why should I destroy the only solid thing they have left to round out

their colorless life with the everlasting phenomena of hope?

For these little folks have been kind to me and there is a bloodbond between us

that even the passing of a million years cannot erase. They think me a god, a

messenger that the day they have awaited so long is near. I regret in time to come they

must know me as a false prophet.

There is no point in writing these words. My little friends asked me what I do and

why I do it and do not seem to understand when I explain. They do not comprehend

my purpose in making quaint marks and signs upon the well-tanned pelts of the little

rodents which overrun their burrows. All they understand is that when I have finished

my labor they must take the skins and treasure them as a sacred trust I have left in

their hands.

I have no hope the things I record will ever be read. I write my experiences in the

same spirit and with the same bewildered purpose which must have characterized the

first ancestor who chipped a runic message upon a stone.

I realize that I write the last manuscript. Earth's proud cities have fallen into

mounds of dust. The roads that once crossed her surface have disappeared without a

trace. No wheels turn, no engines drone. The last tribe of the human race crouches in

its caves, watching for the day that will never come.

FIRST EXPERIMENTS

There may be some who would claim that Scott Marston and I have blasphemed,

that we probed too deeply into mysteries where we had no right.

But be that as it may, I do not regret what we did and I am certain that Scott

Marston, wherever he may be, feels as I do, without regrets.

We began our friendship at a little college in California. We were naturally drawn

together by the similitude of our life, the affinity of our natures. Although our lines of

study were widely separated (he majored in science and I in psychology), we both

pursued our education for the pure love of learning rather than with a thought of what

education might do toward earning a living.

We eschewed the society of the campus, engaging in none of the frivolities of the

student body. We spent happy hours in the library and study hall. Our discussions

were ponderous and untouched by thought of the college life which flowed about us

in all its colorful pageantry.

In our last two years we roomed together. As we were poor, our quarters were

shabby, but this never occurred to us. Our entire life was embraced in our studies. We

were fired with the true spirit of research.

Inevitably, we finally narrowed our research down to definite lines. Scott,

intrigued by the enigma of time, devoted more and more of his leisure moments to the

study of that inscrutable element. He found that very little was known of it, beyond

the perplexing equations set up by equally perplexed savants.

I wandered into as remote paths, the study of psycho-physics and hypnology. I

followed my research in hypnology until I came to the point where the mass of facts I

had accumulated trapped me in a jungle of various diametrically opposed conclusions,

many of which verged upon the occult.

It was at the insistence of my friend that I finally sought a solution in the material

rather than the psychic world. He argued that if I were to make any real progress I

must follow the dictate of pure, cold science rather than the elusive will-o'-the-wisp of

an unproven shadow existence.

At length, having completed our required education, we were offered positions as

instructors, he in physics and I in psychology. We eagerly accepted, as neither of us

had any wish to change the routine of our lives.

Our new status in life changed our mode of living not at all. We continued to

dwell in our shabby quarters, we ate at the same restaurant, we had our nightly

discussions. The fact that we were no longer students in the generally accepted term

of the word made no iota of difference to our research and study.

It was in the second year after we had been appointed instructors that I finally

stumbled upon my 'consciousness unit' theory. Gradually I worked it out with the

enthusiastic moral support of my friend, who rendered me what assistance he could.

The theory was beautiful in simplicity. It was based upon the hypothesis that a

dream is an expression of one's consciousness, that it is one's second self going forth

to adventure and travel. When the physical being is at rest the consciousness is

released and can travel and adventure at will within certain limits.

I went one step further, however. I assumed that the consciousness actually does

travel, that certain infinitesimal parts of one's brain do actually escape to visit the

strange places and encounter the odd events of which one dreams.

This was taking dreams out of the psychic world to which they had formerly been

relegated and placing them on a solid scientific basis.

I speak of my theory as a 'consciousness units' theory. Scott and I spoke of the

units as 'consciousness cells,' although we were aware they could not possibly be

cells. I thought of them as highly specialized electrons, despite the fact that it

appeared ridiculous to suspect electrons of specialization.

Scott contended that a wave force, an intelligence wave, might be nearer the truth.

Which of us was correct was never determined, nor did it make any difference.

As may be suspected, I never definitely arrived at undeniable proof to sustain my

theory, although later developments would seem to bear it out.

Strangely, it was Scott Marston who did the most to add whatever measure of

weight I could ever attach to my hypothesis.

While I was devoting my time to the abstract study of dreams, Scott was

continuing with his equally baffling study of time. He confided to me that he was well

satisfied with the progress he was making. At times he explained to me what he was

doing, but my natural ineptitude at figures made impossible an understanding of the

formidable array of formulas which he spread out before me.

I accepted as a matter of course his statement that he had finally discovered a time

force, which he claimed was identical with a fourth-dimensional force. At first the

force existed only in a jumble of equations, formulas, and graphs on a litter of paper,

but finally we pooled our total resources and under Scott's hand a machine took

shape.

Finished, it crouched like a malign entity on the worktable, but it pulsed and

hummed with a strange power that was of no earthly source.

'It is operating on time, pure time,' declared Scott. 'It is warping and distorting the

time pattern, snatching power from the fourth dimension. Given a machine large

enough, we could create a time-stress great enough to throw this world into a new

plane created by the distortion of the time-field.'

We shuddered as we gazed upon the humming mass of metal and realized the

possibilities of our discovery. Perhaps for a moment we feared that we had probed too

deeply into the mystery of an element that should have remained forever outside the

province of human knowlege.

The realization that he had only scratched the surface, however, drove Scott on to

renewed efforts. He even begrudged the time taken by his work as instructor and there

were weeks when we ate meager lunches in our rooms after spending all our available

funds but a few pennies to buy some piece needed for the time-power machine.

Came the day when we placed a potted plant within a compartment in the

machine. We turned on the mechanism and when we opened the door after a few

minutes the plant was gone. The pot and earth within it was intact, but the plant had

vanished. A search of the pot revealed that not even a bit of root remained.

Where had the plant gone? Why did the pot and earth remain?

Scott declared the plant had been shunted into an outre dimension, lying between

the lines of stress created in the time pattern by the action of the machine. He

concluded that the newly discovered force acted more swiftly upon a life organism

than upon an inanimate object.

We replaced the pot within the compartment, but after twenty-four hours it was

still there. We were forced to conclude the force had no effect upon inanimate objects.

We found later that here we touched close to the truth, but had failed to grasp it in

its entirety.

THE DREAM

A year following the construction of the time-power machine, Scott came into an

inheritance when a relative, whom he had almost forgotten but who apparently had

not forgotten him, died. The inheritance was modest, but to Scott and me, who had

lived from hand to mouth for years, it appeared large.

Scott resigned his position as instructor and insisted upon my doing the same in

order that we might devote our uninterrupted time to research.

Scott immediately set about the construction of a larger machine, while I plunged

with enthusiasm into certain experiments I had held in mind for some time.

It was not until then that we thought to link our endeavors.

Our research had always seemed separated by too great a chasm to allow

collaboration beyond the limited mutual aid of which we were both capable and

which steadily diminished as our work progressed further and further, assuming

greater and greater complications, demanding more and more specialization.

The idea occurred to me following repetition of a particularly vivid dream. In the

dream I stood in a colossal laboratory, an unearthly laboratory, which seemed to

stretch away on every hand for inconceivable distances. It was equipped with strange

and unfamiliar apparatus and uncanny machines. On the first night the laboratory

seemed unreal and filled with an unnatural mist, but on each subsequent occasion it

became more and more real, until upon awakening I could reconstruct many of its

details with surprising clarity. I even made a sketch of some of the apparatus for Scott

and he agreed that I must have drawn it from the memory of my dream. No man could

have imagined unaided the sketches I spread upon paper for my friend.

Scott expressed an opinion that my research into hypnol-ogy had served to train

my 'consciousness units' to a point where they had become more specialized and were

capable of retaining a more accurate memory of their wandering. I formulated a

theory that my consciousness units had actually increased in number, which would

account in a measure for the vividness of the dream.

'I wonder,' I mused, 'if your time-power would have any influence upon the units.'

Scott hummed under his breath. 'I wonder,' he said.

The dream occurred at regular intervals. Had it not been for my absorption in my

work, the dream might have become irksome, but I was elated, for I had found in

myself a subject for investigation.

One night Scott brought forth a mechanism resembling the headphones of early

radio sets, on which he had been working for weeks. He had not yet explained its

purpose.

Pete,' he said, 'I want you to move your cot near the table and put on this helmet.

When you go to sleep I'll plug it in the time-power. If it has any effect upon

consciousness units, this will demonstrate it.'

He noticed my hesitation.

'Don't be afraid,' he urged. 'I will watch beside you. If anything goes wrong, I'll

jerk the plug and wake you.'

So I put on the helmet and, with Scott Marston sitting in a chair beside my cot,

went to sleep.

That night I seemed to actually walk in the laboratory. I saw no one, but I

examined the place from end to end. I distinctly remember handling strange tools, the

use of which I could only vaguely speculate upon. Flanking the main laboratory were

many archways, opening into smaller rooms, which I did not investigate. The

architecture of the laboratory and the archways was unbelievably alien, a fact I had

noticed before but had never examined in such minute detail.

I opened my eyes and saw the anxious face of Scott Marston above me.

'What happened, Pete?' he asked.

I grasped his arm.

'Scott, I was there. I actually walked in the laboratory. I picked up tools. I can see

the place now, plainer than ever before.'

I saw a wild light come into his eyes. He rose from the chair and stood towering

above me as I propped myself up on my arms.

'Do you know what we've found, Pete! Do you realize that we can travel in time,

that we can explore the future, investigate the past? We are not even bound to this

sphere, this plane of existence. We can travel into the multidimensions. We can go

back to the first flush of eternity and see the cosmos born out of the womb of

nothingness! We can travel forward to the day when all that exists comes to an end in

the ultimate dispersion of wasted energy, when even space may be wiped out of

existence and nothing but frozen time remains!'

'Are you mad, Scott?'

His eyes gleamed.

'Mot mad, Pete. Victorious! We can build a machine large enough, powerful

enough, to turn every cell of our bodies into consciousness units. We can travel in

body as well as in thought. We can live thousands of lifetimes, review billions of

years. We can visit undreamed-of planets, unknown ages. We hold time in our hands!'

He beat his clenched fists together.

'That plant we placed in the machine. My God, Pete, do you know what happened

to it? What primordial memories did that plant hold? Where is it now? Is it in some

swamp of the carboniferous age? Has it returned to its ancestral era?'

Years passed, but we scarcely noticed their passing.

Our hair grayed slightly at the temples and the mantle of youth dropped slowly

from us. No fame came to us, for our research had progressed to a point where it

would have strained even the most credulous mind to believe what we could have

unfolded.

Scott built his larger time-power machine, experimented with it, devised new

improvements, discovered new details . . . and rebuilt it, not once, but many times.

The ultimate machine, squatting like an alien god in our workshop, bore little

resemblance to the original model.

On my part, I delved more deeply into my study of dreams, relentlessly pursuing

my theory of consciousness units. My progress necessarily was slower than that of my

friend as I was dealing almost entirely with the abtruse although I tried to make it as

practical as possible, while Scott had a more practical and material basis for his

investigations.

Of course, we soon decided to make the attempt to actually transfer our bodies

into the laboratory of my dreams. That is, we proposed to transform all the electrons,

all the elements of our bodies, into consciousness units through the use of the time-

power. A more daring scheme possibly had never been conceived by man.

In an attempt to impress upon my friend's mind a picture of the laboratory, I drew

diagrams and pictures, visiting the laboratory many times, with the aid of the time-

power, to gather more detailed data on the place.

It was not until I used hypnotism that I could finally transfer to Scott's mind a true

picture of that massive room with its outre scientific equipment.

It was a day of high triumph when Scott, placed under the influence of the time-

power, awoke to tell me of the place I had visited so often. It was not until then that

we could be absolutely sure we had accomplished the first, and perhaps most difficult,

step in our great experiment.

I plunged into a mad study of the psychology of the Oriental ascetic, who of all

people was the furthest advanced in the matter of concentration, the science of

willpower, and the ability to subjugate the body to the mind.

Although my studies left much to be desired, they nevertheless pointed the way

for us to consciously aid the time-power element in reducing our corporeal beings to

the state of consciousness units necessary for our actual transportation to the huge

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TheCreatorandOtherStoriesCliffordD.SimakThisfirstworldeditionpublishedinGreatBritain1993bySEVERNHOUSEPUBLISHERSLTDof9-15HighStreet,Sutton,SurreySMIIDF.FirstpublishedintheUSA1993bySEVERNHOUSEPUBLISHERSINC.,of475FifthAvenue,NewYork,NY10017.IntroductionCopyright©FrancisLyall1993Allrightsreserved.Themor...

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