Clifford D. Simak - The Visitors

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THE VISITORS
Clifford D. Simak
A Del Rey Book
BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK
ver 1.0-jv
1. LONE PINE, MINNESOTA
George, the barber, slashed his scissors in the air, snipped their blades together furiously.
“I tell you, Frank, I don’t know what goes with you,” he said to the man who sat in the barber chair.
“I read your article on what the fish and wildlife people did up on the reservation. You didn’t seem too
upset about it.”
“Actually, I’m not,” said Frank Norton. “It doesn’t mean that much. If people don’t want to pay the
reservation license, they can go fishing someplace else.”
Norton was publisher-editor-advertising manager-circulation manager-general sweeper-out of the
Lone Pine Sentinel, which had its offices across the street from the barber shop.
“It galls me,” said the barber. “It ain’t right to give them redskins control over the hunting and fishing
rights on the reservation. As if the reservation wasn’t a part of the state of Minnesota or even of these
here United States. Now a white man can’t go fishing on the reservation on the regular state license.
He’ll have to buy a license from the tribe. And the tribe will be allowed to set up their own rules and
regulations. It ain’t fight, I tell you.”
“It shouldn’t make much difference to people such as you and I,” said Norton. “If we want to go
fishing, we have this trout stream right at the edge of town. In the pool below the bridge, there are
rainbow of a size to scare you.
“It’s the principle of the thing,” the barber said. “The fish and wildlife people say the redskins own
the land. Their land, hell! It’s not their land. We’re just letting them live there. When you go to the
reservation, they will charge you to fish or hunt; they’ll charge you plenty for the license. Probably more
than you pay the state. They’ll put on their own limits and restrictions. We’ll have to live by their laws,
laws that we had nothing to do with making. And they’ll hassle us. You just watch, they’ll hassle us.”
“George, you’re getting yourself all worked up,” said Norton. “I don’t think they’ll hassle anyone.
They’ll want people to come up there. They’ll do everything they can to attract fishermen. It’ll be money
in their pockets.”
George, the barber, snipped his scissors. “Them goddamn redskins,” he said. “Always bellyaching
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about their rights. And putting on airs. Calling themselves native Americans. Not Indians any more. Oh,
Christ, no, now they’re native Americans. And saying we took away their land.”
Norton chuckled. “Well, when you come right down to it, I would suppose we did take away their
land. And no matter how you feel about it, George, they are native Americans. If that is what they want
to call themselves, it appears to me that they have a right to. They were here first and we did take away
their land.”
“We had a right to it,” said George. “It was just lying there. They weren’t using it. Once in a while,
they’d harvest a little wild rice or shoot a duck or kill a beaver for its fur. But they weren’t really using
the land. They were letting it go to waste. They didn’t know how to use it. And we did. So we came and
used it. I tell you, Frank, we had a right to take it over and use it. We have the right to use any land that
isn’t being used. But, even now, we aren’t allowed to.
“Take this land over across the river. Big, tall, straight trees that have been standing there since Christ
was a pup. Waiting to be used. Somehow, in the early days, the loggers missed them and they’re still just
standing there, like they been standing almost since creation. Thousands of acres of them, just waiting.
Millions of board feet waiting to be sawed. There are lumber companies that want to go in there. They
went into court to gain themselves the right to harvest them. But the judge said no. You can’t lay an axe
to them, he said. They’re a primitive wilderness area and they can’t be touched. The forest service told
the court those thousands of acres of trees are a national heritage and have to be saved for posterity.
How come we can get so hung up on heritage and posterity?”
“I don’t know,” said Norton. “I’m not upset about it. It’s nice to stand here and look out over that
primitive wilderness, nice to go out for a while and walk in it. It’s peaceful over there across the river.
Peaceful and sort of awesome. Sort of nice to have it there.”
“I don’t give a damn,” said the barber. “I tell you it isn’t right. We’re being pushed around. Pushed
around by fuzzy-headed dogooders and simple-minded bleeding hearts who scream we got to help those
poor, downtrodden redskins and we got to save the trees and we can’t pollute the air. I don’t care what
those bleeding hearts may have to say, those redskins have no one but themselves to blame. They’re a
lazy lot. They ain’t got an honest day of work in all of them together. They just lie around and bellyache.
They always have their hands out. They’re always claiming that we owe them something—no matter
how much we give them, they claim we owe them more. I tell you, we don’t owe them nothing but a
good, swift kick in their lazy butts. They had their chance and they didn’t make it. They were too dumb
to make it, or too lazy. They had this whole damn country before the white men came and they did
nothing with it. For years, we’ve been taking care of them and the more we do for them, the more they
want. Now they’re not only asking for things, they’re demanding them. That’s what everyone is doing—
demanding things they haven’t got. ‘What right have any of them to be demanding anything? Who do
they think they are?
“You mark my word. Before they are through with it, those redskins up on the reservation will be
demanding that we give them back all of northern Minnesota, and maybe some of Wisconsin, too. Just
like they are doing out in the Black Hills. Say the Black Hills and the Bighorn region belong to them.
Something about some old treaties of a hundred years or more ago. Saying we took the land away from
them when we had no right to. Got that bill in Congress and a suit in the courts demanding the Black
Hills and the Bighorn. And, more than likely, some silly judge will say they have a right to it and there
are eggheads in Congress who are working for them, saying they have a legal right to the land that the
white men have spent years and millions of dollars making into something that is worthwhile. All it was
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when the Indians had it was buffalo range.”
The barber flourished his shears. “You just wait and see,” he said. “The same thing will happen here.”
“The trouble with you, George,” said Norton, “is that you are a bigot.”
“You can call me any name you want to,” said the barber. “We are friends and I won’t take offense at
it. But I know what is right and what is wrong. And I ain’t afraid to speak out about it. When you call a
man a bigot, all that you are saying is that he doesn’t believe something that you believe in. You’ve
come to the end of your argument and you call him a name instead.”
Norton made no answer and the barber ceased his talking and got down to work.
Outside the shop, the two blocks of stores and business places in the town of Lone Pine drowsed in
the late afternoon of an early autumn day. A few cars were parked along the street. Three dogs went
through elaborate, formal canine recognition rites, three old friends meeting at the northwest corner of
an intersection. Stuffy Grant, tattered and disreputable man-about-town, sat on a nail keg outside the
town’s one hardware store, paying close attention to the smoking of a fairly decent-sized cigar stub that
he had rescued from the gutter. Sally, the waitress at the Pine Cafe, slowly swept the sidewalk in front of
her place of employment, making the job last, reluctant to leave the warm autumn sunshine and go
inside again. At the end of the easternmost block, Kermit Jones, the banker, drove his car into the corner
service station.
Jerry Conklin, forestry student working for his doctorate at the University of Minnesota, parked his
car at the end of the bridge that spanned the Pine River below the town, took out his cased fly rod, and
began assembling it. When he had stopped at the Lone Pine service station several months ago, en route
to a forestry camp in the primitive wilderness area, the attendant had told him of the monster trout that
lurked in the pool below the bridge. An avid fly fisherman, he had kept this piece of information in his
mind ever since it had been given him, but with no chance until now to act upon it. On this day, he had
driven a number of miles out of his way from another forestry camp where he had spent several days
studying the ecology of a mature and undisturbed white pine forest, so that he could try the pool below
the bridge.
He looked at his watch and saw that he could afford no more than thirty minutes at the pool. Kathy
had a pair of tickets for the symphony—some guest conductor, whose name he had quite forgotten,
would be directing the orchestra and Kathy had been wild, for weeks, to attend the concert. He didn’t
care too much
for that kind of music, but Kathy did and she would be sore as hell if he didn’t get back to
Minneapolis on time.
In the barber shop, George said to Norton, “You put the papers in the mail this afternoon. It must feel
good not to have much to do for another week.”
“You are dead wrong there,” said Norton. “You don’t just snap your fingers and get out a paper, even
a weekly paper. There are ads to be made up and sold, job printing to be done, copy to be written and a
lot of other things to do to get together next week’s paper.
“I’ve always wondered why you stay here,” said George. “A young newspaperman like you, there are
a lot of places you could go. You wouldn’t have to stay here. The papers down at Minneapolis would
find a place for you,,,snap you up, more than likely, if you just said the word to them.
“I don’t know about that,” said Norton. “Anyhow, I like it here. My own boss, my own business. Not
much money, but enough to get along on. I’d be lost in a city. I have a friend down in Minneapolis. He’s
city editor of the Tribune. Young to be a city editor, but a good one. His name is Johnny Garrison .
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“I bet he’d hire you,” said George.
“Maybe. I don’t know. It would be tough going for a time. You’d have to learn the ropes of big-city
newspapering. But, as I was saying, Johnny is city editor there and makes a lot more money than I do.
But he’s got his worries, too. He can’t knock off early in the afternoon and go fishing if he wants to. He
can’t take it easy one day and make up lost time the next. He has a house with a big mortgage on it. He
has an expensive family. He fights miles of city traffic to get to work every day and other miles of it to
get home again. He’s got a hell of a lot of responsibility. He does a lot more drinking than I do. He
probably has to do a lot of things that he doesn’t want to do, meet a lot of people he’d just as soon not
meet. He works long hours; he carries his responsibilities home with him . .
“I suppose there are drawbacks,” said the barber, “to every job there is.”
A confused fly irritatingly, and with stupid persistence, buzzed against the plate-glass window of the
shop front. The bar back of the chair was lined with ornate bottles, very seldom used, window dressing
from an earlier time. Above the wall, a .30-.3o rifle hung on pegs against the wall.
At the corner gas station the attendant, inserting the nozzle into the tank of the banker’s car, looked
upward across his shoulder.
“Christ, Kermit, look at that, will you!”
The banker looked up.
The thing in the sky was big and black and very low. It made no noise. It floated there, sinking
slowly toward the ground. It filled half the sky.
“One of them UFOs,” the attendant said. “First one I ever saw. God, it’s big. I never thought they
were that big.”
The banker did not answer. He was too frozen to answer. He couldn’t move a muscle.
Down the street, Sally, the waitress, screamed. She dropped the broom and ran, blindly, aimlessly,
screaming all the while.
Stuffy Grant, startled at the screaming, lurched up from the nail keg and waddled out into the street
before he saw the black bigness hanging in the sky. He tilted back so far in looking that he lost his
balance, which wasn’t as good as it might have been, a result of having finished off what was left in a
bottle of rot-gut moonshine made by Abe Parker out somewhere in the bush. Stuffy went over
backwards and came to a solid sitting position in the middle of the street. He scrambled frantically to
regain his feet and ran. The cigar had fallen from his mouth and he did not retrace his steps to retrieve it.
He had forgotten that he had it.
In the barber shop, George quit his haircutting and ran to the window. He saw Sally and Stuffy
fleeing in panic. He dropped his scissors and lunged for the wall back of the bar, clawing for the rifle.
He worked the lever mechanism to jack a cartridge into the( chamber and leaped for the door.
Norton came out of the chair. “What’s the matter, George? What’s going on?”
The barber did not answer. The door slammed behind him.
Norton wrenched the door open, stepped out on the sidewalk. The barber was running down the
street. The attendant from the gas station came running toward him.
“Over there, George,” the attendant yelled, pointing to a vacant lot. “It came down near the river.”
George plunged across the vacant lot. Norton and the attendant followed him. Kermit Jones, the
banker, pelted along behind them, puffing and panting.
Norton came out of the vacant lot onto a low gravel ridge that lay above the river. Lying across the
river at the bridge, covering the bridge, was a great black box—a huge contraption, its length great
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enough to span the river, one end of it resting on the opposite bank, its rear end on the near bank. It was
not quite as broad as it was long and it stood high into the air above the river. At first appearance, it was
simply an oblong construction, with no distinguishing features one could see—a box painted the
blackest black he had ever seen.
Ahead of him the barber had stopped, was raising the rifle to his shoulder.
“No, George, no!” Norton shouted. “Don’t do it!”
The rifle cracked and almost at the instant of its cracking a bolt of brilliant light flashed back from
the box that lay across the river. The barber flared for an instant as the bolt of brilliance struck him, then
the light was gone and the man, for the moment, stood stark upright, blackened into a grotesque stump
of a man, the blackness smoking. The gun in his hands turned cherry red and bent, the barrel dropping
like a length of wet spaghetti. Then George, the barber, crumpled to the ground and lay there in a run-
together mass that had no resemblance to a man, the black, huddled mass still smoking, little tendrils of
foul-smelling smoke streaming out above it.
2. LONE PINE
The water boiled beneath Jerry Conklin’s fly. Conklin twitched the rod, but there was nothing there.
The trout—and from the size of the boil, it must have been a big one—had sheered off at the last instant
of its strike.
Conklin sucked in his breath. The big ones were there, he told himself. The attendant at the station
had been right; there were big rainbow lurking in the pool.
The sun was shining brightly through the trees that grew along the river. The dappled water danced
with little glints of sunlight shining off the tiny waves on the surface of the pool, set in motion by the
rapids that came down the ledges of broken rock just upstream.
Carefully, Conklin retrieved his fly, lifted the rod to cast again, aiming at a spot just beyond where he
had missed the strike.
In mid-cast, the sun went out. A sudden shadow engulfed the pool, as if some object had interposed
itself between the sun and pool.
Instinctively, Conklin ducked. Something struck the upraised fly rod and he felt the tremor of it
transmitted to his hand, heard the sickening splinter of bamboo. My God, he thought, an eighty-dollar
rod, the first and only extravagance he had allowed himself.
He looked over his shoulder and saw the square of blackness coming down upon him. The blackness
struck the bank behind him and he heard, as if from far off, the crunch of tortured metal as it came down
upon his ear.
He tried to turn toward the bank and stumbled, going to his knees. He shipped water in his waders.
He dropped the rod. Then, without knowing how he did it, not even intending to do it, he was running
down the stream along the edge of the pool, slipping and sliding as his feet came down on the small,
water-polished stones, at the pool’s edge, the shipped water sloshing in his waders.
The far end of the square of blackness, tipping forward, came down on the far river bank. Timbers
squealed and howled and there was the rasping of drawn nails and bolts as the bridge came apart.
Looking back, he saw timbers and planks floating in the pool.
He had no wonder of what had happened. In the confused turmoil of his mind, in his mad, instinctive
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rush to get away, there was no room for wonder. It was not until he reached sunlight again that he
realized he was safe. The high banks of the river had protected him from harm. The blackness lay across
the river, resting on the banks, not blocking the stream.
The pool ended and he strode out into the shallow stretch of fast-running water below it. Glancing up,
he saw for the first time the true dimensions of the structure that had fallen. It towered far above him,
like a building. Forty feet, he thought—maybe fifty feet—up into the air, more than four times that long.
From some distance off he heard a vicious, flat crack that sounded like a rifle going off and in the
same instance a single spot in that great mass of blackness flashed with a blinding brilliance, then
winked out.
My God, he thought, the rod busted, the car smashed, and I am stranded here—and Kathy! I better
get out of here and phone her.
He turned about and started to scramble up the steep river bank. It was hard going. He was hampered
by his waders, but he couldn’t take them off, for his shoes were in the ear and the car now lay, squashed
flat more than likely, beneath the massive thing that had fallen on the bridge.
With a swishing sound, something lashed out of nowhere and went around his chest—a thin, flexible
something like a piece of wire or rope. He lifted his hands in panic to snatch at it, but before his hands
could reach it, he was jerked upward. In a blurred instant, he saw the swiftly flowing water of the river
under him, the long extent of greenery that lined the river’s banks. He opened his mouth to yell, but the
constriction of the wire or rope or whatever it might be had driven much of the air out of his lungs and
he had no breath to yell.
Then he was in darkness and whatever it was that had jerked him there was gone from about his
chest. He was on his hands and knees. The platform on which he found himself was solid—solid, but not
hard, as if he had come to rest on top of thick, yielding carpeting.
He stayed on his hands and knees, crouching, trying to fight off the engulfing terror. The bitter taste
of gall surged into his mouth and he forced it back. His gut had entwined itself into a hard, round ball
and he consciously fought to relax the hardness and the tightness.
At first it had seemed dark, but now he realized there was a faint, uncanny sort of light, a pale blue
light that had a spooky tone to it. It was not the best of light; there was a haze in it and he had to squint
his eyes to see. But at least this place where he found himself was no longer dark and he was not blind.
He rose to his knees and tried to make out where he was, although that was hard to do, for intermixed
with the blue light were flares of other light, flaring and flickering so swiftly that he could not make
them out, not quite sure of the color of them or where they might be coming from. The flickerings
revealed momentarily strange shapes such as he could not remember ever having seen before and that
was strange, he thought, for a shape, no matter what its configuration, was no more than a shape and
should not cause confusion. Even between the flashes, there was one shape that he could recognize, rows
of circular objects that he had thought at first were eyes, all of them swivelling to stare at him with a
phosphorescent glare, like the eyes of animals at night when a beam of light caught them by surprise. He
sensed, however, that what he was seeing really weren’t eyes, nor were they the source of the faint, blue,
persistent light that filled the place. But, eyes or not, they stayed watching him.
The air was dry and hot, but there was, unexplainably, a feeling of dank mustiness in it, a sense of
mustiness imparted, perhaps, by the odor that filled the place. A strange odor—not an overpowering
smell, not a gagging smell, but uncomfortable in a way he could not determine, as if the smell could
somehow penetrate his skin and fasten to him, become a part of him. He tried to characterize the odor
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and failed. It was not perfume, or yet the smell of rot. It was unlike anything he had ever smelled before.
The air, he told himself, while it was breathable, probably was deficient in oxygen. He found himself
gasping, drawing in great rasping breaths of it to satisfy his body’s needs.
At first, he had thought he was in a tunnel and why he should have imagined that he did not know,
for as he looked further, he could see that he was in some great space that reminded him of a dismal
cave. He tried to penetrate the depth of the space, but was unable to, for the blue light was too dim and
the flickering of the place made it difficult to see.
Slowly and carefully, he levered himself to his feet, half expecting that his head would bump against
a ceiling. But he was able to rise to his full height; there was sufficient head-room.
In the back of his mind a whisper of suspicion came to life and he fought to hold it back, for it was
not a suspicion that he wanted to admit. But, gradually, as he stood stark in the blue-lit, flickering place,
it forced itself upon him and he felt himself accepting it.
He was, the whisper said, inside the huge black box that had fallen astride the river. The rope or wire
or tentacle, or whatever it might have been, had been extruded from it. Seizing him, it had jerked him
here, in some manner passing him through the outer wall and depositing him here in its interior.
To one side of him he heard a slight sound that was between a shriek and a gulp and when he looked
to see what had occasioned it, he realized there was something flopping on the floor. Bending over to
peer at the place where the flopping was taking place, he saw that it was a fish, a rainbow from the size
and shape of it. It was about sixteen inches long and muscular of body. When he put a hand down to
grasp it, it had a hefty feel to it. He got his hand around it, but it slipped away from him and continued
flopping on the floor.
Now, he told himself, let’s look at all of this realistically. Let’s step away from it and have a long,
hard look at it. Let’s not go jumping to conclusions; let’s try to be objective.
Item: A huge blackness had fallen from the sky, landing on the bridge and, from the crunch of metal
he had heard, probably crushing his parked ear.
Item: He was in a place that could be, more than likely was, the interior of the blackness that had
fallen, a place quite unlike anything he had ever seen before.
Item: Not only he, but a fish, had been introduced into this place.
He took the items, one by one, into the computer of his mind, and tried to put them all together. They
added up to one thing:
He was inside, had somehow been spirited or absorbed inside a visitor from space, a visitor that was
picking up and looking over the fauna of the planet upon which it had landed.
First himself and then a fish. And in a little while, perhaps, a rabbit, a squirrel, a coon, a bear, a deer,
a bobcat. After a time, he told himself, the place was going to get crowded.
The gleaming circular objects that were watching him could be receptors, watching and recording,
extracting data and storing it, making note of him (and the fish as well), picking up every vibration of his
brain, every quiver of his psyche, analyzing him, breaking down the kind of organism that he was and
classifying him by whatever code that might apply, tucking him away in memory cells, writing him up
in chemical equations, seeking an understanding of what he was and what might be his status and his
purpose in the ecology of the planet.
Probably it was not only the circular objects that were doing the work. Perhaps the flashing lights and
the mechanisms behind the flashing lights were a part of it as well.
He could be wrong, he thought. When he could really come to think of it, he must know that he was
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wrong. Yet it was the one explanation that squared with what had happened. He had seen the blackness
fall; he had been snatched up from the river—he remembered the running water under him as he was
hoisted in the air, he remembered the long lines of trees that grew along its banks, he remembered seeing
the town of Lone Pine, set on its gravel terrace above the river’s bed. He remembered all these things
and the next that he had known had been the darkness of this cave-like place. Except for the interior of
the object that had fallen on the river, there was no other place into which he might
have been tucked. ( If all of this had happened, if he were not mistaken, then it
meant that the object that had fallen across the river was alive, or that it was operated by something
that was alive, and not only alive, but intelligent.
He found himself instinctively fighting against what he was thinking, for in the context of human
experience, it was utter madness to believe that an intelligence had landed on the Earth and forthwith
snapped him up.
He was astonished to find that whatever terror he had felt had drained out of him. In its stead, there
was now a coldness, a bleak coldness of the soul that, in a way, was far worse than terror.
Intelligence, he thought—if there was an intelligence here, there must be a way to talk with it, in
some manner to work out a system of communication with it.
He tried to speak and the words dried up before his tongue could shape them. He tried again and the
words came, but only in a whisper. He tried once more and this time the words came louder, booming in
the hollowness of the cave in which he stood.
“Hello,” he shouted. “Is there anyone around? Is there someone here?”
He waited and there was no answer, so he spoke again, even louder this time, shouting at the
intelligence that must be there. The words echoed and reverberated and then died out. The circular, eye-
like objects still kept on watching him. The flickering still continued. But no one, or nothing, answered.
3. MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA
Kathy Foster sat at her typewriter in the Tribune newsroom and hammered out the story—such a
stupid story and such stupid people. Damn Johnny for sending her out on it. There must have been other
assignments he could have sent her on, assignments that did not have the phoney mush content that this
one did, nor the sloppy mysticism. The Lovers, they called themselves, and she could still see the sleepy
innocence of their eyes, the soft, smooth flow of posturing euphuisms—love is all, love conquers all,
love encompasses everything. All you have to do is love someone or something hard enough and long
enough and the love would be returned. Love is the greatest force in the universe, more than likely the
only significant force, the be-all and the is-all and the end-all of everything there is. And it was not only
people, not only life, that would respond. If you loved any kind of matter, any kind of energy, it would
return the love and, in consequence of that love, do anything that you wished it to, even to the point of
disobeying or disregarding all empirical laws (which, they had told her, may not exist in fact), perform
in any manner, do anything, go anywhere, stay anywhere, do anything one wished. But to accomplish
this, they had told her solemnly, with the innocence in their eyes gleaming brightly at her, one must
strive to understand the life, the matter, the energy, whatever it might ~ be, and to love it so that it
became aware of you. That was the
trouble now, they said. No one had sufficient understanding, but understanding could be obtained
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through the force of love. Once the depth of love was great enough to secure the understanding, then
man in all truth would be in control of the universe. But this control, they had said, must not be a control
for the sake of control alone, but to perfect the understanding and the love of all that went into the
makeup of the universe.
That damn university, she told herself, is a hot-bed for the nurturing of such phoney misfits groping
for significance where there is no significance, employing the search for nonexistent meaning as a
means to escape reality.
She looked at the clock on the wall. Almost four o’clock and Jerry hadn’t phoned. He had said that he
would phone to tell her he was on his way. If he made her late for the concert, she would have his hide.
He knew how she had counted on the concert. For weeks she had dreamed of it. Sure, Jerry didn’t like
symphonic music but for once he could do what she wanted, even if he squirmed the entire evening. She
had done a lot of things, gone to a lot of places that she hadn’t wanted to, but had gone because he
wanted to. The wrestling matches—for sweet Christ’s sake, the wrestling matches!
A strange man, Kathy told herself, strange and at times infuriating, but a sweet guy just the same. He
and his everlasting trees! Jerry lived for trees. How in the world, she wondered, could a grown man get
so wrapped up in trees? Other people could develop an empathy for flowers, for animals, for birds, but
with Jerry it was trees. The guy was silly about his trees. He ~loved them and seemed to understand
them and there were times, she thought, when it seemed he even talked with them.
She jerked out the finished page, threaded in another. She hammered at the keys. The anger boiled
within her, the disgust smothered her. When she turned in the story, she’d tell Johnny that she thought it
should be spiked—or better yet, thrown into the waste basket, for then no one could rescue it from the
spike if the day’s copy should run thin and a news hole needed filling.
Across the newsroom, John H. Garrison, city editor, sat at his desk, staring out across the room. Most
of the desks were empty and he ran down the list—Freeman was covering the meeting of the airport
commission and it would likely come to nothing, although with all the flurry about the need of extra
runways, it was a meeting that the newsroom had to cover; Jay was at Mayo Clinic in Rochester, getting
the story on the new cancer procedures that were being developed there; Campbell was still at city hall,
piddling his time away at a park board meeting that, like the airport meeting, probably would fizzle out;
Jones was out in South Dakota working on the Black Hills-Indian controversy, getting together material
for a Sunday feature; Knight was at the Johnson murder trial; Williams was in the suburban town of
Wayzata interviewing that old gal who claimed to be 102 years old (although she probably wasn’t).
Sloane was tied up with the oil spill at Winona. Christ, Garrison wondered, what would he do if a big
story suddenly should break? Although that, he knew, was unlikely. It had been a bad day and was not
improving.
He said to Jim Gold, the assistant city editor, “What does the budget look like, Jim?”
Gold looked at the sheet of paper in his typewriter. “Thin,” he said. “Not much here, Johnny. Not
really much at all.”
A phone rang. Gold reached out, spoke into the mouthpiece softly.
“It’s for you, Johnny,” he said. “Line two.”
Garrison picked up the phone at his desk, punched a button.
“Garrison,” he said.
“Johnny, this is Frank Norton,” said the voice at the other end. “Up at Lone Pine, remember?”
“Why, Frank,” said Garrison, genuinely pleased, “how great to hear from you. Just the other day I
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was talking with some of the fellows here about you. Telling them about the great setup you had. Your
own boss, the trout fishing at the edge of town. One of these days I’ll come up, primed for some of those
fish. How about it, Frank?”
“Johnny,” said Norton, “I think I may have something for you.
“Frank, you sound excited. What is going on?”
“Just maybe,” said Norton, “we may have a visitor from space. I can’t be sure
“You have what?” roared Garrison, jerking upright in his chair.
“I can’t be sure,” said Norton. “Something big came down out of the sky. Landed straddle of the
river. Smashed the bridge to hell.”
“Is it still there?”
“Still there,” said Norton. “Just sitting where it landed, only ten minutes or so ago. It’s huge. Big and
black. The town is going wild. The place is in an uproar. One man was killed.”
“Killed. How was he killed?”
“He shot at the thing. It shot back. Burned him to a cinder. I saw it happen. I saw him standing there
and smoking.”
“Oh, my God,” said Garrison. “What a story, right on top of you.
“Johnny,” said Norton, “I can’t be certain of what is going on. It happened too short a time ago to
know what’s going on. I thought you might want to send someone up to get some pictures.”
“Hold on, Frank,” said Garrison. “I tell you what I’m going to do. I’ll get right on it. But first, I want
to turn you over to someone here on the desk. You tell him what happened. Tell him everything. When
you get through, don’t hang up. I’ll get hold of a photographer and do some other things.”
“Fine, I’ll hang on.
Garrison cupped the receiver with his hand, held it out to Gold.
“Frank Norton is on the other end,” he said. “He’s owner and editor of a weekly paper at Lone Pine.
An old friend of mine. We went to school together. He says something fell out of the sky up there. One
man’s been killed. Fell just fifteen minutes or so ago. You get down what he has to tell you and then ask
him to hold for me. I want to talk with him again.”
“I’ll get it here,” said Gold. He picked up his phone. “Mr. Norton,” he said, “I’m Jim Gold. I’m
assistant city editor
Garrison swung around in his chair, spoke to Annie Dutton, city desk secretary.
“Annie,” he said, “get a hold of the plane charter people. See if they can have a plane standing by for
us. To fly to—what the hell town with an airstrip is closest to Lone Pine?”
“Bemidji,” said Annie. “That would be the closest.”
“All right. Then get hold of a ear rental outfit in Bemidji and arrange for a car to be waiting for us.
We’ll phone them later and tell them when we’ll be getting in.”
Annie picked up her phone and started dialing.
Garrison stood up and looked over the newsroom, flinching at what he saw.
Finley over in one corner, peeking away at a story—but Finley was the rankest cub, still wet behind
the ears. Sanderson, but she was not much better and had the unfailing habit of writing a bit too cutely.
Some day, by God, he thought, she would have to mend her ways or be out the door. Jamison, but
Jamison took forever. All right on an in-depth story, but too slow and deliberate for a story that was
breaking fast.
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