I Am Crying All Inside and Other Stories (25 page)

He handed the head-set to Woods and carried the box to the glass cage. He set it on the cage and moved it slowly back and forth, trying to intercept the ultrasonics emanating from the little Martian animal.

Woods slipped on the phones, sat waiting breathlessly.

He had expected to hear a high, thin sound, but no sound came. Instead a dreadful sense of loneliness crept over him, a sense of bafflement, lack of understanding, frustration. Steadily the feeling mounted in his brain, a voiceless wail of terrible loneliness and misery—a heart-wrenching cry of home-sickness.

He knew he was listening to the wailing of the little Martian animal, was “hearing” its cries, like the whimperings of a lost puppy on a storm-swept street.

His hands went up and swept the phones from his head.

He stared at Gilmer, half in horror.

“It's lonesome,” he said. “Crying for Mars. Like a lost baby.”

Gilmer nodded.

“It's not trying to talk to anyone now,” he said. “Just lying there, crying its heart out. Not dangerous now. Never intentionally dangerous, but dangerous just the same.”

“But,” cried Woods, “you were here all afternoon. It didn't bother you. You didn't go insane.”

Gilmer shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I didn't go insane. Just the animals. And they would become immune after a while with this one certain animal. Because Fur-Ball is intelligent. His frantic attempts to communicate with some living things touched my brain time and time again … but it didn't stay. It swept on. It ignored me.

“You see, back in the ship it found that the human brain couldn't communicate with it. It recognized it as an alien being. So it didn't waste any more time with the human brain. But it tried the brains of monkeys and elephants and lions, hoping madly that it would find some intelligence to which it could talk, some intelligence that could explain what had happened, tell it where it was, reassure it that it wasn't marooned from Mars forever.

“I am convinced it has no visual sense, very little else except this ultrasonic voice to acquaint itself with its surroundings and its conditions. Maybe back on Mars it could talk to its own kind and to other things as well. It didn't move around much. It probably didn't have many enemies. It didn't need so many senses.”

“It's intelligent,” said Woods. “Intelligent to a point where you can hardly think of it as an animal.”

Gilmer nodded.

“You're right,” he said. “Maybe it is just as human as we are. Maybe it represents the degeneration of a great race that once ruled Mars. …”

He jerked the cigar out of his mouth and flung it savagely on the floor.

“Hell,” he said, “what's the use of speculation? Probably you and I will never know. Probably the human race will never know.”

He reached out and grasped the tank of carbon monoxide, started to wheel it toward the glass cage.

“Do you have to kill it, Doc?” Woods whispered. “Do you really have to kill it?”

Gilmer wheeled on him savagely.

“Of course I have to kill it,” he roared. “What if the story ever got out that Fur-Ball killed the boys in the ship and all those animals today? What if he drove others insane? There'd be no more trips to Mars for years to come. Public opinion would make that impossible. And when another one does go out they'll have instructions not to bring back any Fur-Balls—and they'll have to be prepared for the effects of ultrasonics.”

He turned back to the tank and then wheeled back again.

“Woods,” he said, “you and I have been friends for a long time. We've had many a beer together. You aren't going to publish this, are you, Jack?”

He spread his feet.

“I'd kill you if you did,” he roared.

“No,” said Jack, “just a simple little story. Fur-Ball is dead. Couldn't take it, here on Earth.”

“There's another thing,” said Gilmer. “You know and I know that ultrasonics of the thirty million order can turn men into insane beasts. We know it can be controlled in atmosphere, probably over long distances. Think of what the war-makers of the world could do with that weapon! Probably they'll find out in time—but not from us!”

“Hurry up,” Woods said bitterly. “Hurry up, will you. Don't let Fur-Ball suffer any longer. You heard him. There's no way we can help him. Man got him into this—there's only one way man can get him out of it. He'd thank you for death if he only knew.”

Gilmer laid hands on the tank again.

Woods reached for a telephone. He dialed the
Express
number.

In his mind he could hear that puppyish whimper, that terrible, soundless cry of loneliness, that home-sick wail of misery. A poor huddled little animal snatched fifty million miles from home, among strangers, a hurt little animal crying for attention that no one could offer.

“
Daily Express,
” said the voice of Bill Carson, night editor.

“This is Jack,” the reporter said. “Thought maybe you'd want something for the morning edition. Fur-Ball just died—yeah, Fur-Ball, the animal the
Hello Mars IV
brought in—Sure, the little rascal couldn't take it.”

Behind him he heard the hiss of gas as Gilmer opened the valve.

“Bill,” he said, “I just thought of an angle. You might say the little cuss died of loneliness … yeah, that's the idea, grieving for Mars. … Sure, it ought to give the boys a real sob story to write. …”

Gunsmoke Interlude

The last of Cliff's fourteen known Westerns to be published, “Gunsmoke Interlude” is cut from a different kind of literary cloth than the others—which leads one to wonder whether it might not have been written as a farewell to the genre. Still, it's difficult to say just when this story was written, since no story by the name of “Gunsmoke Interlude” appears in Cliff's admittedly sporadic notes. Originally appearing in
10 Story Western Magazine
in 1952, the story might well have been written years earlier; those same notes seem to hint that more than one Simak story sold in the late forties went unpublished. At any rate, this one reads very, very differently from the outpouring of Westerns that Cliff produced during and just after World War II.

It's a story about redemption.

—dww

The great black horse was lame and Clay was half asleep in the saddle when they came to Gila Gulch. It was no place nor time to stop, for the border was just a day ahead and John Trent just a day behind. But there was no choice. The horse would not last another day and Clay needed food and sleep and that last day's ride would be the worst of all the nightmare flight, for it went through a tortuous mountain spur where the going would be neither fast nor easy.

In front of the livery barn, Clay slid from the saddle, led the horse inside.

“Give him the works,” he told the livery man. “He's earned it.”

Clay's eyes went over the three horses in the stall.

“This all you got?” he asked.

The man nodded. “Business shot to hell,” he said, “ever since the town got all pure and saintly. Used to have a dozen in here, but not any more.”

Clay looked at the three horses again. They were sorry beasts, none of them the kind of horse he needed.

“This one of yours won't be traveling for a while,” said the livery man. “You pushed him pretty hard.”

“Stepped on a stone,” said Clay.

He went outside and stood for a moment, hitching up his gun belt, sizing up the place.

Gila Gulch slept in the early morning sun, quiet and dusty, but with an unpainted, weather-beaten look about it even in the softness of the sun's first light.

He walked down the street to the place that said
Hotel
and went into the bar entrance. A barkeep was dusting off the furniture and he took his time getting back behind the bar.

“I need something,” Clay told him, “to cure my saddle sores.”

The barkeep set out a bottle and a glass.

Clay took them and walked to a table and let himself down easily into a chair, for the first time feeling the utter weariness that almost a thousand miles of riding had hung upon his massive frame. He pushed his hat back off his forehead and slapped dust off his legs. Then he shoved the glass aside, uncorked the bottle and raised it to his lips.

He set the bottle down and wiped his mouth and felt the liquor hit his stomach and explode and warm his whole insides.

But it didn't taste the same, he told himself. It didn't taste as good as it tasted once. It failed to take hold of him the way it once had taken hold of him.

A lot of things,
he thought,
aren't the way they used to be.

A fly buzzed nerve-wrackingly in the silence of the morning, trying to get through a window pane.

Clay sat sprawled in his chair, thinking of the way things used to be, ticking off the names of men who now were dead, of women who were almost forgotten, of towns that were no longer anything but names.

The barkeep leaned upon the bar and picked his teeth with a sharpened match end. Clay kept on sitting there, drinking every now and then.

“Want some breakfast?” the barkeep asked.

“Breakfast and room,” said Clay. “I'm way behind on sleeping.”

“What you want for breakfast?”

“Anything you got,” said Clay. “I'm not particular.”

He was eating breakfast when the kid came in with the star shining on his vest.

The kid walked over and sat down across from him.

“First time in town?” the kid asked.

Clay nodded.

“I got to tell you then,” said the kid. “We got a rule around here about checking in your guns.”

“I'm a stranger here,” said Clay. “I hadn't heard about your rule.”

“You check them in,” said the kid, speaking free and easy. “When you leave town you get them back again.”

“And if I don't?” asked Clay.

“You're heading into trouble,” said the kid, businesslike and crisp, but still with friendliness.

“I'd feel undressed without my guns,” said Clay, thinking that he couldn't very well tell the kid John Trent might come riding into town and he would need those guns.

“Anyhow,” he said, “I'm going straight to bed. I don't aim to cause no trouble.”

“I'll give you until sundown,” the kid told him evenly. “At sundown I'll walk up the street. If you aim to keep those guns, you be there to argue, or I'll come in and get them.”

“I'll be there,” said Clay, and he said it matter-of-factly, for that was the way it was. That was the way it had been many times before. It was just a part of living. And, anyhow, this brash kid had no idea who he was calling out.

He ate in silence after the kid had left, the barkeep leaning on his elbows and still picking at his teeth.

Later, in his room, lying on the hard bed and staring at the ceiling, he thought about the kid and the star he wore and the way he talked, not tough or mean, but businesslike and calm.

And those kind, Clay told himself, were the ones to be afraid of. Although Clay had not been afraid of any man for many, many years. He was not afraid of men and he no longer cared for men. He no longer cared, he forced himself to admit, for anything at all. Not even for his own life, probably, although he'd never thought of that before.

And now here he was, staring at the ceiling. Here he was, one day away from freedom, one day from the moment when he could put his past behind him and start a new life. Lying there, he wondered what he had to start a new life with.

A hundred thousand dollars, of course, tucked away across the border, and that was a lot of money. But it was all he had. He'd have a new name, too, but that didn't really matter. Names never really mattered. A hundred thousand dollars safe across the border and ten thousand on his head, with John Trent riding hard just a day behind to collect the ten thousand.

He'd ride out in the evening, on one of the sorry nags at the livery stable and although the horse would not be the kind he wanted, it would take him where he wished to go. But before he left, he'd have to kill the kid, and that was a bothersome thing to have to do at a time like this.

I'd rather not kill him,
he thought,
but he shouldn't talk so big.
He could take his guns down the street, of course, and give them to the kid and say take good care of them, I'll be back to get them along toward suppertime. But he might need those guns before suppertime and, anyhow, no one ever before had taken the guns of Coleman Clay and it was too late to let it happen now.

Too late, he thought. Too late to bring back the way whiskey used to taste, too late to give back the lives of men that went to buy the hundred thousand safe across the border.

He closed his eyes and sleep hit him like a hammer.

The sun was low in the western sky when he awoke and went downstairs.

A team of horses stood at the rail in front of the hotel, hitched to a ramshackle buck-board. A man was talking with the clerk.

“I'm checking out,” said Clay.

“That'll be two dollars,” said the clerk.

Clay paid him and asked, “Got some paper and a pencil? I want to write a letter.”

The clerk nodded. He tore a sheet of lined paper from a cheap tablet and handed it and a pencil stub to him.

“If it ain't too long,” said the man who had been talking to the clerk, “I'll wait for it.”

“Jim's the mail carrier,” said the clerk. “We ain't got no post office here. Nearest post office is Buckhorn.”

“You're lucky, stranger,” said the mail carrier. “I just go over there twice a week. It's a long pull. Sixty miles, almost.”

Clay nodded his thanks. He went to the table in one corner of the room, wrote laboriously:

Dear Sis: I'm on my way down to Mexico to look over something. I may take it in my head to settle down there. I'll write you later.

You haven't told me where Gordon is lately. I thought maybe I'd run into him, but I haven't.

He signed the letter with a name that was not Coleman Clay and went back to the desk to get an envelope. He went back to the table and addressed the envelope to
Mrs. Esther Blaine, Pontiac, Ill.
Then he took a roll of bills out of his pocket, peeled off half a dozen, folded them carefully with the letter and sealed the envelope.

At the desk he bought a stamp and the clerk reached down behind the desk and brought up the mail bag. He held its open mouth toward Clay and Clay dropped the letter in it. The clerk jerked it shut.

“There you are,” he told the mail carrier, shoving the pouch across the desk.

The mail carrier picked it up. “Got to get going,” he said.

He started toward the door, then turned back.

“If I was you, stranger,” he said, “I'd change my mind. That kid is pure poison with his hardware.”

“No,” said Clay.

“All right,” said the mail carrier, “have it your own way. Sorry I can't stay and see it.”

He went out the door and the clerk and Clay stood silently and watched him climb into the buckboard and wheel the team out into the street.

“This marshal of yours,” asked Clay, “what might be his name?”

“Blaine,” said the clerk, “Gordon Blaine.”

Clay clutched the edge of the desk and hung on so hard that his fingers grew white beneath the tan of sun.

“Gordon Blaine,” he said, and he kept his face unchanged even while his fingers whitened. “Never heard the name before.”

“Nobody else did, either,” said the clerk. “He just came out of nowhere. This town killed four marshals before he took the job. Ain't no one tried to kill Blaine now for a month or two.”

Clay laughed and turned away from the desk like a wooden man. He marched out through the door onto the porch.

The sun was setting.

Clay remembered the letter he'd called for at a post office up in Montana a year or two ago.

Gordon is going out west. There's nothing I can do to stop him since you have done so well. He says there's no use of anyone staying here and slaving for a living when one can make a fortune like you have in the West. Maybe you will see him out there some time …

The street was hushed and deserted but there were, Clay knew, faces at every window, faces waiting to watch the two men who would walk along the street.

The mail carrier's buckboard was a dwindling dot on the prairie that stretched eastward from the town.

He saw the kid come down the steps from the marshal's office and walk out to the center of the dusty street. There he stood and waited, guns on his hips, hands hanging at his side.

I could still unbuckle my guns and walk to meet him with them in my hand,
Clay told himself. But even as he thought of it, he knew he couldn't do it. It was an action that was counter to everything he'd ever done, everything he'd believed in, every code he'd followed.

He paced slowly down the steps and into the center of the street. He turned around and faced the kid and they started walking.

In a little while,
Clay thought
, John Trent will come riding in and he'll only tell them who I am. Esther will never know, for the letter will be mailed sixty miles from here, although perhaps she'll wonder why I don't write from Mexico.

John Trent will come riding in and he'll only know me by the name of Coleman Clay, with a price upon my head. No one else, absolutely no one, knows my other name. And the kid will never know.

Ten thousand dollars, Clay told himself, should set a young fellow up in fine style and his Ma will be right proud.