Then they were gone. As quickly as they had appeared, they disappeared, and we did not see them go. But we still stayed crouching there, afraid to speak, afraid to move. How long we stayed, I do not know.
Then fingers tapped against my shoulder. “They are gone,” the census-taker said. I had, until he tapped me, forgotten about the census-taker.
“They were confused,” he said. “Undoubtedly the horses milled around down there while you were being installed in the cave before your companions went away. It took them a while to work out the trail.”
Cynthia tried to speak and choked, the words dying in her throat. I knew exactly how it was; my own mouth was so dry I wondered if I would ever speak again.
She tried again and made it. “I thought they were looking for us. I thought they knew we were somewhere near.”
“It is over now,” the census-taker said. “The present danger’s past. Why don’t we move back into the cave and be comfortable?”
I rose, dragging Cynthia up with me. My muscles were tense and knotted from staying still so long in such an uncomfortable position. After staring so long out into the moonlight, the cave was dark as pitch, but I groped along the wall, found our piles of sacks and baggage and, sitting down, leaned against them. Cynthia sat down beside me.
The census-taker squatted down in front of us. We couldn’t really see him because the robe he wore was as black as the inside of the cave. All one could see of him was the whiteness of his face, a pasty blob in the darkness, a blob without any features.
“I suppose,” I said, “that we should thank you.”
He made a shrugging motion. “One seldom comes on allies,” he said. “When one does he makes the most of it, does whatever is possible to do.”
There were moving shadows in the cave, flickering shadows. Either they had just arrived or I had failed to notice them before. Now they were everywhere.
“Have you called in your people?” Cynthia asked, and from the tightness of her voice I guessed what it must have cost to keep it level.
“They have been here all the time,” said the census-taker. “It takes them a little to show themselves. They come on slow and easy. They have no wish to frighten.”
“It is difficult,” said Cynthia, “not to be frightened by ghosts. Or do you call them something else?”
“A better term,” said the census-taker, “might be shades.”
“Why shades?” I asked.
“The reason,” said the census-taker, “is one of somewhat involved semantics that would require an evening to explain. I am not sure I entirely understand myself. But it is the term they do prefer.”
“And you?” I asked. “Exactly what are you?”
“I do not understand,” said the census-taker.
“Look, we are humans. These other folks are shades. The creatures we were watching were robots—metal wolves. A matter of classification. How are you classified?”
“Oh, that,” said the census-taker. “That really is quite simple. I am a census-taker.”
“And the wolves,” said Cynthia. “I suppose they are Cemetery.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” said the census-taker, “although now only rarely used. In the early days there was much work for them to do.”
I was puzzled. “What kind of work?” I asked.
“Monsters,” said the census-taker and I could see that he did not want to talk about it.
The shades had stopped their incessant fluttering and were beginning to settle down so that one could see or at least guess at the shape of them.
“They like you,” said the census-taker. “They know you’re on their side.”
“We’re not on anyone’s side,” I told him. “We’re just running like hell to keep from getting clipped. Ever since we arrived there has been someone taking potshots at us.” One of the shades had squatted down beside the census-taker, shedding, as it did so, some of its nebulous, misty quality and becoming not solid by any means, but a little more solid. One still had a sense of being able to see through them, but the swirly lines had stilled and the outlines were sharper, and this squatting thing looked something like a rather arty drawing made upon a blackboard with a piece of chalk.
“If you do not mind,” said the arty piece of drawing, “I will introduce myself. My name was one that in the days long since struck terror on the planet Prairie, which is a strange name for a planet, but easily explained, because it is a very great planet, somewhat larger than the Earth and with land masses that are considerably larger than the areas of the oceans and all that land is flat, with no mountain, and all the land is prairie. There is no winter since the winds blow wild and free and the heat from the planet’s sun is equitably distributed over the entire planetary surface. We settlers of Prairie lived in an eternal summer. We were, of course, humans from the planet Earth, our forebears landing on Prairie in their third migration outward into the galaxy, hopping from one planet to another in an attempt to find better living space, and on Prairie we found it—but perhaps not the way you think. We built no great cities, for reasons which I may explain later, but not now, since it would take too long to tell. Rather, we became roaming nomads with our flocks and herds, which is, perhaps a more satisfactory way of life than any other man has been able to devise. There dwelt upon this planet a native population of most slimy, most ferocious and sneaky devils that refused to cooperate in any way with us and which did their best, in various nefarious ways, to do away with us. I started out, I think, to introduce myself, then forgot to tell my name. It is a good Earth name, for my family and my clan were always very careful to keep alive the heritage of Earth and—“
“His name,” said the census-taker, interrupting, “is Ramsay O’Gillicuddy, which is, in all conscience, a good Earth name. I tell it to you because, if left to him, he’d never manage to get around to it.”
“And now,” said the shade of Ramsay O’Gillicuddy, “once I have been introduced, I’ll tell you the story of my life.”
“No, you won’t,” said the census-taker. “We haven’t got the time. There is much we must discuss.”
“Then the story of my death.”
“All right,” the census-taker said, “if you keep it short.”
“They caught me,” said Ramsay O’Gillicuddy’s shade, “and made me a captive, these slimy, greasy natives. I shall not detail the situation which led to this shameful thing, for it would require the explanation of certain circumstances which the census-taker infers there is not the time to tell. But they caught me, anyhow, and then they held a long deliberate discussion, within my hearing, which I did not at all enjoy, about how best to dispose of me. None of the suggested procedures calculated to bring about my demise were pretty for the prospective victim to hold in contemplation. Nothing simple, you understand, such as a blow upon the head or a cutting of the throat, but all rather long, drawn-out, and intricate operations. Finally, after hours of talking back and forth, during which they politely invited my personal reactions to each plan put forward, they decided upon skinning me alive, explaining that they would not really be killing me and that because of this I should bear them no ill-will and that if I could manage to survive without my skin they would be glad to let me go. Once they had my skin, they informed me, they intended tanning it to make a drum upon which they could beat out a message of mockery to my clan.”
“With all due respect,” I said, “with a lady present …” but he paid no attention to me. “After I was dead,” he said, “and my body had been found, my clan decided to do a thing that had never been done before. All our honored dead had been buried on the prairie, with the graves unmarked, in the thought that a man could ask no more than to become one with the world that he had trod. Word had come to us some years ago of the Cemetery here on Earth, but we had paid slight attention to it because it was not our way. But now the clan met in council and decided that I should be accorded the honor of sleeping in the soil of Mother Earth. So a large barrel was made to house my poor r
emains which, pickled in alcohol, were carted to the planet’s one poor spaceport where the barrel was stored for many months, awaiting the arrival of a ship, on which it was finally taken to the nearest port where a funeral ship made regular calls.”
“You cannot comprehend,” said the census-taker, “what this decision cost his clan. They are poor people on the planet Prairie and their only wealth is counted in their flocks and herds. It took them many years to build back the livestock that was required for Cemetery to perform its services. It was a noble sacrifice and it’s a pity that it came out so sadly. Ramsay, as you may guess, was and still is the only inhabitant of Prairie ever to be buried in Cemetery—not that he was really buried there, not, at least, in quite the manner that had been intended. The officials of Cemetery, not the present management, but one of many years ago, happened at that time to need an extra casket to hide away certain items …”
“You mean artifacts,” I said.
“You know of this?” asked the census-taker.
“We suspected it,” I said.
“Your suspicions are quite right,” said the census-taker, “and our poor friend here was one of the victims of their treachery and greed. His casket was used for artifacts and what was left of him was thrown into a deep gorge, a natural charnel pit, at the Cemetery’s edge, and ever since that day his shade has wandered the Earth, as do so many others and for the self-same reason.”
“You tell it well,” said O’Gillicuddy, “and in very simple truth.”
“But let us not, please,” said Cynthia, “have any more of this. You have us quite convinced.”
“We have not the time for more,” said the census-taker. “We now must deliberate upon what further action the two of you should take. For once the wolves catch up with your two good friends, they will realize immediately that you are not with them and since Cemetery cares nothing about the two robots, but only for yourselves …”
“They’ll come back for us,” said Cynthia, sounding scared.
I wasn’t too brave about it, either. I did not like the thought of those great metal brutes snapping at our heels.
“How do they follow?” I asked.
“They have a sense of smell,” said the census-taker. “Not the same kind you humans have, but the ability to pick up and recognize the chemicals of odors. They have sharp sight. They might have trouble if you kept to high and stony ground, where you’d leave little trace and the scent of your passing would not cling. I had feared they might catch the scent of you when they came by a while ago, but you were higher than they were and a kindly up-draft of air must have carried the smell away from them.”
“They will be following the horses,” I said. “The trail will be wide open. They’ll travel fast. It may be only a few hours from now they’ll Find we’re not with the others.”
“You’ll have a little time,” said the census-taker. “It’s a few hours yet till dawn and you can’t start until it’s light. You’ll have to travel fast and you can carry little with you.”
“We’ll take food” said Cynthia, “And blankets …”
“Not too much food,” said the census-taker. “Only what you must. You’ll find food along the way. You have fish hooks, have you not?”
“Yes, we have a few fish hooks,” said Cynthia. “I bought a box of them, almost as an afterthought. But we can’t live on fish.”
“There are roots and berries.”
“But we don’t know which roots and berries.”
“You do not need to know,” said the census-taker. “I know all of them.”
“You’ll be going with us?”
“We’ll be going with you,” said the census-taker.
“Of course we will,” said O’Gillicuddy. “Every one of us. It’s little we can do, but we’ll be of some slight service. We can watch for followers …”
“But ghosts …” I said.
“Shades,” said O’Gillicuddy.
“But shades are not abroad in daylight.”
“That is a human fallacy,” said O’Gillicuddy. “We cannot, of course, be seen in daylight. But neither can we be at night if it is not our wish.”
The other shades made mutters of agreement.
“We’ll make up our packs,” said Cynthia, “and leave all the rest behind. Elmer and Bronco will come looking for us here. We’ll leave a note for them. We’ll pin it to one of the packs, where they’ll be sure to see it.”
“We’ll have to tell them where we’re heading,” I said. “Does anyone have any idea where we’ll be going?”
“Into the mountains,” said the census-taker.
“Do you know a river,” Cynthia asked, “that is called the Ohio?”
“I know it very well,” said the census-taker. “Do you want to go to the Ohio?”
“Now, look here,” I said, “we can’t go chasing …”
“Why not?” asked Cynthia. “If we’re going somewhere we might as well go where we wish to go …”
“But I thought that we agreed …”
“I know,” said Cynthia. “You made it very plain. Your composition has first claim and I suppose it still will have to have it. But you can make it anywhere, can’t you?”
“Certainly. Within reason.”
“All right,” said Cynthia. “We’ll head toward the Ohio. If that is all right with you,” she said to the census-taker.
“It’s all right with me,” he said. “We’ll have to cross the mountains to reach the river. I hope we can lose the wolves somewhere in the mountains. But if I may inquire …”
“It’s a long story,” I told him curtly. “We can tell you later.”
“Have you ever heard,” asked Cynthia, “of an immortal man who lives a hermit’s life?”
She never let go of anything once she got her claws in it.
“I think I have,” said the census-taker. “Very long ago. I suspect it was a myth. Earth had so many myths.”
“But not any longer,” I said.
He shook his head, rather sadly. “No longer. All Earth’s myths are dead.”
Chapter 14
The sky had clouded over and the wind had shifted to the north, growing cold and sharp. Despite the chill, there was a strange, wet smell in the air. The pine trees that grew along the slope threshed and moaned.
My watch had stopped, not that it made much difference. It had been fairly useless ever since leaving Alden. On board the funeral ship, which operated on galactic time, it had been impossible. And Earth time, it had turned out, was not the same as Alden time, although with a little mathematical calculation one could get along. I had inquired about the time at the settlement where we’d waited for the hoedown, but no one seemed to know or care. So far as I could learn, there was only one clock in the settlement, a rather crude, homemade affair, made mostly out of carved wood, that more than half the time stood dead and silent because no one ever seemed to think to wind it. So I’d set my watch by the sun, but had missed the moment when it stood directly overhead and had been compelled to estimate how long since it had started its decline to the west. Now it had stopped and I could not get it started. Why I bothered I don’t know; I was as well off without it. The census-taker clumped on ahead, with Cynthia behind him and myself bringing up the rear. We had covered a lot of ground since dawn, although how long we had been walking I had no way of knowing. The sun was covered by the clouds and my watch had stopped and there was no way to know the time of day.
There was no sign of the ghosts, although I had the queasy feeling they were not far away. And the census-taker troubled me as much as the invisible ghosts, for in the daylight he was a most disturbing thing. Seen face to face, he was not human unless one could regard a rag doll as being human. For his face was a rag-doll face, with a pinched mouth that was slightly askew, eyes that gave the impression of a cross-stitch and no nose or chin at all. His face ran straight down into his neck with no intervening jaw, and the cowl and robe that I had taken for clothing, when one had a close
look at him, seemed a part of his grotesque body. If it had not seemed so improbable, one would have been convinced that they were his body. Whether he had feet I didn’t know, for the robe (or body) came down so close to the ground that his feet were covered. He moved as if he had feet but there was no sign of them and I found myself wondering, if he had no feet, how he managed to move along so well. Move he did. He set a brisk pace, hobbling along ahead of us. It was all that we could do to keep up with him.
He had not spoken since we had started, but had simply led the way, with the two of us following and neither of us speaking, either, for at the pace that we were going we didn’t have the breath to speak.
The way was wild, an unbroken wilderness with no sign that it ever had been occupied by man, as it surely must have been at one time. We followed the ridgetops for miles, at times descending from them to cross a small valley, then climb a series of hills again to follow other ridgetops. From the ridges we could see vast stretches of the countryside, but nowhere was there a clearing. We found no ruins, saw no crumbling chimneys, ran across no ancient fence rows. Down in the valleys the woods stood thick and heavy; on the ridgetops the trees thinned out to some extent. It was a rocky land; huge boulders lay strewn all about and great gray outcroppings of rock jutted from the hillsides. There was a little life. A few birds flew chirping among the trees and occasionally there were small life forms I recognized as rabbits and squirrels, but they were not plentiful.
We had stopped briefly to drink from shallow streams that ran through the valleys we had crossed, but the stops had been only momentary, long enough to lie flat upon our bellies and gulp a few mouthfuls of water, while the census-taker (who did not seem to need to drink) waited impatiently, and then we hurried on.
Now, for the first time since we had set out, we halted. The ridge we had been traveling rose to a high point and then sloped down for a distance and on this high point lay a scattered jumble of barn-size rocks, grouped together in a rather haphazard fashion, as if some ancient giant had held a fistful of them and had been playing with them, as a boy will play with marbles, but having gotten tired of them, had dropped them here, where they had remained. Stunted pine trees grew among them, clutching for desperate footholds with twisted, groping roots.