The stairway was a long one and rather steep and we took our time. We had the stairway to ourselves, for there was no one else about, although a short time earlier there had been three or four people standing on one of the porches of the building.
The stairs at the blufftop ended in another plaza, much larger than the one at the river’s edge, and we walked across this toward the central porch. Up close, the building was even more beautiful than it had been at a distance. The stone was snowy white, the arthitectural lines were refined and delicate, and there was about the whole of it a sort of reverential aura. No lettering was sculptured anywhere to tell one what it was and I found myself wondering, in a dumb, benumbed sort of way, exactly what it was.
The porch opened into a foyer, frozen in that hushed dimness that one associates with museums or with picture galleries. A glassed-in case stood in the center of the room, with a light playing on the object standing in the case. Two guards were standing by the door that led off the foyer—or I supposed that they were guards, for they wore uniforms. Echoing from deep inside the building could be heard the muffled sound of footfalls and of voices.
We came up to the case and there, sitting in it, was that very jug that we had been shown at lunch. It had to be the same, I told myself. No other warrior could have leaned so dejectedly upon his shield, no other broken spear trail quite so defeated on the ground.
Cynthia had leaned down to stare into the case and now she rose. “The potter’s mark is the same,” she said. “I am sure of that.”
“How can you be so sure? You can’t read Greek. You said you couldn’t.”
“That’s true, but you can make out the name. Nicosthenes. It must say Nicosthenes made me.”
“He might have made a lot of them,” I said. I don’t know why I argued. I don’t know why I fought against the almost certain knowledge that here was the very piece that had stood on the sideboard in the census-taker’s house.
“I am sure he did,” she said. “He must have been a famous potter. This must have been a masterpiece for the census-taker to have selected it. And no potter, once he’d made one, would duplicate a masterpiece. It probably was made for some great man of the time …”
“Perhaps for the census-taker.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s right. Perhaps for the census-taker.”
I was so interested in the jug that I did not notice one of the guards had moved over toward me until he spoke.
“You, I think,” he said, “must be Fletcher Carson. Is that true?”
I straightened up to face him. “Yes,” I said, “I am, but how did you …”
“And the lady with you is Miss Lansing?”
“Yes, she is.”
“I wonder if the two of you would be so kind as to come with me.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why should we go with you?”
“There is an old friend who would like to speak with you.”
“That is absurd,” said Cynthia. “We have no friends at all. Not here, we haven’t.”
“I should hate to insist,” said the guard, speaking very gently.
“Perhaps it’s the census-taker,” Cynthia said.
I asked the guard, “A little guy with a rag-doll face and a prissy mouth?”
“No,” said the guard. “Not like that at all.”
He waited for us and we stepped around the display case and went along with him.
He led us down a long corridor that was lined with other display cases and tables where many items were neatly arranged and labeled, but we moved along so smartly that I had no chance to make out any of them. Some distance down the corridor, the guard stopped at a door and knocked. A voice told him to come in.
He opened the door to let us through, then closed the door behind us, not entering himself. We stood just inside the door and looked at the thing—not a man, but a thing—that sat behind a desk.
“So here you are,” said the thing. “You took your time in coming. I had begun to fear that you would not come, that the plan had gone awry.”
The voice came out of what seemed to be the mechanical equivalent of a human head, attached to what might be roughly described as the equivalent of a human body. A robot, but not like any robot I had ever seen—not like Elmer, not like any honest robot. A frankly mechanical contraption that made no real concession to the human form.
“You’re talking nonsense,” I said. “We are here. The guard brought us. Would it be too much to ask …”
“Not at all,” said the thing behind the desk. “We knew one another long ago. I suppose you may be pardoned for not recognizing me, for I have changed considerably. You once knew me as Ramsay O’Gillicuddy.”
It seemed outrageous on the face of it, of course, but there was something in that voice that almost made me think so.
“Mr. O’Gillicuddy,” said Cynthia, “there is one thing you must tell me. How many metal wolves were there?”
“Why, that’s an easy one,” said O’Gillicuddy. “There were three of them. Elmer killed two of them and only one was left.”
He motioned at chairs set before the desk. “And now that you have tested me, please sit down. We have catching up to do.”
When we were seated, he said, “Well, this is very cheerful and cozy and it is wonderful that you are here. We had it all planned out and it seemed to be so foolproof, but in temporal matters one can never be entirely sure. I shudder at the thought of what would have happened if you had not arrived. And I have every right to shudder, for I know exactly what would have happened. This all would have if disappeared. Although, come to think of it, that’s not exactly right …”
“By the phrase, all this,” I said, “I suppose you mean this—museum. It is a museum, is it not, housing the collection of the census-taker?”
“Then you know about the census-taker?”
“You might say we guessed.”
“Of course,” O’Gillicuddy said, “you would have. You both are quite astute.”
“Where is the census-taker now?” asked Cynthia. “We had hoped to find him here.”
“Once he had seen his collections housed,” said O’Gillicuddy, “this collection and the original and much larger collection recovered from its hiding place in the old Balkans area, he took off for the planet Alden to lead an expedition of archaeologists to his old home planet. Not having heard from it or any of his fellows for many centuries, he is convinced that his race has disappeared, for one of the many reasons which might bring about the disappearance of a race. So far we have had no word of the expedition. We await it anxiously.”
“We?”
“Myself and all the rest of my brother shades.”
“You mean you’re all like this?”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “It was a part of the bargain that we made. But I forget you do not know about the agreement. I shall have to tell you.” We waited to be told.
“It goes this way,” he said, getting down to business. “From here we’ll send you back to your own present time, to that temporal moment you would have expected to arrive at if the time-trap had worked as I said it would…”
“But you bungled then,” I said, “and you will bungle now and …”
He raised a metallic hand to silence me. “We never bungled,” he said. “We did what we intended. We brought you here, because if we had not brought you here the plan would not have worked. If you were not here to have the plan unfolded, you’d not know what to do. But going back with the plan in mind, you can bring this all about.”
“Now, wait a minute there,” I protested. “You’re getting this all tangled up. There is no sense …”
“There is an amazing lot of sense to it,” he said. “It works this way. You were in the distant past and we bring you forward to this future so you can be told the plan, then you’ll be sent back to your present so you can implement the plan that will make it possible for the future you now occupy to happen,”
I jumped to my fe
et and banged the desk. “I never have heard so damn much foolishness in all my life,” I shouted. ‘ “You’ve got time all tangled up. How can we be brought into a future that won’t exist unless we are in our present to do whatever damn fool thing we have to do to make this future happen?”
O’Gillicuddy was somewhat smug about it. “I admit,” he said, “that it may seem slightly strange. But when you think of it, you will perceive the logic of it. Now we’re going to send you back in time …”
“Missing your mark,” I said, “by several thousand years …”
“Not at all,” said O’Gillicuddy. “We’ll hit it on the nose. We no longer depend upon mere psychic ability. We now have a machine, a temporal selector, that can send you anywhere you wish, to the small part of a second. Its development was a part of the bargain that was made.”
“You talk about plans,” said Cynthia, “and bargains. It might help a little if you tell us what they are.”
“Given half a chance,” said O’Gillicuddy, “I would be charmed to do so. We will send you back to your temporal present and you will go back to Cemetery and see Maxwell Peter Bell …”
“And Maxwell Peter Bell will throw me out upon my ear,” I said, “and maybe …”
“Not,” said O’Gillicuddy, “if you have two war machines standing just outside, loaded for bear and ready. They’ll make all the difference.”
“But how can you be sure the war machines …”
“You asked them, didn’t you, to be at a certain place at a certain time?”
“Yes, we did,” I said.
“All right, then. You will see Maxwell Peter Bell and you will let him know that you can prove he is using Cemetery as a cache for smuggled artifacts and you will tell him …”
“But smuggling artifacts is not against the law.”
“No, of course it’s not. But can you imagine what will happen to Mother Earth’s carefully polished image if it should be known what is being done? There would be a smell not only of dishonesty but of ghoulery about it that would take them years to wipe away, if they ever could.”
“It might work,” I said, somewhat reluctant to admit it.
“You will explain to him most carefully,” said O’Cillicuddy, “being sure he does not mistake your meaning or intent, that you might just possibly find it unnecessary to say anything about it if he should agree to certain actions.”
O’Gillicuddy counted the actions on his fingers, one by one. “Cemetery will agree to donate to Alden University all its holdings in artifacts, being very vigilant in recovering and turning over all that they have hidden, and henceforth will desist from any dealing in them. Cemetery will provide the necessary shipping to transport the artifacts to Alden and immediately will implement the establishment of regular passenger service to Earth at a rate consistent with other travel fares throughout the galaxy, providing reasonably priced accommodations for tourists and Pilgrims who may wish to visit Earth. Cemetery will establish and maintain museums to house the collection of historic artifacts collected since mankind’s beginning by a certain devoted student who is designated by the name of Ronex from the planet Abernax. Cemetery will …”
“That is the census-taker?” Cynthia asked.
“That is the census-taker,” said O’Gillicuddy, “and now if I might proceed …”
“There’s one thing,” said Cynthia, “that still bothers me a lot. What about Wolf? Why should he first be hunting us and then…”
“Wolf,” said O’Gillicuddy, “was not exactly a metal wolf. He was one of the census-taker’s robots that had been infiltrated into Cemetery’s wolf pack. The census-taker, as you must understand, was no one’s fool, and he kept a hand in almost everything transpiring on the Earth. And now if I may proceed …”
“Please do,” said Cynthia.
O’Gillicuddy went on, counting off the points on his fingers. “Cemetery is to contribute funds and all necessary resources to a research program aimed at a reliable system of temporal travel. Cemetery likewise is to contribute all necessary funds and resources to another research program aimed at discovering and developing a method by which human personalities can be transferred in their entireties to a robotic brain and once such a method is developed the first objects of such transfers shall be a group of beings known as shades now existing on the planet Earth and …”
“That’s how you …” said Cynthia.
“That’s how I came to be as you see me now. But to go on. Cemetery shall agree to the appointment of a galactic watchdog commission which will not only see to it that the provisions of this agreement are carried out, but which shall, in perpetuity, examine Cemetery’s books and actions and make recommendations for the conducting of its business.”
He came to a stop.
“And that is it?” I asked.
“That is it,” he told me. “I hope we thought of everything.”
“I believe you did,” I told him. “Now, if Cemetery will only buy it.”
“I think they already have,” said O’Gillicuddy. “You are here, aren’t you? And I am here and the museum’s here and the temporal selector is waiting for you.”
“You thought of everything,” said Cynthia, with some scorn and anger. “There is one thing you forgot. What about Fletcher’s composition? How could you have forgotten that? If it hadn’t been for his dream of making a composition, none of this would have come about. You don’t know how he worked for it and dreamed of it and …”
“I thought you might ask that,” said O’Gillicuddy. “If you’ll just step across the hall to the auditorium …”
“You mean you have it here!”
“Of course we have it here. Mr. Carson and Bronco did a splendid job of it. It is a masterpiece. It has lived all these years. It will live forever.”
I shook my head, bewildered.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Carson?” asked O’Gillicuddy. “You should be very pleased.”
“Don’t you see what you’ve done,” said Cynthia, angrily, her eyes bright with tears. “Experiencing it would spoil it all. How could you possibly suggest that he see and hear and feel a work he has not even done? You should not have told him. Now it will always be in the back of his mind that he must create a masterpiece. He wasn’t even thinking about a masterpiece. He was just planning to do a competent piece of work and now you …”
I put out a hand to stop her. “It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll know, of course. But Bronco will be there with me. He’ll keep me to the mark.”
“Well, in such a case,” said O’Gillicuddy, rising, “there is just one more thing for you to do before you go back to your time. There are some friends waiting outside to say hello to you.”
He came spidering around the table on his unhuman legs attached to his unhuman body and we followed him out the door, down the corridor, and across the foyer.
They were lined up outside the porch, the five of them, waiting there for us—the war machines, Elmer and Bronco and Wolf.
It was a little awkward. We stood on the porch, looking at them and they looked back at us.
“We’ll be waiting for you when you go back,” said Elmer. “We’ll all be waiting for you.”
“I can understand the war machines being there,” said Cynthia. “We asked them to meet us, but you …”
“Wolf came and got us,” said Bronco.
“How could he?” I asked. “You were out to get him. You’d already gotten two of his fellows and …”
“He play it cute,” said Bronco. “He make to play with us. He romp all around us, keeping out of reach. He lay down on his back and kick his legs in air. He grin at us with teeth. We figure he want us to follow him. He make it seem important.”
Wolf grinned at us—with teeth.
“It’s time to go,” said O’Gillicuddy. “We only wanted you to be sure they would be waiting for you.”
We turned and followed him back into the building.
I said to Cynthia, “It will soon be
over for you. You can go back to Alden and fill Thorney in with everything that happened…”
“I’m not going back,” she said.
“But I don’t see …”
“You’ll be going on with your composition. Would you have room for an apprentice assistant?”
“I think I would,” I said.
“You remember, Fletch, what you told me when we thought we were trapped back there in time? You said that you would love me. I intend to hold you to that “
I reached out and found her hand.
I wanted to be held to it.
The End
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Clifford D. Simak, Cemetery World
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