No Life of Their Own: And Other Stories (The Complete Short Fiction of Clifford D. Simak Book 5) by Clifford D. Simak Page A
Authors: Clifford D. Simak
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cabinet above a sink he lifted down a box and opened it. Inside I saw the crystals.
“Look,” said Anderson.
He upended the box, dumped the salts into the sink, reached out and turned the tap. In silence we watched the water wash them down the drain.
“Try and tell that story now,” he said. “You’ll be laughed out of your profession. There is no evidence. I am the only evidence and I will soon be dead.
“I’ve waited for this day—for the day when I could pour them down the drain. I’ve done what I set out to do. I’ve taken the terror out of space. I’ve answered the prayers I have seen in the eyes of dying men. No one, even if they knew, and believed, my story, could say now that I had been wrong in doing what I did.”
“You forget just one thing, Doctor.”
“What is that?”
“There still is evidence. Someone stole some salts from Eli.”
He blanched at that. I knew he would. In the triumph of the moment he had forgotten it. His hand shook as he put back the box, turned off the water.
And in that instant, I think, I realized what he stood for. I could envision those long lonely years. Facing failure every year, despairing of ever doing what need be done. Keeping within his brain a knowledge that would have brought him greater glory than any man had ever had and yet keeping silent because he knew what his secret would do to the people of the System.
“Look, Doctor,” I said.
“Yes?”
“About those salts that Eli had. You needn’t worry. I know where they are.”
“You know where they are?”
“Yes, but I didn’t until a minute ago.”
He didn’t ask the question, but I answered it.
“I’ll do what’s necessary,” I said.
Silently he held out his hand to me.
I knew where those salts were, all right. But the problem was to reach them.
I knew, too, who had murdered Eli. But there was no way to prove it. The salts would have furnished the proof, but it was doubtful if any court, any jury would have believed my story. And using them as evidence would have told the world, would have broken faith with Dr. Jennings Anderson.
My first job was to get them.
How I did it I still don’t clearly remember. I remember that I came into the west port of the city with a jam of other cars, gambling on the belief the police would be watching outgoing cars, would pay little attention to incoming ones.
Once inside I ran the car into a side street, ducked it into an alley and abandoned it. I remember dodging up alleys, hiding in recessed doorways to avoid passers-by, working nearer and nearer to my apartment house.
Getting into the house was simpler than I thought.
Plain-clothes men were watching the place, but their watch had eased up a bit. After all, what murderer would be crazy enough to come back to a place he knew was being watched?
I waited my chance and took it. I met one man in the hall, but turned to one of the doors, fumbling in my pocket as if for a key, shielding my face from him until he was past.
My own room was unguarded. Probably they figured that it was impossible for me to slip into the building, so why guard the room?
The place had been ransacked, but nothing, apparently, had been taken.
Swiftly I went to the dresser in the bedroom, pulled out the drawer, lifted out the sand flask. With trembling fingers I pried out the cork, shook out the contents.
There was no mistaking the appearance of the white sand. It wasn’t white sand—it was the crystals Eli had shown me at the Sun Spot.
What was it Anderson had said—“ if resynthesis actually does occur a man would grow younger— ”
I hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. Then I scooped up some of the crystals, put them in my mouth and swallowed. They went down hard—like sand. But they went down. I took some more, just to make sure. I had no way of knowing how many I should take. Then I washed the rest down the bathroom drain.
After that I sat down to wait. I knew it was a dangerous thing to do, but
“Look,” said Anderson.
He upended the box, dumped the salts into the sink, reached out and turned the tap. In silence we watched the water wash them down the drain.
“Try and tell that story now,” he said. “You’ll be laughed out of your profession. There is no evidence. I am the only evidence and I will soon be dead.
“I’ve waited for this day—for the day when I could pour them down the drain. I’ve done what I set out to do. I’ve taken the terror out of space. I’ve answered the prayers I have seen in the eyes of dying men. No one, even if they knew, and believed, my story, could say now that I had been wrong in doing what I did.”
“You forget just one thing, Doctor.”
“What is that?”
“There still is evidence. Someone stole some salts from Eli.”
He blanched at that. I knew he would. In the triumph of the moment he had forgotten it. His hand shook as he put back the box, turned off the water.
And in that instant, I think, I realized what he stood for. I could envision those long lonely years. Facing failure every year, despairing of ever doing what need be done. Keeping within his brain a knowledge that would have brought him greater glory than any man had ever had and yet keeping silent because he knew what his secret would do to the people of the System.
“Look, Doctor,” I said.
“Yes?”
“About those salts that Eli had. You needn’t worry. I know where they are.”
“You know where they are?”
“Yes, but I didn’t until a minute ago.”
He didn’t ask the question, but I answered it.
“I’ll do what’s necessary,” I said.
Silently he held out his hand to me.
I knew where those salts were, all right. But the problem was to reach them.
I knew, too, who had murdered Eli. But there was no way to prove it. The salts would have furnished the proof, but it was doubtful if any court, any jury would have believed my story. And using them as evidence would have told the world, would have broken faith with Dr. Jennings Anderson.
My first job was to get them.
How I did it I still don’t clearly remember. I remember that I came into the west port of the city with a jam of other cars, gambling on the belief the police would be watching outgoing cars, would pay little attention to incoming ones.
Once inside I ran the car into a side street, ducked it into an alley and abandoned it. I remember dodging up alleys, hiding in recessed doorways to avoid passers-by, working nearer and nearer to my apartment house.
Getting into the house was simpler than I thought.
Plain-clothes men were watching the place, but their watch had eased up a bit. After all, what murderer would be crazy enough to come back to a place he knew was being watched?
I waited my chance and took it. I met one man in the hall, but turned to one of the doors, fumbling in my pocket as if for a key, shielding my face from him until he was past.
My own room was unguarded. Probably they figured that it was impossible for me to slip into the building, so why guard the room?
The place had been ransacked, but nothing, apparently, had been taken.
Swiftly I went to the dresser in the bedroom, pulled out the drawer, lifted out the sand flask. With trembling fingers I pried out the cork, shook out the contents.
There was no mistaking the appearance of the white sand. It wasn’t white sand—it was the crystals Eli had shown me at the Sun Spot.
What was it Anderson had said—“ if resynthesis actually does occur a man would grow younger— ”
I hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. Then I scooped up some of the crystals, put them in my mouth and swallowed. They went down hard—like sand. But they went down. I took some more, just to make sure. I had no way of knowing how many I should take. Then I washed the rest down the bathroom drain.
After that I sat down to wait. I knew it was a dangerous thing to do, but
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