get from the people out there.”
“What you are really talking of,” said Mary, “are all the nameless sciences-the ones that no human has ever thought about.”
“Like us, perhaps,” said David.
“David!” Mary cried.
“There is no sense,” said David angrily, “in pretending we are people.”
“But you are,” said Enoch tensely. “You are people to me. You are the only people that I have. What is the matter, David?”
“I think,” said David, “that the time has come to say what we really are. That we are illusion. That we are created and called up. That we exist only for one purpose, to come and talk with you, to fill in for the real people that you cannot have.”
“Mary,” Enoch cried, “you don’t think that way, too! You can’t think that way!”
He reached out his arms to her and then he let them drop-terrified at the realization of what he’d been about to do. It was the first time he’d ever tried to touch her. It was the first time, in all the years, that he had forgotten.
“I am sorry, Mary. I should not have done that.”
Her eyes were bright with tears.
“I wish you could,” she said. “Oh, how I wish you could!”
“David,” he said, not turning his head.
“David left,” said Mary.
“He won’t be back,” said Enoch.
Mary shook her head.
“What is the matter, Mary? What is it all about? What have I done!”
“Nothing,” Mary said, “except that you made us too much like people. So file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt (37 of 103) [1/19/03 4:01:51 PM]
file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt that we became more human, until we were entirely human. No longer puppets, no longer pretty dolls, but really actual people. I think David must resent it-not that he is people, but that being people, he is still a shadow. It did not matter when we were dolls or puppets, for we were not human then. We had no human feeling.”
“Mary, please,” he said. “Mary, please forgive me.” She leaned toward him and her face was lighted by deep tenderness. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said. “Rather, I suppose, we should thank you for it. You created us out of a love of us and a need of us and it is wonderful to know that you are loved and needed.”
“But I don’t create you any more,” Enoch pleaded. “There was a time, long ago, I had to. But not any longer. Now you come to visit me of your own free will.”
How many years? he wondered. It must be all of fifty. And Mary had been the first, and David had been second. Of all the others of them, they had been the first and were the closest and the dearest.
And before that, before he’d even tried, he’d spent other years in studying that nameless science stemming from the thaumaturgists of Alphard
XXII.
There had been a day and a state of mind when it would have been black magic, but it was not black magic. Rather, it was the orderly manipulation of certain natural aspects of the universe as yet quite unsuspected by the human race. Perhaps aspects that Man never would discover. For there was not, at least at the present moment, the necessary orientation of the scientific mind to initiate the research that must precede discovery.
“David felt,” said Mary, “that we could not go on forever, playing out our little sedate visits. There had to be a time when we faced up to what we really are.”
“And the rest of them?”
“I am sorry, Enoch. The rest of them as well.”
“But you? How about you, Mary?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It is different with me. I love you very much.”
“And I …”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Don’t you understand! I’m in love with you.”
He sat stricken, staring at her, and there was a great roaring in the world, as if he were standing still and the world and time were rushing swiftly past him.
“If it only could have stayed,” she said, “the way it was at first.
Then we
“What you are really talking of,” said Mary, “are all the nameless sciences-the ones that no human has ever thought about.”
“Like us, perhaps,” said David.
“David!” Mary cried.
“There is no sense,” said David angrily, “in pretending we are people.”
“But you are,” said Enoch tensely. “You are people to me. You are the only people that I have. What is the matter, David?”
“I think,” said David, “that the time has come to say what we really are. That we are illusion. That we are created and called up. That we exist only for one purpose, to come and talk with you, to fill in for the real people that you cannot have.”
“Mary,” Enoch cried, “you don’t think that way, too! You can’t think that way!”
He reached out his arms to her and then he let them drop-terrified at the realization of what he’d been about to do. It was the first time he’d ever tried to touch her. It was the first time, in all the years, that he had forgotten.
“I am sorry, Mary. I should not have done that.”
Her eyes were bright with tears.
“I wish you could,” she said. “Oh, how I wish you could!”
“David,” he said, not turning his head.
“David left,” said Mary.
“He won’t be back,” said Enoch.
Mary shook her head.
“What is the matter, Mary? What is it all about? What have I done!”
“Nothing,” Mary said, “except that you made us too much like people. So file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt (37 of 103) [1/19/03 4:01:51 PM]
file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt that we became more human, until we were entirely human. No longer puppets, no longer pretty dolls, but really actual people. I think David must resent it-not that he is people, but that being people, he is still a shadow. It did not matter when we were dolls or puppets, for we were not human then. We had no human feeling.”
“Mary, please,” he said. “Mary, please forgive me.” She leaned toward him and her face was lighted by deep tenderness. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said. “Rather, I suppose, we should thank you for it. You created us out of a love of us and a need of us and it is wonderful to know that you are loved and needed.”
“But I don’t create you any more,” Enoch pleaded. “There was a time, long ago, I had to. But not any longer. Now you come to visit me of your own free will.”
How many years? he wondered. It must be all of fifty. And Mary had been the first, and David had been second. Of all the others of them, they had been the first and were the closest and the dearest.
And before that, before he’d even tried, he’d spent other years in studying that nameless science stemming from the thaumaturgists of Alphard
XXII.
There had been a day and a state of mind when it would have been black magic, but it was not black magic. Rather, it was the orderly manipulation of certain natural aspects of the universe as yet quite unsuspected by the human race. Perhaps aspects that Man never would discover. For there was not, at least at the present moment, the necessary orientation of the scientific mind to initiate the research that must precede discovery.
“David felt,” said Mary, “that we could not go on forever, playing out our little sedate visits. There had to be a time when we faced up to what we really are.”
“And the rest of them?”
“I am sorry, Enoch. The rest of them as well.”
“But you? How about you, Mary?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It is different with me. I love you very much.”
“And I …”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Don’t you understand! I’m in love with you.”
He sat stricken, staring at her, and there was a great roaring in the world, as if he were standing still and the world and time were rushing swiftly past him.
“If it only could have stayed,” she said, “the way it was at first.
Then we
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