Read Online Way Station by Clifford D. Simak - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Clifford D. Simak
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made no sense. It was nothing one ever had imagined even in the purest fantasy.
There was nothing to grab hold of, nothing to hang on to. There was no yardstick for it and there were no rules. And it left a sort of blank spot in one’s thinking that might fill in, come time, but now was no more than a tunnel of great wonder that went on and on forever.
“Take your time,” the alien said. “I know it is not easy. And I do not know of a thing that I can do to make it easier. There is, after all, no way for me to prove I am from the stars.”
“But you talk so well.”
“In your tongue, you mean. It was not too difficult. If you only knew of all the languages in the galaxy, you would realize how little difficult.
Your language is not hard. It is a basic one and there are many concepts with which it need not deal.”
And, Enoch conceded, that could be true enough. “If you wish,” the alien said, “I can walk off somewhere for a day or two. Give you time to think. Then I could come back. You’d have thought it out by then.”
Enoch smiled, woodenly, and the smile had an unnatural feel upon his face.
“That would give me time,” he said, “to spread alarm throughout the countryside. There might be an ambush waiting for you.”
The alien shook its head. “I am sure you wouldn’t do it. I would take the chance. If you want me to …”
“No,” said Enoch, so calmly he surprised himself. “No, when you have a thing to face, you face it. I learned that in the war.”
“You’ll do,” the alien said. “You will do all right. I did not misjudge you and it makes me proud.”
“Misjudge me?”
“You do not think I just came walking in here cold? I know about you, Enoch. Almost as much, perhaps, as you know about yourself. Probably even more.”
“You know my name?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, that is fine,” said Enoch. “And what about your own?”
“I am seized with great embarrassment,” the alien told him. “For I have no name as such. Identification, surely, that fits the purpose of my race, but nothing that the tongue can form.”
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file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt
Supenly, for no reason, Enoch remembered that slouchy figure perching on the top rail of a fence, with a stick in one hand and a jackknife in the other, whittling placidly while the cannon balls whistled overhead and less than half a mile away the muskets snarled and crackled in the billowing powder smoke that rose above the line.
“Then you need a name to call you by,” he said, “and it shall be
Ulysses. I need to call you something,”
“It is agreeable,” said that strange one. “But might one ask why the name Ulysses?”
“Because it is the name,” said Enoch, “of a great man of my race.”
It was a crazy thing, of course. For there was no resemblance between the two of them-that slouchy Union general whittling as he perched upon the fence and this other who stood upon the porch.
“I am glad you chose it,” said this Ulysses, standing on the porch. “To my hearing it has a dignified and noble sound and, between the two of us, I
shall be glad to bear it. And I shall call you Enoch, as friends of the first names, for the two of us shall work together for many of your years.”
It was beginning to come straight now and the thought was staggering.
Perhaps it was as well, Enoch told himself, that it had waited for a while, that he had been so dazed it had not come on him all at once.
“Perhaps,” said Enoch, fighting back the realization that was crowding in on him, crowding in too fast, “I could offer you some victuals. I could cook up some coffee…”
“Coffee,” said Ulysses, smacking his thin lips. “Do you have the coffee?”
“I’ll make a big pot of it. I’ll break in an egg so it will settle clear …”
“Delectable,” Ulysses
There was nothing to grab hold of, nothing to hang on to. There was no yardstick for it and there were no rules. And it left a sort of blank spot in one’s thinking that might fill in, come time, but now was no more than a tunnel of great wonder that went on and on forever.
“Take your time,” the alien said. “I know it is not easy. And I do not know of a thing that I can do to make it easier. There is, after all, no way for me to prove I am from the stars.”
“But you talk so well.”
“In your tongue, you mean. It was not too difficult. If you only knew of all the languages in the galaxy, you would realize how little difficult.
Your language is not hard. It is a basic one and there are many concepts with which it need not deal.”
And, Enoch conceded, that could be true enough. “If you wish,” the alien said, “I can walk off somewhere for a day or two. Give you time to think. Then I could come back. You’d have thought it out by then.”
Enoch smiled, woodenly, and the smile had an unnatural feel upon his face.
“That would give me time,” he said, “to spread alarm throughout the countryside. There might be an ambush waiting for you.”
The alien shook its head. “I am sure you wouldn’t do it. I would take the chance. If you want me to …”
“No,” said Enoch, so calmly he surprised himself. “No, when you have a thing to face, you face it. I learned that in the war.”
“You’ll do,” the alien said. “You will do all right. I did not misjudge you and it makes me proud.”
“Misjudge me?”
“You do not think I just came walking in here cold? I know about you, Enoch. Almost as much, perhaps, as you know about yourself. Probably even more.”
“You know my name?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, that is fine,” said Enoch. “And what about your own?”
“I am seized with great embarrassment,” the alien told him. “For I have no name as such. Identification, surely, that fits the purpose of my race, but nothing that the tongue can form.”
file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt (25 of 103) [1/19/03 4:01:51 PM]
file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt
Supenly, for no reason, Enoch remembered that slouchy figure perching on the top rail of a fence, with a stick in one hand and a jackknife in the other, whittling placidly while the cannon balls whistled overhead and less than half a mile away the muskets snarled and crackled in the billowing powder smoke that rose above the line.
“Then you need a name to call you by,” he said, “and it shall be
Ulysses. I need to call you something,”
“It is agreeable,” said that strange one. “But might one ask why the name Ulysses?”
“Because it is the name,” said Enoch, “of a great man of my race.”
It was a crazy thing, of course. For there was no resemblance between the two of them-that slouchy Union general whittling as he perched upon the fence and this other who stood upon the porch.
“I am glad you chose it,” said this Ulysses, standing on the porch. “To my hearing it has a dignified and noble sound and, between the two of us, I
shall be glad to bear it. And I shall call you Enoch, as friends of the first names, for the two of us shall work together for many of your years.”
It was beginning to come straight now and the thought was staggering.
Perhaps it was as well, Enoch told himself, that it had waited for a while, that he had been so dazed it had not come on him all at once.
“Perhaps,” said Enoch, fighting back the realization that was crowding in on him, crowding in too fast, “I could offer you some victuals. I could cook up some coffee…”
“Coffee,” said Ulysses, smacking his thin lips. “Do you have the coffee?”
“I’ll make a big pot of it. I’ll break in an egg so it will settle clear …”
“Delectable,” Ulysses
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