Slowly he felt his way back to consciousness, blinked his eyes.
The Stuka was still tearing toward the earth, but had veered from its direct dive. The wings were ribboned with flame. Smoke rolled from the cowling.
The motor sputtered and yammered. The blast of the exploding Defiant had all but shaken the German plane apart.
Savagely, Hubbard snapped off the switch, yanked the plane out of its dive. Thoughts hammered at his brain. They had no ’chutes. They couldn’t jump. He had to set the Stuka down—and quickly.
His eyes searched the ground beneath. Rolling farmland, fields that would have made perfect landing spots. But every one of them was pitted with holes, ridged with mounds, cluttered with old cars and other junk to forestall a Nazi invasion.
Hubbard groaned. In all of England, there wasn’t a place a man could set down a plane, except at a regular airport. The British were determined that no fields be safe for the enemy.
The Stuka was dropping fast—much too fast. Desperately, Hubbard searched the ground. That haystack!
«Get set!» he yelled to Grigsby.
Breath sobbing in his throat, the American hauled the plane around, headed it for the stack. He was coming down like a comet. Too fast. But it was too late now to do anything about it.
Below him Hubbard saw a farmer running with a pitchfork. A horse galloped wildly across a pasture. The American’s hands froze to the stick and his eyes measured the stack. Near the top and yet not too high. Couldn’t let the ship roll over.
The Stuka mushed savagely into the hay and ripped through. The impact was like a savage wrench. The plane hit the ground and bounced high, throwing clouds of straw in a wild cascade.
Hubbard slammed on the brakes and the Stuka nosed over. It teetered for a moment, threatening to somersault on its back, then hung there, nose down, prop biting the earth.
Frantically Hubbard hauled back the hatch cover. Smoke pouring from the cowling blinded him. Flame licked upward at him as he rolled free and fell to the ground.
Through the smoke he saw Grigsby already running from the ship.
Hurriedly he scrambled after him.
«Halt!» yelled a voice and they stopped.
The farmer rounded the haystack, pitchfork still in hand. He menaced them with it.
«Stand there, you bloody ’Uns!» he rasped. «Or I’ll ’eave this into you.»
«Look here, man—» Grigsby started to say. But the farmer roared at him.
«No back talk, you!»
Grigsby gulped and glanced appealingly at Hubbard. The American shrugged and broke into a tight grin.
«Maybe he thinks we’re Rudolf Hess’ twin brothers,» he said from the corner of his mouth. «With another ‘peace’ proposal.»
The farmer glared at them.
A small boy, lugging a heavy gun, came running across the barnyard.
«Here, Grandfather!» he panted, handing the man the weapon.
«Now I bloody well got you,» the farmer said with satisfaction. «You and your smart ’Un tricks!»
«But, man,» Grigsby protested wildly. «I’m English! I’ve got to get to London! I’ve got to see the Prime Minister!»
«You’ll see the inside of a coffin, if you don’t shut up,» the farmer growled. «Now, march!»
They marched.
Limiting Factor
After being rejected by John W. Campbell, Jr., of Astounding Science Fiction (with whom Cliff Simak had had a long and successful relationship), this story would first appear in the November 1949 issue of Startling Stories—which was apparently a small market, as indicated by the fact that Cliff was paid only $60. I theorize that the story was a hard sell because it lacked a conventional sort of plot, the kind born of conflict. Every now and then, Cliff Simak apparently had to vent, had to release a thing that dwelled in the back of his mind, that simply lived to see something marvelous out in the Universe somewhere—and when he did that, it was enough for him to imagine the marvel and try to describe it. (I sometimes wonder how many starts he made on stories that had their genesis in a glorious vision, but never went anywhere …)
The wonder is that he got any of them published at all; science fiction critics usually condemn them. But if you look, you’ll find other Simak stories that give off the same sort of vibe.
—dww
First, there were two planets looted of their ores, mined and gutted and left there naked for the crows of space to pick.
Then there was a planet with a faery city, a place that made one think of cobwebs with the dew still on them, a place of glass and plastic so full of wondrous beauty that it hurt one’s throat to look.
But there was just one city. There was no other sign of habitation on the entire planet. And the city was deserted. Perfect in its beauty, but hollow as a laugh.
Finally there was a metal planet, third outward from the sun. Not a lump of metallic ore, but a planet with a surface—or a roof—of fabricated metal, burnished to the polish of a bright steel mirror. And it shone, by reflected light, like another sun.
«I can’t get over the conviction,» said Duncan Griffith, «that this place is no more than a camp.»
«I think you’re crazy,» Paul Lawrence told him sharply. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
«It may not look like a camp,» said Griffith, doggedly, «but it meets the definition.»
It looks like a city to me, Lawrence told himself. It always has, from the first moment that I saw it, and it always will. Big and vital, despite its faery touch—a place to live and dream and find the strength and courage to put the dreams to work. Great dreams, he told himself. Dreams to match the city—such a city as it would take Man a thousand years to build.
«What I can’t understand,» he said aloud, «is why it is deserted. There is no sign of violence. No sign of death at all.»
«They voluntarily left it,» Griffith told him. «They up and went away. And they did it because it wasn’t really home to them. It was just a camp and it held no traditions and no legends. As a camp, it had no emotional value for the ones who built it.»
«A camp,» said Lawrence stubbornly, «is just a stopping place. A temporary habitation that you sling together and make as comfortable as you can with the things at hand.»
«So?» asked Griffith.
«These folks did more than stop here,» Lawrence said. «That city wasn’t slapped together. It was planned with foresight and built with loving care.»
«On a human basis, yes,» said Griffith. «You’re dealing here with nonhuman values and an alien viewpoint.»
Lawrence squatted and plucked at a grass stem, stuck it between his teeth and chewed on it thoughtfully. He squinted across the brilliant blaze of noon-day sun at the silent, empty city.
Griffith hunkered down beside him.
«Don’t you see, Paul,» he said, «that it has to be a temporary habitation. There is no sign of any previous culture on the planet. No artifact. King and his gang went over it and there wasn’t anything. Nothing but the city. Think of it—an absolutely virgin planet with a city that it would take a race a million years of living just to dream. First there’d be a tree to huddle under when it rained. Then a cave to huddle in when night came down. After that there’d be a tent or a wigwam or a hut. Then three huts and you had a village.»
«I know,» Lawrence said. «I know.»
«A million years of living,» Griffith said, relentlessly. «Ten thousand centuries before a race could build a fairyland of glass and plastics. And that million years of living wasn’t done on this planet. A million years of living leaves scars upon a planet. And there aren’t any scars. This planet is brand new.»