He had chosen the short way.
The room was empty.
He stood beside the window, quietly, only his eyes moving, searching every corner, checking against a situation that couldn’t seem quite true … that Henderson James was not here, waiting for the word.
Then he strode swiftly to the bedroom door and swung it open. His finger found the switch and the lights went on. The bedroom was empty and so was the bath. He went back into the study.
He stood with his back against the wall, facing the door that led into the hallway, but his eyes went over the room, foot by foot, orienting himself, feeling himself flow into the shape and form of it, feeling familiarity creep in upon him and enfold him in its comfort of belonging.
Here were the books, the fireplace with its mantel loaded with souvenirs, the easy chairs, the liquor cabinet … and all were a part of him, a background that was as much a part of Henderson James as his body and his inner thoughts were a part of him.
This, he thought, is what I would have missed, the experience I never would have had if the puudly had not taunted me. I would have died an empty and unrelated body that had no actual place in the universe.
The phone purred at him and he stood there startled by it, as if some intruder from the outside had pushed its way into the room, shattering the sense of belonging that had come to him.
The phone rang again and he went across the room and picked it up.
«James speaking,» he said.
«That you, Mr. James?»
The voice was that of Anderson, the gardener.
«Why, yes,» said the duplicate. «Who did you think it was?»
«We got a fellow here who says he’s you.»
Henderson James, duplicate, stiffened with fright and his hand, suddenly, was grasping the phone so hard that he found the time to wonder why it did not pulverize to bits beneath his fingers.
«He’s dressed like you,» the gardener said, «and I knew you went out. Talked to you, remember? Told you that you shouldn’t? Not with us waiting for that … that thing.»
«Yes,» said the duplicate, his voice so even that he could not believe it was he who spoke. «Yes, certainly I remember talking with you.»
«But, sir, how did you get back?»
«I came in the back way,» the even voice said into the phone. «Now what’s holding you back?»
«He’s dressed like you.»
«Naturally. Of course he would be, Anderson.»
And that, to be sure, didn’t quite follow, but Anderson wasn’t too bright to start with and now he was somewhat upset.
«You remember,» the duplicate said, «that we talked about it.»
«I guess I was excited and forgot,» admitted Anderson. «You told me to call you, to make sure you were in your study, though. That’s right, isn’t it, sir?»
«You’ve called me,» the duplicate said, «and I am here.»
«Then the other one out here is him?»
«Of course,» said the duplicate. «Who else could it be?»
He put the phone back into the cradle and stood waiting. It came a moment after, the dull, throaty cough of a gun. He walked to a chair and sank into it, spent with the knowledge of how events had so been ordered that now, finally, he was safe, safe beyond all question.
Soon he would have to change into other clothes, hide the gun and the clothes that he was wearing. The staff would ask no questions, most likely, but it was best to let nothing arouse suspicion in their minds.
He felt his nerves quieting and he allowed himself to glance about the room, take in the books and furnishings, the soft and easy … and earned … comfort of a man solidly and unshakably established in the world.
He smiled softly.
«It will be nice,» he said.
It had been easy. Now that it was over, it seemed ridiculously easy. Easy because he had never seen the man who had walked up to the door. It was easy to kill a man you have never seen.
With each passing hour he would slip deeper and deeper into the personality that was his by right of heritage. There would be no one to question, after a time not even himself, that he was Henderson James.
The phone rang again and he got up to answer it. A pleasant voice told him, «This is Allen, over at the duplication lab. We’ve been waiting for a report from you.»
«Well,» said James, «I …»
«I just called,» interrupted Allen, «to tell you not to worry. It slipped my mind before.»
«I see,» said James, though he didn’t.
«We did this one a little differently,» Allen explained. «An experiment that we thought we’d try out. Slow poison in his bloodstream. Just another precaution. Probably not necessary, but we like to be positive. In case he fails to show up, you needn’t worry any.»
«I am sure he will show up.»
Allen chuckled. «Twenty-four hours. Like a time bomb. No antidote for it even if he found out somehow.»
«It was good of you to let me know,» said James.
«Glad to,» said Allen. «Good night, Mr. James.»
Brother
Many people take Clifford Simak’s story «Brother» as autobiographical; and to a limited, but enticing, extent, they are correct—particularly with regard to Anderson’s description of Edward Lambert as the «pastoral spokesman of the century,» based on his nature writing. Of course, this is strikingly parallel to the numerous portraits of Simak as the «pastoralist of science fiction,» but what few of Cliff’s fans realize is that he did have a certain amount of interest in the field of nature writing. In the early 1930s, when he was just beginning to try to sell short stories and articles to magazines, Cliff submitted several articles to nature magazines such as Field & Stream and Sports Afield. And his personal library contained several volumes by writers such as the great Sigurd F. Olson.
«Brother» was originally published in the October 1977 issue of the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction.
—dww
He was sitting in his rocking chair on the stone-flagged patio when the car pulled off the road and stopped outside his gate. A stranger got out of it, unlatched the gate and came up the walk. The man coming up the walk was old—not as old, judged the man in the rocking chair, as he was, but old.
White hair blowing in the wind and a slow, almost imperceptible, shuffle in his gait.
The man stopped before him. «You are Edward Lambert?» he asked.
Lambert nodded. «I am Theodore Anderson,» said the man. «From Madison. From the university.»
Lambert indicated the other rocker on the patio. «Please sit down,» he said. «You are far from home.»
Anderson chuckled. «Not too far. A hundred miles or so.»
«To me, that’s far,» said Lambert. «In all my life I’ve never been more than twenty miles away. The spaceport across the river is as far as I’ve ever been.»
«You visit the port quite often?»
«At one time, I did. In my younger days. Not recently. From here, where I sit, I can see the ships come in and leave.»
«You sit and watch for them?»
«Once I did. Not now. I still see them now and then. I no longer watch for them.»
«You have a brother, I understand, who is out in space.»
«Yes, Phil. Phil is the wanderer of the family. There were just the two of us. Identical twins.»
«You see him now and then? I mean, he comes back to visit.»
«Occasionally. Three or four times, that is all. But not in recent years. The last time he was home was twenty years ago. He was always in a hurry. He could only stay a day or two. He had great tales to tell.»
«But you, yourself, stayed home. Twenty miles, you said, the farthest you’ve ever been away.»