mailman’s gift.
It was not, he knew, because he was seldom given gifts. Scarcely a week went past that the alien travelers did not leave several with him. The house was cluttered and there was a wall of shelves down in the cavernous basement that were crammed with the stuff that had been given him. Perhaps it was, he told himself, because this was a gift from Earth, from one of his own kind.
He tucked the wrapped statuette beneath his arm and, picking up the rifle and the mail, headed back for home, following the brush-grown trail that once had been the wagon road leading to the farm.
Grass had grown into thick turf between the ancient ruts, which had been cut so deep into the clay by the iron tires of the old-time wagons that they still were no more than bare, impacted earth in which no plant as yet had gained a root-hold. But on each side the clumps of brush, creeping up the field from the forest’s edge, grew man-high or better, so that now one moved down an aisle of green.
But at certain points, quite unexplainably-perhaps due to the character of the soil or to the mere vagaries of nature-the growth of brush had faltered, and here were vistas where one might look out from the ridgetop across the river valley.
It was from one of these vantage points that Enoch caught the flash from a clump of trees at the edge of the old field, not too far from the spring where he had found Lucy.
He frowned as he saw the flash and stood quietly on the path, waiting for its repetition But it did not come again.
It was one of the watchers, he knew, using a pair of binoculars to keep watch upon the station. The flash he had seen had been the reflection of the sun upon the glasses.
Who were they? he wondered. And why should they be watching? It had been going on for some time now but, strangely, there had been nothing but the watching. There had been no interference. No one had attempted to approach him, and such approach, he realized, could have been quite simple and quite natural. If they-whoever they might be-had wished to talk with him, a very casual meeting could have been arranged during any one of his file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt (22 of 103) [1/19/03 4:01:51 PM]
file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt morning walks.
But apparently as yet they did not wish to talk.
What, then, he wondered, did they wish to do? Keep track of him, perhaps. And in that regard, he thought, with a wry inner twinge of humor, they could have become acquainted with the pattern of his living in their first ten days of watching.
Or perhaps they might be waiting for some happening that would provide them with a clue to what he might be doing. And in that direction there lay nothing but certain disappointment. They could watch for a thousand years and gain no hint of it.
He turned from the vista and went ploping up the road, worried and puzzled by his knowledge of the watchers.
Perhaps, he thought, they had not attempted to contact him because of certain stories that might be told about him. Stories that no one, not even
Winslowe, would pass on to him. What kind of stories, he wondered, might the neighborhood by now have been able to fabricate about him-fabulous folk tales to be told in bated breath about the chimney corner?
It might be well, he thought, that he did not know the stories, although it would seem almost a certainty that they would exist. And it also might be as well that the watchers had not attempted contact with him. For so long as there was no contact, he still was fairly safe. So long as there were no questions, there need not be any answers.
Are you really, they would ask, that same Enoch Wallace who marched off in 1861 to fight for old Abe Lincoln? And there was one answer to that, there could only be one answer. Yes, he’d have to say, I am that same man.
And of all the questions they might ask him that would be the only one of all he could answer
It was not, he knew, because he was seldom given gifts. Scarcely a week went past that the alien travelers did not leave several with him. The house was cluttered and there was a wall of shelves down in the cavernous basement that were crammed with the stuff that had been given him. Perhaps it was, he told himself, because this was a gift from Earth, from one of his own kind.
He tucked the wrapped statuette beneath his arm and, picking up the rifle and the mail, headed back for home, following the brush-grown trail that once had been the wagon road leading to the farm.
Grass had grown into thick turf between the ancient ruts, which had been cut so deep into the clay by the iron tires of the old-time wagons that they still were no more than bare, impacted earth in which no plant as yet had gained a root-hold. But on each side the clumps of brush, creeping up the field from the forest’s edge, grew man-high or better, so that now one moved down an aisle of green.
But at certain points, quite unexplainably-perhaps due to the character of the soil or to the mere vagaries of nature-the growth of brush had faltered, and here were vistas where one might look out from the ridgetop across the river valley.
It was from one of these vantage points that Enoch caught the flash from a clump of trees at the edge of the old field, not too far from the spring where he had found Lucy.
He frowned as he saw the flash and stood quietly on the path, waiting for its repetition But it did not come again.
It was one of the watchers, he knew, using a pair of binoculars to keep watch upon the station. The flash he had seen had been the reflection of the sun upon the glasses.
Who were they? he wondered. And why should they be watching? It had been going on for some time now but, strangely, there had been nothing but the watching. There had been no interference. No one had attempted to approach him, and such approach, he realized, could have been quite simple and quite natural. If they-whoever they might be-had wished to talk with him, a very casual meeting could have been arranged during any one of his file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt (22 of 103) [1/19/03 4:01:51 PM]
file:///F|/rah/Clifford%20D.Simak/Clifford%20Simak%20-%20Waystation.txt morning walks.
But apparently as yet they did not wish to talk.
What, then, he wondered, did they wish to do? Keep track of him, perhaps. And in that regard, he thought, with a wry inner twinge of humor, they could have become acquainted with the pattern of his living in their first ten days of watching.
Or perhaps they might be waiting for some happening that would provide them with a clue to what he might be doing. And in that direction there lay nothing but certain disappointment. They could watch for a thousand years and gain no hint of it.
He turned from the vista and went ploping up the road, worried and puzzled by his knowledge of the watchers.
Perhaps, he thought, they had not attempted to contact him because of certain stories that might be told about him. Stories that no one, not even
Winslowe, would pass on to him. What kind of stories, he wondered, might the neighborhood by now have been able to fabricate about him-fabulous folk tales to be told in bated breath about the chimney corner?
It might be well, he thought, that he did not know the stories, although it would seem almost a certainty that they would exist. And it also might be as well that the watchers had not attempted contact with him. For so long as there was no contact, he still was fairly safe. So long as there were no questions, there need not be any answers.
Are you really, they would ask, that same Enoch Wallace who marched off in 1861 to fight for old Abe Lincoln? And there was one answer to that, there could only be one answer. Yes, he’d have to say, I am that same man.
And of all the questions they might ask him that would be the only one of all he could answer
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