“His name,” said the census-taker, interrupting, “is Ramsay O’Gillicuddy, which is, in all conscience, a good Earth name. I tell it to you because, if left to him, he’d never manage to get around to it.”
“And now,” said the shade of Ramsay O’Gillicuddy, ” ;nce I have been introduced, I’ll tell you the story of my life.”
“No, you won’t,” said the census-taker. “We haven’t got the time. There is much we must discuss.”
“Then the story of my death.”
“All right,” the census-taker said, “if you keep it short.”
“They caught me,” said Ramsay O’Gillicuddy’s shade, “and made me a captive, these slimy, greasy natives. I shall not detail the situation which led to this shameful thing, for it would require the explanation of certain circumstances which the census-taker infers there is not the time to tell. But they caught me, anyhow, and then they held a long deliberate discussion, within my hearing, which I did not at all enjoy, about how best to dispose of me. None of the suggested procedures calculated to bring about my demise were pretty for the prospective victim to hold in contemplation. Nothing simple, you understand, such as a blow upon the head or a cutting of the throat, but all rather long, drawn-out, and intricate operations. Finally, after hours of talking back and forth, during which they politely invited my personal reactions to each plan put forward, they decided upon skinning me alive, explaining that they would not really be killing me and that because of this I should bear them no ill-will and that if I could manage to survive without my skin they would be glad to let me go. Once they had my skin, they informed me, they intended tanning it to make a drum upon which they could beat out a message of mockery to my clan.”
“With all due respect,” I said, “with a lady present . . .” but he paid no attention to me. “After I was dead,” he said, “and my body had been found, my clan decided to do a thing that had never been dpne before. All our honored dead had been buried on the prairie, with the graves unmarked, in the thought that a man could ask no more than to become one with the world that he had trod. Word had come to us some years ago of the Cemetery here on Earth, but we had paid slight attention to it because it was not our way. But now the clan met in council and decided that I should be accorded the honor of sleeping in the soil of Mother Earth. So a large barrel was made to house my poor remains which, pickled in alcohol, were carted to the planet’s one poor spaceport where the barrel was stored for many months, awaiting the arrival of a ship, on which it was finally taken to the nearest port where a funeral ship made regular calls.”
“You cannot comprehend,” said the census-taker, “what this decision cost his clan. They are poor people on the planet Prairie and their only wealth is counted in their flocks and herds. It took them many years to build back the livestock that was required for Cemetery to perform its services. It was a noble sacrifice and it’s a pity that it came out so sadly. Ramsay, as you may guess, was and still is the only inhabitant of Prairie ever to be buried in Cemetery-not that he was really buried there, not, at least, in quite the manner that had been intended. The officials of Cemetery, not the present management, but one of many years ago, happened at that time to need an extra casket to hide away certain items . . .” “You mean artifacts,” I said. “You know of this?” asked the census-taker. “We suspected it,” I said.
“Your suspicions are quite right,” said the census-taker, “and our poor friend here was one of the victims of their treachery and greed. His casket was used for artifacts and what was left of him was thrown into a deep gorge, a natural charnel pit, at the Cemetery’s edge, and ever since that day his shade has wandered the Earth, as do so many others and for the self-same reason.”
“You tell it welt,” said O’Gillicuddy, “and in very simple truth.”
“But let us not, please,” said Cynthia, “have any more of this. You have us quite convinced.”
“We have not the time for more,” said the census-taker. “We now must deliberate upon what further action the two of you should take. For once the wolves catch up with your two good friends, they will realize immediately that you are not with them and since Cemetery cares nothing about the two robots, but only for yourselves . . .”
“They’ll come back for us,” said Cynthia, sounding scared.
I wasn’t too brave about it, either. I did not like the thought of those great metal brutes snapping at our heels.
“How do they follow?” I asked.
“They have a sense of smell,” said the census-taker. “Not the same kind you humans have, but the ability to pick up and recognize the chemicals of odors. They have sharp sight. They might have trouble if you kept to high and stony ground, where you’d leave little trace and the scent of youi passing would not cling. I had feared they might catch the scent of you when they came by a while ago, but you were higher than they were and a kindly up-draft of air must have carried the smell away from them.”
“They will be following the horses,” I said. “The trail will be wide open. They’ll travel fast. It may be only a few hours from now they’ll Find we’re not with the others.”
“You’ll have a little time,” said the census-taker. “It’s a few hours yet till dawn and you can’t start until it’s light. You’ll have to travel fast and you can carry little with you.”
“We’ll take food” said Cynthia, “And blankets . . .”
“Not too much food,” said the census-taker. “Only what you must. You’ll find food along the way. You have fish hooks, have you not?”
“Yes, we have a few fish hooks,” said Cynthia. “I bought a box of them, almost as an afterthought. But we can’t live on fish.”
“There are roots and berries.”
“But we don’t know which roots and berries.”
“You do not need to know,” said the census-taker. “I know all of them.”
“You’ll be going with us?”
“We’ll be going with you,” said the census-taker.
“Of course we will,” said O’Gillicuddy. “Every one. of us. It’s little we can do, but we’ll be of some slight service. We can watch for followers . . .”
“But ghosts …” I said.
“Shades,” said O’Gillicuddy.
“But shades are not abroad in daylight.”
“That is a human fallacy,” said O’Gillicuddy. “We cannot, of course, be seen in daylight. But neither can we be at night if it is not our wish.”
The other shades made mutters of agreement.
“We’ll make up our packs,” said Cynthia, “and leave all the rest behind. Elmer and Bronco will come looking for us here. We’ll leave a note for them. We’ll pin it to one of the packs, where they’ll be sure to see it.”
“We’ll have to tell them where we’re heading,” I said. “Does anyone have any idea where we’ll be going?”
“Into the mountains,” said the census-taker.
“Do you know a river,” Cynthia asked, “that is called the Ohio?”
“I know it very well,” said the census-taker. “Do you want to go to the Ohio?”
“Now, look here,” I said, “we can’t go chasing . . .”
“Why not?” asked Cynthia. “If we’re going somewhere we might as well go where we wish to go . . .”
“But I thought that we agreed . . .”
“I know,” said Cynthia. “You made it very plain. Your composition has first claim and I suppose it still will have to have it. But you can make it anywhere, can’t you?”
“Certainly. Within reason.”
“All right,” said Cynthia. “We’ll head toward the Ohio. If that is all right with you,” she said to the census-taker. “It’s all right with me,” he said. “We’ll have to cross the mountains to reach the river. I hope we can lose the wolves somewhere in the mountains. But if I may inquire . . .”
“It’s a long story,” I told him curtly. “We can tell you later.”
“Have you ever heard,” asked Cynthia, “of an immortal man who lives a hermit’s life?”
She never let go of anything once she got her claws in it.
“I think I have,” said the census-taker. “Very long ago. I suspect it was a myth. Earth had so many myths.”
“But not any longer,” I said.
He shook his head, rather sadly. “No longer. All Earth’s myths are dead.”
Chapter 14
The sky had clouded over and the wind had shifted to the north, growing cold and sharp. Despite the chill, there was a strange, wet smell in the air. The pine trees that grew along the slope threshed and moaned.