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
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 truthfully. For all the others there would
necessarily be silence or evasion.
They would ask how come that he had not aged-how he could stay young
when all mankind grew old.
And he could not tell them that he did not age inside the station, that
he only aged when he stepped out of it, that he aged an hour each day on his
daily walks, that he might age an hour or so working in his garden, that he
could age for fifteen minutes sitting on the steps to watch a lovely sunset.
But that when he went back indoors again the aging process was completely
canceled out.
He could not tell them that. And there was much else that he could not
tell them. There might come a time, he knew, if they once contacted him,
that he’d have to flee the questions and cut himself entirely from the
world, remaining isolated within the station’s walls.
Such a course would constitute no hardship physically, for he could
live within the station without any inconvenience. He would want for
nothing, for the aliens would supply everything he needed to remain alive
and well. He had bought human food at times, having Winslowe purchase it and
haul it out from town, but only because he felt a craving for the food of
his own planet, in particular those simple foods of his childhood and his
campaigning days.
And, he told himself, even those foods might well be supplied by the
process of duplication. A slab of bacon or a dozen eggs could be sent to
another station and remain there as a master pattern for the pattern
impulses, being sent to him on order as he needed them.
But there was one thing the aliens could not provide-the human contacts
he’d maintained through Winslowe and the mail. Once shut inside the station,
he’d be cut off completely from the world he knew, for the newspapers and
the magazines were his only contact. The operation of a radio in the station
was made impossible by the interference set up by the installations.
He would not know what was happening in the world, would know no longer
how the outside might be going. His chart would suffer from this and would
become largely useless; although, he told himself, it was nearly useless
now, since he could not be certain of the correct usage of the factors.
But aside from all of this, he would miss this little outside world
that he had grown to know so well, this little corner of the world
encompassed by his walks. It was the walks, he thought, more than anything,
perhaps, that had kept him human and a citizen of Earth.
He wondered how important it might be that he remain, intellectually
and emotionally, a citizen of Earth and a member of the human race. There
was, he thought, perhaps no reason that he should. With the cosmopolitanism
of the galaxy at his fingertips, it might even be provincial of him to be so
intent upon his continuing identification with the old home planet. He might
be losing something by this provincialism.
But it was not in himself, he knew, to turn his back on Earth. It was a
place he loved too well-loving it more, most likely, than those other humans
who had not caught his glimpse of far and unguessed worlds. A man, he told
himself, must belong to something, must have some loyalty and some identity.
The galaxy was too big a place for any being to stand naked and alone.
A lark sailed out of a grassy plot and soared high into the sky, and
seeing it, he waited for the trill of liquid song to spray out of its throat
and drip out of the blue. But there was no song, as there would have been in
spring.
He ploped down the road and now, ahead of him, he saw the starkness of
the station, reared upon its ridge.
Funny, he thought, that he should think of it as station rather than as
home, but it had been a station longer than it had been a home.
There was about it, he saw, a sort of ugly solidness, as if it might
have planted itself upon that ridgetop and meant to stay forever.
It would stay, of course, if one wanted it, as long as one wanted it.
For there was nothing that could touch it.
Even should he be forced some day to remain within its walls, the
station still would stand against all of mankind’s watching, all of
mankind’s prying. They could not chip it and they could not gouge it and
they could not break it down. There was nothing they could do. All his
watching, all his speculating, all his analyzing, would gain Man nothing
beyond the knowledge that a highly unusual building existed on that
ridgetop. For it could survive anything except a thermonuclear explosion-
and maybe even that.
He walked into the yard and turned around to look back toward the clump
of trees from which the flash had come, but there was nothing now to