sat down heavily in a chair. He stared at Ulysses, across the table from
him.
“You?” he asked. “You are going home?”
“Why, of course,” Ulysses told him. “Now that my job is nearly done. I
have got a home. Did you think I hadn’t?”
“I don’t know,” said Enoch weakly. “I had never thought of it.”
And that was it, he knew. It had not occurred to him to connect a being
such as this with a thing like home. For it was only human beings that had a
place called home.
“Some day,” Ulysses said, “I shall tell you about my home. Some day you
may even visit me.”
“Out among the stars,” said Enoch.
“It seems strange to you now,” Ulysses said. “It will take a while to
get used to the idea. But as you come to know us-all of us-you will
understand. And I hope you like us. We are not bad people, really. Not any
of the many different kinds of us.”
The stars, Enoch told himself, were out there in the loneliness of
space and how far they were he could not even guess, nor what they were nor
why. Another world, he thought-no, that was wrong-many other worlds. There
were people there, perhaps many other people; a different kind of people,
probably, for every different star. And one of them sat here in this very
kitchen, waiting for the coffeepot to boil, for the ham and eggs to fry.
“But why?” he asked. “But why?”
“Because,” Ulysses said, “we are a traveling people. We need a travel
station here. We want to turn this house into a station and you to keep the
station.”
“This house?”
“We could not build a station, for then we’d have people asking who was
building it and what it might be for. So we are forced to use an existing
structure and change it for our needs. But inside only. We leave the outside
as it is, in appearance, that is. For there must be no questions asked.
There must be …”
“But traveling …”
“From star to star,” Ulysses said. “Quicker than the thought of it.
Faster than a wink. There is what you would call machinery, but it is not
machinery-not the same as the machinery you think of.”
“You must excuse me,” Enoch said, confused. “It seems so impossible.”
“You remember when the railroad came to Millville?”
“Yes, I can remember that. I was just a kid.”
“Then think of it this way. This is just another railroad and the Earth
is just another town and this house will be the station for this new and
different railroad. The only difference is that no one on Earth but you will
know the railroad’s here. For it will be no more than a resting and a
switching point. No one on the Earth can buy a ticket to travel on the
railroad.”
Put that way, of course, it had a simple sound, but it was, Enoch
sensed, very far from simple.
“Railroad cars in space?” he asked.
“Not railroad cars,” Ulysses told him. “It is something else. I do not
know how to begin to tell you …”
“Perhaps you should pick someone else. Someone who would understand.”
“There is no one on this planet who could remotely understand. No,
Enoch, we’ll do with you as well as anyone. In many ways, much better than
with anyone.”
“But …”
“What is it, Enoch?”
“Nothing,” Enoch said.
For he remembered now how he had been sitting on the steps thinking how
he was alone and about a new beginning, knowing that he could not escape a
new beginning, that he must start from scratch and build his life anew.
And here, supenly, was that new beginning-more wondrous and fearsome
than anything he could have dreamed even in an insane moment.
11
Enoch filed the message and sent his confirmation:
NO. 406302 RECEIVED. COFFEE ON THE FIRE. ENOCH.
Clearing the machine, he walked over to the No. 3 liquid tank he’d
prepared before he left. He checked the temperature and the level of the
solution and made certain once again that the tank was securely positioned
in relation to the materializer.
From there he went to the other materializer, the official and
emergency materializer, positioned in the corner, and checked it over
closely. It was all right, as usual. It always was all right, but before
each of Ulysses’s visits he never failed to check it. There was nothing he
could have done about it had there been something wrong other than send an
urgent message to Galactic Central. In which case someone would have come in
on the regular materializer and put it into shape.
For the official and emergency materializer was exactly what its name
implied. It was used only for official visits by personnel of Galactic
Center or for possible emergencies and its operation was entirely outside
that of the local station.
Ulysses, as an inspector for this and several other stations, could
have used the official materializer at any time he wished without prior
notice. But in all the years that he had been coming to the station he had
never failed, Enoch remembered with a touch of pride, to message that he was
coming. It was, he knew, a courtesy which all the other stations on the
great galactic network might not be accorded, although there were some of
them which might be given equal treatment.
Tonight, he thought, he probably should tell Ulysses about the watch
that had been put upon the station. Perhaps he should have told him earlier,
but he had been reluctant to admit that the human race might prove to be a
problem to the galactic installation.
It was a hopeless thing, he thought, this obsession of his to present
the people of the Earth as good and reasonable. For in many ways they were
neither good nor reasonable; perhaps because they had not as yet entirely
grown up. They were smart and quick and at times compassionate and even
understanding, but they failed lamentably in many other ways.
But if they had the chance, Enoch told himself, if they ever got a
break, if they only could be told what was out in space, then they’d get a
grip upon themselves and they would measure up and then, in the course of
time, would be admitted into the great cofraternity of the people of the
stars.
Once admitted, they would prove their worth and would pull their
weight, for they were still a young race and full of energy-at times, maybe,
too much energy.
Enoch shook his head and went across the room to sit down at his desk.
Drawing the bundle of mail in front of him, he slid it out of the string
which Winslowe had used to tie it all together.
There were the daily papers, a news weekly, two journals-Nature and
Science-and the letter.
He pushed the papers and the journals to one side and picked up the
letter. It was, he saw, an air mail sheet and was postmarked London and the
return apress bore a name that was unfamiliar to him. He puzzled as to why
an unknown person should be writing him from London. Although, he reminded
himself, anyone who wrote from London, or indeed from anywhere, would be an
unknown person. He knew no one in London nor elsewhere in the world.
He slit the air sheet open and spread it out on the desk in front of
him, pulling the desk lamp close so the light would fall upon the writing.
Dear sir [he read], I would suspect I am unknown to you. I am one of
several editors of the British journal, Nature, to which you have been a
subscriber for these many years. I do not use the journal’s letterhead
because this letter is personal and unofficial and perhaps not even in the
best of taste.
You are, it may interest you to know, our eldest subscriber. We have
had you on our mailing lists for more than eighty years.
While I am aware that it is no appropriate concern of mine, I have
wondered if you, yourself, have subscribed to our publication for this
length of time, or if it might be possible that your father or someone close
to you may have been the original subscriber and you simply have allowed the
subscription to continue in his name.
My interest undoubtedly constitutes an unwarranted and inexcusable
curiosity and if you, sir, choose to ignore the query it is entirely within
your rights and proper that you do so. But if you should not mind replying,
an answer would be appreciated.
I can only say in my own defense that I have been associated for so
long with our publication that I feel a certain sense of pride that someone
has found it worth the having for more than eighty years. I doubt that many