Clifford D. Simak

“I don’t think we did,” she said. “We just walked away, is all. Turned our back upon this one segment of our past. We still have need of fire. A psychological need, perhaps. I found that out tonight. It was so exciting and so comfortable. Primal, maybe, but there still must be some of the primal in us.”

“Oop,” he told her, “couldn’t live without a fire. The lack of a fire was the thing that bugged him most when Time brought him back. He had to be held captive for a time, of course, when he first was brought here-closely watched over, if not actually confined. But when be became his own master, so to speak, he got hold of a piece of land out at the edge of the campus and built himself the shack. Rough, the way he wanted it. And, of course, a fireplace. And a garden. You should see his garden. The idea of growing food was something new to him. Something that no one back in his day had ever thought about. Nails and saws and hammers, and even lumber, also were new to him, as was everything. But he was highly adaptable. He took to the new tools and ideas without a single hitch. Nothing astonished him. He used hammer and saw and lumber and all the rest of it to build the shack. But I think it was the garden that seemed the most wonderful to him-to grow one’s food and not hunt for it. I suppose you noticed-even now he is impressed with the sheer bulk and the easy availability of food.”

“And of liquor,” said Carol.

Maxwell laughed. “Another new idea that he took to. A hobby of his, you might almost say. He makes his own. He’s got a still out in the back of his woodshed and be runs off some of the worst moonshine that ever trickled down your throat. Pretty vile stuff.”

“But not to guests,” said Carol. “That was whiskey tonight.”

“You have to be a friend of his,” said Maxwell, “before he’ll allow you to drink his moon. Those fruit jars he set out…”

“I wondered about those. They seemed to have nothing in them.”

“Clear, rotgut moonshine, that was what was in them.”

“You said he was a captive once. And now? Just how closely is he tied to Time?”

“A ward of the college. Not really tied at all. But you couldn’t drive him off. He’s a more loyal partisan of Time than you are.”

“And Ghost? He lives here at Supernatural? He’s a ward of Supernatural?”

“Hardly. Ghost is a stray cat. He goes anywhere he wishes. He’s got friends all over the planet. He’s big stuff, I understand, at the College of Comparative Religions on the Himalayan Campus. But he manages to drop in here on a fairly regular basis. He and Oop hit it off from the moment Supernatural made its first contact with Ghost.”

“Pete, you call him Ghost. What is he, really?”

“Why, he is a ghost.”

“But what’s a ghost?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think anybody does.”

“But you’re with Supernatural.”

“Oh, sure, but all my work has been with the Little Folk, with emphasis on goblins, although I have an interest in every one of them. Even banshees and there’s nothing that comes meaner or more unreasonable than a banshee.”

“There must be specialists in ghosts, then. What do they have to say about it?”

“I’d guess they might have a few ideas. There are tons of literature on spookery, but I’ve never had the time to go into it. I know that back in the early ages it was believed that everyone, when they died, turned into a ghost, but now, I understand, that no longer is believed. There are certain special circumstances that give rise to ghosts, but I don’t know what they are.”

“That face of his,” said Carol. “A little spooky, maybe, but somehow fascinating. I had a hard time to keep from staring at him. Just a dark blankness folded inside his sheet which, I suppose, is not a sheet. And at times a hint of eyes. Little lights that could be eyes. Or was I imagining?”

“No. I’ve imagined them myself.”

“Will you,” asked Carol, “grab hold of that fool cat and pull him in a foot or so. He’s slipping out onto the faster belt. He has no sense whatever. He’ll go to sleep any time, at any place. Eat and sleep is all he thinks about.”

Maxwell reached down and tugged Sylvester back into his original position. Sylvester growled and mumbled in his sleep.

Maxwell straightened and leaned back into his chair, looking up into the sky.

“Look at the stars,” he said. “There is nothing like the skies of Earth. I’m glad to be back again.”

“And now that you’re back?”

“After I see you safely home and pick up my luggage, I’m going back to Oop’s. He’ll have one of those fruit jars all unscrewed and we’ll do some drinking and sit and talk till dawn, then I’ll get into the bed he has for guests, and he’ll curl up on his pile of leaves… “I saw those leaves over in the corner and was consumed with curiosity. But I didn’t ask.”

“He sleeps there all the time. Not comfortable in a bed. After all, when for many years a pile of leaves has been the height of luxury…”

“You’re trying to make a fool of me again.”

“No, I’m not,” said Maxwell. “I’m telling you the truth.”

“I didn’t mean what will you do tonight. I mean what will you do? You are dead, remember?”