Clifford D. Simak

“I’ll explain,” said Maxwell. “I’ll continually explain. Everywhere I go there’ll be people who’ll want to know what happened. There might even be an investigation of some sort. I sincerely hope there won’t, but I suppose there may have to be.”

“I’m sorry,” Carol said, “but, then, I’m also glad. How fortunate it was that there were two of you.”

“If Transport could work it out,” said Maxwell, “they might have something they could sell. All of us could keep a second one of us stashed away somewhere against emergency.”

“But it wouldn’t work,” Carol pointed out. “Not personally. This other Peter Maxwell was a second person and-oh, I don’t know what I mean. It’s too late at night to get it figured out, but I’m sure it wouldn’t work.”

“No,” said Maxwell. “No, I guess it wouldn’t. It was a bad idea.”

“It was a nice evening,” said Carol. “I thank you so much for it. I had a lot of fun.”

“And Sylvester had a lot of steak.”

“Yes, he did. He’ll not forget you. He loves folks who give him steak. He’s nothing but a glutton.”

“There is just one thing,” said Maxwell. “One thing you didn’t tell us. Who was it that made the offer for the Artifact?”

“I don’t know. Just that there was an offer. Good enough, I gather, for Time to consider it. I simply overheard a snatch of conversation I was not supposed to hear. Does it make a difference?”

“It could,” said Maxwell.

“I remember now,” she said. “There was another name. Not the one who meant to buy it, or I don’t think it was. Just someone who was involved. It had slipped my mind till now. Someone by the name of Churchill. Does that mean anything to you?”

Oop was sitting in front of the fireplace, paring his toenails with a large jackknife, when Maxwell returned, carrying his bag.

Oop gestured with his knife toward the bed. “Sling it over there and then come and sit down with me. I’ve just put a couple of new logs on the fire and I have a jug half finished and a couple more hid out.”

“Where’s Ghost?” asked Maxwell.

“Oh, he disappeared. I don’t know where he went; he never tells me. But he’ll be back again. He never is gone long.”

Maxwell put the bag on the bed, went over to the fireplace and sat down, leaning against its rough stone face.

“You played the clown tonight,” he said, “somewhat better than you usually manage. What was the big idea?”

“Those big eyes of hers,” said Oop, grinning. “And just begging to be shocked. I am sorry, Pete. I simply couldn’t help it.”

“All that talk about cannibalism and vomiting,” said Maxwell. “That was pretty low.”

“Well,” said Oop, “I guess I just got carried away. That’s the way folks expect a crummy Neanderthal to act.”

“The girl’s no fool,” said Maxwell. “She planted that story about the Artifact as neatly as I have ever seen it done.”

“Planted it?”

“Sure, planted it. You don’t think it just slipped out, do you, the way she pretended that it did?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Oop. “Maybe she did. But if she did, why do you think she did it?”

“I would guess she doesn’t want it sold. Figured that if she told it to a blabbermouth like you it would be all over the campus before noon tomorrow. A lot of talk about it, she might figure, would help to kill the deal.”

“But you know, Pete, that I’m no blabbermouth.”

“I know it. But you acted like one tonight.”

Oop closed the jackknife and slid it in his pocket, picked up the half-empty fruit jar and handed it to Maxwell. Maxwell put it to his mouth and drank. The fiery liquid slashed like a knife along his throat and he choked. He wished, he thought, that for once he could drink the stuff without choking on it. He took it down and sat there, gasping for breath, shivering just a little.

“Potent stuff,” said Oop. “Best batch I’ve run off for quite a while. Did you see the bead on it?”

Maxwell, unable to speak, nodded.

Oop reached out and took the jar, tilted it up, lowered its level by an inch or more. He took it down and held it lovingly against his hairy chest. He let out his breath in a whoosh that made the flames in the fireplace dance. He patted the bottle with his free hand.

“First-rate stuff,” he said.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat, staring at the fire.

“She couldn’t, certainly, have taken you for a blabber-mouth,” he finally said. “I notice that you did some fancy skating of your own tonight. All around the truth.”

“Maybe because I don’t entirely know the truth myself,” said Maxwell. “Or what to do about it. You set to do some listening?”

“Any time,” said Oop. “If that is what you want. Although you don’t need to tell me. Not out of friendship. You know we’ll still be friends if you tell me nothing. We don’t even need to talk about it. There are a lot of other things we could talk about.”

Maxwell shook his head. “I have to tell you, Oop. I have to tell someone and you’re the only one I would dare to tell. There’s too much of it for me to go on carrying it alone.”