New Folks' Home: And Other Stories (The Complete Short Fiction of Clifford D. Simak Book 6) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Clifford D. Simak
was tenanted.
He washed his hands and face, but did not bother with a shave, although when he looked into the medicine cabinet, it was no longer empty. It now held shaving tackle, a toothbrush and a tube of paste, a hairbrush and a comb.
Breakfast was on the table in the dining room and there was only one place set. There were bacon and eggs, hash brown potatoes, tomato juice, toast and a pot of coffee.
But there was no sign of anyone who might have prepared the food or placed it on the table.
Could there be, he wondered, a staff of invisible servants in the house who took care of guests?
And the electricity, he wondered. Was there a private power plant? Perhaps one that was powered by the waterfall? And what about the phone? Could it be a radiophone? He wondered if a radiophone would look different from just an ordinary phone. He could not recall that he had ever seen one.
And who had been the caller?
He stood and looked at the waiting breakfast.
“Whoever you are,” he said, aloud, “I thank you. I wish that I could see you. That you would speak to me.”
No one spoke to him.
He sat down and ate the breakfast, not realizing until he put the food into his mouth how hungry he had been.
After breakfast he went into the bedroom and found the clothes hanging in the closet. Not fancy clothes, but the kind of outfit a fisherman would wear.
Coming out of the bedroom, he saw that the breakfast things had been cleared off the table.
He stepped outside into the sunshine and the day was beautiful. The storm had blown itself out sometime in the night.
Now that he was all right, he told himself, perhaps he’d better go upstream and bring down the rod and the other stuff he’d left. The rest of it didn’t amount to much, but the rod was much too good to leave.
It all was there, piled where he had left it, neatly on the shore. He bent down and picked up the rod and stood facing the river, with it in his hand.
Why not? he asked himself. There was no hurry to get back. As long as he was here he might as well get in a bit of fishing. He’d not have another chance. He’d not come back again.
He laid the rod aside and sat down to pull on the waders. He emptied the fish he’d caught the day before out of the creel and strapped it on his shoulder.
And why just this morning? he asked himself. Why just another day? There was no reason to get back and he had a house to stay in. There was no reason he shouldn’t stay a while and make a real vacation of it.
He stood aghast at how easily he accepted the situation, how ready he found himself to take advantage of it. The house was a thing of mystery, and yet not terrifying. There was nothing in the house, strange as it might be, that a man need be afraid of.
He picked up the rod and stepped into the stream and whipped out the line. On the fifth cast a trout struck. The day had started fine.
He fished to the first break of the rapids just above the falls, then clambered out on shore. He had five fish in the creel and two of them were large.
He could fish the rapids from the shore, he thought, but perhaps he shouldn’t. He should be getting back for a good look at the house. He had to settle in his mind the truth about the power source and the telephone and there might be a lot of other things that needed looking into.
He glanced down at his watch and it was later than he thought. He untied the fly and reeled in the line and disjointed the rod, then set off down the trail.
By the middle of the afternoon, he had finished his inspection of the house.
There were no power and no telephone lines coming to the house and there was no private power plant. The house was conventionally wired for electricity, but there was no source that he could find. The telephone plugged into a jack in the hall and there were other jacks in the bedroom and the study.
But there was another item: The night before, as he sat in the living room, he could see into the study. He had seen the painting
He washed his hands and face, but did not bother with a shave, although when he looked into the medicine cabinet, it was no longer empty. It now held shaving tackle, a toothbrush and a tube of paste, a hairbrush and a comb.
Breakfast was on the table in the dining room and there was only one place set. There were bacon and eggs, hash brown potatoes, tomato juice, toast and a pot of coffee.
But there was no sign of anyone who might have prepared the food or placed it on the table.
Could there be, he wondered, a staff of invisible servants in the house who took care of guests?
And the electricity, he wondered. Was there a private power plant? Perhaps one that was powered by the waterfall? And what about the phone? Could it be a radiophone? He wondered if a radiophone would look different from just an ordinary phone. He could not recall that he had ever seen one.
And who had been the caller?
He stood and looked at the waiting breakfast.
“Whoever you are,” he said, aloud, “I thank you. I wish that I could see you. That you would speak to me.”
No one spoke to him.
He sat down and ate the breakfast, not realizing until he put the food into his mouth how hungry he had been.
After breakfast he went into the bedroom and found the clothes hanging in the closet. Not fancy clothes, but the kind of outfit a fisherman would wear.
Coming out of the bedroom, he saw that the breakfast things had been cleared off the table.
He stepped outside into the sunshine and the day was beautiful. The storm had blown itself out sometime in the night.
Now that he was all right, he told himself, perhaps he’d better go upstream and bring down the rod and the other stuff he’d left. The rest of it didn’t amount to much, but the rod was much too good to leave.
It all was there, piled where he had left it, neatly on the shore. He bent down and picked up the rod and stood facing the river, with it in his hand.
Why not? he asked himself. There was no hurry to get back. As long as he was here he might as well get in a bit of fishing. He’d not have another chance. He’d not come back again.
He laid the rod aside and sat down to pull on the waders. He emptied the fish he’d caught the day before out of the creel and strapped it on his shoulder.
And why just this morning? he asked himself. Why just another day? There was no reason to get back and he had a house to stay in. There was no reason he shouldn’t stay a while and make a real vacation of it.
He stood aghast at how easily he accepted the situation, how ready he found himself to take advantage of it. The house was a thing of mystery, and yet not terrifying. There was nothing in the house, strange as it might be, that a man need be afraid of.
He picked up the rod and stepped into the stream and whipped out the line. On the fifth cast a trout struck. The day had started fine.
He fished to the first break of the rapids just above the falls, then clambered out on shore. He had five fish in the creel and two of them were large.
He could fish the rapids from the shore, he thought, but perhaps he shouldn’t. He should be getting back for a good look at the house. He had to settle in his mind the truth about the power source and the telephone and there might be a lot of other things that needed looking into.
He glanced down at his watch and it was later than he thought. He untied the fly and reeled in the line and disjointed the rod, then set off down the trail.
By the middle of the afternoon, he had finished his inspection of the house.
There were no power and no telephone lines coming to the house and there was no private power plant. The house was conventionally wired for electricity, but there was no source that he could find. The telephone plugged into a jack in the hall and there were other jacks in the bedroom and the study.
But there was another item: The night before, as he sat in the living room, he could see into the study. He had seen the painting
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