Read New Folks' Home: And Other Stories (The Complete Short Fiction of Clifford D. Simak Book 6) for Free Online Page A
Authors: Clifford D. Simak
birthplace, this story is nonetheless uncharacteristic of his work, a conclusion that may be demonstrated by the fact that after being written, it was first sent to Weird Tales (in May 1948), which was not a usual market for Simak stories. But after its apparent rejection, the tale was ultimately accepted by Fantastic Universe and appeared in the August-September1948 issue.
—dww
There can be no denial that the hobby of Foster Adams was a strange one. One must bear in mind that Foster Adams was a strange man. Whether Adams, himself, considered his research as a hobby or an occupation no one can ever say. It may have been a hobby or an obsession—or it may have been no more than the misdirection of a brilliant mind.
How he had come to take up his research, what deep-laid motive drove him to carry it out to its logical and deadly conclusion, I have no idea. Come to think of it, there is very little that I do know of Foster Adams. There is very little anyone knows.
I do not know where he was born nor who his parents were nor what became of them, although I always took it for granted they had died many years ago. I know nothing of his education except that it must have been extensive. I have no knowledge as to how or when or why he came into possession of the old Smith farm. Nor why he sought an answer to a question to which no man of this day and age would give more than passing notice, although there was a time not too many centuries removed when men must have spent much thought upon the matter.
That some deep compelling motive lay within his mind there can be no doubt. Certainly toward the end, when he had reason to believe the solution he sought might be within his grasp, he must have realized the danger of such knowledge.
Perhaps Foster Adams counted himself of stouter fiber than he really was or it may have been that in his most considered judgment, or even in his wildest imaginings, he never once came close to guessing what the answer really was. And this would seem most strange, for his questing was bolstered by many years of study.
I first heard of Foster Adams from an acquaintance in the history department at State University.
“Foster Adams is your man,” he told me. “He lives down in your part of the country now. He probably has more historic insignificance packed inside his skull than any other living person.”
It seemed strange to me, and I said so, that a professor of English history could not tell me about the eating habits of the English middle class in the fifteenth century, but he shook his head.
“I can tell you in a general way,” he said, “but not down to the last crumb of barley bread as Foster Adams can.”
When I asked who Adams was he couldn’t tell me. He was not connected with any university, he had never published anything and he was not an authority, not a recognized authority, at any rate. But he did know what people had worn and eaten from Egypt down to the last century’s turn—what tools they had used, what crops they raised, how they traveled—all the little trivial things that went to make up daily living down through the centuries.
“It’s a hobby,” my acquaintance said. And that’s as close an explanation as I ever got from anyone.
The Smith farm is a stark weather-beaten place set upon a wind-scarred rocky ridge. It has no grace or character and no dignity. Notwithstanding what happened there of a late November night it even now fails to achieve a patina of terror or the somber greatness of dark happenings.
I still recall my first sight of it and the depression and melancholy that gripped me as I drove up the rocky road, winding up the hill to reach the ridge.
The house was grey, not with the greyness of old lumber, but with the flat, unhealthy grey of lumber that had known a coat of paint which long since has scaled and peeled and been dissolved in wind and weather. The barn’s ridgepole sagged in the middle, for all the world like a swaybacked horse, and
—dww
There can be no denial that the hobby of Foster Adams was a strange one. One must bear in mind that Foster Adams was a strange man. Whether Adams, himself, considered his research as a hobby or an occupation no one can ever say. It may have been a hobby or an obsession—or it may have been no more than the misdirection of a brilliant mind.
How he had come to take up his research, what deep-laid motive drove him to carry it out to its logical and deadly conclusion, I have no idea. Come to think of it, there is very little that I do know of Foster Adams. There is very little anyone knows.
I do not know where he was born nor who his parents were nor what became of them, although I always took it for granted they had died many years ago. I know nothing of his education except that it must have been extensive. I have no knowledge as to how or when or why he came into possession of the old Smith farm. Nor why he sought an answer to a question to which no man of this day and age would give more than passing notice, although there was a time not too many centuries removed when men must have spent much thought upon the matter.
That some deep compelling motive lay within his mind there can be no doubt. Certainly toward the end, when he had reason to believe the solution he sought might be within his grasp, he must have realized the danger of such knowledge.
Perhaps Foster Adams counted himself of stouter fiber than he really was or it may have been that in his most considered judgment, or even in his wildest imaginings, he never once came close to guessing what the answer really was. And this would seem most strange, for his questing was bolstered by many years of study.
I first heard of Foster Adams from an acquaintance in the history department at State University.
“Foster Adams is your man,” he told me. “He lives down in your part of the country now. He probably has more historic insignificance packed inside his skull than any other living person.”
It seemed strange to me, and I said so, that a professor of English history could not tell me about the eating habits of the English middle class in the fifteenth century, but he shook his head.
“I can tell you in a general way,” he said, “but not down to the last crumb of barley bread as Foster Adams can.”
When I asked who Adams was he couldn’t tell me. He was not connected with any university, he had never published anything and he was not an authority, not a recognized authority, at any rate. But he did know what people had worn and eaten from Egypt down to the last century’s turn—what tools they had used, what crops they raised, how they traveled—all the little trivial things that went to make up daily living down through the centuries.
“It’s a hobby,” my acquaintance said. And that’s as close an explanation as I ever got from anyone.
The Smith farm is a stark weather-beaten place set upon a wind-scarred rocky ridge. It has no grace or character and no dignity. Notwithstanding what happened there of a late November night it even now fails to achieve a patina of terror or the somber greatness of dark happenings.
I still recall my first sight of it and the depression and melancholy that gripped me as I drove up the rocky road, winding up the hill to reach the ridge.
The house was grey, not with the greyness of old lumber, but with the flat, unhealthy grey of lumber that had known a coat of paint which long since has scaled and peeled and been dissolved in wind and weather. The barn’s ridgepole sagged in the middle, for all the world like a swaybacked horse, and
Similar Books
Kit Cavendish-Private Nurse
Margaret Malcolm
The Survival Kit
Donna Freitas
The Windrose Chronicles 3 - Dog Wizard
Barbara Hambly
LOWCOUNTRY BOOK CLUB
Susan M. Boyer
Love Me Tender
Susan Fox
Watcher's Web
Patty Jansen
The Other Anzacs
Peter Rees
Borrowed Wife
Patrícia Wilson
Shadow Puppets
Orson Scott Card
All That Was Happy
M.M. Wilshire