Epilog by Clifford D. Simak

Author:Clifford D. Simak [Simak, Clifford D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504083102
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2023-07-11T00:00:00+00:00

Masquerade

Clifford D. Simak’s journals show that he was paid $125 for this story. He sent it, under the title “Mercutian Masquerade,” to John W. Campbell, Jr., the editor of Astounding Science Fiction, on August 11, 1940, received news of its acceptance a week later, and it would appear in the March 1941 issue. The story seems to have been part of what the author intended to be a series of stories set on the various planets of our Solar System (a project that the author seemed to abandon before completion, which may be just as well).

It’s rather a peculiar story, with some disturbing elements, including its portrayal of the character “Old Creepy,” but I am interested in the similarity of the Roman Candles to the “Ghosts” of the story “Hermit of Mars,” which appeared less than two years earlier. (Another disturbing element here is the portrayal of a (human) person named Rastus. He is described once as “a smoke,” and once as a Negro; and he clearly presents a stereotype not unusual in pulp fiction of the 1930s. Clifford Simak did not use any of the more common derogatory terms, and he would never do another such portrayal.)

Just as an interesting historical aside: I note that the issue of Astounding in which “Masquerade” appeared also featured two stories by Robert A. Heinlein—a short story, and the conclusion of his serial, Sixth Column (which was published under his pseudonym, Anson MacDonald). (I find this interesting both because of the fact that the two future science fiction Grand Masters would always have great respect for each other—and because Cliff Simak used “Anson” in the name “Anson Lee,” which he would use a number of times in later, unrelated, stories.)

—dww

Old Creepy was down in the control room, sawing lustily on his screeching fiddle.

On the sun-blasted plains outside the Mercutian Power Center, the Roman Candles, snatching their shapes from Creepy’s mind, had assumed the form of Terrestrial hillbillies and were cavorting through the measures of a square dance.

In the kitchen, Rastus rolled two cubes about the table, crooning to them, feeling lonesome because no one would shoot a game of craps with him.

Inside the refrigeration room, Mathilde, the cat, stared angrily at the slabs of frozen beef above her head, felt the cold of the place and meowed softly, cursing herself for never being able to resist the temptation of sneaking in when Rastus wasn’t looking.

Up in the office, at the peak of the great photocell that was the center, Curt Craig stared angrily across the desk at Norman Page.

One hundred miles away, Knut Anderson, encased in a cumbersome photocell space suit, stared incredulously at what he saw inside the space warp.

The communications bank snarled warningly and Craig swung about in his chair, lifted the handset off the cradle and snapped recognition into the mouthpiece.

“This is Knut, chief,” said a voice, badly blurred by radiations.

“Yes,” yelled Craig. “What did you find?”

“A big one,” said Knut’s voice.

“Where?”

“I’ll give you the location.”

Craig snatched up a pencil, wrote rapidly as the voice spat and crackled at him.

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