By Clifford D. Simak
greater than one thousand years have handed considering that humankind deliberately destroyed its treacherous expertise, settling on to revert again to a primitive tribal nation. during this society the rusting mind circumstances of long-inert robots are thought of trophies, and the scant wisdom that has survived is doled out to an inquisitive few in monastery-like “universities.” it's at one such middle of studying that younger Tom Cushing first reads of the mythical “Place of Going to the Stars,” rumored to exist on a excessive butte someplace within the western a part of the land. pushed through enthusiasm and an insatiable have to tune the parable to its resource, Tom units out on an awesome trek throughout what used to be known as “America,” teaming up with a witch, the world’s final last robotic, and different strange partners. yet all of the striking discoveries and hazards they stumble upon alongside the way in which will faded earlier than the revelations that look forward to them at journey’s end.
Clifford D. Simak, award-winning technological know-how fiction Grand grasp, bargains a wide ranging imaginative and prescient of the longer term that's either dystopian and hopeful in equivalent degree. In A historical past of Stars, he boldly screens the guts, intelligence, and amazing creative powers that experience proven him as one of many all-time maximum authors of speculative fiction.
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Andy sensed it first, then I “Yes, I know,” said Cushing. ” “This is lonesome land,” said Rollo. “It gives rise to many strangenesses. ” “Mostly here,” said Rollo. ” “I don’t know,” the robot said. “I know nothing about this Place of Going to the Stars. ” “It seems to me, Sir Robot,” said Meg, “that you are full of evasiveness. ” “They eat you,” Rollo said. ” “That is right. Not the flesh of you, for they have no need of flesh. The soul and mind of you. “Well, that is fine,” said Meg. “So we are to he eaten, the soul and mind of us, and yet you tell us nothing of it.
I have always had the gift. Not only flowers, but trees and all other kinds of plants—grasses, mosses, vines, weeds, if any plant can rightly be called a weed. It’s not so much that I talk with them, although at times I do. What I mostly do is listen. There are occasions when I am sure they know that I am there. When this happens, I try to talk with them. Mostly I think they understand me, although I am not certain they are able to identify me, to know with any certainty what it is that is talking with them.
He was dressed in worn buckskins and stood as straight as a young oak tree, facing the west, the restless western wind tugging at his beard and hair. The woman, who appeared to be younger, was sitting to one side and behind him, her feet tucked beneath her, head and shoulders bent forward, covered by a ragged robe. They were situated beside a small patch of wild sunflowers. When Cushing and the others came up to the two, they could see that the man was standing in two shallow holes that had been clawed out of the prairie sod, standing in them barefooted, with a pair of worn moccasins lying to one side.
A Heritage of Stars by Clifford D. Simak