Way Station by Clifford D Simak

I’ve mentioned before how much of a fan I am of Clifford D. Simak (1904-1988). This quiet and unassuming writer spent most of his life writing sf that was quite different to the usual robots and spaceships (although there were some of them too, truth be told.) Whilst holding down a full-time job as a reporter, he would write science fiction and fantasy that was gently humorous, quirky and homely.

Not all of it worked for me. But when it did, it was glorious. His fix-up novel City was memorable from the first read, as an homage to nature and the creatures therein. (I reviewed it on a reread HERE.)

Way Station is perhaps more typical Simak. It shows a reluctance for war and a joy of life – and some memorable aliens too.

The beginning is terrific:

“The noise was ended now. The smoke drifted like thin, grey wisps of fog above the tortured earth and the shattered fences and the peach trees that had been whittled into toothpicks by the cannon fire. For a moment silence, if not peace, fell upon those few square miles of ground where just a while before men had screamed and torn at one another in the frenzy of old hate and had contended in an ancient striving and then had fallen apart, exhausted.

For endless time, it seemed, there had been belching thunder rolling from horizon to horizon and the gouted earth that had spouted in the sky and the screams of horses and the hoarse bellowing of men; the whistling of metal and the thud when the whistle ended; the flash of searing fire and the brightness of the steel; the bravery of the colours snapping in the battle wind.

Then it all had ended and there was a silence.

But silence was an alien note that held no right upon this field or day, and it was broken by the whimper and the pain, the cry for water, and the prayer for death – the crying and the calling and the whimpering that would go on for hours beneath the summer sun. Later the huddled shapes would grow quiet and still and there would be an odour that would sicken all who passed, and the graves would be shallow graves.

There was wheat that never would be harvested, trees that would not bloom when spring came round again, and on the slope of land that ran up to the ridge the words unspoken and the deed undone and the sodden bundles that cried aloud the emptiness and the waste of death.

There were proud names that were the prouder now, but now no more than names to echo down the ages – the Iron Brigade, the 5th New Hampshire, the 1st Minnesota, the 2nd Massachusetts, the 16th Maine.

And there was Enoch Wallace.

He still held the shattered musket and there were blisters on his hands. His face was smudged with powder. His shoes were caked with dust and blood.

He was still alive.”

(First chapter)

 

Enoch has been chosen to be a near-immortal with an extended life-span and a purpose – using his old farmhouse he is to be the guardian at the gate, as it were, of Earth’s passing-point for the races of aliens that exist beyond most people’s knowledge.

The cover of my original copy.

Much of the book is about Enoch’s dealing with the strange assortment of aliens that pass through his farmhouse. He is regularly visited by his boss from Galactic Central, an alien he has named Ulysses, and they discuss life and drink coffee.

Along the way we see Enoch’s neighbours, who never question his long life and just accept it. There’s Winslowe the postman, who brings Enoch news and groceries and keeps him grounded in what is happening in the world around him. There’s also Lucy Fisher, the young deaf-mute girl who lives on the neighbouring farm with her feckless and abusive father Hank and her hick-brothers.

To keep himself sane, Enoch has two simulacrums, David Ransome, a Union soldier, and Mary, who appear to keep him company and allow him to discuss human issues.

As Enoch takes his daily exercise around his land, he takes in the beauty of the landscape and contemplates the value of life, it all seems bucolic and could carry on like this forever. However, things away from the farm are looking troubled. There are rumours of another world war brewing, something which Enoch despairs of. Enoch has also come to the attention of the CIA, who have exhumed an alien body from the farm, which has intergalactic consequences.

Not only that, but such actions have been taken up by some of the members of the Galactic Council who feel that such actions are unrepresentative of a possible future participant, and seek to not only ban Earth from future membership but close the way station as well.

There’s a minor plot point about a missing religious artefact called The Talisman which is used to contact the universal spiritual force, but much of the conclusion of this short book is about how these conflicts between Enoch, his neighbours, Earth and Galactic Central are resolved.

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I must say that I remember little of the detail of this story, other than a general sense of wonder that I really liked, to the point where it has stayed with me for over thirty years.  I have been meaning to re-read it for a while, but it was Jo Walton’s comments about it in An Informal History of the Hugos that made me pick it up again.

So, what do I like about this novel? Perhaps it is because it is, for all of its sf trappings, an essentially human story, holding all the virtues of the common man. Enoch is not a wisecracking Heinlein personality or the adventurer, the blowhard, the chancer that is the picaresque staple of many an sf story at the time it was written. Instead, Enoch generates that feeling that comes with time and experience, that he is happy where he is and in what he is doing, happiest in his own skin. Although he says little, he has a genuinely friendly curiosity and an ability to get on with everyone.

In addition, there is a kind of peace – a solitude, yes, but one which has its own reward. Enoch has chance to appreciate what he has and is grateful for the opportunity life brings, even though time creates a remoteness that can never be reduced. It is an ideal that many of us would wish to aspire to.

I also liked the variety of aliens – from the likeable Ulysses to the thaumaturgists of Alphard XXII, to the party-hard Hazers of Vega XXI and the mathematical blobs from Thuban VI, every day at Enoch’s farmhouse is entertaining. It’s not all light humour, though. Simak counterpoints the fun of alien visitors with the fact that as the aliens travel vast distances, their bodies are destroyed at the point of departure and are reformed into an identical one at the place of arrival. One of Enoch’s less pleasurable duties is the removal and destruction of the body left behind. (Just imagine the calamity that would cause if Captain Kirk had that happen every time he was beamed down to a planet!)

Most noticeable throughout is a feeling of warmth. This is partly through Enoch’s own senses, his homely habits of coffee and home fires burning to the overwhelming sense that everyone just wants to get on, despite all the challenges determined for it not to happen. There is a pulp-ish element towards the end that almost derails things but actually shows us how special and different Enoch’s world is.

It would be easy to turn this story into something else – that there is war, that there is an alien conspiracy, that Enoch leads a revolution against an oppressive alien force, guns blazing – but it is not that kind of story. Generally (with an exception towards the end) the aliens seem genuinely interested in Earth and its people, wanting only to co-exist and taking comfort in the fact that one day Mankind will also travel the stars when they are ready. Above all, the story offers hope, that even when war looms on Earth, the universe is an awesomely big place that offers much beyond the petty wars on Earth.

Although its focus is small, Way Station sets this against a background that is all about ‘the bigger picture’. Simak cleverly treats both with respect.

Whilst it has similar themes to his earlier story, The Big Front Yard (1958). Way Station is a focusing and refining of such ideas into something quite palatable. It is a short but memorable read, one that stands out because it is shows Simak’s unique vision well.

Way Station’s quiet bucolic nature and lack of action mean that we can focus on other aspects, things that are different from the usual science fiction story of its time. There is the odd clunk (the abusive hick farmer is a cliché not really needed), but despite its age, it is still has value as a reminder that the Human race is better than the warlike species it can often be, something that the aliens recognise. We can do better.

From this, David Brin’s Uplift scenario cannot be far away.

Way Station won the Hugo for Best Novel in 1964. It is described in the Gollancz SF omnibus edition as “probably Simak’s best novel.”  On reflection, I think I also agree*. Whilst I still love City, Way Station is a much more focused work whilst still exhibiting Simak’s clearly heartfelt values and therefore may be one of my favourites from this underappreciated author.  In my opinion (and Jo Walton’s!) the Hugo Award was deserved.

The original story is here: Part One (LINK) and Part Two (LINK)

*I can say that Way Station is perhaps my favourite Simak novel, because City is a series of linked stories that make up a novel, whilst Way Station was always written as a novel.

 

Way Station by Clifford Simak

First published in Galaxy Magazine, June and August 1963, as Here Gather the Stars.

First published as a novel in 1964 by Doubleday

ISBN: 978-0345284204

190 pages

Review by Mark Yon

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  1. Simak’s books usually featured a bucolic protagonist and secondary characters with old-timey, rural names. That said, he was a personal favourite of mine from the earliest Simak I read (“Ring Around the Sun,” I believe). It was a pleasure to meet him, however briefly, forty years ago. He’ll always be in my personal top ten or fifteen.

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