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By Clifford D. Simak

A guy hunts for misplaced wisdom in a destiny society that’s reverted to a primitive tribal kingdom during this novel by way of the writer of Way Station.

greater than one thousand years have handed because humankind deliberately destroyed its treacherous know-how, determining to revert again to a primitive tribal country. during this society the rusting mind instances 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 song the parable to its resource, Tom units out on an awesome trek throughout what was referred to as “America,” teaming up with a witch, the world’s final final robotic, and different abnormal partners. yet the entire surprising discoveries and hazards they come upon alongside the best way will faded sooner than the revelations that look forward to them at journey’s end.
Clifford D. Simak, award-winning technology 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 history of Stars, he boldly screens the center, intelligence, and impressive ingenious powers that experience validated him as one of many all-time maximum authors of speculative fiction.

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They had been lucky to have the island near, he thought. Unlike the valley farther down the river, there was not much cover here. Later, farther up the valley, there would be even less. They were getting deep into the prairie country’ and the valley would get even narrower and there’d be fewer trees. The time would come when they’d have to leave even the scanty cover that the valley offered and strike west across the plain. He glanced up and down the river and saw that the hear had left. Some small animal, either mink or muskrat, probably a rat, had left the lower tip of the island and was angling down across the stream toward the hank, swimming strongly.

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. It is possible their perceptions are not of an order that permits them to identify other forms of life.

I doubt it. If the city tribes beat them off, they’d be quite satisfied to leave them alone. But if these friends of ours across the river did take a beating, they’d be jumpy. They would run at shadows. ” Except for the muted noises of the camp and the murmur of the river, the land lay in silence. Both coyote and owl were quiet. “We were lucky, sir,” said Rollo. “Yes, we were,” said Cushing. “If they had spotted us, we might have been hard pressed to get away. Horses were being led into the camp area and men were mounting.

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