Free Time Is the Simplest Thing by Clifford D. Simak

Fishhook?”
    Blaine shrugged. “What difference would it make?”
    â€œGood God, man,” the sheriff said, “if the folks in this town knew you were from Fishhook, they’d be in to string you up. They might let just a simple parry slip through their fingers, but not a man from Fishhook. They burned down the Trading Post three years ago last month, and the factor got out of town just ahead of them.”
    â€œAnd what would you do about it,” Blaine demanded, “if they decided I needed stringing up?”
    The sheriff scratched his head. “Well, naturally, I’d do the best I could.”
    â€œThanks a lot,” said Blaine. “I suppose you contacted Fishhook.”
    â€œI told them to come and get you. Take you off my hands.”
    â€œThat’s a pal,” said Blaine.
    The sheriff proceeded to get sore.
    â€œWhy did you come blundering into this town?” he demanded, with quite a lot of heat. “This is a quiet, peaceable, decent place until folks like you show up.”
    â€œWe were hungry,” said Blaine, “and we stopped to get some breakfast.”
    â€œYou stuck your head into a noose,” the sheriff told him, sternly. “I hope to God I can get you out of it.”
    He started to turn away and then turned back.
    â€œI’ll send the Father in,” he said.

NINE
    The priest came into the cell and stood for a moment, blinking in the dimness.
    Blaine stood and said to him: “I am glad you came. The best I can offer you is a seat here on the bunk.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” said the priest. “I thank you. I am Father Flanagan and I hope I’m not intruding.”
    â€œNot in the least,” said Blaine. “I am glad to see you.”
    Father Flanagan eased himself to a seat upon the bunk, groaning a little with the effort. He was an aged man who ran to corpulence, with a kindly face and withered hands that looked as if they might be crippled by arthritis.
    â€œSit down, my son,” he said. “I hope I don’t disturb you. I warn you at the outset that I’m a horrible busybody. It would come, I would suspect, from being the shepherd to a group of people who are largely children, irrespective of their years. Is there anything you would like to talk about?”
    â€œAnything at all,” said Blaine, “except possibly religion.”
    â€œYou are not a religious man, my son?”
    â€œNot particularly,” said Blaine. “Whenever I consider it, I tend to become confused.”
    The old man shook his head. “These are ungodly days. There are many like you. It is a worry to me. To Holy Mother Church as well. We have fallen on hard times of the spirit, with many of the people more concerned with fear of evil than contemplation of the good. There is talk of werewolf and incubus and devil, and a hundred years ago all fear of such had been washed out of our minds.”
    He turned his body ponderously and sat sidewise the better to face Blaine.
    â€œThe sheriff tells me,” he said, “that you come from Fishhook.”
    â€œThere is no use,” said Blaine, “of my denying it.”
    â€œI have never talked with anyone from Fishhook,” the old priest said, mumbling just a little, as if he might be talking to himself rather than to Blaine. “I have only heard of Fishhook, and some of the stories I have heard of it are incredible and wild. There was a factor here for a time before the people burned the Post, but I never went to see him. The people would not have understood.”
    â€œFrom what happened here this morning,” Blaine agreed, “I rather doubt they would have.”
    â€œThey say you are a paranormal.…”
    â€œParry is the word,” Blaine told him. “No need to dress it up.”
    â€œAnd you are really one?”
    â€œFather, I am at a loss to understand your interest.”
    â€œJust academic,” said