The Shipshape Miracle: And Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  He got up and stumbled through the darkness to the end of the dam and climbed around the clump of anchor trees. He skidded down the sharp incline to the stream-bed and went fumbling down the hollow.

  What should he do, he wondered. Head straight for Washington? Go to the FBI?

  For whatever else, no matter what might happen, that one remaining rolla must be gotten into proper hands.

  Already there was too much lost. There could be no further chances taken. Placed in governmental or scientific hands, that one lone rolla might still retrieve much that had been lost.

  He began to worry about what might have happened to the rolla, locked inside the trunk. He recalled that it had been banging for attention.

  What if it suffocated? What if there were something of importance, something about its care, perhaps, that it had been vital that it tell him? What if that had been the reason for its banging on the trunk?

  He fumbled down the stream-bed in sobbing haste, tripping on the gravel beds, falling over boulders. Mosquitos flew a heavy escort for him and he flapped his hands to try and clear them off, but he was so worried that they seemed little more than an inconvenience.

  Up in the orchard, more than likely, Metcalfe’s mob was busy stripping trees, harvesting no one could guess how many millions in brand new, crinkly bills.

  For now the jig was up and all of them would know it. Now there was nothing left to do but clean out the orchard and disappear as best they could.

  Perhaps the money trees had required the constant attention of the rollas to keep on producing letter-perfect money. Otherwise why had Metcalfe had the rolla to tend the tree in town? And now, with the rollas gone, the trees might go on producing, but the money that they grew might be defective and irregular, like the growth of nubbin corn.

  The slope of the land told him that he was near the road.

  He went on blindly and suddenly came upon the car. He went around it in the dark and rapped upon the window.

  Inside, Mabel screamed.

  “It’s all right,” yelled Doyle. “It is me. I’m back.”

  She unlocked the door and he climbed in beside her. She leaned against him and he put an arm around her.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry that I took so long.”

  “Did everything go all right, Chuck?”

  “Yes,” he mumbled. “Yes, I imagine that you could say it did.”

  “I’m so glad,” she said, relieved. “It is all right, then. The rolla ran away.”

  “Ran away! For God’s sake, Mabel …”

  “Now, please don’t go getting sore, Chuck. He kept on with that banging and I felt sorry for him. I was afraid, of course, but more sorry than afraid. So I opened up the trunk and let him out and it was OK. He was the sweetest little chap …”

  “So he ran away,” said Doyle, still not quite believing it. “But he might still be around somewhere, out there in the dark.”

  “No,” said Mabel, “he is not around. He went up the hollow as fast as he could go, like a dog when his master calls. It was dark and I was scared, but I ran after him. I called and kept on following, but it was no use—I knew that he was gone.”

  She sat up straight in the seat.

  “It don’t make no difference now,” she said. “You don’t need him any longer. Although I am sorry that he ran away. He’da made a dandy pet. He talked so nice—so much nicer than a parakeet—and he was so good. I tied a ribbon, a yellow piece of ribbon around his neck and you never seen anything so cute.”

  “I just bet he was,” said Doyle.

  And he was thinking of a rolla, rocketing through space in a new-grown ship, heading out for a far-off sun and taking with him possibly some of man’s greatest hopes, all fixed up and cute with a ribbon round his neck.

  Shotgun Cure

  Completed in October 1959, this story was first published in the January 1961 issue of the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. It is one of several Simak stories that featured physicians; and while those stories all make it clear that Cliff respected members of that profession highly, in this one it is possible that Dr. Kelly has made a mistake that could cost the human race dearly (by subjecting it to a “treatment” that Cliff referred to in several others of his stories).

  If so, it was a mistake arising out of Kelly’s desire to live up to his ethical code.

  (It may or may not be an interesting coincidence that in the time I knew him, Cliff’s personal physician was enough of a friend that Cliff felt able to go to him for medical information that might be of use in his stories—but this Dr. Kelly instead carries the same last name as the man who was Cliff’s lawyer … well, it likely means nothing.)

  —dww

  The clinics were set up and in the morning they’d start on Operation Kelly—and that was something, wasn’t it, that they should call it Kelly!

  He sat in the battered rocking chair on the sagging porch and said it once again and rolled it on his tongue, but the taste of it was not so sharp nor sweet as it once had been, when that great London doctor had risen in the United Nations to suggest it could be called nothing else but Kelly.

  Although, when one came to think of it, there was a deal of happenstance. It needn’t have been Kelly. It could have been just anyone at all with an M.D. to his name. It could as well have been Cohen or Johnson or Radzonovich or any other of them—any one of all the doctors in the world.

  He rocked gently in the creaking chair while the floor boards of the porch groaned in sympathy, and in the gathering dusk were the sounds, as well, of children at the day’s-end play, treasuring those last seconds before they had to go inside and soon thereafter to bed.

  There was the scent of lilacs in the coolness of the air and at the corner of the garden he could faintly see the white flush of an early-blooming bridal wreath—the one that Martha Anderson had given him and Janet so many years ago, when they first had come to live in this very house.

  A neighbor came tramping down the walk and he could not make him out in the deepening dusk, but the man called out to him.

  “Good evening, Doc,” he said.

  “Good evening, Hiram,” said old Doc Kelly, knowing who it was by the voice of him.

  The neighbor went on, tramping down the walk.

  Old Doc kept up his gentle rocking with his hands folded on his pudgy stomach and from inside the house he could hear the bustling in the kitchen as Janet cleared up after supper. In a little while, perhaps, she’d come out and sit with him and they’d talk together, low-voiced and casually, as befitted an old couple very much in love.

  Although, by rights, he shouldn’t stay out here on the porch. There was the medical journal waiting for him on the study desk and he should be reading it. There was so much new stuff these days that a man should keep up with—although, perhaps, the way things were turning out it wouldn’t really matter if a man kept up or not.

  Maybe in the years to come there’d be precious little a man would need to keep up with.

  Of course, there’d always be need of doctors. There’d always be damn fools smashing up their cars and shooting one another and getting fishhooks in their hands and falling out of trees. And there’d always be the babies.

  He rocked gently to and fro and thought of all the babies and how some of them had grown until they were men and women now and had babies of their own. And he thought of Martha Anderson, Janet’s closest friend, and he thought of old Con Gilbert, as ornery an old shikepoke as ever walked the earth, and tight with money, too. He chuckled a bit wryly, thinking of all the money Con Gilbert finally owed him, never having paid a bill in his entire life.

  But that was the way it went. There were some who paid and others who made no pretense of paying, and that was why he and Janet lived in this old house and he drove a five-year car and Janet had worn the selfsame dress to church the blessed winter long.
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br />   Although it made no difference, really, once one considered it. For the important pay was not in cash.

  There were those who paid and those who didn’t pay. And there were those who lived and the other ones who died, no matter what you did. There was hope for some and the ones who had no hope—and some of these you told and there were others that you didn’t.

  But it was different now.

  And it all had started right here in this little town of Millville—not much more than a year ago.

  Sitting in the dark, with the lilac scent and the white blush of the bridal wreath and the muted sounds of children clasping to themselves the last minutes of their play, he remembered it.

  It was almost 8:30 and he could hear Martha Anderson in the outer office talking to Miss Lane and she, he knew, had been the last of them.

  He took off his white jacket, folding it absent-mindedly, fogged with weariness, and laid it across the examination table.

  Janet would be waiting supper, but she’d never say a word, for she never had. All these many years she had never said a word of reproach to him, although there had been at times a sense of disapproval at his easy-going ways, at his keeping on with patients who didn’t even thank him, much less pay their bills. And a sense of disapproval, too, at the hours he kept, at his willingness to go out of nights when he could just as well have let a call go till his regular morning rounds.

  She would be waiting supper and she would know that Martha had been in to see him and she’d ask him how she was, and what was he to tell her?

  He heard Martha going out and the sharp click of Miss Lane’s heels across the outer office. He moved slowly to the basin and turned on the tap, picking up the soap.

  He heard the door creak open and did not turn his head.

  “Doctor,” said Miss Lane, “Martha thinks she’s fine. She says you’re helping her. Do you think…”

  “What would you do,” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Would you operate, knowing it was hopeless? Would you send her to a specialist, knowing that he couldn’t help her, knowing she can’t pay him and that she’ll worry about not paying? Would you tell her that she has, perhaps, six months to live and take from her the little happiness and hope she still has left to her?”

  “I am sorry, doctor.”

  “No need to be. I’ve faced it many times. No case is the same. Each one calls for a decision of its own. It’s been a long, hard day…”

  “Doctor, there’s another one out there.”

  “Another patient?”

  “A man. He just came in. His name is Harry Herman.”

  “Herman? I don’t know any Hermans.”

  “He’s a stranger,” said Miss Lane. “Maybe he just moved into town.”

  “If he’d moved in,” said Doc, “I’d have heard of it. I hear everything.”

  “Maybe he’s just passing through. Maybe he got sick driving on the road.”

  “Well, send him in,” said Doc, reaching for a towel. “I’ll have a look at him.”

  The nurse turned to the door.

  “And Miss Lane.”

  “Yes?”

  “You may as well go home. There’s no use sticking round. It’s been a real bad day.”

  And it had been, at that, he thought. A fracture, a burn, a cut, a dropsy, a menopause, a pregnancy, two pelvics, a scattering of colds, a feeding schedule, two teethings, a suspicious lung, a possible gallstone, a cirrhosis of the liver and Martha Anderson. And now, last of all, this man named Harry Herman—no name that he knew and when one came to think of it, a rather funny name.

  And he was a funny man. Just a bit too tall and willowy to be quite believable, ears too tight against his skull, lips so thin they seemed no lips at all.

  “Doctor?” he asked, standing in the doorway.

  “Yes,” said Doc, picking up his jacket and shrugging into it. “Yes, I am the doctor. Come on in. What can I do for you?”

  “I am not ill,” said the man.

  “Not ill?”

  “But I want to talk to you. You have time, perhaps?”

  “Yes, certainly,” said Doc, knowing that he had no time and resenting this intrusion. “Come on in. Sit down.”

  He tried to place the accent, but was unable to. Central European, most likely.

  “Technical,” said the man. “Professional.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Doc, getting slightly nettled.

  “I talk to you technical. I talk professional.”

  “You mean that you’re a doctor?”

  “Not exactly,” said the man, “although perhaps you think so. I should tell you immediate that I am an alien.”

  “An alien,” said Old Doc. “We’ve got lots of them around. Mostly refugees.”

  “Not what I mean. Not that kind of alien. From some other planet. From some other star.”

  “But you said your name was Herman…”

  “When in Rome,” said the other one, “you must do as Romans.”

  “Huh?” asked Doc, and then: “Good God, do you mean that? That you are an alien. By an alien, do you mean…”

  The other nodded happily. “From some other planet. From some other star. Very many light-years.”

  “Well, I be damned,” said Doc.

  He stood there looking at the alien and the alien grinned back at him, but uncertainly.

  “You think, perhaps,” the alien said, “but he is so human!”

  “That,” said Doc, “was going through my mind.”

  “So you would have a look, perhaps. You would know a human body.”

  “Perhaps,” said Doc grimly, not liking it at all. “But the human body can take some funny turns.”

  “But not a turn like this,” said the stranger, showing him his hands.

  “No,” said the shocked Old Doc. “No such turn as that.”

  For the hand had two thumbs and a single finger, almost as if a bird claw had decided to turn into a hand.

  “Nor like this?” asked the other, standing up and letting down his trousers.

  “Nor like that,” said Doc, more shaken than he’d been in many years of practice.

  “Then,” said the alien, zipping up his trousers, “I think that it is settled.”

  He sat down again and calmly crossed his knees.

  “If you mean I accept you as an alien,” said Doc, “I suppose I do. Although it’s not an easy thing.”

  “I suppose it is not. It comes as quite a shock.”

  Doc passed a hand across his brow. “Yes, a shock, of course. But there are other points…”

  “You mean the language,” said the alien. “And my knowledge of your customs.”

  “That’s part of it, naturally.”

  “We’ve studied you,” the alien said. “We’ve spent some time on you. Not you alone, of course…”

  “But you talk so well,” protested Doc. “Like a well-educated foreigner.”

  “And that, of course,” the other said, “is what exactly I am.”

  “Why, yes, I guess you are,” said Doc. “I hadn’t thought of it.”

  “I am not glib,” said the alien. “I know a lot of words, but I use them incorrect. And my vocabulary is restricted to just the common speech. On matters of great technicality, I will not be proficient.”

  Doc walked around behind his desk and sat down rather limply.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s have the rest of it. I accept you as an alien. Now tell me the other answer. Just why are you here?”

  And he was surprised beyond all reason that he could approach the situation as calmly as he had. In a little while, he knew, when he had time to think it over, he would get the shakes.

  “You’re a doctor,” said the alien. “You are a healer of
your race.”

  ‘Yes,” said Doc. “I am one of many healers.”

  “You work very hard to make the unwell well. You mend the broken flesh. You hold off death…”

  “We try. Sometimes we don’t succeed.”

  “You have many ailments. You have the cancer and the heart attacks and colds and many other things—I do not find the word.”

  “Diseases,” Doc supplied.

  “Disease. That is it. You will pardon my shortcomings in the tongue.”

  “Let’s cut out the niceties,” suggested Doc. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “It is not right,” the alien said, “to have all these diseases. It is not nice. It is an awful thing.”

  “We have less than we had at one time. We’ve licked a lot of them.”

  “And, of course,” the alien said, “you make your living with them.”

  “What’s that you said!” yelped Doc.

  “You will be tolerant of me if I misunderstand. An economic system is a hard thing to get into one’s head.”

  “I know what you mean,” growled Doc, “but let me tell you, sir…”

  But what was the use of it, he thought. This being was thinking the self-same thing that many humans thought.

  “I would like to point out to you,” he said, starting over once again, “that the medical profession is working hard to conquer those diseases you are talking of. We are doing all we can to destroy our own jobs.”

  “That is fine,” the alien said. “It is what I thought, but it did not square with your planet’s business sense. I take it, then, you would not be averse to seeing all disease destroyed.”

  “Now, look here,” said Doc, having had enough of it, “I don’t know what you are getting at. But I am hungry and I am tired and if you want to sit here threshing out philosophies…”

  “Philosophies,” said the alien. “Oh, not philosophies. I am practical. I have come to offer an end of all disease.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, then Doc stirred half protestingly and said, “Perhaps I misunderstood you, but I thought you said…”