All Flesh Is Grass and Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

I stopped at the foot of the stairway that rose out of the hall and for a moment we simply stood there, looking at one another, neither of us finding anything to say.

  "I came to use the phone," I said.

  She nodded.

  "I suppose," I said, "I should say I'm sorry for the fight with Hiram."

  "I'm sorry, too," she said, misunderstanding me, or pretending that she misunderstood. "But I suppose there was no way you could help it."

  "He threw the phone," I told her.

  But of course it had not been the phone, not the phone alone. It had been all the times before the phone was thrown.

  "You said the other night," I reminded her, "that we could go out for drinks and dinner. I guess that will have to wait. Now there's no place we can go."

  "Yes," she said, "so we could start over." I nodded, feeling miserable.

  "I was to dress up my prettiest," she said, "and we would have been so gay."

  "Like high school days," I said.

  "Brad."

  "Yes," I said, and took a step toward her.

  Suddenly she was in my arms.

  "We don't need drinks and dinner," she said. "Not the two of us." No, I thought, not the two of us.

  I bent and kissed her and held her close and there was only us. There was no closed-off village and no alien terror. There was nothing that mattered now except this girl who long ago had walked the street, hand in hand with me, and had not been ashamed.

  21

  The steward came that afternoon, a little, wizened humanoid who looked like a bright-eyed monkey. With him was another — also humanoid — but great, lumbering and awkward, gaunt and austere, with a horse-like face. He looked, at first sight, the perfect caricature of a career diplomat. The scrawny humanoid wore a dirty and shapeless piece of cloth draped about him like a robe, and the other wore a breech-clout and a sort of vest, equipped with massive pockets that bulged with small possessions.

  The entire village was lined up on the slope behind my house and the betting had been heavy that nothing would show up. I heard whispers, suddenly cutoff, everywhere I went.

  Then they came, the two of them, popping out of nowhere and standing in the garden.

  I walked down the slope and across the garden to meet them. They stood waiting for me and behind me, on that slope covered by a crowd of people, there was utter silence.

  As I came near, the big one stepped forward, the little wizened character trailing close behind.

  "I speak your language newly," said the big one. "If you don't know, ask me once again."

  "You're doing well," I told him.

  "You be Mr Carter?"

  "That is right. And you?"

  "My designation," he told me, solemnly, "is to you great gibberish. I have decided you can call me only Mr Smith."

  "Mr Smith," I said, "we are glad to have you here. You are the steward I was told about?"

  "No. This other personage is he. But he has no designation I can speak to you. He makes no noise at all. He hears and answers only in his brain. He is a queerish thing."

  "A telepath," I said.

  "Oh, yes, but do not mistake me. Of much intelligence. Also very smart. We are of different worlds, you know. There be many different worlds, many different peoples. We welcome you to us."

  "They sent you along as an interpreter?"

  "Interpreter? I do not share your meaning. I learn your words very fast from a mechanism. I do not have much time. I fail to catch them all."

  "Interpreter means you speak for him. He tells you and you tell us."

  "Yes, indeed. Also you tell me and I tell him. But interpreter is not all I am. Also diplomat, very highly trained."

  "Huh?"

  "Help with negotiations with your race. Be helpful as I can. Explain very much, perhaps. Aid you as you need."

  "You said there are many different worlds and many different people. You mean a long, long chain of worlds and of people, too?"

  "Not all worlds have people," he told me. "Some have nothing. No life of any sort. Some hold life, but no intelligence. Some once had intelligence, but intelligence is gone." He made a strange gesture with his hand. "It is pity what can happen to intelligence. It is frail; it does not stay forever."

  "And the intelligences? All humanoid?" He hesitated. "Humanoid?"

  "Like us. Two arms, two legs, one head…"

  "Most humanoid," he said."Most like you and me." The scrawny little being tugged excitedly at his vest. The being I had been talking with turned around to face him, gave him close attention.

  Then he turned back to me. "Him much upset," he told me. "Says all people here are sick. Him prostrated with great pity. Never saw such terrible thing."

  "But that is wrong," I cried. "The sick ones are at home. This bunch here is healthy."

  "Can't be so," said Mr Smith. "Him aghast at situation. Can look inside of people, see everything that's wrong. Says them that isn't sick will be sick in little time, says many have inactive sickness in them, others still have garbage of ancient sicknesses still inside of them."

  "He can fix us up?"

  "No fix. Repair complete, Make body good as new." Higgy had been edging closer and behind him several others. The rest of the crowd still stayed up on the bank, out of all harm's way. And now they were beginning to buzz a little. At first they had been stricken silent, but now the talk began.

  "Higgy," I said, "I'd like you to meet Mr Smith."

  "Well, I'll be darned," said Higgy. "They got names just the same as ours." He stuck out his hand and after a moment of puzzlement, Mr Smith put out his hand and the two men shook.

  "The other one," I said, "can't talk. He's a telepath."

  "That's too bad," said Higgy, full of sympathy. "Which one of them's the doctor?"

  "The little one," I told him, "and I don't know if you can say he's a doctor. Seems that he repairs people, fixes them like new."

  "Well," said Higgy, "that's what a doctor's supposed to do, but never quite makes out."

  "He says we're all sick. He wants to fix us up."

  "Well, that's all right," said Higgy. "That's what I call service. We can set up a clinic down at the village hall."

  "But there's Doc and Floyd and all the others who are really sick. That's what he's here for."

  "Well, I tell you, Brad, we can take him to them first and he can get them cured, then we'll set up the clinic. The rest of us might just as well get in on it as long as he is here."

  "If," said Mr Smith, "you but merge with the rest of us, you can command the services of such as he whenever you have need."

  "What's this merger?" Higgy asked of me.

  "He means if we let the aliens in and join the other worlds that the Flowers have linked."

  "Well, now," said Higgy, "that makes a lot of sense. I don't suppose there'll be any charges for his services."

  "Charges?" asked Mr Smith.

  "Yeah," said Higgy. "Pay. Fees. Money."

  "Those be terms," said Mr Smith, "that ring no bell for me. But we must proceed with swiftness, since my fellow creature has other rounds to make. He and his colleagues have many worlds to cover."

  "You mean that they are doctors to the other worlds?" I asked.

  "You grasp my meaning clear."

  "Since there isn't any time to waste," said Higgy, "leave us be about our business. Will you two come with me?"

  "With alacrity," cried Mr Smith, and the two of them followed Higgy as he went up the slope and out toward the street. I followed slowly after them and as I climbed the bank, Joe Evans came charging out of the back door of my house.

  "Brad," he shouted, "there's a call for you from the State Department." It was Newcombe on the phone.

  "I'm over here at Elmore," he told me in his cold, clipped voice, "and we've given the Press a rundown on what you told us. But now they're clamouring to see you; they want to talk with you."

  "It's all right with me," I said. "If they'll come out to the barrier…"

  "
It's not all right with me," said Newcombe, sourly, "but the pressure is terrific. I have to let them see you. I trust you'll be discreet."

  "I'll do my best," I told him.

  "All right," he said. "There's not much I can do about it. Two hours from now. At the place we met."

  "OK," I said. "I suppose it'll be all right if I bring a friend along."

  "Yes, of course," said Newcombe. "And for the love of Christ be careful!"

  22

  Mr Smith caught onto the idea of a Press conference with very little trouble. I explained it to him as we walked toward the barrier where the newsmen waited for us.

  "You say all these people are communicators," he said, making sure he had it straight. "We say them something and they say other people. Interpreters, like me."

  "Well, something like that."

  "But all your people talk the same. The mechanism told me one language only."

  "That was because the one language is all that you would need. But the people of the Earth have many languages. Although that is not the reason for newspapermen. You see, all the people can't be here to listen to what we have to say. So these newsmen spread the news…"

  "News?"

  "The things that we have said. Or that other people have said. Things that happen. No matter where anything may happen, there are newsmen there and they spread the word. They keep the world informed."

  Mr Smith almost danced a jig. "How wonderful!" he cried.

  "What's so wonderful about it?"

  "Why, the ingenuity," said Mr Smith. "The thinking of it up. This way one person talks to all the persons. Everybody knows about him. Everyone hears what he has to talk." We reached the barrier and there was quite a crowd of newsmen jammed on the strip of highway on the other side. Some of them were strung along the barrier on either side of the road. As we walked up, the cameramen were busy.

  When we came up to the barrier, a lot of men started yelling at us, but someone quickly shushed them, then one man spoke to us.

  "I'm Judson Barnes, of Associated Press," he said. "I suppose you're Carter." I told him that I was. "And this gentleman you have with you?"

  "His name is Smith," I said.

  "And," said someone else, "he's just got home from a masquerade."

  "No," I told them, "he's a humanoid from one of the alternate worlds. He is here to help with negotiations."

  "Howdy, sirs," said Mr Smith, with massive friendliness.

  Someone howled from the back: "We can't hear back here."

  "We have a microphone," said Barnes, "if you don't mind."

  "Toss it here," I told him.

  He tossed it and I caught it. The cord trailed through the barrier. I could see where the speakers had been set up to one side of the road.

  "And now," said Barnes, "perhaps we can begin. State filled us in, of course, so we don't need to go over all that you have told them. But there are some questions. I'm sure there are a lot of questions." A dozen hands went up.

  "Just pick out one of them," said Barnes.

  I made a motion toward a great, tall, scrawny man.

  "Thank you, sir," he said. "Caleb Rivers, Kansas City Star. We understand that you represent the — how do you say it? — people, perhaps, the people of this other world. I wonder if you would outline your position in somewhat more detail. Are you an official representative, or an unofficial spokesman, or a sort of go-between? It's not been made quite clear."

  "Very unofficial, I might say. You know about my father?"

  "Yes," said Rivers, "we've been told how he cared for the flowers be found. But you'd agree, wouldn't you, Mr Carter, that this is, to say the least, a rather strange sort of qualification for your role?"

  "I have no qualifications at all," I told him. "I can tell you quite frankly that the aliens probably picked one of the poorest representatives they could have found. There are two things to consider. First, I was the only human who seemed available — I was the only one who went back to visit them. Secondly, and this is important, they don't think, can't think, in the same manner that we do. What might make good sense to them may seem silly so far as we are concerned. On the other hand, our most brilliant logic might be gibberish to them."

  "I see," said Rivers. "But despite your frankness in saying you're not qualified to serve, you still are serving. Would you tell us why?"

  "There's nothing else I can do," I said. "The situation has gotten to a point where there had to be an attempt at some sort of intelligent contact between the aliens and ourselves. Otherwise, things might get out of hand."

  "How do you mean?"

  "Right now," I said, "the world is scared. There has to be some explanation of what is happening. There is nothing worse than a senseless happening, nothing worse than reasonless fear, and the aliens, so long as they know something's being done, may leave this barrier as it is. For the moment, I suspect, they'll do no more than they've already done. I hope it may work out that the situation gets no worse and that in the meantime some progress can be made." Other hands were waving and I pointed to another man.

  "Frank Roberts, Washington Post," he said. "I have a question about the negotiations. As I understand it, the aliens want to be admitted to our world and in return are willing to provide us with a great store of knowledge they have accumulated."

  "That is right," I said.

  "Why do they want admission?"

  "It's not entirely clear to me," I told him. "They need to be here so they can proceed to other worlds. It would seem the alternate worlds lie in some sort of progression, and they must be arrived at in a certain order. I confess quite willingly I understand none of this. All that can be done now is to reach proposals that we and the aliens can negotiate."

  "You know of no terms beyond the broad proposal you have stated?"

  "None at all," I said. "There may be others. I am not aware of them."

  "But now you have — perhaps you would call him an advisor. Would it be proper to direct a question at this Mr Smith of yours?"

  "A question," said Mr Smith. "I accept your question." He was pleased that someone had noticed him. Not without some qualms, I handed him the mike.

  "You talk into it," I said.

  "I know," he said. "I watch."

  "You talk our language very well," said the Washington Post.

  "Just barely. Mechanism teach me."

  "Can you add anything about specific conditions?"

  "I do not catch," said Smith.

  "Are there any conditions that your different people will insist upon before they reach an agreement with us?"

  "Just one alone," said Smith.

  "And what would that one be?"

  "I elucidate," said Smith. "You have a thing called war. Very bad, of course, but not impossible. Soon or late peoples get over playing war." He paused and looked around and all those reporters waited silently.

  "Yes," said one of the reporters finally, not the Post, "yes, war is bad, but what…?"

  "I tell you now," said Smith. "You have a great amount of fission… I am at loss for word."

  "Fissionable material," said a helpful newsman.

  "That correct. Fissionable material. You have much of it. Once in another world there was same situation. When we arrive, there was nothing left. No life. No nothing. It was very sad. All life had been wiped out. We set him up again, but sad to think upon. Must not happen here. So we must insist such fissionable material be widely dispersed."

  "Now, wait," a newsman shouted. "You are saying that we must disperse fissionable material. I suppose you mean break up all the stockpiles and the bombs and have no more than a very small amount at any one place. Not enough, perhaps, to assemble a bomb of any sort."

  "You comprehend it fast," said Smith.

  "But how can you tell that it is dispersed? A country might say it complied when it really hadn't. How can you really know? How can you police it?"

  "We monitor," said Smith.

  "You have a way of detecting fissionab
le material?"

  "Yes, most certainly," said Smith.

  "All right, then, even if you knew — well, let's say it this way — you find there are concentrations still remaining; what do you do about them?"

  "We blow them up," said Smith. "We detonate them loudly."

  "But…"

  "We muster up a deadline. We edict all concentrations be gone by such a time. Time come and some still here, they auto… auto…"

  "Automatically."

  "Thank you, kindly person. That is the word I grope for. They automatically blow up." An uneasy silence fell. The newsmen were wondering, I knew, if they were being taken in; if they were being, somehow, tricked by a phony actor decked out in a funny vest.

  "Already," Smith said, rather casually, "we have a mechanism pinpointing all the concentrations."

  Someone shouted in a loud, hoarse voice: "I'll be damned! The flying time machine!" Then they were off and running, racing pell-mell for their cars parked along the road. With no further word to us, with no leave-taking whatsoever, they were off to tell the world.

  And this was it, I thought, somewhat bitterly and more than a little limp.

  Now the aliens could walk in any time they wanted, any way they wanted, with full human blessing. There was nothing else that could have turned the trick no argument, no logic, no inducement short of this inducement. In the face of the worldwide clamour which this announcement would stir up, with the public demand that the world accept this one condition of an alien compact, all sane and sober counsel would have no weight at all.

  Any workable agreement between the aliens and ourselves would necessarily have been a realistic one, with checks and balances. Each side would have been pledged to some contribution and each would have had to face some automatic, built-in penalty if the agreement should be broken. But now the checks and balances were gone and the way was open for the aliens to come in. They had offered the one thing that the people — not the governments, but the people — wanted, or that they thought they wanted, above every other thing and there'd be no stopping them in their demand for it.

  And it had all been trickery, I thought bitterly. I had been tricked into bringing back the time machine and I had been forced into a situation where I had asked for help and Smith had been the help, or at least a part of it. And his announcement of the one demand had been little short of trickery in itself. It was the same old story. Human or alien, it made no difference. You wanted something bad enough and you went out to get it any way you could.