All Flesh Is Grass and Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  She picked up the envelope and studied the stamp, making sure that she had seen right. Such a pretty stamp!

  She collects them, Paul had said. She's always snitching letters that belong to other people.

  The envelope bore a postmark, and presumably a date, but it was blurred and distorted by a hasty, sloppy cancellation and she could not make it out.

  The edge of a letter sheet stuck a quarter inch out of the ragged edges where the envelope had been torn open and she pulled it out, gasping in her haste to see it while an icy fist of fear was clutching at her heart.

  It was, she saw, only the end of a letter, the last page of a letter, and it was in type rather than in longhand — type like one saw in a newspaper or a book.

  Maybe one of those new-fangled things they had in big city offices, she thought, the ones she'd read about. Typewriters — was that what they were called?

  • do not believe-, the one page read, — your plan is feasible. There is no time. The aliens are closing in and they will not give us time.

  And there is the further consideration of the ethics of it, even if it could be done. We can not, in all conscience, scurry back into the past and visit our problems upon the people of a century ago. Think of the problems it would create for them, the economic confusion and the psychological effect.

  If you feel that you must, at least, send the children back, think a moment of the wrench it will give those two good souls when they realize the truth. Theirs is a smug and solid world — sure and safe and sound. The concepts of this mad century would destroy all they have, all that they believe in.

  But I suppose I cannot presume to counsel you. I have done what you asked. I have written you all I know of our old ancestors back on that Wisconsin farm. As historian of the family, I am sure my facts are right. Use them as you see fit and God have mercy on us all.

  Your loving brother,

  Jackson

  P.S. A suggestion. If you do send the children back, you might send along with them a generous supply of the new cancer-inhibitor drug. Great-great-grandmother Forbes died in 1904 of a condition that I suspect was cancer. Given those pills, she might survive another ten or twenty years. And what, I ask you, brother, would that mean to this tangled future? I don't pretend to know. It might save us. It might kill us quicker. It might have no effect at all. I leave the puzzle to you.

  If I can finish up work here and get away, I'll be with you at the end.-

  Mechanically she slid the letter back into the envelope and laid it upon the table beside the flaring lamp.

  Slowly she moved to the window that looked out on the empty lane.

  They will come and get us, Paul had said. But would they ever come. Could they ever come?

  She found herself wishing they would come. Those poor people, those poor frightened children caught so far in time.

  Blood of my blood, she thought, flesh of my flesh, so many years away. But still her flesh and blood, no matter how removed. Not only these two beneath this roof tonight, but all those others who had not come to her.

  The letter had said 1904 and cancer and that was eight years away — she'd be an old, old woman then. And the signature had been Jackson — an old family name, she wondered, carried on and on, a long chain of people who bore the name of Jackson Forbes?

  She was stiff and numb, she knew. Later she'd be frightened. Later she would wish she had not read the letter. Perhaps, she did not know.

  But now she must go back downstairs and tell Jackson the best way that she could.

  She moved across the room and blew out the light and went out into the hallway.

  A voice came from the open door beyond.

  "Grandma, is that you?"

  "Yes, Paul," she answered. "What can I do for you?"

  In the doorway she saw him crouched beside the chair, in the shaft of moonlight pouring through the window, fumbling at the bag.

  "I forgot," he said. "There was something papa said I was to give you right away."

  Shotgun Cure

  Original copyright year: 1960

  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.

  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 M
iss 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'll 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…"

  "I have a method, a development, a find — I do not catch the word — that will destroy all diseases."

  "A vaccine," said Old Doc.

  "That's the word. Except it is different in some ways than the vaccine you are thinking."

  "Cancer?" Doc asked.

  The alien nodded. "Cancer and the common cold and all the others of them. You name it and it's gone."

  "Heart," said Doc. "You can't vaccinate for heart."

  "That, too," the alien said. "It does not really vaccinate. It makes the body strong. It makes the body right. Like tuning up a motor and making it like new. The motor will wear out in time, but it will function until it is worn out entirely."

  Doc stared hard at the alien. "Sir," he said, "this is not the sort of thing one should joke about."

  "I am not joking," said the alien.

  "And this vaccine — it will work on humans? It has no side effects?"

  "I am sure it will. We have studied your — your — the way your bodies work."

  "Metabolism is the word you want."

  "Thank you." said the alien.

  "And the price?" asked Doc.

  "There is no price," the alien said. "We are giving it to you."

  "Completely free of charge? Surely there must be…"

  "Without any charge," the alien said. "Without any strings."

  He got up from the chair. He took a flat box from his pocket and walked over to the desk. He placed it upon the desk and pressed its side and the top sprang open. Inside of it were pads — like surgical pads, but they were not made of cloth.