All Flesh Is Grass and Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  "It all goes back to one peculiar trait," said Jasper. "A most unlikely trait to work — as it does — to our great advantage. We just happen to be the galaxy's only liars. In a mass of stars where truth is accepted as a universal constant, we are the one exception."

  "You make it sound so horrible," protested Angela.

  "I suppose I do, but that's the way it is. We could have become great traders and skinned all and sundry until they got wise to us. We could have turned our talent for the untruth into many different channels and maybe even avoided getting our heads bashed in. But instead we drifted into the one safe course. Our lying became an easy virtue. Now we can lie to our hearts" content and they lap it up. No one, nowhere, except right here on Earth, ever even tried to spin a yarn for simple entertainment, or to point a moral or for any other reason. They never attempted it because it would have been a lie, and we are the only liars in the universe of stars."

  Blake brought the beer for Angela and the pig knuckles for Hart. Hart paid him out of hand.

  "I've still got a quarter left," he said. "Have you any pie?"

  "Apple."

  "Here," said Hart, "I'll pay you in advance."

  "First," went on Jasper, "it was told by mouth. Then it was writ by hand and now it's fabricated by machine.

  But surely that's not the end of it. There must be something else. There must be another way, a better way. There must be another step."

  "I would settle for anything," said Hart. "Any way at all. I'd even write by hand if I thought I could go on selling."

  "You can't!" Angela told him, sharply. "Why, its positively indecent to even joke about it. You can say it as a joke just among the three of us, but if I ever hear you —»

  Hart waved his hand. "Let it go. I'm sorry that I said it."

  "Of course," said Jasper, "it's a great testimonial to the cleverness of Man, to the adaptability and resourcefulness of the human race. It is a somewhat ludicrous application of big business methods to what had always been considered a personal profession. But it works. Some day, I have no doubt, we may see the writing business run on production lines, with fiction factories running double shifts."

  "No," Angela said. "No, you're wrong there, Jasper. Even with the mechanization, it's still the loneliest business on Earth."

  "It is," agreed Jasper. "But I don't regret the loneliness part. Maybe I should, but I don't."

  "It's a lousy way to make a living," said Angela, with a strange half-bitterness in her voice. "What are we contributing?"

  "You are making people happy — if you can call some of our readers people. You are supplying entertainment."

  "And the noble ideas?"

  "There are even a few of those."

  "It's more than that," said Hart. "More than entertainment, more than great ideas. It's the most innocent and the deadliest propaganda in all of human history. The old writers, before the first space flight, glorified far wandering and galactic conquest and I thing that they were justified. But they missed the most important development completely. They couldn't possibly foresee the way we would do it — with books, not battleships. We're softening up the galaxy with a constant stream of human thought. Our words are reaching farther than our spaceships ever could."

  "That's the point I want to make," Jasper said, triumphantly. "You hit the point exactly. But if we are to tell the galaxy a story it must be a — human- story. If we sell them a bill of goods it must be a human bill of goods. And how can we keep it human if we relegate its telling to machines?"

  "But they're human machines," objected Angela.

  "A machine can't be purely human. Basically a machine is universal. It could be Caphian as well as human, or Aldebaran or Draconian or any other race. And that's not all. We let the machine set the norm. The one virtue of mechanics is that it sets a pattern. And a pattern is deadly in literary matters. It never changes. It keeps on using the same old limp plots in many different guises.

  "Maybe at the moment it makes no difference to the races who are reading us, for as yet they have not developed anything approaching a critical faculty. But it should make some difference to us. It should make some difference in the light of a certain pride of workmanship we are supposed to have. And that is the trouble with machines. They are destroying the pride in us. Once writing was an art. But it is an art no longer. It's machine-produced, like a factory chair. A good chair, certainly. Good enough to sit on, but not a thing of beauty or of craftsmanship or —»

  The door crashed open and feet pounded on the floor.

  Just inside the door stood Green Shirt and behind him, grinning fiendishly, his band of Caphians.

  Green Shirt advanced upon them happily, with his arms flung wide in greeting. He stopped beside Hart's chair and clapped a massive hand upon his shoulder.

  "You recall me, don't you?" he asked in slow and careful English.

  "Sure," Hart said, gulping. "Sure, I remember you. This is Miss Maret and over there is Mr. Hansen."

  Green Shirt said, with precise bookishness, "So happy, I assure you."

  "Have a seat," said Jasper.

  "Glad to," said Green Shirt, hauling out a chair. His necklaces jingled musically as he sat down.

  One of the other Caphians said something to him in a rapid-fire alien tongue. Green Shirt answered curtly and waved toward the door. The others marched outside.

  "He is worried," Green Shirt said. "We will slow — how do you say it — we will slow the ship. They cannot leave without us. But I tell him not to worry. The captain will be glad we slow the ship when he see what we bring back."

  He leaned forward and tapped Hart upon the knee. "I look for you," he said. "I look high and wide."

  "Who is this joker?" Jasper asked.

  "Joker?" asked Green Shirt, frowning.

  "A term of great respect," Hart hastily assured him. "So," said Green Shirt. "You all write the stories?"

  "Yes. All three of us."

  "But — you- write them best."

  "I wouldn't say that exactly. You see —»

  "You write the wild and woolly stories? The bang-bangs?"

  "Yeah. I guess I'm guilty."

  Green Shirt looked apologetic. "Had I known, we would not from the tavern have thrown you out. It was just big fun. We did not know you write the stories. When we find out who you are we try to catch you. But you run and hide."

  "Just what is going on here, anyhow?" Angela demanded.

  Green Shirt whooped for Blake.

  "Set them up," he shouted. "These are my friends. Set up the best you have."

  "The best I have," Blake said icily, "is Irish whiskey and that costs a buck a shot."

  "I got the cash," said Green Shirt. "You get this name I cannot say, and you will get your cash."

  He said to Hart, "I have a surprise for you, my friend. We love the writers of the bang-bangs. We read them — always-. We get much stimulation."

  Jasper guffawed.

  Green Shirt swung about in amazement, his bushy brows contracting.

  "He's just happy," Hart explained, quickly. "He likes Irish whiskey."

  "Fine," said Green Shirt, beaming. "You drink all you wish. I will give the cash. It is — how do you say — on me."

  Blake brought the drinks and Green Shirt paid him.

  "Bring the container," he said.

  "The container?"

  "He means the bottle."

  "That'll be twenty dollars," said Blake.

  "So," said Green Shirt, paying him.

  They drank the whiskey and Green Shirt said to Hart, "My surprise is that you come with us."

  "You mean in the ship?"

  "We have never had a real live writer on our planet. You will have a good time. You will stay and write for us.

  "Well," said Hart, "I'm not sure —»

  "You try to take the picture. The tavern man explain it all to us. He say it is against the law. He say if I complain it will come big trouble."

  "You can't do it, Kemp," p
rotested Angela. "Don't let this big hyena bluff you. -We" ll- pay your fine."

  "We not complain," said Green Shirt, gently. "We just with you mop up the condemned place."

  Blake brought the bottle and thumped it down in the center of the table. Green Shirt picked it up and filled their glasses to the brim.

  "Drink up," he said and set a fine example.

  He drank and Green Shirt filled his glass again. Hart picked up his glass and twirled it in his fingers.

  There had to be a way out of this mess, he told himself. It was absurd that this thundering barbarian from one of the farther suns should be able to walk into a bar and tell a man to come along with him.

  However, there was no percentage in stirring up a fight — not with ten or eleven Caphians waiting just outside.

  "I explain it to you," said Green Shirt. "I try hard to explain it well so that you will — so that you will —»

  "Understand," supplied Jasper Hansen.

  "I thank you, Hansen man. So you will understand. We get the stories only shortly ago. Many of the other races got them long ago, but with us it is new and most wonderful. It takes us — how would you say — out of ourselves. We get many things from other stars, useful things, things to hold in the hand, things to see and use. But from you we get the going of far places, the doing of great deeds, the thinking of great thoughts."

  He filled the glasses all around again. "You understand?" Green Shirt asked. They nodded.

  "And now we go."

  Hart rose slowly to his feet. "Kemp, you can't!" screamed Angela. "You shut the mouth," said Green Shirt.

  Hart marched through the door and out into the street. The other Caphians oozed out of dark alleyways and surrounded him.

  "Off we go," said Green Shirt, happily. "It gives big time on Caph."

  Halfway to the river, Hart stopped in the middle of the street.

  "I can't do it," he said.

  "Can't do what?" asked Green Shirt, prodding him along.

  "I let you think," said Hart, "that I was the man you wanted. I did it because I'd like to see your planet. But it isn't fair. I'm not the man you want."

  "You write the bang-bangs, do you not? You think up the wild and woollies?"

  "Certainly. But not really good ones. Mine aren't the kind where you hang on every word. There's another man who can do it better."

  "— This- man we want," said Green Shirt. "Can you tell us where to find him?"

  "That's easy. The other man at the table with us. The one who was so happy when you ordered whiskey."

  "You mean the Hansen man?"

  "He is the one, exactly."

  "He write the bang-bangs good?"

  "Much better than I do. He's a genius at it." Green Shirt was overcome with gratitude. He hugged Hart to him in an extravagant expression of good will.

  "You fair," he said. "You fine. It was nice of you to tell us."

  A window banged up in a house across the street and a man stuck his head out.

  "If you guys don't break it up," he bellowed, "I'll call the cops."

  "We shatter the peace," sighed Green Shirt "It is a queer law you have."

  The window banged down again.

  Green Shirt put a friendly hand upon Hart's shoulder. "We love the wild and woollies," he said gravely. ""We want the very best. We thank you. We find this Hansen man."

  He turned around and loped back up the street, followed by his ruffians.

  Hart stood on the corner and watched them go. He drew a deep breath and let it slowly out.

  It had been easy, he told himself, once you got the angle. And it had been Jasper, actually, who had given him the angle. -Truth Is regarded as a universal constant-, Jasper had said. -We are the only liars.-

  It had turned out tough on Jasper — a downright dirty trick. But the guy wanted to go on vacation, didn't he? And here was the prospect of a travel jaunt which would be really worthwhile. He'd refused the use of his machine and he had guffawed insultingly when Green Shirt had asked about the wild and woollies. If ever a guy had it coming to him, Jasper Hansen was that guy.

  And above and beyond all that, he always kept his door locked — which showed a contemptible suspicion of his fellow writers.

  Hart swung about and walked rapidly away in an opposite direction. Eventually he'd go back home, he told himself. But not right now. Later on he'd go, when the dust had settled slightly.

  It was dawn when Hart climbed the stairs to the seventh floor and went down the corridor to Jasper Hansen's door. The door was locked as usual. But he took out of his pockets a thin piece of spring steel he'd picked up in a junkyard and did some judicious prying. In the matter of seconds, the lock clicked back and the door swung open.

  The yarner squatted in its corner, a bright and lovely sight.

  Jiggered up, Jasper had affirmed. If someone else ever tried to use it, it would very likely burn out or kill him. But that had been just talk, just cover-up for his pig-headed selfishness.

  Two weeks, Hart told himself. If he used his head he should be able to operate it without suspicion for at least two weeks. It would be easy. All he'd have to say was that Jasper had told him that he could borrow it any time he wished. And if he was any judge of character, Jasper would not be returning soon.

  But even so, two weeks would be all the time he'd need. In two weeks, working day and night, he could turn out enough copy to buy himself a new machine.

  He walked across the room to the yarner and pulled out the chair that stood in front of it. Calmly he sat down, reached out a hand and patted the instrument panel. It was a good machine. It turned out a lot of stuff — good stuff. Jasper had been selling steadily. -Good old yarner-, Hart said.

  He dropped his finger to the switch and flipped it over. Nothing happened. Startled, he flipped it back, flipped it on again. Still nothing happened.

  He got up hastily to check the power connection. There was no power connection! For a shocked moment, he stood rooted to the floor.

  Jiggered up, Jasper had said. Jiggered up so ingeniously that it could dispense with power?

  It just wasn't possible. It was unthinkable. With fumbling fingers, he lifted the side panel, and peered inside.

  The machine's innards were a mess. Half of the tubes were gone. Others were burned out, and the wiring had been ripped loose in places. The whole relay section was covered with dust. Some of the metal, he saw, was rusty. The entire machine was just a pile of junk.

  He replaced the panel with suddenly shaking fingers, reeled back blindly and collided with a table. He clutched at it and held on tight to still the shaking of his hands, to steady the mad roaring in his head.

  Jasper's machine wasn't jiggered up. It wasn't even in operating condition…

  No wonder Jasper had kept his door locked. He lived in mortal fear that someone would find out that be wrote by hand!

  And now, despite the dirty trick he'd played on a worthy friend, Hart was no better off than he had been before. He was faced with the same old problems, with no prospect of overcoming them. He still had his own beaten-up machine and nothing more. Maybe it would have been better if he had gone to Caph.

  He walked to the door, paused there for an instant, and looked back. On the littered desk he could see Jasper's typewriter carefully half-buried by the litter, and giving the exact impression that it was never used.

  Still, Jasper sold. Jasper sold almost every word he wrote. He sold — hunched over his desk with a pencil in his hand or hammering out the words on a muted typewriter. He sold without using the yarner at all, but keeping it all bright and polished, an empty, useless thing. He sold by using it as a shield against the banter and the disgust of all those others who talked so glibly and relied so much upon the metal and the magic of the ponderous contraption.

  • First it was told by mouth-, Jasper had said that very evening. -Then it was writ by hand. Now it's fabricated by machine.-

  And what's next, he'd asked — as if he had never doubted t
hat there would be something next.

  • What next? — thought Hart. Was this the end and all of Man — the moving gear, the clever glass and metal, the adroit electronics?

  For the sake of Man's own dignity — his very sanity — there — had- to be a next. Mechanics, by their very nature, were a dead end. You could only get so clever. You could only go so far.

  Jasper knew that. Jasper had found out. He had discarded the mechanistic aid and gone back to hand again.

  Give a work of craftsmanship some economic value and Man would find a way to turn it out in quantity. Once furniture had been constructed lovingly by artisans who produced works of art that would last with pride through many generations. Then the machine had come and Man had turned out furniture that was purely functional, furniture that had little lasting value and no pride at all.

  And writing had followed the same pattern. It had pride no longer. It had ceased to be an art, and become a commodity.

  But what was a man to do? What — could- he do? Lock his door like Jasper and work through lonely hours with the bitter taste of nonconformity sharp within his mind, tormenting him night and day?

  Hart walked out of the room with a look of torment in his eyes. He waited for a second to hear the lock click home. Then he went down the hall and slowly climbed the stairs.

  The alien — the blanket and the face — was still lying on the bed. But now its eyes were open and it stared at him when he came in and closed the door behind him.

  He stopped just inside the door and the cold mediocrity of the room — all of its meanness and its poverty — rose up to clog his nostrils. He was hungry, sick at bean and lonely, and the yarner in the corner seemed to mock him.

  Through the open window he could hear the rumble of a spaceship taking off across the river and the hooting of a tug as it warped a ship into a wharf.

  He stumbled to the bed.

  "Move over, you," he said to the wide-eyed alien, and tumbled down beside it. He turned his back to it and drew his knees up against his chest and lay huddled there.

  He was right back where he'd started just the other morning. He still had no tape to do the job that Irving wanted. He still had a busted up haywire machine. He was without a camera and he wondered where he could borrow one — although there would be no sense of borrowing one if he didn't have the money to pay a character. He'd tried once to take a film by stealth and he wouldn't try again. It wasn't worth the risk of going to prison for three or four years.