Clifford Simak - All Flesh Is Grass and Other Stories

The village hall was lighted and a small group of people loitered near the door. The clinic, I imagined, must be coming to a close. I wondered, looking at the hall, what Doc Fabian might think of all of this. His testy old medic's soul, I knew, would surely stand aghast despite the fact he'd been the first to benefit.

I turned from looking at the hall, and plodded down the street, hands plunged deep into my trouser pockets, walking aimlessly and restlessly, not knowing what to do. On a night like this, I wondered, what was a man to do?

Sit in his living-room and watch the flickering rectangle of a television screen? Sit down with a bottle and methodically get drunk? Seek out a friend or neighbour for endless speculation and senseless conversation? Or find some place to huddle, waiting limply for what would happen next?

I came to an intersection and up the side street to my right I saw a splash of light that fell across the sidewalk from a lighted window. I looked at it, astonished, then realized that the light came from the window of the Tribune office, and that Joe Evans would be there, talking on the phone, perhaps, with someone from the Associated Press or the New York Times or one of the other papers that had been calling him for news. Joe was a busy man and I didn't want to bother him, but perhaps he wouldn't mind, I thought, if I dropped in for a minute.

He was busy on the phone, crouched above his desk, with the receiver pressed against his ear. The screen door clicked behind me and he looked up and saw me.

"Just a minute," he said into the phone, holding the receiver out to me.

"Joe, what's the matter?" For something was the matter. His face wore a look of shock and his eyes were stiff and staring. Little beads of sweat trickled down his forehead and ran into his eyebrows.

"It's Alf," he said, lips moving stiffly.

"Alf," I said into the phone, but I kept my eyes on Joe Evans' face. He had the look of a man who had been hit on the head with something large and solid.

"Brad!" cried Alf. "Is that you, Brad?"

"Yes," I said, "it is."

"Where have you been? I've been trying to get in touch with you. When your phone didn't answer…"

"What's the matter, Alf? Take it easy, Alf."

"All right," he said. "I'll try to take it easy. I'll take it from the top." I didn't like the sound of his voice. He was scared and he was trying not to be.

"Go ahead," I said.

"I finally got to Elmore," he told me. "The traffic's something awful. You can't imagine what the traffic is out here. They have military check points and…"

"But you finally got to Elmore. You told me you were going."

"Yes, I finally got here. On the radio I heard about this delegation that came out to see you. The senator and the general and the rest of them, and when I got to Elmore I found that they were stopping at the Corn Belt hotel. Isn't that the damndest name?

"But, anyhow, I figured that they should know more about what was going on down in Mississippi. I thought it might throw some light on the situation. So I went down to the hotel to see the senator — that is, to try to see him. It was a madhouse down there. There were great crowds of people and the police were trying to keep order, but they had their hands full. There were television cameras all over the place and newsmen and the radio people — well, anyhow, I never saw the senator. But I saw someone else. Saw him and recognized him from the pictures in the paper. The one called Davenport…"

"The biologist," I said.

"Yes, that's it. The scientist. I got him cornered and I tried to explain I had to see the senator. He wasn't too much help. I'm not even sure be was hearing what I was saying. He seemed to be upset and he was sweating like a mule and he was paper-white. I thought he might be sick and I asked him if he was, if there was anything I could do for him. Then he told me. I don't think he meant to tell me. I think maybe he was sorry that he did after he had told me. But he was so full of anger it was spilling out of him and for the moment he didn't care. The man was in anguish, I tell you. I never saw a man as upset as be was. He grabbed me by the lapels and he stuck his face up close to mine and he was so excited and he talked so fast that he spit all over me. He wouldn't have done a thing like that for all the world; he's not that sort of man…"

"Alf," I pleaded. "Alf, get down to facts."

"I forgot to tell you," Alf said, "that the news had just broken about that flying saucer you brought back. The radio was full of it. About how it was spotting the nuclear concentrations. Well, I started to tell the scientist about why I had to see the senator, about the project down in Greenbriar. And that was when he began to talk, grabbing hold of me so I couldn't get away. He said the news of the aliens' one condition, that we disperse our nuclear capacity, was the worst thing that could have happened. He said the Pentagon is convinced the aliens are a threat and that they must be stopped…"

"Alf," I said, suddenly weak, guessing what was coming.

"And he said they know they must be stopped before they control more territory and the only way to do it is an H-bomb right on top of Millville." He stopped, half out of breath.

I didn't say a thing. I couldn't say a word, I was too paralysed. I was remembering how the general had looked when I'd talked with him that morning and the senator saying, "We have to trust you, boy. You hold us in your hands."

"Brad," Alf asked, anxiously, "are you there? Did you hear me?"

"Yes," I said, "I'm here."

"Davenport told me he was afraid this new development of the nuclear pinpointing might push the military into action without due consideration — knowing that they had to act or they'd not have anything to use. Like a man with a gun, he said, facing a wild beast. He doesn't want to kill the beast unless he has to and there is always the chance the beast will slink away and he won't have to fire. But suppose he knows that in the next two minutes his gun will disappear into thin air well, then he has to take a chance and shoot before the gun can disappear. He has to kill the beast while he still has a gun."

"And now," I said, speaking more levelly than I would have thought possible, "Millville is the beast."

"Not Millville, Brad. Just…"

"Yes," I said, "most certainly not Millville. Tell that to the people when the bomb explodes."

"This Davenport was beside himself. He had no business talking to me…"

"You think he knows what he is talking about? He had a row with the general this morning."

"I think he knows more than he told me, Brad. He talked for a couple of minutes and then he buttoned up. As though he knew he had no business talking. But he's obsessed with one idea. He thinks the only thing that can stop the military is the force of public opinion. He thinks that if what they plan is known, there'll be such an uproar they'd be afraid to move. Not only, he pointed out, would the public be outraged at such cold-bloodedness, but the public wants these aliens in; they're for anyone who can break the bomb. And this biologist of yours is going to plant this story. He didn't say he would, but that's what he was working up to. He'll tip off some newspaperman, I'm sure of that." I felt my guts turn over and my knees were weak. I pressed my legs hard against the desk to keep from keeling over.

"This village will go howling mad," I said. "I asked the general this morning…"

"You asked the general! For Christ sake, did you know?"

"Of course I knew. Not that they would do it. Just that, they were thinking of it."

"And you didn't say a word?"

"Who could I tell? What good would it have done? And it wasn't certain. It was just an alternative — a last alternative. Three hundred lives against three billion…"