Clifford Simak - The Shipshape Miracle - And Other Stories

Gold published Empire , but Cliff never read it in its published form and would not allow it to be republished—in fact, he refused to even renew the story’s copyright.

Although Cliff Simak noted in his journal that he had begun “plotting” “The Money Tree” on June 10, 1957, he got involved in other things—including going down to Iowa to attend a funeral and considering whether to apply for a managing editor job in Ames. But he quickly decided not to apply for that job, and by July 26, he reported that he had given up “momentarily” on “The Money Tree.” Thereafter, he and his family left on a trip to the Black Hills in the middle of August, and he made no further mention of “The Money Tree” until September 8, when he reported, rather laconically, that he had finished the story “last week.” Before long he noted that he had sent it to Horace Gold, but Gold rejected it, as did Campbell (“first thing I’ve sent him for several years,” Cliff told his journal).

In March 1958, the story was accepted by Bob Mills, and it would appear in the July 1958 issue of Venture Science Fiction . Also in March, Cliff and Kay were involved in having a new house built, Cliff was signed up to give a speech on television, and the entire family got the ‘flu, serially—all while Cliff was, a little excitedly, finishing up the story that would become “The Big Front Yard.”

Chuck Doyle, loaded with his camera equipment, was walking along the high brick wall which sheltered the town house of J. Howard Metcalfe from vulgar public contact when he saw the twenty-dollar bill blow across the wall.

Now, Doyle was well dried behind the ears—he had cut his eyeteeth on the crudities of the world and while no one could ever charge him with being a sophisticate, neither was he anybody’s fool. And yet there was no question, either, about his quick, positive action when there was money to be picked up off the street.

He looked around to see if anyone might be watching—someone, for example, who might be playing a dirty joke on him, or, worse yet, someone who might appear to claim the bill once he had retrieved it.

There was small chance there would be anyone, for this was the snooty part of town, where everyone minded his own business and made sure that any uncouth intruders would mind theirs as well—an effect achieved in most cases by high walls or dense hedges or sturdy ornamental fences. And the street on which Doyle now prepared to stalk a piece of currency was by rights no proper street at all. It was an alley that ran between the brick walls of the Metcalfe residence and the dense hedge of Banker J. S. Gregg—Doyle had parked his car in there because it was against traffic regulations to park on the boulevard upon which the houses fronted.

Seeing no one, Doyle set his camera equipment down and charged upon the bill, which was fluttering feebly in the alley. He scooped it up with the agility of a cat grabbing off a mouse and now he saw, for the first time, that it was no piddling one-dollar affair, or even a five-spot, but a twenty. It was crinkly and so new that it fairly gleamed, and he held it tenderly in his fingertips and resolved to retire to Benny’s Place as soon as possible, and pour himself a libation or two to celebrate his colossal good luck.

There was a little breeze blowing down the alley and the leaves of the few fugitive trees that lined the alley and the leaves of the many trees that grew in the stately lawns beyond the walls and hedges were making a sort of subdued symphonic sound. The sun was shining brightly and there was no hint of rain and the air was clean and fresh and the world was a perfect place.

It was becoming more perfect by the moment.

For over the Metcalfe wall, from which the first bill had fluttered, other bills came dancing merrily in the impish breeze, swirling in the alley.

Doyle saw them and stood for a frozen instant, his eyes bugging out a little and his Adam’s apple bobbing in excitement. Then he was among the bills, grabbing right and left and stuffing them in his pockets, gulping with the fear that one of them might somehow escape him, and ridden by the conviction that once he had gathered them he should get out of there as fast as he could manage.

The money, he knew, must belong to someone and there was no one, he was sure, not even on this street, who was so contemptuous of cash as to allow it to blow away without attempting to retrieve it.

So he gathered the bills with the fervor of a Huck Finn going through a blackberry patch and with a last glance around to be sure he had missed none, streaked for his car.

A dozen blocks away, in a less plush locality, he wheeled the car up to the curb opposite a vacant lot and furtively emptied his pockets, smoothing out the bills and stacking them neatly on the seat beside him. There were a lot of them, many more than he had thought there were, and his breath whistled through his teeth.

He picked up the pile of currency preparatory to counting it and something, some little stick-like thing was sticking out of it. He flicked it to knock it away and it stayed where it was. It seemed to be stuck to one of the bills. He seized it to pull it loose. It came and the bill came with it.

It was a stem, like an apple stem, like a cherry stem—a stem attached quite solidly and naturally to one corner of a twenty-dollar bill!

He dropped the pile of bills upon the seat and held up the stem and the bill hung from the stem, as if it were growing from the stem, and it was clear to see that the stem not long before had been fastened to a branch, for the mark of recent separation was plainly visible.

Doyle whistled softly.

A money tree! he thought.

But there was no such a thing as a money tree. There’d never been a money tree. There never would be a money tree.

“I’m seeing things,” said Doyle, “and I ain’t had a drink in hours.”

He could shut his eyes and there it was—a mighty tree, huge of boll and standing true and straight and high, with spreading branches fully leafed and every leaf a twenty-dollar bill. The wind would rustle all the leaves and would make money-music and a man could lie in the shade of such a tree and not have a worry in the world, just waiting for the leaves to drop so he could pick them up and put them in his pocket.

He tugged at the stem a bit and it still clung to the bill, so he folded the whole thing up as neatly as he could and stuck it in the watch pocket of his trousers. Then he picked up the rest of the bills and stuffed them in another pocket without counting them.

Twenty minutes later he walked into Benny’s Bar. Benny was mopping the mahogany. One lone customer was at the far end of the bar working through a beer.

“Gimme bottle and a glass,” said Doyle.

“Show me cash,” said Benny.

Doyle gave him one of the twenty-dollar bills. It was so fresh and new and crisp that its crinkling practically thundered in the silence of the place. Benny looked it over with great care.

“Got someone making them for you?” he asked.

“Naw,” said Doyle. “I pick them off the street.”

Benny handed across a bottle and a glass.

“You through work,” he asked, “or are you just beginning?”

“I put in my day,” said Doyle. “I been shooting old J. Howard Metcalfe. Magazine in the east wanted pictures of him.”

“You mean the racketeer?”

“He ain’t no racketeer. He went legitimate four or five years ago. He’s a magnate now.”

“You mean tycoon. What kind of tycoon is he?”

“I don’t know. But whatever kind it is, it sure pays off. He’s got a fancy-looking shack up on the hill. But he ain’t so much to look at. Don’t see why this magazine should want a picture of him.”