Clifford Simak - Grotto of the Dancing Deer - And Other Stories

The second reply, from the National Institutes of Health, was barely civil in its officialese.

The third, from the Association for Biochemical Research, was curt.

On a Saturday afternoon, when the last patient had left, he sat at his desk with the three letters spread out before him. It had been unrealistic, he admitted, to think that any one of the three would have paid attention to his letter. After all, who was he? An unknown family physician in a town that was equally unknown, advancing a theory unsupported by any kind of research, relying only on observation and deduction. The reactions to what he had written could have been expected. Yet there was no question in his mind that he should have written the letters. If no more than a gesture, it was something that had needed to be done.

So now what did he do? Work through the medical association, starting with the county, going to the state? He knew that it was useless. Smith, he was certain, might give him support; but the others would laugh him off the floor. And even if this were not so, it would take years before there was any action.

A chemical company, perhaps. There would be millions of dollars’ worth of business for a DDT capsule once what he now knew became general knowledge. But a chemical company, knowing the hassle of getting approval from the Food and Drug Administration, might shy away from it. Before a chemical company would even touch it, there would have to be years of laboratory work to provide supporting evidence to place before the FDA. On an idea so “far-out,” he knew, no drug or chemical firm would put up the money that was necessary.

So he was licked. He had been licked before he even started. If Abbott had not died, there might have been an even chance. Abbott, writing about the syndrome, would have found a publisher, for he would have produced the kind of book publishers dream about—sensational, controversial, attention-grabbing. Published, the book would have created enough furor that someone would have worked on the theory, if for no other reason than to prove Abbott wrong.

But there was no use thinking about it. Abbott would not write the book. No one would write it. So this was the end of it, he thought. All the years he had left, he would carry the knowledge that he had found a truth the world would not accept.

The world! he thought. To hell with the world! The world was not his concern. His concern was for the people of this community, for Lem and Ted, for Burt and Herb, and for all the others. Maybe he couldn’t help the world, but there might be a way, by God, he could help his people!

Lem Jackson lived on Coonskin Ridge, and Benton had to stop a couple of times to ask his way. But he finally found the farm, with its tilted acres and the little, falling-down house crouched against the wind that whipped across the ridges.

When he knocked, Jackson let him in.

“Come and sit by the fire. It’s a nippy day and a fire feels good. Mary, how about pouring Doc a cup of coffee. What brings you out here, Doc?”

“A small matter of business,” Benton said. “I thought maybe you’d be willing to do a job for me.”

“If I can,” Jackson answered. “If I’m up to it. I told you, remember, I’m not good for much.”

“You have a truck outside. This would be a hauling job.”

“I can manage a hauling job.”

Mrs. Jackson brought the cup of coffee. She was a small, wispy woman with hair straggling down across her face, wearing a bedraggled dress. From a far corner of the room, faces of children, quiet as mice, stared intently out.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jackson,” said Benton. “This will go good after the long drive out.”

“I have a bottle of brandy with some left in it,” said Jackson, “if you would like a splash in that there coffee.”

“That would be splendid, if there’s enough for both of us. I never drink good liquor by myself.”

“There’s plenty,” said Jackson. “I always keep a little in the house.”

Mrs. Jackson said, “Lem told me you would let him know if medicine ever came along that would do him good. I hope that’s why you’re here.”

“Well, I’m not absolutely sure,” Benton said, “but that’s what I have in mind.”

Jackson came back with the brandy and a cup of coffee for himself. He poured generous splashes and set the bottle on the floor.

“Now about this hauling job …” he said.

“When you were in to see me, you said you worked at a plant down in West Virginia, making DDT.”

“That’s right,” said Jackson. “They fired me off the job, but the plant was closed not long after.”

“It’s abandoned now?”

“I suppose so. It was just a little plant. It only made DDT. No reason to keep it open.”

“Would you be willing to drive down there and try to get into the plant?” Benton asked.

“Shouldn’t be no trouble. They might have fenced it in, but there shouldn’t be no guards. There’s nothing there to guard. Probably just sitting empty there. I could get through a fence. Doc, what are you getting at?”

“I need some DDT.”

Jackson shook his head. “There mightn’t be any left. They might’ve destroyed any they had left.”

“DDT would be nice to have,” said Benton, “but I’d settle for some dirt that had DDT mixed in it. Would there be that kind of dirt?”

“Sure there’d be! I know a dozen places where I could find that kind of dirt. Is it dirt you want? I could bring back a truckload. Even have a pal who would help—owes me a favor. Would a truckload be enough?”

“Plenty,” Benton said. “I take it you will do it. There might be some danger.”

“I don’t think so,” Jackson replied. “It’s sort of isolated. No one nearby. If I picked the right time of day, there’d be no one to see me. But what do you want the dirt for , Doc? The damn stuff’s poisonous.”

“It also might be the drug I was telling you about. The drug that we don’t have.”

“You’re spoofing me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Jackson.

“You’ll do it, then?”

“I’ll start at sunup.”

Late Monday afternoon, Nurse Amy stuck her head in the office door. “Lem Jackson’s here to see you,” she said. “He has a truck heaped full of dirt parked out in front.”

“Fine. Please show him in.”

Jackson was grinning when he came in. “I got the dirt,” he said, “and better than that, I found three bags of DDT, tucked away in an old shed where someone had forgot them. Where do you want that dirt, Doc?”

“We’ll put the bags of DDT down in the basement,” said Benton. “Dump the dirt over in the northwest corner of my parking lot. And I wonder if you’d be willing to do something else for me?”

“Anything at all,” said Jackson. “You just name it, Doc.”

“Tomorrow I’d like you to come back and build a tight board fence around the dirt so no one can get at it. Then down in the basement I want a box built, a sort of sandbox, like the sandboxes kids play in.”

Jackson scratched his head. “You sure do want the damnedest things. Maybe someday you’ll tell me what it’s all about.”

“I’ll tell you now,” said Benton. “Old Doc’s Dirt Box—that’s the whole idea. After you get that box built, we’ll fill it with some of the dirt you hauled and we’ll seed it with a little extra DDT. Then I want you to sit down alongside that box and play in the dirt, just like a kid would play in sand. Make a dirt castle, build dirt roads, dig dirt wells—things like that, you know. You need DDT. Don’t ask me to explain. Just do like I tell you.”

Jackson grinned lopsidedly. “I’d feel like a goddamn fool,” he said.