Clifford Simak - The Ghost of a Model T - And Other Stories

“Mr. Packer,” she told him, “I don’t think you’re meant to die. I swear you are getting to look younger every day.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Packer, vastly pleased, “I’m feeling the best I have in years.”

“It may be that leaf he sends you.”

“No, I think most likely it is that broth of yours.”

They spent a pleasant afternoon—more pleasant, Packer admitted, than he would have thought was possible.

And after she had left, he asked himself another question that had him somewhat frightened.

Why in the world, of all people in the world, had he shared the leaf with her?

He put the box back in the drawer and picked up the note. He smoothed it out and read it once again.

The spelling brought a slight smile to his lips, but he quickly turned it off, for despite the atrociousness of it, PugAlNash nevertheless was one score up on him. For Pug had been able, after a fashion, to master the language of Earth, while he had bogged down completely when confronted with Pug’s language.

I profetick and wach ahed for you.

It was crazy, he told himself. It was, perhaps, some sort of joke, the kind of thing that passed for a joke with Pug.

He put the note away and prowled the apartment restlessly, vaguely upset by the whole pile-up of worries.

What should he do about the Griffin offer?

Why had he shared the leaf with the Widow Foshay?

What about that crack of Pug’s?

He went to the bookshelves and put out a finger and ran it along the massive set of Galactic Abstracts. He found the right volume and took it back to the desk with him.

He leafed through it until he found Unuk al Hay . Pug, he remembered, lived on Planet X of the system.

He wrinkled up his forehead as he puzzled out the meaning of the compact, condensed, sometimes cryptic wording, bristling with fantastic abbreviations. It was a bloated nuisance, but it made sense, of course. There was just too much information to cover in the galaxy—the set of books, unwieldy as it might be, would simply become unmanageable if anything like completeness of expression and description were attempted.

X-lt.kn., int., uninh. hu., (T-67), tr. intrm. (T-102) med. hbs., leg. forst., diff. lang …

Wait a second, there!

Leg. forst.

Could that be legend of foresight?

He read it again, translating as he went:

X-little known, intelligence, uninhabitable for humans (see table 67), trade by intermediaries (see table 102), medical herbs, legend (or legacy?) of foresight, difficult language …

And that last one certainly was right. He’d gained a working knowledge of a lot of alien tongues, but with Pug’s he could not even get an inkling.

Leg. forst.?

One couldn’t be sure, but it could be—it could be!

He slapped the book shut and took it back to the shelf.

So you watch ahead for me, he said.

And why? To what purpose?

PugAlNash, he said, a little pleased, someday I’ll wring your scrawny, meddling neck.

But, of course, he wouldn’t. PugAlNash was too far away and he might not be scrawny and there was no reason to believe he even had a neck.

When bedtime came around, he got into his flame-red pajamas with the yellow parrots on them and sat on the edge of the bed, wiggling his toes.

It had been quite a day, he thought.

He’d have to talk with Tony about this government offer to sell him the stamp material. Perhaps, he thought, he should insist upon it even if it meant a loss of possible revenue to Efficiency, Inc. He might as well get what he could and what he wanted when it was for the taking. For Tony, before they were through with it, probably would beat him out of what he had coming to him. He had expected it by now—but more than likely Tony had been too busy to indulge in any crookedness. Although it was a wonder, for Tony enjoyed a dishonest dollar twice as much as he did an honest one.

He remembered that he had told Griffin that he had faith in Tony and he guessed that he’d been right—he had faith in him and a little pride as well. Tony was an unprincipled rascal and there was no denying it. Thinking about it, Packer chuckled fondly. Just like me, he told himself, when I was young as Tony and was still in business.

There had been that triple deal with the bogus Chippendale and the Antarian paintings and the local version of moonshine from out in the Packrat system. By God, he told himself, I skinned all three of them on that one.

The phone rang and he padded out of the bedroom, his bare feet slapping on the floor.

The phone kept on insisting.

“All right!” yelled Packer angrily. “I’m coming!”

He reached the desk and picked up the phone.

“This is Pickering,” said the voice.

“Pickering. Oh, sure. Glad to hear from you.”

And had not the least idea who Pickering might be.

“The man you talked with about the Polaris cover.”

“Yes, Pickering. I remember you.”

“I wonder, did you ever find that cover?”

“Yes, I found it. Sorry, but the strip had only four. I told you five, I fear. An awful memory, but you know how it goes. A man gets old and –”

“Mr. Packer, will you sell that cover?”

“Sell it? Yes, I guess I told you that I would. Man of my word, you realize, although I regret it now.”

“It’s a fine one, then?”

“Mr. Pickering,” said Packer, “considering that it’s the only one in existence –”

“Could I come over to see it sometime soon?”

“Any time you wish. Any time at all.”

“You will hold it for me?”

“Certainly,” consented Packer. “After all, no one knows as yet that I have the thing.”

“And the price?”

“Well, now, I told you a quarter million, but I was talking then about a strip of five. Since it’s only four, I’d be willing to shave it some. I’m a reasonable man, Mr. Pickering. Not difficult to deal with.”

“I can see you aren’t,” said Pickering with a trace of bitterness.

They said good night and Packer sat in the chair and put his bare feet up on the desk and wiggled his toes, watching them with a certain fascination, as if he had never seen them before.

He’d sell Pickering the four-strip cover for two hundred thousand. Then he’d let it get noised about that there was a five-strip cover, and once he heard that Pickering would be beside himself and frothing at the mouth. He’d be afraid that someone might get ahead of him and buy the five-stamp strip while he had only four. And that would be a public humiliation that a collector of Pickering’s stripe simply couldn’t stand.

Packer chortled softly to himself.

“Bait,” he said aloud.

He probably could get half a million out of that five-strip piece. He’d make Pickering pay for it. He’d have to start it high, of course, and let Pickering beat him down.

He looked at the clock upon the desk and it was ten o’clock—a good hour past his usual bedtime.

He wiggled his toes some more and watched them. Funny thing about it, he wasn’t even sleepy. He didn’t want to go to bed; he’d got undressed from simple force of habit.

Nine o’clock, he thought, is a hell of a time for a man to go to bed. He could remember a time when he had never turned in until well after midnight and there had been many certain memorable occasions, he chucklingly recalled, when he’d not gone to bed at all.

But there had been something to do in those days. There had been places to go and people to meet and food had tasted proper and the liquor had been something a man looked forward to. They didn’t make decent liquor these days, he told himself. And there were no great cooks any more. And no entertainment, none worthy of the name. All his friends had either died or scattered; none of them had lasted.