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

The house was surrounded by a great front yard and a garden at the rear and at the garden’s edge grew a mighty tree that flamed golden in the autumn for a few brief hours, and the tree held something of magnificent importance and he, Alden Street, was tied in with that great importance.

He sought wildly for this great importance and in the dusk he could not find it. It had somehow slipped his grasp. He had had it, he had known it, he’d lived with it all his life, from the time of childhood, but he did not have it. It had left him somehow.

He went scrabbling after it, frantically, for it was something that he could not lose, plunging after it into the darkness of his brain. And as he scrambled after it, he knew the taste again, the bitter taste when he had drained the vial and dropped it to the floor.

He scrabbled in the darkness of his mind, searching for the thing he’d lost, not remembering what it was, with no inkling of what it might have been, but knowing he would recognize it once he came across it.

He scrabbled and he did not find it. For suddenly he was not in the darkness of his brain, but back once more in the place of brilliance. And angry at how he’d been thwarted in his search.

The high and mighty man had not started speaking, although Alden could see that he was about to speak, that at any moment now he would start to speak. And the strange thing of it was that he was certain he had seen this all before and had heard before what the high, great man was about to say. Although he could not, for the life of him, recall a word of it. He had been here before, he knew, not once, but twice before. This was a reel re-run, this was past happening.

“Alden Street,” said the man so high above him, “you will stand and face me.”

And that was silly, Alden thought, for he was already standing and already facing him.

“You have heard the evidence,” said the man, “that has been given here.”

“I heard it,” Alden said.

“What have you, then, to say in your self-defense?”

“Not a thing,” said Alden.

“You mean you don’t deny it?”

“I can’t deny it’s true. But there were extenuating circumstances.”

“I am sure there were, but they’re not admissible.”

“You mean that I can’t tell you…”

“Of course you can. But it will make no difference. The law admits no more than the commission of the crime. There can be no excuses.”

“I would suppose, then,” said Alden Street, “there is nothing I can say. Your Honor, I would not waste your time.”

“I am glad,” said the judge, “that you are so realistic. It makes the whole thing simpler and easier. And it expedites the business of this court.”

“But you must understand,” said Alden Street, “that I can’t be sent away. I have some most important work and I should be getting back to it.”

“You admit,” said the high, great man, “that you were ill for twenty-four full hours and failed most lamentably to report your illness.”

“Yes,” said Alden Street.

“You admit that even then you did not report for treatment, but rather that you were apprehended by a monitor.”

Alden did not answer. It was piling up and there was no use to answer. He could see, quite plainly, that it would do no good.

“And, further, you admit that it has been some eighteen months since you have reported for your physical.”

“I was far too busy.”

“Too busy when the law is most explicit that you must have a physical at six month intervals?”

“You don’t understand, Your Honor.”

His Honor shook his head. “I am afraid I do. You have placed yourself above the law. You have chosen deliberately to flout the law and you must answer for it. Too much has been gained by our medical statutes to endanger their observance. No citizen can be allowed to set a precedent against them. The struggle to gain a sound and healthy people must be accorded the support of each and every one of us and I cannot countenance…”

The place of brilliance tilted and he was back in the dusk again.

He lay upon his back and stared up into the darkness, and although he could feel the pressure of the bed on which he lay, it was as if he were suspended in some sort of dusky limbo that had no beginning and no end, that was nowhere and led nowhere, and was, in itself, the terminal point of all and each existence.

From somewhere deep inside himself he heard the questioning once again—the flat, hard voice that had, somehow, the sound of metal in it:

Have you ever taken part in any body-building program?

When was the last time that you brushed your teeth?

Have you ever contributed either time or money to the little leagues?

How often would you say that you took a bath?

Did you at any time ever express a doubt that sports developed character?

One of the white faces floated out of the darkness to hang above him once again. It was, he saw, an old face—a woman’s face and kind.

A hand slid beneath his head and lifted it.

“Here,” the white face said, “drink this.”

He felt the spoon against his lips.

“It’s soup,” she said. “It’s hot. It will give you strength.”

He opened his mouth and the spoon slid in. The soup was hot and comforting.

The spoon retreated.

“Where…” he said.

“Where are you?”

“Yes,” he whispered, “where am I? I want to know.”

“This is Limbo,” the white face said.

Now the word had meaning.

Now he could recall what Limbo was.

And he could not stay in Limbo.

It was inconceivable that anyone should expect that he should stay in Limbo.

He rolled his head back and forth on the thin, hard pillow in a gesture of despair.

If he only had more strength. Just a little while ago he had had a lot of strength. Old and wiry and with a lot of strength left in him. Strong enough for almost anything at all.

But shiftless, they had said back in Willow Bend.

And there he had the name. He was glad to have it back. He hugged it close against him.

“Willow Bend,” he said, speaking to the darkness.

“You all right, old timer?”

He could not see the speaker, but he was not frightened. There was nothing to be frightened of. He had his name and he had Willow Bend and he had Limbo and in just a little while he’d have all the rest of it and then he’d be whole again and strong.

“I’m all right,” he said.

“Kitty gave you soup. You want some more of it?”

“No. All I want is to get out of here.”

“You been pretty sick. Temperature a hundred and one point seven.”

“Not now. I have no fever now.”

“No. But when you got here.”

“How come you know about my temperature? You aren’t any medic. I can tell by the voice of you that you aren’t any medic. In Limbo, there would be no medic.”

“No medic,” said the unseen speaker. “But I am a doctor.”

“You’re lying,” Alden told him. “There are no human doctors. There isn’t any such a thing as doctors any more. All we have is medics.”

“There are some of us in research.”

“But Limbo isn’t research.”

“At times,” the voice said, “you get rather tired of research. It’s too impersonal and sterile.”

Alden did not reply. He ran his hand, in a cautious rubbing movement, up and down the blanket that had been used to cover him. It was stiff and hard to the touch, but seemed fairly heavy.

He tried to sort out in his mind what the man had told him.

“There is no one here,” he said, “but violators. What did you violate? Forget to trim your toe-nails? Short yourself on sleep?”

“I’m not a violator.”