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

“Many of them,” declared Webster, “still are at loose ends. There’s a hundred or more of them squatting out in the houses, living from hand to mouth. Shooting a few rabbits and a few squirrels, doing some fishing, raising vegetables and picking wild fruit. Engaging in a little petty thievery now and then and doing occasional begging on the uptown streets.”

“You know these people?” asked Taylor.

“I know some of them,” said Webster. “One of them brings me squirrels and rabbits on occasions. To make up for it, he bums ammunition money.”

“They’d resent being adjusted, wouldn’t they?”

“Violently,” said Webster.

“You know a farmer by the name of Ole Johnson? Still sticking to his farm, still unreconstructed?”

Webster nodded.

“What if you tried to adjust him?”

“He’d run me off the farm,” said Webster.

“Men like Ole and the Squatters,” said Taylor, “are our special problems now. Most of the rest of the world is fairly well adjusted, fairly well settled into the groove of the present. Some of them are doing a lot of moaning about the past, but that’s just for effect. You couldn’t drive them back to their old ways of life.

“Years ago, with the advent of atomics, in fact, the World Committee faced a hard decision. Should changes that spelled progress in the world be brought about gradually to allow the people to adjust themselves naturally, or should they be developed as quickly as possible, with the Committee aiding in the necessary human adjustment? It was decided, rightly or wrongly, that progress should come first, regardless of its effect upon the people. The decision in the main has proven a wise one.

“We knew, of course, that in many instances, this readjustment could not be made too openly. In some cases, as in large groups of workers who had been displaced, it was possible, but in most individual cases, such as our friend Ole, it was not. These people must be helped to find themselves in this new world, but they must not know that they’re being helped. To let them know would destroy confidence and dignity, and human dignity is the keystone of any civilization.”

“I knew, of course, about the readjustments made within industry itself,” said Webster, “but I had not heard of the individual cases.”

“We could not advertise it,” Taylor said. “It’s practically undercover.”

“But why are you telling me all this now?”

“Because we’d like you to come in with us. Have a hand at adjusting Ole to start with. Maybe see what could be done about the Squatters next.”

“I don’t know—“said Webster.

“We’d been waiting for you to come in,” said Taylor. “We knew you’d finally have to come here. Any chance you might have had at any kind of job would have been queered by King. He passed the word along. You’re blackballed by every Chamber of Commerce and every civic group in the world today.”

“Probably I have no choice,” said Webster.

“We didn’t want you to feel that way about it,” Taylor said. “Take a while to think it over, then come back. Even if you don’t want the job we’ll find you another one—in spite of King.”

Outside the office, Webster found a scarecrow figure waiting for him. It was Levi Lewis, snaggle-toothed grin wiped off, rifle under his arm.

“Some of the boys said they seen you go in here,” he explained. “So I waited for you.”

“What’s the trouble?” Webster asked. For Levi’s face spoke eloquently of trouble.

“It’s them police,” said Levi. He spat disgustedly.

“The police,” said Webster, and his heart sank as he said the words. For he knew what the trouble was.

“Yeah,” said Levi. “They’re fixing to burn us out.”

“So the council finally gave in,” said Webster, face grim.

“I just came from police headquarters,” declared Levi. “I told them they better go easy. I told them there’d be guts strewed all over the place if they tried it. I got the boys posted all around the place with orders not to shoot till they’re sure of hitting.”

“You can’t do that, Levi,” said Webster, sharply.

“I can’t!” retorted Levi. “I done it already. They drove us off the farms, forced us to sell because we couldn’t make a living. And they aren’t driving us no farther. We either stay here or we die here. And the only way they’ll burn us out is when there’s no one left to stop them.”

He shucked up his pants and spat again.

“And we ain’t the only ones that feel that way,” he declared. “Gramp is out there with us.”

“Gramp!”

“Sure, Gramp. The old guy that lives with you. He’s sort of taken over as our commanding general. Says he remembers tricks from the war them police have never heard of. He sent some of the boys over to one of them Legion halls to swipe a cannon. Says he knows where we can get some shells for it from the museum. Says we’ll get it all set up and then send word that if the police make a move we’ll shell the loop.”

“Look, Levi, will you do something for me?”

“Sure will, Mr. Webster.”

“Will you go in and ask for a Mr. Taylor? Insist on seeing him. Tell him I’m already on the job.”

“Sure will, but where are you going?”

“I’m going up to the city hall.”

“Sure you don’t want me along?”

“No,” declared Webster. “I’ll do better alone. And, Levi –”

“Yes.”

“Tell Gramp to hold up his artillery. Don’t shoot unless he has to—but if he has to, to lay it on the line.”

“The mayor is busy,” said Raymond Brown, his secretary.

“That’s what you think,” said Webster, starting for the door.

“You can’t go in there, Webster,” yelled Brown.

He leaped from his chair, came charging around the desk, reaching for Webster. Webster swung broadside with his arm, caught Brown across the chest, swept him back against the desk. The desk skidded and Brown waved his arms, lost his balance, thudded to the floor.

Webster jerked open the mayor’s door.

The mayor’s feet thumped off his desk. “I told Brown –” he said.

Webster nodded. “And Brown told me. What’s the matter, Carter. Afraid King might find out I was here? Afraid of being corrupted by some good ideas?”

“What do you want?” snapped Carter.

“I understand the police are going to burn the houses.”

“That’s right,” declared the mayor, righteously. “They’re a menace to the community.”

“What community?”

“Look here, Webster –”

“You know there’s no community. Just a few of you lousy politicians who stick around so you can claim residence, so you can be sure of being elected every year and drag down your salaries. It’s getting to the point where all you have to do is vote for one another. The people who work in the stores and shops, even those who do the meanest jobs in the factories, don’t live inside the city limits. The businessmen quit the city long ago. They do business here, but they aren’t residents.”

“But this is still a city,” declared the mayor.

“I didn’t come to argue that with you,” said Webster. “I came to try to make you see that you’re doing wrong by burning those houses. Even if you don’t realize it, the houses are homes to people who have no other homes. People who have come to this city to seek sanctuary, who have found refuge with us. In a measure, they are our responsibility.”

“They’re not our responsibility,” gritted the mayor. “Whatever happens to them is their own hard luck. We didn’t ask them here. We don’t want them here. They contribute nothing to the community. You’re going to tell me they’re misfits. Well, can I help that? You’re going to say they can’t find jobs. And I’ll tell you they could find jobs if they tried to find them. There’s work to be done, there’s always work to be done. They’ve been filled up with this new world talk and they figure it’s up to someone to find the place that suits them and the job that suits them.”