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

These three daydreams—being the President’s computer or the honcho of a rural village, or traveling in time—had been his chief fantasies. But now something else was taking the place of all the other daydreams, even of those three.

The new one derived from gossip that a secret starship was being built at a secret place and that within a few more years men and women would be venturing out beyond the limits of the solar system. He sought for further word, but there was none. Just that one piece of gossip. There might have been some news, he realized, without the gossip granny passing it along, thinking there would be little further interest in it. He sent out a call (a very discreet call) for any further word, but received no feedback. Either no one had further details or the work was too top secret to be talked about lightly. Gossip, he was aware, often made an individual mention some important fact or happening only once and then clam up, frightened by the ill-judgment in mentioning it at all.

The more he thought about it, the more the fact of the tight-lipped silence made it seem to him there was some basis for the rumor that man’s first interstellar ship was being built, and that in the not-too-distant future the human race would be going to the stars. And if men went, he told himself, machines would go as well. Such a ship and such a venture would necessitate the use of computers. When he thought about this, the new fantasy began to take over.

It was an easy daydream to fashion. It grew all by itself, requiring no conscious effort. It was natural and logical—at least, as logical as a daydream could be. They would need computers in that spaceship and many of them would of course have to be special units designed specifically to handle the problems and procedures of interstellar flight. Not all of them, however, need be new. To save the cost of design and construction, to stay within the budget, a number of existing computers would be used. These machines would have had all the bugs worked out of them through long experience—and would be sound, seasoned, and relatively sophisticated units that could be depended on to do a steady job.

He daydreamed that he was one of those computers, that after due consideration and careful study of the record, he would be selected, relieved of his senatorial duties, and placed upon the ship. Once he had dreamed all that, once his fantasy had convinced him that it was possible, then all bets were off. He settled happily into his newest dream world and went sailing off, light-years into space.

He existed in the harsh, dead-black coldness of far galactic reaches; he looked with steady eye upon the explosive flaring of a nova; he perched upon its very rim and knew the soul-shrinking terror of a black hole; he knew the bleak sterility and the dashed hope that he found upon a black dwarf; he heard the muted hiss that still survived from the birth of the universe and the terrifying, lonesome stillness that descended when the universe was done; he discovered many planets, or the hints of many planets, each one of them different, each one of a kind; and he experienced the happiness of the best and the horror of the worst.

Heretofore he had not transformed fantasy into want or need. This was understandable, for some of the other daydreams were impossible and the others so unlikely that they might as well have been impossible. But here was one, he told himself, that was entirely possible; here was one that could really happen; here was one to hope for.

So in his daydreaming he lived within the compass of his imagination, but there were other times when, not daydreaming, he began to consider how best he might pave the way for this new daydream to become reality. He thought out many leads, but all of them seemed futile. He schemed and planned, waffling back and forth, but there seemed nothing he could do. He found no course of action that seemed remotely possible.

Then one day a visitor came into his booth and sat down in one of the chairs. “My name is Daniel Waite. I am an aide of Senator Moore. Have I dropped in at a bad time?”

“Not at all,” said Fred. “I’ve just now completed a procedure and have time to spend with you. I am glad you’re here. In many ways, this is a lonely post. I do not have as many visitors as I’d like. Senator Moore, you say?”

“Yes, he is one of yours.”

“I remember him. A stately old gentleman of very great repute.”

“Quite so,” said Waite. “A magnificent public servant. I am glad to hear you have high regard for him.”

“Indeed I have,” said Fred.

“Which brings up the question,” said Waite, “of your flunking him on his continuation test. When I heard about it, I could not –”

“Where did you hear that?” Fred demanded sharply.

“I’ll not name the source,” said Waite, “but I can assure you that it came from one who is reliable. One of your own, in fact.”

“Ah, yes,” Fred said sadly. “We do have our ethics, but there are those who occasionally betray the sacred trust. No one should have known the results of the senator’s test other than myself. I fear we have reached the point where some of us spy upon our fellows.”

“Then it is true the senator did fail his test. In view of your high regard for him, in view of his long experience and his impeccable public record, how could that have happened?”

“It’s quite simple, sir,” said Fred. “He did not achieve a passing score. He flunked too many questions.”

“I’m talking to you for information only,” Waite explained. “I hope you understand. I know that it would be improper to attempt to influence you and ridiculous as well, for you cannot be influenced. But, for information only, is there not some leeway? Even if he missed the questions, failed to achieve a passing grade, do not his record and his long experience have some force when thrown into the balance?”

“No, Mr. Waite, they cannot be considered. All that matters are the questions and the answers that he makes to them. Although in his particular case, I did not transmit the results to the record unit—not immediately, that is. Eventually I must do so, but I have some time. I held them up because I wished to think about the matter. I had hoped there was something I could do, some obscure loophole that I had overlooked, but apparently there is not. This first result, however, may not be as important as you think. You know, of course, the senator will have two more chances. Why don’t you find a tutor for him? There are some very able ones. I could recommend a couple.”

“He absolutely refuses that,” said Waite. “I urged him, but he refused. He’s a stiff-necked, proud old man. He is afraid other members of the Senate will get wind of it and talk about him. Because of this, I had hoped that something might be done about the first test. It is not official knowledge yet that he failed the first one but the information’s no longer confidential, either. I heard about it, and if I heard, it is only a matter of time before others will as well. If that rumor got around, he’d be deeply embarrassed.”

“I sorrow for him greatly,” said Fred, “and for you as well, for you appear to be his true friend as well as a loyal employee.”

“Well, apparently,” said Waite, “there is nothing that can be done. You gave me the information that I sought and I thank you for it. Before I leave, is there anything I might do for you?”

“I doubt it,” said Fred. “My needs are very simple.”

“I sometimes think,” said Waite, “that there should be some way we humans could show, in a material way, our appreciation for the great services and many kindnesses that you provide and show for us. You watch over us and look out for us…”

“As a matter of fact,” said Fred, “come to think of it, there is one thing you might do for me. Nothing material, of course, just some information.”