The Ghost of a Model T: And Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  It had been good, he thought, that moment snatched out of the maw of time, but no better than this moment, with the car running on the ridgetop road and all the world laid out in the moonlight. Different, maybe, in some ways, but no better than this moment.

  The road left the ridgetop and went snaking down the bluff face, heading for the valley floor. A rabbit hopped across the road, caught for a second in the feeble headlights. High in the nighttime sky, invisible, a bird cried out, but that was the only sound there was, other than the thumping and the clanking of the Model T.

  The car went skittering down the valley, and here the moonlight often was shut out by the woods that came down close against the road.

  Then it was turning off the road, and beneath its tires he heard the crunch of gravel, and ahead of him loomed a dark and crouching shape. The car came to a halt, and sitting rigid in the seat, Hank knew where he was.

  The Model T had returned to the dance pavilion, but the magic was all gone. There were no lights, and it was deserted. The parking lot was empty. In the silence, as the Model T shut off its engine, he heard the gushing of the water from the hillside spring running into the watering trough.

  Suddenly he felt cold and apprehensive. It was lonely here, lonely as only an old remembered place can be when all its life is gone. He stirred reluctantly and climbed out of the car, standing beside it, with one hand resting on it, wondering why the Model T had come here and why he’d gotten out.

  A dark figure moved out from the front of the pavilion, an undistinguishable figure slouching in the darkness.

  “That you, Hank?” a voice asked.

  “Yes, it’s me,” said Hank.

  “Christ,” the voice asked, “where is everybody?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hank. “I was here just the other night. There were a lot of people then.”

  The figure came closer. “You wouldn’t have a drink, would you?” it asked.

  “Sure, Virg,” he said, for now he recognized the voice. “Sure, I have a drink.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle. He handed it to Virg. Virg took it and sat down on the running board. He didn’t drink right away, but sat there cuddling the bottle.

  “How you been, Hank?” he asked. “Christ, it’s a long time since I seen you.”

  “I’m all right,” said Hank. “I drifted up to Willow Bend and just sort of stayed there. You know Willow Bend?”

  “I was through it once. Just passing through. Never stopped or nothing. Would have if I’d known you were there. I lost all track of you.”

  There was something that Hank had heard about Old Virg, and felt that maybe he should mention it, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what it was, so he couldn’t mention it.

  “Things didn’t go so good for me,” said Virg. “Not what I had expected. Janet up and left me, and I took to drinking after that and lost the filling station. Then I just knocked around from one thing to another. Never could get settled. Never could latch onto anything worthwhile.”

  He uncorked the bottle and had himself a drink.

  “Good stuff,” he said, handing the bottle back to Hank.

  Hank had a drink, then sat down on the running board alongside Virg and set the bottle down between them.

  “I had a Maxwell for a while,” said Virg, “but I seem to have lost it. Forgot where I left it, and I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “You don’t need your Maxwell, Virg,” said Hank. “I have got this Model T.”

  “Christ, it’s lonesome here,” said Virg. “Don’t you think it’s lonesome?”

  “Yes, it’s lonesome. Here, have another drink. We’ll figure what to do.”

  “It ain’t good sitting here,” said Virg. “We should get out among them.”

  “We’d better see how much gas we have,” said Hank. “I don’t know what’s in the tank.”

  He got up and opened the front door and put his hand under the front seat, searching for the measuring stick. He found it and unscrewed the gas-tank cap. He began looking through his pockets for matches so he could make a light.

  “Here,” said Virg, “don’t go lighting any matches near that tank. You’ll blow us all to hell. I got a flashlight here in my back pocket. If the damn thing’s working.”

  The batteries were weak, but it made a feeble light. Hank plunged the stick into the tank, pulled it out when it hit bottom, holding his thumb on the point that marked the topside of the tank. The stick was wet almost to his thumb.

  “Almost full,” said Virg. “When did you fill it last?”

  “I ain’t never filled it.”

  Old Virg was impressed. “That old tin lizard,” he said, “sure goes easy on the gas.”

  Hank screwed the cap back on the tank, and they sat down on the running board again, and each had another drink.

  “It seems to me it’s been lonesome for a long time now,” said Virg. “Awful dark and lonesome. How about you, Hank?”

  “I been lonesome,” said Hank, “ever since Old Bounce up and died on me. I never did get married. Never got around to it. Bounce and me, we went everywhere together. He’d go up to Brad’s bar with me and camp out underneath a table; then, when Brad threw us out, he’d walk home with me.”

  “We ain’t doing ourselves no good,” said Virg, “just sitting here and moaning. So let’s have another drink, then I’ll crank the car for you, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “You don’t need to crank the car,” said Hank. “You just get into it, and it starts up by itself.”

  “Well, I be damned,” said Virg. “You sure have got it trained.”

  They had another drink and got into the Model T, which started up and swung out of the parking lot, heading for the road.

  “Where do you think we should go?” asked Virg. “You know of any place to go?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Hank. “Let the car take us where it wants to. It will know the way.”

  Virg lifted the sax off the seat and asked, “Where’d this thing come from? I don’t remember you could blow a sax.”

  “I never could before,” said Hank. He took the sax from Virg and put it to his lips, and it wailed in anguish, gurgled with light-heartedness.

  “I be damned,” said Virg. “You do it pretty good.”

  The Model T bounced merrily down the road, with its fenders flapping and the windshield jiggling, while the magneto coils mounted on the dashboard clicked and clacked and chattered. All the while, Hank kept blowing on the sax and the music came out loud and true, with startled night birds squawking and swooping down to fly across the narrow swath of light.

  The Model T went clanking up the valley road and climbed the hill to come out on a ridge, running through the moonlight on a narrow, dusty road between close pasture fences, with sleepy cows watching them pass by.

  “I be damned,” cried Virg, “if it isn’t just like it used to be. The two of us together, running in the moonlight. Whatever happened to us, Hank? Where did we miss out? It’s like this now, and it was like this a long, long time ago. Whatever happened to the years between? Why did there have to be any years between?”

  Hank said nothing. He just kept blowing on the sax.

  “We never asked for nothing much,” said Virg. “We were happy as it was. We didn’t ask for change. But the old crowd grew away from us. They got married and got steady jobs, and some of them got important. And that was the worst of all, when they got important. We were left alone. Just the two of us, just you and I, the ones who didn’t want to change. It wasn’t just being young that we were hanging on to. It was something else. It was a time that went with being young and crazy. I think we knew it somehow. And we were right, of course. It was never quite as good again.”

  The Model T left the ridge and plunged down a long, steep hill, and below them they could see a m
assive highway, broad and many-laned, with many car lights moving on it.

  “We’re coming to a freeway, Hank,” said Virg. “Maybe we should sort of veer away from it. This old Model T of yours is a good car, sure, the best there ever was, but that’s fast company down there.”

  “I ain’t doing nothing to it,” said Hank. “I ain’t steering it. It is on its own. It knows what it wants to do.”

  “Well, all right, what the hell,” said Virg, “we’ll ride along with it. That’s all right with me. I feel safe with it. Comfortable with it. I never felt so comfortable in all my goddamn life. Christ, I don’t know what I’d done if you hadn’t come along. Why don’t you lay down that silly sax and have a drink before I drink it all.”

  So Hank laid down the sax and had a couple of drinks to make up for lost time, and by the time he handed the bottle back to Virg, the Model T had gone charging up a ramp, and they were on the freeway. It went running gaily down its lane, and it passed some cars that were far from standing still. Its fenders rattled at a more rapid rate, and the chattering of the magneto coils was like machine-gun fire.

  “Boy,” said Virg admiringly, “see the old girl go. She’s got life left in her yet. Do you have any idea, Hank, where we might be going?”

  “Not the least,” said Hank, picking up the sax again.

  “Well, hell,” said Virg, “it don’t really matter, just so we’re on our way. There was a sign back there a ways that said Chicago. Do you think we could be headed for Chicago?”

  Hank took the sax out of his mouth. “Could be,” he said. “I ain’t worried over it.”

  “I ain’t worried neither,” said Old Virg. “Chicago, here we come! Just so the booze holds out. It seems to be holding out. We’ve been sucking at it regular, and it’s still better than half-full.”

  “You hungry, Virg?” asked Hank.

  “Hell, no,” said Virg. “Not hungry, and not sleepy, either. I never felt so good in all my life. Just so the booze holds out and this heap hangs together.”

  The Model T banged and clattered, running with a pack of smooth, sleek cars that did not bang and clatter, with Hank playing on the saxophone and Old Virg waving the bottle high and yelling whenever the rattling old machine outdistanced a Lincoln or a Cadillac. The moon hung in the sky and did not seem to move. The freeway became a throughway, and the first toll booth loomed ahead.

  “I hope you got change,” said Virg. “Myself, I am cleaned out.”

  But no change was needed, for when the Model T came near, the toll-gate arm moved up and let it go thumping through without payment.

  “We got it made,” yelled Virg. “The road is free for us, and that’s the way it should be. After all you and I been through, we got something coming to us.”

  Chicago loomed ahead, off to their left, with night lights gleaming in the towers that rose along the lakeshore, and they went around it in a long, wide sweep, and New York was just beyond the fishhook bend as they swept around Chicago and the lower curve of the lake.

  “I never saw New York,” said Virg, “but seen pictures of Manhattan, and that can’t be nothing but Manhattan. I never did know, Hank, that Chicago and Manhattan were so close together.”

  “Neither did I,” said Hank, pausing from his tootling on the sax. “The geography’s all screwed up for sure, but what the hell do we care? With this rambling wreck, the whole damn world is ours.”

  He went back to the sax, and the Model T kept rambling on. They went thundering through the canyons of Manhattan and circumnavigated Boston and went on down to Washington, where the Washington Monument stood up high and Old Abe sat brooding on Potomac’s shore.

  They went on down to Richmond and skated past Atlanta and skimmed along the moon-drenched sands of Florida. They ran along old roads where trees dripped Spanish moss and saw the lights of Old N’Orleans way off to their left. Now they were heading north again, and the car was galumphing along a ridgetop with neat farming country all spread out below them. The moon still stood where it had been before, hanging at the selfsame spot. They were moving through a world where it was always three A.M.

  “You know,” said Virg, “I wouldn’t mind if this kept on forever. I wouldn’t mind if we never got to wherever we are going. It’s too much fun getting there to worry where we’re headed. Why don’t you lay down that horn and have another drink? You must be getting powerful dry.”

  Hank put down the sax and reached out for the bottle. “You know, Virg,” he said, “I feel the same way you do. It just don’t seem there’s any need for fretting about where we’re going or what’s about to happen. It don’t seem that nothing could be better than right now.”

  Back there at the dark pavilion he’d remembered that there had been something he’d heard about Old Virg and had thought he should speak to him about, but couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what it was. But now he’d remembered it, and it was of such slight importance that it seemed scarcely worth the mention.

  The thing that he’d remembered was that good Old Virg was dead.

  He put the bottle to his lips and had a drink, and it seemed to him he’d never had a drink that tasted half so good. He handed back the bottle and picked up the sax and tootled on it with high spirit while the ghost of the Model T went on rambling down the moonlit road.

  About the Author

  CLIFFORD D. SIMAK, during his fifty-five-year career, produced some of the most iconic science fiction stories ever written. Born in 1904 on a farm in southwestern Wisconsin, Simak got a job at a small-town newspaper in 1929 and eventually became news editor of the Minneapolis Star-Tribune, writing fiction in his spare time.

  Simak was best known for the book City, a reaction to the horrors of World War II, and for his novel Way Station. In 1953 City was awarded the International Fantasy Award, and in following years, Simak won three Hugo Awards and a Nebula Award. In 1977 he became the third Grand Master of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and before his death in 1988, he was named one of three inaugural winners of the Horror Writers Association’s Bram Stoker Award for Lifetime Achievement.

  About the Editor

  DAVID W. WIXON was a close friend of Clifford D. Simak’s. As Simak’s health declined, Wixon, already familiar with science fiction publishing, began more and more to handle such things as his friend’s business correspondence and contract matters. Named literary executor of the estate after Simak’s death, Wixon began a long-term project to secure the rights to all of Simak’s stories and find a way to make them available to readers who, given the fifty-five-year span of Simak’s writing career, might never have gotten the chance to enjoy all of his short fiction. Along the way, Wixon also read the author’s surviving journals and rejected manuscripts, which made him uniquely able to provide Simak’s readers with interesting and thought-provoking commentary that sheds new light on the work and thought of a great writer.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  “Leg. Forst.” © 1958 by Royal Publications, Inc. © 1986 by Clifford D. Simak. Originally published in Infinity Science Fiction, v. 3, no. 4, April, 1958. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Clifford D. Simak.

  “Physician to the Universe” © 1963 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company. © 1991 by the Estate of Clifford D. Simak. Originally published in Fantastic Stories, v. 12, no. 3, March, 1963. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Clifford D. Simak.

  “No More Hides and T
allow” © 1945 by Real Adventures Publishing Co., Inc. © 1973 by Clifford D. Simak. Originally published in Lariat Story Magazine, v. 14, no. 12, March, 1946. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Clifford D. Simak.

  “Condition of Employment” © 1960 by Galaxy Publishing Corporation. © 1988 by the Estate of Clifford D. Simak. Originally published in Galaxy Magazine, v. 18, no. 4, April, 1960. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Clifford D. Simak.

  “City” © 1944 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. © 1972 by Clifford D. Simak. Originally published in Astounding Science Fiction, v. 33, no. 3, May, 1944. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Clifford D. Simak.

  “Mirage” © 1950 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Co. © 1978 by Clifford D. Simak. Originally published in Amazing Stories, v. 24, no. 10, October, 1950, under title “Seven Came Back.” Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Clifford D. Simak.

  “The Autumn Land” © 1971 by Mercury Press, Inc. © 1999 by the Estate of Clifford D. Simak. Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, v. 41, no. 4, October, 1971. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Clifford D. Simak.

  “Founding Father” © 1957 by Galaxy Publishing Corp. © 1985 by Clifford D. Simak. Originally published in Galaxy Science Fiction, v. 14, no. 1, May, 1957. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Clifford D. Simak.

  “Byte Your Tongue!” © 1980 by Random House, Inc. Originally published in STELLAR SCIENCE FICTION STORIES #6, ed. by Judy-Lynn del Rey, Ballantine Books. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Clifford D. Simak.

  “The Street That Wasn’t There” © 1941 by H-K Publications, Inc. Originally published in Comet, v. 1, no. 5, July, 1941. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Clifford D. Simak.