All Flesh Is Grass and Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  "What's the matter, Alf? Take it easy, Alf."

  "All right," he said. "I'll try to take it easy. I'll take it from the top." I didn't like the sound of his voice. He was scared and he was trying not to be.

  "Go ahead," I said.

  "I finally got to Elmore," he told me. "The traffic's something awful. You can't imagine what the traffic is out here. They have military check points and…"

  "But you finally got to Elmore. You told me you were going."

  "Yes, I finally got here. On the radio I heard about this delegation that came out to see you. The senator and the general and the rest of them, and when I got to Elmore I found that they were stopping at the Corn Belt hotel. Isn't that the damndest name?

  "But, anyhow, I figured that they should know more about what was going on down in Mississippi. I thought it might throw some light on the situation. So I went down to the hotel to see the senator — that is, to try to see him. It was a madhouse down there. There were great crowds of people and the police were trying to keep order, but they had their hands full. There were television cameras all over the place and newsmen and the radio people — well, anyhow, I never saw the senator. But I saw someone else. Saw him and recognized him from the pictures in the paper. The one called Davenport…"

  "The biologist," I said.

  "Yes, that's it. The scientist. I got him cornered and I tried to explain I had to see the senator. He wasn't too much help. I'm not even sure be was hearing what I was saying. He seemed to be upset and he was sweating like a mule and he was paper-white. I thought he might be sick and I asked him if he was, if there was anything I could do for him. Then he told me. I don't think he meant to tell me. I think maybe he was sorry that he did after he had told me. But he was so full of anger it was spilling out of him and for the moment he didn't care. The man was in anguish, I tell you. I never saw a man as upset as be was. He grabbed me by the lapels and he stuck his face up close to mine and he was so excited and he talked so fast that he spit all over me. He wouldn't have done a thing like that for all the world; he's not that sort of man…"

  "Alf," I pleaded. "Alf, get down to facts."

  "I forgot to tell you," Alf said, "that the news had just broken about that flying saucer you brought back. The radio was full of it. About how it was spotting the nuclear concentrations. Well, I started to tell the scientist about why I had to see the senator, about the project down in Greenbriar. And that was when he began to talk, grabbing hold of me so I couldn't get away. He said the news of the aliens' one condition, that we disperse our nuclear capacity, was the worst thing that could have happened. He said the Pentagon is convinced the aliens are a threat and that they must be stopped…"

  "Alf," I said, suddenly weak, guessing what was coming.

  "And he said they know they must be stopped before they control more territory and the only way to do it is an H-bomb right on top of Millville." He stopped, half out of breath.

  I didn't say a thing. I couldn't say a word, I was too paralysed. I was remembering how the general had looked when I'd talked with him that morning and the senator saying, "We have to trust you, boy. You hold us in your hands."

  "Brad," Alf asked, anxiously, "are you there? Did you hear me?"

  "Yes," I said, "I'm here."

  "Davenport told me he was afraid this new development of the nuclear pinpointing might push the military into action without due consideration — knowing that they had to act or they'd not have anything to use. Like a man with a gun, he said, facing a wild beast. He doesn't want to kill the beast unless he has to and there is always the chance the beast will slink away and he won't have to fire. But suppose he knows that in the next two minutes his gun will disappear into thin air well, then he has to take a chance and shoot before the gun can disappear. He has to kill the beast while he still has a gun."

  "And now," I said, speaking more levelly than I would have thought possible, "Millville is the beast."

  "Not Millville, Brad. Just…"

  "Yes," I said, "most certainly not Millville. Tell that to the people when the bomb explodes."

  "This Davenport was beside himself. He had no business talking to me…"

  "You think he knows what he is talking about? He had a row with the general this morning."

  "I think he knows more than he told me, Brad. He talked for a couple of minutes and then he buttoned up. As though he knew he had no business talking. But he's obsessed with one idea. He thinks the only thing that can stop the military is the force of public opinion. He thinks that if what they plan is known, there'll be such an uproar they'd be afraid to move. Not only, he pointed out, would the public be outraged at such cold-bloodedness, but the public wants these aliens in; they're for anyone who can break the bomb. And this biologist of yours is going to plant this story. He didn't say he would, but that's what he was working up to. He'll tip off some newspaperman, I'm sure of that." I felt my guts turn over and my knees were weak. I pressed my legs hard against the desk to keep from keeling over.

  "This village will go howling mad," I said. "I asked the general this morning…"

  "You asked the general! For Christ sake, did you know?"

  "Of course I knew. Not that they would do it. Just that, they were thinking of it."

  "And you didn't say a word?"

  "Who could I tell? What good would it have done? And it wasn't certain. It was just an alternative — a last alternative. Three hundred lives against three billion…"

  "But you, yourself! All your friends…"

  "Alf," I pleaded, "there was nothing I could do. What would you have done? Told the village and driven everyone stark mad?"

  "I don't know," said Alf, "I don't know what I'd have done."

  "Alf, is the senator at the hotel? I mean, is he there right now?"

  "I think he is. You mean to call him, Brad?"

  "I don't know what good it'll do," I said, "but perhaps I should."

  "I'll get off the line," said Alf. "And Brad…"

  "Yes."

  "Brad, the best of luck. I mean — oh, hell, just the best of luck."

  "Thanks, Alf." I heard the click of the receiver as he hung up and the line droned empty in my ear. My hand began to shake and I laid the receiver carefully on the desk, not trying to put it back into the cradle.

  Joe Evans was looking at me hard. "You knew," he said. "You knew all the time."

  I shook my head. "Not that they meant to do it. The general mentioned it as a last resort. Davenport jumped on him…" I didn't finish what I meant to say. The words just dwindled off. Joe kept on staring at me.

  I exploded at him. "Damn it, man," I shouted, "I couldn't tell anyone. I asked the general, if he had to do it, to do it without notice. Not to let us know. That way there'd be a flash we'd probably never see. We'd die, of course, but only once. Not a thousand deaths…"

  Joe picked up the phone. "I'll try to raise the senator," he said.

  I sat down in a chair.

  I felt empty. There was nothing in me. I heard Joe talking into the telephone, but I didn't really hear his words, for it seemed that I had, for the moment, created a small world all of my own (as though there were no longer room for me in the normal world) and had drawn it about me as one would draw a blanket.

  I was miserable and at the same time angry, and perhaps considerably confused.

  Joe was saying something to me and I became aware of it only after he had almost finished speaking.

  "What was that?" I asked.

  "The call is in," said Joe. "They'll call us back." I nodded.

  "I told them it was important."

  "I wonder if it is," I said.

  "What do you mean? Of course it…"

  "I wonder what the senator can do. I wonder what difference it will make if I, or you, or anyone, talks to him about it."

  "The senator has a lot of weight," said Joe. "He likes to throw it around." We sat in silence for a moment, waiting for the call, waiting for the senator and what he knew
about it.

  "If no one will stand up for us," asked Joe, "if no one will fight for us, what are we to do?"

  "What can we do?" I asked. "We can't even run. We can't get away. We're sitting ducks."

  "When the village knows…"

  "They'll know," I said, "as soon as the news leaks out. If it does leak out. It'll be bulletined on TV and radio and everyone in this village is plastered to a set."

  "Maybe someone will get hold of Davenport and hush him up."

  I shook my head. "He was pretty sore this morning. Right down the general's throat." And who was right? I asked myself. How could one tell in this short space of time who was right or wrong?

  For years man had fought insects and blights and noxious weeds. He'd fought them any way he could. He'd killed them any way he could. Let one's guard down for a moment and the weeds would have taken over. They crowded every fence corner, every hedgerow, sprang up in every vacant lot. They'd grow anywhere. When drought killed the grain and sickened the corn, the weeds would keep on growing, green and tough and wiry.

  And now came another noxious weed, out of another time, a weed that very possibly could destroy not only corn and grain but the human race. If this should be the case, the only thing to do was to fight it as one fought any weed, with everything one had.

  But suppose that this was a different sort of weed, no ordinary weed, but a highly adaptive weed that had studied the ways of man and weed, and out of its vast knowledge and adaptability could manage to survive anything that man might throw at it. Anything, that is, except massive radiation.

  For that had been the answer when the problem had been posed in that strange project down in Mississippi.

  And the Flowers' reaction to that answer would be a simple one. Get rid of radiation. And while you were getting rid of it, win the affection of the world. If that should be the situation, then the Pentagon was right.

  The phone buzzed from the desk.

  Joe picked up the receiver and handed it to me.

  My lips seemed to be stiff. The words I spoke came out hard and dry.

  "Hello," I said. "Hello. Is this the senator?

  "Yes."

  "This is Bradshaw Carter. Millville. Met you this morning. At the barrier."

  "Certainly, Mr Carter. What can I do for you?"

  "There is a rumour…"

  "There are many rumours, Carter. I've heard a dozen of them."

  "About a bomb on Millville. The general said this morning…"

  "Yes," said the senator, far too calmly. "I have heard that rumour, too, and am quite disturbed by it. But there is no confirmation. It is nothing but a rumour."

  "Senator," I said. "I wish you'd level with me. To you it's a disturbing thing to hear. It's personal with us."

  "Well," said the senator. You could fairly hear him debating with himself.

  "Tell me," I insisted. "We're the ones involved…"

  "Yes. Yes," said the senator. "You have the right to know. I'd not deny you that."

  "So what is going on?

  "There is only one solid piece of information," said the senator.

  "There are top level consultations going on among the nuclear powers. Quite a blow to them, you know, this condition of the aliens. The consultations are highly secret, as you might imagine. You realize, of course…"

  "It's perfectly all right," I said. "I can guarantee…"

  "Oh, it's not that so much," said the senator. "One of the newspaper boys will sniff it out before the night is over. But I don't like it. It sounds as if some sort of mutual agreement is being sought. In view of public opinion, I am very much afraid…"

  "Senator! Please, not politics."

  "I'm sorry," said the senator. "I didn't mean it that way. I won't try to conceal from you that I am perturbed. I'm trying to get what facts I can…"

  "Then it's critical."

  "If that barrier moves another foot," said the senator, "if anything else should happen, it's not inconceivable that we might act unilaterally. The military can always argue that they moved to save the world from invasion by an alien horde. They can claim, as well, that they had information held by no one else. They could say it was classified and refuse to give it out. They would have a cover story and once it had been done, they could settle back and let time take its course. There would be hell to pay, of course, but they could ride it out."

  "What do you think?" I asked. "What are the chances?"

  "God," said the senator, "I don't know. I don't have the facts. I don't know what the Pentagon is thinking. I don't know the facts they have. I don't know what the chiefs of staff have told the President. There is no way of knowing the attitudes of Britain or Russia, or of France." The wire sang cold and empty.

  "Is there," asked the senator, "anything that you can do from the Millville end?"

  "An appeal," I said. "A public appeal. The newspapers and the radio…"

  I could almost see him shake his head. "It wouldn't work," he said. "No one has any way of knowing what's happening there behind the barrier. There is always the possibility of influence by the aliens. And the pleading of special favour even when that would be prejudicial to the world. The communications media would snap it up, of course, and would play it up and make a big thing of it. But it would not influence official opinion in the least. It would only serve to stir up the people — the people everywhere. And there is enough emotionalism now. What we need are some solid facts and some common sense." He was fearful, I thought, that we'd upset the boat. He wanted to keep everything all quiet and decent.

  "And, anyhow," he said, "there is no real evidence…"

  "Davenport thinks there is."

  "You have talked with him?"

  "No," I said, quite truthfully, "I haven't talked with him."

  "Davenport," he said, "doesn't understand. He stepped out of the isolation of his laboratory and…"

  "He sounded good to me," I said. "He sounded civilized." And was sorry I'd said it, for now I'd embarrassed him as well as frightened him.

  "I'll let you know," he said, a little stiffly. "As soon as I hear anything I'll let you or Gerald know. I'll do the best I can. I don't think you need to worry. Just keep that barrier from moving, just keep things quiet. That's all you have to do."

  "Sure, Senator," I said, disgusted.

  "Thanks for calling," said the senator. "I'll keep in touch."

  "Goodbye, Senator," I said.

  I put the receiver back into the cradle. Joe looked at me inquiringly.

  I shook my head. "He doesn't know and he isn't talking. And I gather he is helpless. He can't do anything for us." Footsteps sounded on the sidewalk and a second later the door came open. I swung around and there stood Higgy Morris.

  Of all the people who would come walking in at this particular moment, it would be Higgy Morris.

  He looked from one to the other of us.

  "What's the matter with you guys?" he asked.

  I kept on looking at him, wishing that he'd go away, but knowing that he wouldn't.

  "Brad," said Joe, "we've got to tell him."

  "All right," I said. "You go ahead and tell him." Higgy didn't move. He stood beside the door while Joe told him how it was. Higgy got wall-eyed and seemed to turn into a statue. He never moved a muscle; he didn't interrupt.

  For a long moment there was silence, then Higgy said to me, "What do you think? Could they do a thing like that to us?"

  I nodded. "They could. They might. If the barrier moves again. If something else should happen."

  "Well, then," said Higgy, springing into action, "what are we standing here for? We must start to dig."

  "Dig?"

  "Sure. A bomb shelter. We've got all sorts of manpower. There's no one in the village who's doing anything. We could put everyone to work. There's road equipment in the shed down by the railroad station and there must be a dozen or more trucks scattered here and there. I'll appoint a committee and we" ll… Say, what's the matter with you fellows?" />
  "Higgy," said Joe, almost gently, "you just don't understand. This isn't fallout — this would be a hit with the village as ground zero. You can't build a shelter that would do any good. Not in a hundred years, you couldn't."

  "We could try," said Higgy, stubbornly.

  "You can't dig deep enough," I said, "or build strong enough to withstand the blast. And even if you could, there'd be the oxygen…"

  "But we got to do something," Higgy shouted. "We can't simply sit and take it. Why, we'd all be killed!"

  "Chum," I told him, "that's too damned bad."

  "Now, see here…" said Higgy.

  "Cut it out!" yelled Joe. "Cut it out, both of you. Maybe you don't care for one another, but we have to work together. And there is a way. We do have a shelter." I stared at him for a moment, then I saw what he was getting at.

  "No!" I shouted. "No, we can't do that. Not yet. Don't you see? That would be throwing away any chance we have for negotiation. We can't let them know."

  "Ten to one," said Joe, "they already know."

  "I don't get it at all," Higgy pleaded. "What shelter have we got?

  "The other world," said Joe. "The parallel world, the one that Brad was in. We could go back there if we had to. They would take care of us, they would let us stay. They'd grow food for us and there'd be stewards to keep us healthy and…"

  "You forget one thing," I said. "We don't know how to go. There's just that one place in the garden and now it's all changed. The flowers are gone and there's nothing there but the money bushes."

  "The steward and Smith could show us," said Joe. "They would know the way."

  "They aren't here," said Higgy. "They went home. There was no one at the clinic and they said they had to go, but they'd be back again if we needed them. I drove them down to Brad's place and they didn't have no trouble finding the door or whatever you call it. They just walked a ways across the garden and then they disappeared."

  "You could find it, then?" asked Joe.

  "I could come pretty close."

  "We can find it if we have to, then," said Joe. "We can form lines, arm in arm, and march across the garden."

  "I don't know," I said. "It may not be always open."