All Flesh Is Grass and Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  "Geneva? You mean the Government?"

  The man showed him credentials.

  "Okay," said Packer a bit frostily, being no great admirer of the Government. "What can I do for you?"

  "You are senior partner in Efficiency, Inc., I believe."

  "I guess that's what I am."

  "Mr. Packer, don't you know?" — "Well, I'm not positive. I'm a partner, but I don't know about this senior business. Tony runs the show and I let him have his head."

  "You and your nephew are sole owners of the firm?"

  "You bet your boots we are. We kept it for ourselves. We took no one in with us."

  "Mr. Packer, for some time the Government has been attempting to negotiate with Mr. Camper. He's told you nothing of it?"

  "Not a thing," said Packer. "I'm busy with my stamps. He doesn't bother me."

  "— We- have been interested in your service," Griffin said. "-We- have tried to buy it."

  "It's for sale," said Packer. "You just pay the price and —»

  "But you don't understand. Mr. Camper insists on a separate contract for every single office that we operate. That would run to a terrific figure —»

  "Worth it," Packer assured him. "Every cent of it."

  "It's unfair," said Griffin firmly. "We are willing to buy it on a departmental basis and we feel that even in that case we would be making some concession. By rights the Government should be allowed to come in under a single covering arrangement."

  "Look," protested Packer, "what are you talking to me for? I don't run the business; Tony does. You'll have to deal with him. I have faith in the boy. He has a good hard business head. I'm not even interested in Efficiency. All I'm interested in is stamps."

  "That's just the point," said Griffin heartily. "You've hit the situation exactly on the head."

  "Come again?" asked Packer.

  "Well, it's like this," Griffin told him in confidential tones. "The Government gets a lot of stamps in its daily correspondence. I forget the figure, but it runs to several tons of philatelic material every day. And from every planet in the galaxy. We have in the past been disposing of it to several stamp concerns, but there's a disposition in certain quarters to offer the whole lot as a package deal at a most attractive price."

  "That is fine," said Packer, "but what would I do with several tons a day?"

  "I wouldn't know," declared Griffin, "but since you are so interested in stamps, it would give you a splendid opportunity to have first crack at a batch of top-notch material. It is, I dare say, one of the best sources you could find."

  "And you'd sell all this stuff to me if I put in a word for you with Tony?"

  Griffin grinned happily. "You follow me exactly, Mr Packer."

  Packer snorted, "Follow you! I'm way ahead of you."

  "Now, now," cautioned Griffin, "you must not get the wrong impression. This is a business offer — a purely business offer."

  "I suppose you'd expect no more than nominal payment for all this waste paper I would be taking off your hands."

  "Very nominal," said Griffin.

  "All right, I'll think about it and I'll let you know. I can't promise you a thing, of course."

  "I understand, Mr. Packer. I do not mean to rush you."

  After Griffin left, Packer sat and thought about it and the more he thought about it, the more attractive it became.

  He could rent a warehouse and install an Efficiency Basket in it and all he'd have to do would be dump all that junk in there and the basket would sort it out for him.

  He wasn't exactly sure if one basket would have the time to break the selection down to more than just planetary groupings, but if one basket couldn't do it, he could install a second one and between the two of them, he could run the classification down to any point he wished. And then, after the baskets had sorted out the more select items for his personal inspection, he could set up an organization to sell the rest of it in job lots and he could afford to sell it at a figure that would run all the rest of those crummy dealers clear out on the limb.

  He rubbed his hands together in a gesture of considerable satisfaction, thinking how he could make it rough for all those skinflint dealers. It was murder, he reminded himself, what they got away with; anything that happened to them, they had coming to them.

  But there was one thing he gagged on slightly. What Griffin had offered him was little better than a bribe, although it was, he supposed, no more than one could expect of the Government. The entire Governmental structure was loaded with grafters and ten percenters and lobbyists and special interest boys and others of their ilk.

  Probably no one would think a thing of it if he made the stamp deal — except the dealers, of course, and there was absolutely nothing they could do about it except sit and howl.

  But aside from that, he wondered, did he have the right to interfere with Tony? He could mention it to him of course, and Tony would say yes. But did he have the right?

  He sat and worried at the question, without reaching a conclusion, without getting any nearer to the answer until the door chimes sounded.

  It was the Widow Foshay and she was empty-handed. She had no broth today.

  "Good afternoon," he said. "You are a little late."

  "I was just opening my door to come over when I saw you had a caller. He's gone now, isn't he?"

  "For some time," said Packer.

  She stepped inside and he closed the door. They walked across the room.

  "Mr. Packer," said the Widow, "I must apologize. I brought no broth today. The truth of the matter is, I'm tired of making it all the time."

  "In such a case," he said, very gallantly, "the treats will be on me."

  He opened the desk drawer and lifted out the brand new box of PugAlNash's leaf, which had arrived only the day before.

  Almost reverently, he lifted the cover and held the box out to her. She recoiled from it a little.

  "Go ahead," he urged. "Take a pinch of it. Don't swallow it. Just chew it."

  Cautiously, she dipped her fingers in the box.

  "That's too much," he warned her. "Just a little pinch. You don't need a lot. And it's rather hard to come by."

  She took a pinch and put it in her mouth.

  He watched her closely, smiling. She looked for all the world as if she had taken poison. But soon she settled back in her chair, apparently convinced it was not some lethal trick.

  "I don't believe," she said, "I've ever tasted anything quite like it."

  "You never have. Other than myself, you may well be the only human that has ever tasted it. I get it from a friend of mine who lives on one of the far-out stars. His name is PugAlNash and he sends it regularly. And he always includes a note."

  He looked in the drawer and found the latest note.

  "Listen to this," he said.

  He read it:

  • Der Fiend: Grately injoid latter smoke you cent me. Ples mor of sam agin. You du knot no that I profetick and wach ahed for you. Butt it be so and I grately hapy to perform this taske for fiend. I assur you it be onely four the beste. You prophet grately, maybee.

  Your luving fiend,

  PugAlNash-

  He finished reading it and tossed it on the desk.

  "What do you make of it?" he asked. "Especially that crack about his being a prophet and watching ahead for me?"

  "It must be all right," the widow said. "He claims you will profit greatly."

  "He sounds like a gypsy fortune-teller. He had me worried for a while."

  "But why should you worry over that?"

  "Because I don't want to know what's going to happen to me. And sometime he might tell me. If a man could look ahead, for example, he'd know just when he was going to die and how and all the —»

  "Mr. Packer," she told him, "I don't think you're meant to die. I swear you are getting to look younger every day."

  "As a matter of fact," said Packer, vastly pleased, "I'm feeling the best I have in years."

  "It may be that le
af he sends you."

  "No, I think most likely it is that broth of yours."

  They spent a pleasant afternoon — more pleasant, Packer admitted, than he would have thought was possible.

  And after she had left, he asked himself another question that had him somewhat frightened.

  Why in the world, of all people in the world, had he shared the leaf with her?

  He put the box back in the drawer and picked up the note. He smoothed it out and read it once again.

  The spelling brought a slight smile to his lips, but he quickly turned it off, for despite the atrociousness of it, PugAlNash nevertheless was one score up on him. For Pug had been able, after a fashion, to master the language of Earth, while he had bogged down completely when confronted with Pug's language.

  • I profetick and wach ahed for you.-

  It was crazy, he told himself. It was, perhaps, some sort of joke, the kind of thing that passed for a joke with Pug.

  He put the note away and prowled the apartment restlessly, vaguely upset by the whole pile-up of worries.

  What should he do about the Griffin offer?

  Why had he shared the leaf with the Widow Foshay?

  What about that crack of Pug" s?

  He went to the bookshelves and put out a finger and ran it along the massive set of — Galactic Abstracts-. He found the right volume and took it back to the desk with him.

  He leafed through it until he found — Unuk al Hay-. Pug, he remembered, lived on Planet X of the system.

  He wrinkled up his forehead as he puzzled out the meaning of the compact, condensed, sometimes cryptic wording, bristling with fantastic abbreviations. It was a bloated nuisance, but it made sense, of course. There was just too much information to cover in the galaxy — the set of books, unwieldy as it might be, would simply become unmanageable if anything like completeness of expression and description were attempted.

  • X-lt.kn., int., uninh. Hu., (T-67), tr. intrm. (T-102) med. hbs., leg. forst., diff. lang…-

  Wait a second, there!

  • Leg. forst.-

  Could that be — legend of foresight?-

  He read it again, translating as he went:

  • X-little known, intelligence, uninhabitable for humans (see table 67), trade by intermediaries (see table 102), medical herbs, legend (or legacy?) of foresight, difficult language…-

  And that last one certainly was right. He'd gained a working knowledge of a lot of alien tongues, but will Pug's he could not even get an inkling.

  • Leg. forst.?-

  One couldn't be sure, but it could be — it could be!

  He slapped the book shut and took it back to the shelf.

  • So you watch ahead for me-, he said.

  • And why? To what purpose?-

  • PugAlNash-, he said, a little pleased, — some day I'll wring your scrawny, meddling neck.-

  But, of course, he wouldn't. PugAlNash was too far away and he might not be scrawny and there was no reason to believe he even had a neck.

  When bedtime came around, be got into his flame-red pajamas with the yellow parrots on them and sat on the edge of the bed, wiggling his toes.

  It had been quite a day, he thought.

  He'd have to talk with Tony about this Government offer to sell him the stamp material. Perhaps, he thought, be should insist upon it even if it meant a loss of possible revenue to Efficiency, Inc. He might as well get what he could and what he wanted when it was for the taking. For Tony, before they were through with it, probably would beat him out of what he had coming to him. He had expected it by now — but more than likely Tony had been too busy to indulge in any crookedness. Although it was a wonder, for Tony enjoyed a dishonest dollar twice as much as he did an honest one.

  He remembered that he had told Griffin that he had faith in Tony and he guessed that he'd been right — he had faith in him and a little pride as well. Tony was an unprincipled rascal and there was no denying it. Thinking about it, Packer chuckled fondly. -Just like me-, he told himself, — when I was young as Tony and was still in business.-

  There had been that triple deal with the bogus Chippendale and the Antarian paintings and the local version of moonshine from out in the Packrat system. -By God-, he told himself, — I skinned all three of them on that one.-

  The phone rang and he padded out of the bedroom, his bare feet slapping on the floor.

  The phone kept on insisting.

  "All right!" yelled Packer angrily. "I'm coming!" He reached the desk and picked up the phone. "This is Pickering," said the voice.

  "Pickering. Oh, sure. Glad to hear from you."

  "The man you talked with about the Polaris cover."

  "Yes, Pickering. I remember you."

  "I wonder, did you ever find that cover?"

  "Yes, I found it. Sorry, but the strip had only four. I told you five, I fear. An awful memory, but you know how it goes. A man gets old and —»

  "Mr. Packer, will you sell that cover?"

  "Sell it? Yes, I guess I told you that I would. Man of my word, you realize, although I regret it now."

  "It's a fine one, then?"

  "Mr. Pickering," said Packer, "considering that it's the only one in existence —»

  "Could I come over to see it sometime soon?"

  "Any time you wish. Any time at all."

  "You will hold it for me?"

  "Certainly," consented Packer. "After all, no one know as yet that I have the thing."

  "And the price?"

  "Well, now, I told you a quarter million, but I was talking then about a strip of five. Since it's only four I'd be willing to shave it some. I'm a reasonable man Mr. Pickering. Not difficult to deal with."

  "I can see you aren't," said Pickering with a trace of bitterness.

  They said good night and Packer sat in the chair and put his bare feet up on the desk and wiggled his toes watching them with a certain fascination, as if he had never seen them before.

  He'd sell Pickering the four-strip cover for two hundred thousand. Then he'd let it get noised about that there was a five-strip cover, and once he heard that Pickering would be beside himself and frothing at the mouth. He'd be afraid that someone might get ahead of him and buy the five-stamp strip while he had only four. And that would be a public humiliation that a collector of Pickering's stripe simply couldn't stand.

  Packer chortled softly to himself.

  "Bait," he said aloud.

  He probably could get half a million out of that five strip piece. He'd make Pickering pay for it. He'd have to start it high, of course, and let Pickering beat him down.

  Be looked at the clock upon the desk and it was ten o'clock — a good hour past his usual bedtime.

  He wiggled his toes some more and watched them. Funny thing about it, he wasn't even sleepy. He didn't want to go to bed; he'd got undressed from simple force of habit.

  Nine o'clock, he thought, is a hell of a time for a man to go to bed. He could remember a time when he had never turned in until well after midnight and there had been many certain memorable occasions, he chucklingly recalled, when he'd not gone to bed at all.

  But there had been something to do in those days. There had been places to go and people to meet and food had tasted proper and the liquor had been something a man looked forward to. They didn't make decent liquor these days, he told himself. And there were no great cooks any more. And no entertainment, none worthy of the name. All his friends had either died or scattered; none of them had lasted.

  Nothing lasts, he thought.

  He sat wiggling his toes and looking at the clock and somehow he was beginning to feel just a bit excited, although he could not imagine why.

  In the silence of the room there were two sounds only — the soft ticking of the clock and the syrupy gurgling of the basket full of spores.

  He leaned around the corner of the desk and looked at the basket and it was there, foursquare and solid — a basketful of fantasy come to sudden and enduring life. />
  Someday, he though, someone would find where the spores came from — what distant planet in what misty reaches out toward the rim of the thinning galaxy. Perhaps even now the origin of the stamps could be determined if he'd only release the data that he had, if he would show the covers with the yellow stamps to some authority. But the covers and the data were a trade secret and had become too valuable to be shown to any one; they were tucked away deep inside a bank vault.

  Intelligent spores, he mused — what a perfect medium for the carrying of the mail. You put a dab of them on letter or a package and you told them, somehow or other, where the letter or the package was to go and they would take it there. And once the job was done then the spores encysted until the day that someone else, or something else, should recall them to their labors.

  And today they were laboring for the Earth and the day would come, perhaps, when they'd be housekeepers to the entire Earth. They'd run all business efficiently and keep all homes picked up and neat; they would clean the streets and keep them free of litter and introduce everywhere an era of such order and such cleanliness as no race had ever known.

  He wiggled his toes and looked at the clock again. I was not ten-thirty yet and it was really early. Perhaps he should change his mind — perhaps he should dress again and go for a moonlight stroll. For there was a moon; he could see it through the window.

  Damn old fool, he told himself, whuffling out his whiskers.

  But he took his feet down off the desk and paddled toward the bedroom.

  He chuckled as he went, planning exactly how he was going to skin Pickering to within an inch of that collector's parsimonious life.

  He was bending at the mirror, trying to make his tie track, when the doorbell set up a clamor.

  If it was Pickering, he thought, he'd throw the damn fool out. Imagine turning up at this time of night to do a piece of business that could better wait till morning.

  It wasn't Pickering.

  The man's card said he was W. Frederick Hazlitt and that he was president of the Hazlitt Suppliers Corporation.

  "Well, Mr. Hazlitt?"

  "I'd like to talk to you a minute," Hazlitt said, peering furtively around. "You're sure that we're alone here?"