Carbon Copy

by Clifford D. Simak

  "I'll say he did," said Homer feelingly.

  "He just a stumblebum. Bungler. He likewise is a joker."

  "Joker?"

  "Clown? Wise guy? You know—he made the joke. Sometimes very sly joke, but stupid just the same." The monster leaned forward to peer into Homer's face. "Your planet, it has its jokers, too?"

  "Yes, indeed," Homer said. "There's one down the hall from me. His name is Gabby Wilson."

  "So you understand then. A joker not too bad if that is all he is. But take a joker who makes mistakes and that is most bad. You have name for it. Smart aleck?"

  "That's the name," said Homer.

  "We make projects for the planets, for very many planets. We try to make each project fit the planet. The kind that will help the planet, the kind it needs the most."

  "Like foreign aid," Homer supplied.

  "So this bungler," said the monster, his voice rising in forthright and honest wrath, "this smart aleck, this nincompoop, this Mister Steen of yours, what do you think he does? He came to Earth as project manager—and he brings wrong plan! He is like that other times, going off not cocked. But this, it is too much. Final straw."

  "You mean this Happy Acres business was never meant for Earth, but for some other planet?"

  The monster draped his arm around Homer's shoulder in a gesture of understanding and affection. "That exactly what he do. No need of Happy Acres here. You still have room enough for all your people. No need to double up."

  "But, sir," said Homer earnestly, "it is a swell idea. It has possibilities."

  "Other things you need much worse, my friend. We have better plan for you."

  Homer couldn't decide whether he liked the way the monster talked about the better plan. "What other plan?" he asked.

  "That is topmost secret. To make project big success, it must be done so that the natives think they the ones who do it. And that", the monster said, gesturing toward the floor, "is where this silly obscenity failed in second place. He let you find out what was going on."

  "But there were all the other people, too," Homer protested. "All the people in the shops. The bank president and the gateman and…"

  "All of them is us," the monster explained. "Them the crew that came with Mister Steen."

  "But they were so human-looking! They looked exactly like us!"

  "They play it straight. This ape, he ham it up."

  "But they dressed like us and they wore shoes…"

  "The shoes was more joke," the monster said furiously. "Your Mister Steen, he know how to make himself a human like the rest of them. But he wear his shoes wrong to get you humans'—your humans'—there is a word for it."

  "Goat?"

  "That is it! He wear them wrong to get your humans' goat. And he make outrageous deal with you and he watch you worry and he rejoice greatly and think himself superior and smart because he that kind of clown. That, I tell you, is no way to treat anyone. That is no true-blue friendship. But your Mister Steen, he was plain jerk. Let us go and watch him suffer."

  "No," said Homer, horrified.

  "You no like this dying?"

  "It's inhuman."

  "Of course, inhuman. We not humans, us. It is a way we have, a social law. He make himself a fool. He make bonehead blunder. He must dead himself. He must do it good. Great honour, do it good. He bungle everything in life, he must not bungle dying. He forever heel if he do."

  Homer shivered, listening to the anguish of the alien on the floor, sick at stomach and giddy in the green flood of alien light.

  "Now it is to end," said the alien. "We wipe out project. It was nonsensical mistake. We will take it all away."

  "You can't mean that!" argued Homer. "We need it. We could make use of it. Just show us the principle."

  "No," the monster said.

  "But if you wipe out the project, there'll be all these people…"

  "Sorry."

  "They'll murder me! I was the one who leased the houses to them…"

  "Too bad," the monster said.

  "And all that money in the bank! A quarter of a million dollars, more than a quarter of a million dollars! It will be wiped out!"

  "You have human money in bank?"

  "I did. I suppose that's too bad, too."

  "We can pay you off. Mister Steen make a lot of money. He store it over there." He pointed to the far wall. "You see that pile of bags? You take all that you can carry."

  "Money?" Homer asked.

  "Good money."

  "All I can carry?" insisted Homer, nailing it down tight. "And you will let me leave?"

  "We do you wrong," the monster said. "This fix it just a little?"

  "I'll tell the world," said Homer, with enthusiasm.

  Steen was becoming noisier. He had changed into his alien form and now he rolled upon the floor, knotted up and writhing.

  Homer walked wide around him to get to the farther wall. He hefted down the bags and they were fairly heavy. He could take two at least, he figured. He hoisted two on his back, then piled on the third. He barely made it back across the room.

  The monster watched him with some admiration. "You like money, huh?"

  "You bet," Homer panted. "Everyone likes money." He set the bags down by the door.

  "You sure you not stay and watch? It get good directly. It be amusing, maybe even interesting."

  Homer held down a rising shudder. "No, thank you very much."

  The monster helped him get the bags on his shoulder. "I hold the door for you."

  "Thank you," said Homer. "Good day to you and thanks for everything."

  "Good-bye, my friend," the monster said. He held the door and Homer walked on through.

  He came back into the office he'd left an hour before, the glass in the door shattered and his car still parked outside.

  Homer hurried.

  In less than five minutes, he went roaring out the gate, with the bags of money locked inside the trunk.

  There was little time, he realized. What he did had to be done fast. For when the monster wiped out Happy Acres, there would be a battalion of families marooned there in the woods and they'd come boiling out with a single thought in mind—to get their hands on Homer Jackson.

  He tried to imagine what it might be like, and then tried to stop thinking what it might be like, but couldn't.

  There would be a lot of people there without any houses.

  They'd wake up in the wild, wet woods, with their furniture and belongings scattered all about them. And all those bright new cars would be in among the trees. And the people would be plenty sore.

  Not that he blamed them much.

  He was sore himself.

  That lousy Steen, he said. Like that contractor Gabby told about—the one who went out on a wrecking job and demolished the wrong house.

  The dashboard clock said slightly after midnight. Elaine would be home by now and they could start right out.

  Homer turned into the driveway and braked to a halt. There was a light in the kitchen window. He ran up the walk and burst into the house.

  "Oh, there you are," said Elaine. "I wondered where you were. What's wrong with you?"

  "We're getting out of here," Homer babbled.

  "Have you gone stark crazy? Getting out!"

  "Now for once," said Homer, "don't give me an argument. We're getting out of here. Tonight. I've got three sacks of money out there in the car…"

  "Money! How did you get three sacks…"

  "It's legal," Homer pleaded. "There's nothing wrong with it. I didn't rob a bank. There's no time to explain. Let us just get going."

  She got icy calm. "Where are we going, Homer?"

  "We can decide that later. Maybe Mexico."

  "You're ill," she scolded. "You've been working too hard lately. And worrying about that Happy Acres deal…"

  It was too much for Homer. He turned toward the door.

  "Homer! Where are you going, Homer?"

  "I'll show you the money," he gritted. "I'll show you
I really have it."

  "Wait for me," she cried, but he didn't wait. She ran down the walk behind him.

  He opened the car trunk. "There it is. We'll carry it up to the house. You can take off your shoes and walk in it. Then maybe you'll believe me."

  "No, Homer, no!"

  "Here, help me with these sacks," he said.

  Inside the house, he opened the sacks. Neatly bundled she of bills spilled out on the floor.

  Elaine knelt and picked up a package. "Why, it's real!" she cried happily.

  "Of course it is," said Homer.

  "And, Homer, these are twenty-thousand-dollar bills!" She dropped the package that she held and picked up another and another and another. "And so are these!" she screamed. "There are millions and millions here!"

  Homer was pawing desperately through the heap of money. Sweat was running down his face.

  "Are they all twenty-thousand-dollar bills?" she asked hopefully.

  "Yes," said Homer in a beaten voice.

  "But what is wrong?"

  "That dirty, lowdown, bungling Steen," he said bitterly.

  "But what is wrong?" she cried again.

  "They aren't worth a dime," said Homer. "There are no such things as twenty-thousand-dollar bills. The Treasury never issued any!"

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