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The Ghost of a Model T
And Other Stories
The Complete Short Fiction of Clifford D. Simak, Volume Three
Introduction by David W. Wixon
Contents
Introduction
Leg. Forst.
Physician to the Universe
No More Hides and Tallow
Condition of Employment
City
Mirage
The Autumn Land
Founding Father
Byte Your Tongue!
The Street That Wasn’t There
The Ghost of a Model T
About the Author
About the Editor
Clifford D. Simak and City: The Seal of Greatness
“It would have been different, he thought, if we could have stayed on Earth, for there we would have had normal human contacts. We would not have thought so much, or brooded; we could have rubbed away the guilt on the hides of other people.”
—Clifford D. Simak, in “Shadow Show”
In this, the third volume of Clifford D. Simak’s collected short fiction, you find the story “City,” reprinted in its original magazine version.
If there is a single work for which Clifford D. Simak is most known, it is the book City. Most people call City a novel, but it is actually a compilation of eight short stories laced together by interstitial materials to form a work that functions as a novel. And since those eight stories were all once published individually, they are included as such in this volume.
Simak fans of a purist disposition may be pleased to know, however, that this collection features the original magazine versions of the stories from City. Most of them were altered, to various extents, for the book, which was put together some years later. But this volume preserves the original versions, heretofore unavailable.
As it happens, the earlier stories were not projected to be part of any series. “Desertion,” which appears as the fourth episode in City, was actually written before any of the others: Cliff’s journals show that it had been sold to John W. Campbell Jr. (who would publish the story in Astounding), before “City” itself was sent to him. This lends credence to the theory that “Desertion” was inserted into the series after the fact to provide a basis for the following story, Paradise.
The City stories, in their compiled form, demonstrate Clifford D. Simak’s passage from apprenticeship to craftsman as a writer. His own words confirm that transition: “From that time on, for the most part, I was in control of my writing efforts rather than floundering around, trying to find myself as a writer.”
Yet, he added, “there was still much that I had to learn.” And later, speaking of a time when he reread the City volume in its entirety, he said: “I ached to rewrite the tales.” But that, he continued, was unrealistic: “The ache to rewrite was a gut reaction—a sadness that in the ’40s I had not done as good a writing job as I could have done in the ’70s. I realized, however, that those stories could only have been written in the ’40s, that in the ’70s I would have been incapable of writing them. In the intervening years I undoubtedly had become a better writer, but I had lost something in the process.”
Thus, the author who wrote the version of “City” in this volume might be described as a different man, and a different writer, than the author who would pen his later works. But I sincerely hope that he is still someone you would like to know.
—David W. Wixon
Leg. Forst.
This story was originally published in the April 1958 issue of Infinity Science Fiction; and Cliff’s fragmented journals give a slightly better view of how the story developed than is usually the case: only four days passed between the time (in May 1957) he first mentioned that he was working on the “Stamp story,” to his referring to it as “Spore,” then finally to his use of the name “Leg.Forst.” The story went quickly for him, which I suspect came about at least in part because of its subject matter. Cliff actually commented, within days of having begun to write it, that it was a “Better story than I thought it was.”
And it is a charming little story. But you, average reader, might not fully understand that—not unless you (like Cliff and like myself) are a stamp collector, too.
The term “Leg.Forst.” represents a clever counterfeit of the sort of term familiar to collectors serious enough to have spent time perusing the various stamp-collecting catalogs and journals. And Clyde Packer’s views about the avocation, which so puzzled those who came into contact with him, were clearly written by someone all too familiar with both the way collectors were viewed by others (with opinions starting at gentle amusement and quickly deteriorating), and the way collectors refuse to be affected by such opinions. (In Cliff’s defense, let me hastily add that he was not the same sort of deep-down, driven stamp collector as Clyde Packer: Cliff, aware of the difference, called himself a “stamp accumulator,” not a “stamp collector.)
—dww
When it was time for the postman to have come and gone, old Clyde Packer quit working on his stamps and went into the bathroom to comb his snow-white hair and beard. It was an everlasting bother, but there was no way out of it. He’d be sure to meet some of his neighbors going down and coming back and they were a snoopy lot. He felt sure that they talked about him; not that he cared, of course. And the Widow Foshay, just across the hall, was the worst one of them all.
Before going out, he opened a drawer in the big desk in the middle of the cluttered living room, upon the top of which was piled an indescribable array of litter, and found the tiny box from Unuk al Hay. From the box he took a pinch of leaf and tucked it in his cheek.
He stood for a moment, with the drawer still open, and savored the fullsome satisfaction of the taste within his mouth—not quite like peppermint, nor like whiskey, either, but with some taste akin to both and with some other tang that belonged entirely to itself. It was nothing like another man had ever tasted and he suspected that it might be habit-forming, although PugAlNash had never informed him that it was.
Perhaps, he told himself, even if Pug should so try to inform him, he could not make it out, for the Unukian’s idea of how Earth’s language should be written, and the grammar thereof, was a wonder to behold and could only be believed by someone who had tried to decipher one of his flowery little notes.
The box, he saw, was nearly empty, and he hoped that the queer, faithful, almost wistful little correspondent would not fail him now. But there was, he told himself, no reason to believe he would; PugAlNash, in a dozen years, had not failed him yet. Regularly another tiny box of leaf arrived when the last one was quite finished, accompanied by a friendly note—and all franked with the newest stamps from Unuk.
Never a day too soon, nor a day too late, but exactly on the dot when the last of the leaf was finished. As if PugAlNash might know, by some form of intelligence quite unknown to Earth, when his friend on Earth ran out of the leaf.
A solid sort, Clyde Packer told himself. Not humanoid, naturally, but a very solid sort.
And he wondered once again what Pug might actually be like. He always had thought of him as little, but he had no idea, of course, whether he was small or large or what form his body took. Unuk was one of those planets where it was impossible for an Earthman to go, and contact and commerce with the planet had been accomplished, as was the case on so many other worlds, by an intermediary people.
A
nd he wondered, too, what Pug did with the cigars that he sent him in exchange for the little boxes of leaf—eat them, smoke them, smell them, roll in them or rub them in his hair? If he had hair, of course.
He shook his head and closed the door and went out into the hall, being doubly sure that his door was locked behind him. He would not put it past his neighbors, especially the Widow Foshay, to sneak in behind his back.
The hall was empty and he was glad of that. He rang almost stealthily for the lift, hoping that his luck would hold.
It didn’t.
Down the hall came the neighbor from next door. He was the loud and flashy kind, and without any encouragement at all, he’d slap one on the back.
“Good morning, Clyde!” he bellowed happily from afar.
“Good morning, Mr. Morton,” Packer replied, somewhat icily. Morton had no right to call him Clyde. No one ever called him Clyde, except sometimes his nephew, Anton Camper, called him Uncle Clyde, although he mostly called him Unk. And Tony, Packer reminded himself, was a worthless piece—always involved in some fancy scheme, always talking big, but without much to show for it. And besides, Tony was crooked—as crooked as a cat.
Like myself, Packer thought, exactly like myself. Not like the most of the rest of them these days, who measured to no more than just loud-talking boobies.
In my day, he told himself with fond remembrance, I could have skinned them all and they’d never know it until I twitched their hides slick off.
“How is the stamp business this morning?” yelled Morton, coming up and clapping Packer soundly on the back.
“I must remind you, Mr. Morton, that I am not in the stamp business,” Packer told him sharply. “I am interested in stamps and I find it most absorbing and I could highly recommend it –”
“But that is not just what I meant,” explained Morton, rather taken aback. “I didn’t mean you dealt in stamps …”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said Packer, “to a limited extent. But not as a regular thing and certainly not as a regular business. There are certain other collectors who are aware of my connections and sometimes seek me out –”
“That’s the stuff!” boomed Morton, walloping him on the back again in sheer good fellowship. “If you have the right connections, you get along O.K. That works in any line. Now, take mine, for instance …”
The elevator arrived and rescued Packer.
In the lobby, he headed for the desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Packer,” said the clerk, handing him some letters. “There is a bag for you and it runs slightly heavy. Do you want me to get someone to help you up with it?”
“No, thank you,” Packer said. “I am sure that I can manage.”
The clerk hoisted the bag atop the counter and Packer seized it and let it to the floor. It was fairly large—it weighed, he judged, thirty pounds or so—and the shipping tag, he saw with a thrill of anticipation, was almost covered with stamps of such high denominations they quite took his breath away.
He looked at the tag and saw that his name and address were printed with painful precision, as if the Earthian alphabet was something entirely incomprehensible to the sender. The return address was a mere jumble of dots and hooks and dashes that made no sense, but seemed somewhat familiar, although Packer at the moment was unable to tell exactly what they were. The stamps, he saw, were Iota Cancri, and he had seen stamps such as them only once before in his entire life. He stood there, mentally calculating what their worth might be.
He tucked the letters under his arm and picked up the bag. It was heavier than he had expected and he wished momentarily that he had allowed the clerk to find someone to carry it for him. But he had said that he would carry it and he couldn’t very well go back and say he’d rather not. After all, he assured himself, he wasn’t quite that old and feeble yet.
He reached the elevator and let the bag down and stood facing the grillwork, waiting for the cage.
A birdlike voice sounded from behind him and he shivered at it, for he recognized the voice—it was the Widow Foshay.
“Why, Mr. Packer,” said the Widow, gushingly, “how pleasant to find you waiting here.”
He turned around. There was nothing else for it; he couldn’t just stand there, with his back to her.
“And so loaded down!” the Widow sympathized. “Here, do let me help you.”
She snatched the letters from him.
“There,” she said triumphantly, “poor man; I can carry these.”
He could willingly have choked her, but he smiled instead. It was a somewhat strained and rather ghastly smile, but he did the best he could.
“How lucky for me,” he told her, “that you came along. I’d have never made it.”
The veiled rebuke was lost on her. She kept on bubbling at him.
“I’m going to make beef broth for lunch,” she said, “and I always make too much. Could I ask you in to share it?”
“Impossible,” he told her in alarm. “I am very sorry, but this is my busy day. I have all these, you see.” And he motioned at the mail she held and the bag he clutched. He whuffled through his whiskers at her like an irate walrus, but she took no notice.
“How exciting and romantic it must be,” she gushed, “getting all these letters and bags and packages from all over the galaxy. From such strange places and from so far away. Someday you must explain to me about stamp collecting.”
“Madam,” he said a bit stiffly, “I’ve worked with stamps for more than twenty years and I’m just barely beginning to gain an understanding of what it is all about. I would not presume to explain to someone else.”
She kept on bubbling.
Damn it all, he thought, is there no way to quiet the blasted woman?
Prying old biddy, he told himself, once again whuffling his whiskers at her. She’d spend the next three days running all about and telling everyone in the entire building about her strange encounter with him and what a strange old coot he was. “Getting all those letters from all those alien places,” she would say, “and bags and packages as well. You can’t tell me that stamps are the only things in which he’s interested. There is more to it than that; you can bet your bottom dollar on it.”
At his door she reluctantly gave him back his letters.
“You won’t reconsider on that broth?” she asked him, “It’s more than just ordinary broth. I pride myself on it. A special recipe.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
He unlocked his door and started to open it. She remained standing there.
“I’d like to invite you in,” he told her, lying like a gentleman, “but I simply can’t. The place is a bit upset.”
Upset was somewhat of an understatement.
Safely inside, he threaded his way among piles of albums, boxes, bags and storage cases, scattered everywhere.
He finally reached the desk and dropped the bag beside it. He leafed through the letters and one was from Dahib and another was from the Lyraen system and the third from Muphrid, while the remaining one was an advertisement from a concern out on Mars.
He sat down in the massive, upholstered chair behind his desk and surveyed the room.
Someday he’d have to get it straightened out, he told himself. Undoubtedly there was a lot of junk he could simply throw away and the rest of it should be boxed and labeled so that he could lay his hands upon it. It might be, as well, a good idea to make out a general inventory sheet so that he’d have some idea what he had and what it might be worth.
Although, he thought, the value of it was not of so great a moment.
He probably should specialize, he thought. That was what most collectors did. The galaxy was much too big to try to collect it all. Even back a couple of thousand years ago, when all the collectors had to worry about were the stamps of Earth, the field even then had become so large and so unwieldy
and so scattered that specialization had become the thing.
But what would a man specialize in if he should decide to restrict his interest? Perhaps just the stamps from one particular planet or one specific system? Perhaps only stamps from beyond a certain distance—say, five hundred light-years? Or covers, perhaps? A collection of covers with postmarks and cancellations showing the varying intricacies of letter communication throughout the depths of space, from star to star, could be quite interesting.
And that was the trouble with it—it all was so interesting. A man could spend three full lifetimes at it and still not reach the end of it.
In twenty years, he told himself, a man could amass a lot of material if he applied himself. And he had applied himself; he had worked hard at it and enjoyed every minute of it, and had become in certain areas, he thought with pride, somewhat of an expert. On occasion he had written articles for the philatelic press, and scarcely a week went by that some man well-known in the field did not drop by for a chat or to seek his aid in a knotty problem.
There was a lot of satisfaction to be found in stamps, he told himself with apologetic smugness. Yes, sir, a great deal of satisfaction.
But the mere collection of material was only one small part of it—a sort of starting point. Greater than all the other facets of it were the contacts that one made. For one had to make contacts—especially out in the farther reaches of the galaxy. Unless one wanted to rely upon the sorry performance of the rascally dealers, who offered only what was easy to obtain, one must establish contacts. Contacts with other collectors who might be willing to trade stamps with one. Contacts with lonely men in lonely outposts far out on the rim, where the really exotic material was most likely to turn up, and who would be willing to watch for it and save it and send it on to one at a realistic price. With far-out institutions that made up mixtures and job lots in an attempt to eke out a miserly budget voted by the home communities.
There was a man by the name of Marsh out in the Coonskin system who wanted no more than the latest music tapes from Earth for the material that he sent along. And the valiant priest at the missionary station on barren Agustron who wanted old tobacco tins and empty bottles which, for a most peculiar reason, had high value on that topsy-turvy world. And among the many others, Earthmen and aliens alike, there was always PugAlNash.