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Naturally an undertaker will get the last word.But shouldn't he wait until his clients are dead?
THE LAST PLACE ON EARTH
By JIM HARMON
Illustrated by Gaughan
I
Sam Collins flashed the undertaker a healthy smile, hoping it wouldn'tdepress old Candle too much. He saluted. The skeletal figure in endlessblack nodded gravely, and took hold of Sam Collins' arm with a deathgrip.
"I'm going to bury you, Sam Collins," the undertaker said.
The tall false fronts of Main Street spilled out a lake of shadow, acanal of liquid heat that soaked through the iron weave of Collins'jeans and turned into black ink stains. The old window of the hardwarestore showed its age in soft wrinkles, ripples that had caught on firein the sunset. Collins felt the twilight stealing under the arms of histee-shirt. The overdue hair on the back of his rangy neck stood up inattention. It was a joke, but the first one Collins had ever known DocCandle to make.
"In time, I guess you'll bury me all right, Doc."
"In my time, not yours, Earthling."
"Earthling?" Collins repeated the last word.
The old man frowned. His face was a collection of lines. When hefrowned, all the lines pointed to hell, the grave, decay and damnation.
"Earthling," the undertaker repeated. "Earthman? Terrestrial? Solarian?Space Ranger? _Homo sapiens?_"
Collins decided Candle was sure in a jokey mood. "Kind of makes youthink of it, don't it, Doc? The spaceport going right up outside oftown. Rocketships are going to be out there taking off for theSatellite, the Moon, places like that. Reminds you that we _are_Earthlings, like they say in the funnies, all right."
"Not outside town."
"What?"
"Inside. Inside town. Part of the spaceship administration building isgoing to go smack in the middle of where your house used to be."
"My house _is_."
"For less time than you will be yourself, Earthling."
"Earthling yourself! What's wrong with you, Doc?"
"No. I am not an Earthling. I am a superhuman alien from outer space. Mymission on Earth is to destroy you."
* * * * *
Collins pulled away gently. When you lived in a town all your life andknew its people, it wasn't unusual to see some old person snap under theweight of years.
"You have to destroy the rocketship station, huh, Doc, before it sendsup spaceships?"
"No. I want to kill _you_. That is my mission."
"_Why?_"
"Because," Candle said, "I am a basically evil entity."
The undertaker turned away and went skittering down Main Street, hislopsided gait limping, sliding, hopping, skipping, at a refinedleisurely pace. He was a collection of dancing, straight black lines.
Collins stared after the old man, shook his head and forgot about him.
He moved into the hardware store. The bell tinkled behind him. The storewas cramped with shadows and the smell of wood and iron. It was linedoff as precisely as a checkerboard, with counters, drawers,compartments.
Ed Michaels sat behind the counter, smoking a pipe. He was a handsomeman, looking young in the uncertain light, even at fifty.
"Hi, Ed. You closed?"
"Guess not, Sam. What are you looking for?"
"A pound of tenpenny nails."
Michaels stood up.
Sarah Comstock waddled energetically out of the back. Her sweet, angelicface lit up with a smile. "Sam Collins. Well, I guess _you'll_ want tohelp us murder them."
"Murder?" Collins repeated. "Who?"
"Those Air Force men who want to come in here and cause all thetrouble."
"How are you going to murder them, Mrs. Comstock?"
"When they see our petition in Washington, D.C., they'll call those menback pretty quick."
"Oh," Collins said.
Mrs. Comstock produced the scroll from her voluminous handbag. "You wantto sign, don't you? They're going to put part of the airport on yourplace. They'll tear down your house."
"They can't tear it down. I won't sell."
"You know government men. They'll just _take_ it and give you some moneyfor it. Sign right there at the top of the new column, Sam."
Collins shook his head. "I don't believe in signing things. They can'ttake what's mine."
"But Sam, dear, they _will_. They'll come in and push your house downwith those big tractors of theirs. They'll bury it in concrete and setoff those guided missiles of theirs right over it."
"They can't make me get out," Sam said.
* * * * *
Ed Michaels scooped up a pound, one ounce of nails and spilled them ontohis scale. He pinched off the excess, then dropped it back in and fedthe nails into a brown paper bag. He crumpled the top and set it on thecounter. "That's twenty-nine plus one, Sam. Thirty cents."
Collins laid out a quarter and a nickel and picked up the bag."Appreciate you doing this after store hours, Ed."
Michaels chuckled. "I wasn't exactly getting ready for the opera, Sam."
Collins turned around and saw Sarah Comstock still waiting, the petitionin her hand.
"Now what's a pretty girl like you doing, wasting her time in politics?"Collins heard himself ask.
Mrs. Comstock twittered. "I'm old enough to be your mother, SamCollins."
"I like mature women."
Collins watched his hand in fascination as it reached out to touch oneof Sarah Comstock's plump cheeks, then dropped to her shoulder andripped away the strap-sleeve of her summer print dress.
A plump, rosy shoulder was revealed, splattered with freckles.
Sarah Comstock put her hands over her ears as if to keep from hearingher own shrill scream. It reached out into pure soprano range.
Sarah Comstock backed away, into the shadows, and Sam Collins followedher, trying to explain, to apologize.
"Sam! _Sam!_"
The voice cut through to him and he looked up.
Ed Michaels had a double-barreled shotgun aimed at him. Mrs. Michaels'face was looking over his shoulder in the door to the back, her face asick white.
"You get out of here, Sam," Michaels said. "You get out and don't youcome back. Ever."
Collins' hands moved emptily in air. He was always better with his handsthan words, but this time even they seemed inexpressive.
He crumpled the sack of nails in both fists, and turned and left thehardware store.