All Flesh Is Grass and Other Stories

"You see, back in the ship it found that the human brain couldn't communicate with it. It recognized it as an alien being. So it didn't waste any more time with the human brain. But it tried the brains of monkeys and elephants and lions, hoping madly that it would find some intelligence to which it could talk, some intelligence that could explain what had happened, tell it where it was, reassure it that it wasn't marooned from Mars forever.

"I am convinced it has no visual sense, very little else except this ultrasonic voice to acquaint itself with its surroundings and its conditions. Maybe back on Mars it could talk to its own kind and to other things as well. It didn't move around much. It probably didn't have many enemies. It didn't need so many senses."

"It's intelligent," said Woods. "Intelligent to a point where you can hardly think of it as an animal."

Gilmer nodded.

"You're right," he said. "Maybe it is just as human as we are. Maybe it represents the degeneration of a great race that once ruled Mars…"

He jerked the cigar out of his mouth and flung it savagely on the floor.

"Hell," he said, "what's the use of speculation? Probably you and I will never know. Probably the human race will never know."

He reached out and grasped the tank of carbon monoxide, started to wheel it toward the glass cage.

"Do you have to kill it, Doc?" Woods whispered. "Do you really have to kill it?"

Gilmer wheeled on him savagely.

"Of course I have to kill it," he roared. "What if the story ever got out that Fur-Ball killed the boys in the ship and all those animals today? What if he drove others insane? There'd be no more trips to Mars for years to come. Public opinion would make that impossible. And when another one does go out they'll have instructions not to bring back any Fur-Balls — and they'll have to be prepared for the effects of ultrasonics."

He turned back to the tank and then wheeled back again.

"Woods," he said, "you and I have been friends for a long time. We've had many a beer together. You aren't going to publish this, are you, Jack?"

He spread his feet.

"I'd kill you if you did," he roared.

"No," said Jack, "just a simple little story. Fur-Ball is dead. Couldn't take it, here on Earth."

"There's another thing," said Gilmcr. "You know and I know that ultrasonics of the thirty million order can turn men into insane beasts. We know it can be controlled in atmosphere, probably over long distances. Think of what the war-makers of the world could do with that weapon! Probably they'll find out in time — but not from us!"

"Hurry up," Woods said bitterly. "Hurry up, will you. Don't let Fur-Ball suffer any longer. You heard him. Man got him into this — there's only one way man can get him out of it. He'd thank you for death if he only knew."

Gilmer laid hands on the tank again.

Woods reached for a telephone. He dialed the «Express» number.

In his mind he could hear that puppyish whimper, that terrible, soundless cry of loneliness, that home-sick wail of misery. A poor huddled little animal snatched fifty million miles from home, among strangers, a hurt little animal crying for attention that no one could offer.

""Daily Express"," said the voice of Bill Carson, night editor. "This is Jack," the reporter said. "Thought maybe you'd want something for the morning edition. Fur-Ball just died — yeah, Fur-Ball, the animal the "Hello Mars IV" brought in — Sure, the little rascal couldn't take it."

Behind him he heard the hiss of gas as Gilmer opened the valve.

"Bill," he said, "I just thought of an angle. You might say the little cuss died of loneliness… yeah, that's the idea, grieving for Mars… Sure, it ought to give the boys a real sob story to write…"

Over the River and through the Woods

Original copyright year: 1965

The two children came trudging down the lane in appleca

She turned back to the stove to stir the cooking apples, for which the wide-mouthed jars stood waiting on the table, then once more looked out the kitchen window. The two of them were closer now and she could see that the boy was the older of the two — ten, perhaps, and the girl no more than eight.

They might be going past, she thought, although that did not seem too likely, for the lane led to this farm and to nowhere else.

The turned off the lane before they reached the barn and came sturdily trudging up the path that led to the house. There was no hesitation in them; they knew where they were going.

She stepped to the screen door of the kitchen as they came onto the porch and they stopped before the door and stood looking up at her.

The boy said: "You are our grandma. Papa said we were to say at once that you were our grandma."

"But that's not…," she said, and stopped. She had been about to say that it was impossible that she was not their grandma. And, looking down into the sober, childish faces, she was glad that she had not said the words.

"I am Ellen," said the girl, in a piping voice.

"Why, that is strange," the woman said. "That is my name, too."

The boy said, "My name is Paul."

She pushed open the door for them and they came in, standing silently in the kitchen, looking all about them as if they'd never seen a kitchen.

"It's just like Papa said," said Ellen. "There's the stove and the churn and…"

The boy interrupted her. "Our name is Forbes," he said.

This time the woman couldn't stop herself. "Why, that's impossible," she said. "That is our name, too."

The boy nodded solemnly. "Yes, we knew it was."

"Perhaps," the woman said, "you'd like some milk and cookies."

"Cookies!" Ellen squealed, delighted.

"We don't want to be any trouble," said the boy. "Papa said we were to be no trouble."

"He said we should be good," piped Ellen.

"I am sure you will be," said the woman, "and you are no trouble."

In a little while, she thought, she'd get it straightened out.

She went to the stove and set the kettle with the cooking apples to one side, where they would simmer slowly.

"Sit down at the table," she said. "I'll get the milk and cookies."

She glanced at the clock, ticking on the shelf. Four o'clock, almost. In just a little while the men would come in from the fields. Jackson Forbes would know what to do about this; he had always known.

They climbed up on two chairs and sat there solemnly, staring all about them, at the ticking clock, at the wood stove with the fire glow showing through its draft, at the wood piled in the wood box, at the butter churn standing in the corner.

They set their bags on the floor beside them, and they were strange bags, she noticed. They were made of heavy cloth or canvas, but there were no drawstrings or no straps to fasten them. But they were closed, she saw, despite no straps or strings.

"Do you have some stamps?" asked Ellen.

"Stamps?" asked Mrs Forbes.

"You must pay no attention to her," said Paul. "She should not have asked you. She asks everyone and Mama told her not to."

"But stamps?"

"She collects them. She goes around snitching letters that other people have. For the stamps on them, you know."

"Well now," said Mrs Forbes, "there may be some old letters. We'll look for them later on."