All Flesh Is Grass by Clifford D. Simak Read Free Book Online Page B

stepped in and he closed the door.
    He was a big man with great broad shoulders and an aristocratic head, with a smart, trim mustache.
    â€œMr. Sherwood,” I told him, angrily, “I am not the Carter boy. I am Bradshaw Carter. To my friends, I’m Brad.”
    It was an unreasonable anger, and probably uncalled for. But he had burned me up, out there in the hall.
    â€œI’m sorry, Brad,” he said. “It’s so hard to remember that you all are grown up—the kids that Nancy used to run around with.”
    He stepped from the door and went across the room to a desk that stood against one wall. He opened a drawer and took out a bulky envelope and laid it on the desk top.
    â€œThat’s for you,” he said.
    â€œFor me?”
    â€œYes, I thought you knew.”
    I shook my head and there was something in the room that was very close to fear. It was a somber room, two walls filled with books, and on the third heavily draped windows flanking a marble fireplace.
    â€œWell,” he said, “it’s yours. Why don’t you take it?”
    I walked to the desk and picked up the envelope. It was unsealed and I flipped up the flap. Inside was a thick sheaf of currency.
    â€œFifteen hundred dollars,” said Gerald Sherwood. “I presume that is the right amount.”
    â€œI don’t know anything,” I told him, “about fifteen hundred dollars. I was simply told by phone that I should talk with you.”
    He puckered up his face and looked at me intently, almost as if he might not believe me.
    â€œOn a phone like that,” I told him, pointing to the second phone that stood on the desk.
    He nodded tiredly. “Yes,” he said, “and how long have you had the phone?”
    â€œJust this afternoon. Ed Adler came and took out my other phone, the regular phone, because I couldn’t pay for it. I went for a walk, to sort of think things over, and when I came back this other phone was ringing.”
    He waved a hand. “Take the envelope,” he said. “Put it in your pocket. It is not my money. It belongs to you.”
    I laid the envelope back on top the desk. I needed fifteen hundred dollars. I needed any kind of money, no matter where it came from. But I couldn’t take that envelope. I don’t know why I couldn’t.
    â€œAll right,” he said, “sit down.”
    A chair stood angled in front of the desk and I sat down in it.
    He lifted the lid of a box on the desk. “A cigar?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t smoke,” I told him.
    â€œA drink, perhaps?”
    â€œYes. I would like a drink.”
    â€œBourbon?”
    â€œBourbon would be fine.”
    He went to a cellaret that stood in a corner and put ice into two glasses.
    â€œHow do you drink it, Brad?”
    â€œJust ice, if you don’t mind.”
    He chuckled. “It’s the only civilized way to drink the stuff,” he said.
    I sat, looking at the rows of books that ran from floor to ceiling. Many of them were in sets and, from the looks of them, in expensive bindings.
    It must be wonderful, I thought, to be, not exactly rich, but to have enough so you didn’t have to worry when there was some little thing you wanted, not to have to wonder if it would be all right if you spent the money for it. To be able to live in a house like this, to line the walls with books and have rich draperies and to have more than just one bottle of booze and a place to keep it other than a kitchen shelf.
    He handed me the glass of whiskey and walked around the desk. He sat down in the chair behind it. Raising his glass, he took a couple of thirsty gulps, then set the glass down on the desk top.
    â€œBrad,” he asked, “how much do you know?”
    â€œNot a thing,” I said. “Only what I told you. I talked with someone on the phone. They offered me a job.”
    â€œAnd you took the job?”
    â€œNo,” I said, “I