All Flesh Is Grass by Clifford D. Simak Page A

me.
    Stiffy moaned again, then he fell out of the chair and sprawled untidily on the floor. Something that clattered and jangled flew out of the pocket of his ragged jacket and skidded across the worn-out linoleum.
    I got down on my knees and tugged and hauled at him and got him straightened out. I turned him over on his back. His face was splotched and puffy and his breath was jerky, but there was no smell of liquor. I bent close over him in an effort to make certain, and there was no smell of booze.
    â€œBrad?” he mumbled. “Is that you, Brad?”
    â€œYes,” I told him. “You can take it easy now. I’ll take care of you.”
    â€œIt’s getting close,” he whispered. “The time is coming close.”
    â€œWhat is getting close?”
    But he couldn’t answer. He had a wheezing fit. He worked his jaws, but no words came out. They tried to come, but he choked and strangled on them.
    I left him and ran into the living room and turned on the light beside the telephone. I pawed, all fumble-fingered, through the directory, to find Doc Fabian’s number. I found it and dialed and waited while the phone rang on and on. I hoped to God that Doc was home and not out on a call somewhere. For when Doc was gone, you couldn’t count on Mrs. Fabian answering. She was all crippled up with arthritis and half the time couldn’t get around. Doc always tried to have someone there to watch after her and to take the calls when he went out, but there were times when he couldn’t get anyone to stay. Old Mrs. Fabian was hard to get along with and no one liked to stay.
    When Doc answered, I felt a great surge of relief.
    â€œDoc,” I said, “Stiffy Grant is here at my place and there’s something wrong with him.”
    â€œDrunk, perhaps,” said Doc.
    â€œNo, he isn’t drunk. I came home and found him sitting in the kitchen. He’s all twisted up and babbling.”
    â€œBabbling about what?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “Just babbling—when he can talk, that is.”
    â€œAll right,” said Doc. “I’ll be right over.”
    That’s one thing about Doc. You can count on him. At any time of day or night, in any kind of weather.
    I went back to the kitchen. Stiffy had rolled over on his side and was clutching at his belly and breathing hard. I left him where he was. Doc would be here soon and there wasn’t much that I could do for Stiffy except to try to make him comfortable, and maybe, I told myself, he might be more comfortable lying on his side than turned over on his back.
    I picked up the object that had fallen out of Stiffy’s coat. It was a key ring, with a half dozen keys. I couldn’t imagine what need Stiffy might have for half a dozen keys. More than likely he just carried them around for some smug feeling of importance they might give to him.
    I put them on the counter top and went back and squatted down alongside Stiffy. “I called Doc,” I told him. “He’ll be here right away.”
    He seemed to hear me. He wheezed and sputtered for a while, then he said in a broken whisper: “I can’t help no more. You are all alone.” It didn’t go as smooth as that. His words were broken up.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” I asked him, as gently as I could. “Tell me what it is.”
    â€œThe bomb,” he said. “The bomb. They’ll want to use the bomb. You must stop them, boy.”
    I had told Doc that he was babbling and now I knew I had been right.
    I headed for the front door to see if Doc might be in sight and when I got there he was coming up the walk.
    Doc went ahead of me into the kitchen and stood for a moment, looking down at Stiffy. Then he set down his bag and hunkered down and rolled Stiffy on his back.
    â€œHow are you, Stiffy?” he demanded.
    Stiffy didn’t answer.
    â€œHe’s out cold,” said Doc.
    â€œHe