The Ghost of a Model T and Other Stories by Clifford D. Simak

now being little more than names enacted in the laws), and only wholesome foods were allowed upon the market. There were no such things now as candy or soda pop or chewing gum. These, along with liquor and tobacco, finally were no more than words out of a distant past, something told about in bated breath by a garrulous oldster who had heard about them when he was very young, who might have experienced or heard about the last feeble struggle of defiance by the small fry mobs which had marked their final stamping out.
    No longer were there candy-runners or pop bootleggers or the furtive sale in some dark alley of a pack of chewing gum.
    Today the people were healthy and there was no disease—or almost no disease. Today a man at seventy was entering middle age and could look forward with some confidence to another forty years of full activity in his business or profession. Today you did not die at eighty, but barring accident, could expect to reach a century and a half.
    And this was all to the good, of course, but the price you paid was high.
    â€œDonald Parker,” said Alden.
    â€œYes,” said the voice from the darkness.
    â€œI was wondering if you were still here.”
    â€œI was about to leave. I thought you were asleep.”
    â€œYou got in,” said Alden. “All by yourself, I mean. The medics didn’t bring you.”
    â€œAll by myself,” said Parker.
    â€œThen you know the way. Another man could follow.”
    â€œYou mean someone else could come in.”
    â€œNo. I mean someone could get out. They could backtrack you.”
    â€œNo one here,” said Parker. “I was in the peak of physical condition and I made it only by the smallest margin. Another five miles to go and I’d never made it.”
    â€œBut if one man…”
    â€œOne man in good health. There is no one here could make it. Not even myself.”
    â€œIf you could tell me the way.”
    â€œIt would be insane,” said Parker. “Shut up and go to sleep.”
    Alden listened to the other moving, heading for the unseen door.
    â€œI’ll make it,” Alden said, not talking to Parker, nor even to himself, but talking to the dark and the world the dark enveloped.
    For he had to make it. He must get back to Willow Bend. There was something waiting for him there and he must get back.
    Parker was gone and there was no one else.
    The world was quiet and dark and dank. The quietness was so deep that the silence sang inside one’s head.
    Alden pulled his arms up along his sides and raised himself slowly on his elbows. The blanket fell off his chest and he sat there on the bed and felt the chill that went with the darkness and the dankness reach out and take hold of him.
    He shivered, sitting there.
    He lifted one hand, cautiously, and reached for the blanket, intending to pull it up around himself. But with his fingers clutching its harsh fabric, he did not pull it up. For this, he told himself, was not the way to do it. He could not cower in bed, hiding underneath a blanket.
    Instead of pulling it up, he thrust the blanket from him and his hand went down to feel his legs. They were encased in cloth—his trousers still were on him, and his shirt as well, but his feet were bare. Maybe his shoes were beside the bed, with the socks tucked inside of them. He reached out a hand and felt, groping in the dark—and he was not in bed. He was on a pallet of some sort, laid upon the floor, and the floor was earth. He could feel the coldness and the dampness of its packed surface as he brushed it with his palm.
    There were no shoes. He groped for them in a wide semi-circle, leaning far out to reach and sweep the ground.
    Someone had put them someplace else, he thought. Or, perhaps, someone had stolen them. In Limbo, more than likely, a pair of shoes would be quite a treasure. Or perhaps he’d never had them. You might not be allowed to take your shoes with you into