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

him.
    â€œYou have heard the evidence,” said the man, “that has been given here.”
    â€œI heard it,” Alden said.
    â€œWhat have you, then, to say in your self-defense?”
    â€œNot a thing,” said Alden.
    â€œYou mean you don’t deny it?”
    â€œI can’t deny it’s true. But there were extenuating circumstances.”
    â€œI am sure there were, but they’re not admissible.”
    â€œYou mean that I can’t tell you…”
    â€œOf course you can. But it will make no difference. The law admits no more than the commission of the crime. There can be no excuses.”
    â€œI would suppose, then,” said Alden Street, “there is nothing I can say. Your Honor, I would not waste your time.”
    â€œI am glad,” said the judge, “that you are so realistic. It makes the whole thing simpler and easier. And it expedites the business of this court.”
    â€œBut you must understand,” said Alden Street, “that I can’t be sent away. I have some most important work and I should be getting back to it.”
    â€œYou admit,” said the high, great man, “that you were ill for twenty-four full hours and failed most lamentably to report your illness.”
    â€œYes,” said Alden Street.
    â€œYou admit that even then you did not report for treatment, but rather that you were apprehended by a monitor.”
    Alden did not answer. It was piling up and there was no use to answer. He could see, quite plainly, that it would do no good.
    â€œAnd, further, you admit that it has been some eighteen months since you have reported for your physical.”
    â€œI was far too busy.”
    â€œToo busy when the law is most explicit that you must have a physical at six month intervals?”
    â€œYou don’t understand, Your Honor.”
    His Honor shook his head. “I am afraid I do. You have placed yourself above the law. You have chosen deliberately to flout the law and you must answer for it. Too much has been gained by our medical statutes to endanger their observance. No citizen can be allowed to set a precedent against them. The struggle to gain a sound and healthy people must be accorded the support of each and every one of us and I cannot countenance…”
    The place of brilliance tilted and he was back in the dusk again.
    He lay upon his back and stared up into the darkness, and although he could feel the pressure of the bed on which he lay, it was as if he were suspended in some sort of dusky limbo that had no beginning and no end, that was nowhere and led nowhere, and was, in itself, the terminal point of all and each existence.
    From somewhere deep inside himself he heard the questioning once again—the flat, hard voice that had, somehow, the sound of metal in it:
    Have you ever taken part in any body-building program?
    When was the last time that you brushed your teeth?
    Have you ever contributed either time or money to the little leagues?
    How often would you say that you took a bath?
    Did you at any time ever express a doubt that sports developed character?
    One of the white faces floated out of the darkness to hang above him once again. It was, he saw, an old face—a woman’s face and kind.
    A hand slid beneath his head and lifted it.
    â€œHere,” the white face said, “drink this.”
    He felt the spoon against his lips.
    â€œIt’s soup,” she said. “It’s hot. It will give you strength.”
    He opened his mouth and the spoon slid in. The soup was hot and comforting.
    The spoon retreated.
    â€œWhere…” he said.
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œYes,” he whispered, “where am I? I want to know.”
    â€œThis is Limbo,” the white face said.
    Now the word had meaning.
    Now he could recall what Limbo was.
    And he could not stay in Limbo.
    It was inconceivable that anyone should expect that he should stay in Limbo.
    He rolled his