The Ghost of a Model T and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

had run down the sides and formed puddles on the floor.
    Packer stalked the basket, half prepared to turn and run.
    But nothing happened. The yellowness in the basket simply kept on bubbling.
    It was a rather thick and gooey mess, not frothy, and the bubbling was no more than a noise that it was making, for in the strict sense of the word, he saw, it was not bubbling.
    Packer sidled closer and thrust out a hand toward the basket. It did not snap at him. It paid no attention to him.
    He poked a finger at it and the stuff was fairly solid and slightly warm and he got the distinct impression that it was alive.
    And immediately he thought of the broth-soaked cover he had thrown in the basket. It was not so unusual that he should think of it, for the yellow of the brew within the basket was the exact color of the stamp upon the cover,
    He walked around the desk and dropped the mail he’d picked up in the lobby. He sat down ponderously in the massive office chair.
    So a stamp had come to life, he thought, and that certainly was a queer one. But no more queer, perhaps, than the properties of many other stamps, for while Earth had exported the idea of their use, a number of peculiar adaptations of the idea had evolved.
    And now, he thought a little limply, I’ll have to get this mess in the basket out of here before Lang comes busting in.
    He worried a bit about what Lang had said about cleaning up the place and he got slightly sore about it, for he paid good money for these diggings and he paid promptly in advance and he was never any bother. And besides, he’d been here for twenty years, and Lang should consider that.
    He finally got up from the chair and lumbered around the desk. He bent and grasped the wastebasket, being careful to miss the places where the yellow goo had run down the sides, He tried to lift it and the basket did not move. He tugged as hard as he could pull and the basket stayed exactly where it was. He squared off and aimed a kick at it and the basket didn’t budge.
    He stood off a ways and glared at it, with his whiskers bristling. As if he didn’t have all the trouble that he needed, without this basket deal! Somehow or other, he was going to have to get the apartment straightened out and get rid of the mice, He should be looking for the Polaris cover. And he’d lost or mislaid his tongs and would have to waste his time going out to get another pair.
    But first of all, he’d have to get this basket out of here. Somehow it had become stuck to the floor—maybe some of the yellow goo had run underneath the edge of it and dried. Maybe if he had a pinch bar or some sort of lever that he could jab beneath it, he could pry it loose.
    From the basket the yellow stuff made merry bubbling noises at him.
    He clapped his hat back on his head and went out and slammed and locked the door behind him.
    It was a fine summer day and he walked around a little, trying to run his many problems through his mind, but no matter what he thought of, he always came back to the basket brimming with the yellow mess and he knew he’d never be able to get started on any of the other tasks until he got rid of it.
    So he hunted up a hardware store and bought a good-sized pinch bar and headed back for the apartment house. The bar, he knew, might mark up the floor somewhat, but if he could get under the edge of the basket with a bar that size he was sure that he could pry it loose.
    In the lobby, Lang descended on him.
    â€œMr. Packer,” he said sternly, “where are you going with that bar?”
    â€œI went out and bought it to exterminate the mice.”
    â€œBut, Mr. Packer –”
    â€œYou want to get rid of those mice, don’t you?”
    â€œWhy, certainly I do.”
    â€œIt’s a desperate situation,” Packer told him gravely, “and one that may require very desperate measures.”
    â€œBut that bar!”
    â€œI’ll exercise my best discretion,”