All Flesh Is Grass by Clifford D. Simak

covered it with a raincoat that was folded on the seat. It was a silly thing to do, but I felt a little better with the phone tucked away and hidden.
    I got behind the wheel and sat for a moment, thinking. Perhaps, I told myself, it would be better if I didn’t rush into things too fast. I would see Alf tomorrow and we’d have a lot of time to talk, an entire week to talk if we needed it. And that way I’d have some time to try to think the situation out.
    It was late and I had to pack the camping stuff and the fishing tackle in the car and I should try to get some sleep.
    Be sensible, I told myself. Take a little time. Try to think it out.
    It was good advice. Good for someone else. Good even for myself at another time and under other circumstances. I should not have taken it, however. I should have gone out to Johnny’s Motor Court and pounded on Alf’s door. Perhaps then things would have worked out differently. But you can’t be sure. You never can be sure.
    But, anyhow, I did go home and I did pack the camping stuff and the fishing gear into the car and had a few hours of sleep (I wonder now how I ever got to sleep), then was routed out by the alarm clock early in the morning.
    And before I could pick up Alf I hit the barrier.

7
    â€œHi, there,” said the naked scarecrow, with jaunty happiness. He counted on his fingers and slobbered as he counted.
    And there was no mistaking him. He came clear through the years. The same placid, vacant face, with its frog-like mouth and its misty eyes. It had been ten years since I had seen him last, since anyone had seen him, and yet he seemed only slightly older than he had been then. His hair was long, hanging down his back, but he had no whiskers. He had a heavy growth of fuzz, but he’d never sprouted whiskers. He was entirely naked except for the outrageous hat. And he was the same old Tupper. He hadn’t changed a bit. I’d have known him anywhere.
    He quit his finger-counting and sucked in his slobber. He reached up and took off his hat and held it out so that I could see it better.
    â€œMade it myself,” he told me, with a wealth of pride.
    â€œIt’s very fine,” I said.
    He could have waited, I told myself. No matter where he’d come from, he could have waited for a while. Millville had enough trouble at this particular moment without having to contend once again with the likes of Tupper Tyler.
    â€œYour papa,” Tupper said. “Where is your papa, Brad? There is something I have to tell him.”
    And that voice, I thought. How could I ever have mistaken it? And how could I ever have forgotten that Tupper was, of all things, an accomplished mimic? He could be any bird he wanted and he could be a dog or cat and the kids used to gather round him, making fun of him, while he put on a mimic show of a dog-and-cat fight or of two neighbors quarreling.
    â€œYour papa!” Tupper said.
    â€œWe’d better get inside,” I told him. “I’ll get some clothes and you climb into them. You can’t go on running around naked.”
    He nodded vaguely. “Flowers,” he said. “Lots of pretty flowers.”
    He spread his arms wide to show me how many flowers there were. “Acres and acres,” he said. “There is no end to them. They just keep on forever. Every last one purple. And they are so pretty and they smell so sweet and they are so good to me.”
    His chin was covered with a dampness from his talking and he wiped it with a claw-like hand. He wiped his hand upon a thigh.
    I got him by the elbow and got him turned around, headed for the house.
    â€œBut your papa,” he protested. “I want to tell your papa all about the flowers.”
    â€œLater on,” I said.
    I got him on the porch and thrust him through the door and followed after him. I felt easier. Tupper was no decent sight for the streets of Millville. And I had had, for a while, about all that I