The Ghost of a Model T and Other Stories Read Free

intricacies of letter communication throughout the depths of space, from star to star, could be quite interesting.
    And that was the trouble with it—it all was so interesting. A man could spend three full lifetimes at it and still not reach the end of it.
    In twenty years, he told himself, a man could amass a lot of material if he applied himself. And he had applied himself; he had worked hard at it and enjoyed every minute of it, and had become in certain areas, he thought with pride, somewhat of an expert. On occasion he had written articles for the philatelic press, and scarcely a week went by that some man well-known in the field did not drop by for a chat or to seek his aid in a knotty problem.
    There was a lot of satisfaction to be found in stamps, he told himself with apologetic smugness. Yes, sir, a great deal of satisfaction.
    But the mere collection of material was only one small part of it—a sort of starting point. Greater than all the other facets of it were the contacts that one made. For one had to make contacts—especially out in the farther reaches of the galaxy. Unless one wanted to rely upon the sorry performance of the rascally dealers, who offered only what was easy to obtain, one must establish contacts. Contacts with other collectors who might be willing to trade stamps with one. Contacts with lonely men in lonely outposts far out on the rim, where the really exotic material was most likely to turn up, and who would be willing to watch for it and save it and send it on to one at a realistic price. With far-out institutions that made up mixtures and job lots in an attempt to eke out a miserly budget voted by the home communities.
    There was a man by the name of Marsh out in the Coonskin system who wanted no more than the latest music tapes from Earth for the material that he sent along. And the valiant priest at the missionary station on barren Agustron who wanted old tobacco tins and empty bottles which, for a most peculiar reason, had high value on that topsy-turvy world. And among the many others, Earthmen and aliens alike, there was always PugAlNash.
    Packer rolled the wad of leaf across his tongue, sucking out the last faded dregs of its tantalizing flavor.
    If a man could make a deal for a good-sized shipment of the leaf, he thought, he could make a fortune on it. Packaged in small units, like packs of gum, it would go like hot cakes here on Earth. He had tried to bring up the subject with Pug, but had done no more than confuse and perplex the good Unukian who, for some unfathomable reason, could not conceive of any commerce that went beyond the confines of simple barter to meet the personal needs of the bargaining individuals.
    The doorbell chimed and Packer went to answer it.
    It was Tony Camper.
    â€œHi, Uncle Clyde,” said Tony breezily.
    Packer held the door open grudgingly.
    â€œSince you are here,” he said, “you might as well come in.”
    Tony stepped in and tilted his hat back on his head. He looked the apartment over with an appraising eye.
    â€œSome day, Unk,” he said, “you should get this place shoveled out. I don’t see how you stand it.”
    â€œI manage it quite well,” Packer informed him tartly. “Some day I’ll get around to straightening up a bit.”
    â€œI should hope you do,” said Tony.
    â€œMy boy,” said Packer, with a trace of pride, “I think that I can say, without fear of contradiction, that I have one of the finest collections of out-star stamps that anyone can boast. Some day, when I get them all in albums –”
    â€œYou’ll never make it, Unk. It’ll just keep piling up. It comes in faster than you can sort it out.”
    He reached out a foot and nudged the bag beside the desk.
    â€œLike this,” he said. “This is a new one, isn’t it?”
    â€œIt just came in,” admitted Packer. “Haven’t gotten around as yet to figuring out exactly