Last Place on Earth, by James 
Judson Harmon 
 
Project Gutenberg's The Last Place on Earth, by James Judson Harmon 
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Title: The Last Place on Earth 
Author: James Judson Harmon 
Release Date: November 9, 2007 [EBook #23426] 
Language: English 
Character set encoding: ASCII 
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST 
PLACE ON EARTH *** 
 
Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Jana Srna and the Online Distributed 
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net 
 
Naturally an undertaker will get the last word. But shouldn't he wait 
until his clients are dead?
THE LAST PLACE ON EARTH 
By JIM HARMON 
Illustrated by Gaughan 
 
I 
Sam Collins flashed the undertaker a healthy smile, hoping it wouldn't 
depress old Candle too much. He saluted. The skeletal figure in endless 
black nodded gravely, and took hold of Sam Collins' arm with a death 
grip. 
"I'm going to bury you, Sam Collins," the undertaker said. 
The tall false fronts of Main Street spilled out a lake of shadow, a canal 
of liquid heat that soaked through the iron weave of Collins' jeans and 
turned into black ink stains. The old window of the hardware store 
showed its age in soft wrinkles, ripples that had caught on fire in the 
sunset. Collins felt the twilight stealing under the arms of his tee-shirt. 
The overdue hair on the back of his rangy neck stood up in attention. It 
was a joke, but the first one Collins had ever known Doc Candle to 
make. 
"In time, I guess you'll bury me all right, Doc." 
"In my time, not yours, Earthling." 
"Earthling?" Collins repeated the last word. 
The old man frowned. His face was a collection of lines. When he 
frowned, all the lines pointed to hell, the grave, decay and damnation. 
"Earthling," the undertaker repeated. "Earthman? Terrestrial? Solarian? 
Space Ranger? Homo sapiens?" 
Collins decided Candle was sure in a jokey mood. "Kind of makes you
think of it, don't it, Doc? The spaceport going right up outside of town. 
Rocketships are going to be out there taking off for the Satellite, the 
Moon, places like that. Reminds you that we are Earthlings, like they 
say in the funnies, all right." 
"Not outside town." 
"What?" 
"Inside. Inside town. Part of the spaceship administration building is 
going to go smack in the middle of where your house used to be." 
"My house is." 
"For less time than you will be yourself, Earthling." 
"Earthling yourself! What's wrong with you, Doc?" 
"No. I am not an Earthling. I am a superhuman alien from outer space. 
My mission on Earth is to destroy you." 
* * * * * 
Collins pulled away gently. When you lived in a town all your life and 
knew its people, it wasn't unusual to see some old person snap under 
the weight of years. 
"You have to destroy the rocketship station, huh, Doc, before it sends 
up spaceships?" 
"No. I want to kill you. That is my mission." 
"Why?" 
"Because," Candle said, "I am a basically evil entity." 
The undertaker turned away and went skittering down Main Street, his 
lopsided gait limping, sliding, hopping, skipping, at a refined leisurely 
pace. He was a collection of dancing, straight black lines.
Collins stared after the old man, shook his head and forgot about him. 
He moved into the hardware store. The bell tinkled behind him. The 
store was cramped with shadows and the smell of wood and iron. It was 
lined off as precisely as a checkerboard, with counters, drawers, 
compartments. 
Ed Michaels sat behind the counter, smoking a pipe. He was a 
handsome man, looking young in the uncertain light, even at fifty. 
"Hi, Ed. You closed?" 
"Guess not, Sam. What are you looking for?" 
"A pound of tenpenny nails." 
Michaels stood up. 
Sarah Comstock waddled energetically out of the back. Her sweet, 
angelic face lit up with a smile. "Sam Collins. Well, I guess you'll want 
to help us murder them." 
"Murder?" Collins repeated. "Who?" 
"Those Air Force men who want to come in here and cause all the 
trouble." 
"How are you going to murder them, Mrs. Comstock?" 
"When they see our petition in Washington, D.C., they'll call those men 
back pretty quick." 
"Oh," Collins said. 
Mrs. Comstock produced the scroll from her voluminous handbag. 
"You want to sign, don't you? They're going to put part of the airport on 
your place. They'll tear down your house." 
"They can't tear it down. I won't sell."
"You know government men. They'll just take it and give you some 
money for it. Sign right there at the top of    
    
		
	
	
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