Clifford Simak - Mr. Meek Plays Polo

Moe, the bartender at the Inn, harried with too many customers, droopy with lack of sleep, saw Oliver Meek bobbing around in the crowd that surged against the bar, much after the manner of a cork caught in a raging whirlpool. He reached out a hand and dragged Meek against the bar.

“Can’t you do something to stop it?”

Meek blinked at him. “Stop what?”

“This game,” said Moe. “It’s awful, Mr. Meek. Honestly. The crowd has got the fellers so worked up, it’s apt to be mass murder.”

“I know it,” Meek agreed, “but you can’t stop it now. The Junior Chamber of Commerce would take the hide off anyone who even said he would like to see it stopped. It’s more publicity than Saturn has gotten since the first expeditions were lost here.”

“I don’t like it,” declared Moe, stolidly.

“I don’t like it either,” Meek confessed. “Gus and those other fellows on his team think I’m an expert. I told them what I knew about space polo, but it wasn’t much. Trouble is they think it’s everything there is to know. They figure they’re a cinch to win and they got their shirts bet on the game. If they lose, they’ll more than likely space-walk me.”

Fingers tapped Meek’s shoulders and he twisted around. A red face loomed above him, a cigarette drooping from the corner of its lips.

“Hear you say you was coaching the Twenty-three bunch?” Meek gulped.

“Billy Jones, that’s me,” said the lips with the cigarette. “Best damn sports writer ever pounded keys. Been trying to find out who you was. Nobody else knows. Treat you right.”

“You must be wrong,” said Meek.

“Never wrong,” insisted Jones. “Nose for news. Smell it out. Like this. Sniff. Sniff .”

His nose crinkled in imitation of a bloodhound, but his face didn’t change otherwise. The cigarette still dangled, pouring smoke into a watery left eye.

“Heard the guy call you Meek,” said Jones. “Name sounds familiar. Something about Juno, wasn’t it? Rounded up a bunch of crooks. Found a space monster of some sort.”

Another hand gripped Meek by the shoulder and literally jerked him around.

“So you’re the guy!” yelped the owner of the hand. “I been looking for you. I’ve a good notion to smack you in the puss.”

“Now, Bud,” yelled Moe, in mounting fear, “you leave him alone. He ain’t done a thing.”

Meek gaped at the angry face of the hulking man, who still had his shoulder in the grip of a monstrous paw.

Bud Craney! The ring-rat that had stolen Gus’ injector! The captain of the Thirty-seven team.

“If there was room,” Craney grated, “I’d wipe up the floor with you. But since there ain’t, I’m just plain going to hammer you down about halfway into it.”

“But he ain’t done nothing!” shrilled Moe.

“He’s an outsider, ain’t he?” demanded Craney. “What business he got coming in here and messing around with things?”

“I’m not messing around with things, Mr. Craney,” Meek declared, trying to be dignified about it. But it was hard to be dignified with someone lifting one by the shoulder so one’s toes just barely touched the floor.

“All that’s the matter with you,” insisted the dangling Meek, “is that you know Gus and his men will give you a whipping. They’d done it, anyhow. I haven’t helped them much. I haven’t helped them hardly at all.”

Craney howled in rage. “Why… you… you…”

And then Oliver Meek did one of those things no one ever expected him to do, least of all himself.

“I’ll bet you my spaceship,” he said, “against anything you got.”

Astonished, Craney opened his hand and let him down on the floor.

“You’ll what?” he roared.

“I’ll bet you my spaceship,” said Meek, the madness still upon him, “that Twenty-three will beat you.”

He rubbed it in. “I’ll even give you odds.”

Craney gasped and sputtered. “I don’t want any odds,” he yelped. “I’ll take it even. My moss patch against your ship.”

Someone was calling Meek’s name in the crowd.

“Mr. Meek! Mr. Meek!” “Here,” said Meek.

“What about that story?” demanded Billy Jones, but Meek didn’t hear him.

A man was tearing his way through the crowd. It was one of the men from Twenty-three.

“Mr. Meek,” he panted, “you got to come right away. It’s Gus. He’s all tangled up with rheumatiz!”

GUS stared up with anguished eyes at Meek.

“It sneaked up on me while I slept,” he squeaked. “Laid off of me for years until just now. Limped once in a while, of course, and got a few twinges now and then, but that was all. Never had me tied up like this since I left Earth. One of the reasons I never did go back to Earth. Space is good climate for rheumatiz. Cold but dry. No moisture to get into your bones.”

Meek looked around at the huddled men, saw the worry that was etched upon their faces.

“Get a hot water bottle,” he told one of them.

“Hell,” said Russ Jensen, a hulking framed spaceman, “there ain’t no such a thing as a hot water bottle nearer than Titan City.”

“An electric pad, then.”

Jensen shook his head. “No pads, neither. Only thing we can do is pour whiskey down him and if we pour enough down him to cure the rheumatiz, we’ll get him drunk and he won’t be no more able to play in that game than he is right now.”

Meek’s weak eyes blinked behind his glasses, staring at Gus.

“We’ll lose sure if Gus can’t play,” said Jensen, “and me with everything I got bet on our team.”

Another man spoke up. “Meek could play in Gus’ place.”

“Nope, he couldn’t,” declared Jensen. “The rats from Thirty-seven wouldn’t stand for it.”

“They couldn’t do a thing about it,” declared the other man. “Meek’s been here six weeks today. That makes him a resident. Six Earth weeks, the law says. And all that time he’s been in sector Twenty-three. They wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. They might squawk but they couldn’t make it stick.”

“You’re certain of that?” demanded Jensen.

“Dead certain,” said the other. Meek saw them looking at him, felt a queasy feeling steal into his stomach.

“I couldn’t,” he told them. “I couldn’t do it. I… I…”

“You go right ahead, Oliver,” said Gus. “I wanted to play, of course. Sort of set my heart on that cup. Had the mantel piece all dusted off for it. But if I can’t play, there ain’t another soul I’d rather have play in my place than you.”

“But I don’t know a thing about polo,” protested Meek.

“You taught it to us, didn’t you?” bellowed Jensen. “You pretended like you knew everything there was to know.”

“But I don’t,” insisted Meek. “You wouldn’t let me explain. You kept telling me all the time what a swell coach I was and when I tried to argue with you and tell you that I wasn’t you yelled me down. I never saw more than one game in all my life and the only reason I saw it then was because I found the ticket. It was on the sidewalk and I picked it up. Somebody had dropped it.”

“So you been stringing us along,” yelped Jensen. “You been making fools of us! How do we know but you showed us wrong. You been giving us the wrong dope.”

He advanced on Meek and Meek backed against the wall.

Jensen lifted his fist, held it in front of him as if he were weighing it.

“I ought to bop you one,” he decided. “All of us had ought to bop you one. Every danged man in this here room has got his shirt bet on the game because we figured we couldn’t lose with a coach like you.”