Clifford Simak: The Shipshape Miracle : And Other Stories

Mabel let out a full-fledged scream and bolted for the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

“For cripes sake,” moaned Doyle, “the fat’s in the fire for sure. They’ll think I’m murdering her.”

Someone thumped on the floor upstairs. A man’s voice bellowed: “Cut it out down there!”

The rolla’s gleaming chest lit up:

HUNGRY. WHEN

WE EAT?

Doyle gulped. He felt cold sweat starting out on him.

WASSA MATTER? spelled the rolla. GO AHEAD. TALK. I CAN HEAR.

Someone started hammering on the door.

Doyle looked wildly around and saw the money on the floor. He started scooping it up and stuffing it in his pocket.

Whoever was at the door kept on hammering.

Doyle finished with the money and opened the door.

A man stood there in his undershirt and pants and he was big and tough. He towered over Doyle by at least a foot. A woman, standing behind him, peered around at Doyle.

“What’s going on around here?” the man demanded. “We heard a lady scream.”

“Saw a mouse,” Doyle told him.

The man kept on looking at him.

“Big one,” Doyle elaborated. “Might have been a rat.”

“And you, mister. What’s the matter with you? How’d your shirt get tore?”

“I was in a crap game,” said Doyle and went to shut the door.

But the man stiff-armed it and strode into the room.

“If you don’t mind, we’ll look the situation over.”

With a sinking feeling in his belly, Doyle remembered the rolla.

He spun around.

The rolla was not there.

The bedroom door opened and Mabel came out. She was calm as ice.

“You live here, lady?” asked the man.

“Yes, she does,” the woman said. “I see her in the hall.”

“This guy bothering you?”

“Not at all,” said Mabel. “We are real good friends.”

The man swung around on Doyle.

“You got blood all over you,” he said.

“I can’t seem to help it,” Doyle told him. “I just bleed all the blessed time.”

The woman was tugging at the man’s arm.

Mabel said, “I tell you, there is nothing wrong.”

“Let’s go, honey,” urged the woman, still tugging at the arm. “They don’t want us here.”

The man went reluctantly.

Doyle slammed the door and bolted it. He leaned against it weakly.

“That rips it,” he said. “We got to get out of here. He’ll keep mulling it over and he’ll up and call the cops and they’ll haul us in …”

“We ain’t done nothing, Chuck.”

“No, maybe not. But I don’t like no cops. I don’t want to answer questions. Not right now.”

She moved closer to him.

“He was right,” she said. “You are all bloody. Your hands and shirt …”

“One leg, too. The rolla gave me a working over.”

The rolla stood up from behind a corner chair.

NO WISH EMBARRASS, he spelled out. ALWAYS HIDE FROM STRANGERS.

“That’s the way he talks,” said Doyle, admiringly.

“What is it?” asked Mabel, backing away a pace or two.

I ROLLA.

“I met him under the money tree,” said Doyle. “We had a little fracas. He has something to do with the tree, guarding it or something.”

“And did you get some money?”

“Not much. You see, this rolla …”

HUNGRY, said the rolla .

“You come along,” Mabel said to Doyle. “I got to patch you up.”

“But don’t you want to hear …”

“Not especially. You got into trouble again. It seems to me you want to get in trouble.”

She headed for the bathroom and he followed.

“Sit down on the edge of the tub,” she ordered.

The rolla came and sprawled in the doorway, leaning against the jamb.

AINT YOU GOT NO FOOD? it asked.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mabel exclaimed in exasperation, “what is it you want?”

FRUIT, VEGETABLES.

“Out in the kitchen. There’s fruit on the table. I suppose I have to show you.”

FIND MYSELF, the rolla said and left.

“I can’t understand that squirt,” said Mabel. “First he chewed you up. Now he’s palsy-walsy.”

“I give him lumps,” said Doyle. “Taught him some respect.”

“Besides,” observed Mabel, “he’s dying of starvation. Now you sit down on that tub and let me fix you up.”

He sat down gingerly while she rummaged in the medicine cabinet.

She got a bottle of red stuff, a bottle of alcohol, swabs and cotton. She knelt and rolled up Doyle’s trouser leg.

“This looks bad,” she said.

“Where he got me with his teeth,” said Doyle.

“You should see a doctor, Chuck. This might get infected. His teeth might not be clean or something.”

“Doc would ask too many questions. We got trouble enough …”

“Chuck, what is that thing out there?”

“It’s a rolla .”

“Why is it called a rolla ?”

“I don’t know. Just call it that, I guess.”

“I read about someone called a rolla once. Rolla boys, I think it was. Always doing good.”

“Didn’t do me a bit of good.”

“What did you bring it here for, then?”

“Might be worth a million. Might sell it to a circus or a zoo. Might work up a night club act with it. The way it talks and all.”

She worked expertly and quickly on the tooth-marked calf and ankle, cleaning out the cuts and swabbing them with some of the red stuff that was in the bottle.

“There’s another reason I brought the rolla here,” Doyle confessed. “I got Metcalfe where I want him. I know something he wouldn’t want no one else to know and I got the rolla and the rolla has something to do with them money trees…”

“You’re talking blackmail now?”

“Nah, nothing like that. You know I wouldn’t never blackmail no one. Just a little private arrangement between me and Metcalfe. Maybe just out of gratitude for me keeping my mouth shut, he might give me one of his money trees.”

“But you said there was only one money tree.”

“That’s all I saw, was one. But the place was dark and there might be more of them. You wouldn’t expect a man like Metcalfe to be satisfied with just one money tree, would you. If he had one, he could grow some others. I bet you he has twenty-dollar trees and fifty-dollar trees and hundred-dollar trees.”

He sighed. “I sure would like to get just five minutes with a hundred-dollar tree. I’d be set for life. I’d do me some two-handed picking the like you never see.”

“Shuck up your shirt,” said Mabel. “I got to get at them scratches on your ribs.”

Doyle shucked up his shirt.

“You know,” he said, “I bet you Metcalfe ain’t the only one that has them money trees. I bet all the rich folks has them. I bet they’re all banded together in a secret society, pledged to never talk about them. I wouldn’t wonder if that’s where all the money comes from. Maybe the government don’t print no money, like they say they do …”

“Shut up,” commanded Mabel, “and hold still.”

She worked swiftly on his ribs.

“What are you going to do with the rolla ?” she asked.

“We’ll put him in the car and drive down and have a talk with Metcalfe. You stay out in the car with the rolla and if there is any funny stuff, you get out of there. Long as we have the rolla we got Metcalfe across the barrel.”

“You’re crazy if you think I’ll stay alone, with that thing in the car. Not after what it done to you.”

“Just get yourself a stick of stove wood and belt him one with it if he makes a crooked move.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” said Mabel. “I will not stay with him.”