Clifford Simak - The Shipshape Miracle - And Other Stories

The sun beat against his back and he felt the heat of it through his drying shirt. He looked at his watch and it was almost three o’clock.

He turned his attention back to the orchard and this time he saw that many little figures moved among the trees. He strained his eyes to see them better, but he could not be sure—although they looked for all the world like a gang of rollas .

He crawled down the knoll and across the strip of grass toward the weeds. He kept low and inched along and was very careful. His only hope of making a deal, any kind of deal, with Metcalfe, was to come upon him unawares and let him know immediately what kind of hand he held.

He started worrying about how Mabel might be getting along, but he wiped the worry out. He had enough to worry about without adding to it. And, anyhow, Mabel was quite a gal and could take care of herself.

He began running through his mind alternate courses of action if he should fail to locate Metcalfe, and the most obvious, of course, was to attempt a raid upon the orchard. As he thought it over, he wasn’t even sure but what a raid upon the orchard might be the thing to do. He wished he’d brought along the sugar sack Mabel had fixed up for him.

The fence worried him a little, but he also thrust that worry to one side. It would be time enough to worry about the fence once he got to it.

He slithered through the grass and he was doing swell. He was almost to the strip of weeds and no one apparently had seen him. Once he got to the weeds, it would be easier, for they would give him cover. He could sneak right up to the fence and no one would ever notice.

He reached the weeds and wilted at what he saw.

The weeds were the healthiest and thickest patch of nettles that had ever grown outdoors!

He put out a tentative hand and the nettles stung. They were the real McCoy. Ruefully, he rubbed at the dead-white welts rising on his fingers.

He raised himself cautiously to peer above the nettles. One of the rollas was coming down the slope toward the fence and there was no doubt now that the things he’d seen up in the orchard was a gang of rollas .

He ducked behind the nettles, hoping that the rolla had not seen him. He lay flat upon the ground and the sun was hot and the place upon his hand that had touched the nettles blazed with fire, although it was hard to decide which was the worst—the nettle sting or all the mosquito lumps that had blossomed out on him.

He noticed that the nettles were beginning to wave and toss as if they were blowing in the wind and that was a funny deal, for there wasn’t that much wind.

The nettles kept on blowing and all at once they parted right in front of him, running in a straight line, making a path between him and the fence. The nettles on the right blew to the right so hard they lay flat upon the ground and those to the left blew to the left so hard they were likewise on the ground and the path was there, without a thing to stop one walking to the fence.

The rolla stood just beyond the fence and he spelled out a message in large capital letters upon his blackboard chest:

COME ON

OVER, HEEL!

Doyle hesitated, filled with dismay. It was a rotten break that he had been discovered by this little stinker. Now the cat was out the bag for sure, and all his toiling up the hollow, all his sneaking through the grass stood for absolutely nothing.

He saw that the other rollas were waddling down the slope toward the fence, while the first rolla still stood there, with the invitation on his chest.

Then the lettering on the rolla flickered out. The nettles still stayed down and the path stayed open. The rollas who had been coming down the slope reached the fence and all of them—all five of them—lined up in a solemn row. The first one’s chest lit up with words:

WE HAVE THREE

MISSING ROLLAS

And the chest of the second one:

DO YOU BRING

WORD TO US?

And the third:

WE WOULD LIKE

TO TALK TO YOU

The fourth:

ABOUT THE

MISSING ONES

The fifth:

PLEASE COME

TO US, HEEL.

Doyle raised himself from where he had been lying flat upon the ground and squatted on his toes.

It could be a trap.

What could he gain by talking with the rollas!

But there was no way to retreat without losing what little advantage he might have—there was no choice but to do his best at brazening it out.

He rose to his feet and ambled down the nettle-path with as slight a show of concern as he could manage.

He reached the fence and hunkered down so that he was almost level with the rollas .

“I know where one of the missing rollas is,” he said, “but not the other two.”

YOU KNOW

ABOUT THE

ONE WHO

WAS IN TOWN

WITH METCALFE?

“That’s right.”

YOU TELL

US WHERE

HE IS

“I’ll make a deal,” said Doyle.

All five of them asked, DEAL?

“I’ll tell you where he is; you do something for me. You let me up into that orchard for an hour tonight, then let me out again. Without letting Metcalfe know.”

They huddled, conferring, their blackboard fronts a-squiggle with the queer, confusing symbols Doyle had seen on the rolla’s chest back in Metcalfe’s garden.

Then they turned to face him again, the five of them lined up, shoulder to shoulder:

WE CANNOT DO THAT

WE MADE AN AGREEMENT

AND WE GAVE OUR WORD

WE GROW THE MONEY

METCALFE DISTRIBUTES

IT

“I wouldn’t distribute it,” said Doyle. “I promise that I wouldn’t. I’d keep it for myself.”

NO SOAP, spelled out rolla No. 1.

“This agreement that you have with Metcalfe. How come you made it?”

GRATITUDE, said No. 2.

“Don’t mind my snickering, but gratitude for Metcalfe …”

HE FOUND US

AND HE RESCUED

AND PROTECTED US

AND WE ASKED HIM

WHAT CAN WE DO?

“And he said, grow me some money.”

HE SAY THE PLANET

NEEDED MONEY

HE SAY MONEY

MAKE HAPPY ALL

POOR HEELS LIKE YOU

“The hell you say,” said Doyle, aghast.

WE GROW IT

HE DISTRIBUTE IT

BETWEEN US WE

MAKE ALL THE

PLANET HAPPY

“Just a bunch of missionaries!”

WE DO NOT

READ YOU, CHUM

“Missionaries. People who do good.”

WE DO GOOD

ON MANY PLANETS

WHY NOT DO

GOOD HERE?

“But money?”

THAT WHAT METCALFE

SAY.

HE SAY PLANET HAS

PLENTY OF ALL ELSE

BUT IS SHORT ON MONEY.

“What about the other two rollas that are missing?”

THEY DISAGREE

THEY LEAVE

WE WORRY

MUCH ABOUT

THEM.

“You disagreed on growing money? They thought, maybe, you should grow something else?”

WE DISAGREE

ON METCALFE.

TWO SAY HE TRICK US.

REST OF US

SAY HE VERY

NOBLE HUMAN

What a bunch of creeps, thought Doyle.

Very noble human!

WE TALK

ENOUGH

NOW WE

SAY

GOODBYE.

They turned around, almost as if someone had shouted orders at them, and went stumping up the slope, back toward the orchard.

“Hey!” yelled Doyle, leaping to his feet.

Behind him was a rustle and he whirled around.

The nettles that had been laid to either side to make the path were rising, wiping out the path!

“Hey!” yelled Doyle again, but the rollas paid no attention to him. They went on stumping up the slope.

Doyle stood in his little trampled area, wedged against the fence, and all around him were the nettles—upright and strong and bright in the afternoon. They stretched in a solid mass at least a hundred feet back from the fence and they were shoulder high.