Clifford Simak - Mr. Meek Plays Polo

Illustration by Ingels

THE SIGN READ:

Atomic Motors Repaired. Busted Plates Patched Up.

Rocket Tubes Relined. Wheeze In, Whiz Out!

It added, as an afterthought, in shaky, inexpert lettering:

We Fix Anything.

Mr. Oliver Meek stared owlishly at the sign, which hung from an arm attached to a metal standard sunk in solid rock. A second sign was wired to the standard just below the metal arm, but its legend was faint, almost illegible. Meek blinked at it through thick-lensed spectacles, finally deciphered its scrawl:

Ask About Educated Bugs.

A bit bewildered, but determined not to show it, Meek swung away from the signpost and gravely regarded the settlement. On the chart it was indicated by a fairly sizeable dot, but that was merely a matter of comparison. Out Saturn-way even the tiniest outpost assumes importance far beyond its size.

The slab of rock was no more than five miles across, perhaps even less. Here in its approximate center, were two buildings, both of almost identical construction, semi-spherical and metal. Out here, Meek realized, shelter was the thing. Architecture merely for architectures sake was still a long way off.

One of the buildings was the repair shop which the sign advertised. The other, according to the crudely painted legend smeared above its entrance lock, was the Saturn Inn.

The rest of the rock was landing field, pure and simple. Blasters had leveled off the humps and irregularities so spaceships could sit down.

Two ships now were on the field, pulled up close against the repair shop. One, Meek noticed, belonged to the Solar Health and Welfare Department, the other to the Galactic Pharmaceutical Corporation. The Galactic ship was a freighter, ponderous and slow. It was here, Meek knew, to take on a cargo of radiation moss. But the other was a puzzler. Meek wrinkled his brow and blinked his eyes, trying to figure out what a welfare ship would be doing in this remote corner of the Solar System.

Slowly and carefully, Meek clumped toward the squat repair shop. Once or twice he stumbled, hoping fervently he wouldnt get the feet of his cumbersome spacesuit all tangled up. The gravity was slight, next to non-existent, and one who wasnt used to it had to take things easy and remember where he was.

Behind him Saturn filled a tenth of the sky, a yellow, lemon-tinged ball, streaked here and there with faint crimson lines and blotched with angry, bright green patches.

To right and left glinted the whirling, twisting, tumbling rocks that made up the Inner Ring, while arcing above the horizon opposed to Saturn was the spangled glistening rainbows of the other rings.

Like dewdrops in the black of space, Meek mumbled to himself. But he immediately felt ashamed of himself for growing poetic. This sector of space, he knew, was not in the least poetic. It was hard and savage and as he thought about that, he hitched up his gun belt and struck out with a firmer tread that almost upset him.

After that, he tried to think of nothing except keeping his two feet under him.

Reaching the repair shops entrance lock, he braced himself solidly to keep his balance, reached out and pressed a buzzer. Swiftly the lock spun outward and a moment later Meek had passed through the entrance vault and stepped into the office.

A dungareed mechanic sat tilted in a chair against a wall, feet on the desk, a greasy cap pushed back on his head.

Meek stamped his feet gratefully, pleased at feeling Earth gravity under him again. He lifted the hinged helmet of his suit back on his shoulders.

You are the gentleman who can fix things? he asked the mechanic.

THE mechanic stared. Here was no hell-for-leather freighter pilot, no be-whiskered roamer of the outer orbits. Meeks hair was white and stuck out in uncombed tufts in a dozen directions. His skin was pale. His blue eyes looked watery behind the thick lenses that rode his nose. Even the bulky spacesuit failed to hide his stooped shoulders and slight frame.

The mechanic said nothing.

Meek tried again. I saw the sign. It said you could fix anything. Sol

The mechanic shook himself.

Sure, he agreed, still slightly dazed. Sure I can fix you up. What you got?

He swung his feet off the desk.

I ran into a swarm of pebbles, Meek confessed. Not much more than dust, really, but the screen couldnt stop it all.

He fumbled his hands self-consciously. Awkward of me, he said.

It happens to the best of them, the mechanic consoled. Saturn sweeps in clouds of the stuff. Thicker than hell when you reach the Rings. Lots of ships pull in with punctures. Wont take no time.

Meek cleared his throat uneasily. Im afraid its more than a puncture. A pebble got into the instruments. Washed out some of them.

The mechanic clucked sympathetically. Youre lucky. Tough job to bring in a ship without all the instruments. Must have a honey of a navigator.

I havent got a navigator, Meek said, quietly.

The mechanic stared at him, eyes popping. You mean you brought it in alone? No one with you?

Meek gulped and nodded. Dead reckoning, he said.

The mechanic glowed with sudden admiration. I dont know who you are, mister, he declared, but whoever you are, youre the best damn pilot that ever took to space.

Really Im not, said Meek. I havent done much piloting, you see. Up until just awhile ago, I never had left Earth. Bookkeeper for Lunar Exports.

Bookkeeper! yelped the mechanic. How come a bookkeeper can handle a ship like that?

I learned it, said Meek.

You learned it?

Sure, from a book. I saved my money and I studied. I always wanted to see the Solar System and here I am.

Dazedly, the mechanic took off his greasy cap, laid it carefully on the desk, reached out for a spacesuit that hung from a wall hook.

Afraid this job might take a while, he said. Especially if we have to wait for parts. Have to get them in from Titan City. Why dont you go over to the Inn. Tell Moe I sent you. Theyll treat you right.

Thank you, said Meek, but theres something else Im wondering about. There was another sign out there. Something about educated bugs.

Oh, them, said the mechanic. They belong to Gus Hamilton. Maybe belong aint the right word because they were on the rock before Gus took over. Anyhow, Gus is mighty proud of them, although at times they sure run him ragged. First year they almost drove him loopy trying to figure out what kind of game they were playing.

Game? asked Meek, wondering if he was being hoaxed.

Sure, game. Like checkers. Only it aint. Not chess, neither. Even worse than that. Bugs dig themselves a batch of holes, then choose up sides and play for hours. About the time Gus would think he had it figured out, theyd change the rules and throw him off again.

That doesnt make sense, protested Meek.

Stranger, declared the mechanic, solemnly, there aint nothing about them bugs that make sense. Gus rock is the only one theyre on. Gus thinks maybe the rock dont even belong to the Solar system. Thinks maybe its a hunk of stone from some other solar system. Figures maybe it crossed space somehow and was captured by Saturn, sucked into the Ring. That would explain why its the only one that has the bugs. They come along with it, see.

This Gus Hamilton, said Meek. Id like to see him. Where could I find him?

Go over to the Inn and wait around, advised the mechanic. Hell come in sooner or later. Drops around regular, except when his rheumatism bothers him, to pick up a bundle of papers. Subscribes to a daily paper, he does. Only man out here that does any reading. But all he reads is the sports section. Nuts about sports, Gus is.