Brad Ferguson - To Tell The Troof

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“To Tell the Troof” by BRAD FERGUSON

Originally published in Fantasy & Science Fiction, January 1989

Duplication or redistribution of this file in any form whatsoever is strictly prohibited.

ATHER MORTIMER MCALEER was dozing in

his favorite chair, the plush one in his

study nominally reserved for visitors. It

was another lazy (and officially proclaimed)

Sabbath afternoon on Henderson. It was a world

that didn’t care at all about priests or Sabbaths,

so no one would bother a tired, middle-aged

man in his underwear who wanted to zee a few

zees, his collar off and hanging on a hook ...

except that on this particular so-called Sunday,

McAleer’s telephone buzzed, and kept on

buzzing.

The annoying sound killed McAleer’s nap.

Where’s Zweebl gone to?, the priest asked

himself as he roused himself to answer it. He

was also more than a bit puzzled; no one ever

called the mission.

McAleer activated the audio pickup; he

noticed a light coating of dust, and frowned.

“Hello, St. Polycarp’s. This is Father McAleer.”

“Hello,” came a thin, piping Troof voice.

“This is Klatho, controller at field. Thought I

should tell you. Ship coming in, red-hot

emergency. One-seater, Terran registry;

compatriot of yours, maybe. Maybe perhaps

compatriot in matters of Earthie spirituality,

also. You might want to come? Twenty minutes

and counting to possible big mess.”

“I’ll be there right away.”

“Good. Everybody coming to watch. We not

handle much space traffic, particularly space

traffic that bounces all over sky and maybe

ground, too. You hurry, now, and beat crowd.

Goodbye.” The Troof cut the circuit.

McAleer powered down his own unit. He

knew Klatho slightly, as much as he’d been

allowed to come to know any of the Troof. As

for the Troof’s miserable excuse for a landing

field, the Teamstars had designated the local

field as Class D7 — no place to set down a

starship, even a small one and even under the

best of circumstances. The pilot must be in very

serious trouble, the priest told himself.

“Zweebl!” McAleer called. “Where are

you?”

There was the sound of splashing.

“Upstairs,” came another reedy voice. “Taking

bath. What up, Father Mort?”

“Emergency,” McAleer called back. “Hurry

up. We’re leaving.”

“Right there.” The splashing grew frantic;

then McAleer heard the hurried patter of small

feet.

The priest went to his bedroom and grabbed

a pair of dark slacks and a light jacket from his

closet. He skipped socks; he didn’t have any

clean ones, anyway. Dressing quickly, he

rummaged in a night table next to his bed and

drew out a stole, a prayer book, a vial of oil, and

his pyx. The ship’s pilot could be Orthodox

Catholic, and McAleer might have to administer

last rites. McAleer also grabbed his small

standard-issue medikit and strapped it around

his pot belly; the priest had a working

knowledge of what to do with most of the stuff

in the ‘kit.

“Come on, Zweebl!” McAleer called.

“Coming, Father,” Zweebl said from

upstairs, and the priest heard his Troof assistant

bounding down the stairs — if a four-foot being

who looked like an overripe plum with stubby

legs and a fat, snouted blueberry for a head can

be said to bound. “Here am. Let’s go.”

“We’ll have to take the car,” McAleer said.

Zweebl grimaced. McAleer smiled faintly. “Is

the fuel tank filled?”

“Last time I look.”

“Very well. Church first. Come on.” They

left the mission residence through the

connecting door to the small chapel.

Once inside the darkened church, McAleer

went to the altar, genuflected, and opened the

“To Tell the Troof” by BRAD FERGUSON

Originally published in Fantasy & Science Fiction, January 1989

Duplication or redistribution of this file in any form whatsoever is strictly prohibited.

door to the small tabernacle; Zweebl waited in

the rear of the church. McAleer secured several

consecrated wafers and placed them carefully in

his pyx. Forgive the rush, Lord, he murmured as

he hastily closed the tabernacle door.

“All done, Zweebl,” he said. “Let’s hurry.”

The two left the church by the front door.

McAleer’s only transportation was an old,

rusting gevster left behind by the trade group

that used to be on Henderson; it had taken

McAleer a great deal of tinkering to get it to

run. The priest kept the heap parked by the side

of the residence, covered with an old tarp; he

pulled it off, getting himself rather dusty in the

process, and Zweebl punched the codes to

unlock the doors. The two got in, and McAleer

quickly hit the ignition codes; the dual turbines

started with a loud roar.

“Ye gads,” said Zweebl. “Wish had ears to

cover.”

McAleer glanced at the fuel indicator; it

showed only a quarter of a tank. McAleer could

not indulge in casual conversation — he was

carrying the Host — but he wished he could ask

Zweebl just when he’d last looked at that

indicator. It wasn’t important right now — a

quarter of a tank was more than enough to get

them to the field and back — but it annoyed

McAleer; it added an item to the list of things

Zweebl had fudged.

The priest fed more power to the turbines;

the gevster lifted unevenly for a foot and then

came level. Dust and trash flying around them,

McAleer pushed the stick forward gently and,

with a start, the gevster drunkenly weaved its

way ahead, trying to find its air legs.

“Here goes nothing,” Zweebl said. “Every

time we do this, neighbors complain like hell.”

McAleer gestured Zweebl to be silent, and

tapped the jacket pocket in which he was

carrying the pyx. “Oh,” said Zweebl, suddenly

understanding. “Didn’t realize. Forgive.”

McAleer nodded.

The gevster finally found its internal rhythm

and noisily whooshed ahead on a reasonably

straight course.

Fifteen minutes later, the gevster roared to a

halt in front of the landing field’s small

administration building. McAleer popped the

gevster’s doors, and he and Zweebl hurried out

amid the settling dust and leaves.

The control room was just off the small

lobby, and boasted an excellent view of the

landing field, thanks to a big window typical of

Troof construction. The Troof liked light and

air. Entering, McAleer could see Klatho, the

field superintendent, gesturing excitedly and

squeaking orders to the two other Troof in the

room. Klatho noticed the arrival of McAleer and

Zweebl at about the same moment.

“Hello, Father, Zweebl,” Klatho called.

“Ship made it through atmospheric skip

maneuver, don’t ask me how. Approaching

field. One hot damn pilot, that boy.”

“Where on the field will the ship set down?”

McAleer asked. “I should be there.”

Klatho shrugged. “Anywhere it wants.

Lucky if it doesn’t hit town. Better you stay near

building.”

“Very well. May we go outside to look?”

“If you like. Don’t go far. You can ride out

to crash site with emergency crew, these guys,

when ship set down. This okay?”

“Very okay. Thank you, Klatho.”

“No mention.” Klatho turned back to his

work; the loud Troof squeaking and bleating

started again at a higher level.

McAleer turned to Zweebl. “Let’s go

outside.”

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Brad Ferguson - To Tell The Troof

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