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To Tell The Troof

Brad Ferguson
FATHER 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.”