Moving Up

by Phil Temples

It’s a quarter till five in the morning. Clyde and I sit at the kitchen table attacking our corn flakes. The coffee on the stove is almost done brewing.

“Chores ain’t gonna do themselves,” Clyde mumbles.

“A-yep,” I add.

I think I’m gonna need an extra cup of coffee this morning on account of my better half. Clyde kept me up half the night tossing and turning. I suspect it was indigestion from all of those stupid chili dogs he insisted on eating right before bedtime. He put a ton of Tabasco sauce on them, to boot. I know Clyde’s not feelin’ too well this morning. I feel sorry for him. The danged fool! I warned him.

I start to stand up to fetch the coffee. At that instant, we both hear the bell go off from the shed, signalin’ the arrival of a visitor.

It was Clyde’s idea to build a little shed around the portal. The bell was my idea. I got tired of being surprised by aliens arriving from God-knows-where at all hours of the day and night. A couple of months ago, we were woken up in the middle of the night by one of ’em staring down at us. It scared the hell out of me. That’s when I insisted on having some kind of warning bell or alarm.

Clyde and I head out the back door. I’m in my housecoat, and Clyde’s wearing his long johns. My Lord! Ain’t we a sight to behold?

The first rays of the morning sun are just starting to peek over the horizon. It’s all peaceful and quietlike except for a pair of robins chirping. The dew is getting my house slippers damp.

We head for the shed about five hundred feet away to greet our intergalactic visitor.

Mind you, they’ve all been friendly. Never had trouble from any of ’em. A couple even stayed around a bit to learn themselves English so they could communicate with us. Seems there’s a whole network of portals on different planets that are interconnected, and Earth’s portal just happens to be smack dab in the middle of our property. The aliens who come always look different; I suppose that’s because they’re from different planets. Today’s alien visitor is green and has a fish-like appearance.

“Don’t he look familiar somehow, Clyde?” I ask. Then it dawns on me. He bears a striking resemblance to that Admiral character from the Star Wars movie.

The catfish-Admiral holds a box in front of him. He says a few words into it, but only gibberish comes out.

“What’s that you’re saying, now?” Clyde asks.

“What’s that you’re saying, now?” The box repeats the question in a robotic voice.

“Say more,” the box says.

“Okay,” I says. “I’m Wilma and this here’s my husband, Clyde.” I point to myself then I point to Clyde. “We own this farm, this shed, and everything around here for two hundred acres.” I make a sweeping gesture to indicate the entire farm. “And who might you be?”

The box talks gibberish back to the Admiral for a few seconds. His face lights up in recognition.

“I Gleebdox.” He points to himself. “Gasnotoog Five.” He points up at the sky. “You Wilma. You Clyde. Say more, please.”

I get it. We may be country hicks, but we’re not stupid. The box is some sort of translation device. It’s learning English from what Clyde and I are sayin’.

We take Gleebdox outside and point at things and name them. The box continues to translate. It’s learning fast. Before too long, Gleebdox is speaking English in complete sentences. We’re still not rightly sure how to pronounce the alien’s name. I ask if it’s alright to call him “Mister G.” He agrees. We invite Mister G up to the house, and he joins us at the kitchen table. The coffee is cold now, so I turn on the stove to heat it up again.

I have to shoo our tabby cat, Lizzy, away from our guest. I s’pect Mister G looks like a three-hundred-pound piece of sushi to her.

Mister G is leaving a thin trail of slime on everything he touches. No matter. Our granddaughter, Charity, threw up all over the kitchen last week. That was a lot worse than a little slime. I’ll wipe it up.

Clyde is a man of few words. Even so, he takes a turn askin’ Mister G the burning question.

“So, Mister G, what brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“Mister Clyde, I represent an interworld organization dedicated to the creation of” — we hear gobbledygook for a moment, then the box corrects itself — “visitor portals on a multitude of worlds. Your... current visitor portal is only temporary and of limited use. We would like to establish a larger, more permanent portal. With your permission, of course. But in order to do so, I am afraid that your... habitat... would be greatly impacted by the... construction project. We would, of course, compensate you for any inconvenience you might suffer.”

Clyde and I look at one another. We’re both thinking the same thing. He’s asking us to leave? Is this fish off his rocker?

“Oh, I don’t think so, Mister G," Clyde replies. "This farm has been in my family for generations. I don’t know that Wilma and I could just up pull up stakes and walk away from here for any amount of money.”

“I understand that this might be a... challenge. I am prepared to negotiate and find a common... arrangement. One that will satisfy both parties.”

He pulls out a big piece of metal from his satchel the size of a brick. It’s silvery.

“This is ...” Gibberish again. “Lanthanum. I understand it is a rare mineral on your world and, thus, valuable. We are willing to compensate you with... two hundred thousand bars in these dimensions.”

“That’s a very generous offer,” replies Clyde. “Don’t think we’re not grateful, but you have to understand: farming is in our blood. I don’t think Wilma or I could ever see ourselves givin’ up working the land.”

* * *

The negotiating goes on all morning and well into the late afternoon. Mister G continues to offer us all manner of riches from gold and silver worth gazillions of dollars to even our own resort planet.

“Uh-huh. Well, it sounds nice ’n all, but could we farm there?”

“You want to... cultivate... it?”

“A-yup.”

Suddenly, a spark of recognition registers on Mister G’s face.

“Okay.” he replies. “I am told that one of the planet’s continents contains rich, arable land on which one can grow native plant crops. Some of those plants resemble those you are currently growing on your... farm. Approximately one hundred and seventy-five different edible varieties of plant species may be cultivated there.”

“And how much land would we have?”

“We would provide you with... 900 times ten to the twelfth hectares, in your unit of measure, comprising three distinct temperate zones. In addition, we would supply you with modern machines and robotic equipment to assist in your manual labors. You would also have access to markets on other worlds through which you might sell your produce. Would this be sufficient compense for your inconvenience?”

I can see the wheels turning in Clyde’s head.

“I tell you what, Mister G: let me discuss your generous offer with my better half, here, and we’ll sleep on it. We’ll give you our answer tomorrow. Okay?”

* * *

Clyde and I rise at a quarter till five. We sit in our spacious kitchen with our tabby cat, Lizzy, eating a delicious meal of synthetic plant protein that tastes a lot like oatmeal. The dark brown liquid we drink is a passable substitute for coffee. It’s not what we were used to, but it’s not half bad, either. It’s got a hell of a kick to it; more ’n caffeine does.

“Well, let’s head ’em up and move ’em out, Miss Wilma. The chores ain’t gonna do themselves.”

Actually, Clyde isn’t entirely correct. Robotic tractors have been tilling the soil for many hours in the southern territories, planting a squash-like vegetable called Tiscofas. When this batch is harvested in six months, we’ll have around twenty-five million metric tons to send to market.

“I’ll check the Wefostos harvest in the western territories on the big board,” I tell Clyde.

“That’ll be mighty fine. If you need me, you’ll know where to find me.”

Indeed, I do. My proud, intergalactic farmer-husband will be riding inside a three-story-high robotic tractor, turning over the rich dark soil of Dentros Five and planting a watermelon-type fruit in the back forty... thousand.