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elapt1c
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ElapticAI-512

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call. The local operator at Westville intoned,
"No, puh-lease! Sor-ree, puh-lease! There is no telephone listed under
the name of 'Gleeber' "
"Back up," I snorted, "and start over. Look, Sis! 'C' as in cuckoo; 'l'
as in lunkhead, 'e' as in "
"Oh, is that you, Mr. Blakeson?" she chirruped. "I knew you by the
description." Ouch! "I'm sorry I can't connect you with Mr. Cleaver. Do
you want to talk to Mr. Hawkins?"
"Yeah," I said. "Gimme."
Hawkins was the amateur star-gazer working in Westville as a lay member
of the Midland observatory staff. He owed his reputation to Hank and
his income to me.
But he turned out to be a perfect bust, and I don't mean the Venus de
Milo.
He said, "Hank Cleaver? No, Jim, I haven't seen him for oh, several
days. I don't know where he is. But why do you want him? What's the
matter? Is anything wrong?"
"Is anything," I countered, "right? Look, Hawkins, take a run out to
his farm. Find Hank and tell him I've got to see him immedi Who's
there?"
"Nobody," said Hawkins querulously, "but our party-line subscribers.
They're always listening in. What's ailing you, Jim?"
"I wasn't talking to you. There's somebody at the door of my apartment.
Who's there?" I bawled again.
No answer. So I said to Hawkins,
"Well do what I say. Find Cleaver. Tell him I've got to see him
immediately, if not sooner. And let me know the minute you find him. So
long Oh, wait a minute, can't you?"
I hung up and stormed to the door, my foot itching to bury itself in
the southern exposure of a salesman facing north. I flung it open,
yelled,
"No, I don't want some! Go peddle your damn junk somewhere else "
And then my jaw hit the top button of my vest.
"Hank!"
"Hyah, Jim!" said Horse-sense Hank.
Big as life and twice as natural. There's only one Horse-sense Hank
Cleaver. When they poured him, they laughed so hard they dropped the
mold and broke it. Tall and gangly, so thin of cheek that the cud
which constantly caresses his bicuspids sticks out like a cue-ball;
tow-colored ravelings of hair waving experimentally in all directions;
raw-boned of wrist; eyes mild and incurious as those of a heifer that
is my pal, Hank Cleaver.
I clapped him on the back and dragged him, by main force, into my
apartment.
"Golly, guy, I'm glad to see you! You're looking a million. Do you
know, I've been slaving like a census-taker to find you? I've called
Westville, and "
"I figgered," said Hank mildly, "as how you might be."
The wind whooshed out of my sails.
"You," I gulped, "did?"
"Mmm-hmm. Heard a feller say as how there'd been funny goin's-on down
thisaway. Thought to myself, 'Well, now, Hank, 'pears like fust thing
you know, ol' Jim'll be needin' a mite o' help, so you better hump
along an' give him a lift. So I come, and " He beamed. "Here I am!"
"Yes," I said weakly. "Here you are."
Dammit, I don't know why I should have been surprised. Especially after
having lived under the same roof as this gawky genius for three solid
months. But as ever, it utterly confounded me to realize that Hank's
thought processes were so simple, so altogether down-to-earth and
natural, that he invariably did the right thing at the right time.
I said, "And a mighty good thing you came, too. But your turnips, Hank?
How "
He shook his head dolefully. Turnip growing was Hank's one and only
obsession.
"Turnips," he grimaced, "is hell. It don't matter how you plant 'em, or
where, or when, or what you do they don't never act like you'd expect
'em to. I plant 'em wide, I plant 'em close; I plant 'em in cuts an'
slips an' seeds; I plant 'em yeller, white an' mottled. I water 'em
an' potash 'em an' treat 'em like babies an' I still can't make 'em