Trikes and Aliens

 
by David Michael
 
The little girl walked up to Rala and stood there, watching him as he repaired his zip-about. Or as he tried to repair his zip-about.
 
Rala had seen the little girl playing in the sandbox before he landed. No help for it. He had to land. The little girl hadn't noticed him at first. She had been digging in the sandbox, burying a small, yellow dump truck. Now, here she was.
 
Rala smiled at her. "Go away," he said. He looked back down at the exposed engine of the zip-about, wondering if he would be able to fix it this time. These newer models had fewer moving parts, fewer options for getting back in motion if you came to an unexpected stop. Maybe he should just call the base, have a tow sent out for him. Except that might be hazardous to his dignity–and his career.
 
After a few minutes he looked up again, saw that the little girl remained standing there, about three meters away, watching. Rala drew himself up to his full height, which was, unfortunately, only a few centimeters taller than the little girl. "What do you want?" he asked.
 
The little girl giggled.
 
Suddenly self conscious, Rala checked his jumpsuit, his headset, his hands. "What? What are you laughing at?"
 
"You're funny," the little girl said. Then she laughed again at Rala's indignant snort.
 
Worry flashed in Rala's mind and he cast a quick glance at the human dwelling. Children didn't get left completely unsupervised, even here on this backward planet. He wondered how long he had before a full-sized human came looking for the half-sized one.
 
The little girl's gaze followed Rala's. "Momma's watching her show," she said. "If you want her, though, I can call her."
 
"No no no," Rala said. "That's alright." He looked back down at the unwilling engine. "I just need to get this going again, and I'll be on my way." He picked up a short probe, poked it against a connection, got the same reading he had been getting the last ten times. "Crap," he said under his breath.
 
"Are you an ay-lee-uhn?" the little girl asked. "Like E.T.?"
 
"Sorta," Rala said. "Except I can call home any time I want–if I want to be laughed at. And maybe fired. And I can't do that trick with my neck."
 
The little girl giggled again.
 
"Why do you do that?" Rala asked. "What's so funny?"
 
"You make funny sounds," the girl said. "And your lips don't match your words."
 
Rala considered trying to explain the translator in his headset, decided that would be a waste of time. So he turned his attention back to the ship, one hand rubbing his chin.
 
"Is that a space ship?"
 
"Nope," Rala said, not looking up. "Just a regular zip-about. Though without a lot of zip at the moment."
 
"It's broken?" she asked.
 
Rala nodded. "Yeah."
 
"My trike is broken," she said.
 
Rala looked up. "Is it?" he asked, scanning the yard. He spotted the three wheeler parked on the small patio, by the sliding glass door.
 
"Can you fix it?" she asked. "Daddy says it has broken speaks."
 
"Broken spokes," Rala corrected.
 
"That's what I said. Daddy says he can't fix it."
 
"How did the spokes break?"
 
"My brother is too heavy," she said. "He's twelve."
 
"I have a spot welder," Rala said. "I might be able to fix it. Bring it over."
 
The little girl's face lit up and she ran back to the patio. While she pushed the squeaking, galumping trike across the yard, Rala poked at the engine a few more times. Maybe if there were two of him, he could make it work.
 
"Sally," came a woman's voice from inside the house.
 
"What Momma?"
 
Rala punched the button on his wrist remote to activate the zip-about's cloak, then cursed all engineers and zip-about mechanics for the useless scum they were. With his engine on the blink, the cloak couldn't work. Not knowing what else to do, he stood very still and hoped he would be mistaken for a lawn gnome. In a jumpsuit. With a two-way radio clipped to one ear. And a finned zip-about with both its canopy and engine cover open.
 
"Daddy told you not to play with the trike."
 
"I'm going to fix it," the little girl said.
 
Momma stepped into view, behind the sliding screen of the patio door. Rala held his breath, resisting the urge to run like hell. Maybe laughed at and fired weren't such bad options, he thought. Either one beat incarceration and dissection. Calling now wouldn't help, though.
 
"How are you going to fix it, honey?" Momma asked.
 
"Gonna use a spot-weller," Sally said. She added, "And maybe a wrench."
 
Momma laughed. "OK, honey. Just don't ride on it."
 
"I won't. Not until its fixed."
 
Momma's eyes did a quick scan of the fenced-in backyard. Rala's heart almost stopped, but the woman didn't seem to see him. She disappeared back into the house.
 
Rala leaned against his zip-about, forcing himself to relax. That had been too close.
 
"Here it is," Sally said.
 
Rala jumped. "Don't sneak up on people, kid."
 
Sally giggled. "Do you have your spot-weller?" she asked.
 
"Hang on," Rala said. "Let me check out the trike first."
 
He examined the trike, found that three spokes in one of the back wheels had been popped loose. "Dang, kid," he said. "How much does your brother weigh?"
 
The little girl just shrugged.
 
Rala took a pair of pliers and his spot welder from his small toolbox. He bent the spokes back into place, then hit them with the spot welder. Sally watched all of this in wide-eyed wonder, blinking and rubbing her eyes after the bright strobes of the welder had subsided.
 
"I see green spots," she said, blinking her eyes slowly.
 
"You're not supposed to look at the strobe," Rala said.
 
"Will the green spots go away?"
 
"In a few minutes," he said. He gave the wheel a test spin. Then put all three wheels back on the ground. "There you go, kid. Have fun with it."
 
Sally smiled and started to get on the trike.
 
"Hold it," Rala said. "One more thing …" He went to his toolbox and came back with a small can of lubricant. He applied the lubricant to the trike's axles. "There. Now it won't squeak."
 
"Thank you," said Sally. She climbed on the trike. She put her feet on the pedals and pushed forward, then came backwards again. "It works!" Then her face got serious and she said, "Can you fix your zip-a-ship now?"
 
Rala looked at the engine again, then back at the little girl. "Maybe," he said. "If you'll help me."
 
"I like to help," Sally said. She got off the trike again and stood there. "What do I do?"
 
"Here," Rala said, holding out a probe. "Take this. No, hold it like I was holding it." Finally, he took her smooth hands in his rough ones and put them in the correct positions. "Right. Hold it just like that. OK, now, come stand by the ship and poke it right … there. Great. Now … don't move."
 
The little girl held the probe with both hands, holding it at arms length, its tip just making contact with the distributer contact.
 
"Don't move," Rala said again. He hopped into the open cab, pressed the starter button.
 
Nothing happened.
 
"You moved," Rala said.
 
"No I didn't," Sally replied.
 
"Touch it again," Rala said, holding the starter button down.
 
The engine kicked once, then purred into life.
 
"Yay!" Sally shouted. "We fixed it."
 
Rala smiled. "Yes, we did." He jumped out, took the probe back from Sally, tossed it into the toolbox, packed that back into the cab.
 
"Bye bye, Sally," Rala said, climbing into the cab.
 
"Bye bye."
 
He closed the canopy and engaged the cloak. He watched her pedal away on her trike, then continued on his way.