From far off, a long way away, a faint sound came, a kind of crashing sound.
“Roog!” Boris cried, looking around. He hurried to the gate and stood up, his paws on top of the fence.
In the distance the sound came again, louder now, not as far away as before. It was a crashing, clanging sound, as if something were being rolled back, as if a great door were being opened
“Roog!” Boris cried. He stared up anxiously at the darkened windows above him. Nothing stirred, nothing.
And along the street the Roogs came. The Roogs and their truck moved along bouncing against the rough stones, crashing and whirring.
“Roog!” Boris cried, and he leaped, his eyes blazing. Then he became more calm. He settled himself down on the ground and waited, listening.
Out in front the Roogs stopped their truck. He could hear them opening the doors stepping down onto the sidewalk. Boris ran around in a little circle. He whined and his muzzle turned once again toward the house.
Inside the warm, dark bedroom, Mr. Cardossi sat up a little in bed and squinted at the clock.
“That damn dog,” he muttered. “That damn dog.” He turned his face toward the pillow and closed his eyes.
The Roogs were coming down the path, now. The first Roog pushed against the gate and the gate opened. The Roogs came into the yard. The dog backed away from them.
“Roog! Roog!” he cried. The horrid, bitter smell of Roogs came to his nose, and he turned away.
“The offering urn,” the first Roog said. “It is full, I think.” He smiled at the rigid, angry dog. “How very good of you,” he said
The Roogs came toward the metal can, and one of them took the lid from it.
“Roog! Roog!” Boris cried, huddled against the bottom of the porch steps. His body shook with horror. The Roogs were lifting up the big metal can, turning it on its side. The contents poured out onto the ground, and the Roogs scooped the sacks of bulging, splitting paper together, catching at the orange peels and fragments, the bits of toast and egg shells.
One of the Roogs popped an egg shell into his mouth. His teeth crunched the egg shell.
“Roog!” Boris cried hopelessly, almost to himself. The Roogs were almost finished with their work of gathering up the offering. They stopped for a moment, looking at Boris.
Then, slowly, silently, the Roogs looked up, up the side of the house, along the stucco, to the window, with its brown shade pulled tightly down.
“ROOG!” Boris screamed, and he came toward them, dancing with fury and dismay. Reluctantly, the Roogs turned away from the window. They went out through the gate, closing it behind them.
“Look at him,” the last Roog said with contempt, pulling his corner of the blanket up on his shoulder. Boris strained against the fence, his mouth open, snapping wddly. The biggest Roog began to wave his arms furiously and Boris retreated. He settled down at the bottom of the porch steps, his mouth still open, and from the depths of him an unhappy, terrible moan issued forth, a wail of misery and despair.
“Come on,” the other Roog said to the lingering Roog at the fence.
They walked up the path.
“Well, except for these little places around the Guardians, this area is well cleared,” the biggest Roog said. “I’ll be glad when this particular Guardian is done. He certainly causes us a lot of trouble.”
“Don’t be impatient,” one of the Roogs said. He grinned. “Our truck is full enough as it is. Let’s leave something for next week.”
All the Roogs laughed.
They went on up the path, carrying the offering in the dirty, sagging blanket.
The Little Movement
The man was sitting on the sidewalk, holding the box shut with his hands. Impatiently the lid of the box moved, straining up against his fingers.
“All right,” the man murmured. Sweat rolled down his face, damp, heavy sweat. He opened the box slowly, holding his fingers over the opening. From inside a metallic drumming came, a low insistent vibration, rising frantically as the sunlight filtered into the box.
A small head appeared, round and shiny, and then another. More heads jerked into view, peering, craning to see. “I’m first,” one head shrilled. There was a momentary squabble, then quick agreement.
The man sitting on the sidewalk lifted out the little metal figure with trembling hands. He put it down on the sidewalk and began to wind it awkwardly, thick-fingered. It was a brightly painted soldier with helmet and gun, standing at attention. As the man turned the key the little soldier’s arms went up and down. It struggled eagerly.
Along the sidewalk two women were coming, talking together. They glanced down curiously at the man sitting on the sidewalk, at the box and the shiny figure in the man’s hands.
“Fifty cents,” the man muttered. “Get your child something to –”
“Wait!” a faint metallic voice came. “Not them!”
The man broke off abruptly. The two women looked at each other and then at the man and the little metal figure. They went hurriedly on.
The little soldier gazed up and down the street, at the cars, the shoppers. Suddenly it trembled, rasping in a low, eager voice.
The man swallowed. “Not the kid,” he said thickly. He tried to hold onto the figure, but metal fingers dug quickly into his hand. He gasped.
“Tell them to stop!” the figure shrilled. “Make them stop!” The metal figure pulled away and clicked across the sidewalk, its legs still and rigid.
The boy and his father slowed to a stop, looking down at it with interest. The sitting man smiled feebly; he watched the figure approach them, turning from side to side, its arms going up and down.
“Get something for your boy. An exciting playmate. Keep him company.”
The father grinned, watching the figure coming up to his shoe. The little soldier bumped into the shoe. It wheezed and clicked. It stopped moving.
“Wind it up!” the boy cried.
His father picked up the figure. “How much?”
“Fifty cents.” The salesman rose unsteadily, clutching the box against him. “Keep him company. Amuse him.”
The father turned the figure over. “You sure you want it, Bobby?”
“Sure! Wind it up!” Bobby reached for the little soldier. “Make it go!”
“I’ll buy it,” the father said. He reached into his pocket and handed the man a dollar bill.
Clumsily, staring away, the salesman made change.
The situation was excellent.
The little figure lay quietly, thinking everything over. All circumstances had conspired to bring about optimum solution. The Child might not have wanted to stop, or the Adult might not have had any money. Many things might have gone wrong; it was awful even to think about them. But everything had been perfect.
The little figure gazed up in pleasure, where it lay in the back of the car. It had correctly interpreted certain signs: the Adults were in control, and so the Adults had money. They had power, but their power made it difficult to get to them. Their power, and their size. With the Children it was different. They were small, and it was easier to talk to them. They accepted everything they heard, and they did what they were told. Or so it was said at the factory.
The little metal figure lay, lost in dreamy, delicious thoughts.
The boy’s heart was beating quickly. He ran upstairs and pushed the door open. After he had closed the door carefully he went to the bed and sat down. He looked down at what he held in his hands.
“What’s your name?” he said. “What are you called?”
The metal figure did not answer.
“I’ll introduce you around. You must get to know everybody. You’ll like it here.”
Bobby laid the figure down on the bed. He ran to the closet and dragged out a bulging carton of toys.
“This is Bonzo,” he said. He held up a pale stuffed rabbit. “And Fred.” He turned the rubber pig around for the soldier to see. “And Teddo, of course. This is Teddo.”
He carried Teddo to the bed and laid him beside the soldier. Teddo lay silent, gazing up at the ceiling with glassy eyes. Teddo was a brown bear, with wisps of straw poking out of his joints.
“And what shall we call you?” Bobby said. “I think we should have a council and decide.” He paused, considering. “I’ll wind you up so we can all see how you work.”
He began to wind the figure carefully, turning it over on its face. When the key was tight he bent down and set the figure on the floor.
“Go on,” Bobby said. The metal figure stood still. Then it began to whirr and click. Across the floor it went, walking with stiff jerks. It changed directions suddenly and headed toward the door. At the door it stopped. Then it turned to some building blocks lying about and began to push them into a heap.