The Big Front Yard and Other Stories by Clifford D. Simak

knives and such.
    â€œThey say,” said Beasly, “that they want to dicker.”
    â€œDicker?”
    â€œSure, Hiram. You know, trade.”
    Beasly chuckled thinly. “Imagine them laying themselves open to a Yankee trader. That’s what Henry says you are. He says you can skin a man on the slickest –”
    â€œLeave Henry out of this,” snapped Taine. “Let’s leave Henry out of something.”
    He sat down on the ground and the three sat down to face him.
    â€œAsk them what they have in mind to trade.”
    â€œIdeas,” Beasly said.
    â€œIdeas! That’s a crazy thing –”
    And then he saw it wasn’t.
    Of all the commodities that might be exchanged by an alien people, ideas would be the most valuable and the easiest to handle. They’d take no cargo room and they’d upset no economies – not immediately, that is – and they’d make a bigger contribution to the welfare of the cultures than trade in actual goods.
    â€œAsk them,” said Taine, “what they’ll take for the idea back of those saddles they are riding.”
    â€œThey say, what have you to offer?”
    And that was the stumper. That was the one that would be hard to answer.
    Automobiles and trucks, the internal gas engine – well, probably not. Because they already had the saddles. Earth was out-of-date in transportation from the viewpoint of these people.
    Housing architecture – no, that was hardly an idea and, anyhow, there was that other house, so they knew of houses.
    Cloth? No, they had cloth.
    Paint, he thought. Maybe paint was it.
    â€œSee if they are interested in paint,” Taine told Beasly.
    â€œThey say, what is it? Please explain yourself.”
    â€œO.K., then. Let’s see. It’s a protective device to be spread over almost any surface. Easily packaged and easily applied. Protects against weather and corrosion. It’s decorative, too. Comes in all sorts of colors. And it’s cheap to make.”
    â€œThey shrug in their mind,” said Beasly. “They’re just slightly interested. But they will listen more. Go ahead and tell them.”
    And that was more like it, thought Taine.
    That was the kind of language that he could understand.
    He settled himself more firmly on the ground and bent forward slightly, flicking his eyes across the three dead-pan, ebony faces, trying to make out what they might be thinking.
    There was no making out. Those were three of the deadest pans he had ever seen.
    It was all familiar. It made him feel at home. He was in his element.
    And in the three across from him, he felt somehow subconsciously, he had the best dickering opposition he had ever met. And that made him feel good too.
    â€œTell them,” he said, “that I’m not quite sure. I may have spoken up too hastily. Paint, after all, is a mighty valuable idea.”
    â€œThey say, just as a favor to them, not that they’re really interested, would you tell them a little more.”
    Got them hooked, Taine told himself. If he could only play it right –
    He settled down to dickering in earnest.
    VI
    Hours later Henry Horton showed up. He was accompanied by a very urbane gentleman, who was faultlessly turned out and who carried beneath his arm an impressive attaché case.
    Henry and the man stopped on the steps in sheer astonishment.
    Taine was squatted on the ground with a length of board and he was daubing paint on it while the aliens watched. From the daubs here and there upon their anatomies, it was plain to see the aliens had been doing some daubing of their own. Spread all over the ground were other lengths of half-painted boards and a couple of dozen old cans of paint.
    Taine looked up and saw Henry and the man.
    â€œI was hoping,” he said, “that someone would show up.”
    â€œHiram,” said Henry, with more importance than usual, “may I present Mr. Lancaster. He is a special