“Is there,” Nancy inquired almost timidly, “a captain? Someone in charge?”
“Why not?” Qumax said grandly. He looked past me. “Captain Fuzzpuff, allow me to introduce three local primitives.”
I turned to see a three-foot bug balanced on spindly hind legs.
“Captain—?” I said for want of anything better.
At home I stepped on roaches (Freddy had been wrong about my not hurting a fly), and suddenly I feared a roach would step on me.
“At your service,” the bug said in slight whistling tones. “Captain Fuzzpuff of the Comet’s Tail at your service.”
“Captain,” I said, overwhelmed. “How is it you know our language?”
“Doesn’t take long,” the bug said. “Not when you learn to apply what your species calls telepathy.”
Telepathy! Qumax had warned me, but it hadn’t sunk in. The bug must have been reading my mind the very moment I was thinking of—
“Do not be concerned,” Fuzzpuff said with what must have been a smile. A mandibular smile. “At home we step on humanoids.”
I decided to act while the acting was good. “Captain, I need to speak with someone in authority. My world, Earth, has business with Jamborango.”
“That would be wise, since you are traveling with a Jam prince. It isn’t convenient to place a call at the moment, but once you reach Jamborango you will be able to speak for your self.”
“But I’m not going to—”
“You have little choice, I fear. Your companion Qumax specified that you were to accompany him the entire distance, and we are already underway. My schedule does not permit a re-approach to Earth at this stage.”
I looked at Qumax. You worm, I thought with mixed alarm, fury and amazement. What have you gotten us into?
I thought the frying pan was about to catch fire. As if I hadn’t known already how funny such a brat would find such a practical joke.
“Captain,” Nancy said quickly, “could we have a look at your ship? We’ve never been aboard such a vessel before.”
“Certainly,” he said graciously. “If you will follow—?”
We followed. I was glad for the respite from the need to make any decision. I could not really believe that we were in deep space, for only a few moments had passed and I had not felt any acceleration. But if we were—
We marched down a corridor, made a turn to the right, and almost bumped into two aliens with the facial features of bulldogs. “Passengers,” the captain explained. “They happen to be Yabarians. I am Pmpermian. Just as the three of you are Earthian, and Qumax is Jamborangian.”
“But not just any Jam,” Qumax said, sizzling happily.
I looked at Nancy and Nitti, noticing the curious way their nostrils flared. There were bound to be alien smells, I thought, besides Qumax’s licorice.
Another corner and other passengers. While this new pair were still some distance away I had the impression of approaching Mae Wests. Not until we closed the gap did I see that their faces were decidedly simian. As we passed I saw smoky eyes in the masks of light reddish facial hair, perceived that the breasts— really, there was no more decent word—were astonishingly conical, and noted long fleshy pinkish tails. The upper structures were covered by garments not unlike coverall-tops, and the lowers by short skirts; but I had the impression of nakedness and indecency.
These two were conversing in low gurgles. But drowning sounds were the least of what bothered me. As I saw those sensual lips shape and peeked at those hairless bare tails protruding from the too-brief skirts, I felt that I was gazing at something shockingly lewd. It distressed me profoundly. I feared that too many seconds of such sights would affect a normal man’s posture. Yet these were aliens, having no affinity to human beings.
I did not trust myself to speak. Qumax—those things—?
There are many species aboard, as I told you, Rube, Qumax thought disinterestedly. Some close to yours, others not so close. These are Prunians.
“This is telepathy!” I exclaimed.
“You’ll learn to maintain a mindshield eventually,” Qumax said, “so you won’t be embarrassed by untoward thought directed at you.” Prunians close enough for you, Earthian? “Nancy Dilsmore does now; in fact, she can neither receive nor send. Since I had possession of your mind for a time, I opened certain new channels to facilitate communication, though you still need practice. Once you get on to it, you’ll find that languages are easily learned,” How about the cute one on the left—real piece of tail there, no? “since you pick up the meaning, not the alien shape or sound.”
One day I would gladly strangle a certain neckless alien brat!
“And of course there are rules of courtesy about such things,” Fuzzpuff said. “Privacy of thought is highly valued. Once I mastered your spoken language, I did not intrude in your mind again.”
Unlike a certain worm! I fired at Qumax.
“I never felt any itch,” I said to Fuzzpuff.
“There is no discomfort in telepathy,” the captain said. “Mind control is another matter, however. But few galactic species possess that capability, fortunately.”
Qumax sizzled.
Fuzzpuff’s head turned around—all the way around—until it was on backwards. “On this deck,” he continued comfortably, “we have all the living quarters. Below is the cargo hold, most of the freight handlers, the engine room and the ship’s workshops. Cargo accounts for a high percentage of the Comet’s Tail’s mass, however. You may view the unloading operations upon disembarking. Passengers are prohibited below decks without official clearance. This is for safety—of both cargo and passengers.
“Are there, um, lifeboats?” I asked.
“Certainly. But ours have never been used. The only real danger in deep space for a ship such as this one is the unlikely chance of being set upon by a Strumbermian raider.”
“Pirates?” Nancy asked, and Nitti seemed to perk up.
“They very rarely annoy licensed ships, though they have been getting bolder recently. Strumbermians have hitherto preferred attacking craft who fly the colors of worlds not party to the Inner-Galactic Covenant. Such a ship as your own world might launch.”
“Umm, I’m going to have to learn more about these Strumbermians,” I said. After all, as Minister of— “Hey, watch your—”
But it was too late: already Captain Fuzzpuff had stepped into an apparently empty elevator shaft. He floated there, his head still turned backwards, and beckoned with his six hands for us to join him.
I stepped forward hesitantly.
“Oh, don’t be concerned,” Fuzzpuff said. “It’s a lot like the primitive sport you Earthians call sky-diving.”
That did not reassure me particularly, but I screwed my courage to the sticking point and stepped to the brink.
Chicken!
Qumax’s mental ridicule nudged me in. There was no problem. My arms and legs floated and my torso was buoyed as though by water. My shirt fluffed out and so did my pantlegs and, I think, my hair—but that was all. It was enough.
Nancy joined us, and on her the effect was more spectacular. Her hair wafted outward all around her head, and her coveralls nearly ballooned into a baggie. Had she been wearing a skirt . . . but I’d better control my obscene thoughts before she learned to read them!
Qumax fried some more bacon.
Nitti distended even more, resembling a bloated pig. But Qumax floated serenely coiled, unchanged. The brat was showing off again.
We swam upward one deck, using limbs or tentacles. It was easy.
“Here we are at the recreation deck,” said Captain Fuzzpuff. “After you are officially registered as passengers, you will come here to mingle with the others. There aren’t really very many, no more than five or six hundred, since this is a cargo vessel. I trust you will discover suitable entertainments.” He looked at his watch—he didn’t have a watch, but that was what the gesture suggested—and made his apologies. “I have other business, now, unfortunately.
I’m sure one of the seasoned passengers will be happy to show you around, however.”
An alien with the winsome countenance of a baby seal slither-slipped close. It extended a flipper to me that miraculously became a webfingered hand. “Corcos Lamorcos?” it inquired politely.
“Not on your slavedriving life!” Qumax exclaimed. “Get out of here, Spevarian!”
The sealoid slid back, looking hurt.
“What an impolite rebuff!” Nancy said angrily. “It’s only trying to be friendly.”
Qumax indulged in more deep-fat frying. This was a side of him I had not properly appreciated before—the really cruel childish side, that thought it hilarious to insult a sensitive, friendly stranger. “Bring it back,” I said. “We’ll accept its offer to show us around—if it’s still interested.”
The captain went to the seal and talked briefly. The two returned. “The Spevarian Bumvelde will be happy to show you around,” Fuzzpuff said. “No obligation. He didn’t understand.”
Qumax sizzled some more, but did not comment. How bratty could you get?
Bumvelde extended his flipper again and I took it. The extremity was so cool as to seem some kind of plant-leaf, yet there was a sensation of hidden warmth coursing through the digits and a gentle pressure of muscles. Then I felt a very careful, very respectful touch in my mind, partly like a caress and partly like three thousand questions simultaneously.
The Spevarian was learning my language.
Then the sensation was gone. “Over there is a fine library,” Bumvelde said, pointing to a glassed-in cage.
I gaped. “Already? You know English after only these few seconds?” But I reminded myself that Fuzzpuff had done the same thing.
“No, Harold Prodkins,” Bumvelde said. “I merely transposed the configuration of meanings to my own vocabulary, and translate automatically as I go along. This leads to some clumsiness of expression, but not major, I fancy. I think in my own system, and some concepts do not interpolate well.”
I let it go at that. He obviously could operate well enough with his system, whatever it was. “That’s the library,” I said unnecessarily to Nancy.
“Sound, scent, mind tapes and collections of meaningful symbols,” Bumvelde said. “Much good literature and much information. I research there regularly.”
“Very interesting,” I said. “And what is that other area?” I gestured to a sunken place in the floor where aliens of hardly conceivable shape and form gamboled in air.
“The swimming pool. All lifeforms do not appreciate water, but more accept low gravity. You also?”
“I’d probably like it,” I agreed. But it seemed to me that I had already experienced low gravity a couple of times—once in the entrance chamber and again in the elevator shaft. Here gravity seemed about normal. Maybe it was like Earthly foibles, where a bath is not the same as a swim. “And over there?” I seemed to be doing all the questioning; the others, even Qumax, merely followed along.
“Entertainment place. Shows, recitals, whatever.” Bumvelde then led the way through the entire recreation area, identifying everything. There was too much; my mind let the new facts slip almost as rapidly as they entered, leaving me with a general impression of wonder. But Nancy, I could tell, was fascinated.
At one point I stumbled against what I took to be a very large hassock. The long ruglike tongue attached to it straightened and looked at me from two brilliant eyeballs on straight eyestalks. Antennae wiggled. A slip of a mouth opened and spoke in a high-pitched sizzle.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, amazed. “Accident.” Bumvelde said something incomprehensible to the creature—relaying my apology, I hoped—and it settled down again.
We swung around a procession of what seemed to be otters engrossed in some sort of follow-the-leader game and impervious to the cares of other passengers; paused at a stool on which squatted a huge blue toad with four-finger hands clasping what was assuredly a newspaper; circled a group of rowdy raccoon types hoisting big mugs of black brew in a drinking contest; ducked some oversized, overstuffed birds as they dipped and spiraled above a ringed target on which they dropped darts; and finally emerged behind a deckwall on the edge of a long court. Here two praying-mantis characters faced each other across a tennis net. Each mantis held a long pole in each long-fingered hand. As we came on the scene each mantis bowed and the four pole-tips clicked together above the net.
“Watch,” said the Spevarian. “This is a gravbop contest. Both players are from the Devian system, where the game is outlawed— as it is most places.”
Nancy moved close. “What is it?”
“It’s a primitive sport of regrettable popularity,” Bumvelde explained. “Originally a Strumbermian combat sport, and as cruel and uncivilized as its inventors.”
Strumbermians. They were the raiders I had heard mentioned before. I had the impression Bumvelde didn’t approve of the game, yet he watched with a certain fascination. As did we all.
The nearest Devian unrolled a chameleon’s tongue from its mandibled mouth and vibrated its forked tongue at us. I needed no translation to know that we’d been treated to an insulting raspberry.
A shrill whistle sounded. I saw a third, a fourth, and a fifth mantis crowded into a box suspended from the deck’s ceiling. One of them tossed out a ball of a size midway between that of a baseball and a basketball. It lowered to the nettop, spinning. The players waited, their four poles raised.
Lights flashed from the ceiling. An even number of lighted globes drifted from identical ceiling boxes and moved above the floor on either side of the court. The lights were the same size as the ball.
Another whistle blasted, and both mantis leaped forward and swung their poles.
Four poles came together with a resounding crack. The poles moved apart, swung together. Crack-crack! they went as each player tried to get by the other’s guard. The player who was closest feinted with his right pole; the farther Devian blocked. The first brought his left pole around. It collided with the adversary’s head. There was a click-clack noise, like that of solarpool balls hitting a vacuum seal. The player fell and the ball zipped after one of the lights.
The ball caught the light, and the light appeared to be ingested by it. The downed opposition player leaped to its feet in quick recovery and batted the ball. The other Devian blocked. Back and forth went the ball, with both players taking long leaps. When a light was bumped by either player or pole, nothing happened. The lights vanished only when there was ball-to-light contact.
“The object of this so-called sport,” Bumvelde explained, “is for one player to put out all the opposing player’s tag-lights. As you see, each light carries a charge opposite to the gravite on that side of the court. The result is random motion and a seldom-still target. Great skill is required for this barbaric game. And a dense skull.”
One player reached a pole across the net in an undisguised attempt to brain his adversary. “Isn’t that a foul?” Nancy asked.
“In gravbop,” the Spevarian said heavily, “there are very few fouls.”
“I’d think they’d need a rest soon,” I said, becoming more interested. This was a little like Solarpool, I was thinking. Not the head-bopping, but the light-tagging.
“Rest!” Qumax said, and hissed. I was becoming accustomed to his laughter, but still didn’t like it.
“You mean no fouls and no rest periods either?” Nitti asked. This was the first time he’d spoken since we entered the ship. I wondered what was going on in his mind. Alas, I lacked the ability to explore it. Probably, though, he had a pretty good notion of the situation by now.
“None,” the sealoid said. “The game is competition carried to its ultimate. Free enterprise without any saving graces.”
Watching the Devians, I could believe it. A great sport for capitalists. Properly controlled it might even replace war—killing and all.
“I’ll have to set up a court in Lucifernia,” Nitti said. He would.
“Do you enjoy gravbop?”
the Spevarian asked. “You have a gravbop body. You have long limbs and strong muscles.”
“It’s hard to enjoy anything so savage,” I said, knowing that I did rather like it. And I could tell from Nitti’s attitude that he was enjoying the spectacle thoroughly. He probably really would set up a prison-court. The sadist.
“You’d get your primitive primate head bopped, Harold,” Qumax said, with that ubiquitous sizzle.
I took my eyes off the court to glare at him, and in that moment the farther Devian was laid low, probably by a fast-ball shot from his opponent. As the victim fell, the assailant rushed the net and reached across with the pole. It sneaked the ball back, took careful aim and batted out another of its adversary’s tag-lights. Considering the game’s lack of sportsmanship, this was excellent strategy.
Nancy grabbed my arm, concerned for any injury to anyone or anything. “Is it—is it hurt?”
“Probably,” Bumvelde said. “However, heads do heal sometimes, which is more than can be said for the brains of confirmed players.”
Nancy looked sick. “I—I don’t care for this at all,” she confessed. “I want to leave—right now, before these so-called sportsmen manage to exterminate each other.”
“But it’s just getting interesting,” Nitti said. The blood-thirsty turkey! Yet I was loath to leave the game myself.
Nancy started off on her own, and I had to follow. The others hurried to catch up.
“Would you like to stop at the dining salon?” Bumvelde asked.
“Yes!” Nancy and Nitti and I cried almost together. I had not realized it in the continuing novelty and action, but I had never stopped being hungry after the Jupegas sleep. Nancy must have felt the same, and evidently Nitti was just as eager. We all needed to eat.
Bumvelde showed the way to stalls that reminded me of a stable. The smell was not far off, either. I realized that the alien tastes were reflected in the ambient odors; naturally not all were appealing to the human nostril.
“You step in and don a helmet,” Bumvelde explained, “and you imagine the food you want, the flavors you desire, and the approximate vitamin and mineral content.”
E. S. P. Worm Page 7