On The Planet Of The Hippies From Hell

by Harry Harrison

  Even Bill couldn't actually totally buy this, but he continued on his mission nonetheless. If for no other reason than that he had been militarily brainwashed and had about as much free will left as a flea.

  And Bill liked fairs. He liked them a lot. They would have fairs back on Phigerinadon II, and once, when he was ten years old, his Mom had taken him to the Phigerinadon II World's Fair. It wasn't as big as this 1939 Fair on Earth of course, but to a ten-year-old it was the biggest, most wonderful experience imaginable.

  It was at the Phigerinadon II World's Fair that Bill had decided he wanted to grow up to be a Fertilizer Technician. The theme of that particular fair had, in fact, been Better Living Through Fertilizer. Bill, who'd already been working in the fields for five years, marveled at the wonderful new technology and the exciting new strains of fertilizer! Bill had never realized how many different kinds of fertilizers there were and how, through genetic engineering, scientific Mix-mastering and a good, well-trained nose, one could develop just the right fertilizer for just the right crop.

  It had been a revelation. The boy had been fascinated. He took the Fertilizer Falls ride over and over again. He performed astoundingly well at the Fertilizer IQ Test.

  The Fertilizer Technicians exclaimed with joy at the results, and proclaimed that he was a genius. They wanted to send him off to P.U. on Fertilizer World, awarded with the special Thomas D. Crapper Scholarship.

  However, Mom needed him to work the fields, so he couldn't go. Still, those were golden memories at the Phigerinadon II Fair.

  And now, here he was at another World's Fair. Bill could not help but feel a little thrill of nostalgia.

  Already he was planning on how to get himself a beer despite Bgr's objections. But he was doing all the walking now so he would tough it out.

  So Bill just said, "I'm going to have a beer, Bgr. I don't care what you say."

  "I suppose there is no breaking the addiction. But make it fast. And just don't spill it on me, got that?"

  Bill fished a dollar bill out of his pocket. Fortunately, the Chinger had foreseen the need for cash here, and before they'd left the subway car they had gone through the dead Nazi's pockets.

  The dollar bill portrayed a man named George Von Washington who had a funny looking black haircut and a postage-stamp-sized mustache.

  Bill hurried up to a booth and was soon snozzling into a large stein of beer. Damned good beer, too.

  "There," said Bgr. "You've had your fill of your disgusting beverage and habit. Now can we get back to the business of saving our universe?"

  Bill, his nerves calmed considerably, nodded. "Yeah, sure. But I've been meaning to ask you, Bgr. Why are you doing this? Why did you masquerade as Elliot Methadrine? And a Time Cop? And also, how come you're on my side?"

  "Bill, don't you think that we Chingers foresaw Bad Things with that Time Hole business? There aren't any such things as Time Cops ... that was just so I could be the boss. And finally — look, as much as Chingers hate your Emperor and your race in general, this kind of time crime must be stopped. It strains the whole time fabric of the universe which, take it from me, is not a good thing."

  Bill, generally ignorant of anything outside the military, or fertilizer, which at many times is very much the same thing, hadn't the slightest idea of what Bgr was talking about. But he nodded like a fool and enjoyed the pleasing sensation of his belly full of beer.

  Bgr the Chinger directed him to a World's Fair guide and directory.

  Bill examined the guide, reading the contents.

  Beer Exhibition.

  Pretzel Exhibition.

  Jackboot Exhibition.

  Fun Mit Der Fuhrer.

  Schnaps Exhibition.

  Wienerschnitzel and Dachshund Exhibition.

  Foreign Pavilions of Inferior Races.

  "That's it!" said Bgr. "Let's move."

  "The Schnaps Exhibition looks good. I even know what that word means. We could start there —"

  "Shut up," Bgr smiled. "Saving the fabric of the universe comes first." He popped his head out of the pocket for a quick look. "Come on, this way. According to the directory map, it's right down this row, here."

  Bill shrugged and allowed himself to be directed to the British Pavilion.

  The British Empire appeared to be in trouble, for the pavilion turned out to be a particularly ramshackle affair, poorly constructed of tea chests and plywood awkwardly tacked together. There were no photos, no samples or demonstrations. Just a rather tattered Union Jack, with a swastika in one corner, nailed to the wall. But a row of dilapidated chairs did face a projection booth where a grainy image of a slothful cricket match was being shown. Before it slumped Sir Dudley — sound asleep.

  "Dudley!" said Bgr, head popped out again.

  "Indubitably," he responded instantly awake. "But whom, might I ask, are you?"

  "I used to be Elliot."

  "I say — you certainly have shrunk!"

  "Yes, well, we'll get into that later. Right now, you've got to take us to the place in time where we can stop this madness!"

  "Rather! A nasty bit of work, this world, so I wouldn't be adverse to that. But where is the time nexus of the trouble?"

  "According to my calculations," said Bgr, "the change that caused this particular Time Line could only have been brought about because all the Bloomsbury group decided to write horny-porny, thus making it a respectable form of literature. Take us to England at the turn of the century, Dudley. To London and Bloomsbury, to the residence of Virginia Wolfe! We need to discuss this business with her!"

  "Ahh, dear old Blighty, my pleasure indeed. Just pop inside, if you please."

  "That's it, Bill!" commanded Bgr. "Step."

  Bill took a firm step forward into the maw of the Time Portal. He was getting to be an old hand at this!

  "I say — not quite ready yet!"

  Bill tried to stop stepping, but he'd already tripped over the edge.

  Bill fell screaming into the Time hole.

  The only other sound he heard was Bgr's angry cry as he fell from Bill's shirt pocket.

  CHAPTER 16

  Bill fell.

  Being a borderline alcoholic, Bill had of course fallen before. But never quite like this. Sometimes he felt like he was falling up, sometimes he felt like he was falling down. Sometimes it felt like he was falling north, south, west and east and all the various combinations, blown by the wildest winds imaginable across skies filled with clouds and unimaginable colors. Skirling music and swirling smells enveloped him. He heard music and voices dopplering all around him, as though he were inside some gigantic radio and some idiot was twirling the channel selector crazily across the wave-band selector.

  Bill fell for a long time.

  He lost consciousness several times, although he didn't realize it, since the rules didn't seem to work the same here.

  Colors, colors, colors.

  Music, music, music.

  Voices, voices, voices.

  Voice: "You there, I see you and I am talking to you."

  Bill looked around and saw no one else, so he realized that the voice must be talking to him. He also realized that he was no longer falling. And was sitting in some sort of cloud bank.

  "Me?" said Bill.

  "You see anyone else I might be talking to?" snapped the voice. "What are you doing here?"

  "Well, there was this Time Portal and Bgr the Chinger said that we were supposed to go back to talk to somebody or something. And then —"

  "Never mind. That's enough to let me know that things are in their usual mess around you." The voice had a booming, numinous quality — like an admiral on the P.A. system in a starship with reverb. For some reason it made Bill shiver. He looked around him worriedly.

  As far as he could see, clouds stretched away in all directions. In the distance, between cracks in the clouds, Bill could see stars. From a break in the clouds above, a single shaft of light shone down like a pillar of fire.

  Bill did n
ot like this, was more than a little worried. "Would you, sir, let me know where I am —"

  "Shut up!" the voice commanded. "I am going to tell you a joke, Bill, a joke that might give you a clue. Here's the joke." The light quivered mysteriously. "What does an agnostic dyslexic insomniac do?"

  "Uhmmm — that's a tough one," he muttered.

  "Try harder, Bill. Put some of your so-called brain into it."

  "Maybe he doesn't do anything?"

  "What a true idiot you are. You're supposed to say, 'I don't know.'"

  There was a heavy bass on the voice. The clouds rumbled and quivered, and Bill rumbled and quivered right along with them. The situation was getting more than a little worrying.

  "I don't know," Bill finally quavered.

  "That's better. Now I deliver the punch line!"

  Bill flinched, expecting a fist to appear from nowhere. Stranger things had happened.

  "An agnostic dyslexic insomniac stays up all night, wondering if there's a dog!"

  The clouds thundered with laughter.

  Bill didn't get it, but he figured he'd better laugh too.

  "Pretty funny, huh, Bill?"

  "You bet, wow, a real yak!"

  "I wish I'd made that joke up myself, Bill, I tell you. But I told you that joke for a reason. I generally don't make appearances before people, so when I do I at least try to be slightly oblique about it."

  "Oh ... yeah. I get it," he said, not getting it at all.

  "Bill, don't you understand?" rumbled the voice, groaning with exasperation. "There is a dog!"

  "I never had a dog," said Bill. "I had a robo-mule, though!"

  "This borders on the believable. I bet that you can't walk and talk at the same time. Do I have to spell it out for you? Do I have to burn a bush or knock you on the head with tablets or — wait a minute. I know...."

  Bill was hardly listening. He was really thirsty and sure could use a drink. And he still hadn't the slightest idea what the invisible voice was talking about. A beer — a really frosty large mug of beer obsessed him.

  Zoroaster, he certainly could use one of those!

  Suddenly, with a slight pinging sound, a mug of beer materialized before him, just as he'd imagined it!

  Bill's reflexes went into gear before his thoughts could engage. He reached out, grabbed the beer and had sucked it halfway down before he realized the miraculous quality of what had just occurred.

  "That's pretty good — how is it done?"

  The voice seemed fairly writhing with frustration: "That is not the point, you moron. Think about it, my boy. If you can. Think of your previous, unspoken thought. Whose name did you take in vain, wishing for that beer?"

  Bill blinked. "Oh. Zoroaster, I think." He continued drinking the beer. And then it hit him.

  He spit out a spume of beer.

  "Zoroaster! Is that you? I mean I'm sorry, sir — that is I mean — gulp — is that really you out there? — you really exist!"

  "Finally caught on, Bill. This is your god speaking — because you've been a rather bad boy, haven't you? Drinking and chasing girls — and catching them! — and killing Chingers and fragging officers ... all the things quite against the way you were brought up in your church. Am I wrong?"

  Bill's insides turned to jelly. Old childhood terrors and tales of hellfire suddenly spasmed up to the surface of his mind and festered there. He hadn't thought about Zoroaster for a long, long time he realized — he'd backslid! Of course there were chapels and stuff in the service, but they were there only to reinforce the concept of the Emperor as God Incarnate and to spike the communion wafers with training-reinforcement drugs. As a child, Bill had been a model altar-boy sort, the pride of his Mother and the lead soprano in the children's choir.

  "I haven't been a good Zoroastrian," moaned Bill, head bowed penitently.

  "And what happens to my downsliding children?" said the Voice.

  "They are chained to a rock in a sea of fire for a thousand years."

  "Bill, I'm reaching for the chains." There was a hideous metallic rattling and Bill's stomach dropped into his boots.

  "Don't say it, no! You mean ... you mean I'm dead?" With a hideous groan he dropped to his knees, bringing his hands up into contrite prayer. Unfortunately he forgot that he had a half-full mug of beer in his hands and drenched himself.

  The Voice tsk-tsked. "Now that's a waste of good beer, Bill."

  "Please! Please! A second chance — that's all I want. Let me live and I promise to live a better life, far far better than I lived before!"

  "That certainly would not be hard. But actually, Bill, you're not quite dead yet."

  "I'm not?"

  "No. In fact, you're a pretty healthy guy. You've got to be to take the kind of punishment you've been giving yourself. I see cirrhosis eventually, definitely, but another mortal's liver would have been deep-fried by now!"

  "I'm alive!" Bill said, laughing, and dancing around. Suddenly, though, he stopped. "But if I'm not dead — where am I, then?"

  "It's a little difficult to explain, Bill, particularly to someone with your attention span. Did you ever push the 'Pause' button on a Holo-VCR?"

  "Sure. I have a good technical background."

  "You certainly do if you could master something that intricate." There was an edge of sarcasm to the disembodied voice. "Let's just say that's what I did, Bill. Let's just say that I wanted to have a word or two with you."

  Bill nodded contritely. "I can understand that, oh mighty in your wisdom and kindness, great Zoroaster. I'm listening. Real carefully. You want me to stop drinking? I'll stop drinking. You want me to stop cursing? I'll stop saying 'bowb' forever. I'll start going to chapel again. But no rock! No chains!"

  "Not to fear — that's not my bag. It's a scam some priests dreamed up to keep the peasants in line. Just a myth, actually, Bill. Anyway, I'm not here to threaten you. I thought you'd be interested in an opportunity for salvation, redemption, and double-value for your eternal prayer collection."

  Bill nodded eagerly. "Anything you say, Mr. Z."

  "I pulled you out of a major goof-up, while you were diving back through the Stuff between Time and Space, so you were pretty accessible. I don't usually take too much notice of mortal affairs, but this business you're involved in is pretty important. So I grabbed the chance to have a word or two with you."

  "My pleasure, oh mighty Zoroaster!"

  "That's more like it, Bill. A little obsequiousness and writhing goes a long way to cheer a god. I consider myself a pretty lenient deity, as deities go. None of my buddy Jawah's stuff about being vengeful and remorseless — or Allah chopping off hands and so forth. My philosophy toward all universal creation has been pretty hands-off. Free will. Stuff like that. The mess that humanity has gotten itself into is pretty much its own fault. Right?"

  "Right, bang-on, sir."

  "War, murder, officers, infanticide — they're kind of hard to ignore. But I do my best."

  "But killing Chingers, that's great, right, sir? I'll kill lots of Chingers for you! I'll even blast Bgr, if you want!"

  "Well, actually, Bill, that's not quite what I had in mind. Particularly since Chingers are actually a lot better creatures than you human beings. Sometimes I think I dropped your prototypes on their heads or something. No, Bill, not Chingers!"

  "Horny-porny comix. They'll have to go."

  "Not if I have my way. Good fun. I'll miss reading them — but you are close. I suppose they are for the knackers, though. My thanks, my boy, for pointing this out. Perhaps you're smarter than I thought. No, it's certainly not horny-porny, Bill. It's the Nazis."

  "The Nazis."

  "Yep. The Nazis. Talk about excrescences. They've got to be stopped, or they'll take over the Universe! I feel them breathing down my neck already."

  "But —"

  "Good question, Bill. Why should they bother Me? Well, I'll tell you. The whole thing is really My fault. If a god could feel guilt, I would even feel guilty. You see, I was cookin
g up a stew of morals and clean living for a new world I'm designing and I left it in the sun and it turned sour. Not thinking, I just threw it away. Unhappily this mass of decay hit Earth, a country in particular called Germany, and that was it. Need I say more?"

  Bill blinked. "So what happened?"

  There was a celestial sigh. "Well, obviously I do have to say more. Must I explain everything to you? Obviously, yes. The rot spread, and voila. Nazis. Imagine! Nazis, even a lower form of life than lawyers, Emperors or Second Lieutenants."

  "So what do I do, Zoroaster?"

  "Simple. Fight Nazism. According to my classified sources, they're the ones behind all this Time Slip business. Stamp them out, Bill, you've got my permission and instructions, do that and my light will shine on you!"

  "I'll do it, great Zoroaster! All my Trooper training will be put to the test. But I'll do this. But it would help with the transport problem, if you could tell me where they are, get me in touch with the Nazis."

  "Well, Bill, as much as I would like to, and I really and truly would, there's the problem of intelligence here. I hate to admit it but I really don't know exactly what's going on! Some other deity seems to have a hold on this particular thread of your life, and by golly if he's not doing some fancy cross-stitching with you —"

  "But — but —" Bill butted fairly incoherently.

  "I know, Bill, it hurts to hear that. I may be immortal but I'm not omnipotent. So you're on your own — although my best wishes go with you of course. So — go get them, tiger!"

  And then the clouds parted beneath Bill's feet and he fell once more into total confusion.

  CHAPTER 17

  Total confusion, Pilgrimworld, was a little two-rocket ship town just this side of Nowhere and well to the Galactic South of Somewhere. It was a well-known place for colonists to stop off to wet their feet in the sort of trials and tribulations they could expect on their respective chosen colony worlds, and maybe wet their whistles on some of the famous homegrown moonshine. The theory was, if you could survive Pilgrimworld's 'shine, you could weather various and sundry conditions on whatever hunk of wasted intergalactic rock you'd cast your lot with.