On The Planet Of The Hippies From Hell

by Harry Harrison

  Sure enough, soon he saw the outline of the door to freedom. It was a hatch, and daylight shone through, smelly and smoggy but daylight nonetheless. Almost blinded by the light, Bill staggered down the gangplank.

  Free, he thought. Free!

  But free — where?

  "Hey, Trooper. Where the hell do you think you're going?" demanded a guard.

  "Where am I?" asked Bill.

  "You're really out of it, aren't you! You're at the Happy Trails Spaceport on Jinx Ether Force Base. You're trying to get off this Starship BEELZEBUB. So who the hell are you?"

  It all came back to him, all of it. With his new intelligence, he was able to see exactly what had happened.

  He'd gone back in time, gone back the hard way —

  And bumped into himself.

  He knew immediately what he had to say.

  "I'm Lieutenant Brandox. That's who I am!"

  "Great. That means that the Trooper found who he's looking for, huh? Where the hell is he?"

  "He's on his way. He should be out any moment now."

  The guard examined his watch. "He'd better shake it! This thing's about ready to go."

  "Don't worry," said Bill. "He'll make it. Just...."

  Sure enough, at exactly three seconds before it was too late, he saw himself barreling and rolling down the gangplank. The Trooper that was his past self rolled to a halt at the bottom of the ramp.

  "Hey, guy," said the guard. "This guy Brandox?"

  Bill stared down at his past self, with all the beseeching he could muster from his reddened eyeballs. He met his own gaze, and something strange clicked.

  "Yeah. That's him. He's coming with me."

  "Well, I suggest you get in your grav-car and get the hell outta here because these things go off in an explosion that cinders living things for yards around." The guard immediately started running away, leaving them alone.

  Bill looked around. Sure enough, there was the grav-car he remembered. He jumped into the back seat.

  Grumpily, the before-Bill leaped into the driver's seat and gunned the anti-grav repulsors. "I don't know why I'm doing this. I just don't know," he said as they raced away.

  "You won't be sorry, Bill," said Bill. "I promise you."

  Bill heard the BEELZEBUB behind them, starting to blast off. Then he felt something tugging at his wrist.

  The bracelet ... it was activating. Behind the impervium shielding of the BEELZEBUB it wouldn't work. But out here, it had shot off a signal through time and space —

  A signal to Sir Dudley and Elliot-Bgr.

  Sure enough, before he even had a moment to extrapolate mentally from this thought, the two of them materialized. They hung suspended in the air, Elliot waving him toward the time gate.

  Bill didn't even wait for an invitation. Long hair flapping, he hurled himself from the speeding grav-car directly into Sir Dudley the Time Portal. Elliot-Bgr and a much-changed Bill disappeared, leaping back into the future.

  And to Hellworld.

  "Where are we?" Bill gasped, coughing as he inhaled the smoky, polluted air. Lightning shot from dark clouds, fetid warm rain fell on the decayed, crumbling city that surrounded them. Murky figures shuffled through the gloom as distant thunder rumbled.

  "You might very well ask," Sir Dudley sniffed. "While you were doing whatever you were doing — and judging by the way you look it was surely an interesting experience — Elliot and I decided enough was enough. Even restoring the Bloomsbury group to their boring epistles did not remove the Nazi menace completely. So Hellworld must still exist. Using the most sophisticated tracking and computational techniques, I located this undescended testicle of time. A recursive loop that was originating all the trouble in time. We are here now to eliminate it forever."

  "Sounds reasonable," Bill observed. "Investigate, elucidate, cogitate, eliminate."

  "Gee, Bill, all of a sudden you are talking funny," Elliot-Bgr said. "What did happen to you while you were away?"

  "I will be happy to elucidate after we terminate the present operation."

  "Yeah — gee — wow," Elliot-Bgr muttered, shaking his head in mystification as he turned to Sir Dudley. "What facts do you have on this place?"

  "Very little. Planet of doom and despair. I get Nazi readings and a strong smell of hippies. Also, I must add, a sonic boom of horny-porny. Yes, there it is — we are there at last — the home of horny-pony and horny-porny fandom! And I must say, Bill, indeed I must, that you certainly look the part!"

  Bill caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked window of a decaying building. He could not help but gasp. He looked a great deal like the guy who had tried to murder him on board the starship to Barworld!

  Shaggy, uncombed hair hung down from the top of his head. He had a long beard and mustache. His clothes were ragged and tattered.

  "Disgusting — but an excellent disguise for this operation, is it not?" he commented.

  Elliot-Bgr turned up his nose in disgust. "Yeah, fine, Bill. You better get yourself a bath though, huh Trooper? I always said from the beginning that all bowby humans have B.O. Chingers can't sweat. Chingers forever! — but you're particularly offensive today, Bill!"

  "I'll agree completely," said Sir Dudley.

  "I do apologize, gentlemen. Dreadfully sorry, but I have been lying in a prison ship for two years, so I would appreciate a bit more understanding."

  Elliot-Bgr shook his head sorrowfully. Or was the shaking of the head a Chinger expression of sarcastic mirth? "That must have been rough, Bill. Glad you got out, though. Gee — we were combing the time-ways for you, guy. Just what did you do to while away the time?"

  "Well, I'm sober," said Bill. "I'm sober and I don't want a drink. And with the help of that implant J. Edgar Insufledor gave me, I am now educated!"

  "No!" said Sir Dudley.

  "Yes, and I have come up with the Meaning of Life!"

  "You're pulling my tail!" said the Chinger.

  "Of course, to do so I had to develop my own mathematical language. And to understand the Meaning of Life, you have to understand the equations," Bill said.

  "Gee — why don't we get you a bath before our first lesson?"

  "Yes, and then let's deal with these hippies and Time Nazis!"

  "It's really worth it. It will solve all the problems of the universe — you'll join me in this great understanding."

  The trio hurried along to find a hotel room. The Time Nazis and the hippies from Hellworld could wait a while longer; Bill needed a bath!

  As they strode along, Bill noticed that all of the natives, women and men alike, looked much like him. Shaggy hair, ratty clothes. However, they all had something that Bill did not: a propeller beanie perched atop their heads.

  "Ah ha!" he said. "Yes! The emblem of the hardcore aficionado of horny-porny! So this must be the planet that they migrated to in hopes of fleeing persecution!"

  "Gee, Bill, we just said all that!"

  "Ah!" said Bill, taking in the sights. "Ah ha!" After such a long time in a dank, dark hole it was incredibly invigorating and intriguing to have this wide array of sensory input. And what fascinating stuff as well! This entire city seems built like a gigantic convention center! And the indigenous population seems to be involved in one long never-ending horny-porny convention, an overripe tradition established somewhere in the lost mists of time."

  "Let's get that hotel room and that bath!" said Elliot-Bgr. "You can make the intelligent observations later!"

  They wended their way past huckster rooms jammed with books, cheap jewelry, horny-porny magazines and the oddest effluvia that Bill had ever seen. Long-haired Hellworld hippies marched around in barbarian outfits, half-naked slave girl disguises, sadomasochistic bordello madams with whips and other interesting outfits. They walked past rooms filled with hippies listening to horny-porny personages prattle on about buggering, battering, wanking, pranking and other colorful concepts the mind cannot stomach. They walked past great halls filled with art shows, filled with pictur
es that looked as though ripped straight from Bill's Three-Dee collection of horny-porny comix.

  The pre-educated Bill might have been quite impressed, but the present, superacademic Bill, equipped with the equivalent of ten PhDs from Oxford, three from Harvard and a honorary kiss on the forehead from the president of Berkeley, was appalled.

  "My goodness. What perverted taste! I can only imagine the horrors perpetrated by their fiction!"

  For Bill, in his relaxing hours from all his learning, had also read all the great classics — from BEOWULF through Shakespeare to ABDUCTION: THE UFO CONSPIRACY. So he well knew the difference between Quality and Sleazy Popular Trash. Bill's fondest hope now, after imparting the Meaning of Life to the inept incompetents of the universe, was to write his memoirs — if only to attempt to remember what had actually happened to him. Clearly, it was the Sleazy Popular Trash these horny-porny hippies on Hellworld consumed.

  "Come on Bill," said Elliot-Bgr. "This stuff may stink all right. But right now, you stink worse!"

  The trio obtained a room with a bath and there immersed Bill in a bathtub. It took five separate bathtubs full of hot water to scrub the grime from Bill's body. It was decided, however, to keep his hair and beard, since that way the group could be much better disguised as they sought out the source of the horny-porny infection.

  To aid their disguise, Sir Dudley no longer looked like a Time Portal but was disguised as a torture master complete with whips and molten lead pot. Elliot-Bgr was most fetching as a half-naked Babylonian harlot.

  "Shall we proceed, gentlemen?" Bill asked. For, indeed, he was very proud of his newly acquired intelligence. He had, finally, a purpose to his existence.

  He was not only going to save the universe, he was going to give to it the meaning that had enriched his own soul so much!

  CHAPTER 21

  "Yeah! What can I do for youse guys?" the security guard wanted to know. He was a big, muscular moron wearing a polka-dot propeller beanie and a blue uniform with epaulets, a gun holster and, of course, a gun. Also, his fly was open.

  "Good afternoon," said Bill with a polite bow. "We are horny-porny fans who have been directed here to meet with Publishers on High of super horny-porny. Which floor?"

  "Guess you'd be looking for Galactic Horn-Porn Publications on the ninth and tenth floors. That's where the Doc hangs out. He's in charge of the operation. Writers and editors on the seventh and eighth. Regular elevators are on the fritz today. You're going to have to use the service elevator!"

  "Thank you, kind sir!" said Bill, thrilled not only with his expanded vocabulary, but with his new set of manners. "You are a gentleman and a scholar."

  "Just down the hall there," the guard said, pointing. "Right by those boxes of freeze-dried horny-porny writer brains."

  Bill and company trooped on down to the indicated elevator at the end of the hall. Sure enough, stacked haphazardly beside it were boxes marked: "FRAGILE — INSTANT WRITER BRAINS. Just add hot water and stir-fry."

  "Interesting," said Bill. "I always did wonder where they got their crazy ideas!"

  After a long wait, the elevator finally arrived. They hopped in and rode it to the ninth floor. They disembarked. Bill's ears were immediately assaulted by the sound of computer keyboards clacking. Bill looked in a door and his eyes were met with a dreadful sight.

  Row upon row of word processors filled the large room, and at these word processors were chained men and women, bent over the keys, working away diligently on rows of phosphor-dot prose. Coffee drips were plugged directly into the veins of their arms: obscene black plasma. Their shirts hung in bloody rags, and welts glistened on their backs. Up and down the rows stalked muscle-bound guards holding whips, ready to flay the soul who was spotted pausing too long between sentences. Upon the sides of the desks were piled what could only be the payment these poor slaves received for their literary efforts: pennies.

  "Gee," said Elliot-Bgr. "Talk about word processing, huh?"

  "EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT," Bill read on a sign. "This way. I guess that's where Doctor Kraft-Nibbling, Jr.10 hangs out. Then you are certain that in this disgusting slice of time he is the one behind this business? I see no evidence of National Socialism here. This looks like pure capitalism!"

  "I know, I know!" said Sir Dudley. "I am puzzled. But we must confront this man! These atrocities must be stopped. The treatment of writers is most revolting. Even if they are clones, they should not be treated so badly!"

  "That's right!" said Elliot-Bgr. "We worship and adore our writers. They receive vast honor and love, and get preferential treatment in all matters. Particularly communal orgies."

  Bill shook his head. "You're right. I do believe I have a new cause — Writers' Rights. Which is opportune, since I intend to become a writer myself!"

  "Indeed," said Sir Dudley. "Do you intend to write a Bartender's Guide to Drunks? As experienced — not told to the author."

  "I have forsaken alcohol and now drink purely from the Fountain of Truth!" said Bill.

  By this time they had reached Kraft-Nibbling's offices. They did not bother to knock, but barged directly in.

  "Who are you?" demanded a secretary.

  "We're here to see Kraft-Nibbling!" said Elliot-Bgr, taking out his blaster. "Get him or else!"

  The secretary hit an intercom key. "Doctor Kraft-Nibbling," she said. "I believe we have a few irate readers in the reception room!"

  "Nazis?" said Doctor Kraft-Nibbling.

  "Worse," said Bill. "Time Nazis."

  Doctor Shelley D. Kraft-Nibbling, Jr.10 was absolutely pale. He had to sit down in an armchair. "Look, guys. Bill, Elliot-Bgr, Sir Dudley the Time Portal. I have to admit that I may be a little ruthless. I may have sent my horny-porny hippie fans back through time to change the course of fictional history. I may treat my writers like dirt and pay them pennies. But Time Nazis? Never! I only want to promote my business and spread the joys of horny-porny throughout the ages. But Time Nazis! I don't know how this has happened! I can't possibly understand where things went wrong — if, in fact, what you tell me is true!"

  Bill eyed him suspiciously. "Of course it's true. You don't believe us? You want proof?"

  In fact, Bill didn't trust the guy at all. Maybe it was the slicked-back hair. Maybe it was the snazzy, svelte look. Maybe it was the snakeskin shoes. Maybe it was the Eau-de-Shark that hung about him like a miasma. Mostly, though, it was because he reminded Bill of a lawyer, with his sharp nose and his glib, feral look.

  It was a fact that the Emperor had, of course in a mood of philanthropy, taken Shakespeare's advice and destroyed all the lawyers in the known universe during The Great Shyster Purge. However, this had only been a few years before, so Bill well remembered what the breed had been like. In fact, doubtless it had been a military lawyer who had drafted the induction contract he had been induced to sign back on Phigerinadon II.

  Still, he'd always been a fan of horny-porny comix, so the Doc couldn't be all bad!

  "Look," said Kraft-Nibbling. "I like you guys, I really do. I can tell you're my sort of people!"

  "How come one of your Time Hippies tried to kill Bill and me then?" said Elliot-Bgr.

  "Clearly the guy was a little too fanatical," admitted the man. "But I most certainly did not order him to kill anybody! In fact, I want only peace, prosperity, happiness and steady selling lines — with very few returns to the publishers." He looked around. "What I don't see, gentlemen, is any sign of your so-called Time Nazis!"

  The office intercom chose that moment to squawk.

  "Pardon me, Doctor Kraft-Nibbling," said the secretary's voice. "But Mr. Shickelgruber would like to speak to you."

  "That's a familiar-sounding name!" said Sir Dudley.

  "Tell him, Edna, that I've got an important meeting to deal with at the moment and —"

  The secretary's voice sounded extremely stressed. "I don't believe he's going to take 'no' for an answer...."

  The door flung open.

  A man wearing bo
ots, a gray uniform, black armbands and a little black mustache stormed into the room, waving a Luger pistol.

  "Put your hands in the air or you vill die!" said the Nazi.

  "That's it!" said Sir Dudley. "Wasn't 'Shickelgruber' that chap Hitler's real name?"

  EPILOGUE

  "That was a good shot, Bgr," Bill said. "A single blaster blast and Hitler was no more. And it's nice to see you out of that Elliot disguise and back in four-armed green the way you should look."

  "Once he was gone, the time track became clear," Sir Dudley said. "I traced the trail right back to where they plucked him from the bunker before he snuffed it.

  "What I liked even better was how all the hippies and Hellworld and everything vanished when the time line was destroyed," Bgr the Chinger said. "Gee — we gotta be grateful to you, Sir D, for some fast thinking and instant Time Portal operation."

  "You're too kind, dear boy. Just doing my duty."

  "Above and beyond the call of duty. And abover and beyonder, picking Barworld as our destination!"

  "Seemed an obvious spot to celebrate."

  Not to Bill. He sat, mournfully looking at a glass of lemonade. "Life doesn't mean bowb," he kept repeating. "Life doesn't mean bowb."

  Well, mission complete, he thought to himself. Here I am, back at Uncle Nancy's Cross-Dressing Bar, in a nice little summer ensemble, and the universe is safe from Time Nazis, and I know the Meaning of Life. Why, then, do I feel like what Life doesn't mean?

  Bill pondered that thought.

  "Glad to be back in business, boys!" said Uncle Nancy, supplying them all with a fresh round of drinks. To celebrate, Uncle Nancy was wearing a delightful blue gown with spangles. A feather boa was wrapped around his neck. "Glad to have it back in good shape with booze and no ironpumpers. Hey, Bill. You're not drinking your lemonade. Can I get you a man's drink — on the house? How about a nice foamy mug of Halcyonian home brew? So much alcohol it leaks through the cask!"

  Bill's salivary glands gushed, but Bill shook his head. "No thanks, my friend. I am off alcohol for life." He patted his much-improved liver. "Not only must I think about my physical health — but it is my mental health that is in greatest danger. My great intelligence would instantly vanish if ethyl alcohol assaulted my brain cells ever again."