Bill had been watching this and wondering what he could do to help. Suddenly it came to him. He stepped forward and, before Dirk could stop him, grabbed the back of Splock's head by one hand and took a firm grip on his nose with the other.
"Bill, what are you doing?" cried Brownnose, as always the master of the unnecessary question.
Bill gritted his teeth and gave Splock's nose a half-turn to the left. There was an audible click. Bill released Splock and stepped back. "How's that, fellow?"
"He seems to have fixed it," Splock said. He looked at Bill with new respect. "How did you know that the Fortinbrasians are born without noses and have mechanical ones made for them when they go to the world where men have noses as a matter of birth?"
"I just thought I'd give it a try," Bill said.
"Thank sanity for naive intuition," Splock said. He muttered equations in a firm baritone voice and the dots responded by resolving into two crewmen wearing one-piece jumpsuits of the same design only in an inferior fabric to those worn by Splock and Dirk. The large black dot resolved itself into a space launch.
As Bill got in, he thought he heard a voice calling his name. "Bill! Wait for me!"
It had been a female voice. But that couldn't be. He didn't know any women around here.
Chapter 5
Bill gaped around him in slack-jaw amazement. When he boarded, his first impression was that he wasn't in a spaceship at all. At least none of the deep spacers that he had served on in the past. The ships of the regular military service, no matter how large they looked from the outside, were crowded and cramped inside, cut up into noisome little quarters with low, filthy ceilings and an ineradicable smell of imitation boiled cabbage. This was no accident. Trained teams of designers had studied all the data banks of records of long-vanished Earth, had found exactly what they needed in the records of sailing-ships, ancient and improbable transport of some kind, and in particular the sub-category slave-ships. It was a difficult, nay an almost impossible task, but the Space Navy designers persevered. And in the end managed to duplicate all the filth and cramped discomfort of the original for the present crew quarters.
That was how the Navy did it. But not here! This ship looked very much like an airport waiting room or a Staff Officers' latrine. It was huge, done entirely in pastel colors of avocado and cocoa. The lighting was subtly indirect and flicker-free, and so well concealed that Bill couldn't see the lighting fixtures anywhere. Must be hell to change the lightbulbs, he thought. Not only was the decor original but the crew members that Bill saw were nothing like any other service personnel he had ever encountered. For one thing, they were all young and pretty, the boys, or lads — you could hardly call these striplings men — were young and eager and came in many colors. As did the busty and really well-stacked girls. The ship's crew seemed incredibly racially balanced. So many white, so many black, a scattering of greens and reds. And one sort of brownish-yellow.
When they all entered the central control room, a pleasant-faced young fellow in a beige and maroon jumpsuit, with a white sweater tied rakishly around his neck, jumped gracefully to his feet and saluted. Dirk returned the salute snappily and said; "Permission to come aboard?"
"Of course, sir," the young man answered sheepishly. "I mean, after all, it's your ship, you being our captain, as well as First Admiral of the Blue."
"I know all that," Dirk growled. "A simple salute will be sufficient."
"Aye, sir," the young officer shouted as he saluted so hard he almost put his eye out with his pinky.
"Bill," said Captain Dirk, "I want to introduce you to Midshipman Easy, one of our recent replacements from the Laguna Beach Deep Space School."
"Delighted," says Midshipman Easy, extending a browned hand, his right eye swollen shut where his fingernail had plunged into it.
"Yeah, thanks," said Bill, reluctantly holding out a gnarled paw and wishing he'd had a chance to clean up before coming to this spotlessly clean battleship, or whatever it was.
"Midshipman Easy will show you your quarters," Captain Dirk said. "And Splock will be on hand to fill you in on what's happening."
"Walk this way, if you please," Midshipman Easy said, mincing a bit as he exited. The crew broke into guffaws and wolf whistles at what seemed to be a joke, which Bill didn't understand at all.
They went down long corridors, passing, every once in a while young men in snug-fitting jumpsuits explaining very important things to beautiful young women in even more snug-fitting jumpsuits. They went up and down levels, across more corridors, and finally came to a door with a double zero stenciled on it. Easy opened the door and brought Bill into what looked like a well-appointed hotel suite in the style of the venerable old Helior-Beverly-Hilton.
"Wow," said Brownnose, who had tagged along and now darted into the suite and went straight to the bathroom. "Hey, Bill!" he called out. "They got free samples of bubble bath and fancy perfumed soaps here."
"Don't touch anything," Bill warned him. To Midshipman Easy he said, "What happens now?"
"Just relax while we get the ship underway," Easy said. "There are costly imported wines and cordials in the antique provincial sideboard over there. Should you get hungry before the evening banquet at nineteen hundred hours, there is a snack dispenser built into the five-hundred channel TV. Just push the button for whatever you require. No coins are necessary. You are our guests."
"Wow," Brownnose said after Midshipman Easy had left. "How about this, huh, Bill?" Brownnose walked over to the snack dispenser. "They got french-fried octopus rings, Bill! And coke-joints!" He hurried over to the drinks dispenser. "And they got over a hundred kinds of beer on tap, including the starship's own microbrew, Old Gumption. What do you want to try first?"
"I'm going to wait for the banquet," Bill said. "Nineteen hundred hours is less than an hour away. Meanwhile I'm going to take a bath."
Bill went into the luxurious bathroom. The tub was the size of a small swimming pool. There was a massage machine with buttons for all the species who were aboard or might come aboard the Starship Gumption. There was even a little tube of Claw Softener, and a special instrument for clipping talons.
"That was thoughtful of them," Bill said to himself, never thinking that some clawed and taloned aliens might be guests of the Gumption from time to time.
Bill locked the bathroom door so Brownnose wouldn't see what he was doing and drew himself a bubble bath, squirming with masculine guilt and hoping that no one would ever find out. Might as well try everything once, no telling how long this unexpected luxury was going to last. He paddled around the bathtub, threw handfuls of bubbles into the air and said whee, then found the controls that turned on the viewing screens. An enormous panel slid back revealing a TV screen that stretched from wall to wall. The picture came up and Bill saw Captain Dirk, sitting in a command chair behind his officers, who were seated at computer consoles and switchboards that looked like they came from a submarine of ancient times.
"Everyone ready?" Dirk asked.
A chorus of yesses susurrated forth. But Dirk noticed one silence and turned to Splock. "You didn't say aye, First Science Officer. Is anything the matter?"
"Permission to speak freely?" Splock asked.
"Go ahead, Tony," Dirk said.
"Logic suggests," Splock responded in a monotonous monotone, "that the matter of the Runions from Saperstein V should be resolved before anything further is attempted."
"Suggestion noted and ignored," said Dirk in a pleasantly obnoxious no-nonsense voice. "Rear thrusters all ahead one third!"
The Chief Astrogation Officer — a really zoftig dark-skinned woman with an elaborate hairdo — pushed a lever into a notched setting. "All ahead one third, sir."
"Starboard maneuvering jets — a two-second burst. Main engines engage. Pulse control on. Astrogation control set at one zero niner. Port fine maneuvering jets set to three hundred and forty degrees and give me a five-second burst. Pulse control engaged. Starship main drive standby for retroj
et engage. All ahead full!"
The screen changed to an exterior view. This, as Bill was to learn later, was provided by a drone ship camera. Why there as a drone ship camera he never did find out. Other than providing a totally worthless exterior view. It was a miracle of misapplied technology.
The view of the Gumption as provided by the drone camera was very fine indeed. The gigantic starship, with its struts and appurtenances, its pods and bays, its complicated array of superfluous winking lights, all were enhanced by the engine sound-track, which the drone camera provided. It was very pretty to watch the starship move away, in pythonic ecstasy, and behind them winked the distant lights of the stars. This background was simulated also. Movies of the previous centuries had captured for all time what a starship ought to look like going through space. Standard background film, concocted in special effects laboratories, was used to give this charming and archaic appearance. It never failed to impress those who watched it.
Soon the Gumption switched to Main Drive and faster-than-light travel. The picture from the drone changed. Now long streaks of tawny light seemed to converge on the Gumption. It was the standard faster-than-light view.
Bill, getting smashed on strong beer and almost drowning as he fell asleep in the bubble bath, was really at his ease. There was nothing he could do to help around this screwball ship — and he certainly was not doing any volunteering. Dirk and the crew had everything nicely in hand. They spent lots of time lounging around in easy chairs while Dirk gave orders in a soft voice. Everything seemed suspiciously easy. The carpeting was always soft underfoot, and soft music played lullingly through all the speakers. It had a lot of harps and harpsichords and carillons and xylophones in it. Real deep space music.
As soon as light speed was reached, the crew relaxed. If that was possible since they were pretty spaced, out already. Captain Dirk congratulated them all on a really scrumptious takeoff, and summoned Bill to the bridge.
"Now, Bill, be a good fellow and tell Splock our science officer about how the Tsuris displacement effect works."
Bill bulged his eyes at him. "The what?"
"The special weapon the Tsurisians use to push ships millions of miles off course. Your friend said you had learned it while you were inside the computer."
Behind Dirk was Brownnose, making frantic motions. Bill had no idea what Brownnose was trying to tell him, but figured he was probably trying to signal Bill to fake it. Bill would have been glad to, if he'd had the slightest idea how.
"I'm afraid I never quite got around to learning that secret, Captain," Bill said. "Sort of out of my line of work. I trained as a fertilizer technician, when I was a civilian that is. My military speciality is Fusetender First Class..."
"Shut up," Dirk suggested. He looked quite unpleasant, as did Splock and the others. "Trooper," he grated through gritted teeth, "I'd advise you not to try any games with me. Your friend, Mr Brownnose, assured us that you know the secret of the Displacer, but were rather shy and needed coaxing."
"Brownnose," Bill grated just as grittingly as Dirk, "when I get my hands on you —"
"Bill, I'd like you to meet a seldom-seen but extremely important member of the Gumption's crew." Dirk's voice was now low, sinister and menacing, with overtones of suicidal insinuation. "Step out, Basil."
A tall man wearing a hooded tunic shuffled menacingly from a room in the rear. His face was entirely concealed. But even on the concealment of his face, the contours of the cloth, Bill could detect baldness and evil.
"How do you do," Bill said.
"Don't wise off at us, trooper," Dirk screamed. "I'll tell you what Basil's official position is. He's our persuader."
"Some people would call him the torturer," Splock intoned grimly. "But that is an incorrect description. He only tortures when it is absolutely necessary in order to gain information."
"Do you mean that you sometimes have to torture your crew?" Bill asked.
"Of course not!" Dirk said warmly. "It's just that, you know, sometimes when we take over a planet — Yes, Mr Splock?"
"Planet coming up," Mr Splock said.
Bill asked, "How can you know a planet's coming up if you're traveling at the speed of light? I mean, wouldn't it be gone by the time you knew what it was?"
"Our computer tells us when there's a planet coming up," Dirk said. "What sort of place is it, Splock?"
Splock tapped his forehead with long slim fingers. "Smaller than Earth. Oxygen atmosphere. Small population. One of the speculator worlds that sprang up in this vicinity in the recent South Star Ridge scandal."
"Good," Dirk said. "Let's land and take on provisions."
"Also women, Captain," one of the crewmen reminded him.
"Have you used up the last batch already?" Dirk demanded.
"Afraid so, skipper," the crewman said.
"Then we'll pick up a new batch here."
Splock had continued tapping his forehead. "My readout on this place tells me that the males of this planet tend to become murderous when anyone tries to take away their womenfolk."
"That's how it is with primitives," Dirk said. "We'll drop sleep bombs on them in carpet clusters. That way there'll be no argument and we can simply take what we want and be on our way."
Bill could hardly believe what he was hearing. Although he knew that silence was undoubtedly the best policy, he couldn't help saying, "I've heard a lot about you, Captain Dirk. But I never thought you were like this."
Dirk favored him with a thin, evil smile. "That's good to hear, trooper, because I'm not actually Dirk at all. I am the counter-Dirk. Guards, take this man to a cell. The persuader will pay you a visit as soon as we have this planet squared away."
The cell, Bill learned later, had been modelled on a copy of an historic prison cell vidrecorded on the most backward planet ever discovered. Before the planet was destroyed. The stone walls (lifted into space at great expense) dripped moisture; lizards crept in and out of crevices. In place of a toilet there was a torn paper cup. For lighting, a slit high up in the wall allowed in a thin ray of simulated sunshine. The sunlight started fading as soon as Bill was put into the cell. It was designed to produce an instant sensation of hopelessness and bleak despair.
Bill lay down on the floor and promptly went to sleep. For one thing, he wanted to preserve his energy for what lay ahead. For another, he was tired. Climbing up sheer ice walls using your claws as crampons would take it out of a better-conditioned and less alcoholic man than Bill.
He awoke later when he heard the rattling of a key in the door. Bill stiffened, figuring it was the persuader. But it was only the jailer bringing his dinner.
The jailer left a tray behind with a threadbare napkin over it. He leered at Bill for no apparent reason and left, locking the door behind him.
Bill whisked off the napkin to see what they had brought him. There were two plates on the tray. One of them bore a rectangular substance with red and white things sticking out of its sides. This Bill recognized as a ham and Swiss sandwich. The other plate bore a seven-inch green lizard which Bill recognized immediately as a Chinger, the deadly enemy they warred against across the galaxy. Bill raised his boot to stomp it. The Chinger sneered.
"Do that, you microcephalic moron and you get a broken foot. Forgotten already that we come from a 10G planet and are harder than the hardest steel?"
Bill might still have stomped the lizard, so deeply ingrained were his reactions of aversion to Earth's newest ancestral enemy. But he stopped because he thought he recognized the voice. Even though it was an octave and a half higher and coming through an alien throat, Bill recognized the special lilt of Illyria, the nurse girl from the provinces who had first befriended him on Tsuris.
"Illyria! Is that really you?"
"Yes, it's me, Bill," the lizard said. Its voice was high-pitched, due no doubt to its miniature larynx and soft palate. But the tones were unmistakably those of Illyria.
"How did you get inside a Chinger?"
"I had
some help from the Quintiform computer. When it saw that you were going off planet, perhaps never to return, it began to realize that maybe it had been a little harsh on you."
"Harsh! It kept me in the rain and cold for days and days!"
"That was only subjective time, of course," Illyria said. "Still, it must have seemed very long indeed. The computer asked me to tell you that it is sorry, Bill. It admires your independence of spirit. It wants you to come back, all is forgiven, since it feels that you could be very useful to the Tsurisians."
"I don't want to be in the computer any longer," Bill said angrily.
"Of course not. The computer realizes its mistake, trying to break your proud spirit. There are other jobs for you, Bill. Good jobs. Jobs you would like."
"I doubt that," Bill miffed huskily.
"And you could be with me," Illyria pointed out.
"Yes, that's so," he vacillated.
"You don't sound too enthusiastic about that."
"Gosh, Illyria, you know that I really like you. But when you appear in my prison cell in the form of a Chinger, Earth's deadliest enemies..."
"I had forgotten," Illyria mused. "Yes, of course, that might very well account for it."
"Your previous form was better," Bill said. "Though not much. By the way, how did you get a Chinger body?"
"You should have figured that out for yourself," Illyria said. "We Tsurisians exist in the form of radiant energy until we find a body to inhabit. We take what bodies we can get. I know that this lizard shape is no more suitable to your human form than was my previous body of three spheres."
"They were nice spheres," Bill said.
"You're a dear for saying that. I'm sure they did nothing for you. But I was lucky to get it. You know that most of my people have no bodies at all. I was lucky to get the spherical one. But you were asking about the lizard. I was floating lazily through this ship, the good old fighting Gumption, looking for a suitable host body —"
"By the way," Bill said, "how did you get onto the Gumption?"
On the Planet of Bottled Brains Page 7