by Jenn Thorson
—“No” Only Means They Didn’t Hear You the First Time. Straight out of The Great Popeelie Book of Knowing Stuff, the Popeelies are trained to understand that just because someone says “no,” barricades themselves in a small space, hand-lasers you in the leg, or threatens to call law enforcement, doesn’t mean they really don’t want your product. Remember, a life-form can only stockpile so much water and nourishment in there. They’ll have to come out sometime.
—If It’s Catchy, They Won’t Notice They’re Being Converted. Popeelie music has always been catchy, melodic and great to dance to. Even those wary of Popeelie sales tactics praise the purity of Popeelie vocal styling. The joy of Popeelie music opens doors to new opportunities. Always remember, a sing-along might just be the first step to an outpouring of brotherhood. Also cash.
—Fill a Need, Dress a Celeb. Celebrity involvement has always been key to Popeelie success. “Like the mootaab,” said Champs, “if the alpha mootaab drinks the water, the others soon will follow.” For example, Cloak-in-a-Can went on to renewed popularity once alpha celeb, Spectra Pollux, ordered a custom-made robe to wear around the pool. And when Stella Cygnus was seen at the Coalition of Planets Peace Awards wearing a pair of AirChamps under her gown, the Popeelie Uninet site crashed with orders 15.3 Universal seconds later.
—Will may be Free, but Smart Religion Accepts Credit. Chawtu Champs once said, “The mind is free. The will is free. And that leaves plenty of cash on hand to buy our amazing products.” In that spirit, leading Popeelies suggest Champs would appreciate the most recent version of their Uninet site, which has three million different payment options for buyers of Popeelie merchandise.
Chapter 14
On the Secondary Corral, an infant the size of an industrial bag of mulch shrieked with fury, its reddened moon-face a gaping maw. The rolls on its dimpled arms jiggled as it strained to reach for the tassels on Bertram’s Popeelie robe.
“Gurgie likes to play,” said the mulch-bag’s mother with a placid smile. She towered over Bertram like a monument to pro-wrestling, using a series of loving choke-holds and head butts to restrain the teething André the Giant in her arms. From her smooth technique, it was clear this was just one more cage match in her normal childcare routine. For the rest of the Corral’s travelers, it added that extra special something to the comfort and tranquility that wasn’t the Secondary Corral.
The Secondary Corral was small and circular and ten chairs lined the wall. Ten beings sat in those chairs and the other hundred and fifty stood in the room’s center, glommed together like condensed soup. The recycled air was on, but the closeness and the rushed travel formed a musky humidity that enveloped the crowd. It was the smell of Terminal fast food and alien sweat, strange colognes and well-traveled luggage, ripe mystery fruits and sick, plastic people and organics, halitosis and that great “new ICV” smell everyone was always talking about.
Bertram’s robe, he noticed, had a smell to it, too: an herby-minty scent of pipe tobacco. It wasn’t unpleasant but was heavy and pervasive. Between it and the thick air, his stomach roiled.
They hadn’t even launched the craft before knees were bumping thighs, innocent elbows met vital organs, feet trod toes, and tails caused some awkward moments.
But it wasn’t just the togetherness. It was the noise. No matter where Bertram looked, there was a holovision. And on each of the screens, a chorus sang “Farthest Reaches” in a loop over an efficient-sounding musical theme.
Soon a female who looked exactly like Natelle, the Mig Verlig ticket salesgirl, came smiling into view. Over the music, she began, “Welcome to the Farthest Reaches Cosmos Corral, serving the Greater Communicating Universe. I’m a Neo-Natelle model MR-9 Non-Organic Simulant. But you can call me Steffie.” She winked at the audience.
Light dawned for Bertram. “Natelle …” It wasn’t a nametag, it was a manufacturer’s mark. He would have slapped his forehead, if he could have moved his arms.
“I’ll be your Corral Guide today as we journey from Mig Verlig to Ottofram,” Steffie continued. “First, let me tell you a little bit about our spacecraft. Designated Smoking Bubbles and lavatories are available through those doors on your right (just push your way through, don’t be shy), and—”
Bertram’s attention was drawn from the monitor by a firm yank at his clothing. As the woman towering above him listened to Steffie’s safety instructions, young Gurgie had chewed one of the Popeelie tassels off Bertram’s robe. The baby, outweighing Bertram by a good 40 pounds, grinned. A few threads poked through what teeth there were.
“—So for those standing and bipedal, a good wide stance is your key to better balance and happier travels,” Steffie was concluding. “While for our three and four-legged passengers, we recommend placing the legs at equidistant spacing for the greatest stability. In the case of a sudden change in cabin pressure, Farthest Reaches recommends holding your breath. Please hold your own breath first, before trying to assist other passengers who may need their breath held for them. And if the Corral has to make an unexpected touch down, please remain calm and collected while we at Farthest Reaches do everything we can to attend to the safety and comfort of people who paid for service in the Primary Corral. That concludes our safety regulations for today. Thanks so much for your attention! This is Steffie signing off and saying, brace yourself and enjoy your journey! We now connect you to the Farthest Reaches in-Corral Uninet programming, already in progress.”
Steffie’s smiling face was swapped for those of the newscasters, a man and woman both with thick hair molded into wide spheres like NASA space helmets. The woman was saying, “—Farthest Reaches Secondary Corral from Mig Verlig to Ottofram is the scene of excitement today as part of a RegForce chase spanning five planets. It began at the Mig Verlig main terminal, when an elderly Triopticon woman tried to purchase a Secondary Corral ticket to Ottofram from this Sales Simulant.”
Bertram winced. His fellow passengers gasped. The name across the screen read, “Sally Simmi, Farthest Reaches Guest Relations.” Pictured was the Non-Organic Simulant once known as “Natelle.”
Said Sally, “It was all so strange. The lady was missing feeg burkins and did not have enough to purchase the ticket. But before I knew it, she had ripped the ticket out of my hand and disappeared.” Sally turned unblinking eyes to the camera. “I think that says something important about the plight of the GCU’s fixed income elderly and—”
Shots of Bertram’s holowatch granny looped on the screen—images of Grandma Ludlow grabbing the ticket, snatching the bundled coins, and running like hell, over and over again. “Hyphiz Deltan RegForce representative, W.I. Tsmarmak Mook, explains.”
“That granny was no granny,” W.I. Mook said firmly. “What you see in the footage is a holowatch disguise employed by an unidentified Tryfling fugitive. He’s wanted in connection with a confinement break and the disassembly of three Podunk Peace Guards. The Tryfling had been traveling with Underworld member Rolliam Tsmorlood, also wanted for confinement break, disassembly, escape from Rhobux-7 (if we only knew where it had got to), and other infractions too unwieldy for a soundbyte. This is what the Tryfling looks like without his clever holowatch disguise.” It was the now-famous shot of Bertram stun-sleeping in the Podunk jail cell. “If you see this individual, consider him armed, dangerous and possibly still an old woman.”
“Just look at those puffy eyes and that slack jaw,” boomed Gurgie’s mother. “You can tell he’s a heartless hoodlum!”
“Oh, definitely,” Bertram agreed, drawing further under his Popeelie hood.
The camera cut to the male newscaster. “Farthest Reaches’ records show the Secondary Corral to Ottofram is in transit now, and local authorities await its arrival. To passengers currently on the Corral: for your own safety, if you encounter the Tryfe human, do not put yourself at risk. Repeat: do not put yourself at risk. Instead, laser the fugitive down in cold blood immediately. Now, if you’re not a cold-blooded being, or don’t have blood of your own, the
RegForce recommends—”
A rumble of commotion rolled across the room as passengers whipped out hand-lasers, daggers, digital blow-dart guns and polymer-based explosives and eyed each other suspiciously.
“He could be on this Corral!” cried one passenger.
“I’m from Podunk,” screeched another. “What if he disassembles me? I don’t have insurance.”
“In other news,” continued the female newscaster, “a naked, unconscious male life-form was discovered inside a Designated Smoking Bubble within the Mig Verlig Cosmos Corral terminal today. Farthest Reaches security spent a full U-hour breaking into the Bubble after travelers complained it had been occupied an unusually long time. The Automated Life-form Presence-Sensory Privacy System was removed to extract the individual. The life-form, who remains unidentified and unconscious, is at Mig Verlig Holistic Health Center and Salad Bar under close medical supervision. It is not yet known if this incident is related to the Tryfe fugitive sighting.”
Cold sweat had burst up on Bertram’s neck. It made his paranoia double and the pipe smell grow strong.
Space was impatient. Space was connected. Soon there’d be security footage of Bertram running through the terminal, forcing his way into that Popeelie’s Bubble. Any time now, the Popeelie would wake up with a hoverboard hangover and a tale to tell. Or maybe Bertram would just lose his hood to Gurgie’s next snacking endeavor, baring his identity for all to see.
Yes, something somewhere would give; and it was only a matter of time.
All Bertram wanted was a quiet moment to concentrate on a sensible backup plan, but the chatter in the Corral had reached head-pounding levels. Had anyone seen the GCU’s Most Wanted Tryfling aboard? Not yet, but one being was sure she had spotted the miscreant pickpocketing an elderly Ottoframan back in the Terminal. Another said he’d seen the Tryfling kick a snoogle and steal some larvae’s lollystopper down at baggage claim.
“I saw the Tryfling give a pregnant life-form his seat at Entropy Burger,” Bertram piped up finally, hoping to spin the rumor mill more in his favor.
Nobody wanted to talk to him after that.
Now perspiration was running in rivers down Bertram’s back into his boxers, and the more he thought about what would happen when the GCU fuzz searched that Corral—and oh, they would search it—the harder it was to breathe. He wiped his face with his tasseled sleeve and noticed a jowly, floppy-eared life-form across the room, hands in his overcoat pockets, and staring at Bertram with piercing red-rimmed eyes.
Bertram bowed his head and adjusted his hood, feeling like he was going to pass out. He had to get out of there, and get out of there now. Didn’t Steffie say something about lavatories and Designated Smoking Bubbles? That would have to do. He had to go somewhere, away from the condensed soup of life-forms, away from that damned holovision noise, away from paranoid thoughts of staring bloodshot eyes. He drew the Popeelie pipe he’d lifted from his assault victim and made a show of it. Look, I’m a real Popeelie, I have a pipe, he felt it said.
He then elbowed and tramped his way through the crowd to the sliding door, per Corral protocol. The hallway proved to be ten degrees cooler and 80% less armpitly than the Corral from whence he came. But he was far from alone. Life-forms waited in slouching queues or milled between the Corrals for want of anything better. There were holovisions on the walls here, too, and Bertram paused, twiddling the pipe. He looked for emergency pods, crawlspaces or any other sign of hope, until …
“Whoa, it’s you,” breathed a voice. It was a willowy male life-form with long wispy hair, a trunklike nose, and wild rubbery clothes. The life-form had stopped short at the sight of him, a green cigar tumbling out of his hand and to the floor. The empty hand flew to the being’s gaping lips.
Bertram scanned the doors and wondered where he could run that didn’t involve free space. Travelers turned to look at the figure in the tie-dyed, hooded cloak.
“Why, we were just talking about you,” the life-form went on, astonishment in his voice.
“Everyone is,” replied Bertram vaguely. Now if he could just squeeze himself into that air vent …
“We totally love your work, man!”
Bertram found himself ripping his gaze from air vent possibilities to stare at this obvious madman. “Oh, yeah?”
In a second, the travelers around him were all leaping in with warm words: “Yes, absolutely. Wonderful work!” “So fun, so clever!” Bertram couldn’t imagine he was hearing right, yet he knew he was. It was like the whole group had been waiting all along for this one big opportunity to tell him how awesome he was. A few of them broke into spontaneous applause. Two even patted him on his perspiration-drenched back.
A crazed laugh almost escaped from Bertram, but he caught it into a strangled hiccup. They loved him. They loved his work.
“Your music!” continued the being with the nose breathlessly. “It’s so totally original. So catchy. I mean, I went to one of your guys’ concerts once, and it was the most zonkin’ stellar time!” The man’s face was alight with positive energy. Also, possibly the effects of a few in-flight beverages. He pointed. “And I’m on the waiting list for some of your sandals.”
Yes, agreed the passengers. They loved the sandals. They especially loved the AirChamps sandals. They all took a moment to admire his feet, some of them reaching in awe for the chance to touch the buttery hand-crafted materials.
Ah. It made sense now. Bertram fought that manic laugh again and searched for a convincingly GCU-savvy response. It took only a second. “Zonkin’ stellar!” he exclaimed. Then he remembered the satchel he was carrying and dug out the electronic “Mass and Mass Marketing Jamboree” brochures, which he distributed with gusto.
“Do you have a minute?” the life-form asked him, confidentially.
“Um,” Bertram glanced back at the Secondary Corral. “I might. Why?”
“Well, I’ve got someone who’d totally want to meet one of you guys. He’s really into religious philosophies, for one thing. He’s way spiritual. And then, y’know, musically, I’d say you guys have been a real influence on him and …” He pointed at the door to the Primary Corral. “Would you meet him?”
“Er,” Bertram glanced over his shoulder from the Secondary Corral to the secure upper-class section next door. As an option, it didn’t quite have miraculous beams of light radiating down on it from the Munificent Popeilhonoromous’ Gagitanian sunlamp, or anything. But it was pretty close. “Er, sure! Lead on.”
“Supernova!” exclaimed the guy with the nose buoyantly. “He’s in the middle of an interview right now, so we’ll just slip in and jaw with him after wrap-up, ’kay? I’m Gumpert, by the way,” he said. And, using a shining, metallic security scan card at the door, Gumpert led the way into the Primary Corral.
Inside was a group of seven creatively-dressed beings, each with trunk-like nasal appendages. They had arranged themselves on the furniture in a way that took great care to show how laid-back they were. There were stacks of instruments and instrument cases. There were small boxes that might have been recording equipment. There were cushy chairs aplenty, and coffee-tables that rose from the wine-colored, lushly-carpeted floor. Some of the life-forms munched hors d’oeuvres and drank what looked like fruity lava lamps.
The room smelled like fresh flowers, sea air and possibly the scent of nubile, newly-powdered Vos Laegos showbeings.
Bertram wondered how many more burfkins per ticket the Primary Corral would have set him back.
In the center of the room, one life-form with a bandaged finger basked in a spotlight. A lensed sphere hung in the air before him, recording the action.
A tall, navy-blue haired man with a face for holovision sat facing him. He glanced at the little device in his hand and said, “Dumbbell Nebula’s hit Quasar Love has been number one on the GCU’s Top Million for a total of four Universal days now, breaking all other Duration Records. How do you rate this success?”
The musician shifted in his chair. “Well,
Zaph, for four Universal days, beings all over the GCU have been singing our music, screaming our names, throwing used undergarments and chucking pudding … It’s been very exciting.”
“And your publicity engineer has calculated your Resilience Curve at what percentage?”
“A 73 with, of course, the normal downward slope for a pop band.”
“That’s very high. So your popularity is expected to run out at …”
“Four-thirty-seven tomorrow afternoon, Ottofram time.”
“Congratulations, that’s quite a run!” exclaimed Zaph. “And you’re still recovering from that … challenge … of yours we heard about?” His eyes darted to the bandaged finger.
The music artist eyed the finger with disdain. “I’m surviving, Zaph. Must be brave for the people counting on me, supporting me through these dark times. Four-thirty-seven tomorrow comes too soon to succumb to concerns about personal discomfort.”
“And the Foobaz Frabblagundger Hangnail Prevention Awareness Program. It’s going well, is it?”
“Very well, thanks,” Foobaz said warmly. “Not a single hangnail has been reported since the initiative started.”
“Since two days ago.”
“Two days ago, yes,” he said. “It’s a raging success.”
Zaph addressed his screen again. “How did you start playing your nose? Classically trained, or self-taught?”
Foobaz Frabblagundger settled back in his chair, and tossed his nose casually over a shoulder. “Well, I’ll tell you, Zaph. It was purely by accident. You see, there was this allergist and—”
It was through the spotlight’s glare, a simple glance around the room led the musician’s eyes to fall directly on Bertram Ludlow. For one fleeting moment, Bertram felt like a doe frozen before an oncoming freight train; yet in the next, Foobaz Frabblagundger’s face broke into a bright, radiant smile. “Zaph, excuse me: is he with you?”