by Jenn Thorson
“It’s perfectly secure,” Mimsi assured him, noticing his hesitation. She pushed a button, closing a door that wasn’t there, and Bertram realized that they were now encased in this energy box. “Soundproof, you know! So everything you say is completely confidential. Have a seat.”
Bertram sat. On her desk, he saw a photo of the real estate agent next to a male life-form who had the same stretched, injection-molded physique. In the picture, both of them nuzzled some sort of pet. It looked like a furry balloon animal with eyes and a great, lolling tongue.
“There we are!” she said, taking a seat herself. Bertram had expected the move to sound squeaky, like taut plastic on vinyl. He was disappointed. “So the Popeelies have an interest in Tryfe, do they? The cult business must be booming.”
“I really just need to speak with the person who owns Tryfe,” Bertram told her. “I heard you could help me do that.”
The agent gave him a smile. It made her look like a surprised hot air balloon. “I’ve been designated by the owner of Tryfe to assist with the sale,” she explained, “so if it’s authorization you’re concerned about or—”
“No, nothing like that,” Bertram said, trying to sound friendly. “I just need to speak with the owner about a few things. And I understood that if anyone in the GCU could put me in touch, Mimsi Grabbitz could do it.”
She ignored the flattery the same way a great white shark might ignore a garden salad in a sea of oblivious teenagers. “So you’re not interested in buying Tryfe?” She gave a perplexed flap of her eyelashes.
From under his hood, Bertram Ludlow thought fast. “Oh we’re interested …”
“Ah,” she said. Her eyes narrowed a few millimeters in what might have been keen scrutiny. “I know what this is about.”
“You do?”
She nodded, her lips pursed critically. “Did you think I wouldn’t see the truth?”
“Er …”
“Oh, I know all about Popeelie business tactics,” she went on. “You’re trying to get the planet to sell By Owner. Remove the middle-man costs. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re trying to cut Alternate Realty out of the loop?”
“No, I—”
“Well, I’ll have you know, Mr. Popeelie, this sale doesn’t work the way we normally do business, so you’d only be hurting yourselves.”
“No, really, I—”
“Once the bids are in, and the less serious buyers are weeded out, the remaining bidders present their redevelopment ideas to the owner. So even if the owner likes your price, it’s not an automatic deal. I understand the owner is very concerned about how the property will be used.”
Bertram stopped stammering. The owner, concerned? He pursued this hopeful glimmer like a kid after a lightning bug. “So the owner’s worried about Tryfling welfare, huh?”
“Tryfling welfare?” She giggled. “Zoning violations, dear. They can do such messy things to a person’s reputation in the GCU. You know how it is. You violate zoning once and you’re forever branded as being anti-intergalactic environmentalism.” She waved her hand as if she were trying to whisk away the mess. “Anyway, once the presentations are done, then the owner selects the winning bid. Not before.”
“And when’s that?” Bertram asked. He realized the question had come out entirely too urgent, too interested.
“Soon. Very soon,” she intoned. She gave a flick of her eyes that she may have intended as mysterious. It looked like air leaked out of her balloon. “I wouldn’t take much time to place a bid, if I were you, dear. This is a very hot property and it’s going at light speed.”
That’s more or less what his landlord had said about Bertram’s basement apartment, too. “And where do these final presentations take place?” Bertram asked.
“Place a serious bid through me,” she said, “and I’ll tell you.”
Bertram nodded. He saw he’d get nothing out of the Grabbitz woman but hot air. “Okay then, I’ll talk to my people, who’ll talk to some other people, who’ll … er … grab folks off the street and get back to me. Soon as they do, I’ll give you the good word.”
“Of course,” she replied. “Just don’t wait too long. Or Tryfe’ll be gone. Forever.”
Gone. Forever. This sort of high-pressure treatment was probably why the woman was a trillion-yoonie seller, Bertram thought. She pushed the button on the energy field and the non-door opened. She rose to go.
“So, uh,” Bertram picked up on the unsubtle cue and rose, too. He turned in the non-doorway, frowning. “What about the Tryflings then?” he asked. “I understand billions of people already live on Tryfe. Don’t they get a say in this?”
“Sure they do, if they raise the money and place a bid!” Mimsi said brightly. Mimsi Grabbitz acted like having Tryfling clients for once would be an exciting challenge, a novelty like growing that first batch of Sea Monkeys. “We’ll consider all bids. Even from backspace life-forms. It’s in the Employee Handbook.” She held up a slim e-Book Server from her desk, then plopped it back on the tabletop. “A part of our Compulsory Open-Mindedness Policy.”
“So they’ve been notified? The Tryfe people did get a …” Bertram searched for the word, “open house flier announcing it?” He had visions of alien real estate handouts being dropped on the desks of every major leader of every country on Earth—and all in a language that not one of them could read.
“Hardly! That’s so Last Millennium,” the real estate agent responded. “No, we post everything on the Uninet now.”
“But if the Tryfe people aren’t part of the GCU, then they can’t connect to the—”
“Of course, where they’d lose the bid eventually,” Mimsi went on meditatively, “would be in the conversion rates. Even if they pooled their money and made it a co-op, given the current value of most forms of Tryfe money, I think it would be a little rich for their blood.”
“How rich?”
She shrugged. “What’s in your pocket right now?”
Bertram reached into his right-hand robe pocket and pulled out the Popeelie pipe and a bit of lint. He held it out.
“Congratulations. You have more buying power than Tryfe currency.”
Bertram tossed on his most winning grin. “Will it get me a bid?”
She guided him gently toward the door. “My!” she giggled again. “Unethical, persistent, greedy …” She handed him a slim electronic business card. “Come see me about being a realtor if the whole cult job doesn’t pan out, ’kay?” She twiddled fingers at him. “Buh-bye.”
And with that, Bertram found himself back in the Alternate Realty waiting room.
Bertram Ludlow had a lot to think about as he wandered the Ottoframan streets. He kept his head low, his hood up and his options open.
Maybe it still wasn’t too late to hitch a ride on Dumbbell Nebula’s jet-shoes; say, to spend 2,880 minutes (less now) on the Swingin’ on Saturn’s Rings GCU Remix Tour and cash-in enough yoonie cards to bid for his own planet from the interlopers. Imagine, Bertram Ludlow as the covert owner of planet Earth. It had a refreshing sort of irony.
Okay, yes, there was that annoying 98% probability that Foobaz Frabblagundger wouldn’t even talk to him now …
And the fact that even if he did manage to make it on stage, some sharp-brained spaceman would inevitably recognize that even the most innovative performers didn’t sing like a rhythmically-challenged yak in heat …
Plus, Popeelies would undoubtedly be there to protest their unwarranted musical makeover and copyright infringement …
And there was the distinct possibility the Deltan RegForce would line the first row of the concert hall—and not for autographs.
Otherwise, it was an awesome plan.
But Bertram wasn’t out of ideas. What about starting a Tryfe Preservation Awareness campaign, using the Uninet and a few minutes of Zaph Chantseree’s time? Surely a Tryfling risking life and limb to save his planet was a big story, wasn’t it? And who didn’t like a good rallying cause?
Of course, B
ertram would also be snagged by the RegForce quicker than he could say “ZT-112G polymer-casing hydro-reactive collapsible hand-laser.” And he was pretty sure he couldn’t coordinate any PR efforts half-stunned from inside a confinement cell, drooling on a cot that smelled like old mathgar kidney.
A sense of gray hopelessness washed over him. Or maybe that was just the cloudy emissions from the hovercar that flew past.
Bertram coughed.
“Psst!”
Bertram coughed again.
“Psst! Psst!”
Frowning, Bertram scanned through the cloud of smoke.
“Psst! You in the cloak!” The voice had a gruff, gravelly sound and seemed to come from the outskirts of the cloud. Bertram squinted, the fog dissipating enough to reveal the jowly, red-eyed life-form who had been watching him so steadily in the Secondary Corral. Bertram inhaled sharply.
“Kid, c’mere,” rumbled the voice. The trench-coated being motioned to an alley for this little tete-a-tete.
With a furtive glance, Bertram turned on his AirChamps sandal and darted the opposite direction, picking up his pace to match his rapidly increasing heart rate.
“Kid, c’mon. I just want to talk with you,” the voice pleaded closer behind him.
“Sorry, all out of Cloak-in-a-Cans,” Bertram called. “You’ll have to order from our Uninet site. The Popeelies thank you for your patronage.”
“Kid, wait!” the guy shouted. “It’s about Tryfe!”
Bertram stopped short. He spun around. The furred creature stood right there behind him, but how he’d caught up so quickly, so silently, Bertram couldn’t imagine. “I know you were asking about Tryfe,” rasped the being. “I think I can help.”
“Who are you?” Bertram asked, eyes narrowed. “Why are you tailing me?”
“Just a fellow traveler with a little interest in the market,” said the life-form casually. “I like to keep my mitts in it, so to speak.” He held up furred paws in fingerless gloves as if they might yield explanation. “I heard you at Alternate Realty. You want to talk to the current owner of Tryfe.”
“That’s my business,” said Bertram coolly. He folded robed arms. “What’s funny is I didn’t see you at Alternate Realty.”
“Oh?” The hairy fellow gnawed a thumbnail.
“No,” pressed Bertram. “I saw you on the Secondary Corral.”
The being gave a slow, languid shrug. “Is it true those Popeelie hoods are death when it comes to peripheral vision?”
Bertram scowled. They were actually kinda hard to see around, but that wasn’t the point. There was something off about this guy, something that stunk like the Shop-o-Drome under a hot sun on half-price perishables day. He could smell it from here. “Okay. Let’s say you did see me at Alternate Realty. And let’s say you have information. Who owns Tryfe?”
“That I don’t know,” he said.
“Naturally.”
“But I know who one of the bidders is, if that would be of value to you?” His voice had lost some of its calm, bored tone. It held a tinge of over-eagerness now.
“Sorry, pal,” Bertram said. “If you’re looking for a payoff, you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m tapped.” He hoped his bag of Dootett coins wouldn’t jingle away his fib, but he wasn’t about to be blackmailed for iffy information. Besides, that Entropy Burger sack contained all the cash he had in the universe. This guy was just going to have to get his paws on some other sucker.
“T’murp,” said the being suddenly.
“I don’t have antacids, either. Good luck finding yourself a pharmacy.” And Bertram started away. He’d wasted enough time.
But the being ran to catch up. “No. I said T’murp. Eudicot T’murp. He’s the one bidding on Tryfe.”
Bertram paused. “Oh. Eudicot T’murp.” Surely, Tryfe’s future owner wouldn’t sound like an onomotopoetic version of indigestion.
The being pushed his hat back and blinked soulful brown eyes. “T’murp went into Alternate Realty a few days ago, and then out touring with that Grabbitz woman. When they came back, the word ‘Tryfe’ was dropped like spare kaniggles from a holey pocket.”
“You overheard this yourself?”
“The ears don’t lie,” the life-form rasped, holding up one shoulder-length, furry sound-processor in emphasis.
“And where is Eudicot T’murp?” Bertram asked. He imagined his new furred friend might be some undercover RegForce officer, feeding him a line, but it didn’t hurt to ask the questions.
“Over at DiversiDine Entertainment Systems and Aeroponics,” the guy said. He pointed across the cityscape.
Bertram followed the gesture with some surprise. “Here on Ottofram?”
The being gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Here on Ottofram.”
Now that it was pointed out to him, Bertram could see the building from where they stood. Not because it was so close, but because it was so large. It was a complex of turrets and spires, domes and dips, broadcast towers and crystalline elevators. All with the word “DiversiDine” blazing forth. In the center, a robotic-hand-and-snack-cake logo rose from the complex triumphantly. It had to have taken years to get it all into place. Bertram turned back from the skyline. “Why would Eudicot T’murp be interested in—?”
But Droopy had vanished, the Ottoframan street clear. A few shed hairs floated on the breeze.
Bertram sighed. Yep, that was the GCU all over. If only, he thought wistfully, he could return to those simple, blissfully-ignorant days not so long ago, where he just believed he’d gone completely bat-shit.
Chapter 17
The conference room was abuzz. Execs from the most active and innovative departments in all of DiversiDine Entertainment Systems and Aeroponics were ovaled around the table. They would have circled, but the table was elliptical by nature and didn’t stand for such uninspired conformity.
Yes, gathered together in one room were the opinion-makers and stakeholders from every critical area of the company. There were the fine minds from Making Things Up, the group that had led so much of the bid campaign already. There were two reps from Putting Things Out There, looping them in for the tasks ahead. Seated were a few of the whizzes from Developing Stuff and Actually Knowing How it Works, a group ordinarily consulted only at the very last possible moment in the process, mostly after everyone had already convinced themselves of a lot of inconvenient untruths about what they were selling. And, of course, there was the Getting Big Yoonies and Figuring Out Where It Goes department, who didn’t know why they were there but were already worried how much it was going to cost them.
There were also three consultants to DiversiDine, seated at the very back. But they didn’t have a catchy department name.
Excited murmurs filled the room, like a caucus of Blumdec waterfowl putting the next migration date to committee.
Standing before this group was the DiversiDine corporate holovision, a monitor so big it spanned the wall, and so 3-D that in the last Ottoframan year it had triggered seizures in no fewer than 12 stressed-out, sleep-deprived ad persons. Poised in front of this holovision, sitting in his favorite levitating wingback chair, sat DiversiDine president Eudicot T’murp.
“Folks: thanks a bunch for your time today,” said T’murp to the crowd, and their migratory squawking stilled to a rustle. T’murp never ceased to enjoy the little things like this; how a single hand motion or congenial word from him could cause a whole group to come to attention. It showed just how far he’d come from his South Klorofil youth. It proved money and solid leadership could overcome many obstacles, including the uneasiness that seems to arise when the boss starts to sprout in public.
“Lights dim,” he commanded. And the overhead illumination dropped to the twinkle of distant stars.
“Now,” said T’murp, rising from the chair to stand beside the screen, “some of you have been involved in our project from the beginning, but let’s take a moment to get the rest up to speed.” He pressed a button and onto the screen projected a map of the
Greater Communicating Universe broken up into its four participating Quadrants. “DiversiDine has found a backspace planet containing the perfect life-forms and atmosphere to support our marketing interests. These people would serve as a pilot project market before we launch into the greater GCU. The planet is called Tryfe. It is located here.”
The map on the screen shifted out of the familiar GCU territory and then drilled down, down, down, to a small solar system with a handful of planets rotating around a single shiny little sun. It then zoomed in, overshot, backtracked, and screeched to a halt on a pretty blue-and-white orb. With its bright color and swirls of cloud, the planet looked like an oversized replica of a child’s spherical plaything. The sort of small, hard projectile progeny enjoy pelting at each other’s soft tissues in particular.
“This is the planet we’re bidding on,” explained T’murp, “And soon, we’ll present our redevelopment plans. Based on those, the owner will select the winner. Thanks to some of you in this room, DiversiDine has developed a particularly competitive plan concept. I’d like to show you a draft of that now.”
T’murp pushed the button again and on the screen, the words: “There Goes the Galaxy” in large adventurous letters swept in. They exploded in fiery fragments.
From this meteorific inferno sprang the tagline: “Real Time. Real Challenges. Real Backspace™.”
Cue the credits: “A DiversiDine Entertainment Systems and Aeroponics® Production …”
“A DiversiDine Entertainment Systems and Aeroponics® Feature Presentation …”
“A DiversiDine Entertainment Systems and Aeroponics® Real Reality RealTime DocuDrama™.”
The camera focused on the planet of Tryfe, and a narrator’s voice intoned darkly: “In a world that knows no life beyond its own, one average Tryfe humanoid has been mysteriously thrust into the cold depths of space. His task? To save his planet from unknown terrors. Join him on this exhilarating and dangerous quest as this simple Tryfling stranger—lost and trapped in a complex and frightening alien existence—is put to the test, transforming from backspace disbeliever to unsung hero … intergalactic fugitive … and cunning master of disguise.”