20
The
Captain’s Tale
“Ugh,”
croaked Jhl at a somewhat advanced hour of the following morning.
“Yeah. Well,
I guess it’s put her ideas about Didg in, um, the right perspective.”
“Uh-huh. And
the Thwurbullerian?”
“Unlike some,
it didn’t muscle in on the good-byes—Oh, later? Kept its tail well clear.
Uh—sorry: xathpyroid saying. But you get the point.”
“Yeah.”
“I took a
room,” said BrTl awkwardly.
“Why?”
replied Jhl blankly.
“Um, I
thought it might be safer for Dohra; I mean, there’s always the chance of
rolling on a slighter being—me or Forty-Four. Anyway, it’s got a stall and a
humanoid bed. Um, well, a meankoid bed, there wasn’t much choice; but she said
it’s nice and comfy. Is it all right?”
“Well, yeah; given those super-igs you got
out of that unpleasant young DorAvenian, take as many rooms as you like!” she
said with a laugh.
“I suppose
he wasn’t too bad,” he admitted. “So how did you do?”
Jhl sighed.
“Not all that well. I couldn’t get the Friyrian’s frequency—think the line must
have a reg about not giving out their male captains’ private frequencies to
demented and/or besotted female mammalians, BrTl, not the being’s own choice in
this instance—and leaving a message on the ship’s frequency resulted in
precisely zilch, or, as we say back home, grqwary shit minus fourteen. –Don’t
ask me why fourteen, we never had a numerical system to the base seven!”
“Nuh—uh—did
you know that?” he said dazedly. “I’d
forgotten until ZrMl reminded me.”
“We learnt
it at First School, and it stuck—always did like maths. The Thwurbullerians
used to have a system to the base thirteen.”
“They are an
intricate-minded race,” he acknowledged grimly. “So that’s it, then.”
“Not
nearly,” said Jhl lightly. “Couldn’t get back to you last night because I was
paying my dues.”
“What, to him?” said BrTl, incautiously betraying
just how much he disliked the Whtyllian.
“He’s not
that bad,” said Jhl mildly. “Or wouldn’t be, if he’d forget about the diplo mok
shit. He is an excellent commander.”
“I’ll admit
that. So what did he make you do?” he said grimly.
“Calm down.
He made me go to a diplo ball with him, wearing a dress that he bought for me.
Chose and bought, geddit?”
In the past,
BrTl had been known to choose a dress for her: she was the first to admit she
didn’t have any taste. Or give a grqwary dropping what she wore. So it must be
the paying for it bit that was getting up her one humanoid nose. Uh—was it?
“Both,” she
said drily. “Forget it. I dunnit, it’s over.”
“Um, white
bits with gaps between them?” he groped.
“White lace
daisies, each approximately the size of my head, with considerable gaps between
them. No, well, I can assure you that the room was filled with lady-beings all
glaring jealously. Partly the dress, partly the hanging on his arm—goddit?”
“Uh—yeah.
You can’t claim that sort of thing really matters to him, surely?”
“Can’t I,
just? No, well, the victory really mattered, but as for the rest of the mok
shit—he lets it matter whilst recognising it for the mok shit it is. Any
clearer?”
“Well, yes.
Thanks very much: you didn’t need to go that far,” he said limply.
“BrTl, I’d
started to milk my grqwary! –Sorry, Bluellian saying!” she said with a laugh.
“Is that
what it means! We say, I’d stuck my tail down the moogletube.”
“You
certainly wouldn’t want to turn back at that point! He’s using his influence as
we speak. Um, you remember H’bl?”
“Yeah, one
of the only two halfway decent Friyrians I ever met. What about her, or should
I say her/m, or him?”
“Her, still.
Shan reckons this captain being’s a cognate of hers.”
“Oh, yes?”
said BrTl politely.
“Wake up!
Chiefs, old Friyrian families, assorted mok shit about high-class beings that
we don’t have on Bluellia and that you don’t have on New Qrbgg?”
“Or any of
the xathpyroid planets, thank the Federation! Oh, help, I get it: the
Friyrian’s even more up-market than plasmo-blasted Didg that didn’t even bother
to mention her to his cognate!”
“Ye-es. Um,
I think there could be an element of it hurting too much to mention to the
brother,” she said cautiously.
“I was sort
of hoping the younger cognate was pretending Didg had never mentioned her so as
she wouldn’t try to get him for her bond-partner. But I don’t really think he was:
he didn’t have much of a shield. Forty-Four agreed with me, only of course it
had its own reasons, so I—But Ku Fellan agreed, too.”
Jhl got the
picture, spluttered, failed to control herself, and went into a paroxysm.
“What?” he
said defensively.
“It’s no
wonder a superior young being from a nice family on DorAven with a mother that
indulges in dainty afternoon teas didn’t think much of what he saw yesterday,”
she said weakly. “Well, for a start you were all in an ISLA bar, and you,
personally, were in your Durocloth coveralls, and the pink being was in ditto
plus and a huge pink belt that was certainly emphasising the mammary glands—I
know the young DorAvenian enjoyed that part, you don’t have to lodge a caveat,
it wouldn’t counteract the dainty-afternoon-tea mok shit, in fact quite the
reverse. And you were with a couple
of sports-clones, not even First League, with bits missing here and there, and
a mutant trainer—I’d say there’s a bit of Wynonian Bugler in there as well as
humanoid and Meanker—all advertising UrGur for all they’re worth, and a largely
lemur mangy Fix-It Being in that lovely bright suit it favours, and to cap it
all, a really solid-looking Meanker ISLA Warder in his uniform!”
“You’ve been
spending far too much time with him!”
replied BrTl crossly.
“You’re
right, there,” agreed Jhl weakly, blowing her nose. “Uh—hang on, here he is!”
Ouch. BrTl waited nervously, shifting from
foot to foot to foot to foot to—
“Good
morning, Lieutenant BrTl,” said a sardonic humanoid voice he’d hoped never to
hear again as long as he lived.
A pseudopod
shot out of his neck and saluted all of its own accord: Ro’aan-Furi’yo’s
reaction, totally beyond his control, and anyway, the vacuum-frozen Whtyllian
couldn’t see it, thank the Federation. “Morning, sir!” he replied smartly,
coming to attention.
“Please
don’t bother to salute,” said Fleet Commander Shank’yar Vt R’aam politely.
BrTl
suppressed the impulse to grind his teeth: the vacuum-frozen being would
undoubtedly pick that up, too!
“How is the
ship?”
Grimly BrTl
replied: “Oh, about halfway to the refit shops, sir, under tow.”
“Very
amusing, Lieutenant,” said the Fleet Commander coolly. “Why are you so anxious
to get a Friyrian captain’s frequency?”
“Uh—duh-didn’t Captain Smt Wong tuh-tell you, sir?” he stuttered.
“I’d like to
hear it from you, Lieutenant,” he
said sweetly.
In the
background Jhl could be heard saying loudly: “Drop it, Shan!” but the
plasmo-blasted Whtyllian of course ignored her.
Glumly BrTl
stumbled through his story, making a very, very bad fist of it.
“That,” said
Shank’yar Vt R’aam sweetly, “is such a load of unadulterated mok shit that it
must be true.”
“I told you!” said Jhl loudly and angrily.
“Yes, but
darling, you also tried to tell me your ship was under tow, headed for the
refit shops.”—Ouch! BrTl swallowed hard.—“Well, it’s all very romantic, isn’t
it?” he said brightly.
“Are you
gonna give him the plasmo-blasted frequency or not?” demanded Jhl hotly.
“Not. Nor
you, darling. I’ll speak to Ccrainchzzyllia myself: I think he’d take it much
better from me.”
“Thanks,”
she croaked.
“Yuh-yes.
Thank you, sir,” croaked BrTl.
“Oh, I’m not
doing it for you,” he said sweetly. “And do try to keep your tail well clear of
all entanglements with unlikely beings for the rest of your stay, will you?
Out.”
And he
blobbed off before BrTl could even draw an indignant breath. So what did that
mean? Would Jhl get back to him? Or would the Friyrian, supposing he was
interested at all, get onto him himself? Or—horrors—would the Fleet Commander
get back to him? That didn’t seem all that likely, but it was a very great pity
Jhl had ordered him off the intoxicants.
Incomi—
“BrTl here!”
he gasped.
“It’s me,”
she said. “One shot of qwlot, okay?”
“Yes!
Thanks! –Is he doing it?”
“My dear
Lieutenant!” she said, shocked to the core. “Not here! He’s gone off to his palatial suite to get into his
vacuum-frozen Number Ones”—BrTl refrained from asking what he had been wearing:
he didn’t want to be totally sickened, lunchtime was in sight—“in order not to
let the side down.”
“Eh? Oh, I
get it. Diplo mok shit.”
“More like
Service mok shit in this instance, but yeah. It hasn’t dawned that the sight of
all that sparf on his shoulders is not gonna encourage this Friyrian to confide
his most intimate feelings. Well, if he gets any result at all, other than the
being blobbing off in his face, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d like to
know that, too.”
“Understandable,” she agreed sourly. “Captain out.”
“BrTl out.”
Gratefully
he tottered off to the bar and downed a shot of qwlot. Aah! Much better! Dohra
was quite safe: she wasn’t here. It had taken him some time to figure out what
to do with her. He had thought of letting her go up to Level Blue to see Craaa,
but what possible protection could the meek Bzzree offer against Forty-Four’s
mind-powers? Ku Fellan had had to be back at his post and Lu Rullan was on
duty, too, and so he’d been really stumped… Then it had struck him. So now he
went off happily to fetch her.
“Thanks for
looking after her, Ku Fellan.” Uh—the being had let her actually behind his
counter, wouldn’t there be an IG Reg against that?
“That’s
okay,” he said amiably.
“Hullo,
BrTl! Doesn’t Ku Fellan’s sim-picture look good?” she beamed.
It did,
actually: sort of glowed on his black wall. “Yeah, great. Had any custom?”
“Ooh, yes!”
said Dohra eagerly. “Guess what, Space Patrol caught two Bdeegs trying to
smuggle some very valuable jewels, and when they got here they were in the most
terrible tempers, and when one of the Patrollers relaxed her grip to blob them
in, they tried to bite each other!”
Let her think—Oh, you are, recognised BrTl. “Yeah, they’ll do that. What were
the jewels? Shlaa-tinted quog?”
“Close.
Huyajhangwanian rubies,” explained the Warder.
“Wow.”
“I’d never
heard of them,” admitted Dohra. “We never saw them, they’re in the big Space
Patrol safe upstairs. Only they showed us a picture of them, they’re really
beautiful!”
“Yeah. So
you’ve had a good time, eh?”
She nodded
hard but looked at him hopefully.
Look out, advised Ku Fellan.
“Go on,” he
said cautiously.
“Well,
there’s a lovely Ma’manker in the cells, it knows the one who invited me to the
ending-sizzle next Galaxy Day”—what in Federation was she on about?—“and, um,
I’ll pay you back out of my pay as soon as I get back to the ship!”
“They give
her an allowance and pay the rest direct into a credit account and she hasn’t
got a blob for it,” explained the Warder tolerantly.
“It’s for
J’nno’s education, only it’s got lots of igs in it, now, so, um— Only not if
you can’t afford it. It’s fifty igs.”
I wouldn’t, Br-cognate; don’t think she
knows how to transfer igs between accounts, advised the ISLA Warder tolerantly.
Uh—no, nor she does. “What’s this
Ma’manker done?” he asked heavily.
“Tell him,
List!” urged Dohra.
The
list-blob wouldn’t have, of course, but Ku Fellan gave it a nudge and it
droned: Deefer Soh-Liakki-quão-Mo.
Ma’manker var. Official. Soh group,
Liakki sub-group. IG ID SF1077792335878602121-MAM123645598024-SL/000345892556/01-N.
Rank: Lieutenant-Pilot. Status: Space Fleet Reserve. Reason for
resignation/discharge: Surplus to requirements in the present megaclimate. Last
Performance Grade: BCCD. Previous convictions— Obedient to Ku Fellan’s
nudge, it skipped those. Drunk and disorderly.
Dohra was
looking hopefully at BrTl again. “A Space Fleet ID,” he sighed. “I geddit.”
“Mm!”
“Uh—oh, why
not? Trot it up here, would you, Ku Fellan? Plenty of igs in the ship’s account
now.”
“Uh—your
ship’s account? You sure?”
“Yeah,
yeah,” he sighed.
“It’s your
ending-sizzle,” acknowledged the Warder drily. “It’ll take a minute or two, the
being’s at the far end of the row: it started reciting a Ma’manker
something-or-other.”
“Sizzling saga:
it was really exciting!” revealed Dohra, her eyes shining.
BrTl goggled
at Ku Fellan; surely he hadn’t let her down there? That really was against Regs!
“We could
hear it all the way up here: reason I moved the being. The words was all right—quite
exciting, like she says—only then it started the yodelling.”
“What?” said
BrTl limply.
“That’s a
meankoid expression!” beamed Dohra. “It’s almost like singing, only not quite.
Sort of a cross between hooting and singing—very high.”
“Its
was very high—yeah,” agreed Ku Fellan. “This is what a good yodel oughta sound
like.” He raised his tubes. “YOOO-OOPLE—OOPLE—OOO-OO-OO-OOOO!”
“Hurray!”
cried Dohra, clapping her hands, humanoid-wise.
“I see,”
admitted BrTl weakly. “Very unusual.”
“It’s an honour,” said Dohra, smiling.
“Uh—yeah.
Thanks for showing me, Ku Fellan, I never heard a meankoid yodel before.”
“That’s all
right,” he said smugly. “Here it comes. Sure ya want it?”
The being
seemed all right. Well, it was a Wavey-Spacey Lieutenant-Pilot, no way the list
would have that wrong, and it wasn’t all that drunk any more—they had very
efficient metabolisms— Oh, why not? It was, of course, a lot smaller than BrTl,
so if there were any problems, he’d bring it straight back here.
“There won’t
be,” said Deefer Soh-Liakki-quão-Mo. “It wears off pretty quick, with us.
Thanks very much, Br-cognate.”
“See, BrTl
will pay your fine, and I’ll pay him back!” explained Dohra.
“Uh—no need
to do that,” said the Ma’manker, watching as BrTl paid the fifty igs. “Thanks
very much. The Liakki sub-group’ll pay you back. I can’t access the account,
but there’s a couple of creased ones that can—if I can use your comm-blob?”
BrTl fished
it out of a pocket of his coveralls. Gee, it worked, so Trff’s re-blobbing or
whatever must have been a very general sort of thing: not specifically aimed at
just contacting Jhl, after all.
“Ooh!” said
Dohra excitedly as they watched the igs transfer. “So that’s how it works!”
“That’s what
it looks like when it works, anyway,” admitted BrTl. “Oops—more custom,” he
said as four Space Patrollers appeared, prodding half-a-dozen smelly, furry,
burly beings before them with their blasters. “We’ll get out of your way;
thanks again, Ku Fellan!”
“Thank you
for having me!” cried Dohra brightly. “Bye-bye!”
They got as
far as the public lift-blobs before the Ma’manker collapsed in a terrible fit
of—well, it wasn’t quite yodelling, but close. “They—thuh-thuh—”
“Yeah. Don’t
try to explain, Ma’manker,” said BrTl heavily. “I’m used to it.”
Water was
oozing out of its three yellow eyes and down its dark puce cheeks—that was
interesting: he’d thought the practice was confined to mammalians.
“Oh, dear,” it said limply at last. “Those
Space Patrollers thought she was thanking the Warder for a stay in the cells!”
“Exactly,”
said BrTl heavily. Level Pink.
The
Ma’manker assenting, they all went up to Level Pink after the deduction of the
customary fifteen igs each.
“I’m not
drinking, and unless you wanna see Ku Fellan again very shortly, Ma’manker—”
“I’ll stick
to spring water,” it said quickly. “Call me Deefer Mo.
“See, they
use the first and the last bits of their names,” said Dohra informatively. Isn't it tall? she added admiringly. And three arms and legs; have you noticed
that beings with three of each usually have three eyes as well?
Its head
reached BrTl’s shoulder, so he conceded: Tallish,
yeah. Thin, though. No staying-power, ’ud be my guess. “Fine, Deefer Mo.
I
have, admitted Dohra. What? Oh!
“Yes, please. Raffleberry-flavoured, please. –That’s Ponicho Mull over there
with Forty-Four,” she added in a low voice to the Ma’manker.
“Yoo-oo!” it
hooted. “Forewarned is three-armed!”
“Um, yes.” Isn’t it “four-armed”, BrTl?
Whatever blobs you up. And have you warned
it about the clones?
No, why? she asked in bewilderment.
BrTl took a
deep breath, grabbed their drinks from the servo-mech behind the bar, and led
the way…
“Then,” finished Ponicho Mull on a
triumphant note the usual fifty megazillion IG hours later, “of course Prince Aallon in person
congratulated me on a job well done, offering his actual appendage! Ck, ck,
ck!”
“Splendid,”
said Forty-Four faintly.
“Was he a
humanoid?” asked Deefer Mo.
“Uh—no, I
thought I explained that, Deefer
Mo
“Then was he
a Friyrian?”
“No, no: I
explain—”
“He wasn’t a
Mklontian, was he?”
“Pooh, ugh,
no! I expl—”
“Then why
was he offering his appendage?” asked Deefer
Mo
Alas, Dohra
broke down in helpless giggles, and Musho, who’d been exhibiting signs of
strain for some time, broke down in helpless ha-ha-hoos. And the clones, taking
their cue from him, broke down in raucous shouts of laughter—though there was
no doubt whatsoever they had no idea why.
“Lunch,”
stated BrTl definitely, standing up. Not that that would actually silence
Ponicho Mull—but there’d be a few pauses.
After lunch
Dohra suggested the sim-lounges or the pongo-pongo room, and funnily enough,
Forty-Four supported her.
“But my dear
little humanoid! The odds against winning at pongo-pongo—”
“It’s fun,”
said Deefer Mo
“Pongo-pongo! Play pongo-pongo!” shouted the clones, hurrying in their
wake.
“Pongo-pongo
it is,” said BrTl blandly.
“I’ve never
played,” admitted Forty-Four.
“No, well,
you wouldn’t want to: Ponicho Mull’s right about the odds. But I think you
might find it quite an intriguing experience.”
“Intriguing?
Ck, ck, ck! You’re too generous, my dear xathpyroid cognate!”
“Wait and
see,” said BrTl mildly, offering Forty-Four his arm. And they went off slowly,
the Thwurbullerian politely trying not to lean too hard on him and BrTl
politely not pointing out that short of its putting its entire weight on him
he’d be all right.
They took up
almost a whole row in the pongo-pongo lounge—well, put it like this: no beings
came up and asked Forty-Four or BrTl to move up a bit.
It didn’t
take long before it dawned that not only did 62 and 310 have no idea how to
play, they thought—though that was putting it too strongly—that the whole point
of the game was to leap up shouting “Pongo-pongo!”
In a
way, it is, sent Forty-Four reflectively.
My thought exactly! replied BrTl pleasedly.
After a
certain amount of confusion over sports-clones leaping up and shouting
“PONGO-PONGO!” or even “PONGO-PONGO-PONGO!” when they didn’t have a
pongo-pongo, let alone a pongo-pongo-pongo, or in fact any numbers at all, the
being whose job it was to verify pongo-pongos came up and politely asked if the
being in charge of them could keep them quiet.
BrTl had
really started to enjoy himself—the more so since Ponicho Mull, who had so far
in a very superior way played five games, hadn’t won anything—and so he
replied politely: “Musho. This is him: ‘TRAINER,’ see? Manifestly he can’t.”
“Um,
manifestly?” replied the being uncertainly. What was it?
“Mm:
obviously,” he replied. No, he sent
to Dohra’s suggestion of Tweaked
Whtyllian cat?
This xathpyroid says the being can’t control
them! it sent crossly.
“Thirty-three, all the threes!” carolled the brightly-clad being at the
front. “One moment, beings all, begging your gracious pardons!” Then tell the xathpyroid to control them or
get out!
Me or him? it replied. Whatever it was,
it was dim, all right.
What? Him!
“Control
them or get out, xathpyroid,” reported the being faithfully.
BrTl gave up
teasing it: no fun, when there was almost no consciousness there to tease; and
replied meekly: “Okay.” –Is it all right
if they jump up and shout ‘Pongo-pongo’ if one of us gets a pongo-pongo? he
asked the being at the front.
It leapt, he
was not displeased to see, ten IG fluh where it stood. Um, yes.
Good; thanks. “It’s all right, you can go, they’re under control,”
he said kindly to the verify-being.
“NO
pongo-pongo!” it shouted, emanating relief. Not
verified, it sent.
I know that, you intergalactic idiot, and
GET UP HERE! came the reply.
For some
reason this made BrTl very, very cross—the more so as the contrast between the
verify-being’s severely plain, maroonish, almost uniform-like outfit and the
brightly-clad being’s garments had caused Ponicho Mull to look down his nose at
the former in a very superior way indeed—and so he began to concentrate.
It’s quite easy, really, sent Forty-Four mildly. Just wait for the interval between the control-blob’s registering the
numbers all the beings have got, and the numbers flashing up.
Yes, agreed BrTl, adding a 4 to his row
of numbers, just as a giant blue 4 flashed up at the front. Shall I emanate?
Beings seem to, replied the
Thwurbullerian mildly.
So BrTl
emanated Pongo-pongo! and after the
usual interval, leapt, well, got up, in view of other frailer beings in the
neighbourhood, and shouted, well, called quite loudly: “Pongo-pongo!” Meanwhile
encouraging the clones to—
“PONGO-PONGO! PONGO-PONGO!” they bellowed, crashing to their feet.
“Ooh, you’ve
got a pongo-pongo, BrTl!” cried Dohra brightly. Hah, hah, that’ll larn them! she sent viciously.
Uh—yeah. Try not to broadcast, they might
pick you up.
I think they’re only checking for numbers,
sent Forty-Four, but caution is always
sensible. “We’ve got a pongo-pongo here,” it said very mildly as the
verify-being came up.
It appeared
to look at BrTl’s numbers but what actually happened was that whoever or
whatever was controlling it looked at the numbers through it and prompted it to
say “Pongo-pongo!” and send Verified
to the being at the front. The sour note of the latter was all its own, though.
“Pay six
igs! Pay six igs!” shouted the brightly-clad being, jumping up and down.
“Thanks,”
said BrTl as the verify-being paid him. “Wait,” he said, shooting out a
pseudopod and grabbing it by a fold of the neat maroon uniform.
It’s part lorpoid, part Quarvaynian
marmoset, with a certain amount of humanoid DNA as well, sent Forty-Four.
Is a Quarvaynian marmoset rather like a New
Rthfrdian lemur?
Yes.
In that case, that’s more or less what I
can see, too, BrTl agreed, handing the
being the six igs. “A tip. For you,” he said carefully. “Don’t give it to that
being at the front.”
It looked up at him doubtfully. “He always
takes his cut.”
“I see,”
said BrTl heavily. “Off you go, then.”
Six igs, it sent meekly to the being at
the front, putting them in a pocket of its uniform, and trotting off.
Dohra leant
forward. “If we give it more tips, will that mean the controller-being takes a
percentage every time?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,
bother!” She sat back in her seat, frowning over it, neglecting to check the
numbers on her blob. Not that it mattered, no being was going to win for
another seventeen games.
Sixteen, corrected Forty-Four as a being
over at the far side of the room broadcast PONGO-PONGO!
And then leapt up, shouting: “Pongo-pongo! Pongo-pongo!”
The interval between wins is an apparently
random sequence, reported Deefer
Mo
Ooh, so it
was! Gee, that made it a lot easier: just override, and/or alter, the
algorithm! Suddenly, all over the room, beings were shouting “Pongo-pongo!” and
leaping to their feet. The verify-being became quite breathless, panting up and
down the aisles and between the rows. Oddly, however, the controller-being
seemed unaffected.
“Doesn’t he
care?” hissed Dohra at last, as BrTl awarded an elderly trio of lorpoids a
pongo-pongo-pongo. Why not? Lorpoids liked doing things in threes.
“No, not his
job. All he does is call out numbers and jump up and down and generally
maintain a bright and cheerful atmosphere.”
“And take
his cut from the miserable verify-being,” agreed Deefer Mo.
“Yeah. And
when did you have your last command,
Ma’manker?” asked BrTl genially.
“Five IG
years back,” it said cheerfully. “Pilot vessel out in Sector 234579G.”
BrTl
swallowed. “The Asteroids of Hhum?” he croaked.
“Yeah. Good
fun! Then I got bumped up to Second Officer on a Seeker and made the mistake of
pointing out the Captain’s navigational error to it. Admittedly we didn’t
plunge into Star PQ49683P, but funnily enough it didn’t altogether appreciate
my help, and it had nothing to do with the smell, either.”
“Smell?”
said Dohra in bewilderment.
“That’s
Mklontia’s sun,” explained Deefer
Mo
Dohra
swallowed hard.
“After that
Space Fleet decided I was surplus to requirements in the present megaclimate,”
it finished smoothly.
“Extremely
unjust, yes, Dohra, but that is how these large organisations work,” said
Forty-Four. “Ponicho Mull,” it said just as he was thinking: I can cap that story! and opening his
mouth: “I think you may have a pongo-pongo coming up.”
“Ooh!” he
gasped, fixing his round brown eyes on his blob.
Generously
Forty-Four awarded him a pongo-pongo.
Then Deefer Mo
“Who or
what,” asked BrTl limply as they went into a sim-lounge, “was controlling it?”
“Ck, ck, ck!
It’s not controlled, BrTl!” said
Ponicho Mull. “It’s a game of chance!”
“Yeah:
chances are, you won’t win.”
“I think it was
all blob-driven,” said Forty-Four. “There was no being there that I could
sense. What about you, Deefer
Mo
“All blobs
’ud be my guess, too,” agreed the Ma’manker. “I think the unexpected number of
wins was an alert that there was something wrong.”
“’Fraid so,”
admitted BrTl. “Oh, well, it was good while it lasted.”
“Yes, the
luck was really running our way today,” agreed Ponicho Mull smugly. “Ooh, shall
we watch the history drama?”
“History of
what?” asked BrTl, looking at the sim-image of brightly-clad beings rushing
about doing something unascertainable.
Nothing very much, replied Forty-Four drily. History dramas are characterised by bright garments, short conflicts
resulting in victory to the main characters, and primitive weaponry.
He
brightened slightly; then he took another look at the colourful garments.
“Uh—well, whatever blobs you up. Dare say I could sleep through this as well as
anything.”
“Um, I
always think the stories are silly,” said Dohra, going pink but sticking out
her chin.
“Oh, well,
yes, but the settings are so fascinating!” cried Ponicho Mull, his eyes glued
to the images. “This is Heroic Ptrg And
His Friend O’ddy. Last week they encountered a devil-dragon!”
“Eh? There
are no devil-dragons,” said Deefer
Mo.
“Yes, but
they might have existed once, and you
see, this is a history drama!”
“That makes
it pretty clear, Ma’manker,” noted BrTl.
“It sounds
more exciting than the everlasting adventures of stupid Princess Whatserface,”
admitted Dohra. “She keeps meeting beings that she thinks she’d like to
bond-partner with, only they all turn out to have evil intentions or incurable
diseases or be her long-lost brother or something.”
“Very dull,”
agreed Ponicho Mull smugly, his eyes glued to the images.
“Those
history dramas, they’re real dumb!” contributed Musho suddenly.
“Sports!”
cried the clones. “We want SPORTS!”
“Try the
next sim-lounge,” said a being with its visual appendages glued to the
sim-images, not turning its head.
“There’s a
quiz show on over there,” said Dohra in a low voice to BrTl.
“Rigged.”
“No, it’s a
proper one!”
In that case
it’d be far too hard for her. “Uh—well, if you like. Forty-Four?”
Forty-Four
and Deefer Mo both voted for the quiz show, so they left Ponicho Mull glued to
the history drama and joined the one small immature humanoid—little boy, explained Dohra—one elderly
female Nblyterian, and one elderly frilled Maudur that were watching it. And
Musho took his clones off in search of the Sports Services, assuring them that
they’d come back and find Dohra afterwards, she wasn’t gonna run away!
The elderly
female Nblyterian knew all the answers. The elderly Maudur knew most of them,
with the exception of anything relating to biology, which it admitted it’d
always loathed: it was the one thing that had prevented its competing in Maudur Great Minds. Deefer Mo
Dohra got everything she answered wrong except
one question relating to the composition of a confection called shoo-woll
custard.
However, she
enjoyed herself terrifically. And, as she said when the marks were counted and
the Mklontian competitor was officially announced the winner, it had been
really educational. Only, when they had the finals, didn't the beings all go to
the studio?
“Yes,” said
the elderly Nblyterian mildly, as Dohra’s companions were emanating blankness.
“What if the
Mklontian gets into the finals?”
“Got a good
chance of winning: it only got three wrong,” said Deefer Mo
“I don’t
think she means that,” said the elderly Nblyterian. “She’s referring to the
odour. It will have to wear a special protective suit. Of course, one could say
the practice is discriminatory,” she added as Dohra sagged and smiled in
relief, “but there is a special sub-clause in the Intergalactic Inalienable
Being-Rights Declaratory Act which deals with that kind of case.”
“Para . 243,805, sub-clause 764 (b),” said the old Maudur
smugly.
“764 (c),”
she corrected firmly.
“No: (b)!”
snapped the Maudur.
“You’ll find
it’s (c), Old Maudur,” she said grimly.
“No: (b)!”
“It’s (c)!”
Encyclopaedia! they both ordered angrily, and the sim-receiver
blobbed onto the Encyclopaedia and Forty-Four, BrTl, Dohra and Deefer Mo
Their corner
in the pink ISLA bar was occupied by two young Ordinary Spacers, heading home
on leave, but BrTl just looked hard at them and they moved meekly away.
“Those were
Belraynian twins,” said Dohra weakly.
“Yes: they
often like to do things together, even when they’re matured and no longer share
brain functions,” said Forty Four kindly.
“Um, yes.”
“Oh, I see!
Your Chief Engineer’s a Belraynian, isn’t she?”
“Mm. Her and
her bond-partner, they’ve got twins,” she said on a wistful note.
“All right,
I’ll hoik them back,” said BrTl heavily.
“No—I mean,
um, there was no need to frighten them,” murmured Dohra.
“I didn’t frighten them, I merely looked at them.
And all I emanated was ‘senior officers.’”
“Well, no
wonder they went away!” she said indignantly.
“I’ll do
it,” said Deefer Mo.
“Hullo!”
beamed Dohra. “We didn’t mean to send you away! You’re Belraynian twins, aren’t
you?”
“Yes, I am,”
they said, emanating pleasure.
“I thought
so! I know a Belraynian quite well, her name’s Chumquck, she’s a ship’s
engineer, and her and her bond-partner, his name’s Chumquck-Raffnee, they’ve got twins! They’re not grown up,
yet: their names are Poff-Piff. They live in Hinnover City
“Um, we know
a Chumquck-Raffnee family that’ve got a holiday home on Lake Shturjellifor Shturjellifor Village
“That sounds
like them! They have got a holiday home on a lake!” she beamed. “What a
coincidence!”
It was such
a coincidence that the Belraynians had to sit down and tell them all about
their family—they were from Shturjellifor Village, which was how they knew
Grandmother Chumquck—and how they’d become Ordinary Spacers, and where they’d
served, and etcetera. After some time Musho and the clones came up, Musho
emanating great pleasure at the discovery that Ponicho Mull hadn’t rejoined
them. So then they were able to hear about the Belraynians’ family and
immediate history, too: in fact Dohra recapped the bits that they’d missed. And
explained helpfully that their names were Dalla and Dallee—the twins nodding
happily—but those weren’t their grown-up names, but everyone called them that!
And weren’t their dark navy uniforms smart?
“I gotta
uniform!” shouted 62.
“Of course:
Yours is very sm—”
“I gotta
uniform, TOO!” bellowed 310.
“They’re
like that: sports-clones,” explained BrTl tolerantly as the two young spacers
blenched.
“Oh,” said
Dalla. “Yeah, your uniform’s real smart, 62.”
“So is
yours, 310: real smart,” added Dallee. “Most of the time we just wear Durocloth
coveralls, of course.”
“Yes: most
of the time they don’t look as smart as you, 62 and 310!” cooed Dohra.
Whether all
of this sank in was hard to say, but at any rate the clones looked mollified
and sat back and accepted UrGur beer, in fact all beings except BrTl opted for
UrGur, even Forty-Four deciding to try it, though it would be stronger than
Rwthwarian ale.
“Mm, it is
strong!” Dohra discovered, smiling. “Nice, though!”
“Yeah: UrGur
for IT!” shouted 62.
“Ya mean
UrGur for her, ya dozy clone,” said Musho, his already reddish veined cheeks
going even redder, so he presumably had more humanoid in him than was
discernible at first glance.
“UrGur for
THEM!” shouted 310.
“Something
like that,” he said tiredly. “They bet a whole super-ig on a plasmo-blasted
Second League bocketball team of Ma’manker clones—no offence, Ma’manker—that’ve
never won a game all season, and I told the being that took the bet they was
only clones, they didn’t know what they was doing, only he wouldn’t take it
back!”
“What was
he?” asked Dohra sympathetically.
“A
vacuum-frozen Whtyllian,” he said sourly.
That explains it! came the broadcasts.
“Coach’ll go
ballistic,” he predicted glumly.
“I see; it
comes out of the team’s account,” said Dohra sympathetically.
“Ooh, help!”
gasped the Belraynian twins.
“Yeah. Well,
nothing like as bad as if you hadda pay a bet from your ship’s account—not that
you’d ever of got the okay for that,” he acknowledged with a muffled ha-hoo,
“but bad enough.”
“I’ll say!”
they chorused. Somehow they seemed inspired by the incident—though perhaps the
UrGur beer was also a factor—to tell the company a long horror-tale about one,
P.O. Jafferroff, former twin name Joff, who had
been authorised, being in the purser’s office, to spend money from the ship’s
account, and had got himself head-first down a Vvlvanian magma pit… BrTl quite
enjoyed it. Took him back to—well, not quite to when he was that age: it was
very hard to imagine being that young—but
to his early days in the Service, certainly. One blunder after another:
Br-Feet-in-Mouth-Tl was a name he’d gone by for a while, in fact. He came to
when Forty-Four went off to the hygiene cabinets, and realised he’d better
contact Jhl. Just as well Deefer
Mo
She wasn’t
there. Well, mok shit! He left a message to say he’d called and whooshed back
to the bar. Oh, Federation! In fact, quintupled mok shit! Ponicho Mull was back!
“Naturally I
was the first the Committee of F
Reppos turned to! Ck, ck, ck! Now, most beings would not have found it an easy problem to fix—ck, ck, ck! But of course
I—”
It was no
consolation at all to discover the innocent young Belraynians were emanating a
mixture of bewilderment, awe and growing boredom. None at all.
Next
morning, same as yesterday except that Deefer Mo was on hand to watch out for
Dohra while he called Jhl.
“Were you
paying more dues when I called yesterday?” he asked cautiously.
“More or
less,” she said, yawning. “A trip with a party of moronic diplos and
play-beings to some choice venue: it took all afternoon and most of the evening
to even get to the plasmo-blasted—Ya don’t wanna know. Perishing cold draughts
whistling through its historic halls about sums it up, and the food was awful.”
“Meat stew?”
he spotted.
“Yes, but
greasy, gristly and tough! One consolation, the diplos and play-beings hated it
to a being, and Shan was fiendishly bored throughout. Um, listen, he couldn’t
get onto the Friyrian: he spoke to the First Officer. The being’s got some home
leave. He’s working on his contacts to get the home frequency: reading between
the space garbage, the First Officer was too shit-scared of its Captain to give
it to him, sparf-covered shoulders or not.”
“I’d say
good for it, but I’d rather have got a result,” he admitted.
“Yeah. Um…”
“Yes?” he
said in surprise. “What?”
Jhl cleared
her mammalian throat. “He’s due to inspect some unfortunate squadrons in Athlor
Kadry’s System; um, something to do with being Whtyllian.”
“Wouldn’t it
be more something to do with being a Fleet Commander?” he groped.
“In this
instance, both. Athlor Kadry was a Whtyllian, and there’s some sort of
anniversary coming up. Anyway, poor old norashendarblenarB uw doveL’s been told
off to bring her Seeker over. –Oh, you don’t know Captain norashendarblenarB? I
served under her once: very decent officer. Uh, like I say, she’s been told off
to collect him. So, um, I’ve accepted a lift as far as Ddiamphorer VI.”
He
swallowed, but managed to say: “Right.”
“So,” said
Jhl between her mammalian teeth, “I’ll be there in no time!”
“You’ll be
that, all right,” he croaked. A Seeker?
Flaming Vvlvanian magma pits!
“Tomorrow,
your time, if I make the connection at Ddiamphorer VI,” she admitted.
“Oh, great!”
Jhl replied
with a smile in her voice: “Thank you for that kind sentiment, BrTl, only the
thing is, I don't guarantee I can, um, keep Shan up to the mark at long-range.”
“Eh?”
“Over
contacting the Friyrian.”
“Oh! That!
Never mind, you’ll be here! At least
you’ll be able to stop plasmo-blasted Forty-Four! Would you believe, yesterday
afternoon it got a pair of Belraynian twins going—no, well, adults, but young
adults—and all the time they were telling Dohra harmless stuff about holiday
homes on lakes, it was sending her stuff about narrative techniques!”
It’d do the
pink being good to have to exercise her mind a bit, understand how stories
worked—though as a storyteller she didn’t need to grasp her techniques
intellectually. Nevertheless Jhl winced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. And
those twins wouldn’t know a narrative technique if they fell over it!” he said
aggrievedly. “I know, because I looked! –Quite interesting, they’re still
sharing a lot of brain functions.”
“They’d be
unconscious narrative techniques—like, native to Belraynia, I guess,” she
offered cautiously.
“Don’t,” he
said heavily. “You sound just like it. Well, at least you’ll recognise what
it’s doing.”
“Mm. Did
your pink being seem genuinely interested?”
“Uh—actually
she seemed a lot more interested in what the twins had to say!”
Jhl went
into a spluttering fit. Emerging from it to admit: “That is a pretty standard
humanoid reaction.”
“Yeah. –Why’s
she think twins are so marvellous? If I’ve got it right, it’s only two produced
at once.”
“Yes:
Belraynians are viviparous, like mammalians—humanoids, Friyrians, and so
forth.”
“Yeah,
that’s what I’m saying: only two? There were twenty-five in my culture-pod. I’m
the seventeenth.”
Jhl was
heard to gulp. “Um, two or more together is really unusual for humanoids.”
There was a
considerable silence. Then he said: “But you’ve got at least three cognates,
haven’t you?”
“Four,
actually: three males and one female. All born at different—um, widely
separated times, like an IG year or more.”
“Then they
can’t be culture-pod cognates!”
They had,
more or less, had this conversation before. It wasn’t a matter of his
intellectual capacity, it was simply that he had nothing affective to relate
the concepts to. “Think of it this way. Supposing you and BrPl and BrWl and
BrRv all got together and made a culture-pod—if I’m not using the right
terminology I apologise—but supposing you did, um, start one, okay?”
“We usually
say start one, yes.”
“Right. Now
imagine the culture-pod opening at intervals over a period of IG years to let
out one cognate at a time.”
“It wouldn’t
do that!” he said with a laugh.
“No, but
imagine if it did. They’d all be different ages—or at least at different
developmental stages—but culture-pod cognates, wouldn’t they?”
“It couldn’t
happen, but I see what you mean,” he said tolerantly.
“Well, me
and my brothers and sister are full culture-pod cognates, okay?” said Jhl
weakly, wondering why in Federation they were having this conversation.
“Okay, if
you say so. I can’t quite see that that’s essentially different from twins.”
“Twins pop
out together,” said Jhl tiredly, “and it’s very, very different.”
“Oh. I think
I’ve got it.”
“‘Two for
the price of one’ is how my Dad refers to it,” she said without hope.
“Oh! I see!” he said pleasedly.
He
didn’t, but she let it go. “I think he’s coming back, I’ll have to go, but
before I blob off could we possibly agree to drop the subjects of twins,
culture-pods and the whole reproductive bit for the next IG year, min.?”
“Oh, dear!”
said a mocking male humanoid voice from the background. “Don’t tell me you’re
having yet another of those conversations about mammalian reproduction versus
xathpyroid reproduction with the ubiquitous Lieutenant BrTl?”
“DON’T CALL
HIM THAT!” shouted Jhl furiously.
There came the
sound of a lightly mocking male humanoid laugh.
Then Jhl
said, breathing heavily: “Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, unless I’m driven to
tell him where he gets off once and for all. Okay?”
“Okay,”
agreed BrTl weakly.
“Hurry up,
darling: Number Ones,” said the voice from the background.
“All RIGHT,
Shank’yar!” she screamed. “Plasmo-blasted Number Ones! Captain OUT!”
“BrTl out,”
croaked BrTl to the shimmering silence emanating from his comm-blob. Help. Of
course he hadn’t actually asked her
to get the vacuum-frozen Whtyllian involved, but… No excuse. He’d known he was
there, he’d known he was foisting his company on Jhl, and he knew that if she
agreed to do something, she did it. The whole way down the moogletube, so to
speak. Ouch.
Jhl came
into the pink ISLA bar with her shield firmly in place, and paused, smiling
just a little. There he was, naturally in his Durocloth coveralls, sitting with
a short, blonde, pinkish humanoid female whose Durocloth coveralls were adorned
by a huge pink belt, a couple of garishly-uniformed sports-clones who were
emanating appreciation of the effect of the belt, their mutant trainer (yep, a
bit of Wynonian Bugler as well as humanoid and Meanker, and hopelessly smitten with
the pink being, oh, dear), something
mangy, striped—oh, largely lemur, that’d be the Fix-It Being—two giant navy-clad
lumps with the smart, narrow red trim of the Ordinary Spacer, an ex-Service
Ma’manker with a sardonic look on its puce face and a very decent shield very
firmly in place, and, last but very much not
least, a looming bulk of fawnish Thwurbullerian in a faded greyish-fawn tent.
It lacked but the solid Meanker ISLA Warder in his uniform, in fact.
Suddenly
BrTl emanated immense pleasure. Dohra followed his gaze to the door, and
gulped. A dainty black-haired humanoid figure in Space Fleet Number
Ones—lieutenant-pilot’s bars with a merchant captain’s star up—was standing
there, smiling just a little. It must be his Captain, but— She was only about
Dohra’s own height, which was completely different to the way both BrTl and
Trff had pictured her, and very pretty, with a typically Bluellian heart-shaped
face, big, slightly slanted dark eyes, and a mouth as cherry-red as See’s. And
the loveliest figure! Which the narrow pants and short, tight jacket of the
dark navy-blue uniform certainly set off. Nothing—nothing like what her two crew-members had pictured! Dohra was
unable to do more than goggle, as Captain Smt Wong came up to them.
“Hullo,” she
said casually.
“You got
here, then,” replied BrTl, also very casual.
“Yeah,
managed not to bawl You-Know-Who out,” she said, eyeing the company with some
amusement.
“Oh!” cried
Ponicho Mull, bounding to his feet, the small black hands clasped in ecstasy.
“It’s your Captain! How delightful to
met you at last, Captain!”
“Hullo,”
said Jhl indifferently. “Mull, is it? Aren’t you the being that F Reppo Bhl Smt
Br’n had thrown off Intergalactica three IG years back?”—He gasped, and
recoiled.—“Thought so,” she said mildly. “Big mistake to offer to fix anything
for a Bluellian. How do you do, Thwurbullerian?” she added politely. “No,
please don’t get up! I’m Jhl Smt Wong.”
Waggling its
frontal lobes pleasedly, the Thwurbullerian returned: “How do you do, Captain
Smt Wong? A great pleasure. I’m Forty-Four from Untranslatable Shade of Mauve
Sector. Do please call me Forty-Four, if you’d care to.”
“Thank you,
Forty-Four. Please call me Jhl.”
By this time
Dohra had managed to stagger to her feet. The twins had been paralysed; now
they also clambered to their feet, and saluted.
“At ease,
spacers,” said Jhl mildly, throwing them a salute. “No-one’s on duty. Heading
home for Belraynia, that it?”
“Yessir!”
they gasped.
“Good show.
Lovely place, isn’t it? Had a posting there once.” She nodded at them in a
friendly way. “Sit down again. –You must be W’t, Dohra B’Jn, that right?”
“Yes, this
is Dohra,” said BrTl.
“How do you
do, sir?” croaked Dohra.
“No need to
sir me,” said Jhl mildly. “Merchant Service, are you?”
“Yessir!
Third Cook, Acting Chef, Silver-Ash
Flyer, Silver WF Line!” she
gasped.
“That’s a
decent job. Very good line: treat their crews plasmo-blasted well. Let’s see;
Belraynia to Playfair One, I think BrTl said it was?”
“That’s
right, Captain!” she gasped.
“Call me
Jhl,” said Jhl mildly.
“Um,
yuh-yes, Jhl,” gulped Dohra, blushing. “Please call me Dohra.”
Jhl pulled
up a humanoid-size chair for herself, and sat down. “Siddown, Dohra. Thought
there was a Nblyterian supply ferry captain in the offing?”
“BlndreL?
No, she managed to get home for F Day,” said BrTl. “This is Deefer
Soh-Liakki-quão-Mo. It’s Wavey-Spacey, too. Used to captain a pilot vessel out
in the Asteroids of Hhum.”
“Wow! Fun!”
she said, grinning at it. “Good to meet you, Deefer Soh-Liakki-quão-Mo.”
“And you,
Captain. Call me Deefer Mo
“Thanks, Deefer Mo.
“And this is
Musho, and 62 and 310,” explained BrTl.
“Sure! Good
to meet you! Anyone fancy a refill? I’m buying,” she said amiably.
Everyone
fancied a refill, though BrTl stuck firmly to spring water. Jhl watched in
amusement as the Belraynian twins and the Fix-It Being seized on their
Rwthwarian ale and Whtyllian Pink Whip respectively and downed them like a trio
of mimm-torrs that had just crossed the Wurratonoonian desert out of reach of
liquid for half an IG year.
Then there
was just time before dinner for BrTl to show Jhl the room he’d hired and for
her to freshen up, so, leaving Dohra under Deefer Mo
“Thanks,”
said BrTl as they fought their way through the concourse—three ferries full of
tourists changing ship for the holiday worlds had just docked.
“What for?”
“Stopping
plasmo-blasted Ponicho Mull in his tracks! I mean, not only the reference to
your Bluellian Reppo, but calling him Mull !
Can’t decide which I liked best, really!”
“Any time,”
she said with a grin.
“This tube
goes straight to our corridor,” he said temperately, as they reached it and the
gaggle of beings waiting for the tran-blob train that was not yet due to appear
in it.
“Uh-huh.”
“Or I could
lope down that passage, if you want to hop aboard.”
“In my
Number Ones? My dear Lieutenant!” she
said, shocked to the core.
“What does ubiquitous mean?” he asked glumly.
“Huh?
Oh—him. Um, being everywhere at once, I think. Um, always there when not wanted
was the implication,” she said apologetically.
“I’ll
remember that,” he promised. “If we go down to the next intersection, you could
hop aboard out of sight of this lot.”
“Or if you
give me a hand up, you could start loping right now,” responded his Captain
amiably.
“Oh—right!”
Happily he helped her up, and loped down the passage, passing two Wynonian
Buglers and a Whistling Carrio as he did so—the latter had sufficient breath
left to whistle admiringly at him—but being passed in his turn by an Eeiiay in
full flight.
“So?” said
Jhl, having used the hygiene cabinet and chucked her uniform into the recycler.
“Nothing
from Trff yet. Have you—No.”
“No messages
from the DorAvenian indicating he’s changed his mind? –Didn’t think so,” she
admitted, grimacing.
“Um, what do
you think of Dohra?”
“Just as you
described her. Fair amount of potential. The schools on C’T’rea must be pretty
disastrous.”
“Yes, and I
don’t think her cognate group ever encouraged her to study, either.”
“That’d be
right,” she agreed drily.
“You were
lucky to have a teacher that was interested in maths,” he acknowledged.
“Yeah. And
then, J’f, Gervaynian worm though he is, had gone through just ahead of me
topping every class, so there were certain expectations.”
“Uh—oh,
right, the third male cognate. –Blrtlberries,” he murmured to himself.
“Mm.” Jhl
sat down on the edge of Dohra’s bed. “That Thwurbullerian’s got a good solid
shield up.”
BrTl could
have used his stall, but if he did there was a good chance he’d nod off, so he
just sat down on the floor and leaned his back against it. “And?” he said
mildly.
“And it is the one that’s a professor at the
vacuum-frozen Intergalactic University, and it does have every intention of
persuading Dohra that she’ll love the life there and taking her back to the FW
dump. It hasn’t yet worked out how to get over her extremely inglorious Second School
“Ugh. Um, so
it’s not good enough to alter her Second
School
“Not
nearly!” said Jhl with a laugh.
He sagged.
“That’s a relief.”
“Why in
Federation didn’t you get Trff to stop the Vvlvanian-cursed being in its
untranslatable shade of mauve tracks?”
He
swallowed. “I wasn’t sure that it could. And it was so busy, what with our
blobs and Didg’s blobs…”
“Right:
thought its mind might not be on the job. Fair enough!” she said cheerfully.
“Can you
stop it?” he asked hopefully.
Jhl rubbed
her one humanoid nose. “Um… maybe. Wouldn’t like to risk it, though: I may
actually need my mind over the next few IG years.”
“Um, well,
not stop it in its tracks, but just undo anything it does to Dohra, then?”
“I can do
that, all right!” she said with some feeling. “I got the distinct impression
that the concept ‘free will’ only extends to Thwurbullerians.”
“That’s not
uncommon with lots of species,” he admitted.
“Yeah.
Uh—BrTl, can we go over your impressions of her plasmo-blasted story?
Gr’mmeaya, all that garbled space garbage?”
“Um, sure,
if you like. Why don’t you look: it’ll be quicker than if I try to tell you.”
Jhl looked,
frowning. Finally she sat back and said: “Does Room Service cost an arm and
three legs, here?”
“Four,” he
admitted. “Dohra asked how much a humanoid-size glass of spring water would
cost and told the answer to blow it out its ear. Unfortunately it was only a
blob she was speaking to at the time.”
Jhl
chuckled. “You have to approve the sentiment, though! Um, well, given the
amount you got off that snot-nosed little DorAvenian for the work Trff did on
his brother’s ship—oh, sorry, crude Bluellian expression,” she said with a
grin, as he was touching his own noses dubiously—“given that, and given the
amount I took off a couple of dim lieutenants at pkwr while a certain
sparf-laden being was unfairly pulling rank to make the unfortunate captain let
him pilot the Seeker,”—BrTl had to swallow, even though he knew the Whtyllian
was a superb pilot—“I think it’ll run to a double shot of qwlot each.”
He
brightened. “Oh, right!”
He waited
until she’d swallowed and sighed, and then he said cautiously: “Any
conclusions? Does it look as if she made it all up, after all?”
“No-o. Not all, no. Wish your friend blndreL was
still here: I’d like to know how much of it she thought was wishful thinking.”
“Um, I sort
of thought she thought most of it
was. Not the bit about serving on Silver-Ash
Flyer, obviously. I mean,
Dohra’s dokko’s all right.”—Jhl gave him a mocking look.—“That bit of it,
anyway.”
“Mm-m… I
cannot believe that any Friyrian captain in the Known Universe, supposing that
he was alive, breathing, and not confined to Mullgon’ya, could have been taken
in by that cook’s dokko for an IG microsecond!”
BrTl gulped,
he’d never thought of that. “Um, perhaps he didn’t bother to look.”
“Wouldn’t you, if you were selecting a being for a
delicate mission closely connected with the members of your own culture-pod?”
“Asteroids
of Hhum,” he muttered.
“Exactly!”
She drank qwlot and stared into space. Finally she said: “True up to the
instant where the Friyrian asked her to do anything for him, make that actually
spoke to her in person?”
“Uh—well, it
all seemed real to me,” he admitted sadly. “And there were bits I wasn’t
concentrating on because it was all… mammalian emotions and repro stuff:
sorry.”
“Blerrinbrig’s, don’t apologise to me:
I’d be the first to doze off during the mammalian emotional mok shit! Not to
mention that everlasting space garbage about garments!”
“It did go
on for ten megazillion light years,” he admitted gratefully.
“Yeah: for a
moment, there, I had the feeling I was home on Bluellia listening to my sister
Pt’Rshaa and my sister-in-IG-law Lle’onee’ya!” she admitted with a laugh and a
shudder. “You know that mad idea I had at one point about the three of us going
home for next Galaxy Day?”
“Yes?” he said cautiously.
“Scrub it,”
said Jhl briefly.
BrTl sagged.
Not that he would have minded meeting some of her cognates—the one called Dad
sounded like a very decent being—but completely surrounded by mammalian
humanoids for days on end somewhere out beyond the last black hole in the
depths of a Bluellian winter?
“Mum’s got
Great-Aunty Mrsha and Great-Aunty H’lln lined up for next Galaxy Day,” she
elaborated. He emanated blankness, even though she was sending him a picture,
so she added: “Think ‘Bossy Elderly Cognate BrFv times two,’ plus and ‘unable to agree that two plus two
make four.’”
“Great
steaming Vvlvanian magma pits!”
“Yep, that is where a being would rather be!” she
grinned.
“Yeah. So,
um, any Plan B?”
“Well, do
you want to visit your cogn—All right, perfectly understandable. We’ll stay
flexible, then.”
“Yeah,
let’s,” he said gratefully.
Dinner
featured the Fix-it Being, who had definitely got his second wind, trying to
pump Jhl about how she’d got here and with whom—he hadn’t picked anything up
from BrTl, he’d read Dohra’s memory of what he’d said about the sparf-covered
Whtyllian. The latter part of dinner featured the Fix-it-Being trying to search
Dohra’s memory store further and being very puzzled when he found he
couldn’t—hah, hah, hah.
After dinner
Forty-Four noted hopefully that they’d got into the habit of telling stories
amongst themselves to pass the time—but Jhl mustn’t feel herself obliged to!
Jhl refrained from asking who it thought it was kidding, though pleased to know
that apparently it wasn’t penetrating her shield, and was about to admit that
she didn’t feel herself obliged to—no—when Ponicho Mull offered coyly to tell
them a story about one of his encounters with a thrilling Space Fleet being, very top sparf.
“I could
tell you a traditional Bluellian story,” she said mildly. “It’ll be boring,
mind.”
Dohra was
sure it wouldn’t be, Forty-Four was equally sure it wouldn’t be, Deefer Mo
“Some of you
beings,” said Jhl, very mildly, “may find elements of this story familiar. We
call it Pretty P’llee and The Ghastly
Grqwary Grinder. I’ve heard a Whtyllian version called Lord Runjee and The Beggar Girl, and a version from Dalgiddium
called The Prince and The Pleasure
Girl,”—those beings who were aware that Dalgiddium was a closed world
gulped or evidenced similar body language—“and something similar from Little
Beishyungkwo that they call Ugly Admiral
Wo and The Peach-Cheeked Peasant, and a New Rthfrdian version, think that
one’s something like H’dee The Goat Girl,
the hero’s Rich Citizen Smt. They’re all pretty much the same: poor shabby
young nubile female meets mega-rich older male: result, bond-partnership.
Sometimes the heroes are tremendously ugly—some beings find that adds interest.
Oh, yeah: Panpacifica’s got a good one:”—more body language, as it was also a
closed world—“Pretty Little Kittle and
The Horrible Hairy Horford. Um, dunno whether that came over or not. The
heroine’s name rhymes with ‘little’ in the orig—oh, did it? Good. And a
horford’s a mythical beast—half humanoid, half hairy horned something. But he’s
as rich as the rest of ’em, and even older than some. –I could stop now,
really: that’s certainly the gist of it.”
“Oh, no!
Please tell it!” cried Dohra.
“Yes, please,”
urged Forty-Four, neatly cataloguing it in advance alongside Lord Runjee and The Beggar Girl, Ugly Admiral Wo and The Peach-Cheeked
Peasant, and H’dee The Goat Girl,
all of which it already had in its collection, and meditating ways and means to
get her versions of Pretty Little Kittle and
The Horrible Hairy Horford and The
Prince and The Pleasure Girl out of her.
So, since
the being was clearly asking for it, Jhl obliged.
Once upon a time, as we say on Bluellia, there was a poor young grqwary
herder girl called Pretty P’llee. Pretty P’llee was the youngest of seven
daughters. Their father was a poor grqwary farmer who could barely afford to
build a decent egg-shed.
Once upon a time there was a poor young
Panpacifican namber fossicker called Pretty Little Kittle. Pretty Little Kittle
was the youngest of twelve daughters whose father was a poor namber fossicker.
Once upon a time on Dalgiddium there was a
poor young Pleasure Girl. The Pleasure Girl lived with a poor master of
pleasure beings.
One day Pretty P’llee’s father called his seven daughters together and
said: “Girls, if I don’t sell the grqwary flock this year we’ll go broke and
have to give up the lease of the farm. But there’s an oversupply this year:
I’ll have to try the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder.”
The seven daughters gasped in horror. The Ghastly Grqwary Grinder! He
was an off-world monster who only came to Bluellia to buy grqwaries to crunch
up alive!
One day Pretty Little Kittle’s father said
to his twelve daughters: “Girls, we’ve got almost no namber to sell this year.
I’m afraid I’ll have to sell one of you to the Horrible Hairy Horford.” The
twelve daughters gasped in horror. The Horrible Hairy Horford! He was a monster
who ate people!
One
day the Pleasure Girl’s master said to her: “Pleasure Girl, we’ve had almost no
custom all year. If this goes on, I’ll have to sell you to the Prince.” “Oh,
no, Master, not to the Prince!” gasped the Pleasure Girl in horror. “He’s only
got one eye, and horns, and a hump: he’s the ugliest being in the two
galaxies!”
“Well, Dad,” said Pretty P’llee bravely, “if you have to, you have to.
I’ll help you round the grqwaries up.” And they went out into the fields and
got on with it, while the older daughters went back to admiring themselves in a
wkli-shell mirror. But at the last minute a generous buyer bought the flock for
a fair price. So that was that for that year, and the farm was saved!
But Pretty Little Kittle said bravely:
“Sell me, dear Father.” So Pretty Little Kittle’s father went to see
the Horrible Hairy Horford—but to their relief he agreed to take their namber
instead!
But at the last moment the Pleasure Girl’s
master got her into a dance show—and so she was saved from the Prince!
Next year there was an oversupply of
grqwaries again. But this time the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder refused to buy any!
“Sell me one of your daughters!” he growled. So Pretty P’llee’s Dad went sadly
back to his seven daughters and told them what the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder had
said. The older daughters all shrieked and refused to be sold to the Ghastly
Grqwary Grinder, but Pretty P’llee said bravely: “I’ll go, Dad.” Her father
argued but finally gave in. So Pretty P’llee and her father set off for the
Ghastly Grqwary Grinder’s huge, galaxious ship.
Alas, the money for the namber didn't last
forever. So Pretty Little Kittle’s father said to his twelve daughters: “Girls,
we’ve got almost no namber to sell this year. I’m afraid I’ll have to sell one
of you to the Horrible Hairy Horford.” All of Pretty Little Kittle’s eleven
sisters shrieked, and refused to go anywhere near the Horrible Hairy Horford. So
Pretty Little Kittle said bravely: “Sell me, dear Father.” So they set off for
the Horrible Hairy Horford’s huge, galaxious palace.
But soon the dance show was about to come
to an end, and the Pleasure Girl’s master said to her: “Pleasure Girl, if I
can’t find another customer, I’ll have to sell you to the Prince after all.”
“Ugh!” gasped Pretty P’llee as they were shown into the Ghastly Grqwary
Grinder’s ship and there he was in all his ghastliness, grinding his giant
crunchers.
“Ah-hah! So you’ve brought me a juicy little daughter!” he growled.
Suddenly Pretty P’llee’s Dad changed his mind. “No,” he said. “I’d
rather lose the farm. You can’t buy my daughter, Ghastly Grqwary Grinder.”
“What say I just agree to lease her for a year, then?” said the Ghastly
Grqwary Grinder cunningly.
So it was agreed, and Pretty P’llee’s Dad accepted payment from the
Ghastly Grqwary Grinder, and went home sadly to his remaining daughters.
Pretty Little Kittle shuddered and recoiled
at the sight of the Horrible Hairy Horford. “Will you buy my namber again,
Horrible Hairy Horford?” asked her father. But the Horrible Hairy Horford
growled: “I don’t want namber! But I’ll buy your pretty little daughter!” So it
was agreed, and Pretty Little Kittle’s father left her with the Horrible Hairy
Horford, and went home sadly to his remaining daughters.
On the very last night of the dance show,
the Prince and his courtiers came to see it, and when it was over, went
backstage to be introduced to all the dancers. “Ah-hah!” he growled. “A
Pleasure Girl, eh? I’ll give you a bag of gold for her!” The Prince was so ugly
that the Pleasure Girl’s master would have refused to sell her to him, after
all. But the brave Pleasure Girl said: “It’s all right, Master. I’ll go with
him.” And so a lifter came and took her away to the Prince’s huge, galaxious
palace.
“What are you going to do with me, Ghastly Grqwary Grinder?” asked
Pretty P’llee bravely.
The Ghastly Grqwary Grinder growled and bared his fangs. “Shall I eat
you for supper with a nice juicy grqwary?”
“No,” said Pretty P’llee. “I’m much tougher
than a grqwary. And they’re much, much nicer cooked. Let them potter in the
ship’s hold, and when you’re hungry your s-beings can kill and pluck one and
I’ll teach your culture-pans to cook it.”
The Ghastly Grqwary Grinder threw back his ghastly head and laughed and
laughed. Then he stamped out, slamming the door.
“Well,” said Pretty P’llee bravely: “at least he didn’t eat me!”
“What are you going to do with me, Horrible
Hairy Horford?” asked Pretty Little Kittle bravely. The Horrible Hairy Horford
just growled and growled, showing his ghastly fangs. Then he stamped out,
slamming the door.
“Now I’m yours, Prince,” said the Pleasure
Girl, shuddering, “and you may do your worst!” “You find me hideous, do you?”
he sneered. “Yes, I do.” said the Pleasure Girl bravely. “Then before I’m done,
you shall swear I’m the handsomest man in the whole of Dalgiddium—no, in the
whole of the two galaxies!” he shouted, and stamped out, slamming the door.
After a while a bent old woman came in and showed Pretty P’llee to a
huge and luxurious cabin and brought her a tray of supper. Pretty P’llee ate
the supper—just bread and grqwaries’ butter with a glass of grqwaries’ milk—and
went to bed, where, brave as she was, she cried herself to sleep. She woke up
to find herself at the other side of the two galaxies from her dear Dad and her
sisters and dear old Bluellia.
And then Pretty Little Kittle was shown to
a luxurious bedroom by a little old woman, who brought her a tray of food and
warned to steer clear of her monstrous master, if she knew what was good for
her.
After that the Pleasure Girl was shown to a
luxurious bedroom, where an s-being brought her a tray of delicious viands.
There was nothing for Pretty P’llee to do on the Ghastly Grqwary
Grinder’s ship. After a while she found a cabin full of text-blobs and
audio-blobs, and she read some of the text-blobs and listened to the
audio-blobs, but a being couldn’t do that day in, day out. So one day she went
down to the galley and met the cook, a hideous gnarled being almost as ghastly
as the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder himself, and asked him about the food he served
up. And he explained that he didn't use the culture-pans much, his master ate
the grqwaries raw.
“Oh, but that’s silly!” said Pretty P’llee. “Let me show you a lovely
Bluellian recipe for roast grqwary!”
The cook-being grumbled but let her roast a couple of grqwaries for the
Ghastly Grqwary Grinder—but he and the old woman both refused to serve them up
to him.
“All right,” said Pretty P’llee: “I’ll do it!” And she took the platters
of roast grqwary along to the luxurious cabin where the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder
always ate alone.
“Grrr! What do you want?” he
growled.
“I’ve brought you some lovely roast grqwaries,” said Pretty P’llee
firmly. “You’ll find that they’re much nicer than the raw ones.”
The Ghastly Grqwary Grinder growled horribly but after a while he gave
in and tasted the grqwaries—they did smell good. And they were so good that he
ate them all, every last scrap, bones and all, not even leaving a slice for
pretty P’llee.
“There!” she said. “I knew you’d like them! I know lots of recipes I can do for you.”
“There!” she said. “I knew you’d like them! I know lots of recipes I can do for you.”
“Get OUT!” he shouted furiously. “Did I ask you to burn my grqwaries?”
So Pretty P’llee grabbed the empty platters and ran out.
There
was nothing for Pretty Little Kittle to do in the Horrible
Hairy Horford’s palace. She didn’t see her monstrous master for weeks on end.
After some time she found the kitchen. There was no proper cook: no wonder the
trays of food that were sent to her room weren’t very exciting. “You’ve got
everything here a being could possibly want,” she said to the s-beings. “Look,
I’ll help you make a delicious meal.” Then, since they were too scared of their
master to take him the dishes, she took them in herself. He roared at her, but
after that he sat down and ate everything up. “That wasn’t so bad,” said Pretty
Little Kittle to herself.
For weeks and weeks the Pleasure Girl saw
nothing of the hideous Prince. But one evening he sent for her to eat dinner
with him. He didn't speak, he just ate, but at least it was a start. Perhaps he
might not be such a bad master, after all.
Next day the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder sent an order to the galley that he
wasn’t to be served roast grqwary again, so Pretty P’llee and the cook and the
old woman had them for their own dinner. The day after that, however, the old
woman reported that the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder had asked for roast grqwary! So
Pretty P’llee got the culture-pans to roast a couple up beautifully and took
them along to him.
“Huh!” he said, as the delicious smell of roast grqwary floated to his
nostrils. “Well, sit down, girl!”
So Pretty P’llee, inwardly quailing but outwardly smiling bravely, sat
down and ate dinner with the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder.
After that he got into the habit of having dinner with her and even
began to chat to her. She found he’d read all the text-blobs on the ship and
knew a lot about the music in the audio-blobs and a very great deal about many
worlds of the two galaxies, and all in all was quite an educated being. It was
a pity that he was so ugly and had, frankly, such awful table manners.
Soon the Horrible Hairy Horford had quite
got into the habit of having dinner with Pretty Little Kittle, and even
sometimes sent for her during the day to walk in the beautiful grounds of the
palace with him, or to listen to his s-beings playing musical instruments. She
found that he was very clever and knew an awful lot about a lot of things that
the namber fossickers had never heard of. He still growled a lot, but really,
he wasn’t so hard to manage. But it was a pity that he was so terribly ugly.
Soon the Prince had quite got into the
habit of having dinner with the Pleasure Girl, and often strolled in the beautiful
grounds of the palace with her, or had his musicians play beautiful music to
them. He wasn’t exactly kind, in fact he was very, very grim, and even told her
what gowns to wear, but he was very clever and knew an awful lot about a lot of
things that a mere Pleasure Girl had never heard of. In fact if he hadn’t been
so grim—and so very, very ugly—he would have been quite a pleasant companion.
A year flew by and Pretty P’llee was almost happy with the Ghastly
Grqwary Grinder.
A year flew by: Pretty Little Kittle was so
happy with the Horrible Hairy Horford that she hardly noticed time pass.
A whole year went by: the Pleasure Girl was
almost happy, spending time with the Prince. He still seemed grim, but she
hardly noticed how old and ugly he was, any more.
“I suppose,” said the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder sourly, “you want to go
home to your Dad and sisters, now the lease is up.”
“Yes, please!” said Pretty P’llee eagerly.
“All right, GO!” he shouted. “And never ask me to take you again!”
Pretty Little Kittle’s father had had a
hugely successful year with the namber fossicking, and he was able to offer the
Horrible Hairy Horford a very good price for her. “You can have her for a year.
Then she comes back to me, or else!” he growled. “A year’s better than
nothing,” said Pretty Little Kittle’s father. –And you never know what may
happen in the meantime, he thought to himself. And he thankfully took his
daughter home.
The Pleasure Girl’s master had had a very
successful year, and saved enough to be able to buy her back. “All right: take
her!” snarled the Prince. And he grabbed the money and stamped out angrily.
Another year went by and Pretty P’llee worked in the egg sheds and
milked the grqwaries and helped her Dad with the herding, but she wasn’t happy.
“What’s the matter?” he said when it was time to sell the flock.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t worry: I shouldn’t have to sell to the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder
this year: there’s a strong demand.” And off he went to try to sell them.
“Was the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder there?” asked Pretty P’llee when he
came back.
“Nope. His ship was there but they’re saying in the town he’s dying. But
never mind that: I got a good price. You’ll never have to see the being again!”
But suddenly Pretty P’llee jumped to her feet, and ran and ran, away
from the farm and back to the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder’s ship.
A year went by and it was time for Pretty
Little Kittle to go back to the Horrible Hairy Horford—or else. But her father
cried when she said she’d better go, so she stayed just one more day—and
another— Nothing awful happened, so her father persuaded her stay for another
day—and another. Then the namber fossickers heard that the Horrible Hairy
Horford was said to be dying. “Hurray!” cried Pretty Little Kittle’s father. But
suddenly Pretty Little Kittle jumped up and ran and ran, all the way back to
the Horrible Hairy Horford’s palace.
A year went by, and news came that the
Prince was said to be dying. “What a relief!” said the Pleasure Girl’s master.
“You’ll never have to go to the ugly old being again!” But suddenly the
Pleasure Girl jumped up and ran and ran, all the way back to the ugly old
Prince’s palace.
“He won’t see you: he’s in a very bad mood, and he’s very sick, he's
been refusing to eat because you’re not here to cook for him,” warned the old
woman as Pretty P’llee came aboard.
But Pretty P’llee ran to the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder’s cabin, and rushed
in without knocking. There he lay in his bed, scowling horribly but looking
very pale and ill.
“Oh, my dear Ghastly Grqwary Grinder!” she cried, bursting into tears.
“What a state you’ve got yourself into! I’ll never leave you again!”
“Never?” he said weakly.
“Never!” cried Pretty P’llee, kissing him on his ghastly warty face.
Pretty Little Kittle rushed through the
palace and right into the Horrible Hairy Horford’s room. There he lay in his
big carved bed, hardly able to move, let alone growl. “Oh, my dearest Horrible
Hairy Horford!” she cried, bursting into tears. “Forgive me for breaking my
promise to you! If only you’ll get well, I’ll never leave you again!” And she
kissed him on his horrible hairy face.
The Pleasure Girl rushed through the palace
and right into the Prince’s bedroom. He looked so pale and ill! “Oh, my dearest
Prince! Don’t die!” she sobbed, taking his hand. “You don’t want me: I’m too
old and ugly.” he said faintly. “You’re not!” she cried. “To me you’re the
handsomest man in the two galaxies!” And she kissed his hideously ugly face.
All of a sudden the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder’s crunchers disappeared and
so did the ugly, hairy warts, and a handsome male humanoid lay there smiling at
Pretty P’llee.
“Who are you?” she gasped.
“Wealthy Merchant J’n Br’n of Goldonia. I’ve been under a wicked spell.
I had to be the Ghastly Grqwary Grinder until a beautiful young girl could love
me for myself.”
All of a sudden, instead of the Horrible
Hairy Horford, a handsome male humanoid lay there smiling at Pretty Little
Kittle! He was a king who’d been under a wicked spell that could only be broken
if a beautiful young girl could love him for himself.
And suddenly, instead of the ugly being she
knew, a handsome Prince lay there smiling at the Pleasure Girl! He’d been under
a wicked spell that could only be broken if a beautiful young girl could love
him for himself.
And so they were bond-partnered and lived happily ever after.
And so they were bond-partnered and lived
happily ever after.
And so they were bond-partnered and lived
happily ever after.
Jhl sat back
and drained her glass of qwlot, while her audience applauded
politely—genuinely, in the case of Forty-Four, very pleased to have got three
for the price of one. And in Dohra’s case. And funnily enough, she reported, it
was very like a C’T’rean story called
Bellha And The Beast!
Immediately
Forty-Four urged her to tell it. It was pretty much word-for-word, barring the
odd namber fossicker or roast grqwary, the same story. When she got to the
kissing bit the Beast turned into a slim, handsome mammalian being in his
mature years.
That
“slim, handsome, mature” bit was you,
was it? BrTl asked his Captain cautiously as Forty-Four went off to the
hygiene cabinets.
Not quite. Well, the suggestion was there in
her mind: I merely encouraged it.
So? he asked hopefully.
We-ell… What with the Ghastly G.G. and
Horrible H.H. turning into attractive mammalian beings in their mature
years—though I concede the humanoid bit, couldn't see how to get out if it without
alerting Forty-Four—the pink being’s keenness to go off to Intergalactica is,
um, not dissipating, entirely: let’s just say less keen than it was.
That’s good, he replied comfortably. Knew you could do it easy as falling on a
flop couch! ’Nother qwlot?
Er—better not, thanks. “I think I might
have a fruit juice, this time round. On me, everyone: name it.”
Everyone
named it and Jhl said mildly to Dohra: “Have they got that stuff you had
before? Refreshing Gorbachian Plum Juice, was it?”
“No!” she
said with a giggle, not the shadow of a speculation as to how in Federation
Captain Smt Wong knew that passing over the blooming snu-fields of her
uncultivated mind: “Revivifying Gall’ay’an Star-Apple Juice is the new
special!”
“Right: make
it that,” said Jhl somewhat heavily to the servo-mech. Considerations of free
will apart, a good stiff Third School course was precisely what the being
needed!
It wasn’t
until the next morning—possibly the relief had had something to do with it—that
BrTl really started to think about Jhl’s stories and correlate some of last
night’s factual information with what he actually knew about his captain’s
activities over the last ten IG years. He could have sent it, but he waited
until Dohra was in the hygiene cabinet—singing: she often did that: the first
time he’d thought she was in pain and rushed in to rescue her; somewhat
fortunately she’d only laughed. Then he said: “Oy.”
Jhl was on
the flop couch, having refused Dohra’s offer of the bed. “Yeah?” she yawned.
“Uh—sorry, you must still be on Btcx time.”
“Uh—sorry, you must still be on Btcx time.”
“Forget it,”
she yawned. “What’s up?”
“Have
you ever been to Dalgiddium or Panpacifica? I mean, they are both closed
worlds.”
“I went to
Panpacifica very briefly when I was a second-lieutenant on You-Know-Who’s ship.
Some sort of official mission. Fifty megazillion namber fossickers were hanging
round the spaceport trying to sell hunks of poor-quality namber to unsuspecting
young spacers, goddit?”
“Right, and
these namber fossickers told you some revolting, not to be anything-ist,
mammalian Romance while they were trying to flog the namber, did they?”
“Nope,” said
Jhl comfortably, rolling onto her back and yawning again.
“Right. That
only leaves Dalgiddium,” he noted.
“Plasmo-blasted Shank’yar’s been there: that what you wanted to hear?”
“No, but let
it pass. So you made that story up, too?”
“Sure. We’ve
got fifty megazillion versions of that story on Bluellia, all equally silly. I
just used bits of them to produce three nice, likely-sounding tales for the
plasmo-blasted Thwurbullerian.”
He gulped.
“You made them all up?”
“Sure! Easy
as falling on a flop couch!” she said with a laugh. “No, well,” she said kindly
to the emanations of humble admiration, “you’ll find, if you care to look, that
most of the detail is floating around in my mind in a horrible mush, acquired
at my mother’s knee and up to round about the year in First School when I
refused point-blank to read any more of the pabulum they were dishing out to us
and sat down with one of J’f’s maths books instead. –Go on, be my guest.”
Cautiously
BrTl looked. Ugh! “Uh, yeah, far as I can tell that’s correct,” he said lamely.
“Thought you didn’t have lordship-type beings on your world?”
“No, but our
stories are full of them.”
That was for
sure. No wonder she was impressed by—
“I am not impressed by Shank’yar Vt R’aam’s
plasmo-blasted wealth or rank!”
“No. Sorry.
Didn’t mean to emanate. Only when you were a lot, lot younger,” he said humbly.
“Yeah, yeah:
he was seconded to the Academy when I was a cadet. Had a tremendous crush on
him, but,” said Jhl through her mammalian teeth: “I outgrew it.”
Well, most
of it—yeah. Thank the Federation he, BrTl, had emerged from the culture-pod as
a xathpyroid, not a humanoid! “Um, well, good on you. I mean, three for the
price of one sure took Forty-Four’s mind off all other considerations, in fact
at one point I felt I was drowning in Thwurbullerian glee—only won’t it get suspicious
if it checks?” Would it check? he wondered glumly. And how long would it wait
to check? What if it was checking now? But perhaps it wouldn’t—
“Drop the
paranoia, will you?” she sighed. “I should hope it would check, if it’s a
halfway decent scholar! Always verify your facts—didn’t you learn anything at the Academy? But even with
all the resources of the Intergalactic
University
He
brightened. “Ooh, yeah!”
“Yeah. Added
to which, there are versions of the story on most humanoid worlds—witness
Dohra’s Whatsername And The Beast.”
She looked at him blandly, then closed one mammalian eye.
BrTl thought
about it. After a bit he began to shake, emanating immense pleasure.
Jhl put a
hand over each mammalian ear. “Go on, I can take it.”
So BrTl
emitted a xathpyroid hum. And admitted, after Dohra had rushed in in alarm and
three ISLA beings had rushed in to see if a being was being murdered and Jhl
had tipped them all and they’d gone: “I haven’t felt so happy for a long time!”
“No, of course not!” said Dohra warmly. “Your
Captain’s here at last!”
“That, too,”
he admitted.
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