The DorAvenian's Tale

5 

The DorAvenian’s Tale 

 

    Barely had BrTl’s thought in quintupled 5-D triangles died away in the mists, or not-mists, of time, than a DorAvenian in half-armour came up to him and suggested: “Game of 3-D whim-wham, xathpyroid cognate?” Adding: Or 4-D, if you can go into hyper-hop.

    “Um, no, thanks all the same, DorAvenian,” he replied regretfully. “We’re just sitting round telling stories tonight. Care to join us?”

    Too late, he realised that this was the wrong thing to say. The Thwurbullerian wasn’t exactly afraid of the DorAvenian, though it didn’t like the look of the weaponry he was packing: it was more afraid that the being might do or say something to shock Dohra. The Feeny-Argyllians were definitely both scared and, great splintered shards of quog, shocked at the being’s unceremonious approach. Dohra was terrified of him because of the armour, the blaster on the hip (though she was wearing one herself), the small blaster in the shin-straps—that was a good wheeze, and given he, BrTl, had plenty of shins he might adopt it—the sheathed knife stuck through the waist belt, the two sheathed knives in the shin-straps, and the huge double-barrelled blaster slung on the being’s back. (Those things, if admittedly they had range, generally weren’t too accurate.) Oh, and particularly scared of the large teeth in the area of the head. He was plasmo-blasted if he could see why: his crunchers were much bigger and she wasn’t terrified of them. The Flppu’s sentiments were likewise, only much more so— Oh, eaten, eh? In front of its own visual organs, too. Explained a lot. The Nblyterian was appropriately wary, and also—interested? Oh—mammalian repro stuff, who cared, it was some sort of conditioned response: they all had it, even Jhl. No, well, especially Jhl, though not necessarily when the other being was a DorAvenian.

    “I wouldn’t mind. Though where I come from we usually only do that round the campfire over a kill,” the being replied, eyeing Dohra hungrily.

    She shrank, and looked pleadingly at BrTl. The Flppu squeaked and fell off its chair. The Feeny-Argyllians gave startled hoots. The Thwurbullerian appeared unmoved but emanated strong distaste. The Nblyterian gave a short bark of humanoid-style laughter. BrTl knew that one: he not infrequently used it himself, he’d caught the habit off his Captain, it was quite a handy way of signalling, taking your pick, disbelief, lack of amusement, disagreement, scorn, or any permutation or combination thereof.

    “He’s referring to sentient beings below Class 492 within the Meaning,” he noted. “All beings of or above Class 390 or 390-S,”—he looked pointedly at the Flppu—“can relax.”

    “I’m a 390-S!” it gasped, as its masters hauled it back onto its chair by the lead.

    “Yeah. The yellow ones are quite unusual: what’ll you take for it?” said the DorAvenian.

    “It’s not for sale, thank you!” the Feeny-Argyllians chorused.

    “Hey, I wouldn’t eat it!” he said with a laugh. Just as certain beings were thinking that was all right, then, he added: “They taste revolting.”

    Yes, well. There you were.

    “Wouldn’t eat you, either, Sweet Cheese!” he said to Dohra, with another laugh. “Where ya from? Oh—C’T’rea, eh?” he recognised. “What a primmo dump.”

    “We’re not as primmo as all that!” she gasped, going very red.

    He made a scornful noise and pulled up a chair. “So, what sort of stories are you telling?” he said amiably, unslinging the double-barrelled blaster and placing it handily by his left boot as he sat down between her and BrTl.

    Dohra was reduced to silence. So were the Flppu, its masters and the Thwurbullerian—if not for precisely the same reasons. The distaste was pretty general, though. The Nblyterian was merely watching sardonically—oh, and still thinking about repro stuff. And something about were his claws clean?

    “Many sorts of stories,” responded Trff, unmoved. All beings were grist to the Ju’ukrterian mill—something like that. Until they tried to eat it, put a bracelet on it, sell it, probe it, send it to the magma pits of Vvlvania, commit it to a Mullgon’yan nursing-home, or any combination or permutation thereof.

    Some of those permutations and combinations are illogical, it sent. Or impossible.

    “Oy, what are you?” said the DorAvenian, staring hard at it.

    BrTl sneaked a quick look. Hah, hah, hah! The mind-powers of a DorAvenian were as snu-flies over the blooming eeaiiaya fields to the mind-shield of a Ju’ukrterian it-being. Mere nothings, not even worth the effort of waving them away—that was it.

    “It is Trff,” it said composedly—was it trying to madden the being? BrTl approved the principle, but scarcely the practice in this instance: that double-barrelled thing could do a lot of damage at close quarters. And there was a lot of him: the being might miss certain small spheroid vlohffert beings but it was hardly likely to miss him.

    “It’s a Ju’ukrterian it-being,” said blndreL drily.

    “Steaming Vvlvanian magma pits!” he gasped. 

 

    “Actually,” said the Thwurbullerian coldly, “it’s a ship’s engineer.”

    The DorAvenian choked. “Thought they never—uh—did that sorta job?” he croaked.

    “This it-being does,” it said.

    “Qualified?” he croaked.

    “Third School and Space Fleet Academy,” said BrTl with huge satisfaction.

    “Blow me out beyond the last black hole,” he invited weakly. “Uh—so ya got blobs on your planet, Trff? Sorry, dunno its name.”

    “You-it will call it Zll,” the plasmo-blasted engineering mind responded—just when they’d thought they had the upper appendage, too! No, hang on: the DorAvenian was agreeing meekly: “Yeah, all right, I will.” Well, good for that Zllian engineer perched on the unsuited-to-the-physique humanoid-style chair!

    Genially BrTl admitted: “We all call it Zll. What’ll you have, DorAvenian? Uh—forgotten whose round it is, actually: blndreL, you got the last round, didn’t you?”

    “Um, I think it’s mine!” gasped Dohra, going very red.

    “Let me, Sweet Cheese,” said the DorAvenian, laying a grimy paw—that certainly answered blndreL’s question about the claws—on her Durocloth knee.

    “No, please! It’s my turn!” she gasped.

    “Yeah, but have ya got the igs to pay Pkqwrd spaceport bar prices? Given that that’s a Thwurbullerian over there, and they didn’t use S/IG shot glasses when I was at the Academy.”

    “Were you?” asked blndreL drily.

    “Yeah,” he drawled. Simultaneously Trff agreed: “Yes.”

    “Hey, that proves it!” said the DorAvenian with a loud laugh. “On me! Oh—personal name Didg. You-all will call me Didg,” he added, very drily indeed. Casually he raised his two hands to the immensely teethed and fanged, leathery brown face. Casually he removed it…

    Dohra gasped, and pressed herself back into her chair. “Whuh—what are you?” she quavered, as a pretty ordinary humanoid face (male) was revealed. Well, BrTl was ninety-nine percent sure and holding that it was ordinary, and judging by blndreL’s reaction, she thought so, too. The Thwurbullerian was sending: They do all look alike, don’t they? Not to be anything-ist, so apparently it agreed. This specific face was rather grimy and, um, oh, yes, some of them went in for depilating their face-hair, not a habit which appealed to him, but whatever blobbed you up, and this one had possibly depilated his within the last IG week. Dohra didn’t find the effect attractive, well, that made two—three—quite a number of them.

    “I’m a mammalian humanoid, same like you, Sweet Cheese,” he replied, with a grin very similar to that of a Willunian wolverine when scenting fresh blood. “The helmet’s traditional warrior-class gear on DorAven.”

    Not quite all of the fangs had come off with the helmet, so Dohra replied in trembling tones: “I duh-don’t think so.”

    “Eh? Oh—these. We do grow ’em long, but I admit I had ’em lengthened a bit—went to Sh-Rn’s Quog Cave in Hinnover City, just happened to be flat-worlding on Belraynia with the right number of igs to my credit, it isn’t my usual stamping-ground,” he explained. “No, well, on DorAven we’re variety Fanged. You’d be variety Official, right?”

    “I—I thuh-think so!” she gasped.

    Trff pointed an antenna at her. “Yes.” So that settled it.

    “Compatible. And with you, Big Boots,” he said to blndreL, winking one round Human var. Fanged eye. “Bit of genetic manipulation needed if you actually wanna breed, of course.”

    Little tubes, came the Thwurbullerian’s pleased and interested thought.

    Uh—yes, they did, come to think of it, though speaking for himself BrTl could have done without the unnecessarily clear picture that blndreL and Didg were both broadcasting. But mammalian humanoids were sentient within the Meaning—what he meant was, though of course every being said it, above Class 390 within the Meaning—so surely the Different Untranslatable Shade of Mauve Sector affine wouldn’t have— Though possibly it depended how the Act and its Meaning were interpreted on the world in question which, come to think of it, the Thwurbullerian hadn’t actually stated was Luqulla—

    “I dunno what all this ‘little tubes’ stuff—uh, whatever these beings are having,” Didg ordered the servo-mech—“what all this ‘little tubes’ stuff that your xathpyroid swiller’s sending at the top of his mind is about, but I can assure you that my tube isn’t little!” He gave a loud laugh.

    “I am not a swiller,” noted BrTl between the crunchers, while Dohra, very pink, was still gasping, and blndreL, very orange, was still trying not to choke.

    “Eh? Oh—sorry. Meant nothing by it. Standard Intergalactic in my part of the two galaxies, swiller. Means—uh—friend, I guess. Well, originally drinking companion. Geddit?” he grinned.

    Carefully BrTl bared the crunchers in response, and the DorAvenian, instead of collapsing in a heap with water coming out of his eyes, as certain humanoids had in the past on first encountering this grimace in a fully-grown xathpyroid, burst into roars of laughter.

    That serves you-it right! sent Trff disapprovingly. You-it was letting your-its xenophobic and paranoid tendencies get the upper appendage of you-it!

    Yeah. What’s all this distaste stuff certain beings are emanating?

    It thinks it’s a social thing, BrTl. Even though this is a public bar, well, for those members of the public that don't mind being monitored by ISLA and IG C&E—BrTl cringed, even though he was pretty sure no mere IG-anything probe could penetrate a Ju’ukrterian shield, or, put it like this, they hadn't managed it up till now—this DorAvenian’s dress, general appearance, manner, fangs and smell aren’t wholly acceptable. Um, and something about his-its version of Intergalactic, it ended with a waft of uncertainty. 

 

    They all smell, even Jhl! he objected. He looked round the bar. Over in that direction six smelly, furry, armed-to-the-fangs Quaenonians were knocking back the nnru juice and telling jokes in a very low version of Intergalactic indeed. Over in that next direction two smallish pink-crested Nblyterians, three Space Fleet cadets from various worlds but all in a similar state of intoxication and smell, and one heavily scarred being that might have been a Turkerrian Schingbor under the scars, the armour, the armoury, the extra fangs and the smell, were knocking back the qwlot and telling jokes in a very low version of Intergalactic indeed. Over in this third direction a very drunk xathpyroid whom he knew slightly, he wasn’t a Br-cognate but not a bad being all the same, and three very drunk humanoid business-beings from various points of the two galaxies but apparently all employed by M-Plexx, M.C., a Mklontian company—pooh, ugh, gasp, argh!—were knocking back the qwlot and telling jokes in a very low version of Intergalactic indeed, to an accompaniment of admiring shrieks, hoots, tinkles, and giggles from their five Pleasure Beings, technically one Pleasure Flppu and four Pleasure Girls (even more technically, if it mattered, one humanoid var. Official and three humanoids var. Gilled).

    They weren’t on Mklontia itself, Trff corrected placidly, the literal-minded engineering-brain that it was, they were at a meeting on the second moon of Herthrebby with a Mklontian. And it had been through Decontam. five times before the meeting. And they’ve been through three times each since.

    Yes! And I can still smell them!

    So can it, it replied placidly. And those four Pleasure Girls are actually one Human var. Official, two Human var. Gilled, and one Friyrian var. Official. Though that implies gilled, of course.

    The point is, he sent irritably, leaving aside the question of gills, and even leaving aside the question of smell, most of the beings in this spacious ISLA spaceport bar are displaying the same characteristics as this DorAvenian!

    There was a split IG microsecond’s blankness and then Trff replied: You-it’s right, BrTl. But if they came up to us, there would be the same distaste.

    Uh—great galloping herds of crazed moks running amok with b’x fever, so there would! If they don't like the sort of being typically found cooling its tentacle tips, webs, flukes, heels, hooves or other appendages in spaceport bars, why don't they travel as tourists? he sent wildly.

    They would have to pay IG C&E transit charges, it replied placidly.

    Giving up, BrTl seized the basin of qwlot the servo-mech had just brought him at the generous DorAvenian’s expense, and raising it to the maw, said firmly: “Here’s to your health, swiller.” A wish that went down well with most beings of the two galaxies except for Mrzhichaks, who were hypochondriacs and took it as an insult.

    “Health, swiller!” agreed Didg, swilling down his S/IG (humanoid) tumbler of qwlot.

    The other beings present at this took the hint and, raising their vessels echoed: “Health, swiller!” And swilled, sipped or siphoned, according to preference and physiology.

    The Thwurbullerian then asked in a firm voice: “Do you know any stories that don’t involve copious quantities of flowing internal fluids, Didg?”

    To which Didg replied with the grin: “Might do, Thwurbullerian; but what’s wrong with blood?”

    “Some of the beings amongst us, as I think you are very well aware, would not care to hear about that,” it replied very firmly indeed.

    At this the DorAvenian broadcast generally: Oh, dear, is it my turn to be sat on next? Which even BrTl and Trff had to concede was very, very rude. “In that case,” he said smoothly, “I could tell a different sort of story. Not all DorAvenian stories are about blood, though when you’re sitting round the campfire after a kill, they tend to be the sort of story the swillers want to hear.”

    “I see,” said Dohra faintly in response to the picture he was broadcasting. “It’s an animal. Like a nyr.”

    “Yes. Well, it often is a nyr: plenty of nyr in the forests of DorAven!” he grinned.

    “I always think they look such gentle creatures,” she said, with a defiant lift of her round mammalian chin.

    “They mostly are; they’re vegetarian. Only those horns the males have got, they’re for fighting in the mating season—see?” He sent her a brief mind-picture. Dohra recoiled, gasping.

    “Yeah,” he said with a certain satisfaction. “Any beings for jing-jing nuts?”

    The servo-mech slid up to his elbow immediately with a basinful, and after the now usual discussion with the generous Feeny-Argyllians, resolved in the usual way, the n’nk salt was brought. 

 

    “Wow,” said the DorAvenian simply, having dipped a nut in the salt and tasted the result cautiously.

    The Feeny-Argyllians hooted polite pleasure and bowed their slender necks, though with considerable—indeed, apparently increased—reservations about the being. After a moment BrTl got it. Their general outline, though underneath they were quite different, was not dissimilar to that of a nyr. In fact, put two unhorned nyr together, lengthen the necks and legs a bit—er, yes. In which case the n’nk salt was even more generous than he’d thought, and he sent very strong emanations of gratitude in their direction, to their evident surprise.

    “Go on,” drawled blndreL: “tell us a story without blood in it, Didg.”

    “You won’t like it, Big Boots,” he warned, taking another jing-jing nut.

    Her-its boots aren’t that big, for a female-tended Nblyterian, noted Trff.

    Never mind, Trff, replied BrTl kindly. It may—I use the word advisedly—be some sort of precursor to a mammalian mating ritual. Remember that time Jhl met that Whtyllian— Not him! he sent quickly as it gave a startled whistle. No, that other Whtyllian humanoid, in a bar?

    Which one?

    It might well ask, come to think of it. He was a prospector, been on some world well beyond the Outer Rim, um, looking for quog, I think.

    For that other Whtyllian?

    Good guess. Good guess, Trff. No, for himself. Never knew the IG M.C. were onto him until they came down on him like an IG ton of mok shit.

    Oh, that Whtyllian humanoid! It remembers! But Jhl drew her blast—Oh. Now it gets it!

    BrTl might have been about to respond genially to this but it added pleasedly: That was a mammalian mating ritual! So he didn’t bother.

    “Go on, then, Didg,” he said generously. “Um, hang on, what are these lady-beings, though?”

    “Only one, really,” said the DorAvenian on weak note.—Hadn't realised BrTl was picking him up, heh, heh, heh.—“I get it: ya don’t have princesses on your world.”

    “Nor do I!”—“Nor do I!”

    “Nor do we, but I do grasp the concept,” said the Thwurbullerian graciously.

    “Right, well, when I say princesses, I mean lady-beings, or, uh, female mammalian humanoids of, um, a high social standing or, um, caste. Vvlvanian curses,” he noted, scratching the short, curled black fur on his scalp, “this isn't gonna work, is it? You lot aren’t gonna understand more than one in ten of the words—or even concepts—I use!”

    “Never mind that! That’s the charm of other-world stories!” cried the Feeny-Argyllians.

    “Exactly,” agreed Forty-Four.

    “Uh—right.” He glanced cautiously at the Ju’ukrterian.

    The we-it doesn’t have lady-beings, it sent kindly. “Ooh, sorry!” it gasped as he clutched his head.

    “Did you think you had a shield up, DorAvenian?” asked BrTl kindly.

    “Yeah, hah, hah, hah and Many Happy Galaxy Days to you, too, xathpyroid cognate!” he replied sourly. “No, well, I’ve heard something of the sort about Ju’ukrterians,” he admitted.

    “Yeah. It’ll more or less understand your concepts, it’s pretty well up with the intergalactic play. –Been rolling round the two galaxies for some time, now, haven’t you-it, Trff?” he said kindly to it, one eye on the DorAvenian.

    Sure enough, it replied happily: “Not ‘rolling’, though it does understand it's a figure of speech for ‘voyaging’. Certainly in terms of the commonly perceived space-time continuum, and in terms of IG days and even IG years, it has, yes.” Then adding kindly to the DorAvenian: “It knows the concept lady-beings and the concept blood, Didg.”

    BrTl hadn't expected it to get quite that good: he hooted happily on two happy notes down his noses.

    When certain beings had ceased clutching their auditory appendages and ceased apologising to BrTl and the xathpyroid had ceased apologising to them, the DorAvenian said on a weak note: “Yeah. Um, all right, I’ll tell a story if ya like—”

    “Yes, please!” they all chorused politely.

    “Um, but if ya don’t mind, maybe I better broadcast pictures as I go?”

    They all would have picked up his pictures anyway—well, possibly not Dohra, but she’d got most of what he’d broadcast unintentionally up till now, as well as most of what he’d deliberately sent her—but none of them was impolite enough to say so. BrTl had a suspicion, however, that Trff was sending it, happily oblivious, never mind all that rolling round the two galaxies, to polite usage in this instance. But he didn't look. The “and the concept blood” hit had been more then enough to set him up for the next two IG hours and, with a bit of luck, see him right through the being’s story. –Curse that Thwurbullerian and its social stuff and its distaste, he could just have done with a good robust hunting story! And of all beings in the Known Universe, wouldn’t you have thought a DorAvenian packing that amount of armoury would have been just the being to tell one?

    As all beings were chorusing happily “Yes, please!” again, the DorAvenian began his story. 

 

    Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who lived in a high tower, protected by a garrison of fierce warriors.

Picture of a wistful young pinkish female humanoid face bearing a remarkable resemblance to that of W’t, Dohra B’Jn, peering from a window in a high tower in a grey stone castle, surrounded by swirling pink clouds in a pale green sky. At the bottom of the tower, a garrison of leather-faced, fiercely-fanged DorAvenian warriors standing guard, blasters at the ready, in full armour. And more than full weaponry in the case of those with extra shin-blasters and shin-knives.

 

    Many valiant warriors came to the tower to beg for the hand of the beautiful young Princess Flower-Petal in IG-legal bond-partnership, but none could pass the tests set by her father, the Grand Prince of the Land of Ull.

Picture of the young pinkish female humanoid, draped in a flowing garment which outlined her female humanoid form rather precisely, looking sadly down from the castle’s battlements as an older male DorAvenian in gilded full armour and heavy gold helmet crossly waved his hand in dismissal, and three young DorAvenian warriors picked themselves up from the battered turquoise lawn before the tower and limped off to their nearby tents, where relays of DorAvenian s-beings scurried to succour them and tend their wounds. At the same time the members of the garrison who had been involved in the tests could be seen laughing uproariously and toasting one another in jugs of strong honey ale. The Grand Prince of the Land of Ull then waved his appendage again and shouted crossly, and the Princess Flower-Petal, applying a bunch of senso-tissues to the water leaking from her round mammalian eyes, hurried back into the tower. A heavy door slammed shut. A fierce DorAvenian warrior, blaster in hand, took up his position on the battlements just outside this door. Below, the Grand Prince of the Land of Ull went inside. 

    Many IG-months passed, but still no contender could pass the tests.

The guard changed, with a lot of shouting and stamping. The sky darkened to a deeper green, the pink clouds turned cherry, the silver sun went down, all was black. Lights showed briefly from the tower, and went out. A night-bird hooted dismally. The guard was heard changing again. Dawn came, with streamers of pink, blue and silver clouds in the west. The silver sun rose. More young warriors appeared on the turquoise lawn. The Princess Flower-Petal appeared on the battlements, looking all pink and hopeful. Members of the garrison hurried out buckling on their armour. Brief combats took place. The Grand Prince reappeared, shouting crossly and waving. The contenders limped off to their nearby tents. The Grand Prince stamped inside, shouting at the princess. Sadly she retreated to the tower, sniffing into her senso-tissues. The garrison began drinking toasts… 

    But then came a day in early spring when an unknown young warrior arrived to contend for the hand of the Princess Flower-Petal in IG-legal bond-partnership! Who was he? No being of the Land of Ull had seen him before. His armour was dusty and in bad repair, and he had no train of s-beings, only a lone indentured page on a bow-legged little—

Sprouts of turquoise grass were showing on the expanse of muddy ground before the castle and small pink clouds tossed and tumbled in a pale green, windy sky, as two jaded quadrupeds ridden by two shabby humanoids halted before the great grey edifice. 

 

    “Oh, look at the little donkey!” cried Dohra, clapping her hands softly.

    “Yeah,” agreed Didg proudly. “When I was a brat I had a little donkey just like him.”

    “What was his name?” she breathed.

    “Little Donkey,” he said stolidly, barely a muscle of the grimy face moving.

    “Little Donkey!” cried Dohra softly, clasping her hands to her Durocloth-covered mammalian bosom. “Oh, how sweet!”

    Didg looked at the position of the hands with great interest. “Yeah.”

    “Little Donkey!” cried the Feeny-Argyllians. “How appropriate! What a charming being!”

    Look, reflected BrTl heavily, thin down the little donkey a bit, lengthen the four legs considerably and get rid of the bowing, lengthen the neck and change the appearance of the head somewhat and then stick two of ’em together—

    Yes, said the Thwurbullerian’s voice placidly in his mind. That’s why they like it, of course.

    Uh—yeah. Sorry, Forty-Four, was I broadcasting? –Sorry.

    “Have some more jing-jing nuts, BrTl,” it said graciously. “And everyone, of course. –No, please allow me, Didg.”

    “Well, thanks, Thwurbullerian!” he said as the servo-mech slid up to its elbow.

    “Not at all. And please, call me Forty-Four,” it said graciously.

    What in Federation had the being been doing right? wondered BrTl dazedly as the paired beings, following the Thwurbullerian’s lead, cried: “Please, call me One!”—“Please, call me Two!”

    No being replied to BrTl’s thought, not even Trff. He hadn't been broadcasting but of course it would have picked it up, so either it didn’t know the answer or it wasn’t interested enough to consider the matter—this phenomenon had been observed before—or, yet another possibility, it was so confused by the very colourful pictures crammed full of data, not to mention strange humanoid concepts, that the DorAvenian had been sending—

    No! Jhl’s mind is full of such stories, too!

    EH?

    Only at the very, um, you-it’d conceive of it as the back of it, BrTl. Where you-it doesn’t bother to look! it replied jauntily. The mind of the Dohra being contains even more of them.

    Resignedly he took a look. Ugh, so it did. He took a handful of jing-jing nuts and went back to concentrating on that really excellent “and the concept blood” hit of its. Though the fight scenes in the DorAvenian’s tale weren’t entirely bad.

    Yeah, we’ll have another one, BrTl, swiller, sent Didg sardonically.

    Twitching slightly, BrTl conceded: You’re not all bad, Didg, swiller, and settled himself comfortably in his corner.

    And the DorAvenian continued his story. 

    The unknown young warrior’s armour was dusty and in bad repair, and he had no train of s-beings, only a lone indentured page on a bow-legged little donkey. Its name was Little Donkey and the page’s name was Boy Mudg. And the unknown young warrior’s sturdy steed’s name was Good Old Horse.

The silver sun shone mildly now, the wind blew gently and a smell of spring pollens was in the air. The dirty, ragged, immature male humanoid got off Little Donkey, and, rubbing his humanoid posterior, went to hold the dusty black horse’s bridle while the warrior dismounted and stamped over to shout a challenge at the great xrillion-nail-studded wooden door of the castle. After a moment the Princess Flower-Petal appeared on the battlements, looking all pink and hopeful. The castle door swung open and a train of elaborately garbed beings appeared, followed by the Grand Prince of Ull, shouting and waving his hand. Several members of the garrison then emerged, buckling on their armour. 

    Then a mighty combat took place! Speedily the unknown young warrior dispatched three of the castle’s best champions!

Successively, fighting on foot with shin-knives and a spear, the bedraggled figure of the young unknown dispatched two hefty DorAvenian warriors with helmets even more fearsomely tusked than his own. They looked dead, though no internal fluids leaked from between the joints of their armour. Groups of s-beings scurried over to cart their limp forms off to the castle. The third warrior did rather better, managing to get in a hit on the challenger’s humanoid ribs before he, too, fell beneath a swingeing blow. The unknown flourished his spear in victory and then sat down on the muddy grass, panting, and allowed Boy Mudg to unlace his armour, pad the place with senso-tissues, and lace the armour up again. 

    From the battlements the Princess Flower-Petal watched breathlessly: was this the champion for whom she had waited all her life?

The princess was seen to clasp her hands to her mammalian bosom over the thin mn-mn silk of her gilded and flower-decked garment. The mammary glands were pushed up by the expansion of the chest cavity as she drew in a deep breath. She let it out in a sigh and the mammary glands were lowered again. 

    The word had gone round that here at last was a champion worthy of their princess, and the beings of the Great Castle of Ull crowded to the windows and battlements to watch the combat. Another champion was sent forth. The unknown sprang to meet him, spear raised. A brief tussle took place. Then the castle’s champion fell!

The fourth warrior fell beneath a swingeing blow. The unknown flourished his spear in victory. Above on the battlements, the princess clasped her hands to her mammalian bosom. The mammary glands were pushed up by the expansion of the chest cavity as she drew in a deep breath. She let it out in a sigh and the mammary glands were lowered again. She smiled, plucked a flower from the mn-mn silk garment’s shoulder, and tossed it down. The victor picked it up and held it to the mouthpiece of his helmet. 

Now the Grand Prince of Ull sent forth his best warrior to do battle with the challenger! The unknown steps forth.

    “Come: die on my spear, champion of the castle of Ull! I claim the hand of the Princess Flower-Petal in IG-legal bond-partnership!”

There was a blast of brass instruments from somewhere within the castle. A short procession of elaborately garbed beings appeared, and then, with another blast from the unseen instruments, a hugely fanged, heavily armoured warrior strode forth. 

    With a ferocious growl, the castle’s champion springs at him, spear raised. The unknown side-steps and slashes at him with his long shin-knife!

Members of the garrison cheered hoarsely and bellowed encouragement. Lady-beings in flowing garments moulded to their mammalian forms flourished senso-tissues, threw flowers from their garments, and cheered shrilly. 

    The champion turns and stabs with the spear. “Have at you!”—“Take that!” The fight rages to and fro. Has the heavier champion got the upper hand of the young un­known? Yes—No—Yes—

The crowd was watching in breathless silence as the spears flashed and clashed together in the pale spring sunlight. 

    “Have at you!”—“Take that!”—“Come again!”—“Die on my spear, fangless one!”—“Die beneath my shin-knife, mok-breath!”

    The spears are broken. They fight hand-to-hand, shin-knives only.

    “Give-in, young challenger! Accept an honourable defeat!”

    “Never, fangless mok-breath! The Princess Flower-Petal shall be mine!”

The heavy champion was on top of the slim young warrior, growling ferociously, shin-knife raised. 

    “No!” screamed Dohra. “Don’t let him die!”

    Didg had jumped, but he flashed her a grin. “Want him to live, Sweet Cheese?”

    She nodded hard, her mammalian bosom rising and falling.

    BrTl took the opportunity, since there seemed to be a break in the fighting, to implant the suggestion “More n’nk salt with ground flower stuff” in the paired brains of the Feeny-Argyllians. It wasn’t as if the beings couldn’t afford it, there was an awful lot of IG Commodities Exchange garbage in there, floating around with the n’nk salt and the separated One and Two mok shit and the fighting on the—eh? On the icy plain with the crystals just melting? Oh, well, if that was how they saw it—! He thanked them graciously as the servo-mech slid up with a bowl of it.

    “Wait and see,” Didg was advising Dohra.

    “Yes! Please, go on!” she gasped, hands clasped to the rising and falling mammalian bosom. 

 

    “Give-in, young challenger! Accept an honourable defeat!”

The heavy champion was on top of the slim young warrior, growling ferociously, shin-knife raised. 

    “Never! Death or victory!” With an almighty effort, the young unknown raises his knife-hand, and slashes. The champion fails to parry: the knife pierces his chest-armour.

    Panting, the unknown struggles to his feet. “Now die at my hands, champion of the Castle of Ull! Say the last rites of the Land of Ull, for today you go to the Great Garrison Beyond the Pink Clouds!”

“Spare him!” the lady-beings of the castle cried. “Spare the honourable champion!” 

    Mercifully the unknown stays the blow of his shin-knife. With one last, desperate effort the champion draws a concealed knife from his forearm sheath. Oh, dishonourable blow! The challenger staggers and falls. But wait! Yet his shin-knife is in his hand! Slay him now, young challenger! Slay the dishonourable one! The tempered xrillion blade flashes in the sunlight. The point pierces to the heart! “Death—or victory!” A great cheer rises from the crowd. Slowly the unknown gets to his feet.

    “Victory is mine! I claim the hand of the Princess Flower-Petal in IG-legal bond-partnership!”

Above on the battlements, a palpitating pink Princess Flower-Petal was smiling through a rain of tears, tossing flowers madly from her mn-mn silk garment and her long, curling fair hair. 

    It was then that the Grand Prince of Ull stepped forward. “Show your face, Unknown!”

    Slowly the unknown warrior removed his helmet.

The victor raised his two hands to the immensely teethed and fanged, leathery brown helmet and removed it. A tangle of long black ringlets tumbled down beside a youthful, weary, but smiling humanoid face which, though the face-hair was depilated and the face was very much younger, yet bore a remarkable resemblance to that of Didg himself. On the battlements Princess Flower-Petal was seen to blush, smile and tremble. 

    “Tell us your name, oh brave Unknown!” cried the Grand Prince of Ull.

    “My name is Unknown, oh Grand Prince of Ull, and I claim the hand of your daughter, the Princess Flower-Petal, in IG-legal bond-partnership!”

The assembled crowd gasped, whispered and pointed. Lady-beings veiled their faces with wisps of their trailing head-garments or floating senso-tissues. On the battlements Princess Flower-Petal’s hands went to her mammalian bosom. 

    “Surely you jest! No unknown warrior shall receive the hand of the Daughter of the Land of Ull!”

The assembled crowd gasped again: this time the shock was directed at the Grand Prince. The garrisons’ hands went to their weapons. Up on the battlements Princess Flower-Petal removed one of her hands from her bosom and clapped it over her mouth. 

    “Redeem your bond, Grand Prince of Ull!” cried the young warrior. “Make good your word! I claim the hand of the Princess Flower-Petal as my IG-legal right, by true and valid combat!”

The crowd murmured agitatedly. The members of the garrison exchanged looks, and began to growl under their breaths and fidget with their weapons. The Princess Flower-Petal leaned over the battlements anxiously, the long yellow hair falling forward like a silken cloud of wh’h flax, the garment dipping to show most of the mammary glands. 

    But the Grand Prince of Ull cried angrily: “Give my only daughter to a nameless wandering warrior? Never! Be gone from the Land of Ull, you impertinent upstart!” And he turned contemptuously on his heel to go back into the castle.

    There came a clap of thunder from the north and the skies darkened.

Thunder rumbled, the pale jade skies round the castle turned an ominous dark green, the pink clouds darkened to cherry, and lightning flashed far in the distance. 

    The Unknown shook his broken spear. “Be warned, Grand Prince of the Land of Ull! He who breaks his bond shall suffer the consequences!”

    But the Grand Prince of Ull strode back into his castle and its door slammed shut.

The Grand Prince, gathering his flowing cloak around him, stomped back inside, followed by the crowd. The main door boomed shut. After a moment angry shouting was heard from inside and several lady-beings appeared on the battlements, arguing with the princess. Then the Grand Prince of Ull appeared on the battlements, there was more shouting, and he dragged the princess bodily indoors. Two members of the garrison emerged onto the battlements, the tower door was heard to slam, and one of the warriors took up his position outside it, weapon at the ready. The other paced slowly and up and down, spear raised. The princess’s face appeared at the tower window, peering down at her suitor below. 

    The Unknown mounted his steed. “You have been warned, Grand Prince of the Land of Ull!”

    Lightning flashed round the tip of his spear as he shook it in a last threatening gesture. Then he gathered up his reins, called: “Come, Boy Mudg!” to his indentured page, and rode away in the direction whence he had come. And the skies darkened round the dishonoured Castle of Ull.

On the muddy stretch of grass the remaining members of the garrison drew themselves up stiffly and saluted the Unknown. Jagged arrows of blue fork lightning flashed fiercely, thunder boomed, the dark green of the skies was almost black and the deep cherry clouds rolled threateningly, as the slim figure on the black horse and the little humanoid on the donkey disappeared into the gathering rain storm. Blue lightning flashed, outlining the end of the broken spear and the rider’s dark curls, and then he was gone. 

 

    Tears rolled down Dohra’s pink mammalian cheeks. “I thought—he’d won—her!” she gasped, grabbing a handful of senso-tissues.

    “He had,” replied Didg on a grim note.

    The Feeny-Argyllians produced mournful hoots. “Will the separated mammalian One and Two never be united? Alas for the Land of Ull!” they chorused.

    “You said it, One and Two,” agreed Didg, sending for more refreshment.

    “That was a good fight, Didg,” BrTl congratulated him as the servo-mech slid up to him. “Mind you, I’d’ve been inclined to blast the plasmo-blasted Grand Prince of Ull to the Third Galaxy when he reneged on the deal, and his Vvlvanian-cursed castle with him! I think it’s my round. Have a nnru juice? Or the Chontigaumian Super-Duper Zapper-Whapper’s not bad. Three parts nnru juice, dash of fermented laa, two parts qwlot, two parts Huyajhangwanian brandy.”

    “It’s a great idea, but I dunno that I could finish the story after that!” said Didg with a loud laugh.

    Dohra lowered the bunch of senso-tissues, smiling. “Ooh, is there more? Ooh, does he get the princess in the end?”

    “Wait and see, Sweet Cheese,” he said with a mammalian wink. “Have something nice, this time round. What about—uh, lessee… A Whtyllian Pink Whip? Um, not what you’re thinking,” he added a trifle lamely, as his entire audience broadcast in horror: Whtyllian whip? “Whtyllian cows’ milk—that’s a bit like grqwaries’ milk, for the benefit of any C’T’reans around—whipped up with air and a small shot of Deurangel Rose Brandy—that’s what gives it the pink colour, and Deurangel’s the best brand, comes from Monpettihor.” He blinked casually at the servo-mech. “Now it does,” he conceded. “Think these plasmo-blasted hunks of space junk have been blobbed up for the tourists.”

    “Um, it sounds lovely, Didg,” she said, all pink and smiling.

    “On me,” said BrTl firmly.

    “Yes! Thank you, BrTl!” she gasped. “Lovely!”

    “Have they got it in blue?” asked blndreL. “Yeah, thanks,” she recognised: “I'll have the Whtyllian Blue Whip, with real Blrtltonian blrtlberry liqueur.” 

 

    Several beings then discovered that various variants of this whip wouldn’t be suited to their metabolisms so Trff settled for a whipped laa, the Feeny-Argyllians settled for whipped New Rthfrdian nettle juice with just a dash of Huyajhangwanian brandy, a concoction which the menu claimed was known as “Round The Two Galaxies Whip”, and the Thwurbullerian settled for Oononian sparkling spring water whipped up with air and a dash of Whtyllian zhr’ee: “Back From The Two Galaxies Whip”. And BrTl settled for a basin of qwlot.

    The yellow Flppu had been remarkably silent, especially for a Flppu, ever since the DorAvenian had joined them. “Have a Round The Two Galaxies Whip, S-Fl’Chuyilleea!” its masters urged it kindly.

    Not suited to the metabolism! its FW pack warned.

    “Oh, nor it is. Sorry!” they chorused. “–I’d forgotten: nettle juice gives it gas,” they explained. “Have a Refreshing Gorbachian Plum Juice. Would you like it whipped up with air?”

    The innocent being accepted this, and was innocently thrilled, as the servo-mech served it, to find that it was almost the same shade of pink as Dohra’s Whtyllian Pink Whip! And helpfully explained to her that one just had to think “Drink!” at one’s phthyffia straw. To which Dohra kindly did not reply that she already knew, just smiled and thanked it nicely.

    Didg had been watching this interchange with what several of the beings in his audience reflected was a silly-looking smile, not to be anything-ist, on his mammalian mouth. “Yeah…” he said on a long sigh, as Dohra sat back happily with her Pink Whtyllian Whip, and the Flppu bobbed proudly over its pink whipped Gorbachian plum juice. “Uh—well, shall I finish the story?”

    “Yes, please!” they all cried, even BrTl, so, raising his mammalian eyebrows only slightly at the xathpyroid, Didg got on with it.

 

    The skies were dark round the dishonoured Castle of Ull. The grass no longer grew turquoise and lush, the birds no longer twittered and sang in the forests and hedges. The crops died in the fields and the domestic grazing animals languished for want of good fodder.

Picture of the castle under a brooding dark grey sky with lowering crimson clouds. The ground before it was a sea of churned mud. Muddy members of the garrison stood doggedly on guard, rain dripping from their rusting armour and brown leather fanged helmets. In the distance a bloated four-legged animal form was visible, legs up, in a field of mud. A mournful pale face peered from the window of the tower. 

    Nothing grew in the land except a foul itchy-vine, which wound its tortured way up the walls of the princess’s tower, sprouting only thorns. Even Princess Flower-Petal couldn’t find it in her heart to pick a sprig of this vine.

Princess Flower-Petal, dabbing her round mammalian eyes with a bunch of senso-tissues, leaned in the window of the tower, looking wanly out over the infertile plain, sipping a pale pink frothy drink, and sighing. The mammary glands rose and fell under the mn-mn silk of her clinging garment. The thorny vine waved a tendril invitingly under her nose. The princess looked at it dispiritedly, sighed again, and looked back over the plain… 

    There came a day blacker and danker than all the rest. A castle page bowed low before the Grand Prince of the Land of Ull. “Sire, a Silver Warrior Prince begs admittance.”

    “Get rid of him, what good are warrior princes to us? Oh, let the curse be lifted from the Land of Ull! I rue the day I broke my word to the Unknown!”

His garments grubby and tumbled, the Grand Prince drooped in an ornate chair, while around him members of his entourage, likewise unkempt and dispirited, diced desultorily or gazed despondently out at the rain. 

    Bowing, the page retreated. “Oh, Silver Warrior Prince, you come at an inauspicious time. My master bids you be gone from the Land of Ull.”

Before the castle was the Silver Warrior Prince, mounted on a dashing white steed, fully caparisoned in a harness of best tanned grpplybeast leather and finely chased xrillion ornamented with pearliest wkli shell. 

    “What?” he said with a laugh. “No welcome given to the stranger here? Then I shall take my welcome!” Forthwith he raised his hands to his head and removed the flashing silver helmet.

The silver figure on the prancing white horse with the wavy silver mane and tail raised his two hands to the immensely elaborate, chased, plumed and fanged silver helmet and removed it. 

    And lo! It was the Unknown Champion!

    The watching garrison cheered, and saluted, and threw their weapons in the air.

A tangle of long black ringlets tumbled down beside the humanoid face of a youthful Didg. He smiled, and suddenly the silver sun pierced through the crimson clouds, and his pure white fangs flashed in its light. 

    “Come, my princess!” he shouted, striking the itchy-vine with his silver spear. And suddenly it burst into bloom, revealing itself as a pink climbing rose.

    The princess looked out of her window, and laughed. She plucked a rose from the vine, and kissing it, threw it to him. Then she swung herself out of the window and climbed down the rose.

    “Jump!” he said, bringing his horse up close to the tower.

    Laughing, the Princess Flower-Petal jumped into his waiting arms.

    And the Silver Warrior Prince bore her away to the Land of Silver, where they lived happily ever after.

The picture of the Silver Warrior Prince clutching his plumpish, soft mammalian princess very tightly under the mammary glands as he rode off in the glowing silver sunlight over a plain sprouting with new turquoise growth slowly faded. 

 

    Dohra clapped madly, tears running down her cheeks.

    “Don’t be sad, Dohra!” the paired beings urged her, tootling happily. “It turned out all right in the end! The separated mammalian One and Two were united, and the curse was lifted from the Land of Ull!”

    “Yes, it was a seasonal myth after all,” said the Thwurbullerian with satisfaction. “Be glad, Dohra. They’re using the little tubes, now. They’ll breed a new one, very soon.”

    “Yes,” said Dohra soggily. “It’s all right, I’m just crying because I’m so glad!”

    Didg smirked. “Yeah,” he agreed, “she is.” He passed her a fresh handful of senso-tissues.

    “Thank you, Didg. It was a wonderful story!” she gasped.

    Average, I thought, the Thwurbullerian sent dispassionately to BrTl. Interesting in its way, of course.

    Uh—yeah. I liked the fights.

    So did I, agreed blndreL. Though not averse to the mammalian pairing stuff, either! “Yes: thanks, Didg,” she said aloud. “Very tastefully told.”

    He winked at her. “Oh, ya noticed!”

    “Mm. That’s the sort you prefer, I gather?” she said drily. She got up, yawning. “I’ve had it—if you’ll all excuse me? I’ve got a room booked: think I’ll go off to it: got here at crack of IG dawn after a very rough trip on a Kernarvian freighter. See you tomorrow! ’Night!” And she went off, yawning another wide mammalian yawn.

    “I would have thought,” noted BrTl severely as her upright back criss-crossed with its brief strips of Nblyterian clothing and her blaster strap disappeared through the spaceport bar’s doorway, “that that being would have had more sense than to waste good igs on a room!”

    “She’s going to be stuck here for some time, waiting for the shuttle to Nblyteria,” the Thwurbullerian excused her. “Dohra, have you booked a room?”

    “No, I thought I’d just snooze on a couch in the sim-lounge or somewhere,” said Dohra cheerfully.

    “That won’t do,” said the Thwurbullerian heavily.

    “I’ve done it before.”

    “Then you're lucky to be still with us,” it said severely.

    “But I have got a blaster, Forty-Four!”

    Didg sniffed. “Sort of. Give it here.”

    “Um, why?” she faltered.

    “Never mind why, give it here!”

    The assembled beings watched with interest as Dohra handed Didg her blaster and as he verified that it wasn’t working.

    “I know,” said Dohra with dignity. “I don’t want to zap any being, thank you; it’s a—a deterrent!” She put her rounded mammalian chin in the air.

    Didg looked at the chin and the soft flesh under it with undisguised interest. “Yeah. Hang on a bit.” The company watched with varying emotions as he then dismantled the blaster, removed its blob and IG-illegally replaced with another blob which he IG-illegally produced from about his person. “Now it’ll work,” he said, handing it back to her.

    “That’s better!” approved BrTl. “You’ll be all right in the sim-lounge now!”

    “Ya will if you can sleep with one ear open,” drawled Didg. “Can ya?”

    Dohra was very red. “Yes!” she snapped with manifest untruth. “And I haven’t got anything worth stealing, anyway!” she added defiantly.

    “Not half,” drawled the DorAvenian. “Well, it’s not what you’ve got, Sweet Cheese, so much as what you are.”

    “Yes,” admitted BrTl. “We have encountered beings, some of them not a megazillion glps from this choice ISLA bar, that find young humanoids very marketable commodities. Haven’t we, Trff?”

    No reply. Vvlvanian curses, what with the fermented laa and the long stint polishing the blobs, or whatever disgusting things it had been doing with them, out there beyond the last black hole… “It’s very tired,” he excused it lamely.

    “It’s very full of fermented laa, ya mean,” returned Didg drily. “Why not give her a bed on your ship for the night?”

    “Uh—I thought you realised, when I sent that I couldn’t go into hyper-hop. The ship’s not here. Trff came in a pod. The ship’s parked—um, somewhere out beyond the last black hole,” he ended lamely.

    “Uh-huh. The Chief Engineer’s been doing a bit of blob-culturing, has it?” he recognised.

    “Something like that,” admitted BrTl. “It isn’t IG-illegal where it did it. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t probe me for the co-ordinates. You’re not gonna get them: my shield’s not that bad. And don’t try penetrating its shield, especially when it’s dozed off, because it’s like trying to—”

    “Ow!” gasped Didg, clutching his head.

    “–Chisel your way head-first through solid xrillion,” finished BrTl pleasedly. “I dunno exactly what it is, but it’s something like all of the it-beings reinforcing it at once—see?”

    “Mm,” he said, rubbing his head. “Any room for her on the pod?”

    “There won’t be a bed, as such,” replied BrTl cautiously. “There’s a flop couch that’s sort of humanoid-size.”

    “There you are!” said Didg pleasedly to the pink-faced Dohra. “A nice flop couch! That’ll just do ya!”

    “You’re welcome,” said BrTl kindly, seeing she was wondering if she was.

    “Um—thank you very much! But—um—what about— I mean,” floundered Dohra, pinker than ever, “has your pod got a hygiene cabinet?”

    No, they trailed twenty-five glps across the spaceport tarmac to the public ones every time they needed to go, and twenty-five back! BrTl rolled his eyes, and then stopped, perceiving that the yellow Flppu was in a state of frozen terror. “That’s not a threatening gesture in a xathpyroid, S-Fl’Chuyilleea,” he said kindly. “Of course the pod’s got a hygiene cabinet, Dohra. And given that our captain’s a humanoid, it’ll fit you.”

    “Oh, good,” she said limply. “Me and J’nno went on a trip to Mount Veruba once, that’s a winter resort, only of course we couldn't afford to go then, we just went on the cheap sightseeing trip in summer, and it was dreadful, the tour lifter didn’t have hygiene cabinets!”

    “Special Offer,” recognised BrTl, looking down his noses.

    “Very,” agreed the Thwurbullerian. “Is this another story, Dohra? Because I really think it’s getting a bit late. Perhaps we could hear it tomorrow?”

    “Um—yes! I mean, no, it’s not really a story,” said Dohra lamely. “Um, where are you going to sleep, Forty-Four?”

    “I’ll probably just snooze in this corner,” it said placidly. “I find that most beings won’t approach.”

    They wouldn’t, no! sent Didg with feeling.

    Yeah, agreed BrTl, the sight of a Thwurbullerian rolling over in its sleep isn't one you’d need to see twice to take the hint. He rose, with due precautions as to smaller beings. “Got a room, have you, One and Two?” he said kindly.

    “Yes, an excellent room, thank you, BrTl, with a lovely double stall!” they chorused.

    “And a lovely Flppu nest!” squeaked the Flppu.

    “Good. You’d be a bit short, not to be anything-ist, to share my stall,” he admitted. Trff! We’re going! It snoozed on. “Excuse us,” he said, picking it up carefully with a pseudopod: he’d developed an excellent technique that entailed rolling the pseudopod round it, then you didn’t drop it. Of course he could have picked it up in a hand and tucked it under one of his arms, but when a being was in the spaceport of the third moon of Pkqwrd it was sensible to retain full mobility of both arms. “Come on, Dohra, it’s not fa— Oh,” he said, looking again at her humanoid physique. “Um, there was a certain question of igs for closer slots, so the pod’s in a slot rather, um, outer-rimmish. You could use the tran-blobs, but that costs igs.”

    “I can walk,” she said firmly, sticking out the chin.

    “It’s twenty-five glps,” noted Didg laconically.

    Dohra was about to scoff but BrTl said placidly: “Yes,” so she didn't. “How big is the spaceport?” she gulped. 

 

    “Pretty standard for a transit station. Fifty glps long by fifty glps wide and up to standard IG orbit—You didn't mean its cubic space? Well, twenty-five hundred square glps,” explained BrTl.

    “The bars are kind of in the middle of it, see?” said Didg kindly. “Standard layout.”

    She nodded dazedly: at a brisk walking pace a humanoid took about an IG hour to cover three IG glps!

    “Eight IG hours, give or take, your pace,” he drawled.

    Dohra had just worked that out for herself. She gave him a look of annoyance.

    “You’d better carry her, swiller,” he drawled.

    “Yes. Then I can lope,” BrTl explained. “Oh—not in the main concourse,” he recognised, translating the redness of the cheeks and the emanations of agony.

    “Oh,” said Dohra in limp relief. “Well, all right, then. If you’re sure I won’t be too heavy?”

    Just in time he stopped himself from rolling his eyes again. “No,” he said feebly. “Not actually, no, Dohra. –I’ll say goodnight, then,” he said to the company.

    “Goodnight, BrTl! Goodnight, Dohra!” replied the paired beings, the Flppu and the Thwurbullerian. BrTl pretended he didn’t catch a minatory No more intoxicants for her tonight, from the last. For Federation’s sake! He was used to the humanoid metabolism!

    After a moment he realised that Didg was accompanying them. “Um, don’t think the pod’ll stretch to two humanoids, Didg. I mean, it’s used to me and Trff and Jhl, max.”

    “No, that’s all right, swiller!” he said with a cheerful laugh. “My crate’s parked over in this direction, too.”

    BrTl had assumed he was in transit, like the other beings. “Oh?” he said cautiously.

    “Emergency repairs,” admitted Didg glumly. “The plasmo-blasted hyperblobs gave out fifty megazillion glps beyond Blerrinbrig’s,”—“I know the syndrome,” BrTl allowed—“yeah: and then the Vvlvanian-cursed plush-moss died in the hold!”

    “No leeway in the atmo-blobs—right. I know that syndrome, too.”

    “Yeah. Thought they’d last nicely to— Never mind. So I limped in to the nearest port. Well, the nearest where they weren’t likely to slit my throat while I was waiting for the refit job. It took a while, though I was able to—uh—hitch a ride,” he said with the suspicion of a mammalian cough, “for part of the way.”

    BrTl knew that suspicion of a mammalian cough from way back, it was exactly the noise Jhl made when she produced a statement exactly like that. This DorAvenian must be one Federation—one Federation!—of a pilot! Unless— “One-being ship, is it, Didg?” he asked carelessly.

    Sardonically Didg replied to the thought: “I am the pilot, BrTl, swiller, yeah. And your Captain must be one Federation of a pilot, if you’re familiar with that little manoeuvre! But it’s not a one-being ship, no: quite roomy, actually. Sort of cruiser-class, with—uh—modifications. Usually carry an engineer, not that he’s much good. Which reminds me, haven’t seen him, have you? About my size, short-tempered being in half-armour with a few patches on it?”

    “DorAvenian, too?”

    “Close. The armour is, anyway. Personal name Budg.”

    “I think we did see him!” squeaked Dohra breathlessly. “Remember, BrTl? He had, um, an argument with a Bdeeg.” BrTl was emanating complete blankness. “Over a steak!”

    “Oh! That being! Yeah. Space Patrol got it. Try the cells, Didg.”

    “He can stay there!” he said with feeling. “Over a steak? –Swiller, slow down, she’s puffing like a Quarvaynian blow-fish in a dry pond! –Not that it’s entirely bad.”

    BrTl slowed his pace. “Sorry, Dohra. Forgot you only had two legs. –Yeah, your swiller-being claimed the Bdeeg had stolen it.”

    “Off his plate!” squeaked Dohra.

    “Eh? Well, that proves he was drunk. Space Patrol can have him.”

    “You don’t mean you’ll leave him here?” she gasped in horror.

    “Whadda you think?” he drawled.

    “He’s pulling your appendage,” said BrTl kindly. “He won’t leave a member of his crew behind. Spacers’ etiquette.”

    Dohra looked dubiously at Didg.

    “Something like that. I’m in slot JPQ793, Level Yellow,” he said as they’d now reached the huge array of blob signs, lift-blobs, other forms of porto-blobs, trains of tran-blobs, and bubbles for hire which marked the entry to the passages, tubes, and tunnels to the ship slots on this side of the concourse.

    “Level Yellow?” echoed BrTl weakly. There was no atmosphere on Level Yellow. Certainly it was inexpensive, but—

    “My FW pack’s got a few extra blobs in it,” he said, winking.

    “It’ll need them. Twenty-five glps with no atmosphere to convert at all?”

    “Twenty-three point four to my slot,” corrected Didg solemnly. “See ya, swiller! See ya, Sweet Cheese!”

    “Bye-bye, Didg! Thank you for the lovely story!” she said, very flushed.

    “Yeah. See ya, swiller,” agreed BrTl.

    They watched as he hopped aboard a very, very, very large free public lift-blob which was s-l-o-w-l-y transporting beings aloft to other and non-o-breather levels of the spaceport.

    “It’s not even going to Level Yellow!” she gulped, as it rose s-l-o-w-l-y to about the level of BrTl’s wither.

    “Eh? Oh—no.” BrTl had now sensed the being’s intention, so he explained cheerfully: “But he’ll hop off when it gets to a suitable level and hop aboard a—” He broke off and cleared his throat, meanwhile hanging on tight to Dohra, as she swayed in the wind. Freight lift-blob.

    She gaped at him in horror as the public lift-blob rose s-l-o-w-l-y to the level of his head.

    They’re good and fast, he sent reassuringly. Oops, no, that was wrong. Um, quite safe. Oh! Beings with a good sense of balance don't need anything to hang onto, Dohra. And his FW pack’ll do the breathing for him. “Shall we go? That’s our tunnel. We’re on Level Green.”

    “Mm.” Dohra waved very hard. From about three IG fluh above BrTl’s head, Didg waved back, grinning. “Shall I turn my FW pack on ?” she said in a small voice.

    Asteroids of Hhum! BrTl checked quickly, but it was a standard model, she couldn't possibly have turned it either on or off all by herself, in fact no being with powers less than those of a qualified Pilot could. “Do that,” he said kindly. What in Federation she imagined she was then doing, he didn't bother to check. He hoiked her up with a pseudopod and, sending a message to his neck-hair to save the real filtering effort for when they reached Level Green, set off at a lope down the tunnel…