of cryocapsules hitting a capture field outside the spar. The capsules were shaped like three-meter chromium cigars, and they flashed in the hard sunlight like fireballs. They had been flung from an Oship in the Aria shipyard 150 kilometers away. The Oships were sending their biostatic colonists back to Earth. (Imagine their surprise, Fred thought, when they woke up, not on planet Mongo, but at the same place where they started.)
Apparently the two russ proxies overstayed their welcome at the viewport, because a donald working the receiving station took umbrage. He swam over to them and floated before them until he had their attention. Then he unfastened the fly of his jumpsuit and let his penis dangle out. He looked down at it floating there in mock surprise.
“Come on,” Fred’s proxy partner said. “We don’t have to watch this.”
“Watch what?” Fred’s proxy said, more to the donald than to his partner. “That tiny little thing?”
But the little thing didn’t stay tiny. It kept sliding out of the donald’s fly until it was an astonishing half-meter long. Watching from the forward post, Fred thought it was another donald tail trick, but it wasn’t his tail, and it couldn’t be natural. From the look of it, the donald’s penis had been split along its length into three separate cords, and each cord had been strung with large brass beads and braided together before being reattached to the uncircumcised head.
But the weirdness didn’t stop there, and Fred’s proxy was mesmerized, as Fred was, when the fleshy rope began to stiffen. The individual cords bulged and strained against each other, making the brass beads pop out like rows of knuckles. Other donalds gathered around their brother to cheer him on as he used his tail to stroke this obscene macrame rope, faster and harder, thrusting and grunting, until it turned purple and looked ready to burst, and all the while aiming the sick thing at Fred’s proxy.
THERE WAS NOTHING like a good list to ease the mind, and Fred’s morning list grew more imposing each day: wake up, open eyes, stare at ceiling, stretch and scratch, check DCO board, get up, make bed, change room to day setting, toilet, teeth, shower, shave, check for nose hair, comb . . .
“Orienteering.”
“I’m off duty. I like to know my surroundings. There’s no regulation against going for a swim, is there?”
“Thank you for your concern,” Fred replied. “Now that you mention it, I
Earth Girl received the data with no comment, and Fred continued on his way. Not far from the donald rez sector, Fred found a large, unfinished area that was being used for storage. The hallways were jammed with construction material. So much so that Fred had difficulty shouldering his way through, and before long he broke into a sweat. When he reached a particular access hatch, he was consternated to find it stenciled with glyphs for NO EXIT and HARD VACUUM. He looked through the porthole and saw that it was, indeed, a space door. On his map, he was in a completely unexpected location.
No matter, he took his bearings and set off again. After fifteen minutes of difficult progress, he rechecked his position, only to find himself even farther from his intended destination.
Fred was dizzy with anger. Earth Girl was screwing with him again, and he decided to issue a formal grievance with Marcus as soon as he returned to his stateroom. But each time he checked his map, he was farther off course than before. Finally, he left the storage area and saw that it was his own error and not a prank by Earth Girl. Fred had lost the green “down” stripe behind all the construction material, and what he had assumed was the floor was actually the ceiling. Somewhere along the line he had gotten flipped over and was traveling upside down and backward.
FRED PASSED AN open hatch and caught a glimpse of lights. He backtracked and looked in. It was a small observation blister that gave a stunning view of the Powell Canal.
Fred entered the blister and marveled at the sight for some time. Then, when he realized that he was counting and recounting the number of trapezoidal windowpanes that made up the dome (fifteen plus a keystone pentagon), he knew it was time to go. But when he turned, there were three donalds between him and the open hatch.
They floated freely, arms crossed, tails drifting aimlessly, and watched Fred with smug amusement. But Fred was in no mood for a repeat display of their penis art. He removed his standstill wand from his belt and snapped it open. “Move away from the hatch,” he told them. He didn’t expect them to comply, and they didn’t, so he set the wand to knockout, its highest setting, and launched himself at them from the apex of the dome.
They parted to make way for him, but two of them locked tails and, as Fred passed between them, hauled themselves together with great force and caught him in a pincer move that knocked the breath out of him. Fred’s visor cap flew off. Before he could recover, they bound his legs with one tail, his free arm with another, and grabbed his wand arm with four hands. Despite Fred’s furious struggle, they twisted his arm around to touch the wand to his own face. At the last moment he managed to thumb the wand off. Then they simply wrenched it from his hand.
“You three are under arrest,” he gasped, “for assaulting an officer.” That brought sniggers and a punch to the face, followed by repeated vicious kicks and blows to the head. One strike after another, each causing lights to explode behind his eyes until he passed out.
THERE WERE MUTTERING sounds, and when Fred opened his swollen eyes, a cheer went up. Through a bloody film, he saw that the observation blister was crowded with donalds. He couldn’t move. He was stretched spread-eagle against the bulkhead, his arms and legs bound by tails.
An individual donald floated over to him. They were so damnably similar that without his visor he couldn’t ID him or any of them. A tail popped up in front of Fred’s face, this time holding Fred’s own omnitool. With impressive dexterity, the tail flipped open the plasma knife and ignited it. Then it brought the white-hot blade to within centimeters of Fred’s nose. Fred struggled for dear life, but he could not break the grip of their tails. The donald taunted him with the knife, passing it back and forth before his eyes. He singed Fred’s hair with it but did not burn him, despite the challenging roar of the others. Fred tried to stare the donald down, and the plasma knife did move away and out of sight. But then there was a sizzle and the odor of burnt cloth, and Fred struggled even harder. A warm finger of flesh explored his belly region. It slithered up his chest and throat and sprang out from under his collar. It wriggled in front of his face in a mocking little dance. The tail no longer held the plasma knife, and Fred lunged his head forward to try to bite it. But the tail easily dodged and slapped him. Then it withdrew back into his jumpsuit and returned to his belly. But it did not stop there. It slid under the elastic waistband of his briefs and coiled itself around his scrotum like a purse string. It tightened a little, enough to drain the blood from Fred’s face. The donalds hooted their approval.
The tail tightened another notch, and Fred gasped. He clamped his mouth shut to keep from crying out. With exquisite control, the powerful appendage pulled and twisted Fred until a roar filled his head and everything went gray.
FRED WOKE UP in a fetal ball of agony. He tried to piece together his situation, as he was trained to do, but he could not. The dull, throbbing pain in his crotch terrified him. He floated freely and passed out again.
“I ASKED IF you’re injured.”
Fred startled. There was a single man floating next to him. At first Fred took him for another donald — he had a tail — and Fred raised his arms in self-defense. But the man did not move against him. He was familiar, not a
