through unseen minefields and defensive screens, to land on a metal pad inside a large fortress. I hoped this was the VIP field, not the prison entrance.
“You’ll want your helmet, won’t you, Dad,” Bolivar said in a sea of black thoughts, drawing me back from the brink of my sea of black thoughts.
“Right you are, oh good and noble robot.” I put on the goldplated steel helmet, with the diamond nebula on front and examined my image in the mirror. Delicious. “And best not to call me Dad any more. It gives rise to some impossible biological questions.”
An improbable parade of slithering, hopping and crawling figures slogged up when we appeared through the lock, the Bolivar-robot carrying the carefully constructed alien luggage. One individual in slimy gold braid stepped out of the pack and waved a lot of claws in my direction.
“Welcome, stellar ambassador,” it said. “I am Gar-Baj, First Official of War Council.”
“A pleasure I’m sure. I am Sleepery Jeem of Geshtunken.”
“Is Sleepery your first name or a title?”
“It means, in the language of my race, He Who Walks on Backs of Peasants With Sharp Claws, and denotes a member of the nobility.”
“A remarkably compact language, Sleepery, you must tell me more about it again—in private.” Six of his eighteen eyes winked slowly and I knew the old sex-appeal was still at work.
“I’ll take you up on that my next fertile period, Gar. But for now—it is war! Tell me how things go and what we of Geshtunken can do to aid this holy cause.”
“It shall be done. Let me guide you to your personal quarters and explain as we go.”
He dismissed the onlookers with the wave of one tentacle, signaling me to follow him with another. I did, with my faithful robot rolling after me.
“The war goes as planned,” he said. “You would of course not know, but we have been many years in the planning stage. Our spies have penetrated all of the human worlds and we know their strength down to the last ray gun charge. We cannot be stopped. We have absolute control of space and are now preparing for the second phase.”
“Which is…?”
“Planetary invasion. After knocking off their fleet we’ll pick off their planets, one by one, like ripe
“That’s for us!” I shouted, and raked great gouges in the metal flooring with my claws. “We Geshtunken are fighting fools, ready to lead the charge, willing to die in a cause that is just.”
“Just what I was hoping to hear from someone as well built as you, claws, teeth and such. In here, if you please. We have plenty of transport ships but can always use experienced troops—”
“We are death-defying warriors!”
“Even better. You will attend the next meeting of the War Council and plans will be drawn up for mutual cooperation. But now you must be tired and want to rest.”
“Never!” I chomped my jaws and bit a chunk out of a nearby couch. “I want no rest until the last dry enemy has been destroyed.”
“A noble sentiment, but we must all rest sometime.”
“Not the Geshtunken. Don’t you have a captive or two I could disembowel for a propaganda film?”
“We have a whole load of admirals, but we need them for brainsuck to aid in the invasion.”
“Too bad. I pluck legs and arms from admirals like petals from flowers. Don’t you have any female prisoners— or children? They scream nice.”
This was the 64,000 credit question hidden among the other rubbish and my tail twitched as I waited for the answer. The robot stopped buzzing.
“It’s funny you should ask. We did capture an enemy spy ship that was crewed by a female and a male youth.”
“Just the thing!” I shouted, and my excitement was real.
“They must need torture, questioning, crunching. That’s for me. Lead me to them!”
“Normally I would be happy to. But that is now impossible.”
“Dead…?” I said, fighting to turn the despair in my voice into disappointment.
“No. But I wish they were. We still haven’t figured out what happened. Five of our best fighting things alone in a room with these two pallid and undersized creatures. All five destroyed, we still don’t know how. The enemy escaped.”
“Too bad,” I said, simulating boredom now with the whole matter, swinging my tail around and scratching its scrofulous tip with a claw. “You have of course recaptured them?”
“No. And that’s the strange part. It has been some days now. But you do not wish to be bothered by petty worries. Refresh yourself and a messenger will be sent for you when the meeting is joined. Death to the crunchies!”
“Death to the crunchies yourself. See you at the meeting.”
The door closed behind him and the Bolivar-robot spoke.
“Where will you have the bags, mighty Sleepery?”
“Anywhere, metallic moron.” I lashed out with a kick that the robot scuttled back to avoid. “Do not bother me with such petty matters.”
I walked about the room, singing the Geshtunken national anthem in a shrill voice, managing to cover all parts of the room as I did so. In the end I plopped down and opened the zipper in my neck.
“You can come out and stretch if you want to,” I said. “These drips are really most trusting because I can detect no bugs, spies or optic pickups anywhere in these quarters.”
Bolivar exited the robot quickly and did some deep knee bends to the accompaniment of cracking joints. “It gets tight in there after awhile. What next? How do we find Mom and James?”
“A good question that brings no easy answer to mind. But at least we know that they are alive and well and causing the enemy trouble.”
“Maybe they left messages for us—or a trail we could follow.”
“We will look, but I don’t think so. Anything we might follow these uglies could as well. Crack out a bottle of Old Thought Provoker from your kit there and see if there is a glass in this dump. And I will think.”
I thought hard, but with little results. Perhaps the atmosphere was a bit offputting. The wall hangings were of moldy green over flaking red paint. Half of the room was filled with a swimming-pool-sized mud wallow that brimmed over with steaming gray sludge that burbled and plopped up big bubbles from time to time that stank atrociously. Bolivar went exploring, but after almost being sucked under by the sanitary arrangements and having a quick look at the food supply—he turned as green as my alien hide—he was happy enough to sit and switch channels on the TV. Most of the programs revealed were impossible to understand, though loathsome to a great degree, or if understandable were depressing—like the current battle reports.
Neither of us realized that the TV was also the communicator until a bell pinged and the scene of space bombardment of a helpless planet gave way to the always repellent features of Gar-Baj. Luckily the diGriz reflexes were still operating. Bolivar dived aside out of the range of the pickup while I kept my back turned while I zipped up my neck.
“I do not wish to disturb you, Jeem, but the War Council meets and wishes your presence. The messenger will show you the way. Death to the crunchies.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I muffled as his image faded, trying to get my head into the right position among the folds of plastic flesh. A grating sound issued from an annunciator by the door.
“Get that, robot,” I said. “Say I’ll be there in a moment. Then break out my train.”
When we issued forth, the monster who had been sent to fetch me goggled his eyes at the scene. Impressive too since he had a couple of dozen eyes that suddenly protruded a good metre on stalks.
“Lead the way, spaghetti head,” I ordered.
He went and I followed—followed in turn by my robot who held the free end of the train that was buttoned about my shoulders. This attractive garment was a good three meters of shining purple fabric picked out with gold and silver stars and edged with heavy shocking-pink lace. Yummy! Luckily I didn’t have to look at the thing, but I pitied poor Bolivar who did. I was sure the locals would love it. Not that I needed a train, but it seemed the simplest way to keep Bolivar by me at all times.
