THE TWILLER

by David Derrico

FLYLEAF

Ian continued walking through the spaceport, more or less at random. As he gaped at a kiosk offering a wide variety of creative piercing services, he was startled by a loud ringing sound coming from his pocket. Belatedly, he realized his cell phone was ringing. He went to answer it, and paused, then shrugged disinterestedly. He never got signal anywhere back on Earth, so why shouldn’t he get reception half a galaxy away?

He answered the phone skeptically. “Hello?”

“Mr. Harebungler?” came a voice, rather clearly, Ian thought. “Is that you?”

Ian looked down at himself. “I believe so.”

“Good, good, Mr. Harebungler. This is Colonel Zachary Sanders of the NETSA. It has come to our attention that you have recently been abducted by aliens. As such, I have a very important mission for you.”

“Really?” asked Ian, who had never heard of the NETSA. “What is the NETSA?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified, Mr. Harebungler. But we have an important mission for you.”

Ian shrugged. “What’s the mission?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Mr. Harebungler.” The man sighed. “Perhaps you don’t realize just how important—and how classified—this mission is. You are, after all, only a civilian. It just wouldn’t do for us to go around telling civilians about super-secret, classified plans like this one, now would it?”

Ian was confused. “No, I suppose not.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “So it’s like, Top Secret, then?”

“Oh, no,” said the man, whose voice was beginning to disconcert Ian. “It’s far more classified than that. In fact, it’s so fiendishly classified, even the name describing how classified it is, is classified. Do you see?”

“Yes,” said Ian, who didn’t.

“Very good.”

“Wait a moment,” said Ian, who was beginning to piece some of the conversation together as his head cleared. “Did you say your name was Sanders?”

There was a definite pause from the other end of the line. “Yes.”

“But, Colonel Sanders?”

“That is all,” said the voice, and hung up.

* * * * *

THE TWILLER

The Unintentional Adventures of a Truly Hapless Hero

A Novel by David Derrico

* * * * *

THE TWILLER

Smashwords Edition

Find paperback and other editions of The Twiller at:

www.davidderrico.com

Publishing History

First digital edition published, June 2010

First paperback edition published, June 2010

Copyright 2010 by David Derrico

Cover art copyright 2010 by David Derrico

Cover background image used courtesy of NASA, ESA, N. Smith (University of California, Berkeley), and The Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA).

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

v. 1.0S

ISBN: 978-1-4523-9653-8

* * * * *

Also by David Derrico

RIGHT ASCENSION

DECLINATION,

The Sequel to Right Ascension

* * * * *

For my wife, Brigitte, who supported my decision to take the time to concentrate on writing my third novel.

* * * * *

Foreword

Thank you for wasting a lovely Sunday afternoon reading The Twiller. How do I know it’s a Sunday afternoon, you ask? The answers to that, as well as many other seemingly unrelated questions, will hopefully become clear by the end of this book.

As you read, you may notice a certain similarity between the characters in The Twiller and people from my own life—maybe even you. If you are the litigious type, rest assured that any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely intentional. Names have been changed (in most cases very transparently) to protect the guilty.

On a related note, if you come across something that doesn’t strike you as uproariously funny, it’s probably best (for me, I mean) to assume that I’m discussing a real person you don’t know, a place you haven’t been to, or some other inside joke that would be hilarious if only you were in on it.

One other word of warning before you proceed: you should know that nearly all of this book was stolen from Douglas Adams’ painfully funny Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series. Well, maybe not the whole book, but all the funny parts, anyway.

Except for the bit about the cell phone and the colonel. That was all mine.

- David Derrico

* * * * *

Part I

Ian Harebungler had never thought of himself as an extraordinary man, although, to be fair, he did think his last name was rather unusual and he did realize that his hunger for cucumber sandwiches was well above average. In fact, whenever Ian thought about such things, his brain invariably turned to the fact that his 4’11” height was embarrassingly short, he had lost a good portion of his hair (now almost totally gone) by the time he was 16, and that he had an almost uncanny knack for finding himself smack in the middle of whatever happened to be the most embarrassing disaster occurring at the time.

So, look, perhaps we had better start over.

Ian Harebungler often thought of himself as more—or, rather, less—than ordinary, but never in his wildest dreams (which usually involved the aforementioned cucumber sandwiches) did he think such an extraordinary thing would happen to him as what actually did happen to him late one early spring evening last year.

Of course, knowing what you already know about Ian, you are probably singularly unsurprised, because, after all, most if not all of Ian’s adventures following that early spring evening turned out to be a series of near-random and hideously embarrassing disasters that could happen only to Ian.

Ian, on the other hand, merely thought that he had bungled something terribly, as usual, when the sleek, blue-green alien ship landed in his front yard at 1713 Millifront Way and proceeded to abduct him from his living room sofa, not to mention the unsightly brown ring it left on his well-manicured lawn. Ian at first thought that he had been abducted as punishment for some heinous crime or blunder, and, as it turns out, his instincts were quite correct, though this would not become clear for some time. Indeed, the crime he was in fact guilty of never crossed Ian’s feeble mind, which is of course understandable inasmuch as that “being human” is only a crime on a handful of planets in Ian’s own galaxy, though it is punishable by death in most civilized cultures elsewhere in the Universe.

In any event, Ian was clueless as to the dramatic (and highly improbable) series of political events that culminated in him sliding down a cold metal ramp and being deposited unceremoniously in a six-foot by ten-foot room that was very bright, very clean, and very, very hard.

Ian rubbed his elbow as he arose, shakily testing his legs and finding, to his surprise, that they were able to support his meager weight. As he looked at the austere walls of the room, which he assumed (quite incorrectly) to be steel, he was hampered by a blurry yellow spot in his vision that appeared to follow him as he gazed about his cell. Ian rubbed his eyes, and, to his considerable dismay, the blurry yellow spot resolved into a clearly defined yellow spot that, at first glance, appeared to be a yellow marshmallow with a set of enormous white eyes hovering approximately four feet in the air. Though Ian quite understandably thought that he had simply gone mad, what with the alien abduction and his terrible fall and what happened to his lawn and so on, he would in fact later remark on just how accurate his first impression of the Twiller was.

Fortuitously for Ian, just as he was about to lose his mind completely, the walls (which he still at this point incorrectly assumed to be steel) began closing perilously about him. As if this weren’t bad enough, obnoxious music began playing from hidden speakers, music that seemed straight out of a game show, the type of music that clearly let you know time was running out and you were about to get buzzed or whammied or something. As a final helpful touch, a large digital countdown appeared on the ceiling and steadily ticked from 00:15 to 00:14 to 00:13 before Ian looked away.

“Well,” Ian said, slumping dejectedly to the floor, “I suppose this is it. Not much we can do about this, I imagine.”

“Twill,” replied the Twiller apologetically.

It was at this point that Ian quite simply decided to go mad.

. . . . .

It is rather unfortunate that Ian chose the particular time that he did to go mad because, had he retained his sanity just another few seconds, he would have seen something quite remarkable take place.

What he would have seen was this: the yellow Twiller, hovering its small, marshmallow-like body through the air with apparent ease, squeezed itself through a tiny crack between the collapsing walls and disappeared therein. What Ian would not have seen, even had he retained his sanity, was the Twiller, with a Herculean effort, pressing a small red button that halted the walls’ constriction and opened a small trapdoor in the floor.

When Ian opened his eyes, well after the allotted thirteen seconds had passed, he saw the Twiller, hovering quiescently near the trapdoor, and the walls, which very distinctly appeared not to be moving.

“Pretty lucky break for us, eh?” mused Ian.

“Twill,” trilled the Twiller.

“Well, er, I guess we had better see where this leads …” Ian paused. “What should I call you, exactly?”

“Twill,” the Twiller trilled.

“Very good then. Let’s go, Twill.”

With that, Ian peered down the shaft, and, finding a ladder hanging from the opening, he confidently proceeded down it, getting a whole three rungs before he lost his grip and tumbled the rest of the way to the ground. Thankfully, the drop was not far and the floor was not quite as hard as the steel-like material of the cell. He dusted himself off to find the Twiller hovering quietly behind him.

“Do you want to come with me?” Ian asked.

“Twill.”

Ian shrugged. After all, the little marshmallow didn’t really seem all that useful, and—what’s more—wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

Ian squinted into the relative darkness of the underground passageway, which of course was not actually underground, though that is neither here nor there. In any event, Ian decided to walk down the passageway, as he didn’t seem to have anything better to do at the time. The Twiller followed him silently, keeping just behind his left shoulder as he walked.

After a short time, Ian came across another ladder, this one leading up. Without much conscious thought, Ian ascended it, his muscles straining with the effort, and emerged into what he at the time thought was the strangest room he would ever see, though later events would knock it out of the top spot (and even out of the top ten altogether).

Multicolored tubes and pipes jutted out from strange octangular machines set into the walls, and sheets of shimmering silver fabric hung off a pair of flat benches that dominated the center of the room. More strange than the furnishings, however, was the slim alien being standing between the benches.

“Lie down, Mr. Harebungler,” it said.

Considering that this was only his second encounter with an alien (the first being one of his ex-girlfriends, though he was blissfully unaware at the time), Ian handled himself remarkably well.

“B–but perhaps I could—” he stammered.

“No,” replied the alien. “You can not. Lie down.”

Ian looked to the Twiller for help. It gazed back at him helplessly.

“Okay,” Ian agreed.

. . . . .

Perhaps now would be as good a time as any to explain the circumstances surrounding Ian’s abduction.

You see, while humans are almost universally despised and avoided by most sentient races in the Universe, there is a race of super-intelligent beings from the Large Magellanic Cloud (though this is of course not what they call it) that, curiously enough, depends on humanity for its very survival.

The Anasazi first journeyed to Earth when their supply of pink liotropes dried up sometime around the 3rd century BC (also not what they called it). The Anasazi, to that point, had depended on the liotropes (which conveniently were indigenous to their home planet) to neutralize the poisonous effects of the gendami fruit, which they ate prodigiously. If the blood of a live liotrope was not injected within a few minutes of consuming the fruit, the Anasazi in question would have a massive allergic reaction and, well, let’s just say that it would be a very unhappy (and sexually deprived) Anasazi for some time.

Luckily for the Anasazi, the curative powers of the liotropes are almost perfectly duplicated by the human appendix, which, when mixed with a certain mixture of chemicals, can provide enough antidote to last the Anasazi for decades.

This means that—somewhat unfortunately for humans—a live human is needed every so often so that his appendix could be removed. And while the Anasazi were quite capable medically and could easily remove the appendix and even replace it with an artificial one if they so desired, thus sparing the kidnapped human’s life, they were also not known as the nicest group of aliens to ever come out of the Large Magellanic Cloud.

Oh, and, as for the collapsing walls and all that … there is a perfectly good reason to make the captured humans go through a little ordeal before they are murdered, but the Anasazi simply do it because they rather enjoy the show.

. . . . .

Ian squirmed beneath the restraints on the medical table and watched as the slim alien creature fondled a particularly cruel-looking medical instrument. It was at this point that Ian finally realized that the alien intended to do something dreadfully painful to his person and—what’s more—that it did not appear to be offering him any anesthetic.

“Say, um, hello,” Ian offered, “do you think there would be any way that instead of cutting me up and killing me and all that rot, that you could possibly, say, not cut me up and kill me?” He looked to the alien hopefully. “How does that sound?”

The alien being looked back at Ian with a look that bordered on intense loathing. Actually, let’s not mince words. Intense loathing is precisely the look the alien gave Ian, and even Ian was able to read it rather clearly.

“Give me one good reason,” began the alien calmly, “why I should not kill you.”

Ian thought about this. Several reasons sprang immediately to mind, like his fear of excruciating pain and death, the fact that he may have left his gas on, and the stack of cucumber sandwiches sitting in his refrigerator. In all fairness, however, he realized that none of these would actually qualify as a good reason.

“I bleed a lot,” Ian found himself saying, much to his own surprise. “It would get fairly messy.”

The alien smiled, though how it did this was unclear, inasmuch as that it, technically, did not have a mouth.

“I quite enjoy the mess, actually,” it replied.

Ian shrugged. “Is it going to hurt?” he asked.

“Quite a lot, I’m afraid.”

It was at this point that a bright yellow streak caught Ian’s eye. The Twiller, from the far side of the room, had launched itself at top speed into a computer bank behind the alien doctor. With a sickening sound, the Twiller hit the button it was aiming for and fell wearily to the ground. An almost inaudible click alerted Ian to the fact that his restraints had been released.

“Stupid Twiller!” shouted the alien. “I should have taken care of you before.”

The alien advanced menacingly towards the helpless Twiller, which seemed unable to summon the strength to hover away. Ian sat up, and in a fit of bravery or desperation, hurled a silver bedpan at the distracted Anasazi.

The bedpan hit the alien in the back of the head with startling force and accuracy, cracking its brittle skull and killing it instantly. The slender alien body dropped lifelessly to the floor, whereupon several less vital bones were broken as well.

Ian ran over and scooped up the disabled Twiller. “What do we do now?” he asked, frantic.

“Twill,” it replied, barely more than a whisper.

Ian considered this for a moment. Luckily for him, it was precisely at this moment that the Anasazi ship came under attack.

. . . . .

Right off, we should probably explain here that none of the events in the following section were known to Ian, and that they are related here for the sole benefit of the reader. All Ian was aware of during this period was a lot of noise and of course the talking Barcalounger.

. . . . .

The Veraxian warship bristled with weaponry. It bristled with rage. It bristled with some combination of weaponry and rage. What the exact proportions of weaponry to rage were, it was hard to say, but there certainly appeared to be enough of both to go around.

The ship looked as if it were the sort of ship that was perpetually ready to pounce at any other starship, asteroid, or planet it saw, and as if it very much desired to do a wide range of not very nice things to whatever it pounced upon. It always looked as if it were at the end of a very bad day, the sort of Tuesday afternoon that just dragged on with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. It looked as if it were permanently incredibly put out by something or other.

How an inanimate object managed to convey such a degree of pent-up rage is hard to describe, but anyone who has ever seen a Veraxian starship invariably remarks the same thing.

This particular Veraxian warship appeared to be in an even worse mood than normal.

The savagely beweaponed machine slowly crept toward the Anasazi ship, the ship that had had the unmitigated gall—not to mention extremely poor judgement—of being within the same galaxy as an enraged Veraxian starship. As if that weren’t enough, the Anasazi ship had the incredibly unfortunate luck to be that exact shade of bluish green that elicited the very strongest, most visceral hatred from Veraxian warships.

The upshot of all of this is that the Anasazi were about to have a very bad day.

With a frenzied rush, the Veraxian ship sped toward the blue-green vessel, smashing into it with its proton battering rams, beating at it with its force generators, and generally harassing it with its ion field emitters. The Anasazi ship shuddered at the assault, seemed to scream in the void of space, and generally appeared to lose a great deal of its resale value.

It seemed as if the Veraxian ship smiled, just a bit.

The onslaught continued.

. . . . .

What Ian hated most about the attack was the noise. No, actually, it was perhaps the shaking and breaking of things around him that he hated most. But when he really came to think of it, it was in fact the being thrown violently about the room that was the absolute worst part of the whole experience.

Ian didn’t like that part very much at all.

He cradled the injured Twiller in his hands, even as his own body was—quite inconsiderately in his opinion—thrown against every solid surface in the room. He wondered if it was some sort of punishment for killing the Anasazi doctor/torturer with a bedpan.

Abruptly, the noise and the shaking and the being thrown violently about the room all stopped at once. Ian had a few moments to be thankful, before a huge hole was ripped in the wall and what appeared to be a brown leather Barcalounger emerged therefrom.

“You will come with me,” it said, floating as it did several inches above the ground.

Ian considered this for a moment. It didn’t look like a particularly comfortable reclining chair, but he didn’t seem to be in a position to be picky. He walked over and tried to sit on the thing.

A burst of electricity coursed through Ian’s body, and he fell to the ground, dropping the Twiller as he did so. He looked up to find his small marshmallow friend floating inches from his face.

“Twill,” it said weakly. “Twill twill.”

Ian considered this for a moment. It made as much sense to him as anything else that had happened so far today.

“Okay,” he said, struggling to his feet. “I’ll walk.”

He followed the Barcalounger into the gaping hole.

. . . . .

The Veraxian ship was somehow even more bizarre to Ian than the previous one, and also a good deal more mean. What struck Ian first (quite literally) was the fact that the hallways were lined with rows of unhealthy-looking spikes. Why this was, Ian could not possibly imagine. It just seemed like a pointlessly mean thing to do.

The Barcalounger hovered before him, leading him into the ship. It turned a corner and directed Ian into a small cell.

“Get in.”

Seeing as how the cell didn’t look much more uncomfortable than the hallways, Ian obliged, squeezing past his captor and snagging his shirt in the process.

The cell door slammed solidly closed, and Ian for some reason felt reassured that the Twiller had managed to follow him in. It looked at him questioningly.

“What is it you want?” Ian asked, feeling as if he already knew the answer.

“Tw—”

“Yes, yes, I know. ‘Twill.’ That is what you were going to say, right?”

The Twiller lowered its large eyes to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Ian apologized, feeling like quite the cad. “I know it’s not your fault. But since we seem to be stuck together, we should find some way to communicate.”

The Twiller seemed to nod, doing so by hovering its entire body up and down.

“Very good, then. How about one ‘twill’ for yes and two for no?”

“Twill.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Twill.”

Ian considered this for a moment. “Are you saying yes?”

“Twill.”

“I need to ask some better questions, don’t I?”

“Twill.”

Ian sighed. “Okay. Are we trapped together in a cell?”

“Twill.”

“Twill. Yes, good. Now, are we going to be able to escape anytime soon?”

“Twill twill.”

“No. Very good.” Ian thought for a moment. “No, that’s actually not very good at all, now is it? In fact, I might go so far as to say that it is the exact opposite of good. I might even go so far as to say that it is distinctly bad.”

“Twill.”

“Right.” Ian slumped down on the ground, wincing as he did so. The ground was rough and uneven, and, seeing as how it was inside an alien spaceship and not some naturally occurring structure, Ian could only assume that this was quite intentional.

“I don’t think I quite like our new captors any more than I did our old ones,” Ian mused, looking around the tiny cell and its painfully spiked walls. He wondered what sorts of horrible things they planned to do to his person. He wondered if they had any cucumber sandwiches, and if they might perhaps give him one. Looking around his cell, he guessed no on both counts.

Ian felt a sudden disorientation as the Veraxian ship surged to incredible speed. Though he did not know it at the time, he was going considerably faster than the speed of light. In fact, the speed of light seems downright pokey once one has traveled in a Veraxian starship. Within a few minutes, the ship had stopped, and the door to Ian’s cage opened.

“Follow me,” intoned the Barcalounger, hovering in the open doorway. “Time to meet your maker.”

. . . . .

Ian trudged down a series of spiked hallways, finally emerging from the ship into a spacious hangar. Immediately, an unthinkable range of sights, sounds, and smells assailed him from all directions. It was mostly the smells that caught his attention at first. He doubled over and threw up on the rocky ground.

“Keep moving,” said the Barcalounger, leading him into the chaos.

The spaceport roiled with a raucous blend of the galaxy’s seediest inhabitants. Tentacled ospregi led groups of furry tripedal creatures on short leashes. Google-eyed Miraxians slimed their way across the ground, leaving nauseating trails of goo in their wake. Ephemeral light-beings clustered by the ceiling, unmoving, but intensely bright. They hovered above Ian, forming a regularly spaced web of geometric simplicity. Ian at once believed them to be the most amazing and advanced species he had ever seen.

Upon further reflection, Ian hazarded that they were actually light bulbs.

Ian spun around to find the Twiller hovering behind him, and only peripherally realized how odd it was that he was comforted by the relatively familiar sight of an alien being, especially one that bore such a strong resemblance to a marshmallow Peep.

He looked around at his surroundings. The walls seemed to be made of rock, and appeared to be a natural cavern of some kind, some great underground depression with short corridors leading off into separate chambers. It was into one of these chambers that he was being led.

As he shuffled forward into the chamber, Ian approached a large tent set off in the corner of a poorly lit cavern of some kind. A smallish creature stood outside the tent, skittering excitedly at their approach.

“I see you have a new toy for me,” the creature exclaimed. “Let me see. Let me see!”

Ian jerked back as the creature leapt toward him, probing and feeling him with furry appendages and occasionally licking him with a sandpapery tongue. Ian recoiled in horror before realizing that the hairy creature did not seem to mean him any harm.

“How much?” it asked.

The Barcalounger seemed to consider this for a moment. “Fifteen,” it replied.

The furry creature did a somersault. “Fifteen? Are you kidding? I’ve used better species as food for my performers!”

If it was possible, the Barcalounger seemed to blush. “Very well. Ten.”

“Ten! Extortion—simply extortion. But I’m in a rather good mood today. And I’ve never seen one quite like it.” The creature felt Ian’s leg once again. “I’ll take it.”

“Very good,” replied the Barcalounger, and it floated away.

Ian stood silent, staring wide-eyed at his new owner. “Are you ready to meet your maker?” it squealed.

. . . . .

Ian followed the creature into the tent, which was dark and smelled violently of a college frat house. The space underneath the tent was divided into hallways and rooms, and Ian followed the little creature into a doorway to the right that opened into what appeared to be an office. A small pool of light illuminated one corner of the room, and Ian hesitatingly stepped toward it.

“Turn around,” came a voice, deep and resonant, loud and apparently emanating from all directions at once. “Turn around so that I may see you.”

Ian did as he was told, wondering as he did what his maker was doing in a smelly tent in a foul corner of a teeming spaceport.

A tall figure strode into the edge of the light, its features cloaked behind a heavy hooded robe. It reached out a thin, bony hand toward Ian.

“Nice to meet you,” it said. “I’m Yore Mayker.” It proffered its hand for Ian to shake. “What should I call you?”

. . . . .

It took Ian some time to come to grips with the extraordinary things that had just happened to him—fifteen years, to be exact. So, it is not surprising that, ten minutes after these ordeals, Ian was still shaken rather badly.

“How do you feel?” inquired the furry creature.

Ian gazed around thoughtfully for a moment. “I feel rather badly shaken,” he replied.

“Very good, very good,” squealed the creature, which had introduced itself as Stan. “I’m sure you will be very happy here.”

“Right,” Ian agreed. “And where, um, exactly is ‘here’?”

Stan giggled so hard it did a somersault. “The Harmrinkle Spaceport. And this is Yore Mayker’s Circus of the Bizarre.”

“Ah,” said Ian, slumping down onto a dirty mattress. “We’re in New York, then.”

Stan ignored the comment. “In fact, you are set to perform tonight.”

“Yes, yes,” Ian said. “Whatever.”

He thought about this for a moment. “No,” he added, “actually what I in fact meant to say was no. No, I will not be performing tonight. No, I’m quite sure I don’t like the sound of that one bit.”

If it was possible, Stan became even more excited by this news. “How wonderful, how wonderful! I’m sure you will put on a truly phenomenal show.” It leaned in toward Ian and whispered conspiratorially. “I understand we have a live fohrwurt tonight!”

With these last words, Stan became so overcome by ecstasy that it ran, hopping, from the room.

Ian looked down to his grime-streaked hands and tattered clothing. The Twiller still hung silently in the air. Though he wasn’t totally sure at the time, he guessed quite correctly that his marshmallow friend looked profoundly nervous.

. . . . .

Ian awoke to a rough tongue licking his ankles. He skittered off the mattress in disgust.

Stan bobbed enthusiastically before him.

“You’re on! You’re on!” it screamed.

“I’ll take a rain check,” Ian promised, and flopped back onto the bed.

“Come now, come now,” the little fuzzball squealed. “I’m so excited I could almost explode.”

Ian considered this for a moment, unsure if the repulsive little creature was speaking literally or not. “What exactly am I supposed to do? Go out and entertain a bunch of aliens or something?”

Stan rubbed its hands together impishly. “Oh yes, yes. Something of the very sort.” It hopped, trying in vain to reach high enough to grab Ian’s hand. “Come, come.”

Ian shrugged and followed Stan out of the room. Perhaps they would let him sleep after his performance.

“Through here,” squealed the little creature, and pointed past a curtained doorway. It rolled around excitedly on the ground. “Good luck.”

“Whatever.” Ian stepped through the doorway.

Immediately, a bright light assailed his eyes. A thunderous roar came from an assembled crowd that he could not see. It mostly sounded like the Green Bay Packers all clearing their throats simultaneously.

“And in this corner,” boomed a voice, “from the faraway and exotic world of Nowhere-6, comes a being so bizarre, so repulsive, and so hideously frightful that it has already been banned from most civilized sectors of the galaxy. Only through procuring a series of expensive permits were we able to bring it to you tonight …”

Ian blinked rapidly, his eyes finally adjusting. A spotlight shone in his face, and he covered his eyes to find that he was in the center of an arena, surrounded on three sides by an audience and—now, wait just a moment. Actually, let’s address the audience in a bit more detail. To call the range of beings surrounding Ian diverse or bizarre would be an affront to either word. To say that Ian was shocked or horrified would hardly do his reaction justice. All that can be said is that Ian immediately threw up, and felt much better, until he looked at his own vomit and back to the audience and back to his vomit and his head began swimming so that he could not really tell one from the other.

In any event, the voice, which Ian had mostly ignored, rose to a crescendo, and stopped. The audience became even louder, sounding like, I don’t know, the entire National Football League all clearing their throats simultaneously. Or something. It really was quite hard to describe.

Emerging from a large, sturdy cage at the far end of the arena was a creature that reminded Ian most of his third-grade teacher, if his third-grade teacher had been an immense alien being with slavering fangs and cruel, razor-sharp talons and a craving for human flesh. The monster sniffed the air for a moment, and bounded toward Ian.

Ian, calling on the keen instinctual awareness that had served to keep him alive up to that point, peed in his pants.

The monster froze as if it had slammed into a wall. Its massive, hairy nose worked frantically, and several of its eyes began to tear with a viscous, green-gray liquid. It raised back its head, bellowed defiantly, and collapsed to the ground, dead.

The audience went absolutely bonkers.

. . . . .

Soon Ian found himself back in the presence of Yore Mayker. “Very impressive,” its booming voice pronounced. “That was quite a victory. What do you call that devastating fighting tactic you used?”

Ian was nonplussed. “The throwing up? Or the pissing?”

Yore Mayker looked impressed. “Well, if you could defeat the fohrwurt so handily, I don’t really see how you could be of any use to our show. And this battle tactic—this ‘the throwing up or the pissing,’ it could be dangerous.” The tall being sighed. “I suppose I will have to let you go.”

“Does that mean I can go home?” Ian asked hopefully. “I think I may have left the gas on.”

Yore Mayker appeared to ponder his question for a moment. “I suppose you could,” its voice echoed, “if you could find someone willing to take you back to Nowhere-6. That whole sector has been defrumped by the Halfragian Empire.”

Ian rubbed his temples. “I—I don’t know what that means.”

“Good luck,” said Yore Mayker, and left.

* * * * *

Part II

Ian stumbled through the spaceport, the Twiller close behind him. Every being he passed stared at him curiously. Or perhaps they simply looked curious, and Ian assumed they were staring. Several of them did not appear to have eyes. And several had so many eyes that they seemed to look in every direction at once, including at Ian. Ian resolved to find a drink, and quickly.

A loud commotion to one side of the spaceport caught his eye, and Ian instinctually stumbled toward the cantina, stepping over several patrons on the way to the bar.

The bartender, a wide-bodied Hammorian, seemed intent on ignoring Ian’s pleas for attention. He somberly realized he had forgotten to bring his wallet. Or, more accurately, he had been abducted, and his captors had not even had the common decency to allow him to fetch his wallet first.

A stocky alien at the stool next to him tapped him on the shoulder. “Having trouble?” it asked.

“Yes,” Ian replied immediately. “I do seem to be having quite a great deal of trouble.” He sighed. “I could use a rather stiff drink,” he added to himself.

The creature seemed to size Ian up. “Yes, you certainly could.” It proffered a stubby hand. “My name is D-von.”

Ian shook the hand, trying to hide his disgust at the alien. D-von turned to the bar and snapped his fingers, bringing the bartender over. D-von said something that Ian could not hear, and the Hammorian looked taken aback. D-von repeated his order, and the large bartender sauntered back and started pouring a pair of drinks.

Ian turned to his new friend. “What did you order?” he asked resignedly.

“Don’t you worry about that,” he insisted. “It’s the good stuff.”

Ian shrugged. He absent-mindedly noticed that the Twiller had hovered over to a pool of beer on the bar and appeared to be drinking from it.

Presently the bartender returned, carrying two tiny thimblefuls of some bubbling, aromatic liquid. He held them at arm’s length and placed them on the bar with trepidation.

Ian looked to D-von, who eyed the drinks warily, as if they were about to leap off the bar and go for his throat. He took a deep breath and offered one of the thimbles to Ian.

“That’s it?” he asked. “I thought I told you I needed a rather stiff drink.”

D-von looked at him incredulously, mouth agape. “Have you ever heard of a Supernova?”

Ian was unimpressed. “Is that what this is?”

D-von scratched his head in puzzlement. “Never mind,” he said. “Just drink it.” He narrowed his eyes and took a steadying breath. “And hold on to something.”

Ian shrugged. With a nod to D-von, he put the thimble to his lips and downed it.

The last thing he remembered thinking before he passed out was: how the heck did all those elephants get inside my head?

. . . . .

Ian awoke to a headache never before experienced by an Earthling. He rubbed his eyes and tried to get up, failing miserably on both counts. His eyes throbbed painfully from where he had poked them, and his hip ached from his fall.

“Wha–what happened?”

“I thought you said you wanted a stiff drink?”

Ian looked up into a kaleidoscope of sickly color. His eyes cleared and hovering over him was D-von. The Twiller, which was actually hovering, was there too.

“What did you do to me?”

D-von laughed. “Supernova, remember? It’ll put hair on your chest. Now get up.”

With D-von’s help, Ian stumbled to a bench in the corner of the spaceport and collapsed onto it. He tried for several moments to be as still and silent as possible. “What are you still doing here?” he asked, softly.

“Well, you know,” the alien replied, “you can’t just give a guy a Supernova and leave him to his own devices.” He shrugged. “You’d have woken up to find that someone had liberated you of your clothes, your money, and most likely your medically valuable organs.”

An ambulance screamed through Ian’s skull, sirens wailing. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“Hey, don’t mention it,” his friend replied. “Where’d you say you were from?”

“Millifront Way,” Ian replied.

“Hmm. Never heard of that one,” D-von admitted. “Is it a large galaxy?”

Ian winced. “Apparently so,” he replied, misinterpreting the question.

“How do you get there?”

Ian thought about the question for a moment. “The only way I know of is to be born.”

D-von looked at him quizzically. “That’s deep, man. Okay, no more Supernovas for you.” He shook his head. “I didn’t realize you were a philosopher.”

“I would very much like to go home.”

“Sure, sure,” D-von agreed. “Just hire a cab. And be careful for the ‘black hole trick.’ Don’t let them keep the meter running.”

“Thanks,” replied Ian. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money.”

D-von cocked his head back and laughed. “No, no I suppose you don’t.” He looked Ian up and down. “Not in those threads.”

Ian ignored the insult. “So, where do I get some money?”

D-von considered the question. “Well, when I get low on cash, I sometimes head over to Yore Mayker’s Circus of—”

“No!” shouted Ian, so loudly that he enraged the pack of elephants in his head to stampede once again. He closed his eyes and added, more softly, “I just came from there.”

“Did you win?”

Ian thought for a moment. “I’m not really sure.”

“Well,” replied his friend, “you appear to be all right. In fact, you seem to have several extra organs—eyes and ears for example.”

Ian looked to D-von, for the first time noticing that the creature only had one bulbous eye and no visible ears. Ian wondered how such a thing would escape his attention. It was precisely the sort of thing he fancied himself as being rather good at noticing.

“Yes, well, how do you suggest I get home, then?”

“Oh, that’s easy. You can hitchhike.”

“Hitchhike?”

“Sure,” D-von replied. “Should be no problem at all, just as soon as you find someone going to the Millifront Galaxy.”

Ian considered correcting him, but did not. His head still hurt too badly to think about it. He looked to the Twiller for help, but it appeared to be having its own problems. It was bobbing erratically in the air. On second thought, Ian was not quite sure if it was the Twiller that was bobbing or if the entire spaceport was still spinning around him. “Alright then,” he said quickly, as a wave of nausea passed over him, “I had better be going. Thanks for the Supernova.” Ian turned to leave.

“No problem,” said D-von. “Hey—wait a second.”

Ian paused uncertainly.

“This, uh, Millifront Galaxy you’re going to …”

“Yes?” asked Ian.

“Are the girls there hot?”

Ian shook his head and slowly walked away.

. . . . .

Ian continued walking through the spaceport, more or less at random. As he gaped at a kiosk offering a wide variety of creative piercing services, he was startled by a loud ringing sound coming from his pocket. Belatedly, he realized his cell phone was ringing. He went to answer it, and paused, then shrugged disinterestedly. He never got signal anywhere back on Earth, so why shouldn’t he get reception half a galaxy away?

He answered the phone skeptically. “Hello?”

“Mr. Harebungler?” came a voice, rather clearly, Ian thought. “Is that you?”

Ian looked down at himself. “I believe so.”

“Good, good, Mr. Harebungler. This is Colonel Zachary Sanders of the NETSA. It has come to our attention that you have recently been abducted by aliens. As such, I have a very important mission for you.”

“Really?” asked Ian, who had never heard of the NETSA. “What is the NETSA?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified, Mr. Harebungler. But we have an important mission for you.”

Ian shrugged. “What’s the mission?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Mr. Harebungler.” The man sighed. “Perhaps you don’t realize just how important—and how classified—this mission is. You are, after all, only a civilian. It just wouldn’t do for us to go around telling civilians about super-secret, classified plans like this one, now would it?”

Ian was confused. “No, I suppose not.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “So it’s like, Top Secret, then?”

“Oh, no,” said the man, whose voice was beginning to disconcert Ian. “It’s far more classified than that. In fact, it’s so fiendishly classified, even the name describing how classified it is, is classified. Do you see?”

“Yes,” said Ian, who didn’t.

“Very good.”

“Wait a moment,” said Ian, who was beginning to piece some of the conversation together as his head cleared. “Did you say your name was Sanders?”

There was a definite pause from the other end of the line. “Yes.”

“But, Colonel Sanders?”

“That is all,” said the voice, and hung up.

. . . . .

After wandering around the spaceport a bit more while checking his cell phone’s reception, Ian decided he would eventually need to come up with some sort of plan. He stopped abruptly, causing the Twiller to crash harmlessly into his neck.

“Sorry there, little buddy,” Ian said.

His little friend did not respond, but it clearly did not look like itself. (Ian was still not sure what sex the Twiller was, or even if it had a sex. Ian had never checked, to be honest, but he didn’t, uh, notice anything.) Now that he could see a bit more clearly, Ian noticed that the Twiller was not its usual color. It was, in fact, more green than yellow. Ian was concerned.

“How are you doing, little buddy?” he asked. “I’m concerned.”

The Twiller looked at him through bloodshot little eyes. Ian expected the usual response.

“Bleargh,” the Twiller said instead, spraying a fine stream of yellow-green liquid onto Ian’s shirt pocket.

“Sorry I asked,” he muttered.

“Twill” replied the Twiller meekly.

“That’s okay, little guy,” he said. “I still don’t feel all that well myself.”

The Twiller nuzzled up to Ian’s neck and let out a soft purring twill. Ian turned to see a frightening alien curiously approaching him. He tried to be open-minded as it drew closer.

“How cute!” it shrieked, startling both Ian and the Twiller. “Can I pet it?”

“Uh, sure,” said Ian, not really sure if the Twiller qualified as his pet. “But be careful, he’s a bit hungover.”

The alien reached out to embrace the cowering Twiller, who let out a plaintive trill. It was quickly lost from sight as the alien hugged it close to its body.

“My name is Poo,” offered the creature, speaking from one of its several mouths.

Ian shook his head and let out a small chuckle. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but did you say your name was …”

Poo tilted her head inquiringly, allowing the relieved Twiller to escape her grasp.

“N–never mind,” Ian stammered. No point insulting the creature 15 seconds into the relationship. Ian realized he was decidedly low on friends at the moment. Even the Twiller seemed less talkative than usual.

“You certainly are a strange creature,” said Poo, eyeing him with several of her stalk-mounted tentacle-eye-things. “You know, I once visited a planet in the Nowhere Quadrant where I had to live for a while with beings similar to yourself.” She shook her head. “We were going to conquer the whole planet and use the beings that lived there as slave labor.”

“That sounds horrid.”

“Well, yes, yes it was, actually. Those aliens—I forget what they were called now—they were just the most disgusting creatures you could imagine. Luckily it turned out they were all but useless as slave labor as well, so I was able to leave after only a couple of cycles.”

“Um … and you say I remind you of these disgusting things?” Ian surveyed himself—the tattered clothing, his various scars and bruises, and the smattering of grime that covered most of his body, and of course the Twiller barf on his front pocket. “Well, I dare say you haven’t caught me at my best.”

Poo shrugged, managing to convey the distinct impression that she didn’t think a shave and shower would help much. “Anyway, are you hungry? I’m starving, myself.”

Ian sighed. “Yeah, I suppose so. Actually, yes, I am. I feel like a hamburger.”

“I know what you mean. You look like you went through a meat grinder.”

Ian let the insult pass.

Poo licked several of her mouths simultaneously. “You know, if I don’t eat soon, my stomach will begin feeding on itself, and then where will I be?”

Ian considered his response for several moments, but instead decided to stare thoughtfully at an imaginary spot on the ceiling.

“Well?” said Poo. “Don’t just stand there. Let’s go catch a flight.”

Ian was, as usual, completely confused. “What?”

Poo sighed. “You’re not from around here, are you?” Ian shook his head. “I wouldn’t be caught dead eating at a spaceport,” she continued. “The best place to grab some grub is on a transport shuttle.”

Ian jerked back, suddenly sober. “Airplane food? The best place to eat is on a plane?”

“Sure,” replied the creature, absent-mindedly sucking on one of her tentacles. “You don’t even know that? You are a dork.”

. . . . .

Poo did not seem upset that Ian had no money, possessions, or skills with which he could procure his own passage on the transport. She did, however, refuse to even let him inquire about the possibility of going home. Instead, she had picked their destination seemingly arbitrarily, without accepting any input from Ian.

“We can’t just go anywhere,” Poo explained, as if she were speaking to a very small child, or whatever baby Poos were called. “This flight has the best food.” A spattering of drool escaped one of Poo’s mouths. “Very flavorful. A little noisy, but what the heck.”

Ian opened his mouth and considered asking about that last comment, but thought the better of it and just let it go.

The pair (and the Twiller, who was allowed to fly free) made it through the short line and onto the transport. Thankfully, it was nearly empty. They walked down the aisle toward the rear. “Here,” Poo directed.

Ian squeezed into the row as directed, and slid himself into the tiny seat on the left-hand side of the shuttle. He wanted to complain about how small and uncomfortable and restrictive the seats were, and how they seemed ill-proportioned for him, until he realized that they had obviously not been designed for human beings. They were, in fact, apparently taken directly from a Southwest Airlines 747.

Ian was surprised to see Poo continue walking, and seat herself several rows behind him, on the other side of the transport.

“Hey … uh, I mean,” Ian stammered. He surreptitiously sniffed his armpits in embarrassment. He hadn’t showered in a few days, sure, but he still thought he smelled significantly better than any other creatures he had encountered on his recent travels.

Poo ignored him, grabbing a menu and rubbing her hands together furiously.

The shuttle lifted off and Ian sat in the cramped seat for what seemed like a long time, with no one but the Twiller to talk to. Finally, an alien flight attendant appeared pushing a hovering cart.

“Has the gentleman decided on his entrée today?” it asked.

Ian looked around for the gentleman it was referring to. “Uh, yes,” he stammered, almost without thought, “I mean no.” Realizing his hunger, he mustered up a sudden measure of bravado. “I’ll have the special.”

“An excellent choice!” shrieked the flight attendant. It opened a door on the cart and scooped a revolting mass of slimy goo onto Ian’s fold-out tray table. It flashed a practiced smile and continued down the aisle. Puzzled, Ian looked uncertainly at the goo, noticing that the flight attendant had not even thought to give him any utensils. What kind of transport shuttle is this, anyway? he caught himself thinking.

Absently, Ian probed the goo with his outstretched pinky, just to test the consistency of it. It was rather sticky. In fact, it seemed to be folding around his finger. Ian tried to jerk his finger back, only to find that it was quite soundly stuck in the mess. He looked back over his shoulder for help, just in time to see Poo lunge face-first into her pile of goo and just sit there.

Ian looked to the Twiller for help, and suddenly felt the strangest sensation of his life: he could feel his body somehow absorbing the food. In fact, it made a loud and nauseating sucking sound as the goo seemed to funnel into his finger. He could see the mound on his tray begin to shrink, and his stomach stopped rumbling. He leaned back, surprisingly at ease with what was happening, and licked his lips. He almost thought he tasted chicken.

With a final sickening slurp, the goo was gone, and Ian was quite full. In fact, he noticed, he had quite clearly overeaten. Just then, the shuttle decided it would be a good time to hit some interstellar turbulence.

“This is your captain speaking,” came a voice from a speaker above Ian’s head. “Please remain calm. We are encountering a slight patch of bumpy air,”—Ian was peripherally aware of the fact that there was no air in space—“but there is nothing to worry about. After all,” the voice droned on, “there really is not very much you can do about it, is there? Please do not bother with your seatbelts—if we crash into an asteroid, the best you can hope for is to die from the impact. Suffocating in the void of space really is one of the worst ways to go.”

Ian fumbled for the seatbelt, which he quickly realized did not exist. He rummaged through the seatback pocket, finding a bunch of in-flight magazines, a barf bag, and what looked to be a safety brochure. It was covered with drawings of spaceships crashing violently into asteroids and each other. He opened it and soon realized there were no words or instructions—just the disturbing pictures. Just as well, he thought bitterly. It would probably be in Spanish anyway.

“Those passengers on the right side of the shuttle,” continued the Captain as if the ship were not lurching through an asteroid field, which it quite clearly was, “may look out the window to see the Carina Nebula, the center of the galaxy, a lovely binary system with a red dwarf star and a black hole, and the very edge of the Universe. I do say the edge of the Universe looks particularly captivating today.” Ian vainly craned his neck to try to see across the plane, his imagination of the wonders outside momentarily overcoming his nausea. “Those of you on the left side of the shuttle”—the Captain’s voice suddenly became a good deal more hostile—“will not see a gosh-darned thing but the void of space. In fact,” the eerie voice continued, “we are purposely flying in circles so as to keep all the cool stuff on the right side of the ship. Now, if those of you on the right side of the shuttle would sit back and relax, we’ll have you through this turbulence momentarily.”

The spaceship took a nauseating lurch, and so did Ian’s stomach, overfull with goo. He fumbled for the barf bag, trying in vain to find the opening as the taste of bile filled his mouth. It appeared the barf bag had more than one hole in it. Ian was beginning to get disoriented, and he fought to keep his mouth closed, noting as he did so that the Twiller was inching slowly away from him. By the time Ian figured out that the barf bag was designed for creatures with two mouths, it was too late.

. . . . .

“I can’t take you anywhere!” Poo stormed. “Haven’t you ever heard of a barf bag on your backwater planet?”

“Well, I, yes,” Ian muttered.

“Twill,” added the Twiller, in Ian’s defense.

“You keep out of this,” snapped Poo. “That’s it. I’m out of here.”

It should be noted at this point that “here” was a desolate rock of a planet, perhaps even a mere asteroid, where the transport shuttle had jettisoned the three travelers after Ian had spewed all over himself and the shuttle. It was quite a mess, and it was not surprising that they had been forcibly ejected. Anyone who has ever seen vomit in zero gravity will know exactly what I mean.

Poo hastily stalked away on her fleshy tentacles, flagging down a passing spacecraft and hitching a ride. Within moments, she was aboard and the spacecraft sped off. Ian’s mouth still hung open.

The Twiller said nothing. It appeared to have much on its mind.

“No matter,” Ian said, to no one in particular. “She gave me the creeps anyway.” With that, he confidently strode off in a random direction.

With the Twiller in tow, Ian approached a narrow canyon. It curved into the face of the rock, and within minutes Ian had thoroughly lost his sense of direction. Since he had no idea in which direction he was going in the first place, this bothered him surprisingly little.

“Quite a fine planet we have here, eh, Twill,” Ian bantered, making conversation with his little yellow friend. “Although, I must say, this being my first actual alien planet and all, I was hoping for a bit more … I don’t know … life.”

The Twiller trilled warningly.

“Yes, it is a bit odd, now that you mention it,” Ian replied, stopping and turning to look at the Twiller. “I mean, I haven’t seen a single living thing on this entire planet. I suppose it’s just uninhabited.”

“Twill twill” trilled the Twiller.

“Oh, no, you say? Very good then.”

“Twill twill.” The Twiller sounded urgent.

“No. Right. Not very good then, is that what you’re saying?”

“TWILL!”

“Okay, okay, no need to shout. I mean, you make it sound as if there’s a ravenous space dragon behind me or something.”

“Twill,” it replied shakily, its eyes wide.

“Now, I thought we agreed one twill for yes and two for,”—at this, Ian turned around, and came face to face with what was quite clearly a ravenous space dragon—“no.”

“Twill,” confirmed the Twiller, and it hurried off.

. . . . .

Turning a corner in the ravine, Ian stopped just in time to avoid running directly into a very large, very solid rock wall before him. He scratched uselessly at the dead end for a moment, as if to make sure that this wasn’t some new sort of soft rock, and then turned back to face the approaching sounds of his nightmarish attacker.

The dragon skidded deftly around the corner, filling the canyon with its considerable mass and completely blocking Ian’s escape. It advanced toward Ian, snarling ferociously in a way that only ravenous space dragons are really able to pull off. The sight would have petrified a great many creatures far more brave than the average Earthling, so you can imagine how terrified Ian was. After all, this is the same guy who routinely found himself whining like a little girl when faced with a common cockroach, which … well, which really isn’t all that bad when you think about it because cockroaches are actually pretty scary so there’s really nothing wrong with that.

In any event, the space dragon bearing down on Ian was even scarier than any cockroach, not to mention larger and significantly more ravenous. Ian closed his eyes as he prepared to die.

After what seemed like far too long a time, Ian realized that he was, in fact, still alive, and opened his eyes to determine why this was.

What he saw was this: the dragon, on its heels, inexplicably backing away from its cornered morsel. It took Ian a moment to realize that the Twiller was hovering defiantly before him, between him and the ravenous dragon.

“Twill,” it said.

Ian could not be sure, as he had little experience in measuring the eyes of ravenous space dragons, but if he had to guess, he would have ventured that the look in this particular space dragon’s eyes was that of abject terror.

. . . . .

Ian looked warily at the Twiller. “Twill,” it said simply.

Ian cringed and covered his head with his hands. Gradually, he peeked out to see the Twiller still hovering there serenely. “Twill,” it said again, very softly.

“How did you … ?” began Ian, looking around. There was no sign of the dragon, which had sped off like its tail was on fire. “What did you … ? I mean—the twilling, and the dragon running away, and the still being alive … ?” Ian sat down on the packed dirt. “I am feeling very confused. I just never saw this sort of thing on the Discovery Channel.”

“Twill,” the Twiller replied in an understanding tone.

Ian was startled as an alien walked around the corner of the ravine. Ian momentarily jerked back in instinctive terror, until he realized that the being was completely harmless. He wasn’t sure how he realized this, but he could just tell. Then again, he had thought the Twiller to be completely harmless only a short time ago, and the dragon had obviously felt otherwise.

The being sauntered up to him, sporting a wide smile that appeared to be far too large for its face. “My name is Cheez,” said the odd, human-shaped creature. It had a bushy tuft of neon orange hair on its head.

“Cheese?” repeated Ian.

“No, Cheez—with a ‘Z.’”

“But that’s what I—wait a minute. How do you know how I spell words?”

Cheez tilted his head skyward and appeared lost in thought. “I wonder what would happen … if gravity suddenly stopped working.”

Ian was nonplussed. He was so confused, in fact, that he did not have a single plus. But the creature seemed to be awaiting some sort of response. “Uh … you mean, like some sort of strange local phenomenom?”

“Phenomenon,” corrected the creature. “With an ‘N.’”

Ian decided to start the conversation anew. “I’m Ian. This is the Twiller. Who are you again?”

The creature stared skyward for a long moment. “Have you ever been to that star?” it asked, pointing.

“Um, no,” Ian replied, not really sure if it were true or not. But he figured it was a good bet that he hadn’t.

“Wanna go?”

Ian looked to the Twiller for confirmation. The Twiller shrugged. How exactly to describe how a marshmallow-shaped creature with no shoulders shrugs is beyond the capabilities of this author, so please just take my word for it.

“Sure,” said Ian, not sure how else he would get off the rock he was on. “Do you have a spaceship or something?”

“Yeah,” replied Cheez, finally responding to a direct question, “but it’s a piece of crap.”

. . . . .

The spacecraft shuddered violently, threatening to break apart and spill its occupants into the void of space—which would have been an improvement, from a comfort and safety point of view.

“What did you say this rust bucket was?” Ian asked.

“A Buke’s Ummer Set.” Cheez pounded on the dashboard as the craft began to sputter and stall. “All the secret agents love it.”

Ian began to ask for clarification, but quickly reconsidered. He had already learned not to ask too many questions of his bizarre traveling companion. When he did so, he just ended up with a headache, and was no closer to understanding the odd creature’s behavior.

Ian made sure his restraining harness was securely fastened. The Twiller had retreated to the relative safety of Ian’s shirt pocket in order to avoid being bounced around the cabin of the shuddering vehicle. Ironically, Ian thought the spacecraft looked uncannily like a flying car—albeit a big, ugly, green flying car—right down to what appeared to be a broken tape deck on the dashboard. A pair of fuzzy dice hung from the windshield, and even the fact that they were covered in incomprehensible alien characters was not enough to make the scene sufficiently futuristic so as to be reassuring.

“So,” began Cheez, “where did you say you were from again?”

“Earth,” Ian said, trying to think of the most general answer he could give. “It’s the third planet of the …” Ian looked down at his feet. “Of the, uh, solar system,” he mumbled.

“Hmm,” said Cheez thoughtfully. “You know, that’s really not particularly helpful. What’s the name of the closest star?”

“Oh!” Ian brightened up. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “The sun.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Ian suddenly felt very small and foolish. Even the Twiller seemed several times its normal size.

“No problem,” said the alien, relentlessly upbeat. “I’m sure we’ll find it in no time.” He looked over and gave Ian a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry—I’ll take you as far as this baby will go.”

With that, the engine sputtered and died, and the crippled vessel coasted slowly through space.

* * * * *

Part III

The ship coasted for what seemed like a long time, floating silently through the black void of space. Ian became increasingly alarmed, but Cheez simply hummed or looked out the windows or often did nothing at all, but just stared straight ahead for long moments. Ian could not tell if he was deeply lost in thought, or just deeply lost.

Ian shifted his attention from the side window to what was ahead of them. He noticed a spherical object—too small to be a planet—far away in front of them. Luckily, the ship did not appear to be heading directly toward it. Blissfully unaware of all but the most basic laws of gravity, Ian mistakenly believed himself to be safe.

“Say,” Ian began, breaking the silence, “what do you think that is?”

Cheez’s eyes slowly focused on the object. “Looks like a planet.” He thought for a moment. “Is it yours?”

Ian’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s not. In fact, it doesn’t even look like a planet—it’s a bit too small, don’t you think?” Ian squinted out the window. It did appear to be slightly larger than it had seemed before, and the ship seemed like it would actually pass a bit closer to it than Ian had previously thought. A vague uneasiness began to settle about him like a palpable thing, but Ian waved it away with an elaborate gesture.

“You’re right,” Cheez said reassuringly. “It does look a bit too small to be a planet.”

Ian exhaled a sigh of relief.

“But I imagine by the time we hit it, it will look just about the right size.” Cheez leaned back and clasped his hands behind his neck. “I wonder if it will be warm there. It looks pretty close to that star.”

Ian stared openly at his alien companion. “You wonder if it will be warm?” he repeated. “You said we were going to hit it! You said we’re going to crash!” Ian realized as he said it that the planet was in fact getting exponentially larger. It also appeared the ship was gaining speed, and was inexorably angling toward the planet.

“It certainly appears so,” Cheez replied breezily. “So, tell me about this planet of yours. Earth, I think you called it? Do you have video games there?”

“Video games?” Ian spat. “Video games? We’re about to die, and you’re asking me about bleeping video games?”

“I like video games.” Cheez turned to face him. “Did you just say ‘bleeping’?”

“Who cares what I said?” Ian shouted, frantic as the planet rapidly filled the window. “We’re going to die!” The Twiller let out a low, plaintive trill.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Cheez responded. “We’ll be fine.”

With that, the ship was buffeted mercilessly by the planet’s atmosphere, and it bucked mightily as it went down. The fast-approaching ground loomed in the manner that only a fast-approaching ground can manage. Ian covered his eyes and prepared for the end.

And then, all of a sudden, everything stopped: the ship, the noise, the buffeting, Ian’s heart—everything. Ian peeked through his fingers to see the ground only a few inches from the front of the ship, which was hovering, nose-down, for no immediately apparent reason.

“What happened?” asked Ian. “Did you get the engine back on?”

“No,” said Cheez, opening the door and preparing to drop to the ground. “But I have great collision insurance coverage.”

“What? What does insurance have to do with anything? How did that stop us from splattering all over this planet?”

Cheez looked at Ian with a confused expression. “Don’t you have insurance companies on your planet?”

“Well, of course,” Ian replied indignantly. “But they don’t prevent crashes, they just pay you money when you do crash.”

“Ah,” Cheez said, understanding. “That’s how it used to be many millennia ago. But then the companies realized how inefficient it was to pay people when they got in accidents.” Cheez shook his head. “Plus, people realized that they just ended up paying all the accident costs anyway through increased premiums, plus whatever the insurance companies took for costs and profit. A ridiculous system,” Cheez snorted.

“So, how does your insurance work?”

“Well, the insurance companies realized that their largest cost was paying out all these claims for idiots who crashed into stuff. So, they simply decided they could reduce premiums and still make gobs more money if they cut down on the number of accidents. Of course, then they realized it would be even better if they just stopped all the accidents in the first place. And it’s way cheaper to install fail-safe systems in spaceships and use time machines to retroactively prevent accidents than pay out all those claims and lawsuits.”

“Wow,” said Ian, amazed. “That does make a lot more sense.”

Cheez flashed him a sparkling smile. “I told you not to worry about it.”

Ian looked to the ground, still uneasy and not fully trusting of whatever strange force seemed to be holding the spaceship a few inches above the ground. He opened the door and flung himself from the ship and its madman pilot, glad to be on solid ground again. Of course, he misjudged the distance and went down painfully on his head.

“Ouch,” Cheez said. “I see you haven’t paid your premiums this month.”

. . . . .

Dusting himself off, Ian saw his bizarre traveling companion strolling leisurely through the forest they had not crashed in. Ian looked to the Twiller, who shrugged uselessly. Unsure of what else to do, Ian followed Cheez through the foliage. “Where are we going?” he asked.

Cheez ignored the question. “You know, I think I’ve been here before.”

Ian sighed. “Where, exactly, is ‘here’?”

The alien continued walking. “It’s right through here somewhere.” Just then, the two travelers emerged from the forest, stepping from the ground onto a slab of concrete.

What stretched before Ian boggled his feeble mind. Towering buildings rose before him as far as the eye could see, their tops disappearing into a gray, smoggy haze. Thousands of alien beings milled about the sidewalks, and aircars were jammed bumper-to-bumper, taking up every cubic inch of free space from ground level until they disappeared up into the smog banks. None of them appeared to be moving, although every few seconds the shriek of a horn assailed Ian’s ears. Over the din, Ian thought he heard the Twiller cough.

Before him was a large sign, which read:

WELCOME TO EL LEIGH

The Biggest Damn City in the Galaxy

For an uncertain moment, Ian wondered why the sign would possibly be in English, or in fact why he had been able to understand the myriad aliens he had met on his travels. He quickly resolved not to think about the matter again, and you really should do the same.

Cheez continued into the morass of milling aliens, walking aimlessly as he stared at his surroundings. Ian struggled to keep up, a high-pitched voice in the back of his head urging him not to lose his alien guide, who was—just barely—better than nothing. Ian knew he did not want to be lost, alone, in a city like El Leigh.

Within only a few moments, however, lost was precisely what he was. There was no sign of Cheez, no sign, in fact, of the forest he had emerged from minutes earlier. There wasn’t even any sign of the “Welcome To El Leigh” sign itself. His visibility was reduced to a few feet by a mass of people and the omnipresent haze, which he could feel settling thickly in his lungs. He let himself be carried away by the moving mass of aliens, and gave up looking for Cheez after a few minutes. Ian could not help but think that it was a rather crappy and ignominious way to get written out of a story.

Ian struggled out of the flow of people and into the street, where things were moving much more slowly, if at all. Rows of aircars were stacked from the paved ground up into the gloom. The aircars, all of which were running, were only inches from each other. In some cases, they actually touched the cars ahead of or behind them. Ian ambled over to a driver whose window was down.

“Hello,” Ian began. He was rewarded by a long blast of the vehicle’s horn.

“Let’s move it, here!” the alien inside shouted. “I don’t have all year.”

Ian tried again. “Excuse me, sir. How long have you been stuck in this traffic jam?”

The alien swiveled one of its heads to face Ian, while the other continued shouting obscenities at other drivers. “Oh, about a year and a half.” Ian’s mouth dropped open. “Well,” the driver explained, “I haven’t exactly been stuck in this exact spot that long.”

Ian was relieved. “About six months ago,” the driver continued, “the car in front of me inched up and hit the guy in front of him. So I was able to move two, maybe three inches.” Both heads swiveled to look at the car in front of him. “Those guys have been going at it since then.”

Sure enough, the drivers of the two cars in front of the alien were vociferously exchanging unpleasantries with each other.

“But,” Ian stammered, “how could you be stuck here for over a year?”

The alien shrugged all four of its shoulders. “Well, the traffic was always pretty bad, and then I guess one day there was just one car too many on the road.” He sighed. “That’s what they say on the radio, anyway. That last car was like the last jigsaw puzzle piece, or like filling in the empty square on one of those games where you rearrange the tiles.” The alien turned both heads to regard Ian. “Do you have those games on your planet?”

“I … I think so,” Ian stammered, and ran, screaming, from the street as fast as he could.

. . . . .

It didn’t take long for Ian to tire of the “charms” of his first real alien planet. He couldn’t understand why anyone would possibly want to live in El Leigh, let alone why it was evidently the Biggest Damn City in the Galaxy.

Ian shivered, noticing that the sun was unable to penetrate the gloom to provide warmth or light. The Twiller seemed to be shivering too. Ian was strangely reassured by his yellow friend’s familiar presence, especially after it had inexplicably saved him from the ravenous space dragon. He didn’t really know how it could help him in a metropolis like El Leigh, but he was reassured nonetheless.

Ian trudged through the living river of aliens. Even at the spaceport he had not encountered such a disparate and diverse range of alien creatures. For a moment, he considered that there were millions of people back on Earth who would give their right arm to meet an actual alien, and here Ian was in the midst of thousands of them. All Ian wanted, however, was to get away from the oppressive mass of beings. The stench was beginning to make him ill. Again.

“Where should we go?” Ian spontaneously asked the Twiller. He was not sure if the Twiller had ever been to El Leigh, but it was considerably more worldly than Ian. Or Universe-y. Or whatever.

The Twiller zoomed in front of Ian, leading him, and Ian struggled to keep up, trying not to touch any aliens that gave off bodily secretions. It zigged and zagged down sidewalks and alleys, eventually coming to rest before a large building that Ian instinctively recognized as a hotel. Must have been the bellhops, who had five arms apiece.

Gratefully, Ian entered the lobby, wandering over to the reception desk. What Ian needed more than anything in the world right now was a nice hot shower. Also maybe some food. Yes, definitely food, then a shower. Actually, a good night’s sleep might truly be what he needed most of all. In fact, Ian would be happy just to brush his teeth. Can you imagine throwing up three times and not even being able to wash the taste of bile out of your mouth?

As Ian was thinking of all the things he would like to do, he completely forgot about the fact that he had absolutely no money, nor any means of procuring any. As such, he walked up to the receptionist with a huge smile on his face.

“Good afternoon, sir,” intoned the receptionist. “What can I possibly help you with today?”

“I’d like a room,” Ian replied. “And room service. Cucumber sandwiches—the works. Oh,” he remembered suddenly, “and a shower, please.” He wasn’t quite sure if the denizens of El Leigh used showers. From the smell of things, Ian guessed not.

“Very good, sir, very good. I must say, an excellent choice. The Shower Suite.” The alien’s fingers flew over a computer terminal. It looked up at Ian. “And how will sir be paying for the room today?” It smiled obsequiously.

Ian’s eyes went wide. Right, payment. Now why hadn’t he thought of that? In retrospect, it seemed like a perfectly obvious thing to consider.

Ian casted about the hotel lobby for—well, he didn’t really know what he was looking for, but he sure knew it when he saw it. Striding through the center of the lobby, surrounded by reporters, was an alien more bizarre than any Ian had seen on his travels. Though it was vaguely humanoid in appearance—with the requisite number of eyes, noses, and mouths—they appeared to be attached in a random and highly unnatural manner. The alien’s skin was dark in places, but its face appeared bleached, and its skin was stretched tautly over the bones in its face. And the creature’s voice was far too high-pitched and squeaky for any Earthling.

“I just had to get out of there, you know?” said the creature, a snippet of conversation carrying across the lobby to Ian as the alien and its entourage passed by. “So I made it look like I overdosed on sleeping drugs. Can you imagine living on a world that barbaric for 50 years?” It shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it. I just want to focus on my new music video coming out next month. It’s ground-breaking. It’s called ‘Twiller.’ There will be zombies. That’s really all I can tell you.”

Ian turned back to the unctuous hotel receptionist. “I’m with him,” he said triumphantly, pointing across the lobby. “The plasticy-looking one over there with all the make-up—Michael Jackson.”

The receptionist’s eyebrows—which, Ian noted, were located on its forearms—arched upward for a moment, but then the alien gave a small shrug. It probably figured that Michael would never notice one more room added to his bill.

“Very good, sir,” the receptionist intoned, its smile suddenly fading. “However, I am afraid there is just one small problem.” It pointed above its head to a sign, which read, in big, bold letters:

NO TWILLERS ALLOWED

Under Any Circumstances

We Mean It

Don’t Make Us Get Snooty

“Uh,” Ian stammered, looking back at his friend. “He’s not with me.” The Twiller, visibly hurt, cast its large eyes to the floor and hovered despondently away. Ian felt a twinge of panic, and an even stronger twinge of regret. The Twiller had been his only real friend throughout his journeys.

“Very good, sir,” the alien repeated, handing Ian a room key. “You are in room 729,843, on the 7,298th floor.” It produced its obsequious smile once again. “Your cucumber sandwiches should be waiting for you when you arrive.”

Ian thanked the receptionist and hurried to the elevator, only peripherally wondering if the alien actually said the 7,298th floor. He looked around and was very glad to see that the Twiller had snuck back over to rejoin him. Ian cradled it in his hands and tried his best to give the tiny creature a hug without squishing it. “I’m sorry, little guy,” he said. “You know I didn’t mean it, right?”

The Twiller cooed in affirmation as the elevator arrived and a mirrored door opened. Ian entered and scanned four full walls of tiny buttons. He eventually found the one marked 7,298 and pushed it—along with several others in the vicinity. The buttons were clearly meant for much smaller fingers than his.

The elevator doors closed and the chamber shot upward like a missile, causing Ian to collapse heavily to the floor. When it stopped (at the wrong floor), Ian was almost thrown to the ceiling. This was repeated several times, and Ian instantly wished he had taken more care in pressing the correct button.

Finally, the elevator stopped on floor 7,298 and Ian stumbled out. He looked to the key in his hand and was singularly unimpressed, inasmuch as it appeared to be, well, just a key. Not even one of those credit-card keycard things they use in every hotel back on Earth built after 1945. Ian smirked, feeling an odd sense of superiority at humanity’s small victory in the crucial hotel key technology arena. Unbeknownst to Ian, as he approached his room, the key imperceptibly scanned the DNA from his fingertips and remotely adjusted the room’s temperature, oxygen levels, and lighting for his comfort.

Ian arrived at the room to find a tray of cucumber sandwiches gleaming on the bed. He devoured them ravenously, took what would turn out to be the greatest shower of his life—even though it, enigmatically, did not involve any water or liquid of any kind—and gratefully passed out, naked, on the bed.

. . . . .

When he awoke the next morning, refreshed, clean, and his stomach satiated, Ian ambled over to the closet. Inside, as he expected, was a white terry cloth robe with the hotel’s insignia embroidered on the front pocket. In the front pocket was a small card that read:

These lovely 100% terry cloth robes are for sale in our gift shop. If you would prefer to steal the one in your room, you cretin, an obscene charge will be added to your bill. You will also be charged significant sums for any soap, shampoo, air, or toilet paper that you happen to use during your stay.

Thank you,

Management

Ian shrugged and donned the robe, discarding his filthy clothes. He wasn’t paying for the room anyway. He ambled over to the bed and opened a drawer in the nightstand. He fished out a worn Bible.

Ian opened the book, noting the stamp on the inside cover, which read, “Placed by the Gideons.” There was a number listed, so Ian called it, ignoring a sign by the phone informing him of the astronomical fees the hotel charged if you so much as looked at the telephone.

“Hello,” a voice answered. “You’ve reached the Gideons.”

“Terrific,” Ian replied, pausing uncertainly. “What’s a Gideon?”

“Oh, you know. We put the Bibles in hotels.”

A sudden inspiration struck Ian. “Are you hiring?”

“Sure we are. There are a lot of hotels out there. It’s a great job, really, if you like traveling. All-expense paid trips to exotic destinations, and all you have to do is drop a Bible in the drawer before you leave. Not a bad deal.”

Ian considered this. “Do I have to go to Gideon School or anything like that?”

“Oh, no,” the man assured him. “Nothing like that.”

“How much do you pay?”

“Two hundred bucks per Bible, with the first payment in advance.”

“Two hundred bucks!” Ian paused for a moment. “You pay in American dollars?”

“No, not dollars, bucks. Let’s see … bucks are currently trading one-to-one for American dollars, though.”

That seemed like an awfully convenient exchange rate, but Ian was bad at math, so he didn’t question it. “Wait—you’ve heard of America?”

“Oh, yeah,” replied the Gideon. “I watch Survivor all the time.”

Well, thought Ian, that explains it. Someone must be watching that swill. “When can I get started?”

“As soon as I express mail your Gideon Starter Pack over to you.”

There was a knock at the door. “Express delivery for Mr. Harebungler.”

“How did you know my name?” Ian asked the Gideon.

“Caller I.D.,” he replied. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Ian said, and hung up the phone. He walked over to the door, opened it, and signed for his package. Inside, he found a set of tiny Bibles (“just add water,” they read), a very thin instruction manual (“Step One: open drawer; Step Two: place Bible; Step Three: close drawer”), an unlimited travel voucher, and a credit chit. It had a built-in display, which read “200.”

Ian pocketed the chit, and after another round of room service—Ian did not stop to wonder how the hotel was able to procure cucumber sandwiches—he headed out, tiny Bibles in hand, and prepared to spread the Word.

. . . . .

Ian swept through the hotel lobby in an absurdly good mood, not seeming to mind that he was still wearing the plush bathrobe he stole. Caught up by walking with elaborate sweeping motions, Ian carelessly knocked over what appeared to be a very expensive vase, or perhaps a fragile alien creature that liked to perch on pedestals. “Just charge it to my room,” he called, and strode out into the street.

The glitzy cleanliness of the hotel lobby instantly gave way to the fetid haze enshrouding the city. Ian only took a few steps into the gloom before losing his previous resolve. He turned to the Twiller. “What the heck am I doing here?” he asked. “I need to get home.”

“Twill,” came the expected reply, and Ian shrugged and continued on. Around the corner from the hotel, he came across a man selling food from a sidewalk cart. Ian approached the cart cautiously, peering into a roiling cauldron of brownish liquid. Every now and again, the man would spear something deep within the liquid, and would produce a dripping, fatty cylinder that he would deposit in some sort of doughy material with a slit in the top. The customers would often direct the man to squirt some foul-looking muck onto the concoction before walking away with their meal.

Ian was feeling adventurous—and, more importantly, hungry—so he sidled up to the cart. “I’ll have one, please,” he said, and then added, against his better judgement, “With everything.”

The cart man appraised Ian with his single bulbous eye, fishing into the vat and producing another cylinder, which he covered in sickly yellow goo and a greenish mush. Ian handed the man his new credit chit to swipe and claimed his prize.

Pocketing his chit, Ian noticed the display now read only five. He considered what the Gideon had told him about the exchange ratio, and decided that El Leigh was an expensive city, indeed.

Ian continued down the street as he ate. The food wasn’t bad. He had eaten worse hot dogs, but not for $195.

As he was walking aimlessly, Ian heard a soft but distinct shrieking sound. He looked down to the source of the noise, and saw a tiny creature—like a fairy, but smaller. “Aw, man!” it said. “You almost squished me!”

Ian looked to the Twiller, who was several times the being’s size. It shrugged. Ian looked back to the creature, who was dusting herself off. She looked like a little doll, or a figurine perhaps, but smaller. “I’m so sorry,” stammered Ian, leaning down to the creature, who was wearing something that looked like a dress, only smaller. “I, er, I didn’t see you there.”

“No, of course you didn’t,” she replied. She frowned and wagged what looked like a finger, but smaller. “Maybe you should watch where you’re going, bigfoot.”

“Yes, I surely will,” Ian replied, noticing for the first time that the fairy creature seemed to be carrying a small, fluffy animal in her arms. It looked like a cotton ball, only smaller. And fluffier.

“Um, yes,” Ian stammered. He squinted at the alien, who was really quite attractive, from what he could tell. He suddenly wished he had a magnifying glass. “What is that you’re holding?” he asked.

“This?” she replied, holding out the cotton ball. “This is ‘The Shugs,’ which is short for ‘Sugar.’ And my name is Mizmao.”

Ian reached down to shake her hand, succeeding only in poking her. From closer up, he could tell that the cotton ball in her arms was actually a very small, very fluffy white cat. When Ian withdrew his finger, he found that it was covered in white fur, far more in fact than the entire mass of the tiny cat. He wiped it on his robe, which would turn out to be one of the most colossal blunders he would make on all his travels, which is really saying something. For now, all he noticed was that the fur clung tenaciously to the robe, and appeared to be multiplying.

“So, Mizmao, I’ve never been to El Leigh before. Can you suggest anywhere for me to go?”

“Oh, sure,” she replied. “Do you have an aircar?” Ian shook his head, noticing that a small breeze was causing prodigious quantities of cat fur to blow around and stick to his clothing. “Well, you can’t really get anywhere in El Leigh without an aircar.”

Ian’s brow furrowed. “It doesn’t appear that you can get anywhere with an aircar, either.”

Mizmao ignored him. “I guess you can take a cab. Anyway, I would recommend checking out the beach. It’s really nice, and this marine layer clears up a bit over there.”

Ian coughed, trying not to pull too much of the rancid air—or airborne fur—into his lungs. Marine layer? “So, how long does it take to get to the beach?” Ian tried brushing off some of the fur that clung to him, without success.

“Oh, about ten minutes, without traffic,” she answered. “Just head west and you’ll hit it. About five miles.”

Ian thanked her and went to flag down a cab. He spotted one and headed over to it.

“Where to?” asked the driver.

“The beach,” Ian replied, getting in.

Ian sat in the aircar for several hours, taking a small nap. Upon waking, he got out of the cab at the same spot—ignoring the objections of the driver, who was stuck but didn’t want to leave the cab to chase Ian down for the fare—and walked the five miles to the beach.

. . . . .

Ian stepped from the pavement onto a beach of coarse, gray sand. His feet sore from the journey, he pulled off his shoes and wiggled his toes in the sand. They were instantly filthy. The beach wasn’t so much sand as dirt. Even though the denizens of El Leigh inexplicably spoke English, they seemed to use words that did not mean exactly what Ian expected. In fact, he had not heard a single person use the words “smog,” “gridlock,” or “dirt,” although it was rather hard to look anywhere in El Leigh and not see all three.

Ian surveyed the water. He could not see much of it, as it was teeming with swimmers, surfers, and a shark-like thing that startled Ian until he realized that it was wearing inflatable water wings on its flippers. Ian could only see out a few hundred yards, in any event, before his view was blocked by the omnipresent “marine layer.”

Ian looked to his left to find a series of smokestacks, belching more of the marine layer into the air. In fact, it appeared that the facility was in fact a smog factory, the sole purpose of which was to maintain the smog content of the surrounding air. It seemed to Ian that it was doing a remarkable job.

To his right, Ian saw an unending carpet of beings covering every square inch of dirt on the beach. Several of them appeared to be quite badly sunburned, although Ian was not absolutely certain that their reddish coloration was at all abnormal.

Ian found a small patch of dirt to sit on when a large bulbous alien departed. He sat and looked out at the small, crowded sliver of ocean he could see before the smog obscured his view. He looked along the coastline, his view of which was impeded by towering smokestacks. He looked at some of his fellow sunbathers, and even though many of them wore no clothing at all, Ian could not make himself feel the least bit aroused. He scratched absently at his chin, finding that he was all but covered in fine, white fur. He tried valiantly to brush it off, but it would simply float back onto his clothing as if attracted by his own personal gravity.

An aircar marked “Beach Patrol” cruised along the beach, angling directly toward Ian. It stopped within a few feet of him and a large, mean-looking alien stepped out and hopped down to the ground. It wore a black uniform and carried a pink baton.

“Excuse me, sir,” it began. “But county regulations prohibit you from sitting in just that way on public beaches.”

Ian narrowed his eyes at the alien. “In just what way?”

“Like that. Exactly how you are sitting right now.”

Ian shifted positions slightly. “So you’re saying this is illegal?”

“Are you getting smart with me?” the alien snapped. “Alright, I think your fun here is over.”

Ian adopted a confused expression. “I apologize for the misunderstanding … officer. How about if I sit in a different position, then? Would that be okay?”

The alien seemed to ponder the request. “I’m not sure if I can allow that. What’s done is done. Besides,” he looked down his noses at Ian, “I bet you haven’t even paid the county beach fee.”

Ian looked around. “I didn’t realize there was any—”

“A-ha!” the patrolman shouted. “I knew it! Improperly sitting on a beach without a license, and you haven’t even paid your usage fees!”

“How much are the usage fees?” Ian asked.

The alien produced a long chart. “Let’s see … today is the fifth of the month, and a weekend, so that makes today’s fee … 792 bucks.”

“It costs 792 bucks just to sit on the stupid dirt?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, you miscreant. And that’s just the county usage fee. Then you have your state fee, your local fee, your city fee, your impact fee, your erosion fee, your atro fee, your sand tax, your ‘voluntary’ contribution to the beach clean-up fund, the marine layer abatement charge—which has just been tripled …”

The alien continued to tick off the various fees on his fingers—of which he had 37, and Ian feared he would use them all. “OK, fine. What’s the total, then?”

“Just for you, or are you paying for your twiller, too?”

“Forget it,” grumbled Ian, and stalked away.

. . . . .

Ian decided it was time to get out of El Leigh. He stopped by a couple of hotels, dropping Bibles in drawers, until he felt he had enough money for his travels. When he got lazy, he would do a whole hotel at once, his credit chit mysteriously increasing by 200 bucks each time he deposited a Bible. He always seemed to have enough of the miniaturized Bibles; whenever he left two of them together for any length of time, they would invariably reproduce. He got cute a couple times and considered Bibling several drawers in the same hotel room, but invariably his conscience got the better of him. Something about being dishonest as he distributed the Good Book’s teachings just seemed wrong to Ian. Besides, he was evidently not the first Gideon to think of that particular trick: his credit chit would only increase once per room.

Once he had accumulated what he felt would be enough money to last him a while—in an economy where $195 was the going rate for a hot dog—he turned his attention to finding himself a train station. With the Twiller’s aid, Ian found a train platform and approached the ticket window, absently brushing white fur from his robe. He gaped at the large sign that posted the fares. The fare for a round trip ticket was expressed in exponential notation, and Ian surmised that it was more than he would ever make, even depositing Bibles like some frantic, Bible-depositing … thing. The sign also indicated that they would not accept his travel voucher on weekends, which included the last seven days of the week.

Under the round trip fare, in smaller font, the sign indicated that one-way tickets—out of El Leigh only—were available for free, so long as the rider signed an oath promising never to return to the overcrowded city. Ian signed the oath so quickly he feared the paper would catch fire. He hesitated for a moment as he handed it to the alien in the booth, then requested another one and signed it too, just in case.

Five minutes later, Ian and the Twiller were on the train, with El Leigh at their backs. Ian fell asleep almost immediately, and, for the first time since his abduction back in Chapter One, he did not have a single nightmare.

* * * * *

Part IV

The train glided to a halt and Ian awoke from his rest when the Twiller rammed into his forehead a few times. Ian coughed up a clump of fur that he had inhaled during his sleep. The white, feathery stuff seemed to be multiplying at a more prodigious rate than the Bibles. Even though Ian had been vigorously brushing himself off at every opportunity, he was still covered in fur, which swirled constantly around him, carried on unseen eddies of air.

Ian reached for his backpack, and, realizing he did not have one, started off the train. He disembarked on a platform with an even more bizarre mix of aliens than he had encountered in El Leigh. A large sign on the platform read, “WELCOME TO BEZ ERKELEY.” An unexplainable sensation of dread momentarily overcame Ian. He looked to the Twiller, who seemed to shudder involuntarily.

Ian followed the throng of beings from the platform and emerged into a light, misting rain. He looked to the sky, finding to his immense relief that the oppressive shroud of smog that had engulfed El Leigh was mostly absent here. In its place, however, was an impenetrable ceiling of fog and dark cloud banks that completely obscured the sun just as effectively. To be honest, Ian could not actually remember seeing the sun since his arrival on the planet. He realized with a start that he had never learned the name of the planet he was on. In a blatant effort to educate even the most dim-witted readers, Ian decided to call the planet “California.”

Ian emerged from the train station into a mass of protesters waving picket signs. Even a cursory examination revealed the signs to be disparate, and, in some cases, completely contradictory. Everyone was, however, shouting in unison, each vehemently denouncing something or other. It seemed the bulk of the signs and voices were decrying the recent election of some new governor. But there were others railing against nuclear energy, fossil fuels, and even electricity in general. Several of these signs were actually bright video displays, with flashing lights and sounds of their own. Ian backed nervously away from the protesters, shielding the Twiller from the flailing electronic signs.

Ian turned suddenly as a huge behemoth of a vehicle roared up behind him. After his recent experiences in El Leigh, the sight of a moving vehicle of any kind would have shocked Ian. But the sheer size and scope of the vehicle that nearly barreled into him was beyond comprehension. It was some sort of hovering truck, or perhaps a military transport of some kind, or quite possibly a floating building. It was huge and angular and shaped like a brick, and waves of hot exhaust rippled from beneath as massive engines struggled to keep the giant vehicle a foot or two above the ground. It settled down into a parking spot, pushing aside the two aircars parked in the adjacent spaces and denting them badly. The colossal machine was several stories tall and clearly weighed a few thousand tons. To Ian’s astonishment, a door popped open to reveal a tiny alien—not much larger than the Twiller, actually—who descended from the vehicle’s cabin with the help of a long rope ladder. It headed directly for a huge gasoline pump, and, with a heroic effort, inserted the nozzle and began refueling the giant beast. Apparently satisfied to leave the fuel hose running, the small being climbed another rope ladder in the rear of the vehicle to pop a massive hatch, from which it withdrew a small, electronic picket sign before descending back to ground level and joining its fellow protesters. As it jogged away from Ian, he could read the back of the flashing protest sign. It read “NO WAR FOR OIL.” Ian turned to the steadily increasing display on the fuel pump, which showed a number that Ian realized represented several lifetimes’ worth of Gideon earnings. He began to cry very softly.

Had Ian known, of course, what else awaited him in Bez Erkeley, he would have been crying far, far louder than he already was.

. . . . .

Ian tried to put some distance between himself and the picketers back at the train station. The Twiller loyally followed along, or perhaps Ian loyally led the Twiller somewhere—Ian wasn’t really sure which. After walking for some time, Ian paused to survey the strange city of Bez Erkeley. The sun was still shrouded by clouds—although clouds were an improvement from the smog of El Leigh. And, while there was a steady stream of aircar traffic stacked as high as the eye could see, they did appear to be moving, although Ian easily outpaced them as he walked. Well, it’s progress, he thought.

Ian did notice that the aliens he encountered in this strange new city appeared, well, less well-kept than those he had seen in El Leigh. (It was hard for Ian to describe exactly how this mix of bizarre aliens in their outlandish attire looked more grungy than their El Leigh counterparts, so you’ll just have to take his word for it.) One thing Ian did notice was a decidedly unpleasant aroma from many of the aliens—even more so than he had experienced in his travels to date. And the buildings appeared older, more run-down, and less uniform. In a kind moment, Ian would have said they had “character.”

The Twiller let out a low, breathless twill, and Ian followed the direction of its gaze. The landscape was pretty, here in Bez Erkeley, with mountains to one side and a great bay to the other. There was a colossal bridge that spanned the bay, leading off into the gloom. On and above this bridge, the aircars appeared to be as immobile as those in El Leigh. Ian distantly wondered why the aircars didn’t simply cross the bay at some other point, but he surmised that they had to pass through the stack of tollbooths that rose interminably from the bridge’s surface up into the thick layer of clouds above.

“Sign my petition?” shrieked a nearby alien, startling Ian and sending the Twiller zooming behind his shoulder for protection. The alien stood in front of a long table covered in posters and bumper stickers that read “Vote YES on Prop 17.” [Author’s Note: I just picked the number 17 out of thin air. Don’t go looking it up.] “Will you sign?” the alien asked again.

“Uh,” Ian stammered, “what’s it for?” He wondered how much influence his signature would have in a realm where he was not a citizen, did not vote, and had not lived for more than an hour.

“We’re trying to pressure the university to refuse to allow some blockhead—this Dr. Furbar—from giving a speech denouncing Proposition 17. I mean, what kind of intolerant fascist could possibly be against Prop 17?” The alien gave Ian an incredulous look, which was completely lost on Ian, who was staring at the creature’s dozens of nostrils.

Ian braced himself, feeling helpless to escape or avoid the alien’s tirade. He sighed. “And what’s Prop 17?”

“You don’t know?” (Another wasted look of incredulity.) “Prop 17 guarantees and expands on one of our most fundamental rights—the right to free speech! Without it, democracy as we know it will crumble, our most basic freedoms will perish, our intellects will stagnate …” The alien paused in its diatribe. “You do have free speech on whatever backwater planet you’re from, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” replied Ian, insulted.

“Good—then you’ll sign the petition?” The alien waved an electronic clipboard in Ian’s face.

Ian reached for the clipboard, but drew back in a moment of clarity. “Wait a second—what is this petition for again? Supporting Prop 17?”

“Well, yeah,” said the alien. “Not directly, of course, but we’re aiming to prevent Dr. Furbar from spreading his lies and propaganda attacking and denouncing Prop 17.”

“So … you’re actually trying to prevent him from speaking … ?”

The alien gave Ian a condescending look. “How can we protect the freedoms and liberties we hold most dear—the freedom to hold and express a viewpoint different from what THEY want you to believe—if we have government puppet propagandists like Furbar out repressing freedom of thought by spouting his silly nonsense to brainwash free-thinking people? Is that what you want?” The alien’s glare on Ian grew cold. “Do you want to live in a world where everyone thinks exactly the same way? Where people fear expressing their own opinions and their own voices in support of Prop 17? Is that what you want, man?”

“I … I just want to go home.”

“Fine!” shrieked the alien. “Bury your head in the sand! You’re one of THEM, I see. You’re against us! Against free speech! Against equality! You support the rich and powerful, the machine trying to repress us and keep us down. You’re just a puppet, rattling off the same propaganda you all do!”

“Good luck with your petition,” said Ian, trying to disengage and back slowly away.

“Hey—hey!” called the alien. “What about your friend?” It looked to the Twiller. “Will it sign?”

The Twiller sped away ahead of Ian, and Ian hurried to keep up.

. . . . .

Ian decided that he had spent just about enough time wandering about, hopelessly confused, in this new and bizarre Universe he suddenly found himself in. One thing the crazy alien had said did make sense to Ian—there was a university nearby. Ian intended to find its library and learn something about the strange people and places he continually encountered.

The library at the University of Bez Erkeley was a vast, subterranean complex, almost an entire underground city. Down here, the frenetic traffic of aircars and the ramblings of deranged petitioners faded away into silence. Ian liked the silence and serenity very much. It was a tad strange, though—Ian doubted if there was such an underground library anywhere back on Earth.

Ian looked around the library entrance as the Twiller yawned and decided to take a nap in the front pocket of Ian’s robe. Ian approached the front counter, behind which were two identical aliens wearing thick glasses. Ian scratched at his face, which was still covered in white fur, and succeeded only in spreading it around his face.

“Hello,” Ian mumbled from behind the fur, “I’m here to do some research.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” replied one of the aliens, “but we don’t allow cats in the library.”

Ian coughed up a hairball. “Ack! I’m not a cat!”

“Did you hear anything?” said the second alien.

“All I heard was ‘meow,’” said the first.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” said the second.

“But I need to do some research,” protested Ian. “Besides, it’s nice and tranquil down here. Very comforting and dry and warm.”

The first alien was unimpressed. “At least you’ll keep warm outside with all that fur.”

“Oh, no,” said Ian, “it’s just a white terry cloth robe.”

“Sure, sure. And what about all that fur on your face?”

With a supreme effort, Ian cleared away enough fur to reveal the skin on his face. The second alien even seemed to take pity on him and handed him some kind of advanced electronic lint roller, which was a technological marvel but could only do so much.

“Sorry about that,” the alien offered. “We get a lot of cats down here. Also, some vagrants, Republicans, even a few humans from time to time. We have to be careful. Can’t have them running around in here, ruining things for the students.”

“Of course,” mumbled Ian, hurrying through the gate and into the library.

It took Ian some time to become accustomed to the alien library. First of all, it was incredibly vast. But, more importantly, Ian could not comprehend the complex organizational system used by the aliens to classify and catalog the books. Sure, they used the Dewey Decimal System back on Earth, too, but Ian didn’t know how to use it there either.

Ian tapped his shirt pocket gently. “Sorry to wake you, but I might need your help, little buddy.”

The Twiller groggily hovered out of Ian’s pocket and looked around, blinking its large eyes as Ian looked around in bewilderment. Sensing his confusion, the Twiller let out a soft twill and led Ian over to a great stack of books. It indicated one volume in particular—by ramming into it with its body—and Ian removed it from the shelf and began reading.

A Brief History of the Universe, Vol. I (of MMCLXQRZ.5)

by Alfred E. Newman

Ian thought the author’s name sounded somehow familiar, but he chalked it up to a cosmic coincidence.

There are no cosmic coincidences (the book began). If the study of the Universe has taught us anything, it is that everything that happens, happens for a reason, except perhaps the formation of the Universe itself. Unfortunately, it is not at all agreed that the study of the Universe has, in fact, taught us anything at all, so it is entirely possible that …

… And so on. Ian skipped ahead to something a little more definitive.

What is known is that the Universe is fairly vast, and that its vastness is the only thing about the Universe that is fair. A map of the Universe, drawn to the smallest readable scale, would encompass millions of volumes the size of this one, so don’t even ask.

So much for that, thought Ian. He flipped ahead again.

Known Species. The Universe has 7,483,298.4 known species, and 12,780,412 unknown ones. Some of the more common and/or dangerous ones are listed below.

Cheez: Only one of this bizarre creature is known to exist. Generally peaceful and harmless itself, it causes adverse effects on the psyche and has been known to drive others in its company to intentionally inflict great harm on themselves.

Human: Hairless apes. Eh.

Space Dragon, Ravenous: If you need an explanation of why you need to avoid this creature, it is highly unlikely that you are able to read. STAY AWAY.

Ian scanned past Twellyboggin and Twiddle, Three-Toed, finally finding the entry he was looking for, Twiller. There was a red star next to the name. Ian started reading.

Twiller: One of the most fearsome predators known to—well, anyone, really—twillers are known for their stealth and incomparable viciousness. Known to take down creatures many, many times their own size, a single twiller with a nasty hangover is believed to be responsible for the Great Samirian Massacre of 37903-14.

Ian shook his head to clear it, and continued reading.

Though sometimes kept as pets by the unaware, exceptionally foolish, or mentally ill, twillers inevitably end up killing and eating their “masters.” Well, not always.

Ian breathed a sigh of relief.

Sometimes the twiller just kills its master, and does not eat him, and other times it just eats him without bothering to kill him first ...

Ian threw the book to the floor, looking furtively over his shoulder.

“Twill,” said the yellow monster hovering behind him.

. . . . .

After a few minutes of whimpering, scampering, and sheer terror—wherein Ian was kicked out of the library for making too much noise (also, he had failed to see the sign that read No Twillers Allowed)—Ian was able to calm down and think about the situation a bit more rationally. He figured that, had the Twiller wanted to kill him, it could have. Ian searched his memory. He had always been nice to the little yellow death machine, hadn’t he? The Twiller let out a friendly twill and Ian felt less afraid. Once convinced, Ian walked the streets of Bez Erkeley with considerably more confidence than he had felt before. He almost hoped some alien would give him a hard time now. He would sic his killer Twiller on them.

In fact, Ian was quite glad to have the Twiller for protection. Though he had experienced a surreal amount of weirdness in his travels, Bez Erkeley ratcheted the bizarreness quotient up to a new level. Ian felt very strongly that, even for an unknown alien planet, the place was just weird.

For example, Ian had become accustomed to aliens of unfamiliar forms with unusual amounts of limbs wearing what appeared to be garish and outlandish clothing (or, often, no clothing at all). But what he was not prepared for was the sight of a bomb factory with a peace sign on it, or an alien leading a pair of clearly non-domesticated, dangerous-looking beasts through a dense crowd. Or packs of sign-wielding, protesting bicycle-riders that smugly dodged among huge, fast-moving hovercars, cursing the drivers of the behemoth vehicles—who had no way of seeing them from their lofty perches—whenever one of their brethren was crushed or sucked into the engine intake, which (to Ian’s satisfaction), was rather often. While the other things Ian had seen were indescribably alien, to be sure, only in Bez Erkeley were they so perplexing, incongruous, or flat-out insane.

Right then, Ian resolved to leave Bez Erkeley and the entire doomed planet on which he stood. Fortunately for Ian—whose thoughts about the planet turned out to be alarmingly prophetic—he was in fact able to find his way off the planet just before a massive earthquake (or whatever it would be called there) sundered the planet into pieces, totally destroying the cities of El Leigh and Bez Erkeley. In a strange twist of fate, a surprisingly large number of those cities’ residents would survive the apocalypse by having the good fortune to be in the relative safety of a non-moving aircar during the upheaval. However, on the down side, that meant the cataclysmic devastation would do nothing to improve the traffic situation whatsoever.

* * * * *

Part V

Ian resolved to formulate a plan for getting home. He now had a way to make some money, and he felt that he was finally starting to get his bearings in the Universe. (He was, of course, dreadfully wrong.) He figured that if he could survive the bizarreness of Bez Erkeley, he could survive anything. While this train of thought was indeed rather logical, Ian failed to account for the fact that he had only survived because he had the Twiller to protect him.

Nonetheless, Ian was confident as he strode into the shuttle docking station. He had spent the whole day placing Bibles in hotels and his credit chit showed a satisfyingly large number in its display. He walked up to a large display case, which held what appeared to be a three-dimensional map of the star system he was in. Ian figured this out by first noting that the planet in the center of the map had three moons, which he had observed at night. He then reckoned the distance from the system’s star—taking into account that it was a G5V-type yellow dwarf slightly cooler than our sun—and compared that to the temperature range he had encountered on the planet. Finally, he noted the big red arrow directly above the display with glowing neon words that read, “You Are Here.”

Unfortunately for Ian, the map only showed the local star system and a few very nearby stars. The section of the galaxy Ian was looking for was nowhere to be found. On the edges of the map, there was a small note that read “See next map,” with an arrow. Ian followed the arrow and walked a short distance to another map. Apparently, the maps were drawn to scale—the farther apart the star system, the farther away the maps were from each other. Ian dejectedly looked down the corridor, which continued as far as his eye could see in both directions. Even at the maps’ 1,000,000:1 scale, he could walk for his whole life and never even reach the map that included Earth. He looked to the Twiller, who did not appear to have any helpful suggestions. Ian supposed that its specialty was killing ravenous space dragons, not interstellar navigation.

Ian resolved to formulate a plan for getting home. He soon realized that he had already made the decision to formulate a plan at the beginning of the chapter, and now it was time for the actual formulation part, which is way harder.

On the plus side, Ian figured, he was in a spaceport. He also had a friendly twiller to protect him. That just about summed up the positives that Ian could think of.

As he pondered his situation, Ian’s cell phone rang again. He plucked it out of his pocket, no longer disconcerted by the fact that he appeared to get great reception on the other side of the Universe.

“Hello?”

There were a series of buzzes and clicks from the other end of the line. Then, finally, “Mr. Harebungler?”

“Yes,” said Ian.

“Very good. Exactly according to plan. I have to say, Mr. Harebungler, you really are doing quite well, for a civilian.”

“By being myself?”

“Indeed.”

“Who is this?” asked Ian, afraid that he already knew.

“I am afraid that you already know who this is, Mr. Harebungler. But, in any event, I can not tell you who this is, as my identity is classified. All you need to know is that I am with the NETSA.”

“Ah, yes. Colonel Sanders. It’s good to hear from you again.”

The voice on the other end of the line took on a harsher tone. “I thought I had made clear how classified this mission is, Mr. Harebungler.”

Ian held the cell phone up to look at the incoming number. It showed up as “Classified.” Ian shook his head. “I’m sorry, Colonel,” he said. “I haven’t told anyone about the herbs and spices.”

The Colonel’s tone turned downright icy. “This is no time for jokes, Harebungler. The future of humanity may be at stake.”

“Steak? Shouldn’t we all be eating chicken, sir?”

“If you don’t shape up, we may all find ourselves—”

“Deep-fried?”

“Keep it up. Meanwhile, our situation is likely to turn even more grave.”

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire, so to speak?”

“Dammit, man! Is this all a joke to you?”

Ian tried to control his laughter. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Colonel. It’s classified.”

The Colonel took a deep breath. “That’s better. Now, are you ready to get down to business?”

“Yes,” said Ian, in the most serious voice he could muster.

“Very good. Please stay by the phone, and wait for further instructions. Sanders out.”

“I thought your name was classified?”

“Dammit!” The line went dead.

Ian hung up and turned to the Twiller. He began to speak, but stopped. The Twiller was twilling into a tiny cell phone that hovered by its ear. Ian found it rather rude, and made an exaggerated display of checking his watch. Eventually the Twiller hung up. “Twill?” it asked.

“Oh, never mind,” Ian replied. “We had just better get going.”

“Twill?”

“Oh, I don’t know where. I mean, I know where, I just don’t know how to get there.” Just then, Ian had a revelation. “Follow me,” he said to the Twiller.

Ian rushed down the corridor to the nearest counter he could find. It was for Universal Spaceflights.

The cheery alien behind the counter greeted Ian with bright smiles from all seven of its mouths. “Welcome to Universal Spaceflights, the carrier that takes you to every corner of the Universe. Can I help you?” It appeared to be talking into the phone with another of its mouths.

“Hi. I’d like a ticket to Earth, please.”

“Earth? I’ve never heard of such a place. Where is it?”

“I have no idea,” Ian admitted. “I imagine it’s a very long way away.”

The alien started typing on its keyboard. It let out a low whistle from one of its mouths. “Earth? In the Sol System? That’s practically on the other edge of the Universe. No one flies there. There’s no reason to ever go there. But I have a great vacation package to the rings of Alstari VII—”

“No, thank you,” said Ian, and rushed off to the next service counter. After confirming with every counter in sight that no way, no how did anyone actually have any flights to somewhere as backwater and far away as Earth, Ian walked a little ways until he saw a counter staffed by the most smug-looking alien he could find. Ian strode confidently toward it.

“Hello,” he said, “I would like to use my frequent-flier miles, please.”

The alien stiffened up and put on its most affronted face. (To do so, it actually removed the face it was wearing and fished around in a bag for a new one, which it put over its skull.) “Frequent flier miles? I’m sorry, sir … but we have very limited availability on all of our popular flights.”

“Uh-huh,” said Ian. “And I’d like to go … when’s the next major holiday around here?”

“The Festival of the Great Omnipresent Bob, of course,” the alien replied in its smarmiest voice.

“Very good,” said Ian. “I would like to leave the evening before the festival starts and return the morning after it ends. And I’d like a direct flight,” Ian added, just for good measure.

The alien became so affronted that it had to turn to another worker and ask to borrow an even more affronted face from a bag by its feet. “Well, I can almost assure you that all of the frequent-flier seats on the flight to your destination will be sold out. But I can check,” it added, “if you just tell me where you’d like to go.”

Ian tried to cover a small smile that escaped him. “I’m flexible. Why don’t you tell me what destinations are available?”

The alien seemed to grow more confident, thinking that the battle had been won. “Well, I’m afraid your choices are very limited.” It pretended to study a readout on its computer terminal, and frowned thoughtfully at various, well-planned intervals. “I mean, I’m sure the places we have available would not be places you want to—”

“Where?” asked Ian, trying to nonchalantly brush a tuft of white fur from his arm.

Ian caught just the faintest whiff of uncertainty from the alien, but it quickly recovered. “Only the furthest, most backwater—”

“Where?” Ian repeated.

“Earth!” the alien exclaimed in triumph. “In the Sol System. I doubt you’ve even heard of it. No reason that you should have, really. It’s quite far away, and on the side of the galaxy with the worst view, to boot.”

“Excellent,” said Ian. “I’ll take it.” He forked over his Gideon travel voucher for payment.

The alien was dumbfounded. It stuttered uselessly for several seconds. It fished through its bag to find its most dumbfounded face and actually ended up putting on two faces at the same time. It began to sweat a corrosive acid that hissed softly as it spattered on the counter. The Twiller hovered behind Ian for protection.

“Here—here you go,” stammered the alien as it handed Ian a ticket. “Your flight leaves in four days.”

Ian tucked the ticket into his pocket and allowed himself a slight smile. For a moment, he felt that he might miss the strange experiences he had lived through on his travels, and he wondered what he would do with the Twiller. But, at the same time, he remembered how he had left the gas on at home, and he was looking forward to getting home so that he could turn it off, or possibly cash a very large insurance check.

. . . . .

Ian was sitting in the spaceport trying to nap four days away when the Twiller got his attention by ramming into his forehead. It was twilling rather urgently.

“What—what is it? I’m trying to sleep.”

“Twill,” it said, motioning its whole body down the corridor. “Twill twill.”

“Right now?” Ian asked, peripherally surprised that he had understood what the Twiller was saying. “We need to go that way right now?”

The Twiller made one quick, affirmative vertical bob and then headed down the corridor quicker than Ian had ever seen it move. He hurried to catch up, dodging alien travelers with none of the ease of the Twiller. The Twiller stopped abruptly at a set of doors exiting the spaceport, uselessly trying to hover in front of the sensor. Ian walked up and the doors opened. The Twiller zoomed outside.

“Wait!” called Ian. “But my flight! I know it’s in four days, but I don’t want to take any chances on missing it. This is hardly the time for a little trip.”

The Twiller, however, was not waiting to listen to Ian. Ian felt, for one hurt moment, that the Twiller had only roused him from his nap and brought him along so that he could trip the sensor and open the doors. Curious, and afraid to be without his only companion, Ian dutifully followed the Twiller away from the spaceport and into a taxi that the Twiller seemed to be a fan of.

“Where to?” asked the driver.

“Twwwiiiillllllllllllllll,” replied the Twiller, drawing out the sound. Ian took this to mean that they should go a long way away, and felt a twinge of dread. He looked to the Twiller, who looked back at him with eyes even wider than normal, which was saying something.

“Please just take us away from here,” Ian said. “Quickly,” he added for good measure.

It was probably the “quickly” that saved Ian’s life.

. . . . .

The aircab sped away from the spaceport, and Ian looked out the back window with a heavy feeling of despondency. Somehow he knew that the Universe had just conspired against him getting home. It was a pretty helpless feeling. Sure, you could fight the Universe, but at last count the Universe had a record of 9,478,987,652,978,261–0, with 9,478,987,652,978,261 knockouts.

“So,” asked the alien driver, casually swiveling one of its heads back to look at Ian while the other remained admirably focused on the text message it was sending, “where are we heading today?”

“Um,” Ian replied, trying to think of somewhere to go. His Twiller friend seemed to be convinced that they needed to get away from the spaceport in particular, and Bez Erkeley in general, and in fact the entire planet even more generally. Ian somehow felt the Twiller convey a sense of impending doom, as if something catastrophic were about to happen to the planet, and Ian, once again, resolved to get as far from it as possible.

“Um?” repeated the driver. “I’ve never heard of it. Is that near El Leigh?”

“NO,” said Ian, more forcefully than necessary. “What I mean is—”

Just then, Ian happened to look out the window and noticed a billboard. Actually, the fact that Ian noticed a billboard was not all that coincidental. After all, billboards dotted every spare inch of space around the route the aircar was traveling, and they each flashed bright, attention-grabbing electronic messages at the viewer. Some of the more audacious billboards actually floated toward the cab and followed it for a while, or even darted right in front of the windshield, obstructing the driver’s view. Of course, the driver hardly seemed to notice. He was pretty engrossed in his cell phone.

What was slightly coincidental was that one of the billboards vying for Ian’s attention was for “Yeehaw Wormhole Junction,” and it promised “Exciting Travel Opportunities for Spontaneous Travelers” and “Relatively Low Chances” of sudden death by emerging in a black hole or the vacuum of space.

That sounded pretty good to Ian. “Yeehaw Wormhole Junction, please,” he asked. “And step on it,” he said, just because it was something he had always wanted to say.

The cab driver obliged, sending the aircab zooming at a speed that hurled Ian back into the seat cushion, and nearly struck one of the more obnoxious billboards in front of the windshield. Within a few minutes, the aircab descended and slowed as they approached their destination. “Here you are, sir,” said the cabbie.

“Thanks very much,” said Ian, handing his credit chit to the driver. For a moment, he thought about giving the cabbie a nice tip, for his courteous service. In a moment of clarity, or perhaps extreme cheapness, he instead decided there was no point in leaving a tip for someone about to be killed as his planet exploded.

“Look,” Ian said as he stepped out of the cab, “I actually have an important tip for you. This planet may have a serious existence problem sometime in the next few minutes.” Ian gathered his robe around him as he looked to the darkening skies.

“An existence problem?” asked the cabbie.

“Yeah, like it won’t be for much longer. I’m serious,” he added.

The cabbie thought for a second. “You must be, to be using this place.” He jerked a thumb at Yeehaw Wormhole Junction.

“Well, good luck then,” Ian replied, then turned back. “Say, it’s funny, I had to travel trillions of miles to finally meet a courteous cab driver. Where are you from, anyway?” Ian shivered, his white robe fluttering in the gathering breeze.

“Long Island,” he replied, and sped off.

. . . . .

Ian watched the cab ascend into the billboard jungle, then turned to Yeehaw Wormhole Junction. The place was tiny. On the way over, Ian had seen several dozen billboards for the place, and thought it must be some huge, very popular tourist attraction. He had visions of long lines at the entrance gates and a giant, futuristic wormhole generator that produced a swirling, colorful sci-fi vortex, like he had seen in Babylon 5. Instead, what he saw was a small white trailer, with a cheap vinyl sign that read “Yeehaw Wormhole Junction.” Below it, in only slightly smaller letters, it said, “Clean Restrooms Inside.”

Ian shrugged and walked inside.

The place was deserted. A couple of small shelves of brochures leaned against one wall, almost put there as an afterthought. There was a drink machine that appeared to be out of order. And a small counter against one wall of the small room, behind which sat a listless alien. Just to the left of the counter was a small machine sitting on an old wooden pedestal at about waist height. The machine looked a bit like a small, worn-out video projector.

Ian walked up to the counter. “Can I help you?” asked the alien, a teenaged female with pink skin, purple eyeliner smeared across half its face, and a cell phone in a holster strapped to her ear. (If you don’t know how Ian could tell the alien was a teenager, you have clearly never had teenaged children.)

“Yes,” said Ian. “I would like one—er, make that two,” he looked at the Twiller apologetically. “Two tickets to … um, where does the wormhole go, again?”

“Your destination is determined by the whims of chance and fortune,” she said, clearly bored. “Where you could go is limited only by the boundless stretches of your wildest imagination. You could end up in any of the most fabulous places the Universe has to offer. The diamond beaches of Antares III. Right in the middle of the pleasure zones of Palthazar Prime. At the heart of the fabled Caverns of Gold, where untold riches await he who finds the lost treasure of long-extinct species.” She continued to rattle off exotic-sounding destinations. It was clear she had read this little speech from a training brochure and had repeated it many times. “And,” she concluded, “your twiller travels free.”

“Sounds great,” Ian replied, slapping his credit chit on the desk as a vague sense of urgency settled over him. He also peripherally noticed that the Twiller was doing its best to hurry Ian up by ramming him in the back of the neck.

The girl behind the counter swiped the credit chit and handed it back to Ian along with a form. “Please sign here, and prepare for the ride of a lifetime, the ultimate thrill ride you will never forget so long as you live.” She yawned.

Ian scanned down the form over a few words that jumped out at him like “releases all liability,” “instant death,” “high chance of sub-optimal egress location,” and “safety studies still pending.” He signed at the bottom, looked around the empty room and asked, “Um, where is the actual wormhole?”

The clerk languidly rose from her chair and walked over to the small machine on the pedestal. “Our super-advanced next-generation high-tech Worm-A-Tron Ten Thousand,” she said, waving a hand at the machine, “harnesses the very energies of space and time itself to connect you with locations across the entirety of the Universe.” She pressed a small button on the machine. There was an almost inaudible hum as it warmed up, and then a small red dot appeared in the air before it, as if someone were pointing a $3.99 laser pointer. “Behold the infinite majesty of forces strong enough to bend the entire space-time continuum to your will.” She scratched absently at one of her manicured nails.

“That’s it?” Ian asked.

“Better hurry,” she said as a wisp of smoke rose from the Worm-A-Tron Ten Thousand. “Looks like the thing might be on the fritz again.”

Ian looked at the small red dot before him, when the trailer began to shake. A couple of pamphlets fluttered to the floor. Ian looked to the Twiller, who let out a deep, keening twill and dashed ahead of him into the red pinprick of light, and then promptly disappeared. Ian swallowed hard, noting that the rumbling was starting to get more intense. He shrugged at the girl. “Seems like you hate your job, huh?”

“I’d give anything to never work here another day,” she replied.

“I think you just may get your wish.” Ian walked into the light.

. . . . .

A few moments after Ian had left the doomed planet, the cab driver decided to heed Ian’s warning. He turned the aircab back to Yeehaw Wormhole Junction. He parked near the trailer and grabbed an umbrella from under his seat, stepping outside under suddenly threatening skies. No, that’s not quite right. To say they were merely “threatening” would have been quite an understatement. No, these skies were actually hostile, actively dangerous even. They were the types of skies one didn’t mess around with, the types of skies one didn’t often see and live to tell the tale. Even now, in the distance, the cab driver could see them hurling bolts of lightning and sheets of hail at passers-by. He felt the wind gathering itself forcefully. He looked forlornly down at the puny umbrella he had just unfolded and tossed it aside.

He hurried to the trailer and stepped inside with a sense of urgency, forestalling the operator’s bored spiel. He plunked his credit chit onto the counter, took a breath, and stepped into the wormhole.

A nothingth of a second later, he rematerialized roughly three feet to the right. He opened his mouth to protest to the girl behind the counter, but she just shrugged and pointed to a small sign taped to the wall behind her. It read, “No Refunds.”

It was just as well at that point that the entire planet ceased to exist.

* * * * *

Part VI

Ian awoke with a sense of total peace and tranquility. He seemed to be floating, curled up in a fetal position, and felt as if he were suspended in warm liquid. His eyes were closed, and he could tell it was dark and quiet all around him, save for a gentle, calming thrumming sound. For a long moment, he sat contently in womb-like bliss, his mind not even registering where he might be or how he might have gotten there.

Gradually, it began to dawn on Ian that he had just escaped certain death by leaping into a wormhole that had instead promised merely a very high likelihood of certain death. He really just wanted to lay still and enjoy the sense of peace, serenity, and protection he currently felt for the first time in as long as he could remember, but a nagging sense of urgency began to disquiet his restful, trance-like state. What could possibly be so important? he thought to himself. Just then he realized that he was suffocating.

Ian began to thrash madly about, but he was fully surrounded by something wet and soft and sticky and pliable. He squirmed about and felt around the confines of his prison, finally finding a small hole in the material. He worked his way toward it, sticking his arms and then his head through it, and flailing desperately with his feet. The hole merely opened into a tunnel made of the same slimy material, but Ian slithered down it as he rapidly ran out of oxygen and began to feel as if he would lose consciousness. Just then, he saw a small slit of light and worked even more frantically toward it. With a final, heroic effort, he braced his feet against the wall of the corridor and lunged for the light, emerging into a bright, startlingly cold room.

Ian gasped for breath, wiping a sticky, membranous film from his face and mouth and eyes. He shivered as his body absorbed the shock of leaving what seemed like a warm, nurturing place for one that seemed cold and hard and very, very bright. He turned back the way he had come, and squinted as he tried to open his eyes against the light.

“It’s a human!” someone shrieked, and Ian was suddenly aware of a number of aliens clustered around him, one of which smacked him crisply on the back. Ian gasped as someone wiped his face with a towel, and he finally blinked his eyes open.

He was staring at a dark hole the size of a car tire, which appeared to be surrounded by a mass of black shrubbery. Before he could get his bearings, he was lifted from the ground, wrapped in a blanket, and placed in a snug wicker basket.

“What the—what is going on here?” Ian demanded. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he was glad to see the Twiller nearby, vigorously rubbing itself on the blanket to clean off. Bright lights shone down into the basket, and Ian could see a quartet of alien faces, each half-covered by what appeared to be surgical masks, staring down at him.

“Can I hold him?” came a deep, rumbling voice.

Ian was plucked from the safety of his wicker basket and placed into the arms of a great bulbous creature. Were it not for strict copyright laws and a litigious team of lawyers at Lucasfilm Ltd., Ian would describe the being as having an uncanny resemblance to Jabba the Hutt. Instead, he forced himself to just think of it as a large, flabby, worm-like creature with an enormous mouth.

Ian began to scream, but something about the way the creature cuddled him close to her breasts (or, at least, a pair of slightly more bulbous growths on the creature’s chest that were presumably her breasts) let Ian know that she meant him no harm. She touched his cheek delicately with a long, slimy tentacle and smiled at him. It was a horrid smile, true, but she was clearly trying.

Ian bravely smiled back.

“My baby,” the great flabby thing cooed.

Ian threw up.

. . . . .

Ian ran, screaming, from the hospital, belatedly realizing that he was naked. He instinctually covered up, until he realized that half of the aliens milling around were naked. The other half seemed to wear clothing over most parts of their body other than what appeared to be their reproductive organs. So Ian said the heck with it.

Ian ducked into a hotel—thoughtfully holding the revolving door for the Twiller, who hated those things—and quickly got a room. He fished around for the white terry cloth robe he knew he would find and settled into it comfortably. He looked around his hotel room and placed a Bible in the drawer. Work before play, and all that. Then he slumped down in a chair by the window and started leafing through a brochure that was lying on a table.

“Welcome to Huh? Why E?” it proclaimed in large, happy-looking letters across the front cover. Confused, Ian opened to the first page, which gave a description of the planet’s unique name. Apparently, it used to just be called “E,” but so many people asked “Huh? Why E?” that the new name stuck. Ian shrugged and flipped back to the cover.

The cover portrayed an idyllic picture of palm trees by a beach and an expanse of deep blue ocean beneath a perfect sunset. Ian drew the shades and looked out the window. The view was identical to the picture. Not just similar, but identical in every detail. Ian looked from one to the other and even as the trees swayed and the waves crashed to shore outside, every time Ian looked at the picture it was the same as the view outside. At one point, the Twiller even floated in front of Ian and was immediately depicted on the brochure. He carefully placed the magic brochure back down on the table.

Ian tried vainly to clear his head, but it was no good. Too much had happened. Just when he thought he was getting a handle on things, he was teleported by wormhole to some alien being’s womb. (Ian had heard of storks and sperm and even test tubes, but he had never thought that was where babies came from.) He had no idea where he was, or how to adapt. He needed some answers.

Ian grabbed the phone off the stand by the bed and dialed the front desk. The phone rang only once before it was answered, a delay that seemed exquisitely measured to be pleasantly brief but not so instantaneous as to be actually startling. A melodious voice answered. “Hello, Mr. Harebungler. My name is Yelsha. How can we possibly make your stay more pleasant today?”

Ian took a steadying breath. “Yelsha, I find myself in need of answers,” he replied. The voice on the other end of the line made an understanding “mm-hmm” of agreement, as if that were a perfectly normal way to feel, and a perfectly normal request to make of a hotel’s front desk, which of course it wasn’t. “What I mean is, do you know of a place where, I don’t know, people can answer some unsettling questions that they have? You know, ‘Who am I?’ ‘Why am I here?’ ‘What happens if you rip the tags off of mattresses?’ That sort of thing.”

Yelsha gave a small, reassuring chuckle, as if Ian was silly to sound so nervous over such a normal, reasonable request. As if the receptionist answered this very question at least twice an hour. “Of course, sir. I think you might find what you’re looking for at the Ivory Tower Oracle.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Ian. “An oracle! That’s precisely what I need. Someone to answer my questions—factual and philosophical. Can you tell me where this Ivory Tower Oracle is, please?”

“I would be more than happy to, sir. In fact, when you are ready to go, simply stop by the front desk and I will prepare a map for you, where I will show you the best way to get to your destination, as well as some lovely sites and some of my favorite restaurants in the area. My auntie runs a wonderful little sushi place out that way.”

“Aren’t you thoughtful?” Ian replied, stunned.

“My pleasure,” the voice replied. Ian thanked her and hung up.

Ian readied himself quickly and headed down to the lobby, Twiller in tow. For a moment, Ian looked about nervously for “No Twiller” signs, but there didn’t appear to be any. In fact, several hotel employees waved cheerily at Ian and his Twiller as they passed.

Ian ambled up to the front desk where a graceful, tanned alien sat smiling. Ian had no way of knowing if she was actually tanned, or in fact what her normal skin color was, or what reaction it had to the sun. Yet, somehow, he knew.

The alien receptionist looked up to Ian with friendly, even attractive—for an alien—eyes. The fact that there were five of them only increased the effect. “Why hello, Mr. Harebungler,” she began, mysteriously recognizing him. “Here is the map I promised you, along with the number for some aircab companies for your trip back. I also highlighted an alternate route if you wanted to go on foot, along with distance markers and a list of good restaurants that specialize in various culinary styles along the way. Also, built into the map is a direct comlink back to the hotel, in case you have any questions or get lost.”

Ian took the map, dumbfounded. “I do think this is the nicest hotel I’ve ever stayed at. And the most welcoming. I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you with the Gideons.”

“You are very kind, sir.”

Ian blushed and waved farewell. He was beginning to think, for the first time on his travels, that maybe he wasn’t in such a rush to get home after all.

. . . . .

Ian stepped outside the hotel, where it was pleasantly warm, but not hot, thanks to a refreshingly cool breeze off the nearby water. The sun was still setting over a magnificent bay, and the palm trees still swayed majestically. Of course, they weren’t palm trees, but their leaves were an altogether more pleasant shade of lime green and actually complimented the sunset perfectly.

An aircar pulled up and the driver hopped out and opened the door with a bow. “Aloha, my friend. Can I take you anywhere this evening?”

“Yes, please,” Ian said, stopping in a moment of rare caution to check the posted fares on the window. They were eminently reasonable. Almost cheap. Ian smiled, much too happy to read the smaller print beneath them. “I would like to visit the Ivory Tower Oracle, please.”

“Excellent,” said the cab driver. “My cousin works there. I know the quickest way to the tower. And it just so happens to pass by several of our most beautiful sights along the way.”

“Of course it does,” Ian said contentedly as he settled into the plush seat.

As promised, the ride skirted Ian and the Twiller along the coast of what appeared to be one big island, or maybe a series of smaller islands, so that no matter which direction they drove in, they were always near the water and the spectacular sunset. Ian was transfixed as he watched the sun gradually set over the azure waves, the light changing from yellow to orange to pink to reddish-yellow and back to yellow again. No matter how long he watched, the sun never actually set. It just seemed to be perpetually about to set. It would have been disconcerting, if it weren’t so serene and beautiful.

The aircab stopped at the base of a tall, slender white tower along the coast. In great, flowing writing, sparkling golden letters on the awning over the front entrance read, “The Ivory Tower Oracle.” Smaller, less ornate letters just below those read, “And Sundries.”

Ian turned to the cab driver and readied his credit chit. His eyes bulged as he saw the display on the dashboard. The price was easily several times more than he anticipated for any cab ride. He looked back to the rates posted on the window and made some small gasping sounds.

The driver apparently understood. “Ah, must be your first time on the islands. I see you were looking at our kama’aina rates.”

“Your whosie whatsie rates?”

“Kama’aina,” the cabbie repeated pleasantly. “Those are the rates for locals.” He pointed below those rates at the smaller print. “Those are the rates for tourists.”

Ian did not care for the way he said “tourists.” For the first time on Huh? Why E?, he heard a hint of unpleasantness. It startled him. “Well, how often do you actually pick up locals?” Ian challenged.

The cab driver shrugged dismissively. “Never.”

“So … you’ve never once actually charged the rates posted prominently on your window?”

The cabbie laughed, taking the credit chit from Ian’s outstretched hand. Before Ian could absorb what was happening, he drained it completely. “You think I could afford to live here charging those rates? Have you seen what things cost here?”

“I’m starting to,” Ian said dejectedly as he stumbled out of the cab. The driver wished him a good day and pleasantly thanked him for his patronage as he sped off into the sunset.

Ian supposed he would be pleasant too if it allowed him to charge people so exorbitantly. He shook his head and started toward the Ivory Tower, as the Twiller flashed him a sympathetic glance. Ian wondered if Twillers used money.

Ian walked up a red carpet into the entrance to the tower, expecting to find a grand foyer, something majestic and full of knowledge and wisdom. What he found instead were knickknacks, T-shirts, chocolates, and souvenirs.

“Welcome to the Ivory Tower Oracle,” boomed a voice. “And sundries.”

“And sundries?” Ian repeated.

A wide alien behind the counter shrugged. “Much more popular than the whole oracle bit,” it admitted.

“But that’s the bit I’m here for,” Ian explained.

The alien seemed a bit surprised, but simply shrugged and pointed to a small door in the back of the room. “Through there.”

Ian passed rows of Huh? Why E? T-shirts, alien figurines wearing hula skirts, keychains with hundreds of names in thousands of languages (but no “Ian”), small Twiller-shaped stuffed animals, bottles of ravenous space dragon repellant (which would have come in really handy earlier), and rows of little spoons. Why little spoons? Ian wondered absently. It made no more sense here than back on Earth.

Ian reached the back of the store and entered the small room, which turned out to be an elevator. A really, stupendously fast elevator that seemed to work more on teleportation than conventional physics. Before Ian even had time to think about any of that, he arrived on one of the upper levels of the tower.

All around him were bookshelves lined with books of all shapes and forms. Huge tomes larger than Ian himself, all the way down to banks of tiny books no bigger than Ian’s fingernail. Old, leather-bound volumes with gold foil pages and satin bookmarks, and electronic tablets with glowing displays. Interspersed among them were globes, maps, computer terminals, holographic projections, and dozens of things Ian could not even begin to name, let alone understand their purpose. He thought he even saw a sextant mounted on the wall, but then he realized he had no idea what a sextant actually looked like. But it was clearly what he imagined a sextant to be.

In the center of the room was an old, wizened alien. He conveyed his great age and wisdom by the fit of his clothing, the look on his deeply lined face, and some indescribable manner of his demeanor. Also, when he greeted Ian, he proclaimed: “I am very old, and very damn wise. Now what the heck do you want?”

Ian was taken aback. He had little doubt why the “And Sundries” part of the business seemed to be the more popular part.

“Wise one,” Ian began, performing an awkward bow. “I am here to seek answers and your counsel.”

This seemed to mollify the cranky oracle. He relaxed a bit, and said, “I can answer any question you may have, as I am the Great Oracle of the Ivory Tower. My name,” he said with a flourish, “is Mister Mark Matthew, but you can call me Sir Mark Matthew.”

“Great,” said Ian. “I have so many questions.”

“Very good,” said the oracle, in a tone that made it quite clear that it wasn’t.

“Well, maybe just a couple of questions, then.” Ian stammered. In a fit of bravery, Ian decided to test the oracle, just a bit. After all, hardly anyone he had met on his travels had even heard of humans or Earth before. “Do you know what I am?”

The oracle scoffed. “Do I know what you are? Do you?”

Ian wasn’t really ready for that. “Well, of course—”

“No, no,” he cut Ian off. “I know what you think you are.” He sighed, looking Ian over with a look that bordered on contempt. To be truthful, the look did not actually “border” on contempt. If “contempt” were a country on a map, the look that the alien bestowed upon Ian would be the capital of that country, a huge city right smack dab in the middle of it with a large red star.

Ian slumped dejectedly. “I guess I’m really not sure what I am anymore.”

The oracle brightened, seeing an opportunity to be rid of Ian. “You’re a human. A hairless ape from the fringes of the Nowhere Quadrant of space.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Thank you for visiting the Great Oracle of the Ivory Tower. That will be two million bucks.”

“W–wait,” Ian stammered. “I’m not finished. I mean, I already knew I was human, of course. But what does it mean to be human? And why is it that you and everyone else I’ve met look at me like some lower form of life? Like some pest? Like a rat?”

The oracle suppressed a laugh. “A rat, you say?”

“Yeah,” Ian agreed. “Like a rat. You do have rats here, don’t you?”

The alien chuckled disconcertingly. “Oh no, no. Well, not anymore. There are no more rats on a lovely planet like this.”

“What happened to them then? Did you eradicate them?”

“No, that turned out to be impossible, even with our technologies.” The oracle waved his hand. “Eventually we just decided to pay the rats to go away.”

“I’m sorry, you ... ?”

“Yeah, you know, we just paid them off. Gave them all a huge chunk of cash and free transit to wherever they wanted to go to. We believe they went off to some faraway blue-green planet with lots of water.”

“A b–blue-green planet?” Ian had a sinking feeling. “And what happened to them there?”

“No one knows for sure,” the alien said. “I think they might have evolved.” He looked Ian over disapprovingly. “Or perhaps not,” he concluded with a completely superfluous sneer.

Just when Ian was beginning to think visiting this oracle wasn’t such a hot idea, a voice carried in from another room. “Mark,” it called, “Mark Matthew, you stop being rude to that young man this instant!” A plump but friendly-looking alien waddled into the room. She looked at Ian kindly. “Don’t listen to him. That’s just a theory.”

“The prevailing theory,” the oracle shot back petulantly.

“Go on,” the new oracle told the old oracle, “get going. I told you never to speak with the customers.”

“Fine by me,” the old oracle grumbled, and shuffled off.

Ian was left a bit speechless by his previous oracle’s proclamation, and more so by the sudden turn of events. He looked hopefully to the new oracle.

“Now don’t get all depressed over that old codger,” she said. “He’s just been cooped up in this tower too long is all, he forgot all his manners. My name is Delphi, I’m the head advice-dispensing oracle. Mark back there is really more of a research oracle.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Not much of a people person, you know?”

Ian nodded. “Wait, your name is Delphi?”

The alien oracle blushed, her bluish hue darkening to purple. “I see you’ve heard of me. I do make it a point to do some outreach work from time to time.” She raised her voice for Sir Mark’s benefit. “It’s good to get out of the tower sometimes!”

Mark replied with a grumpy “Hrumph” from the other room.

“So,” Ian asked, “I take it you’ve been to Earth?”

“Earth?” The oracle appeared lost in thought. “Ah, yes, that is what the people there called it. That was a very long time ago. I visited there when I was just starting out in the oracle business.” She flashed an embarrassed glance at Ian. “None of the civilized worlds wanted to bring me in to oracle for them,” she confessed. “It’s hard to build up a reputation in this business. No one will listen to your advice unless you’ve already given some good advice to people who have famously followed your advice and achieved great wealth or power. It’s a bit of a vicious circle, I’m afraid.”

Ian nodded in understanding. “So, is what Sir Mark said true? About the rats?”

“Oh, probably not,” she said reassuringly. “That’s just an old wives’ tale. The truth is, no one really knows where those rats ended up or what became of them. It wasn’t your planet.” There was a short pause. “I’m almost certain it wasn’t your planet.” She looked down at her feet. “Fairly certain,” she added.

“That’s … a relief,” Ian said, with little conviction.

“But it is true that, over time, species tend to evolve to develop larger, more complex brains, bodies more suitable for modern worlds and technologies, and, of course, the hyperneuron center of the brain, which is the basic prerequisite to be considered …” Her voice trailed off.

“The hyper what?” Ian asked lamely. The Twiller made a point of averting its eyes, looking at a random spot on the ceiling.

“Ah, never mind, never mind, forget I said anything. The point is, the longer a species has been around, the more time evolution has to work and confer various advantages on it. Like the globulons of Ryjaxian Prime. Some consider them the highest possible stage of evolution.”

“Really?” said Ian. “What do they look like?”

“Oh, they’re marvelous. Their entire body is a single, large brain—with a huge hyperneuron center, of course—that directly interfaces into powerful, networked computers. Not one cell on their body is wasted on anything but brain functions. Of course, they require complex machines hooked up to them at all times to handle mundane functions like nutrition, respiration, and circulation.”

“That sounds hideous,” Ian countered.

“Well,” the oracle paused. “I don’t suppose they’re much to look at. But the point is, they have evolved to succeed in their current technological age. And the longer a species has been exposed to technology, the more they are able to adapt and evolve. And the more other species look up to them.”

“We’re evolved,” Ian said half-heartedly, secretly jealous of the gross brain-things.

“Twill,” said the Twiller in support.

“Of course,” the kindly oracle said reassuringly. “Let me guess, your race evolved over millennia—first from primordial goo and protoplasmic slime, into single-celled organisms, to larger life forms and fish, then mammals, and monkeys, which then evolved into you.”

“Yes … ah!” The recognition washed over Ian’s face. “So that’s why everyone I’ve met on my travels has been so mean to me, and looked down on me so much. They look at me like I would look at a monkey!”

The old alien shook her wizened head sadly. “No, my poor, lost friend. They look at you as the slime.”

. . . . .

Ian walked out of the Ivory Tower Oracle (and Sundries) feeling a bit dejected, although the nicer oracle did give him a lovely T-shirt that read, “We see an oracle in your future!” But that didn’t cheer him up (much), and it didn’t resolve any of Ian’s questions or his sense of not belonging. He slumped down on the grass and said, to no one in particular, “What am I doing here?”

Just then, a pigeon fluttered down and landed by Ian’s feet. It strutted around for a moment, then turned back and seemed to notice Ian for the first time. It looked at him with a clearly relaxed expression.

“Do you have the answers?” Ian asked it with a chuckle.

“Shoots, brah,” it replied, to Ian’s amazement. “What kine question izzat?”

Ian looked to the Twiller, who just shrugged, clearly unsurprised by a talking pigeon. It seemed to give Ian a look that said, What’s the big deal? That’s hardly the strangest thing you’ve seen today. Ian had to admit it had a point.

“I–I don’t know,” Ian stammered, steadfastly ignoring the small part of his brain that insisted he was going mad. “I’ve just been kinda lost lately, looking for some meaning. Some way to get my bearings.”

“Crazy haole. You try ask the akamai Kahuna in there?” It gestured to the tower with a wing.

“Yeah, I just came from there. No luck.”

The pigeon shrugged. “Chill, bruddah. You tried any pakalolo?”

Ian gave the pigeon a confused look.

“You know, pakalolo. Maui Wowie.”

Ian looked around and leaned in a little closer, apparently now completely at ease with the idea of a talking pigeon. “You mean marijuana?”

“Yeah, brah. Dat’s the stuff. When I be feelin’ confused, a little pakalolo clears my head right up.”

“Does that help you figure out who you are, what your purpose is, that sort of thing?” suggested Ian.

“Shoot no. Makes me forget all dem useless questions, though. Makes me think about the important stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like, where can I get some ono kine grinds.” Ian stared at the pigeon blankly. “You know, where’s the closest Taco Bell?”

“Ah,” Ian said, finally understanding.

“Dat reminds me,” said the pigeon, “I’m meeting some of my ohana at the car wash. My braddahs and aunties be waiting.” It flexed its wings, preparing to take off.

“You guys meet at a car wash?” asked Ian.

“Yeah, we poop on the cars. Summa them people drop their sandwiches to chase us away.”

That seemed to make sense to Ian. “Hey,” he asked, a sudden thought popping into his head. “What do you know about rats?”

“Rats?” repeated the pigeon. “Nasty things. They’re like pigeons without wings.”

With that, it flew off.

. . . . .

Ian dejectedly wandered around the beaches of Huh? Why E? for a while. He walked aimlessly, applying a healthy coat of the sunscreen he had bought from the … And Sundries part of the oracle tower to protect his pale skin from the rays of the setting sun. Not even the spectacular sunset view or the soothing sound of waves crashing to shore could lift his spirits. He felt lost, confused, depressed, and utterly insignificant. At least, back on Earth, he rarely left his house and therefore wasn’t normally lost.

The ocean was teeming with dozens of aliens surfing on gentle waves carrying them to shore. The beach was crowded by normal standards, but Ian had been to El Leigh, so he would never have “normal” standards again. There did appear to be several groups of people (using the term “people” loosely) clustered together on beach towels and chairs. Actually, as Ian scanned the beach, it seemed to actually be one large gathering, as if each group of aliens knew their neighbors, chatting with them and exchanging food from small BBQ grills and coolers. Either everyone on this beach was related or knew each other, or they were just the friendliest aliens Ian had ever met. Ian stood and watched them for a few moments, only a few feet away from the nearest group, but clearly not included in the beach-wide feeling of camaraderie.

Ian felt very much alone.

Ian walked past the throngs of happy beach-goers and consulted the map given to him by the helpful hotel receptionist. He found the nearest bus stop and walked a block or so to a comfortable bench with an illuminated sign that informed him the next bus would arrive in exactly eight minutes. Ian sat next to a thin green alien and sighed. The alien coughed and turned toward Ian. “Are you okay?” it asked.

“Yes, I’m–I’m fine,” Ian stammered, staring at the ground. “Just a bit down, I suppose.” He looked up at the alien, and realized with a bit of a start that green was not the alien’s natural color. While Ian was hardly a xenobiologist, or even a regular biologist, or even a doctor, or even particularly good at science, somehow he knew the alien was quite ill. “Hey,” he asked, “are you okay?”

“Oh, I’ll be all right,” the alien replied, steam rising from its forehead. “Just as soon as I get off Huh? Why E?” It mopped its brow with a handkerchief. “Island fever, you know.”

Ian nodded. “Island fever. No, wait, I actually don’t know. What is that?”

“Oh, lots of us get it,” the alien shrugged. “If you spend too much time here.”

Ian instinctively covered his mouth. He wasn’t a xenobiologist, or even a regular biologist, or even a doctor, or even particularly good at science, and therefore had no idea if alien germs or bacteria or viruses could infect humans or not. “What causes it?” Ian asked, trying to subtly inch away from the poor creature.

“Oh, don’t worry.” The alien managed a laugh that quickly degenerated into a fit of coughing that caused the Twiller to hide behind Ian for protection. “It’s not contagious or anything. It just develops when you live on Huh? Why E? too long. You see,” the alien explained, “while this is a lovely planet, with picturesque beaches and great food and all that, it’s missing a lot of stuff that’s necessary for a healthy life.”

Ian, not being a xenobiologist, or even—you get the picture—Ian completely mistook the alien’s meaning. “So, are there certain foods or nutrients you can’t get here? Something in the air that’s missing? Oh, I know, not enough Vitamin D from the perpetually-setting sun?” Ian thought himself quite brilliant for thinking of that last bit. Hyperneuron clusters be damned, he thought.

“Uh, no, that’s not it at all,” said the alien mildly. “You see, there aren’t any real sports teams on this planet. Can you imagine? And when I try to watch the Fleur Ida Gate Tors—galactic champions two out of the last three years—either I can’t watch the games at all, or the transmission lag means I’m up at 5 AM just to watch games that took place three weeks ago.”

Ian goggled at the alien, but it was just getting started.

“And not even one MaxiGalactic Emporium on the whole planet—where am I supposed to buy stuff? Little overpriced tourist shops? Hmph! I think not.” The alien seemed to be feeling a bit better, gaining strength as it continued its diatribe. “And don’t even get me started on how few concerts ever make it out here or how the next major planet is three shuttle flights away ….”

Ian patiently listened to the alien’s tirade. Fortunately, he had no intention of sticking around long enough to develop island fever.

Thankfully, the alien’s complaints were interrupted by a smooth mustard-colored bus that hovered to a stop in front of the bench, only ten minutes late (the alien explained that the bus ran on “Huh? Why E? Time,” whatever that meant). Ian stood and boarded the bus with the Twiller and his new green alien friend. The bus driver waved casually to the sickly creature, greeting him with a “Hey, uncle.” Several people on the bus also greeted the green alien; in some astounding coincidence they all appeared to be members of its extended family. Ian followed it toward the back of the bus and sat down on a seat never meant for human behinds, but still more comfortable than any he had used on Earth, and settled in for the ride.

The bus floated slowly away, a neon sign across the top of the rear window flashing its destination: “ALOHA SPACEPORT.”

. . . . .

The Huh? Why E? spaceport was one of the least efficient ones Ian had seen. While Ian was sure that countless aliens visited the planet, he couldn’t imagine why a little more thought didn’t go into the spaceport’s design. Then again, if Ian were a spaceport architect on Huh? Why E?, he would probably be surfing by the beach and smoking a little pakalolo instead of fussing over silly things like spaceport layouts. He shrugged and walked the distance between the bus stop and the terminal, managing to find his way only be steadfastly ignoring the numerous, bright yellow spaceport signs, which were not only unclear but actively unhelpful and misleading.

Ian finally made it to the ticket counter, settling in at the end of a good-sized line. While Ian had started to get used to the vast array of colors and shapes (and smells) of the various aliens encountered on his travels, it suddenly struck him that the majority of the aliens ahead of him in line were red. Well, actually, as Ian turned to look behind him, it appeared that only their backs were red. Their backs, the back of their necks, and the backside of their arms and legs and tentacles and various other appendages that Ian—lacking any xenobiological skills at all, as we’ve already made pretty clear—could not even begin to guess the purpose of. Suppressing a chuckle, Ian finally realized that many of the poor aliens were simply sunburned. I wonder how many of them have big ol’ hyperneuron centers in their brains, Ian thought contentedly, fingering the tube of sunscreen in his pocket that he had been smart enough to purchase.

In due time, Ian reached the front of the line and had the single most unproductive conversation of his life with the single friendliest spaceport ticket agent he had ever dealt with. She explained, with the utmost patience and compassion, how they didn’t accept his Gideon travel pass on the islands, and how there were simply no tickets available anywhere—let alone the faraway Nowhere Quadrant of space—for the small amount of change Ian had left on his credit chit. She searched for nearly half an hour across different carriers, various destinations, special deals, Saturday night stays, connecting flights, and even stopovers in El Leigh (Ian shuddered) … but, in the end, the simple fact remained that Ian’s splurge on SPF 5,000 sunscreen had depleted his credit chit too much to afford any of the fares.

Ian walked across two terminals and took a shuttle bus to where the nearest benches were, and he slumped down on one to think. Considering how his day had gone, Ian was not in the least surprised when his cell phone rang, signaling a call from Colonel Sanders.

* * * * *

Part VII

“Mister Harebungler,” cooed the voice from the other end of the line. “I must admit you have performed far more admirably than I could have anticipated.”

“Thanks,” replied Ian. “Happy to help out.”

“And help us you have,” Sanders assured him. “Your government—if it knew about the NETSA—would owe you a great debt.”

“Listen, Colonel. I think it’s time you let me in on what’s going on here.”

A series of shocked and incomprehensible sounds came through Ian’s cell phone. “B–but you know—” it stammered, before Ian cut him off.

“Yes, yes, Super Duper Ultra Double Secret Top Secret and all that. But I think I’ve been more than patient. Besides, you just told me yourself how helpful I’ve been.”

“Well, yes, but ….”

“But nothing. I’m sure I can perform this mission—perhaps the single most important mission in the history of mankind—even better if you, I don’t know, give me the slightest hint of what it is.”

There was a long pause. “This is all highly irregular. You must understand, this mission is so unfathomably secret, I almost didn’t tell myself about it.”

Ian responded with an understanding sort of “mm-hmm” sound.

“I wasn’t sure if I could be trusted, you see.”

“And I admire you for your caution. But now is the time for bold action, is it not, Colonel?”

Ian heard Sanders sigh. “Very well, Mister Harebungler, you are a capable agent, indeed. I will tell you a bit more about your mission.”

In spite of himself, Ian’s senses perked up. He hadn’t expected it to actually work. While, on some level, Ian still understood that he was speaking to a lunatic, on the other hand, his curiosity was truly piqued. After all, lunatics told the very best stories.

“It all began a very long time ago, Mister Harebungler. You see, it all began with a jar of paprika.”

Sanders was obviously pausing for dramatic effect. And, damn him, it was working. Ian looked about him to make sure no one was around and pressed the phone closer to his ear. The Twiller leaned in as well. “Yes?”

“Something … opened … incredible. [garbled] … only once.” Sanders’ voice cut out amid a flickering of static, which was quickly getting worse. Perfect reception all across the galaxy and now this! Ian exclaimed to himself.

“Mister Sanders? Colonel!” Ian pleaded into the phone. “Hello?” The Twiller hovered up and down excitedly.

“Without … [garbled] … hula hoops.” The static was getting really bad now. Ian strained to make out anything, anything at all that would give him a clue. “Find … [ice pick? limerick? drumstick?].” Ian turned the volume all the way up, pressing the phone against his ear until it throbbed. “That is all.”

“Hello? Hello?” Ian shrieked, as several passing aliens gave him looks that clearly conveyed their opinion of his lack of evolution. “Colonel Sanders?”

But it was no use. The line was dead.

. . . . .

Ian wandered dejectedly around the spaceport. He walked from the ticket counter to where customers deposited their bags, several terminals away. He walked another few terminals, up an escalator, around a koi pond, and down a long outdoor walkway until he reached the security gate. He watched for a while as aliens of diverse sizes and shapes maneuvered through some sort of high-tech X-ray imaging systems, luggage was scanned by 3-D holographic imagers, and security workers somehow compared ID cards to their various outlandish owners. One group of travelers resembled the fohrwurt Ian had met at Yore Maker’s Circus of the Bizarre. They were spiny, scaly, scary creatures, with great rows of spikes atop their heads and rippling down their backs, enormous claws that looked like they could rip a shuttle in half, and teeth that simultaneously terrified Ian and made him wonder how they could possibly brush them without destroying the toothbrush. Another alien in line was massively built, with shoulders like boulders and a body that looked literally carved of granite. It carried a large, heavy suitcase with a casual strength that was easily that of ten or twenty men. Another pair of insectoid creatures dripped what was clearly some potent form of venom from their mandibles, although, in their defense, they took care not to drip on any of the other passengers.

Ian watched all these and more aliens get shepherded through the security checkpoint with a minimum of fuss and bother. The whole procedure was, in fact, vastly more efficient than Ian had seen at any airport back on Earth, even though there were dozens of different species represented, which would have made pat-downs a bit awkward. But the whole thing moved very smoothly, that is, until a series of alarms went off and a clear plastic cylinder of some kind rose from the ground and trapped a tall, thin alien inside. Four armed guards appeared from somewhere and leveled glowing laser rifles at the trapped traveler. The confused alien raised its arms, which appeared to be three-foot-long, slender serrated blades. The security worker scanning the luggage on the conveyor belt grabbed the alien’s suitcase and removed an item with great care. He held it up to display to the armed guards, who nodded and lowered the plastic cylinder to take the alien into custody.

Ian peered at the offending item held aloft by the security worker. It was about two inches long, hinged at one end, and dull gray in color. With a start, Ian recognized it as a nail clipper.

After the commotion died down, the line began moving again at its formerly rapid pace. About the most exciting thing that happened after that was that the group of scaled aliens had to duck down to avoid the five-foot spikes on their heads from scraping the top of the scanning machine.

Ian simply shrugged to the Twiller and walked on.

. . . . .

Ian found an unoccupied bench somewhere in the terminal and sat down to think. He needed to find a way off Huh? Why E? He thought he could feel the early effects of island fever, and he could even detect a slight greenish tinge on his hovering friend.

“You feeling okay, little guy?” Ian asked.

“Twill,” it replied bravely, but Ian detected the waver in its voice and wasn’t fooled.

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure out a way to get us out of here,” Ian replied. He sat in thought for a moment. “Hey, why do you stick around, anyway? I mean, why do you stay with me? I’m sure you could sneak on a shuttle flight on your own. Why don’t you?”

The Twiller looked at Ian with large, caring eyes. “Twill twill,” it said.

Ian was very glad to have a companion, especially one so loyal. But he still couldn’t understand why the Twiller had accompanied him for so long. Was it grateful for Ian rescuing it from the Anasazi, back what seemed like so long ago? (Probably not, since it would be far more accurate to say that the Twiller saved Ian than the other way around.) Was it lost as well? Did it have nowhere else to go? Or was there some other purpose that Ian could not understand?

Ian’s thoughts were interrupted by a pair of wide, uniformed aliens. They each sported an impressive set of tribal tattoos that covered most of their arms and necks. Patches on the sleeves of their uniforms identified them as representatives of the Department of Agriculture. One of them held some form of scanning device, which was pointing at Ian. They both had annoyed scowls on their faces, which were also directed at Ian.

“C–can I help you?” Ian asked. “Is there a problem?”

“I would say so,” said the larger of the two aliens. “Are you transporting any unauthorized foods, plants, or animals here today?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Ian replied, acutely aware that he was pretty hungry and had no food with him at all. “No food or plants at all.”

The aliens exchanged a knowing look with each other. “And have you brought any unlicensed animals to Huh? Why E?” they asked.

“No, not—” Ian stopped short, looking protectively at the Twiller. “I mean, my friend here is with me, but he’s hardly an animal or a pet or anything.” Ian realized he was babbling, but he was terrified of having the Twiller taken away from him.

The second alien let out a humorless laugh. “No, the Twiller is fine.” Ian swore the large uniformed creature performed a minute bow to the Twiller, but he could have simply imagined it.

The first alien advanced a step toward Ian. “The problem is you.”

Ian was dumfounded. He lacked any response to that proclamation.

“You see,” said the agriculture agent, clearly enjoying it, “Huh? Why E? is an insulated community, and has a very delicate local ecosystem. We must be careful in preventing non-local predators, fauna, parasites, or diseases from entering the ecosystem. That’s why we carefully screen everyone who comes in through the spaceports.”

“And avoiding those screenings is highly illegal,” said the second alien, advancing a step toward Ian and cracking all three knuckles on the fingers of its huge right hand.

“Wait, wait,” said Ian, trying to shrink away. “There must be some mistake. First of all, I didn’t come through the spaceport, I …”

“Yes?” prompted the first alien.

“Um, never mind,” Ian amended, not really wanting to discuss how he had arrived on the planet. “But if you’re saying that I have some foreign contaminants or bacteria on me, then I assure you that I use the antiseptic showers in all the finest hotels—”

The aliens chuckled again. “It’s not the bacteria we have a problem with,” the larger alien said ominously. It stared unblinkingly at Ian.

Ian finally got it, or at least thought he did. “Wait, guys,” he said, trying to give his best this is all just a big misunderstanding laugh. “Don’t worry, if you guys are concerned that I’m some sort of foreign predator, let me assure you—”

The aliens looked at each other, dumbfounded. “Predator?” one of them repeated incredulously. “This parasite actually thinks it might be a predator!”

The alien agriculture agents laughed uproariously, and the conversation only went downhill for Ian from there.

. . . . .

Ian waited in a small, cold holding room with featureless white walls except for a large mirror that dominated the wall opposite him. The room reminded him uncomfortably of the Anasazi examination room, and Ian sincerely hoped the walls wouldn’t begin constricting again. He looked to the “mirror” on the other side of the room and wondered who was behind what was clearly a pane of one-way glass, like Ian had seen on countless television cop shows, and something inside of him snapped. He was sick of being looked down upon, treated with scorn and derision, and generally underestimated by just about every being he had met on his travels. Maybe these guys think I’m so simple and primitive that I don’t even know they’re watching me, Ian mused, the hint of a smile forming at his lips. I’m sure I can use their underestimation of me to my advantage.

Ian rose from the bench he had been sitting on and walked casually over toward the one-way glass across the room, meticulously being sure not to stare at it or make it obvious that he realized there was anything behind it. He made a show of glancing at his reflection in its mirrored surface and fixing his hair, then went down to one knee, pretending to tie a shoelace, but cleverly positioning himself below the glass and out of sight of his unseen observers. Carefully, he slipped his tube of SPF 5,000 sunscreen out of his pocket and palmed it, pointing the hard plastic cap outward.

“Twill,” inquired the Twiller, some concern creeping into its tone. Ian flashed it a look that he hoped said, Don’t worry, little buddy, I got this. They’ve underestimated me for the last time. The Twiller did not appear reassured.

Rising from his kneeling position, Ian lashed out with the tube of sunscreen, shattering the one-way glass before him. A shower of glass rewarded his efforts, and Ian covered his eyes, fortunately before being harmed by the glass, but not quite quick enough to keep some of the sunscreen from the exploded tube out of his eye.

Ian’s eyes watered, and he fought to wipe them so he could see what was behind the one-way window. He blinked twice, three times, and rubbed his eyes a few more times for good measure. Once his vision finally cleared, he stared at a plain, white wall, and the shattered remains of an ordinary mirror littered the floor.

From a control room somewhere else in the complex, a pair of agriculture agents watched Ian on a series of monitors, which projected images from the many invisible nano-cameras positioned at various places around the perimeter of Ian’s holding cell. The seated alien looked to his companion and simply shrugged.

“We’ve got a strange one here, alright,” the other alien replied without emotion.

. . . . .

Ian was led out of his holding cell and into another room, which appeared to be an interviewing room of some kind. A tall, thin alien with many arms sat behind a metal desk, and a pair of hard metal chairs were positioned in front of the desk. One of the guards that led Ian into the room gestured with a flipper at the chairs, and Ian obediently sat in one of them, while the Twiller hovered over the other. Ian noted that the second guard walked around the desk and stood guarding the mirror on the other side of the room.

“Mister Harebungler,” said the seated alien, as it looked up from a digital tablet of some kind with what Ian swore was an Apple logo on the back. “I understand you are here for smuggling a non-native parasite into our ecosystem.” The alien shook its head sadly. “A very serious offense.”

“I’m really sorry,” Ian said softly, lowering his head. He glanced at the second guard. “About the mirror too.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” said the thin alien, making a notation on the tablet with its tentacle. “I’m afraid the mirror is the least of your worries. Besides,” it said, its face brightening a bit, “I think we can afford to be a bit lenient in that case, considering all the circumstances. After all,” it said, looking to the two guards, “if any of us looked anything like you, I’m sure we’d hardly like to be reminded of the fact by a mirror! It was rather insensitive of us, I’m afraid,” it concluded, a dollop of slime dripping from an orifice on its forehead.

“T–thank you,” Ian managed, stubbornly swallowing his pride as the extent of the trouble he was in overcame him. He felt a small dash of relief. Maybe they’ll realize how helpless I am and feel sorry for me, he thought, completely oblivious to how opposite that thought was to his previous italicized thought that had gotten him in the trouble with the mirror in the first place.

“On the other hand,” continued the seated alien in a much firmer tone, “I’m afraid we have no discretion, no discretion at all, when it comes to the charge of parasitic vermin infestation on our fair planet. I’m afraid the sentence for that crime is quite severe and, as I say, there is no room for lenience.”

Ian gulped audibly and cursed himself for ever heading to the spaceport in the first place. All he had wanted to do was get off the stinking planet, and now here he was, facing execution or maybe eternal imprisonment for being on the planet illegally. He looked to the Twiller helplessly. It seemed, somehow, to be aware of the irony.

“Well, Mr. Harebungler,” the seated alien concluded. “I’m afraid there’s no way to sugar-coat this. As I say, the punishment is the most severe penalty we have on the books, and it is mandatory in a case like this.” It sighed heavily. “Ian Harebungler, I hereby find you guilty of improper importation of parasitic vermin, and I sentence you … to deportation from Huh? Why E? immediately.” Ian’s eyes bulged in astonishment. “Your shuttle off the planet leaves in half an hour.”

Ian simply looked back to the administrator in shock as it rose from behind its desk. “These men will escort you to the prisoners’ shuttle.”

“Um, thank you?” said Ian uncertainly.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay on Huh? Why E?” the thin alien said almost automatically as it entered a few final notes into the case file and set the tablet down on its desk. “Aloha!”

* * * * *

Part VIII

Ian did not have an opportunity to ask where the shuttle was heading, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. Anywhere away from the “unique charms” of Huh? Why E? would do him just fine. He looked around the shuttle, his eyes bulging at the sight of the other prisoners condemned to deportation. Some were normal, which was to say no more odd and misshapen than the majority of aliens Ian had seen on his travels. But several were even more unusual than Ian was used to. There was an entire row of lamprey-like worms, long slimy creatures with a huge, circular, toothed mouth where their faces should be. One had fastened itself to the in-flight magazine and appeared to be making sucking noises.

Several rows back, a single fox-like creature sat restrained in a row all to itself. Its intelligent eyes darted this way and that, and it flexed its fingers beneath its restraints. Even bound securely, it still moved with a surprising agility and it was clear to Ian that it was quite a dangerous creature, indeed.

And sitting silently next to Ian and the Twiller was what appeared to be a potted Ficus tree wearing a lei. It turned out to be the best traveling companion Ian had ever had.

The flight was long, but uneventful, and Ian actually managed to relax and catch some sleep. Which was just as well, since he had already seen the movie, Happy, Texas, several years ago on a flight to Chicago, and it was so bad he had seriously considered walking out.

When Ian awoke, the shuttle was landing, and he was herded out the door once it had arrived at the terminal. He flowed outside, following the mass of deported aliens, and tried to keep the Twiller close to him. He emerged into a throng of people and a traffic scene that reminded him of El Leigh, with the principle difference being that all the aircars here were yellow.

There was also a good bit more honking.

Ian stood in line at the taxi stand by the curb and, after an hour of waiting, finally was able to get into a cab. It was filthy. “Where to?” asked the cab driver, its accent thick and difficult to understand.

“Take me to the nearest hotel,” Ian said. “The nearest nice hotel,” he amended.

The cab driver nodded and sped off, which was quite an accomplishment considering the level of traffic. But the driver weaved in and out and up and around in a display that was either masterful, or insane. Ian sat back and figured it was better to assume it was the former. He tried to avoid looking out the windshield, but he did catch a glimpse of a rather large sign that stretched above the stack of cars leaving the airport. Ian got a good view of it as the cab driver came within inches of hitting it. It read:

WELCOME TO YORK

The Best City In The Universe

You Got A Problem With That, Jerk?

Ian shrugged, sat back in his seat, tried to ignore how often the driver hit or nearly missed pedestrians and other aircabs, and settled in for the ride.

. . . . .

Ian arrived at the hotel, asked the aircab driver to wait a moment, rushed into the towering building and up to a few rooms where he could deposit some Bibles, then came back to pay the cab fare. The driver pointed to a sign on the dashboard that read, “Tips are voluntary. My refraining from spitting on you is also voluntary.”

Thinking fast, Ian added 20% to the fare and swiped his credit chit. The cabbie sped off.

Back inside the hotel, Ian got himself a room and rode up on the longest elevator ride of his life. Not that the elevator moved slowly; on the contrary, it surged upward at incredible speed. Ian got some sense of just how high he was when he entered his room and realized that the windows wouldn’t open because the hotel extended past the atmosphere of the planet. He tried to look down, and he saw a continent beneath him and a vast ocean covering most of the visible half of the planet. Very nice—an ocean view, he thought contentedly, not realizing that, from this height, guests on the other side of the towering hotel could see the even larger ocean on the opposite side of the continent.

Ian was surprised to see that he wasn’t even in the tallest building in York, as several other buildings climbed even higher than the one he was in. Ian tried to imagine how densely packed the city must be to require buildings of such inconceivable height. He failed utterly.

Ian sat back down on the small bed and noticed that his room, while impressively furnished, was actually quite small. There was a tiny dresser by the side of the bed with only a single drawer barely large enough to hold a Bible (Ian had to remove the phone book, which was electronic but still fairly massive, to fit the Bible inside). Ian activated the phone book, and the display informed him that there were over 10 trillion people living in the city, and that the phone book used several billion terabytes of memory, which accounted for its size. Ian pressed the command to go to the first page of the restaurant listings, and saw several screens full of listings of places named “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” before he quickly shut it off and tossed it aside.

Ian was feeling a bit claustrophobic in the small room, so he decided to head down the elevator and go for a walk. He exited out the lobby into a thick crowd of people walking past on the sidewalk. Pretty soon, he was swept up by the crowd, which was fine since Ian didn’t really know where he was going anyway. The Twiller managed to follow him by hovering more or less over Ian’s head.

After a pretty short time of being jostled and pushed by the crowd of people, Ian longed for the relative space and serenity of his tiny hotel room. He moved his way to the edge of the crowd and latched on to the door of a tall building. He heaved it open and stepped inside, managing to hold the door open against the onrushing tide of people just long enough for the Twiller to follow him in.

Inside the building was a very small foyer with a reception desk staffed by a clearly overworked alien with several sets of ears and mouths. She was holding several phones up to her face and talking into most of them at the same time. Above her head was a nice plaque that read “Aaaaaaaaa, Aaaaaaaaa, & Aaaaaab.” Ian wanted to ask the receptionist about it, but she seemed quite busy enough without him bothering her. There was a frosted glass door to the side of the reception desk, so Ian opened it and stepped inside.

Ian entered the crowded room to find rows upon rows of aliens strapped into elaborate chairs. Each had some sort of apparatus covering the tops of their heads, and a snaking mass of cables led from their heads to data sockets in the floors and walls. As Ian walked down the aisles, he saw that each alien’s eyes were shut, but still seemed to be moving rapidly behind various types of eyelids. One alien caught his attention—her eyes were open and she was not fidgeting quite as much as the others.

“Um, excuse me,” Ian asked tentatively, “can I ask you what is going on here?”

“What do you mean?” the alien replied. “We’re just working.”

“Working? What are you working on?”

“Didn’t you see the sign when you came in? At least, I assume it’s still there,” she said, mostly to herself. “This is a law firm.”

“Ah, I see,” Ian said, and frowned. He looked up and down the rows at the dozens of aliens strapped into their chairs and their computer interfaces. He noted a small nameplate nearby that read “Fungible Billing Unit 47398-D.”

“In fact,” she continued, “you’re lucky you caught me on my five-minute break.”

“That is lucky,” Ian confirmed. “I’m glad I came at this time of day then.”

“Time of day?” the alien asked. “Oh, no, don’t be silly. I don’t get a break every day. It’s five minutes a year. Standard firm policy.”

Ian just goggled at her.

“I mean,” she continued, “any more than that, and how would we possibly make our billable hour requirements?” She chuckled. “It would be mathematically impossible.”

“But–but you just sit here, strapped in, connected to computers, working all day and night, except for five minutes a year?” The alien nodded, her headpiece and its assorted wires bobbing up and down, but clearly attached firmly to her head with thick metal screws. Ian suppressed a shiver. “What sort of work do you actually do?”

“Well, mostly really high-end stuff, now that I’ve been here for over 15 years,” she said proudly. “I work on contracts, leases, big mergers and acquisitions deals. All very big, very important stuff, for huge intergalactic corporations.”

“I see,” said Ian, suitably impressed. “So, you write these contracts and leases and such?”

“Oh, no, no,” the alien lawyer laughed. “Those are all standard boilerplate, forms that have been assimilated from hundreds of cultures over thousands of years and subjected to millions of lawsuits. By this point, they’re pretty much iron-clad.” She paused thoughtfully. “There are still plenty of lawsuits over them, of course.” She seemed vaguely troubled, but quickly dismissed the thought.

“Well, if you don’t actually write these documents, then what are you doing with them?”

“I review digital images of documents that have been scanned into the system. Then I compare them letter-for-letter with the original electronic versions to ensure they match up.”

Ian goggled again. Even the Twiller seemed suitably horrified. “You mean they take computer documents, print them out, scan them back in, feed them to you through those …”—Ian waved a hand at her head—“wires, and then you manually go through and make sure they’re the same as the original computer files they came from?”

“Yup!” she said, “that’s it. Sure, it’s not quite as exciting as they make it out to be on all the holovid shows, but I get to work on some of the biggest deals in the galaxy.”

“But, is there any reason to do that? I mean, can’t that all be done better by computer?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Maybe those sneaky lawyers on the other side snuck an extra comma into the printouts somewhere. Who knows? But I need all the billable hours I can get, so I don’t ask those sorts of questions.”

“But is any of what you’re doing necessary?”

“Of course! Our clients need to prove they spent enough money and effort on due diligence so they’re protected when they get sued for negligence later.”

Ian shook his head to clear it. “Um, and let me try to ask this as delicately as possible, but doesn’t it drive you barking mad?”

The alien appeared ready to retort with a well-practiced denial, but then something about her countenance changed. Her shoulders drooped a bit, which was difficult, considering how she was strapped into the chair. “Well, yeah,” she admitted. “It can get a bit dull.”

“A bit dull?” Ian repeated incredulously. “That’s the worst, most awful and inhumane thing I’ve ever heard. There should be some sort of lawsuit to prevent this kind of treatment!”

“Oh certainly,” she said, brightening, “that’s exactly what I’m working on now! Of course, I’m defending my employer against the charges, but,” she whispered, looking around nervously, “I wouldn’t mind if we lost this case. Anyway, it’s on its thirty-ninth appeal, so it should be resolved any century now.”

Ian began to reply, to say something, anything to comfort the miserable, wretched creature, but she cut him off.

“Sorry,” she said, “my five minutes are up.” With that, her eyes snapped shut and her body jerked rigid.

Ian had nightmares about that vision nearly every night for the rest of his life.

. . . . .

Ian walked around York for a while, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. More specifically, the sights and sounds of millions of other beings clustered tightly around him, which blocked most of his view of the city itself. He could also see huge neon signs advertising various goods and services, and he occasionally bumped into one of an inordinate number of hot dog carts. The Twiller hurled itself into the pocket of Ian’s robe and stayed there for protection.

Eventually, he found his way to a large park that was marginally less crowded than the surrounding city. Through an incredible stroke of luck, an alien wearing a jogging suit got up from its seat on a bench just as Ian passed by, and Ian gratefully sat down on it to catch his breath.

“Pretty hectic, huh?” asked a petite female alien seated on the bench next to Ian. “You should see this place on a weekday.”

Ian smiled at her, resolutely trying not to imagine things any more crowded than they already were. “It’s quite impressive,” he said.

“You’re new around here, aren’t you?” she asked, twirling her hair casually around a blue finger. Responding to Ian’s questioning look, she added, “It’s pretty easy to tell. Lots of people are overwhelmed by York on their first trip here. But it’s really an amazing city once you get to know the place. There are just so many things to do! Restaurants and shows and exhibits. Oh, and, it’s the most prosperous job market on this side of the galaxy.”

“Yeah,” Ian grimaced. “I’ve already seen some of the thriving job market in action.” He shuddered, glad to be a Gideon instead of a lawyer. “Actually,” he added, “we have a similar city back home where I come from. But it’s called New York. Isn’t that funny?”

“That is strange,” Quirol agreed. “Especially since this city used to be called New York as well.” Seeing Ian’s surprised look, she continued, “Of course, it hasn’t been called that for a very long time. It didn’t make sense, you see, once the city was more than a few years old and had lost that ‘new city smell.’ And, now, can you imagine calling a city ‘new’ once it’s been around for hundreds of years?” She chuckled. “I mean, you should see how filthy the subways here are. I imagine they’ll have to start calling it ‘Old York’ pretty soon.”

Ian muttered an embarrassed sound of agreement.

“So,” she asked, “what are you doing in York? Just visiting? Seeing the sights?”

“Well … not really. I kinda ended up here by accident.”

“Oh,” she laughed, “where were you trying to go instead?”

“That is a complicated question,” Ian sighed. “I’m just trying to get home.”

Something in Ian’s expression must have alerted his new friend to Ian’s sense that he would never see his home again, and that his home was a very long way away, indeed. Instantly, the alien’s features softened even further, and she seemed to look almost protectively at Ian. She scooted a little closer on the bench.

“My name is Quirol,” she said, setting down a bag she had been holding and offering her hand for Ian to shake. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” Ian said, surprised. He actually had not eaten in quite some time. There had been no meal on Ian’s latest shuttle flight, and his stomach rumbled as he thought about it. “I guess I am a bit hungry,” he sheepishly admitted.

“Is that why your body just growled at me?” Quirol asked, sliding back to her previous position a little further away on the bench. “Is your species carnivorous or … ?”

“No, no,” Ian assured her. “I mean, yes, in fact. I do eat meat. But not people. Or aliens. Other sentient beings. No, I mean …” Ian fumbled to explain such a simple concept as I eat hamburgers, but not friends I just met on a park bench.

Quirol laughed a quite intoxicating little laugh. “You mean you just eat meat from animals not smart enough or cute enough for eating them to bother you, and you’ve never so much as seen where what you eat actually comes from, let alone hunted or killed a meal yourself.”

“Yes,” Ian said with a chuckle, “that’s it exactly.” Somehow, he felt that he and Quirol would be good friends.

“Well,” said Quirol, reaching into her bag and throwing a last handful of crumbs at a flock of pigeons milling about her feet, “we can’t have you starving to death here on the streets of York.” She seemed to size Ian up and make a decision. “Why don’t you come up to my place and I’ll make us dinner?”

“That’s very kind of you,” Ian replied.

“Great!” she said, jumping to her feet enthusiastically. “I hope you like cucumber sandwiches.”

It was at that point that Ian simply decided to fall in love.

. . . . .

Luckily, Quirol’s apartment building was nearby, and Ian followed her there in a happy daze. It was the first time on his travels that he stopped thinking about getting back home to Earth.

The building was quite old and a bit run-down, which served as a reminder why calling the city “New York” would have sounded foolish. The elevator made frightening noises and it was one of the shorter buildings in the city, as it only had a few thousand floors. Quirol’s apartment was only about a hundred floors up (“There’s not much of a view,” she had admitted), and Ian followed her down a short hallway before stopping in front of her door.

“I have to warn you,” she said as she fumbled for her key and prepared to open the door, “my apartment is a bit on the smallish side.”

Ian assured her that he didn’t mind, and she pulled open the door and stepped inside, Ian just behind her.

Ian took one step into the apartment and bumped into Quirol, who had reached the other side of the room. To call it tiny would have been a gross insult to the word; perhaps if it had been triple the size it might have qualified. The entire apartment was miniscule, just barely large enough for both Ian and Quirol to fit inside at the same time. Behind Ian, the door swung closed, which only added to his claustrophobia. The room would have been small for a closet, and it was made smaller by drawers and storage cubbies packed around the perimeter of the room, leaving only a small space in the middle for them both to stand. In addition, there were various cages containing small creatures that looked like hamsters and reptiles and pigeons with broken wings. A pair of cats poked out of cubbies near the floor and rubbed up against Ian’s legs.

The entire apartment consisted of just the single rectangular room, which was about five feet long and three feet wide. A bar ran lengthwise across the room above Ian’s head, where several sets of clothes were hung and pushed up against the far wall. On that wall, in among various cabinets and cages, was a small window that offered a view of the side of a nearby building. Not much of a view, indeed.

“See?” Quirol chuckled self-consciously. “I told you it was a tad cozy.” She picked up one of the cats. “And I do have a few friends here that I take care of.” The cat mewed in affirmation.

Ian smiled lamely. Quirol took off her shoes and slid them into a small cubby near her feet. There was a tiny sink that folded up against the wall in one corner, and the other corner had what appeared to be a chair, although Ian was pretty certain that the lid lifted up and it also served as the toilet.

“It’s very … homey,” Ian offered, aware that the long silence had betrayed his shock, and he cursed himself for his rudeness. He offered up the brightest expression he could muster.

“I know it’s small, although I’ve seen smaller, here in York,” Quirol assured him. “And it’s pretty reasonable. Just under one hundred thousand bucks a month.” Ian’s jaw dropped open; such a sum was several times more than all of his Gideon earnings put together.

“I’m sorry,” Ian said. “I guess I’m just not used to such, um, cramped quarters, or such a crowded city.” He looked around the room. “I mean, how do you do it? Where do you eat? How do you shower? Where do you sleep?”

Quirol didn’t seem upset by Ian’s assessment of her living quarters. “Why don’t I give you the tour?” she replied cheerfully. She flipped a switch on the wall, and a small flat panel folded out. “This is the table, over here in the kitchen area. And above your head, see those little holes on the clothes rod? That’s the shower.” Ian looked down to his feet to find a drain in the center of the concrete floor. “As for the bed, you had better grab the rod and hold on.”

Ian cocked his head at Quirol, who grabbed a hold of the metal bar above her head and lifted her legs up off the floor. Confused, Ian followed suit, straining with the effort of supporting his weight, but determined not to let Quirol notice his difficulties. His feet dangled a few inches off the floor, and his arms and fingers started to burn.

“You’ve gotta lift your legs up higher,” Quirol advised him, helpfully wiggling her own, which were bunched up almost to her chest. Ian nodded, unable to speak due to the exertion, and with a great effort of will pulled his legs higher up off the floor. Quirol pretended not to notice his difficulty, and quickly pressed a button embedded in the rod. With a hiss, a rolled-up air mattress unfurled from one side of the room, expanding to span the length and width of the room, about two feet off the ground. Quirol eased herself down onto it and Ian more or less fell, gasping, onto his knees, bracing his arm against the wall for support.

“See? Plenty of room. Well,” she amended, “as long as you’re not more than five feet tall.”

“It’s … an impressive use of space,” Ian concluded once he regained his breath. “Very, um, efficient.”

“Thanks!” Quirol said brightly, sliding open a panel on the wall behind her. From inside, she produced a small plate of cucumber sandwiches, which she offered to Ian. At that moment, Ian forgot his claustrophobia, forgot his homesickness, and very nearly forgot his manners, belatedly drawing his hand back from the tray.

“After you,” he said.

Quirol giggled and plucked one from the tray, then extended it to Ian once again.

Ian gingerly reached over, picked up one of the small triangle-shaped delicacies, and settled back down onto the bed. And, for that moment, he was home.

. . . . .

After filling up on cucumber sandwiches (Ian had said, “No, I couldn’t possibly have another,” followed by, “Oh, all right, if you insist” no less than eight times), Ian and Quirol had spent the rest of the afternoon talking and sharing stories. Ian had described his adventures (sadly, Quirol had never heard of Earth and had no idea how best to get there), and Quirol had told him a little more about York. She had moved there a few years ago for work (she worked at some huge intergalactic corporation, and her job sounded only moderately better than that of the lawyer Ian had met earlier), and she was struggling to make it in the big city. When Ian asked why she worked so hard so she could barely afford a tiny apartment in such a crowded city, she simply shrugged and told him that, if she could make it in York, she could make it anywhere. While Ian had no doubt her statement was true, he had refrained from asking the obvious follow-up: “But why?”

Ian sighed contentedly and leaned back against the cabinet behind him, stretching his legs out on the air mattress that still filled the tiny apartment. Quirol appeared quite comfortable, leaning against the wall opposite Ian and absent-mindedly twirling her hair with her finger as she spoke.

“So, what do you plan to do?” she asked. “Any chance you’ll stay here in York for a while?”

Ian started to say something along the lines of “Not if I can help it!” but quickly caught himself as he felt a sharp pang of something very like panic as he thought about leaving Quirol. Although they had just met, he felt an instant kinship with her. He could tell that she was kind and sweet and good. It certainly helped that she was one of the first aliens Ian had met who had treated him better than toenail lint.

“I’m not sure,” he confessed, “although I’m afraid I probably can’t afford to stay in York for very long.”

“I’d offer for you to stay with me, but ….” Quirol spread her arms to indicate her tiny apartment, which could clearly never accommodate two people for any length of time. Just the bathroom situation alone was … unworkable.

Ian nodded in understanding. “No, no, I’d never want to impose on you like that anyway. But, it’s just, if I leave York … I guess it sounds silly, I mean, I know we just met and …” Ian realized he was floundering and just forced the words out. “I’d miss you.”

Ian was terrified that Quirol would laugh at him, or feel uncomfortable, or perhaps call the police, all of which happened fairly often on Earth whenever Ian professed his feelings about a member of the opposite sex. Quirol, however, completely missed Ian’s romantic intentions and instead saw him as another helpless creature to take in and save. So she simply smiled and said, “You’re very sweet. I do wish I could keep you.”

Ian ignored the strange phrasing, and simply returned her smile, letting out an involuntary sigh. The movement seemed to wake the Twiller, who shook itself out of Ian’s pocket. “I haven’t been this happy since I left Earth. I’d like to see you again.”

Suddenly, Quirol’s entire aspect changed, and her face flushed to a pale blue. Her eyes were fixated on the Twiller.

“Ancestors protect us!” she shrieked, pointing at the Twiller. She leapt to her feet on the bed and grabbed the overhead rail.

“Wait, it’s okay, he’s just—”

Ian never got a chance to tell Quirol about his harmless Twiller friend, because she pressed the button on the rail and the air mattress quickly deflated and rolled itself back into the wall, tumbling Ian to the floor in the process. “Get out!” Quirol screamed.

Ian picked himself up off the ground, backing against the door and opening it. The Twiller hurried outside. Ian tried, vainly, to think of something to say to Quirol to calm her down, but she had begun speaking in tongues. He backed his way out of the apartment, pleading with Quirol to calm down.

“How dare you bring that … thing into my apartment!” she yelled. “I never want to see you again!” With that, she reached out and slammed the door closed.

Stunned, Ian turned to the Twiller, who managed to look sheepish. “Twill,” it said apologetically, lowering its large eyes to the floor. It seemed to hover a little lower than usual.

Ian slumped down to the ground and stared at the door to Quirol’s apartment. He stayed that way for some time, before finally struggling to his feet and sullenly shuffling away.

* * * * *

Part IX

Ian wandered around the crowded streets of York in a disconsolate daze. The Twiller valiantly tried to cheer him up, but quickly realized that it wasn’t working, especially since Ian’s current depression was pretty much the Twiller’s fault. So it floated silently overhead instead.

As for Ian, his brief glimpse of kindness and hope and then his sudden shocking reversal of fortunes left him defeated. He was used to the Universe being generally mean to him, but he hadn’t been prepared for it to dangle something nice in front of him only to yank it away. He missed that kindness all the more, knowing that it was there, just a few blocks away and a hundred floors up.

Ian wandered through the milling mass of alien creatures, most of which seemed to be striding purposefully in one direction or another. Many carried briefcases or electronic tablets of some kind, and they carried the unmistakable air of people heading to and from work. Actually, as Ian paused and looked around, he noticed a cluster of people that were not hurrying about, but were instead standing around in a jumbled knot. They seemed to be gathering around someone or something at the center of the mass of aliens. Curious, Ian headed in that direction.

A large crowd had gathered, and Ian craned his neck to see what the commotion was about. This turned out to be fruitless. Not only were many of the aliens far taller than him, and they wore large hats, or what appeared to be large hats but may in fact have been appendages, but also several of the aliens seemed to have the ability to stretch their necks in order to see over the crowd. Ian, who had no such ability, was at quite an evolutionary disadvantage.

He did, however, get lucky when a large, burly (and smelly) alien slammed into him from behind as it pushed its way to the front of the crowd. Ian stuck to the alien’s large, slimy belly, and was transported right to the front of the group. The Twiller, floating above, had little trouble keeping up with him.

In the center of all the commotion was a large structure covered by a shimmering golden tarp. It rose twenty feet into the air, and appeared to be sloped away from Ian. At the base of the structure was a small alien wearing a top hat. In this case, Ian was reasonably sure it was actually a hat, or at least as sure as he could be of anything these days. The alien reminded Ian of a circus ringleader, which is odd inasmuch as Ian had never seen a circus (his experience at Yore Mayker’s Circus of the Bizarre notwithstanding).

“Step right up,” said the alien. “Prepare to be astounded and amazed at the very height of modern technology. A fabulous invention so advanced, so fiendishly brilliant that it makes the holostimulator look like a simple particle accelerator.”

Ian found himself keenly interested. He had seen some technology on his travels that far surpassed the wildest imaginations of any human who ever lived, but this seemed to be something even … more. More complex, more alien, more science-fiction. What could be even more amazing than what he had already seen?

“As you all know,” the alien ringleader continued, expertly lowering the pitch—but not the volume—of its voice, making the crowd lean forward to hear, “there is one fundamental problem that all of our technology has failed to solve. One heretofore inviolate barrier that our most expert minds, and our most advanced computers, and our most expertly advanced computer-mind hybrids have been unable to break through. The ‘experts’ told us it couldn’t be done. But, ladies and gentlethings, we have done it!”

There was an uproarious cheer from the assembled crowd. Ian found himself cheering as well. A stray thought tugged at the edge of his consciousness: the small fact that no one had any idea what this man was talking about. Ian dismissed the thought with a quick shake of his head, and listened raptly.

“Clearly,” the creature said, shifting its gaze to the tall buildings all around them, “the elevator is a necessity of modern life. Yet many different species—and many of you in the crowd today—suffer from the same untreatable phobia. The one fear that transcends time and space and species. The single, terrifying terror that unites us all ...” Here, the alien’s voice rose to a crescendo: “The fear of … being trapped in an elevator!”

There was a nightmarish collective gasp from the crowd. Several of the nearby aliens murmured to each other in agreement. One lady appeared ready to faint.

“Please, please, good people,” said the ringleader, pretending to try to stop the murmuring of the crowd, but clearly enjoying the reaction it had received. “Have no fear. Have no more fear at all—because we have finally, once and for all, eliminated your fears forever!”

The roar of the crowd was deafening.

“Behind me,”—here, the ringleader gestured to the shrouded apparatus behind it—“is the culmination of eons of painstaking research and the solution to all of our collective problems. You are here for a historic occasion: the unveiling of the Universe’s first and only elevator that it is impossible to get stuck in!”

The crowd began pushing closer to see this historic unveiling. Luckily, the large alien that Ian was still attached to gave one look back at the crowd and they gave him some space.

“Throughout history, our best minds have developed faster and safer and better elevators. From the simple, pulley-driven devices of our ancestors, to hydraulic lifts, to turbolifts, to gravity repulsor platforms, to warp capsules, they have all shared the same fundamental problem: they enclose you in a confined space and there is always the fear—even if it actually happens somewhat rarely—of being trapped, helpless in the elevator. Unable to get out, unable to breathe clean, fresh air, unable to order a pizza, and of course—this is so horrible I hesitate even to mention it—you could even be trapped inside with … your mother-in-law.”

The groan from the crowd conveyed a horror that was beyond words, beyond language. Apparently, Ian’s claustrophobia and fear of being trapped in an elevator was commonplace across the galaxy.

“Well, fret no more, my friends, because the elevator behind me can not get stuck. No way, no how. No possibility whatsoever of its riders being trapped inside. No matter what happens—power outages, wormhole destabilization, gravity well fluctuations, solar flares, you name it—there is absolutely no possible way for the riders of this magnificent machine to be trapped inside, or be unable to reach their destination. Should the Universe itself end while you are riding this elevator, you will be free to step off and witness the cataclysm under the open skies!”

The crowd cheered as the ringleader grabbed a corner of the tarp and prepared to unveil the magnificent creation. Ian’s imagination was at a loss; even with all the technological marvels he had seen, he could not even imagine such a wondrous and magical device. He let himself get lost in the emotion of the crowd.

With a final satisfied smile, the small alien tipped his top hat and ripped off the tarp, which fluttered majestically to the ground. It revealed a sloped device about six feet wide and twenty feet tall, and it angled away from Ian. For a moment, Ian was left completely stunned, and his mouth fell open as he gaped at it. He was speechless.

It was an escalator.

. . . . .

Ian worked his way out of the crowd, still enthralled by the escalator unveiling. He walked with a special bounce in his step, secure in his (mostly unsubstantiated) belief that humanity was technologically equal to, if not better than, most of the aliens he’d seen on his travels. Sure, the cars hovered, but they were mired in traffic as bad or worse than any back home. And the buildings were taller, but the apartments were smaller. And yeah, okay, they had spaceships, but Ian hadn’t seen much on his travels that convinced him that the ability to leave the planet was a good thing. And he didn’t even want to think about the wormhole technology, and how that worked out.

Of course, just as Ian had underestimated his hotel key back in El Leigh, he was also blissfully unaware of vast gobs of technology that lurked beneath the surface of the things he saw around him every day. It would have blown his feeble mind to even know what ridiculous levels of technology and engineering went into seemingly simple things like hotel keys and his credit chit, let alone the nanomite air particles that changed the molecular composition of nearby air to accommodate the breathing patterns of various species. Or that most of the aliens he encountered were not simply cloned, but were genetically engineered from hybrid DNA that humanity had yet to even theorize existed, let alone manipulate. And if Ian had only gotten a good look at their cell phones—after all, he still thought it was pretty nifty that his cell phone had a lousy camera and customizable ringtones. To pick one random example, a slender Ventragian walking nearby appeared to be simply speaking into her phone, but was actually downloading several years’ worth of courses from the prestigious Andromeda University directly into her brain, was viewing just over a trillion status updates from her 12 billion friends on the latest social networking service (a powerful thinking computer sorted them by how likely she was to give a darn and scrolled the less important ones through at rapid speed), and she was only holding the phone up to her face (instead of leaving it in her pocket and using the standard telepathic interface) so it could deliver her daily dose of cheek-tightening beauty serum and anti-aging chemicals directly into her bloodstream.

Unaware of all this, Ian felt pretty good about his own cell phone, failing once again to understand that it only continued working at the far fringes of the Universe because a particularly aggressive cell phone marketer back in the Harmrinkle Spaceport had used restricted teleporter beam technology to remove his old cell phone from his pocket and replace it with a current model. Of course, Ian would probably come to realize this once the monthly bill was deducted automatically from his credit chit, under the mysterious heading “Communications Services, Inc.”

Ian looked around and noticed that many of the other beings walking nearby seemed to be going to and coming from stairways that led underground. Ian let himself be herded toward one of these stairways, quickly identifying it as a subway entrance. He checked to make sure the Twiller was able to keep up and follow him down, and used his Gideon travel card at the turnstiles to gain access to the subway terminal.

The smell inside the terminal was oppressive. While much of what Ian had experienced had smelled strange and bad (to him, anyway), he had the distinct feeling that the subway station smelled bad to everyone. The odor was certainly more pungent down here, and aliens were packed even closer together. In general, the place was filthy, and even the semi-sentient cleaning bots assigned to tidy the place up were huddled in a corner playing poker. One of them caught Ian’s eye as he looked at them and shrugged the garbage-scooping attachment it now used to deal cards, the motion seeming to mean the heck with it, nothing I can do would be much use down here. Ian found it difficult to argue.

Ian wandered toward the nearest platform, glancing only peripherally at the illuminated sign overhead. He was used to moving about the Universe haphazardly and more or less at random, so the thought of an unknown destination didn’t particularly faze him. Overall, he wasn’t a fan of York anyway, and besides, he didn’t seem to have any reason to stay anymore. So he hardly even noticed that the sign read “WMD,” and he certainly didn’t make the connection with a certain unfortunate acronym back on Earth.

Instead, he merely stood near an empty bench and waited for the subway train to arrive. The bench appeared to be empty mainly because it boasted rows of spikes interspersed with superheated metal coils, presumably to dissuade vagrants from sleeping on it. Looking down the platform at several similar benches, almost all of which were empty, Ian had to agree that the deterrents were, for the most part, doing their jobs.

Standing next to Ian was a burly alien in a black trench coat. It sidled up beside Ian, glancing about for police officers (of which Ian saw none) or perhaps hidden cameras. Out of the corner of its mouth, which was conveniently located on its shoulder near Ian’s ear, the stranger whispered, “Hey man, want a watch?”

Ian glanced over and the alien casually flicked open its trench coat, revealing gleaming rows of watches on each side. Now, while Ian was hardly “cosmopolitan,” or particularly “street smart,” even he knew a scam when he saw it. The watches were undoubtedly cheap pieces of junk, obviously fake gold or silver or platinum, would surely break within days if not sooner, and probably kept crappy time, to boot. “No thanks,” chuckled Ian, sidestepping further down the platform and away from the alien scam artist.

“No, seriously,” the alien persisted as Ian backed away. “These are great watches, super premium high-quality stuff. Lemme just tell you about some of the features. This baby here can actually—”

Ian cut the con man off with a wave of his hand. “I’m good,” he replied with confidence, brandishing his $19.99 mail-order special watch, which to be honest needed to be adjusted at least twice a week and showed bare metal in several places where the fake gold tone had chipped off. Ian smiled to himself as the alien shrugged and moved on through the crowd. I’m not your typical sucker, Ian thought confidently to himself.

Soon thereafter, a brightly decorated tram pulled up to the platform. It had a complex pattern of pictures and alien words written across it, which Ian belatedly identified as graffiti. The doors opened and an avalanche of aliens streamed out past Ian. Once the rush had stopped, Ian fought his way into the train, making sure the Twiller got inside before the doors snapped closed. Ian was jostled and pushed up against a window, where he looked back to the platform and the departing mass of aliens. Standing out in its dark trench coat, like a rock anchored against the tide of creatures, was the alien who had tried to sell Ian a shoddy watch, and Ian chuckled to himself as the aliens pushed past the con man.

With a lurch, the tram began to move down the corridor and Ian looked about the crowded subway car, yet another example of alien “technology” that was no better than what he had experienced on Earth. As he grinned smugly to himself, the tram reached the dimensional portal and seamlessly reappeared several million light-years away. Ian mistook the brief flash that accompanied this phenomenal journey as coming from a passing light on the tunnel wall.

. . . . .

As the train pulled away from the station, a slim alien wearing an expensive suit walked across the platform and headed for the exits. It paused as the watch seller approached and flashed its wares. With a moment of thought, the well-dressed alien picked out a watch from the folds of the trench coat and handed over its credit chit. The watch salesman gave the customer its chosen watch and thanked it for the purchase.

The slim alien slipped its new watch over the wrist on its third-longest arm, letting out a small sigh as the watch changed the alien’s personal temporal field, sending the cells of its body back in time to when they were in a younger, healthier state. The traveler then entered some coordinates on the far side of the Universe into the screen (which was made of perfectly clear diamond and surrounded by a pure platinum bezel), shimmered for a moment, and disappeared as the watch instantly teleported the creature to its chosen destination.

* * * * *

Part X

The subway tram rumbled to a stop and the aliens aboard surged out. Ian wasn’t quite sure where he was, but he seemed to have little choice in the matter. He went along with the movement of the crowd, stepping off the tram and onto a marginally cleaner platform than the one he had left in York. The Twiller seemed to recognize the place, however, and Ian followed it through the maze of aliens and up a stairway to emerge outside.

The subway exit opened into the edge of a large square, with a grassy lawn and a large pond at one end. In the center was a large shopping structure topped by a white obelisk. Hanging from the obelisk was a banner that read: “National Mall—Clearance Prices Up To 80% Off Retail!” A great many aliens milled about, entering and exiting the mall, but Ian skirted around the domed building.

As he approached the pond, Ian walked by a statue of a vaguely humanoid alien on horseback. The statue was so similar to one he might have seen on Earth, that Ian hardly noticed the extra pair of legs on the horse. At the base of the statue was a carved inscription:

IN HONOR OF

Our First President

Wosh Mington

A chorus of shouts drew Ian’s attention away from the statue, and he looked across the square to see a medium-sized crowd gathered off to one end. He walked over that way, where he could see a particularly untrustworthy alien standing on a platform with its voice booming out of several nearby speakers. As Ian got closer, he noticed that the speaker’s clothing was garishly colored and covered with various corporate logos—it was some bizarre combination of a business suit and race-car driver’s outfit. There were various advertisement banners and holograms vying for attention on and around the platform as well. Ian walked a bit closer to listen to the speaker.

“So, friends, if elected, I promise to uphold all the platforms of my campaign, which is brought to you by Quasar Cola Company. Quasar Cola gives you that jolt you need to get you through your day … just like my incentives for businesses will give our economy a jolt and provide jobs for all our citizens!”

There was a muted cheer from the assembled crowd, although many of those in attendance seemed only peripherally interested in the candidate’s speech, and several seemed to be checking their watches.

“And I promise,” the candidate intoned, “that I will fight for the ‘common being,’ just like the law firm of Hoopenstein, Magmar, & Tooleywaggon promises to fight for your rights if you’ve been in an accident. My brave new ideas will reduce, no, eliminate taxes, increase services, pay off all our intergalactic debt, and”—here, he paused, clearly making this up as he went along—“provide three Deluxe-O-Matic personal service droids to every household!”

A few people murmured in agreement, and the crowd started to disperse as the politician’s speech wound down. Many of the people in attendance carried electronic signs, which they switched off as they walked away. Ian watched as the departing supporters ambled over to other podiums surrounded by other small knots of people. Often, they would switch their sign back on and change it to match the particular candidate they were listening to.

Ian caught up to a reasonably clean-smelling alien as it walked away from the podium. “Excuse me,” he said, “is there an election soon or something?”

“Well, of course there is,” said the alien, taken aback. “Ah,” it said, a smile of recognition spreading across its wide, massive face, “you must be new around here. Yes, there’s always an election on WMD. City council, mayor, lieutenant mayor, sergeant mayor, district representative, school board, parent-teacher association secretary, second assistant to the key grip, and WMD Idol judge. I think all of those elections are today.”

“All of those?” Ian sputtered. “Just today?”

“Oh sure,” the alien laughed. “It’s actually a pretty minor election day. Next week Tuesday there’s a close race for chief aide to the vice president, that’s a pretty big one.” It lowered its voice guiltily. “Most of these guys are just small-timers, and none of us would even bother voting if our jobs didn’t require it.”

“Your jobs require you to vote?” Ian asked.

“Sure. See that hologram on the left side of the podium? The one for UltraDyne Computers? I work for them, and they’re one of this guy’s sponsors, so part of my job duties include going to his rallies, and, of course, voting for him later today.”

“Your employer tells you who to vote for?”

“Of course. They are sponsoring him, after all. So I make sure to put in the requisite number of hours supporting our candidates.”

“What if you wanted to vote for someone else?”

The alien laughed. “Why would I do that? If he gets elected, UltraDyne will get some nice tax breaks and other benefits, which means I’ll probably get a bonus this year, as opposed to being laid off. Plus, they’d know if I voted for someone else and fire me immediately.”

“But, it just seems so … contrived.” Ian protested. He looked to the Twiller for support, but it just shrugged, apparently not surprised or particularly bothered by the system.

“Isn’t this how you do it on your planet?”

“No, of course not. You can vote for whomever you want. And companies can’t … I mean, they don’t officially sponsor … well, I suppose they can support certain candidates and donate to their campaigns. And I guess you could cynically argue that their support might earn them certain benefits down the line ….”

The alien snorted. “I would expect so. Otherwise, what are they paying for? Do you mean that this sort of thing isn’t all worked out in advance? You don’t know ahead of time that Gold Level supporters get such-and-such tax breaks while Platinum Level supporters get the tax breaks and anti-trust exemptions, or looser emissions standards, or whatever?”

“No!” Ian replied, with conviction.

“Well, that’s a ridiculous system!” the alien exclaimed, gesticulating its tentacles wildly. “How does anything get done with such uncertainty? And wouldn’t that lead to all kinds of shady, back-room deals and corruption and double-crossing? Politicians promising anything to get campaign contributions, and rarely following through on their word? Your planet must be backwards if the purchasing of favorable legislation isn’t even all out in the open!”

“Well, no, that’s not right,” Ian stammered, knowing the alien must be wrong but not quite sure how to rebut its arguments. “That’s a terrible system, where politicians are bought and sold by big corporations!”

“Who would you prefer owned them? Smaller companies? Oh sure, sometimes they get together and form a coalition to go halfsies on a candidate or split up the cost of a political sponsorship, but—”

“No, no,” Ian interrupted, “shouldn’t politicians, you know, have the best interests of the people at heart? Shouldn’t they do what’s best for the citizens?”

The alien was laughing uncontrollably by this point. “Yeah, right, the citizens. That’s a good one! First of all, the companies are really nothing but big groups of citizens, when you think about it. But, more importantly, you think any citizens could afford the massive advertising costs of a big campaign? Well,” the alien added thoughtfully, “maybe the presidents of some of the large corporations, but they just procure their politicians through the companies they own. They get better tax write-offs that way.”

Ian shook his head, flustered, but determined to talk some sense into this madman.

“Sorry man,” the alien said, glancing at its watch, “I have to run. I’ve gotta get to another couple of campaign rallies before I vote, not to mention the spontaneous grassroots protest scheduled for 5:30 this afternoon. I still have a lot of work to do before I can go home.”

“Wait a second,” Ian said, momentarily forgetting the argument. “What do you actually do for UltraDyne?” The alien just stared at Ian blankly. “I mean, what is your actual job there?”

The alien shook its head, small tendrils of seaweed-like hair flapping in the slight breeze. “Didn’t I just explain my whole workday to you?”

“That’s it?” Ian cried. “Attend rallies and speeches and protests and then go vote? That’s your job?” The alien nodded and Ian stared incredulously. “Well, what’s your job title, then?”

“Senior Vice President of Legislation Procurement,” the alien said proudly, and stalked away on three stumpy legs that thundered like tree trunks as it made its way across the lawn to the next candidate.

. . . . .

Ian tried to distance himself from the main square and its endless parade of candidates prattling about better schools and lower taxes and more effort for bipartisan compromise with the imbecilic space slugs of the opposing party. While Ian hadn’t devoted much time or energy to politics back on Earth, and had pretty much ignored it on his travels as well, it seemed inescapable here on WMD.

As he was walking, he was startled by a loud alien who shoved a flier in his face. “Right this way, sir, step right over here for the voter registration drive. Don’t worry,” it said, cutting off any attempt by Ian to respond, “I’ll take care of everything. The form is already pre-filled out, I will take care of your voter registration fee, and even provide you with the chip to insert into the polling station that will register your votes for all of the very best candidates and resolutions!”

The persistent man wore the same strange garb as the politician on the platform, emblazoned with corporate logos and slogans. In fact, now that Ian got a closer look at this politician, he could see numerous logos tattooed across the alien’s limbs and even parts of his face. Those must be for the big donors, Ian thought, impressed in spite of himself.

“And a flier for your Twiller, too,” the politician continued, trying to shove a much smaller flier at the Twiller, who scowled angrily, the tiny size of its mouth doing nothing to decrease the effect.

“I’m not interested,” said Ian, his experience with protestors in Bez Erkeley serving him well as he extricated himself from the politician, who promptly pounced on another group of tourists that was happening by.

Just then, a sporty aircar screamed past Ian, missing him by inches. It wove through the pedestrian walkway at reckless speed, until the driver lost control and slammed into a nearby utility pole. “Serves you right!” Ian shouted in the general direction of the accident, and he was relieved to see a police hovercar arrive promptly on the scene as the driver shakily stepped out of his wrecked aircar.

Ian stalked over to the scene of the accident, angry at the driver’s wanton disregard for pedestrian safety in general, and more importantly Ian’s safety in particular. “I saw the whole thing,” he offered helpfully to the police officer, who was an impressively built specimen that made Ian glad it was on his side. “This guy sped through here like a crazy person and almost hit me and my Twiller friend. We’re lucky to be alive,” he added, for emphasis.

“Twill,” added the Twiller helpfully.

“I see,” said the officer, scanning the wrecked vehicle with some sort of hi-tech device. “Yup, looks like he was traveling about triple the posted speed limit and watching videos on his cell phone while he did it. Don’t worry,” it said to Ian reassuringly, “he will be punished to the full extent of the law.”

The driver brushed himself off and looked at his ruined car forlornly for a brief moment, then shrugged and seemed to brighten up, even as the police officer approached him.

“I’m sure I don’t even need to tell you what this ticket is for, Mr. Parlenwonger, since it’s your twelfth one this week.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said the driver, handing over his credit chit.

“That will be ten bucks,” said the officer in as stern a voice it could muster. It swiped the credit chit and handed it back to the driver. “You’ve repaid your debt to society. Thank you, and drive safely.” The cop got back in its hovercar and floated briskly away.

“T–that’s it?” stammered Ian, his face red with rage. “Ten lousy bucks? I paid twenty times that for a hot dog!”

“Hey man,” said the driver, “lay offa me. You heard the officer: I paid my debt. Leave me alone.”

“Yeah, well, I hope that car of yours costs a fortune to repair!” Ian spat disdainfully.

“Ha,” laughed the alien, brushing long locks of well-moisturized hair from his face. “My insurance will cover it, backworlder. See, here they come now.”

Sure enough, a tow truck floated down and alighted near the wrecked aircar, with a pristine version of the same model strapped down to the back. A worker stepped out, lowered the replacement car to the turf with a remote control, and used a magnetic arm to secure the wrecked car to the back of the truck. It handed a small datapad to the driver, who signed it with a flourish. With that, it hopped back in its truck and zipped away.

The driver flashed Ian a smug look and opened the door to his new car.

“Well, I … I hope your premiums go way up!” Ian yelled, lamely.

The driver shook his head. “That’s not how it works here, moron,” he retorted. “My insurance company is subsidized by the government; I don’t have to pay a thing.” He laughed and pointed to a nearby billboard. “Didn’t you see the last election?”

Sure enough, plastered across the billboard was the smiling face of the mayor of WMD, with a huge AllGeic ProgFarm logo tattooed prominently on its forehead.

The driver slid into the brand-new aircar, slammed the door shut, and the sleek vehicle sped away even faster than before.

. . . . .

Ian headed away from the scene of the accident, watching for speeding aircars and trying to come to grips with how things worked on WMD. In amongst the campaign offices and electronic sign stores that lined the street, Ian spied a bar that seemed to beckon to him. “I sure could use a drink,” he said, motioning to the Twiller. His little friend seemed to agree, heading directly for the bar as Ian struggled to catch up.

Inside, Ian found about a dozen life forms scattered about the bar and various tables. They appeared to be regulars by the relaxed air they gave off and the way they seemed settled into their accustomed places. Ian strode over to the bar and sat down, grateful that a pleasant-looking alien bartender with seven slender arms quickly approached to take his order.

“How about that ambassadorial race?” she asked conversationally, inclining her head toward a large holovision projection over the bar. Ian glanced briefly at the picture, which showed some news correspondent prattling about polling results, and he simply replied with a noncommittal grunt. This seemed to satisfy the bartender just fine. “What can I getcha?” she asked.

Ian was never great at ordering drinks even back on Earth, where he had the advantage of experience and the helpful guidance of countless alcoholic beverage commercials to help him make up his mind. He never knew if he should try the local microbrew beer (which might be horrid), something manly like a whiskey (which he detested, and it made him gag), or some form of fruity drink that tasted great but inevitably caused women to snicker at him. Here, as Ian peered at various multicolored bottles lining the shelves behind the bar, he was at a loss.

Fortunately, the Twiller stepped in to save Ian from making yet another blunder in a lifetime filled with them, zipping over to one of the bottles and indicating it to the bartender by hovering nearby and bouncing excitedly up and down. The bartender reached out one long arm to grab the bottle from the shelf, a second to pick up a glass from under the bar, and a third to scoop ice into the glass. With practiced efficiency, she poured the hypnotic blue liquid into Ian’s glass and used a fourth arm to fill a tiny thimble, then placed the glass and thimble on the bar in front of Ian and the Twiller, respectively.

Ian inclined his head in thanks as the bartender nodded and sidled away. He turned to the Twiller and raised his glass to his friend, carefully sipping the exotic beverage. It was excellent, going down easy without being overly sweet, and it clearly had enough alcohol to give it a nice kick without violently rupturing Ian’s insides as the Supernova had. Ian relaxed noticeably and settled more comfortably onto his stool.

“Nice work, my man,” he complimented the Twiller, continuing to sip his drink and absently staring at the holovision. It had gone to commercial, and the sound, which had been comfortably muted, went up several decibels.

“Voter Resolution 945,” intoned a pleasant voice from hidden speakers as similar text scrolled across the holographic projection. “The most important, least controversial, and most beneficial resolution in at least a thousand years. Resolution 945 will provide disease-curing nutrients in our water supply, will eliminate all harmful industrial emissions overnight, will feed the hungry, provide homes for all citizens, provide free health care and immortality treatments to all, and save this small newborn wigglewurt.” Here, the screen showed an image of the cutest, most fluffy and cuddly creature Ian had ever laid eyes upon, some sort of cartoonish cross between a baby unicorn and a cotton ball, with seductive purple eyes that moved Ian to tears. “And Resolution 945 will do all this—that’s okay, little wigglewurt, these good voters will save you—without raising taxes or costing us a single buck. In fact, benevolent god-like beings from a parallel universe have promised to reward us with an infinite monetary supply if our voters are kindhearted enough to pass this resolution. So vote yes on Resolution 945, and solve all problems on this planet—forever.” The music here crescendoed into a tune so inspiring and uplifting that Ian was determined to find a way to register to vote, just to throw his support behind such a worthy cause.

Ian wiped a tear from his eye and took a long sip from his drink. “That was so—”

Ian’s thought was interrupted by a deep voice rumbling from the holovision, which had somehow been ratcheted up even louder than before. “Citizens of WMD,” it commanded alongside an ominous musical score, “we must implore you to stand united against the gravest threat our world has ever known. A voter resolution so heinous, so incontrovertibly evil, we barely need to tell you to vote against it—but we must, because the consequences would be so dire we can’t afford to take the chance.” Here, the holovision showed an image of another baby wigglewurt, or perhaps it was the same one, Ian couldn’t be sure. But this one was clearly frightened, whimpering and cowering, alone in the center of the screen. Suddenly, with a loud splurch, large, block letters that read ‘RESOLUTION 945’ slammed down on the helpless creature and flattened it into goo. Ian gasped and spilled his drink on the bar in shock.

“Resolution 945,” continued the voice, which sounded like James Earl Jones using a high-powered amplified megaphone from the center of a resonating chamber, “must be stopped at all costs. It seeks to raise our tax rates to 99.8%, throw expectant mothers out on the street without food or access to health care, cancel all schools and police services, provide escaped mental patients with antimatter warheads, and fund insidious scientific research to invent pollutants capable of killing all life on this planet. Voting no on this vile resolution is the single most important thing you will do in your entire lives. If we fail to defeat it,” the voice paused dramatically, “it will be the last election of your life.” The holovision dimmed to black. A few moments later, the newscaster reappeared, chattering away about the day’s weather, traffic, and the close election for the District 29 assistant water cooler re-filler position.

Ian looked around the bar, stunned by the contradictory proclamations he had just witnessed. The bar’s patrons continued to ignore the holovision, sipping their drinks in contented ignorance.

The bartender expertly reappeared and wiped Ian’s spilled drink with a damp rag while refilling his glass for him. Ian shook his head to clear it and took a long sip of the beverage simply because it tasted very, very good.

“Excuse me, miss,” he asked the bartender before she ambled away again, “but did you just see that commercial?”

“Which one?” she asked casually. “Was it about resolution … ?”

“Resolution 945,” Ian supplied helpfully. “Yes, that’s the one. Or, two, I should say.” He scratched at his temple fitfully.

“What about them?” she shrugged.

“Well, I mean, didn’t you hear what they said? One commercial claiming it solved all of life’s problems and then the next telling us it would end all life on the planet!”

“Yeah,” the bartender agreed, “they pretty much all say that. I mean, whoever has the most money to spend on advertisements pretty much says whatever they want.”

“But, how are voters possibly supposed to make a decision?”

“Oh, I just vote for whatever the GalactiTavern Corporation tells us to. There’s a helpful quiz we have to take each week to unlock our paychecks and transfer the funds to our accounts.”

Ian shook his head again. “Well, where do you come down on Resolution 945?”

“Lemme think,” she said, placing three hands on her chin in a posture that would have put Rodin to shame. “We’re for that one, I think.”

“But, what does it actually do?” Ian asked.

“Beats the heck out of me,” she admitted cheerfully, sauntering over to attend to another customer at the far end of the bar.

Ian looked to the Twiller for help, but his little friend just shrugged and turned to its thimble. Ian supposed his buddy had the right idea. Banishing the commercials from his mind, Ian resolved not to think any more about it, and went back to his drinking with renewed vigor.

That night, however, Ian dreamed about wigglewurts.

* * * * *

Part XI

Ian awoke in his hotel bed refreshed, and without any trace of hangover. He thought back to the night before and, once he had learned to steadfastly ignore the warring commercials on the holovision, he vaguely remembered having a wonderful evening at the bar with the Twiller and his new favorite drink. Sure, some of his memories were a bit fuzzy, like how he had gotten a hotel room and so forth, and he did cringe more than a little as he remembered that not only was he no longer on Earth, but that he still was on WMD. But, he checked to find that he had been alert enough to deposit a Bible into the drawer in the nightstand and he felt alive and refreshed. The Twiller seemed equally chipper, and it appeared to be typing something in on its tiny cell phone, which had once again miraculously reappeared.

“What are you doing over there?” Ian asked.

“Twill twill,” his yellow friend quickly replied, and the cell phone winked out of existence.

“That’s a neat trick,” Ian said as he languidly rose from the bed and stretched. Out of instinct, he reached for the remote to turn on the room’s holovision set and catch the morning news, but he quickly reconsidered, and locked the remote away in the room’s safe instead.

Feeling a sudden pang of hunger, Ian grabbed the phone off the nightstand and called for room service. “Hello, I’d like to order breakfast, please.”

“Certainly. What would you like, sir?”

“Hmmm,” Ian scratched absently at his chin, picking off a few stray hairs of white fur. “What do I want to eat? Let me think. I used to like waffles for breakfast, but then I changed my mind. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Perhaps I can suggest our specials,” replied the voice on the other end of the line. “Today we are featuring the Capitol Omelette, which is brought to you by Sparko Auberdine, candidate for chief food safety regulator. We also proudly serve Wosh Mington Waffles, smothered in cherry sauce and brought to you by Senator Boomfrazzle, who is seeking your support for a third term in office. Finally, we offer the Partisan Pancakes, one blueberry and one strawberry, brought to you by the SuperStuff Food Corporation.”

Ian was torn, but was also pretty sick of the advertisements, so he quickly settled on the waffles, in spite of his doubts. He was only moderately surprised when they arrived at his door, actually brought to him by Senator Boomfrazzle. Ian tipped him, promised his vote, and shooed the senator away.

Ian ate quickly, sharing some of his meal with the Twiller, then showered and dressed, exchanging his old dirty white terry cloth robe for a new one. Feeling refreshed but annoyed at the shower’s TV screen that he couldn’t turn off, he sauntered down to the lobby, where he sat on a comfortably sculpted couch while he pondered his next move.

Looking around, Ian winced as he saw a holovision set nearby (they seemed to be inescapable on the planet), but fortunately, the volume on this set was lowered to unobtrusive levels so as not to ruin the lobby’s sense of serene luxury. Ian found himself watching in spite of himself.

“Just a few moments ago,” began an attractive news anchor, “the trial of Robbie McRobberson concluded here in the courthouse behind me, and we are expecting the Chief Prosecutor, who is up for re-election next week, to give a statement any moment.” Just then, a team of well-dressed amphibians—or perhaps they were simply moist reptiles, Ian really had no way of knowing—emerged from the building and strode up to a podium filled with recording devices far too small for Ian to see. “Here he comes now,” added the newswoman helpfully. “Let’s see what he has to say.”

The largest and greasiest of the creatures leaned forward and addressed the assembled crowd. “We come to announce the historic verdict that was just handed down,” began the prosecutor in oily tones, “in the case of the single largest swindle of taxpayer money this planet has ever seen. As you are no doubt aware, Mr. McRobberson perpetrated a scheme so nefarious, so underhanded and vile, that it was almost assured that he would win a Senate seat. In the process, he violated countless financial regulations and committed fraud, perjury, the occasional murder, and vote tampering.” This last assertion elicited an angry grumbling from the spectators that had gathered. Ian supposed that a planet based almost entirely on elections would take such a charge pretty seriously.

“During the course of his illegal schemes, Mr. McRobberson defrauded private individuals, large corporations, and the government alike. As a result, he has made so much money that we have a team of mathematicians and linguists working tirelessly to come up with a name for the number, but we’re pretty sure it’s a Graham-something or a something-plex or some such thing. Anyway, it’s a whole lot of money, enough even to not only afford a meal for two plus appetizer at Chef Spiro’s Infinity Plus ultra-restaurant (so named due to the size of the bill), a pleasure cruise on the Impossible Dream mega-liner (cruises on which are so unaffordable, it has never left space dock), and a night with the incomparable Fertignyian triplets (who have harnessed their psychic powers to enable direct cortical stimulation), but also to have enough change left over to pay off the planet-wide debt and purchase everything on the planet twelve times over.”

Ian, engrossed despite himself, was suitably impressed by the vastness of the number.

“With his blatant disregard for consequences, this guy did so much damage, he nearly ruined our economy. He created the worst depression since the last Big Crunch, caused billions to lose their jobs, and even forced the cancellation of the basketball playoffs. The company that he managed made obscene profits as it flouted the rules, then went bankrupt and defaulted so utterly that it couldn’t even pay out more than two-thirds of its executive bonuses.” The prosecutor shook its head ruefully for the cameras.

“Well, citizens, I am very pleased to announce—and I believe now would be a great time to mention my re-election campaign, please donate generously and remember to vote next Thursday—that, through the tireless efforts of my office, we have brought this criminal to justice!”

There was a spotty cheer from the assembled spectators, although their hearts really didn’t seem in it.

“The verdict handed down a moment ago was strict, the very maximum punishment allowable by law. That’s right, my constituents, Mr. McRobberson was sentenced to pay back almost every buck he carried with him in cash!”

The cheer this time was quite definitely less than enthusiastic, perfunctory even.

“Of course,” the prosecutor said automatically, “we couldn’t go after his off-world accounts, or his sheltered on-planet accounts, or those he set up under false names, or in the names of dummy corporations. We also couldn’t touch any of the money he transferred to his father, the notorious Baron von Robberson. And we couldn’t reclaim most of his assets, since he is of course allowed to maintain his private residence, which now spans almost the entire continent of Jefferson, along with a few assorted personal effects and sports stadiums.” At this, a small alarm bell tingled somewhere in the back of Ian’s brain, but he ignored it, enraptured. “But we were able to confiscate 713 bucks he had in his personal possession, along with a fairly expensive watch and two tickets to the opera for this evening. We only left him with barely enough cash for a couple of meals and a cab ride home,” he added softly, almost as an afterthought.

“So,” he said, brightening, “I think it’s safe to say we sure taught him a lesson! We hit him where it hurts—his pocketbook—to ensure that not only does he never repeat his schemes, but to serve as a lesson to any out there who might be tempted to follow down the same path to ruin!”

Just then, the doors to the courthouse opened, and a well-dressed alien aristocrat emerged, flanked by bodyguards and svelte alien women, and he strode briskly down the courthouse steps. He waved away the cameramen and hastily got into a waiting limousine that appeared to be made of pure gold, which quickly rose off the ground and sped away. To be fair, he did appear to be mildly annoyed at the loss of his watch.

“Well,” said the news anchor as the crowds dispersed, “there you have it. Justice has been served, and once again our elected officials have ensured that the system works, and that crime doesn’t pay. I mean, doesn’t pay all that well. Or, not as much as it could have paid if he wasn’t caught and fined. Anyway, reporting from the downtown courthouse, I’m Fembot Mark VII for Channel 14 News.”

Ian shook his head again and resolved to drink more and watch less holovision.

. . . . .

Walking out of the hotel into the bright noontime suns of WMD, Ian began to wander more or less at random, as he had no clue where the nearest pub was or how to get back to the one from the previous evening. He walked by the ever-present campaign rallies as well as a few nutball protestors ranting about fiscal irresponsibility and government corruption and something called “moral hazard.” Ian doubted that any of it pertained to him, and he walked on.

Ian paused as a bus hovered past, and the large ad on the side caught his eye, mainly because it was the first ad he had seen that was not for some candidate or other. It showed a white marble building called the Library of Congress. Remembering how peaceful and informative the library on Bez Erkeley had turned out to be, Ian flagged down a passing presidential candidate and asked for directions to the library. After promising his vote for the answer, Ian was directed to walk a few blocks to the east and handed a campaign flier, which he used to clean underneath his fingernails.

He followed the candidate’s directions, and was not surprised to find that they were technically accurate but rather misleading, and it took him almost an hour to find the building. It was a majestic, inspiring structure, and it seemed to Ian that it beckoned to him with the promise of some critical clue locked away within its walls. Ian strode inside with authority.

Ian entered the lavishly appointed building and gazed up at the high, arched ceilings, expensively marbled walls, and elegant chandeliers. Though impressive and obviously well-maintained, the great building appeared to be empty, save for a single bored attendant behind an onyx desk.

The guard looked at Ian expectantly as he approached, and the Twiller helpfully zoomed in front of a small sign on the desk that read, “Library Materials for the Use of Elected Officials Only.” Ian straightened up, and, in a fit of daring, waved at the security guard behind the desk in his best impersonation of a politician. “Good day, my good constituent. I’m Senator Hurstbottom, please remember to vote for me next week. My platform is free money-printing machines for everyone.”

The guard seemed impressed, nodding in agreement with Ian’s hastily-invented platform, and it waved him through the turnstile and into the library.

Inside, vast bookshelves made of dark wood rose nearly to the ceiling, several stories above. As Ian got closer, he saw small, spider-shaped robots perched at regular intervals along each bookshelf. Their padded arms seemed perfectly suited to grab and retrieve books on the upper shelves; however, they gave Ian the creeps, and he resolved to only look at books within his reach.

Once again, with the Twiller’s help, Ian found the history section and selected a large tome entitled “WMD for Dummies.” Ian opened the book and briefly skimmed the introduction, which explained that:

The planet of Wosh Mington Deecee, customarily abbreviated WMD, was named after the first president of the colony, the war hero General Wosh Mington. Wosh Mington was much revered for numerous gallant exploits, the more well-known of which were when he skipped his credit chit across the Pot ‘o Mac River, when he used a plasma torch to cut down a tinklefruit tree in order to sell the wood to finance his first campaign, and his promise to “have the planet named after me,” which swept him into office.

Ian yawned and skipped past chapters on the founding of WMD, its ancient history, something about variants in parallel universes (Ian had no idea what that had to do with anything), its revolutionary government system, and its civil war, settling in to focus on the more recent chapters, all of which discussed the political system on the planet.

Ian paged past tables of thousands of elected posts and their election days, but in skimming, he did see a “Tip” in a gray box in the margin that told him the average term of office was about 10 days. It also mentioned that some contrarian scholars implied that such brief election cycles lent themselves to short-term thinking at the expense of the long-term good, and that, since your average campaign took several years of fund-raising, elected officials spent nearly all of their time campaigning, which left relatively little time for the actual “governing” part of running the government. However, the tip box helpfully pointed out that those mundane government functions were efficiently farmed out to private companies.

Ian skipped ahead to a random page and started reading a footnote that caught his eye.

This revered document, maintained at the WMD National Museum, serves as the basis for the entire WMD political and economic system. In it, our founding colonists set forth the four branches of our government and their respective powers. During the course of its restoration, for which the OmniSupreme Corporation won the contract at great expense, their expert document restorers uncovered several previously hidden clauses that shed new light on the original writers’ intentions. The most well-known of these clauses, titled “Article 3.5,” spelled out the powers of the fourth branch of government, corporations, including their power to administer and conduct elections, as they still do to this day. For more information on how OmniSupreme was awarded the first election management contract based on their astounding discovery, please see Chapter 39.

Ian put the large book down and wandered over to the newspaper section in search of some more up-to-date information, and also possibly some comics. He picked up a thin electronic tablet and selected the first newspaper (the Daily Pontificator) from the touch-screen menu. It opened to the day’s headlines.

Risk, Inc. and its CEO, Richie Pursestrings, received a favorable ruling from the Federal Bailout Board today when the Board’s chairman, for whom Risk, Inc. is a primary sponsor, broke the tie and voted to award 47 trillion bucks to the company in order to stave off bankruptcy after it wagered all of its investors’ assets on a long-shot in the Lytragian smickle-bird races. “The resulting economic calamity to taxpayers if we allowed Risk, Inc. to fail would have been … [Tap here to read more]

Johnny Frumplewagon was elected today in a close race that pitted Frumplewagon against his former cellmate, Spotty McGraw. “I am proud to be elected as Chief Justice,” said Frumplewagon, donning his black robes of office, “and I promise harsh punishment for convicted criminals like Mr. McGraw.” Frumplewagon’s first official act was to pardon himself for all alleged crimes during his campaign and also for the numerous charges of … [Tap here to read more]

In sports news, the UltraDyne Capitalists won the Corporate Cup in dramatic fashion when a late goal was overturned by head referee Sparky Umberschmidt, who was seen driving away in a brand-new luxury space yacht with UltraDyne license plates. Capitalist halfback Nafis Beck scored three goals and … [Tap here to read more]

Ian was interrupted by some noise coming from the entrance of the otherwise-silent library. There, he saw a tattooed politician arguing with the desk attendant, who appeared confused and clearly flustered by all the excitement of what normally seemed to be an excruciatingly boring job. It scratched its head with a scaly, spatula-shaped hand, scraping off layers of skin that flaked off its forehead.

“But that’s impossible,” said the politician, whose facial ridges were swollen with the rightful indignation for which its species was famous (and very successful politically). “Because I am Senator Hurstbottom.”

. . . . .

After being kicked out of the Congressional Library (Ian had been terrified at first, but had simply been ordered to return the book to its shelf and pay a three-buck fine), Ian sat on a bench and pondered the odds that (a) the name he picked to impersonate a senator turned out to be a real senator (not very unlikely, considering the number of politicians on the planet), and (b) that particular senator would show up at the library at the same time as Ian (pretty unlikely). Ian shrugged. It’s not like he was getting any great information from the library anyway.

Next door to the library was a similarly designed building that seemed significantly more popular. Lines of tourists extended from a set of ticket booths and several tour buses hovered outside. Carved into the stonework above the large main entrance were the words “National Museum.” Something in the back of Ian’s brain clicked, as he remembered reading something in the library about the National Museum, though he couldn’t recall quite what. Not having anything better to do, Ian waited in the ticket line for a while, where he was first forced to fend off campaign pitches from politicians that milled about nearby, and then had to rebuff the candidates directly in front of and behind him in line as well. He was rewarded for his patience by the blob-like thing behind the ticket counter telling him that Gideons got in free. On the down side, he had to pay for the Twiller, but, thinking quickly, Ian had gotten the child rate for his yellow friend. After all, how could anyone possibly disprove the age of a twiller?

Ian entered the museum and was instantly bored. He wasn’t sure why he thought the history of some alien culture would interest him when he couldn’t stand museums back on Earth. The Twiller, on the other hand, seemed quite interested, zooming over to the nearest display and studying it intently. Ian tagged along behind his little friend, feigning interest in an effort to show that humans could be just as cerebral as the small marshmallow-shaped creatures.

“Twiiiilll,” it cooed, reading a panel set before an assortment of ancient weapons and a holographic representation of some famous battle. “Twill twill,” it said, with great interest.

“Mmm-hmmm” agreed Ian.

“Twill,” it said, motioning to the battle scene and quivering enthusiastically.

“Yeah, cool,” Ian agreed.

The Twiller turned back to Ian with an annoyed expression. “Twill twill,” it said sternly.

“I’m sorry,” Ian replied to the being who had a single-word vocabulary, “you’re right. I’m not being much of a conversationalist.”

They walked to the next display and Ian found himself perking up, partly from the Twiller’s mild rebuke and partly because a small crowd was gathered around the next exhibit. Also, prismatic beams of light cast by projectors in the ceiling surrounded the area in a colorful glow, Ian had to ascend a small platform as he approached, and there were a pair of stern-looking guards flanking the display case. Ian waited for the crowd to part and eventually nudged closer to the glass protecting the object of this key exhibit.

As he got closer, he could read the large plaque that fronted the display before he could see the actual object itself. Interested despite himself, Ian read.

What you see behind the twelve layers of Indestruct-O-Glass (don’t even try it, there’s no point really) is the original document that founded our great nation. Penned by a group of patriots that included the great Wosh Mington, the original drafters wanted a document that served as an everlasting reminder of the ideals they held so natural and intuitive as to be self-evident. Thus, they called this venerated charter the

Constant Intuition

The Constant Intuition is nearly 300 years old, yet its drafters had enough foresight to craft a system that persevered and adapted over the centuries. Through its system of “checks and balances,” it was ensured that each of the first three branches of government—the executive, legislative, and judicial branches—could be kept in check by the fourth branch, the corporate branch.

The drafters were also wise enough to “hide” some of the key passages of the Constant Intuition to be uncovered later. Historians generally agree that this was done in order to allow for one set of rules during the formative stages of the country, and then a new set once technology had reached the point where we could read the obscured passages. Pretty brilliant, those original drafters.

You may notice as you read the document that parts of the text are illegible or faded away. While the OmniSupreme Corporation did a fantastic job with the restoration over fifty years ago, some of the text was too badly faded to save. Of course, OmniSupreme was wise enough to lock the original document in an unbreakable temporal stasis field, so that it could never again be damaged by later examination.

Finally, a wide purple alien shuffled out of the way and Ian stepped up to the glass barrier and gazed upon the ancient document. For a moment, he felt a stunning sense of déjà vu, as if he had seen this document before. He shook his head to clear it, but the faint memory persisted as he gazed at the ancient words, scribed with care in a flowing script in two vertical columns.

The plaque’s description had been correct: several of the letters were faded away, even in the title itself, so that all that remained from the original “CONSTANT INTUITION” were the letters: C-O-N-S-T-I-T-U-T-I-O-N. Ian continued reading, and the recognition slammed into him as he read the first words, causing him to stagger back half a step in shock. While he was hardly a historical scholar, even Ian recognized the three large words printed across the top of the left-hand column.

“We The People ….”

* * * * *

Part XII

Ian staggered out of the museum, the Twiller trailing behind him and urging him to stay. But Ian was too badly shaken; the nightmarish world of WMD was based all too clearly on the same document that served as the foundation for his own government back on Earth. Some perverted, parallel universe version, sure, but essentially the same. Ian even remembered the talk about the various branches of the government from history class. He had to get home, not just for his own sanity but also to warn his planet about the terrible consequences that could befall our government if it wasn’t careful. He had a vision of himself strolling into the White House and explaining things to the president, who, impressed with Ian’s other-worldly experiences and how quickly he had put together the whole parallel universe thing, would step down and appoint Ian as president in his place so that he could set the Earth back on the right track.

Of course, the likelihood of any of that happening was about the same as finding an honest politician on WMD, but Ian didn’t realize that, so his newfound hope reinvigorated him. Ian had finally figured out his purpose. He even hoped that Colonel Sanders would call again.

“Let’s go, Twill,” he said, stalking away from the museum and toward the ring of hovering tour busses that encircled the building. Ian looked about for a moment, then walked to the closest bus that had people getting on. He and the Twiller blended into the line, and Ian tapped his foot impatiently as the wrinkled aliens ahead of him slowly filed onto the bus. Eventually, Ian made it on board, and he made his way to the back as the aliens settled themselves onto the brightly colored seats. Ian selected a row at random and sat on a padded seat next to a loudly snoring alien. He checked the seat pocket in front of him to find a brochure of a pair of smiling aliens playing some form of shuffleboard, surrounded by a tropical beach. The brochure’s captions exhorted the “Many Great Activities” and “Relaxing Residential Communities” and “Lots of Sunshine.” That sounded just fine to Ian, so he leaned back in his seat and waited for the bus to hover off.

A few minutes later, the hoverbus pulled away from the museum and headed for an express wormhole junction that had a long line of hoverbusses, space yachts, and commercial shuttles waiting to enter it. One by one, they entered the wormhole and winked out of existence.

Tired from his ordeal, Ian closed his eyes and was soon asleep, and therefore missed seeing the Twiller come to an emphatic conclusion and enter a single, crisp command on his cell phone device. He also missed two rather boring movies shown on the monitors overhead, as well as a spirited game of bingo being played two rows back. He was woken up several times, however, by the elderly alien seated next to him, who needed to get by Ian to go to the restroom in the back of the bus approximately every 45 minutes.

. . . . .

Ian awoke as the bus lurched to a stop and the alien in the adjacent seat poked Ian with a long, rigid appendage with a rubbery tip. Ian groggily got out of his seat and into the aisle, the cranky elderly alien following behind him. It walked on three legs: two sagging, fleshy stumps and the stronger one it had prodded Ian with. Belatedly, Ian realized it was a cane.

Ian stepped off the air-conditioned hoverbus and was immediately hit by a wall of heat that seemed to slam into him and singe his eyebrows. The air was not only hot, but oppressively humid, and Ian staggered a few steps feeling like he was trudging through soup. The heat beat down on Ian mercilessly, and he shielded his eyes, but thought he could count four, maybe five suns, all of which appeared very large in the sky above.

He looked to the Twiller, who seemed to be turning from yellow to pink to red before Ian’s eyes. He held out his elbow, and the Twiller gratefully swooped underneath its shade to escape the searing rays. Ian looked around and quickly headed under a nearby tree, where the temperature in the shade was merely miserable, but did not appear to be life-threatening any longer.

“We’ve gotta find some air conditioning,” Ian remarked, watching as the elderly aliens finished filing off the bus and sped away in waiting golf carts. He was near an intersection, and he looked down the streets in all four directions until he spotted what he thought was a restaurant or tavern—it was hard to tell through the heat haze that rippled off the pavement, which actually boiled in places. “Ready?” Ian asked the Twiller, inclining his head in the direction of the restaurant. The Twiller nodded once and shot away, faster than Ian had ever seen it move. He ran after it, his terry cloth robe already drenched in sweat, and arrived under the awning just in time to hopefully avoid an epic sunburn. He quickly grasped the bronze door handle and pulled, and was rewarded by a glorious blast of cold, air-conditioned air as he stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him and his Twiller friend.

Ian stood, panting, for a few moments as he flapped open his robe to let the cool air soothe his body. He almost thought he could hear his skin hissing as it cooled off.

“Very nice,” said a hostess, staring at where Ian belatedly realized his underwear would be, if he had been wearing any, which he most certainly was not. He quickly pulled his robe shut and tried to stammer an apology.

“Don’t worry about it,” the hostess said, casually flipping back a strand of purple hair. “We get lots of flashers in here.”

“No, no,” stammered Ian, not sure if he should eat at a place where flashers were such an everyday occurrence. “It’s just that I’m so hot. No, I mean, not ‘hot,’ I mean I’m actually sizzling.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said the hostess, popping some bubblegum in her mouth. “You were okay. Above average, maybe.” The Twiller snickered and Ian shot it a dirty look.

“That’s not what I—oh, never mind,” Ian sighed. “Hey,” he said, brightening, “is that a bar?”

“Sure is,” she replied, waving a delicate hand in that direction. “The bar is self seating.”

“Great,” said Ian, and he walked over to it. He then learned what the term “self-seating” meant in this sector of the Universe, as a barstool leaped up, grabbed Ian, and forcibly shoved him down on top of it.

“Good enough,” said Ian, relatively unfazed by the experience. He was sitting at a bar, and that meant things weren’t all that bad.

As he waited for the bartender, Ian’s stomach reminded him of its existence with a loud gurgle. He reached for a menu with the name “Flanny Gan’s” emblazoned across the cover and pored over it.

“Does anything look good to you?” he asked the Twiller.

Before it could respond, an alien seated nearby turned to Ian and looked him up and down. “Not particularly,” it said. “Although you do have a nice pink coloration to you.”

Ian wasn’t sure how to respond to the creature, a largish freckled albino with fire-red hair. In fact, its hair actually appeared to be on fire. But, since it didn’t seem to bother the creature, Ian didn’t make a big deal of it.

“Well,” Ian replied after a moment, “I certainly feel well-done after being outside in that heat. I think I know what a steak feels like now.” He offered a small chuckle, hoping that humor was the way to go.

The alien stared at him intently. It seemed to be sizing him up. “You might be right,” it said thoughtfully. “You probably would make a fine steak. Not the leanest cut, certainly, but look at all that nice marbling there.” He pinched the flab under Ian’s biceps. “And you’ve probably never worked a day in your life. Those anemic muscles of yours would be awfully tender. You’d hardly need any marinade at all. Just a little seasoning, seared at 600 degrees for a couple of minutes on each side, then low heat for another six, six-and-a-half minutes per side. Cover you up and let you rest for five minutes, and you’d be perfect.”

Ian stared at the creature in shock, and tried to slip off the barstool to sit farther away. But the stool still held him securely, apparently unwilling to let him go before he ate or drank anything.

“The name’s John,” said the creature cheerfully, and Ian was relieved to see that the slightly hungry look had faded from its eyes. “I make the best steaks on the planet. I’ll have to make you one sometime.”

Ian tried to ignore the slight ambiguity in the creature’s last statement. “Nice to meet you, John,” Ian replied, grateful to meet someone with such a normal name. “So, what’s good here?”

“The ribs,” replied John without hesitation. “Best ribs in the galaxy. One day I’ll get myself a smoker, invent my own barbecue sauce recipe, and slow-cook ‘em all day until the meat just drips off the bone.” He shrugged. “Until then, I just come here.”

Just then, the bartender sauntered over, wiping a mug with a ratty cloth and succeeding only in smudging some dirt around it. “I’ll have the ribs,” Ian proclaimed, snapping the menu shut. “A whole mess of ‘em.”

The bartender just nodded and headed back to put in the order.

“Good choice,” said John, sliding onto the barstool next to Ian. He downed the remnants of a huge tankard of beer. “So, where are you from? Not around here, I take it?”

“How do you know that?” Ian asked.

“Easy,” John shrugged. “You can’t take a little Fleur Ida heat, and the first three suns have already set for the day. You should see what it’s like at high noon.”

Ian shuddered even contemplating it.

“We get a lot of tourists down here,” John explained. “They’re always complaining about the heat and the bugs, which I have to admit are pretty nasty.” He waved at the bartender to refill his beer. “I’m really not sure why they all come visit in the first place.”

Ian considered explaining that he never seemed to end up anywhere voluntarily these days, but he glanced up and was relieved to see the bartender arriving with John’s beer and Ian’s meal. A huge rack of ribs dominated the plate, dwarfing a decent-sized baked potato and what seemed to be a purely superfluous tiny cup of cole slaw.

Ian started in on his meal ravenously, and, as the meat slid effortlessly off the bone, he thought, just for that moment, that perhaps everything had been worth it. Definitely the best ribs in the galaxy.

“Told ya,” said John smugly, and not even that could bother Ian just then.

. . . . .

Ian stared at the empty plate in front of him and gently placed a hand on his swollen belly. He was obscenely full. In fact, he had never eaten so much in his life, as he had never had anything so delicious in his life before. He sat contentedly for a moment, certain he would never eat again.

“I’m impressed,” said John. “I never thought a scrawny thing like you could finish off a full rack.”

Ian responded with a vigorous belch that startled the Twiller, who had been uninterested in the ribs and had instead feasted on the cole slaw. “I think I need to use the restroom,” said Ian, easing himself off the barstool.

John shook his head violently. “I wouldn’t do that,” he advised. “It’s not safe.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ian, stopping in his tracks. “What’s in there?”

John let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s what I’d like to know.” He shook his head again.

“I–I don’t understand. Then why do you say it’s not safe?”

John sighed and leaned an elbow on the bar. Ian had the unsubstantiated but certain feeling that he was in for a long and disconcerting explanation, so he sat back down as well.

“It’s those rings,” John began. “Those paper things you put over the toilet seat before you sit.”

“Yes?” asked Ian. “Are they made of some caustic material that will burn human flesh? Will touching one teleport me somewhere hideous? Are there parasitic aliens that take the shape of those paper rings and invade your body through—”

John, thankfully, cut him off. “No. Don’t be retarded. They’re just paper. You’ve been in space too long.”

Ian could not argue. “Well, what then? Do they not have them here or something?”

“Oh, it’s much worse than you think!” John’s voice gained volume and strength. “They have them, all right. That’s the problem.”

Ian thought it was best to not ask any more silly questions, and just let his surly friend explain.

“You see,” John continued, “almost every bathroom in civilized sectors of space has those paper rings in a dispenser by the toilets. You know, the dispensers that say ‘Provided By The Management For Your Protection’?”

“Yeah,” said Ian, glad to hear something familiar. “Yes, I know those very well. We have those on my planet.” Ian felt rather proud.

“Hmph,” John snorted. “The slug-beasts of Ventribula IV have them too, and they mate in cocoons made of their own excrement.”

Ian felt a bit less proud, but only just a bit.

“Anyway,” said John, “didn’t those ever concern you? Didn’t you ever wonder about those? I mean, they don’t say ‘Provided By The Management For Your Improved Hygiene.’ Or ‘Provided By The Management For Your Comfort.’ Or ‘Provided By The Management For Your Piece Of Mind.’”

“Well—”

“No!” interrupted John, who was nearly shouting now. “They are provided for your protection! Which implies—no, it states—that you must be protected from something, does it not? Now, what would you need to be protected from? Do you know? Do you? From some sort of danger, right? I mean, what sorts of things must you be protected from? Do you need to be protected from money? I don’t think so. Do you need to be protected from young, beautiful, horny women? Uh-uh. Do you need to be protected from gold? Or a nice Porterhouse steak? Do you? Well, do you?”

Ian opened his mouth to speak, but John rose from the barstool with great menace in his eyes and hate in his heart, and Ian thought the better of it.

“No, you’re damned right you don’t!” John continued to raise his voice, and other patrons at the bar were beginning to move away from him. “No one needs to be protected from any of those things. No, you only need to be protected from danger. And isn’t danger, by it’s very nature of being dangerous, grave danger? So the question I ask you, silly alien, is this: what exactly do you need protection from? What nefarious sort of grave danger lurks in those bathroom stalls?”

“I guess I never really—”

“That’s right you didn’t,” John forcefully interjected, without really knowing what Ian was about to say. “But I’ll tell you what you do need to be protected from. Radiation, how about that one? I’d say you need to be protected from radiation. How about from the Ebola virus? Hm? I’d certainly like to be protected from that. Ravenous space dragons. The Plague. The Scourge of Hezboth VII. Oh, yes, we need protection from all of those things. And how about terrorists? We definitely need protection from them.”

“Right,” said Ian, figuring a one-word comment would have a chance of getting through the tirade.

“But it gets worse. It gets much, much worse. Because we both agree that there is some grave danger in that bathroom stall, presumably right there on the toilet seat, that we need protection from. Some evil, lurking, terrorist germs and God-knows-what ready to infect and violate our God-knows-where. But what does this kind and benevolent ‘management’ provide to protect us? A shield, perhaps? An antidote or vaccine? Maybe a blaster, or an armed guard? Some kind of force field? No! A flimsy, one-atom-thick ring of paper, that’s what! A wafer-thin sheet of absorbent material—not latex, or titanium—no, it’s just this crappy little thin little stupid little piece of freaking paper!” John really was actually (not just nearly) shouting now, and Ian was rather afraid, partly of the toilet danger, but mostly of John.

John gathered himself a bit, and continued. “So if you think I’m going in there—in there with that … that … whatever the hell danger is lurking in there, armed with nothing but a flimsy little piece of paper for ‘protection’ … well, you’ve got another thing coming.” Spent from his tirade, John cast one last suspicious glance in the general direction of the bathroom, and sat back down.

Ian exhaled a long breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He looked to the bathroom in fear. Of course someone named “John” would know quite a lot about toilets. Ian crossed his legs and resolved not to think about the gurgling in his abdomen any longer.

. . . . .

Several hours and many pitchers of beer later, Ian’s bladder was close to bursting. But, John insisted he would be safer relieving himself outside than in the nefarious bathroom. So, they paid their bill and headed to the door, where Ian paused for a moment to brace himself for the heat.

He opened the door and a wave of warm, damp air hit him like the breath of a ravenous space dragon. Thankfully, most of the planet’s suns had set, and the warmth of the evening was bearable, if still unpleasant. Ian quickly dashed behind a tree to empty his bladder, and came back feeling much better. He noticed the Twiller had dashed behind a small shrub for apparently the same reason.

John nodded in approval and looked both ways down the empty street. “So, where are you headed for the night?” As if on command, the flames dancing about his hair receded to a subdued smoldering.

“Oh, I figure I’ll just find the nearest hotel,” Ian replied.

“Nah,” said John. “You don’t need a hotel. Not during the off-season.”

“Why’s that?”

“See all those condos a few blocks down, along the beach?” John motioned toward an unbroken line of tall and mid-size buildings. “They’re packed with northerners during the winter, but now they’re all empty. Plenty of great places to crash.”

Sure enough, not a single light shone from any of the many windows in the line of buildings. They appeared deserted, standing in stark, silent silhouette against the setting rays of the last evening sun.

“So, they’re all just vacant?” Ian asked.

“Oh yeah. I’ve got that whole building to myself.” John pointed to the nearest building, then cast his gaze skyward. “If we can get over there, we’ll be fine.”

Ian’s muscles tensed, and he followed John’s eyes as they darted around the sky. He couldn’t see anything in the dusky twilight, but he thought he sensed a far-off buzzing sound. “What do you mean, if we can get over there?”

John paused his observations long enough to give Ian a look. “Oh, right, you’re not from around here.” He reached into a holster on his hip and pulled out a heavy, black gun that oozed power. The thing was massive, twice as thick as any gun Ian had seen, but John hefted it with practiced ease in one solid hand. “Just stick with me. And run.”

With that, John took off toward the buildings, and Ian followed behind, struggling to keep up. John’s head swiveled back and forth as he scanned the sky, but he thankfully glanced back to Ian and slowed for him to catch up. “Faster,” John huffed. “They’re getting closer.”

Ian didn’t even want to know what ‘they’ were, so he just concentrated on following John and running as fast as he could. The buzzing sound had definitely gotten louder, and appeared to be coming from all directions at once. The Twiller rushed ahead, effortlessly keeping up with John and twilling encouragingly for Ian to keep up.

“Damn!” shouted John. “Too slow.” He veered off and took shelter under a metal awning covering a closed T-shirt shop. “Under here!”

Ian complied, darting behind John and nervously looking out at the sky behind him.

The buzzing sound was definitely louder, still coming from all directions but now Ian could make out a single, louder buzzing sound, and the source seemed to be moving. John gripped his pistol in both hands and waited.

A dark shape flashed overhead, and Ian caught a brief glimpse as John’s gun thundered and the enormous muzzle flash illuminated the flying creature overhead. The monster was black like the darkest night, slender in form but the size of a flying Labrador Retriever. Two pairs of huge translucent wings blurred together as they beat at a feverish pace. The flash reflected off a pair of huge, bulbous, compound eyes on the creature’s head, and a long, slender spike jutted from its head like a rapier blade.

John’s aim was true, and the beast buckled as it was hit, losing altitude as it absorbed the powerful bullet impact. But it quickly recovered before it hit the ground, and darted toward John from chest height, its foot-long spike aimed to skewer his neck.

John fired twice more, three times, and the creature finally slammed loudly to the ground, only a few feet away. Its wings buzzed in one final, spasmodic twitch, and then it lay still, bright red blood gushing from its wounds. Evil seemed to roll off the creature in waves.

“Fiend,” John spat. “Looks like it’s already fed tonight.” He nodded to the blood.

Ian could only stare at the thing, a beast straight out of his nightmares, but somehow revoltingly familiar.

“We’d better get to shelter,” John said, and dashed the last half block to the condo building. Ian raced after him, glancing over his shoulder to see a swarm of the creatures descending from the skies behind them. He began to scream, but John jerked him up by his collar, pulling him the last few steps and inside the building. John quickly pulled the door shut behind them.

Ian collapsed to the tile floor, panting, and was relieved to see the Twiller floating nearby. “What in God’s name … ?” he asked breathlessly. “Are we safe?”

“Yup,” John said as he casually re-holstered his gun. He reached down and helped Ian back to his feet. “I told you the mosquitoes down here are no joke.”

* * * * *

Part XIII

After taking a few moments to catch his breath, Ian took a slow, cheaply decorated elevator to the fifth floor of the condo building, where John stepped off and headed a few doors down the hall. He opened the door (which did not appear to be locked) and Ian followed him inside.

The door opened into the kitchen, and Ian immediately went to the sink to splash some cold water on his face. The knob on the left was marked “HOT,” with a large icon of a fireball and the word “CAUTION” in several languages. Ian turned the other knob, and screamed as his hands were scalded by the searing hot water that came out of the faucet.

“The cold water doesn’t come out right away,” John admonished him. “You have to give the cold water cooler a chance to kick in.”

Sure enough, Ian waited a few seconds and the steam started to dissipate. He timidly put his hands under the water and was relieved to find it was only lukewarm.

“That’s about as cold as it gets,” John shrugged.

Ian splashed water on his face, wiping away some of the sweat and cooling off a bit. He dried his face on a nearby dishtowel and stepped out of the kitchen, looking around the rest of the apartment.

The place was a mess. Empty pizza boxes, papers, and general trash were strewn across the floor and covered the tables. It appeared John didn’t much care about the condition he left his borrowed apartment in.

“Jeez,” said Ian. “Can’t you clean this place up? Would it kill you to sweep, or vacuum the place?”

“Oh no,” replied John. “Nature abhors a vacuum.”

Ian didn’t know how to respond, but just then, his cell phone rang from his pocket. There was only one man it could be.

“Could you excuse me for a minute?” Ian asked. John nodded, and Ian headed out to the balcony to take the call. The Twiller followed him out.

“Hello,” said Ian, “Mr. Sanders, I presume?”

“That’s Colonel Sanders,” the voice replied. Ian suppressed a chuckle. “Okay wise guy, I see you still think this is all one big joke.”

“Well,” Ian replied with a sigh, “I must have traveled halfway across the Universe by now. I’ve spent time performing in a circus, in a ‘spaceship’ with the approximate shape and spaceworthiness of an old green Buick, and more spaceports than I care to remember. I’ve been chased by ravenous space dragons, bloodthirsty politicians, and mosquitoes large enough to carry away a small child … and the car she’s riding in. I’ve been poked, prodded, arrested, insulted, and born. So, unless you are calling to tell me that you have a way for me to get home ….”

Colonel Sanders lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Mr. Harebungler, your mission has been an unqualified success. We have arranged for you to return home. A transport shuttle will be sent to pick you up and bring you back to Earth.”

Ian could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Sanders, if this is a trick—”

“No trick, son. You have served your country well, even though no other living soul in the country knows of your mission. Or of the NETSA. Or of me. Or, of course, you. Nonetheless, you have been invaluable.”

“I have? I mean, yes, I would think that I have been.”

“The data you have collected for us will enable me to prevent a terrible catastrophe from befalling the planet. But, since I am the only one with the requisite security clearance, I am the only one who knows of the threat, the only one who can use the knowledge you’ve gained to protect the Earth.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Isn’t that a bit dramatic? I mean, surely it’s not that bad, sir,” he added, afraid he had gone too far.

Sanders’ voice grew hard. “Harebungler, you have no idea what’s really going on in the Universe. Nothing is as it seems. Nobody can be trusted. What you think is merely random chance has actually been a carefully orchestrated plot initiated by—wait, are you alone?”

Ian looked around. John was still inside, making a token effort to clean the apartment. The balcony, which was screened in by a thick chain-link fence with “HIGH VOLTAGE” signs, had only an impressively-sized barbecue grill. All the nearby balconies appeared to be deserted. It was just Ian and the Twiller.

“Yes, Colonel, it’s just me.”

“Good, I had almost forgotten security protocols and ruined the entire mission. That was careless of me. I’ll have to self-administer another round of electroshock therapy.”

“Wait,” said Ian. “Get back to the part where I get to come home.”

Ian had the distinct sense that Sanders was looking to either side to ensure no one was listening before he continued. “Right. I like your focus, son.”

“Why do you keep calling me ‘son’?”

“Um, it’s your code name,” Sanders said after only the shortest of pauses. “Yeah, code name. Now, do you want to get back to Earth or don’t you?”

“I do, Colonel.”

“That’s better. Now, I will be piloting the shuttle to come pick you up at the safe zone closest to your current location. The pickup will be—”

“Wait, you have a shuttle? Where did you get a shuttle?”

“I’m afraid that information is classified, Harebungler. Let’s just say that, in a $3.8-trillion-dollar budget, it’s easy for some funding for the NETSA to slip through the cracks. Nobody knows where it’s all going. A billion here, a billion there, and pretty soon you’re talking about real money.” He cleared his throat. “Now, as I was saying, the pickup will be at nineteen hundred hours tomorrow.”

“That’s seven o’clock, right? Seven at night?”

Sanders sighed, and muttered something about missing working with “professionals.” “Yes, Harebungler. That’s correct. But before I can pick you up, I’m afraid there is one final task you need to complete, one final piece of cargo we will need in order to succeed in our mission.”

“What?” asked Ian. “What is it?”

“Near the extraction point, you will see a single-story building with a white-and-red striped awning. From this building you must obtain …” Sanders paused, as if nervous to continue, “… a large bucket combo meal with extra biscuits.”

“Wait, you want me to pick up dinner?”

“It’s a long flight home,” Sanders almost whined. “And it will be dinnertime.”

“Fine,” sighed Ian.

“Great!” replied the colonel enthusiastically. “Then I will see you at the extraction point at nineteen hundred.”

“Wait!” cried Ian, “Where’s the extraction point?”

Sanders scoffed. “The extraction point is … far too highly classified for me to reveal. I thought I had explained to you, Harebungler, that the level of secrecy required for this mission is so complete, I had to kill my own cat yesterday after she overheard which toppings I ordered on a pizza I intended to eat while I worked on the mission.”

“What? That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“I know it, son, Mrs. Buttons shouldn’t have even been in the kitchen at seventeen hundred hours, she doesn’t get fed until eighteen hundred, on the dot.” Sanders’s voice cracked a bit. “She was a fine feline solider. But I couldn’t risk the possible leak.”

Ian resolved to ignore the crazy story and the twelve million questions he wanted to ask. Focus, Harebungler, he thought furiously to himself. And stop calling yourself by your last name like the crazy colonel does.

“Colonel,” said Ian, trying to wrest the conversation back under some semblance of control, “I need to know the extraction point. So I can, you know, be there to get extracted.”

“If only it were that simple, son. But it’s too dangerous. The consequences if the information were to fall into the wrong hands would simply be too—”

“Dammit, Colonel,” Ian snapped, causing the Twiller to recoil from him, “now you listen to me. I’m the only one with the information you need, and you’re gonna tell me the exact spot that shuttle is touching down tomorrow or I’ll blow the whole operation.” There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line. “That’s right, Sanders, I’ll go public. I’ll tell the press, I’ll tell the tabloids, I’ll tell so many people the only person in the galaxy who won’t know is you. So ‘classify’ that!”

“Tw–will,” agreed the Twiller emphatically, just out of range for Sanders to hear.

Sanders didn’t speak for several seconds. “Very well, Harebungler, you leave me no choice. As of this moment, you are officially working for the NETSA. You’re not a civilian anymore. You are Private Harebungler. Your call sign will be Extra Crispy.”

“The extraction point, Colonel?”

“Right. The extraction point will be at the center of a small island at the southernmost end of a long string of islands. It is called Westerly Key.”

“Westerly Key,” Ian repeated, thinking back to the bar at Flanny Gan’s. The top of the bar had been decorated with nautical maps, and he vaguely remembered seeing that name on one of them. “I think I can find that.”

“Good,” said the colonel. “Don’t let me down, Private, the fate of the planet is at stake. The whole planet,” he added unnecessarily.

“Wait, Colonel, there’s just one more thing that’s been bothering me.”

“Yes, Private?”

“What does NETSA stand for?”

There was a sudden intake of breath from the other end of the line, and the colonel paused for a half-second too long. “Y–you know that’s classified,” he said quickly, trying to recover.

“Wait, you don’t actually know what it stands for, do you, Colonel?”

The Colonel grumbled into the phone. “Just be at the extraction point at nineteen hundred.”

“Fine.”

“And don’t forget dinner,” Sanders said, and hung up.

. . . . .

Ian had wanted to head out immediately, but John had reminded him that it was unsafe to travel at night due to the “slight mosquito problem,” as he had phrased it. So Ian had reluctantly settled in for the night, waking at first light in order to get on his way. He finally had a way to get home, and he didn’t intend to miss it.

He left the apartment without waking John, headed down to the lobby, and nervously opened the door to find no trace of mosquitoes, but even the early morning sun beat down on him mercilessly. He enjoyed one last moment of air-conditioning, then hurried outside to look for some way to get to Westerly Key.

After walking about two blocks, Ian slumped against a wall underneath a metal overhang that provided shade, although it appeared to be slowly melting. He looked to the Twiller, gasping for breath. “Any ideas?” he asked.

“Twill,” his friend replied affirmatively, and it motioned its body back toward the sidewalk.

“I think I just need a few more minutes before I can head out there again,” Ian complained.

“Twill twill,” came the agitated response. It tried tilting its head, bobbing back and forth, and anything else it could think of to get its message across to Ian. Sighing, it took a deep breath and shot out into the scorching sunlight, zipped over to a nearby bus stop advertisement and bobbed about excitedly, then flew back under the shade as quickly as it could. Small wisps of smoke rose from its fragile yellow body, which appeared to be charred black in places.

“I got it!” shouted Ian. “Look at that ad by the bus stop you were trying to get to—it’s for a car rental company. Forget the bus, that could take forever. I’ll rent a car and drive us down there!”

The Twiller briefly considered subjecting Ian to all manners of violence. But instead, it took a deep, steadying breath, and just said, “Twill.”

“Hey, don’t worry, your idea was pretty good too,” Ian said in an effort to console it. “Come on, we can probably make it to that phone booth a few doors down.”

Ian picked up a newspaper that lay at his feet, opening it above his head to protect himself from the sun. He held out his elbow to help shield the Twiller from further roasting, and rushed toward the phone booth.

Halfway there, the newspaper burst into flames in Ian’s hands, and he threw it aside and dove into the phone booth, singeing his arm where it struck the superheated metal on the outside. He stifled a curse and picked up the phone, dialing the toll-free number from the bus stop ad.

“Tropical Car Rentals,” answered an absurdly pleasant voice from the other end of the phone, “Can I help you?”

“Yes, please,” Ian replied. “I’m in need of a car rental for the day. A compact car,” he added.

“Very good, sir,” replied the melodious voice, in a tone so airy and soothing Ian felt instantly at ease with the lovely creature on the other end of the line. “One compact car for today,” it repeated. “Would you like us to pick you up?”

“Yes, yes, I think that would be best,” Ian agreed. He checked his credit chit, which showed ten thousand bucks, hopefully enough to rent a car for a single day. “Um, how much will that cost?” he asked, wincing in preparation of the answer.

“That will be twenty-four bucks for unlimited mileage,” the lovely voice replied, and Ian let out a long breath. “Plus another three bucks if you would like a GPS unit included.”

“Twenty-seven bucks, that’s great. Yes, let’s do that please. Can you come pick me up here?”

“Of course, sir, we have the location of the phone you’re calling from and your car should be there shortly.”

“Oh, one other thing,” Ian added, glancing at the pair of suns visible in the sky, “I’ll need a car with air conditioning.”

“A wise choice, sir,” replied the voice reassuringly. “Adding in the air conditioning option, that will come to … nine thousand, eight hundred and fifty bucks.”

“Wait, what?” Ian asked. “What happened to twenty-seven?”

“Air conditioning up-charge. It’s a popular feature,” the sing-song voice replied, pleasantly enough to make Ian see how reasonable it all was.

“Great,” said Ian. As long as he could get the car, he shouldn’t need any more money anyway. “Air conditioning it is.”

“Very good, sir,” replied the silken voice.

A sudden thought stuck Ian. “Wait, will it come with a full tank of gas?”

The receptionist laughed a laugh so heavenly it sent tingles of joy up and down Ian’s spine. “Cars here haven’t used gasoline for centuries. With all the sunlight here, all they require is a battery and a tiny solar cell fitted to the roof. You won’t have to worry about it,” she reassured him.

“Great, that’s great,” said Ian.

“Enjoy your trip, Mr. Harebungler, and thank you for choosing Tropical Car Rentals.”

“Thank you, and you have a lovely day,” Ian replied cheerfully.

“Certainly, sir,” the wonderful voice replied, and Ian hung up with a smile.

. . . . .

The hideous, vile, troll-like creature on the other end of the line hung up the phone and cast its single, slime-encrusted eye about the dark confines of its cavern. Countless creatures like itself jabbered away on phones, chained solidly to the rocky ground by laser-welded shackles that could never be removed. It sensed more than saw a movement in the dark, and a long, pus-infected tongue lashed out and scraped a maggot off the floor. It rubbed its misshapen, glistening belly with a scaly claw, and let out a gentle sigh so gloriously melodious, any listener would have mistaken it for the song of an angel.

The phone rang, and the creature picked it up and rested it against a festering boil on its shoulder. “Tropical Car Rentals,” it cooed with a voice of pure ambrosia and honey. “Can I help you?”

. . . . .

The rental car arrived promptly, and Ian gratefully dashed inside and turned the air conditioning to maximum. So happy was Ian to feel the cool air on his sunburned skin, that he hardly even noticed that the car had mysteriously arrived with no driver. He wasn’t even bothered by the tiny size of the car, which was “compact” indeed. But there was just enough room for one person, and fortunately the Twiller took up hardly any room at all.

Ian checked the GPS and plugged in his destination on the small island of Westerly Key. The GPS informed him that it was a four-hour drive, and Ian checked the clock to see that it was barely seven o’clock in the morning, which should leave him plenty of time to spare.

Ian quickly familiarized himself with the controls, which consisted of a joystick and throttle lever almost exactly like those on his favorite race-car game at the arcade. He pulled out into the sparse early-morning traffic and headed for the freeway.

“I can hardly believe it, Twill,” he said cheerfully. “Finally, I’ll be able to go home. Not that I wasn’t glad to have met you, of course,” he added hastily. “But, I just want to get back to my own planet. You understand, don’t you?”

“Twill,” replied the tiny creature in a voice full of conviction. For a brief moment, Ian wondered where the Twiller was from, or if it would be able to get back there. But the moment quickly passed. Ian resolved to just concentrate on getting to the rendezvous and getting home first, and he could figure out what to do with the Twiller later. He could always keep it as a pet, back on Earth.

Ian merged onto the freeway and headed south. The traffic was still light, but began to pick up as the morning got later. A sporty, bright orange hovercycle sped past, weaving between cars, bringing back memories of the driver on WMD. Ian hoped the crazy driver was just an aberration.

Almost as if on cue, the car to Ian’s left drifted into Ian’s lane, forcing Ian to slam on the brakes to avoid an accident. He angrily pulled into the left lane and sped up alongside the weaving driver, and looked inside the other vehicle to see the driver predictably gabbing away on its cell phone, gesticulating wildly with several sets of tentacles, none of which appeared to be holding the steering joystick. Ian sighed and sped up to get away from the distracted driver.

Now more aware of the other drivers, Ian looked at several of the creatures that he passed. One casually read a newspaper that was fully stretched across its field of vision. Another had a computer monitor set up on its dashboard, and was busily typing emails or text messages with both hands on a full keyboard jutting out from just above the joystick. A third driver had somehow turned its entire windshield into a large video screen, and was eating popcorn and laughing with the other aliens in its car. The driver directly behind Ian leaned its head back against the headrest, some form of virtual reality goggles completely covering its eyes. A final driver waved at Ian as it applied its makeup in the overhead mirror, and then began inserting contact lenses into its eyes. Ian’s mouth gaped open in horror, and he focused intently on the road.

A loud crash startled Ian, and he turned just in time to see a cloud of smoke above a pair of cars that had slammed together and skidded into the guardrail by the rightmost lane. He hit his brakes as most of the cars nearby slowed almost to a stop, and a head attached to a long, flexible neck emerged from the window of the car in front of him, stretching over the car and swiveling back to look at the accident.

Ian blinked twice at the sight, and the alien head briefly locked eyes with Ian, flashing him a friendly wink before it retreated back inside its car and it slowly sped up again.

Ian gripped the wheel more tightly, terrified of the horrendous drivers and fearful that it was only a matter of time before one of them crashed into him and caused him to be late for his scheduled pickup. He looked to the other cars that surrounded him, no longer fellow travelers, but instead adversaries to be avoided. Because if one of them hit him, it was game over as far as Ian was concerned.

An unexpected thought struck Ian and a slow smile creased his lips as he made a sudden decision. While Ian was short, and mostly bald, not very attractive, one of the weakest men he knew, terrible at any sport he had ever tried, slow in a race, ungraceful, and generally not very physically fit, he was quite good at one thing. One thing he had perfected through years of practice, long hours spent indoors out of necessity when the neighborhood kids had not only picked everyone else for their sports teams before Ian, but had also started picking inanimate objects like rocks and blades of grass until Ian had given up and retreated home.

So, instead of playing football or baseball or running around outside, Ian had focused his energy on becoming very, very good at one thing: video games.

Ian curled his fingers around the joystick, memories of racing games and car rally games and demolition derby games and stunt driving games playing in his head. With his other hand, he gripped the throttle lever and inhaled deeply.

“You may want to hold on to something, Twill,” he said calmly.

With a practiced grace borne of years of muscle memory, Ian slid the handle forward as far as it could go. The car rocketed ahead, and Ian weaved between the other cars, nothing but slow-moving obstacles in a video game now. He caught up to and flashed past the weaving orange hovercycle so fast it hardly saw the blur.

“Twill,” whistled the Twiller as it cowered in the ashtray, its eyes wide. It watched the landscape speed past the windows for a few moments, then shut its eyes tight and wedged itself further into its little foxhole, terrified, yet impressed with Ian for the first time.

* * * * *

Part XIV

An hour or so later, the car slowed and the Twiller cautiously emerged from the ashtray, blinking its eyes against the sunlight. Ian was breathing heavily, but the car had slowed to a modest pace, and Ian gently released his grip on the joystick and rubbed his hands. He flashed the Twiller a nervous smile.

“Not bad, eh?” he asked.

“Twill,” replied the Twiller enthusiastically. The GPS showed them over halfway to their destination already; in fact, they had just entered the string of narrow islands that jutted south from the main peninsula. Here, the road was reduced to one lane in either direction, and the small islands were linked by a series of bridges. There was some traffic, so Ian had been forced to slow down to a much more plodding speed—there was only so much weaving he could do in a single lane. Ian craned his neck to see that the oncoming lane was dotted with a fair number of cars for as far as he could see.

“Well,” Ian said cheerfully, “good thing we made good time so far. Even at this pace we should still arrive in plenty of time.”

The car crept forward for the next hour or so, making slow but steady progress through the island chain. Ian was amused by the names of the small islands, or “keys,” that he passed. He saw signs for Key Fargo, Honk Key, Mun Key, Marky Mark Key, and Mil Key Way (which sounded oddly familiar). He noticed a string of bars and a festive atmosphere as he drove through Fun Key. He held his nose as he passed through Stin Key. One of the islands was so small, it barely had room for a tiny sign that read “Din Key.” And Ian wasn’t quite sure how to describe what he saw on Achy Break Key.

Up ahead, loomed a long, narrow bridge that spanned farther than any Ian had yet driven across. A sign near the start identified it as the “Seven Mile Bridge.” Just before Ian reached it, a large, slow-moving car turned in from an adjoining side road to Ian’s right. Feeling upbeat, Ian slowed to let the car in ahead of him, smiling at the elderly alien behind the wheel, who seemed oblivious to the fact that it had pulled out in front of anyone. Ah well, thought Ian, my good deed for the day. He waited patiently for the large, lime-green car to pull onto the bridge, smiling.

As Ian watched the steady traffic in the oncoming lane, he noticed that he was traveling slower than before. He looked up ahead, straining his neck to see around the large car in front of him. It appeared that a gap had opened up between the elderly driver and the cars ahead. Well, Ian thought nervously, I suppose it’s good to leave some following distance, especially for a driver so old. He sat back and tried to relax. It was still early morning, plenty of time to reach his destination.

But gradually, the car ahead moved more and more slowly, and the gap between it and the cars ahead grew to the point that Ian could no longer see the cars they were following. Ian considered a gentle tap on the horn to urge the older driver along, and spent almost twenty minutes looking for the horn button (which was, inexplicably, located inside the ash tray behind the Twiller). During this time, he watched the “Estimated Time of Arrival” displayed on his GPS change from noon, to 1 PM, to 3 PM, to 6 PM, then it simply read “Who Knows?” Ian began to grow increasingly concerned, and he did tap his horn a few times in frustration. Unfortunately, when he did so, it only seemed to startle the driver ahead of him into stopping for a bit before gradually pulling away even slower than before.

Ian tried to think of a way around the old geezer, but the oncoming lane was packed with cars, and the walls of the narrow bridge didn’t leave any room to get around a car as large as the one blocking his path. He fidgeted uselessly for a while, watching the minutes tick away, and when he finally arrived at a signpost that said “Mile 0.1,” he lost it and hopped out of the car. Ignoring the sweltering heat, he walked up to the car ahead, tapping on the window as he walked alongside, easily keeping pace with it.

“Hello, excuse me?” Ian asked, rapping more loudly on the window. The driver appeared completely unaware, hunched over the steering wheel, but at least peering ahead instead of talking on a cell phone. Ian smacked the window so hard he thought it would break, although it was made of a transparent titanium matrix Ian had no hope of shattering. Eventually, perhaps simply looking to the side to take in the view, the old alien looked Ian’s way and started fumbling for the window switch.

It took him a solid five minutes to find the switch and lower the window halfway. “Yes, sonny? What are you doing out there on the road? It’s dangerous, with all these cars speeding past!”

Ian looked to the oncoming traffic, moving along but hardly speeding, and the wide-open road ahead of them. “Sir, I was just wondering if you could perhaps speed it up a bit, or maybe pull over to the side? I am in a bit of a hurry.”

“Eh? Your name is Harry, you say? Fine to meet you, my boy, just fine to meet you.” The alien offered Ian its wrinkled hand, and Ian shook it lamely. “Did you say you pulled your side?”

“No,” said Ian, mopping sweat from his forehead and fighting down an urge to yank the alien out of its car. “And my name isn’t—oh, never mind. What I said was, could you possibly speed up a bit?”

“Marge, Marge,” it called to the sleeping lady seated next to it, “I think this young man would like us to help him pop a zit.” Marge continued to snore loudly.

“No, sir, maybe if you could just pull over to the side so I can pass?” Ian tried.

“Hm?” asked the driver. “What did you say your name was again?”

Ian lost it. He tried reaching through the half-open window to unlock the door to drag the deaf alien out of the car and move it out of his way. “Get out of that car right now, you old—”

Ian pulled his hand back with a shriek as the driver rapped his knuckles with a cane, hitting him with surprising force. It proceeded to raise the window and turn back to the road, speeding up a tiny bit in an effort to escape from Ian.

Well, at least that’s something, Ian thought, forced into a light jog to keep up with the car. After pounding uselessly on the window for a few more minutes, the heat became unbearable. He sighed and got back into his car, which was still only a few hundred feet back.

Ian sped up, catching up to his nemesis easily, and followed angrily a few inches from its bumper. He pounded on the dashboard, shot angry looks at the Twiller, and tried counting to 100. Still the green car blocked his way, and Ian glanced nervously at his watch. It was nearing noon, and, up ahead in the distance, Ian could just make out the “Mile 0.2” sign.

. . . . .

Over six hours later, the large green car finally inched off the bridge at just about exactly 1 mph. The instant the concrete wall ended, Ian zoomed around the old driver, flipped him the bird, and drove as fast as the tiny car would go.

It was after 6:30, and the suns hung low in the sky. The GPS still showed almost 100 miles to go, and Ian drove like a maniac. He weaved around cars, drove on grass and gravel, bumped slower cars out of the way when necessary, and used the oncoming lane as often as he dared. He was making good time, but still the minutes ticked away.

Finally, a sign reading “Westerly Key” blurred by and Ian gritted his teeth as he pushed the throttle lever as far forward as it would go. Up ahead, over one last short bridge, was an island slightly larger than most he had sped past. Only another mile to go ….

A movement from the sky above grabbed Ian’s attention, and his heart raced as a shuttle descended onto the island, right on schedule. The traffic had picked up on Westerly Key, and Ian’s driving became more frantic as he rushed toward where the shuttle had landed. He dodged cars, motor scooters, and what he swore were chickens on the sidewalks. He finally turned down a side street and could see the shuttle resting in a parking lot near a building with a red striped awning.

No time for dinner, Ian thought, and gunned it.

But he was too late. As he watched helplessly, the shuttle lifted off and slowly rose into the air, its engines streaming smoke as Ian skidded the car to a halt below.

It was 7:02.

“NO!” Ian cried, leaping out of the car and waving his hands frantically over his head, “Sanders, I’m here, damn you! Don’t go!”

The Twiller casually followed Ian out of the car. Ian looked to it pleadingly, but it seemed uninterested in his plight. In fact, it seemed to be on its stupid cell phone. “How can you be on the phone at a time like this?” Ian cried.

The Twiller pressed a button and calmly put the phone away. “Twill twill,” it said, its voice oddly relaxed.

Ian looked back to the receding shuttle, which climbed higher and higher into the air. Ian squinted against the light of the setting suns, and thought he could make out a smaller bright light streaking across the sky. His mouth hung open as the light screamed closer and closer, angling purposefully toward the shuttle. As it got closer, Ian finally figured out what it was.

“So long, Colonel,” he said softly, unable to tear his eyes away. “Sorry for doubting you.”

The missile slammed into the shuttle and exploded into a great ball of fire and light. Ian covered his eyes to avoid the glare. When he looked back, only a small, dissipating cloud of smoke marked where the shuttle used to be.

Ian slumped to the ground, lifeless, dejected. His one hope for getting off the planet, for ending his wild roller-coaster ride and getting home to see Earth again—gone. The Colonel was crazy, sure, but Ian was filled with sadness over his death. The poor guy, so close to completing his mission, and then this. Ian suppressed a sniffle. And on an empty stomach, no less, he couldn’t help but think.

. . . . .

Ian sat forlornly in the parking lot, watching aircars come and go and staring at small bits of smoldering wreckage that had been his only real chance at returning home to Earth. He was oblivious to The Twiller, who hovered quietly nearby, probably realizing that consoling Ian would be useless. All he had been through, the various planets he had visited, all his many adventures, and it had taken over 50,000 words for him to get a single opportunity to get back home, and that opportunity had quite literally blown up in his face. He sighed wearily. There was no way he could go through another 50,000 words. Well, maybe in a sequel. But not right now.

Ian sat motionlessly for over an hour, ignoring the distant buzzing sound that signaled the coming of the mosquitoes. Finally, his legs got numb and he got up to walk around, kicking angrily at rocks and wandering aimlessly in circles around the parking lot. He kicked at a particularly annoying rock and nearly hit a thin, haggard alien dressed in rags and slumped up against the side of the nearby restaurant. “Hey,” it grumbled, growling at Ian as it rearranged some cards it was playing with.

“Sorry,” Ian apologized, taking a few steps toward the sullen creature. The alien was playing a card game, with several columns of cards spread across the ground in front of it. Some columns were longer than others, and the bottom-most card in each column was face up, while the rest were face down. The cards had alien symbols and pictures on them, but, as Ian watched, he sensed that the game was familiar to him somehow. The alien had another stack of cards in one of its hands, and it counted three cards from the deck and turned them face-up as a group, then frowned and flipped over the next group of three cards. When it had gone through all the cards, it emitted a guttural sound that Ian took to indicate displeasure, and it turned the deck back face-down and went back to turning over groups of cards three at a time.

It finally clicked for Ian. “Ugh, solitaire. I hate that game.”

The alien looked up from its cards. “You’ve played it before?”

“Yeah, never liked it though. Why would I want to play a game where you lose like 90% of the time no matter what you do?” Ian shook his head. “That’s not a game. That’s life.”

“Amen, brother,” said the creature, and Ian slumped down next to it.

. . . . .

Ian spent the night with his new friend, playing solitaire and discussing the unfairness and general hostility of the Universe. Ian had stopped caring, stopped hoping for a way home, even stopped noticing the stench of his companion. Fortunately, the smell served to keep the mosquitoes at bay, although Ian would hardly have cared if they had skewered him and sucked him dry. The Twiller tried several times to cheer Ian up, get him to move, perhaps check them into a hotel, or maybe find someplace that smelled better to spend the night, but Ian shrugged off his friend’s suggestions. He eventually fell asleep slumped up against the side of the building, lacking the energy or motivation to move.

Ian awoke to the blazing hot sun. He blinked his eyes and looked around. His friend from the night before was gone, apparently smart enough not to sleep out in the open where the morning sun would scorch him. The Twiller hid behind a discarded soda cup for shade.

“Twill,” it said hopefully as Ian stirred.

“Hmph,” Ian grumbled. “Do you have a way for me to get home?”

“Twill twill,” is said softly, lowering its large eyes to the ground.

“That’s what I thought.” Ian grimaced. “I’m sorry, it’s not your fault. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“Twill.”

“You’re right, it’s all just so hopeless. I feel like I’ll never get back home.”

“Twill,” his friend replied, as was its custom.

Just then, an ovoid silver spaceship descended about twenty feet from Ian. A sleek silver ramp unfolded from the ship and an alien stuck its thin head out. “Headed to Earth?” it asked.

Not wanting to question his luck, Ian scampered aboard, the Twiller in tow. A few short hours later, the ship deposited Ian back on Earth, right back on his own front lawn, in fact. It sped off, and Ian headed inside, relieved to find that he hadn’t, in fact, left the gas on.

Although he was clearly overjoyed, a frown creased Ian’s lips. He looked to the Twiller. “Well, that sure was an unoriginal and anticlimactic ending.” He slowly shook his head. “You don’t think the author could have come up with something that required a little more thought or effort? Some sort of surprise or clever bit at the end? What was he thinking?”

The Twiller turned its large, oval eyes to its friend. “Beats the heck out of me,” it said. “I just work here.”

* * * * *

Epilogue

Ian snored, deep in sleep as he slumbered in his own bed, back on his own planet, for this first time in a long time. Nearby floated the Twiller, who was not sleeping. In fact, it was wide awake.

The Twiller pulled a tiny electronic device—which Ian had mistakenly believed to be a simple cell phone—from somewhere and began to input something into it. This was remarkable for any number of reasons: first, that the Twiller had no hands or arms; second, that the device appeared from nowhere, since the Twiller wore no clothing and had no pockets of any kind; and third, that tiny words began to appear on the screen, as if by telepathy.

The words, had any human had eyesight good enough to see them, and been well-versed in the secret language that twillers used for their own covert internal communications, would have been quite shocking. Luckily, no human eye would ever see them.

On a tiny screen, under a heading that read, “Humans,” the words entered by the Twiller were simply, “No threat.” Under that, in green block lettering, was a question: “ANNIHILATE, ENSLAVE, IGNORE?” A small cursor flashed at the end of the line, waiting for a response.

The Twiller looked to the sleeping form of the human named Ian, thinking back to when it had first met this human, back when it had stowed away on the Anasazi ship that was on its way to Earth. It remembered how helpless the creature had been then, how it had nearly been killed twice if not for the Twiller’s own direct intervention—and that’s only in the first chapter alone. Since then, true, the creature had become marginally more capable, but still.

The Twiller floated closer to its subject and watched as it slept, oblivious, for a moment. The human’s face was scrunched up comically by the pillow, and its few remaining strands of hair were disheveled. It seemed to be babbling incoherently in response to some silly dream. A small stream of drool dripped from its open mouth.

Uncharacteristically, the Twiller hesitated as it looked back to the tiny display on its tiny device, which still awaited a response: “ANNIHILATE, ENSLAVE, IGNORE?” The Twiller nearly always chose the first option; in fact, it was almost automatic. Only rarely was there some reason to choose the second, in the case of a species that could serve some use to the twillers after their imminent takeover of the Universe. The umquillions of Sargentemum IV, for example, the best chefs the Universe had ever known.

The Twiller’s eyes moved quickly onward and focused on the final option. With a mental shake and a tiny shrug, the Twiller selected that final option from the menu. The word “IGNORE” flashed once on the screen, the information was transmitted, and the display faded.

Its task completed, the Twiller put the tiny electronic device back wherever it came from, closed its large ovoid eyes, and teleported itself to a faraway planet that, like the Twiller itself, would never again be seen by human eyes.

* * * * *

THE END...?

Thank you for reading The Twiller—I hope you enjoyed it.

Please be sure to check out my website, www.davidderrico.com, where you can find new information on my first two novels (Right Ascension and Declination), short stories, my “Always Write” blog, and updates on my latest writing projects.

For More Information About

Right Ascension, Declination, The Twiller, Author Events, And The Latest News And Information, Please Visit

WWW.DAVIDDERRICO.COM

* * * * *

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Derrico was born just north of Miami, Florida, and developed his appreciation for complex moral issues while receiving a degree in philosophy from the University of Florida in Gainesville. He wrote his first novel, Right Ascension, before attending law school at the University of California, Berkeley School of Law (Boalt Hall). Right Ascension was first published by Bookbooters Press in 2000, and garnered its inaugural eBook of the Year Award.

Derrico wrote his second novel, Declination, during law school, while he was probably supposed to be studying. Nonetheless, he graduated, passed the California Bar Exam, and worked as an attorney at a large, international law firm in Los Angeles for several years. While practicing law (all that practice actually made him pretty good at it), he managed to write some short stories and start work on his third novel, The Twiller.

Recently, Derrico retired from his “day job” as a big-firm attorney and moved back to South Florida, where he finished that third novel. The Twiller follows the (mis)adventures of an unlikely hero and his unique companion on a comic romp around the galaxy. Derrico maintains a website with reviews, excerpts, current news, a blog, and purchasing information for all of his novels and other works at www.davidderrico.com.

Table of Contents

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Part VII

Part VIII

Part IX

Part X

Part XI

Part XII

Part XIII

Part XIV