“Delighted. In the same patrol boat that we arrived in. But before we go I want the hull blown open fatally, then roughly patched. Knock it about inside a good deal, crunch some of the nonessential equipment to make it look good. Get plenty of blood from the slaughterhouse and sprinkle it all over. And, I don’t like to suggest this, but realism is what counts—do you have some spare human corpses?”
“Far too many,” he answered grimly. “And you want one or two of them, in uniform, aboard?”
“They may save our lives. I am going to go blasting in with that ship, radio blaring and lights flashing, and volunteer myself and my planet of creepies to the noble cause of humanity-destruction.”
“Which you just happened to find out about when your people captured this ship?” “You catch on quick for someone your age. Get it done at once, Inskipp, because I want to leave about five minutes ago.”
Since this mission seemed to be the single ray of hope in the unmitigated gloom of the losing war, we had the best of service. The battered patrol boat was loaded aboard a combat cruiser that blasted off the instant we were aboard. They ferried us to our destination, the nearest safe area to the enemy stars, then chucked us out. I navigated us around a massive cloud of dust, skirted a black hole or two to blur our trail, then scuttled into the arm of the galaxy that held the enemy.
“Ready, son?” asked, poking my head out through the slit in the alien’s neck.
“Ready when you are, Slippery Jim,” the robot responded as the turret clacked down and locked into place.
I sealed up and reached out a clawed arm and shook his tentacle. Then got to work. Extra lights had been installed on the hull, of ugly, alien construction, and I switched these on so that we looked like a space-going Christmas tree. I then started the tape of the recently written anthem of my imaginary home planet and began broadcasting it at full volume on 137 wave-lengths. Thus prepared we headed leisurely for the armored planet, wafted there on the strains of delightful groaning music.
“Kiu vi estas?” the gravelly voice said, the screen lighting up at the same instant to display a particularly repulsive alien physiognomy.
“Kiu mi estas? Çiuj konas min, se mi ne konas, vin, belulo…”
I had decided to be arrogant, secure in a warm welcome, and very flattering—though calling this worm-faced echh “handsome” took some doing. But the flattery appeared to help, it preened a handful of tendrils with a damp tentacle, and continued in a more friendly tone of voice.
“Come, come, cutey. They may know who you are at home—but you’re a long way from home now. And there is a war on so we have to obey security regulations.”
“Of course, naturally, I am just filled with enthusiasm. Are you really fighting a war of extermination against the dry-stick-pink-black aliens?”
“We’re doing our best, gorgeous.”
“Well, count us in! We caught this ship sneaking up on our planet—we have no spacers but fire a mean combat rocket—and shot it down. We brainsucked the survivors, learned their language, and discovered that all the attractive races in the galaxy had united against them. We want to join your forces, I am ambassador—so issue instructions for we are yours!”
“Mighty nice sentiments,” the thing slobbered. “We’ll send a ship up to guide you in and the welcoming committee will make you welcome. But there is one question, sweety.”
“Ask away, handsome.”
“With eyes like yours—you are female, aren’t you?”
“Next year, at this same time I will be. Right now I’m in neuter state halfway from he to she.”
“It’s a date then. See you in a year.”
“I’ll write it in my diary now,” I cooed and hung up and reached for the nearby bottle. But Bolivar the Robot was ahead of me and had poured a large glass which I sucked at through a straw.
“Am I wrong, Dad,” he asked, “or did that refugee from the sewage works have the hots for you?”
“Unhappily, my boy, you are right. In our ignorance my little disguise turns out to be the height of female pulchritude among the awful-awfuls. We must make it more loathsome!”
“That will probably make it more sexy.”
“You’re right, of course.” I insufflated feelingly through the straw. “I’ll just have to put up with their amorous attentions and try to turn it to some benefit.”
Our guide ship appeared moments later and I locked the automatic pilot onto its tail. We floated downward, through unseen minefields and defensive screens, to land on a metal pad inside a large fortress. I hoped this was the VIP field, not the prison entrance.
“You’ll want your helmet, won’t you, Dad,” Bolivar said in a sea of black thoughts, drawing me back from the brink of my sea of black thoughts.
“Right you are, oh good and noble robot.” I put on the goldplated steel helmet, with the diamond nebula on front and examined my image in the mirror. Delicious. “And best not to call me Dad any more. It gives rise to some impossible biological questions.”
An improbable parade of slithering, hopping and crawling figures slogged up when we appeared through the lock, the Bolivar-robot carrying the carefully constructed alien luggage. One individual in slimy gold braid stepped out of the pack and waved a lot of claws in my direction.
“Welcome, stellar ambassador,” it said. “I am Gar-Baj, First Official of War Council.”
“A pleasure I’m sure. I am Sleepery Jeem of Geshtunken.”
“Is Sleepery your first name or a title?”
“It means, in the language of my race, He Who Walks on Backs of Peasants With Sharp Claws, and denotes a member of the nobility.”
“A remarkably compact language, Sleepery, you must tell me more about it again—in private.” Six of his eighteen eyes winked slowly and I knew the old sex-appeal was still at work.
“I’ll take you up on that my next fertile period, Gar. But for now—it is war! Tell me how things go and what we of Geshtunken can do to aid this holy cause.”
“It shall be done. Let me guide you to your personal quarters and explain as we go.”
He dismissed the onlookers with the wave of one tentacle, signaling me to follow him with another. I did, with my faithful robot rolling after me.
“The war goes as planned,” he said. “You would of course not know, but we have been many years in the planning stage. Our spies have penetrated all of the human worlds and we know their strength down to the last ray gun charge. We cannot be stopped. We have absolute control of space and are now preparing for the second phase.”
“Which is…?”
“Planetary invasion. After knocking off their fleet we’ll pick off their planets, one by one, like ripeçerizoj.”
“That’s for us!” I shouted, and raked great gouges in the metal flooring with my claws. “We Geshtunken are fighting fools, ready to lead the charge, willing to die in a cause that is just.”
“Just what I was hoping to hear from someone as well built as you, claws, teeth and such. In here, if you please. We have plenty of transport ships but can always use experienced troops—”
“We are death-defying warriors!”
“Even better. You will attend the next meeting of the War Council and plans will be drawn up for mutual cooperation. But now you must be tired and want to rest.”
“Never!” I chomped my jaws and bit a chunk out of a nearby couch. “I want no rest until the last dry enemy has been destroyed.”
“A noble sentiment, but we must all rest sometime.”
“Not the Geshtunken. Don’t you have a captive or two I could disembowel for a propaganda film?”
“We have a whole load of admirals, but we need them for brainsuck to aid in the invasion.”
“Too bad. I pluck legs and arms from admirals like petals from flowers. Don’t you have any female prisoners—or children? They scream nice.”