After careful examination of the compartment Sam discovered a solid chunk of Glimmora machinery encased in a transparent block located just beneath the phloomb generator. The accompanying explanation plaque revealed, according to his somewhat dubious rendering of the Glax script chiseled into its surface, that this was an innovation that would make freight shipments more dependable and economical. Sam thought the latter was probably the key phrase so far as Glimmora Freight Lines was concerned.
Sam searched the cube and the surrounding walls for some sort of input device, but there was no provision for this on the freighter. Apparently, input was not something any of the cargo, nee passengers, usually needed.
Shu, shu, shu. Sam turned to see what had caused the rustling noise behind him. As he did so the translator rang out. “I say, old boy, aren’t you the, um, human chappie?”
Sam stared down at the strangest alien he had seen in all of his travels. The thing was all scales and chitin, with random hairs sticking out of each joint of its thick eight legs. A huge pair of articulated antennae projected from the shiny black helmet of a head and four tiny, beady black eyes stared at him from their base. A set of vicious-looking mandibles extended from the bottom of the creature’s head. The alien was so short that its head was level with Sam’s waist.
Sbuuushu, shu, shu, shusssu—“Allow me to introduce myself, human thing.” Sam noted that the noise came from the rasping of the creature’s mandibles as it rubbed them together. “Right honorable Dratte Five Decline, FSF, ASFSF, IASFM, Admiral of the Fleet, Royal Tsith Companion, and Protector of the Queen’s Rump. And, by virtue of temperament, a traveler without peer.”
Disconcertingly, each of Dratte’s feet was encased in a pair of thick-soled, bright orange, Earth-style, high-top sneakers. A black cap with a pair of round ears sat at a jaunty angle between the creature’s antennae, held in place by a thin elastic string. Quite obviously, the Tsith had recently visited Earth. As the translator repeated the creature’s rasping speech the heels of all eight pairs of its rubber heels slapped together, making a muffled thump.
“Sam Boone, itinerant negotiator,” Sam replied and almost saluted. Instead he bowed to his short companion.
“Yes, yes. I know,” Dratte Five said. “Saw your name on the manifest. Anxious to make your acquaintance, y’see. Blasted trip to Earth was too short. Didn’t have a chance to meet you aborigines, er, natives.” Dratte Five shuffled his feet as if embarrassed by his gaffe. “Whatever you call yourselves,” he rasped lamely.
“Well, I’m glad to meet you as well,” Sam replied diplomatically and let his translator provide an equally rasping reply. “Do you travel Glimmora much?”
“Quite. Good service. Fine accommodations. Excellent cellar. Why do you ask?”
Sam wondered if he should involve this friendly creature, so unlike most of the standoffish galactics he’d encountered so far, in his small problem. On the other hand, he had no other choice but to do so if he was to resolve this problem with the hairy gas generator in his cabin. “How does one go about complaining to the captain on this ship? I can’t seem to find an input device.”
“Isn’t one. Best part of Glimmora technology. Everything set up perfectly. No chance of error.”
“Well, there does seem to be an error in booking,” Sam replied. “My cabin accommodations are, shall we say, less than perfect.” Quickly he went on to describe the situation that he faced to the sympathetic Tsith.
Dratte Five rocked up on his back four legs. Shuuuuu, “That is a problem. But I may be able to help. Ever willing to help a fellow traveler, y’know. Let’s discuss it at the bar.”
Dratte Five put an appendage about Sam’s waist and waddled from side to side as it led Sam away. Apparently the Tsith could not bend its legs and move using its six legs as two sets of alternating tripods. “Perhaps you can stand me a few drinks of glycol, straight up, as we talk. The Glimmora are all dull, stodgy herbivores, but they distill a mean whiskey.”
The next morning Sam discovered quite an assortment of galactics as he entered the common room, all of them eating, lapping, absorbing, and otherwise ingesting their various cuisines with great gusto. From the enthusiasm most displayed as they at tacked their food the auto-chef must have outdone itself. Sam’s mouth began to water as he anticipated the delights to come. Hadn’t Ahbbbb said that they’d loaded the recipes for all sorts of Earth goodies? After his experience with the cabin something had to go right. One out of two wouldn’t be bad.
The auto-chef recognized Sam and began to grind and rock vigorously as it prepared what he hoped would be a gourmand’s delight. He was hungry enough to eat a horse.
“Voila!” the auto-chef announced at last and burped a small plate on which resided a soft, pale-yellow pellet, slightly smaller than Sam’s fist. Beside the strange pellet was a cup of gray, steaming liquid.
“Spaetzle und miso,” the auto-chef announced proudly. “Earth food.”
“Is this the first course?” Sam asked as he pushed the yellow pellet around the plate. “I need something more substantial than this,” he told the machine. “I can’t live on just this little pill. It’s barely a mouthful.”
“Your meal has been carefully formulated and balanced to supply you with all of a human’s necessary daily nutritional requirements,” the autochef shot back.
Sam wondered if the rest of the passengers were being slowly starved by the auto-chef’s meager rations; could that be why they were consuming their portions with such gusto?
“I don’t care about nutrition, damn it. I need real food. I need meat—a nice chop, a bit of steak, some sausage!”
The auto-chef hesitated. “Are you stating that you are a carnivore? That you consume the flesh of living creatures?”
“Yes!” Sam all but shouted.
The loudspeaker came on over Sam’s head. A din of several Glax languages emerged, each one to its own frequency band. “Attention all passengers,” his machine translated. “There is a predatory carnivore in the ship. All passengers are warned to be careful. Glimmora Freight Handlers accepts no liability for the actions of this animal!”
Before the last syllable of the announcement died away all of the aliens had run, hopped, or flown from the common room. Sam held his ears against the cacophony of sound that must have been their screams of panic. Which reminded him, he thought as he panicked, he was a long way from his cabin. Lord, what if the killer was his cabin mate? What if... a sudden suspicion entered Sam’s fearful thoughts.
“By any chance was that announcement about me?” he asked with growing apprehension.
“I must protect the passengers,” the auto-chef responded primly. “I cannot allow them to become entrees to your hideous appetite.”
Sam went to a table where he sipped his fish soup and chewed the yellow pellet. The soup had become cold, which reduced the fishy aroma somewhat, so he was able to get it down without a problem. The pellet, however, was so tasteless and salty that he began to wonder what broiled auto-chef might taste like.
Snorf, huffed Sam’s companion as he returned to the cabin. Dratte Five had thus far been unable to come up with a way to communicate Sam’s predicament to the ship and so arrange for another accommodation.
“Snorf yourself,” Sam replied with a cautious intake of breath. The cabin air was somewhat breathable, lacking the eau-de-ox that had so permeated the atmosphere when he had departed. He again wondered why he had been paired with this rough, fetid beast. Then another consideration came to him. What if an entire ecology of pests were hiding in that thick mat of creature’s coarse blue hair? Could they pose a hidden danger? To see if his concern was valid, he leaned closer to examine the ox’s hide, uncaring of what the alien ox might think.