His communication device burbled.
“Chief Operative Shlurff of Intelligence to see you, Your Lordship.”
The Lord High Judge cackled, then said, “Have the chief operative come in.”
The door to His Lordship’s chambers retracted, and in rolled a huge ball of fur and claws and talons and tentacles. (Really, the sight would have been horrific beyond endurance to even the most phlegmatic human being.)
The awful thing that was the chief operative rolled into the web and was immediately ensnared. The arms and tentacles and other appendages flailed wildly.
“What’s this? Help me, help me! I’ll sue, I’ll sue!”
“Oh, you’re no fun today,” the Lord High Judge jeered. “Very well.”
The web collapsed, freeing the chief operative.
The Lord High Judge came out of hiding and flexed his fifteen hairy legs.
“Shall we revert to something innocuous?” the chief operative suggested.
“As you wish,” the Judge assented.
Both beings flowed and transformed. The end result was two creatures that resembled jellyfish with tufts of green hair on top.
“You sent for me?” the chief operative asked.
“Yes. I want a complete report of our covert operation.”
“Which one?”
“The one concerning the humans.”
“There are several.”
“The one targeting the Interface.”
“Oh, yes. That operation is proceeding apace. It will come to fruition shortly.”
“Good. Have you had reports from our agents in the field?”
“We have only one agent involved in that particular operation, and there has been no recent report. The agent is not exactly in a position to file daily updates.”
“One wishes for a little more information.”
“The more information you have, the less your deniability factor.”
“True. But this operation has the potential to yield such a great return that I grow impatient awaiting its outcome.”
“As I indicated, the wait won’t be long.”
“Good, good. Can you give me a definite time frame?”
“You might hear something within one diurnal period.”
“Excellent! You’re right, of course, in limiting what you tell me to what I need to know. I am satisfied.”
“And I’m glad to have pleased you, thus far.”
“Yes, there is a beneficial outcome yet to weigh in the balance. But I am optimistic. You have done well, Shlurff.”
The chief operative quivered with delight.
His Lordship’s communication device blurted.
“Yes?”
“Your take-out order has arrived, Your Lordship.”
“Very good, start shoveling it in. Uh, Chief Operative, would you care to have luncheon with me? I am dining in today.”
The chief operative almost melted. “I would be honored beyond reason!”
The door to the chamber dilated, and in rushed a flood of putrescent matter, the like of which would gag any coprophage in the known universe. The semiliquid mass was mostly purple, with swirls of yellow and green. It stank horribly.
Very soon, both the Lord High Judge and his guest were inundated to their topmost parts.
“Hope you don’t mind trendy food,” the Lord High Judge said. “They say it’s healthier.”
“I love nouvelle cuisine,” the chief operative enthused.
“Well, dig in.”
Both creatures grew a paddle-like excrescence and began to burrow into the floodtide of egregious muck. Very quickly, they disappeared beneath the surface.
CHAPTER 12
Two days passed.
The captain was kept informed of the status of the alterations done to the ship, reports that he ignored. To pass the time, he watched all fifty-seven hours of a cosmophone miniseries based on Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past. He did not know it, but the original material had been heavily adapted. In fact, the story line bore little, if any, relation to that of the original French novels. The first cycle of episodes, “Up Swarm’s Alley,” was a sex romp cum action/adventure melodrama in costume featuring chases, flamer battles, and steamy group polymorphous sex scenes.
At first he viewed with passing interest. Soon, though, he got absorbed, and watched the entire series.
At long last, the final credits rolled and the music swelled. He sighed. After switching off the screen over his bed and laying aside all his personal autoerotic gear, he lay back in deep thought.
“Boy, I don’t know about French literature, but the twentieth century sure was great!”
In fact, he’d been quite surprised. A question occurred to him, and he thought about it. He failed to find an answer.
“Thing is, though, how do you power a starship with that stuff?”
Captain Wanker decided to visit the power plant control module for the first time since he had assumed command of the Repulse. First, though, he decided that he needed to do a stint in the fogger.
Yes, he reeked. He checked a mirror in the tiny head. His beard was in patches. He thought of letting it grow in. No use. Maybe it was about time to get hormone treatments and grow a fine crop of whiskers. What the heck, lots of men did it. And women.
But no. He liked being a clean-shaven kind of a guy. He applied depilatory.
He stepped into the fogger stall and turned on the controls. A fine mist began to fill the air and condense against the walls.
Soon, though, the temperature rose and the mist changed to steam, and it scalded him. He whooped and lurched out of the stall, whacking his head in the process.
“Mother fogger!”
Rubbing his aching head, he carefully fiddled with the controls until he thought it safe to rinse off, and reentered. He made a quick job of it and escaped the stall without further injury.
He donned a radiation suit and left his cabin.
Having arrived at the entrance to the control pod, he used his authorization microdisk to let himself through the massive hatch.
“Ye gods.”
The place was even more of a mess than the rest of the ship. As this was his first visit to the pod, he had no idea whether this condition was normal or a result of Strangefinger’s tinkering. He suspected the latter. Masses of wiring like congealed pasta trailed through the place, and willow trees of wiring drooped from the overhead. Myriad tools lay about, along with bits of uneaten sandwiches and soft drink containers.
“What a sty.”
Wanker walked around, shaking his head, his only consolation being that this wasn’t his ship any more. He was only the caretaker of this space-going laboratory.
No one was about, as usual. Laboratory? The ship felt more like a graveyard. A ghost ship.
“Anybody here?” he shouted. Then to himself: “Where the hell is that fraud of a physicist?”
As if on cue, the hatch rose, admitting Strangefinger hand-in-hand with Darvona, who was smoothing her clothing and looking content.
“Can’t stay, Doctor. I have duty now. Must go.”
The physicist broke wind loudly. “Farting is such sweet sorrow.”
“Doctor, you’re so witty.”
“So true, so true. Well, I suppose I’ll have to get back to work sometime.”
“When did you start?” Wanker demanded.
“Captain, top o’ the morning to you. I trust you rested well?”
“Actually, according to ship time, it’s seven in the evening.”
“Well, I hope you didn’t overeat at dinner. You can be such a glutton. You should get more fiber in your diet. Try this insulation material with fruit and skim milk.” Strangefinger kicked at a shard of foam paneling.
“Thanks for the tip, Strangefinger.”