Sam Boone’s Dry Run

Illustration by Kelly Freas

Sam’s problems began as he was heading toward Bingnagia, a planet where, his agent Ahbbbb had said, with surprising faith in him, there was a simple problem that he could solve in a matter of moments—a trivial matter that required only the simple laying on of Sam Boone’s very human hands, to put it simply. So convinced was she of his ability to bring the matter to a close that she had booked passage for him on a Blattskitt liner that was to depart just a week after his arrival on Bingnagia. “Shouldn’t take you more than a few days to clean everything up,” she’d said with confidence.

She’d gotten a cabin on a Glimmora freighter for him. “These are first-class accommodations,” she’d hummed reassuringly, as her tendrils beat a rhythmic tattoo on the inflated bladder at her throat. “You will not be disappointed. They are so excited about transporting a human that they’ve added a wide selection of Earth delicacies.”

These assurances of a gourmet feast and luxurious accommodations were uppermost in Sam’s mind when he threw open the door to his cabin and saw what appeared to be an alien approximation of a musk ox staring at him.

It was a good imitation, lacking only the ox’s delicate beauty of line and grace. Where a musk ox’s horns would be, six rope-like tendrils erupted. Every one of these was in constant motion, a swirling mass of six snakelike appendages. The pseudo-ox was using the sharp tip of one of these to scratch its neck, just below its mane of thick hair.

Sam found the creature’s stare to be very intense. The intensity was understandable, since the blue-haired alien had four complex eyes on each side and each one was independently focused on Sam’s personage. It made him extremely uncomfortable to be the center of so much attention.

“Greetings,” Sam said with as much bonhomie as possible and waited for his faithful portable translator, a marvel of Rix engineering, to convey his opening expression of friendliness to his unexpected traveling companion.

Snorf! the alien belched loudly as it swiveled three of its eight eyes to glance around the room while keeping Sam fixed with the other five. One of the snaking tendrils started to extend in Sam’s direction and then diverted to scratch the corner of the ox’s puce lips, just above its long, green beard. Snorf, the near-ox belched, repeating its earlier entreaty.

Sam reacted quickly as the expanding wave-front of the alien’s breath reached his nostrils. A single whiff of the stomach-churning combination of halitosis and swamp gas was all it took to make Sam beat a rapid retreat. Snorf! the alien repeated as its lower jaw moved slowly from side to side and all eight eyes lazily returned to fix on Sam.

For some inexplicable reason the translator remained silent, giving Sam no indication of whatever it was that the alien had Snorfed at him. Sam worried that perhaps the Snorf-eze language wasn’t within the translator’s data banks, which, he thought, would be a fine kettle of fish: How could he share a cabin for the weeks it would take to reach Bingnagia if he couldn’t even converse with his traveling companion?

“There seems to be some sort of problem,” Sam said, pressing his lips close to the microphone grille of his silver box so there would be no mistaking his desire to communicate. The translator’s speaker remained mute, unwilling or unable to produce a single, decent Snorf. Sam was infuriated with the stubbornness of the little ma-chine. “Damn it!” He slapped the translator’s case with his hand—hard. He got nothing but a stinging palm for the effort.

The machine still refused to produce a decent Snorf.

While this was taking place, the ox-thing appeared to have lost interest in things Samuel and stuck its head into the opening of a large sack hanging from a hook on the wall of the cabin. Two of the alien’s tendrils stretched the bag’s opening wide enough to allow entry of the exobiotic-ox’s huge snout. Loud chewing and smacking sounds came from within as the ox’s head moved back and forth.

Sam considered the situation. The Rix translator had never, not once, failed him before. In every situation the machine seemed to adapt itself well to the speech mode of every intelligent alien he’d encountered.

“What if,” he said aloud, “this alien isn’t intelligent? What if it has no language?” But that would be ridiculous. Why would anyone pay cabin-class simply to transport some galactic livestock? The fee for cabin-class interstellar transport was far too expensive to make that, a possibility.

Then another thought, a more frightening one, dawned. What if this ox-thing was his as-vet-unmet cabin-mate’s pet? The idea that he would be sharing his room with something that would make this creature a pet was daunting. Still, it was a possibility: he’d not had that much experience with the galactics to understand some of the subtleties of their various cultures.

Sam’s train of conjecture was interrupted by a hissing noise that quickly built into a roaring crescendo. With dismay Sam realized that the sound was coming from the ox’s nether regions, just below the tangled ropes of its two tails. As the sound died away the cabin quickly acquired an overpowering aroma. Sam’s nose shut down at the first hint of the odoriferous gas. Acting quickly, his brain frantically instructed his lungs to stop breathing, lest he inhale more of the noxious fumes. Staggering backward, Sam fumbled for the door latch, and desperately flipped it so he could escape into the passageway.

As the door slid shut behind him, he took a deep breath of relatively fresh air to clear his nasal passages of the stench. As soon as he had his respiration under control he reflected on the situation. There was no way he could tolerate sharing a cabin with a creature that was more offensive than a campsite full of bean-fed Boy Scouts. And, unlike the aforementioned scouts, he couldn’t even talk to it! No, the situation would have to be reconciled. He went forward to complain.

After considerable searching through the organically convoluted passageways of the Glimmora freighter, which led him in turn to stockpiles of sticky tape, condoms, and sunglasses for the galactic trade, he managed to reach the command compartment, the nerve center of the freighter’s operations. A seemingly haphazard arrangement of dials imprinted with Glax figures, glass gauges filled with some thick liquid, and glistening readouts in a riot of colors dotted the walls. In the center of the forward panel was a phloomb generator, no doubt the heart of the ship’s operation. It was the typical bridge of an interstellar ship.

The only problem was, there was no crew in sight.

“Welcome to Glimmora Freight Lines Glizma-class service,” an annunciator annunciated in dulcet tones, albeit at about ninety decibels or more. Sam’s somewhat trusty translator converted the ear-shattering din into reasonably understandable Glax. “This ship is equipped with the latest designs to provide safe, efficient, and faultless transport.”

“Er, where are the captain and crew?” Sam asked hesitantly, wondering just where the voice was coming from.

“Welcome to Glimmora Freight Lines Glizma-class service,” the din replied. “This ship is equipped with the latest designs to provide safe, efficient, and faultless transport.”

Sam hesitated before saying anything else. A small voice inside was telling him something that he didn’t want to hear. “Ah, is this ship automated?” he asked.

“Welcome to Glimmora Freight Lines Glizma-class service,” the ship responded. “This ship is equipped with the latest designs to provide safe, efficient, and faultless transport.”

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.

“Hello there!” his translator burst out. Sam leaped back. He hadn’t heard a single Snorf from the ox. Why had the translator chosen to work at this time?

“Hello yourself,” he replied, but the translator remained silent. Puzzled, Sam moved closer to the ox. He repeated the greeting with no result. He stepped closer until he was at the exact position where he had heard the first greeting.

“Don’t move away!” blared the translator. “We’re having a hell of a time boosting the volume to a level you can hear.”

“Uh, where are you?” Sam wondered, looking around. Ghosts?

“Down here! Lean closer so we don’t have to shout.”

Sam glanced down and noticed that his translator dangled into the mass of hair on the ox’s back. Just beneath the box, among the ox’s thick hairs, were a few tiny, black specks that looked suspiciously like fleas. He could barely make out a shining dot in the midst of them—their booster, perhaps?

“Put the box down near us,” the translator blared again.

Sam did so, trying to avoid crushing any of the specks accidentally. “You, you live on this animal?” he asked in amazement.

“Of course we do. How else can a race our size survive?” the specks replied.

Sam pondered on why he had never before considered the question of scale among the various races in the Hegemony. Most of the galactics he’d met to date were more or less humansized, provided that you accepted a 200 percent variance as “humansized,” of course. Still, given the breadth and scope of galactic civilization, almost anything might be possible. Why not intelligent fleas?

Sam leaned over the ox’s back, trying not to get a snootful of the creature’s overpowering aroma as he did so. “I say,” he shouted into the thick hair. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Greetings, yourself, whatever you are. Sorry to take so long to get back to you but we’ve had to run quite a ways from the campsite to get within range.”

“Campsite?” Sam replied, hoping that the translator would convey his confusion at the term the flea had used.

“Oh yes, most of this region is set aside as a truzdl wilderness area. Great for the kids. We usually live in Great Neck, Mane—prime real estate, you know. Anyhow, it’s nice to occasionally get away with the kids and commune with raw nature, as it were.”

Kids? Sam tried to imagine little uniformed truzdl flea-scouts setting up tents, building campfires, and telling scary stories as darkness fell. He wondered if they earned tiny merit badges as well.

“I am a human,” Sam explained with his mouth as close to the translator as the stench of the ox would allow. As he did so he could just make out the very faint, high-pitched chirping noises, almost at the limits of his hearing, that must be the truzdl’s language. “From Earth,” he added, just in case they had never heard of humans.

“Fascinating,” the box translated. “We have, of course, heard of your planet and are anxious to go there some day. Do you have any recommendations as to which sights would be worth a visit?”

For a second Sam contemplated recommending the primary sites that seemed to fascinate most of the galactic tourists—Disneyland, Hoboken, and Kawasaki’s Rib ’n Sushi Bar. But then he reconsidered, unsure of whether Disneyland would have rides small enough to accommodate these flea-sized creatures, uncertain of how they would deal with Kawasaki’s fare, and afraid that the tiny truzdls might get mugged in Hoboken by the local insect population, none of whom were signatories to the Galactic Accords.

“Perhaps you’d like to visit a cattle ranch,” he suggested, and described how Earth’s vast ranges were dotted with thousands and thousands of bison, steers, sheep, llamas, and yaks.

“It sounds like heaven,” the truzdls replied. “Yes, when we get back from our mission we will spread the word. I imagine that many of our race will want to colonize such an exotic and sparsely populated world.”

Upon hearing those words Sam immediately regretted his suggestion. The last thing Earth needed was an increase in the vermin population, being already overrun with flies, mosquitoes, ticks, no-see-ums, and lawyers. Still, a population of intelligent fleas might make life more interesting for the less fortunate, being able to converse with their vermin. It might even enliven some midwestern communities, there being little else to do in many of the smaller towns.

Sam spent the rest of the evening making friendly conversation, interrupted only by the occasional shifts of the truzdl’s host and Sam’s frequent dashes for fresh air as the sham-ox continued to process its feed. The truzdls were good company, pleasant conversationalists, and, to hear them tell it, very well traveled.

“We do have one tiny request,” Bunion, the principal speaker, asked matter-of-factly. “We would appreciate it if you didn’t mention our presence to anyone.”

“Are you stowaways?” Sam asked with a smile.

“A single ticket is a lot cheaper for us, you see. As you know, the Glimmoras assess a head count for passengers and we couldn’t afford that,” Bunion replied.

Matter of fact, Sam hadn’t known that. Hmmm, maybe the lower fare was why Ahbbbb had arranged for him to share this cabin; she was never one to miss on the opportunity to shave expenses, usually at his expense.

“Have you ever considered getting group rates?” Sam asked.

Snorf ate his feed throughout the night, pausing not an instant to relieve itself of mounds of processed feed that the floor magically absorbed with a soft, slurping sound. Sam half expected each ingestion to be followed by an “Ahhhh,” but that never occurred. The mock-ox belched irregularly, when it wasn’t breaking wind, and, between the two, suffused the cabin with such pungent presence that sleep, punctuated by frequent dashes to the passageway for fresh air, was impossible.

What if, Sam worried in the dark soul of the night, there should be a spark from some device? Would it ignite the methane-rich atmosphere of the cabin and destroy the ship, killing him, the ox, and the population of truzdls that inhabited it? There was another blast of wind that took his breath away.

He wondered if there was a lighter in his kit as he dashed for the door.

The auto-chef bleated the warning of the approaching carnivore to the passengers as Sam entered the common room for breakfast. By the time he arrived there wasn’t a soul in sight.

When Sam stated his desires for breakfast, the crystalline auto-chef produced a greenish-yellow pellet and a tiny cup of thick, bitter broth for his breakfast. “Eggs and coffee,” it announced. “Per spec.” Sam wondered what alien race had programmed the machine and what Earth had done to make them hate humanity so much.

“I said that I wanted cereal,” Sam protested. “I explicitly said cereal, with milk!”

“Humans eat eggs. Humans drink coffee,” the auto-chef stubbornly argued.

“But I don’t eat eggs or drink coffee,” Sam screamed.

“Have I mistaken your species?” the auto-chef said incredulously as it blinked in confusion. “Please state your race.”

“I am Sam Boone, Earth human,” Sam said obediently. “And I want my damned cereal!”

“Sam Boone is human creature. Humans eat eggs and drink coffee. What is wrong with this logic?”

“It’s the premise, not the logic,” Sam muttered murderously. “And if you don’t produce something edible I will personally reach inside there and rip out your stupid, arrogant guts!”

“You have declared yourself as a predator and therefore a possibly violent and abusive being. The crew of an interstellar ship in flight is authorized to defend itself to the death against such beings.”

“But you aren’t really crew; you’re just a stupid machine! I—” Sam stopped. While he doubted that the auto-chef would carry out its threats, he didn’t really know the capabilities of this ship and, where galactics were concerned, caution was ever the watchword.

He carried his greenish-yellow pellet and cup of possibly lethal coffee to a table.

“Here’s how I can help you, old boy,” Dratte Five shu-shu-ed when he spotted Sam staring at the nutritious and healthy breakfast pellet in front of him. Dratte pulled itself into a restful position across the table. “Have a luxury cabin, y’know. Place is quite large. Willing to share, y’see. Welcome the company. Er, you won’t eat me, will you?”

“That,” Sam said with a nod at the auto-chef, which was probably keeping a wary LED on him lest he attack, “was a misunderstanding between me and that stupid machine. The only nasty habit that I have is that I snore.” When Dratte Five rubbed its antennae nervously at the strange concept, he quickly added, “Don’t worry, that just means that I make loud noises while I sleep.”

“Good. Nothing to worry about,” Dratte Five said with obvious relief and slapped Sam’s shoulder. “Don’t sleep myself. Nasty habit. Better ways for we Tsith. But glad to help. Consider it done. Now, d’you think the bar’s open?”

Dratte Five’s cabin turned out to be much, much larger than Sam’s. For the hundredth time he wondered at the lengths his agent would go to save a fraction of a glizzatina if the opportunity presented itself. Lord knows, with what she was charging their clients for Sam’s negotiating services, she could arrange better accommodations than those he’d been forced to endure thus far.

To his surprise there was even a human-sized bed—a soft, billowy bed—in the Tsith’s cabin. With pillows even! For a second he worried that he might find himself sleeping side-by-side with Dratte Five and his multiple pairs of Keds. But, hadn’t the friendly alien said that it didn’t sleep? If that was so then why then did it need a cabin? Not that any of that mattered a whit, he realized with a smile, for that meant that he would have the entire bed to himself! He could not believe his luck in finding so charitable an alien as Dratte.

He moved his kit into the cabin within the hour.

Lunch was a brownish pellet (falafel, the auto-chef said nastily) and a fizzy drink that tasted remotely like cola. Dinner was a feast; two (count them) pellets—one brown and the other beige. “Humus and pita,” the auto-chef reported in reply to Sam’s inquiry. “With yogurt.” The small cup of thick liquid was nice and warm.

“Delicious,” Sam said, hoping that by doing so he would prevent the machine from obtaining any pleasure from his reaction to the serving.

As was his custom of late, Sam returned to his former cabin to talk with the truzdls after dinner. It was the only way he could get away from the overly helpful and ever-present Dratte Five. There was such a thing as being too friendly.

Despite occasional prompting by Bunion-of-Hide, the spokesflea for the campers, that he talk to the city fathers up in the mane, Sam protested that he wanted to confine himself to the few truzdls he already knew. “I’d rather not deal with the government types when I’m not working. Somehow I doubt that the bloodsuckers here would be any different from the others I’ve known.” Almost immediately he regretted his choice of words.

“No offense taken,” Bunion assured him. “I feel much the same.”

The ancestors of the truzdls, Sam learned through his new friends, had constructed vast cities that towered over the plains of their native planet. Some of these reared nearly six meters into the heavens and contained millions of inhabitants. Sometime in the dim pre-phloomb, pre-civilized ages, an adventurous group had discovered the peripatetic pleasures that came with populating the blue ox-beasts that wandered their world. Since then an entire mobile truzdl culture had grown up. These groups wandered far and wide, never staying in one place for long. Using these animals they had spread their civilization throughout the world, and beyond.

“I imagine that was your first great age of ox-ploration,” Sam observed. He could practically hear the little flea scouts laughing at his poor pun in the background. Bunion only growled.

As the truzdls described their journeys Sam wondered if the band of interstellar gypsies had developed their own songs and dances. He tried to imagine Bunion and the others playing their little flea fiddles and balalaikas late into the evening. He tired to picture how the flashy-clothed, dashing crowd would appear when glimpsed through a forest of blue ox-hairs, snapping their pincers as their multiple legs beat out a manic staccato to the fierce rhythms of the gypsy music.

And so to bed, for Bingnagia awaited.

Dratte Five seemed to have an unquenchable thirst for two things: the bar’s various brands of glycol and Sam’s business. Of secondary interest were all things having to do with Earth, such as why humanity hadn’t done away with all that nasty water in Earth’s atmosphere and why humans hadn’t adopted phloomb technology earlier. “Your commitment to electromagnetism is so declasse. Ridiculously wasteful,” he said condescendingly. “Such deliberately profligate energy use make you appear to be rubes, backward and ignorant.”

Sam tried to smile, despite the insult—which was also too painfully true.

When he wasn’t probing, Dratte Five regaled Sam with tales of his own travels and adventures, some of which were quite beyond belief. Still, one could never be sure where the line between truth and fiction was: The galaxy was so vast, the worlds so diverse, that everything seemed possible to Sam’s poor, unsophisticated mind.

As best Sam could make out, Dratte Five was some sort of exterminator, making his living by ridding various races of pests. “It must pay well,” he remarked after hearing one amusing bit that might have involved either nuclear bombs or phloomb implosions if the translator was working correctly. The technology and its application to pest control were quite incomprehensible in either case.

“Pays quite well. Few of my clients complain,” Dratte Five replied with a wiggle of its antennae. “And none of the victims,” it added with a grinding rasp of its mandibles.

Sam was surprised by Dratte’s remark. He hadn’t realized that the Tsith had a compassionate core, much less feel pity for the pests he eliminated. He couldn’t recall an Orkin man ever referring to cockroaches as “victims.” Perhaps the Tsith operated on a higher moral plane. Earth could learn a lesson from him.

Dratte Five was quite interested in Sam’s destination, and even more so when he discovered that Sam was to deal with their exalted leader, the M-Ditsch, itself.

“Few outsiders ever get close to the M-Ditsch,” he’d explained. “Bingna-gia’s leader is highly suspicious. Very tight security. Comes to the government compound infrequently. To be expected. Backstabbers, y’know.”

“Backstabbers?” Sam said. “Why should they want to harm their leader?”

Dratte Five leaned close so that his rasps were barely above a faint scratching sound. “Assassin culture, y’know. Every hand against the leader, y’see. Ditsch can’t protect his own back, not much good. Blasted underlings always looking for a chance to better themselves. Nasty fellows, them.”

Suddenly, Sam did not feel confident that this assignment was going to be as simple as Ahbbbb had stated. He would be in the line of fire, so to speak, in a culture that espoused regicide or worse.

“Wish you well. Hope you get through quickly,” Dratte Five went on. “Court’s going to get involved. Rumors abound. In and out fast. That’s my advice.”

Sam froze when he heard this. The last thing he wanted anything to do with was the Galactic Hegemony’s court system. From the tales he’d heard, the Court’s judgments were rather draconian; that is, if you could ever get your case on the docket, and provided that you could survive the preliminary visit of the Clerk of Court. Every galactic he had spoken to had expressed a decided aversion to court disputes; it was a sure way of both sides losing everything they had.

“Perhaps that is why the Bingnagians wanted a human negotiator,” Sam said hopefully. “To keep the Court out of it.”

“Quite possibly,” rasped Dratte Five as he sucked another tumbler of glycol, his fifth in the past hour, through the base of his eating foot. In the past few days his imbibing had increased markedly. Dratte twiddled his antennae as if thinking deeply about what he was going to say as he drained the last of the Glimmora whiskey. “I really like you, Sam,” he rasped quietly as he waited for the auto-chef to refill the cup.

“Well, I like you, too,” Sam answered cautiously, wondering where this startling revelation of affection was going. “I just wish that I could do something for you to show my appreciation for all you’ve done.”

Dratte Five rubbed his appendages together. “Owe me nothing. Glad to help. Like to give you something. A memento of the time we’ve spent. Small thing.” Dratte spread his antennae to indicate something about the size of a basketball. “Something you’ll like, I’m sure. Mark of my esteem, as it were.”

Sam nodded. “I’m flattered, but you really don’t need to—”

“Not another word. Be my pleasure. Can’t do it now, though. Have to, uh, get it out of storage. But, have no fear, I’ll get it to you before you leave. Now,” he said with a gracious wave of his antennae, “I’ll stand you another round. Beer still your choice of beverage?”

Sam nodded numbly. The auto-chef seemed to continue to display its hatred of humanity in general, and Sam in particular, by serving a variety of poisons that threatened to destroy Sam’s carefully nurtured health. The beer, as one sterling example, suffered no degradation of quality as it passed through his system. He even wondered if the auto-chef simply recycled the used beer from his cabin and rebottled it for his next round. It was hard to tell from the taste.

Still, it was better than the wine.

Sam was immersed in a sea of blondes, surfing over heaving bosoms, plunging into the sargasso of sweet smelling arms and legs, and tangling his hands in the seaweed of long blonde tresses. He swam blissfully abreast in the sensuously warm sea, listening to the distant squealing of the foghorn.

He awakened with a start. That was no fog horn; it was the ship’s alarm! They must be docking at the Bingnagia spaceport.

As he jumped from the bed he noticed that the air was uncomfortably humid, as if someone had sprayed the cabin with a fire hose. He checked the environmental settings and was surprised to see that Dratte had set the dehumidifier on high. Why, then, was the room so damp?

As he walked back to the bed his foot struck an object in the center of the floor. The impact sent a stab of agony racing up his leg. Sam hobbled to the side of the bed, clutching his foot in his hand, his big toe throbbing in pain. After the agony of his injury receded, Sam limped over to examine whatever had given him so much pain. He was certain that the object had not been there the previous evening.

It turned out to be a nondescript, brownish-gray lump, somewhat angular, with overlapping planes surrounding it. It was about the size of a basketball.

Sam hefted the object and was surprised at how much it weighed. He placed it on the bed and sat beside it, wondering why Dratte had left the thing sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a damp ring that was fast disappearing into the absorbent floor. The unattractive object was no doubt the gift Dratte wanted Sam to deliver.

Dratte? Now that he thought of it, where was his cabin mate? His four pairs of orange tennis shoes sat lined up neatly to one side of the cabin, and the mouselike little black hat was still on a hanger. Surely he wouldn’t have gone far in dishevel, would he? He decided to search for him.

He couldn’t find Dratte Five in the common room, in the bar, nor in any of his other, usual abodes. For all intents and purposes the Tsith appeared to have vanished without a trace. Sam decided to eat and wait for him to show up.

For his last breakfast, the auto-chef disgorged a bright-yellow pellet, which it swore was a human delicacy known as “Welsh rarebit.” The lumpy white liquid in the accompanying cup was so disgusting in appearance that he refused to ask what it was. He swore that he would never again fly Glimmora, not ever. Never!

“Oh, by the way,” he asked the auto-chef as he turned to leave, “my friend, the Tsith, seems to have disappeared. Have you seen him this morning?”

“Dratte Five Decline was last seen entering his cabin last evening after drinking twelve glycol and gingers.”

“But he’s not in the cabin,” Sam protested. “He is gone.”

“He did not emerge from the cabin. Did you eat him?” the auto-chef asked flatly.

“Of course I did,” Sam shot back, angry at the suggestion. Thanks to the auto-chef’s predator announcement weeks ago, he’d had no one to talk to except the Tsith and the truzdls.

“The ship has docked,” an announcement screeched from the overhead in several languages. “All departing passengers must leave. The ship will depart in one tiska-taska.” Sam did a quick time conversion in his head and realized that he had only an hour to get everything together and say his good-byes. He hastened to the cabin to gather his few personal things; his kit, and that ugly lump of a gift. He then rushed to the truzdl’s cabin to bid them farewell, hoping he would run into Dratte along the way, but was disappointed when he did not.

He’d spent so much time saying good-bye to his flea friends, and the ersatz-ox they rode in on, that he had to race for the dock while the departure horn blared. He squeezed through just as the hatch snapped shut at his heels, and ran into something solid and unyielding.

He rebounded from the set of four tree trunks he had impacted. As he looked up he discovered that these were incongruously wrapped in purple shorts. He continued to look up. And up.

Two meters above his eyes was a bullet-shaped head containing a pair of huge ears, neatly bisected by a flaccid, drooping tube. Two small, beady eyes peered from beneath a huge overshadowing ridge of flesh atop of what he suspected was the alien’s skull. Beneath its head was a solid block of fourarmed muscle that rested on the four tree trunks which, Sam now realized, must be the Bingnagian’s legs. This monster must be, he concluded, the welcoming committee.

The Bingnagian reached out with one of its foreclaws and snatched Sam’s kit from his hand. Nhff, it hooted through its tube. “Follow me,” the translator croaked. The Bingnagian led the way to a shuttle port and, with a casual wave of its aft claw, indicated that Sam should climb aboard.

Sam did so and climbed, with considerable difficulty, onto one of the oversized seats on the Bingnagia shuttle. Moments later, as he was struggling to settle himself on the cylindrical, padded cushion, the pilot and Sam’s escort flopped onto theirs and began throwing switches and pumping levers to build up pressure. The two seat belts on his “seat” were each as wide as Sam’s chest, with buckles the size of his head. As he was forcing the ends of one belt and buckle together the Bingnagia pilot stuck his breathing tube over his shoulder without turning around.

Hnijff, zzlig tka! it hooted through that orifice. “We’re leaving,” the translator decoded just as the engines fired and threw Sam against the unyielding seat back. The trip to the surface of the planet was thankfully short.

Four more of the huge Bingnagians shuffled aboard as soon as the shuttle taxied to a stop. Lfffg tka nfflgt! the first one hooted loudly. “About time you got here!” the translator repeated. “Come along. We’re not paying you to sit around enjoying the scenery.” Sam obediently picked up his things and followed the escort as they led the way out of the shuttle.

The Bingnagia landing field’s surroundings were of a scale with these aliens. Gargantuan buildings reared on all sides of the field. Huge vehicles roared with abandon across the tarmac, nearly running into each other. Groups of the gigantic aliens raced here and there. Some groups seemed to be engaged in such fierce fighting that Sam wondered if they had entered a combat zone. Was there a civil war raging? Was that the dispute he’d been sent to solve?

His escorts suddenly diverted from the marked path to rudely bump some equipment handlers aside as they left the shuttle’s ramp. The handlers bumped back and, in a matter of seconds, the two groups were brawling, smashing their huge claws against each other, kicking with their muscled legs and immense feet. Sam ducked around the mass of battling giants and ran for the nearest building.

Before he could reach it, the door swung open and a Bingnagian that was even larger than the others rushed out. Gnfft Tka, it hooted at the frightened Sam—“Move aside!”—and raced to the fray, its massive legs pumping furiously.

Sam watched in disbelief as this new arrival began to indiscriminately beat up on whichever Bingnagia came to the top of the pile, its four claws striking out in every direction until there were no more combatants standing. The late arrival then proceeded to pull Sam’s escorts to their feet and smash each of them another time with its main claw, a bruising blow that looked as if it would probably kill a horse… or slow an opposing lineman, Sam suddenly thought, wondering what the NFL would do to have a couple of these aliens on their teams.

The huge alien and Sam’s much-battered escorts rejoined Sam inside the terminal. “Sorry for the inconvenience, but we hadn’t seen our friends for some time and needed to get reacquainted,” one of them huffed through its battered and bruised tube.

“Is that what you consider a friendly greeting?” Sam asked incredulously.

The Bingnagians pulled themselves upright proudly. “Of course, how else can we tell where we stand with each other?”

Sam was glad the group hadn’t run into their girlfriends. Probably none of them would have survived the celebration. He followed as they led the way to ground transport, hoping they ran into no more acquaintances on the way.

The security at the Bingnagian government compound was quite impressive. Sam had to go through sixteen security checks, each staffed by a dozen or more heavily armed Bingnagians who ferociously scanned both his body and kit for hidden weapons. Sam had to show his credentials at each guard post and then wait as his escorts smashed one or more of the guardsmen in the now customary round of friendly fellow-bashing.

The inner court was also heavily guarded. There was a platoon or more of soldiers parading endlessly back and forth under the shouted orders of what Sam assumed were officers, since they were the ones who were not marching to and fro.

His terminal escorts, a pair of Bingnagians dressed in neon trunks, produced a ring of keys, each one the size of Sam’s arm. With great ceremony the guards unlocked the half-dozen locks in the door to the compound’s inner keep. Finally, when the last tumbler fell, the door swung wide. They motioned for Sam to step into the dimly lit interior.

Sam did so and found himself in a broad hallway. The door slammed behind him. He could hear the guards clicking the many locks closed. He assumed there would be no going back without an escort.

Sam picked up his things and began to walk down the hall. On either side were large depictions of various Bingnagians. A common theme seemed to run through them all. In each were a surprising array of dead animals, or other alien races—it was so hard to tell when traveling through the galaxy—around an erect Bingnagian principal. One particularly garish portrait, prominently displayed at the far end of the hall and dominating the rest, showed a golden-trunked Bingnagian standing astride several obviously dead Bingnagians, each one with a dagger prominently displayed in the center of its back. The paint glistened as if it were still wet.

“That must be the M-Ditsch,” Sam remarked aloud and wondered at the bloodthirsty monsters Ahbbbb had sent him to help.

Kmmmhffg—“It certainly is”—someone suddenly hooted behind him. Sam spun around and confronted an imposing monster, by far the largest Bingnagian he’d encountered so far, towering over him.

Hnffg tka ghjjjt—“You the human thing I asked for?”—it hooted in a surprisingly pleasant baritone.

“Sam Boone,” Sam said and started to step forward, toward the giant, when his foot tangled in the cords of his kit and he flew forward. He grabbed at the alien’s legs to hold himself up and, in doing so, thrust his head into the several crotches of the monster.

The huge alien leaped in surprise and slapped Sam away with one of its gigantic claws. “By the Gods, you are a polite one,” it hooted as Sam ricocheted off the wall. “I hadn’t expected that a human would know how to greet someone properly. Good to see that you have decent manners, even if they are somewhat sneaky.” It carefully probed the impact area tenderly with its tiny rearmost claws. “By the way, I’m the head protector of the M-Ditsch, Bro B.”

Sam’s head was still ringing from the glancing slap. “Um, yes,” he mumbled as he stumbled to his feet. “You certainly are.” Damn, he’d have to be more careful in the future, he thought as he shook his head to clear it. He definitely wasn’t going to hug anyone around here!

“Well, that’s enough pleasantries. Come along,” Bro B continued. “I’ve got to get those damned Adrinns to the table.” Bro B turned and began striding away, forcing Sam to run alongside.

“Is the M-Ditsch going to be there?” Sam asked.

“The M-Ditsch only comes here once a week,” Bro B replied. “He cannot expose himself to danger more frequently.”

Sam recalled the pile of knifed corpses he’d seen beneath the regal heels of M-Ditsch in the painting and recalled Dratte’s cautionary words. He could understand the M-Ditsch’s reasons.

When they reached a room farther down the hall Bro B stopped and threw a door open. “This is your room. Rest up while I get the others together.”

Sam dropped his kit in the middle of the room and looked around. The guest room was dripping with tapestries of untold beauty, cords of jewels, and strange gilded objects whose purpose he could not begin to guess. It was the most tacky display of wealth he’d seen since he left Reno.

In the center of the room was a wide, shallow pool, just the right depth for one of the Bingnagians to soak in. To one side sat a utilitarian bed. Six sturdy legs held a set of thick, bare planks a meter and a half off the floor, level with his chest. An ornately chiseled and embossed side chair was to scale with the bed. Sam felt as if he were four years old once again; a child in an adult’s house. No sooner had that memory come to mind than he had a frightening thought and began to search for the bathroom.

By the time Sam had figured out how to use a toilet designed for a fourlegged giant without being drowned, Bro B had returned.

“Everybody’s ready. Let’s go,” he hooted, snapping the jaws of his main claw open and shut.

Sam went, dripping the whole way.

“All right, the human is here. Let’s begin,” Bro B hooted as he flopped into his chair. The room shook slightly, as if a small earth—er, bingnagiaquake, Sam corrected himself—had taken place. Four other Bingnagians were already seated. They were, Sam learned, Bro K, Bro T, Bro C, and another Bro T.

“Let’s begin,” one of the T-Bro’s huffed angrily, with a nasty glance at the diminutive human.

In the center of the table was a squeaking, puffing machine. On the one side, and pointed at the Bingnagians, were an arrangement of transparent tubes, one for each of the seated Bros. On the opposite side a set of thin threads ran across the table from the machine.

A cluster of tiny, cockroach-like aliens were standing very close together on a high stool where the threads ended in a set of tiny microphones. There were five of the aliens, although it was hard to count, since the four or five or six of them were in constant motion. During a lull, while the smallest one licked the feet of the others, Sam could actually count them. There were five, he was sure. Each was clothed in shining black leathers and had feathery antennae poking through its helmet. On second thought, perhaps those weren’t leathers but their integument.

“Had to wait, had to wait,” the translator barked as one of the largest Adrinns squealed into its thread.

“Ugly primitive,” another squeaked as the huge machine on the table hooted and Sam’s trusty silver box translated its words into Glax.

“Won’t pay for this! Won’t pay for it! We. Are. Not. Going. To. Pay!” three of the middle-sized ones chanted emphatically. Another of the aliens began to examine the pedal extremities of its companions.

The other little Adrinn heads nodded in unison with each emphatic bark. Sam was dismayed that the tiny aliens would choose to take such an aggressive opening position.

Bro B slammed his fist down on the table. It sounded like an explosion. “No way, Number One! We said we were going to ask the human to help and you said it was OK. You owe us your share, fair and square!” Bro B and Bro K shifted nervously at their chair-Bingnagian’s outburst.

“We didn’t agree to using it,” Number One squeaked in protest, “we’re not going to pay.” The smallest Adrinn started to examine the feet of his larger companions. Sam wondered what the fascination might be. Were all of these creatures pedophiles?

Number One’s words clearly had an immediate effect on the seated Bingnagians. They pushed their translator tubes to the side, put their heads together, and huffed quietly for a long time. Bro B, with much claw-clicking and tossing of his ears, finally emerged from the huddle.

“All right, we’ll pay,” he hooted, grudgingly.

“Got you, got you!” One barked.

“Don’t have to be damn proud of it,” Bro T said angrily. “You won’t always get your way!”

“Will too, will too,” another Adrinn squeaked.

Sam couldn’t believe his ears. The Bingnagians, with the exception of Bro, were practically frothing at the trunk at the tiny alien’s taunts, but did nothing. Clearly, any of them could squish the entire Adrinn contingent with one well-placed stomp. What was it about their little opponents that held them back? Would the Adrinns bite the Bingnagians, nibble their shorts, build nests in their hair, that is, if they’d had hair?

“I think it is time that I stepped into this,” Sam announced as he calmly walked over to the table and laid his translator next to the huffing machine. “But, before we go any further I would like to talk with both parties in this dispute. Is that agreeable?”

“Waste of time!” Bro roared. “They won’t talk!”

“Will too, will too,” Number Four squeaked. “Show you!”

“Won’t do any good,” Bro B hooted. “They can’t keep a promise. Won’t stick by their own words.”

“Do too,” another of the Adrinns barked sharply. “But only with the M-Ditsch. We’ll talk to the—”

“Enough!!” Sam shouted and slammed his fist down on the table. The two translators jumped and vibrated as they honked and chirped away. “We are going to have no resolution of this problem if all you can do is insult one another. Now, let’s all try to be reasonable.”

Bro jumped to his feet. “We have been reasonable, damn it! Let me tell you about—”

Sam quieted him with a fierce glare and a raised hand. “I meant that I should talk to each side in private,” he shouted.

“Oh.”

As best he could decipher the situation, the Bingnagians claimed a bit of real estate, a planet in a nearby system. The planet was, they told him, absolute heaven; great shallow lakes, fine wallows of mud, flat plains that stretched as far as the eye could see. They were preparing to settle it when another set of galactics, known as the Gormlies, had secretly slipped a few hundred thousand of their kind onto the surface. In no time, the plains had been dotted with their burrows on which a running Bingnagian could break a leg. Worst of all, the Gormlie engineers were considering diverting the streams that fed the mud wallows. They were ruining the plains!

What was worse, the Gormlies absolutely refused to remove themselves from the planets claimed by the Bingnagians, citing religious differences—they being of the burrowing persuasion and the Bingnagians of the stomping. The Adrinns, who had trade relations with both sides, selling Gormlie and Bingnagian raw materials throughout the sector, had volunteered to act as intermediaries.

When Sam discussed these accusations the Adrinns admitted that the Gormlies had done all of those things, and more. “But,” they squeaked, “it is their way to honor the Gods of holy trespass. There is no joy in taking what someone does not own.”

Even when Sam casually mentioned that the Court would possibly intervene, the Adrinns reported that the Gormlies still refused to take a single step in the direction of resolving the dispute. The day ended with nothing resolved, nothing settled, not an iota of progress.

As did the next. And the one that followed. It was if the Adrinns were deliberately going out of their way to avoid resolution of the problem.

On the other hand, in each session the Bingnagians seemed inclined to soften their demands. Sam suggested that they agree to holding onto the only thing that mattered to them—the central plains, untouched by civilization. The remainder of the planet’s surface could be held solely by the Gormlies. He asked the Adrinns to offer the same compromise position to the Gormlies with confidence that the remote aliens would refuse. Yet the Adrinns reported that they did.

By the end of Day Four Sam was on the verge of using the phloomb-driven ansible to contact Ahbbbb and tell her that the situation was hopeless. The only thing that held him back was that he hated to admit defeat. That, and the enmity that he would earn in Ahbbbb’s mind, who would no doubt retaliate by ensuring that he was assigned only to the most unappealing hell-holes in the galaxy. Not that they would be too much of a step down from those he had so far; still, it was the principle. He decided to try for one more day. Then he would make the call.

His ship was to depart in three days and he planned to be on it.

The Bingnagians finally agreed that they were willing to share space with the Gormlies, wanting only the plains areas. It seemed as if they had finally reached a basis for compromise, an equitable division of the planetary land.

There was just one complication, a small thing, hardly worth noting. The only Bingnagian whom the Gormlies trusted to sign the agreement was the M-Ditsch, not his underlings. To that end they would send their own leader to Bingnagia to ratify the deal. Otherwise they refused, according to the Adrinns, to discuss a schedule, provide a date certain, or even discuss a protocol to discuss the matter. The Gormlies were adamant. They had to meet with the M-Ditsch himself or there would be no agreement!

The M-Ditsch arrived early the day before the historic meeting in a flurry of ceremony that seemed to consist of much hooting and stomping as the coterie of Bros gathered to welcome their illustrious leader, each one holding a ceremonial dagger behind his back while the M-Ditsch crept in cautiously, never taking his eyes off of his staff—aka his possible successors—and keeping his back to the wall.

The M-Ditsch was an imposing figure, clad in shining armor and armed with an arsenal of weapons that turned him into a walking fortress. No sooner had the leader come into the hall than he dropped an enormous pile of documents on the floor. As some of the Bros rushed forward to grab pieces of this largess the M-Ditsch leaped back, letting no Bingnagian get behind him.

One of the more ingratiating members of the group, the ingratiating Bro T, offered the great M-Ditsch a round object that it held in its claw. It appeared to be one of the edible sweets that Bro T constantly consumed. There was a small nibble, hardly noticeable, taken out of one side. The M-Ditsch slapped it away so quickly that Sam wondered if poison was a possibility.

As soon as all the papers had been picked up, the M-Ditsch moved sideways and entered a room with a set of imposing locks on the obviously heavily fortified door. No sooner was he inside than he slammed the door shut.

“We must work on these,” Bro B said as he directed the other Bro boys to various rooms to handle the papers. “We’ve got to get this week’s work out of the way before the signing ceremony.”

“When can I meet with the M-Ditsch?” Sam asked.

“At the ceremony,” Bro B said confidently. “The M-Ditsch is very anxious to get it over with.”

The arrival of the Gormlie leader was somewhat less imposing. A Bingnagian guard and a small party of Adrinns were carrying a transparent tray that appeared to be filled with sand. Small black dots crawled through tunnels behind the glass.

“You mean that the Gormlies are ants!” Sam exclaimed. No wonder that they didn’t want to share the plains with the stomping Bingnagians; one misstep and an entire city could be wiped out. He wondered how many more insectile races there were in the galaxy?

The Adrinns took the Gormlies into the room that had been prepared for them. From the brief glance he had, Sam saw that sand had been spread all over the floor and a blazing lamp bathed the room in a warm, golden glow.

“Tomorrow will be a historic day,” Bro B said. “A day we will surrender our planet to these, these... pests!” There was no doubting the vituperation in his voice. Clearly, Bro B did not like the forced compromise the M-Ditsch was to sign.

Sam sat on the huge chair in his room and went over the long, three-part document that had been prepared for the ceremony. One section was written in standard Glax, a second in the thick Bingnagian script, and finally, one with the tiny, nearly microscopic lines that must be the Gormlies’ writing. Sam thought that if he had a microscope he could examine that section; that is, if he also could read their language.

Deciphering the Glax portion was chore enough, since Glax had seventy-four cases, seventeen tenses, and depended on position to denote whether a word was a noun, adjective, adverb, verb, or tush, this last being rather a weak appellation or strong modifier of whatever preceded it.

There was a knock on the door. When he opened it the Adrinns were standing there, surrounded by their ever-present Bingnagian guards.

“Party, party,” one of the Adrinns barked at Sam. “Celebrate, celebrate!” With those words the little creatures rushed into Sam’s room. One of them ran the water in the pool and they all began splashing around. Despite the playful aspect of what they were doing, the Adrinns seemed not to be having much fun. Each of them was dutifully splashing water on the others, immersing itself and then shaking off, and barking. It was almost as if it were a well-rehearsed performance of aliens enjoying themselves.

One of them picked up Dratte’s gift and began tossing it around as if it were a beach ball. Clearly it was just at the limits of what Sam thought they could handle.

“Our place, our place,” one of them shouted and, in an instant they were all out of the pool and heading for the door. “Come, come,” they yelled and pulled Sam along with them.

The guards plodded along behind. One of them shut Sam’s door.

The party with the quicksilver Adrinns was rather surreal, Sam thought. For one thing the little rascals appeared able to consume great quantities of alcohol, pouring tumblerfuls through several and various holes along their carapaces with much giggling and laughter. Despite their suggestions to the contrary, Sam decided to use only one of his several orifices for ingesting the potent brew the aliens had brought. It had a faint taste of gasoline and spice, but left a rather pleasant afterglow. By the fifth or sixth tumblerful he could hardly taste the gasoline or the spice. By the seventh he couldn’t taste, period.

There was a game, he recalled with some limited clarity, that involved guessing in which hand a stone was hidden. He tended to lose a lot because he had only two hands while his opponents had six. Or twelve, or whatever. The odds stopped mattering after a while.

It was with some effort that the helpful Adrinns assisted Sam back to his room where they dumped him on the bed and left with the Bingnagian guards, all of whom looked rather bored by the human’s limited capacity. But then, none of them had imbibed the Adrinns’ whiskey.

Sam dreamt that he was being pursued by a pack of tiny kittens through a putrid swamp whose air was so pungent that he could hardly breathe. Jumping from hummock to hummock, some of which were huge slugs, Sam managed to stay barely one leap ahead of the pursuing pussies, their slashing whips, and their flaming weapons. If only he could breath some fresh air he could escape them, he thought as he jumped sideways to avoid a large tree that strongly resembled Ahbbbb, and… found himself on the floor beside the plank bed. He was shaking his head to clear it of the residual nightmare when the door burst open and Bro B and an escort of guards stomped in.

Hnffg tka Ghfft? Bro B demanded without preamble. “By the Gods, why is it so damp in here?”

Bits of the nightmare still colored the edges of reality and Sam wondered how the Bros managed to get into his swamp. “Whazzat?” he responded with as much intelligence as he could gather. Something was hammering on his temples with sledgehammer blows. A fire raged in his belly and he felt as if someone had put shovelfuls of the Gormlies’s sand behind his eyelids. “Huh?” he added to clarify his previous confusion at the question.

Bro B continued to hoot as he snatched Sam’s translator and tossed it at him. “A terrible crime has been committed!” the translator roared. “Why did you do it?”

Sam tried to think of what he possibly could have done to give Bro B the impression that he would commit a crime. The only possibly underhanded thing he’d done was to take a small bit of cheese from the food closet the previous day. Surely that wasn’t so terrible that he needed to be awakened in the middle of the night, or was it morning? He was afraid to open his eyes and see. Blindness might be a possibility. Could that cheese have been the M-Ditsch’s midnight snack, a snack that he had mistakenly snatched? That must be it, he concluded.

“I’ll give it back if it means that much,” he mumbled and staggered to the large chair, which danced and bobbed as it tried to evade him. Finally, he cornered the beast, reached up, and pulled down the damp, napkin-wrapped snack. He offered it to Bro B.

The huge Bingnagian looked at the wrapped morsel with a dumbfounded expression in his blue eyes. “Is this a joke?”

“Ish the only thing I’ve took, taken,” Sam said with complete honesty and spread the napkin wide to show that it was just a piece of cheese.

“What is this?” Bro B roared. “That’s the key to the M-Ditsch’s room! I’d recognize it anywhere!”

Sam stared in amazement at the bauble that sat in the center of the napkin. Somehow, through some alien alchemy, the bit of cheese had transformed itself into a golden key.

Before Sam could utter a word of protest, the guards pulled him off the floor and dragged him down the hall, opened a door, and tossed him inside. Sam heard the key turn in the lock behind him as they left.

He looked around at his jail cell, if that is what it was. As far as he could tell this room was identical to the one he had just left, save that the humidity was substantially less. Sam walked cautiously to the huge chair, climbed carefully aboard so as not to explode the swelling dome of his skull. Once seated he tried to reason out the improbable chain of events from a stolen bit of cheese to discovery of the golden key, despite the throbbing of his temples.

Could he have been so drunk that he mistook the key for a snack? No, he was quite certain that he’d been sober at the time. Besides, even drunk he would never have made such a mistake. How, then, did the key get into the napkin and, his stomach reminded him, where the hell was the cheese? He debated the question until he fell asleep and dreamed fitfully of elephants and ants.

The question was still on his mind when he awoke hours later with only a minor headache. Why had the key caused such a reaction by Bro B? Almost as if summoned by his thoughts, that worthy came through the door in a rush, as if someone had pushed him. The heavy door slammed shut behind him.

“About time you explained what is going on around here,” Sam said indignantly. “I’ve been trying to figure out how that key managed to get into my room. I am not a crook! I did not take that key!”

Bro B shuffled over to the bed and sat down. “The taking of the key matters little,” he huffed. “What does matter is that the only way you could have gotten it was to enter the M-Ditsch’s chamber and remove it from his neck.”

“I haven’t been anywhere near his damned chambers. Besides, how could I get it off of his neck when I can barely reach up to even a short Bingnagian’s waist?”

Tears formed in Bro B’s eyes. “It would have been easy to remove it, considering that the M-Ditsch had no head at the time.” Bro B honked hard into a handkerchief the size of a bed sheet.

Sam rapped his translator. The machine had sure chosen a bad time to go on the fritz. “I thought you said no head,’” he repeated.

Bro honked again. “I did. Whoever took the key slit the M-Ditsch’s throat as he was sleeping.”

“He’s dead?” Sam said incredulously.

“Alas, that is what happens when someone removes your head,” Bro B said sadly. “Now there is no opportunity for me to slip a knife into his back like the good, loyal successor he wanted. Oh, the shame of it all!”

Sam was aghast. Without a Ditsch there was no hope of resolution with the Gormlies. How could he hope to resolve their dispute if there was no one on the Bingnagia side to sign an agreement? But why was he worried about that, as he went over what Bro B had said; there were more important things to be concerned about. “You think I did it!” he whispered with dawning amazement.

Bro looked down at him. “Of course I do. And it is my fault for inviting you into the keep where you could use your alien wiles to destroy our most adored Ditsch. I will be under the foot with you when the judgment is passed for my part in this crime.”

“Under foot?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” Bro B replied. “The penalty is stomping.”

Gulp. “You did say we’d be stomped, didn’t you?” Sam had no desire to have his lifetime postage canceled by the heavy-footed Bingnagia judicial system. He was too young, too vital, too hutnan to die. No, there had to be a way out of this. He left the side of the disconsolate Bro B and began to pace the floor. “We need to think this through. First, I didn’t do it.”

“You didn’t do what?” the translator blurted.

“Murder the M-Ditsch,” Sam replied absently. “You must know that.”

“Why should I?” the translator queried.

“Because they found the Ditsch’s golden key in my room after the murder,” Sam replied testily. “Why are you asking me these questions, Bro B?”

“Pardon?” Bro hooted. “Did you say something?”

“Just answering your questions,” Sam replied. “It surprised me that you would follow Earth’s Socratic method.”

“I didn’t ask you anything.”

Sam stopped. “You certainly did. I heard you with my own two ears.”

“You are imagining things. Must be a function of those tiny ears of yours.” Bro B said and laid down. In a few minutes loud snores emanated from the plank bed.

“How did the key get into your room?” the translator asked.

Sam glanced around. There was no one to be seen and he was certain that Bro B was not one to snore questions in his sleep. “Ghosts,” he said without conviction.

“Well, aren’t you going to answer my question?” the translator blurted impatiently Sam was astounded. In all the months he had used the Rix machine he had never realized that it was intelligent enough to have a conversation. Perhaps there were other aspects of Rix technology that he had not yet learned to appreciate.

“Yes, how the key got into my room is the, er, key to this whole mystery. Whoever put it into the napkin knew that would get me in trouble.”

“So all we have to do is discover who could have access to your room.” Sam considered. “Well, that would be all of the Bingnagians in the compound, plus the visiting Adrinns and the Gormlies. Matter of fact, I think I am the only one around here who didn’t want to kill him!”

“Then the questions are both motivation and who had access to the M-Ditsch’s sleeping chamber.”

“True,” Sam replied. “I don’t see how one could get into it. There were an awful lot of locks on that armored door and I’m sure that he didn’t welcome visitors. I can’t see how anyone could have gotten in there.”

“Then you will have to find out, won’t you?” the translator concluded. “Maybe Bro B has the answers to these questions.”

An awakened Bro B was indeed the source of the answer to the access question. According to the guards who had discovered the body, something had climbed through the chamber’s air duct, loosened the grille above the M-Ditsch’s bed, and dropped down. “The perpetrator left by the same means,” Bro B concluded. “Or maybe he left by the door, using that key you had.”

“Urk,” Sam said.

“Why couldn’t one of you go through the duct?” Sam asked. “All of you wanted to succeed him.”

Bro B laughed. “That would have been impossible. The ducts are far too small for anyone of my race. Besides, most Bingnagians are so claustrophobic that we wouldn’t dare enter such a confined space.”

“So they think that I crawled through the duct?”

Bro B nodded. “Yes, and they assume that we were in cahoots.”

“So I must have opened the M-Ditsch’s door for you? I assume that they also think that you killed him.” Bro B nodded agreement. “That couldn’t be true, Sam. Everyone knows that I’d stick a proper knife in his back instead of cutting his throat. No, I am not the killer.”

“Which means that it was either me or the Adrinns who did this,” Sam said.

“Couldn’t be the Adrinns,” Bro said. “They wouldn’t have the strength to slit the Ditsch’s neck like that. It took someone much stronger, much larger. Besides, I had the guards watching them every minute. No way they could have gotten out of their room to do this.”

“Which leaves me as the only candidate for stomping,” Sam concluded gloomily.

That afternoon his Adrinn drinking buddies paid a short visit. “Sorry, sorry,” they exclaimed as they crawled over him and sniffed his feet. “Bad, bad,” they said sympathetically and left with their ever-present guards.

Their concern brought a tear to Sam’s eye.

In the evening a motley-clad, gray-skinned Pequodista was ushered into the room. The Peq’s multiple layers of clothing rustled as it placed its wooden document case on the floor beside it.

The tendrils on the Peq’s head beat on the rose-colored, inflated bladder at the alien’s throat. Hmmmm, mmm, hmmhhm—“Name’s Oncccc, Bingnagia representative on planet. Ahbbbb heard that the Hegemony Court was coming and asked me to intervene. You know, get you out of here before the Clerk of Court arrives.”

“How the hell did…” Sam began. It shouldn’t have been possible for Ahbbbb to have heard of his arrest and reacted so quickly.

“We watch out for our assets,” Oncccc replied and then seeing the expression on Sam’s face, said, “Ahbbbb contacted me as soon as she heard about the murder. Wanted you to have the very best representative.”

“That was a very fast response,” Sam observed, “considering that I was just arrested this morning.”

The Peq’s tendrils drummed quickly; “Oh no, she heard this days ago. I must say that the Glimmoras are quite upset by your conduct and swear they will never transport humans again, at least not without a cage for them. Can’t say I blame them—they do try to protect their passengers as much as they can. They insist that I bring you to Glimmora so we can provide a decent explanation.”

Sam’s puzzlement grew in leaps and bounds. “Glimmora? What are you talking about? I thought you were here because of the M-Ditsch’s murder!”

Oncccc drew back, his tendrils shot straight out in amazement as his hands disappeared into the depths of his paisley robes. “Another murder?” he hummed. “You are quite the little predator, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Sam protested. “I’m just a human negotiator, a simple Earthman, not some coldblooded killer!” Seeing the expression that passed over the Peq’s face at the unintentional insult, Sam added, “Nor hot-blooded, for that matter.”

“Well, so you say,” the Peq hummed. “But how do you explain the gentleman that disappeared while he was with you? The ship’s auto-chef says that you admitted eating him.”

Sam felt his stomach sink as he recalled the incident. “I wasn’t serious when I said that. I just got so mad at that stupid auto-chef that I wanted to put it in its place. It was a joke,” he finished weakly.

The Peq blanched. “Nevertheless, you did admit that you did away with the Tsith! Oh, this is terrible. Terrible! I had hoped that it was some sort of misunderstanding, although it would be hard to deny, considering that the ship has a complete transcript of your confession. My dear friend, I do not think there is anything that I can do for you. Nothing at all.”

There was a commotion in the hall outside, with considerable huffing and hooting that Sam’s translator couldn’t handle. “What is it?” he asked Bro B.

The huge Bingnagian put its ear close to the door and listened for a few moments, then turned to face Sam and Oncccc. “It’s about the Court Clerk. They just received notice that it’s on its way here.” He listened for a moment more and then drew back in obvious distress. “Gods in dirt; they’re saying the Court is sending a D’ret!”

The Peq blanched, or at least turned a lighter shade of gray. Even Sam could see how Bro B’s legs trembled.

“What’s a D’ret?” he asked innocently.

“The most fearsome creature in the galaxy,” Oncccc explained hastily. “One hundred meters tall, armor-plated, an IQ of one thousand (that’s on an exponential Baysean scale, you understand), with a personal arsenal of firepower that no galactic can possibly withstand. Why, I once heard,” he added in a soft hum, “that a D’ret destroyed an entire planet just because they didn’t fuel his ship fast enough. It only took two of them to destroy an entire solar system that the Court found at fault. Nobody screws with a D’ret!”

“We’ve got to save our people,” Bro B shouted and started pounding on the door. “We have to select a new Ditsch and settle with the Gormlies before it gets here,” he hooted loud enough to be heard over the rising din. “That’s the only way we can stop the D’ret’s visit!”

“I’ve got to get the Hmmmhhhh out of here!” Oncccc declared. Apparently, that word was not in the translator’s dictionaries. With a flurry of fabric the Peq picked up its case and began to use it to hammer on the door. “Let me out! Let me out!” he hummed. The heavy thumps of Bro B’s blows were interspersed with the softer ones of the panicked Pe-quodista representative. It made a percussive counterpoint that sounded vaguely like Earth’s latest riparian mood tunes.

“Wait a minute,” Sam protested as the Peq continued to bash vainly on the door. “You can’t leave me here. You can’t just leave me here to be stomped to death by these monsters.”

“Hey, who are you calling a monster, you puny alien,” Bro B said and advanced on Sam.

Sam ducked to hide behind Oncccc’s billowing robes. “No offense intended, believe me,” he said. Sam dodged a swipe of Bro B’s claw when Oncccc moved left, leaving Sam unprotected. He dodged right and then left, directly into Bro B’s backhand.

Sam tumbled head over heels and fetched up against the bedpost. Something clattered to the floor beside him.

“What’s this?” Bro B said and picked it up. “How did you get the key to the door?”

“Key?” Sam replied. That was the second thing that mysteriously appeared in his possession. Was he a subconscious poltergeist, wafting things hither without conscious thought? No, he concluded; he’d never shown a gram of psi in any tests. There had to be another explanation.

“Damn if it don’t work,” Bro B hooted from the now opened door. “Come on!”

Oncccc ran out like a boutique pursued by fabric-starved seamstresses. He was followed quickly by Sam and Bro B.

Pandemonium reigned in the hallway. Bingnagians ran hither and yon, gathering things and racing off with them. Several seemed to be boarding up the windows. A few were busily locking every door in the long hall. Others were unlocking the same doors to deposit goods taken from other locked rooms. The din of hoots and hollers was so great that Sam’s translator couldn’t keep up.

One advantage of the confusion was that nobody seemed to be paying the escaping trio the slightest attention as they fled down the hall.

“I have a small ship nearby,” Oncccc hummed over the braided golden epaulets on his shoulders. “If you can get me to the field I can get both of you off the planet.”

“And I won’t get stomped to death,” Sam and Bro said in two-part harmony. “Let’s go!”

As they passed Sam’s former room he glanced inside. To his surprise several Adrinns were busily lifting something into a carrying case. Sam stopped, curious as to what possession of his could possibly be of interest to the little creatures. He stepped closer.

“Come on!” Oncccc said impatiently and tugged on his sleeve. “We don’t have time to sightsee. You don’t want to be stomped, do you?”

Sam waved him off. “I don’t understand why the Adrinns should be stealing something of mine.”

“What are they doing?” the translator barked.

“It looks like they are stealing Dratte Five’s gift; the one they were playing with in the pool,” Sam replied. This was a fine time for the intelligent machine to once again take an interest in his mundane doings. Where was it when he needed decent advice?

“He said to come on!” Bro B hooted angrily, swept Sam off his feet, and tucked him under one pair of arms. Sam had a brief glance at Oncccc, who was held tightly under the other two arms as Bro B thundered down the hall on all four legs, scattering lesser Bingnagians to each side as if they were kettle pins.

The outer door to the compound was standing wide open. A steady procession of Bingnagians carried papers and boxes from the keep and threw them into a line of waiting vehicles.

Bro leaped into the first vehicle they came to and dropped Oncccc and Sam onto the seat beside him. He stomped a pedal with one foot, grabbed a handle projecting from the floor with his minor claws, and pulled on the overhead cord with his huge fore-claw. With a scream of steam, the vehicle lurched into motion, nearly running down the squad of guards that still marched stolidly to and fro under the direction of their befuddled officers. The vehicle roared out of the compound and raced down the road toward the field and Oncccc’s waiting shuttle.

“I think this is a mistake,” the translator whispered to Sam. “Flight from adversity is never a wise course.”

“So what?” Sam replied. “I come from a long line of stupid people who ran away from danger and had kids. The wise ones who didn’t run dropped out of the race long ago.”

“One cannot flee when wrongly accused,” the translator countered.

“Better to be wrong and alive than dead right!”

“The explanation and your vindication are at hand. You have only to recognize it to clear your name, Sam.”

Sam was about to reply when Oncccc shouted. “That’s it, the gray one!” The Peq pointed at a large, bulbous monstrosity that looked as if it were the bastard offspring of a spaceship and a rutabaga. “Get us as dose as you can.”

All across the field ships were taking off, rising into the sky on columns of the muddy brown smoke that were the by-products of phloomb-activated propellants.

“News of the D’ret’s arrival must have spread quickly,” Sam said. “It looks as if we aren’t the only dumb ones who want to get the hell out of here!” He held one hand over the translator’s speaker to prevent a reply.

Oncccc jumped from the truck the instant it stopped and raced to spin the locks on the ship’s hatch. No sooner was the hatch opened than he was inside. In seconds they heard the sounds of the ship’s readiness. “Come on,” Oncccc hummed loudly enough to be heard over the racket.

Sam and Bro B stood on the tarmac at the foot of the ship. “After you,” Bro B said and waved a claw at the waiting hatch.

There was something about the way Bro B was standing, something about the tone of his hoot that made Sam suspicious. “You aren’t going with us, are you?” he said. “You are going to stay here to help them deal with the Clerk.”

Bro B nodded slowly. “I was the M-Ditsch’s successor. I have the responsibility to help my people. I can’t desert them at a time like this. It wouldn’t be honorable.”

“He’s right; honor is very important,” the translator chirped independently. “What are you going to do, Sam? Think about your contract to help the Bingnagians. Think about your honor.”

“I’m going to get on board and get the devil out of here!” Sam said as he took a step toward the ship. “There’s no way I can help the Bingnagians now.”

“So you will allow the Bingnagians to revile humanity forever? Aren’t you concerned about your reputation?” the translator chided.

“The only way you can enjoy a good reputation is to be alive, which I intend to remain for considerable time to come. What good would my unblemished reputation be if I get stomped by the Bingnagians or wiped out by the D’ret?”

That seemed to have stopped his conscientious translator for a moment, Sam thought as he clambered up the ladder to the hatch. Just before climbing inside he turned to wave farewell to Bro B.

The sight of the huge Bingnagian standing by the vehicle, steadfastly remaining on the planet of his people while knowing that he faced certain death and disgrace, touched Sam. “Duty, honor, country,” the translator whispered as strains of tinny martial music played along. “It is a far, far better thing...”

“All right, damn it! All right!” With a sigh Sam slammed the hatch closed, climbed back down, and walked over to the truck. He and Bro B stood there and watched Oncccc make his escape. “Home, James,” Sam said as he climbed aboard the truck.

“My name’s Bro B, Sam,” the Bingnagian replied as he threw the truck into gear and turned it around. “I really appreciate you helping us even though we are going to have to really stomp you when the D’ret gets through with us.”

“Service is my middle name,” Sam said disgustedly with a backward glance at the departing ship.

As they drove through the massive confusion surrounding the field, Sam thought about what the translator had said. The answer to everything was in his grasp, was it? Well, let’s see: Motivation, access, and size were the keys to the mystery of the M-Ditsch’s death. Somehow, the translator must know that solving that murder would resolve all of the other issues. It was nice that the little machine had such faith that Sam would put it all together.

He wished that he had as much faith in himself.

There was a hubbub around the entrance to the Ditsch’s keep when they arrived. A dozen Bingnagians were helping the group of Adrinns load their sled. It appeared as if the little aliens, like any other sensible being on this benighted planet, were about to depart. Sam couldn’t blame them for not wanting to meet the esteemed Clerk of the Court in person. He thought that this behavior displayed a degree of intelligence and grasp of the subtleties of the situation far in excess of what they had formerly displayed.

Bro B joined the crowd, hooting a storm of directions that organized the others into a smoothly efficient line. Sam could barely hear the translation of the tiny barks of the Adrinns’s protests through the din of thundering instructions.

“We are in a hurry,” one of them chattered.

“We have a ship to catch,” another added.

“Our business is at an end. You must deal with the Clerk now,” a third one barked.

“I see no reason that you should stay,” Bro B huffed loudly. “You did your best.”

“Yes, yes. Now please move aside. We are anxious to leave this terribly wet planet. It is very unhealthy for us,” the smallest one said as the Bingnagians threw the last box on the sled and stepped back to let the Adrinns continue on their way.

Wet planet. Something clicked in Sam’s mind: Weren’t these the same aliens who had splashed about in his pool with such abandon just the night before? “Just a minute,” he said as he stepped in front of the Adrinns’ sled. “I think that you have something of mine.”

“Out of the way, you murderer,” Adrinn One barked as Sam reached into the sled and pulled out a large box. “Hey, stay out of there. That’s ours.”

Sam opened the box and pulled out the uneven lump that Dratte Five had left for him. “Now what is this?” he said, turning it over in his hands so that everyone could see.

“That’s the thing you had in your room,” Bro B huffed. “Why do the Adrinns have it?”

Sam examined the lumpish sphere. Had it changed since he saw it last? Were those scales in the same place?

“I think we all need to return to my room,” Sam suggested. “I think I know how to stop the Court Clerk and...” The thunder of stomping feet as the Bingnagians raced them to the room drowned out the remainder of Sam’s statement.

The Adrinns and Sam were carried ungraciously but efficiently by Bro B and several guards. “Now, explain yourself, human Sam,” the large Bingnagian said once they were all inside.

“There are three elements to who killed the M-Ditsch,” Sam began as he tossed the sphere into the pool. “The first is motivation,” he explained as he turned back to the crowd. “Who, I asked myself, would benefit from the death of the M-Ditsch on the eve of an agreement?”

All of the Bingnagians shuffled their feet nervously. It was no secret that every one of them coveted the Ditsch’s position and was ready to put a blade into his back. Bro B, as the prime candidate to become the Ditsch, would be the obvious suspect.

“Well, I know what you are all thinking,” Sam interrupted their guilty thoughts, “but you are wrong. Simple ascension to the leadership wouldn’t be enough to commit murder and then not take credit for it. A Bingnagian would have slipped the blade in and then bragged about it, wouldn’t he?” A series of nods of agreement came from the huge aliens.

“Neither would the Gormlies benefit, even if they were able to handle something as large as the Ditsch. Failure to sign an agreement meant that the D’ret would deal both races a rather severe setback. No,” he said, shaking his head, “I think the Gormlies are as innocent as the rest of you.”

“Then who could it be besides you?” Bro B hooted.

“Consider: once the Court’s Clerk got through with the Bingnagians and the Gormlies there would be no opposition to someone else developing the planet. Now who here has an interest in that?” All eyes turned to the Adrinns, who fidgeted nervously with furtive glances at the pool and the doorway.

Sam continued. “Then there is the matter of access to the Ditsch’s chambers,” Sam explained. “As you all observed, only the Adrinns and myself would fit in the duct the killer used to enter the M-Ditsch’s chambers.”

“But you were the only one who wasn’t under constant observation,” Bro B protested. “The Adrinns couldn’t have done it while the guards were watching them. You said so yourself.” “Which leads to the third question of method,” Sam continued. “Only a being near my size could possibly have the strength to slice the M-Ditsch’s head off. Isn’t that what you said?”

Bro B was astounded. “But Sam, your logic says that you are the only one who could have done it. Are you making a confession?”

Sam walked over to the pool, and looked into its depths. “The assumption has always been that there were only the Ditsch’s staff, the guards, the Gormlies, the Adrinns, and myself inside the keep. Isn’t that true?”

Bro B nodded. “Yes. We have very tight security. Only a bug could crawl in here without our noticing.”

Sam stopped, bemused by a sudden thought. “A bug, you say?”

“Yes, is that important?” Bro B answered.

“Not to you,” Sam replied with a smirk and glanced at the water. “Come look at this.”

The small round package had begun to change before their eyes; unfolding and growing in volume. The water was being rapidly absorbed as the object grew and grew until, after ten minutes, the tub was full of...

“Hello, Dratte Five,” Sam greeted the Tsith as it climbed from the tub and shook itself.

“Very clever, Sam. Underestimated you. Humans aren’t as dumb as I thought,” the alien rasped.

“What the hell is going on here?” Bro B hooted. “Where did this thing come from?”

The Tsith inclined one of his antennae toward the towering Bingnagia. “Pleased to meet you. Right honorable Dratte Five Decline, FSF, ASFSF, IASFM, Admiral of the Fleet, Royal Tsith Companion, and Protector of the Queen’s Rump, here. Do I have the pleasure of your company?”

“Dratte Five is a paid assassin,” Sam explained to the dumbfounded crowd. “I suspect that the Adrinns brought him here to prevent the agreement that would upset their planned takeover of your planet.”

“I still don’t understand,” Bro B said plaintively.

“Of course you don’t,” Adrinn One barked nastily. “So long as the Court believed you both to be in dispute you would have suffered the penalties. By the time the case came before the court we would have exploited that planet without having to deal with the middle-beings.”

“So you must be the ones who filed with the Court,” Sam said smugly, proud that his guess had proven correct. “That was why you didn’t want the Gormlies to accept the Bingnagians’s concessions. That was why you didn’t want the M-Ditsch to sign the agreement.”

The Adrinns shifted around, “Yes, it was a good plan, and would have worked if you had escaped as we planned.”

So that was why it was so easy to get out of the compound! They must have put the key to the door in his pocket during their visit, Sam thought with dismay.

“But how did this thing get in here?” Bro B wailed. “We have the best security in the universe. We could have detected any signs of life.”

“Back on Earth,” Sam began, “there are a number of creatures that survive drought by eliminating all water from their bodies as they shrivel up. The glycol allows all of the body’s proteins to fold up without damage and that compresses them into what appear to be nothing more than inanimate lumps. The tardigrade is the best example of these.”

“But I thought that life couldn’t be sustained without water!” Bro B protested.

“And that is what your scanning devices are looking for,” Sam explained. “Dratte, however, infuses himself with glycol before he eliminates all of the water from his body and uses that to bathe the cells.

“That is what made me realize what had happened. When he originally dried up on the ship, it filled our cabin with moisture, more than the de-humidifier could handle. I didn’t realize it when the same thing happened to my room right after the murder. Then, when I saw that the Adrinns wanted to take the Dratte’s “gift” back and heard their complaints about the humidity here, I made the connection and figured out how the murder must have been committed.” He carefully omitted the role his “intelligent” translator had played in his analysis of the situation.

“Yes, but if your little experiment with the water hadn’t worked your whole logical scheme would have fallen apart,” Bro B said.

Sam smiled slowly, “Yes, that is true. But all I had to do to prove what I said was true,” he smiled as he paused for effect, “was to de-hide Dratte.”

The Blattskitt ship docked exactly on schedule. The B-Ditsch, nee Bro B, swung a claw toward Sam’s shoulder. “Good-bye, Sam human. I thank you for your assistance and help, both personal and for all of us. I notified the Court this morning that the matter has been settled amicably. The D’ret has been diverted elsewhere and will not come here.”

Sam dodged the B-Ditsch’s friendly blow and threw a weak counter-jab at his friend’s knee. “Think nothing of it. Glad to help.” He jumped back from another swing and ducked into the hatch. There was such a thing as too fond a farewell, and, where the Bingnagians were concerned, such could easily prove fatal to a frail human.

He quickly discovered his cabin on the Blattskitt ship to be a masterpiece of galactic engineering; embarrassingly thick bedding, a luxurious, humanshaped and -sized toilet, and a wonderful set of nodes for virtual experiences both blonde and brunette. He could hardly believe his good fortune. Ahbbbb had outdone herself in making these fantastic arrangements, he thought as he sat back on the soft bed and pulled the translator from his belt.

“You can come out now,” he said simply. “I know you are in there.”

“How did you guess?” the translator asked. “We thought that you believed that intelligent translator story.”

“I did, at first, but you sort of overreached yourselves with that martial music bit on the tarmac.”

“We needed that for effect,” Bunion, the truzdl leader replied. “We were desperate to change your mind.”

“Well, you did that. If you hadn’t you would have had to resolve the dispute some other way, wouldn’t you, Bunion, or should I say Court agent?”

The translator was silent for a long while. “When did you guess that? I thought we had a perfect cover.”

Sam smiled. “It was the only obvious choice. Who but an official of the Court would bother to help me resolve that situation?”

“True, we had been following Dratte for several months, wondering where he would strike next. We’d heard that the Adrinns had hired him, but didn’t know what he had planned. Had we even suspected, we would have intervened much earlier.”

“What will happen to the Adrinns now?” Sam asked.

“Oh, we’ve already sent instructions for the D’ret to change its destination from Bingnagia. It will stop by the Adrinn home system and assess a small penalty. It shouldn’t kill more than 50 or 60 percent of them.”

“So are you going to leave me now?” Sam asked with a shudder at the casual way Bunion had mentioned a demi-genocide.

“Oh, no!” Bunion replied. “You are so interesting we’ve decided to stick with you for a while and learn more about Earth and its potential real estate. Matter of fact, that is why we had your accommodations upgraded, courtesy of the Court. We thought that you did such a good job that you should travel in comfort.” It paused. “Oh, yes, and have the room for our traveling companion.”

Yes indeed, Sam thought as he crossed his hands behind his head and settled back, reflecting on his great good fortune: a luxury cabin, the prospect of fine food, pleasant music, and the promise of good companionship. What more could he want?

There was a commotion in the passageway, a bumping, thumping noise that came closer and closer. Sam walked to the door to see what was going on. Just as he reached it, there was a hearty thump. He opened it.

Snorf, his new cabin mate said amiably as it pushed its gaseous, smelly, blue-haired way into the cabin to rejoin its inhabitants.

Editor’s Note: Earlier stories about Sam Boone have included “Sam Boone and the Thermal Couple” (October 1995); “Sam Boone’s Appeal to Common Scents” (July 1996); and “Sam Boone’s Rational Choices” (March 1997).