Bill, The Galactic Hero 6 - on the Planet Of The Hippies From Hell (14 page)

“Nope. Butter, whole milk, skim milk, half and half. Cream, low-fat milk. Cheeses of a delicious array and assortment. Buttermilk, etcetera, etcetera, right brother?”

“MMmmmph!” said moo-Bill.

Bill-Bob started off for the dairy department, but Elliot grabbed him. “You're supposed to be taking us to this infamous bridge of yours to introduce us to your captain!”

“The bridge? The captain?” said moo-Bob, eyes a little glazed. “Oh Yes! Of course! Sorry, I get a little carried away when I get near dairy products of any kind!”

“No yak's milk, huh?” said Bill, disappointed.

Bill-Bob took them to a large round metal portal. He irised it open. He did this by pulling up irises from a nearby flower box and tossing them at the door.

They stepped through onto the generation ship's bridge.

Bill of course had been on many a ship's bridge before, just to polish the brass, even though most of his time he'd spent on laser-cannon fodder detail down in the bowels of the Emperor's behemoth ships prowling space, on the lookout for evil Chingers in order to frustrate their evil ambitions. Or at least that's what it said in the Trooper's Daily.

Most of the Emperor's ship's bridges were utilitarian, consisting of a lounge chair with a seat belt for the captain, a lounge chair without a seat belt and a joystick for the pilot, and plenty of techs who did the real work with lots of buttons, toggles and mind-boggles that controlled the hi-tech super-science star-drives. Since the captain and the pilot were upper-class idiots, their controls were not functional at all.

However, this one was quite different.

All of the controls were set into beautiful streamlined rows, glittering with incredible blinking lights, shuddering with breathlessly glorious holographic images of the stars and planets and comets and nebulae beyond. It was the most beautifully sculpted bit of architecture Bill had ever seen, with banks of computers far more futuristic looking than the neo-old-fashioned utilitarian designs utilized by the Emperor's ships.

But the most astonishing sight of all, to Bill, was the captain and the crew.

“Captain Moonure, sir!” said the custodial mutant. Two hands shot up to two brows in salute. “Janitor third-class Bill-Bob reporting! We've got guests, sir. And guess what! They're Time Travelers!”

“Galloping galaxies!” gasped Elliot. “They're cows!”

Yes, observed Bill. They were indeed cows. They were not men with cow heads or cows with human heads. They were not mutated cows or mutated humans. They were just run of the mill, cud-chewing Bessies, staring dully at nothing much, occasionally feeding on hydroponic grass, flicking tails at flies.

“Captain!” said Bill-Bob, walking up to one. “This is Bill and this is Elliot!”

“Moo!” said the captain. “Mooooooo!”

It lifted its tail and did what cows always do when they lift their tails.

“You see!” said moo-Bob. “A real character, the captain, huh? What a joker!”

Just in case, so as not to offend any possible intelligence, Elliot walked up, extending his right hand in the official Galactic handshake. “Greetings, Captain!”

“Moo!” said the cow, and it chewed on some more grass.

Elliot shook his head. “They're just cows!”

“Just cows!” said the mutant janitor. “How can you say that? They're not just cows. They're Holy Cows. Especially bred for godhood and generation-ship piloting!”

Bill nodded, recalling his civilian ambition before he became a Trooper. “Damned fine fertilizer technicians too, from the looks of them!”

Bill-Bob grinned. “Yes! Yes, Bill. I can see that at least you understand!”

“No wonder this ship got off course and lost!” said Elliot. “Even the ancient Hindus were better off. At least they didn't let their sacred cows fly spaceships!”

“Moo,” said a cow cleverly. “Moooooooo!”

“Can't you see! You're upsetting them!”

“Look,” said Elliot disgustedly. “If you don't mind, could I take a look at your communication equipment? Like I said, somehow I might be able to call up my headquarters.”

“You'll have to talk to the communications officer,” said moo-Bob, pointing over to a smaller cow by a panel. “Lieutenant Elsie!”

“Moo!” said Lieutenant Elsie.

“Hey! She doesn't seem to mind!” said Bill. “Go to it, Elliot.”

Shaking his head, Elliot did so. As he fuddled with the wires and computer, puzzling them out, Bill-Bob brought Bill a glass of milk and cookies, which Bill thought a disgusting substitute for beer but which he drank anyway because he was thirsty, while the cow-crew of space pilots serenaded him with gentle soothing moos.

Bill had to admit that while it was all pretty boring, it was sure a lot better than being barbecued by wild Indians.

“Okay, Bill,” said Elliot. “I just hope this works.”

Elliot began to tap out the special Time Police S.O.B. (Save Our Butts) call.

Within just a few seconds, help materialized, though not quite in the form expected.

“Greetings, chaps!” said Sir Dudley the Time Portal as he materialized on the generation ship's bridge. “Oh, I say — this is really not done!”

For Sir Dudley had materialized on top of that which, for the sake of purity, might be referred to as the sought-after treasure of the dung-rolling beetle.

“There you are!” shouted Bill. “Now what was the idea of taking us here?”

“Try not to get shirty, dear boy. Even ancient Time Beings are permitted to make tiny faux pas from time to time. Is one permitted to ask what all these cows are doing on a ship's bridge?”

“A lot more good than you've been doing us!” said Elliot crossly. “I take it that the hippie from Hellworld isn't here!”

“Uhm, well actually, no. He nipped down to about 1939, in New York City. United States of America. Back on long-since-destroyed Earth before it was destroyed. Don't know how I shipped you boys here, but I intend to make it up. Forthwith, dare I say. And, dear comrade Elliot, to make some amends for my tiny mistake, I have brought along the most up-to-date version of a Time Patrol Control Watch. It is from the far future and is far superior to earlier models. Comes with a twelve-month guarantee and a built-in video game.”

“Greatly appreciated,” Elliot said as he strapped the gleaming gadget on.

“Just don't hurt any of our cows!” said moo-Bill, looking not a little alarmed at the appearance of the talking Time Portal.

“I don't think you need to worry,” said Elliot.

“So, if you would be so kind as to step on through,” said Sir Dudley, “I'll shuttle you gentlemen to the exact time and place where the hippie went to change time. I assume that will soothe tempers and make some amend for past follies.”

“I suppose it will have to do,” muttered Elliot.

Bill took one last gulp of milk and followed Elliot Methadrine through the Time Portal toward Somewhere Else in Time.

“Moo,” mooed the Starship Cows and went back to eating grass, chewing cud and producing cow-pats.

“Oh well,” said moo-Bob. “Back to work, eh, Bill?”

“Uh ... yeah, Bob. And then we can go and read our horny porny comix. Isn't that right, Otto?”

A man in a Nazi storm trooper outfit and a riding crop stepped out from the closet where he'd been hiding. “Hmm. Yes. Meantime, it would seem as though I've a little trip to make back in time!”

“Sieg heil!” said the crypto-Nazi cows. “Sieg heil!”

“New York squared, that's where we are,” Elliot said, squinting at the direction indicator map cross-reference dial on his new Time Patrol Control Watch.

“What kind of a dumb name is that?” Bill sneered.

“I have no idea — but that's what it says here. New York, New York. Maybe they like the city so much that they named it twice.”

Although Bill was not exactly the cosmopolitan sort, he'd seen his share of cities throughout the Empire. He'd seen cities alien, cities human and cities not quite either. He'd seen small cities — and of course there was Helior, the Galactic Capitol, the planet that was just one big city.

But this city, this New York, New York, was like nothing Bill had ever seen before.

He sort of liked it. Even though it stank.

He didn't like the doggie-do on his shoe, however, which he scraped off on the curb, avoiding other scattered mounds of the same substance. What he did like, however, were the little hats and gray and drab clothes the people wore. Nice and old-fashioned. What he liked even better were the bars on almost every corner. A gleaming contrast to the general blockiness of the place, and most of all the clear surliness of the citizens.

In short, it reminded him of back home on Phigerinadon II, and it made him feel homesick.

Sir Dudley the Time Portal wavered in the air. “Ahh, there you are. Simply wizard to see that you have arrived safely.”

Elliot looked up skeptically at the granite building before them. “You sure that this is the place you let that hippie off?” He pulled out his new Time Ticker and consulted the digital readout. “Hmm. Looks okay to me.”

“Indeed it should. I do recall that he wanted this particular building, the offices of SUPREME COMICS. ACNE PUBLISHERS. Well, must dash.”

“Hey. How do we get back home?”

“Simple,” said Sir D. “When you're finished here, you can find me at the 1939 World's Fair in Flushing. I'll be at the British Pavilion, watching a cricket match. You might enjoy the other exhibits as well. Toodle-oo!”

He wavered a bit — then vanished.

“I hope he doesn't get lost there,” muttered Bill.

“Keep the faith, baby. Come on Bill. Next stop, the offices of SUPER DUPER COMIX. According to my machine here, the editor is currently Kraft-Nibbling, father of horny-porny comix.”

Bill looked down the street. “Isn't that a bar down there? You must be thirsty. Why don't we have a drink first?”

“I can understand your misplaced interest in me. Particularly since my arm is now well healed and I can bend it again to lift a drink. But, if you please Bill, later. Also, if you help me get this mess straightened out, I'll see to it that the Time Police will personally buy you your own bar using the Police Pension Fund.”

Bill frowned. “You wouldn't bowb an old buddy?”

“Never! This is an important job you're on, Bill. The fate of the universe rests on our shoulders. A bar seems a small reward.”

“How about hiring some lady bartenders for my bar, so I won't have to work too hard?”

“Let's not get too greedy, Bill.”

“You're on! One successful mission — one bar.” Bill squared his shoulders and marched ahead toward the revolving doors of the office building. He stepped inside and started twirling round and round. He got dizzy and sick. When he came out, he still wasn't inside the building, and he fell on top of Elliot.

“It's some kind of trap!” Bill said. “A trap!”

“No, Bill,” said Elliot. “This is an ancient type of portal called revolving doors. When you get to the other side, you step out. You don't keep going around like you just did.”

“Oh.”

Bill, feeling a little queasy — and more than a little stupid — picked himself up and tried again. He stepped into the revolving doors, but pushed a little too hard. He went around and around, and fell out — this time, fortunately, on the other side.

Elliot came through the revolving doors and circled his lips at Bill's attempts to dust himself off. He shook his head.

“Bill, just don't do that in the editorial offices, okay? We Time Cops have got a certain amount of dignity to maintain.”

“That's okay, Elliot,” said Bill. “I feel much better now.”

“Then let's go find that hippie!”

The elevator disgorged them onto a drab carpet in front of a drab set of offices. A sign on one read, ACNE PUBLISHING.

Bill was quite impressed by the array of comix displayed in the foyer. They were thick things, with beautiful artwork, featuring keen-looking detectives, and slant-eyed oriental villains, bug-eyed monsters and women with bobbed hair and incredible bosoms, slinkily covered — often in slips that rose well up their thighs to reveal lacy panties.

“How do you get them to move and hear the sound effects?” Bill asked.

“You don't. What you see is what you get. This is the distant past — remember. And these are pulps,” said Elliot, consulting his Time Ticker. "A popular form of magazine, containing mass-market fiction in the nineteen twenties, thirties and forties. The covers promised a lot — the contents delivered little. If you moved your lips when you read, then this was for you.

“ACNE apparently published quite a few of them — as well as all kinds of cruddy general interest nonfiction magazines. Then Kraft-Nibbling started up their Comix line.”

“Huh?” Bill was still looking at the colorful babes on the covers.

“Never mind, Bill. Let's just go in and see Kraft-Nibbling, shall we?”

“Sure.” Bill picked up a copy of a pulp called SPICY DEFECTIVES with a particularly alluring blonde on the cover.

At a desk sat a sultry secretary.

“Time Police,” said Elliot, flashing his badge. “We're here to see Kraft-Nibbling. Official Transchronic Business.”

The brunette blinked and stopped chewing her gum. “I'm sorry. No salesmen allowed.”

“And I'd like to meet the model for this painting,” said Bill, showing her the copy of SPICY DEFECTIVES.

“The door is right behind you — don't let the handle get you in the butt on the way out.”

“These are the offices of SUPER DUPER COMIX, are they not?” said Elliot in his best stern and authoritarian voice.

“Beat it, will you buster —”

“Furthermore, this is where the editors work.”

“You hard of hearing, Mac?”

“Thank you very much.” Without further adieu, and ignoring the angry shrieks behind him, Elliot chuntered into the offices, dragging Bill with him.

They walked into a modest, basic office with filing cabinets, desks and bookshelves. Upon the walls hung framed covers of SUPER DUPER COMIX, showing colorful starships, aliens and gorgeously rendered planets and star formations. In one corner was a tall man with longish, unkempt hair standing beside a refrigerator, industriously scribbling away on a sheaf of papers. He seemed to have finished with one piece of paper; he pulled it off its tablet and deposited it in an empty milk crate, where a huge pile of scribbled-upon papers had already accumulated. The big-boned man seemed totally oblivious to the newcomers.