Bill, The Galactic Hero 6 - on the Planet Of The Hippies From Hell (16 page)

The headless body dropped beside Bill, who scrambled to his feet and looked around for his benefactor.

He saw no one.

He was alone with the two dead bodies as the train hurtled through the subterranean night.

Bill gaped uncomprehendingly. Now what, he wondered, did this mean? But before he had the opportunity to wonder long, a tiny voice piped from just beyond the body of Elliot!

“Gee Bill,” it said. “That was kind of a close call.”

“Eager Beager!” gurgled Bill, with no small amount of incredulity.

“Gee, Bill! That's me! But could you exercise some element of intelligence and try to remember to call me Bgr? That's my real Chinger name and I'm mighty proud of it.”

Bill looked around. “Where are you?”

“Down here!”

Bill looked down. The voice was coming from the prostrate, shot-up, dead body of Elliot Methadrine! Sure enough, even as Bill watched, his old adversary jumped from the corpse's chest up onto a subway seat. He blew smoke from the muzzle of his tiny blaster, with which he had just separated Nazi head and Nazi hat from Nazi trench coat and, most importantly, Nazi Luger.

Bgr, first known to Bill as “Eager Beager” back in Camp Leon Trotsky where he did a fantastic job of shining boots, was exactly seven inches tall with four arms, an ugly face and a defensive attitude. Which wasn't surprising since the ambition of the Emperor and all of his fighting forces was to blast every peace-loving Chinger out of existence. Bill's surprise upped a notch as he turned to see that the top of Elliot's head was opening on a hinge, to reveal the compartment that took the place of the brain. There was even a tiny water-cooler in there next to an even tinier porta-potty.

“Control room ... robot,” Bill muttered. “But what about all the blood?”

“Your brain has been damaged by the military and the booze, Bill. Don't you know ketchup when you see it? I had three gallons in the pseudo-flesh of this robot. Nice and gory when needed.”

Bill realized then that Elliot Methadrine had been Bgr in metal/flesh disguise all along! Elliot Methadrine had been a sorta-cyborg operated by the enemy. Wouldn't J. Edgar Insufledor be shocked to hear this! Bill wasn't shocked though. He had been around the Chingers far too long.

But even though this was the enemy, Bill was surprisingly cheered to see the little guy.

“Good to see you, Bgr. I know you're the enemy and all that, but at least you have a familiar face. It's no fun being stuck alone on a 1939 subway train going to Flushing, Queens, to the World's Fair to try to find that time portal guy.”

“I know, I know,” said Bgr. “I'm up on the continuity! Where do you think I've been all this time! I've been Elliot Methadrine!”

“Oh. Yeah. That's right.”

“Sometimes, Bill, it's my most fervent prayer to the Great Chinger in the Sky-Hive that you somehow be made Admiral of the Imperial Fleet. Though on second thought our records reveal that he is even stupider than you.”

“Well, thanks Bgr!” said Bill, brightening. “That's probably one of the nicest things you ever said to me. Probably the only nice thing you ever said to me. So what are we going to do now?”

“Gee — I guess first thing we should do, Bill, is to get off at the Flushing stop of this subway train.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Glad to see you are finally with it. And then we go and find Sir Dudley the time portal at the cricket match, whatever that is, at something called the British pavilion. And then, pardon the expression, we try and find out what the hell has happened! Everything is apparently all askew! As a keen student of your past history I cannot imagine what could possibly have occurred to allow the Nazis to take over America. I have the strong suspicion that there is a tributary of time that got really bent, to replace mainstream fiction with horny-porny; that has something to do with it.”

“Right!” Bill agreed loudly, although he had very little idea of what Bgr was talking about.

“And most importantly,” said Bgr, twitching his muzzle rapidly, “we have to assure that the Chingers exist in this crummy universe. Let's go.”

Bill got off the subway train at the Flushing stop, allowing the car with the dead Nazi to rumble off into the wilds of Queens. He had Bgr in his pocket, which was most uncomfortable since the Chinger planet was a high-gee planet, and the little alien was no lightweight. Bill stumped his way up the steps and on into the 1939 World's Fair.

“Gee,” said Bgr, looking around from his perch in Bill's pocket. “This doesn't look much like the Time Ticker said the 1939 World's Fair is supposed to look — but then, this is a different 1939, isn't it?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

It looked pretty good to Bill. Lots of buildings and rides and concession stands, edibles and drinkables.

“I wonder if there are any bars here?” he queried plaintively.

“Don't even think about booze for a while. We are on a mission.”

They moved through the arches into the fairgrounds.

“Those swastikas,” said Bgr, pointing at the gigantic bent-cross emblems hanging from the arch and from virtually every building and booth. “I don't believe they're supposed to be there.”

“No?”

“Let's just hope that Sir Dudley didn't get into trouble ... and let's just hope that the British Empire still exists so they have a pavilion here. Gee — it doesn't look too good, Bill. It doesn't look good at all. And I'd hate to be stuck in this particular time!”

Bill was looking at the Oktoberfest displays and the huge number and variety of kegs of beer. Also, it looked as though there was no lack of bars here in 1939. He was a good worker and could probably get a job somewhere. Maybe Bgr didn't like it, but it had the feel of his kind of place.

Still, he was a Trooper.

He had an Emperor to serve.

He had a job to do, an oath to uphold, a loyalty to remember.

Even Bill couldn't actually totally buy this, but he continued on his mission nonetheless. If for no other reason than that he had been militarily brainwashed and had about as much free will left as a flea.

And Bill liked fairs. He liked them a lot. They would have fairs back on Phigerinadon II, and once, when he was ten years old, his Mom had taken him to the Phigerinadon II World's Fair. It wasn't as big as this 1939 Fair on Earth of course, but to a ten-year-old it was the biggest, most wonderful experience imaginable.

It was at the Phigerinadon II World's Fair that Bill had decided he wanted to grow up to be a Fertilizer Technician. The theme of that particular fair had, in fact, been Better Living Through Fertilizer. Bill, who'd already been working in the fields for five years, marveled at the wonderful new technology and the exciting new strains of fertilizer! Bill had never realized how many different kinds of fertilizers there were and how, through genetic engineering, scientific Mix-mastering and a good, well-trained nose, one could develop just the right fertilizer for just the right crop.

It had been a revelation. The boy had been fascinated. He took the Fertilizer Falls ride over and over again. He performed astoundingly well at the Fertilizer IQ Test.

The Fertilizer Technicians exclaimed with joy at the results, and proclaimed that he was a genius. They wanted to send him off to P.U. on Fertilizer World, awarded with the special Thomas D. Crapper Scholarship.

However, Mom needed him to work the fields, so he couldn't go. Still, those were golden memories at the Phigerinadon II Fair.

And now, here he was at another World's Fair. Bill could not help but feel a little thrill of nostalgia.

Already he was planning on how to get himself a beer despite Bgr's objections. But he was doing all the walking now so he would tough it out.

So Bill just said, “I'm going to have a beer, Bgr. I don't care what you say.”

“I suppose there is no breaking the addiction. But make it fast. And just don't spill it on me, got that?”

Bill fished a dollar bill out of his pocket. Fortunately, the Chinger had foreseen the need for cash here, and before they'd left the subway car they had gone through the dead Nazi's pockets.

The dollar bill portrayed a man named George Von Washington who had a funny looking black haircut and a postage-stamp-sized mustache.

Bill hurried up to a booth and was soon snozzling into a large stein of beer. Damned good beer, too.

“There,” said Bgr. “You've had your fill of your disgusting beverage and habit. Now can we get back to the business of saving our universe?”

Bill, his nerves calmed considerably, nodded. “Yeah, sure. But I've been meaning to ask you, Bgr. Why are you doing this? Why did you masquerade as Elliot Methadrine? And a Time Cop? And also, how come you're on my side?”

“Bill, don't you think that we Chingers foresaw Bad Things with that Time Hole business? There aren't any such things as Time Cops ... that was just so I could be the boss. And finally — look, as much as Chingers hate your Emperor and your race in general, this kind of time crime must be stopped. It strains the whole time fabric of the universe which, take it from me, is not a good thing.”

Bill, generally ignorant of anything outside the military, or fertilizer, which at many times is very much the same thing, hadn't the slightest idea of what Bgr was talking about. But he nodded like a fool and enjoyed the pleasing sensation of his belly full of beer.

Bgr the Chinger directed him to a World's Fair guide and directory.

Bill examined the guide, reading the contents.

Beer Exhibition.

Pretzel Exhibition.

Jackboot Exhibition.

Fun Mit Der Fuhrer.

Schnaps Exhibition.

Wienerschnitzel and Dachshund Exhibition.

Foreign Pavilions of Inferior Races.

“That's it!” said Bgr. “Let's move.”

“The Schnaps Exhibition looks good. I even know what that word means. We could start there —”

“Shut up,” Bgr smiled. “Saving the fabric of the universe comes first.” He popped his head out of the pocket for a quick look. “Come on, this way. According to the directory map, it's right down this row, here.”

Bill shrugged and allowed himself to be directed to the British Pavilion.

The British Empire appeared to be in trouble, for the pavilion turned out to be a particularly ramshackle affair, poorly constructed of tea chests and plywood awkwardly tacked together. There were no photos, no samples or demonstrations. Just a rather tattered Union Jack, with a swastika in one corner, nailed to the wall. But a row of dilapidated chairs did face a projection booth where a grainy image of a slothful cricket match was being shown. Before it slumped Sir Dudley — sound asleep.

“Dudley!” said Bgr, head popped out again.

“Indubitably,” he responded instantly awake. “But whom, might I ask, are you?”

“I used to be Elliot.”

“I say — you certainly have shrunk!”

“Yes, well, we'll get into that later. Right now, you've got to take us to the place in time where we can stop this madness!”

“Rather! A nasty bit of work, this world, so I wouldn't be adverse to that. But where is the time nexus of the trouble?”

“According to my calculations,” said Bgr, “the change that caused this particular Time Line could only have been brought about because all the Bloomsbury group decided to write horny-porny, thus making it a respectable form of literature. Take us to England at the turn of the century, Dudley. To London and Bloomsbury, to the residence of Virginia Wolfe! We need to discuss this business with her!”

“Ahh, dear old Blighty, my pleasure indeed. Just pop inside, if you please.”

“That's it, Bill!” commanded Bgr. “Step.”

Bill took a firm step forward into the maw of the Time Portal. He was getting to be an old hand at this!

“I say — not quite ready yet!”

Bill tried to stop stepping, but he'd already tripped over the edge.

Bill fell screaming into the Time hole.

The only other sound he heard was Bgr's angry cry as he fell from Bill's shirt pocket.

Bill fell.

Being a borderline alcoholic, Bill had of course fallen before. But never quite like this. Sometimes he felt like he was falling up, sometimes he felt like he was falling down. Sometimes it felt like he was falling north, south, west and east and all the various combinations, blown by the wildest winds imaginable across skies filled with clouds and unimaginable colors. Skirling music and swirling smells enveloped him. He heard music and voices dopplering all around him, as though he were inside some gigantic radio and some idiot was twirling the channel selector crazily across the wave-band selector.

Bill fell for a long time.

He lost consciousness several times, although he didn't realize it, since the rules didn't seem to work the same here.

Colors, colors, colors.

Music, music, music.

Voices, voices, voices.

Voice: “You there, I see you and I am talking to you.”

Bill looked around and saw no one else, so he realized that the voice must be talking to him. He also realized that he was no longer falling. And was sitting in some sort of cloud bank.

“Me?” said Bill.

“You see anyone else I might be talking to?” snapped the voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, there was this Time Portal and Bgr the Chinger said that we were supposed to go back to talk to somebody or something. And then —”

“Never mind. That's enough to let me know that things are in their usual mess around you.” The voice had a booming, numinous quality — like an admiral on the P.A. system in a starship with reverb. For some reason it made Bill shiver. He looked around him worriedly.

As far as he could see, clouds stretched away in all directions. In the distance, between cracks in the clouds, Bill could see stars. From a break in the clouds above, a single shaft of light shone down like a pillar of fire.

Bill did not like this, was more than a little worried. “Would you, sir, let me know where I am —”

“Shut up!” the voice commanded. “I am going to tell you a joke, Bill, a joke that might give you a clue. Here's the joke.” The light quivered mysteriously. “What does an agnostic dyslexic insomniac do?”