Bill, The Galactic Hero 6 - on the Planet Of The Hippies From Hell (21 page)

“Thank you, kind sir!” said Bill, thrilled not only with his expanded vocabulary, but with his new set of manners. “You are a gentleman and a scholar.”

“Just down the hall there,” the guard said, pointing. “Right by those boxes of freeze-dried horny-porny writer brains.”

Bill and company trooped on down to the indicated elevator at the end of the hall. Sure enough, stacked haphazardly beside it were boxes marked: “FRAGILE — INSTANT WRITER BRAINS. Just add hot water and stir-fry.”

“Interesting,” said Bill. “I always did wonder where they got their crazy ideas!”

After a long wait, the elevator finally arrived. They hopped in and rode it to the ninth floor. They disembarked. Bill's ears were immediately assaulted by the sound of computer keyboards clacking. Bill looked in a door and his eyes were met with a dreadful sight.

Row upon row of word processors filled the large room, and at these word processors were chained men and women, bent over the keys, working away diligently on rows of phosphor-dot prose. Coffee drips were plugged directly into the veins of their arms: obscene black plasma. Their shirts hung in bloody rags, and welts glistened on their backs. Up and down the rows stalked muscle-bound guards holding whips, ready to flay the soul who was spotted pausing too long between sentences. Upon the sides of the desks were piled what could only be the payment these poor slaves received for their literary efforts: pennies.

“Gee,” said Elliot-Bgr. “Talk about word processing, huh?”

“EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT,” Bill read on a sign. “This way. I guess that's where Doctor Kraft-Nibbling, Jr.10 hangs out. Then you are certain that in this disgusting slice of time he is the one behind this business? I see no evidence of National Socialism here. This looks like pure capitalism!”

“I know, I know!” said Sir Dudley. “I am puzzled. But we must confront this man! These atrocities must be stopped. The treatment of writers is most revolting. Even if they are clones, they should not be treated so badly!”

“That's right!” said Elliot-Bgr. “We worship and adore our writers. They receive vast honor and love, and get preferential treatment in all matters. Particularly communal orgies.”

Bill shook his head. “You're right. I do believe I have a new cause — Writers' Rights. Which is opportune, since I intend to become a writer myself!”

“Indeed,” said Sir Dudley. “Do you intend to write a Bartender's Guide to Drunks? As experienced — not told to the author.”

“I have forsaken alcohol and now drink purely from the Fountain of Truth!” said Bill.

By this time they had reached Kraft-Nibbling's offices. They did not bother to knock, but barged directly in.

“Who are you?” demanded a secretary.

“We're here to see Kraft-Nibbling!” said Elliot-Bgr, taking out his blaster. “Get him or else!”

The secretary hit an intercom key. “Doctor Kraft-Nibbling,” she said. “I believe we have a few irate readers in the reception room!”

“Nazis?” said Doctor Kraft-Nibbling.

“Worse,” said Bill. “Time Nazis.”

Doctor Shelley D. Kraft-Nibbling, Jr.10 was absolutely pale. He had to sit down in an armchair. “Look, guys. Bill, Elliot-Bgr, Sir Dudley the Time Portal. I have to admit that I may be a little ruthless. I may have sent my horny-porny hippie fans back through time to change the course of fictional history. I may treat my writers like dirt and pay them pennies. But Time Nazis? Never! I only want to promote my business and spread the joys of horny-porny throughout the ages. But Time Nazis! I don't know how this has happened! I can't possibly understand where things went wrong — if, in fact, what you tell me is true!”

Bill eyed him suspiciously. “Of course it's true. You don't believe us? You want proof?”

In fact, Bill didn't trust the guy at all. Maybe it was the slicked-back hair. Maybe it was the snazzy, svelte look. Maybe it was the snakeskin shoes. Maybe it was the Eau-de-Shark that hung about him like a miasma. Mostly, though, it was because he reminded Bill of a lawyer, with his sharp nose and his glib, feral look.

It was a fact that the Emperor had, of course in a mood of philanthropy, taken Shakespeare's advice and destroyed all the lawyers in the known universe during The Great Shyster Purge. However, this had only been a few years before, so Bill well remembered what the breed had been like. In fact, doubtless it had been a military lawyer who had drafted the induction contract he had been induced to sign back on Phigerinadon II.

Still, he'd always been a fan of horny-porny comix, so the Doc couldn't be all bad!

“Look,” said Kraft-Nibbling. “I like you guys, I really do. I can tell you're my sort of people!”

“How come one of your Time Hippies tried to kill Bill and me then?” said Elliot-Bgr.

“Clearly the guy was a little too fanatical,” admitted the man. “But I most certainly did not order him to kill anybody! In fact, I want only peace, prosperity, happiness and steady selling lines — with very few returns to the publishers.” He looked around. “What I don't see, gentlemen, is any sign of your so-called Time Nazis!”

The office intercom chose that moment to squawk.

“Pardon me, Doctor Kraft-Nibbling,” said the secretary's voice. “But Mr. Shickelgruber would like to speak to you.”

“That's a familiar-sounding name!” said Sir Dudley.

“Tell him, Edna, that I've got an important meeting to deal with at the moment and —”

The secretary's voice sounded extremely stressed. “I don't believe he's going to take 'no' for an answer....”

The door flung open.

A man wearing boots, a gray uniform, black armbands and a little black mustache stormed into the room, waving a Luger pistol.

“Put your hands in the air or you vill die!” said the Nazi.

“That's it!” said Sir Dudley. “Wasn't 'Shickelgruber' that chap Hitler's real name?”

“That was a good shot, Bgr,” Bill said. “A single blaster blast and Hitler was no more. And it's nice to see you out of that Elliot disguise and back in four-armed green the way you should look.”

“Once he was gone, the time track became clear,” Sir Dudley said. "I traced the trail right back to where they plucked him from the bunker before he snuffed it.

“What I liked even better was how all the hippies and Hellworld and everything vanished when the time line was destroyed,” Bgr the Chinger said. “Gee — we gotta be grateful to you, Sir D, for some fast thinking and instant Time Portal operation.”

“You're too kind, dear boy. Just doing my duty.”

“Above and beyond the call of duty. And abover and beyonder, picking Barworld as our destination!”

“Seemed an obvious spot to celebrate.”

Not to Bill. He sat, mournfully looking at a glass of lemonade. “Life doesn't mean bowb,” he kept repeating. “Life doesn't mean bowb.”

Well, mission complete, he thought to himself. Here I am, back at Uncle Nancy's Cross-Dressing Bar, in a nice little summer ensemble, and the universe is safe from Time Nazis, and I know the Meaning of Life. Why, then, do I feel like what Life doesn't mean?

Bill pondered that thought.

“Glad to be back in business, boys!” said Uncle Nancy, supplying them all with a fresh round of drinks. To celebrate, Uncle Nancy was wearing a delightful blue gown with spangles. A feather boa was wrapped around his neck. “Glad to have it back in good shape with booze and no ironpumpers. Hey, Bill. You're not drinking your lemonade. Can I get you a man's drink — on the house? How about a nice foamy mug of Halcyonian home brew? So much alcohol it leaks through the cask!”

Bill's salivary glands gushed, but Bill shook his head. “No thanks, my friend. I am off alcohol for life.” He patted his much-improved liver. “Not only must I think about my physical health — but it is my mental health that is in greatest danger. My great intelligence would instantly vanish if ethyl alcohol assaulted my brain cells ever again.”

“Whatever. Say, that was a pretty good job you guys did with those Time Nazis. You guys get free drinks all night!”

Bgr was drinking suds with great enthusiasm out of a glass almost as big as he was. “Gee, thanks! Now all we have to do is to go back and stop the Human-Chinger war and everything will be hunky-dory!”

“No way!” said Sir Dudley. “I've given up transporting people back and forth in time. No more changes! Those Time Nazis might come back if we do any more tinkering. Who knows. Maybe Hitler had more than one brain — and it's lurking somewhere out there in the galaxy!”

The Time Portal shivered.

“Oh well,” said Bgr. “Gee — it was worth a try. Well, nice to drink with you guys, have a temporary truce anyway.”

They continued joking and chewing over their adventures together, while Bill sipped his lemonade, musing. The thing was, if life didn't mean bowb, and bowb was what you'd known all your life, then where did you go from there? This equation he had developed was all well and good, and it was nice to be super-intelligent. But what for?

In fact, the more he thought about it, from the viewpoint of intelligence, the darker, more frightening and hideous this repellent universe became!

Not only that, this intelligence was making him positively neurotic. At least when you were stupid you didn't worry about much. All Bill had worried about before was first staying alive, then perhaps where his next beer was coming from.

A truly eloquent, simple life indeed.

Suddenly, Bill was aware of a huge mug of beer being slid under his nose. The aroma of yummy hops and malt was almost too much for him. He looked up and saw Uncle Nancy's smiling face.

“What's this?” said Bill.

“Aw, go on, Bill. One won't hurt you. Have some fun. You're spoiling the party.”

“No,” said Bill. “This lemonade will do. What I need is some stimulating conversation. Let's talk about literature, Uncle Nancy. Or perhaps philosophy. I think that —”

A commotion at the entrance distracted him. As one, Bill and his friends at the bar turned around to see a group of Troopers, not wearing dresses, parade into the bar. Leading them was none other than J. Edgar Insufledor, wearing a trench coat.

“Bill!” said the Galactic Bureau of Investigation department head in his bluff, gravelly voice. “Bill! Your report is inadequate! Mission successful? What does that mean? And where is Elliot Methadrine!”

“Ha ha, you silly old coot!” said Elliot-Bgr, hopping up and down a little drunkenly. “I, Bgr the Chinger, was Elliot Methadrine all along!” Bgr thumbed his nose at the guy and gave a bronx cheer. The entirety of the bar applauded.

“What!” blustered the squat, red-faced deputy director. “And who is this suspicious-looking guy?” He glowered at Sir Dudley.

“Your remarks are most repugnant, sir. I suggest you remove yourself at once. Or else...”

“Or else! You threatening me? Maybe you're a Chinger in disguise.” He glowered about, recoiled in horror. “In fact — my God! Books. Look at all the books here ... why, you're all Commupops, aren't you? Arrest them all, Troopers! And burn these books. Immediately. Bill, get out of that silly dress and help them, and I'll reduce your sentence to a month of KP.”

Bill sighed. He looked at his friends. And then he looked at the Troopers and at Deputy Director Insufledor.

He pulled his newly cleaned and oiled blaster from its holster at the side of his leg, thumbed the lever to MAXIMUM DEATH FRY, and raised it.

“Don't do it, Bill,” cozened Sir Dudley. “Insufledor is certainly expendable. But you would never forgive yourself if you wasted those Troopers. I have a better idea.”

Sir Dudley boomed with energy, expanding and glowing until his Time Portal reached the ceiling. The frightened Troopers fired energy blasts at him, but he just laughed, absorbed the energy and grew larger.

Then struck!

There was an eye-blasting surge of light, and when they could see again the Time Portal was gone. Along with Insufledor and his Troopers.

Bill sighed. “He was a good old Time Portal, he was. Let's drink to his health.”

His subconscious had decided for him. He reached out thirstily, picked up the huge mug of beer and drained it in three large gulps.

The alcohol — after more than two years off the hooch — hit him like a damp sock filled with a lead pipe over his head.

“New corollary to the Meaning of Life,” he said, his words slurring already. “Life may not mean bowb, but it comes damned close!” He then pushed his glass forward. “Lemme have another one of those, Nancy.”

“Sure thing, Bill,” said Uncle Nancy. “Coming up.”

“Hey, dude!” cried the voice of the AI in his ear, speaking although unbidden. “What happened to Da Boss?”

Bill sighed. “About what is going to happen to you. Sir Dudley, wherever you are — can you hear me? Do you think you can take this implant along with the others?”

A card appeared in midair, dropped to the table.

“No trouble there, Bill. Enjoy yourself,” it read.

There was a little ping and a tickle in Bill's ear and the implant was gone.

“Gee — Bill, that leaves just you and me. Have a last drink before I go. War is hell.” Bgr emptied his glass.

Bill in happy response drained another mug of beer, and the soft sweet music of inebriation and oblivion was soon whispering its alcoholic tunes to him yet again.

He ordered another one and then hoisted his interesting foot up onto the bar.

“You know, Nance,” Bill said.

“What, Bill?” said Uncle Nancy giving him another beer and sealing his alcoholic future.

“This ain't such a bad-lookin' foot after all. You know, I think a Trooper should be proud of his foot, no matter what.”

“Damned nice foot if you asked me, Bill,” said Uncle Nancy.

“Yeah.” Bill sipped at his new beer, slowing down his intake and taking over a minute to finish the two Imperial pints it contained. “By the way, guys,” he said. “I was just telling you what the Meaning of Life was — and for the life of me, I don't remember exactly what I said!”

“Simple enough, old buddy. You said that life just doesn't mean bowb.”

“That's what you said, Bill,” Bgr said from the doorway. “Makes sense, doesn't it? Be seeing you.”

“You're really a Chinger and I got to do my duty,” Bill rumbled, reaching for his blaster. But the door was empty. He sighed and breathed aloud what, someday, if he lived that long, would be inscribed on his tombstone.