Byron Scott awoke seeing stars. After observing for several moments, he decided we were somewhere near Alsumian Celecius, or about ten hours from Alice’s Diner.
A few minutes later he stumbled onto the bridge, where I was watching sub-ether-wave-multi-dimensional-sensory- entertainment, sometimes called 3DTV.
"We’re near Alsumian Celecius. That’s about ten hours from the diner," I told him enlighteningly.
"Uugh oof," he stated and slumped into a chair, further rumpling his red check yugha wool robe. A gray pipe protruded from his lips. He didn’t actually smoke, but was trying to emulate that legendary resident of 221B, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He was having remarkably little success.
After a blurry eyed pause, Byron asked, "Whatchawatchin, John?"
"Gilligan’s Island."
"Piffle! Zaglon Swill! Absolute Banality!" he ejaculated as he stumped off in a huff toward the galley. Several minutes later various and sundry curses reached me, closely followed by their bedraggled originator.
"Who took my hipper-twinkees?" The full gaze of those near famous baby blues rested on me accusingly.
My own not quite as famous steel grays rested disgustedly on Byron’s wane countenance. "You are an abject, absolute, abysmal," I thought desperately for some way to finish my amazingly altrusive alliteration, finally settling for, "moron. Your hipper-twinkees are gone because when we transmitted from earth, all atoms and quarks reversed. Since they were originally made of quarks, they’re now atoms. We on the other hand are currently composed entirely of quarks. When we get to the receiving station, we’ll unquark back into matter, they’ll turn back to antimatter and you still won’t be able to eat them. All told this makes your hipper-twinkees only slightly more useful than that tract of Qugiliann swamp you bought last Thur"
"Is this the episode where Gilligan finds the shrunken heads," he interrupted, suddenly become fascinated with the sub-ether-wa, er 3DTV, "and Ginger wears her tiny, polka dot bikini?"
"No, that was an hour ago, this one has the giant gorilla."
"and look at this," he remarked opening the TV Guide to page 12,543," the human hunter episode is on next. Isn’t the all Gilligan network great?"
"Absodubitably, getting a hyper-interspace-kable-uplink was a stroke of genius."
Byron agreed magnanimously, "Yea, good old hikkup. Sure beats the networks."
"Except for ‘Galactic’s Most Hunted’."
"Of course."
The rest of the hipper-trip passed quickly and uneventfully as we discussed hikkup, the all Gilligan network, John Denver’s thespian brilliance and Ginger’s polka dot bikini.
Suddenly, just as the castaways were about to escape, a shrill clanging assaulted our auditory senses.
"The tri-cross-directional-quidance-system," Byron yelled breathlessly, "we’re almost at our destination planet."
"Yeah, so what? Just let the auto-tri-cross-landing-system do it’s job."
"Err, I knew that."
We settled back and watched Gilligan foil another of the Professor’s brilliant escape schemes. As we had a pleasant argument about what Mary Jane would look like in Ginger’s polka dot bikini, the clanging shrilled again.
Byron glared at the navputer, "You’re not going to get me again. I know you’re there. So if you would kindly shut up, I’ll finish watching this show."
"You’re not a very courteous owner. You never even call me by my name," it complained.
"Right. Bob, shut up."
"Thank you, sir," Bob said quite happily and shut up.
As the last strains of the castaways song faded behind us we stepped out of the receiving station. After several days of hipper-travel, the soft carpeting of the hipper-station felt marvelous underfoot. Soft simulated breezes caressed my newly reformed atom-based brow and sweet oxygen filled my lungs.
"The best thing about hipper-travel is unquarking," I told Byron, "feeling human again."
"Being able to eat is pretty nice, too," and with that he dashed toward the McZargald’s, 100 quinzillion served sign.
Over several Big Zacs and a small order of fries, the pan-dimensional-universe’s greatest living consulting detective and I laid our plans.
"Why did Bertha call us here?" I wondered, "Last year she claimed she never wanted to hear from us for as long as we both shall live."
"Buht myg friglup."
"Huh?"
"Buht myg friglup." A green creature appeared and stuck out it’s webbed hand in Byron’s direction. The being looked rather like an unsuccessful cross between a frog and a large collie, with just a touch of fly thrown in. I presume it’s mother liked it’s face. Byron deftly removed the pen from it’s sticky little hand and autographed one of his business cards for the creature. It’s tongue flicked the air with obvious pleasure, as it hopped away exclaiming, "friglup, friglup, buht myg friglup."
"Autograph hounds wherever I go," he sighed as six more green things, three oversized bright pink gnats and a light mauve light beam all descended on him crying,
"friglup, friglup, buht myg friglup."
Half an hour later we were escorted away by the local constabulary. It consisted of several seven foot tall, orange chickens and a large deep puce being who reminded me strongly of my Aunt Matilda. All of them spoke in a deep Irish brogue. Byron signed autographs for them all as we made our escape into a rotocab.
"I don’t know," he finally answered my rather musty question, "something must be terribly wrong at the diner; either that or she just got lonesome."
The rotocab took off with a jerk or two and sped toward our destiny or at least our dinner. A panoramic view of Alsumian Celecius’ sixth planet’s mountain resplendence unfolded to the west. To the east, pollution emissions shrouded this world’s major metropolis, Spam. We headed into the smog as I thumbed through a thesaurus.
"How’s the script coming," Byron asked, worried about our upcoming movie, "we have to start filming in a couple of weeks, you know."
"Yeah, I know, it’s getting there," I grumbled, "being scuttled off to some backwater planet doesn’t help. Incidentally, did you ever find out who was cast as Maglimort the Magnificent?"
"Tipager Murcwhit."
"Tipager Murcwhit, he’s only three feet tall. Maglimort the Magnificent stood over twenty feet in his stocking claws."
"It’s one of those equal opportunity things. Just rewrite the script a bit."
"Just bit, I ne... Look," I interrupted myself, "It’s gone."
"What’s gone, the script?"
"No, the diner it’s gone."
"So it is," he agreed, looking at the bare parcel of land where Bertha’s skyscraper used to be."
As we descended toward what had formerly been the site of Alice’s Diner, a bustle of activity became apparent. Blue shirted police things and blue suited undercover agents were scrounging for evidence. Throngs of people crowded against the officer’s barricade. We settled down right in the middle of what would have been the kitchen and barely missed compressing the molecules of an oversized, polka dot police mouse.
"Wasn’t that police mouse the same pattern as Ginger’s bikini?" Byron inquired as it scampered away in a dither.
I nodded, "Believe so."
A huge Siamese cat-like creature in uniform came running toward us. It was yelling rather loudly and waving its paws.
"I think we’re in trouble, Byron."
"Not a chance," and he calmly signed his name to another of his business cards. It left meowing, "Buht myg friglup."
We watched the police things for several minutes. They were crawling over the ground, collecting dirt samples and generally behaving as if the missing skyscraper would be under one of the pebbles they were overturning. They steadily tried to ignore our presence. A commotion began outside one of the police barriers, as someone tried to push past an officer amoebae.
"Bertha," cried out Byron as her face made an appearance over the gelatinous mass. We ran over to assist her. After much explaining, several gooey appendage shakes and an autograph, the being allowed he to pass.
"I never," she exclaimed, "I have never seen the like. It wouldn’t even let me onto my own property, my own property. I was just coming back from hipper-wiring you boys and... " her voice trailed off and she gave us a hard look, "How did you boys get here before I did. You shouldn’t be here for another couple hours."
"Not so loud," warned Byron as he noticed a slug in blue surveying us, but it just muttered "friglup" several times and oozed away.
"We bent the rules just a little," I told her, "not enough so anyone would notice."
"We got here before we left."
"Just a small matter of timing."
"Right, not much before, really. Nothing to worry about," Byran assured her, finally catching my drift, "The Time Patrol won’t even suspect."
Bertha shook her head sadly, "I don’t know where. All my other boys are good lawful galactic citizens, but you boys, no, you boys have to try and break this old heart. You’ll be arrested and slammered for life and I wouldn’t be surprised a bit, slammered for life or more."
"Oh, piffle, no one will even know," he exclaimed.
"Are you Byron Scott?" asked an official voice in perfect Galactica. We all whirled with fear and several trepidations. A homo-sapian stood before us dressed in a off the rack, Qmart special, three piece suit and a snaggly toothed smile that made me instinctively assume the jugular defense position.
"Well," Byron allowed, "I’ve been told I do bear some slight facial resemblance to him. May I ask the nature of you’re inquiry?"
"Yes, you may sir."
"Then tell me, dag-it."
"Instructions were left with our agency to intercept a future royalty check addressed to one "Byron Scott, Milky Way." As agreed, cash has been advanced against said check, minus of course the standard five percent and an additional ten percent in inconvenience and liability money. If you would sign here to indicate delivery was received by Byron Scott, at the former and future location of ‘Alice’s Diner’ per instruction."
The detective signed this, that and several others.
"Your money, as requested, is in the swimming pool of your new hyper-composite-anti-gravity-deluxe Rolls Royce Mark 537, custom order. The cost of which has been deducted from the cash payment as reflected on Form 495035HJ-5tYu9."
"Thank you."
The agent nodded then disappeared.
He reappeared to mention, "Also a message," and pushed a button on his wrist watch.
A hologram of Byron appeared, "Don’t trust the twelfth, undernourished grasshopper, with ears like Uncle Biffle and," it paused for a few seconds, "oh watch your wallet!" Byron’s hand snaked around to his back pocket and slapped away a tentacle that had been attempting to appropriate his valuable rhicorwurst skin pocketbook for police evidence.
"Thanks," he told the recording.
"You’re welcome," responded the hologram and disappeared.
"Thanks again," he told the polyester suit.
"You’re welcome," responded the polyester suit and disappeared.
Bertha was distracted by a media photographer trying to find her best side and discovering he wasn’t spoiled for choice, so we made another getaway.
"What was that ten percent fee for inconvenience and liability about?" the detective asked me.
"That’s the standard fee for operations which involve bypassing the time laws. All other laws cost five percent, except for the galactic tax laws that’s fifty percent.
We squeezed between a large over-ripe tomato and a triangle with hundreds of noses, into the Rolls.
"Jeeves," Byron addressed the car (all Rolls-Royces have artificial intellegences named Jeeves by some ancient tradition), "Please proceed to location 132.675, 35343.975."
"Sir, that is over an unpolluted AA area, do you wish me to proceed," the Mark 537’s silken voice inquired.
"It is not unpopulated, Jeeves, merely virtually unpopulated and yes proceed," I instructed, wondering about Byron’s sanity.
A soft purr and several moments later, we were bulleting north two miles above the ground.
"Jeeves, a double bourbon, please," I requested.
"And a Qoors Extra Platinum," the detective interjected.
"lightly chilled on the rocks," I concluded.
The drinks materialized in our hands within seconds. We rode in silence. I worked on my scripted and imbibed slowly, while Byron stared intently at nothing, mumbled incoherently and occasionally ordered another Qoors.
It was about an hour later when Jeeves spoke, "We have arrived at the requested, virtually unpopulated area. Shall I descend?"
"Yes," said Byron.
We stepped down from the car onto volcanic rock. Byron led the way to a familiar cave, where we, Tommy and Yugo had often played as children. Tommy had enlarged it quite a bit and now lived here. He also ran the planet’s entire underworld from here. There were no long term competitors to his little business, long-term meaning half an hour.
A guard challenged us, so Byron beat him sharply about the head and neck. I retrieved the guard’s UZI as we passed.
As we wound through the familiar labyrinth toward the worlds most exquisite collection of wines, a familiar voice boomed cheerful positive management platitudes through the loudspeakers. "Alterium production was down last month maggots. If it doesn’t improve Ralph will nibble at your more interesting appendages." There was a happy growl from what sounded like a rather heavy set dog. "Also gambling profits in the northern Spam district plummeted last week, so everyone involved was sacked, along with few bits of lead and given a midnight cruise. Applications are being taken. I’m tired of talking to you worms, so I’ll be in the wine cellar, picking out an appropriate vintage to go with today’s wife."
Tommy and his entourage of thugs arrived a few minutes later, as Byron was taste testing a Bardot ‘23. The crime lord was not happy to see us.
"Kill them," he growled.
I brandished my pilfered sub-machine gun and announced, "One move and the wine gets it."
"Don’t do it," Tommy screamed, "Don't shoot, boys. He means it."
"Where is ‘The Diner’!" My partner demanded.
"What diner?" the thug king asked.
"Alice’s Diner," I informed him, "It’s been taken, but not by you."
"Of course I didn’t take it. Bertha would skin me alive. Ain’t no kid she ever raised would lift a finger against Bertha and nobody else either. Not as long as Tommy’s around."
"No boy she raised, Tommy, no boy."
"Come on, Byron, let’s go," and I heaved an expensive year across the room as we sprinted for the stairs.
"Catch it," Tommy yelped, "Run. Dive. Gooo." By the time the beverage had been retrieved, undamaged but at the cost of several vile henchmen’s lives, we had escaped to our getaway hovercraft.
This time I informed the car of our destination, "Jeeves, please proceed to location 7231.000, 012.917."
"That would be the Alpha-Bitta Sorority house, sir?"
"Yes, Jeeves." Byron looked at me oddly several times, but merely ordered another Qoors.
I occupied my travel time by shrinking Maglimort the Magnificent down to Tipager Murcwhit size. Byron worked on his Sherlock Holmes impression. Unfortunately, his "My dear Watson", always sounded like that great and probably late entertainer, Elvis Presely, saying "Well Thank ya, Thank ya very mush, Thank ya."
The light puce house, which the girls of Alpha-Bitta called home, hove into sight, as I finally pummeled Maglimort down to seven feet. As Jeeves settled down on the front lawn, we jolted to a stop.
"Watch the brakes, man," Byron yelped.
"Actually," I informed Byron, "we appear to have bumped into something."
"I don’t see anything."
"Yes and what you don’t see is the diner."
"Run that by me one more time. It didn’t quite make it through the fat in my skull."
Instead, I stepped from the car and walked around front. With a flick of my pocket knife, I cut away a section of paper thin mesh to reveal the door to Alice’s Diner.
"Oh, no," a shrill voice squealed from the sorority house doorway, and a mousy haired teen yelled, "Yolanda, you’re in trouble!"
Byron had joined me in front of the partially rediscovered skyscraper, by the time a red-haired girl, who bordered closely on woman, came rushing across the lawn.
"Yolanda," I looked at her sternly, "what have you got to say for yourself?"
She looked from me to skyscraper and back a few times, deciding on her defense.
"Hi, Johnny. Hi, Byron," she blurted.
To my surprise, Byron spoke, "Yolanda, get in the car." She started to protest, but something in his tone changed her mind.
"Jeeves, Betha’s house." he intoned.
I made a several quick calls, first to Redax Movers and arranged to relocate the invisible diner back to it’s original location, then to Bertha with the good news. Meanwhile, Byron had launched into a lecture on the evils of theft and of having boyfriends who were illusionists.
Bertha was waiting for us when the Rolls settled gently into her garage.
"Oh boys, have you really found my diner?" she exclaimed hugging us each in turn as we emerged from our car.
"Yes, yes I did and John helped too, of course," Byron informed her in his best movie star voice and smiled ear to ear.
Bertha never heard him. Her attention had already been diverted, "Young lady," she boomed in her mother voice, pulling Yolanda from the back seat, "You have been a very, very, very bad girl. Now you and I are going to march right upstairs and have a long talk."
"Three verys," Byron whispered to me, "Ouch, that’s gonna hurt. Even you and I never went past two and that involved a goat, a box of whoopee cushions and all the Sisters at Saint Benidict High School during a visit from the Pope."
We followed Bertha and an already contrite Yolanda into the house and through the house, where the matronly lady picked up a handy wooden spatula.
"Now you two boys just whip yourselves up a nice snack, while I have a few words with this naughty, naughty girl." She started up the stairs, but the young lady hung back. "Yolanda Anne, you get upstairs right now." The spatula descended with a hard ‘thwack’ on her mini-skirted backside and she hurried to obey.
For a friendly hour, the detective and I chatted about our recently concluded case, as we listened to the entertainment from upstairs. Bertha’s indignant voice made point after point and the kitchen utensil drove them home on Yolanda’s pert bum. The wooden ‘thwumps’ were followed by petulant squeals and girlish sobs.
Finally Betha descended the stairs closely followed by the penitent, who was frantically rubbing her stinging bottom.
"I think this young lady has learned her lesson," Bertha told us. I rather agreed since several splotches of bright red were visible through the nether bits of Yolanda’s white panties , but with a quick wink at me, Byron offered his help in teaching the girl anything she might have missed. Bertha glared at the impertanate detective and Yolanda tossed her hair as she flounced from the room.
And they say you can’t go home again, I thought.
"Come on old friend," my old friend said and together we slipped from our childhood home to again explore our wide universe.
Several hours later we sat in the space port’s McZargalds once more.
"Don’t forget, you’ve still got to forward that future check to your past self or the time patrol will get real interested," I reminded him.
He nodded, "Plus I’ve got to send myself that message. Flip on the tri-corder." He grinned into the camera and intoned, "Don’t trust the twelfth, undernourished grasshopper, with ears like Uncle Biffle and," he looked confused.
"The wallet," I whispered.
"oh watch your wallet!" then there was a five second pause as Byron mentally counted to three, "You’re welcome."
"I wonder what that twelfth grasshopper thing was about," I wondered.
"Look out," Byron yelled. I spun around to see a horde of lanky eight foot grasshoppers descending on us.
"Which is the twelfth?" I yelp.
"Probably the one with the splewgun," Byron suggested, dodging splew rays. His foot separated the gunner’s head from its thorax, as I grabbed the spewer which floated lazily toward me.
I glanced at the gun’s setting, "Byron I can’t tell if its on stun or kill."
"Just shoot. It’s on stun, they wouldn’t try to kill us."
I pulled the autofiring weapon across the advancing column of giant grasshoppers. They splattered in front of its splew.
"Then again maybe they were trying to kill us," conceded Byron, "Lets get out of here before the cops show."
We sprinted to our getaway quarkship and dived through the entrance hatch as another contingent of grasshopper troops lurched toward us.
"We shook ‘em," the detective grinned with relief.
"Don’t count on it," I pointed to our rear monitor, where a insect green ship was rapidly approaching.
"Quark, quark, hurry," Byron screamed, as the weird feeling of nausea that accompanies quarking swept over us. "What’s next?" the detective asked rhetorically.
"Don’t know," I answered, "but this time I think I’ll wait for the movie.
Email: jstevens@dimensional.com
Website: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dungeon/1087/
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