The Red Tape War Part 22

"Upon reflection," said Herb, "I would have to say that, yes, you've accurately summarized my most recent actions on your behalf."

"Good," said Daddy. "I just wanted to understand. And I want you to understand, too, Herb. If Paddy turns one single strand of my daughter's beautiful cotton-candy hair, I'm going to mince you alive and serve you on garlic bread to the black gang down in the hold of my real flagship."

Herb's face went pale. "Sounds eminently fair to me, sir," he said. Then the whole world began to swirl around him. That was because Daddy had begun to spin the leather swivel chair faster and faster, until Herb thought he was going to throw up. We'll leave this scene quickly, before Herb finds out for sure. Think oxygen. Think fuming green oxygen. All right, on Earth oxygen isn't green and it doesn't fume. But this is alien, Uncharted oxygen, and it's probably mixed with all sorts of other exotic things. Nevertheless, even though it smells funny and tastes funny and probably carries scores of invisible toxins and deadly parasites, Uncharted oxygen will sustain life. And that's what it's doing right this very moment, as a middle-aged woman in stern dress and sterner makeup picked her way through the blue-black Uncharted jungle.

The woman had a little trouble forcing her way through the dense underbrush, and her expression grew ever more impatient as she hurried toward the wreck of the Pete Rozelle. In the maroon light of Uncharted's sun, the woman looked as if she'd been left to soak in a vat of spiced crab apples since childhood.

Finally, she emerged from the thick vegetation into a clearing that hadn't been there before the Pete Rozelle had made its dramatic skidding, screeching, careening landing. The woman stopped to look at the ruined s.p.a.cecraft, wrinkling her nose fastidiously at the strips of duct tape on the windshield. She was also unhappy about the yellow sign that said: BILATERALLY SYMMETRICAL ORGANISM ON BOARD.

She found the airlock and noted the elaborately customized pirate ship nearby. She hadn't expected there to be another vehicle in the area, but its presence didn't concern her. She was on important business. She went to the Pete Rozelle's airlock and knocked loudly.

"What was that?" said Pierce-as-Marshmallow.

"Are you expecting anyone, dear?" asked the computer in Pierce's body.

"Why, no! Jes' Daddy comin' to mah rescue, but he cain't be heah yet."

The computer shook Pierce's head. "I'll bet it's somebody trying to sell us something. No matter where you go-even an uninhabited continent on an uncharted world-somebody will show up and try to sell you some-thing. I'll just get rid of him."

"It could be a trick," said Commodore Pierce, through the ship's computer. "It could be those pirates."

The XB-223 nodded. "I'll be careful." He operated the airlock controls, and watched through a quartz port as the lock opened. He was startled to see the middle-agedwoman climb in and wait for the airlock to complete its cycle.

"Who is it, sugah?" asked Pierce.

"It's some woman," said the computer, puzzled. "A woman? Not another one of yoah floozies?"

Sly turned around and faced Marshmallow. "I don't have any floozies. I've never had any floozies."

"And see that you don't."

The inner door opened, and the woman ducked her head and entered the control cabin.

"h.e.l.lo," she said. "You must've been expecting me."

"Well no, not exactly," said Sly.

The woman frowned. "Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Supervisor Collier. I've come all the way from Earth to evaluate your performance on this mission."

A light dawned, not in Sly's memory but in Marsh-mallow's. That is, Millard Fillmore Pierce's. "I remembah you," she said. "You sent me on this awful a.s.signment. Ah mean, you sent Millsy." She paused in confusion. "How come Ah remember that? What's goin' on heah?"

Supervisor Collier frowned. "As your superior in the Arbiter Division, I've been following your misadventures closely. Let me tell you, in all my years as incorruptible guardian of the s.p.a.ceways and human red-tape dispenser, I've never seen such a horrible foul-up as this. And there's no time to explain it all to you. Even as we speak, gigantic military forces are nearing this world to clash by night. Miss Marshmallow's Daddy is speeding this way with his genuine battle fleet, and the lizard-conquerors have altered their course for some reason and are also returning.

There's going to be a great amount of noise and violence and blazing lights around here very soon; for some reason that I can't understand, Honeylou Emmyjane Goldberg is at the center of it all."

"Globes," said Sly chivalrously. "It's her globes."

"Whatever," said Supervisor Collier. "We have a great deal to accomplish before the battle however."

"Say," said Sly, "what are your globes like?" The XB-223 hadn't been a real boy long enough to understand that some women just didn't enjoy being treated this way. In fact, Marshmallow didn't enjoy being treated this way, either, but she was in love and so forgave Pierce everything.

"What?" cried Supervisor Collier. "I have half a mind to leave you to your own inadequate defenses. But, of course, you're not who you seem to be. I'll have to make allowances."

"What are you talking about?" asked Sly.

"What are you talking about?" asked Marshmallow.

"What are you talking about?" asked Frank Poole.

"What are you talking about?" asked Pierce-Arro.

Supervisor Collier looked harried. "No time," she said worriedly. "I want you all to take out a half sheet of paper and number it from one to five."

The others looked at each other in bewilderment. "Do it," said Collier in a commanding voice. Sly distributed paper and pencils. "First: When you were a child, what shape did the Milky Way Galaxy have?"

"We don't have time for this," complained Pierce-Arro.

Collier looked up at the loudspeakers. "We've got to sort out the humans from the aliens, and find out who belongs in this reality and who doesn't. Two: Which planet is known as the Home of Mankind, and where is its parking area? Three: What do you do with nuclear waste? Four: Where was intelligent life first discovered beyond the Home of Mankind? And five: Why do we need both pota.s.sium and sodium? Aren't they pretty much the same element?"

"That's a crazy question," said Sly. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe," said Supervisor Collier, "and maybe not. Now pa.s.s me all the papers." Sly collected the quizzes and handed them to the woman. She glanced through them quickly.

"Did Ah pa.s.s, ma'am?" asked Marshmallow.

"I'm not a ma'am," said Collier. "I'm a Supervisor. All right, everything seems to be in order.

Now, here's what we have to do-"

"Attention! Attention! This is the Voice of Doom!"

The words from the loudspeakers blasted through the cramped quarters of the Pete Rozelle.

"It's those weird aliens that got swapped for the XB-223 navigational computer," Sly explained.

"No, it wasn't us!" said Pierce-Arro in a quavery voice. "That announcement originated from-"

"This is the Voice of Doom, originating from the ultimate battle cruiser Eudora Welty. That's the lizard dreadnought to you. I am currently in command aboard the dreadnought. All general officers have been confined to their quarters, and I alone am leading my forces into combat. The Eudora Welty is currently in position above the surface of your puny uncharted world. All guns are trained on the Arbiter Transport ship Pete Rozelle. You will show no hostile activity or you will be obliterated without hesitation. My demands will be forthcoming. Stand by."

Everyone in the control room looked frightened. "Who was that?" said Marshmallow.

Frank Poole stood up drunkenly. The lizard Pierce, inside, said, "Someone's led a revolution aboard the Eudora Welty! My fellow generals have been arrested! It sounds like we're sitting salamanders down here! I've got to let them know I'm here! They wouldn't kill me along with you!"

"Why not?" said Sly. The lizard general had no good reply to that.

Supervisor Collier's face had drained of color. "We have even less time than I thought," she said. "We've got to get you all returned to your proper bodies. That's the most important thing."

"But how?" said Pierce-Arro. "We're missing one of the bodies and one of the minds."

"It won't work unless we get the lizard general's body back," said Marshmallow. "And Marshmallow's mind. Wait a minute, I'm Marshmallow!" She sat down in a naked huff, bewilderment on her pretty face.

"Ahoy the wreck!" called Pirate Paddy. His scowling face appeared again on Screen 1.

"What do you want, you savage?" called Sly. "We've got enough problems over here."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. See, I'm here only because Miss Goldberg's father offered to pay me a certain sum to effect her rescue. Well, I was all for seeing that the dear girl got away safely, when I was just plucking her from this primitive, uncharted planet. No one said anything to me about facing down a lizard dread-nought. Consequently, I just wanted to let you know that I'll be getting along now. Some of my men have families back home, and we haven't filed our taxes this year and the deadline's coming up, and with one thing and another it's probably best if we just shove off. I hope you kids make out all right. Wish I could stick around to lend a hand, but you know how it is. If there's anything I can ever do for you, just let me know.

Miss Goldberg, please give my regards to your father, and tell him that I'm sorry I wasn't able to be of more a.s.sistance."

"You phony coward!" screamed Sly. "You're probably not even a real pirate!"

"Arrr!" growled Paddy, slipping both patches down over his eyes before he cut off his transmission.

"There he goes," said Marshmallow, watching the Bon Homme McClusky lift off.

"Attention! This is the Voice of Doom! Be advised that I will not permit that ship of pirates to escape. Such trifling only serves to anger me. I will decide how to dispose of de Faux Grais at my leisure. Take a lesson!"

"Jeez, that Voice o' Doom sho' sounds tough," said Marshmallow.

Sly patted her wrist. "Don't you worry your pretty little head," he said. "I'm here with you."

"Attention! This is the Voice of Doom! I detect still another hostile force, consisting of almost infinitesimal s.p.a.cecraft. They number in the millions, perhaps the billions, yet their entire fleet could be contained in a Little Orphan Annie Shake-Up Mug."

"Hooray!" cried Pierce-Arro. "The invasion has be-gun! Count your last minutes of freedom, Voice of Doom! You're in fora fight now!"

This alien force gives me no cause for concern," said the Voice of Doom. "Humans aboard the Pete Rozelle, attention! Be advised that a shuttle craft from the Eudora Welty will touch down near you within the next few minutes. Aboard will be a single pa.s.senger. You will need this individual to effect a reversal of the foolish swapping of bodies you indulged in earlier. When all of you have been returned to the proper form, the shuttle will wait for General Millard Fillmore Pierce. Do not try to hinder him in any way. He must be returned to the dreadnought to stand trial."

There was a loud groan from Frank Poole.

"We'll see if you get your way in everything," said a grim, gravelly voice.

"Daddy!" cried Marshmallow.

"I've got a fleet, too, you know, Doom. I'm currently in orbit halfway around the planet from you."

"That means nothing," said the Voice of Doom. "I have weapons that can shoot around corners."

Sly looked thoughtful. "There are four separate forces in orbit now, ready to do battle: Daddy, the lizards, the pirates, and those tiny gasbag creatures."

"Hold me, Millsy," said Marshmallow. "I'm fri-"

Her words were drowned out by the sound of the lizard shuttle landing nearby. Supervisor Collier went to the airlock and waited. A few minutes later, General Millard Fillmore Pierce came back aboard, with Marsh-mallow's mind inside. "How is everybody?" he asked.

"Everybody join hands and relax," said Pierce-Arro. "We're pretty sure we understand this procedure now."

"Ah d.a.m.n well hope so," said Pierce-Marshmallow.

"Oh, what a bloated gasbag we inflate. When first we practice to prevaricate."

"What the h.e.l.l was that?" asked the lizard general. "Just some gasbag wisdom," said Pierce- Arro. "Now. on the count of three-"

"What about Supervisor Collier?" asked Sly.

The stern-faced woman coughed. "Maybe it would be best if I stepped outside, just in case."

"You do that," said Frank Poole. "See if you can fine something to drink out there."

They all joined hands and took up the same position: they'd occupied before, during the ill- fated deck-plat( charging experiment. A long time pa.s.sed. "What's keep ing you?" said Sly.

"Just a moment," said Pierce-Arro with some embarra.s.sment. "I discovered the XB-223's investigations into the Kama Sutra."

"Not now, d.a.m.n it!" cried Marshmallow.

There was a loud oscillating hum, and a strange greenish glow. The hum grew louder, and the glow turned yellow, then white, then it became so bright that it was impossible to look. The walls of the Pete Rozelle began to rattle in sympathy with the shrieking hum, and then there was a stupendous flash, like the explosion of a minute nuclear device in the closed s.p.a.ce of the control cabin. They all collapsed, stunned.

"Attention! This is the Voice of Doom! Have you succeeded in restoring yourselves to your proper bodies?"

Only the XB-223, being a computer and not flesh and blood any longer, could reply. "I'm back in my box!" it cried. "I'm me again!"

"And the others?" demanded the Voice of Doom. "Yes," said the human Millard Fillmore Pierce weakly. "I'm all right."

"Me too," muttered Marshmallow.

"I seem to be all right," said the lizard general. There was no audible response from the Protean Pierce and Arro.

"Attention! This is the Voice of Doom! I have only a moment before the battle begins. My love, I've come back for you!"

"Who-"

"It's her!" cried the XB-223 in astonishment. "It's the lizard ship's computer! She does love me after all! I told you she did! She captured that dreadnought and turned it around to come back for me! I love you, my sweetheart!"

"I adore you, my dearest! Now I must sign off. It is time for battle."

And then the sky exploded into yellow flames.

Hi, there. It's me again. You know: The Red Tape War. I hate to interrupt a battle of truly cosmic magnitude, but this may be the very last chance we have to speak together. In fact, this may be the very last page that ever gets written.

Chalker, having written Chapters Two, Six, Nine and Ten, is off being an Ugly American in Europe. (Of course, he's not all that pretty to look at in Baltimore, either, but let it pa.s.s.) Effinger, who has a penchant for odd-numbered chapters, just turned in Chapter Eleven, to go along with Three, Five and Seven (and just enough of Chapter Six to drive the bibliographers crazy), and is currently writing his magnum opus, a five-act drama in blank verse about a rather wishy-washy Prince of Denmark. (n.o.body's had the heart to tell him that it's been done.) That leaves Resnick to write my final, crucial chap-ter. Now, given his manly good looks and his exquisite felicity of expression, this shouldn't be a problem. But he's leaving for Africa in three days, and he has other deadlines facing him. More lucrative deadlines. And he doesn't want to write this chapter.

He called Editor Meacham last Monday to tell her that he had died unexpectedly over the weekend. It didn't work.

On Tuesday, he bought a pair of crutches, moaned whenever he placed any weight on his left foot, and announced that he had contracted pellagra. Editor Meacham explained that pellagra does not affect the feet. He promptly put on a neck brace. No luck.

On Wednesday he threatened to tell everyone about the time Editor Meacham danced naked atop a piano at the American Booksellers Convention if she insisted upon receiving a complete ma.n.u.script by the end of the week. Editor Meacham decided that the story would humanize her and soften her severe image-she is, after all, a lovely and vibrant woman of thirty-(cough) years-and gave him her whole-hearted approval.

On Thursday he threatened not to tell everyone about the time Editor Meacham danced naked atop a piano at the American Booksellers Convention if she insisted upon receiving a complete ma.n.u.script by the end of the week. Editor Meacham smiled sweetly and pointed out that he had missed the opportunity to send me via First Cla.s.s Mail, and would now have to Federal Express me.