By Alex Park
The Pan-Galactic Memory Amusement Park
Copyright Alex Park 2013
Published at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this ebook. It is the property of the author and
may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial and noncommercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please see the author’s other
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www.alexpark.net
edited by Luane Spingola
Chapter One, Arnold on the Planet Arcturus
Chapter Two, Overdrawn at the Memory Bank
Chapter Three, Arnold on the Planet Malthus
Chapter Four, Arnold on Here & Now
Chapter Five, Arnold Finds the End of Time
Arnold on the Planet Arcturus
Arnold, the famous Space Hero, traveled the accessible solar systems in
his mighty space cruiser Consumption - an ultra-modern miracle of interplanetary
engineering, by Arnold standards. But in reality, the Consumption was obsolete.
Reaching his various destinations kept Arnold in cryosleep for so long that by
the time he arrived, he was already forgotten, despite his reputation. His fame in
itself was pretty ironic, since with the limited speed of communications,
everyone was always out of date. But sometimes this worked in Arnold’s favor;
he could shill out a holographic vid in one sector, gauge the audience response,
make changes without trashing the whole thing, and before he reached the next
solar system, he’d have a hit. Thus the adventure, Arnold & the Giant Swamp
Nutria, about big rat-like creatures imported to a world that lacked animals of
any kind and the fancy French furriers who followed with the goal of making
them into fur coats, sucked in its first incarnation. Nobody had a distinct
memory of the French anymore, except that they were annoying, so nobody got
it. Arnold decided to make the provocateurs Chinese; everyone everywhere
knew they would make fur coats, appetizers, or entrees out of nutrias, as they
did cats and rats, and it became a huge hit. But usually, while Arnold slept, his
fifteen minutes came and went. Other ships leaving light years after Arnold often
beat him to his destination.
Arnold’s mission in life was to ask annoyingly obtuse questions that
nobody had any patience for or interest in, since they were busy getting on with
life. Even his crew was sick of his questions. They put up with him only because
he was a Space Hero, and, as such, must be respected. To help make ends meet,
Arnold usually wound up selling his old Heroic Tales to various galactic
newspapers on his travels. The profits went for water and supplies. (The old
Consumption used water for its primitive fusion engines.) The market for heroic
tales was pretty steady, but all in all, it made for a bleak living.
Among others, he had two fundamental questions with which he pestered
anyone who would listen. The first, his personal complaint, was why the speed
of light equaled the speed limit of the universe. At 300,000 kilometers per second,
it took a really long time to get anywhere, which was why cryosleep had become
mandatory for space travel. Even after hundreds of years, Arnold was still pissed
at some guy named Einstein for inventing Relativity, although all most people
knew about him anymore was that he was Jewish. Since Einstein was responsible
for slowing down the growth of the galaxy, there were a lot of anti-Semites
around. The principal charge was inhibition of trade and unfair business
practices.
His second question was, “Why are we born only to suffer and die?” Arnold,
in all fairness, included every species in this conundrum, even the Jelly creatures
of a planet called Acapulco, where sentient jellyfish guarded vast deposits of cool
metals lying on the sea floor below them. They could electrify the ocean at will,
and the only way of dealing with this very dull species was to trade them vids of
reality shows, although Arnold was quite successful there selling his Heroic
Adventures and third rate porn. Once he sold them a snuff film about the
Lesbian Flipper Fish of Fiji, and they got so excited they electrocuted everybody
within 50 kilometers.
Once Arnold was on a roll, the questions could get stultifying. Why was
this Einstein character even born? How come everyone breathed plankton on the
underwater planet of Gel? Why did almost everyone across the universe live
pretty poorly unless they were the 1%, another term of uncertain origin, though
usually credited to American financiers, famous for their perfecting fraud to an
art level? Not that Arnold did anything about improving anybody’s lot in life
(after all he was merely a Space Hero and Trader) but it still seemed terribly
unfair, and he did try on occasion. Later, after meeting Cassandra, with whom he
would share much of his adventures with, he became obsessed with romance
and the nature of love. He wrote a great deal of poetry that was astoundingly,
unalterably bad, for Arnold’s education wasn’t great for poets. His last known
transmissions were garbled and erratic even for him, but appeared to confirm he
had finally met It, The Creator of Everything, who had replied to Arnold’s
questions by saying, “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
One time, almost out of water, they made an emergency landing on the
planet Arcturus, a place Arnold had visited before. After the Consumption
touched down, he went to check in with the Arcturan authorities. He started
down the long landing tube to the airlock. There was a warning sign:
Welcome to Arcturus, Land of Platonic Fun!
Enter Airlock for Decontamination:
Warning: 100% Fatal if infected with nanobots!
Click on “accept terms and conditions”
Arnold clicked instead on the part of the actual disclaimer, for as usual he
found directions hard to follow. At the end of about 400 pages of legal nonsense,
he was informed he accepted responsibility for anything that might befall him,
up to and including dismemberment and death. “Why didn’t they just say so?”
he mused, submitting to a retinal scan. “Welcome!” said the terminal, “Park
Chung Hee of the Starship Kimchi Diablo. Say yes or no to confirm.”
“No.”
“No what?” asked the terminal.
“No, I’m not Park Chung Hee.”
“Yes you are. Your retinal scan confirms it.”
“Oh, just kidding! Yes, I am that Park character,” agreed Arnold, recalling
he had switched eyes with a Korean captain to avoid the bill collectors that were
hounding him, getting rid of his astigmatism in the process. Arnold didn’t look
the slightest bit Korean; he was of Irish and Dutch ancestry, which his Uncle
assured him made it inevitable that he would be a drunken trader. He had red
hair, a bad complexion exacerbated by radiation exposure, and had started out
tall and gangly; but the constant acceleration of space travel had compressed him
to slightly over five feet in height, and he looked like a primitive mesomorph.
His sloping forehead “denoted low cranial capacity,” according to his Uncle.
“Enter your email address and password for membership and entry,” said
the terminal.
Arnold entered “ArnoldvanLeuwenhook@ImaginativeLogic.biz,” as an
address. He agreed to numerous charges should he purchase anything, and
promised himself he would remember to cancel his membership before the trial
period ended, which he rarely did. That habit, plus the fact he seldom paid bills,
were why bill collectors followed him throughout the universe. “What the hell
are nanobots anyway?”
“Microscopic subcutaneous robots that build things and repair other
things,” said the terminal. “But they tend to expand under low pressure so you
explode from within.”
“I hope I don’t have any in me then,” Arnold shrugged.
“You do not.”
“Do I need them?”
“Your scan indicates a new liver would be a good idea,” said the terminal
conversationally.
“Well then, I’ll take one. Hit me up!”
“Sorry Captain Park, your account has an insufficient balance. But you
could get some nanites at our Superstore. They’re smaller, 100% organic, and will
repair your liver from inside your body.”
“Fucking Walmart,” muttered Arnold, wandering off, forgetting about
nanobots, nanites, his trial membership, and his liver. He bought some Japanese
scotch at a vending machine with a few leftover Deutschemark coins, accepted
anywhere since the Euro collapsed after no one could remember what Euros
were based on. The memory of Earth and its history had faded, although
everyone everywhere knew about the Japanese. He started choking after a large
swallow out of the plastic bottle. He noticed it tasted almost, but not quite, like
real scotch whiskey.
The Arcturans were a generous people, as well as very logical and literal.
After enough bribes, Arnold finally managed an audience with one of their
leaders, an old acquaintance named Prefect Snarek.
"Still asking the same old questions, Arnold?"
"What do you mean? I haven't asked any yet."
"You're old news. Your ship is decrepit. I've been to Earth and back three
times in the time you've taken to get here. Why don't you get a faster ship?"
"The Consumption is ultra-modern," replied Arnold, a bit miffed.
"It's a Model T," sneered Snarek. Nobody knew what a model T was
anymore, but it was still used as an expression of obsolescence.
Arnold decided to forge ahead. "Why hasn't anyone repealed Relativity
yet? Why isn't it obsolete?"
"Because they can't, you whining moronic pinhead!"
"Isn't that redundant?"
"No, moron refers to a specific IQ level. Microencephaly is a congenital
defect, pinhead." This hurt his feelings. Arnold's hair was cut to a sharp point on
top. Even though he was a barber of some ability, his hairstyle was always out of
date; it could only be as current as the last place he visited, which was always a
long time ago.
"It's so frustrating, this time thing. One would think they'd have it worked
out by now." Arnold was always complaining about time, for in space, time is
distance and the Consumption’s top speed was 100 million kilometers a second,
which is pretty slow in the grand scheme of the cosmos.
"You didn't pay much attention in school, did you?"
"I did in certain subjects, like combat and which hair relaxers work best.
Say, what time is it anyway? What's the date?"
"The date, of course, is relative. To me, you are far in the past. You are
always whining about something immutable. Soon you'll be complaining that
your legs aren't long enough to reach the ground. You pursue your mission as if
it means something. You see, on Arcturus we’re ahead of the game. We know
anything anyone does will eventually become obsolete."
"But you never did anything!"
"Exactly! Why waste the effort?" Arcturan logic was almost too formidable
for Arnold to argue with.
"For eons, you never even left your solar system. What was the sense in
that? We had to discover you, which was pretty silly, because you’re technically
more advanced."
"What's the sense in going anywhere if everything will be out of date and
meaningless by the time you get back? By the time the first Earth ship got here,
the second one that had left after it was already here." Snarek's whole attitude
was smugly condescending.
"So you let everyone else do all the heavy lifting..."
"Now you're catching on."
"I think you're just lazy."
This was a major insult to an Arcturan, probably because it was true. The
Arcturans did indeed have the capability for interstellar travel, but had
rationalized away any practical benefits in the name of Relativity. Snarek looked
over Arnold's head, thinking to himself that Arnold seemed even shorter than he
remembered. "Besides, what makes you think we were anxiously waiting
around, hoping to be discovered?"
"That's what your literature says. You were getting so anxious that you
were at the point of ignoring Relativity and going exploring yourselves."
Snarek squirmed at the truth of this and began to set about proving,
logically of course, that facts and truth could be quite separate abstractions,
particularly when convenient. "Well, I see you understand more about Relativity
than you let on. So let's up the ante to quantum mechanics. I want you to define
an explanation."
Arnold was totally baffled by this obviously logical request. He did one of
the rare sensible things for him: he didn't respond with a question, which was
hard, considering Arnold was now more famous for his questions than his space
exploits.
Snarek enjoyed Arnold’s silence with satisfaction as the spaceport
rumbled with straining fusion engines being tested. "No answer to that one, eh?
Well, you have heard of quantum mechanics?"
"I've heard of them, but I'm just a Space Hero."
"Jeez, don't they teach you guys anything?"
"Not much, really," admitted Arnold. "I know combat techniques, how to
fix a fusion engine, fire an antimatter torpedo, make field dressings for laser
burns. I’m well versed in the treatment for Cerulean anthrax, how to make a
Mongolian mental mix-ups, and various hairstyles and coloring techniques. Stuff
like that mostly." He shrugged.
"I see. But let me try again, for the sake of pinheads everywhere. Let's say
that God states there is an enormous red cube that surrounds the entire planet of
Arcturus."
"But you're using God as an illogical construct!" yelled Arnold.
"Just go with the flow, OK? It's only an example. This red cube is totally
invisible; it cannot be detected by any means, infrared, ultraviolet, whatever.
Does it exist?"
"If God says it does."
"Ha! What does He know? No, it doesn't exist. That’s why you’re a moron.
OK, now what would get if you took apart a video receiver?"
"A bunch of scrap parts?"
"No, pinhead. According to quantum mechanics, you’d get a bunch of
parts, plus a screen and two complete TV's!"
"But that's illogical! The sum of a subset can't be greater than the subset
itself!"
Snarek stood, rocking back on his heels. "True, but not in quantum
mechanics. Everything I say is, by extension, logical, because I'm an Arcturan.
Obviously the truth and facts can be mutually exclusive. One simply must be
open to information adjustment."
Arnold had an image of light dawning. “You’re describing my philosophy
of life, a philosophy based on everything I learned through my travels,
adventures, and the Beauty Academy. It’s called The Scheme of Imaginative
Logic, and simply put, it means the most complex and convoluted explanation is
actually preferable to any other, as long as it works. Do you like the name?”
“I would think simplicity is better,” snorted Snarek, though he did like the
name. “Imagination and logic don’t belong in the same philosophy, much less
the same sentence.”
“Of course they do. For example, nobody wants to buy Arcturan
warships; they’re just big cubes, completely boring and unthreatening.”
“But we build the most ferocious warships around!” Snarek was getting
mad, rare for an Arcturan, but Arnold was talented in making people mad. “And
everyone knows it, too!”
Arnold thought Snarek’s reaction unseemly in an Arcturan. “Maybe
they’re not as powerful as yours, but the best-selling warships today, whether
from Earth or somewhere cooler, are real pointy and sleek with cool missiles and
guns all over, and everyone loves them. Except, of course, the local natives
getting terrorized by them. You guys should investigate the new Italian
designers for your ships.”
Nobody was quite clear what an Italian designer was anymore, since
people mostly came from Earth but didn’t go there much anymore. “That doesn’t
make any sense!” sniffed Snarek.
“Perhaps. But it follows the Scheme of Imaginative Logic perfectly—our
warships aren’t as good, but they look really nasty. So in reality, they’re better.”
Snarek seemed a bit dejected at this, so Arnold passed him the plastic bottle of
scotch.
“This almost tastes like scotch.”
“That’s what they say,” said Arnold.
“But not quite. Let’s find a bar.”
There was a lot of drinking on Arcturus; dealing with the pressures of
logic can be a grind. At the bar, Snarek bought a round of Mongolian Mental
Mix-ups. Arnold toasted Snarek and offered to give him more examples of
Imaginative Logic.
“Why not?” sighed Snarek, listlessly.
“You have some of the most beautiful women in the universe here on
Arcturus, but nobody really digs them. Why? First of all, their hair is all the
same, long, straight, and parted in the middle. Nice, but boring, like your cubes.
How about some curls, perms, maybe a beehive or two?”
“Why are you talking about hairstyling and philosophy at the same time?
Where did you go to school?”
Arnold said proudly, “The New Haven Space Academy of Kombat & Beauty
Skills. When I got bored with the vocational track in middle school, I saw the ads
on-line and applied for government loans.”
“Yes!” Snarek fairly screamed. “Which you’ve never paid off, so we have
orders to impound your ship and throw you in debtor’s prison. No matter how
many times you declare bankruptcy, you can’t get rid of student loans. I hope it
was worth it.” Snarek felt a little happy at Arnold’s imminent downfall.
“Well, I can field strip a laser rifle wearing rubber gloves without ruining
a good manicure. And our laser rifles look really cool, while yours look like
broomsticks with buttons.”
“Good lord,” muttered Snarek, ordering more drinks.
“Your women are frigid as hell—why is that?”
It was true, but Snarek didn’t know why. Despite their beauty, no one
liked Arcturan women much, unless they were narcissistic TV executives. It
simply didn’t seem logical. “There’s no sense in orgasms.”
“But they can have them, can’t they?”
“Of course. We are normal humanoids, only more intelligent and logical.”
“But not very smart,” said Arnold under his breath. “Listen, your women
are about as exciting as whorebots, so why pay extra?”
“I know what you mean,” agreed Snarek, who had a miserable marriage
to a stunning, brilliant woman named Anil. “We’d been wondering why our
prostitution business isn’t bringing in much money.”
“I may have a solution for you about that—you’ll love it.”
“Love is illogical, but I’ll listen,” sighed Snarek.
But as usual, Arnold had the last word. “In the Scheme of Imaginative
Logic, love is the best thing there is: doesn’t matter how you get there, but it’s
pretty swell.”
“I’ll bet.”
Arnold briefed Snarek on his idea, and pointed out it would make getting
laid on Arcturus a better experience than fucking a whorebot. Perhaps it might
even prevent the Consumption from getting impounded. “By opening beauty
clinics and selling sex toys?” Snarek asked.
“Exactly. Remember the Scheme, right?”
“Not really—it sounded nonsensical, so I didn’t bother listening. Now
explain it again, since you like torturing me.”
“Sure. Imaginative Logic isn’t linear—it’s not in a straight consequential
line—it flows from Point A to Point B then maybe to Point N, perhaps back to
Point C which it skipped, and then it could always go to Point 3.14, or pi, where
it never intended to go! It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Arnold proudly.
“That makes no sense!”
“That’s besides the point! A straight linear progression is dull.
Imagination is circular, chaotic, unscripted, and insipid. But it’s more real,
realistically speaking than anything else. Who cares how you get there, as long as
it’s good?”
“You’re insane.”
“That’s a detail. At least I’m having fun,” said Arnold smugly.
“You’re insane.”
“Look, your wife Anil is simply stunning, with three PhD’s. And about as
exciting as tofu. She’s completely logical, as you say. But are you two happy?”
“What has happiness got to do with logic?” sputtered Snarek.
“Nothing! Happiness is very logical within the Scheme though, as love,
sex, creativity, emotions, are only logical in our imaginations. ‘Oh, she adores
me, she is logical, so now everything is way cool, and so on and so forth...’ That’s
not very fun, is it?”
“What has fun got to do with logic?”
“Quite a bit, in Imaginative Logic, that’s why it’s so great—and
ephemeral. Don’t worry—you’ll catch on.” Arnold knew how to stroke an ego,
for all their vaunted intelligence and logic, Arcturans were also pretty conceited.
“That’s what worries me—that I will catch on,” said Snarek hesitantly.
“Doesn’t hurt a bit, although it can be very painful at first.”
Snarek just held his head, muttering, and ordered an Arcturan Logic
Bomb, which is a mixture of pure ethanol, cocaine, crystal ephedrine, and
Hawaiian punch, although nobody knew what the hell was in that stuff. (Why
would they?—it was sold by AmeriEuroTrash traders, popular all over the
galaxy)
“What the fuck...I’ll see what I can do with your so-called Scheme,”
agreed Snarek, since logically, whatever they were doing wasn’t working too
swell. “At least as a former Ambassador, although to a twisted, 3rd rate planet,
and a Prefect here, I can get things done.” Logic Bombs did have a tendency to
make one optimistic.
“Say, I’ll have one of those too,” said Arnold. “You won’t be sorry.”
“I’m probably already sorry if I could really think this through.”
“Then it’s good we’re a little messed up,” agreed Arnold.
“That’s probably the first logical thing you’ve said.”
“You’re probably right,” agreed Arnold again, this time very cheerfully.
“Think I’ll have another.”
“Me too,” said Snarek.
“Now you’re catching on...”
Arnold began by teaching a few competent crewmembers some basic
beauty techniques like mani-pedi’s, hair coloring, and highlights. Hair relaxers
were unnecessary on a world of very straight boring hair. He conducted classes
in simple plastic surgeries like removing the epicanthic folds that Asian Earth
women had so they could look more like the Euro-American women they
despised, and nose jobs. Actually, Arcturan women didn’t have big noses, but as
Arnold said to his assistants, “True enough, but we can give them complexes that
they do, so just follow the Scheme.”
Arnold advertised online a series of free beauty clinics sponsored by the
New Haven Space Kombat & Beauty School, which became wildly popular, since he
was also selling cheap plastic sex toys made with BPA. Arnold had picked these
up on a planet called WalmartWorld, which produced tons of cheap plastic crap
made with toxic chemicals; fortunately, they usually broke before the chemicals
poisoned the user. They could barely meet the demand for nose and eye jobs,
and couldn’t keep up with the sex toy and vibrator orders. After a brand new do
and a few induced orgasms, the women quickly got the idea, and the storied
frigidity of Arcturan women became a thing of the past. Logical or not, orgasms
sure were cool, so it was illogical not to enjoy them. This led to the Arcturan
women sleeping around quite a bit. Besides the clinics, Arnold introduced the
women to house parties where a saleswoman just like them would bring sex
toys, vibrators, and soft-core demo movies and take orders, sign up more
saleswomen, and so forth. This was Arnold’s variation of a Tupperware party.
Arcturan men weren’t as happy as you might think with their newly
orgasmic, small-nosed, permed women, since all the sleeping around was
disruptive to a rigid, logical society. Plus, they were exhausted from fulfilling all
the demanding women who had previously found sex pretty pointless. But that
wasn’t Arnold’s problem; he was making a ton of cash, inventing new hairstyles,
and getting laid a lot. He also figured that by the time his sex toys could actually
hurt anyone, he’d be gone.
So through the Scheme of Imaginative Logic, Arnold increased the
revenue of Arcturus; and in gratitude the Arcturans gave him all the water he
wanted for the Consumption and yet another Space Hero medal to add to his
collection. The medal was made of radioactive polonium and was toxic, so
Arnold just threw it in a drawer with the others. He was wise to that trick by
now. The Arcturan women were happier, loved their new hairstyles, and no
longer felt the necessity to be closet drinkers to numb their unhappiness about
frigidity. The Arcturan men were either in a constant state of arousal or utterly
exhausted. Even the Arcturan weapons became best sellers, after having been
redesigned by Italians to be sharp, sleek, threatening, and totally cool. The
weapons weren’t as good as before, but, as Arnold explained, it hardly mattered.
The video screens on the laser rifles were so loaded with thousands of apps and
blogs to read that the soldiers often forgot to actually fire them. Distraction
proved a boon to the eradication of war, and an era of peace began in that part of
the galaxy, which hadn’t exactly been Arnold’s intent, but whatever. The
thankful leaders of Arcturus ignored the order to put Arnold in debtor’s prison
for student loans. It simply wasn’t logical after all, especially when money was
involved.
Back in the bar, Snarek and Arnold toasted each other.
“I can’t put a finger on it, as you like to say, but there’s something to this
Logic.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Arnold agreed, preparing to be on his way
before they did put a finger on it. He decided to ask Snarek what was happening
on Earth.
“Uh...Arnold, the New Earth isn’t like what you left. As you know, I was
there a few years ago as an Ambassador. Most people call it Jewasia, although
there is another power block smart creatures avoid called American Eurotrash
something or other that has North and South America, some of Europe, and
what was Australia. They all get along pretty well.”
“What the fuck is Jewasia?”
“Asian Jews. They run the planet now. Israel was the only country that
honored their debts to China, but they did so on one condition: that they
convert.”
“So all Asians are now Jewish?”
“Exactly, and they’re doing very well, I hear.”
“What happened to the Chinese? There were billions of them, last I
heard.”
“Many billions,” Snarek amended. “China took over all the Asian
countries – Japan, Philippines, Malaysia, Indonesia, most of India. Except
Thailand, it’s still a party country. Then it fell apart after everyone defaulted on
his or her debts. The Americans, the best bank fraud people around, engineered
this. They could actually make you feel grateful for not repaying their debt to
you. I really admire them. Anyway, Israel came through for them, and they all
became Jewish. L’chaim! Gambei!”
“Do they navigate starships?” asked Arnold in a panic.
“Are you freakin’ kidding?” slurred Snarek. “As they say, better behind a
wok than a wheel! The worst drivers ever! The only wheel they should touch is
roulette. And didn’t the Jews wander around a freakin’ desert for forty years?
Even with GPS? Somebody must’ve dropped a quarter. No, Arnold, all their
starships are chauffeured, thank god.” Despite their logic, Arcturans were quite
disposed towards stereotyping, although most of them had some Jewasian
friends and got along with them quite well.
Relieved, Arnold sipped his drink. “What about the Arabs?”
“They bought some desert planets out by the Centaur region where they’re
happily killing each other for religious reasons. Most of them left Earth, since
they blamed the Jews for everything bad. Nobody goes there much except porn
dealers and high-end blonde prostitutes, since Arab gentlemen don’t like
whorebots. That’s one reason there’s no religion on Arcturus – too illogical. How
about a Fractured Toad?”
“What’s in it?”
“Coffee, extra caffeine, vodka, and cough syrup. Carbonated with
laughing gas. It’s illegal,” he said conspiratorially.
Arnold of course recognized a variation on the old American trailer trash
drink. “I’ll try one,” he agreed. “But what about the Americans?”
“They’re mostly traders now, like you. The greatest con artists the galaxy
has ever known. Extremely skillful. You can be screwed over by them for the
fifteenth time, and you’ll beg them to let you convert to their currency and invest
some more, right off the cliff. They helped invent that scam about the Euro, you
know. And they’re everywhere now.”
Arnold felt suddenly happy to hear his own people had done so well. “I
wonder how the old Kombat & Beauty Academy is doing?” he mused.
“Don’t know. Hopefully closed, if you’re an example of a typical
graduate,” snarked Snarek.
“So what else is going on in the Americas?”
“They grow most of the food for everyone, and make terrific military gear,
but most mostly their finance industry dominates the 1%. They export
investments everywhere, doncha know?” said Snarek, slurring a little. “All over
the freaking galaxy.”
“What about Africa?”
“All Jewish.”
“Really?”
“Sure. Nobody knows why, but the Jews wanted that part of Africa at the
southern tip that’s full of gold and diamonds. It’s so illogical, since gold is heavy
and diamonds are as common as shit around the galaxy.” Snarek was just
shaking his head, perplexed by such idiocy. He muttered, “Gold is so heavy,”
again and again, then, “And pretty useless shit too.”
Arnold did another thing unusual, but he was after all an adventurer, and
needed information. He bought Snarek a drink, some real scotch from Scotland.
He was investing in his future, as Americans liked to say.
“Zikes! This stuff is great. I wonder why we don’t make it.”
Because you can’t, Arnold wanted to say, but that was counterintuitive in
the Scheme of Imaginative Logic, so he kept quiet. He paid with his Amex card
based on Deutschmarks, which seemed more solid than Euros had been,
whatever the hell they were. Arcturans did have folding plastic cash money, but
Arnold usually only got hold of any when he could roll a drunk Arcturan, and
he was grateful by hanging out in bars he could find a few. Unfortunately, all
this business of being a Space Hero was making Arnold an alcoholic. “Should I
go back to Earth?”
“Are you crazy? That’s illogical! Remember I was the ambassador, the
1%!”
“Really?”
“Really. Let me buy you a scotch.” Snarek had forgotten that he had
bought all the drinks that night but one. “I’ve gotta tell ya, your home world is
the most twisted place I’ve ever been, a planet full of lunatics, who elect the
craziest people they can find. They whole place seems bent on destroying itself,
and exporting their values too!”
“Ah, that sure sounds like home!” Arnold didn’t mention that Arcturans
also used Amex cards, but let Snarek get him another. “So why did you go
there?”
“Trade of course. But there is one place there, in north Eurotrash called
Scandinavia that militarized itself and rarely lets anyone in. They also took over
Antarctica, saying they were used to the cold, and nobody much cared. Built a
big wall around the Scandinavia, a real one, not like America tried to do with
your Spanish speaking southern neighbors. To keep out your southern continent
workers too, whatever for? So illogical.”
“Antarctica. Beats me.” Arnold knew that Antarctica was full of metals
and resources, and that Scandinavians were no dummies.
“Say, this might interest you,” said Snarek, swirling his scotch around in a
snifter. “A couple a years ago as Relativity flies a Swedish Saab space cruiser
came here. Very technically advanced, and full of safety features too I noticed.”
“What about them?” Arnold always used subtle techniques to extract
information when necessary.
“They were the only sane humanoids I’ve ever met from your home
world. Nice people, really smart. They advised us not to go there again, except to
party. Sure liked to read detective novels and drink pure ethanol.”
“That’s them, alright,” agreed Arnold, who promptly ordered them
another round on Snarek’s tab. Murder stories were pretty alien to Arcturans,
since logical people don’t commit them. But Arnold of course changed that,
inadvertently. “So what language do Americans speak now?”
“Galactic Spanglish, like we all do, except for the damn Jewasians talking
some kind of Hebrew Chinee crap that took me weeks to learn!”
Snarek was not referring to the home language of Arcturus, which few
people could grasp. It was simple and logical, like Esperanto, and therefore
useless. The Arcturans just spoke the Galactic Standard language with aliens
since they were so smart and talented. Unlike TV shows and vids, universal
translators were never very successful, even in tablet computers, and terrible
errors occurred all too often.
Once, a hapless Space Explorer, much like Arnold, had whispered to her
partner after a frustrating round of negotiations with the chief of a backward
planet, “Pease eat me later.”
Her Google tablet had translated this perfectly, and the chief smiled, and
then the traders smiled, and negotiations for the right to explore their planet
became easier, a primitive place the traders were trying to figure out if there was
anything there worth exploiting, since they were from North America.
What they weren’t aware of was that the natives were also cannibals, and
the chief thought she was doing him a great honor by encouraging him to eat
her, and that was why he had negotiated on better terms for the traders, now
trusting them more. The sacrifice of a leader like her was regarded as a big sign
of true faith and good intentions, so that night in front of everyone they beaned
her on the head with a big turtle thigh bone, cooked and ate her. She was slow
cooked with rare and fragrant spices, and smelled delicious, as she had when
alive. Naturally her companions were horrified, but what could they do beyond
mass murder? They weren’t old Spaniards, after all. So they made the best of the
situation in the hope the miserable planet had some stuff worth taking, since
business was business. They were somewhat mollified by the honor they were
shown, plus the chief also gave them his beautiful eighteen year old daughter,
and they were a very stunning looking species, humanoid and illiterate
primitives. The girl, Miri, gleefully expected to be eaten, but the only phrases she
could say was “Please eat me too,” and “I am a virgin!” The result she got was
totally different than what the hapless Miri expected too, but she soon stopped
saying she was a virgin after a short time, for the traders were of course forced to
keep her, as it would have been a grievous insult not to accept her as a gift.
Anyway, Miri seemed to have a long and popular life among the traders, who
liked her very much, although she was never cooked, just eaten. History vaguely
records, since history is usually vague, that Miri lived out her life with the
Trader’s original companion, and supposedly he valued her for the taste of
memories.
By the way, the original planet of the natives had no resources beyond a
breadfruit-like plant that tasted like pizza (Sicilian style) and some worthless
gold. They had hoped for aluminum to make cans. The pizza plant got pretty
boring after being cultivated, and drove Domino’s Pizza chain into galactic-wide
bankruptcy, which also bankrupted a lot of starving widows counting on their
dividends. (Some of them reportedly turned to cannibalism it is said.)
So it goes in the world of Imaginative Logic, which Arnold never did
truthfully say was perfected. But who listens, as the Jewasians say?
“Say, I always wanted to ask: how did you get into the Space Hero Tale
business?”
Arnold raised his Logic Bomb. “I met these storytellers that were making
a lot of money. I thought my adventures as a Space Trooper were as good, if not
better. So after a SpaceMedia Intergalactic Convention, I had their ship arrested
and impounded on a nice planet and decided to take their place. They’re happy
there, telling tales to each other. But these damn reality shows are giving me a
run for my money.”
“That doesn’t sound very fair.”
“Ah, fuck democracy. I needed the cash. You got a problem with that?”
“No, greed is completely logical.” Snarek fell off the barstool and passed
out. Being a nice guy and a Space Hero, Arnold had him wheeled home a few
blocks away by a barbot, whom he tipped well with Snarek’s wad of cash.
Snarek’s wife Anil was simply gorgeous. She directed the barbot to deposit
Snarek in his bed, and proceeded to undo a few buttons of her shirt, trying to
look seductive, which still was a stretch for an Arcturan no matter how well
Arnold’s Imaginative Logic worked.
“Say Arnold, I might be able to give you something special if you style my
hair,” said Anil.
“Baby, I’m so far ahead of you it’s beautiful! I’ll throw in a color job and
make you a blonde...” Anil dragged him inside.
Before he left Arcturus, Arnold ran into Snarek again at the bar, and as
usual he looked unhappy. He was nursing an Arcturan Logic Bomb with a
cherry cough syrup chaser, and instead of his usual impeccable dress he looked
rather bedraggled.
“What’s the matter, Snarek?” asked Arnold, nursing his excellent AJ
Enterprise lager.
“I don’t know. You’ve met my wife Anil, right? Very beautiful and very
reserved.”
“Of course.”
“Well she got her hair cut, and dyed it blonde like some cheap whore.”
Arnold waited, sensing he wanted to say something else.
“Ever since that beauty clinic, she’s sexually insatiable. She’s just wearing
me out. What should I do?”
The Space Hero turned away so Snarek wouldn’t see him smiling. In
drawing a simple logical conclusion, Snarek had entirely missed the more
complex point of Imaginative Logic. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Eventually the
blonde will wash out, and then Anil should go back to normal.”
But of course Arnold knew that there was no way in hell Anil was ever
going back regardless of her hair color or style, no matter what the Beauty
Academy said. Snarek was doomed to a life of sensual pleasure, an oxymoron to
an Arcturan.
“You know Arnold, things aren’t working out too well since Imaginative
Logic was introduced. It’s true our prostitution business is up since our women
are now so responsive, but unfortunately so many women have become
prostitutes Arcturan men are usually their customers, because their wives are
missing. We’ve never had much of a violence problem since there’s no logic to it,
but now there have been a few murders and tons of assaults, all about women.
Got any ideas?” Snarek ordered a Frosty Nail, which was merely a vodka gimlet
with green mail polish added that tasted like acetone.
“Aren’t your military sales up?”
“That’s true—whee! —Those frosty things go down weird, excuse me, but
some Arcturans are using our weapons on us!”
“That’s pretty standard operating procedure on Old Earth,” said Arnold
unperturbed until he took a slug of his frosty.
“Yes, but you come from a planet full of fucking lunatics!” yelled Snarek,
getting a little perturbed, since all this business with the Scheme was making him
an alcoholic.
“Hey, don’t worry about it, Imaginative Logic is infinitely flexible and
fungible.”
“How can logic be flexible? Logically?”
“It’s simply a matter of information adjustment, as you Arcturans like to
say. Don’t worry about it; I’ll make some adjustments in the next few days.
Barkeep, another Frosty! With extra polish too!”
“You’d better, for there’s another problem. A lot of our women are going
lesbo, almost unknown here before.”
“I thought you guys, like all of us, like watching that sort of play?”
Embarrassed, Snarek admitted it was true, that Arcturan men were pretty
similar to men anywhere. “Yes, but not when we’re being excluded!”
It was a fact, Arnold knew, from overseeing the new Beauty Akademies &
Surgical Centers. Once the men were worn out, Arcturan women turned to each
other for fun. And why not, thought Arnold? Now that the women could expect
endless pleasure, but the men were no better than before, and most of them
thought doing calculations for fun was a great hobby, why not play with the
prettier half? Arcturan women were really over the top now that they were
coming out of their former severe selves with new features and hairstyles. They
were rapidly gaining a reputation as the best whores around too, if they went
down that path, and he thought too few did, as unfortunately Arcturus was
clearly the 1%, very rich, so they didn’t need to unless it was fun. “I’ll get right
on it,” said Arnold, who was enjoying himself too much to be hurried away from
either the bar or planet, besides making money like crazy.
“You’d better, said Snarek,” who was getting hooked up to a Graeme’s
Gangrenous Green Irish extract IV at the bar, becoming a touch unstable and
nasty at the same time. “And figure out why all the women that can are going
over to that ridiculous planet Kaboodle, full of giant cat people.”
Arnold quickly split, not wanting to be around anyone hooked up to a
Graeme’s IV, but not until quaffing another Arcturan Logic Bomb at Snarek’s
expense while he glared, unable to viciously come after him. “Say, you seem a bit
strung up too tight, Snarek,” yelled Arnold as he left the bar. A Bomb always
perked him up.
“Bugger off, Earthling!”
“Got cat fur in your IV?” teased Arnold, wondering what the hell Snarek
was talking about, since Arcturans didn’t like kitties as a rule, for they didn’t
follow any rules.
But Arcturan women sure liked cool cats, found Arnold a few days later,
still awake three days later, having lunch with Anil outside at a hotel bistro,
where he had holed up with her so they could avoid Snarek, while having
another superb Vernor’s Vermillion Viagra draft by AJ Enterprises.
“So tell me about this planet Kaboodle,” Arnold asked off-handedly,
trying to learn some secret stuff about why the women went there.
Anil’s friend Barka answered. She of course knew of their affair, and
thought it pretty cool that Anil was screwing an ugly Earthman just to get back
at Snarek. Actually most Arcturan women were pretty intent on punishing the
men. “It’s an odd place, but pretty fun now that we think of it. On most planets
humanoids evolved from ape-like creatures—“
“You’ve obviously never been in the American south---“ said Arnold too
loudly.
“Why would anyone go there?”
“Don’t worry about it, Barka. Who cares about Americans?”
“Actually I do, Anil, my husband’s involved with synthetic non-devalued
credit swaps with extenuating ratios and a bunch of American hedge fund bond
raters, and making a killing,” said Barka.
“But Barka, you are right! Nobody with an intellect would hang around
those religious freaks in America. And some of the worst ones we got to leave
the planet, like the Moslems,” said Arnold approvingly, who had no idea what
the fuck Barka was talking about.
“Ewwww!” screamed Barka dramatically. “Are they as bad as
Christians?”
“No, Barka,” sighed Arnold, putting his arm around her protectively. “No
religion is quite as nuts as Christianity.” Arnold was actually hoping that Anil,
when she wore him out, which she did on occasion, would turn to her younger
friend Barka, who looked up to her, and they could have a three way.
“--But seventy two virgins! What an absurd idea!” shrilled Barka.
“Especially in the American south, or New Jersey,” agreed Arnold facilely.
“The mere thought pains my phallocentric philosophy.”
“I thought you believed in Imaginative Logic?” Barka’s lip quivered.
Arnold pulled her closer. “Of course I do, my dear.”
“Oh, enough of this shit, Arnold! Anyway, on Kaboodle cats evolved into
the highest creatures, since they ate all the small ape-like critters. They are about
our size, only heavier and even stronger than Arcturans. They are now at least
half bipedal with longer legs. They don’t bother with space travel but are
scientifically advanced, especially in biology. It’s a matriarchal society, and they
only allow a small number of males to be born, since they are really crazy. Treat
their children wonderfully, call them kittens like your cats on Jewasia---errhh,
Earth.”
“Oh, I like Jewasians! So nice and practical—“
Anil cut her off in exasperation. “And you like Americans too, since they
make you rich! We like the cats of Kaboodle since they’re rather friendly
and...this is a little embarrassing for an Arcturan, but...” This was true, since the
Arcturans tolerated people from Earth, especially the AmeriEuroTrash, they
were really the Galactic 1%, and thought it very logical that really smart people
should be rich.
Arnold guessed the truth. “So you like to cuddle up with a bunch of
Kaboodle cats purring and play with their soft fur? I can understand that. Do
you kiss them? Make out?”
“Are you kidding? They still have huge canine teeth!”
Arnold had forgotten as usual Anil had a PhD in biology. “Say how about
another round of Vernor’s? But what’s the attraction, going down on pussy?”
“No, with all their expertise, the cats still only get horny about twice a
year. We just play with each other, if you know what I mean...”
Barka looked embarrassed, which in an Arcturan looks like painful
contortions, although they were getting better at it since learning Imaginative
Logic. He realized that since mature women treated their younger girls a bit like
the Ancient Greek men had treated their younger men, well, you get the idea...
Anil had obviously beat him to it, well, Barka, but so what? Even if Barka was
already married, she was already running out on her husband, and this was
fracturing the formerly rigid and logical Arcturan society, so Arnold could see
how he had created a problem with his logic. “So do you screw the Kaboodle
males?”
“Are you fucking nuts? No way! Would you want a 300 hundred pound
lion biting your neck, forcing you down, and fucking you from behind in a drug
induced testosterone psychosis with five inch claws and teeth?”
“Suri did it but she did say she knew the Nine Billion Names of God
before having a month of cloning and plastic surgery,” said Barka almost
wistfully.
“So do you finally see the problem now, Arnold?” asked Anil, her
patience exhausted with an idiot.
“Certainly. You want Arcturan men to fuck like Kaboodle tomcats
without half-killing you while living like shallow Americans from New Jersey!”
“Not exactly, but close enough for a pinhead,” agreed Anil. “So do you
want to go?”
“But how? I can’t exactly fire up the old Consumption with 35 crew
without anyone noticing, even Commander Mortimer.”
“Just take Wenyi Wang Silverstein's shuttle. Takes about 3 days at the
speed of light almost. He just gasses you asleep. Say, why do you need 35
crewmembers anyway?” said Anil.
“Beats the shit out of me. Are you going, Barka?”
”Fuck yea! Screw my husband Tupac!” she screamed like a teenage girl
from a Jersey mall.
“So where are we staying?” asked Arnold.
“Nice little place called Kat Kastle Kyatt with carpeting all over and
labyrinths.” Anil sighed. “Yes, I’ll bring Barka too, we’ll get a suite. Siri and a
bunch of the women are coming too. Look, you’ve made a mess of our planet
with Imaginative Logic. The women are horny and the men are worn out and
frustrated, and our society is coming apart. Thanks to you sick humanoids of
Jewasia, Arcturus has risen to the 1% of the galaxy, and our 99% is still the 1%
elsewhere. But now we’re in chaos. So fix it, Arnold.”
Arnold hated the frustration of a beautiful Arcturan woman, especially
when her friend was stroking her rich looking peroxide hair. “I’m in. The great
thing about Imaginative Logic is that it can always be adjusted, unlike your
static, reasonable logic. Let me ask: Are you happier now?”
“Yeah, shit we are, but everything is falling apart! Logic makes no sense
anymore...”
“But are you happier?”
“Well, yes...” admitted Anil.
“So now you learn the Corollary: In Imagination, more is better, and in
Excess We Digress, right?” yelled Arnold with an enthusiasm that he hadn’t
reached since a kadet at the Beauty Akadamy.
“OK! OK! I confess; your Logic is pretty cool!” screamed Anil.
“So are we going?” asked a tremulous Barka.
“Of course,” agreed Arnold smoothly. “I’m an L man, strictly Liquor,
Love, & Lies...last name Leuwonhoek.” Arnold was under the impression that
his last name had the cache of others with last names beginning with L, like
Lennon, Liberace, and Limbaugh, but all accepted he had a few flaws.
“They have greeat seafood there on Kaboodle, stuff Jewasians never sell
like lobster or shrimp.”
Both Anil and Arnold looked at young Barka like she was an idiot, then
laughed, which still hurt Arnold sonically when he heard an Arcturan try to
laugh, even though he really liked them. “You tender child, you,” said Arnold
gently, as he pulled Barka’s shirt off while Anil untied her tight logical shoes in
their luxurious hotel suite, “Haven’t you ever heard of Long John Silvers?”
What Arnold found on Kaboodle was a very laid back place, and the
Kaboodle Kats really didn’t seem to mind if a few Arcturan women wanted to
snuggle up with them. Plus they were dependent on Arcturus for many
manufactured goods, although their biologic knowledge was second only to the
Knorrans, a planet very far away.
It was a beautiful and musical place, although they never did appreciate
Arnold’s kazoo playing. Songbirds were lovingly raised at a farm he saw, along
with chattering sweet squirrels and chipmunks. It took Arnold a long time to
wonder why he rarely saw these creatures around, until he realized it was a
great hobby to snatch them up and eat them. The national sport was snatching
birds right out of the air, with incredible gymnastics by the Kats that amazed
even a jaded Space adventurer. This actually horrified the Arcturans, who
generally ate things like tofu, white rice, and cheese puffs, but being intelligent
they knew to keep quiet. Arnold merely nodded, thinking it followed
Imaginative Logic just fine. “You sell weapons of mass destruction, and worry
about some birds? Get a grip.”
Although the Kaboodlans didn’t drink alcohol, finding it pretty
disgusting, they were happy to serve it in their clubs and milk bars. They
preferred more herbal relaxants, like a nearly lethal grade of hybrid catnip
marijuana that could cause a cat to chew its own tail off, and then start on her
friend’s tail too. Needless to say, Arnold spent a lot of time at places like this,
since cuddling up with a bunch of giant pussies wasn’t his idea of fun, although
many Arcturan women seemed to like it before and after sex. He asked one Kat,
“Why do you sell alcohol if you’re against it so much?”
“Some Jewasian and some other Earthling traders came by and explained
how we could make a ton of Euros selling booze. We got burned at first, so now
we sell it for Deutschmarks. Many Kats suspect some of those first traders were
from the North American part of your planet. Say Arnold, what the fuck is a
Euro anyway?”
“Beats the shit out of me,” he shrugged, stroking her silky fur. “How
would you like to be a calico for a few weeks, my favorite pussy?”
“Really?” she purred with excitement. On Kaboodle, everyone suspected
calicos had more fun than other Kats.
“Sure, at the New Haven Kombat and Beauty Akadamy, we can make you
into a temporary calico dirt cheap,” he offered tantalizingly. He bought her a
catnip hash spliff, which she eagerly lit, and himself an Arcturan logic bomb.
Arnold had of course targeted this particular Kat after he had found she was a
senior biologist. Since Kaboodle was matriarchal, there was little violence except
for when the Kats got really stoned. There was also little structure and rigid
determinism like normal, so he was finding it hard to reach the leaders, whoever
they were.
She suddenly took at swipe at him, shredding the sleeve of his coat.
“Sorry, couldn’t resist.”
“No big deal.” As a Space Trooper, Arnold knew how to protect himself,
and wore chain mail underwear. “Say, Tiggers, what’s the major thrust of all
your biological studies?”
Her big yellow eyes were pretty glazed now, but she seemed to function
pretty well, just like an experienced drunk can navigate well after a few. (Unless
they were Jewasian) “Sex...” Tiggers purred, “We’re fairly pissed that our sex
drives are so time limited, and then we go crazy. We want sex all the time like a
Tomkat.” Then she bit the Kat’s tail next to her at the milk bar, which snarled
back at her.
Arnold was getting used to the erratic nature of the Kaboodlans, who at
least never seemed to hold a grudge. As a practioner of Imaginative Logic he
understood the First Order of Flexibility. “So Tomkats can do it anytime?”
“Of course, and a lot too, more than any human,” she said, licking her
paws. “Humanoid females are so superior to males sexually, but in Kaboodle
biology, it’s the reverse, and it fucking drives us nuts...” She looked about her,
suddenly alert. “Fucking Alex and her droogs—she’s always here at the milk
bar!” she spat as some Kats came in.
“What?” Even by Kaboodle standards, talking with Tiggers was
confusing. Arnold ordered a plate of roasted sparrows in hash sauce, and
another logic bomb feeling he was going to need it.
“That common domestic shorthair Alexandra who just came in with her
droogs—in your language bitches.”
Now even Arnold knew that a Kaboodlan calling another Kat any sort of
dog was exceptionally insulting. He ordered Tiggers a frappachino with cocaine
& catnip, and she licked the side of his face in gratitude. “Would you be able to
say, amp up a human male up to female standards?” he asked suggestively
before she swiped at him or started some catfight.
“No big deal. Just some hormones and a little minor surgery,” she said,
paying more attention to Alex and her droogs.
“Surgery?” asked Arnold.
“Sure, they would need bigger balls—and a tail. Boy, could I clone you a
great tail!” she added impishly, then bit her neighbor’s tail again, who was
waving it around.
Arnold didn’t care that much about a little creative surgery since all Space
Troopers were taught flexibility in appearance. “Is that something you could
do?”
“My team could of course, at the Purina Research Center, but you had
better ask Fluffy first for permission. Last time we got involved with transspecies implantation for sexual enhancement it was quite a freaking disaster.”
She lit another catnip and hash spliff.
“What happened?”
“Ever hear of a Naxonian toad? They are really big—would you want
some amped up horny toads chasing you?”
“Erhh, no,” he said, since he did know what a Naxonian toad looked like,
and the thought was revolting. “Who’s Fluffy by the way?”
“Our Queen,” she said, not paying attention.
“Your Queen is named Fluffy?”
“It’s a really elegant name isn’t it?” said Tiggers, swatting the tail of the
barkeep to get her attention, who hissed back.
“I’d better get back to the hotel. Anil should be there by now.”
“Isn’t she that really pretty blonde you came with?”
“That’s the one.”
“I like her, I’d lick her myself,” said Tiggers.
So would I, thought Arnold but meaning something different. One thing
was good; both species rather liked each other and got along well, finding each
other attractive, unlike, for example, Naxonian toads. But Arnold thought that
Imaginative Logic dictated it was time to get the hell out of the milk bar anyway
as things were getting ugly, milk was being spilled, and soon he could see the
Kats lapping up buttermilk laced with catnip, crystal meth, and anabolic
steroids, mixed with ice and laughing gas in a blender, otherwise known as a
McDonalds Milkshake. Tails were getting swatted and bitten, and then the Kats
would incongruously lick their victims and purr. Some Kat pulled his shoelaces
out. Some Kats would appear content in one place, and then suddenly bound
across the room for no apparent reason.
“Don’t forget to make me a calico,” yelled Tiggers.
“Come to the hotel in the morning.”
“So you think you can make a swap?” asked Anil curled up in bed next to
Arnold. Barka was asleep next to them.
“Of course. You saw how happy Tiggers was to be a calico, didn’t you?”
“But you can’t make them all calicos. It would lose its allure, like making
us all blondes,” she said, admiring her hair in her hand.
Arnold shrugged. “Apply some of the Logic and some advertising, and
we can have some wanting hair extensions, perms, and unnatural colors like
day-glo pink and platinum blonde.”
“I better make a deal with Wenyi Silverstein for his shuttles so we get
kickbacks there.”
“I truly admire the Arcturan learning curve,” said Arnold, mixing them a
couple of martinis while popping some Viagra. “Now you know what to say,
right?” They had decided that it was better that Anil spoke to Queen Fluffy,
because not only was Arnold remarkably ugly, but also the Kaboodlans didn’t
tend to take males too seriously. (“We just let the Tomkats think they’re in
charge,” said Tiggers.)
After doing just a few beauty treatments of some important Kats, it was
easy to get an audience with Fluffy, not that she had a great deal to do. As a
Space Trooper, Arnold always traveled when possible with a portable beauty kit.
Queen Fluffy’s palace wasn’t all that imposing, but she had many
different thrones in her room with the unique feature of wandering ponds
throughout the room stocked with koi, so wherever one was a Kat could snag a
quick bite. The interior walls were planked with soft bamboo, the height of
luxury, which was clawed all over. She was a regal looking long-haired white
Kat with bright blue eyes flashing with cunning, very calm and deliberate except
for her disconcerting habit of hopping erratically from one throne to another for
no apparent reason, so that Anil, Tiggers, and Arnold had to follow her around.
“So all we have to do is this minor surgery on your men that want it,
supply the magic elixir, and you’ll provide us with free beauty treatments, plus
we get all the extra revenue from increased tourism? Sounds like you’re not
much of an American, Arnold, what’s in it for you?” asked Fluffy dubiously as
she snatched a fish out of the stream with lightning speed.
“I’ll make my money on the Arcturan end; don’t worry, I’m as thoroughly
dedicated to greed as any Jewasian.”
“Wouldn’t trust any Earthling who didn’t have an angle,” agreed Fluffy.
“What are credit default swaps anyway? Some trader wants our treasury to
invest heavily in them.”
“Your Majesty, don’t buy them! They are as bad an investment as gold or
Euros, or the bonds of any southern European region on Earth,” begged Arnold
in actual sincerity. “If you want a good investment, I know a garbage planet full
of aluminum cans.”
“Now you’re talking,” said the Queen. “What do you say, Anil? I know
your husband Prefect Snarek well.”
Arnold was pleased that like most Kat cultures, they placed utterly no
importance upon faithfulness. “It makes no sense to see our trading partners get
harmed. It’s illogical. Besides, we still have Arcturan economists trying to figure
out just what the hell Euros are and why we invested in them.”
“Same here. Can’t see how the Americans and Jewasians slipped that one
by us. Well, I trust your logic Anil. Love your hair. Think you could get Arnold
there to give me some pink hilites?”
“No problem.” Meanwhile Anil kicked Arnold so he wouldn’t start
talking about Imaginative Logic or some nonsense to confuse the issue.
“Well, there it is then.” With that, Fluffy expertly caught a fish, threw it
high in the air, and caught it in her teeth, then clawed a chalkboard, signaling the
end of the audience, and the beginning of the celebration. Servants came in bring
aluminum trays bearing ice-cold McDonalds milkshakes. Since these affected
humans as well, the night was definitely over. “I can see this is the beginning of a
beautiful friendship,” said the Queen.
Anil and Arnold went back to the hotel to play with Barka too. Eventually
their plan would lower the bisexual activity of Arcturan women, but once tasted,
it was illogical they should forego it too.
So Arnold sort of solved the Arcturan instability problem with
Imaginative Logic and Anil’s help, plus made a good killing. He found a true
friend in Anil, for the women of Arcturus were far more logical in ignoring logic
when it was logical to do so, besides girls just want to have fun, and Imaginative
Logic is quite clear about that. Violence almost ceased, the men and women and
some other women were happier, and everything went back to functioning,
although never so efficiently and profitably as before, since the Logic tends to
have that affect, but it didn’t matter. Incidentally, Arcturan women became
famous throughout the galaxy as skilled prostitutes, commanding outrageous
prices, something previously unimaginable. But not too many of them. Anil and
Barka stayed friends too.
Snarek drained his glass. “Listen Arnold, I’m heading to the Peace
Conference on Raisa. It’s a pleasure planet. Want to meet me there? In about
thirty years, as Relativity flies?”
“You betcha! I’ll make a killing selling weapons.”
“At a Peace Conference?”
“Sure, the place will be full of high class women paid for by arms dealers,
which means all potential combatants will be in one place peacefully, secretly
vying for new weapons,” he said happily. As Arnold got up, he asked Snarek
one more question. "If I could exceed the speed of light, would time go
backwards?"
This is like saying two oranges are really three apples, for it is a relativistic
question rather than a quantum question. But Snarek was calmer nowadays. He
considered this, sipping some scotch. Arnold noticed his long tail creeping out
from under his cloak, Snarek absently stroking it. He just smiled slyly.
“Isn’t your ship leaving now?”
And so Arnold left Arcturus, but of course it was a bit more complicated
than that, as it always is in tales of heroic adventures.
Chapter Two-- Overdrawn at the Memory Bank
Arnold and the Consumption stayed on Arcturus for almost an entire year
as he improved Arcturan society through Imaginative Logic with Prefect
Snarek’s assistance, while eventually carrying on a torrid affair with his wife
Anil. Arnold had taught the Arcturan women that it was illogical not to have
orgasms since they could, whereas they had believed the opposite. But once the
Arcturan women became sexually rapacious, he saw that he had created a
secondary problem in that the Arcturan men weren’t up to the job anymore.
Satisfying frigid women had been easy; keeping really horny ones happy was an
entirely different act. Imaginative Logic was like that since it advocated a
convoluted approach to everything, but is also highly adaptable rather than rigid
like simple straight-ahead Arcturan Logic. Fortunately there exists the 1st, 2nd,
and 3rd Orders of Flexibility.
The other interesting thing was that the Arcturan women were
increasingly turning to each other for sexual satisfaction, not that men usually
minded this too much, but it was getting a bit extreme. The other intriguing
aspect was that Arcturan women were now frequently traveling over to
Kaboodle, a nearby planet with sentient cats that were human size lived ruled by
a benevolent Queen named Fluffy. There they would hang out with the
Kaboodle Kats, who were nearly all female, and visit their milk bars with them,
deriving some sort of satisfaction. If you may recall, Arnold had invoked the 2nd
Order of Flexibility to solve the issue of the 1st Order of Flexibility, the issue of
really horny Arcturan women. Excellent biologists, The Kaboodle Kats figured
out away to improve Arcturan male virility, by surgically implanting feline tails,
bigger balls, and a certain magic elixir if you will. This had solved the immediate
problems with the Scheme of the Logic. The application of the 3rd Order of
Flexibility concerned profit, both for Arnold, and his partners in the Scheme,
Anil and Barka. Naturally Wenyi Silverstein, who owned the shuttles that went
back and forth between Kaboodle and Arcturus, did very well for himself.
Arnold wanted to join the 1%. Top Arcturans like Prefect Snarek were already
the 1%, as was a large proportion of Arcturus, a very successful planet, if pretty
boring. That all changed after Arnold landed. One thing Arnold sure noted was
that the 1% sure want to join the .1%, or even the .01%, and they would walk
over the bodies of their fellow citizens in doing so. It wasn’t so bad on Arcturus
for their inherent logic said this made no sense, which it didn’t, since why hurt or
kill people to maker more money than one could possibly spend? But Arnold
knew how it was on Earth, and according to Snarek, who had been there more
recently, it was even worse now with the globe separated into two main powers,
AmeriEuroTrash and Jewasia. Arnold promptly made this one of his eternal
questions he asked everywhere. The other two, to refresh the reader’s memory,
“Why are we born only to suffer and die?” and ”Is the speed of light really the
speed limit of the universe, just because this Einstein guy said so?”
The Kaboodlans sure made out, so did Fluffy and her scientists, and the
whole tourist industry of Kaboodle was awash in profits.
Secretly Arnold was most proud of his contribution to Arcturan hairstyles,
as he was a graduate of the New Haven School of Kombat & Beauty Akadamy.
Arcturan women were tall, elegant, and very beautiful vaguely Asian looking to
an Earth person, and they almost all had thick dark hair that was straight and
parted in the middle. Attractive but boring thought Arnold, who was delighted
at the opportunities that presented themselves.
Anil , Barka, and almost all Arcturan women could be grateful for two
things: That now they could have orgasms just by deciding to do so even if it was
illogical, and secondly the new hairstyles Arnold kept coming up with from his
training at the New Haven Kombat & Beauty Akadamy. Arnold intended to reach
Malthus, a planet around which an enormous artificial satellite orbited, The Pan
Galactic Memory Bank, supposedly constructed by the Bools, the oldest and
wisest race in the Galaxy, who had worked for It. It looked like he wasn’t going
to be able to meet with Snarek on the pleasure planet Raisa for the peace
conference. This was bad news to Arnold, for the best possible place to sell new
weapons and ships is at a peace conference where all the combatants are trying
to get an edge, and he was enjoying being one of the 1% instead of an itinerant
ship captain of an obsolete freighter telling of his Heroic adventures for quick but
small sums of cash. He was going to stop at the planet Knorr on the way to
refuel, for this was a very long journey. The Knorrs were reputed to be the most
generous and wise race around, except for the elusive Bools, although Knorrans
were reticent too, and he planned to make his inquiries there also. They also
made famous soups, dips, and bullion.
Arnold's crew had gradually abandoned the Consumption, a fact Snarek,
a Prefect and one of the leaders of Arcturus loved to come around and sneer at
Arnold about, logically of course. On the other hand, Arnold took some pleasure,
schadenfreude, in seeing that Snarek always looked worn out now that Anil
demanded sex all the time. She also looked a bit like a cheap blonde prostitute,
blonde hair not being natural to Arcturan women, thanks to Arnold’s dye job.
Arnold was very popular with the women from his blonde dye jobs, which were
now a big fad. He could also style hair into enormous bouffant, shags, short cuts,
and a variety of other styles and colors.
"Your crew is sick of you and your heroic adventures that have gotten
pretty mundane. Not to mention the hundreds of cryonic years you've spent
together. After 22 real time years, no one has anything left to say to each other.
Everyone's families are long dead. Your men just want to settle down, have a
woman and family, and lead a logical life. You can live here too, pinhead, if you
can stop messing with everyone’s hair so much." Actually it was the women
lobbying the men to get Arnold to stay, happy about their new sex lives, now
that they just didn’t lay there not moving anymore while men did gross things to
their bodies.
"Shut up, Snarek, or I'll ask another question!" Snarek ran away, as it was
the logical thing to do. Nobody liked the questions Arnold persisted in asking.
They either couldn't be answered, didn't make sense, or had alarming results.
They left a bad taste in one's mouth and tightened the testicles.
But Arnold did change his hair from a flat top to a sharp point like other
Arcturan men.
One day Snarek came creeping back. "Are you trying to get to the PanGalactic Memory Bank that orbits Malthus?"
"Wouldn't that be the logical thing to do?"
"Are you going to fly the Consumption by yourself?"
"What choice do I have? What's my crew doing?" The Consumption
carried 35 men.
"Your chief engineer is arranging flowers, and the rest of the engineering
crew formed a synchronized swimming team. Apparently they swam a lot in the
water tanks of your fusion engines."
Arnold gave a snort of disgust like a fart. He did this often because the last
planet he'd been on, Omigosh!, had a race that communicated through
wonderfully adept flatulence. Arnold and his crew had had to wear gas masks,
and to this day none of them could bear to eat beans or sauerkraut. Needless to
say, Arnold got no answers on Omigosh!, and they had left quickly.
"What about my chief navigator?"
"He works for the local AAA. Got married, too."
"My computer scientists?"
"They all work for the phone company, in billing," said Snarek.
"Serves you right. How about my marines?"
"Since of course there's no war on Arcturus, they're all playing hockey, or
became professional wrestlers. By the way, I like your pointy top." But Snarek
kept calling Arnold a pinhead.
"Well, I admire your ears. What is my second in command doing,
Commander Mortimer?"
"Say, haven't you noticed your crew disappeared before this? He's an
insurance actuary. Can you fly the Consumption by yourself?"
"I think so, it's all automatic, although everything doesn't work. Putting a
big crew on a ship is more a tradition. We always do it on Earth, even if we don't
need them."
"That's illogical," sneered Snarek in his snotty way.
"The universe is 13.7 billion light years in diameter. Quick, what's beyond
the universe then?"
Snarek got away as fast he could.
Sometimes the crew visited Arnold. He found they had all gotten married
to Arcturan women, who were now much more fun to be around since they had
decided to come like crazy. Though orgasms were thought illogical, a little illogic
goes a long way in the Scheme of Imaginative Logic. But except for their sex and
beauty, Arcturan woman still weren’t a blast to hang around with. Arnold
thought Arcturus was a depressing place to jump ship. Apparently the cook
thought so, too, for he went back to Omigosh!, where he liked the aromas.
Finally the day for Arnold to leave came. Snarek and his former crew
gathered around to see him off.
"Are you sure you don't want to stay?" asked Snarek. "We could get you
some lovely pointed ears. All your crew has them now."
This was true, but Arnold also noticed that his crew all looked irritated at
their wives who stoically stood next to them. "No thanks. My pointed haircut
was quite enough. Why isn't the Fine Structure Constant another number?"
They all stared dumbly at him, and then ran away, so Arnold blasted off
on his lonely voyage, which would take him 132 non-relativistic years, and
meant he had to enter cryo-sleep. The Consumption was too slow for relativity to
help much, traveling only 100 million kilometers per second. By the way, the
Fine Structure Constant is an obscure number in physics that if it was different
by perhaps 1%, existence wouldn't be possible. It was like asking why water was
wet.
The Consumption's computer would occasionally wake Arnold up so he
could check the course to Knorr, smoke a pack of cigarettes, drink a case of beer,
and play his kazoo. He was horribly lonely. He realized that all his crew and
even old, obnoxious Snarek would be dead of old age, so now he knew no one.
Arnold kept asking the ship's computer questions, but it didn't have the answers,
either.
The Consumption was breaking down from old age and it forgot to wake
him up for the landing on Knorr. So the Consumption crashed and destroyed
itself during the automatic landing. Arnold woke up in a clean bed, but was
distraught upon realizing he had no arms or legs.
A tall, thin blue Knorran stood at his bedside, with her head completely
covered, but otherwise with no clothes. She was a she, he knew almost
immediately. In a few days Arnold figured out that Knorran genitalia was on
their heads, and their faces were near their crotches, which he found illogical but
imaginative, since it limited the Knorrans ability to see far away, especially in
crowds.. They wouldn't answer his questions either, and Arnold eventually
figured out they communicated by telepathy. When they wanted to say
something to Arnold, who was about as telepathic as a corporate lawyer, they
would write it on a chalkboard. But when Arnold wrote something down, they
wouldn't look at it. Apparently his reputation for questions had preceded him.
But the Knorr were a kind and generous race, and had the most brilliant
scientists known outside of the Bools. They began to grow Arnold new arms and
legs. Arnold didn't know it at the time; he was too busy trying to get his Knorran
nurse to take the covering off her head, but he had been almost dead when he
crashed. The Knorrs had, as they say, rebuilt Arnold, made him better than
before. In fact, they had damn near made him immortal with synthetic selfregenerating internal organs and artificial blood. Without knowing it, he'd been
out for weeks while they did this. Arnold was expected to live about 10,000 nonrelativistic years.
They also made a very fine soup. The nurse would just empty an envelope
into a bowl, add water and a heat cube, and it was delicious. She would then
hand feed him lovingly. They also made wonderful dips, every variety
imaginable, with all kinds of chips. But this was all they ate, and after a few
months, Arnold was pretty tired of it, and lonely too. It seemed to him the
Knorrs were a race who ate only snack food and soup. He was a little grossed out
when he saw they made his new artificial blood the same way as a soup mix.
Finally Arnold was able to get around, although whenever he wrote out a
question, any Knorran would simply avert their abdomens so they couldn't see
it. They even tried translating their literature into English to keep Igor occupied,
but Arnold pretty much read only comic books like "Bastard Betty in the NDimension," or "Froghead's Nuclear Ninja Terrorists and the Curse of the Projectile
Vomiting." The latter was a tale where Froghead infected all the politicians,
lawyers, bankers, and insurance agents with a disease that made them throw up
all the time. But his nefarious plot backfired, for the world started running better
than ever and he was put out of business.
The Knorr told Arnold they were building him a new space cruiser, one
that would go almost the speed of light, or 295,000 kilometers per second. It was
much smaller than the Consumption, which was OK, but much more modern,
and designed with his mind in mind. They politely told him he didn't need a big
crew, even if anyone would go with him, which they wouldn't. It had a small
control cabin, and a hallway with two small cabins and a large master cabin for
Arnold with a queen size waterbed. There were two cryo-sleep beds, and a
storage room full of instant soups, dips, and chips. They had even put Knorran
porno chips on board that he was dying to get a look at. One had the title of "All
Uncovered Heads! Earthling underwear!"
Unfortunately the Knorrans had only a sketchy knowledge of Earth from
the rare visitor and had been able to reconstruct little from the Consumption.
Consequently they had named Arnold's new ship the Schlemiel, believing it an
honorary term. Since it was already painted on the hull, embossed on stationary,
matchbooks, and registered as the Schlemiel, there was little Arnold could do
about it. At any rate, it was a big advance over the old Consumption, and Arnold
was grateful for it and his life, although still very lonely. He played his kazoo
between bowls of French Onion dip.
The time came when Arnold was healthy enough to continue his intrepid
travels, although many thought them merely idiotic. The Schlemiel was all
finished and would need no fuel for several thousand years. The controls were
all thoughtfully in English, which was fortunate since Arnold had no talent for
languages. He had merely to type the name of where he wanted to go and the
ship would take him there, which was fortunate since Arnold had little talent for
astrogation.
The Knorrans urged him via chalkboard to visit the Pan-Galactic Memory
Bank to ask his questions first before going to Malthus, a culture they warned
was infested with lawyers. Arnold's one regret about Knorr was that he had
never persuaded his nurse to let him do more than rub her covered head. But
first the Knorrans wrote out a question on the chalkboard for Arnold, unusual
since there was little they could learn from Arnold even had they wanted to.
Imaginative Logic simply wasn’t in their frame of reference.
“We’ve figured out what Credit Default Swaps are finally. They are a
credit derivative contract between two counter parties, right?”
Arnold merely shrugged and held his hands up; a universal symbol for
“Beats me.”
The Knorrans persisted. “But what are CDO’s, Synthetic Collateralized
Debt Obligations?”
Arnold shrugged again.
“You Americans from Earth sure are dishonest, really thieves for the 1%,”
they wrote.
“I couldn’t agree more. Stay away from us,” Arnold advised, despite
being a typical American 1% trader with a peculiar philosophy.
“We have one more question for you Arnold, and since you like asking
them maybe you have some answers for this one.”
“Go ahead, shoot,” said Arnold confidently.
“Why does Earth persist in having politicians rule them that are
delusional and somewhat selfish?”
Arnold thought about this a minute. “You mean crazy and greedy?”
“Pretty much,” agreed the Bools.
“Well, I think my whole planet is basically insane, if you ask me.”
“We did. You confirm our thoughts. Your polar caps have melted, much
of your land mass is underwater like your loans, and the Scandinavians are
happily mining Antarctica, which was given to them for virtually nothing as
being useless. There is much aluminum for cans there. They are now the .01%”
“Well I’ll be damned.”
“You will be if you go back. We are the smartest race there is, except for
the Bools. We also loaded you up with some bales of Euros, whatever they are,
and a few hundred gold bars for ballast.” Arnold of course knew that both were
almost completely useless by now. “Someday you’ll find out how life developed
on Earth. We rather like you though, so take your new space cruiser as a gift, but
please leave.”
“No problema.” So Arnold sadly took off in the Schlemiel while a crowd
of tall, thin, blue Knorrans silently waved. Fortunately the Knorr were hairless,
so Arnold had gotten nowhere with his beauty techniques.
Arnold immediately lit out for the Pan-Galactic Memory Bank at full
speed. Arnold decided to investigate his new ship, for the Knorrans had
mysteriously kept him away from it until just before he took off. The control
room was small, comfortable, well padded, and exceedingly simple. He could
even operate the entire ship from a remote control like a TV set. The computer
told him it would take 34 years to reach the memory bank. If anyone had been
able to observe the Schlemiel in its journey, it would have looked all squished up
and Arnold would have seemed to have moving at the speed of a catatonic. Such
is relativity. Naturally the ship computer had the Encyclopedia Galactica
(Britannica Edition) built into it, but it was not much good for metaphysical
questions. Arnold's cabin was large and luxurious, with a large bathtub. The
galley seemed equipped to cook Earth-style foods, should he find any. He made
himself a cup of terrific beef bullion. Next he entered the storage room and was
very impressed by the enormous amount of goods there, especially snack foods.
There was also a huge amount of alcohol there, though it was almost all cases of
blue Knorran Budweiser. He grabbed a six-pack. It made sense to Arnold, with
all the snack food the Knorrans ate, especially during their football games. At the
engine room, the door wouldn't open, and the digital keypad screen told him:
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY!
NO USER SERVICEABLE PARTS!
REFER TO QUALIFIED ENGINEERING PERSONNEL ONLY!
So Arnold wasn't allowed in the engine room of his own ship! This was
probably fortunate, for the Knorrans had quickly ascertained that while they
could improve Arnold's body, they couldn't make him any smarter, and Arnold
was an idiot in engineering. He was really only good at asking questions nobody
could answer. Resigned, he looked at the next cabin, which was a Spartan but
comfortable guest cabin. On the bunk bed was one of the most ethereal and
beautiful women Arnold had ever seen. She was also nude. He dropped his beer.
She was wide-awake and jumped up to stand in front of him with no trace
of modesty, smiling invitingly.
"Who the hell are you?"
"I have no name. I am for you."
Naturally Arnold was thrilled, lonely as he was for human conversation
and a woman. "Well, that's nice. Where'd ya come from?" he suavely asked.
"The Knorrans cloned me from you when they realized how lonely you
were. It's rather simple for them to manipulate genes and make a female, just as
they grew you new organs and limbs."
"Well, I wish they had made me better looking while they were at it," said
Arnold bitterly. In all truth, Arnold was short and ugly.
"Oh, I think you are very... adequate looking!"
She looked like a cross between Venus de Milo and a Playboy bunny,
which made sense because the Knorrans had a book on Ancient Greek statuary
from an earlier Earth visitor, and they had found a crewman's Playboy in the
wreck of the Consumption. Arnold found comfort in the fact that she at least did
not reject him for his looks.
"Where have you been all this time?" He touched her long blonde hair and
face. She was certainly warm and soft like a real woman.
"Oh, growing, learning about you and Earth as much as I could."
He took her by the hand, thanking silently the generous planet Knorr,
grabbed a bottle of blue Knorran champagne, and led her into his cabin.
Naturally, he plied her with questions and blue beverages, and while she didn't
know all the answers he wanted, he found she knew just about everything the
Knorrans did, and had memorized the entire Encyclopedia Galactica (Britannica
Edition). In short, she was much smarter than Arnold, not that this was unusual.
They got completely stinko.
Later the inevitable occurred and they had an orgy of two. Even though
she was a virgin, she was very eager and inventive to his surprise. Arnold
thought she was more fun than most of the Arcturan women, with the possible
exception of Anil.
"Well, the basics come from the Encyclopedia, the rest from Playboy."
"I guess I'll have to name you," he said later when his little head and big
head stopped hurting so much. "I'll call you Cassandra, which I think is a Greek
name." Arnold had once read a comic book about "Zeus, Top Dog of the Gods." He
was just glad the Knorrans didn't have a book of Picasso's cubist paintings of
women. Or Dali. There were all sorts of horrifying possibilities. In history,
Cassandra was the daughter of the king of Troy, and she could predict the
future—but it was her fate that nobody ever listened to her.
The next day, a little unnerved by her unrelenting nudity, Arnold found
the storeroom had plenty of cloth for Cassandra, and she started sewing her own
clothes with great skill, since the clothes they had on hand all looked like tacky
junk out of Playboy. She explained she knew how from reading the Encyclopedia
Galactica (Britannica Edition).
They stayed out of cryonic suspension for several weeks, mostly having a
tremendous amount of sex and drinking a disgusting amount when Arnold
couldn't anymore. Eventually they got tired of each other and started fighting a
lot, but still Cassandra was always willing to go to bed with Arnold. Once he
asked her why after a nasty fight.
"Because I'm programmed to."
"What on Earth do mean by that?"
"Arnold, I'm an android."
"What! Do you mean I've been screwing a machine?"
"Not exactly. I thought your culture liked that anyway. Here, look at this
Playboy."
Arnold saw the advertisements she meant. It also occurred to him that the
Knorrans could've made his, well, bigger.
"The Knorrans made my body human and perfect, except I'll live 10,000
years like you or more, but they can't make a brain. My brain is a selfregenerating organic positronic model with some gallium arsenide chips. How
do think I can remember everything so perfectly? I have free will just like you,
but they made me love sex because they had heard how unhappy your crew
were with frigid Arcturan women."
"Well, I guess it's OK because you're mostly human," said the baffled
space hero. "Did they make you love me?" Like most men, he was insecure,
wondering if he was loved for what he could provide, rather than himself.
"They planted the suggestion that I love you, but if you think I love your
moronic space adventures, you're crazy. Let's do it again."
To his humiliation, Arnold found that Cassandra knew the code to enter
the engine room.
"You don't think they'd let a pinhead like you in there, do you?" was her
reaction. Then she raped him.
Eventually they decided to go into cryonic suspension to get away from
each other. Every few years the Schlemiel would revive them for another bout of
sex and drinking. Several years later Arnold idly asked the computer where
Knorr was. This is what it said:
ACCESS DENIED!
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY: CLASSIFIED DATA!
Arnold went to Cassandra. "Do you think they want you back with your
silly and dangerous questions? Let's go to bed and get your mind off this." Of
course Cassandra had the access codes. Once again he thanked the generous
planet Knorr, for they did love each other, not that they had a great deal of
option in the matter anyway. He loved her orange-blonde hair, her beauty and
intelligence, and she was pretty cool to be around most of the time.
One day the Schlemiel revived them as it executed a perfect landing on
the huge space platform of the Pan-Galactic Memory Bank. It was a giant metal
platform of a hundred square kilometers with skyscrapers. A force field and
artificial gravity held the atmosphere around the platform but selectively
allowed spacecraft to land. Seemingly exposed to open space, visitors were
provided with an amazing view that interested Arnold not at all, but fascinated
Cassandra, who had never seen much of anything. Naturally Arnold was
expected as an Arcturan ship had passed by years earlier warning he was
coming. It seemed Arnold always arrived after everybody else.
"Well, let's get this show on the road, Cassandra."
"You mean circus."
"Whatever. How about you get some real food while I check out the
memory bank? If I have another bowl of dip or soup I'll puke. How about some
hamburgers, fries, and a milkshake? Can you cook?"
"Of course. I have 7,783 recipes from 211 planets in my memory, even
though I've never cooked anything. Got any money?"
They went to the ship's safe, once Cassandra showed Arnold where it was.
The combination was thoughtfully written on it, as the Knorr had correctly
surmised Arnold would forget it. Inside, besides the Schlemiel's papers was
Arnold's old American Express card and a hundred Galactic Deutschmarks.
Nobody knew where either of these names came from; it just seemed they had
always been around and for some reason Deutschmarks had always been the
strongest currency. He gave her the cash for food and took the credit card, and
they went their separate ways for the first time in 34 years, Cassandra to
Walmart, Arnold to the Pan-Galactic Memory Bank.
He was surprised how few people were around. He had expected it to be
teeming with restless inquirers. At the doors of the Memory Bank, Arnold was so
excited and in awe that he had to pee real bad. He looked up at the famous quote
of the Bools:
HEY, ASK ANY QUESTION!
OPEN TO ALL! ONLY 50 GALACTIC DEUTSCHMARKS EACH!
A bored looking attendant sat at a dusty desk. The whole place looked run
down and empty. There were cobwebs all around.
"Where do I go to ask questions? And why aren't there more people
around?"
The attendant slowly looked up. "See, you've already asked two questions.
People don't care about information anymore, they mostly watch videos. You're
an Earthling, right? You wouldn't by any chance be Arnold, Hero of the Space
Morons?"
"Er, something like that..."
"About twenty years ago an Arcturan called Snarek asked me to give this
to you. Said you'd be by sometime." He threw a tarnished 50 Deutschemark coin
across the desk. "Said when you ran out of money, and he said you would, to use
it for one last question. Turn left for an Earthling terminal." Then the attendant
appeared to go to sleep.
After a mile of dusty corridors, Arnold finally found an Earth-style
terminal he could use. His were the only footprints in the dust. Once he cleared
the cobwebs away, Arnold with trembling hands put his American Express card
in. He asked the memory bank what was beyond the edge of the universe. It
answered lackadaisically:
NOTHING AT ALL. BY DEFINITION THE UNIVERSE IS ALL THERE IS.
AS IT EXPANDS, EXISTENCE EXPANDS WITH THE UNIVERSE.
Then he asked why he suffered so much in his quest for the ultimate
questions of knowledge. Much slower, a whole blue cigar later, it finally
answered. Arnold smelled burning and saw some sparks. Even he realized the
great Memory Bank was breaking down. It said:
YOU ARE ON A FOOLISH QUEST. YOU SUFFER BECAUSE NOBODY
CARES WHAT THE ANSWERS ARE ANYMORE.
Next he asked if the Bools could fix the Memory Bank. The burning smell
intensified. Two cigars later it said:
CREDIT LIMIT REACHED. OVERDRAWN AT THE MEMORY BANK.
Stunned, he used the coin Snarek had left him as a warped joke. The
logical Arcturans didn't really have a sense of humor. Three cigars later the
Memory Bank said:
THE BOOLEANS CAN FIX ANYTHING, EVEN ALGEBRA, IF YOU CAN
FIND THEM.
Then the terminal caught on fire and melted. The lights blew out and
Arnold had to find his way back by skylights, and he kept running into cobwebs.
He nudged the attendant awake.
"Where are the Booleans?"
"I dunno. They went out for lunch one day, and never came back. Some
say they went drinking with It. They owe me a few hundred years back salary.
That's why I don't dust." He seemed resentful.
"What's It?"
"Creator of the Universe, fool."
"It doesn't have a name?"
"Who's gonna name It?" Then he fell asleep again.
Dejectedly, Arnold found an ATM. The bank told him he owed 100,000
Deutschmarks on his American Express card, 99,900 of which were for the
annual fees incurred while Arnold was wandering the Galaxy and in cryonic
suspension.
Back at the Schlemiel, he found a sloppy and slightly drunk Cassandra
with a huge amount of groceries. "How did you get all that with such a small
amount of money?" Arnold was always asking questions.
"Oh, I still have forty left," she said with a smile as she put some burgers
on. Cassandra had spent a lot of time blowing and screwing the grocery clerks in
her own explorations at Walmart. When the Knorrans had programmed her to
love sex, it hadn’t occurred to them to program her for faithfulness too. Arnold
had long ago forgotten she wasn’t exactly human she was so perfect to him.
Depressed, Arnold sat at the table with a blue Knorran Budweiser. "I'm
broke. I'm overdrawn at the Memory Bank."
"Every bar I went into today offered me a job. I can make money easy if
you want." Cassandra was very eager to try.
Arnold was horrified. "I don't want any woman of mine working as a
bargirl, anything can happen--"
"I know." She smiled. "But remember I have free will."
"Please stay. Don't leave," he kept begging her.
She turned off the burgers. "OK, but let's go play on the water bed to get
our minds off everything."
Eventually it was decided that they would go to Malthus where Arnold
might make some money telling his tales of Heroic Adventure, and that
Cassandra could get a job. This was a really poor choice, but Cassandra didn’t
have the experience to advise against it. It would have all the answers, figured
Arnold, who was notorious for going to the wrong place at the wrong time and
asking the wrong questions, sort of like the time he went to an Evangelical
Baptist planet and started asking where he could buy a cute eighteen year old
girl to screw while offering to play kazoo at their hymnals. It didn’t go over too
well, and he narrowly escaped the death penalty for perversion, since good kind
Christians really seemed to like executing people.
But surprisingly, he had found a number of girls who wanted to get the
hell off their own planet, were quite happy screwing Arnold and some of the
crew, so they gladly took them along with them on the old ship, eventually
dropping them off on the pleasure planet Raisa where they either became
lawyers or prostitutes as a rule, although one became a senator eventually, but
that’s another story that adheres perfectly with Imaginative Logic.
Chapter Three-- ARNOLD on Planet Malthus
Arnold and Cassandra spent a few weeks on the space platform of the
Pan-Galactic Memory Bank, but gradually the situation became unbearable for
Arnold. He was forced to rely on Cassandra's earnings as a bar girl to support
himself and pay the Schlemiel's docking fees. Since the Booleans had left, the
space platform it had become a crass commercial center full of transient nogoods. He tried making a little money telling his heroic adventures, but they had
already been pirated on video, and were at any rate pretty tame and dull fare by
local standards. All he could manage was a few hundred Deutschmarks playing
his kazoo for drunken crewmen at a bondage & discipline strip club called the
"Buckle Up!" But he realized his future as a musician was limited because all the
drinking required by down and out performers was making him an alcoholic.
Fortunately they were far from destitute after leaving Arcturus with a small
fortune in Deutschmarks
Arnold spent his free time, when he wasn't playing his kazoo or making
love with Cassandra, asking travelers about the whereabouts of the Booleans, or
better yet, It. Few of them had heard of either, or cared. He asked the ancient,
wrinkled manager of the "Buckle Up!," a man even older than Arnold through
the effects of relativity. Old Johnny Radon was reputed to be the wisest man at
the Memory Bank, though he rarely said much, instead he just sat in a corner
drinking cantharides fizzes. He insisted that Arnold play every set that evening
for free and clean the stage of rotten vegetables between sets, and at the end he
would answer any question Arnold had.
The old sage Radon sat peering at Arnold through a haze of cigar smoke,
occasionally dipping a chip into a bowl of the blue Knorran French Onion dip
Arnold had sold the club. "You want to know the Truth? Why the Bools followed
It? Why It left? Why time is immutable except when going like really fast?"
"Why did you make me work all night for nothing?"
"All great truth comes at a price."
"Why did you give me free drinks all night?"
"I wanted you to be prepared when you confronted the Truth."
"Which is?"
Instead Radon quoted a forgotten bad Greek poet, "False idols crumble,
the walls of Ilium tumble, Hercules's onions make only his bowels rumble..."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Who cares? Wisdom consists of knowing when to avoid perfection,
which my Truth is. Anyway, after a long life, unlike that wine besotted poet
Periodonticles, I've come to the conclusion that It created everything as a great
entertainment show to amuse Himself with. Personally, I think It is deep into S &
M. Even for It, time is an eternity. He was bored. Don't bother to argue with me,
my logic is clear and lucid." Radon took a sip of his boiling fizz and blew smoke
in Arnold's face.
"That's all?"
"That's it."
"But that's nothing original! I've read countless books that say the same
thing! I could get that from any college freshman, but even they outgrow that
with maturity!" His kazoo fell from his cramped hand.
"Once you know about It and the Memory Bank, no other conclusion is
possible. I'm sure He enjoys the pain and tragedy as much as the love of his
creations, probably even more." Radon slowly turned a jaundiced eye towards
the torn whips and broken straps on the "Buckle Up!" stage. "I even do my best to
provide an interesting spectacle, although for purely selfish reasons."
In disgust Arnold chugged a cantharide fizz, which made it urgent for
him to go find Cassandra. The next day he overslept, missing the Knorran
mistress who advertised, "Only light leather head straps." Arnold had to pay
twice his nightly income to get his job back, plus tips. At this point he even
missed Snarek.
Arnold began to act like an old-style film private dick, wearing a battered
raincoat and hat, even though there was no rain or much sunlight. He became
circumspect in whom he asked for information after the experience with Johnny
Radon. He expected to be double-crossed at every turn, except by Cassandra. She
in turn accused him of bringing his work home to bed with them, as it was
beginning to involve leather. Once the wispy bartender, Ricky Tritium, who was
from the giant gas planet Okeechobee, asked Arnold what planet he was a citizen
of. Arnold said he was a citizen of the Galaxy.
To which Ricky Tritium replied, "I see. You are a drunk."
It was true. All the obligatory drinking of being a private dick was turning
Arnold into an alcoholic.
Arnold was trying to convince Cassandra that they should go to Malthus.
He thought they might know where the Booleans had gone. The studious image
of Malthus notwithstanding, everyone advised them not to go. He was warned
that though the Malthusians had answers, they never got around to giving them.
Few that had gone there had ever left, and those that did cleared out of the area
quickly. Naturally this made Arnold even more eager to visit Malthus, for there
is an unwritten law for adventurers and heroes that the more difficult the
journey, the greater the reward. “If you can’t solve a problem, make it bigger,”
Arnold was fond of saying.
Intuitively Arnold was beginning to suspect Cassandra of being
unfaithful. He was beginning to spend large amounts of time on board the
Schlemiel in disgust at their situation. He found large amounts of Deutschmarks
in her underwear drawer. Once she was carried home drunk and laughing by
crewmen from a Jewasian freighter with what clothes she wore barely on and her
panties stuffed with Galactic Deutschmarks.
"You can hardly expect me not to be curious--I was programmed to love
sex and have free will."
But reluctantly she agreed to go to Malthus with him, as the Knorrans had
wisely programmed her for adventure, since her mind was largely a simulation
made of Arnold's brain anyway. Besides, Arnold's nagging as a house husband
of sorts was obliging him to drink too much just as the obligatory drinking of a
bargirl who dates a lot of men was making her an alcoholic. It also followed the
path of Imaginative Logic in trying to find answers about the Ultimate Truths
from a planet full of lawyers. How unlikely was that?
Malthus was an Earth-like planet populated by humans who had
stagnated at about a mid-20th century level of Earth technology. Of course
Arnold was curious why, when so many more advanced planets surrounded
them, so naturally he asked numerous questions about that most enduring topic
of time. “Why can’t we go faster than the speed of light, just because that
Einstein dude says so?” he would whine. Most citizens claimed the judges of the
Supreme Court, all 101, were studying the matter most carefully to determine the
legality of modernization and all it would entail. All the Justice's decisions had to
be unanimous. Then they would hurry away, obviously fearful. Cassandra was
frustrated that she couldn't find anywhere to work except in a law library.
Soon after their arrival, Cassandra and Arnold found themselves
surrounded by grim-faced men who came to arrest them for Anti-Malthusian
Defamation. It was against the law to argue questions being decided by the
Supreme Court, although everyone did it. With her back to Arnold, Cassandra
quickly assumed a defensive posture for Wing Chung, which she had learned
from the Encyclopedia Galactica (Britannica Edition), and promptly attacked the
police even as Arnold continued to ask questions. With her android reflexes, she
demolished them until an old cop who had seen it all casually shot her in the leg
with a .38 police special as she tried to drag Arnold to the Schlemiel. Then they
were arrested with Cassandra being charged with deadly assault, and Arnold as
an accessory before, during, and after the fact. Although he had done nothing, by
not helping the police he was just as guilty in the eyes of the law.
Cassandra was considerately cared for, and they were brought to a huge
cement block building of several city blocks where criminals awaiting trial were
kept. When Arnold asked the cops how many people the jail held, he was told
about 10% of the population was in prison. They were put into a room about
twenty by thirty feet which was comfortably furnished with a double bed,
several orange vinyl Barca-loungers, a toilet, shower, phone, and a Victrola and
records. There was also a full bookrack. "We try to make everyone comfortable,
otherwise it would be cruel and unusual punishment." But they discovered the
bed was infested with mice, the water taps gave only cold water, all the books
were blank except for law texts, and the records were cardboard disks. "The
government can't afford to maintain the living standard of everyone, so it just
tries to make it seem like home." And the phone would call only the guards,
collect, of course, so they usually refused the charges. One book interested
Cassandra, Shop Until Your Panties Drop, but it too was blank.
Cassandra couldn't talk her way out of the resistance, flight, and assault
charges, but she was sure she could plead extenuating circumstances and Arnold
could explain his ignorance of local law about his questions. He was also charged
with foreign espionage, despite the fact that he and the Schlemiel possessed
superior science and there was little worth spying about. Then he got into an
argument with a guard about God and was charged with being an evolutionist,
despite the fact the Malthusians were a psuedo-scientific society.
Arnold warned Cassandra to expect a few days in the can before the mess
was straightened out based on prior experience. "Maybe even a few months if
justice is anything like that on Earth, before we get out of this dump."
Three years later, because they were special cases, they came to trial. It
would have twice that had they been natives.
The backlog of the courts was due to the literalness with which
Malthusian law was interpreted. In most places the police let minor things slide,
because there weren't enough cops or time for paperwork. But the Malthusians
saw things differently. What was the use of laws if they weren't enforced? The
law also required everyone to be rehabilitated before they could be released, also,
nobody could plead guilty in order to protect defendants from themselves.
When they began their time in prison, another 10% of the population were
police. To support the 20% in prison or guarding them, taxes were very high. If a
person couldn't pay them, they broke the law and went to prison, which
naturally aggravated the situation further, but the law was quite clear on this.
When they got out, the teetering economic system had totally collapsed. All large
corporations had shifted their factories to the prisons, where they could find
cheap labor. The prison industries had financed the campaigns of both
presidential candidates and their parties to keep the system the way it was, so
when this was exposed, both candidates and incumbents were imprisoned along
with all the corporate officers. Most people thought the new president was
taking payoffs too, but they couldn't prove it. There was nobody left to.
Arnold and Cassandra weren't getting along together, spending as time
together as they did. There was no alcohol except for occasional bootleg crap or
cryosleep to distract them, so all they did was have a lot fights when they weren't
having sex.
“The Malthusians sure understand The Scheme even if they don’t know it,
but even I’d say they’ve gone way too far. Imprisoning the whole population?
Now that’s imaginative, but really wacko.”
“We need to explain about the Orders of Flexibility, like why you don’t
throw everybody in jail for trivia.” Long ago Cassandra had decided in the spirit
of domestic bliss to just go along with Arnold’s twisted Logic Scheme. However,
it took her a while to realize it usually only harmed those who actually practiced
Imaginative Logic.
After a couple of years another couple was moved in with them because
of prison overcrowding. At first it was pleasant because there was somebody
new to talk to. Sven and Sornay were engaged, but had been arrested for
fornication. But because of the space problem, they were imprisoned together. It
would have been cruel to imprison two lovers separately in the eyes of the law
anyway. Unfortunately both were CPA's and had few interests outside their
professions except sex. A few months later another couple and their two children
moved in, who were totally undisciplined. Again, it was good at first, but the
man was a former prison guard who did nothing but talk to his former
compatriots and his wife read only the Malthusian equivalent of model train
magazines and Cosmopolitan. She was caught having sex with Sven, which was
hard for Arnold and Cassandra not to notice, since they were doing it under their
bed. Then everyone was charged with adultery or complicity, yet the ill feelings
stayed in the cell along with everybody because of overcrowding. So they all
sued the prison authorities for inhumane treatment. The case would come to trial
in twenty years. Another side effect was the inevitable deterioration of Arnold
and Cassandra's sex life.
The whole situation was a mess, and gave Arnold new feelings of
antipathy about the perplexing question of time. Twice now he had been charged
with crimes by doing exactly nothing.
Arnold accused Cassandra of having sex with the married couple’s wife.
“So?” she said. “You liked that sort of thing with Anil and Barka. Big deal,
I fucked Gidget.”
“Did you have to do what I wanted?” asked a jealous Arnold.
”Did you have to want me to?”
Arnold's case finally came to trial. Cassandra's was delayed a year because
of a clerical error in the mountains of court paperwork. There weren't any
computers on Malthus. Planet-wide a general argument raged about whether
this was good or bad for efficiency.
Bill Bryan, a brilliant and cantankerous old prosecutor outlined the more
serious charges against him. Besides the espionage charges, Arnold was accused
of impiety for asking disturbing questions about time and Malthusian society.
His court appointed lawyer, the up and coming Stiefel-Veritas, made a long
brilliant speech fraught with passion, logic, tears, and eloquence. The courtroom
applauded at the end of it, although he could have said everything in five
minutes. Even Arnold had nodded a bit, for Sornay had kept him awake the
night before in the shower and he had fought with Cassandra the rest of the
night. Arnold wasn't allowed to testify in his own behalf because of his
emotional involvement in the case. The law thus avoided perjury in order to save
one's own neck.
But while he was waiting for the jury's verdict, Stiefel-Veritas was arrested
for using illegal means to gather evidence such as wiretaps, burglary, and
outright lies. This wasn't unusual, as attorneys were desperate to get their
usually innocent clients off. Of course it was futile, as they were imprisoned
anyway for things like tax evasion and overtime parking. Arnold was beginning
to think a little less justice might be a good thing, for the Malthusians seemed to
take to heart his comment about making a problem even worse.
To continue Arnold's defense, Judge Chancery appointed a young
attorney named Hugo. His speech to the jury was so rousing he also received a
standing ovation and some job offers. Arnold felt confident about his
exoneration.
He was stunned when the jury found him guilty. He was sentenced to
consecutive life terms.
Hugo explained. "We won a moral victory. I'll file an appeal, but anyway,
you can get out as soon as you're rehabilitated. Life sentences don't mean
anything. When I appeal, the law will be declared unconstitutional."
"When will that be?"
"About twenty years." When Arnold hit him, Hugo cheerfully offered to
defend him against the assault charge as he wiped the blood from his face.
"Everyone sympathized with you, but you were obviously guilty." The state
spent an enormous amount educating psychologists to rehabilitate prisoners, but
Arnold found the waiting list was thirty years long.
"Do you realize that a life sentence means you'll be here thousands of
years, thanks to the Knorrans rebuilding you?" pointed out Cassandra.
Arnold of course did, as obsessed as he was about what he regarded as his
chief enemy, the relative nature of time. But he didn't appreciate Cassandra's
comment, and this started a new round of fights. “Do you realize that the people
in charge here are congenital idiots?”
“What’s so unusual about that?” replied Arnold. “Pretty much all Earth
governments are run by idiots.”
“No wonder Snarek called you an illogical moron. Here they have taken
the part of the Scheme too far, ‘In excess we digress.’”
Cassandra's reading and memorization of Malthusian law texts finally
paid off while Arnold did nothing but sulk and play sad tunes on his kazoo,
which sounded truly awful. When his cellmates attacked him, he was charged
with inciting a riot and noise pollution. When Arnold complained that this was
the third time he had been charged with merely doing nothing, and that he
would have been charged with assault had he defended himself, they explained:
"Malthus is very concerned with suppressing violence."
But Cassandra had discovered that a life sentence consisted of one's
specie's natural life span. In the meanwhile, she had also been found guilty and
sentenced to several life terms. Quickly informing their attorney, the case came to
trial on appeal in ten years. They were celebrities now, and could read about
their case in the papers.
Hugo put up a brilliant defense. It was a model of brevity, since speeches
were now limited to five minutes because of the court backlog. "My client, the
Earthling Space Hero known as Arnold, cannot be legally imprisoned for over
130 years, since this is the natural life span of an Earthling. That he was altered
by those of planet Knorr for near immortality is immaterial. Furthermore, his
accomplice in this and other crimes, the woman known as Cassandra, cannot be
imprisoned at all, for she is a machine and therefore not responsible for her
actions."
This stunned the court and crowds, but old prosecutor Bryan recovered
quickly. "If she's an it, why do you call her a she?"
"That should be obvious." Even in prison garb, Cassandra was probably
the most luscious creature on the planet.
"That's my point. There are many witnesses who can testify that she
enjoys sex. So even if she's a machine, she's been converted from an it to a she."
The judge declared that the case had entered new ground and called for
an indeterminate recess while he examined Cassandra in his chambers. When
they returned several hours later, Arnold asked what had happened.
"What do you think?"
Arnold hated having his questions answered with other questions. Judge
Chancery declared he would have to take the new evidence under detailed
consideration, and Arnold and Cassandra were returned to their cell. The next
day the judge was arrested for copulating with a machine, the charge being
Mechanality. Chancery hired Hugo to defend him, and several years later he was
able to argue that he couldn't be charged with Mechanality unless Cassandra was
proven a machine. The court decided to take this under consideration, too. Hugo
used the same defense for the charge of adultery, and the court also took this
under consideration. Eventually Hugo, Bryan, and Stiefel-Veritas were arrested
on various minor charges and imprisoned in the same cell as Judge Chancery.
They had a great time holding mock trials, which led Arnold to realize the
process of law was more important than the result. A keener observer would
have known this long ago.
After a 120 years and dozens of appeals and personal exams, the Supreme
Court finally ruled that Cassandra was a machine. She had bribed them all with
sex. Of course they were all imprisoned for this, but under the rule of
extenuating circumstances, she was made a trustee, in spite of her new bribery
charges. By this time the entire population of Malthus was in prison, or trustees,
except the hated President, but no criminal could legally run against him.
Ironically, the planet continued to function smoothly in collapse. The prisoners
and their guard-trustees continued to grow food and run everything at a certain
level of services.
To make sure Arnold wasn't pulling a fast one to save his hide and get out
of prison, the Malthusians decided to dig up the Schlemiel to find out the natural
life span of an Earthling. It had been buried, naturally, with the passage of time,
space travel having been outlawed over a hundred years before to prevent other
visitors as annoying as Arnold. Once they reached the Encyclopedia Galactica
(Britannica Edition), the Supreme Court ruled for Arnold after 30 years of
deliberation. But he would have to serve another 80 years for the other various
charges since they ran consecutively, concurrent charges lacking the full impact
of the law on Malthus.
By this time even Cassandra's android patience was pressed, and she
bribed a guard into giving her the now-uncovered Schlemiel's remote control. She
rammed the Schlemiel into their cell and they escaped into orbit. In a drunken
vengeance, Arnold went around destroying prison walls all over the planet. This
had unforeseen but predictable results. The nominally law-abiding and
industrious Malthusians had a great time rounding themselves up and charging
each other with new crimes, including conspiracy for those who hadn't bothered
to escape. But Arnold never knew this. His last act was to pay his legal bill of
several million Deutschmarks with his American Express card, which was
already overdrawn through the effects of time and compound interest. He also
left bales of Euros around for other debts, and the Malthusians thought
themselves rich, for they had heard of how swell Euros were from some
AmeriEuroTrash traders years before. The Malthusians radioed a Galaxy wide
pick-up order for Arnold and Cassandra, with a huge reward for a variety of
charges against the state, themselves, and bank fraud. Wiser minds than Arnold
knew better than to try and collect it. Ironically, and to Arnold's disgust, the
whole affair proved to be his biggest seller, although it certainly wasn't a Heroic
Adventure. But widespread copyright infringement prevented him from making
much money on the deal, and he was understandably reluctant to press his luck
in court. Malthus cancelled the Galactic Warrant anyway after Arnold sent them
tons of gold bars too via a robot ship, the only safe way of sending things to
Malthus. Apparently it was illegal to listen too much interplanetary radio, and so
the Malthusians thought themselves even richer now.
Arnold had spent 154 years of his time learning only that the legal system
had a few kinks in it, which wasn't exactly news. Back at the "Buckle Up!"
nobody had a clue where the Booleans or It was, so he set out again at random.
He left behind a legacy of sad kazoo songs and a renewed reputation as an ugly
little fellow who traveled the Galaxy asking questions no one could answer or
cared much about. Cassandra also became famous as the beautiful woman
named after a character in the comic book, "Zeus, Top Dog of the Gods," who
loyally went wherever Arnold did. He had missed every Knorran dominatrix at
the "Buckle Up!" who had promised to uncover her head, but he had no more
time to waste.
Arnold and Cassandra were fighting all the time except when they were
in bed, sick as they were of close quarters with other people and each other. For
many years they came out of cryosleep only when the other wasn't around to
avoid each other, except when they were on a planet or horny. Eventually
Arnold learned to be more circumspect in asking his questions, in fact downright
paranoid. Once, when he was drunk on the inexhaustible supply of blue Knorran
Budweiser, the Schlemiel asked Arnold where he wanted to go.
"Anywhere! Just go here and now!"
The Schlemiel instantly lit out with new purpose at full speed. Apparently
Here & Now was a planet. For once Arnold didn't ask a question, but that's
another story for another time.
Chapter Four--ARNOLD IN THE HERE & NOW
The Schlemiel had lit out for the planet known as Here & Now at 295,000
kilometers per second, nearly the speed of light itself, after Arnold's inadvertent
command. Frankly, after their experiences around Malthus and the Pan-Galactic
Memory Bank, neither he nor Cassandra had minded too much. For some time
they had let the Schlemiel decide where they were going next after carefully
programming some parameters into the ship's computer. Arnold programmed in
that the planets chosen be inhabited by races particularly concerned with time, or
who might know anything about the Booleans. That's what mattered to him. Of
course, Cassandra just said, "So what if it doesn't matter?" She programmed in
that their destinations be fun loving, hard drinking, and have a lot of men. That's
what mattered to her.
Naturally, this caused a few arguments.
Their relationship was steadily deteriorating. Fortunately, Cassandra was
faster and stronger than Arnold, who one day was trying to bean her with a blue
Knorran champagne bottle. And fortunately her programming wouldn't allow
her to really hurt him. A hundred and thirty two years together in a Malthusian
jail cell was bound to put a strain on any relationship. Cassandra would scream
how he had gotten them into that fix, which was certainly true, and Arnold
would bitch about her unfaithfulness, which was also true.
People, and especially androids, remain true to their programming.
Arnold couldn't stand that Cassandra was so much smarter than he was, and she
hated that he was in command of the Schlemiel. For no matter what happened,
she loved him. Every time Cassandra found a bargirl position she loved, they
were usually chased off whatever planet they were on. Once she'd even worked
as a fusion engineer with an all-male group of scientists after proving what she
knew and making up a resume. All she had to do was read the discs and she
remembered everything. But either Arnold wanted to move on, or his questions
so irritated everyone they were forced to clear out.
The legend of the Schlemiel and its strange crew was getting quite famous
throughout the Galaxy: A short, ugly man who was immortal and asked
questions nobody knew the answers to while playing a mean kazoo, and a
beautiful, brilliant blonde who loved fun and sex and knew practically
everything. It was quite a contrast.
Arnold never really figured out that people everywhere don't really want
to think about the Ultimate Truth. It's a pain in the ass, after all.
Between their fights, screwing, and drinking bouts, they eagerly studied
the Encyclopedia Galactica (Britannica Edition). Here & Now seemed one of the
most exciting places they had set course for. The real name of Here & Now was
Impresario, and the Impresarios were reputed to be one of the most pleasant,
intelligent, and artistic races known. They also didn't believe in linear time,
which certainly intrigued Arnold. Consequently, they didn't believe in guilt,
which certainly intrigued Cassandra. Actually, guilt didn't really occur to them.
This also meant there were no organized religions, which was a relief to
Cassandra. A brand-new Temple Beth Zion had folded in a week and been
converted an unusual nightclub and distillery. Once on a planet called Testament
inhabited by hyper-radical apolcalyptic seeking Anabaptists, she'd got then into
some pretty hot water. The men had been so hypocritical in their attraction for
her they'd been hounded off the planet. On the other hand, she had fond
memories for all the sex. So did Arnold. The women hadn't been any different.
It was a Garden of Eden world, where nobody had to look much further
than the nearest tree or pond for a meal, and there were no natural hazards. The
Impresarios of Here & Now produced little except art, ideas, and fun, so it was a
popular vacation planet. Money was of little importance to them, except for
gambling, which everyone was addicted to. In a world without consequence,
why not? The Encyclopedia also noted that the Booleans were reputed to have
passed through, for the Impresarios were famed for their original and curious
theoretical physics. As you may remember, the Booleans had built the PanGalactic Memory Bank, and had taken a long lunch with It, Creator of the
Universe. Travelers were warned about the haphazard navigation near Here &
Now, since nobody paid much attention to where they were going, although it
was rumored the AmeriEuroTrash had taken over many such essential services,
at a profit of course.
After 47 years of travel, arguing, sleeping, sex, drinking, kazoo playing,
and more sex, the Schlemiel put the intrepid Space Hero and Cassandra into a
neat parking orbit around Here & Now. They were guided down to an
immaculate spaceport by American controllers. Lately it seemed the Americans
were everywhere around the known Galaxy, anywhere they could make a profit,
often by selling dubious investments. Nobody really minded; they were just
there. Once a huge landing fee was extorted from them, Arnold and Cassandra
headed into the main city, Stasis, which was anything but static.
The first thing they noticed was the chaotic architecture. It looked as if a
building was started, then the designer had changed his mind and totally
changed direction. Several times. They asked directions for the best hotel in
town, sick of the Schlemiel. Everyone they met seemed friendly, even a couple
beating each other's brains out with gleeful abandon. Another couple was
practically screwing in the street. If it could be called a street, for really there was
just a series of paths through what appeared to be a gigantic park with houses
and buildings strewn about in clusters or singly. There was no traffic, and fruit
trees were all about. Arnold stopped a young woman and asked her the time and
date, and she just started laughing hysterically before wandering away.
They checked into a hotel with a bored looking American clerk. He
wouldn't take any Deutschmarks. "The owner's an Impresario. He won't sell the
hotel to us no matter what the price. He says you should just pay what you think
our services have been worth to you when you leave." The clerk had apparently
succumbed to his own fatalistic lassitude. He was making a one-meter origami of
a Naxonian toad. They were sentient creatures, which during their orgasms
could make a belching sound of at least 120 decibels.
From the bar came forth loud, raucous jazz. Arnold wondered if he could
get a gig there, for a Space Hero is ethically required to pay his own way if
possible. Cassandra wanted a gig, too. Things were looking up. It would turn out
that jazz was the only music played on Impresario, for it was never remembered
or repeated, and so what if it didn't matter?
The two took a hot shower in their spotless room, which just seemed
better than even the modern Schlemiel because it wasn't on the ship. Everything
worked perfectly, because the hotel was run by Americans for free in a vain
attempt to persuade the owner to sell them a potential goldmine. On Here &
Now, foreigners weren't allowed to build, the Impresarios being no fools.
Cassandra was so excited by what she'd already seen she ravished Arnold, not
that he could ever resist her, no matter how sick they could get of each other.
"Love's like that," said Cassandra, well aware her attraction to Arnold was
programmed into her, "So you might just as well go all Hell-broke for leather."
Arnold couldn't have agreed more, but he still wanted to talk to It.
Down in the bar even Arnold could recognize the beauty of the jazz. None
of the elegant patrons seemed in a hurry. Arnold sat at the bar, even though
there were at least a hundred tables of various sizes. No matter where you were,
Arnold knew, a bartender was always the best source of information. Besides, he
was sick of blue Knorran Budweiser, so in the spirit of old Johnny Radon he
ordered a cantharide fizz. When the smoke cleared from his brain he saw
Cassandra was already gaily bringing trays of drinks to tables. He watched some
men, and women, tip her lavishly in appreciation of her ethereal beauty. Some
forgot to, and she laughed anyway. Cassandra never had a problem finding a job
on any planet, except Malthus, of course. It all seemed so casual. The walls were
covered in murals whose beauty surpassed that of the Sistine Chapel, not that
Arnold would have recognized it. Soldiers and Space Heroes aren't trained in art
appreciation. At some tables people were gambling for huge stakes. Arnold
watched one man lose thousands of Galactic Deutschmarks and walk away
giggling and twitching. At others chess was a passion. Arnold watched two men
playing, noticing how bad they were. It occurred to him that the Impresarios
didn't like to think ahead too much. He also saw that both men flagrantly
cheated when the other wasn't looking. On the way to the head, Arnold passed
by an artist painting the band on his easel. If Leonardo had seen the quality of
the work, he would have thrown away his brushes and become a carpenter. In
the unisex bathroom there was a man laughing as he vomited in competition
with a friend, and in the first stall he entered a woman was giving a man a
blowjob. "Sorry," he said. They just shrugged and smiled.
It certainly was an easygoing planet, going all hell-broke for leather.
Cassandra was nowhere to be seen in the cavernous place when he exited,
but Arnold had more important things to worry about. All over the bar was
spread a casual banquet from which he feasted, avoiding any chips and French
Onion dip. If you couldn't have sex after a cantharide fizz, you needed to eat at
least.
Arnold noticed the jazz band kept changing its members and numbers
without the music ever stopping. It seemed anyone could just walk up and start
playing. He asked the bartender about getting a kazoo gig.
“Job?" he said. "People might throw some money at you now and then,
but we play just for the fun of it."
It would take Arnold a couple of days to realize how casual and
irresponsible the Impresarios were. About everything. Cassandra figured this out
in about two minutes. When he got to their room, the men with her greeted him
like a long lost friend. As a Space Hero, patience was required, and all he did
was cover up Cassandra and take a few bets when she'd wake up. On the other
hand, as Arnold wandered about town, he felt a certain freedom in asking his
questions. After Malthus, he'd become a little paranoid, to say the least. But on
Here & Now, nobody seemed to mind. In fact, many people, if they were in the
mood, were perfectly happy to debate at great length time, space, the Ultimate
Truth, and chess. Impresarios loved to talk and argue, and quite intelligently, but
they didn't know anymore than he why the speed of light seemed to be it, or
where It was for that matter. Once he was embarrassed to find he'd kept a young
man from half his shift, but the man told him not to worry about it.
But a few times girls had just come up to him and started kissing him, or
taken him by the hand into the deeper woods, so he learned to give Cassandra a
little leeway. (Arnold always thought in nautical terms) After 47 years, a little
variety wasn't too bad.
And he was getting in time on his kazoo in jazz bands all over town.
Arnold would take what Deutschmarks he needed from the tip box for drinks,
not that bartenders always remembered to charge for drinks. Cassandra seemed
more than able to support herself, and if he needed money, she'd give it to him
happily and screw him in the bargain. Despite the fooling around, they were
getting along better than ever, when they saw each other.
One day Arnold was sitting at the hotel bar, staring at the neon sign every
bar seemed to have. This sign said: Time is Just a Hot-House Syrup.
He asked what it meant, naturally.
The bartender made herself a ruby martini fizz. "Well, it's pretty sublime, I
guess. The Institute passes them out to every bar in Stasis. They figure that's the
way they'll get noticed the most."
"What Institute?" Arnold was very confused.
"The Institute Der Physik."
"You mean there's an Institute for Physics here in Stasis and you never
told me?"
"I guess I forgot." She mixed him a free romper room rolodex, a drink that
makes you forget every name and address you ever knew.
"So what's it mean?"
"I'd go ask them if I were you."
At the Institute Arnold found a group of men and women, young and old,
sitting around a chalkboard in the sunny courtyard. The board was covered with
math symbols that Arnold would never understand. One couple was playing
chess and footsie at the same time. While they were kissing, each of them would
try to cheat. When Arnold introduced himself, they all politely nodded.
"We've been expecting you."
"Then why didn't you tell me you were here?" Arnold was beginning to
whine again.
"You're here, aren't you?"
He had to admit they had a point.
One old professor took him aside. He looked a little like Einstein, or a
symphony conductor. "Your questions have caused quite a bit a controversy, you
know." He lit a pipe with all the time in the world. "We've finally decided you're
a part of the Uncertainty Equation."
"I am?"
"Yes, why not? I wonder what the Booleans would make of you..." The
professor seemed to nod off.
"The Booleans? They were here?"
"Of course they were, you questioning parody. Everyone knows that.
They're time shapers."
"Time shapers? What's that? When were they here? Where did they go?
And what's the Uncertainty Equation, anyway?" Arnold just couldn't help asking
questions, but the old professor set out to answer them.
"It seems that wherever the Booleans have been, the concept of time has
been altered. I've always wondered if it relates to the Theory of
Improbability...It's hard to say; nobody knows much about them. As to when
they were here, who knows?" The professor threw up his hands. He looked
pretty amused, which pissed Arnold off, but he hadn't expected much more from
a citizen of Here & Now. The professor continued. "Rumor has it they
skeedaddled after It. You see, the Booleans were the oldest and wisest race in the
Galaxy, and they pretty much knew everything. Supposedly It didn't mind being
pals with and drinking with the Bools. Maybe they had a party to go to!" The old
professor seemed to think this was a real belly slapper. "As to Uncertainty, well,
you are here." He banged his pipe repeatedly on Arnold's knuckles until he
yelped. Then he took out an old pocket watch with only an hour hand. "And the
time is, on my mark, right now!" He banged Arnold's knuckles again. "But you
moved, so your position changed. Thus we can only know one thing or the other.
Time or position. Not both. But on Here & Now, we solved this problem, because
everything is here and now. But you and your questions have screwed it all up."
"But I'm still right here, and it's now!"
"No, it's not."
"Yes it is."
"Listen, whose point of view are arguing? Do you just like to ask
questions, or do you want to hear the answers?"
"This is really getting impossible. I can't see that it's any different here
than anywhere else I've been, and as an adventurer, I've been to a lot of places.
You guys just look at things differently. In fact, experience has taught me that
possibly I’ve had too many experiences. This is just pure sophistry."
Actually, Arnold didn't know the word sophistry; not many soldiers
would, being as a breed dim-witted. What he said was a good deal less printable.
But for once he was right. It doesn't matter where you go, people will come up
with an idea, usually that they're better or right in some way, and then figure out
some evidence to prove it. The Booleans did it. That other guy did it. It's my little
sister's fault. You get the picture. Arnold leaned back, wondering what
Cassandra was doing. Sometimes he thought he'd been born after all the great
ideas were used up.
"So what have you actually accomplished on Here & Now?"
The professor leaned back, looking comfortable with himself. "Here, each
act is an Island in time, to be judged on its own. Families comfort a dying uncle
not because of the inheritance they'll get, but because they love him. Look at that
young man over there screaming at the older man. Who do you suppose is the
superior?"
Impresarios did tend to be rather emotional. Why not, if it didn't matter?
There was no fear of consequences. By the blackboard the young man had taken
the chalk away from the older one and was addressing him like a child.
"I guess the younger man outranks him, right?"
"Wrong by a long shot. But he has nothing to fear. No employee does.
Here people are hired on their good sense in an interview, not some resume.
Employees never let themselves be trampled on. We may be a world of impulse,
but we are also a world of sincerity. On Here & Now, every word spoken speaks
just to that moment, every look has but a single meaning, each caress has no past
or future, and every kiss is a kiss for that moment." He seemed to fall asleep for a
bit. Arnold waited, sensing he was getting close to the Truth. "That couple
practically making love by the chess board, they're both happily married to other
people. But what of it? What they're feeling right now is sincere."
"What do you mean?" asked Arnold quite naturally.
"We know that in physics, two plus two equals less than four because of a
defect in mass. But in sciences such as sociology or ethics, one plus one can be
either a future family, or a conspiracy to rob a bank. Nothing is as it
appears...Time is indeed a Hot-House Syrup." Then the old professor fell fast
asleep. Arnold wandered away to think of more questions.
The American clerk was making an origami of the Schlemiel when Arnold
got back. "I was hoping you'd sign it, being a Space Hero and all that. It could be
profitable now that I suppose you'll be going." The Americans always wanted to
make a profit on everything, to be the 1%.
"I'm going somewhere?"
Arnold always phrased everything as a question.
"There's someone waiting for you in the bar."
Arnold rushed off. Gratefully he saw that Cassandra was just waiting
tables. There were many other things she could have been doing.
And then he saw Snarek, his old Arcturan adversary and friend, sitting at
the bar. His mouth dropped open.
"Snarek! It's been hundreds of years! Why aren't you--"
"Dead?" Snarek looked at him in wry amusement, not that the Arcturans
had much of a sense of humor. And not that Arnold was very tactful himself. "I
am Snarek, just not the one you knew. Haven't you ever heard of frozen cloned
embryos, you whining moronic pinhead? We simply put everything that is me in
computer memory until the clone is ready."
Arnold, like any Hero or Adventurer, had a steak of masochism a light
year wide in him, and the old insults brought a feeling of warmth to him, just
like a shot of New Grandad's with a laser blast to the gut as a chaser.
"I'm not a moronic pinhead, you passionless waste of protoplasm, who
might just as well be a calculator. Why are you here? How did you find me?"
"I came here directly from Arcturus. It was logical you would come here
eventually. What took you so long to get here? I've been waiting for months on
this crazy, illogical planet. Get lost in your own clothes? Anyway, I've got some
news for you."
Cassandra looked at Arnold and smiled as a man fondled her. She hadn't
recognized Snarek because Arnold had already left Arcturus before they met. By
this time, Arnold had forgotten that Cassandra wasn't entirely human, and had
been made for him, to love him, even with free will.
"What's the news?"
"We know approximately where the Booleans are, and where they're
headed. We want you to find them."
"You do? Why?"
"It's the logical thing to do. Since you're so moronically stubborn to ask It
some questions, we want to know the answers. We want to know the logic in
creating people who are born only to suffer and die. So we might as well help
you out."
Arnold had never thought of that one before. He had always supposed a
Space Hero and adventurer were supposed to suffer a little. It's in the job
description, after all. "Let me do the dirty work for you, eh? You Arcturans
always were pretty damn lazy."
There was, of course, some truth in this. Although they possessed space
travel, the Arcturans hadn't really bothered going anywhere, remaining isolated
until everyone came to them. They figured it was the logical thing to do, rather
than risk their own necks. Snarek's face tightened up for a moment, like he was
sucking up his own intestines.
"It's the logical way to be."
"I guess it is, isn't it?"
"A Walmart insurance salesman working settlers out on the Fringe found
a whole planet acting dazed and confused. They thought time was moving
backwards. The settlers were plowing under their harvest and planting seed in
the fall. They'd make themselves puke, then get drunk. Taking buildings apart,
that sort of thing. There was an obelisk with a miniature version of The PanGalactic Memory Bank. You'll love the inscription on the obelisk."
"Well, what is it?" Adventurers aren't always much for patience.
"It says 'Arnold, Thataways!'"
"You're kidding?"
"Do you really think an Arcturan would make a deliberate funny?
Wouldn't it be logical for the smartest race in the Galaxy to predict someday that
an ugly little gnome named Arnold, traveling with a blonde android and a
penchant for asking annoying questions, come looking for them? With a little
logic, anything is predictable. Especially you."
Arnold, with the ferocity little, ugly gnome-like men often have, punched
Snarek in the face so hard he landed on the floor. "You didn't predict that, did
you?"
Snarek climbed back onto his stool. The bartender merely slid down a
first-aid kit and a congratulatory drink. "Not with an insane moron. You're
certainly getting in spirit of this nutty planet, aren't you? It's like Italy."
Nobody knew what Italy was anymore, but everybody understood the
expression. They sort of knew it was in EuroTrash land
"Well, why not? Have you ever seen a place where artists are happier?
Unpredictability is the essence of their art, their paintings, and their music. It's
also the crux of adventure."
Actually Arnold didn't quite put it so elegantly, but he left Snarek nursing
his head to go jam with the band. He had read somewhere, probably in Zeus, Top
Dog of the Gods, his favorite comic book series, that Heroes often relaxed with
music during moments of indecision. After blowing a mean kazoo for a while,
Arnold brought Cassandra over to meet Snarek.
"I'm getting awfully sick of jazz," was all Snarek would say, sulking.
"I love this planet," answered Cassandra. "It's fun, and for once Arnold can
ask all the questions he wants without getting in trouble. They don't even mind
his kazoo."
"Yeah, what about the incredibly high divorce, murder, and suicide rates?
There's nothing logical about an acausal world. Since the present has little effect
on the future, few people pause to consider the consequences of their actions. I
need to get back to Arcturus."
With typical directness, Cassandra said, "You're just as dull as Arnold
described you. I'm never leaving this place."
"Er, I've been meaning to talk to you about that...Snarek found some
circumstantial evidence of the Bools out by the Fringe. We'll be going there soon,
OK?"
"Actually, they left a sign with Arnold's name on it, telling him which way
to go." Snarek was snickering at Arnold's discomfort.
In yet another classic case of the messenger bearing the brunt of hostility,
Cassandra promptly decked Snarek. And since she was much stronger than
Arnold, he was out for the count.
A few days later, Arnold asked if he had brought Anil with him. They had
had a hot affair back on Arcturus a few hundred years back, and a three-way
thing with the girl Anil mentored.
“She at some male strip club around the corner with her friend Barka.
They are dying to see you, as they say. Something about hair coloring.”
“On my way. She was always great fun,” said Arnold enthusiastically.
“She is? Try being married a few hundred years,” said Snarek morbidly.
“I’ve been with Cassandra a few hundred years, and we still get along
pretty well,” said Arnold, forgetting Cassandra was an android programmed to
love him, although she had free will and wasn’t always faithful, but then neither
was he. “Near immortality is pretty neat.”
“I’d have to say the same for cloning with personality transfer; the net
effect is the same,” said Snarek with a smile.
Arnold was pleased to see Snarek had finally learned to smile in a way
that wouldn’t scare small children. “Say, speaking of that, did you clone
everything, if you know what I mean?”
With that, Snarek whipped aside his duster coat, and his furry feline tail
came up, which he stroked absently. “Think I’ll go have an Arcturan logic bomb.
I’ve taught the bartender here to make a pretty good one, and they’re getting
very popular. Then maybe I’ll play chess and pick up a girl. You know Arnold,
Arcturan men aren’t like they used to be, with the Kaboodle surgery and their
elixir.”
And Arcturan women aren’t the same either, said Arnold under his
breath, especially since he taught them to have orgasms, and a few other tricks
he’d learned from the New Haven Kombat and Beauty Akadamy. He went to tell
Cassandra what he was doing. He had long ago told her about his experiences on
Arcturus with Snarek’s wife and her young friend Barka. A hundred twenty
seven years in a Malthusian prison gives one the time to tell a few adventures.
“Have fun Arnold baby,” was all she said with a smile. “Maybe see you
tomorrow?”
“Maybe you should join us?”
“Maybe I will. Call me later,” said Cassandra impishly; imagining two
beautiful Arcturan women and Arnold might be fun.
That was one of the things Arnold loved about Cassandra, her willingness
to try just about anything. But just then the band quit playing, and Arnold felt so
inspired he got up on stage to recite some bad poetry. It is required of space
heroes and adventurers that they write poetry or ballads about their times, and
Arnold knew the rules, in place since the ancient Greeks, before they became
EuroTrash with bad bonds the Americans liked to sell to the 99% wherever they
were. A drummer set up a steady beat to help him recite.
With her head under her toes
and her feet in her nose
between the sheets
she does such feats
& she goes into a spin
looking mighty thin
then without a care
& her legs in her hair
she rolls up her toes
& nibbles her knees
that elastic gal
you can go wild with her, pal
sweeter than a fem fatale
she’s quite a sight
twisting left & right
my elastic gal...
Arnold got a small ovation, and both men and women threw cash up on
the stage, which he collected quickly. This was one of the things Cassandra loved
about Arnold, the very bad poetry he wrote for her impromptu. Or was it for
brunette Anil? It didn’t matter anymore. Maybe she could love her too. Then
Arnold took off, waving goodbye.
“Arnold!” squealed both Anil and Barka, both hugging him while on the
stage a buff nude boy danced around a pole. “The Scheme of Imaginative Logic
said you would come here one day, and we only had to wait six months on
Impresario. We love this planet,” said Anil, still holding on to him.
“But it’s been way over a hundred years, relatively,” said Barka happily,
“And you look the same, as mutated as ever.”
“And you two are as beautiful as ever,” answered Arnold, “But that hair!”
He was happy to see how much more the Arcturan women had loosened up,
although their little three-way thing a couple hundred years back had been
pretty cool then. But the two women had gone back to the typical Arcturan
brunette hair , straight and parted in the middle.
“I know, we know. But we can’t find anyone on Impresario that can do
hair like you, Arnold. I want to back to being blond, and Barka needs hers styled.
Around here, they’ll listen to you politely when you tell them what you want,
and then just do what they feel like, and maybe change their minds in the middle
of it, so you can wind up with hair in many colors or something weird, so we
gave up. We’ll have a few drinks and then go back to our luxury suite. Snarek
won’t come back tonight knowing your here. Ever since the Kaboodlans fixed
him up he’s become quite the horn dog, but that’s cool. He’s a lot more fun now.
Why don’t you have some Vernor’s Vermillion Viagra drafts, remember how
you liked them? AJ Enterprises imports them now.”
“Now who is AJ Enterprises again?” asked Arnold.
“Asian Jews from Earth, silly,” said Barka. “You’re going to need them.”
“Hey, a couple hundred years, a guy might forget a few things.”
“Well, we’re going to screw you stupid, remember that?” said Anil
impishly.
It was true that only Earth had developed beer, although nobody knew
why, although most was dishwater like Budweiser. The women had frosty nails,
which was basically a vodka gimlet with green nail polish plus some crystal
meth. Thus they all got the effect they needed, the frosty nails getting the girls
stoned as hell but keeping them wide awake, and Arnold was trashed but hard
as an iron pipe. They hardly needed to screw him stupid since they were pretty
dumb by this time.
At the luxury hotel suite Barka was sharing with Anil while Snarek mostly
wandered, they were having a swell time. “How are you profits going with
Wenyi Silverstein and the whole Kaboodle thing?”
Anil actually smiled. “How do think we can afford all this?” Three
beautiful nude young women were giving each of them full body massages.
“We’re the 1% of the 1% now, just like your North American traders. Plus we
didn’t have to screw anybody to do it, just arrange it so they could get screwed.”
Barka just giggled.
The image of an Arcturan woman giggling was so astoundingly absurd
that Arnold was immensely pleased with himself. “Well, in the Scheme of
Imaginative Logic the road to excess profits has as many curves as your small
intestines.”
“The images you provoke are as pleasant as giving birth to a dry
porcupine.”
“That’s the spirit!” yelled Arnold happily. Just then a somewhat drunk
Cassandra came in, and if Anil or Barka knew or cared she was an android, they
didn’t let on. Arnold had forgotten by now, but he liked how she’d try almost
anything.
But she wouldn’t try leaving the planet Impresario. “There’s no reason to
go. This is the perfect planet for us, it’s fun and safe and we can be ourselves,
which we’ve never had a chance to really since we were always on your silly
adventures. Haven’t you said that experience has taught you that you’ve had too
many experiences?” pleaded Cassandra. But like the original prophet of Ancient
Greece, Cassandra was a prophet who was never listened to. And like the
original Alexander, who never stopped trying to conquer everything when he’d
already conquered just about everything, and even his loyal generals had grown
tired of it all, and begged him to stop and just let them live, Arnold insisted on
going on. He was after all an ugly stubborn man who never stopped asking
questions, figuring it was in the job description of a Space Hero.
“Please Arnold, let’s just stay here. It’s fun and thoughtful and romantic
here. We’re popular here, not despised as usual. I think the reason we are born to
suffer and die is just because that’s the way it is, and besides, we’re not suffering
here anyway. I predict that if you go on, you’ll probably never meet the Creator
of the Universe, and if you do, His or Her answers won’t satisfy you. That’s if
you get any answers. All religions just say have faith when something bad
happens, but it never helps, does it? Would it be any different if you meet It?”
Try as she might, Cassandra’s begging was ignored. By this time she had in at
least a fatalistic way, forgotten she wasn’t human, and she was incapable of
forgetting anything.
“But I have to, Cassandra. The Booleans left me that sign, and they are the
smartest and oldest race around, who were friends with It. They invented
Boolean algebra after all.”
“Since when do you use Boolean algebra?”
“Well, never, that’s what computers are for,” said Arnold, who had no
idea exactly what it was anyway.
“Really?” she said facetiously.
Try as he might, Arnold couldn't persuade Cassandra to leave Here &
Now with him. They spent a whole week screwing and arguing, with Arnold
trying to be as nice as possible. But then, everybody was always nice to
Cassandra on Impresario. "Listen, Arnold," said Cassandra as she sat astride him,
"I love you and always will, but I've got free will and no more time for your silly
adventures."
"But you're nearly immortal, like me! Don't you have all the time in the
world?"
"Ha! What does that mean, especially here? Time is a just a Hot-House
Syrup."
Arnold had no answer to that one, only more questions, so he reluctantly,
sadly decided to go it alone. After all, history is full of Heroes who had to go on
by themselves. Arnold never got it through his head that near immortality
sometimes provokes lethargy in some people, and that Here & Now was the
perfect place for them. Cassandra promised she'd be there, should he ever return.
And so one tearful day, many citizens turned out to wish Arnold farewell.
He was presented with a fluffy white tomcat he immediately began calling
Faithful Fido, not realizing the redundancy. Predictably, the Impresarios adored
the unpredictable and self-centered creatures who lived for the moment.
Cassandra finally got off her knees and left the Schlemiel for the last time. She
danced with a jazz band serenading Arnold with a New Orleans funeral march,
not that they knew that.
“Say Snarek, did you guys on Arcturus ever figure out what credit default
swaps are? And then insuring them or something?” asked Arnold from the door
of the Schlemiel.
Perplexed, Snarek admitted that all the economists on Arcturans couldn’t
quite put a finger on it. “We really can’t grasp the concept of trading devices
designed to steal from the 99%. Such a thing wouldn’t be allowed in most places,
especially Arcturus. I’ve got to give you Americans credit for being clever, truly
monumental thieves. I’ve also never seen a planet that insists on electing or
supporting so many insane and greedy people as leaders. It’s simply not logical,
and through logic we can predict most things, but not Jewasians, EuroTrash, and
particularly Americans.”
“I can put a finger on it,” claimed Arnold, dumping a bowl of blue
Knorran chip dip on Snarek’s head. “You didn’t predict that did you?” laughed
Arnold.
But instantly Snarek’s feline tale wrapped around the bottle of fake
champagne in Arnold’s hand and stole it. It was a new kind that was carbonated
with laughing gas rather than carbon dioxide, with a little added Valium, still an
important Earth drug. Arnold looked a little stunned. He was used to getting the
best of Snarek. “Remember the Scheme of Imaginative Logic you were teaching
me? A couple hundred years, I learned how to use this little fucker, and women
really love what I can do with it.”
“Ah hell, Snarek, I was just kidding around. All this thinking is giving me
a headache, and I haven’t had my morning cup of wine yet,” whined Arnold.
“Much as I’ll miss you, you’d better get going, the space controllers are
waiting,” said Cassandra tearfully. Anil and Barka were almost, but not quite,
crying silently nearby.
Even Snarek looked a little sad. “Stay in touch. Let us know what you
find. If you meet It, call collect. We’ll meet again I think.”
Arnold closed the hatch and silently took off, wisely letting the ship guide
itself since he sucked at takeoffs and landings as well as cruising. To this day, no
Jazz band on Here & Now feels complete without a kazoo player.
Chapter Five-- ARNOLD FINDS THE END OF TIME
The waiter wrapped the bottle in a towel and opened it.
The room was filled with a roar and smoke, and a huge, ugly, unshaven creature rose to
the ceiling wearing a red turban.
"What's this?" demanded Arnold.
"It's a genie!"
"But I ordered champagne! Bring me the complaint book!"
--Excerpt from 'Arnold, the Galactic Space Hero'
Toothpaste Comics, Vol. MMMCCCXII, Issue #9
"A man from Earth, Oh Great Creator."
"From Earth? Earth, Earth...Mmmmm..."
"That's the planet where they perfected bank fraud.
The Honeymooners, jazz--Beethoven composed there, Creator."
"Beethoven? Ah! Tum-da-da-dum, tum-tiri-tiri-tum! Terrific
piece. Well, give him a third-rate reception."
--excerpt from "Zeus, Top Dog of the Gods!"
Hernia Comix, Vol. MMMCCCXXI, Issue #4
The night before Arnold left Impressario, just the two of them danced
until the cold night air stung them, but they played until their bodies glowed.
Then they stood in the fathomless dark and stared saucer-eyed beyond the
stratosphere into the night, as layers of boisterous planets wheeled across the
blackness all around them. Arnold was thinking of the 4th Order of Flexibility,
which discusses Oblique Strategies and states that, “One should honor thy error
as a discrete intention.” For him, the error was in becoming a Space Hero in the
1st place, heroics being quite accidental in any scheme. He didn’t really want to
leave Cassandra, for there would never be anyone he could love as much, not
even Anil. For her part, Cassandra didn’t want him to go either, although she
understood the unwritten rules of being a Hero; that Arnold had to continue on
alone.
“I’ll never stop loving you—“ they both shouted at the same time, then
they looked embarrassed.
“I mean it, Arnold, Your adventures, your heroics, I admit I don’t
understand them all, even if my brain is artificial, the rest of me is quite human,
and though we may play with others, that’s all it is. I love you.”
“I feel the same way. Will you wait for me here, should I return?”
“Oh, perhaps a few thousand years,” she grinned, “And do please come
back.”
“I think I shall endeavor too.”
Arnold headed towards the Fringe, the unexplored part of the Galaxy
often called “The Scary Parts,” in the direction the sign had pointed. This was the
direction the mostly humanoid population was expanding. Before Cassandra left
the Schlemiel, she finally gave him the access codes to the computer and the
engine room. Bored one day, he remembered she'd written them down. He'd
been asking the Encyclopedia Galactica (Britannica Edition) endless questions.
Arnold never quite got the answers he wanted, but he was picking up a great
deal of trivia. He finally knew the ingredients to a Mongolian Mental Mix-up: 3
shots Beefeater's gin (what was beef, Arnold wondered; the Encyclopedia didn't
know), a sprinkle of sulfur, testosterone extract, a squirt of the saliva from a
Swithian sea snake, iron powder finely ground, then the whole mixture was
strongly magnetized. The final ingredient was club soda carbonated with nitrous
oxide gas, but deuterium, or heavy water, was always properly used if available.
It was a pity he didn't have the ingredients. Arnold had laid in a stock of
fruit brandy from Here & Now. He could open one bottle, and it would be
marvelous, but the next might taste like rancid fruit bat piss. He supposed the
Impresarios had wandered off when making it. Some of the bottles were empty,
some spilled because there were no corks. He still had tons of blue Knorran
Budweiser.
Arnold drank too much because he didn't have much to do. He composed
some kazoo ballads of his adventures and radioed them away into the void, to be
picked up whenever by whomever. He wrote a comic book, making the
Schlemiel's computer illustrate it. Arnold looked very handsome in those
cartoons. He tried talking to Faithful Fido, but unlike many adventure stories
where animal companions talk, are very intelligent or friendly, Fido would just
chirp at him. He also attacked Arnold frequently, and because he was a tomcat,
he pissed all over the ship.
Mostly he just missed Cassandra horribly, but somewhere he knew it was
written that Heroes have to go on. He was jealous of who she was with, whoever
that was. When he couldn't bear it without her, when he couldn't drink anymore,
he went back into cryosleep.
One day he went into the engine room. It turned out Cassandra had never
reset the factory combination. It was 1-2-3-4-5. The Encyclopedia had given him
astronomical odds against hitting it, so he had never tried. The room was nearly
empty, except for more cases of blue Knorran Budweiser and snack foods. The
engine was one big box. Printed on the side was: Knorr Competition Star Drive,
by Ronco UnLTD., Pat. #43,547,867,965. This explained why the Schlemiel was
one of the fastest ships in existence. He opened a panel. Inside was a reflecting
light bulb, so Arnold realized he had the vaunted photon drive. A very small but
powerful particle accelerator sped up the photons from the light bulb to near the
speed of light while concentrating the beam. It used the most powerful magnets
known, manufactured from the magnetite particles of the inner ears of Scythian
Sky Pterodactyls, famous for their navigational abilities. Nobody on Scythia
would ever build a house near a pterodactyl, for even if they moved the young in
a nest, it would come back years later to the exact spot, land, and crush the
house. The magnets were cooled by liquid helium, and there was an icemaker
attached, which finally explained why Cassandra always had ice in her drinks
when there was no freezer on board. Arnold had answered one of the great
questions that had perplexed him. The strong magnets also explained the sign on
the engine room door. It said “No admittance to anyone who has consumed a
Mongolian Mental Mix-up.” The strong field could rip a magnetic drink right
through someone's stomach. This confirmed the Arcturan view that space travel
could indeed be dangerous. Another sign said: “Change light bulb every 99 light
years of use' Arnold found cases of light bulbs. Of course they were all blue.
Faithful Fido sneaked in and pissed in the engine room. Arnold was
tempted to feed him some iron fillings and leave him in the engine room, but
Space Adventurers have a code of ethics.
Arnold decided to stop at the planet Anthrax, on his way to the Fringe.
The Encyclopedia Galactica (Britannica Edition) had this entry on Anthrax:
ANTHRAX: A small planet, diameter 4,212 km, oxygen-helium atmosphere, mild
gravity, pop. 143,985, political system: despotic democracy. Little industry, primarily
agriculture; raising oats, carp; diet consists of oatmeal gruel, fish flakes, goats, and oat
beer. Principle occupation: Philosophy. The Anthraxians consider the creation of rigid
indeterminism and uncertainty to be essential in the search for the Truth.
Arnold tried the combination lock on the autopilot for the first time. He
got it right away, musing that Cassandra was either real smart, or real lazy. All of
a sudden complex instrument panels began unfolding all over the bridge. One
bonked Fido on the head, so he pissed on it, sending sparks flying. Arnold was in
a panic with all the unfamiliar controls around, and he was locked into the
captain's chair with no way to turn the autopilot on again. The Knorrans thought
this a marvelous way to keep a commander from panicking, by putting his life
on the line. The Schlemiel said, "Good luck, I'm taking a nap. Your chances of
landing safely are 9 to 1 against." When the instrument panels unfolded, all sorts
of packing material flew out, Styrofoam peanuts, plastic, and a few screws the
builders were left over with. But Arnold did like the new-car smell. It helped
cover up the scent of cat piss.
Arnold was in a panic. He hadn't landed a ship manually in about 500
years. He wished Cassandra were there; she would have done it perfectly. As the
Jewasian controllers panicked and screamed at him in their bizarre language,
Arnold finally landed the Schlemiel very sloppily in a pond of carp next to the
spaceport.
A Jewasian mechanic welcomed him. "That was the worst landing I've
ever seen."
"Don't you think you have do it wrong to know what's right?" asked
Arnold.
“I never thought of it that way," said the man, as a crowd gathered. They
were all carrying banners that said 'Welcome, Arnold!' He was presented with a
life-size origami of Cassandra.
"How did you know I was coming?"
"One of the Booleans dropped by about 83 years ago. He said you'd be
here today, and that you'd screw up the landing."
"What did he look like?"
"Kind of a cross between a Naxonian toad and an elephant. Very
depressing fellow. He was complaining about bursitis the whole time."
"What were his exact words?"
"He said, 'Arnold will land here on April 1st, 83 years from now, and he'll
be all bummed out because Cassandra left him to keep screwing around, but be
real nice to him anyway, if you can drag yourselves out of bed. Take some
aspirin, because he gives everyone headaches.'"
Arnold was himself getting a headache from all the ridiculously squeaky
voices around him. All the helium in the air caused it. Faithful Fido was
splashing around the carp pond, but instead of chirping and meowing, his
squeaks pierced Arnold's brain.
Arnold took an air cab downtown to the largest city, Ptomaine. There was
a giant foghorn on the roof of the cab, to protect the citizens from foreign cab
drivers who didn't speak any common language and didn't know their way
around, but it came out sounding like a sick siren. He headed for a club so he
could ask the bartender where he might find some philosophers. Arnold had
given up on physicists. He was guided to two men standing at the bar arguing.
Arnold went over and started talking. They looked at him blankly. Finally
he asked if they were philosophers.
"Yes," they squealed. "Local 247 of the Amalgamated Philosophers Union,
a division of the AFL-CIO," one said over a bowl of oatmeal gruel.
"Holy Cantharides! They're everywhere now, right?"
Fortunately the Jewasian mechanic had stayed with Arnold as a guide.
His price had been quite reasonable, too. "Er, Arnold-- bear with me a moment.
It's after hours now. Philosophers don't think after hours. They usually get drunk
from thinking too much."
He was right. Everybody was pouring down oat beer. Arnold ordered
one, and discovered it was very strong, and tasted remarkably like oatmeal. "Can
I ask them tomorrow?"
"You could, but I wouldn't. It'll be Saturday. They're usually too
hungover. But they'll be thinking OK by Tuesday."
"Are all the philosophers around here drunks?"
"The ones who aren't are in prison. All that thinking drives them crazy."
"Well, I guess it's a good thing I don't think that much, don't you think?"
"I think so," his guide agreed.
"Tell me, are there any scab philosophers around for hire?"
"I'll have to think about that. Ask me Tuesday."
None of this surprised Arnold very much. As a spaceship captain, he had
a lot of experience with unions. Once he'd won a battle when his marines had
struck in the middle of it for better working conditions. The enemy, also
unionized, had been forced to lay down their weapons to honor the strike.
Arnold had gathered up a bunch of non-union hotel housekeepers, who made
too little for the unions to care about them, armed them, and went and arrested
all the enemy officers as their fierce troops looked on in amusement. Arnold thus
became the Hero of the Housekeepers, the first Star trooper to defeat a superior
enemy with a bunch of lightly armed, middle-aged women who were routinely
abused by their employers. They became a famous mercenary unit until they
unionized and joined the AFL-CIO, but Arnold did enjoy the kickbacks for a
while.
Arnold looked at the band in the club. There were no flutes, clarinets, any
saxophones except baritones, no trumpets, triangles, cornets, cymbals or snare
drums. The tones would be so high as to be unbearable, or unheard. The
drummer sat behind two bass kettledrums, and there were several tubas and
trombones that sounded like flutes and piccolos. Singing was out of the question,
although many cartoons had their soundtracks dubbed on Anthrax. Arnold tried
out his kazoo, but everyone either laughed or gritted their teeth angrily, so he
gave up.
Miserably, Arnold waited for Tuesday. He approached a group of
philosophers. They had eagerly awaited his questions for 83 years. "OK, are you
ready for my question?"
"Oh yes, Space hero!"
"Do you have answers?"
"We most certainly do!" most of them squeaked.
"Not yet!" said others.
"OK, here goes: 'Is the speed of light the absolute top speed of the
Universe, just because this dude Einstein said so?'"
"I would think so!" one philosopher shouted. “Cause he’s Jewish and
they’re smart,” he added smugly
"What a silly answer," said another. “He’s been proven right for over a
thousand years, so it’s inevitable.”
“Guys!” yelled Arnold over the din. “Didn’t you get that handout about
the Scheme of Imaginative Logic and the Orders of Flexibility?”
“It’s really a very interesting philosophy, but I’m afraid---“ Here he
hesitated.
“Go on,” urged Arnold, “I can bear it.”
“Well, we think it’s quite disturbed and utterly unworkable. You might be
insane, after all.”
“I’ve heard that before, and left laughing. Haven’t you heard how it
worked on Arcturus many years ago?”
“Yes, but you are kind of an exception, and so are the Arcturans, being
willing to accept different logics,” one philosopher answered.
“Alright, enough,” said Arnold tiredly. “Why are we born only to suffer
and die?”
“Just because.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not suffering...”
“You’re a fool—“
Arnold never got in another word. Soon the philosophers were bashing
anyone who didn't agree with them in a free-for-all. He turned to his Jewasian
guide. "They've got quite a gravy train going here, don't they?"
"There's nothing like rigidly controlled, state supported uncertainty to
keep them employed. Having a lot of philosophers also adds to Anthrax's
prestige. You see, they couldn't wait for you to get here, but if you ever find It,
and come back here with some answers, we have orders to blow you out of
space. But questions like yours only reinvigorate the economy and keep them
going. That's why everything here has been free for you, and that's why I only
charged you half price as a guide. Jewasia space control waived your docking
fees for all the business you'll bring." He gave Arnold an origami of Faithful
Fido, dyed in yellow.
Disgusted, Arnold returned to the Schlemiel. Faithful Fido had stayed in
the ship the whole time, which stank horribly, except for forays to the carp pond.
All the squeaking had driven him nearly mad, since he could never find the
mice. There weren't any on Anthrax. The guide brought him an engraved plaque
left by the complaining Boolean. There was a star chart with an arrow pointing at
nothing. It said, "You can't miss us."
Lonelier than ever, Arnold headed for the point of nothing. He missed
Cassandra so much he tried to put down on a planet on the way to find some
companionship. It was a place called Harmony, run by evangelical proselytizing
Hindus. The Encyclopedia said they claimed to have achieved serenity by
knowing the Truth. Unfortunately, it seemed the Booleans had been there also,
for when the Schlemiel was in a low orbit (this time under computer control), they
launched several nuclear missiles at him. Unwilling to destroy Harmony with his
photon drive so close to the planet, Arnold thought of a simple solution that a
more intelligent man would never have risked: He piloted the Schlemiel himself,
so badly and erratically that no missile could track him. Then Arnold had
another stroke of idiot genius: He screwed in a more powerful light bulb into the
photon drive. When all the warning bells, whistles, and lights started going off,
with the Ship's computer screaming "Whoa!" he changed the bulb back, but he
was already light years away.
Naturally he should have known better than to try and stop at Harmony,
but he still didn't understand it was more right to be wrong than right about just
about anything. On the other hand, moderate intelligence encouraged
stubbornness and clever solutions.
At this point in Arnold's tale, the story becomes vague. It is known that
Arnold found some high-test Knorran blue-blood brandy that Cassandra had
hidden in all the cases of light bulbs. The Jewasians have been accused of selling
Arnold the ingredients for Mongolian Mental Mix-ups, but they would neither
confirm nor deny this. What is known is that the Schlemiel's records became
increasingly erratic. Arnold recorded no more Heroic Adventures, but made
many lists of grievances against Cassandra. He also drew many pictures of her,
several quite obscene. On the other hand, some of his love poetry to Cassandra
during this period is considered the greatest ever written, at least by a Star
trooper. It is thought that he missed her very much, but not surprising, for all
Great Adventurers have periods of self-doubt. Many of the surviving documents
have unexplained yellow stains on them. At any rate, when the Schlemiel reached
the indicated point of nowhere, he was in cryosleep, so the ship was safe and he
was sober.
Naturally Arnold had programmed in the wrong coordinates, and had to
wander around a bit. He was far beyond the Fringe, in fact in a sector called The
Doubtful Areas where nobody had been before. Legend had it that one could fall
right out of the galaxy and be lost in the void of intergalactic space. When he
finally found them, it looked like the Booleans were building a new Pan-Galactic
Memory Bank, only larger. Around an ordinary star, the planets were strangely
arranged, against all the laws of gravity, about the construction sight. He told the
Schlemiel to land on the platform.
Robots seemed to be everywhere. Arnold tried talking to them, but was
ignored. A motley group of creatures headed towards him. Some looked like a
cross between Naxonian toads and elephants, a few were giant scarlet-colored
bats, some had bodies on wheels or treads, and there were many elegantseeming bipedal robots dressed in outrageous costumes. The varieties were
endless. Arnold, instantly terrified of the mob, pulled out his laser pistol. But
he'd forgotten to charge the battery. This was an old trick of Arnold's; once he'd
been attacking a race called the Snits. The Snits had counter-attacked with a radio
feedback loop, which caused all the lasers to explode. Except Arnold's, who had
forgotten to charge his battery. The only survivor, Arnold had single-handedly
captured the Snits by pulling an ancient 38 Police Special, a weapon so primitive
the Snits had no defense against it. The first bullet he fired was his only one, but
they didn't know that. This became one of Arnold's most famous Adventures.
The group rapidly approached him, and as a Hero he could not run.
Faithful Fido hid in the ship, pissing away fright.
One tarnished android made from silver said, "Are you Arnold?"
"Who else could it be? He's like taxes," said another, who looked like a
cross between a Naxonian toad and an elephant. "I just knew I would make the
wrong bet...42.90785 to one he would land in the right place, so what does
Arnold do? Land on an unfinished platform with a bunch of moron robots and I
lose all my money..." This one spoke slowly and sounded very depressed.
"We're the Bools, by the way," said another.
"Then why do you all look different?"
"Oh...fashion? Bodies wear out after a couple thousand years, you know."
"I haven't had that problem yet. Will I?"
"Oh, you will, you will. I ache all over." The toad/elephant gurgled.
"Say, is your friend alright? He sounds pretty depressed."
"I wish I were dead, but I don't want my relatives to inherit."
"Old Norbert just enjoys misery," said another Bool, dressed as an old
Earth pirate.
"Like hell I do-- see? Nobody cares."
Someone screamed out he'd won a bet. "He asked three questions in less
than a minute!"
"Do you guys bet on everything?" asked Arnold.
"It helps pass the time." This one looked like a princess in a big frilly
gown. “We have a lot of time.”
"That's easy for you to say. You're not in constant agony," mumbled
Norbert.
"Son, why don't you slow down on the questions for a while? It's hard for
us to get excited about much. We've known for millions of years that an ugly
gnome-like man with a kazoo would catch up with us at high noon today. We've
been expecting you." This Bools seemed somewhat in charge. He was human
looking, and wearing a tuxedo
"Everything's so predictable," moaned Norbert.
"Many of us learned English long ago for this day. Why don't you fly your
little ship down to that yellow planet over there? They're really our ships. We've
got a few days of dull receptions planned for you, and then you can meet
Kleptop. He's the oldest of us all. He's dying, but he wants to meet with you."
"What if he dies too soon?"
"Don't worry, he knows exactly when he's going. And son, take a long, hot
bath. The Jewasians run some here. You smell like cat piss."
Arnold didn't mind being spoken to condescendingly; he was used to it
from Snarek. He figured it was OK since the Booleans were so much older and
wiser than he, and he was right. Even the dull receptions were fascinating, and
he wished even more Cassandra was with him to see the amazing sights. The
Bools also made the best drinks he'd ever tasted. Unfortunately, Norbert was his
escort. He constantly complained and whined, refusing to answer any real
questions. "Wait for Kleptop. Then you'll be disappointed."
"Why are you building a new Pan-Galactic Memory Bank?"
"It helps pass the time. That's why I went all over the galaxy leaving signs
for you. What a pain that was. All that travel, and no frequent flyer miles."
Norbert pretended to fall asleep.
"It looks better than the old one. You even put in a lake. Why?"
"I don't have the vaguest idea how Kleptop thinks. It makes me seasick
just looking at it."
Arnold gave up on the depressing old Bool after he described Cassandra's
golden hair. Norbert said the shine would annoy him. Then he asked Norbert
how old he was. "About 500 million of your years, and I feel every one twice."
The day came when Norbert brought Arnold before Kleptop. He was a
grizzled old creature the size of a Tortelli Rhino, unshaven, but his wrinkled
natural armor plating was bright lavender with teal trim. The large chamber was
bare except for his throne, and had greasy slate flagstones for a floor. Kleptop
was choking on a beer.
"Have one, son; that's the answer you've been looking for."
"I can't bear any more hangovers," said Norbert.
"I can ask you anything?"
"I've been hanging on for just that, son,” answered Kleptop with a goodnatured humor that Arnold naturally failed to notice.
It was the only time Arnold ever heard Norbert laugh.
"The old Pan-Galactic Memory Bank told us years ago you'd come before
me today, and then I'd kick off."
"You know exactly when you'll die? Why don't you just make a new
body? Everyone else around here seems to do it."
"I don't want to know exactly when, just that I'll make it through our
meeting. I've got a lot of money riding on the exact time. A couple billion years is
enough for anyone."
"Why are you building a new Pan-Galactic Memory bank? Why not just
fix the old one?"
"That old thing? It was a mere abacus. Mention it not in the same breath
with what we are creating here. Besides, the Malthusians finally won in court, so
they blew it up. They said it blocked their view." Kleptop just sighed wearily.
"But there's no one out here yet!"
"By the time people get here, they might know the right questions to ask.
This will be no mere memory bank, but instead The Omnipotent Pan-Galactic
Bean Counter! In about thirty million years it will tell us where It is once we turn
it on."
"Always waiting, endless waiting..." said Norbert with a sigh.
"So you knew It?"
"Ah...It. Knew It well. Drinking buddy. Paled around a lot." He pushed a
button on his throne. A holographic image appeared in the middle of the room of
a healthier looking Kleptop walking down an emerald covered beach of an
orange sea. He had his arm around-- nothing. "It never did take a good picture."
"Did It create everything?"
"Well, sort of. It depends how you look at it. It created us about 10 billion
years ago. It was lonely. Then it took a break."
Arnold's enthusiasm was turning into confusion. Norbert looked bored.
"So when did the break end?"
"That's what we hope the Omnipotent Pan-Galactic Bean Counter will tell
us."
"You mean--"
"You're a tad slow on the draw, aren't you, son? I think you're beginning
to see the Truth. We created the Knorr, and then took a break. We were lonely
because It was always disappearing. The Knorrans went around cataloguing all
the promising planets until we finished the Pan-Galactic Memory Bank. When
we had all the answers we wanted, we called them back. No point to it."
"What did they find?"
"Nothing. On all the planets with a primeval nutrient broth, there was
nothing. No life at all."
"So why is there life?"
"According to The Memory Bank, Knorran sewage was the key. After that,
everything else was predictable. Remember what the first life on Earth was?
"Sure. Blue-Green Algae. What of it?"
"What color are the Knorrans and everything they make?"
"Blue."
"Well, maybe now you'll catch on, son."
"All life is a cesspool," came Norbert's droll comment.
Arnold was astounded to find that nearly all life had originated out of
loneliness, or Knorran crap. He felt more alone than ever before. He got another
beer from Kleptop's tap as Norbert snickered repulsively. Although many of his
questions were rendered pointless, he stubbornly refused not to ask them. "What
does It look like? How does It get around?"
Old Kleptop waved his hand. "It looks like It wants to. It is polymorphous,
a shape shifter. Sometimes It walks, takes a cab, uses a ship, or just pops up
wherever."
"But doesn't It transcend the laws of physics?"
"The laws of physics as you know them are descriptive, not proscriptive."
Kleptop started choking again. He had another beer.
"I've been trying to travel faster than light for thousands of years. Why
can't I? Would time go backwards?"
"A tiny pinprick of experience. Time go backwards? An absurd concept.
When you learn to transcend physics, you'll go as fast as you want. It wanted a
speed limit of some kind, so It would have some space to Itself. Life is like a
virus, after all. People are always complaining the speed limits are too low."
"When will we learn to transcend physics?"
"Probably never," sighed Norbert. "That's why we're so big, for our brains.
My neck's been aching something miserable for the past hundred million years
or so, and a headache, with a brain like mine-- well, that can make me even more
suicidal..."
Arnold was getting very depressed, but he was driven on. "Then why are
you here? Why not travel? What's beyond the edge of the universe?"
"We have to be somewhere, son, but why go everywhere? Last I heard It
was trying to figure out what to do next."
“OK, “ said Arnold, “But tell me why we are born only to suffer and die?”
He waited for the great answer from the wisest creature alive.
“Son, that’s an easy one. All answers to the question are lies, so just pick
the best lies you know that fit into your scheme of life, in your case the Scheme of
Imaginative Logic, and live a long and happy life if you can. But your Scheme,
that’s a good one, first time we ever heard something that unique that wasn’t just
plain crazy, like the Mormons or Christianity or other strangeness, like Judaism
and guilt. What are they guilty of? I’ve always been interested in Earth myself.
But why does your planet so enjoy fraud and consistently elect insane leaders?
We still can’t figure out why.”
"A question I keep asking myself, Kleptop, sir. One final question--"
"I'll believe it when I hear it," was Norbert's acerbic remark.
"Is there life after death?"
"We never figured out where that idea came from either. Even the PanGalactic Memory Bank never predicted that one. You guys just never knew what
questions to ask it. Didn't you Earthlings once nail somebody to a cross for
suggesting that people should be nice to each other? What a silly idea. Happens
all the time. Does everybody really think It hangs around listening to their
whining? After death, kaput. I've got too much time to care anymore. Kaput."
"Isn't that the truth? Life, love it or leave it; it's just not worth the effort."
said Norbert.
Arnold straightened himself up to his best Star trooper attention, albeit
with a beer mug in his hand. He didn't want to ask any more questions ever
again. "You know, The Creator of the Universe, I think he's just insane."
Kleptop laughed hilariously until he started coughing again. He chugged
a beer to calm down. His beers were several liters due to his enormous size.
"You're catching on, son. But It's a hell of a thing to pal around with. That's why
we're building the Bean Counter."
Then Kleptop fell asleep.
"Kleptop's just a social climber." Norbert poured a beer over him to wake
him. "There's a couple more things you'll want to know. I don't want to be
bothered."
"...Mmmm...yes, I guess so. That creature you're always moaning
about...Er..."
"Cassandra."
"Yes, right-- we could build you a replacement, but a replacement's never
the same, son. The best thing for you would be, go find her again. Gamble on
happiness; the odds are against it, but it's worth a roll of the dice. What else is
there?"
Norbert nudged Kleptop again.
"One second last question, Oh Great Kleptop. Then I'll never ask another."
"Go ahead, shoot." Kleptop seemed resigned.
"What were It's Last Words?"
"Something about getting together with his long term girlfriend, maybe
even getting married. They’ve been having issues. It has problems too, when
you’re running everything after all. Then It started muttering about finding a
good pastrami sandwich and some decent slaw around town. Then It
disappeared."
Kleptop fell fast asleep. Norbert poured another beer on him, then slipped
and fell moaning to the floor. He stayed there dejectedly holding his head.
Arnold steeled himself for his Ultimate Question by draining a huge beer.
"Oh Great Kleptop, when did time begin and where does space end?"
Kleptop finally looked interested. He dropped his mug on Norbert's head
in a choking fit. And then he answered, "It begins with love, and it ends in love.
After wisdom, what else can there be?"
Arnold slid his way out of the greasy chamber leaving the sleeping
Kleptop with the moaning Norbert following. He finally knew the Ultimate
Truth.
Arnold followed Norbert as they clumped back to their quarters. "I told
you you'd be disappointed. And I bet you never saw a Knorran with their head
uncovered, either. Hardly worth it, anyway."
"Shut up." Arnold realized that for thousands of years he'd been on a
fool's mission, and that's why the Booleans had told him the Truth, and told the
Knorr to give him a good ship. He was the perfect one for it. Only a fool can see
the Truth. But he kept his promise and never asked another real question.
An absent-minded maniac with girlfriend problems ran the Universe, and
all life came from Knorran crap. He sent back a message to one of Snarek's
cloned embryos. It said, "The more the Universe becomes comprehensible, the
more it seems pointless. I'm taking a long break."
He'd had the answer with him for thousands of years as he'd traveled
with Cassandra seeking The Truth.
On his way back to Here & Now, and his one true love, one day It just
appeared out the cabin window as Arnold idly stared at the stars. Arnold just
knew it was It. He wore a typical earth business suit from Arnold’s youth on
Earth, looked very handsome, and had bright lavender hair and sapphires as
pupils. He was just floating in space, keeping perfect pace with the ship near the
speed of light. Only It could possibly do that Arnold knew. Yet they could speak
normally.
“Your Scheme of Imaginative Logic, it’s quite creative, like the countless
religions I’ve invented,” It said conversationally.
“You invent religions?”
“Of course son. Better me than the rest of you. Kind of a hobby actually.
But you people always change them around, usually into something
catastrophic.”
“So all religions are false?”
“Maybe not. They seem real enough to me, just like your Logic. I don’t
know.”
Arnold noticed It didn’t seem too concerned about not knowing Itself.
Suddenly he stopped caring too. “So what’s it all about?”
It shrugged, running his hand through his beautiful royal hair. “We are
here to help each other to get through this thing, whatever it is.”
“Wait!” yelled Arnold, as It started to fade away, but the last words he
heard from It was, “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
If it strikes anyone unusual that It used a favorite quote from an American
novelist dead thousands of years, who’s to say It didn’t give the line to Vonnegut
in the first place?
Legend has it that Arnold returned to find Cassandra, and they lived
happily ever after on Here & Now. It is said that when Cassandra finally ran into
Arnold again, she merely asked: "Why did you want to find the Creator of
Everything, anyway?" Arnold only said, "I'm not sure anymore. It's just a job that
somebody's got to do, like anything else, and I was the right kind of guy to take
it on." She apparently thought this made complete sense.
They lived for a long, long time according to the lies that suited some best.
They traveled a bit, saw Anil and Snarek, some others. The Arcturans helped him
clone his nasty cat, Fido. But mostly they stayed home on their adopted world.
Nobody knows for sure if they had kids. But he never wrote another Adventure,
so the Legend of Arnold, the Space Hero only grew. Rumor had it that they were
waiting the 30 million years until the Bools finished the Pan-Galactic Omnipotent
Bean Counter to ask some questions, but we doubt the inconvenience was worth
it to them, for they had all the answers they needed.
Note From Author: The Arnold Stories are excerpted from the novel Running From the
Paranoids, soon to be published. This novel proceeds Elephant Park, available at
Smashwords and introduces the essential characters of Igor & Allyson. There will be 3rd
& 4th books in the series too, including Skinny Dipping With Uranium.
You may contact the author or see his webpage at alexpark.net