The Red Tape War Part 19

"Is that really you, my Marshmallow?"

"Of coase it is, Daddy! Who else would it be?"

"Spell 'cat' for me."

She thought long and hard for about two minutes. "K-h-a-a-t?" she responded hesitantly.

"Marshmallow! But how'd you get back to normal?"

"Well, Ah ain't all that nohmal, Daddy. Them lizards, they wanted theah gen'rul back real bad. They didn't cayuh who was inside, it seems, but they said Ah weren't the type to give a tryal to. Said somebody'd figah that Ah weren't real or somethin'. So they stuck me in this awful machine and read out all my mem-ries, and they did the same to poah Ahbiter Pieahce. Then they put me back heah, and him in the lizard. Said he'd do right fine! 'Coase, they didn't put ev'rything back, it seems. Ah got trouble 'memberin' too much."

"Well, there wasn't that much there to make it a loss, anyway," he a.s.sured her. "So where are you now?"

"Still in poah Pieahce's s.h.i.+p. He's gone, o'course. They rigged the s.h.i.+p so's if we try'n go anywheres we fall apaht! Ah'm stuck heah with a lovesick computer in Pieahce's old body puttin'

the make on me, stahk nekkid, both of us!"

Daddy frowned. "I see. And where are the lizards?"

"Beats me, Daddy. They said som'thin"bout havin' to go guand theah soldiers and they beat it outta heah 'bout a couple awahs ago.'"All right. Keep broadcasting the locator signal and I'll have you picked up. It's a real relief to know you're all right, I can tell you. If I'd had time to have another kid you wouldn't have gotten so much of my time. However, now all's well. And you tell that dumb computer to keep his new hands off you!"

"Yeah, Ah did, but it ain't that easy, Daddy. I already kicked him in the b.a.l.l.s once and he likes pain! Oh, come quick!"

"Hang on, Marshmallow! I'm coming!" He switched off the intercom. "You'll arrange for her pickup, Herb? Bring her a decent outfit, too."

"I'll take care of it, boss. You want me to take care of those egg pods we been tracking before those lizards can get to 'em?"

"Might as well. They deserve it anyway. Try and keep one batch for study. They could have some profit potential. Oh-and make an appointment as soon as possible for my tearful reunion with my daughter. I think I have at least ten minutes free next Tuesday a week."

"Will do, boss. What about the others?"

"Send that computer turned into a man to the science labs. Maybe they can dissect him and figure out how it was done. A computer inside a human brain! Gad! Think of it! Think of the potential if we could reverse it! I'd be immortal instead of merely practically so! The others- what use have we for misadapted aliens? After those two get off, blow the s.h.i.+p to h.e.l.l!"

A letter comes in from J. Pierpont von Platt which states: "All right, already! We've had to endure yet another of Chalker's interminable body-switching routines. Enough is enough, already! You'd think that after 137 body-switching and transformation books he'd go on to some- thing else! Why do the two of you, both certified Hugo winners, allow him to indulge his bizarre hangups when it's obvious that you're just making us pay for his cheapness in not seeking psychotherapy?"

Well, Mr. von Platt, you've answered your own question. Chalker's never won a Hugo or a Nebula, it's true; indeed, the last time he was even nominated for anything like that was back in 1978. Critics love to pillory him. On the other hand, critics have always loved one of us, and have recently loved another, for being or becoming artistes, writing to high esoteric literary tastes. In the meantime, Chalker has merely proceeded to make about a zillion bucks, become a consistent best-selling author, grill filet mignons on his palatial estate between his jacuzzi and his pool, and even taken time to publish Harlan Ellison. Consider, then, Mr. von Platt, that if you've gotten this far, do you really think the two award-winners are going for yet another nomination here or are they going for the money?

On the other hand, all of us, without exception, live in sheer terror that someone with the Modern Language a.s.sociation will discover this work and proclaim it for years as the most brilliant, multileveled thing any of us has ever done.

Ms. Prudence Gulliwinkle of the University of West Sheboygan writes: "I am torn in two directions by the social dimension of the previous chapter. On the one hand, it is gratifying to see that s.e.xist pig of a hero of yours wind up on the other end of things for a change; on the other hand, your heroine is a true bimbo."

Well, Ms. Gulliwinkle, all of us red-blooded males sheepishly admit to a fondness for ogling bimbos, but, in our defense, none of us married one, nor would we want our sisters to marry one, either.

Lastly comes a letter from Mr. Bernard P. Snodgress of La Carumba, California, who wonders why we waste so much time in digressions when we could be getting back to beautiful naked bimbos and all that other good stuff no matter who is in who. Lacking a coherent answer to that . . .

Bypa.s.sing bureaucracy was not an easy thing to do in any age, and certainly not in this one, not even for such a one as Daddy-or, in this case, Daddy's operational chief. Herb sat there, scratching his head, sorting out what had to be done. First, send in a rescue party that was armed and capable of resisting unknown alien forms while still effecting a proper rescue of Marshmallow and then blowing the s.h.i.+p to h.e.l.l. Second, round up an even greater force to intercept those egg pods before they landed anywhere that mattered and blow them to h.e.l.l as well. And, third, keep that lizard dreadnought occupied and out of harm's way while one and two were accomplished.

The resources were available entirely within Daddy's big business empire, since they had their own exclusive communications channels with unbreakable codes. But any such empire always had its malcontents and weak links no matter how thorough the job preparation seminar- otherwise known as brain laundry session-was at doing its job. If he used Company s.h.i.+ps and personnel to stop an alien invasion, somebody someday might file a report that would be the only sort of report that the bureaucracy handled with the speed of lightning: that someone was bypa.s.sing the bureaucracy. That could be nasty and cost zillions of credits, all of which the boss would take out of his hide. There was no way around it; he'd have to hire some mercenaries and freebooters.

That meant using the Secondary Nautical Auxiliary Ferry Oscillation Operation, and he dreaded that. It meant using coded messages from here, where he was, to relay point A, where the message would be decoded, recoded, and resent by a new operator, and so on, and so on, until it reached its destination. It was clumsy, so much so he'd never used it himself before, but good old S. N. A. F. O.O. had always been alleged to be the most totally secure way to send a message ever.

He punched the requirements into his computer console and it came up with several possibilities, the most likely being an old half-Irish, half-French pirate who claimed to be the direct descendant of both Jean LaFitte and Sean McCorkle, the latter being, of course, the legendary smuggler who brought snakes back in to Ire-land. He was alleged to be headquartered in an inn on La Hibernia under the sign of the solid green tricolor. Well, it was worth a try and the distance and sector were convenient. With S. N. A. F. O. O., it would be a simple matter to contact him and make him an offer with no one, absolutely no one, able to trace the call.

Yes, old Paddy de Faux Grais was the one, all right. But how to phrase the message? He switched to the S. N. A. F. O. O. channel and sent: To station XBJ-1223309-X:

ONE BILLION, REPEAT, BILLION, CREDITS OFFERED TO DO SIMPLE JOB. NEED.

YOU TO PICK UP ONE FEMALE AND ONE MALE Pa.s.sENGER FROM DISABLED.

s.p.a.cEs.h.i.+P AND THEN ELIMINATE s.h.i.+P AND ALL OTHERS ABOARD. REPLY.

ADDRESS AT HEADER BY THIS CHANNEL.

There! That should do it!

The message went out immediately, automatically encoded by his central computer, then was decoded by a station far off in Sector J-449, a world where Dutch was the native tongue. It was decoded, read back in, with a heavy Dutch accent of course, and sent on to another world in Sector H-335, a world which decoded the message and then relayed it, this time in Swahili accents. And so it went, back and forth, through Scotch and French, and also through Arcturian and Betelguesian and many other ac-cents and tongues, until it popped up at the address given, the numbers being always a constant.

They were just opening up for the night's games and entertainment with the traditional Ma.r.s.eillaise played on the bagpipes when Old Seamus tottered in with the paper in his hand.

"Telegram for ye, Paddy!"

He stood there, a huge man with a bushy black beard, bandana around his head, and eye patches over both eyes.

"Arrr! Sink me harbour and all that pirate bilge!Lemme see what ye got there, Seamus." He took the paper, flipped up one eye patch and read it, and frowned. He turned it on its side, tried again, then tried it upside down. "What kind of code be this, Seamus?"

"Ain't no code, Paddy, I swear! Come in plain, I tell ye!"

Paddy read the paper again.

SAMPLE REPEEK BILLION BILLION FEMURS TO PICK UP DECAYED SPICE SHEEP.

AND MAIL AND DEFECATE SHEEP AND ALL UDDERS ABROAD.

"Arrr! This be gibberis.h.!.+ But the reply's there. How'd this come in, Seamus?" "Relay, Yer Meanness. S. N. A. F. S.N.A.F.O.O. system."

"Hmmm . . . Never used that one meself, but 'tis said it's the most secure of all, but this message got to be fouled up somewheres along the line, arr. Let me scribble a line on the back of this here paper for ye to send back to 'em whoever they is and get some sense."

Seamus looked at the block-printed characters.

ORIGINAL MESSAGE GIBBERISH. PLEASE SEND AGAIN. LOVE, PADDY.

The pirate nodded. "Arr! And bring me the reply!"

Old Seamus hurried back to the combination hyper-s.p.a.ce transmission facility and brewery he ran and fired up the S. N. A. F. 0.0. channel, then read in the message exactly as Paddy gave it to him.

It went out on the proper channel, on an entirely different route, through accent after accent and language after language, and finally it popped out again where Herb was sitting.

He picked up the message, read it, and frowned.

GIBBERING Ma.s.sAGE ORGY. PLEASE SEND PATTY. LOVE GIN.

"Geez! That must be some inn!" he said aloud, wis.h.i.+ng he were there. However, business was business.

SORRY TO INTERRUPT FUN, BUT NEED YOU TO DO QUICK AND DIRTY JOB FOR.

BIG MONEY. WILL YOU GO OR SHOULD I GET SOMEONE ELSE?.

Back and forth the message went, until Old Seamus tottered in again. By this time Paddy was a bit drunk, and had other problems.

"Arr! I've gone blind! Can't read a blasted thing!"

"Er, sorry, Captain, but don't you think you oughta maybe lift one of them eye patches?" the old man suggested. "Why do you wear two of 'em, anyway?"

Paddy started a moment, then raised one of the patches. "It's a bloomin' miracle, it is! I can see again!" He paused. "Huh? What was yer question?"

"Why do you wear two eye patches anyway?"

"Us pirates always wear eye patches, old man. You know that. It's in the instruction manual you get at pirates' school. But I can never remember which eye to wear it over, that's all. Now- let's see that message."

SORE TO INTERPRET FONDUE, BUT KNEAD EWE QUACK UND D.T.'S FOUR BUG.

MOONEY. WILL HUGO OR GAROT ONE SMELLS?.

"This be lunacy!" Paddy swore. "I think there be some problems with this secure system. It be so secure n.o.body can ever figure out the message!"

Seamus stared at the paper. "I dunno. A ewe is a girl sheep, and the first message said something about sheep, did it not? Maybe this fella's tied up in a fondue party and needs somebody to smuggle his sheep in."

"Sheep? For fondue?"

"Well, maybe they're using sheep dip. Who knows.bout some of them strange customs out there, and there's no accountin' for taste." "Aye, I've boiled a few mutineers in soft cheese meself," the captain admitted. "Still and all, I'm gonna give this swabbie one more try and then to perdition with 'im!"

He scribbed something again on the back of the paper and Seamus read:

CALL ME DIRECT. MESSAGES NOT CLEAR. PIRATES DON'T CARRY NO SHEEP!.

At the other end, Herb stared at the message and sighed. Maybe this system had a few bugs in it, he decided.

ME DERICK COLD. MOOSE SAGES NO ECLAIR. PIE RATES DAREN'T CARRION.

NOSE HEAP!.

For a moment he wondered if he was being insulted, but then he got hold of himself and asked the master computer for a.n.a.lysis.

"Have you ever played 'rumor?" it asked him. "Yes, as a child."

"Remember what happens when you whisper some-thing to the first person in line, who then whispers it to the second, and so on? What comes out at the other end?"

"Yes. It bears little resemblance-oh! I see! But how can I get the proper message to him any way but this without being traced?"

"You might try just sending it in tight code directly to our office on La Hibernia," the computer suggested. "Then have the local computer there transmit in the clear to the local station, who won't know where it came from. Have them respond to one of our electronic mail stops we keep there for confidential reasons under the name of that contracting company the president's son fronts for us, and have that computer shoot it back here."

Herb snapped his fingers. "Of course! Why didn't I think of that?" He paused a moment.

"Uh-we have a local office on La Hibernia?"

"We have local offices everywhere. And as to your first question, if you had thought of it, then you could be the central computer and I would get to spend your money on wild and frivolous living," the computer responded.

"Skip it. I don't have time. Okay, now we'll get it right."

And, this time, he did. Unfortunately, by this time Paddy was four sheets to the wind and it was the next afternoon, late, when his hangover had subsided to the point where he could read the perfectly clear and understandable message without it looking to him like it had come through the S. N. A. F. O.O. system.

The moment he hit "a billion credits" he discovered that his hangover was completely gone.

"An! Round up the crew, me hearties!" he cried. "Get the Bon Homme McClusky ready to sail! We got some real profitable piratin' to do!"