Atlantis And Other Places Part 23

"So do I," Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash said. "Especially about the food in there-it's terrible."

"And such small portions," the Galactic officials chorused.

"How did you know?" Shup asked in genuine surprise. "Or do they bust everybody?"

"Never mind," the officials said, not quite in harmony. "Go back to Versailles. Observe. Take notes. For G.o.d's sake, don't talk."

"Oh, all right," the hamster s.p.a.ce cadet grumbled.

Go back he did. Observe he did. Take notes he did. Talk he didn't, for G.o.d's sake. Except for two missing rooms and an enormous RD spray-painted on the side of the palace, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Frustrated, Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash hopped into his wheel and departed for Alpharalpha B, home of the sagacious k.u.mquats. "So what kind of jam are you in?" he asked them.

After local Galactic officials secured his release from the thornbush, he proceeded with his investigation. "You see what they have done!" a sagacious k.u.mquat cried, showing him the ruins of the royal palace.

"Looks like the throne room and the antechamber are gone, all right," Shup agreed . . . sagaciously. "What are those big squiggles on the wall there?"

"They stand for the characters you would call RD," the k.u.mquat replied.

"They do, do they? Looks like it might be a clue." Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash's sagacity score went right off the charts with that observation-in which direction, it is better to specu late than never. The s.p.a.ce Patrol didn't raise any dummies, but sometimes it found one and took him in and made him its own.

"What will you do? You must get the sacred structures back!" the k.u.mquat keened. "How will our sovereign root in peace without them?"

"Somebody did something pretty seedy to you, all right," the s.p.a.ce cadet said.

After local Galactic officials secured his release from the thornbush again-it took longer this time-they told him, "Perhaps it would be better if you pursued your investigations somewhere else. Otherwise, the k.u.mquats warn, they will soon be pursuing you."

"Some people-well, highly evolved and sagacious k.u.mquats-are just naturally sour," Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash complained. Neverthenonetheless, and entirely undisirregardless of the slavering mob of fruit salad at his furry heels, he made it into the Patrol speedster and got the hatch shut just in the proverbial Nicholas of time.

Even with the wheel drive, it's a long, long way from Alpharalpha B to Amana XI. Our intrepid s.p.a.ce cadet put the time to good use, but after a while even p.o.r.n began to pall and he decided to do some research instead. He Googled RD. How he could get online while far beyond the normal limits of s.p.a.ce and time may well be known to the omniscient narrator (I mean, after all, what isn't?), but he ain't talking. What the s.p.a.ce cadet found . . . you'll see. Eventually. Keep your s.h.i.+rt on.

Before climbing out of the airlock on Amana XI, Rufus Q. climbed into his coldsuit. Otherwise, all he would have needed was a stick shoved up the wazoo to become the Galaxy's first Hamstersicle. But he would have been too d.a.m.n frozen to shove a stick where it needed to go, so it's just as well he remembered the suit.

"Tell me," he said to one of the ammonia/ice blobs awaiting his arrival at the s.p.a.ceport, "are your females frigid?"

Once local Galactic officials had secured his release from the hotbox . . . the s.p.a.ce cadet was rather vexed at them. The ammonia /ice blobs of Amana XI tormented convicts by subjecting them to heat well above the freezing point of water, and were also inblobane enough to make them endure an oxygen-enhanced atmosphere. Some of the munchies were stale, but it was the best digs ol' Rufus Q. could've found on the whole planet.

He got back into his coldsuit for a whirlwind tour of the devastated palace. Once the whirlwind subsided, he saw on the icy wall now exposed to the elements-and compounds-some writing in an alien script he couldn't begin to read. "What's that say?" he asked.

"In your symbology, it would stand for RD," the nearest ammonia /ice blob answered.

"Probably doesn't mean Research and Development Research and Development, then," Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash sighed. "That'll teach me to hit the 'I Feel Lucky' b.u.t.ton, even if I did."

"What are you going to do?" the blob demanded. "Do you not see the magnificence despoiled?"

"Reminds me more of the inside of a root freezer without the G.o.dd.a.m.n roots," the forthright s.p.a.ce cadet replied. He was, by then, quite looking forward to seeing the inside of the hotbox once more. The ammonia/ice blobs appeared overjoyed to oblige him, too. His only real complaint was that the seeds they fed him still weren't of the freshest. He stuffed his cheek pouches full even so.

Once local Galactic officials had secured his release from the hotbox again, they gently suggested his investigation might proceed more promisingly elsewhere. He was inclined to agree with them; he'd discovered that spitting seed casings inside a coldsuit was an exercise in sloppy futility.

Thus it was that Cadet Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash reboarded the redoubtable Habitrail Habitrail, spun the wheel up to translight speed, and sped off to Gould IV and its saurian humanoids. Past walking on their hind legs, they didn't particularly remind him of Frenchmen. Of course, they were even less hamsteroid, which might have colored his opinion. As far as he was concerned, anything with a long scaly tail at one end and a big mouth full of sharp teeth at the other was not to be trusted.

One of the saurians at the s.p.a.ceport eyed him and remarked, "You look like you'd go down well with drawn b.u.t.ter."

Shup drew not b.u.t.ter but his trusty blaster. "You look like you'd look good on my wall," he replied cheerfully. "In this Galaxy, nothing is certain but death and taxidermy."

He belonged to the Patrol. He had the right to carry any weapon he chose. If he killed, he was a.s.sumed to know what he was doing. The Galaxy, as you will have figured out, was in deep kimchi, but this isn't that kind of story. This is the kind of story where the saurians would have jugged him not for toting lethal hardware but as punpunishment. And since it is that kind of story, you may rest a.s.sured they did.

Once local Galactic officials had pulled the cork from the jug, a somewhat chaster (he was alone, after all, and not even bull-hamster horniness could make the saurians s.e.xy) but unchastened Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash emerged. He didn't even have to draw his blaster again-which was just as well, since he was no artist-to get the saurians to take him to their royal palace so he could view the missing throne room and antechamber (or rather, view that they were were missing-he couldn't very well missing-he couldn't very well view view them them while while they were missing, could he?) and what he was coming to think of as the inevitable graffiti. they were missing, could he?) and what he was coming to think of as the inevitable graffiti.

There seemed to be rather more of them this time. "What do they say?" he inquired of his guide, a stalwart, shamrock-green Gouldian named Albert O'Saurus.

Albert seemed to have inherited a full set of teeth from each parent, and a set from each grandparent, too, maybe for luck. "'Royal Drive,'" he answered. "'Next stop-Galactic Central!'"

Sinister organ chords rang out in the background, or at least in the s.p.a.ce cadet's perfervid imagination. "A clue!" quoth he.

"Faith, what a brilliant deduction," Albert O'Saurus said-the Gouldians didn't find sarcasm illegal, immoral, or fattening. "And how did you come up with it, now?"

Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash eyed the saurian. "Well, it's not exactly a cloaca-and-dagger operation," he replied.

Once local Galactic officials had pulled the cork from the jug again-it took longer this time, as second offenses, and offensive offenses, were commonly punpunished by devourment-they encouraged him to spread his talents widely across the sea of stars. "If you stay here any longer," one of them said, "the Gouldians will will eat you. With mustard." eat you. With mustard."

The hamster s.p.a.ce cadet made a horrible, incisor-filled face. "Can't stand mustard," he said. "Ta-ta! I'm off! Me and the baked beans."

"Where will you go?" the official inquired.

"Galactic Central, I do believe," Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash answered.

Ah, Galactic Central! I could go on for pages, or even reams-the disadvantage of being an omniscient narrator. But this isn't that that kind of story, either, and I will pause while you thank your local deity or demon that it isn't. . . . There. Are you finished now? Good. We can go on. kind of story, either, and I will pause while you thank your local deity or demon that it isn't. . . . There. Are you finished now? Good. We can go on.

What you do need to know about the fabulous Galactic Central, and what you will most likely (probability, 87.13%-how's that for omniscient?) have figured out for yourself, is that it boasts the grandest and spiffiest palace in all the Galaxy, that being where the Galactic Emperor and Empress hang out. Said palace boasts the most garish and over-the-top-excuse me, most colorful and extravagant-throne room in all the Galaxy, and also the most likewise and likewise-excuse me, most likewise and likewise-antechamber in all the et cetera.

"I bet the bad guys are going to try and steal them for the Royal Drive," Shup said as he powered up the Habitrail Habitrail's wheel. Then he said, "What the h.e.l.l is is the Royal Drive?" Except for the graffiti on Gould IV, he'd never heard of it. the Royal Drive?" Except for the graffiti on Gould IV, he'd never heard of it.

Google had never heard of it, either. Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash wondered whether he was accessing the Chinese system. But no. It was-cue the portentous music again-Something New.

Though his electronic aids failed him, the dedicated s.p.a.ce cadet persevered. He had one major advantage over the others whom Erasmus Z. Utnapishtim (remember him?) might have chosen to save the Galaxy . . . or at least its throne rooms and antechambers. Not only was he a hamster, he was a punster as well, as he had proved to the dismay and discomfiture of ammonia/ice blobs and shamrock-green saurian humanoids alike.

And as he neared Galactic Central, he suddenly slowed on the wheel in astonishment-and almost pitched the P.S. Habitrail Habitrail back into normal s.p.a.ce in an abnormal place. That wouldn't have been good-so he didn't actually back into normal s.p.a.ce in an abnormal place. That wouldn't have been good-so he didn't actually do do it. it.

What he did do was cry out, "Eureka!" Why the name of a not very large city in northern California should have become the cry for discovering something, Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash did not know, but it had. The Patrol could be a tradition-bound-even a tradition-gagged-outfit sometimes.

He spun the wheel up to an almost blistering pace. Then, when his feet and little front paws started to hurt, he slowed down again-but not so much, this time, as to endanger his speedster. He thought furiously, which was odd, because he wasn't particularly furious.

"It must work that way," he said. "This story won't run long enough for a lot of wrong guesses." If he'd guessed wrong there, he might have found himself trapped in a novel, but the speedster wasn't a Fforde, so he escaped that fate, anyhow. He shook his head and snuffled his whiskers at the iniquity of the throne-room (and antechamber) thieves. "I must foil them," he declared, and checked his supplies of aluminum, tin, and silver.

He was so transfixed by his fit of a.n.a.lytical brilliance that he almost wheeled right past Galactic Central and back out into the Galactic Boonies. But he didn't-this story won't run long enough for a lot of mistakes, either.

Being a s.p.a.ce cadet helped him get through the entry formalities in jig time-which, since he didn't dance, was more than a little challenging. A day and a half later, the freedom of Galactic Central was his, as long as the GPS and radiological tracking devices surgically implanted near his wazoo gave answers the powers that be approved of. Otherwise, the tiny nuke implanted near that very same sensitive place would sadly spoil our upcoming denouement, to say nothing of half a city block. So we won't.

He hopped on the closest available public transport, discovered it was going the wrong way (see?-we did have room for a mistake after all), hopped off, and got on, this time, as luck (and the necessities of plotting) would have it, going toward the sublime (or something) residence of the beloved (or something) Galactic Emperor and Empress.

No sooner had he arrived-talk about timing! I mean, really!-than a giant chainsaw suddenly appeared in the sky and started carving away at (are you surprised?) the throne room . . . and the antechamber. People screamed. People ran. People coughed from flying sawdust. People of several different flavors got turned into hamburger of several different flavors. People inside the palace, caught by the paralyzer ray that went with the saw, didn't do much of anything.

Guards outside the palace started shooting at the parts of the chainsaw crunching through the walls. Quick-thinking Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash fired at the power b.u.t.ton instead: a dot a centimeter wide three kilometers up in the air. Being a Patrol-trained markshamster and luckier than Lucky Pierre, he hit it dead-on, the very first try.

The chainsaw stopped chain-sawing. It fell out of the sky and smashed one of the ritziest neighborhoods-actually, several of the ritziest neighborhoods, because that was a big mother of a chainsaw-of Galactic Central to cottage cheese. Our bold s.p.a.ce cadet cared nothing for that, though. He was doing his duty, and he was d.a.m.ned if he'd let common sense stand in his way.

Das.h.i.+ng toward the chainsaw's survival capsule (How did he know where it was? He just knew. This is that that kind of story.), he was Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash on the spot when a saurian humanoid, an ammonia/ice blob in a hotsuit, a k.u.mquat, and a Frenchman came staggering out. kind of story.), he was Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash on the spot when a saurian humanoid, an ammonia/ice blob in a hotsuit, a k.u.mquat, and a Frenchman came staggering out.

"You're under arrest!" he shouted, covering them with his ever-reliable blaster. "Suspicion of firing a chainsaw without a license and operating an unauthorized s.p.a.ce drive within city limits. Don't n.o.body move!"

n.o.body didn't move . . . or something like that. "What do you know about the Royal Drive?" the Frenchman sneered. "How do you know it's unauthorized?"

"It must be unauthorized, because I couldn't Google it. And I know the Royal Drive uses the h.e.l.lacious energy output from mixing"-our s.p.a.ce cadet paused to build the moment, for he was indeed punster as well as hamster-"chamber and antechamber to propel your s.p.a.cecraft across the Galaxy in pursuance of your nefarious ends. But now you're busted, s.p.a.ce sc.u.m!"

The Frenchman, the k.u.mquat, and the saurian humanoid blanched. Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash presumed the ammonia/ice blob did, too-it is, after all, what self-respecting villains do under such circ.u.mstances-but the hotsuit kept him from being sure. Palace guards came up behind him. "What do we do with them, sir?" they asked respectfully.

"Take them away," the hamster replied grandly. "They will trouble the s.p.a.ceways no more."

Your omniscient narrator also has the pleasure to report that, shortly thereafter, s.p.a.ce Cadet Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash became Ensign Rufus Q. Shupilluliumash, with all the rights and privileges appertaining thereto. (Of course, he knew that would happen. Didn't you?) Our s.p.a.ce cadet's actions in this case were deemed to be in the highest tradition of the s.p.a.ce Patrol.

UNCLE ALF.

Because of everything that's happened since, we don't remember that World War I, and what did and didn't happen then, set the stage for the rest of the crowded and b.l.o.o.d.y twentieth century. Had the century's first great war turned out differently, we would not be living in the same world today, or anything like it. If the Kaiser's troops had made it to Paris, some people now altogether unknown would be famous, and some now famous would never have got the chance to play a big part on history's stage. Would the world be better? Worse? I have no idea. But it certainly would be different.

7 May 1929

My very dear Angela, You will have seen, I am sure, from the stamp and the postmark that I am now in Lille. I have not seen this place for almost fifteen years, but I well remember the pounding we gave it when we drove out the d.a.m.ned Englishmen. They fought hard, but they could not hold back the All-Highest's victorious soldiers. And even to this day, I find, the lazy Frenchmen have not bothered to repair all the damage the town suffered at that time.

But the Frenchmen, of course, are never too lazy to make trouble for the Kaiser and for the German Empire. That is why the Feldgendarmerie sent me here. When they want results, what do they do? They call on your uncle, that is what. They know I get the job done, come what may. And I aim to do it here, too, though I do not think it will be easy. Of course, if it were easy, they would send an ordinary fool.

Here in Lille, they call Feldgendarmerie men diables verts diables verts-green devils-on account of the tall green collars on our uniform tunics. I tell you for a fact, darling, I intend to send some of them straight to h.e.l.l. They deserve nothing less. They lost the war, which proves how naturally inferior they are to good German men, but now they think they can reverse the inescapable verdict of history with tricks and plots and foolery. I am here to show them how wrong they are.

You can write to me at the address on this envelope. I hope all goes well for you, and that you never have to trouble your lovely little head about the schemes of these degenerate Frenchmen. I send you many kisses, and wish I could give them to you in person. With much love, I remain your-

Uncle Alf

9 May 1929

My dearest sweet Angela, It is worse here than I imagined. No wonder they sent for me. Lille is one of the most backward cities in France. Dazzling riches and loathsome poverty alternate sharply. Side by side with commercial wealth dwell the homeless in gloom and mud. And, though it shames me to do so, I must tell you that at least half the Feldgendarmerie men here are as corrupt as any Frenchman.

I suppose it is inevitable that this should be so. Many of these men have been in their places in Lille since the days of the war. I am not lying or exaggerating a bit when I say they have become more French than German themselves. They live off the fat of the land. They have taken French mistresses and forgotten the good German wives they left back home.

Such degeneracy should be punished. Such degeneracy must be punished! I have made my views on this subject very clear. If only I held rank higher than Feldwebel, something might be done. But a small, ruthless clique of officers has shamelessly held back my advancement. When I think I turned forty last month with no more to show for my life than this, I know how unjust the world is. If only I had been allowed to show what I might do, everyone would hold his breath and make no comment. Of that you may be certain!

Still, I serve the German Empire with a loyal and honest heart. It is the last and best hope of mankind. French revanchism must be, shall be, mercilessly stamped out. Heads will roll here in Lille, and I shall rejoice to see it.

Meanwhile, I hope your own pretty head back there in Munich is happy and content. I send you kisses and hugs, and I will try to send you and your mother some smoked duck as well. You would be healthier without it, though. This I truly believe. It is one of my cardinal principles, and I shall go on trying to persuade you till the day I die. Meanwhile, in this as in all things, my honor remains true. I am, fondly, your-

Uncle Alf

11 May 1929

Sweet darling Angela, I hope to hear from you. In this miserable place, a letter would mean a very great deal indeed. Your love and kisses and the thought of you in my embrace could help me forget what a hole Lille is and what a pathetic lot of bunglers the local Feldgendarmerie men have proved to be.

They look ever so impressive as they strut through the town with big, fierce Alsatians on a leash at their sides. But here is the truth: the dogs are braver than all of them and smarter than most of them. They see nothing. They want to see nothing, to know nothing. So long as they can get through the day without noticing anything, they are content. Then in the evening they settle down to cigars and to wine or foul apple brandy from one of the local estaminets, of which, believe me when I tell you, there are a great many. Men with more disgusting habits would be difficult to imagine.

Yet these are the ones who are supposed to root out treason! It would be laughable if it were not so dreadful. No wonder they had to call in someone whose belly does not hang out half a kilometer over his belt! Gott mit uns, our belt buckles say. With these men, their bulging bellies hide G.o.d from the world, and surely the Lord on high does not much care to look at them, either.

With them all so fat and sluggish and useless, it is up to me to go into the workers' districts and sniff out the treason growing here. And I will sniff it out, and we will cut it out, and the Second Reich will go on ruling Europe, as it was destined to do.

And when I have done my duty, how I look forward to seeing you again, to hugging you against me, to running my hands through your golden hair. Truly the reward of the soldier for doing what he must is sweet. The thought of coming home to you makes me struggle all the harder here, so I may speed the day.

Also tell your mother I remain her affectionate half brother, and that I will write to her as soon as I find time. As always, I am your loving-

Uncle Alf

My darling and beloved Angela, By now I had hoped to receive at least one letter from you, yet the field post brings me nothing. Without word that you still feel kindly towards me, life seems very empty indeed. I do my duty-I always do my duty, for the enemies of the German Empire must be rooted out wherever they are found-but it is, I must tell you, with a heavy heart.

The French, though . . . Gott im Himmel, they are and shall always be our most implacable foes. The hatred on their faces when they see us go by! They may act polite when we are in earshot, but how they wish they had another chance to fight us! You can tell by the looks they give us that they believe the result would be different in a second match. The essence of German policy here is to make sure that second match never comes.

How I thank G.o.d that General von Schlieffen was so resolute during the war, and kept the right wing of our advance through Belgium and France strong, stronger, strongest despite the unexpectedly quick Russian invasion of our eastern provinces. Once we wheeled behind Paris, knocked the English out of the war, and made the mongrel Third Republic sue for peace, we easily regained the bits of territory the Czar's hordes stole from us. Soon enough we bundled the Slavic subhumans out of the Fatherland and back to the steppes where they belong! We still have not exploited Russia so fully as we should, but that day too will come. I have no doubt of it; those Cossack hordes must not be allowed to threaten civilized Europe ever again.

But to return to the French. Here in Lille, as elsewhere in this country, endless schemes of revenge bubble and trickle and fume. I must get to the bottom of them before they grow too poisonous. I shall not find much help here-that seems plain. But I am confident regardless. The superior man carries on to victory, alone if necessary, and lets nothing obstruct him in the slightest. This shall be my plan here in Lille.

I wish I would hear from you. Knowing that you feel towards me as I do towards you would steel my resolve in the death struggle against the enemies of the Volk and of the Kaiser. May we soon see each other again. I would like to take you out to a quiet supper and walk with you in the moonlight and kiss you until we both are dizzy. I shall look forward to my hero's homecoming while holding off Reds and Jews and others who so vilely plot against the Fatherland here on foreign soil. With all my love and patriotic duty, I remain your-