Avon’s Adventures

on

WonderWorld

by Celeste Hotaling-Lyons

“There will be nonsense in it.”

(Alice Pleasance Liddell)

Freely adapted from the works of Lewis Carroll

This book is too silly to pose any threat to the copyrights held by Terry Nation and the B.B.C.

(On the other hand, if you copy & sell it without my permission, I will have your kneecaps removed.)

Not a pence was made by the publisher/writer/illustrator! And how!

©1994

Introduction:

All on the blue-flickering screen

Four series-full we watched;

The special effects, with little skill,

The model ships were botched.

We all watched Blake, and all our hopes,

For Series Five were scotched.

Ah, cruel Beeb! In such an hour,

We want to know, “What gives?

Who made the grade? Who bled to death?

Who’s merely stunned? —Who lives?”

Yet what can one poor fan avail?

You toss us palliatives!

Tony Atwood’s After Life

Amazed us as we read.

Did Atwood even see the show,

or guess-&-write instead?

At any rate, this follow-up

Just left fans seeing red.

Oh, well, we’ll write our own ideas

As aprés-Blake we play.

Dream-images move through our brains,

To keep “reel” life at bay.

A friendly chat with other fen—

There’s always more to say.

We’ll never let the stories drain

The wells of fancy dry,

And, faintly, friends who tire of Blake’s

Say, “Please, just pass this by!”

“Another ‘zine! Oh, frabjous day!”

The Blake fans all reply.

Thus grows the legend of the gang

Who tried to overthrow

The Feds, the System, Auron gods

And any other foe

Of good and right, of truth and love.

(It had to end in woe.)

Avon! None changed more than you,

The leader of the band.

You started, love-lorn follower,

Until you took a stand.

“This ship is mine, not Blake’s!” you cried,

Then made sure Blake was canned.

Episode 1: Way Back Down the Wabbit-Hole

Avon was beginning to get very tired of sitting by his father on the computerbank, and of having nothing to do; once or twice he had peeped into the book his father was reading, but it had long words, like “sado-masochism” and “domination” in it, “and what is the use of a book,” thought Avon, “without computers or programming in it?”

So he was considering, in his own mind (as well as he could, for the hot sun made him feel very sleepy, especially since he was wearing black leather,) whether the pleasure of bumping off his father would be worth the trouble of getting up to steal his father’s double-edged serrated blade, when suddenly a small Delta with pink eyes (he’d apparently been drinking) ran close by him.

There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Avon think it so very much out of the way to hear the Delta say to himself, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I was just taking care of it while he was unconscious! Honest!”; but when the Delta actually took a wrist-chronometer out of his brown-suede jumpsuit pocket, looked at it, and then hurried on, Avon started to his feet, for it flashed across his mind that he had never before seen a Delta in a brown-suede jumpsuit, and, burning with curiosity, he ran after him, and was just in time to see him pop down a large man-hole.

In another moment down went Avon after him, never once considering how in the galaxy he was going to get out again. Of course, the fact that his father would be waiting for him when he did may have had some considerable bearing on his behavior.

Episode 2: Space Falling

The man-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Avon had not a moment to think about stopping himself before he found himself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well.

Either the well was a null-G transport tube, or he fell in slo-mo, for he had plenty of time as he went down to look about him, and to wonder what in the hell was going to happen next. He looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and bookshelves full of ancient fanzines and videotapes (in PAL, of course): here and there he saw artwork and posters cello-taped to the walls. He took down a bottle from one of the shelves as he passed; it was labeled “Saurian Brandy”, but apparently the Delta had got there before him for the bottle was empty; he did not like to drop the bottle, being mindful of the fact that he might well land upon it, so managed to put it into one of the bookcases as he fell past it.

Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end? “I wonder how many kilometers I’ve fallen by this time?” he mused aloud. “I must be getting somewhere near the center of the planet. Let me see: that would be four thousand kilometers down, I think—” (for you see, Avon had learnt several things of this sort in his lessons at Alpha School, and thought this was not a very good opportunity for showing off his knowledge, as there was no one to listen to him or to praise him for his cleverness, still it was good practice to say it over.) “—yes, that’s about the right distance—but I wonder what co-ordinates I’ve got to?” when suddenly, thump! thump! down he came upon a heap of tarriel cells and data discs, and the descent was over.

Avon was not a bit hurt, and he jumped up on to his feet in a moment: before him was another long passage, and the Delta was hurrying down it. Away went Avon like the wind, and he was just in time to hear the Delta say, “Oh my tools and lockpicks, we’ll be taking off at any moment!” Avon was close behind the little thief (for indeed, he knew was use a lockpick was put to even with his sheltered Alpha up-bringing,) but turning a corner found the Delta thief was no longer to be seen. Avon found himself in a room with a desk with an inset keyboard and a rack of bracelets on one side, and an alcove with large discs set into the floor at the other.

The room had no other doors or windows, and when Avon had explored all around and found no exits, he began to wonder how he was ever to get out again. Suddenly he came upon a box, all of glass with shiny, blinking lights inside of it; there was nothing on it but a small Key that fitted into an indent on the glass box. He fit the Key into the indent and to his great delight, the box began to hum and the blinking lights grew, if anything brighter and flickered faster.

Episode 3: Cygnus Alpha-ville

Avon considered the humming box until the whine began to get on his nerves. There seemed to be no use in waiting by the glass box, so he went to the desk with the inset keyboard and the rack of bracelets half hoping he might find some help there. This time he found tied around one of the bracelets a paper label with the words “Put me on” beautifully printed in large letters. Not being burdened with a conscience and therefore unafraid that he was appropriating someone else’s property, he put it on.

After a while when nothing happened, Avon, who was already getting hungry and tired, quite lost his temper and went over to the box that was still humming annoyingly, and kicked it. *I advise you to leave off this minute!* a fussy old voice ordered imperiously. Avon jumped back and went to pull his gun...then remembered he had no gun. “Curiouser and curiouser!” cried Avon (he was so much surprised, that for the moment he quite forgot how to speak good Alpha.) “Are you a computer?” he asked the glass box.

*Not merely a computer,* the grouchy box answered, *I am the computer!*

“If you are a computer, you are certainly not the like of any I’ve seen before,” mused Avon, ignoring the rude tone of the glass box. If you are a computer, I order you to find me something to eat, then I would like to find a way out of here!” He was an Alpha and top in his class, so he knew how to speak to computers.

*Why, certainly, I’ll help you,* said the glass box unctuously, *I believe if you go over to that alcove over there, you will find some small cakes, on which the words ‘Bite me’ will be beautifully marked in currants.*

Avon did not trust the sly glass box, but went to the alcove to see what he might find. But as soon as he stepped on one of the large discs set into the floor, a strange sensation overtook him. “What a curious feeling!” said Avon, “It is not all-together unlike being drunk!”, which, as you know, can be very unpleasant if you are a glass of water. “Why, I must be blowing out like a candle!”

And so he was indeed: he held up a hand and could almost see right through it! And he tried to fancy what the flame of a candle looks like after the candle is blown out, for he could not remember ever having seen such a thing.

The last thing he heard was the low, sly chuckle of a glass box who was very pleased with itself before he disappeared entirely.

Episode 4: Timex Squad

Avon found himself, shaken and confused, in an alcove very much like the one he had just left. He did not know how he knew it was not the same alcove—perhaps it was the way the light fell through the doorway, or the tang of the processed air, or the low, barely discernible background rumble he could feel through his boot soles—but Avon knew that somehow he was now on a spaceship.

After a time he heard the little pattering of feet in the distance, and he went to the door to see what was coming. It was the Delta thief returning , splendidly dressed in chamois, with a lockpick in one hand and a laserprobe in the other: he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came, “Oh, Blake, Blake! Oh! He’s gonna kill me if I’ve kept him waiting!” Avon felt so desperate that he was ready to ask help of anyone, even a Delta; so when the Delta thief came near, he said, “You there! The Delta cur! Tell me where I am, and tell me now!” The Delta started violently, dropped the lockpick and laserprobe, and scurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go.

Avon took up the lockpick and laserprobe and went down the hall, talking to himself as he went. “How very odd and unsettling everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual. I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? If I’m not the same, the next question is, Who in the world am I?” And he began thinking over all the Doctor Whos he knew to see if he could have been changed for any of them.

“I’m sure I’m not The Fourth Doctor,” he said, “for he is all teeth and curls, and I’m sure I can’t be The Sixth Doctor, for his taste is all in his mouth! Besides, he’s he, and I’m I, and—how puzzling it all is! I’ll see if I know all the things I used to know. I’ll try and say ‘How Doth The Little Tarriel Cell’” and he began to repeat it, but his voice, usually so velvety and smooth, came out all hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the same as they used to do:—

How doth the little rebel cell

Improve its reputation?

With bombing raids, and Ladies’ Aids,

To Terrorize the Nation.

How cheerfully they cheat to win,

How neatly spray their bullets,

They welcome little Deltas in

Then slaughter them like pullets!

“I’m sure those are not the right words,” said Avon, “But that was rather clever.”

Episode 5: The Dweeb

or:

“The Pool of Fears”

Poor Avon! To have forgotten the words of ‘How Doth The Little Tarriel Cell’! Unforgivable!

“I must be The Fifth Doctor after all!” Avon went on, “and I shall have to live in that horrible poky little t.a.r.d.i.s., and have to wear those dreadful clown clothes, and oh, with ever so many dim-witted companions to endure! No, I’ve made up my mind about it: if I’m The Fifth Doctor, I’ll stay right where I am! It’ll be no use father opening hailing frequencies, and calling out, ‘You there, brat! Come along back down here!’ I shall only call back and say, ‘Who am I then? Tell me that first, and if it’s Kerr Avon, Computer Genius and bon vivant, then I’ll come back!’” As he said this, he looked around him and was surprised to see that he had apparently wandered back towards the teleport alcove in his distraction and had been transported down to a planet!

“That was a narrow escape!” said Avon, startled at the sudden change, but very glad to find himself off the spaceship. And as he said these words his foot slipped, and in another moment, splash! he was up to his chin in salt-water. His first thought was that he’d landed on some pelagic planet. Just then he heard something splashing about in the water a little way off, and he swam nearer to make out what it was: at first he thought it must be a sea monster or an alien aquatic menace, then saw that he was half right—it was an alien—but it was a pretty, slender alien woman who had apparently fallen into the water as he himself had done.

“Would it be of any use, now,” thought Avon, “to speak to this alien? I should think it very unlikely that she can speak Federation Standard, but at any rate there is no harm in trying.” So he began, “O Alien, will you take me to your leader? I am very tired of swimming about here, and my leather is becoming water-logged, O Alien!” (Avon thought this must be the right way of speaking to an alien: he had never done such a thing before, but he remembered having seen an old Sci-Fi movie once). The alien woman looked at him rather inquisitively, and seemed to be looking him over approvingly, but she said nothing.

Episode 6: Swim, Locate, Destroy

Avon contemplated the silent alien woman swimming next to him.

“Perhaps I was right and she doesn’t understand Fed Standard,” thought Avon. “French has always been the traditional language of diplomats, perhaps she will understand French?” So he began again: “Où est L’Outposte de la Fédération?”, which was the first sentence in his “French for Lost Travelers” book. The alien gave a sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright. “I beg your pardon,” said Avon, “I did not wish to offend.”

“Offend!” cried the alien in a passionate voice. “I am an anti-Federation terrorist! Would you like the Federation if you were me?”

“Well, perhaps not,” said Avon in a velvety soothing tone: “don’t be angry about it. The Federation has been very good to me. I am a well-respected Alpha-grade Computer Genius with a very large bank account and a beautiful mistress. You should see the apartment I own in the Alpha section of Euro-Dome 42 Longitude on Earth. It comes with all the Delta servants you can kick—what’s wrong with you now?” said Avon, for the alien rebel was bristling all over and looked very offended. “We won’t talk about the Federation any more if you’re going to take on so.”

“You classist!” cried the alien, who was trembling with rage. “How can you speak so about your fellow humans!? The Deltas are your brothers and the Federation thugs who rule treat them as garbage! If you do not fight the Federation, you aid the Federation!” and on and on in this boring fashion until Avon began swimming away from her as hard as he could go, making quite a commotion in the water as he went. She was the better athlete of the two and kept pace easily beside him, calling softly after him: “Let us get to the shore, and then I will tell you my history, and you will understand why I hate the Federation.” “I can scarcely wait,” Avon returned dryly, or as dryly as he could whilst up to his neck in water, and they struck out towards the shore.

It was high time to go, for the sea was getting quite crowded with the rebels and terrorists that had fallen into it: there was a big galoot and a pair of curly-headed rebels, a blonde pirate and a petite rebel girl with an impressive laserrifle slung across her shoulders, and several other curious creatures. Avon led the way, and the whole rebel cell swam to the shore.

Episode 7: Mission to Stupidity

They were indeed an odd-looking group that assembled on the bank—all dripping wet, cross, and heavily-armed.

The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had one of their interminable consultations about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural for Avon to find himself talking familiarly with them, as if he had known them all his life (heaven forbid!) Indeed, he had quite a loud argument with one of the curly-headed rebels (the one with the huge, dripping wet sleeves,) who at last turned sulky, and would only say, “Well, Avon, if you don’t trust me, you don’t trust me,” in a sad, put-upon voice. And this, Avon would not allow as he did not feel the curly-headed rebel knew him well enough to drop this sort of guilt trip upon him.

At last the alien woman, who seemed to be liked and respected by all of them, called out, “Sit down, please, and listen to me! I shall soon make you dry!” They all sat down at once in a large ring, with the alien woman in the middle. “Ahem!” said the alien woman, “are you all ready? This is the driest thing I know! ‘And the Thaarn, shortest of the seven gods of Auron, did seek to deny telepathy to The People, and did kill his brother, Maab, god of booze and bellydancing. Taark and Plaat, the gods of silly walks and practical jokes—’”

“Ugh!” said the petite girl with the laserrifle.

“I beg your pardon?” said the alien woman, pulling a double-edged, serrated blade out of her boot as she spoke very politely. “Did you say something, Avalon?”

“Not I!” said the girl, hastily.

“I thought you did,” said the alien woman. “I proceed. ‘Taark and Plaat, the gods of silly walks and practical jokes, declared for him; and even Stigaand, the patriotic Captain of CanterWorld, found it advisable—’ How are you getting on; tall, dark and computerized?” she continued, turning to Avon as she spoke.

“As wet as ever,” said Avon, “it doesn’t seem to dry me at all.”

“In that case,” said the big-sleeved, curly-headed rebel, “I move that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic remedies, to wit—a Political race.”

“What is a Political race?” asked Avon, for there had been but one political party in the Federation for centuries.

“Why,” said the curly-headed rebel, “the best way to explain is to do it.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” said Avon.

Episode 8: Fool

First the curly-headed rebel leader marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle (“The exact shape doesn’t matter,” he said), and then all the rebels were placed along the course, here and there. There was no “one, two, three, and away! but they began running when they liked, and left off when they liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. “Is this any way to run a revolution?” gasped Avon as he ran. When they had been running half-an-hour or so, and were quite dry again (well, quite damp, leather doesn’t dry that easily,) the rebel leader suddenly called out, “The race is over!” and they all crowded round him, panting, and asking, “But who has won?”

This question the rebel leader could not answer without a great deal of thought, and he stood for a long time with one finger pressed upon his forehead (his usual thinking posture), while the rest of the rebels waited in silence. At last the rebel leader said, “It doesn’t matter who’s won—as long as I can be certain that I was right! But you all get medals for your wonderful work for the cause!”

“But who is to award the medals?” quite a chorus of voices asked.

“Why, he, of course,” said the rebel leader, pointing to Avon with one finger; and the whole rebel cell at once crowded around him, calling out in a confused way, “Medals! Medals!”

Avon did not know what to do, and their shrill voices began to get on his wick. He folded his arms in annoyance and his hand brushed one of the studs that decorated his black leather sweatshirt, which came off in his hand (the stud, not the sweatshirt.) And so, Avon pulled off all his little metal studs (luckily the salt water had not rusted them), and handed them round as medals. There was exactly one-a-piece, all around.

“But he must have a medal himself, you know,” said the slender alien woman.

“Of course,” the rebel leader replied very gravely. “What have you got in your pocket?” he went on, turning to Avon.

“Only a lockpick and laserprobe I got from a Delta thief,” said Avon.

“Oh,” said the alien woman sadly. “And to think I thought you were just glad to see me.”

So they all crowded round Avon once more, while the rebel leader solemnly presented the lockpick and laserprobe, saying, “We beg your acceptance of these elegant tools”; and, when he had finished this short speech, they all cheered.

Avon thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave and so heavily-armed that he did not dare to laugh, so he simply bowed, and took back the lockpick and laserprobe, looking as solemn as he could.

Episode 9: Project Ding-A-Ling (and a Long Tail)

“Mine is a long and sad tale!” cried the curly-headed rebel, turning to Avon and sighing.

“They are long and sad sleeves, certainly,” said Avon, looking in wonder at the rebel’s drooping, wet sleeves. And he kept on puzzling about them while the rebel was speaking, so he missed Blake’s Tail:—

Travis said to

the rebel, who’d

been giving him

trouble, ‘Let

us both go to

law: I will

prosecute

you—— Come,

I’ll take no

denial; we

must have

a trial:

For really

this morn-

ing I’ve

nothing

to do.’

Said Blake

with a smirk

to the one-

eyed jerk,

‘Such a

trial, with

no judge,

would

be wast-

ing our

breath.’

‘I’ll be

judge at

this trial,’

Travis

said

with a

smile:

‘I’ll

try

the

whole

cause,

and

con-

demn

you to

death.’”

“These people are balmy,” thought Avon.

Episode 10: Breakdance

“You are not attending!” cried the slender Auron woman to Avon, severely. “What are you thinking of?” And she got a far-away look on her face as she tried to divine just what it was he was thinking.

“I beg your pardon,” said Avon very haughtily: “I don’t suppose that is any of your business—and stop trying to read my mind, you alien menace!”

“I am doing nothing of the sort,” said the Auron woman, getting up and walking away. “You insult me by talking such nonsense!”

“You were, too!” said Avon. “And you’re so easily offended, you know!”

The alien woman only walked more quickly away.

“All of you rebels are impossible to deal with,” said Avon. “You are idealistic, antagonistic, egotistical, and self-righteous!”

“All of ‘you’ rebels?” inquired the petite rebel with the laserrifle: “Aren’t you a rebel, too?”

“Of course not!” cried Avon. “I am a computer genius for the First Federation Bank of Earth!”

“But—you arrived with Cally, you have a lockpick—aren’t you one of us?!” asked the blonde pirate.

“You’re even crazier than I thought you were if you thought I was one of you!” said Avon.

This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the Deltas hurried off at once. The rebel leader began wrapping himself up in his enourmous sleeves very carefully, remarking, “I really must be getting back to my ship, I’m losing the curl in my naturally curly hair!” On various pretexts, they all moved off and Avon was soon left alone.

“Well, if I’d known that was all I had to do to get rid of that lot, I’d have done it sooner,” grumbled Avon to himself, and he began walking along the road. In a little while, however, he again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and he looked up eagerly, half hoping that the pretty Auron woman had changed her mind and was coming back, though he hoped she wouldn’t talk so much this time. But it wasn’t the Auron woman. It was the Delta thief.

Episode 11: Bounteous

or:

“The Alpha sends in a Little Thief”

It was the Delta thief, trotting slowly back again and looking anxiously about as he went, as if he had lost something; Avon heard him muttering to himself, “Blake! Blake! Oh my lockpicks! Oh my adrenaline and soma! He’ll be angry, as sure as Alphas are Alphas! Than he’ll get that martyred look and start talking, ‘til he’s just about talked my ear off! Where can I have dropped them, I wonder?”

Avon guessed in a moment that the Delta was looking for the lockpick and laserprobe he’d dropped way back in Episode 4 (Dweeb Squad). These were both safely tucked away in Avon’s pocket, and he was unwilling to give them up, so he made a show of hunting about for them. It was then he realized that somehow, since his swim on the pelagic planet, he’d been teleported once again to the spaceship; the desk with the inset keyboard, the rack of bracelets, the alcove with the large discs set into the floor; all had mysteriously reappeared around him!

Very soon the Delta thief noticed Avon, who was hunting about, and called out to him in an urgent tone, “Why, you must be the computer genius Blake advertised for! Be a good fellow and run down to the flight deck, I left my kit on the comfy couches, bring it here whilst I fetch the red plastic cooler from my bunk! Quick, now, we’ll be late for the mission!” And Avon was so bowled over by the Delta’s presumption that he went at once in the direction the Delta pointed to, without even thinking of a snappy comeback.

“He thinks I’m a rebel computer genius who’s signed on with this rebel cell,” he said to himself as he went. “Well, he’s got another think coming! Though I suppose the genius part must be fairly evident.” As he said this, he emerged from the long corridor into a large room with a high, vaulted ceiling and a half-dozen sets of control panels and chairs, staggered down like seats in a theater to a set of comfy couches at the bottom. Avon gazed about him in wonderment and desire. It was the finest ship he’d ever seen, and he wanted it as he’d never wanted anything before. Upon considering his position, the wheels of intrigue turning in his skull, he thought that he should bring the Delta thief his kit and then get him off the ship on the mission he’d spoken of, that would be one less hand raised against him when he attempted to take the ship. His plan set in his mind, he began to look for the Delta’s bag of tricks.

“How bizarre it seems,” Avon said to himself, “to be fetching for a Delta!” He went down the steps to the comfy couches and there, almost hidden in a crack between the cushions, was a box of burglar’s tools: he took up the box and was just going to leave the flight deck, when his eye fell upon a small, clear box into which circuitry was embedded. It was the Key and, looking about, Avon quickly discovered the glass box into which it fit. He took up the Key and considered whether or not to fit it into its slot. “If I do it, I know something interesting is sure to happen,” he said to himself, “although I shall surely hate myself in the morning...”

Episode 12: Irrelevance

And so, indeed, with a devil-may-care shrug, Avon fitted the key into the box’s indent, and a sharp buzz (like that of a nest of wasps) filled the flight deck. This might have worried Avon, but he remembered it was the same sound the box had made before.

“The first thing I must do,” said Avon to himself, “is to ask it a direct question, for it is by no means a self-starter.”

*Score one for the big brain in the black leather,* snarked the snippy glass box at Avon.

Avon ignored the jibe. “Can you tell me how to take over this ship?” he asked.

*Yes,* replied the box, succinctly.

A short space of silence ensued, filled only by the whine emanating from the box.

“Well?” prompted Avon.

*‘Well’ is not a question!* crowed the box, pleased at having lured Avon into its little trap.

Avon closed his eyes and counted to 10 as his father’d taught him to do when he was angry. Afterwards, he found he was still angry, so he found the square roots of all whole numbers under 100, tri-sected some right angles, and calculated π to 1,000 places.

“This is a direct order,” said Avon calmly, “tell me how to take over this ship with a minimum of fuss.”

*You? Take over this ship? The greatest Mary Sue device save one in fandom, second only to myself? You? Who are you?*

“Who do I have to be?” parried Avon.

The lights inside the box flashed faster for a moment. Then: *Well. It helps if you have naturally curly hair, for one.* said the glass box.

Here was a puzzling answer; and, as Avon saw no reason to pursue such a silly conversation, and the glass box seemed to be in a very unpleasant state of mind, he turned away.

*Come back!* the glass box called after him. *I’ve something to say!*

This sounded promising, certainly. Avon turned and came back again.

*Keep your temper,* said the box.

“Is that all?” said Avon, swallowing down his anger as well as he could.

*No,* said the box.

Avon thought he might as well wait, as the computer’s help would be worth the trouble it took to get it, providing it told him something worth hearing. For some minutes, it hummed away without speaking, but at last it cleared its “throat” and spoke. *So, you’ve had a few adventures since this morning, haven’t you?*

“Why, yes, I have,” said Avon, surprised at the turn in the conversation.

*Confused?*

“A bit. I can’t remember things as I used—and I can’t seem to keep my molecules cohesive for ten minutes together!”

*Can’t remember what things?* asked the box.

“Well, I’ve tried to say ‘How Doth The Little Tarriel Cell’, but it all came different!” Avon replied in a very melancholy voice.

*Repeat ‘You Are Old, Fellow Alphan’,* said the glass box.

Avon stood tall, and began:

“You are young, Supreme Commander,” the green recruit said,

“And your dress is quite slinky and tight.

And yet you incessantly cut off men’s heads,

Do you think, for your sex, it is right?”

“As a girl,” Servalan replied with a glare,

“I feared I might look rather butch,

But now I am perfectly sure I don’t care,

There’s no way I can do it too much!”

“You are young,” said the youth as he took a deep breath,

“And your eyes are dark, liquid and large.

Yet your lovers soon meet with an untimely death,

Is this an inaccurate charge?”

“Not at all!” cried the lady, so sweet and demure,

“They do tend to flock to my side.

Can you tell me what they are all flocking ‘round for?

Come here, little dear, by my side!”

“You are young,” said the youth, “and your nails are quite long.

And red from the root to the tip!

Yet you handle a gun like a singer a song,

With nary a scratch or a chip!”

“As a girl,” said the femme, “I would mouth off a lot,

So I soon learned to handle a blaster.

‘Cause the big boys back down when your gun hand is hot,

And you win when your trigger is faster!”

“You are young,” said the youth, “one would hardly assume,

That your nerve is as steady as steel.

Can you send off whole squadrons of men to their doom,

While retaining your sexy appeal?”

“I have answered three questions, you arrogant schmuck,

Do you think I exist in a void?!

You may find that soon you will run out of luck,

And that’s when you’ll be made a mutoid!”

Episode 13: Borax

or:

Advice from a Glass Box

*That is not said right,* declared the glass box.

“Yet t’was oddly clever, I think,” said Avon. “and I should like to meet this ‘Supreme Commander’, she sounds my sort of woman.”

*It is wrong from beginning to end,* said the box, decidedly; and it resumed its silence, save the annoying mechanical whine, for a bit.

The glass box was the first to speak.

*So, you want to take this ship,* it said.

“Yes, please,” said Avon.

*Did you know that having is not so pleasant a thing as wanting?*

“Sounds like a tag-line on a hokey, old, cult sci-fi show,” sniffed Avon.

*Look, if you want this ship, you are going to have to do it the old-fashioned way—earn it!* cried the box.

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Avon.

*‘Earn’,* quoted the box. *‘To gain or get in return for one’s labour or service; to merit as compensation, to deserve; to acquire through merit; to gain as due return or profit.’*

Avon wanted to ask more, because as an Alpha, these were entirely new concepts to him (except for the one about “profit”); but then the box did a most surprising thing. It turned itself off.

Avon grimly pulled the key from the glass box and pocketed it.

Episode 14: Redemption Center

As Avon put the Key in his pocket, he felt the room swaying around him and shook his head to dispel the feeling. When he’d opened his eyes, he was not at all surprised to find himself standing in a glade in front of a big sign:

Welcome to Lindor

The effect of the teleport felt quite strange at first; but he got used to it in a few minutes, and began talking to himself, as usual. “Come, there’s my plan undone now! How puzzling all these changes are! I’m never sure where I’m going to be, from one minute to another! However, I have the Key to the Supercomputer: the next thing is, to get back to that beautiful ship—how is that to be done, I wonder?” As he said this, he came suddenly upon an open place, with a little castle in it of stone. “Whoever lives there,” thought Avon, “is sure to be of the Alpha class, it is such a fine residence!” And he resolved to acquaint himself with its occupants.

For a minute or two he stood looking at the house, and wondering what to do next, when suddenly a soldier in a tight, black uniform came running out of the wood—(he considered her to be a soldier because she wore a uniform; otherwise, judging by her face only, he would have called her a corpse)—, and rapped loudly at the door with her knuckles. It was opened by another soldier in uniform, only this one looked oddly made-up with rouge and eye-shadow, as if someone were preparing the corpse to be viewed at a wake; but both soldiers, Avon noticed, had tight black caps on their heads and heavy black gloves on their hands. He felt very curious to know what it was all about, and crept a little way out of the wood to listen.

The plain soldier began by producing from under her arm a memory-chip, and this she handed over to the other, saying, in an unemotional tone, “For Space-Commander Travis. An invitation from the Supreme Commander to play Oligarchy.” The made-up soldier repeated, in the same unemotional tone, only changing the order of the words a little, “From the Supreme Commander. An invitation for Space-Commander Travis to play Oligarchy.”

Then they both bowed low, and bonked their heads together.

Avon laughed so much at this that he had to pull back into the wood for fear of their hearing him; and, when he next peered out, the plain soldier was gone, and the heavily made-up one was sitting on the ground near the door, staring stupidly up at the sky.

Episode 15: Eye-Shadow Boxing

Shrugging off his trepidation, Avon went up to the door and knocked.

“There is no sort of use in knocking,” said the soldier, “and that for two reasons. First, because the one will not allow the other to answer the door, claiming it to be his own. Secondly, because the other will not allow the one to answer the door, claiming it to be his own. Besides, they are making such a noise inside, no one could possibly hear you.” And certainly there was a most extraordinary noise going on within—a constant howling and screaming, and every now and then a great crash, as if a dish or a kettle had been broken to pieces.

“Nonsense,” said Avon, “how am I to get in?”

“There might be some sense in your knocking,” the soldier went on, without attending to him, “if you had some blood in you. If you had some blood in you, you could bribe me, and then I’d let you in, you know. But you are a bloodless sort, aren’t you.” She was looking up into the sky all the time she was speaking, and this Avon thought decidedly creepy. “But perhaps she can’t help it,” he said to himself; “she is so very nearly an automaton as it is. But at any rate, she might answer questions, being an animated cadaver—How am I to get in?” he repeated, aloud.

“Are you to get in at all?” said the soldier. “That is the question, you know.”

It was, no doubt: only Avon did not like to be told so. “It’s really dreadful,” he muttered to himself, “that these creatures do not seem to know their place! It’s enough to drive an Alpha genius crazy!”

The soldier seemed to think this a good opportunity for repeating her remark, with variations. “Some blood,” she said, “if only you had some.”

“But I haven’t, so what am I to do?” said Avon.

“Anything you like,” said the soldier, and she took a make-up case out of her pocket and began to apply a fresh coat of lipstick.

“Oh, it’s no use in putting on lipstick!” said Avon disgustedly: “you still won’t get kissed, for you still look dead!” And he opened the door to the castle and stalked in.

Episode 16: Weep-On

or:

“Dueling Travii”

The door led right into a large room which was full of smoke from one end to the other: the Alpha Travis was sitting on a chair in the middle, holding a glass-topped box filled with pinned butterflies; the Delta Travis was leaning over a box with a crank on one side and a curved cone coming out the other, holding some flat, circular discs in his un-gloved hand. The room was filled with antiques in glass cases; the walls covered with valuable framed portraits and landscapes.

“It’s quite like a museum,” Avon said to himself, sneezing on the smoke. There certainly was a lot of it in the air and Avon could not see where it was coming from until the Delta Travis held his arm out straight, aiming at the Alpha Travis, and let loose with a tremendous phaser-blast from his out-stretched, gloved hand. He missed, and a expensive-looking picture in an ornate frame on the wall vapourized, causing the wall underneath to commence smoldering. A third man, the President of Lindor (whom Avon recognized from Lindor’s 2-credit note); was sneezing and howling “My perfect possessions! My beautiful belongings!” without a moment’s pause, and running back-and-forth between the two Travii. The only one who did not sneeze was a woman whom Avon thought he recognized with a startlement; she was seated by a 2,000-year-old suit-of-armour and smiling a Mona Lisa smile. In fact, she was sitting beneath the actual painting of the Mona Lisa, now that he looked at her properly.

“Excuse me,” said Avon politely, for he was speaking to the Alpha Travis, “why does that woman smile like that?”

“She’s a Double-Agent,” said the Alpha Travis; “and that’s why! Fool!”

He said the last word with such sudden violence that Avon quite jumped; but before he could become angry, he saw that it was addressed to either the other Travis or the president, and not to him, so he went on again:—

“I did not know that a Double-Agent smiled a Mona Lisa smile; in fact, I didn’t know that Double-Agents could smile.”

“They all can,” said the Alpha Travis; “and most of ‘em do. It’s the money, you see”

“If it is a lucrative business, I would understand their smiling; but I don’t know of any that do,” Avon said, feeling quite pleased to finally have got into a conversation with one of his own class. Even if that Alpha was a loony.

“You don’t know much,” said the Alpha Travis; “and that’s a fact.”

Avon did not at all like the tone of this remark, and thought that the Alpha Travis had a lot in common with the glass box of previous chapters. While he was framing a cutting retort, the Delta Travis took hold of the flat, circular discs, and at once set to work throwing them and everything within his reach at the Alpha Travis and the president—discs came first; then followed a shower of small statuary, some attractive inlaid boxes, a few Ming vases, and pieces of the suit of armour. The Alpha Travis took no notice of them, even when they hit him; and the president was howling so much already, that it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt him or not.

“Oh, please mind what you’re doing, you almost hit me!” cried Avon as a stainless-steel codpiece flew by.

“If everybody minded their own business,” the Alpha Travis said, in a hoarse growl, “Lindor would go ‘round a deal faster than it does.”

“Which would not be an advantage,” said Avon, who felt very glad to get an opportunity of showing off a little of his knowledge. “Just think what work it would make of the day and night! You see it takes Lindor thirty-six hours to turn round on its axis—”

“Talking of axes,” said the Alpha Travis, “chop off his head!”

Avon glanced rather anxiously at the Delta Travis, to see if he was going for the large ax leaning close by the half-destroyed suit of armour; but the Delta Travis was busily turning the crank on the box with the curved cone coming out of its side, and seemed not to be listening, so he continued: “Thirty-six hours, I think; or is it thirty-seven? I—”

“Oh, don’t bother me,” said the Alpha Travis. “I never could abide figures! Was it fourteen hundred colonists I blew away? Or was it fifteen hundred? Does it matter?” And with that, the record-player (for that is what the box with the crank and the curved cone was) began to play. The Alpha Travis took hold of the President of Lindor and began singing a sort of lullaby to the tune that played, and giving him a violent shake at the end of every line:—

“Speak cruelly to the populace,

And kill them when you please;

With blasters, knives and pepper-mace,

You’ll teach them not to tease.”

Chorus

(In which the president and both Travii joined):

“Ouch! ouch! ouch!”

Then, while the second Travis sang the second verse of the song, the first Travis began tossing bits and pieces of virtually irreplaceable bric-a-brac from the past violently around the room; and the poor little president howled so, that Avon could hardly hear the words:—

“I’ve shot the people when I’ve choosed;

And shot them when I may’nt:

For they are scum to be abused

And I am not a sa’int!”

“Here! You may pound him for a bit, if you like!” the Alpha Travis said to Avon, flinging the President of Lindor at him as he spoke. “I must go and get ready to play Oligarchy with the Supreme Commander,” and he hurried out of the room. The Delta Travis threw the record player after him as he went, but it just missed him. Avon ducked as the president tripped and barreled at him, and slipped out the door as quick as he could.

Episode 17: Beyond the Event Horizon

or:

“Curiouser & Curiouser Killed the Cat”

Avon was walking away from the castle with a swift step, when he was a little startled to see the Double-Agent sitting on a park bench a few yards off.

The woman merely smiled when she saw Avon. She still looked very familiar, he thought: but what would his mistress, Anna Grant, be doing here, of all places?

“Anna? —Anna Grant?” he began, and the Double-Agent smiled even more enigmatically. “Is it her?” thought Avon, and he went on. “You are Anna Grant?”

“Why, no, my name is Sula Chesku,” said the Double-Agent, patting the bench beside her to indicate where she wanted Avon to sit. “I’m working for the rebellion at the moment.”

“Oh,” Avon was disappointed, but still game. “Could you tell me, please, how to get back to the incredible Mary-Sue ship owned by that tatty rebel gang lead by a curly-haired gawk with billowing sleeves?”

“Blake’s group,” said the Double-Agent succinctly, and her smile took on a superior cast. “The ship is called the Liberator.”

“I might have know they’d name it something like that,” sighed Avon.

“Are you quite sure that is where you want to go?” said the Double-Agent dubiously.

“—well, as long as I get there eventually,” said Avon, taking a seat close by her. She did so remind him of Anna!

“Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Double-Agent, “for you have the teleport bracelet upon your wrist.” She held up her own wrist, and he saw that she, too, had a teleport bracelet.

Avon felt somewhat better knowing he would eventually get back to where he wanted to be, so he tried another question. “What sort of people live on the Liberator?”

“Well,” the Double-Agent said, waving a teleport-bracelet-clad wrist round, “there’s Blake, the leader. And there’s Jenna, the pilot; Gan, who provides muscle when needed; and an alien tart who reads minds. And there’s a Delta thief for comic relief. Of course, they are all mad.”

“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Avon remarked.

“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Double-Agent: “we’re all mad here in the rebellion. I’m mad. You’re mad.”

“How do you know I’m mad?” said Avon.

“You must be,” said the Double-Agent, “ if you want to get back on the Liberator.”

Avon didn’t think that proved it at all: however, he went on: “And how do you know that you’re mad?”

“To begin with,” said the Double-Agent, “I’m beginning to fall for you in a big way.”

“That merely proves good taste,” said Avon.

“Say what you like,” said the Double-Agent, “it’ll all end in tears, mark my words. Do you play Oligarchy with the Supreme Commander to-day?”

“I should like it very much,” said Avon, “but I haven’t been invited yet.”

“You will be—you’re just her type. Of course, she is a particularly tasteless megalomaniac. You’ll see me there,” said the Double-Agent, and vanished.

Avon was not much surprised at this, he was getting so well used to odd things happening, and besides, he knew she was wearing the teleport bracelet. While he was still looking at the place where she had been, she suddenly appeared again.

“By-the-bye, what became of the President of Lindor?” said the Double-Agent. “I’d nearly forgotten to ask.”

“I’ve no idea, I just quit that place as quickly as possible, to save my own skin.” Avon answered, just as if the Double-Agent had come back in a natural way.

“Now I know why I love you so,” said the Double-Agent, and vanished again.

Avon waited a little, half expecting to see her again, but she did not appear, and after a minute or two he continued on his way. He was not a bit surprised when he felt the effect of the teleport and everything changed around him once again.

Episode 18: Pressure Cooker

or:

“A Mad Rebel-Party”

There was a table set up in the middle of a large room, and the curly-headed rebel leader with the enourmous sleeves was sitting at it, as were the slender alien woman; a brawny, yet kindly-looking man; a blonde pilot; and the Delta thief, who had a large carafe of green liquid in front of him and was fast asleep, his head on the table. Everyone was talking loudly, all at the same time, over his head and in his ear. “Very uncomfortable for the Delta thief,” thought Avon; “only, he is very drunk and largely insensible, I suppose he doesn’t mind.”

The table was a large one, and everyone sat on one side of it: papers, graphs, books, weapons, and Avon’s old friend, the snippy glass box, piled up in disarray in front of them. “Come join us! Join us!” they all cried out when they saw Avon in the door. “Uh, no, that’s all right; I think I’ll just go—” said Avon, but the brawny man and the blonde pilot jumped up and each grabbed one of his arms, and soon they had him seated in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.

“Have some wine,” the rebel leader said in an encouraging tone.

Avon looked at the sleeping Delta thief and shook his head. “Thank you, no. It doesn’t seem to have done him any good, now does it?” he said.

The Delta thief snorted and coughed, and looked up blearily. “You’re an obstreper-hic-obstreper-hic...bad-tempered character, you are,” he hiccuped. “It isn’t very civil of you to insult our wine, when we’ve been so nice to offer it, now is it?”

“Nonsense, I am always civil!” said Avon angrily. “Why do you think they called it the ‘Civil War’?”

“Why did they call what the Civil War?” asked the Delta thief.

Avon restrained the sudden urge to throttle the innocent-seeming thief, and said (quite carefully and quietly), “You should learn not to make personal remarks. It’s very rude.”

The Delta thief opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he said was, “Why is an Avon like a biting pest?”

“‘Why is an Avon like a biting pest?’” said Avon. “I suppose you think that funny?”

“Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?” asked the Delta thief.

“I mean that you are an idiot and I’m going to ignore your foolishness as best I can,” said Avon.

“Then you should say what you mean,” said the rebel leader. “It is a sign of great leadership quality, to speak forthrightly and truthfully.” And he struck a heroic pose.

“I do,” Avon replied; “at least, I mean what I say—that’s the same thing, you know.”

“Not the same thing a bit!” said the rebel leader. “Why you might just as well say that ‘I’m brave when I lead’ is the same thing as ‘I lead when I’m brave!”

“You might just as well say,” added the blonde pilot, “that ‘I like what I get’ is the same thing as ‘I get what I like’!” And her arm snaked out to grab the rebel leader’s hand; but the rebel leader beat her off crying, “Jenna! Not in front of the crew!”

“You might as well say,” added the groggy Delta thief, “that I breathe when I drink’ is the same thing as ‘I drink when I breathe’!”

“It is the same thing with you,” said the blonde pilot, and here the conversation stopped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Avon thought over all he could about grammar, trying to come up with a retort.

The rebel leader was the first the break the silence. “What day of the month is it?” he said, turning to Avon.

Avon considered a moment, then said, “Depends entirely upon what planet we’re in orbit around.”

“Whatever did we do before we got a science officer,” sighed the rebel leader. “I told you we needed to know what planet we orbited before we could execute my cunning plan!” he added, looking angrily at the glass box.

*What if we’re not orbiting a planet, but deep in space, instead,* the glass box replied in a dismissive tone.

“Don’t confuse the issue with facts!” the rebel leader grumbled, “it will be difficult enough kidnapping the Supreme Commander without a lot of pesky facts gumming up the works.”

The table of rebels exploded with loud comment. Apparently the rebel leader had forgotten to tell his crew exactly what his cunning plan was, and they were registering their protests with gusto; not merely angry at having been left out of the planning stages, but also panicked that he expected them to kidnap the Supreme Commander.

Episode 19: Smile (The ‘Trial’ isn’t until later!)

Avon had been looking at the table of rebels with some curiosity. “What an eccentric group!” he remarked. “You are supposed to be working together, but you are all at odds. You possess the Mary Sue-esque ship, the Liberator, as well as the glass box; yet you are confused as to the date!”

“Why should we not be so?” said the alien woman. “We are all of us free beings, no one can force anyone to do anything they do not wish to do, we celebrate our own uniqueness and the group’s diversity. And the ship is a deal cleverer than we are, we admit that freely.”

“You lot descend into chaos at the slightest opportunity,” Avon replied readily. “And anyway, you allow yourselves to manipulated by subterfuge and cajoling instead of just being ordered about—either way you’re being led by the nose, but the latter is a good deal more honest. As for the ship—it is just a machine. Machines can be studied and understood, even one as complicated as this ship.”

The rebels, to a man, began laughing uproariously at Avon’s last statement and rolling about in their seats with hilarity. Avon felt dreadfully puzzled as he looked from one to the other. “I don’t quite understand you,” he said.

“Oh, look, Vila’s gone back to sleep again,” said the blonde pilot, and she poured a little of the green wine upon his nose.

“The Delta thief shook his head impatiently, and said, without opening his eyes, “Of course, of course: whatever you say is for the best.”

“That’s my boy,” remarked the rebel leader. “Sharp as a whip! Always agrees with his fearless leader!”

Avon sighed wearily. “I think you might do something better with the time,” he said, “than wasting it with this self-congratulatory nonsense.”

“If you had the time I have on your hands,” said the rebel leader, “you wouldn’t talk about wasting it. We’ve all the time in the worlds.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Avon.

“Of course you don’t!” the rebel leader said, tossing his curls contemptuously. “You rabble; you ordinary, workaday folk! What knowst thou of the travails, Travises and tribulations of He Who Leads.” He struck a heroic pose again.

“Besides, this ship provides us with food, drink, air, clothes, warmth, light, and the occasional amusement. We are not exactly filled with a sense of urgency,” said the alien woman, a bit shame-facedly.

“In other words, this is possibly the galaxy’s biggest womb,” said Avon.

“Suppose we change the subject,” the rebel leader interrupted, yawning. “I’m getting tired of this self-examination. This isn’t Philosophy 101. This is real-life! Heroism! Battles-to-the-death! Duels and derring-do! And we all get a vote. I vote the computer genius tells us how he thinks we should go about kidnapping the Supreme Commander.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest idea,” said Avon, rather alarmed at the proposal.

“Then the Delta thief shall tell us!” cried the group. “Wake up, Vila!” And they shook him as hard as they could.

The Delta thief slowly opened his eyes. “I wasn’t asleep,” he said in an indistinct voice. “I heard every word you were saying.”

“Tell us how you think we should go about kidnapping the Supreme Commander!” said the rebel leader. “Everyone has an opinion! Everyone gets a vote!”

He regarded them, bleary-eyed for a moment. “And people wonder why I drink,” he said, then passed out on the table again.

“You’re a great, bloody load of loonies!” cried Avon.

“Who’s making personal remarks now?” the glass box asked triumphantly.

This piece of rudeness was more than Avon could bear: He got up in great disgust, and walked off: the Delta thief was asleep on the table, and none of the others took the least notice of his going, though he looked back once or twice, wondering if they would call after him: the last time he saw them, they were arguing with one another loudly, waving their fists and pointing their fingers in the air to punctuate whatever point it was they were trying to make.

“At any rate if I was ever foolish enough to entertain the notion of joining the rebellion, I’ve done with that idea!” said Avon, stalking down the corridor. “It’s the stupidest rebel cell I ever saw in all my life!”

Just as he said this, he felt that funny, teleport-feeling in his bones again, and then—he found himself on a beautiful space-station in a large office, among stark, white furniture and lush, thick, white carpets.

Episode 20: Swiller

or:

“ The Supreme Commander’s Office”

A large computer-bank stood near the entrance to the office; the lights upon it flickered busily, but there were three computer-technicians at it, nervously pushing buttons and peering over their shoulders. Avon thought this a very curious thing, and he went nearer to watch them, and, just as he came up to them, he heard one of them say, “Lookout now, Number Five! Don’t go pushing that button there! That’s a real one!”

“I couldn’t help it,” said Number Five, in a sulky tone. “Number Seven jogged my elbow.”

On which Number Seven looked up and said, “That’s right, Five! Always lay the blame on others!”

“You’d better not talk!” said Number Five. “I heard the Supreme Commander say only yesterday you deserved to be blasted.”

“What for?” said the one who had spoken first.

“That’s none of your business, Number Two!” said Number Seven.

“Yes, it is his business!” said Number Five. “And I’ll tell him—it was for rigging her desk computer to play ‘Hail to the Chief’ every time she logged on.”

Number Seven threw himself into a chair, and had just begun, “Well, of all the unjust things—” when his eye chanced to fall upon Avon as he stood watching them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and all of them jumped up to stand stiffly at attention.

“What ever are you doing to that computer?” said Avon, “and what is wrong with it?”

Numbers Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Number Two. Two began, in a low voice, “Well, you see, sir, when we joined on with the Space Service, we told ‘em we were computer technicians. The pay scale was higher for that than for what we actually are.”

“And that is?” Avon said.

“BBC special effects technicians,” said Number Two. At that moment, Number Five, who had been anxiously looking at the door, called out, “The Supreme Commander! The Supreme Commander!” and the three BBC special effects technicians threw themselves down upon their faces. There was a sound of many foot-steps, and Avon looked round, eager to see the Supreme Commander.

First came ten soldiers wearing “bee-keeper” helmets and carrying laserrifles; next were ten officers, their uniforms were much fancier and well-tailored than the common soldier’s were, and you could see their faces. After these came the computer technicians in their clean, white smocks, with intelligent looks on their faces. Next came the guests, mostly Space Admirals, and among them Avon recognized the Delta thief; apparently the rebel leader had convinced him to carry out his cunning plan of kidnapping the Supreme Commander. The Delta thief was talking in a hurried, nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without noticing him. Then followed the Delta Travis surrounded by a coterie of ten of his finest, deadliest mutoids, and, last of all, came The Supreme Commander.

Avon was rather doubtful that he should lie down on his face in the thick, white carpet like the three BBC special effects technicians: he thought they looked perfectly undignified; “and besides, why ever is she wearing such a sexy dress if she did not mean to be admired in it?” So he stood where he was, and waited.

When the procession came opposite to Avon, they all stopped and looked at him and the Supreme Commander said, in a silky smooth tone, “Who is this?” She said this to the Delta Travis, who sneered and replied, “Dunno. But ‘e looks a right poser to me.”

“Idiot!” said the Supreme Commander, tossing her buzz-cut head impatiently; and, turning to Avon she went on: “What’s your name; tall, dark and moody?”

“My name is Avon,” said Avon in his deepest, most velvety voice to match hers; and he added, to himself, “Why, she is nothing but a woman-on-the-make, after all! I needn’t be afraid of her, I can wrap her round my little finger.”

Episode 21: Hostage with the Mostage

“And who are these?” said the Supreme Commander, pointing to the three BBC special effects technicians who were lying face-down on the carpet; for, you see, they wore the traditional white smocks of the computer technician and she could not tell just exactly who they were.

“How should I know?” said Avon. “I am not a number. I am a free man!” (One had to be masterful in situations such as these.)

The Supreme Commander turned crimson to her roots with fury, which clashed nicely with her snow-white office and dress; and, after glaring at Avon for a moment like a wild beast, suddenly got herself under control and smiled slyly up at him. “Careful, darling,” she purred in a low tone of voice far more terrifying than a scream, “you could find yourself on the wrong side of a firing squad quite easily, you know.”

“Nonsense!” said Avon, very loudly and decidedly, and he reached over and took her into his arms and laid a big kiss on her cruel, blood-red, yet oddly desirable lips.

The Delta Travis laid his hand upon Avon’s shoulder, but Avon just shrugged it off and leaned into his task. “Consider, Supreme Commander,” the one-eyed knave said timidly, “‘E’s only a civilian.”

The Supreme Commander broke off the kiss and took a deep breath, flustered but pleased. “Excuse me a moment, I have to tend to these,” she apologized, and turned away from Avon to the Delta Travis. “Turn them over!” She had not forgotten about the three BBC special effects technicians.

The Delta Travis did so, none too carefully, with one black-booted foot.

“Get up!” said the Supreme Commander in a shrill, loud voice, and the three BBC special effects technicians instantly jumped up, and began bowing to her, to the Delta Travis, to Avon, and to everybody else.

“Leave off that!” screamed the Supreme Commander. “You make me space-sick.” And then, turning to her computer-bank, she went on, “What have you been doing here?”

“May it please your Supremity,” said Number Two, in a very humble tone, going down on one knee as he spoke.

“It doesn’t please me at all!” cried the Supreme Commander, who had meanwhile been examining her faux computer. “Mutoids! Blast them!” and the procession moved on, three of the Delta Travis’ mutoids remaining behind to execute the unfortunate BBC special effects technicians, who ran to Avon (of all people!) for protection.

“Oh, here!” said Avon, and, against his better judgment, he quickly pulled the false computer from the wall and shoved the three hapless BBC special effects technicians into the empty plastic shell. It was the work of a moment to push the special effect, its lights flickering pseudo-realistically, back up against the wall again. The three mutoids wandered stupidly about for a minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched after the others.

“Are they well-and-truly zapped down into their component atoms?” shouted the Supreme Commander.

“Their bodies have disappeared, if it please your Supremity!” the mutoids shouted in reply.

“That’s right!” shouted the Supreme Commander. “Can you play Oligarchy?”

The mutoids were silent, and looked at Avon, as the question was evidently meant for him.

“Yes!” shouted Avon.

“Come on, then!” cried the Supreme Commander, and Avon joined the procession, wondering very much what would happen next.

“It’s—it’s a very fine day!” said a timid voice at his side. He was walking by the Delta thief, who was peering anxiously into his face.

“Quite,” said Avon. “Where’s Blake and the rest of his rabble?”

“Hush! Hush! If my hangover weren’t enough!” said the Delta thief in a low, hurried tone. He looked anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon tiptoe, put his mouth to Avon’s year, and whispered, “They’re all around us.”

“What?” said Avon.

“Did you say ‘What a brave band?’” the Delta thief asked.

“No, I didn’t,” said Avon. “I don’t think they are at all a brave band. I said, simply, ‘What’ in surprise at their stupidity, with a bit of the interrogative thrown in to try to prod more information about this insane situation from you.”

“It’s no good trying to interrogate me! I’ve been had at by the best and I’ve never cracked!” the Delta thief whispered in a frightened tone. “Oh, hush! The Supreme Commander will hear you! You didn’t see her, she said—”

“Assume the position!” shouted the Supreme Commander in a voice of thunder, and Vila blurted out, “All right! I’ll tell you! They’re here to kidnap the Supreme Commander!” Fortunately, no one but Avon heard him because they were all running about in all directions, tumbling up against each other: however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game began.

Episode 22: Body-Count Down

Avon thought he had never seen such a curious game in his life: it was a role-playing game, and each person chose a character to play. There was a great rush on to take the roles of Space Captains and High Court Councilors, no one seemed to want to take on the roles of rebels or common foot soldiers, and Avon soon found out why. He, himself, took up a card that appealed to him, that of the character of an amoral computer genius on neither side, but only out to collect all the game-tokens he could. The character had a Charm factor of 18, a Genius factor of 20+, and a Guilt Capacity of 0. The card said his character was a “Chaotic”, but he wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

Avon looked up from his role-card and noticed one soldier who had thick, curly hair sticking out from under his helmet; and an edge of billowy, white sleeve showing from under his tight, black, leather, Federation-soldier jacket sleeves; and he sighed, anticipating the trouble that would soon erupt. He knew without looking that the Supreme Commander was the “SM”, or the Space Station-Master, of the game, for he heard her bellowing instructions in the distance. He wondered when Blake and his rabble would attack and made sure he knew where all the exit doors were to prepare for that eventuality.

The players all played at once, without waiting for turns, quarreling all the while and fighting for game-tokens; and in a very short time the Supreme Commander was in a furious passion and went stamping about, rolling 12-sided dice and shouting, “Obliterate him! Execute her!” about once in a minute.

Avon began to feel very uneasy: to be sure, he had not as yet had any dispute with the Supreme Commander, but he knew that it might happen any minute, “and then,” thought he, “what would become of me? They are so fond of blasting people here: the great wonder is there’s any one left alive!”

He was debating taking one of those exit doors, as the teleport did not seem to be kicking in, and wondering whether he could get away without being seen, when he noticed a curious appearance in the air: it puzzled him very much at first, but after watching it a moment or two he made it out to be the outline of a female form, and he said to himself, “It’s the Double-Agent: now I shall have somebody to talk to.”

“How are you getting on?” said the Double-Agent as soon as she had completely materialized, and Avon began an account of the game, feeling very glad he had someone to listen to him. The Double-Agent seemed to be fascinated by what he said and hung on to his every word with wide, sympathetic eyes.

“This is ridiculous, they are all a great load of loonies,” Avon began in a complaining tone, “and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can’t hear oneself speak—and they don’t seem to have any rules in particular: at least, if there are, nobody attends to them—and you’ve no idea how confusing it is when someone shifts their character in mid-sentence. I should quite like to cheat to win, but I cannot ascertain the rules and so cannot bend them to my own advantage.

“Hmmm...it’s quite like real life, isn’t it?” mused the Double-Agent. “And how do you like the Supreme Commander?”

“Not at all,” said Avon: “she’s so extremely—” Just then he noticed that the Supreme Commander was close behind him, listening: so he went on “—likely to break my heart, she is so fine and has so many admirers.”

The Supreme Commander smiled and passed on.

“‘Oo you talkin’ to, scum?” said the Delta Travis coming up to Avon and taking in the nubile form of the Double-Agent with his one good eye.

“It’s an acquaintance of mine—a Double-Agent,” said Avon: “allow me to introduce her.”

“Don’t like the look of ‘er at all,” said the Delta Travis: “shall I shoot ‘er?”

“She may be working for your side, you know,” said Avon.

“Yeah—but even if she is, she’s still workin’ for the other side, too. I think I’ll blast ‘er.” And he raised his black-gloved hand with the tacky lucite Mod ring on it and pointed it at the Double-Agent.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” the Double-Agent remarked.

“Cheeky!” said the Delta Travis, “and don’t look at me like that!” As he spoke, he got behind Avon who moved nimbly aside.

“A Double-Agent’s lot is not a happy one,” said Avon: “With friends like these...”

“Well, she might make a good mutoid,” said the Delta Travis very decidedly; and he called to the Supreme Commander, who was passing judgment on some poor, unlucky game-players at the moment. “Supreme Commander! I wish you would have this Double-Agent mutoi-lated!”

The Supreme Commander had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or small. “Oh, just blast her! Much tidier,” she said without looking around.

“I’ll do it meself,” said the Delta Travis eagerly, but when he turned, he found the Double-Agent had disappeared as mysteriously as she’d come.

Avon thought he might as well go back and see how the game was going on, as he heard the Supreme Commander’s voice in the distance, screaming with passion. He had already heard her sentence three of the players to execution for being rebels, despite their pleas that they were really three of her top scientists, and it was only a game after all. “Where there’s life, there’s threat,” she answered them back. Avon did not like the look of things at all, and it was bound to get worse once the real rebels popped out of hiding and tried to abduct the Supreme Commander. So he went off to make use of one of the exits he’d checked out.

He stepped around a foot soldier engaged in a spectacular hand-to-hand fight with another foot soldier, which seemed to Avon an excellent opportunity for ducking out without being seen. There was quite a large crowd collected round the altercation, cheering on one or the other, and Avon tried to slip past, but at that moment his old friend, the Alpha Travis, showed up.

Episode 23: Advice from the Pest

“You can’t think how glad I am to see you again, my old buddy, old friend!” said the Alpha Travis, as he threw his arm round Avon in a butch fashion, and they walked off together.

Avon was pleased to find him in such a pleasant temper, and thought to himself that perhaps it was only the presence of the other Travis that had made him so savage when they met in the President’s palace on Lindor.

“You’re thinking about something, old son, and that makes you forget to talk. I can’t tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit.”

“Perhaps it hasn’t one,” Avon ventured to remark.

“Tut, tut!” said the Alpha Travis. “Everything’s got a moral, if only you can find it.” And he pounded Avon on the back in bon-hommie.

Avon did not much like being pounded on the back: first, because the Alpha Travis was very strong: and secondly, because Avon did not much like being touched even in the best of circumstances. However, he did not like to be rude to a loony with a built-in laser: so he bore it as well as he could.

“The game’s going on rather quicker now that half the players have been executed by Servalan,” he said, by way of keeping up the conversation a bit.

“’Tis so,” said the Alpha Travis: “and the moral of that is—‘The female of the species is more deadly than the male!’”

“I don’t doubt that,” Avon muttered, “though she is bumping off as many women as men.”

“Ah, well! We all die the same in the end,” said the Alpha Travis, punching Avon on the shoulder as he added, “and the moral of that is—‘Take care of the wounds and defense will take care of itself.’”

“Considering how amoral you are, you seem to enjoy finding morals in things!” Avon said.

“Of course, you’re right,” said the Alpha Travis, who seemed ready to agree to everything that Avon said: “And the moral of that is—‘Those that can’t—teach!’”

“A cheap sort of sentiment!” thought Avon.

“Thinking again?” the Alpha Travis asked, with another cheerful pound to Avon’s shoulder.

“I’ve a right to think,” said Avon sharply, for he was beginning to feel a little worried.

“Just about as much right,” said the Alpha Travis, “as Deltas have to write political treatises criticizing their betters: and the m—”

But here, to Avon’s great surprise, the Alpha Travis’ voice died away, even in the middle of his favourite word ‘moral,’ and the arm that was slung around his neck began to tremble. Avon looked up, and there stood the Supreme Commander in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.

“A fine day, your Supremity!” the Alpha Travis began in a low, weak voice.

“Now, I give you fair warning,” shouted Servalan, stamping her foot, encased in an impractical high-heeled sandal, on the ground as she spoke; “either you or your head must be off, and that in about half no time! Take your choice! There’s room for only one Travis in my Space Force!”

The Alpha Travis took his choice, and was gone in a moment.

Episode 24: Armpit

or:

“The Ex-Space Captain’s Story”

“Let’s go on with the game,” the Supreme Commander said to Avon; and Avon was too much frightened to say a word, and only gave her his patented heavy-lidded glowering stare. Slowly he followed her back to the game board, looking for a bolt-hole all the way.

The other guests had taken advantage of the Supreme Commander’s absence, and were resting: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried back to the game, the Supreme Commander merely remarking that a moment’s delay would cost them their lives.

All the time they were playing the Supreme Commander never left off quarreling with the other players, and shouting “Obliterate him!” or “Execute her!” Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers, who of course had to leave off playing the game to do this, so that, by the end of a half hour or so, there were no players left, and all the players, except the Delta Travis, the Supreme Commander and Avon, were in custody and under sentence of execution.

Then the Supreme Commander left off, quite out of breath, and said to Avon, “Have you seen the Ex-Space Captain yet?”

“No,” said Avon. “I don’t even know who this Ex-Space Captain is.”

“He was once my youngest, bravest and cutest pilot. Come on, then,” said the Supreme Commander, “and he shall tell you his history.”

As they walked off together, Avon heard the Delta Travis say in a low voice to the company generally, “If you’re lucky, you’ll all be taken to Cygnus Alpha to rot, you scum! That’s what you get for plotting together against your Supreme Commander!” Avon, who would not usually have relished listening to the ‘history’ of some stupid Ex-Space Captain was glad to be leaving.

They passed through some corridors, then very soon came upon a laboratory where sat a young Weapons Expert carefully putting tiny wheels on a mobile bomb. “Come, foolish child!” said the Supreme Commander, “and take this computer genius to see the Ex-Space Captain, and to hear his history. I must go back and see to some executions I’ve ordered;” and she walked off, leaving Avon alone with the attractive, young Weapons Expert.

Avon quite liked her looks as she sat there in her skin-tight purple catsuit, and on the whole he thought it was quite preferable to go with her rather than stay with that savage Supreme Commander; so he waited.

The Weapons Expert straightened from her task and looked Avon over: then she watched the Supreme Commander till she was out of sight: then she chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” said Avon.

“Why, she,” said the Weapons Expert. “Little does she know I’m going to blow the top of her head off soon. Come on!”

“Everybody says ‘come on!’ here,” thought Avon, as he went after her: “I was never so ordered about in my life, and I’ll not put up with it much longer! Who do they think they are, my father?”

They had not gone far before they saw the Ex-Space Captain in the docking bay, sitting sad and lonely on a box of spare parts, and, as they came nearer, Avon could hear him sighing as if his heart would break.

“What now?” Avon asked the Weapons Expert. And the Weapons Expert answered, “It’s all his fancy: he didn’t feel appreciated, so he’s left the Space Force, you know. Come on!”

So they went up to the curly-headed Ex-Space Captain, who looked at them with large, blue eyes full of tears, but said nothing.

“This computer genius here,” said the Weapons Expert, “he wants to hear your story, he does.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Shhhh!”

So they sat down, and the Ex-Space Captain began.

“Once,” he said, “I was a real Space Captain and a top-gun pilot.”

These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by the occasional exclamation of “Poor baby!” by the sympathetic Weapons Expert, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Ex-Space Captain. Avon was very nearly getting up and saying, “Thank you for your, for lack of a better word, interesting story,” but the Ex-Space Captain beat him to the punch.

“When I was very young,” the Ex-Space Captain went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, “I went to a Federation school to learn how to be a Space Captain and serve in the glorious Space Fleet. The master was an old Alpha—we used to call him ‘Caine.’”

“Why did you call him ‘Caine’?” Avon asked.

“Because that was his name,” said the Ex-Space Captain angrily. “Really, for a computer genius, you are very dull!”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question, and you an Alpha and all,” added the Weapons Expert; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Avon, who was really on the verge of blowing his stack because of the two young rebels. At last the Weapons Expert said to the Ex-Space Captain, “Zoom on, sweetie! Don’t be all day about it!” and she went on in these words:—

“Yes, he went to a Federation flight school, though you mayn’t believe it—”

“I never said I didn’t,” interrupted Avon.

“Did, too,” said the Ex-Space Captain.

“Hold your tongue!” added the Weapons Expert, pulling a small-bore laser gun out of her skin-tight catsuit pocket, before Avon could speak again. The Ex-Space Captain went on.

“We had the best of education—in fact, we went to school every day—”

“I’ve been to the finest school in all the Federation,” said Avon. “You needn’t be so proud as all that.”

“With extras?” asked the Ex-Space Captain, a little anxiously.

“Yes,” said Avon: “we learned E-Mail and desk-top publishing.”

“And Bonk?” said the Ex-Space Captain.

“Certainly not!” said Avon indignantly.

“Ah! Then yours wasn’t a really good school,” said the Ex-Space Captain in a tone of great relief and superiority. “Now, at ours, they had Bonk and Get and MariSoolin—all the B7 fannish extras!”

“You couldn’t have wanted it much,” said Avon; “not being so popular a character as me and Vila and Blake.”

“I’m much more popular with this current crop of fannish writers,” said the Ex-Space Captain with a sigh. “I even had to take a course in Slash.”

“What was that?” enquired Avon.

“Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,” the Ex-Space Captain replied; “and then, for Servalan stories, the different branches of Diplomacy—Ambition, Distraction, Uglification and Derision.”

“I never heard of ‘Uglification,’” Avon ventured to say. “What is it?”

The Weapons Expert blinked in surprise. “Never heard of uglifying!” she exclaimed. “Lucky you! That’s for Travis stories, you know. How d’you think he went from being a strapping, dreamy-eyed six-footer; into a reedy, whiny bloke with no chest to speak of?”

Avon did not forebear to tell the young Weapons Expert that there were, in fact, two Travii: so he turned to the Ex-Space Captain, and said, “What else had you to learn?”

“Well, there was Mystery,” the Ex-Space Captain replied, counting off the subjects on his fingers,—“Mystery, not a popular mode for fan stories, it takes no small amount of writing talent to weave a good plot; Spacial Geometry; then Looking-Cute-Under-Duress. The Looking-Cute-Under-Duress master was that bloke who used to be in Knight Rider, now he owns Bay Watch.”

“What was that like?” said Avon.

“Oh, don’t be coy, you probably aced the course,” said the Weapons Expert, cuddling up to the computer genius’ chest.

The Ex-Space Captain sighed deeply, and drew the back of one hand across his eyes. He looked at Avon and tried to speak, but, for a moment or two, sobs choked his voice, and, with tears running from his big, blue eyes, he went on again:—

“You may not have served with the Federation Space Fleet—” (“I haven’t,” said Avon)—“and perhaps you have never even been to a space battle—” (Avon said, “No, never”) “—so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Federation Space-March is!”

“No, indeed,” said Avon. “Can I go now?”

“Wouldn’t dream of sending you away without one march, old man!” said the Ex-Space Captain, “you first put your pursuit ships into a row along the battle-lines—”

“Three rows!” cried the Weapons Expert. “Deltas, Betas, then Alphas, so the lower classes will be blasted first!”

“That generally takes some time,” interrupted the Ex-Space Captain. “The Deltas never want to go first. Not used to it, you see.”

“—you advance twice—”

“Each with an enemy spacecraft as a partner!” cried the Ex-Space Captain.

“Of course,” the Weapons Expert said; “advance, shoot at your enemy—”

“—change enemy spacecraft, shooting at the back of the fellow-next-to-you’s partner—”

“Then, you know,” the Weapons Expert said; “you blow up a few—”

“A few non-military planetary installations!” shouted the Ex-Space Captain, with a bound into the air.

“—fly as far out in space as you can—”

“Pursue the enemy!” screamed the Ex-Space Captain.

“Describe a parabolic course!” cried the Weapons Expert, capering wildly about.

“Blow up some more planetary installations!” yelled the Ex-Space Captain at the top of his voice.

“Back to base again, and—that’s all the first battle,” said the Weapons Expert, suddenly dropping her voice; and the two young rebels, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very quietly, and looked at Avon.

“It sounds a gory scene,” said Avon.

“Would you like to see a little of it?” said the Ex-Space Captain.

“Not at all, thank you,” replied Avon.

“Oh, come on—just the music part of it.”

“No, really.”

“Come, let’s try the first figure!” said the Ex-Space Captain to the Weapons Expert. “We can do it without the explosions, you know.”

So they began solemnly dancing round and round Avon, every now and then treading on his toes when they passed too close, and waving their laser pistols in his face, while the Ex-Space Captain sang very slowly and sadly:—

“Can’t we fly a little faster?” said the Captain to young Del,

“There’s an anti-matter mine field, and we’ll soon be blown to hell.

See how eagerly the mutoids and Andromedans advance!

They are waiting for their death-knells—will you come and join this dance?

Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join this dance?

Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join this dance?

“You can really have no notion just how frightful it can be

When they blow us all to kingdom-come, and film it for TV!”

But young Del replied, “Too far, too fast!” and gave a look askance—

So he thanked his Captain nicely, but he would not join the dance.

Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.

Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.

“What matters it how far we go?” his officer replied.

“There will always be more rebels, fighting for the other side.

The more we kill, the more join them, to take a rebel stance—

Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?

Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?”

“Thanks ever so,” said Avon, feeling very glad it was over at last: “can I go now?”

“No! Come, let’s hear some of your adventures.”

“I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning,” said Avon; “but it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different sort then. I never had adventures, just stayed in my cushy Alpha apartment with my stylish Alpha mistress.”

“Oh, please! Tell us your adventures!” said the Weapons Expert.

So Avon began telling them his adventures from the time when he first saw the Delta thief. His listeners were perfectly quiet till he got to the part about his repeating ‘You Are Old, Fellow Alphan’ to the glass box, and the words all coming different, and then the Ex-Space Captain drew a long breath, and said, “That’s very curious!”

“It’s about as curious as it can be,” said the Weapons Expert.

“I should like to hear him try and repeat something now. Tell him to begin.” He looked at the Weapons Expert as if he thought she had some kind of authority over Avon.

“Stand up and repeat ‘’Tis The Flow Of The Sub-Beam’” said the Weapons Expert, and to Avon’s great surprise, he did. But his head was so full of the Federation Space-March that he hardly knew what he was saying; and the words sounded something like this:—

“’Tis the voice of the mutoid, I heard her declare,

‘Now I’ve got this dumb hat on, I can’t comb my hair.’

As a bee with its stinger, so she with her straw

Sucks your blood and your life out, and into her craw.

When the rebels are dead, she’s a corpse on the make,

And will talk in contemptuous tones of Roj Blake.

But, when gun-fire is heard and the rebels abound,

Her voice has a timid and timorous sound.”

“That’s different from what I learnt in school,” said the Weapons Expert.

“Well, I never heard it before,” said the Ex-Space Captain; “but it sounds crazy to me.”

“Go on with the next verse,” the Weapons Expert said: “it begins ‘I passed the sub-station.’” Avon began again:—

“I passed by the Hommiks, and marked with my bow,

How the Seska and Hommiks were having a row.

The Seska used brain-burn, the Hommiks, raw pow’r,

As the Homs pulled their fists back, the Seska would glow’r.

When the fight was all over, the Seska were dead,

For a chop to the neck will knock off a girl’s head.

But the Hommiks were doomed, tho’ the men were much stronger,

Extinction embraced them, it just took a bit longer.

For it takes two to tango in the dance-hall of life;

And a man can’t have sons if he hasn’t a wife.”

“You must be a computer genius, because I didn’t understand that at all!” said the Ex-Space Captain. “One more song for you, you lucky fellow, and off you go.”

And poor Avon was forced to listen to yet another song. The Ex-Space Captain sighed deeply, and began, in a voice choked with sobs, to sing this:—

“Beautiful ship in heav’n so bright,

Fleetly sailing through the night,

Swift, elusive sensor-blip,

Ship of the rebel, beautiful ship.

Beautiful ship,

Beautiful ship,

Ship of the rebel, beautiful ship.

In rebel’s eye, you seem to say,

Follow me, come fly away.

Outward sweep your point nacelles,

To realms where hairy alien dwells.

Beautiful ship,

Beautiful ship,

Ship of the rebel, beautiful ship.

Sail on, ship of fierce design,

And may our soul’s affection twine

Around you as you move afar,

To any free and distant star.”

“Chorus again!” cried the Weapons Designer, and the Ex-space Captain had just begun to repeat it, when a cry of “The trial’s beginning!” was heard in the distance.

“Come along!” cried the Weapons Designer, and, grabbing Avon’s hand, they hurried off without waiting for the end of the song.

“Any excuse not to have to listen to that again,” said Avon, “but what trial is it?” The Weapons Designer only answered “Come on!” and ran the faster, while more and more faintly came, carried on the breeze that followed them, the words:—

“Ship of the rebel, beautiful ship.”

Episode 25: The Weeper

or:

“Who Blew Up The Planet?”

The Supreme Commander and Senior Federation General (A.K.A. ‘Old Star Killer’) were seated at a dais when Avon and the Weapons Designer arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them—all sorts of soldiers and mutoids, as well as a gaggle of Federation scientists: the Delta Travis was standing before them, in chains, with a mutoid on each side to guard him; and near the Senior Federation General was the Delta thief, looking very put-upon at having been pressed into service by the Supreme Commander, with a bullhorn in his hand. In the very middle of the court was a table, with a large dish of some strange gooey material upon it: it looked so horrible, that it made Avon quite woozy to look at it—“I wish they’d put the trash out,” he thought, “it looks most unsanitary!” But there seemed to be no chance of this; so he turned up his nose and looked around the courtroom to pass the time.

“How much the judge looks like that noxious, meglomaniacal dweeb, Egrorian, who was my tutor for that Tachyon course I took in University!” thought Avon, “all he needs is a mole to the side of his nose and a lunatic giggle, and he’d be almost a perfect match.”

The lead judge, by the way, was Samor, the Senior Federation General, which was fortunate for the Delta Travis: true, he was going to be found guilty no matter what, but at least Samor would not order the Delta Travis’ arms or legs blown off before killing him, a definite possibility if the judge had been the Supreme Commander.

“And that’s the jury-box, a 42X Spee-D-Trial Classic with Auto-Sentence, if I’m not mistaken,” said Avon to himself, but he must have spoken louder than he meant to, for the Delta thief cried out “Silence in the court!” using the bullhorn, and the Senior Federation General shot a hawk-like look in Avon’s direction.

One of the disk drives on the jury-box squeaked. This, of course, Avon could not stand, and he went round the court and got behind the computer, and very soon found an opportunity to take off its back to repair it. He did it so quickly that no one noticed him doing it, and soon he was back in his seat, smirking.

“Read the accusation!” said the Senior Federation General.

On this the Delta thief spoke into his bullhorn as follows:—

“One, two, three—test! Ahem!

One bright day in the middle of the night,

Travis D. got up to fight:

As the colonists celebrated Arbour Day,

“You realize, of course, this means War!” he’d say.

...then...he just, uh, blew them away.”

“Consider your verdict,” the Senior Federation General said to the jury-box.

“Not yet, not yet!” the gooey mess on the table hastily interrupted, waving a tentacle: “I object! There’s a great deal to come before that!” The gooey mess on the table was, in fact, the lawyer for the defense, an alien from the Andromeda galaxy.

“Call the first witless—I mean, witness,” said the Supreme Commander; and the Delta thief blew a raspberry through his bullhorn to clear it of feedback, and called out “First witness!”

The first witness was the big-sleeved, curly-headed rebel leader. He came in dressed as a Federation soldier, but Avon recognized him despite his disguise. His billowing, white sleeves still peeked from beneath his tight leather jacket, and his hair did likewise from under the official Federation “beekeeper” helmet he was wearing.

“Take off your hat,” the Senior Federation General said to the curly-headed rebel leader.

“It isn’t mine,” said the rebel leader, trying to buy some time. He was afraid to show his face, for fear that they would recognize him as that great rebel leader and falsely-accused child-molester, Roj Blake. Indeed, his wanted poster hung on the wall directly behind the jury-box.

“Stolen!” the upright, honorable Senior Federation General exclaimed, turning to the jury-box, whose lights flickered ever-faster.

“It belongs to the Federation,” the rebel leader added as an explanation. “I’ve no belongings of my own. It’s all standard issue. I’m a soldier.”

Here the Supreme Commander began staring hard at the rebel, who fidgeted.

“Give your evidence,” said the Supreme Commander; “and don’t be nervous, or I’ll have you executed on the spot.”

This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Supreme Commander, and in his confusion he accidentally set off his gun, which blew a hole in the witness stand.

Just at this moment Avon saw a very curious thing, which puzzled him a moment until he made out what it was: the rebels were moving in to surround the Supreme Commander, and he thought at first he would get up and leave the court; but on second thoughts he decided to remain where he was as long as he was near to a door and relatively shielded from gunplay by the crowd.

“I wish you wouldn’t squeeze so,” said the Weapons Expert, who was sitting between Avon and the door. “I can hardly breathe.”

“Switch seats with me, will you,” said Avon: “I may need to leave quickly.”

“Well! You’re a cheap sort of date, aren’t you?” said the Weapons Expert.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Avon: “I’m not your date.”

“Yes, but you should have asked me out by now!” said the Weapons Expert: “if you were any kind of a man at all.” And she got up very sulkily and crossed over to the other side of the court, where the Ex-Space Captain was sitting.

All this time the Supreme Commander had never left off staring at the curly-headed rebel leader, and, just as the Weapons Expert crossed the court, she said, to one of the officers of the court, “Bring me the list of rebels still at large!” on which the wretched curly-headed rebel leader trembled so, that his gun went off again and blew another hole in the witness box.

“Give your evidence,” the Supreme Commander repeated angrily, “or I’ll have you executed, whether you’re nervous or not.”

“I’m just a poor soldier, M’am,” the rebel leader began, in a trembling voice, “and I was just walking my patrol—not about a week or so ago—and what with the upper-echelons being so paranoid—and the odds of survival so poor—”

“The odds of what?” said the Senior Federation General.

“Uh—survival?” the disguised rebel leader replied.

“Survival? A common soldier like you? Didn’t you read the fine print on your contract? Didn’t you notice there’s no retirement clause?” said the Senior Federation General sharply. “Cannon-fodder doesn’t need retirement benefits! Go on!”

“I’m just a common soldier,” the rebel leader went on, “and I do what my commanding officer says I must do—only Space Captain Travis said—”

“I didn’t!” the Delta Travis interrupted in a great hurry.

“You did!” said the rebel leader.

“I deny it!” said the Delta Travis.

“He denies it,” said the Senior Federation General: “leave out that part.”

“Well, at any rate, the battle was raging all round...all round—” the rebel leader went on, looking anxiously round to see if his troops were into place yet. Unfortunately, they were not, as they were fascinated by his story and were hanging on to his every word. The curse of charisma!

“The battle was raging all round—then what?” the Senior Federation General asked.

“That I can’t remember,” said the rebel leader.

“You must remember,” remarked the Supreme Commander, “or I’ll have you executed.”

Here one of the spectators cheered, and was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court. (Let me just explain to you how that is done. They had a large canvas bag, which tied up at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the spectator, head first, and then sat upon him.)

“Good job they’ve done that,” thought Avon. “I’ve so often read in the newspapers, at the end of trials, ‘There was some attempt at applause, which was immediately suppressed by the officers of the court,’ and I never understood what it meant until now. Very sensible.”

“If that’s all you know about it, you may stand down,” continued the Senior Federation General.

“I’d much rather stand up, please,” said the curly-headed rebel leader.

“Whatever,” said the Senior Federation General.

“I’ll just stand over here, in the corner, out of the way,” continued Blake, and he did so.

“Call the next witness!” said the Senior Federation General.

The next witness was the Delta thief! He carried the bullhorn in his hand, and Avon knew the jig would soon be up, because the Delta thief couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, and that was a statement to be taken literally. Escorted by two mutoids, the thief took his place on the witness stand.

“Give your evidence,” said the Senior Federation General.

“Can’t,” gasped the frightened thief.

“You must answer, I am cross-examining you,” the Senior Federation General said with a melancholy air, and, after folding his arms and frowning at the thief till his eyes were nearly out of sight, he said, in a deep voice, “Who blew up the planet?”

“Not me!” said the thief.

“The Supreme Commander,” said a little voice behind him.

“Collar that mutoid!” the Supreme Commander shrieked out. “Obliterate her! Turn that mutoid out of the court! Suppress her! Punch her! Blow her away!”

For some minutes the whole court was in confusion getting the mutoid under control, and, by the time they had settled down and found that the Delta Travis had ordered the mutoid to make that scandalous accusation, the thief had disappeared.

“Never mind!” said the Senior Federation General, with an air of great relief. “Call the next witness.” And, he added, in an under-tone to the Supreme Commander, “Really, my dear Supreme Commander, you must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead ache!”

Avon watched as the officers of the court cast about for a replacement for the Delta thief, and finally a mutoid was selected to announce the witnesses and a new bullhorn was gotten for her. Avon felt very curious to see what the next witness would be like, “—for they haven’t got much evidence yet,” he said to himself. Imagine his surprise, when the mutoid read out, at the top of her shrill little voice, the name, “Avon!”

“I’ll be more than pleased to cross-examine this witness,” the Supreme Commander purred.

Episode 25: Bar None

or:

“Avon’s Evidence”

“Me?!” cried Avon, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment that he was just about the slip out the door. He jumped up in such a hurry that the bench he was seated on tipped over backwards, spilling a number of high-ranking officers and Federation scientists to the floor. Usually Avon would have found this amusing, but he was in no mood to appreciate low physical humour at the moment.

“I beg your pardon? Me? Are you quite sure?” continued Avon, walking to the witness box and sitting down in it.

“What do you know about this business?” the Supreme Commander said to Avon.

“Nothing,” said Avon.

“Nothing whatever? You sure?” persisted the Supreme Commander, arching one elegant eyebrow at him.

“Nothing whatever,” confirmed Avon.

“That’s very important,” said the Supreme Commander, turning to the jury-box. The jury-box hummed and whirred, its lights flashing, as it digested this new bit of information, when Avon interrupted: “Unimportant, your Supremity means, of course,” he said in very respectful tones, but eyeing her back in the same suggestive manner.

“Oh, yes, unimportant, of course, I meant,” the Supreme Commander hastily said, and went on trading looks with Avon, murmuring in an undertone to him, “important—unimportant—important—unimportant—” in a throaty purr.

“There’s more evidence to come yet, please your Supremity,” said the Senior Federation General, trying to get her attention: “this paper has just been picked up.”

“What’s in it?” said the Supreme Commander.

“I haven’t opened it yet,” said the Senior Federation General, “but it seems to be a letter, written by the prisoner to—to somebody.”

“It must have been that,” said the Supreme Commander, “unless it was written to nobody, which isn’t usual, even for a loony like Space Commander Travis here.”

“Who is it directed to?” asked Avon.

“It isn’t directed at all,” said the Senior Federation General: “in fact, there’s nothing written on the outside.” He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and added “It isn’t a letter, after all: it’s a set of verses.”

“Are they in the prisoner’s handwriting?” asked the Supreme Commander.

“No, they’re not,” said the Senior Federation General, “and that’s the oddest thing about it.” (The entire court looked puzzled at this.)

“He must have imitated somebody else’s hand,” said the Supreme Commander. (The court brightened up again.)

“Whot?! Gimme a flippin’ break, willya?” said the one-eyed knave, “I didn’t write that flamin’ thing, and you can’t prove I did: there ain’t no name on it and all!”

“If you didn’t sign it,” said the Senior Federation General, “that only makes the matter worse. You must have meant some mischief, or else you’d have signed your name like an honest man.”

There was a general clapping of hands at this: it only went to prove what a fine, upstanding, moral gentleman the Old Star Killer was. Although it did give one pause to wonder where he’d got such a nick-name as “Old Star Killer” from.

“That proves his guilt, of course,” said the Supreme Commander: “so, take him out and shoot—”

“Can I leave now?” demanded Avon.

“No! Here, read this,” said the Senior Federation General, handing Avon the page.

There was dead silence in the court, whilst Avon read out these verses:—

“They told me you had blown it up,

T’was quite a sight to see;

She gave me a small stack of bombs,

A gift from you to me.

He sent them word I was quite dead

(We know this to be true):

If he should push the button home,

What would become of you?

I gave her one, they gave him two,

Then she took three or more;

They all flew back from here to there,

Though they were hence before.

If I and she should chance to be

Embroiled in an affair,

His trust, misplaced, would find the face

Of war without a care.

My secret plan was that you ran

(Before the plan went through.)

An obstacle for to surmount

For him and me and you.

Don’t let her know we mean her harm

The plan must ever be

A secret, kept from all the rest,

Between yourself and me.”

“That’s the most important piece of evidence we’ve heard yet,” said the Senior Federation General rubbing his hands; “so now let the jury-box—”

“This is the most insane piece of persiflage as ever I have come across. I doubt any of you can explain it,” said Avon, (he had grown so disgusted with the proceedings that he was becoming foolhardy and had, indeed, forgotten that the point of the trial was to condemn the Delta Travis to prison or worse: not a bad thing in Avon’s opinion), “I’ll give any man five million credits who can. I don’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it.”

“If there’s no meaning in it,” said the Supreme Commander, “that saves us an awful lot of trouble, my dear, as we needn’t try to find any.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s as clear as milk and twice as sensible!” cried the curly-headed rebel leader, coming from the corner he’d been standing in. He spread out the verses on his knee, and looking at them through the beekeeper helmet he wore, went on; “I seem to see some meaning in them, after all. ‘—They told me you had blown it up, t’was quite a sight to see;’—heaven’s what haven’t we blown up!—‘She gave me a small stack of bombs, a gift from you to me.’—Cally’s a treat at making up bombs, she’s always giving them to one for one’s birthday or for some other holiday—‘He sent them word I was quite dead (we know this to be true)’—why, Travis was always jumping the gun and declaring me dead! More the fool him!—‘If he should push the button home, what would become of you?’—there was that little brou-ha-ha on Albian, and were the button pushed home, we’d have all gone up in smoke!—”

“But it goes on ‘I gave her one, they gave him two, then she took three or more; they all flew back from here to there, though they were hence before.’” said Avon.

“Well, we’re always handing out bombs and arms to various rebel groups! And flying hither and yon at breakneck speeds,” said Blake triumphantly. “Nothing can be clearer than that. We’ll skip over the next bit about the affair, that was personal.”

“Oh, Blake! You idiot!” cried the blonde rebel pilot from the back of the courtroom in despair.

“Now, Jenna,” Blake replied: “the cause can always use five million credits, you know! And everyone knows about the two of us, anyway!”

“Let the jury-box consider its verdict!” screamed the Supreme Commander, in quite a temper as she had divined the last verse and was quite put out about it; “then we shall commence a new trial! That of Blake and his rabble!”

“I’ll be leaving now, if you don’t mind,” said Avon.

“I do mind, tall, dark and broody! You’ll stay right were you are!” cried the Supreme Commander: “Any fool could see you were in this from the start! Five million credits donated to the rebel cause—how could you? And you an Alpha genius—you’re a traitor to your class!”

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Avon loudly. “The idea that I’d have anything to do with this tatty lot!”

“Hold your tongue!” said the Supreme Commander, turning purple.

“I won’t!” said Avon.

“Obliterate him! Mutoids! Arrest that man!” the Supreme Commander shouted at the top of her voice. The Federation soldiers made for Avon, but at that moment the rebel forces came into play and a mighty battle commenced in the courtroom, during which the Delta Travis made good his escape.

“Who cares for you?” said Avon. “You’re nothing but a pack of fools!”

At this, the jury-box, which Avon had jury-rigged to explode whilst he was seeing to the squeaky disk drive, went up in a violent display of pyrotechnics. Fiery bits and pieces of it came flying down upon the court; he gave a shout, half of fright and half of anger, and tried to beat the burning embers off, and found himself lying on the computerbank near his father, who was idly tossing tarriel cells on his face.

“Wake up, Avon, you fool!” said his father, “I’m not going to waste my time sitting in this dreary office with you when I could be out rogering the odd tart or two!”

“Oh, I’ve had such a curious dream!” said Avon. And he told his father, as well as he could remember them, all these strange Adventures of his that you have just been reading about; and, when he had finished, his father drew back his fist and socked him on the jaw, and said, “No, that wasn’t the curious dream, you dimwit, this is the dream! You hadn’t the wit to take a powder from that bad scene and now you’re paying for it. You were hit on the head by a bit of that exploding jury-box, and you’re flat on your back somewhere, out cold, serves you right!” So Avon lay back on the computerbank to gather his wits about him and found himself woozily waking up, this time for real, his head a pounding ache, to find himself on the Liberator, staring up into the not-unsympathetic brown eyes of the slender alien woman. “Did you know you could get 20 years-to-life on Cygnus Alpha for rigging a jury, hmmmmm?” she said.

The End