3.Ø3
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“Funny,” Ubie observed, “It doesn’t look like much.” Star Truck was flying low over the lunar landscape. The terrain could not have been more stark. Craters pocked the rocky surface as far as the eye could see.
Gellie and company returned from escorting the Gorn to his stateroom. Apparently, when the Gorn learned that he could stream unlimited satellite TV, he had mellowed out remarkably. In blippets, the Gorn was chillin’ with a frosty mug of beer while watching Star Tours on his flatscreen.
“That’s intentional,” Sian consulted her wedgeboard, “We’re trying to keep the Council low-key. There are lots of troublemakers who want to crash the party.”
“We are approaching the Crossroads of Humanity,” Gellie announced.
Sian settled into her Captain’s chair, and Ubie counted heads, “All personnel are present and accounted for except Dr. Muddle.”
“Oh, that’s right!” Sian punched her intercom, “Ahoy, there, Mudd. We are approaching our destination. Please report to ComCen and strap in for landing. Over.”
Silence.
Sian allowed a few moments to tick by before following up, “Muddle? Do you read? Over.”
“...click-ick-ick…” Muddle fumbled with the intercom, “...Yeah...I read…”
Silence.
“Sian,” Gellie interjected, “We have arrived at the specified coordinates. Should I initiate descent?”
Sian glanced at the viewscreen. The meeting site was a precisely excavated rectangle on the lunar surface. The Captain shook her head, “No, hold descent until pretty boy straps in.” Sian clicked the intercom, “Is there a problem, Muddle? Over.”
“No…it’s not...a problem...!” Muddle ground his teeth loud enough to be heard over the intercom, “It’s just...aarrgh! I’m having a wardrobe malfunction.”
“Oh…” Sian suppressed a snicker, “...sorry to hear that, Mudd, but we can’t land until you strap in.”
“Hmmppff!” Muddle's vexation was palpable, “Sooo...is this really a life or death situation? I mean…” Muddle chewed his lip, “...will I die if I stay in here?”
Tired of the tomfoolery, Sian laid it on the line, “Yes, Mudd, you will die. Because I will march in there and strangle you with my own two hands. Do you read? Over."
Ubie informed Sian that the exotic energy pulses she had been monitoring were increasing in strength and number.
“Okay,” Sian issued the long-awaited command, “Gellie, you may initiate descent.” Sian was on the verge of rounding up Muddle at gunpoint when, to her great relief, the hatch whisked open.
Gellie announced, “T-minus 20 seconds.”
No Muddle.
“You better get out here, Mudd…” Sian shouted, “...or you’ll be bunking with the Gorn!”
Gellie announced, “T-minus 10 seconds.”
“Alright, already…” A dark figure streaked through the hatch and strapped in at the communications console.
Gellie announced, “T-minus 5...4...3...2...1...Touchdown!” She winked at Ubie, “The Phoenix has landed.”
A gentle shudder ran through the ship. Gellie allowed Star Truck’s touch pads to kiss the lunar surface hard enough to confirm their arrival on an alien world.
“Good work everyone,” Sian consulted her chronometer, "Let’s assemble at the transporter in five blippets. WONK-E, you have the con. I will lead the away team, and Mudd…” Sian turned toward Muddle, and her mouth fell open.
The silence hit Muddle like a sledgehammer. He grumbled, “This was not my idea.”
Rudyard exclaimed, “Holy wormholes, Kyptin! Have you gone spacebugs?”
No one else said a word because they were too busy bursting with laughter.
Muddle failed to see the humor in the situation. Thud had bamboozled him into playing the role of Dr. Stephen Strangelove long before saying anything about a costume. When he encountered pushback, the thunder god had browbeaten Muddle until the professor swore a blood oath to wear Strangelove’s foppish robes. Muddle had completed the ensemble, as per Thud’s exacting instructions, with a dark wig and adhesive goatee.
Once the laughter died down, Gellie informed Muddle that she had the perfect accessory for his wardrobe. Gellie nudged WONK-E, “Open sesame, monsieur.” As WONK-E unlocked his tummy-safe, Gellie instructed Muddle to close his eyes.
Smelling a rat, Muddle complied—but reluctantly. He sensed Gellie drape something around his neck and felt a thump on his sternum. Though he anticipated giggles, Muddle imagined he heard murmurs of wonderment. Finally, he exclaimed, “Can we please get to the part where you pull your hilarious prank on me?”
“Okay, Max,” Gellie refused to be baited, “Open your eyes.”
Expecting to see a “Kick Me!” sign around his neck, Muddle was surprised to discover a genuine treasure.
“Gellie?” Muddle removed the object and held it in his hands, “Is this the mysterious pocket watch that appeared on my desk last moonth?”
Gellie nodded, “Yes, it is, Max.”
Confused, Muddle grumbled, “I stored this artifact in a top secret location, Gellie. How did it fall into your hands? ”
“Yeah, about that,” Gelli laughed, “Let’s just say that your secret hiding place wasn’t so secret.”
“What?” Muddle gaped.
“Hmm...How should I put it?” Gellie lifted the watch out of Muddle’s hands, "The safest place to keep this thing is right here…” She rehung the watch around Muddle's neck and then added, "...while I watch your back.”
An alert sounded at Ubie’s console. She checked the readout, “Oh, great! Lady Galahadrielle has arrived.”
"Ah, good," Sian swiped her forehead, “Please put it on screen, Commander.”
“Of course,” Ubie routed the signal to the main viewscreen, which displayed the now familiar image of the excavated rectangle.
The skipper squinted, “I don’t see anything.”
Ubie cautioned, “Wait for it…”
An instant later, a glistening comet streaked into view and, with an explosion of sparks, struck a large, black obelisk in the center of the excavation pit. The impact suffused the obelisk with a ghostly, pulsing light. As the slab throbbed a luminous orb that looked remarkably like a large soap bubble puffed out of the obelisk. Inside the bubble a human figure—gleaming like starlight—gradually became visible. The figure grew and grew until, Poof!, the bubble popped and out stepped the shimmering form of a female knight errant.
Rudyard gasped, “F-a-s-c-i-n-a-t-i-n-g!
Sian fixed him with a frosty glare, “I’ve heard fascinating things are happening in the brig, Rudyard. Would you care to see for yourself?”
“Uhh…” The PI whapped a hand over his mouth, “...how about if I pack a picnic lunch for the landing party?”
“Yeah,” Sian did a 'fingers do the walking' sign, "You do that.”
Meanwhile...
“I have a problem,” Blowhard fidgeted behind his desk.
In a flash, Lutin appeared at his elbow, “Vat problem you haff?”
Blowhard steepled his fingers, “Nasty Pelousy and Chuck Schemer are trying to run me out of office.”
“You vant I feex?” Lutin licked his weaselly lips.
“Hypothetically…” The orange splodge peeked behind a curtain, “...how would you fix a problem like this?”
"Vait! I show." Lutin dashed to a nearby sofa, felt around underneath and drew out a vicious disemboweling blade. The weasel eviscerated a roomful of imaginary foes before presenting the stabber to Blowhard. "Eez call glaiffe," Lutin bowed when Blowhard lifted the weapon from his hands, "You enfite Peloshki and Zkimmer. I yooz glaiffe. Problem feex."
“Hmmm…” Blowhard admired the weapon, “...it is tempting, but…" the blob shook his head, "...this job calls for more subtlety."
“Zoodledee? Yoo vant zoodle? Hokay…” Lutin stroked his chin, “Vat 'bout thees? I meex dreenk. Geef to Peloshki and Zkimmer. They go zleep. Don’ vake up. Verry zoodle.”
“Interesting…” Blowhard drummed his fingers on the glaive, "Hypothetically, could you serve these cocktails secretly?"
"Heh-heh," Lutin's sinister eyes glittered, "Zeecrit eez meedle name."
"In that case…" Blowhard patted Lutin's head, "...we never had this conversation, did we, Igor?"
"Nyet!" Lutin drew a finger across his throat. "I know nahthink."