David Garnet - Bikini Planet

It was as if the finger had been removed and replaced with an exact replica. The bones had gone, and imitation skin covered—something.

Was this his mission? He was a courier, but what he carried was hidden within his body. It was a part of him. His finger was a coded message, a futuristic equivalent of microfilm. And when he reached his destination, his index finger would be ripped off as casually as an envelope was torn open…

An icy shiver made Norton’s whole body shudder. Although the medic had assured him his temperature was normal, he’d never felt warm since waking from his long slumber. The only part of him that wasn’t cold was his right index finger.

He wished he had something else to do other than wonder and worry and watch television.

It was known as SeeV, but it was just a big television screen—or, like the one in his cabin, a small screen—showing two-dimensional images. Many of the programmes were from other worlds. Alien worlds. He watched television shows made for aliens, by aliens and featuring aliens. And he couldn’t understand them.

There was no problem with translation, because he was now equipped with his own slate. The simultaneous linguistic and tonal equaliser had been developed so people from different planets could communicate. He could understand every word, but as soon as the words were joined up to make sentences, he became lost.

Things sometimes made more sense without sound, although he seldom had any idea whether he was watching an alien comedy, soap opera, news bulletin or quiz show. As for alien monster movies… at first, everything was full of monsters.

Norton soon became used to aliens, however. The majority had the same general physiognomy as humans: head, torso, two upper limbs, two lower limbs. The variations came in size and shape and proportion, and whether they had skin or shell or scales, fingers or claws or tendrils. The variety of aliens was countless, because that was the number of planets on which life had evolved.

After a few days, watching a programme in which everyone was an alien didn’t seem at all unusual. Some of them could have been played by humans in costume, but Norton was often reminded of cartoon shows. In his day, cartoon characters could be animals who behaved like humans—they lived in houses, maybe, they shopped at supermarkets, and they always spoke English. On SeeV, however, the aliens behaved like aliens. To a human, what they did was completely alien, and despite talking in English, their actions were totally incomprehensible.

But Norton kept watching and watching, because he felt certain there would be a moment of revelation, that he’d suddenly understand one of the shows. Before long, everything would make sense.

Then he remembered the history professors, the old films they had studied, and how wrong their interpretations had been. If they were humans watching humans, and they couldn’t get it right, what chance did Norton have of figuring out an alien game show?

There must have been aliens on board the ship, that was why their programmes were available. Norton never saw any, which was disappointing. He guessed that when he reached his destination, whatever his destination was, he’d finally see an alien in the flesh—or carapace. It seemed unlikely that he’d been given a slate just to watch TV.

He hardly saw any of the human passengers, either, and his only contact was with one or other of the stewards. When Norton tried talking £0 them, they made it obvious they had far better things to do than waste time with economy-class passengers. After being shown to his berth and given a demonstration of the ship’s functions, such as how to serve his own meals, he was mostly left to himself.

The only time he tried exploring, a steward suddenly appeared and ordered him back. Almost the entire vessel was off-limits to those in the cheap cabins.

The place where Norton had spent the previous three centuries couldn’t have been much smaller than his “cabin.” The entrance was the height and width of a normal doorway. Once inside, it became no higher or wider, and was only as deep as it was wide. It was like standing in a telephone box, except with less space.

The wall opposite the door was the bed, a vertical bed, but as soon as Norton leaned against it, the whole tiny room completely changed its orientation. Instead of standing up with his feet on the floor, he was suddenly lying down. It seemed as if the room rotated, but it must have been the gravity which made an abrupt ninety-degree twist. Norton never got used to it.

Whenever he lay down, the cabin door was above him, and it doubled as the SeeV screen. Because there was nothing else to do with his time, he kept on studying alien television and watching all its exotic stars.

The only other stars he ever saw were also on screen.

He was in a spaceship, travelling across space, but there was no sound, no vibration, no sense of physical motion. Norton experienced more movement when he stood up or lay down than he did in voyaging across the immeasurable gulf of space.

Because interstellar distances were so vast, the craft didn’t fly directly from one planet to another. Instead, it took a shortcut. He’d always believed that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. In his time, that had been true, but it seemed no longer to be the case.

He didn’t understand, but neither had he understood the workings of the internal-combustion engine.

When he looked at the viewscreen, it wasn’t a window on the stars, but a simulated image.

Wayne Norton had never been on a ship at sea, never even been on a boat on a river, and now he was crossing the galactic void on board an interstellar spacecraft.

It was the greatest adventure of his life, the greatest adventure anyone from his century had ever experienced.

But that didn’t stop him from being totally bored.

One day, or maybe one night—there was no difference on board—the door to Norton’s cabin suddenly opened. Because he was lying on his bunk, gazing up, the doorway was in the ceiling. A steward looked down at him. Since showing him the cabin, this was the first time one of them had been here.

“You’re John Wayne?”

“No,” said Norton, because he had taken another identity. He’d kept the same false initials to help him remember, but by now wished he had chosen another name. Two other names. “I’m Julius Winston.” He held out his hand.

“You’re John Wayne,” repeated the steward. This time it was a statement, not a question.

Norton wondered if the steward was his contact on board. Then he wondered if he was supposed to have a contact on board.

Maybe the steward would tell him about his secret mission.

Or maybe this was Norton’s mission: to pass secret data to the steward.

But he didn’t have any data.

Unless he was about to lose his right index finger.

Norton’s hand was still held toward the steward, as if offering his finger.

The steward was a man.

Norton blinked.

The steward was a monster.

Literally.

His face had transformed into an insect’s head.

His body had altered into a segmented torso.

His arms and legs had changed into taloned tendrils.

Even his uniform was gone, replaced by a scaly hide.

An alien!

Norton screamed out in fear.

The alien’s tentacles sprang toward his throat.

Then Norton shot him.

Shot him with his finger, his right index finger.

Which was a gun.

Norton screamed again, this time in pain. The tip of his finger was missing, blown off when he’d shot the alien. But it was his other fingers and his palm that were hurting.

He gazed at his hand, then stared out of the doorway to where the creature lay still.