Гарри Гаррисон: Bill, the Galactic Hero's Happy Holiday

“Good,” Bgr said, spinning around in his chair. “Have a cigar and I’ll tell you what’s up.”

Bill took one of the proffered cigars and lit it. Bgr ate the rest of them and belched contentedly.

“Different metabolisms. What we are on is a rescue mission.”

“Kidnapped maidens?”

“Hardly. A Chinger of course. Trapped in his ship when the engines were shot out. He’s very important to us-”

“Why?”

“If I told you that you would sell him out to the highest bidder. Let’s just say important. Spring him and you are drunk for life.”

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

“For the simple reason, bowb-brain, that I am not human. Mgr, which happens to be his name, is imprisoned on the highly militarized planet of Parra’Noya. Any disguise would be instantly penetrated. You, however, are disgustingly human and can boldly go where we can’t.”

“I want an advance on my salary,” Bill said, beginning to be worried.

“Why not. You can travel just as well smashed. Nothing could possibly improve or hinder your conversational abilities. Here.”

“Here” was a suspiciously green flask of liquid labeled in an unknown language. None of which would deter a determined boozehead in search of escape. The first mouthful tasted preposterously foul and Bill could feel steam leaking out of his ears. But the more he drank the better it tasted and he was soon twanging a tusk with contentment as he slipped into oblivion.

“Disgusting. Chingers don’t drinker have BO.”

The clang of mighty bells awoke Bill, groaning. It was some time before he realized that they were inside his head.

He needed both hands to pry one eye open; it clanged shut and he groaned even more loudly as the light seared and sizzled through his skull.

“Appalling,” Bgr sneered as he plunged a hypodermic into Bill’s arm. Whatever it was took effect almost instantly and the symptoms of the galaxy-sized hangover began to fade. As the blear faded from his eyes Bill saw a grizzled Admiral of the Fleet standing before him. He snapped to attention and saluted with his two right arms.

Surprisingly, the Admiral did the same. Much rapid blinking revealed the fact that he was looking at himself in the mirror.

“My true rank at last,” he simpered, strutting and rattling his medals.

“Come off it. You aren’t intelligently qualified to even make Private First Class. Now listen to instructions and try to remember them. They are very complicated. Almost as complicated as learning to be a fuse tender.”

“That wasn’t easy — but I did it!”

“Indeed. Listen. Your instructions have been mnemonically implanted in your subconscious. To access your orders you must say the word `harumph’ aloud.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s it. Do you think that you can master all the complications and pitfalls of these complex instructions?”

“Harumph.”

Bill said, then hooked his thumbs into his gunbelt and began to speak in resounding tones. “I say, my good man, don’t you realize that you are in the presence of a Grand Admiral of the fleet ….”

“Unharumph!” Bgr called out and Bill staggered back.

“Did I say that?”

“You did. The implants work. Now the battle starts.”

“What battle?”

“The staged battle, bowb-brain, from which you will escape in a lifeboat that will take you to Parra’Noya.”

Bgr hit the communication button and the imaged form of another green, four-armed Chinger appeared on the screen.

“Tydsmnx,” Bgr said.

“Mrtnzl,” the other answered and vanished from the screen. “A human like you would have to talk for five minutes to express what we said. A remarkably compact language, Chingerian.”

“Doesn’t sound nice.”

“Who asked you? Get over to the door, because your transport of delight is here.”

A crunched and burnt lifeboat drifted into view and clanged against their hull as the airlocks lined up.

“Move it!” Bgr ordered and Bill moved out of the fountain spaceship and into the other. He strapped himself into the pilot’s seat and was just reaching for the controls when Bgr’s voice boomed in his ears.

“Don’t touch anything, bowb-brains. This thing is remotely controlled. Have a good day-” The Chinger’s voice was wiped out by the roar of rockets as the lifeboat blasted forward. Straight into the ravening maw of a full-fledged space battle. Bill shrieked as guns and spacemines exploded and ravened on all sides.

The little rocket blasted through the engagement and out the other side-heading for the blue globe of a rapidly expanding planet. As gravity grabbed onto it the engine cut out and Bill continued to moan in terror as they dropped uncontrollably towards the clouds below.

The military base, bulging with guns and turrets, rushed towards them at an accelerating pace. But, at the last possible microsecond, the parachute snapped out and the lifeboat settled gently in the middle of a drillfield. The door ground open, Bill patted his newly-gray hair smooth, hauled his stomach up into his chest in the best military manner and stamped out.

“Hold it right there spy — or you’ll be fried into dog-food!”

A snarling sentry stood outside with his heatray leveled at Bill’s gut, his finger twitching on the trigger.

“Urggle!”

Bill said.

“What?”

“I mean — Burble!”

His skin grayed to match his hair as he realized he had forgotten the word of command! “I say-what’s going on here?”

a General in full body armor said as he clanged up.

“Spacer landed, sir. This madman got out. Can’t talk.”

“Nonsense. Can’t you see that he is an officer? Other ranks are mad, officers are eccentric.”

He turned to Bill and saluted. “Welcome to Parra’Noya, Admiral.”

“Eeek,” Bill eeked.

“Indeed,” the general said, bulging his eyes, not knowing what to say, “Harumph,” he finally harumphed.

“That’s it!”

Bill jovialated. “Harumph! Quite a pleasure to meet you General. Bit of a space battle out there. Few thousand ships destroyed, got a few of the buggers on the other side as well.”

“Can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”

“Quite. I nipped into this lifeship when my battleship blew up. Now I suggest you show me a bit of hospitality and discipline this soldier for pointing a weapon at a superior officer.”

“Of course. You — give me that weapon and turn yourself in to the MPs for two years in a labor battalion.

“Dismissed.”

Sobbing with despair the soldier staggered away. The officers, now good chums, headed hand in hand for the bar where they raised glasses of vintage champagne in jolly toasting.

“To your fine military planet,” Bill smarmed. “Long may it reign.”

“To your fine space navy — long may it destroy!”

Bill drained his glass, belched, and nodded happily as it was refilled. “This is Parra’Noya, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is.”

“I seem to remember a space-o-gram that came in just before the ship exploded. Something about a prisoner you had ….”

“That will be our captive Chinger!”

“I say — no one has ever captured a Chinger before.”

“That’s because no one is as militaristically sadistically warlike as we are. Like to see the bugger?”

“Is that his name?”

“Almost. I believe it is Mgr.”

“Well lead on, old bean. Can I help you torture the creature or something?”

“Nice of you to offer. I’ll see what can be arranged.”

They finished the bottle, lit cigars, then strolled deep into the fortress. Guards clashed their weapons at attention as they passed. Electronic gates swung open and squads of troops trotted by with presented arms. Deeper and deeper they went until the metal walls gave way to damp stone. Furtive rodents rustled away and even the guards were covered with mold and spiderwebs. One last sealed gate was unsealed and resealed and they stood before a barred door. The guard raised his weapon in a snappy salute and stepped aside. Bill looked in at the Chinger chained to the wall with massive metal shackles.