SF: Now It's Your Turn: Gollerdangerrung/Interlude One

[cloudbusting]

Gollerdangerrung,
or,
Lawn Chairs of the Gods
(a Tale of Sfstory)
by
Gary W. Olson

In the beginning, there was darkness.
A bit after the beginning, there was still darkness.
The darkness hung around for a while after that.
It was very persistent.

"Explain to me exactly why we're here again," Ronald Hastings,
undergraduate majoring in Space Heroics at Interstellar University, Star
Trek devotee and former captain of a pinto-shaped star vessel named the
AOEDWOSTWHARSUSPWKSS High_Spock_Is_A_Weenie (named so for reasons best not
gotten into right now).
"It's like this," Norman Sassafrass, undergraduate majoring in Space
Heroics at Interstellar University, Star Trek devotee and former crew of
the aforementioned vessel, as well as Ronald's best friend, replied.
"There were these aliens, millennia ago, who went around genetically
engineering a bunch of races and putting this genetic code puzzle thingie
in their DNA so that, when the message was reassembled, it made a picture
of an alien with a 'good vibes' message. Now these weren't the Preservers,
these were some completely different aliens mucking about to make everyone
in the galaxy look more or less human, only with bumpy skulls or a
desperate need for a plastic surgeon. They shaped the path of the human
race and all the others for generations...."
"I wish you wouldn't mention that movie."
"Sorry. Like I was saying..."
"And that wasn't what I meant by my question, either," Ronald said.
"I meant, why are we *here.*"
"You're here," a voice from the intercom interrupted, causing them to
jump and hide their poster magazines, "because you missed the freshmen
student field trip to the Grand Ruins of Talapalago Ten, and your
prerequisite for next year's Intro to Heroic Archaeology Techniques
necessitates a visit to some ruins. We're about to make our descent, by
the way, so get your asses up here."
"Yes, sir!" Ronald exclaimed, smartly, as he and Norman stood up,
brushed out the wrinkles in their clothing, picked bits of potato chip from
the polyester fiber of their gold (on Ronald) and blue (on Norman) shirts,
and headed for the bridge of the H.M.S. Shannon II.
"That answer your question?" Norman asked, sarcastically.
"Hey, *I'm* not the one who started arguing with Zark Flyby about
Shatner's acting ability."
"I wasn't arguing! I just asked Zark what he thought of Shatner's
toupee!"
"Key word. 'Thought.'"
"I know, I know. I'm just glad he's not on this trip."
"Who, Shatner?"
"Zark."
"Oh. Yeah."
The doors slid aside to reveal the bridge, which was about as
benightedly un-battle-like as Ronald and Norman had imagined a bridge could
be. The tactical stations were long-buried under pizza boxes and Vorpogian
take-out spheres. Laundry was carelessly draped over the main viewscreen,
obscuring more than half of it. The floor was obscured by loose papers and
more than a few cases of beer. In the Captain's chair, the person who had
talked to them earlier via intercom was stretched out, his white jumpsuit
stained with cheese and tomato juice. He blinked, seeming to awaken as
they strode in.
"Mmmm, 'bout time," Lark Purree, Time Agent 90210, said. "We're
making the approach to Woozlbain. S'on the monitor there... somewhere. I
think. Unless I left the nude alien volleyball on again."
Ronald and Norman pushed aside trousers, shirts, pantaloons, briefs,
long johns and ballroom gowns to find that, indeed, volleyball featuring
unclad aliens was on. It was not particularly stimulating, as the
finalists on one side appeared to be freshly-waxed Steinway pianos, while
their opponents were the Fri'jidi, a blue-skinned humanoid race from an ice
world that had, for the purposes of adhering the rules, stripped down to
just ten layers of heavy, thick clothing. Long gone were the days of Radar
Vogel, it seemed. They found the remote and switched the channel to a view
of the exterior of the ship.
The planet they were descending upon looked roughly greenish and
bluish, though it was the green parts that were sloshing about and gleaming
in the sunlight, while the blue areas tended to look stable and a bit rocky
in places.
"Planet Woozlbain," Lark said. "Home of the Ancient Ruins of Planet
Woozlbain, including but not limited to the Crumbled Temples of Planet
Woozlbain, the Rotting Castles of Planet Woozlbain, the Abandoned
Fortresses of Planet Woozlbain..." He stopped upon seeing how Ronald and
Norman were staring at him. "Hey, that's what they're called in the
brochure. I'm just a T.A. at IU, okay? Um... anyway, there's also the
Ancient Citadel of Narlarbargarharmarwararrarr, the Creator of the Universe
and All That Lies Within, Including Planet Woozlbain."
"An ancient god's final resting place," Ronald said. "Can we go?"
"Huh?" Lark asked. "Why? I was planning to go to the Temples.
They've got some good bars in the area, from what I've heard...."
"We want to see the Citadel," Norman insisted. "It's what Kirk would do."
"No he wouldn't," Lark argued. "He'd go to a Temple and try to get
lucky with one of the alien priestesses."
"Well, he'd go to the Citadel after, right?" Ronald asked.
"I suppose," Lark said, scratching his chin. "Okay, okay, we'll go to
the Citadel."
"Yay!" Ronald and Norman cheered.
"*Then* we go to the bars."
"What about the priestesses?"
"They'll be there, too."
"Oh. Um... okay."
They turned to the viewscreen and watched as the largest continent of
Woozlbain grew larger, and marveled at how closely its coastline made it
resemble Shatner's toupee.

The darkness wasn't going away anytime soon, it appeared. Therefore,
some positive action had to be taken.
A rough, gutteral cough echoed off of aged stone walls.
"Let's have some light."
The darkness failed to leave.
"Some light, please."
The darkness seemed a little haughty now.
"Crap. Now I suppose I have to find the flippin' torches, and--"
Thud!
"Ow!"
More darkness.
"Okay, now I'm on the floor. Lights?"
Now the darkness was definitely in mocking mode.
"Flippin' goll dang heck."

"...is where, sixteen centuries before, the Great Prophet received the
word of the ancient god Narlarbargarharmarwararrarr, who had just completed
his epic battle against the villainous demon Drol, and knew he had to lead
his people into the Plains of the Interior, where they might find land to
farm and rivers to drink from and vast stretches of forest to tear down to
build strip malls," a bored-looking Woozlbainian guide, the hair of his
eyebrows dragging tiredly along the grey stones of the Citadel's northern
tower, spoke. "The tower remained abandoned until this past century, when
we returned to this land and began to set up tourist-money-guzz... er, to
reclaim our ancient heritage."
"Fascinating," Norman said, arching his right eyebrow in a way that
made his face look like it was trying to secede from itself. "Your culture
is rich in history and tradition."
"Sure it is... er, yes, it is," the guide answered. He looked at Lark
and frowned. "We don't get many folk from Interstellar University these
days. Seems they all want to go to those fancy-ass ruins on Talapalago
Ten, or the fabled Shrine to Instant Oatmeal on Quaker II. Even the ones
who do come here seem to just want to go right to the bars around the
Temples and try to get some action with the Priestesses--"
"Oh, we're going to do that right after this," Ronald noted. The
guide frowned more deeply, and Lark started wondering if, supposing he
moved really fast, he might knock both Ronald and Norman over the tower
edge and into the chasm of big spiky formations that surrounded the
Citadel's heart, filling in the spaces between the north, south, east and
west towers. It wasn't a terribly heroic thought, he realized, but
technically, he *was* here in his capacity as a student teacher from IU.
The rest of the tour group milled about the tower's roof, peering over
the edges, spitting, throwing small coins or large items of produce, taking
holographs of each other, and generally behaving badly. Those in the group
who were Woozlbainian didn't seem to act any better than those who were
not. For this reason, it seemed, the guide preferred to talk to Lark,
Ronald and Norman, who, at the very least, were pretending to pay
attention. Lark decided now was the time to make his proposition.
"I don't suppose anyone goes in there, do they?" he asked, indicating
a large spiral stone staircase in the center of the tower's roof that was
roped off. The guide's frown grew sterner still, appearing almost angular
now.
"Now and then," he admitted. "It's not a safe area. We've mapped out
the other towers, but this one's a little tricky. Walls keep shifting
around. Keep finding rooms that weren't there before, and losing rooms we
thought were there. Can't swing a dead otter around without hitting a
potted fern. Whole teams of archaeologists with decades of experience go
in...."
"...and don't come out?" Norman asked, his eyebrow now threatening to
slip completely over his head and down his back.
"Oh, no, they come out, all right," the guide said. "Broken, humbled
shells of beings, quivering at the slightest touch, seeking only to curl up
by the poolside at one of our fabulous resorts, drink large quantities of
poisonous liquor and dance into the wee hours of the night, all at taxpayer
expense. Funny, now that I say it aloud. Hmmmm."
"I don't suppose there's any chance my team of id-- archaeologists
could take a quick look around, is there?" Lark asked. The guide's frown
actually looped around at this point, though Lark was fairly sure it was
just an optical illusion.
"Well, sir, I'd like nothing better than to allow that, but, as I
said, the structure is unsafe, and, well, what with our limited budget,
we've hardly had the money to even begin renovations...."
"How about 20 credits?"
"Done." The guide took the money and pocketed it. "Let me shoo the
other twits away first." He turned and raised his arms. "Okay, folks,
time to get back down the side of the tower and head over to the gift
shop!" After some more shouting along this line and the occasional use of
one of his eyebrows as a flogger, he had managed to herd the tourists onto
the lift that ran along the side of the tower. As the lift descended, the
guide nodded to Lark, Ronald and Norman, who had cleverly hidden themselves
behind a convenient soda machine.
"Okay, kids, heroic archaeology time," Lark said, lifting the rope
that blocked their way to the staircase. "Remember, keep your eyes open.
These are dangerous ruins, the kind Space Heroes have to face on a regular
basis to attain ancient, powerful artifacts necessary to vanquish Space
Villains."
"What did he mean, 'other twits?'" Ronald asked. Lark scowled at him,
and Ronald hurried down the steps, followed next by Norman and last by Zark.
Two minutes after they were in, a stone slab slid in place over the
opening, dragging rather loudly.

"Right. Let's do an inventory. What do I have here?"
Darkness.
"Darkness. That's one thing. There's me, for another. I seem to
have a robe on, with some sort of heavy amulet around my neck. There's
something in my pocket that feels and smells like a gob of rotting meat.
There's this big rectangular thing I was laying on. There's the stone
floor."
And darkness.
"Darkness... no, wait, got that one. And... owieowie... one flippin'
migraine. Now let's see. What next? Standing. Hmmm. Yes. Up... up...
there we go. Doing good. Standing. Now... yiii!"
Thud!
"Aw, heck."

"Lesson One of heroic archaeology," Lark said in a slightly
condescending tone. "Do not, I repeat, do *not* step on the only
dark-colored stone tile in a hallway otherwise filled with grey stone
tiles."
"We don't take the actual class until the fall," Ronald pointed out.
"Well, then, when you get there, you'll have an edge on the other
students," Lark noted.
"Speaking of falls," Norman said, "could you help us up? We're kind
of stuck here."
"In a moment," Lark told him, not entirely patiently. "I have to
climb out myself, you know."
Norman had no reply, so he settled for tightening his grip on Ronald's
ankle and watched as Lark pulled himself over the edge of the large
rectangular pit. As Ronald's hands, which were securely fastened to Lark's
bootstraps, were pulled over, Norman looked down at the bottomless pit...
...only to see that it wasn't quite so bottomless after all.
"Hey, guys!" he exclaimed. "Look! A light!"
"We know," Lark answered. "I just turned it back on. Now hold still
while I pull you up."
"Hey!" Ronald yelled. "My leg doesn't bend forward like-- yeeeowww!"
Despite Ronald's considerable whining on that score, Norman was eventually
pulled up over the edge and out of immediate danger, though he found he was
lying on several fern pots, a few of many that lined the stone hallway. On
the other side of the hallway, a sliding wall had effectively blocked off
the way they had entered from.
"Not that light," Norman said to Lark. "The other light. Down there
in the pit."
Lark and Ronald peered over the edge and saw that there was indeed a
light present, shining out of what appeared to be a cave in the side of the
pit wall two hundred meters down. He sat down and pondered for a while.
Ronald and Norman, who were good at that sort of thing, sat down and joined
him in pondering.
"Clearly," Ronald said, "what we see down there is a room that has
gone undetected by the best of the universe's archaeologists."
"It's not hard to understand why," Lark mused. "Everyone else who
came down here was too smart to step on the obvious trap-springing stone
tile."
"Hey!" Ronald, who tended to say that a lot, said.
"It's a compliment," Lark added, quickly.
"It is?"
"Sure. Space heroes have to use their natural resources to their
advantage. Your greatest natural resource is your vast reservoir of
blithering stupidity, which you've used to make an important archaeological
find. I predict you'll do quite well in your Heroic Archaeology classes."
"Thanks!" Ronald replied. "Um... I think." He leaned over to whisper
to Norman. "Is that something I should be thankful for?"
"Dunno. I've never been called a reservoir before."
"Me neither. Guess I'll let it pass for now."
Lark pulled three U-Rapel-Quikl-E-Inviso-Line Projectors, palm-sized
silver boxes that gleamed in the light from Lark's lamp. He handed one to
Ronald and one to Norman, who peered at them as if they were some new
specimen of talk show host. Lark held his out, gripping it around the
sides with his index finger and thumb.
"Okay, now, you're technically not supposed to be using these until
your sophmore year, but, hey, if you don't tell, I won't. These devices
project invisible rapelling lines that allow you to descend quickly down
vertical surfaces without the noise of a jet pack. See the lens on the
top?"
Ronald and Norman nodded.
"That's where the line comes out. On the bottom is the firing button.
Hold it out over the edge of the pit, aiming the lens toward the ceiling
like I'm doing. Now press the button."
They pressed the buttons simultaneously, and three invisible lines
presumably shot out to make contact with the ceiling. Lark tugged on his
to make sure it was secure, then attached the box to his belt with the
handy clip-on attachment. Ronald and Norman did likewise.
"Now," Lark said, "just walk over the edge." He stepped into the pit,
and twirled around over empty air, demonstrating. "The knob on the front
controls the rate of your descent. We'll be heading down slowly, of
course. Well?"
"O-okay," Ronald said. He took a tentative step, lost his balance,
flailed his arms, and toppled pitward. His line caught him and swung him
around. Ronald fought to get control, but only ended up upside down. Lark
slapped his palm to his forehead and muttered under his breath. His
sideburns gleeped sympathetically.
"Ronald, you doof," Norman chided. "Kirk would never let you on his
bridge."
"I'm completely in control," Ronald replied. "This is just my way of
lulling whatever's waiting below into a false sense of security. Let's see
*you* step over the edge, Crew."
"No problem," Norman said, nonchalantly. He stepped over the edge and
turned to gloat, only to find he was falling at an unfortunately fast
speed. "Er," he commented, just beginning to absorb what was happening.

"Right. Crawling. I can do that."
The darkness was still all around him, mocking.
"There's got to be a wall around here somewhere. Where there's a
wall, there's a door. Where there's a door, there's another room or an
outside. From there on, I improvise."
The darkness persisted--
"So far, so--"
Thud!
"Ow!"
--until he ran into the wall.
"Okay... now the door."
A considerable amount of time passed as he shifted along the length of
the wall, feeling for a door or a window. All that greeted him was rock...
and darkness.
"Well, goll dang."

"Needlewarp!" Lark cursed as Norman plunged into the darkness. He
touched the dial on his inviso-line and cranked it all the way in the other
direction. Soon, he too was plummeting, faster than Norman, having set the
rapelling line to act as a repulsor. Still, it was going to be a close
call. The ground was rising up to meet them--
His left hand lashed out and grabbed Norman's jumpsuit by the hems of
the pantlegs. He whipped the dial on his line back the other way, feeling
the shudder jar his bones as his fall was suddenly arrested. A snapping
sound caught his attention.
"Eep!" Norman eeped. Lark saw that his student was dangling from his
now-mostly-off trousers, holding onto them with his clasped feet. The
belt, apparently, had come loose, as Norman was currently holding onto it
with his hands. Instantly, Lark realized what had happened.
"Norman, you had your projector pointed the wrong way, didn't you?"
"I wasn't paying attention!" Norman admitted.
"Well, just let go of the belt so I can pull you up," Lark told him.
Norman did as instructed, and watched as the belt resumed plunging
downward. It slapped the stone-paved bottom a few seconds later, quite
forcefully. Lark adjusted his control again and started upward, hoping
that Norman's ankles were stronger than they appeared.
They were, and Lark successfully pulled him up and into the small,
potted-fern-filled cavern in the side of the pit. A minute later, Ronald,
still upside down but now in somewhat more control, arrived, and Lark
untangled him.
"Well, that was a bit more intense than was absolutely necessary,"
Ronald commented. "Mind you, I think Kirk would be proud."
"Oh, absolutely," Norman agreed.
"Yes, and... um, Norman...."
"What?"
"You traitor."
"*WHAT?*"
"You miserable traitor. All this time, masquerading in the ranks of
true Trek fans... how could you do this, Norman? Where did I go wrong?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You're wearing Babylon 5 underoos."
"I... eep!" Norman tried to hide by putting his trousers back on, but
he knew it was already too late. "Ronald... I couldn't help myself. I
tried to resist, but... I was weak!"
"You don't deserve to wear that blue polyester shirt," Ronald snarled.
"Guys," Lark said, calmly but sternly. "If you don't drop this right
now, I'm going to have to give you both painful wedgies."
"You can't do that!" Norman protested. "That's a violation of the
Interstellar University by-laws, not to mention the Space Heroes' Code!"
"Hmmm," Lark said, scratching his chin. "You have a point. Sid,
Johnny, you want to take this?"
Lark's sideburns gleeped cheerfully and jumped off his face. Ronald
and Norman cowered, but to no avail.

He tried pretending it wasn't all that dark, but it didn't work. Next
he moved on to tapping randomly on stones, hoping he could unwittingly set
off the mechanism that would let him out of the dark room.
"I am becoming somewhat cross," he decided, aloud. "I... hey, a fern."
Before he could go further with that thought, he heard two very loud
screams from the other side of the section of wall he was leaning against.
People! Rescuers!
He began pounding on the walls and shouting as loudly as he could.

"Owie..." Ronald groaned.
"Owie..." Norman agreed.
"You will note, of course," Lark said, "that Sid and Johnny are
neither Space Heroes or Faculty Members of IU. Now stand up. We've got
some archaeology to do."
Grumbling, Ronald and Norman pulled themselves to their feet and,
dejectedly, shoved their hands in their pockets, despite the fact that it
put their arms at awkward angles, seeing as their pockets were now up
around their armpits. Lark's sideburns gimbaled around before them a bit
before hopping up on Lark and gyring to the sides of his face, where they
reattached themselves to their interface ports. Lark himself was busy
considering the source of the light that had attracted their attention.
"Mister Fizzy Fizzy Pop," Ronald read from the front of the machine.
"Have yourself a super-fizzy Fizzy Pop today. Not guaranteed to fizz after
sixteen centuries."
"Mister Fizzy," Lark said. "I remember that company from my history
classes. That drink disappeared from the market roughly sixteen centuries
ago, after the company was exposed as a front for the notorious
time-traveller Lord Drol. The Time Agent who had gone back in time to stop
Drol succeeded, but never returned...."
"Hey, do you here someone shouting?" Norman asked.
"This isn't a Mister Fizzy Soda Machine," Lark realized, suddenly.
"It's a TARDIS!"
"Isn't that a Dr. Who contraption?" Ronald inquired.
"Ah-hah!" Norman exclaimed. "So you *admit* you watch Dr. Who, huh?"
"I never said--"
"Traitor! Traitor! Neener neener neener!"
"Shut *up*, both of you," Lark growled. "It's not the first time a
TARDIS has appeared in Sfstory, you know." Lark's sideburns gleeped
angrily, and Ronald and Norman immediately shut up. "Anyway... say, I do
hear some shouting. From right behind the machine here... help me move it
aside."
With suitable masculine grunting and heaving, they shoved the machine
aside, despite the fact that it was resting on a micro-traction field which
would have allowed a pre-schooler on a Big Wheel to move it with ease.
They noticed that the back of the machine didn't resemble the black metal
they expected. Instead, it was worn, seemingly ancient rock.
A body wearing dark robes and a heavy amulet fell out of the
pop-machine-shaped hole they had exposed, landing on at least three potted
ferns.

With a sudden heave, a section of the wall pulled back, and the
darkness was pushed back. He fell forward, hitting the ferns roughly.
"Ow," he commented, as rough hands turned him over. "Thank you but
I've already had my coconut oil massage for today... er?" He opened his
eyes to behold three humans looking down at him. One of them looked
vaguely like Luke Perry, while the other two bore striking resemblences to
nobody in particular. He pushed up into a seated position and studied them
carefully.
"Hi," he finally ventured.
"Greetings," one of the younger ones said, while the other younger one
made what he assumed to be an obscene gesture with his hand. He felt
around for his blaster, but realized he didn't have it any more.
"I'm Lark Purree, Time Agent 90210," the older guy said. "This is
Ronald, and that one's Norman. How long have you been back there, sir?"
"I... I don't know," he said. "There was a battle... Lord Drol zapped
me, even as he fell down the pit... someone switched my long distance
carrier... next thing I knew I was in this robe and lying on that stone bed
in there."
"Weird," Norman opined.
"Hey, I got it as a gift from my mother," he said. "Anyway, I tried
to use my omni-gadget here..." He lifted the amulet as he spoke. "...to
try to project a hologram outside where I was trapped, to get the natives
to help, but they misunderstood and left for the plains...."
"Then you're Narlarbargarharmarwararrarr?" Norman asked. "Why, then,
do you look like John Carradine?"
"Um... nope and I don't know," he answered. "I'm Time Agent 501, but
you can call me Gene."
"I think I'm starting to get this," said Lark. "You came back in time
to fight the time-travelling villain Lord Drol, succeeded, but got trapped
when Drol triggered your TARDIS's security system with a final blast. It
sealed you into that room, disguising that part of its surface as a stone
wall. Meanwhile, it started using force fields, tractor beams and the like
to shift the walls and floors and ceilings around, to baffle what it
assumed must be Drol's forces. The Great Prophet assumed your hologram was
the returned god Narlarbargarharmarwararrarr and led his people away.
Sixteen centuries pass. We show up and rescue you. Ba da boom, ba da
bing."
"Um, Lark..." Norman started.
"Shut up," Lark told him, sternly. "Can you remember anything el--
what *is* that smell, anyway?"
"Laaaaaarrrrrrrk," Ronald larked.
"What *is* iiii... it...." Lark's words trailed off as he turned. The
Mister Fizzy Machine had risen on thin, stiltlike metal legs and had
extended several large Model 1000-X Gobz-O-Deth laser cannons from its
shining surface.
"So, Time Agent 501," a villainous voice rolled out of the coin-return
slot. "You have finally returned after all these centuries."
"Lord Drol!" Gene exclaimed. "But you're dead! I saw you fall!"
"No you didn't!"
"I didn't?"
"Ha ha! Just kidding. Of course you did. This is actually just a
synthetic imitation of my Lord Drol's voice. Fooled you, didn't I?"
"Um, this is all irrelevant, isn't it?" asked Lark, as he felt his
combat sideburns detatch from their I/O ports and prepare to spring.
"Well, yes, I suppose. It's just that I've been keeping Time Agent
501 holed up in that room for sixteen centuries, on Drol's final orders.
He wanted him to starve to death."
"Little did he know I was wearing my hibernation robe!" Gene replied.
"And I had an extra supply of spam to power it with me!"
"Spam?" the machine asked.
"So that's what that smell is," Ronald said. Norman nodded. Gene
reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a heap of rotting, putrid spam.
"You fool!" Lark exclaimed. "After sixteen centuries, that spam has
to be unstable!"
"That's the idea!" Gene replied. "Hey, machine! Catch!"
He threw the spam at the machine.
"Waaaaa!" Lark exclaimed.
"Waaaaa!" Ronald and Norman yelped.
"Waaaaa!" the machine screamed.
"Gleep!" the sideburns gleeped.

There was light.

Ronald and Norman lay on the tall grass in front of the wreckage of
the Ancient Citadel's north tower. Nearby, Lark and Gene were sprawled, as
were some of the larger pieces of Drol's machine, tangled in bits of fern.
Ronald closed his eyes, remembering vaguely how Lark's sideburns dug them
out of the wreckage, tossing large chunks of rock as though they were
styrofoam and then dragging them clear. Still, that didn't account for how
they had survived....
"So, are you alive?" a resonant voice sounded above them. Ronald
opened his eyes and found himself looking up at the face of a god.
"Er, hi," Ronald said. "Um...."
"I'm Narlarbargarharmarwararrarr," the ancient god
Narlarbargarharmarwararrarr told them, cheerfully. "And not John
Carradine, despite the superficial resemblence. I used my abilities to
keep you from dying as the tower crashed around you. Neat, huh?"
"So... you really were sleeping in the tower all along, weren't you?"
Norman asked.
"Uh-huh. Right in plain sight, too."
"Your life-force must have been fused with the very stone walls," Lark
said. "No wonder none of the archaeologists could find you."
"Close, but no," Narlarbargarharmarwararrarr answered. "I was in the
potted ferns."
"All of them?" Gene asked.
"Well, most of them."
"So," Norman said. "We've seen and demolished some ancient ruins,
vanquished a space villain's final trap, rescued a long lost Time Agent,
set free a local god, and made it through alive. Is being a Space Hero
always like this?"
"More often than not," Lark replied.
"I bet Kirk would be proud of us," Ronald stated, assertively.
"Me, maybe," Norman noted. "You didn't see the light from the cave."
"That's enough, traitor," Ronald said. "Fie on you already!"
"Admit it, Ron," taunted Norman. "You watch B5 too."
"I do not! I have remained pure, I tell you, pure as the driven--
wauuuuugh!"
Narlarbargarharmarwararrarr pondered what happened to Ronald and
Norman at that moment. When it was over, he asked a very pertinent
question.
"Are your sideburns always that violent?"
"Sometimes," Lark admitted. "I think they're Buck Rogers fans."
"So," Gene said, "now what?"

"Ah, this is the life," Gene said, as he relaxed on a lawn chair,
sipping an Aldebaron ale. One lawn chair over, Lark Purree was imbibing
some single-malt scotch, while Ronald and Norman, having only recently
returned from having their trousers surgically extracted from their bodies
(which were currently dressed in flamenco pants and their usual polyester
gold or blue shirts), sat drinking Shirly Temples and holding ice packs to
their heads.
Up on the bar's stage, the ancient god Narlarbargarharmarwararrarr was
rapping out prophecies for the next thousand years to an easy, laid-back
beat, while his worshippers danced on the dance floor. Gene realized it
was the first time he had seen Woozlbainians who were actually smiling.
"Don't forget," Lark told Ronald and Norman. "You're going to have to
write up a report on all this when we get back."
"I bet Kirk never had to write reports," Norman grumped. "Do we have
to include everything in them?"
"You mean," Lark said, "do you have to include the details of each
others viewing indiscretions, undergarment pictures, or wedgie pain
factors? No, not at all... so long as you apologize to one another and
agree to keep your emotions bottled up inside you until they come back
years later in the form of sarcasm and bitter recrimination."
"Okay," Ronald replied. He turned to Norman. "Norm, I'm sorry I
called you a scummy traitor."
"I'm sorry I neenered at you," Norman said. There was a long, awkward
moment. "So... um... what would Kirk do now?"
"Well, he wouldn't be drinking Shirly Temples, for one thing," Ronald
stated, authoratively. The two immediately tossed their drinks aside and
stood up. "Secondly, he'd be trying to make some time with one of those
alien priestesses on the dance floor. What say we beam on over there, huh?"
"But we can't dance," Norman pointed out.
"Like Shatner can?"
"Ooh, good point. Let's go." They tossed aside their ice packs and
ran toward the dance floor. Lark and Gene watched them go, sipping their
drinks medatatively.
"Think I should have told them the priestesses all have boyfriends?"
Lark asked.
"Waaaaaaaa!" Ronald and Norman exclaimed as they went flying.
Gene shrugged and finished his drink.

-~-_-

Hosoqob pressed the 'pause' button, stopping the flow of text on the
screen. There were still more stories waiting, but he had to take a break.
"Analysis," he ordered the computer. "Based on the stories the
Earthers have generated, what is your computation as to their readiness for
assimilation into the Cheese Orb?"
"Completed," the computer replied. "Assimilation of this race into
the Cheese Orb not recommended. Primates do not need their minds to be
uplifted further -- they are already quite clearly high."
"I could have told you that," Hosoqob replied. "Recommendation?"
"Examination of remaining stories in anthology. We may yet find one
that approaches sanity."
"'Jewel Scales' seemed sane," Hosoqob noted.
"Clearly a show to fool the unwary," the computer said. "It depicted
a society where space travel is common, yet the people know nothing of the
almighty Cheese Orb. The author is clearly delusional."
"Now that you put it that way..." Hosoqob said. He shrugged. "What
the hell(tm). Let's see some more stories."
"I love it when you say that."
"Oh, shut *up*."

WILL HUMANITY YET GET ASSIMILATED INTO THE CHEESE ORB?
WHAT KIND OF CHEESE IS IT?
WHAT STORIES ARE YET UPCOMING?
WITHER SNIPPY?

Watch throughout the year for more Anthology stories set within... SFSTORY!
Now with radar!

--
Gary W. Olson
sw...@mail.sojourn.com
http://www.sojourn.com/~swede