The Savage Chintz Drapery

[Mr. Atoz]

THE SAVAGE CHINTZ DRAPERY

The USS Entry-prize was exploring a newly discovered, uncharted sector of space when she came upon a molten, volcanic planet made up of pretty red and black lava. Captain Bean T. Kird, lacking anything better to do, ordered the ship into orbit to investigate. The crew didn't have a clue why they should bother, since it was clearly not a Class M world. The surface was so hot and the atmosphere so poisonous, even New Yorkers wouldn't live there.

And yet from somewhere on the planet, Spoke (the half-Volcanite Science Officer) kept picking up sensors readings of artificial power enough to support a considerable civilization. "Aw, that thang's prob'ly busted agin," said Dr. McRoy, the Chief Surgeon, waving a hand at the sensor station. "It breaks down every other week, usually just when we need it."

Suddenly, before anyone could do anything else, the Entry-prize was probed by incredibly deep and swift sensor beams. Kird thought they felt a little tingly, and by the time he thought to call the ship to alert, the scanning was over. Almost immediately afterward, an image began forming on the main viewing screen.

At first, it was just the outline of some kind of humanoid, sitting in a chair. But as the image drew nearer, it slowly filled out into the likeness of a middle-aged human being, dressed in a dark suit and tall hat from mid-19th century Earth. His face held calm wisdom, and he seemed remarkably familiar, at least to Captain Kird.

"Captain Kird, I presume?" the figure said. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir."

Kird goggled, overcome with reverence. "Um...um...um..." he stammered, motioning towards Communications Officer Yoo-hoo-ra.

"Your voice-telegraph device is quite unnecessary, Captain," the figure continued. "Do I gather that you recognize me?"

"I recognize who you appear to be," gasped Kird.

"And appearances can be deceiving,," the figure admitted "But not this time, Bean Kird. I am Millard Fillmore."

As Kird considerd this incredible statement, the awed silence was broken by Check-off, the Navigator. "Who the heck is Millard Fillmore?" he said. Then he yelped as Zubuloo reached over from his Helmsman's station and kicked him under the table.

"Spoke?" asked Kird, turning to his First Officer. "What do you make of this?"

"Fascinating, Captain."

"I've been called a lot of things, Mr. Spoke," the man said, smiling, "but never that."

"I was requesting your analysis, idjit."

"They did scan us and our vessel," said Spoke austerely. "Doubtlessly they obtained sufficient information to present this illusion."

"Illusion?" the somewhat chubby figure said, hopping to its feet and brandishing its fists belligerently. "Captain, will you permit me to come aboard your vessel? I'll show that pointy-eared whippersnapper who's an illusion."

Hesitating just for a moment, Kird blurted out, "We'd be honored to have you aboard, Mr. President."

From his coat, the figure pulled out a pocket watch the size of a softball. "Then you should be over my position in...twelve and a half minutes." The image on the screen rippled and disappeared. At about the same time, a small blueish spot came into view down on the planet. Spoke glanced at his instruments.

"That area is completely Earthlike in all respects, Captain," he said. "It even seems to have been built over a landfill."

Kird touched the intercom button. "Security, send a detachment to the Trainspotter Room immediately. Be prepared to render presidential honors. Captain out."

[Mr. Atoz]

In the Trainspotter Room, Chief Engineer Skitt looked positively natty in his bright yellow plastic ceremonial kilt. He frowned at the Security detail, which was setting up a double line of flags and rolling out a red carpet. "Full dress? What's all this nonsense, Mr. Tickersen?"

"I understand President Fillmore is coming aboard, sir," said the security chief, topping off his immaculate white boots with a can of whipped cream.

"Who the heck is President Fillmore?" demanded Skitt.

"All I know is what the Captain tells me, sir," Tickersen said uncomfortably. "Thirteenth President of the United States, best known for doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. He died in 1874 and the Captain said he'd skin the first man who so much as smiles."

Dr. McRoy came in, carrying his tripcorder but also in full dress. Skitt irritably punched buttons at random on the trainspotter console, coming within a hair of blowing the entire room into oblivion. "President Fillmore, indeed! No doubt followed by Paris Hilton and Sean Connery."

Kird and Spoke arrived just in time to catch the tail end of that remark. "And if so, Mr. Skitt, we'll execute appropriate honors to each," the captain said. "Gentlemen, we are dealing with an unknown and apparently quite advanced life form. Until we know what's going on.... well, when in Schenectedy, we'll do as the Schenecta... Schnecketa... uh, as the Yanks do."

As the ship approached the designated spot, the engineer and the science officer elbowed each other out of the way to get at the trainspotter controls.

"Locking onto something," Skitt said, getting the Volcanite in a half-nelson.. His eyes bugged out.. "Does that appear human to you, Mr. Spoke?"

The science officer gently paralyzed the engineer with a nerve pinch and stashed him behind the console. "Fascinating. For a moment it appeared almost like living rock." He banged heavily on the console with his fist. "Ah, settling down into completely human readings now."

"We can beam it aboard any time now, Captain," Skitt said, climbing painfully to his feet.

"Security, stand ready. Mr. Spoke, turn on your boombox. Energize."

The security men posted themselves on opposite sides of the Trainspotter chamber, weapons at ready. Tickersen puffed out his cheeks and blew on his ceremonial dog whistle, accomplishing nothing as far as anybody could tell. As Spoke's portable CD player belted out some sort of traditional military music, the shimmering column of the trainspotter effect sparkled and then faded away. In its place was a middle-aged human being in an old-fashioned suit, his face registering both the sad wisdom of his presidential years and not a little annoyance.

As the music died away, Kird strode smartly forward, ready with his best salute, but at the last minute he tripped on the red carpet. Clutching at the nearest flag, he brought the whole line crashing to the floor on top of him. "The USS Entry-prize is honored to have you aboard, Mr. President," he said, struggling to his feet and dusting himself off.

"Strange," Fillmore said, stepping down off the trainspotter platform and darting looks around the room. "Where are the musicians?"

"That's taped music, sir," explained Kird, disentangling himself from a flag. "A CD player."

"Perhaps Mr. Spoke will be good enough to explain that to me later. Speaking of which..." Brushing past Kird , without any warning Fillmore laid his right fist smack into the Volcanite's enormous nose, breaking it with a crunch. "Did that feel like an illusion? Huh?" he demanded, as the First Officer frantically tried to staunch the flow of blood from his damaged proboscis.

All smiles, Fillmore turned to Kird and extended his hand.. "A most interesting way to come aboard, Captain. What was the device used?"

"A matter-energy scrambler, sir," explained the captain, in a daze. "The molecules of your body were taken apart, converted to energy, and beamed to this chamber where they were reconverted to their original pattern."

Fillmore carefully felt his body. He found that his left arm was on backwards and his buttocks were upside down, but otherwise he was in good shape. "Well, since I am obviously more or less in one piece, whatever you mean apparently works." He looked over his shoulder at the armed guards. "If those are weapons, gentlemen, please lower them. At my age, I'm afraid I'm not very dangerous."

Don't you believe it, thought Spoke, ruefully clutching his poor beezer.

"Readings, fully human, captain," McRoy said, showing him his tripcorder.

"You want to start with me, too?" said President Fillmore, putting up his dukes.

[Mr. Atoz]

To calm him down, Kird offered to give him a tour of the Entry-prize. The dead ex-president followed Kird and Spoke through the ship, occasionally making quaint, endearing little comments about the starship and the technology used to create it. "We thought the steam engine was the most formidable power source imaginable," he said, as they strolled through the Engineering set. "And here you fellows are, powering this vessel from a nothing more than a wall covered with blinking lights!"

Kird couldn't help but smile. "Sometimes, Mr. President, with your primitive 19th century level of knowledge, you pull a real boner. This is just our special effects department."

"You mean, the ship doesn't run off of blinking lights?" asked Fillmore, puzzled. "But they're all over the place! I couldn't toss a biscuit in any direction without hitting one."

"Sir," said Spoke, clearing his throat as he prepared to get up on his soapbox. "The Entry-prize obtains its power from a controlled matter/anti-matter reaction. Infinitesimal packets of positively-charged substance, heretofore known as 'matter', traverse through a dyelithium matrix under the influence of a poly-chromatic di-magnetic field, coming into proximity with packets of negatively-charged substance, heretofore known as 'anti-matter', with the result that the party of the first part is irresistably compelled to obfuscate the party of the second part, and energy is given off in copious quantities."

Fillmore was standing there with his eyes crossed. "When the choice is between disguising ignorance and putting up with baloney the wise man 'fesses up," he said. "I don't have the faintest idea what you said. And I don't believe you do, either!"

As they turned a corner, the group was accosted by Lieutenant Yoo-hoo-ra. "Excuse me, captain," she began, "but Mr. Skitt..."

"Oh lord, what a bodacious babe!" blurted Fillmore. "Oh, forgive me, my dear. I meant, what a charming Negress!"

"Why should I object to being called bodacious, sir?" said the lieutenant, wiggling her booty at him. "Especially when I know you white men just can't keep your hands off the good stuff."

"Sweet mama," said Fillmore, as he wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "As the famous Volcanite philosopher once said, 'you in danger when you taste brown sugar'."

"How do you know so much about Volcanite philosphy, Mr. President?" asked Spoke, startled.

"Bless me, I don't know," said Fillmore, shaking his head. "Just as I know that, down on the planet's surface, you will meet one of the greatest Volcanites in the long history of your planet. I don't seem to remember his name, but I know that he will be there." Then he smiled at Yoo-hoo-ra, indicating his willingness not to worry about it anymore.

"Oh, speaking of forgetfulness," said the communications officer. "Mr. Skitt has been waiting for you in the briefing room for an hour, captain."

"Crap!" said Kird, looking at his watch. "Lieutenant, why don't you take President Fillmore to the cafeteria for lunch?"

"I already know what I want for dessert," said Fillmore, winking at her.

"I apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. President. Do you think you can get by with Lt. Yoo-hoo-ra as your guide for an hour or so, while Mr. Spoke and I attend this meeting?"

"Take your time, Bean. I just hope my Viagra prescription is still good," he said, holding out his arm for her.

***

In the briefing room, Skitt and McRoy tried to talk them both out of beaming down to the planet, citing everything from psychological studies to ordinary common sense. After all, the planet was a flaming mass of molten lava except for that one spot of solid ground. Even if it was real, it could easily disappear as quickly as it had appeared.

But common sense was not Captain Kird's strong point, especially when someone like Millard Fillmore was involved, who just happened to be one of his personal heroes. He just couldn't resist the chance to find out if there were any more boring, defunct historical figures like him down there. And Spoke's natural, analytical caution was overcome by both his curiousity to meet this great Volcanite he had been promised and by his desire to get his autograph, which would undoubtedly be worth a hefty sum of moola.

When Kird and Spoke beamed down with the dead president, the three of them found themselves in a steep and boulder-strewn canyon, with decorative stands of trees artfully deployed around them. It looked pretty nice, considering.

Spoke was about to take sensor readings with his tripcorder when he realized that, in his hurry to beam down, he had forgotten to bring one. Unwilling to admit his error, however, he quickly thought up an excuse. "Captain, something has prevented our instruments from beaming down with us." After all, stupidity had prevented his tripcorder from coming with him -- he just wasn't obliged to explain further unless someone asked him to.

Slapping his pockets, Kird realized that he hadn't thought to stop by the armory and bring along a phuzzer. Drat it! To save himself from embarrassment, he decided to go along with Spoke's explanation. "Um...the same thing got my phuzzer, too. We'll call the ship and ask them to try again," he said, flipping open his communicator.

"Captain to Entry-prize...come in Entry-prize...." Nothing.

Spoke was also trying. He had opened the back of his communicator and was fiddling with its innards. He began yanking out handfulls of components until he had a pile of tubes, circuit boards and wire up to his ankles. "For some mysterious reason, it fails to function," he said, trying to cram all that stuff back inside.

Kird was beginning to get alarmed. He turned to Fillmore. "Explain," he said.

"What?" said the ex-president. "Isn't this normally what happens when you guys beam down to a strange planet without checking it out first?"

"Why can't we communicate with the ship?" demanded Kird, grabbing him by the lapels and shaking him.

"Don't ask me," said Fillmore. "I know nothing other than what I've already told you."

"We've treated you with courtesy, we let you eat in our cafeteria, and we even gave you the Presidential discount..."

"Despite the seeming contradictions, all is as it should be. I really am Millard Fillmore!"

"Just as I am who I appear to be," said another person, walking up behind them. He was a tall, distinguished-looking Volcanite with really long and pointed ears, and Spoke gasped in outright astonishment when he saw him.

"Who is that?" asked Kird.

"The greatest who ever lived on our planet, captain," whispered Spoke, his voice hushed with abject reverence. "The father of all we became..."

"You mean Surack, founder of the Volcanite philosophy of non-violence?"

"Someone much greater, captain," said Spoke impatiently. "Sumac, the inventor of the non-spill coffee cup. Without him, we would never have survived our 20th century. Only by being able to partake of a double-latte mocha espresso at any time or any place were we able to tame our animal passions."

"Live long and retire early," said the newcomer, holding up his middle finger in the traditional Volcanite greeting. "In my time, we knew not Earthmen. I am pleased to see we have differences." He looked closely at Kird, running a sympathetic finger around the captain's decidedly non-pointed ears. "Tough break, kid, " he sighed.

"You are not Sumac," said Spoke, in a daze. "There is no fact, extrapolation from fact, or theory which would make it possible."

"Please tell me you don't always talk like that." Sumac looked around. "Is there any coffee?"

Suddenly a groaning noise filled the air, sort of like the grinding of gears in a badly-maintained car engine. Amid a rainbow of iridescent colors, a large boulder standing in front of them changed shape and moved. It was a living creature! Standing in one spot as rigid as -- well, as stone -- it waved massive claw-like hands and tilted a head crowned with several glowing eyes that looked like goose-eggs.

[Mr. Atoz]

"I am Yore-neck," said the figure, in deep, sepulchral tones, although there was no mouth that anyone could see. "Our world is Ex-scabbia. Countless millions on that world are watching on pay-per-view. Before this drama unfolds, we welcome those called Kird and Spoke....as long as they don't expect any royalties."

Kird was bewildered. "We don't know about your customs, but..."

"I mean, look," continued the rock being, its voice going up an octave, in its agitation, "there was so much expense involved in just bringing you here, what with handling and cartage...and the cost over-runs on the sets and all...and don't get me started on the wardrobe and makeup artists' strike.... I don't see how we can swing it, and still turn a decent profit... Okay, okay, okay, tell you what, how does a flat fee of fifty quadloons apiece sound? And that's right out of my own pocket...."

"Hold on a second," Kird insisted, trying to get a word in edgewise. "What drama about to unfold?"

"Oh, I see," said Yore-neck, getting hold of itself. "I thought you were intelligent beings. Do you not perceive the honor we do you?"

"I perceive that I've been cut off from my ship..."

"Your objection is well taken. We shall communicate with your vessel so that they may also enjoy and profit from the play...on the house. Behold; we begin."

Four other humanoids came strolling down the canyon as if they belonged there. They wore a mixed bag of different clothing styles, some of which Kird couldn't place. Yore-neck made the introductions. "Some of these you may remember from history. Dennis Khan, black sheep of the Mongol Empire, who would raid bookstores and tear out the last few pages of paperback novels. And Colonel Bleen, who made a habit of holding up the express check-out line in supermarkets while talking on his cell phone. Zero, villainous hairdresser who experimented with buzz-cuts and mullets on the unwary. Finally, Kareless the Unforgettable, the Glingon who set the pattern for his planet's worst tyrannies."

"What did he do?" asked Kird.

"I forget," replied Yore-neck dismissively. "We welcome the Entry-prize to our solar system, and we ask you to observe with us this confrontation between the opposing philosophies you call 'good'" -- he gestured at Kird, Spoke, ex-president Fillmore and Sumac, at which point everyone on the Bridge of the Entry-prize burst into giggles and started rolling on the floor -- "and 'evil'." -- he gestured towards the four misfits.

"You've got to be kidding!" said Kird.

"I am as serious as a heart attack," said the rock being. "Since this is our first experiment with Earth beings, our theme is a simple one -- survival."

"Uh, what do you mean by that?"

"In words of one syllable," explained the alien, "if you and Spoke live, you go back to your ship. If not, you don't."

"Whoa, Nelly!" stated Spoke.

"Spoke and I refuse to participate," said Kird stiffly.

"Oh, please," said Yore-neck. "Pretty please with sugar on top?"

Kird shook his head. The rock alien sulkily did his thing with the rainbow colors and the groaning again, and he was once more just a simple boulder.

***

"I'm afraid none of us may leave until we do what it wants of us," said Fillmore sagely.

Kird was about to tell the dead ex-President to mind his own business when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He juimped about five feet.

"Excuse me, Captain Kird. My name is Bleen." He was smiling like a used-shuttlecraft salesman and holding out his hand.

"Oh, yes," said Kird, giving him a suspicious eye. "What do you want?"

"Why, the same thing you want," said the villain, pumping his hand and slapping him on the back. "To get out of here. I quite agree with your attitude. I have no quarrel with you. It's ridiculous to expect us to fight each other, especially if we're not getting paid for it."

"You are somewhat different than history paints you."

"History is bunk. I suggest we put our heads together and see if we can find a way out of our difficulties." He paused, glancing around, then went on, in a confidential tone of voice. "You were tricked into coming here, weren't you? So were we."

"Where did you come from?"

"Well...er...I don't exactly remember. But wherever it was, I want to get back. I suggest we join forces against this creature."

Kird still hesitated, feeling for his wallet to make sure his pocket wasn't being picked. "As I recall, you were notorious for stabbing people in the back while in the midst of negotiating with them."

"That was centuries ago!" said Bleen, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He wagged his finger at the captain. "And not altogether true. No, you shouldn't let rumors sway you, captain."

Unfortunately, his words were immediately contradicted by the actions of his three companions, who chose that moment to ambush Kird, Spoke, Fillmore and Sumac. Kareless had yanked the tail of Fillmore's coat up over his head, and was repeatedly kicking him in the butt, as the ex-president flailed around uselessly. Zero had jumped Sumac and was trying to bite his kneecaps, while Dennis Khan hefted up a boulder to throw at Spoke, but fortunately only managed to drop it on his own foot. At that point, Kird couldn't see any more, because Bleen had wrapped an arm around his neck and started trying to twist his head off.

The next thing he knew, Fillmore and Spoke were pulling Bleen off of him. Suddenly the brawl was over as quickly as it had started, as their four antagonists ran off into the decorative tress and vanished.

"Are you hurt, Mr. President?" asked Kird.

"My clothing is somewhat damaged," said Fillmore, brushing himself off. "But how delightful to discover at my age that I can still kick some heinie."

"I am quite all right, captain, not that you bothered to ask," said Spoke, somewhat stiffly. "And I recommend that we immediately prepare ourselves for another attack."

"No. Bleen may be a jerk, but he was right. Our enemy is that rock-like thing, not these illusions."

"For an illusion, my opponent was a mean mamma-jamma," said Fillmore. "But I forgot. You consider me an illusion, too."

"The captain speaks wisely," said Sumac. "These four are not our enemy. We should arrive together at a peaceful settlement. Do you think they have a coffee machine?"

That groaning noise suddenly drowned out what he was saying, as Yore-neck appeared once again. "I am disappointed. We offer you an opportunity to become our teachers, and demonstrate whether good or evil is more powerful."

Kird had had enough. He lunged forward to grapple with the rock-being, but it calmly raised one of its arms and the human was overcome with a wave of nausea. "You find my body odor distressing?" said Yore-neck, sniffing. "You seem to require a cause to fight for. You may contact your vessel."

Despite the imminent danger of losing his lunch, the human flipped out his communicator. "Kird to Entry-prize. Do you read me?"

For a moment, he thought he had finally caught his crew in the middle of one of the wild parties he suspected they threw every time he left the ship. There appeared to be a great deal of confusion on the bridge, and it was some time before he could get anyone to answer him. Finally he got ahold of Skitt, who sounded really worried as he muttered in his native brogue. "Captain, we canna beam you up."

"What's happening?" asked Kird suspiciously.

"That cheap glue we used to hold the ship together is breaking down. The engine nacelles are already starting to droop. I estimate four hours before they fall completely off!"

"The estimate is quite accurate," said Yore-neck, putting in his two cents.

"Skittish, alert Starredfleet Command," Kird bawled into his communicator. "Put in a Rush Order for some string...duct tape...anything! Skittish?" But all he could hear in reply was static.

"Your communications no longer function," said Yore-neck smugly. "We'll throw in a free case of Pasty Pete's Super-Bondo Glue for playing our game. Is that sufficient cause to fight, Captain Kird?"

"What if they defeat us?"

"To save your ship, you have to win."

"The war is forced upon us, Bean," said Fillmore, plucking his sleeve. "History repeats itself."

[Mr. Atoz]

Noting which way their opponents had gone, Kird intrepidly led the way in the opposite direction, climbing the canyon path until he found a nice cliff. "Are we fighting a defensive war, Bean?" asked Fillmore, wiping sweat from his face as he struggled up the rocks. "Don't we have a four-hour deadline?"

Kird bit back a curse because he hadn't thought of that. "Yes. But...um... if it goes against us, I want a place to retreat to. Yeah, that's it."

"Has anybody seen a coffee shop?" whined Sumac, wandering into a cave and fetching himself a nasty whack on the head. He cursed savagely, already starting to show signs of caffeine withdrawal.

Kird sat heavily on a boulder, deep in thought as he struggled to remember the time he had been sent to the Starredfleet Tactical Training Camp. He had learned a great deal about tactics that year, having spent that whole summer trying to sneak into the women's dorms. "Right now I want to scout them out, find their weaknesses and attack."

Fillmore smiled. "Do you drink whisky?"

"Yes."

"Do you sometimes get drunk out of your gourd, and go roaring through your ship like a wild man, accosting female crewmembers?"

"Occasionally. Why?"

"Do you ever..."

"Will you get to the point?"

"Because you have qualities very much like those of another man I admired greatly..."

Kird preened himself. "Thank you, Mr. Pre--"

"...P. T. Barnum."

Kird gave the ex-president a sour look. Desperate to change the subject, he turned to his First Officer. "We'll need to make weapons, Mr. Spoke. I believe the primitive Volcanties made something like a boomerang."

"Yes captain. However, I fail to see how I can be expected to know how to make one..."

"Spears, bows and arrows, slings..." said Kird, ignoring him. "Mr. President, you used a slingshot as a boy, didn't you?"

"I did?" blurted Fillmore, in the voice of an actor who has momentarily forgotten his lines. "Oh! Yes! I did." He whipped off his coat and began yanking at his suspenders.

"Captain," said Spoke, interrupting. "Logic dictates we consider another course of action."

The Volcanite looked unusually thoughtful, and what was worse, Kird noticed that he hadn't even started to make any weapons yet. He frowned. Probably the influence of that coffee-loving peacenik, Sumac. "What other course of action?" he asked.

"In our history on Volcane, we too faced these alternatives. We suffered devastating wars that cut off our supplies of coffee beans, and nearly destroyed out planet. Out of our suffering, some of us found the discipline to act. We sent peace emmisaries to our opponents."

"The circumstances were entirely different," blurted Kird, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"The face of war never changes."

"But this is..."

"Sir," said Spoke stubbornly, "Sumac's convictions are most profound in this matter."

"Well, I have no authority over him," said Kird, throwing up his hands with a sigh. "He can do as he thinks best. Where is he, anyway?"

Spoke looked a little sheepish. "He's..um...already snuck off, captain. He said he couldn't stand another four hours without coffee, anyway."

***

Ten minutes later, they all heard a long, drawn-out scream. "Spoke! Help me!"

Spoke went on sharpening a crude spear without even looking up.

"It's Sumac!" said Kird, pacing back and forth nervously. "I shouldn't have let him go."

"It was not your fault, captain," said the Volcanite absently, still working away at his spear.

"Help me, Spoke!" came the scream again, quavering in the still air.

"They're torturing him," moaned Kird. He looked at Spoke, who was still calmly whittling. "How can you stand to listen to that?"

"What did you say?" said Spoke, pulling a pair of rubber plugs out of his ears. "Anyway, a Volcanite would not cry out so. They are trying to goad us into attacking rashly."

"Maybe you can sit there and listen to a man screaming in agony, but I can't," said Kird, gritting his teeth. "Hand over those ear plugs!"

"Perhaps we can rescue him, gentlemen," said Fillmore, interrupting the fight which had broken out over the ear plugs. "I suggest we do exactly what they want us to do."

"Do what they want?" said Spoke, wondering if he had been standing in the sun too long.

"But not the way they want it," admonished the ex-President, wagging his finger. "We must convince them that they have provoked us to recklessness. Now, Bean, I don't mean to take over..."

"Oh, go right ahead," said Kird, who couldn't think of a better idea.

"What I propose is that I circle around behind them, while you two provide a distraction. It should be sufficiently violent to cover what I do."

"Um...which is..?" prompted Kird. He had to admit, it didn't sound like much of a plan so far.

"Slip into their camp and cut him lose."

Kird opened his mouth to protest, but then he figured what the heck. "One more thing," said Fillmore. "We fight on their level, with trickery and brutality. We bite and scratch and kick 'em in the balls. There is no honorable way to kill, no gentle way to destroy. There is nothing good about war except its ending."

He paused. "Unless you happen to be the President, of course. Then you get to make speeches and stuff, and your approval rating goes through the roof for being Patriotic. But other than that..."

[Mr. Atoz]

Kird and Spoke crept swiftly down the canyon, darting quietly from boulder to boulder but taking no particular care to keep themselves hidden. Not far past the point where they had orginally beamed down, they paused to look around, and Spoke got Kird's attention by pelting him with rocks.

"Hey! What are you doing?" he shouted, forfeiting all chance of surprise. Spoke pointed to Dennis Khan and Zero, propped up beside a couple of trees, snoring.

Kird nodded, and both of them jumped to their feet, hurling their spears and shouting like maniacs. Their two opponents snapped awake, tried to run in opposite directions, and slammed into one another, falling to the ground and rolling down the canyon in a tangle of arms and legs. At the noise, Colonel Bleen poked his head up from behind a rock and looked around.

Kird longed to land a good, solid punch on his big, stupid nose, but he was too far away. He threw a spear instead, but Bleen ducked behind cover and didn't show his face again. The next thing Kird and Spoke knew, Zero and Khan had gotten themselves sorted out and were attacking. They were too busy for the next few minutes to worry about where Bleen had gone.

Meanwhile, Fillmore was crawling into the enemy camp from the far side. He found Sumac bound with vines to a slender tree. Hitching out a pocket knife which he just happened to have on him, the ex-President began sawing away at the bonds. "The others have drawn them away," he whispered. The Volcanite didn't answer. Probably sulking, he thought.

Right about then the vines came loose, and the Volcanite fell to the ground, landing flat on his face. "Well, really!" said Fillmore, annoyed. "If you expect me to carry you all the way back to camp, you've got another think coming!" He nudged the coffee-freak with his boot, but he didn't move. "Um, Sumac? Are you all right?"

"Help me, Spoke," said a quiet voice behind him.

Looking up, Fillmore saw Colonel Bleen and Kareless the Blingon blocking his escape. Kareless was speaking in a darn good imitation of Sumac's voice. Then he changed to Fillmore's own voice. "Help me, Kird," he said.

"Isn't he good?" said Bleen, pleasantly. "He's available for birthday parties and bar-mitzvahs. I'm his agent."

"Can he do Jimmy Stewart?" said Fillmore, clapping his hands and sitting down on a nearby rock.

"Oh, that's too easy," said Kareless. "Give me something hard."

Sumac woke up from the trance he had fallen into and sat next to Fillmore, rubbing his hands to get the circulation going again. "How about Robert DeNiro?" he suggested.

"Hmmm," said the Blingon, furrowing his brow in concentration. "Okay...You want a piece of me? Huh? You want a piece of me?"

***

Kird was wrestling with Dennis Khan and not getting anywhere because they seemed to be pretty much evenly matched. He risked a glance over his shoulder, hoping that Spoke could help him, but the Volcanite was too busy fending off Zero, who was after him with a pair of sheers and saying, "Just a little bit off the top... I promise not to take too much..."

Desperate to break the deadlock, Kird dove deep into his store of advanced Starredfleet tactical training and came up with a clever trick. "Hey, Khan," he said. "Your shoe's untied."

"Oh, yeah?" said his opponent, who stopped fighting to bend over, realizing only then that he was wearing velcroed running shoes. Kird seized the opportunity to push him off a nearby cliff.

Spoke had also managed to get the better of Zero, by making an appointment for later in the month. Together, they armed themselves with some spears that were lying around and charged further into the canyon, aiming for the enemy camp where they hoped to catch Bleen and Kareless, and only prayed to find Sumac and Fillmore still alive.

All four of them were sitting around a pile of stones, apparently having the time of their lives. "Wait! Wait!" Sumac was saying, wiping away tears of laughter. "I've got it! Do William Shatner next!"

Kird cleared his throat noisily. The four of them froze where they were, then turned slowly around. "Oh, hi there, Bean," said Fillmore sheepishly. He gave a nervous chuckle. "Um, look! I rescued Sumac!"

Bleen and Kareless took the first opportunity to hoof it for the trees, as Kird and Spoke half-heartedly threw their spears at their retreating backs.

Once again, with the grinding noise and the shimmering of colors, Yore-neck appeared from out of nowhere. "You are the survivors," he said pontifically. "The others have run off. It would appear that evil retreats when forcefully confronted. But you have demonstrated no other difference between your philosophies. Good and evil use the same methods and achieve the same results."

"Are you kidding?" blurted Kird, just about at the end of his rope. "You're the one who set up the methods and the results, you drip!"

"Oh, I did, didn't I?" said Yore-neck. "Oops. Never mind, then. Well, here are your lovely parting gifts. So sorry that you can't stay longer..."

He handed them each a plastic bag, but Kird threw his to the ground. The human was furious. He was all set to leap upon the rock creature, body odor or no body odor, but Yore-neck had already vanished again, the cowardly piece of schist.

Kird glanced at Spoke, but the Volcanite merely shrugged, pulling a shirt out of his bag. He squinted, trying to read the legend printed on it. It said, "I was kidnapped by aliens and forced to fight to the death, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt."

"HEY!" shouted Kird, remembering something. "Where's my fifty quadloons?"

---THE END---