Chapter 1

The poster showed a Human male doing a jumping-jack in a clear blue sky. "Two Arms? Two Legs? Too Cool!" the caption read, and from the look on the face of the jumper, two of each did indeed seem to be an invigorating and exciting configuration of limbs.

Next to the poster, a Cranian female (by all measures a Human except for the fact that she was born on Cran 4 rather than Hume 3) leaned against the stainless steel wall. As Flathead and Throom walked past her through the corridor of the Cran port of entry, she stared at Flathead with a look that seemed as if it were about to segue into a disgusted head shake—which it then did.

"Why don't you just go alone?" Flathead whined.

Throom could not help but sympathize with his little friend. This was not at all the planet to make a hot pink squid feel at home. But Throom's sympathy was countered by his not wanting to interview applicants for crew positions alone. "I don't like Cran any more than you do."

"That's not the problem," Flathead countered, "The problem is that they hate me more than they hate you."

Throom could not argue with that. After all, he himself was at least Humanoid. True, his body was large enough that the word "hulking" seemed to have been coined just to describe it, and true, it was made entirely of stone, but the gray granite that comprised him was inarguably Humanoid in shape.

"Arms are for hugging other Humanoids," Flathead read from the next display they passed. It showed a family sharing a group hug. Flathead pulled three of his tentacles away from the task of locomotion and used them to plead with Throom. "Throom, look at me."

They stopped, and Throom looked at Flathead. His friend was about three quarters of a meter tall and very similar to a squid in shape except that his main body (his hub as he called it) was shaped like a shoe box standing on end rather than a pregnant arrowhead. His overall hot pink color was pushed slightly toward purple by a faint blue paisley pattern that covered him everywhere except the undersides of his tentacles.

Flathead had learned to enhance his communications with the faced races by flexing his skin into slight deformations. A crinkle here, a ridge there, a slight tilt of the hub, and he could make his emotions clear to most of the people he encountered. His wrinkles and ridges were now expressing anxiety. They were so effective that Throom almost gave in right there, but instead he hardened his own face and continued down the corridor, forcing Flathead to follow. "Just stay with me and you'll be fine."

They arrived at the shuttle check-in. A balding Cranian male sat behind the counter. "Name and vessel," he droned without looking up from his console.

"Throom of the Incorrigible."

"Business or pleasure?"

"Business."

"And what is your business?"

"My business," Throom said.

The little man looked up with his beady eyes narrowed as if he were about to set Throom straight on a few things, but once he saw that he was dealing with a Fraggart, he just swallowed and let him remain askew. He went on to the next question. "How long are you planning to visit?"

"Less than a full rotation."

"Very well. You are all set then," the Cranian informed him. "First gate through those doors. The shuttle will be leaving shortly."

Throom and Flathead started toward the indicated door but the balding Cranian interrupted them before Throom had taken two steps. "Um, excuse me sir." When Throom turned back, the Cranian was glancing over the counter at Flathead. "I didn't realize that this was with you. That complicates things a bit." He sat back down and started tapping at his console.

Flathead flinched as laser beams from a bump on the ceiling shot out and scanned across his surface, no doubt recording his every feature and comparing them to a gigantic database somewhere.

"He's with me," Throom explained, "I'll be responsible for him."

"Yes sir, you will," the little man said, "Which means you are responsible for making sure that it obeys all of the rules laid out here." He placed a word wad on the counter. "Shuttles leave every hour, so you can take all the time you need. If you don't wish to have it confiscated, I suggest you become very familiar with those regulations."

"Have what confiscated?"

"That." The man behind the counter pointed directly at Flathead.

Throom noticed that the man had taken on a tone of greater confidence. In fact he had a definite condescension about him, due most likely to the four guards that had moved in to stand stiffly around Throom and Flathead.

"You can't 'confiscate' him." Throom stepped back to the counter. "He's a Kravitsian citizen and he's our pilot. You have no authority."

"Oh yes we do," the man assured. Then he continued, "It is of utmost importance that it wear this emblem at all times to mark it as non-Humanoid." He slid a small purple adhesive badge of amorphous shape across the counter to Throom. "If it is found within 300 meters of any public works building it will be immediately disposed of. Is that understood?"

"Disposed of?"

"Yes. Disposed of. Is that understood?"

"No," said Throom, "I don't understand that at all."

"Then I suggest you read Grand Ranter Barry's book The Push for Excellence: Making Cran Great Again. There is a copy on the word wad I gave you."

"Push," Throom growled, "for excellence?"

"Throom, don't make a scene," Flathead sputtered nervously. "It's their planet."

"Yes it is," the man said proudly. "Now more than ever." Then he recited from memory "Two thumbs up—one on each hand. Hold your single head high and stand for Cran."

Throom narrowed his eyes. He knew the guards' weapons could do little to harm him, but he also knew that going Fraggart on this autocratic speck of overweening flesh would make him miss the interview. Worse yet, he knew the guards' weapons could harm Flathead. A lot.

"It's fine, really, Throom. You don't need to do this. I'm a Caner. I get worse from other Kravitsians. Just let me go back to the ship."

Throom seethed a moment longer.

"Just do the interview," Flathead soothed, "then we can put some deep space between us and Cran."

After counting to ten mentally, Throom grumbled, "All right, I'll see you back at the ship." Throom parted ways with Flathead and walked through the door.

Times like this almost made him regret that he had ever civilized himself.

It had seemed like a good idea not to accompany Throom, but no sooner had Throom exited through the doors to the shuttle bay, with one last nod back at his old friend, than Flathead felt suddenly very alone, as if he had been dropped behind enemy lines. Now as he flapped down the cold stainless steel corridor even his own reflection on the wall seemed to be mocking him for what he was.

He watched the Cranian female walking toward him. He instinctively pulled toward the wall. When she caught sight of him, she did the same with the other wall, then quickened her pace once she was past. Flathead watched her go, pondering what she might be so afraid of. He was half her size and had no weaponry of any kind. What lies had she been told about him? They must have been pretty awful. Sadly he realized that some part of him was starting to believe them himself, even though he had no idea what they were. He tried to shake it off and move on.

He pulled up to the elevator door and was about to climb up to hit the call button when the doors opened. A group of five or six male Cranians poured out of the box and into the corridor yabbering loudly and incoherently.

Flathead ducked into the elevator, and the doors closed. He climbed the wall to the control panel, but before he could choose his destination, there was a ding. He dropped to the floor as the doors of the elevator opened.

Standing outside, leaning against the call button was the largest of the drunks that had vacated the device as he entered. Three other members of his entourage were gathered around him, the rest apparently having something better to do. They were all looking at Flathead with mischievous grins. "Hey buddy," the largest drunk said, "having a problem?"

"Uh, no. Thanks, though, for asking."

"You sure?" The Cranian's tone suggested he might have troubles he was yet to realize. "Sometimes just being where you don't belong can be a problem."

"Look," sputtered Flathead, "I don't want any trouble."

The big drunk puffed out his incredulity as he stood up straight, tucking his foot in front of one side of the door to prevent it closing. "Who said anything about trouble? We just wanna help." He stepped into the elevator with palms up. "Where you going? Deck one?" He pointed at the deck one button. "Two?" He pointed to two.

"F-four."

"Four," big drunk said and pointed to the deck four button. "Then here, let me help." With that he reached down and, catching Flathead off guard snatched him up by his hub. He then forcefully slammed one side of said hub against the deck four button.

Laughter exploded from the gang as Flathead was tossed into the corner of the elevator. The big one waved as they left and the doors closed. "Have a nice trip."

"And don't come back, freak!" another added.

As the elevator moved toward his destination, Flathead felt relieved. "That could have been much worse." he told himself. But when the doors opened on the next floor down he realized it was worse.

"Still going to four?" a drunk from upstairs asked, a little out of breath and flush with exertion. Without waiting for an answer he repeated the bit of physical humor his friend had initiated, smashing Flathead against the fourth floor button and tossing him to the floor.

Dazed, Flathead saw what he was in for when the button for the next floor down lit up, followed by the one below that.

Chapter 2

Throom sat at a dingy yellow table in a Spammy's restaurant holding up the laminated menu in front of him in a way that suggested he might be reading it. He had no intention of ordering—eating for him was as impossible as it was unnecessary—but if they thought he intended to order it might buy him some more time before they threw him out as a vagrant.

He looked around the otherwise unoccupied dining area. Most of the booth's chairs had rips in the well-worn sparkly green plastic upholstery. Stained stuffing fibers stuck through like scabs.

On the walls were several nondescript landscapes, a poster of a person Throom assumed to be High Ranter Barry, and one pancake that had somehow become attached near the ceiling.

On the floor, besides a spattered condiment package and a napkin, sat a crude wooden box filled with rusty scrap metal, shards of glass, and tubes of industrial adhesives. A handwritten sign on the front read: Creative Fun Zone – Create at own risk.

He would have to speak again to the cap'n about choosing better rendezvous points. These places were always so awful, not to mention awkward for a non-eating stone golem like himself. He knew, for instance, that the booth he was sitting in was never going to be the same, probably requiring comprehensive repairs, yet he was not going to order so much as a pecker nugget.

He had considered tipping the waitress as he often did, or ordering food and just not eating it. But after he saw the staff kick a man out because he was missing a finger he decided he didn't care about such things this time around.

He realized he had been sitting there staring into space when a voice interrupted his thoughts by asking "Are you Lou Greasly?" The deep, firm voice belonged to a Humanoid with a washboard forehead and impressive physique.

The new arrival had long brown hair and a neatly trimmed mustache and beard as dark as deep space. He was in some sort of quilted jumper that was tiled with pockets, or possibly flaps, most of which were held shut with toggles made from large fangs. The fabrics used varied in color from a dark earthy green to a rusty brown, but all had the same texture of tightly packed irregular striations. Piping as thick as Throom's thumb enhanced the manly tapering of the recruit's torso as well as the broadness of his shoulders. He carried in his hands a sealed cylindrical container filled nearly to the top with murky water.

"Actually, I'm his first mate, Throom." As Throom extended his hand to the new arrival, he noticed that in the jar floated some sort of sea creature that was shaped roughly like a leaf of romaine lettuce. It was reddish purple in the middle, growing to light pink at the scalloped edges. To his astonishment, the floppy red lettuce in the jar sprang to life and plastered itself to the side of the container. Its color changed to a dark maroon, and words appeared in a lighter shade across its surface.

"I am Kurplupt," the words said. Obviously the thing was intelligent.

Throom considered a moment. Was the jar occupant introducing itself or complaining of fatigue?

Throom looked to the holder of the jar for some help in comprehending what was supposed to be happening. The holder of the jar would not meet his gaze. Throom looked back at the lettuce. Words were now scrolling across it.

"…of the school of Shuuupt of the sphere of Tullusht of the pod of Shluuurptptpt of the…" The words continued far beyond Throom's interest in them.

After waiting long enough that he felt the requirements of basic decorum had been satisfied and exceeded, Throom decided to speak. "I'm happy to meet you, Kurplupt," he interrupted, certain now that Kurplupt was a name.

The letters were replaced by a series of dots, and then, "I was not finished," appeared in the center of the lettuce.

"That's all right. We can get the rest when we're filling out W-4s."

"As you wish. I am honored to share your sphere," the words spelled out. The ridge-headed person set the jar on the table, and because Throom's body took up so much room on his side of the booth that the table was pressed firmly into the back of the opposite bench, the one outside the jar simply stood at attention by the table, hands behind his back.

"So you must be the other recruit I was supposed to expect?" Throom asked the jar carrier. The jar carrier did not meet his gaze.

The lettuce displayed a number of words in all upper case. "DO NOT ADDRESS MY BEARER!" they said.

"I'm sorry, I was just…"

"Klorf is my bearer—a form of transportation—nothing more."

Throom looked at Klorf to try and gauge the bearer's feelings about this, but Klorf continued to stare at the mysterious pancake. Throom looked back to Kurplupt and read the scrolling words.

"Flapulates often use the services of cling-ons when traveling on liquid deficient worlds. That does not mean that the cling-on has suddenly become worthy of representing our race."

Throom seemed lost for a moment. These two beings were of the same race? He decided not to risk enraging the jar being with further questions, however, and instead took refuge in the business at hand. "Well let me explain this first, since it is sometimes a deal-breaker," he said. "There is no regular pay for this position. We of course supply full life support during your incumbency. But beyond that you are only entitled to a cut of any prize we find. Do you find that acceptable?"

"A cut?" the jar-thing asked.

"A portion, a share."

"Of what proportion?"

"All crew members, including the cap'n, get an equal portion of whatever is left after expenses."

No words appeared on the being. Throom assumed it was mulling it over.

"Are those parts of the deal acceptable to you?"

"Yes," appeared on the flapulate.

"Before you ask, I can't tell you what the purpose of this mission is. The cap'n will tell you all about it if you sign on."

"Understood."

Throom opened his mouth to ask Klorf a question but caught himself and asked Kurplupt instead. "If we took you on, would Klorf be expecting a share?"

"What Klorf expects is immaterial."

"I see." Throom fidgeted causing great moans of strain from the bench. "What position are you wanting to fill? It was unclear from your correspondence." It had not been unclear at all, but now that he had met Kurplupt, he was certain there had been some mistake.

"I wish to be chief of security."

Or maybe not. Throom looked at the salad bar escapee floating in a jar. "Security of the ship?"

"Yes, why not?"

"Well, it's a very active job. I mean, a very physically demanding job." He paused to let the rest of the problem blossom in the mind of the flapulate. The seed found no purchase. "The Incorrigible is an air-based environment. Roughly four to one nitrogen/oxygen."

"Go on."

"Well…you wouldn't be in charge of a team. You would actually be all of security." Still no sprouting. "You might have to physically subdue various beings." The flapulate was still not getting it. "As in chasing, shooting at, fighting with."

"I am aware of these things."

Throom had to lay it out for him. "So how would you do that?"

"My bearer would assist me."

"So Klorf would be doing your fighting for you?"

"Of course he would," the flapulate informed him, "I'm in a jar."

"I see that. Well, just to play the bad guy for a minute, if Klorf is doing all the dangerous work, why wouldn't we just hire Klorf?"

In response to this, Klorf started, and Kurplupt seemed to flatten himself even closer to the glass, giving Throom quite an eye full. "Are you insane?! Klorf is a cling-on. When the great croosian traders swim through the profound pressures and darkness at the core of the water moon Vadnu, the cling-ons are the parasites that even that most hostile environment will not dislodge. They are unrefined. They are coarse. They are barbaric. Only the repulsive fact that they can take near vacuum-pressure gases into themselves and derive oxygen from them makes them of any use to us. What you suggest would be as if I offered to hire, instead of you, the chair you sat on."

Throom processed this information. He could not fathom what it must be like to live in Vadnu. There was no other place in the galaxy like it—a moon made entirely of water from surface to core and on through to the surface again—a planet-sized drop of pond water teaming with life and hurtling around a lifeless gas giant and twin suns in an intricate dance that gave it just the right amount of energy to sustain life.

"I see." Throom nodded. "If we took you on, what sort of life support would you require?"

"My environment vessel is self contained. All I need is to absorb full spectrum light for a short time each day. Klorf can operate all of the necessary equipment."

Throom nodded. He wasn't sure what this thing considered "full spectrum" in regards to light, but he knew they had the ability to provide anything considered visible by any known species and at a minimal power cost. In general, photovores were the best deal available when trading energy for person hours. Even if Kurplupt himself were useless in his job at least it would not cost much to have the thing on board, and Klorf looked as if he might be very useful.

"By the way," Throom segued, "I notice that your jar does not have one of those stickers on it."

"Of course not!" Came the immediate response.

"Do they not realize that you are sentient?" It would make sense that any Cranian would assume that anything in the jar would be at best a pet of Klorf.

"They do not."

"And how long have you lived here?"

"We do not live here." The response was abrupt. "We were…laid over here after a term of employment ended several months ago."

"They left you here, on Cran?"

"The term of employment ended with unexpected abruptness."

Even with Throom's short exposure to Kurplupt, this too made sense. So was he really going to bring this strange thing on board? Technically that was entirely up to the cap'n, but Throom knew that realistically it was entirely up to him. He had been the one to hire Penny, the latest recruit to their crew made at their last stop and every other hire since he joined the crew so long ago. This was his decision.

Could it be called a decision, he wondered, if you lacked the courage to say no?

"All right then," Throom began, but before he could finish the sentence he was interrupted.

"Throom! You overgrown pigeon perch. You haven't changed a bit," a cheerful voice exclaimed.

Throom turned to look at the source of the voice, and his stone jaw dropped. "Hardegar?"

Hardegar nodded his rotting head vigorously. Bits of decaying skin on his forehead and cheek flapped as if in greeting. "The one and only!"

Hardegar was of average build and height for a Human—or at least average build and height for a Human found preserved for decades at the bottom of a peat bog. He wore baggy trousers and his shriveled arms protruded from the short sleeves of an overly spacious shirt that was decorated with large flower shapes in bright colors.

"I thought you were dead," Throom uttered blankly.

Shrugging and nodding his hairless head, Hardegar admitted, "I am—been dead since Endrosia. Poisoned you know." Then brighter, "Don't drink the water, eh?"

Throom was unsure what to say. "So, uh, how've you been?"

"How have I been? I've been dead!"

"Okay, but…uh…"

"It's the damned implants," he explained sheepishly. "The control unit malfunctioned and won't shut down. I keep going through tissue regeneration, but its not working so well any more." He flicked at one of the flaps of dead skin.

"That's terrible."

"Yeah, the thing I miss most is my brain. Well, second most." He winked his right eye but found he had to open it again by hand. "Most of me is still in my Brain Bubble 3000, but I'm pretty sure I had some really nice memories in wetware. Oh well, I'm sure it's in a better place. Absent from the body, at home with the Lord."

There was an awkward silence.

"So," Throom ventured at last. "Cran is a long way from Endrosia. What brings you here?"

"Nothing in particular—just kicking around waiting for the old batteries to go down."

Throom nodded in recognition. While he was not exactly battery powered, he was powered by the slow decay of an irreplaceable clump of heavy elements deep in his chest. So it was the same in every way that mattered. While most living things could, in theory, keep living as long as they took in food they could derive power from, his energy source was strictly limited.

Another moment of silence. Throom searched for something to add. "Well, I guess you're lucky, right? I mean if you have to be dead, you should at least stay active."

"Lucky? Look at me, Throom."

"Uh, yeah." Throom said uncomfortably, noticing that he could see completely through portions of one of Hardegar's arms.

"So how about you? How's the old stalactite hanging?"

"I can't complain. Still on the Incorrigible."

"And why wouldn't you be? Beautiful ship."

Throom nodded agreement. "In fact I'm here recruiting right now, so… It was nice seeing you again, Hardegar, but I need to get back to work."

"Sure thing," agreed Hardegar as he pulled up a chair and sat down. "Let's get started."

Like a stink bomb in an airlock, realization filled Throom's mind. He had been told to meet a recruit from Vadnu and one other. Throom felt some of the minerals in his torso gain density as he realized that the tattered bag of bones in front of him was that other. "Huh?" was all he could manage to say.

"I'm throwing in with you again," Hardegar said brightly, "if you'll have me."

Throom tried and failed to look excited at the prospect.

As they entered the elevator on the starport and started their ride down Throom could not help thinking that he was far too soft-hearted for someone made entirely of stone. He had at least a dozen reasons to reject the recruits he was coming back with, yet here he was, coming back with them.

Klorf stood next to him with a scaly duffle bag of some sort over his shoulder and a jar full of ego in his hands. Next to Klorf was a marionette of science with what remained of the mind of an old co-worker. These were the people he would be trusting with his life if push came to shove. Well at least he knew he could rely on the cap'n and Flathead. The thought of Flathead gave him enough of a jolt of realization to pique Hardegar's curiosity.

"What is it, Throom?"

"Nothing," Throom responded. "I'm just realizing I'm not sure if our pilot got back to the ship all right. I'm hoping he did."

"He didn't." Came a muffled voice behind him.

Throom turned but saw no one else in the elevator. But then a hot pink bulge of flesh emerged from a slot in the wall intended to hold waste items. Throom tried not to show his revulsion as the rest of his old friend squeezed out like psychedelic toothpaste onto the floor.

Klorf was instantly on guard with the jar tucked under one arm and his other held out between the new rider and Throom.

"It's okay," Throom assured, "this is Flathead, our pilot." Then to Flathead, "Who did this to you?" It was clear from his tone that he intended to do the same to them.

"A bunch of drunks were harassing me. I hid in there."

Throom relaxed a little. Harassing his friend was still bad, but not as bad as stuffing him into a tiny trash receptacle. He watched as Flathead regained his shape and composure.

Then Flathead caught sight of Hardegar and was back in the bin.

Chapter 3

"As beautiful as I remember," exclaimed Hardegar as the group approached the Incorrigible.

"Mm-Hmm," agreed Throom vaguely.

"Very retro."

"She's a classic all right," Throom agreed. "One of the last ships in the 'Defiant' line. After the Incorrigible, there was only the Stubborn, the Headstrong, and the Pig-headed Jerk. Then they quit making them because they were officially out of names."

There was, of course, no way for any of them to know that the ship was shaped very much like a huge 1957 Buick Roadmaster. The designer of the Defiant line, Snell Smarkly, had made a career out of no one knowing that. He had dug into the ancient archives and chosen a random land-car design from Hume three and used it as the basis of his entire line.

He even found that the ad campaign that had been used to sell the original carbon fuel burner was so usefully vague that it adapted perfectly to each new ship in his line. When the Incorrigible was up for sale it was billed as "The Newest Defiant Line Ship Ever," as had every other ship in the line, including the first. It was the "Ever" that seemed to impress people.

The glossy ship sported sleek lines and swept-back tail fins. A thin chrome stripe ran a bit above the spherical black lift pods that took the place of tires, then dipped down sharply just in front of the rear pod like an elegant check-mark. The Incorrigible's body was two tone—mostly yellow but red from the undercarriage to the chrome stripe. Near the front, four elliptical portholes accented the space above the stripe and gave a faint impression that the pod was rolling forward at speed. The "grill" was resplendent with chrome and glass—being the forward observation deck.

On the side, where windows would have been if it really were a Buick, was a logo made of bold stylized lines suggesting a planet and something like a comet swooping around it and heading away. Intermeshed with the logo were the words Galactic Guard Lite. The motto "To Swerve and Deflect" curved beneath it. Next to the logo like a footnote was the abbreviation "Ret." Beneath the entire emblem, in much larger letters, was the name of the ship—Incorrigible.

They all grabbed luggage off the trolley and headed up the gangway extending down from an opening just aft of the forward lift pod.

Cap'n Lou Tok Greasly was there to greet them when they came aboard. Or rather he happened to be shuffling through the corridor in his underwear as they came aboard. One hand scratched absently beneath the waistband of his baggy boxer shorts and the other rubbed down his face and off his cleft chin. His blue eyes were bleary. His greying sandy brown hair, normally wavy but disheveled, was now disheveled but wavy.

"Hey," he mumbled as he passed.

"Who's that?" Klorf asked, apparently at the behest of Kurplupt.

"The cap'n," Throom admitted. "He'll be better after he has a cleaning and a coffee."

A female yelp from down the corridor drew their attention to where the other new recruit, Penny, had come around the corner to nearly collide with her under-dressed boss. The petite, black haired woman now had her back to the wall as the cap'n shuffled past, tipping an imaginary hat to her. As soon as she could, she quick stepped over to Throom and the others. "Is that normal?"

"Normal in general or normal for Cap'n Greasly?"

"On this ship," she snapped, somewhat annoyed.

Throom held up a hand palm down and moved it like a teeter-totter.

Penny looked like she was assessing whether it was too soon to jump ship.

"It might take him a little while to adjust to having a woman on board," Throom offered.

"Hey," Flathead chimed in, "he was wearing shorts, wasn't he?"

Hardegar spoke up. "Remember when he talked to that Lumarian diplomat for three minutes before he realized that they were on a video feed? And he'd been sitting in the cap'n's chair the whole time, naked, clipping his toenails?"

Throom and Flathead chuckled.

"That caused a war, didn't it?"

"A minor skirmish," Throom corrected. He looked to Penny, who was taking in Hardegar's appearance. "Oh, forgive me. Penny, this is Hardegar. He was a crew member back in the day, and he's returned. Also, he's dead."

Hardegar held out his hand, but Penny reserved hers and turned to Klorf.

"The flapulate in the jar is Kurplupt." Kurplupt pressed against the jar and began listing his full title and lineage. "That's his family…" He paused politely to let her read but then decided they could not wait for the entire list. "His bearer, who we should not address directly, is named Klorf."

Although he had not known Penny for very long, he could tell that this last statement had rankled her. Her eyes narrowed, and her head ticked to the side, making the pull tab of her forehead zipper tinkle.

Throom suppressed a feeling of revulsion once again at Penny's strangest feature—in fact her single odd feature. The beautiful, bright eyed, Human female had an old fashioned zipper across her forehead. Interviewing her had been difficult once he had seen it, and while he was becoming a bit more used to it, it still made him uneasy. Just the fact that most of the races in the galaxy were bags of water with organs floating around in them was bad enough. But to see one that seemed to have easy access to those spongy, wet innards right on her face added a new level of ick.

He was sure that in time he would adjust to it. After all he had just seen his old friend Flathead ooze through a slot he would not be able to fit his own hand into and had managed to not let on how disgusting it was. Surely he could get used to this. In fact, some part of him was strangely compelled by it. He had never actually seen a zipper before, they had become obsolete centuries ago, and he wanted very much to see how it worked. But before he could ask that, he would have to feel comfortable acknowledging in words that it existed. Both of them would have to be much more comfortable with each other. Personal observations of that sort required time and tact.

"Is that a zipper?" Hardegar blurted out.

Penny's mouth dropped open, and her expression went from shock to hurt to anger. She seemed to have a number of candidates come just to the point of speech only to be rejected as undiplomatic. Finally she simply turned and walked briskly away.

"Well, was it?" Hardegar asked Throom. "What's it for?"

Throom could only shrug and lead them on to their cabin assignments.

Chapter 4

"Thanks again for doing the interview, Throom," Greasly said as he and Throom stood outside the briefing room. Though the cap'n's hair was still unruly, noticeable improvement had been made. Improvements had also been made in his clothing in that he was actually wearing some.

He wore his old uniform which consisted of black boots and baggy black riding breeches with a spazzer holstered on his right thigh, a plain white tee shirt under suspenders formed from colored rectangles (the color sequence of which indicated his rank and several of his achievements), and over all, a jacket that could be best described as a thigh length cutaway duster of worn brown material with shiny copper buttons—all unbuttoned. The jacket bore on each arm a patch of the same "near miss" emblem of the Galactic Guard Lite that was born by the ship, but minus all of the wording.

"Not a problem, Cap'n."

"I would have done it myself but, you know—hangnail."

"Mm-Hmm"

"They can be very painful. You're lucky you'll never know."

The cap'n's excuses had become progressively more inane over time, and Throom felt that it was now little more than a running joke. He was sure he detected a subdued smirk on the Human's face.

"Well," Greasly said, "shall we get this party started?" He turned and walked into the briefing room door. A second later, while he was rubbing his nose, the door opened. "Throom, you've got to work on the timing of these doors," he grumbled.

"I tried, but the minimum is hard-coded."

"Well, chisel it out," he snapped as he entered the briefing room. All the new recruits plus Flathead were there, seated at the long table that took up most of the room.

"You can sit down," Greasly enjoined, but no one was standing. "I'm Cap'n Greasly. Welcome to the Incorrigible. She's a fine ship, and now she's got a fine crew." He paused for a moment lost in a troubling thought. "Again," he added, then snapped out of it.

"I run a lax ship," he stated as he paced with his hands clasped behind his back, "but I expect everyone to do their share. Everybody. Got that?"

Hardegar and Penny nodded. Klorf looked at the floor. Kurplupt signaled "Yes" in red letters.

"What the hell is that?" Greasly asked, pointing at Kurplupt. Then to Klorf, "Can you talk? You're not a mime, are you?"

Throom interrupted, "Cap'n, Kurplupt is the one in the jar. Klorf is only his transportation. They are sort of a symbiotic pair."

"Really?" Greasly completely ignored the text scrolling across the flapulate. "Well, I've had security officers that were pickled half the time, but this is ridiculous!" He looked at the others ready to accept praise for his witty remark. He got none. "Because of pickles…in jars."

They all looked around nervously, unsure what pickles and jars had to do with each other. Who would bother pulling individually wrapped pickles out of their box and putting them in a jar? What purpose would it serve? Greasly's love of history had bitten him in the ass again.

"Tough crew," Greasly remarked. "Anyway, we'll sort all that out later." He waved his hand in the general direction of Kurplupt.

"The mission," he continued, "The mission is locating and retrieving the final cargo of—drama pause—Bartholomew Methane."

At the mention of the name Bartholomew Methane, all of the recruits gasped, except for Kurplupt, who just stopped ranting.

"The Bartholomew Methane?" asked Hardegar in awe.

"You don't suppose there are two sons-of-bitches unlucky enough to have that name do you?"

"The most notorious pirate that ever lived," Penny stated as a question.

"That's the guy," Greasly confirmed. "Rumor has it that his ship went down when he was finding a hiding place for some of his most valuable spoils. That's what we're after."

"So what have you got?" Hardegar queried.

"The Incorrigible, thirty thousand moolas, and you." The cap'n said. "Sound's like a song, doesn't it?"

"No leads?"

"I know right where it is."

"You know right where the wreck of Bartholomew Methane's ship is?" Hardegar asked with cautious optimism.

"I know right where the lead is. I happen to know because I won it playing poker. It's an old electronic log made by Bart, himself."

"You have one of his logs?"

Greasly sat down. "Had. I lost it on the next hand. But I know who has it now, and—more importantly—I know where he keeps it." Greasly grinned slyly, then noticed that text had been scrolling across the flapulate. "What's that, Kurplupt?"

Greasly spoke the words as he read, "How do you know the owner of the clue hasn't already retrieved the…" Greasly rubbed his eyes then pointed at Klorf. "You."

"Klorf," Throom supplied.

"Klorf, can you speak?"

"Yes, I can."

"Talk to me through Klorf," Greasly instructed Kurplupt.

The words "NOT ADDRESS MY BEARER" faded from the flapulate. After a moment the security officer reluctantly pulled itself away from the side of the jar facing Greasly and went to the side facing Klorf.

"Very well, captain," recited Klorf.

"Not captain. cap'n," corrected Greasly. "I was in the Galactic Guard Lite, not the Galactic Guard."

"Cap'n," Klorf amended.

"And I know, because I know the man who has it. His name is Ratner Groat." Greasly pulled out a crumpled piece of paper bearing a photo of a slick looking Human with a pencil thin mustache, and spread it out on the table for all to see. "His stupidity is only surpassed by his vanity. There's no way he could figure out the encoding scheme, and it will still be months before he will admit that fact and have someone else figure it out for him."

"He looks dishonest," pronounced Penny. "His eyes are so close together." Greasly smoothed out the paper some more. "Oh, that's better," she said.

He pulled another crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and spread it on the table. "That's his ship, The Other Woman." He looked at the paper somewhat wistfully.

The Other Woman was another Smarkly "original", this time based on an ancient trailer, that in turn seemed to have been based on an ancient toaster. It was pretty much a silver box with rounded corners, four spherical lift pods, and a triangular brace protruding out the lower front.

"She was my first ship. That bastard tracked her down just so he could have her, and I couldn't." Greasly sighed. "I had a lot of good times on The Other Woman."

"Excuse me," interrupted Kurplupt by way of Klorf, "are you talking about stealing the log from him?"

"Yes," stated Greasly.

Klorf looked at Kurplupt then at Greasly. "Okay."

"He's on his way to Oon," Greasly continued, searching through his pockets. "His course requires him to stop briefly near Slavin seven. Damn it! Where is that map? Throom, Do you have a copy of his course?"

Throom entered something into a console, and the course of The Other Woman appeared on the wall behind Greasly. Greasly looked over his shoulder, then quickly turned around in his chair to face the projected image.

"What the hell?" Greasly yelped. Then beaming at Throom, "I didn't know it could do that. You are a genius, man!"

Greasly hopped up and pointed out the Slavin system. "This area here is controlled by the original Slavinites. It's theirs by treaty—their laws, their courts. Intergalactic law does not apply in this zone."

"And theft's legal there?" asked Hardegar, looking particularly gruesome in the half-light.

"Of course not, but neither is gambling. So anything you lose in a game of chance is legally still your property. And," he added significantly, "it is also perfectly legal to break and enter to retrieve stolen goods—frontier justice sort of thing. So as long as we get the log back while The Other Woman is in this zone, we don't break a single law. Any questions?"

"But didn't you get the log through gambling?" asked Penny.

"Yes."

"So do you really own the log according to Slavin law?"

"Are you a lawyer?"

"No."

"Any other questions? Good. Let's Flitz!"

"My master has a question," entreated Klorf.

Greasly stopped on his way to the door and looked at the ceiling with his shoulders slumped. "What is it, Kurplupt?"

"How can you be sure the log is genuine?"

"That's a good question. The answer is: I just can."

"But how?"

"Look, I just know it. We have to leave it at that. Okay?"

The recruits mulled that over.

"Look, I just feel it. My gut tells me the log is genuine. You are all going to have to trust me on that point." He turned and left.

The recruits looked at Throom and at Flathead. Flathead was the first to speak. "I know this probably won't help, but that's good enough for me."

Throom jumped in to bolster Flathead's recommendation. "Flathead is our pilot, and he is very factually oriented. It means a lot for him to say that he trusts the cap'n." He looked around the room. "But then again, you have no reason to trust me either." He shrugged. "It's a risk. There is no way around that fact. Either you take a chance, or you don't."

The new recruits each considered their options.

"I'm in," Penny threw in at last.

"Me too," shrugged Hardegar.

"As am I," added Klorf for Kurplupt.

"Good," said Throom. He tapped a console, and a blue line was added to the image. "This is our course."

"That's longer than Ratner's course," Penny pointed out. "Shouldn't we try to be there before him?"

"We will be," stated Flathead confidently.

"That red dot," explained Throom, pointing out a red dot located on the blue line, "is a translation into so-called normal space of our current position in Flitzville."

"We're already in Flitzville?" Penny sounded amazed. "I didn't even feel the Flitz drive kick in."

"She's a good ship," Throom boasted.

"She must be if we are already that close to Jordanis!" exclaimed Penny.

"That's thanks to our fine pilot." Throom motioned toward Flathead. "He could find a straight path through a plate of spaghetti."

Flathead blushed purple.

"But why are we going to the Jordanis system at all?" Hardegar queried.

"We have to recruit the sixth crew member."

"Anyone I know?"

"Ever hear of Willy Smith from Elvis three?"

"Willy the Wisp?"

"Yes."

"Willy the Wisp, that stole the jeweled hose clamp of Thran?"

"Yes."

"I heard he ended up in a Jordanian prison waiting to be executed."

"Exactly."