Spaced Out part 3 of 7

CHAPTER EIGHT

         The craft that A4 had been forlornly tracking sped onwards into the inner sector of the solar system, matching its quarry's pace megametre for megametre. Before long, however, it was forced to reduce momentum as it approached an average sized blue/green planet that seemed to be the destination of the leading ship's desire. It did this in order to remain undetected and so not to spook the pilot from his intentions. Spying an orbiting moon that would suit their clandestine needs nicely they made for it while their target craft, completely unaware of the secretive attention it was receiving, committed to its landing phase.

         Something rather bright and yet at the same time dark, smooth though rough, slowly fell through the total lack of atmosphere towards the waiting Luna surface as the pursuant space cruiser intermittently fired its retro-ring to wash off excess speed. It was quite difficult to describe the object enduring this particular descent even if one wished to try, since it appeared colorful in a blandishly drab sort of way depending upon which part was lit up by the endless streams of solar photons that were striking it unabated. As it continued on its predetermined semi-plummet oblivious to any possible onlookers, of whom there were none, a small metallic blob roughly the size and shape of a rugby football shot out of its top hatch and sped towards the looming crescent of the Earth.                                                                                                                                            [Story note: It had long been unfashionable for Earth astronomers and amateur star gazers alike to waste valuable observing time staring at the debris of past space exploration glory on the otherwise barren moonscape, in effect resulting in a scientific snubbing of a heavenly body that had become passe - so late 60's/ early 70's. Therefore none trained even so much as a single telescope in that direction, thus failing totally in grasping the chance of becoming a certain Nobel prize winner for discovering the existence of alien life through extreme serendipity.]   

                Finally bouncing to a halt next to a fairly large crater the mysterious ship sat motionless, as if trying to catch its breath which would have been quite a good trick in such an airless environ. Inside its strangely shaped hull sat two reptoid forms, a nasty pair and seedier representatives of the amalgamated union of bounty hunters, debt collectors, and other such pseudo-official/semi-legitimate members of the galactic law enforcement community. These lizard men looked much like what may have become of Earth’s dinosaurs had their evolution not been interrupted by an errant meteor many millions of years ago. Their plan was devilishly simple by necessity and foolproof in design, since neither could in all fairness be said to be overly bright in the general scheme of things.
[Story note: Apart from the help that the I.G.B. had furnished them in order to complete their mission, they really had only their wits and cunning to wrap up proceedings. However thanks to a rather cruel trick of nature, namely in the sphere of neuronal evolution which had blessed both with quite small brain cases, their limited wits almost exactly cancelled out their stronger cunning, resulting in a reasonably level playing field for their victims. This gave Bob, who later jokingly referred to the pair as Bugsy and Mugsy, (after characters he had seen in Earth movies about 1930’s gangsters) a roughly even chance for escape so long as he managed to keep one fairly hefty step ahead of them. Still, they did possess two other attributes which made their species perfect for this chosen role. Firstly they were bio-engineered with an upgraded and enlarged central cortex which was responsible for generating overwhelming quantities of aggression, something which they found difficult to keep under control especially when they needed to, and secondly they exhibited a dogged determination to see things through to the bitter end no matter what set backs they might encounter along the way. These guys just simply wouldn't quit. They stuck to their tasks like the proverbial excretion to the bed cover.]   

                It consisted of the following steps: they would allow Bob to land, locate his scooter while he was off getting drunk (which was his usual wont as a creature of habit), send it back to their cruiser (thus effectively trapping him on the planet), then nab him after he had had his skin full and was incapable of any kind of apprehension avoidance. Once safely in their clutches they would bring him back to their ship and bung him in stasis for the long boring trip back to justice, or what might just pass for it. This last part, of course, would only occur after a bit of undue, though not overly dangerous, rough play purely for their own beastial amusement. 

                They had chosen this orbiting lump of ultra real estate because it provided an ideal vantage point to observe proceedings, giving them an avian's optical view of the world below. Having settled down in the middle of a field strewn with primitive metallic relics, the most expensive junk yard in that particular part of the galaxy so far, further assured them a level of camouflage from any prying Earth based eyes, not that such potential peeping Toms could do much about it even in the unlikely event that they happened to be staring upwards at them at the time which, for reasons stated earlier, they weren't. They would just have to ogle in awe and lump it. The probe that these ruffians had sent onwards cunningly slipped into the circling halo of space junk and satellites that now ringed the home planet of its creators, and began the task of locating its prey. It was able to do this by a staggeringly clever inbuilt dual function.  Firstly, incorporated into its design was a standard run-of-the-mill tracking device which could pin point a signal to within an area the size of a city block from a distance of several light years away.                                               
[Story note: Paradoxically, as with the problems of inverse tangentomentry being what they are, it was not possible to reduce this area of coverage any further no matter how close the tracker got to the origin of the tiddle-tatting pulsator, even if it dropped right on top of the very neighborhood in question.]

                With this it was able to locate Bob to within a margin of error that just didn't make no never mind no how. Yet the cloaking device on his scooter was immune to such electronic snooping and remained stubbornly invisible to it. Not to be outdone that easily, the now geostationary alien bloodhound also came equipped with a second, and much spiffier, piece of surveillance smarts - the much vaulted and respected 'Luckatron'.                                                                                                          [Story note: There were only a handful of these extremely expensive machines in existence, since the materials used in their manufacture were mind boggling rare and so, by definition, very scarce and difficult to come by. Each one was controlled by the Central Galactic Council and doled out in order of mission priority. No hunter worth his salt would be without one, and so were jealously guarded when entrusted with such a coveted instrument. They were quite the ultimate status symbol of the profession and worked by emitting very finite amounts of good luck over a localized area, roughly equating to one circular kilometer in diameter, in short bursts before their limited power source became quickly depleted. The fact that all beings in the targeted sectors, other than the intended victim who was programmed out of the loop, gained small shares of unexpected good fortune didn't phase its operators in the least, and the lucky recipients took said windfalls in their stride having been raised not to gaze at a prized equine in the moosh. Asking no questions, they pretty much all peered in the other direction instead.]

         With this added bow in its arsenal it was able to short out the hide and seek generator on Bob's ride, allowing its whereabouts to show up on the parent craft's monitors. It may well be suggested by some of the more pettily argumentative that this constituted bad luck for Bob, thus flying in the face of what the item was initially designed to do, however, as broached upon before, at that particular moment he was well and truly locked out of its sphere of influence and therefore didn't rate a mention on technicality. Because of this the device's character was not diminished in the slightest, and any further disparagement cast in its direction was of no due consequence.         

         The reptoids, having waited impatiently for what amounted to only a couple of Earth hours for their spy in the sky to do its thing, grinned at each other as the monitor finally signaled success by flashing the co-ordinates of their elusive target up to them.  They then sent an electronic order to their little probe and it promptly broke orbit, heading back towards its mother ship. Lifting off from the techno graveyard that had silently stood sentinel around them during their brief stay the hopeful pair headed off to grab their chance at fame, glory, and financial well being, retrieving the prized fate manipulator along the way and storing it in the rear hold of their vessel. Soon after, their ship screamed in near protest as it flew through the rapidly thickening atmosphere of the Earth.  The pilots picked a suitable clearing just outside the city as a landing spot for their cruiser and, while still some kilometers above the surface, sent a mini plaque probe to home in upon the location of Bob's scooter. This particular 'toy' attached itself to the sign resting on one of the crumpled legs and, loosing no time at all, got to work overriding the security lock safeguarding the central computer. With the brain of his machine like putty in its hands it engaged the launch sequence, sending the small runabout blasting off for a midair rendezvous with the hunter's much larger craft. Once safely stored inside the cargo hold they could then concentrate on setting down in an unfamiliar landscape. The electro tag, deliberately left behind as a message to Bob, remained stubbornly stuck to the sign which now lay on the deserted maintenance bay floor and showed, contrary to its original advice, that the vehicle to which it had wrongly alluded to as being 'out of order' now seemed to be very much in full working status after all. 

                Having successfully landed intact the dipsy duo could hardly believe their luck, and decided to celebrate by grabbing a quick snack of live gerbil-like creatures from the cruiser's MTZ.                                                                  [Story note: The MTZ (Micro Time Zone) was a machine used for the preservation of food, being much like an Earth microwave in appearance. Food placed into it at the beginning of a journey could be taken out again at any point in time and the vittles would be in almost exactly the same condition, hot or cold, as they were at the start of the trip. The small amount of culinary atrophy that did occur only started to become apparent over distances greater than 10,000 light years as the nuclear power pack gradually wound down, and so didn't matter to anyone other than the most puritan of galactic gastronauts since the rest were just way too peckish to really care. It worked by firing selected atoms at near the speed of light in a continuous loop around a central chamber thus slowing time in that field down next to zero, in accordance with a rather famous Earth scientist’s theory of relativity. Expense and power drain were the only detractors, limiting the unit’s size. It was, however, perfect for those 'in-flight' nibblies on long voyages.]

                Sure, Bob was still on the loose, but now he would not be going anywhere of much import in a hurry. They'd simply use a special wristwatch-like tracking device to zero in on his general location, and while the screen kept blipping on and off it was a safe bet that the bug in his head remained active so indicating that he hadn't as yet cottoned on to its existence. Phase two could wait for a few delicious moments while they settled back in their humanoid skin covered jump seats and allowed the squealing rodents to slowly slide down their quivering throats, gurgling the juices of the unfortunate creatures in a grotesque guttural symphony. Smug with their success, and self assured of future stardom as the captors of the extremely slippery Bob, thoughts quickly turned to the fun ahead. They could almost 'taste' his blood, or was it the varmits that they had just been chowing down on? It didn't matter to these guys, the smell was firmly entrenched in their nostrils and the hunt was on!



CHAPTER NINE

As has been noted in a previous chapter the number three holds special significance throughout the galaxy for widely differing reasons.  It therefore follows that any powers of this number (i.e. three times itself) would be correspondingly potent.  So it is that nine (three by three, or three squared) could be regarded as being double trouble.  This is why it has been decided by the author, in order not to ruffle any feathers, scales, skins or other biological outer body garments, to give this chapter a miss as well.  Just in case.


CHAPTER TEN

Meanwhile, Bob sat alone in a bar and contemplated the drink on the table in front of him. Genial, though somewhat noisy, banter filled the stale air yet, as usual, he was too self-engrossed to notice it, let alone partake. For, not surprisingly, he had another problem. This in itself was no big deal as he was always bumping into dilemmas in all shapes and sizes, and as such they seldom harried his eternal optimism. They were simply solved or side stepped and, more often than not, the latter normally sufficed nicely. Very few actually managed to come back and bite him on the butt. This particular one, however, had quite large teeth and a nasty glint in its eyes. It would require some real brain straining work, for it fitted neatly into the category of the former, as it couldn't possibly be avoided to any degree. This ruled out his usual avenue of evasion, so he set his well oiled mind to the task of figuring out exactly how it might be tamed.

         The conundrum concerned how he was going to get more, lots more, liquid intoxicant to take back to the ship with the little amount of cash that he had left over from the pool games he had won not so long ago. Well, hustled actually. He had initially walked into the first pub he came across without a brass razoo, or any other remotely negotiable Earth currency, in his pockets in much the same way that he had entered bars in a plethora of space ports on asteroids, moons, planets, and other celestial bodies capable of supplying alcohol, and having the desire to sell it. In the end he had skipped out, rather quickly, with quite a few bucks that reassuringly rubbed against his thighs and filled the void in his trouser pockets, for Bob rarely carried cash of any type, mostly because he hardly ever had any in the first place, and loved the feel of it when he did. Indeed, on those very few occasions he felt that it was probably better if he converted it into booze and store it all much more safely, though admittedly only for the short term, in both his stomachs. One of his many mottos was: "I've never met a galacto I didn't like, drinking!"
         Above all, Bob was a scammer, and lived by the seat of his much traveled pants!  His modus operandi rarely varied. He would simply pick a likely looking candidate or two and challenge them to a game of the bar's local sport, which he would loose more than reasonably badly with the usual accompanying excuses.
[Story note: There's more than a myriad of bar games played throughout the galaxy, and many have quite a few variations on their central themes. Such a multitude in fact that it is simply impossible to catalogue them all, especially as they tend to evolve and morphize at a steadily rapid rate. Suffice as to say, two of the most popular types involve either the pushing of small balls into holes on a reasonably flattish surface or taping small furry androids to anti-grav spheres and whacking them with soft rubber mallets. Thankfully, for the more squeamish at least, way out here in the galactic 'boondocks' the former is the more prevalent.]

          Further matches would follow in which Bob seemed to be making next to no improvement at all. His opponents would then see an opportunity to gain some financial reward and thus suggest that a few credits, or their equivalent, on the side might make the contests a little more interesting. Allying any suspicions with his famous disarming smile and faked innocence he would slowly reel them in, craftily agreeing to their proposal with a promise of trying to do better next 'racking up'. True to his word he would indeed show apparent improvement, and their sly smiles slowly melted away. This was because while Bob was actually playing with no greater skill whatsoever, his adversaries began to fare gradually worse as the tournament progressed.  Soon Bob had the upper hand, and kept it raised until they had been relieved of all their hard earned drinking cash. 

The trick to this reversal of fortunes was that he would spike their drinks when no-one was looking, employing a unique variation on an ancient theme. Sometimes it'd take a while to get the chance to do so, however he would persist until success was assured. What made this con somewhat different to the usual run of the mill spikings was that he used 'losing powder', obtained at reasonable expense on the white market from the dust mines of Sartumconius 8 which worked a real treat as anyone who has ever visited or toiled on that desolate dump of a planetoid could attest.  No one ever got a lucky break and indeed it no longer exists, having self-imploded from the cumulative effect of the numerous tunnels and shafts that crisscrossed below the entire surface. Bad luck, some might say. Bloody rotten misfortune, others would mutter. The miners working under ground at the time had their own slant on it with choice and fatally resigned words on the subject, though good taste and decorum stepped in at the vital moment to ensure that none ever echoed to the surface by drowning them out with the sound of collapsing rubble. Thus the losing powder of Sartumconius 8 came to be in very short supply, sparking off many dust riots in astro-pool halls across the galaxy. Bob hung onto his portion with a vengeance, jealously guarding it as his only means of financially continuing his bar-hopping activities along the star lanes.                                                                                                                                                         

         Of course he could have just as easily gone up to any cash machine and electronically tickled it causing it to spew out vast wads of dollar bills, the amount of success depending upon the length and strength of the manipulation resulting in a corresponding range of rising and lowering beeps oddly resembling a computerized giggle. Then he could have laughed all the way from the bank, instead of the usually perceived direction. Yet, where would be the fun in that? The challenge? None that he could see. Besides, Bob being Bob, he didn't really know quite how to do it. He would always defend himself, and at the same time try to hide his inability and embarrassment, by saying "I prefer the more uncertain, though equally satisfying, life of scamming!" Not an overly convincing argument by any means, but it was the only one that he could think up at the time and he steadfastly stuck to it. No, he lived for the thrill of the chase and quite often literally got it!     

                Pockets full of local currency later he would indulge in his favourite pass-time, drinking. He'd even buy a couple of rounds for his victims to ensure that no hard feelings were held towards him, at least until he was a safe distance away. A rather fortunate side-effect of the powder, for Bob at any rate, was that it made you feel so incredibly unlucky that you tended to think that not only the galaxy but the whole universe itself had it in for you. Therefore the simple act of someone actually giving you anything at all, in this case a nice cold glass of beer, would be looked upon as a deed of immense kindness in an otherwise awful existence, even if it had been bought with what was originally your own money, and so was grabbed at with both hands. This time round though, first impressions indeed seemed to be the more correct. However they were rapidly overlooked as the powder continued to work its charm and the losers ironically felt incredibly privileged to have been bettered by such a nice guy. Their gratitude was almost overwhelming, and somewhat embarrassing for all the unwanted attention it tended to draw. Still, Bob knew that the effects would wear off fairly rapidly, along with their sunny disposition towards him, so he generally excused himself on some flimsy pretext after a short while, much to their disappointment, and wandered off with a purposeful gait in search of another 'watering hole' where he could blend in and continue drinking totally un-thanked. It was at this particular point of the evening, after having found a nice looking corner public house going under the moniker of 'The Beefy Arms' to carry on his excesses in, that he discovered, some ales later, the awful truth that he was running low of  his ill gotten gains. However, he felt that there was no immediate need to panic since he should surely have enough left for the next session at least.   

                         It is a truly sad state of affairs, found right throughout the galaxy, that nothing seems to put a hole in your hip pocket faster than alcohol, and the resultant pursuit of more of it. He checked his small vial of the dust tucked snuggly away in a pouch inside his trousers which was attached by a safety cord to his belt as well, just in case. Plenty remaining for a few more trips yet if used sparingly he thought, however after it ran out who knew what next? His pool sharking days would almost certainly be at an end. He could actually learn how to play the game properly, he pondered, but then quickly dismissed the idea as being too much of a hassle, along with the added risk of the unpredictability of such outcomes. Perhaps another scam might materialize along the way. Still, there was plenty of time to worry about that later on as more pressing problems were afoot. The main one was that he didn't have enough of the powder to restock the ship with anywhere near the amount of booze needed for both Zed and himself on the next leg of the trip, wherever that was going to be, and the effort required to find enough mugs in individual pubs to do so would make the exercise time defeating in any case. They were small game, whichever way he cared to look at it. What he desperately sought was something big and readily available. A real perplexing puzzler of primordial proportions. He wracked his brain and exhausted all possibilities, sending them home one by one for a well earned rest. An overwhelming feeling of hopelessness mud wrestled with his happy-go-lucky optimism and gained a foothold on his ever increasing bleariness. Slowly it covered him like an ill fitting oversized suit, pausing only briefly to admire the darkness of its cut in one of the bar's mirrors.                   







CHAPTER ELEVEN
         
A television set high in a corner attempted briefly to assert it's dominance over the rowdy proceedings with an important sounding fanfare, indicating to all present that they should stop whatever it was they were doing and pay attention because the following bit was going to be of huge interest and benefit to them. The nightly news was imminent. Just about everyone in the bar ignored it, including Bob. Only one or two showed what passed as vague interest. The overture shrugged it's shoulders in a "Well I tried to tell you and now you'll be sorry that you missed it" fashion and passed the reins over to the news anchor who steadily ran her way through stories of doom and gloom occurring around the otherwise happy little planet.

The vast majority of the revelers, though, showed not the slightest appearance of being crest fallen by remaining blissfully uninformed of current worldly matters. They simply couldn't give a toss! However, as she came to the traditional novelty item, sandwiched between the serious info section and the sports report, which traditionally covered something either bizarre or to do with cute animals, the one or two who had been half heartedly trying to follow the broadcasted events gave their mates a friendly nudge in the ribs and indicated with a flick of the head that this bit might warrant some closer attention, if only for the light relief it should provide. A rippling effect of semi interest flowed through the small room much as a 'Mexican wave' might have done, though perhaps without any hands being thrust into the air.                                                         
         
Words such as 'UFO', 'Luna Park', and 'unconfirmed reports' wafted through the vociferous chatter, causing the bar din to subside rapidly as it became apparent that this could be a good one after all. The report continued elbowing its way through the crowd until it reached the back wall where Bob sat in his own little world and tried to work itself into his well soaked, some might say totally sloshed, brain via his super receptive ears. Suddenly all the lights in the alert centre of his mind flashed on, causing his eyes to clear momentarily, and his head turned with a snap audible only to a stray dog lying under a nearby table. Since such animals weren't generally allowed in bars this one made no fuss of it and pretended not to have noticed. Still, it eyed him warily, sensing that something wasn't quite right with this bloke. As fortune would have it, and fortune surely got its way with most of these sorts of things, the instant Bob's head had turned the rest of his body followed in sync, sparing him the major embarrassment of an early and totally unplanned demise. Before he could stop himself, even if he had wanted to in the first place which he clearly didn't, he had leapt backwards out of his chair and was pushing his way towards the highly strung idiot box.

         Stories of UFO sightings were generally regarded by most Earthers, especially the ones who think that they 'really know', as either jokes, hoaxes, or products of deranged imaginations, and treated accordingly. However Bob could hardly deny their existence as he had piloted one to this very city only a few hours before. Still, the chance of another similar event occurring in so close a proximity was fairly remote and thus required some serious checking out. Perhaps someone may have seen him landing after all. It could spell trouble, albeit with two b's and a silent u. A shiver skated down his spine and did a nifty figure eight at its base while an accompanying uneasy feeling started to percolate in the pit of his least full stomach, though that could have been more to do with the dodgy kebab he had bought and eaten earlier on his way between pubs. He just wished that they would both go away.   

A barman had by now begrudgingly turned up the volume a bit after some sustained verbal prompting, and most of the drinkers were exchanging knowing looks, winks, giggles, and outright titillation with each other over the likelihood that the 'unconfirmed source' would no doubt turn out to be some poor wino out on his luck. The anchor cut to an investigative reporter on location at the park, and the feeling in Bob's abdominal cavity gave itself an immediate upgrade from general queasiness to a more specific discomfort as he recognized the area in question. The spinal shiver, not wishing to be outdone, completed a triple overhead somersault with pike (degree of difficulty 9.8) and finished off with a daintily tasteful pirouette. The newsman ran through a brief outline of the alleged event which was, in a nutshell, that a broken-down ride at the fun park had mysteriously come to life and taken off into the evening sky, never to be seen again. Oddly, a head count of all the amusement mounts confirmed that exactly none were missing.  Next to him pranced around a bloke who was doing his level best to appear as the very epitome of a drunkard who did indeed seem to be down on his fortune and, by the way the journo was holding him at bay with his microphone, his deodorant as well. He was gesticulating wildly and pointing firstly at the empty space at the back of the maintenance area and then at the darkening heavens above it, although it was hard to tell which was which the way he waved his arms about. His speech was incomprehensive, and the reporter gave a thin, tight lipped smile which indicated, to those who were observant enough to spot it, that he would be having words with the assignment scheduling guy when he got back to the studio. A low "AHAH!" briefly battled for audio supremacy with the newscast as everyone verbally expressed the feeling that their suspicions had been correct. The tv persisted and eventually won the day, for that moment at any rate, as now their attention had been gained and its sense of importance had been restored.

         "Now, time for sport", the lead reader smiled one of those entertainment type knowing looks, suppressing the urge to giggle, and crossed to the sports presenter who went by the name of Davo. "Thanks Kimberley. First to cricket, and England has lost the ashes to Australia overnight for the forth consecutive series, on day five of the third test at Lords, in a capitulation the likes of which has not been seen since....." This time the small screen totally lost its decibel donnybrook and was drowned out by a resounding loud cheer that rang around the room, fell through the doors, and spilled happily out into the street only to be mugged by passing agro road racket. 

                Bob slowly sat back down, near certain that his actions had not been noticed save for the canine monitoring that he continued to undergo, and came to the realization that somehow someone, above all the odds of Omega he would have cared to wager, had walked off with his scooter. Well, walked off in more of a metaphorical sense that is. Blasted off with all lights flashing, in complete disregard for local council noise reduction by-laws and contempt for the total non-ownership of a craft with which he had previously lain claim over, would have been more technically accurate. "Yahabbawiggiethan!" the wino might have muttered if anyone had bothered to ask him, which thankfully no one did. The upshot of all this was, however, that Bob was now suddenly stuck on Earth until he could figure out a way to get Zed to come and pick him up, along with all the hootch he still needed to scam. Things didn't seem to be going much his way at all, but he was damned sure that he wasn't going to give up now. He would, of course, have to go and make sure that the whole thing wasn't just a prank designed to drive up the ratings, and surely the solar runabout would still be silently standing there parked as he had left it since he felt that he had done a pretty spiffy job of concealment by placing the sign on it in a prominent position which could not possibly have been missed or interpreted in any other way.                                                                                                                            Sadly though, the said 'out of order' sign that was shown lying on the ground and being danced upon, with what some might say was a nice touch of irony, by the grape juice guzzler, coupled with the now seemingly empty space, tended to suggest otherwise. The only question that remained unanswered was "Why?", along with the possible addition of the corresponding "Who?". Both of these outstanding queries were soon to be put to rest when Bob finally arrived at the now deserted lot and had a closer look at the trampled cardboard lying forlorn on the otherwise vacant bitumen. Now he had two problems. The first would have to be put on hold for the time being while he worked on this much more pressing dilemma. Perhaps he could be extremely savvy and solve them simultaneously, though the prospects of success along that line of thought appeared rather slim. Somehow he felt he would be better off tackling one major crisis at a time.   

                Arriving at the scene immediately confirmed his worst fears, as the area in question was indeed completely devoid of anything that remotely resembled machinery of a space faring nature. To boot, something appeared to be stuck to the trashed sign and it caught his eye so, curiosity getting the better of him, he bent down to peel it off for closer inspection. Straightening up to read it the blood momentarily drained from his head, causing him to feel quite woozy for a bit. Could it be all the alcohol that he had ingested that was the culprit? Hardly! To a seasoned professional like Bob those few drinks would barely have touched the sides and thus be incapable of inflicting such incapacitation. No, it was what was written on the small card he held in his hand that turned out to be the real bug bear. Suddenly it all made horrifying sense. Actually, to be more specific, it was more of a mind boggling, eye blurring, stomachs churning, leg wobbling, sphincter puckering, up the creek without a paddle type ultra shitty sense, the type that he routinely tried to avoid, and yet now, another conundrum was suddenly added to his already growing collection.  It just walked on in, sat down, and, without so much as a by your leave, performed a jazzy little number with the other two under the banner of 'The Omniperplexual Trio'. If its peers were hardy wee brain teasers, this one turned out to be a real doozy! A state-of-the-art mind warper to the Nth degree. He stood there numbly holding the small hologram in his shaking hands. Few things ever rattled Bob, yet this one certainly qualified as it turned out to be the mother of all shakers!

                  Simply put, what had reduced him to this level of near trouser wetting, and turning him to being on a par with a quivering blancmange in the process, were three large letters typed in a foreboding fashion especially designed for the purpose. They were: I.G.B. It wasn't just the hieroglyphs themselves that gave him such consternation though, but more importantly what they stood for. They advocated the no nonsense payment of an outstanding debt which would now have to be settled one way or another. In short, they represented the initials of the Inter Galactic Bank. The very organization which up until this point Bob thought he had successfully given the slip to. Obviously not, it would seem. How the phaser had they tracked him down all the way out here? Clearly a bug of some description was responsible, though locating it would have to wait until he could get to the required technology. As long as he kept on the move he felt that he could stay at least one step ahead of them.  Maybe two, if he was lucky, as he hoped that the tracking device had been planted in his scooter.  Since he was no longer connected to said vehicle in any way now he felt that he was almost home free again, at least until he could manage to bum a lift off this pleasant enough rock that was. 

He decided that his best chance to remain at large, so to speak, was to mingle in with crowds of similar beings, thus allowing him the opportunity to spot any approaching trouble long before it spied him.  The trouble with trouble however, as far as it goes, is that it wears many faces, and quite a few hats as well, and if you’re not vigilant enough then well you could, ah, um, end up deep in it, no doubt at all. At the very least you might be millenary embarrassed.  Still, Bob's dress sense usually kept him in good stead and, in hindsight (the view from there though not being generally a very flattering one), landing in the most populous city in the country turned out to be of great help in this clandestine endeavor. A stroke of bloomin' belated brilliance indeed.

Bob had seldom tasted fear, and right now he didn't like the flavour in his mouth one little bit. Stale beer breath mingled with continual kebab burps, and topped off with abject mild terror, coated the receptors on the top of his tongue, and a few underneath as well. Trepidation tends to do different things to diverse life forms across the galaxy, and his personal reaction was to avoid it like several very nasty plagues, rather than just the usual pedestrian one, whenever possible. As each new danger popped up, and the age old biological response of fight or flight flashed into his head, he automatically chose the latter without fail. He had simply never met a situation that he couldn't run away from, or even briskly side step. An interesting side effect of such circumstances, when being exposed to extreme adversity boosted by full strength angst, was that he became rather annoyed. Not quite raging vexation but enough to be well and truly peeved internally, and usually babbling incoherently externally. His current difficulties seemed to be mounting against him, and he was quickly getting a mega dose of the Harry Hitz. 

                Some very serious drinking needed to be done, and with gusto, so off he hiked at a good rate of knots. On the way back to the pub he decided to let it all out in order to have a clear mind, or what might loosely pass for one, when he eventually got there. As with everything else he tackled he gave it his all, and to his normal level of excess. He fairly vented his spleen until it was in imminent danger of hyper inflating. The blue funk in his ever increasingly clouded head, being rather poor at navigation, caused him to walk off in entirely the wrong direction, and soon he wasn't able to recognize any familiar landmarks that would lead him back to his original watering hole. Not that it mattered all that much, so long as the next one he encountered was open and well patronized. Onwards he briskly trudged. 


CHAPTER TWELVE

"They can't do this to me! They'll never get away with it! I'll hunt them down to the ends of the galaxy, and then they'll be sorry!" As he lumbered along the city streets Bob ranted to himself. Well, actually not quite only to himself, in fact, the truth be told, his verbal explosion was exactly loud enough for anyone either side of the thorough fares he traversed to receive the questionable benefit of his raging, all of it above the not inconsiderable noise of passing traffic, and they returned his generosity with stares of bewilderment and alarm, which was totally lost on him at that moment. He continued his tirade up to and upon entering the front door of a quaint old styled tavern he had stumbled across. Luckily for the patrons of this bustling little thirst quencher the decibel level being generated inside was sufficient enough to absorb most of his continual outcry. This granted them a fair buffer of immunity, and so they showed complete and naive indifference to his presence. 

Sidling up to a momentary gap at the crowded bar he paused in mid sentence just long enough to buy a beer, then carried on expressing his utmost annoyance and displeasure as he took the object of his wanton desire to a table nearby. That this spot was already occupied by a couple enjoying as much of an intimate moment as was humanly possible in such a thronging place was another thing that he totally failed to become aware of. In fact, a good many such occurrences were missed by Bob when he became engrossed in problems of this magnitude, especially when they directly related to him. He simply sat down and carried on as if he was the only being there or, at the very least, the sole sufferer of this particular prickly predicament, which was probably closer to the point. He wasn't entirely certain if alcohol would help with the decision making process required in this instance, however it hadn't failed him too badly in the past so he thought he'd give it another try. Besides, surely it couldn't hurt. Could it? Most of his best thinking had been conducted under its influence so he felt that, with the president having been set, he was somewhat justified in engaging its services once more. Many an answer had been found at the bottoms of a myriad of empty bottles, so it was quite feasible that a similar result might just manifest itself this time around. Anyway, ranting is a seriously thirsty business and at the end of a long dry argument this was all the validation he required.

                The lovers gradually became aware of this unwanted intrusion, and soon discovered that subtle hints and pointed frowning had absolutely no effect whatsoever in removing him from their presence. Resigned to this semi-invasion of their privacy they returned to staring at each other instead. This situation may well have gone on unchecked all night, or until closing time at least, except that Bob suddenly froze in mid gesture and vocal utterance as if his brain had spontaneously seized up. The cause of this temporary neural shutdown was that somehow, against all odds, an idea had worked itself in past his rage receptors and lodged in the 'to do' section of his mostly under utilized rear hemi-sphere, much like a salmon swimming furiously up the mighty rapids and expending all its energy in the exhaustive search for calmer waters in which to regain its former vigor. The twosome, and the rest of the crowd at large, remained completely oblivious by failing to notice this new state of affairs one little bit, and continued doing what they normally did in a happening bar on a Friday night: consuming many drinks, spilling others in pursuit of a 'laugh', and trying to arrange either a coupling or an argument depending upon the technique involved. 

Bob's eyes had glazed over, well oiled by the river of beer he had been guzzling and against which the tiny tired thought had been struggling. The insipid inspiration dimly flashed on and off in the dark recesses of his mind in a feeble effort to be noticed. Eventually it was. The plan was simple, it was easy, and it would surely work! That at the same time it was totally ludicrous entirely escaped the reasoning centre of his over mushed brain, for his reason had been given the rest of the night off and was in an entirely different pub chatting up desire and spilling drinks over doubt and uncertainty. The grand concept was this- he would ring N.A.S.A.! Surly they could arrange a lift back to the liner without too much fuss. Exactly whom in that organization he needed to contact he had no notion of as yet, but he could always check the phone book in the morning. Having come to this incredibly clever conclusion he felt mightily relieved, as the booze had indeed done its job by providing him with an answer to his most vexing problem.  However, as usual, it had given him wholly the wrong solution, and at fair expense, which neatly completed the hat trick of things that Bob had missed that night. Feeling proud of his superb, and unbeknownst to him totally misguided, intellectual prowess he settled back and decided to enjoy the rest of the evening with the swiftly dwindling money that he had left in his pockets. Which he did, in rather a big way!                                                                                                   


CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In space, superstition is held in huge regard, especially with those upon trans-system faring ships plying the vast stellar space lanes, and this particular number is up there with the best of irrational phobias.  Therefore with due deference to generalized galactic sensitivities this chapter shall also be omitted.  In life, as in the cosmos at large, you just can’t be too careful.  Sod’s law rules!