On the Planet of Bottled Brains Read online

  "No time for that now, trooper," the major said. "We want to congratulate you, then explain how your drone ship works."

  "Wait a minute," Bill said. "What has this got to do with me?"

  "My dear fellow," the major said, "by walking through this door you have volunteered for the job of going on the drone ship to Tsuris."

  "But I didn't know! The computer told me to come here!"

  "That's right. The computer volunteered you."

  "Can it do that?"

  The major scratched his head. "I don't know, really. Why don't you ask it?" He chuckled evilly as Bill tried to leap woozily to his feet and felt the automatic shackles lock hard around his ankles.

  Brownnose looked terrible. It was true that he had been through a lot recently, having had all of his buddies beating him up because he was so helpful and considerate of others, and that is not the troopers' way. The first lesson a real trooper learns is that it is always Bowb-your-Buddy week. The military psychiatrist had diagnosed him as having a severe case of the Shmidas Touch, the mirror opposite of the Midas Touch where everything you touch turns to gold. But one of the psychiatrist's colleagues, Major Doctor Smellenfuss, disagreed. He said that Brownnose presented a classical case of Loser Psychosis, complicated by self-destructive tendencies. All Brownnose knew was, life kept on getting worse for him. And all he wanted to do was make people happy!

  Take now, for example. Of course he didn't look good. What man could look good pushed back against the uncomfortably hot boiler in the laundry room where Bill, ham-like fist raised in the air, was threatening to take him apart?

  "Bill, wait!" Brownnose cried as Bill's eyes narrowed, preparatory to driving Brownnose's head through the half-inch mild steel of which the boiler was composed. "I did it for you!"

  Bill hesitated, fist poised for the killing blow. "How do you figure?"

  "Because volunteering you for this mission will bring you a medal, a sizeable bonus, a year's supply of VD pills and most important, an immediate honorable discharge!"

  "A discharge?"

  "Yes, Bill! You could go home!"

  Bill was visited by a wave of nostalgia as he thought of his home world, Phigerinadon, and how much he wanted to see it.

  "Are you sure?" he asked.

  "Of course I'm sure. Just go to the recruiting officer when you get back. He'll set everything in motion for you."

  "That's just great," Bill said. "The only trouble is, this is a suicide mission and I'm unlikely to come back from it. And if I don't come back, no discharge, right?"

  "You will come back," Brownnose said. "I guarantee it."

  "How do you figure?"

  "Because, after I volunteered you, I also volunteered myself. So I could look after you, Bill."

  "You can't even look after yourself," Bill pointed out. He sighed. "I guess it was pretty nice of you to want to help me, Brownnose, but I wish you hadn't."

  "I realize that now, Bill," Brownnose said, extricating himself from Bill's grasp and slinking away from the boiler, which had been growing uncomfortably torrid. He could see that the moment of immediate danger was over. Bill got hot under the collar sometimes, but if you could just avoid instant mayhem, he soon cooled off again.

  "Anyhow," Bill said, "how could you volunteer me? Only I can volunteer me."

  "You've sure got a point there," Brownnose said. "Maybe you should take it up with the computer."

  "Hello again," the military computer said. "You were in here recently, weren't you? Excuse me for asking but the old eyesight's not what it used to be. My image orthicon is wearing out. Not that anyone or anything cares." It snivelled mechanically, a repellent sound.

  "I came in here about my foot," Bill said loudly, disgusted at all the electronic self-pity.

  "Your foot? I never forget a foot! Let me see it."

  Bill displayed his foot to the computer's vision plate.

  "Hooee," the computer said. "That's a beauty of an alligator's tootsy. But I've never seen that foot before. I told you, I never forget a foot."

  "Of course you remember it," Bill whined. "Because you looked at it when I was in here before. What kind of computer could forget that?"

  "I didn't say I forgot, computers can't forget, it's just that I haven't thought about it lately," the computer said. "Just a minute, let me consult my data banks. I never forget a reference to a foot, either.... Yes, here it is. You're right, you did say something about your foot. And I directed you to the Officer's Ready Room."

  "That's right. And the officers there said that by coming in I had volunteered for hazardous duty."

  "Yes, that's all correct," the computer said. "When they asked me for a volunteer, I sent them the first one who came in."

  "Me?"

  "You."

  "But I didn't volunteer."

  "Tough titty. I mean I am so sorry, but you did. Inferentially."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "I inferred that you would have volunteered if asked. We have special circuits that allow us to use inferences."

  "But you could have asked me!" Bill shouted angrily.

  "Then what would be the use of inferential circuitry with which I have been fitted out at great expense? Anyhow, it was clear to me that a fine upstanding military type like you would be happy to volunteer for hazardous duty, despite the minor impairment to your foot."

  "You were wrong," Bill said.

  A ripple passed across the computer's vision plate, almost like a shrug. "Well," it said, "mistakes happen, don't they?"

  "That's not good enough!" Bill shouted, thumping the computer's vision plate with a large fist. "I'll tear out your lying transistors." He thumped the vision plate again. This time it flashed red.

  "Trooper," the computer said in a gruff voice. "Stand to attention."

  "What?" said Bill.

  "You heard me. I am a military computer with the veritable rank of full colonel. You are an enlisted man. You have to address me in a respectful manner or you'll be in a lot worse trouble than you are already."

  Bill gulped. Officers were all alike, even when they were computers.

  "Yes sir," he said, and stood to attention.

  "Now, since you don't think the procedure was fair, what do you suggest we do?"

  "Let's draw for it," Bill said. "Or you pick a volunteer at random from all the men in the base."

  "That would satisfy you?"

  "Yes, it would."

  "OK, here goes." The computer's vision screen lit up in a jagged lightning bolt of conflicting colors. Names flashed by on the screen. There was a sound like a roulette ball rolling around a croupier's wheel.

  "OK," the computer said. "We got a winner."

  "Fine," Bill said. "Can I go now?"

  "Sure. Good luck, soldier."

  Bill opened the door. Outside there were two extremely large and beetle-jawed MPs. They took Bill by either arm.

  "As you may have gathered," the computer said, "you won the second drawing, too."

  Not long after that, a large trooper with a small claw at the end of one foot, could be seen struggling in the arms of two MPs. The trooper was brought to a reviewing stand where several generals were standing, waiting for something to review.

  Bill opened up his mouth to scream. One of the MP's drove his elbow into Bill's kidneys.

  The other MP went for the liver.

  When Bill recovered consciousness a few seconds later, in response to having his nose tweaked violently, the first MP leaned over him and said, "Look, buddy, you're going on that ship. The only question is, do you go on in one piece or do we cripple you first so you won't make a scene in front of the brass?"

  "They hate scenes," the second MP said. "We do, too."

  "They blame us when the volunteers make a fuss," the first MP said.

  "Maybe we should just cripple him and not take any chances," the first MP said.

  "Maybe we could just fracture his voice box."

  "No, he could still make obscene gestures."
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br />   "I guess you're right." Both MPs paused to roll up their sleeves.

  "Don't bother," Bill said. "Just put me aboard the ship."

  "First you got to go up to the reviewing stand and shake the generals' hands and tell them how glad you was to volunteer."

  "Let's get it over with," Bill said.

  The drone ship was small, about the size of a launch, built of cheap plastic and aluminized cardboard since it was not expected to return. One of the MPs pulled open the main hatchway and growled in anger as the handle came off in his hand.

  "Never mind that," the other MP said. "The inner parts still work all right."

  "Why don't they build them better?" Bill whined, then shrieked with pain. He was being carried in a crunched and uncomfortable manner by the two MPs.

  "Why should they bother?" the first MP said. "These ships are specially constructed for one-way trips to only the most dangerous places."

  "You mean I'm not expected to return?" Bill whimpered, wallowing in self-pity.

  "I don't mean anything of the sort! Well, maybe. Anyhow, the real crafty advantage of sending a volunteer, is that, if you should not return, as is confidently expected, the military will probably send a fully-fledged expeditionary force to Tsuris, even declare war as they sincerely want to."

  "You said probably?"

  "It has to be probably, since the military can always change its teeny-tiny mind. But that's what will probably happen."

  "Yipe!" Bill yiped. "What the bowb are you doing with my ear?"

  "I'm fastening a translating device to your ear, so if you find any Tsurisians on Tsuris you can talk to them."

  "Tsuris! The place nobody ever comes back from?"

  "You catch on fast. That's the whole point of the operation. Your non-return will give us the excuse to invade."

  "I don't think I like this."

  "You don't have to like it, trooper. Just follow orders and shut up."

  "I refuse! Cancel the orders!"

  "Shut up." They wrestled Bill into the ship and strapped him into the pilot's command chair. It was beautifully padded and comfortable. Bill was not. He opened his mouth to protest again and the neck of an open bottle was shoved into it. He gurgled and gasped.

  "What...was that?"

  "Apathia 24. With a double shot of Extasis Tricarbonate. One hundred and fifteen proof." The MP nodded as Bill gurgled down some more. "That's the stuff. You can keep the bottle."

  It was really good stuff. So good that Bill never noticed when the MPs left and the hatch closed. The ship must have taken off, he could not remember when, because he saw by the vision plate that he was in space. Lots of little stars and such. And what looked like a planet down below. He admired the great storms sweeping across its surface as he drained the bottle. Lightning crackled balefully through the purple-black clouds and his radio crackled with static.

  Radio? He fiddled with the knobs until a voice came through clearly. At least it sounded clear although it did not make much sense.

  "No gliggish in hut overstep galoshes."

  He sneered at this and was reaching to turn it off when a voice buzzed in his ear. He blinked rapidly at this — then slowly remembered the translator had been attached just inside his left ear. "What did they say?"

  "Just a minute," the translator said testily. "All right, I think I've got it now. They're definitely speaking Tsurisian. The question is, is it High Garpeiean dialect or Someshovish."

  "Who gives a bowb?" Bill muttered, trying to get the last drops of metabolic poison from the bottle.

  "An interesting problem in linguistic analysis," the translator said. "In the former dialect it means, 'Please don't throw the eggshells on the grass.'"

  "And in the other one?" Bill asked, feigning interest.

  "In the other it translates to, 'Tickle knees on the Steppes.'"

  "Sounds a lot of bowb either way."

  "A cogent observation that is entirely possible," the translator agreed.

  Well, he could figure out what they were saying later. For now, he was entranced by the sights below him. Looking through the transparent hull of his drone ship, he could see bright flowers of enormous size blossoming from the surface of Tsuris.

  "Pretty nice shtuff," he said, wishing he had another drink.

  "Aren't you going to take evasive action?" the translator asked him.

  "Why bother? Ish nice to look at the flowers down there."

  "Flowers my silicon ass!" the translator said with great agitation. "Those red things are high explosives. They're shooting torpedoes at us!"

  That's all it took to bring Bill out of his stupor, cold sober and in a cold sweat. Shooting at him? Suddenly he remembered the mission. Then his little drone ship bucked violently.

  "Mayday. Mayday!" screamed the translator. The ship started to plunge and careen and cartwheel and spin and tumble, all the things that spaceships do when they're hit. Bill grabbed for a stanchion and missed, he still wasn't that sober, and hit his head. The darkness of unconsciousness instantly descended. Which was not such a bad thing, considering what happened next.

  Bill's ship disintegrated under the impact of atomic torpedoes.

  "A gravchute," he muttered when he stumbled back to consciousness. "That's nice."

  As he dropped gently through the clinging mists, which of course were the clouds that forever veil Tsuris, especially if you're trying to take pictures of the planet, he looked down and saw that the ground seemed to be coming up very fast. Was the gravchute working properly? Weren't there supposed to be controls on it somewhere?

  He fumbled and cursed but before he could find them the ground came up and struck him and merciful unconsciousness drew its cloak about him yet one more time.

  Chapter 2

  Bill returned reluctantly to consciousness. He discovered that he was floating in a lukewarm nutrient bath. Its specific gravity was such that his head just bobbled above the surface without his having to make any positive effort to keep himself afloat. It felt very nice. He blinked up at the multicolored lights overhead. Watching them glitter and shine reminded Bill of the happy Fundamentalist Zoroastrian Winter Solstice Defloration Festival, that the nonbelievers called Christmas, back home. A tear formed in either eye, dribbled down his nose and dropped into the nutrient solution.

  Immediately an alarm went off. Or something that might be an alarm; a raucous electronic flatus. A person hurried grotesquely into the room. At least Bill supposed it was a person. It might have been a robot, or anything between a person and a robot. Or a thing. It was mainly composed of a large sphere about three feet in diameter. From its underside there depended four skinny black legs. On top of the sphere was another sphere, smaller, and a still smaller one above that. What were these spheres made of? Bill hiccupped lightly and realized that he didn't really care. It was nice and comfy here in the warm bath. A tickle of worry tickled him. Maybe he should care, trapped in a bubble bath on this alien planet. He looked again. The spheres seemed to be a combination of metal and pink-colored flesh. There was a smiley face painted on the uppermost sphere where a face would be if this was anything human.

  The creature ground some internal gears and said, "Please don't do that."

  "Do what?"

  "Cry into the nutrient solution. You're changing the acid levels. It isn't good for your skin."

  "What's wrong with my skin?" Bill asks. "Am I burned?"

  "Not at all, bless you. We just want to make it nice and soft, your skin."

  "Why do you want to do that?"

  "We'll talk about it later," the Tsurisian said. "By the way, should you wish to know, and I'm sure that you do, I am Illyria, your nurse."

  They kept Bill in the nutrient bath for several more hours. When he got out, his skin was nice and pink and rosy. They gave him back his trooper uniform, which had been brushed and dry cleaned by some alien but effective process. He was allowed to walk up and down in the corridor, for that's what it seemed to be. His weapons were gone and he d
idn't see anything that looked like it would be useful. Not that he had any idea what he would do even if he got a weapon against an entire planetful of enemies.

  He was able to form some idea of his surroundings when Illyria came to take care of him. He questioned her adroitly; that is he asked questions and she answered them, and quickly learned that she was a typical female Tsurisian, twenty years old, quite sophisticated for a girl who had lived and worked on her parents' farm until just last year, when her high grades in high school had won her this position in the alien lifeforms hospital in Graypnutz, the capital city of Tsuris.

  Every day several Tsurisian males came by to see how Bill was doing. They were considerably older than Illyria, as he could tell by the grayish stubble on their intermediate spheres, which, Bill learned, served as holders for the batteries that helped keep the Tsurisians going.

  Bill quickly discovered that the Tsurisians saw nothing cruel or unnatural about what they were proposing to do to him. "We Tsurisians always have to be reborn in the body of someone else," Bill's doctor pointed out. "Otherwise we don't get born at all."

  "That's really great for you — but what about me?" Bill whimpered desperately. "Where do I go?"

  "Out like a burnt-out bulb," the alien grimaced, though this was hard to tell since his painted-on expression really did not change very much. "Anyway, haven't you an iota of the spiritual in you? Don't you crave, in some part of your tiny soul, to serve all sentient beings?"

  "No, I don't think so," Bill said.

  "Pity," the doctor said. "You would have been a lot better off if you had learned to think properly about things."

  "Listen, buddy," Bill said, "a mind transplant means I'm not here any more and that means I'm dead. How am I supposed to feel good about that?"

  "Consider it an opportunity," the doctor said.

  "What are you talking about?" Bill screamed.

  "Whatever happens is an opportunity," the doctor said.

  "Is that a fact? Then let this guy take over your mind instead of mine. You can have the opportunity."

  "Ah," said the doctor, "it didn't knock for me."

  Even Illyria stopped visiting so often. "I think they suspect me of something," she told him when she did come by for a brief visit. "They're giving me the Usladish look; you know what I mean?"