DRAGONSHELF AND THE DROVER XXXII

     It wasn’t the intense odor of vanilla that told Bott where he had landed so much as the fuzz.  He recalled the time that his Klamathan captain, especially upset, had ordered half the crew to shave their legs and hips before being stood in corners.  Easing one hand up past his face, ge fave the yielding yellow obstacle a push.

     Vo complaint came from the Klamathan, but she did step forward, relieving Bott of the idea that she had been killed and hung on the wall as a trophy.  As he pulled himself free of the tube he’d descended through, he found three sets of buttocks but no other threats in the small cubicle.

     Apparently the Klamathans had decided simultaneously to remove their clothes and hang the garments on hooks thoughtfully provided by the Emperor.  Perhaps they had taken a shower; about an inch of water was lapping at their toes.

     He did not approve of the way they stood, their arms dangling, their heads tipped back at a ninety-degree angle.  Had he accidentally slid into a lab where His Imperial Walrus made copies of people, and found half-finished replicas of his crew?

     He glanced up to look at what they were seeing.  His eyes narrowed at the flashing lights; not bright enough to cast illumination around the cube, they must have some other purpose.  Concentrating, he could just hear the music.  He had learned, during his time on the Klamathan pirate ship, that certain frequencies could affect the minds of greens; he had learned a room ago  the same thing could happen to golds.  No doubt there were notes which could attach any Klamathan, particularly ones like these, especially susceptible after long days in the Imperial cells.

     The lights did impart a soothing air; Bott wondered if there were some code in the shifting of the lights, some subliminal command.  He realized as he watched that he had not had any natural sleep in days.  And there were hooks on the walls for his clothes.  The maze wouldn’t go away; he could try to get through some more after a nap.

     His hand slid down his jacket but the cold fabric made him pause in removing it.  The sensation clashed with the message of the lights, so he looked down.  The water was now lapping over the tops of his boots.  So THAT was the message: just rest there while we drown you.

     Better not to look at the water; the surface was reflecting the lights.  And he thought his nap might just have to wait.  Looking around the walls, he found two chute openings, one of which he had just come through.  Both were closed now, lest they interfere with any recreational homicide.  He moved to the one he hadn’t used.  A lock was visible, and elementary.  He turned to consider his crew.

     They were somehow more daunting in the buff: he could see everything they wanted to bring him into greater acquaintance with.  Was there any reason to take them along?  Really?

     Bott let a finger slide below the symbols on the lock.  Then he pushed away from the wall.  No self-respecting captain would abandon his crew.  Not, at least, without checking their clothes to see if they were carrying anything he could use.

     He found a few things they had not mentioned; he wondered if they had even mentioned them to each other.  There was a dagger with an Imperial reucas on the hilt and dried blood on the blade, perhaps a memento of the previous owner.  The blue had shown no inclination to use it this far.  The gold had a tiny metal box of crystallized honey.  Where had she been hiding that?  He decided not to worry about it.

     “Ah!”

     He thought he remembered them mentioning this.  He slid it free of the green’s overalls, and studied the three rebels.  “Chlorda, we want you about here.”

     She moved one step in the direction he pushed her; the water splashed her shins.  Moving back, Bott sighted along the six buttocks.  Sloshing back a bit through the rapidly rising water, he squinted.  Then he came up and urged Bassada backward one step.  He noticed she had a tattoo.  He hoped this was the last time he saw it.

     Setting his shoulders on the wall between garments smelling strongly of chocolate and honey, he measured the jumprope along one arm, tying knots at proper intervals.  Then, an end in each hand, he pulled it tight once or twice before pushing off from his leaning post.

     The rope shot overhead with a loud pop.  He nodded.  He sighed.  If this worked, he would probably regret it for the rest of his life.  But there were things a captain was expected to do for his crew.

     The rope swung in the air long enough to pick up some momentum, and then came down.  A dark green stripe appeared across the bottom farthest from him.

     Had it produced any other result?  Bassada’s head turned to look back over her shoulder.

     “C’mon, Cap’n!  One or two more fer good measure!”

     Bott coiled the jumprope around one hand.  “No time to play.”

     Louba rubbed one buttock and said, “Well, a little’s better’n no dessert at all.”

     “Cap’n’s got a knacky hand with a rope,” Bassada agreed.  “’At’sa way I likes him: firm but unfair.”

     Bott fiddled with a knot.  “Grab your clothes and let’s move.  And don’t look at the ceiling: that’s what trapped us.”

     Pursing her lips, the golden aristocrat sploshed through the water until her breasts were all but resting on her shoulders.  “I tried to urge them through, but one has to check for traps and….”

     “She found ‘em.”  A green thumb and forefinger reached over to squeeze one peach-colored nipple nearly flat.  “Whose t’rone’s gotta hole in the seat now?”

     “In general,” said Chlorda, her narrowing eyes still on Bott, “It takes a specific frequency for any single Klamathan to be hypnotized.  But the lights rendered us vulnerable and then the music froze us.”

     Louba’s generous swat against the golden backside nearly sent Chlorda and the captain against the wall.  “When ya gots such little parts, they’s easier ta freeze.”

     The gold whirled.  “At least I don’t need to wear trousered garments to keep bits of me from dragging on the floor!”

     Louba slapped her own backside this time.  “B’leeve me rear end’s in peart good shape, considerin’ ever’thin’ yer leadin’s dragged it through.”

     “Mebbe ‘at’s not one o’ the bits she meant,” Bassada put in.

     Louba reached out, took the blue nose, and shook it left and right.  Two blue fingers jabbed into the green abdomen.

     “Better hurry.”  Bott did not have to bend very far to slap the water with his hands.  “The door looks so simple there may be a trick.”

     Chlorda moved deliberately to her clothes, arms fully extended, hands straight up, fingers arched.  Bott caught the little motion of those fingers, and knew what it meant in Klamathan.  Louba’s response was less elegant, but then, she had bigger fingers.

     Bott leaned against the wall again.  He wondered whether any of these rebel leaders had ever led to anything much.  No doubt their companies had little in the way of central control.  Everyone did just what seemed good at the moment.

     Like a pirate.

     That was a depressing thought, so he drew his grenade satchel a little farther from the water and looked inside to find out how many antique weapons were left.  “’At’s an idea,” said Bassada.  “Bust a hole inna walls and let some water out.”

     “No no!”  Chlorda shook her head vigorously.  “My mother was put in an Imperial maze, cut her way out, and fell into a system of narrow tunnels filled with Vannasan caterpillars, long fuzzy things as thick as your leg.  We never saw her again.”

     “They…ate her?” Bott demanded.

     She shook her head again.  “No, Mother enjoyed their company so much she never came out.”  Golden shoulders shrugged.  “She does text us on our birthdays.”

     Bassada expelled air, and a little moisture, between her lips.  “Oh, le’s have a moment o’ silence fer Maw.  Okay, ‘at’s ‘nuff.”

     Seeing his crew mostly clad, Bott moved to the door and pressed the tabs on its lock.  A quarter tist to the left sent the door sliding into the wall.  A light blue tube beyond went straight for about three body lengths and then curled to the right.

     “I don’t trust that curve,” he said, as his crew crowded behind him, six hands quite accidentally sliding along his back.  “We’ll go in order of size, smallest first.  Then you can grab our ankles and bring us out if we get stuck.”  Louba and Bassada stuck their lower lips out.  Chlorda limbered up her fingers.

     Bott set his hands on the rim of the door, but jerked back when the tunnel whined at him.  The sound stopped.  He put his hands down to boost himself up again, and the high, discordant drone started again.  Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up and into the tunnel.  The pitch went up a half step.

     “I….” he began, glancing back.

     His head swiveled forward as a bright square containing white diamonds alternated with black spralled along the wall, too fast for him to dodge.  He felt nothing; it was just a projection.  A second diamond came twisting toward him, the black and white diamonds changing colors or places as it sped by.

     Chlorda’s head and shoulders were inside the tube.  “That…could be pretty bad.”

     “So it must be the right direction,” Bott replied, raising his voice above the whine of the tunel.

     “Mebbe ‘ey jus’ wants ya to think so,” Bassada suggested.

     That was certainly possible, but Bott had no desire to backtrack and try to find another door.  Hitching up the shoulderstrap of his satchel, he crawled toward the oncoming diamonds.  “Come on, crew.”

FICTION FRIDAY: Making the Seen

     “Look, I have to climb the wall a then walk across a yard filled with gravel to get to Darkhaus the Dire’s dungeon door.”

     “Yes, sir.  And those Slippers of Silence will get you across the gravel without disturbing a single pebble which might alert a watchman or guard dog.”

     “I don’t care how silent the slippers are.  The soles are so thin that the second I drop down into that gravel, I’LL be making sounds.”

     “What else can I offer you, sir?  You’ve already turned down the amulet which ensures that the wizard’s legendary dogs won’t detect you by sniffing the air.”

     “Yes, by permanently making me smell like a dog.  And that ring you offered me that would help me just scare them away…..”

     “Being turned into a tiger would indeed make you rather conspicuous, sir.  But I did offer you the shield which would repel all of Darkhaus’s dire enchantments.”

     “And, at the same time, make every magic amulet I carry myself inert as well.  Are you sure you won’t sell me the invisibility cloak you mentioned in the first place?”

     “I’ll sell you whatever you please, sir.  But I don’t think….”

     “I’m starting to believe that’s true.  Let me try it on, at least.”

     “Here it is, sir.  But you should know….”

     “Ah, nice and warm.”

     “It is warded against all inclement…do come back, sir.  You haven’t paid yet.  And the door is barred.”

     “How did you know I was walking that direction?  If you can see me, then the Invisibility Cloak….”

     “Works a little differently than you expected, sir.  Look at your arms.”

     “Yes, I can see…but where’s the…I still feel it on my shoulders.”

     “That’s right, sir.  When you put on the Cloak of Invisibility, the cloak becomes invisible, not the wearer.”

     “What use is THAT?”

     “You asked about Invisibility Cloaks, sir; I didn’t claim I had one that was useful.  I believe the conjuress who crafted it said it would break the ice at parties.”

     “She sounds like a real charmer.  Maybe I should buy it, though.  If I break into Darkhaus’s place wearing this, maybe he’ll laugh himself to death.  No, I’ll buy the tiger ring instead.”

     “Indeed, sir?”

     “Indeed.  I’ll use it to discuss that joke with the sorceress.”

“Very well, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Maybe if I scare her enough she’ll sell me something I CAN use. Does she live far from here?”

“Not very, sir. Just take the north road out of town, sir. She has a tall tower in the center….”

“Goodbye and good riddance!”

“…of a field of catnip.”

Next Year’s Summer Movies

     I have been less than perfectly successful selling these postcards as collectibles (you did note somewhere that I have these things for sale, right?  It’s hard to tell, sometimes.)  So, looking around for another way to make my millions, I wonder if I can sell a few movie studios on purchasing a bundle to look through for blockbuster horror movie ideas.  For example, I know the drive-ins have already handled giant rabbits, in Night of the Lepus, while demonic children are all but a cliché now.  But how about combining them?  Sample dialogue: “Johnny?  Johnny?  Here did you go?  And where did all these jelly beans come from?”

     Has Hallmark really considered the possibilities in the new craze for romantasy novels?  We know early in the picture, see, that HE is a vampire, who accidentally falls for a young lady he was planning to use as a menu item.  But SHE turns out to be a dryad, a forest spirit who came to the city to save her forest grove.  You understand the conflict in their relationship, right?  Since she’s a nature spirit, flitting through the fields, these two have to make things work even though they work different shifts.

     I don’t suppose a Hallmark slasher movie would make it, but somebody else could make a film about the lady who gets so tired of her husband reading the newspaper at the breakfast table that she finally snaps and scalds him to death with the hot coffee.  She thereupon goes on a rampage against other newspaper-addicted husbands, flooding dining rooms with maple syrup or wra[pping the miscreant in hot bacon while…no, you’re right.  With modern audiences we’d need to keep explaining what a newspaper is.

     This is a much easier concept to sell.  I don’t know whether to call the movie Puppy Chow or Soylent Kibble.  Marketing tagline: “They were NOT Good Boys!”

     And we can continue the canine horror theme with a movie combining the killer A.I. trope with robot dogs.  Marketing tagline :”When You Really Need to Unwind”.

     I don’t know WHY the mad scientist decided to create an army of robot owls.  (I have to leave SOMETHING to the scriptwriters.)  But I know how to go to the big finish.  You do the old “Confuse the Computer By Asking an Impossible Question” ploy.  In this one, the heroine realizes all she has to do is ask one of the robots how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.  Product placement guaranteed.

     So this other mad scientist decides to solve the Childhood Obesity Epidemic with a miracle drug which he hides in sugary soft drinks to make kids lose weight.  Forgetting that the problem isn’t so much weight as bulk and adipose tissue, he creates a world crisis as kids start floating away.  My title for this one would be Root Beer Float.

     The Bob Hope Bing Crosby Road movies were adventures with frightening moments, but were never full-scale horror movies.  This would be an homage movie in which two similar characters on the Road to Henhouse would encounter giant chickens, and after an interlude in which they contemplate a world-winning fried chicken place wind up fleeing from ever larger poultry.  Sample dialogue: “Don’t go in there!  They’re laying for you!”

     Along this line, we could do an apocalyptic movie in which radiation causes the population to start turning into chickens and….  What?  Oh, right.  They did that on The Muppet Show already.

     We can do another post-apocalyptic thriller in which that radiation starts turning everyone into cute Dutch kids who speak a strange dialect and….  But that episode was about everyone turning SWEDISH and….  Oh, very well.  It’s no fun if the Muppets have already taken all the good plots.  Do you suppose Kermit collects postcards?

DRAGONSHELF AND THE DROVER XXXI

    Bott stared at the closing doors a moment too long.  Pellets flew again, this time angling down.  Most bounced off his back but he felt the sting as a few hit his hands and face.  He rolled from the ramp, aiming for the largest door he’d seen.

     The door shuddered, but did not open; he supposed he was too light to trigger the mechanism.  He slid his hands across the surface without finding anything useful.

     Then he slid his hands over himself, checking for damage from the pellets.  He found no breaks in the skin, no stickiness of surface poison.  The Emperor might have something more insidious than Bott had encountered before, but perhaps the purpose of the pellets was simply to urge prisoners to make stupid moves.

     Sitting up, he studied the room.  Even flying the Dragonshelf, he could go through the chamber again and again and still miss important clues.  Range upon range of mountainous white blocks rose before him, with doors and traps who knew where, triggered by who knew what, surrounded by who knew how many fake librarians.

     Checking to make sure his satchel and collection of cards were intact, he rose to his feet.  At least he was free of the distracting Klamathans.  Their odors and urges would have led to increasingly greater challenges.  Alone, he could cross any massive room sober.  And he was unlikely to see a drink for days.

     He started forward, aiming for two large spheres that looked to be about half a mile away.  After twosteps, he realized what they reminded him of, and stopped.

     He had to find them, of course.  Nubry at least and the Klamathans if he could.  What the large women kept telling him was true: His Imperial Worship intended them all to die n this playground, once sufficient entertainment and revenue had been produced.  But he had no inytention of dying without a crew, without a struggle, without one last grand assault.

     Without applause.

     As well die here and now as go to a lot of trouble without anyone to admire the effort.  His family,his crew, the librarian, the Klamathans: all had been audience and all were gone.  And acclaim meant more than food to a pirate captain.

     The thought of food made his stomach complain.  Food did mean something, too.  He took out his communications card.  The green still held that rations card, but when he found her—for he was Bott Garton and he could find a pea in a bean vault—they would need to know where the next food dispenser was.

     “Ship?”

     “Are you still breathing, lummox?”

     The voice was nectar, but there was no way he could admit this.  “Sorry to disappoint you.  Are you allowed to tell me where the nearest outlet for the foods computer is?”

     “Yes.”

     Bott considered his fingernails and brushed a scrape on the back of one hand before trying again.  “Ship, tell me where the nearest outlet for the foods computer is.”

     “Oh, you’re still there.  The nearest outlet is in is in Maze Room 3A1-slash-783-slash-3M7.”

     Bott tipped his head back.  “I suppose I don’t need to ask this.”

     “Ye-es?”

       “Ship, where is Maze Room 3A1-slash-783-slash-3M7?”

     “That I’m not allowed to tell you.”

     Bott nodded, not especially surprised.  At worst, he could always dine on the thumbs in his pocket.

     “With all those cards, [pirate, you’d probably order up waymuns soaked in Boiar champagne.”

     “What, no lumpuck truffles?”

     “Unless you were interested in the food hidden in this chamber.”

     Bott ran his tongue across his canine teeth.  “Just for chuckles, let’s assume that would interest me.”

     “You want to walk to your left until you reach that low white cylinder.  You do know which is your left?”

     “I am one of the greatest pirate navigators of our time.”

     “That does not answer the question.”

     So Bott did not answer the question, strolling toward the big low circle.  He strolled a bit faster when he smelled roasted meat.  A hint of pepper and garlic just about made the stroll a charge.  Reaching the block, he threw his hands up and brought himself to where he could peer down inside.

     A vast bowl stretched below, containing four drumsticks roughly the size of his old ship.  He considered the legs gravely.  The sides of the bowl were steep and slick; if he climbed over, he would slide right down next to the meat.  But a bird that size had probably not been fed with an eye to maximum tenderness.  He let go and dropped back down to the floor.

     “Do slave ships find this sort of thing funny?”

     “Frankly, I wish His Worship hadn’t let your Klamathans go through the floor.  I can picture the four of you trying to climb back out and sliding back into one greasy heap.  I don’t believe I was programmed to giggle, but that might force the issue.”

     Bott’s tongue slid across his lips.  “It was the Emperor’s plan to drop them through the floor?”

     “The money was getting a little soft, so he decided to pique interest by offering odds on whether you ran into each other again.”

     “What are the odds right now?”

     “Just now, 53 to 1 against.  Of course, what really matters is which outcome brings in more money.”

     “And Nubry?  The librarian?  The real one, I mean?”

     “He’s not offering odds on that.”

     Wondering what that might mean, Bott set a shoulder against the wall of the cylinder.  In a second, he was sprawled on the floor, the cylinder having slid eight feet back under his weight.

     Propping himself up on his elbows, he found he was lying between two silver doors.  Nudging one with his right foot opened onto a set of steps which were moving foen.  An experiment with the other foot showed him another set of stairs tolling down at a right angle to the first.  A grinding sound brought his head up.  The bowl of meat was creeping back toward him.

     For all he knew, of course, the Klamathans had dropped into a shallow passage which would bring them right back to this room.  This room was too big to work with, though.  He thought he’d prefer whatever these escalators would take him into.

     The bowl continued to slide back; soon it would cover the doors again.  He looked from one door to the other and with a shrug, reached for Nubry’s book.  The first animal he found was looking down at a blue flower.  That meant the door on the right.

     The bowl slid across the door as he traveled down, but a dim yellow light showed him where he weas going.  It was a short trip before he stepped off into a dusty concrete aisle between rows of large grey cages.  All of these were empty and smelled of neglect.  He wondered, moving among them, whether he should try some of the doors.  A passage might wait inside any one of them.  So might a trap.  He kept walking.

     Having seen no change in corridor or cages after two hundred steps, he paused and set one hand to the bars on his right.  The yellow light went red, and he jumped back to the center of the aisle, crouching to meet whatever came at him.

     What came were a dozen cries and groans, as the cage doors were replaced with projected scenes oflibrarians under torture.  He counted ten on each side: how many copies could the Emperor have on hand?  There had to be more than one: no one could survive the experience two ahead of him.  Or that one, three down on the left.

     These had to be computer-generated simulations, designed while the prisoners were unconscious.  No doubt, wherever she was, Nubry was being subjected to similar scenes in which he was interrogated.  But even knowing these scenes could never actually have happened, he couldn’t watch: The stretched, twisted, burning naked bodies were neary identical.  They had to be based on a single original; where was that original now?

     “Bott!” came a dozen screams from those still capable of speech.

     “Quiet!” he ordered, walking faster.  :Keep quiet!”  He slapped his hand against one screen.

     The librarian swung away from his hand, which had hit glass.  Bott whirled, and threw a punch in the direction of her face.  She blinked.

     The simulations were programmed to respond, of course.  The cage walls were made of wire-reinforced glass, cage glass.  He had been right the first time: these were cells containing three-dimensional simulated librarians.

     “You’re just pictures,” he snarled, half running down the corridor.  “Not one of you is bilstim real.”  On his right, a counterfeit Nubry coughed flame as her internal organs ignited.

    The end of the corridor waited for him, a deep triangular niche.  In one wall was a square door with a padlock.  On the other waited an oval door with a combination knob.  A black opening waited just beyond his toes.  He turned to the librarian’s book, where the pictures were comfortingly still.

     What did it mean when an animal was looking to the right?  Straight ahead?  He looked over the opening in the floor.  No thank you.  He turned to the combination lock.

     “My book!” screamed Six Nubrys on his right.  Bott swallowed.  Could computer simulations see?  He considered the hole in the floor again.  If he dove in headfirst, he could slide into a pot of bubbling ooze, making hot Bott Stew.  Feetfirst and he might land in a pit of soft cheese, sinking deeper and deeper with no way to climb out.  He shook his head; better find some food before it took over his brain completely.

     In the cage at his right, a librarian was separated from her legs.  “My book!” she wailed.  “Bott, read to me!”  He dove into the hole.  At least he’d see where he was going.

       There was no room to turn in the dark tube.  By pressing his arms and legs against the sides, Bott could slow his descent.  He wondered if this mattered.  At length, he was dropped into an orange cube lit by pale blue walls.  Six dark circles in these walls indicated he could go on traveling by tube.

     “Jzzn,” someone said.  A large blue insect crawled from one of the tubes.  Bott reached for a grenade, but shook his head.  The room was too small.  Maybe one of the thumbs would do: it had worked with the flies.

        “Jizzn vet.”  The long blue stick with many legs crawled along the wall to another opening, and was gone.  Bott reached for the book again, but shook his head, and walked over to the opening farthest from the one the insect had come out of.

     This was a smaller tube, barely large enough for progress.  Bott could see his future, wrapped in this plastic package, slowly starving to death while the Emperor chuckled.  Fine way for a pirate captain to finish.

     He found his way to the end of the tube more quickly as the plastic walls began to ooze hot liquid.  He fell forward, breaking his fall with his nose, which wedged between two fuzzy orange cushions.

Missed Millions

     I have mentioned here and elsewhere how I personally, invented some million dollar concepts, only to be turned away by experts so that I gave up, allowing people with more grit and perseverance to get the glory and the money.  The page-a-day calendar, the trivia board game, the shared universe short story anthology: these and other obsolete wonders were things I came up with in my spare time, only to be shot down.  Well, I’m tired of it.

     No, I am NOT going to burn the midnight oil developing my ideas.  That takes effort.  I am going to put them into a column so that I can do the Jules Verne thing and be credited long after I’m dead for coming up with these society-changing concepts.  (I was told all through my childhood about Jules Verne’s talent as a science fiction author in coming up with ideas a century ahead of their time. The Interwebs are now filled with articles pointing out flaws in Jules Verne’s concepts for space travel and atomic submarines.  I am willing to risk this.  Greatness will prevail despite nitpickers.  Anyway I’ll be too busy asking the superintendent of facilities if we can lower the thermostat a bit to be counting the wreaths tossed on my headstone.)

     Let’s start with a new concept for those mega-sellers online.  All of them already have places you can click to see “What I’ve Bought”.  This is hardly sufficient.  We would appreciate adding a few new tabs to click like “Where I Put It Once I Bought It” or even “Why Did I Buy This?”

     For people who are frustrated by always getting the wrong size spoon or tongs when collecting food from a buffet, I say the buffet should embrace this and make it fun.  Ditch the spoons and tongs: put in one of those claw machines you used to see in penny arcades.  Have customers put money in the machine and then take a chance on grabbing up as many Swedish meatballs or Salisbury steaks as that fiendish contraption will lift.  Same result, more fun; most of us will spend more calories than we eventually consume.

     Add a meter to the screen on social media platforms, charging so many pennies for each minute we spend viewing cute kitty videos.  No, I’m not saying we should pay the creators.  I’m spending MY valuable time watching their content: they should pay me minimum wage for that.  AND if I decide to post a comment offering very helpful advice on the dancer’s footwork, outfit or personal appearance, I demand a bonus for my generosity in sharing my opinion.  (If this results in a Nobel Prize for single-handedly shutting down social media, I can provide a mailing address.)

     Every time I rummage through my Useful Stuff Repository (i.e. junk drawer) in search of a twist tie, I grab one that’s broken off way too short to be useful (Yes, I always throw it back in the drawer; I’m not a barbarian.)  Why don’t kitchens in this supposedly civilized nation come with a twist tie dispenser.  Put a spool of twist tie inside once a month, and then just reel out the length you require.  (Yes, this WILL result in some people trying to twist tie lumber in the back of the truck when building a deck, but “no sweat, no swag” as nobody said ever.)

     This is all I’m going to have room for in today’s column, but I have plenty more ideas at least as useful as these.  I hear you marveling that I am not yet the beau ideal and matinee idol of millions.  That IS what you’re marveling, right?  No, don’t answer in the comments.  Wait until they install the meter.

FICTION FR/WEDNESDAY: The Camel Sails

Now in those days word came to Florence that her brother Noah was building a great ark to rescue the animals of the Earth from a mighty flood.  But when Florence heard that her brother planned to fill the vessel with all manner of animals of all sizes and diets, this did not seem good to Florence.

“Lo!” said Florence.  “I shall build my own Ark, as insurance, since my brother’s plan is inefficient and must fail, dooming life on Earth.  And I shall appoint a committee to discuss the cost-effectiveness of each type and kind of animal, that we be assured of survival.”

            And the committee was called, and long were its discussions of the animals of Earth.  For some were small but had mighty appetites, which meant excessive cargo, while others, of more modest appetites, were nonetheless so large that such animals and the fodder thereof would have been too great for any such enterprise to succeed.

            In the fulness of time, the committee presented Florence with a report.  And reading through the bullet points about efficiency of housing and compactness of fodder, Florence saw that the report was good.  Then and only then did she set in motion her plan, according to the report of the committee, ordering many cubits of gopherwood.  And being constructed by a more efficient plan than that of Noah, the building of her Ark was accomplished quickly, and the ship stood ready when the rains came.  And Florence, calling “Bon voyage!” to her brother and his inefficient zoo, set forth on her own Ark, with her wise committee.

            Thus Florence and her crew lived comfortably, for there was ample room aboard their Ark, constructed along the lines of logic and committee study.  And, as the committee with great wisdom had decided that the most efficient creatures to feed and house aboard a ship of gopherwood was termites, no one heard ever again of Florence’s Ark.

DRAGONSHELF AND THE DROVER XXX

     Chlorda paused on the side of corridor, setting the back of one hand against one golden cheek.  “How disorienting!  Fun, though.”

     “But nex’ time we does it, us dainty types goes first,” said Bassada, folding her arms across her chest as she stood on the ceiling.  “Watchin’ ‘em two slabsa chunk roast wobble round makes me hungry.”

     “That doesn’t surprise me,” yawned the gold.

     “Wasn’t tryin’ ta sur[prise ya,” replied the blue.  “If I was, I’da wore me colander.”

     Bott, standing on the wall that had seemed to be the dead end of this corkscrew corridor, ignored his crew and twisted the thick gold knob on the ceiling.  Lucky he’d been in the lead: the actual gravity always seemed to be on the left or right of the yellow path that wandered around the blue corridor.  They had all been able to walk it in spite of this, but not without a lot of wobbling.

     There!  Slide the bottom and top panels to the left and the middle one to the right.  He glanced back at the cold orange blob that popped and crackled as it burbled along the yellow road.  Then he pushed on the door.

     Clinging to the doorway, he tested the gravity in the next chamber.  Once he knew where down was, he set his feet there and pulled himself upright.

     “Well, finally,” said the gold, pulling herself after him.  “I suppose a four-poster bed would be too much to….”  She stared, and then was tossed on top of Bott by Louba.

     Louba’s eyes also widened.  “Well, my mother should see butterflies!”

     “Better’n seein’ yer feet,”  Bassada pulled up next to her.  “Whoogosh!”

     Bott shivered.  Vastnesses of floor space were interrupted, at long intervals, by light grey cubes, cones, cylinders, semicircles, and other building blocks apparently tossed down at random by some giant emperor.  They were even bigger than they looked; Bott knew it was only the size of the room that dwarfed them.

     “The door could be in any one of those,” whispered Chlorda.  At least, the room made it sound like a whisper.  “Or at the far end.”

     “If it’s got a far end anywheres,” murmured Bassada.

     Louba stretched back, hands high above her head, and then straightened.  “Hope we’s getting’ refreshments, anyhuse.”

     Chlorda’s eyes were troubled as she looked to Bott, but she also came to her feet.

     The party of four eased out along the pale floor, radiating caution.  Bassada was sliding her thumbs across her fingers; Louba pretended to have an itchy chin.  Bott didn’t pretend anything, his head swinging back and forth to check all the landmarks for possible trouble.  Everything was so far apart that anything coming out would have to be very fast or very potent.  He thought he would not mention this to his crew.

     He thought he ought to say something, at least, but no one heard him clear his throat, jumping as they all were from the sound of the trumpet. Somewhere, a door slammed open.

     “Well, to steal a sausage!”  Louba arched one green hand to the left.

     A big orange head rose from a trap door next to a low semicircle far off in that direction.  It looked neither right nor left as it came up.  A green head appeared just beneath it.  Bott frowned.  A second green rider and orange mount followed the first, and then a third.  They seemed to be Imperial Dragoons, the spiked planet emblem standing out clearly in shining threads on their banners.  Bott did not recognize these particular Dragoons; the orange heads and faces were nondescript, but he felt sure he’d recognize those fat, ugly battle axes.

     Five more followed the first three.  By this time, the troop was marching up onto the low semicircle, as a second door appeared at the other end.  The first rider rode straight down into this.  None of the Dragoons seemed to notice their company was not alone in the room.  Well-disciplined Dragoons, Bott thought: they might be useful.

     “Know anything about these?” he murmured.  The first riders were nearly all gone, but a second troop was rising from the first door.

     “It’s a kit of cock aldorves,” Chlorda murmured back.  “Loooks like a full kit, too.”

     “Two kits, mebbe,” Bassada put in.  “Reckon we gots ta knock ‘em all over?”

     “That string!”  Louba waved an arm at the banner held by this company.  “Seen it…blister me buns an’ call me a pickle!  Atsa same flag!”

     “a dozen or so moving in a circle to make us think….”  Bott reached out too late.  “No!  Don’t!?

     The largest Klamathan had charged, calling, “Yamfrees!”

     “Klamathans!” screamed the aldorves, their mounts rearing.

     “Stand your ground!” bellowed their leader.  “We can make a stand if….”

     Looking left and right, he found himself alone.  He urged his steed toward the exit at the end of the arch, rather too late.

     The impact of Louba threw him completely off his mount.  Before he could rise, Louba boxed his ears, and then boxed them again, apparently with the intention of keeping this up until her fists met.  The green mount leaned in to nip at her, but jumped for the exit as her exertions shook Louba completely out of the top of her overalls.

     Nott was startled to see she was wearing winged black nipple caps under the overalls.  The wings flapped and fluttered, not in time to the ear boxing.  Knowing what made them flutter, Bott shuddered again.

     Wiping her hands on the officer’s tunic, she bounded back to her allies.  “Make it look easy, don’ I?  Anybody wanna touch me, just ger luck?”

     Chlorda said nothing, but a gold underlip stuck out.  “Gwan,” sneered Bassada, “Probly gots orders not ta hurt prisoners.”

     The green waved a card on high.  “But I got his rations chit!”

     “Good job!” Bott called.

     The rest of the crew was less appreciative.  “Put yourself away, barrel o’ slugs.  Them things makes me break out in homicides.”

     Louba pulled her overalls up.  “Bugs, huh?”

     The blue sniffed.  “Bags.”

     Bott reached for his communications card.  “I’ll ask the computer where the next rations computer is.  We’ll….”

     “Aggif!”

     The sound came from the other side of the arch.  It was not a word Bott had heard before, but the voice sounded familiar.  He jerked his head toward the obstacle, and led his crew forward.

     He’d been expecting the librarian, but had to put a hand up to brace himself nonetheless as he came around the arch.  Nubry strained against a thick black harness which had ground angry red blotches into her skin.  Her uniform hung from her in tatters.  She looked…larger without all her clothes, lighter where the fabric had covered her.  Tiny red stripes showed here and there bout this exposed lightness.

     Above and behind her, in a high silver chariot, was the driver with the whip.  Loose, convoluted grey skin hung over his eyes as he jerked his head up and raised the whip.

     Nubry’s shoulders hunched forward; her head jerked up.  Spotting the other prisoners, she cried, “Bott!  Help me!”  The whip landed again.  “I’m the real one!  You can see that!”

    Bott could feel the Klamathans tensing behind him, but didn’t take his eyes off the librarian.  “Ye-es,” he said, reaching into his satchel.  “I’ll use one of the gas grenades.”

     “Of course!  He hasn’t got a gas mask!  Has he?”  She glanced back.  “He…owww!”

     The first grenade Bott touched went flying; he put a hand back to push his crew away in the same motion.  Both Nubry and her driver watched the rise and fall of the projectile.  The Pumferian dropped his whip and started a dive from the chariot.

     With a dull burp, the grenade dissolved into a silvery shower.  The driver was halted in mid-dive; Nubry was similarly frozen.  A silvery tint spread across their features.  Then they, too, fell into tiny metallic particles, leaving behind whip, harness, and other accoutrements.

     The Klamathans followed him forward.  “Y’know,” Bassada told him, “I got no complaint about how many copies ya wants ta kill, but the guy wit’ the whip was probly a pris’ner too.  His Imperial Whiplash tol’ him ta do it.  We coulda give him a better deal.”

     Bott slapped down the flap of his satchel.  “I don’t think I’d’ve liked him.”

     “Got us some transport, anyhuse,” said Louba, kicking some of the powder away as she looked over the chariot.  “We c’d take turns ridin’ an’ pullin’.”

     “Cep’n our Cap’n here,” Bassada put in.  “He rests wit’ one o’ us while everybody else pulls.”

     “We’ll allow him to ride quite a lot.”  The gold arched her hands at shoulder height and shook those shoulders.

     Bott glared at her, not amused by this attempt to pit personal conditioning against racial size differences.  Alarm on Chlorda’s face showed she was not wiggling to attract admiration.

     Her fellow Klamathans noticed.  “Don’t hear it, do you?” Bassada asked Louba.

     “What’s happening?” Bott demanded.  The gold’s eyes were rolling up, and she was wiggling with more vigor.

     “Whip guy.”  Louba crouched to take up a belt, shaking off lingering silver dust.  “Dead man’s switch.”

     Chlorda raised one leg and began to spin, moving generally in the direction of the triangle and the cylinder.  Louba’s suggestion was reasonable; the Emperor had included a failsafe in case the driver was killed.  Straining, he could hear a few notes of music, and spotted a tiny black dot high on the distant cylinder.  “It’s a speaker,” he said.  “What’s the problem?”

     “Yes plays music at one frequency, an’ it makes little brasshocks here dance.” Bassada explained.  “She’ll go for ‘at speaker.  Gotta be a trap.”

     “Hold her,” Bott ordered Louba.  He thought he spied a flicker of disappointment in the gold’s eyes.  “You go see what’s below that speaker.”

     “Yer cap’n, Cap’n,” Bassada told him.

     “I’m coming with you.  I’ll have a grenade ready if something comes at us.  You want to hurry.”

     “Not much I don’t.”  The blue nose wrinkled at him.  “An’ iffen it’s a reap door?”

     “I’ll grab you.”

     The blue thought it over as Chlorda spun past her.  “Awright, I’ll do it.  But if any of yez wants ta kiss me fer good luck, I’ll tell yez where.”

     Louba took hold of the gold and fell back, twisting, as Chlorda spun more violently.  Bassada, better than her word, raced over to the big triangle, setting one foot carefully on the side.  Bott followed, running where she ran, tiptoeing where she tiptoed, and setting a foot in the face of the pyramid, though he saw no reason for it.  Testing her footing, Bassada started up the incline. 

     “We make a good target here,” said Bott, as their ascent of the triangle brought them closer to the cylinder and its speaker.  Louba, carrying Chlorda with some difficulty, struggled up after them.

     “So’s anybody down below,” Bassada grunted.  “See a door?  Or any more…flallop!”

     Small black spots were flying their way from the speaker on the cylinder.  Flattening himself against the wall of the pyramid opened a large door just under his head and shoulders.  He was too low to fall in, but ducked his head as the pellets flew past.  Bassada leapt off to one side, Louba and her captive rolling off the other direction.

     The hard black pellets whizzed past for mere seconds.  With a glance below, Bott slid down from the trap door, which slid shut before his eyes.  “Close,” he said.

     No one answered.  As he watched the floor below, two black rectangles disappeared as their own doors slid shut.

FICTION FRIDAY: Ancient Scrolls

     “Well, that was more than I expected to spend.  But if it helps me keep track of the wench and those seven little….”

     “Ma’am!  Look out for the…..”

     “Oh, insult and incinerate it!”

     “I really should have moved your broom farther inside.  Are you hurt, Ma’am?”

     “My old bones have been through worse than this, but did I break the….”

     “Ma’am, you shouldn’t unwrap that mirror.”

     “Don’t be stupid.  If I cut myself, I won’t even bleed at my age.  I just want to see…flames!  It’s cracked.  At least none of the pieces fell out.  Well, since I handed over those cryptozoic scrolls, I guess paid for it.  It’s still….”

     “No, Ma’am!  Don’t look!  Wrap the mirror again and….”

     “Get away; I won’t ask for a refund.  The picture’s still….  Wow!  I get a different scene in every piece now!”

       “A mirror like that increases in power, Ma’am, but it can cast….”    

     “There’s the wench herself.  And what’s this in the corner.  A striped albino flying monkey?  I haven’t seen one of those in….”

     “Ma’am, look this way  Can you tell how many fingers I’m….”

     “Ooh, kitties!  What else can I find in here?”

     “Almost anything, Ma’am.  That’s how it works its….”

     “Let’s see, now.  Here’s that rotten elderly wolf!  Ha!  Let’s….  You got any snacks?”

     “I can bring tea, Ma’am, but if you plan to sit there in my doorway, I’ll have to ask for a few more scrolls.”

     “Never mind.  At home there’s cold brew in the cauldron.  Where’s that broom?”

     “Here, Ma’am.  No, over…a little up.  There!  Are you, er, sure you can fly and watch the mirror at the same time?”

     “I know my way home in the dark.  I can do this.  Thanks!  This is the most brilliant….”

     “Look out for that cloud over….  Dear dear. I hope this only takes seven years..”

Advenures in Archaeology (Joke Division)

     The problem with archaeology is that the world wants answers, not just simple answers, but answers which are simple and absolutely fascinating.  For every person who is interested in controversies about pharaonic Egyptian paint composition, there are a thousand who want to know how many ancient Egyptian temple maidens were blonde.  This is a problem with joke archaeology as well.  I see that this year I have written two columns on postcard jokes which require some context to understand.  I could do this because I felt I had the answers.  But, um, there ARE some fine old jokes where I have to admit I don’t quite git it.  I cannot promise that any of these involve temple maidens at all.

     Here is Buchsenmacher (Gunsmith) Sepp.  What I have learned on the Interwebs is that this is about it.  This portrait was all over everywhere in Germany in the 1970s or thereabouts.  But I can learn nothing else: the portrait did not spin off into a line of cartoons or jokes or comic books.  He DID have a wife, who is also a postcard icon, but…what’s it all about, Deutschland?

     If you are enough of an archaeologist to look over the oldest days of this blog, you will see that I did a column on “handing you one”.  But in all those postcards, what was being handed over was a lemon. (I never did QUITE get to the bottom of why handing someone a lemon was the equivalent of a later generation’s “giving you the raspberry”.)  Are we just taking an everyday occurrence and relating it to the lemon gag, or am I missing something here?  (Please don’t write in about the phrase “to give him one”, which is entirely other.)

     I put this up for sale as a Mother’s Day card, but that may be original with me.  This comes from an era when I’m told we did not make jokes about infidelity, but I may, like Rick, have been misinformed.

     Someday I will discuss another catchphrase of a bygone era: “Who said rats?” which usually involves a postcard showing very alert dogs.  So I know a LITTLE about this joke.  Now, “bugs” was once a description of someone crazy, taken from “seeing bugs”, a phrase for having the D.T.s (a state in which we moved on to “seeing snakes” and “seeing pink elephants”.  “Can it” may have started in the Bronx, but is still used in some places for “Cut it out.  Stop it.”  But how does this all work together?  Or doesn’t it?  Maybe we assume too much: some jokes didn’t even work at the time they were made and we sure won’t figure them out now.  This artist may just have wanted to draw a big bug.  No, canned beer was not available at this point, except in the can, or growler, used to haul it.  And yes, what we said earlier does explain how Bugs Bunny got his name.

     Why is the postal lady throwing mail around?  What does this have to do with the caption?  Or do we just assume, as above, that the author simply wanted to draw a lady in shorts and filled in the rest later?

      Why is…what’s her suit…does she….  What I really mean is where is she going in town and why don’t I ever get invited?

     And this is obviously some sort of gag mocking the Temperance movement and some paricular Temperance group.  But I’m not sure what specific group we’re mocking as the “Wee wee Club”, and I DO wonder (given their expressions and their drinking habits) whether “wee wee” meant in 1909 what it does today.  But that is a WHOLE nother blog.  If I find out, I’ll let you know, as with the others.  Unless the authorities come to find out why I am Googling “wee wee” so much.

DRAGONSHELF AND THE DROVER XXIX

     His Imperial Worship frowned, his chin on his palm, one little finger between his lips.  “It might be amusing to send you out next,” he said, his eyes steady on the monitor, “He might kill you out of general principle.”

     Nubry formed a large letter Y, head down and with her feet far enough apart to suggest His Imperial Worship was thinking of making her into a T, but hadn’t made up his mind yet.  It was not a comfortable position, but she could, at least, see the second monitor, the one that printed out as text what was being said by the contestants on the silent screen above it.

     The Emperor knew this.  “It is a pity you’re literate,” he said.  “There’s so much more suspense if the prisoner doesn’t know what the group is deciding.  But even the Imperial Power can’t have everything.”

     She could read upside-down, though it was not a skill she’d ever expected to use much.  The real pity was that the one thing she had never learned to read was lips.

     YOU UNDERSTAND, CAPTAIN, SIR: FREQENTLY THEY DO MAKE THE PRISONER WATCH THE MONITORS.

     I HOPE IT WAS THE REAL ONE, MY BLUE BEAUTY.  SHE TALKS ABOUT NOTHING BUT HER BILSTIM BOOKS.

     “You’ll like this,” the Emperor told her, still not looking back.  “Where they open the door and see they’re not out yet.  This gets better with each door.”

     A bulging iron porthole sprang open at a touch to reveal a vast, undulating blue web.  The Blue Klamathan took a step onto the sticky fibers and turned to Bott.

     THAT LITTLE LIBRARIAN WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN ABLE TO COPE EFFICIENTLY WITH THIS SOR T OF ROOM, WOULD SHE, CAPTAIN SIR?

     OH, NEVER.  SHE WOULD HAVE BEEN A GREAT OBSTACLE TO OUR PROGRESS.

      Nubry frowned.  “Will they really be able to reach the Dragonshelf?”

     His Imperial Worship reached into a tall glass column at his elbow./  Nubry had read about these.  Filled with dirt, they eld vast cities of the tiny Pitchopki, a highly developed if minuscule race of sentients.  A steeple and two legs dribbled onto his chin as he chewed.

     “Of course,” he said, around the mouthful.  “That’s why they have so many rooms to go through.  Any less, and I would be untrue to my own empire.  Besides, they’d probably blow up the ship, thinking it was a trap, if they got there too soon.”

     The Imperial head came around to take in her expression at the thought of the ship being destroyed.  “And what do you suppose you will do when you see them fly away without you?”

     The idea had not previously occurred to Nubry.  She gave it some thought.  “I believe I’d cry.  Would I?  Yes, I would.”

     Something about this answer brought a crease to the Imperial forehead.  A thumb landed on the chair controls, and he came over to study his prisoner.  A long fingernail came out to stroke the line of her chin.  “I wonder if your pirate would recognize a copy that was missing just one toe.”

     Nubry would have pulled back if she could; the Imperial breath was not enhanced by being flavored with the deaths of intelligent beings.  His Imperial Worship smiled, and fingered the controls of the chair again.  It moved around to the back of the prisoner, where she couldn’t see him.

     Nubry felt herself being lowered, slowly enough that she could pull her head to the side and rest on her chest when she reached the square below.  She rested for one second and then was jerked stark upright in moments, nearly dislocating both shoulders.  Knowing there was no position she could move to to ease the tension, she looked up to the screen.

     The green Klamathan was kicking spiders as big as her head left and right.  Bott was removing the Gold Klamathan from a tangle of webs.

     YOU COULD NEVER HAVE DONE THIS WITH THAT USELESS LIBRARIAN, EH, CAPTAIN SIR?

     LET US FIND A ROOM WITH A GOOD SOFT FLOOR, MY ORANGE CONFECTION, AND I SHALL DEMONSTRATE SEVERAL THINGS I COULD NOT HAVE DONE WITH THAT BOOK-WORSHIPPER.

     Her midsection jerked forward.  The second kick twisted her to the left, grinding that wrist against its manacle.  The third kick landed as a new kind of pain proved that her ankle cuff was being moved to make her kick herself.  Silly of her to think His Imperial Worship would have gone to the trouble.  She wondered if he even had feet, or was permanently attached to his chair.

     She bit her lower lip.  Each kick bounced her joints further into difficult positions: a few more and either hers arms or that eg would be completely disjointed.  She’d never seen this before, and swung her head left and right to find out what it looked like.

     “I should make copies of you for my own collection; you’re an interesting houseguest.”  The chair slid around her again.  “But enough pleasure before business.”

     Nubry snorted as she felt the copier start up again.  As the first pains rippled through her, she twisted to the left.  His Imperial Worship had thoughtfully left enough give in the manacles to allow for withing.  A pop at each shoulder told her she had missed the spectacle of seeing her shoulder come apart.

     She pulled to her right; this did not ease any of the pain.  Perhaps she should think about something else, as her mother had suggested every year during the annual inoculations.  She considered the screen.  What did she know about Bott Garton?

     He was not tall.  At the moment he was punching spiders taller than he was.  But he wished to be as big a man as his father, in deeds if not in inches.

     He was musical.  They had not had the leisure for him to demonstrate his harmonica repertoire, but she was certain he would be the best harmonica player she’d ever listened to.

     She blinked away some of the sweat pouring down her face.  He was interested in reading.  Even now, he was looking through her book, apparently seeking the conversation between Bunny Bunk and Spider Stringer as he and his party paused between a strand of web leading to a red door and one leading to a yellow door.

     Why didn’t her teeth snap?  Her jaws were doing their best to accomplish this.  Back to the list: the pirate was a good shot, and probably a good pilot, too, even if he was a little pushy when it came to other people’s ships.  Maybe that was because he was a pirate.  She breathed in and found her nostrils also flooded with sweat.  She didn’t dare sneeze or cough; apparently a large blade was forcing its way up inside her throat.

     On the screen Bott was saying something into his card as the four moved through the yellow door.  At this angle she could not read what he was saying.  That was a pity; it was probably something funny.  It had been fun to listen to him make jokes to the Drover.  A pilot needed a sense of humor.

      And he was one of the good guys.  Was he?  Yes, he was!  The way he talked to the Klamathans was only…a way to mislead them.  Yes.  He didn’t know them very well, and was afraid they might be Imperial spies.  He was lulling them, leading them on until he was sure.  You could tell from the way his jaw stuck out that he was holding something back.

     “Ohoo!”

     That spasm twisted her whole bod y up toward her wrists.  Nubry was afraid her spine would snap in four places, but she couldn’t stop.  Every muscle in her body was trying to rip free of bone and skin.

     The she dangled against her manacles.  A new Nubry landed on the floor.  For a second, the original watched the copy try to rise on overextended arms.  Then the newcomer dropped out of sight.

     Her eyes went up to the screen.  What had His Imperial Wortship programmed this imitation to do?

     Her eyes rested there only a moment.  A whirring sound announced the arrival of long multi-jointed arms.  Eight-fingered hands jutted from these arms, tiny toothed blades buzzing at the end of each finger.  Her eyes—al she could move at the moment without Imperial permission—followed them in.      “Enough business,” the emperor declared.  “Back to pleasure.”