-SALOON AT THE EDGE OF EVERYWHERE-

Chapter Fourteen

Mof gathered the stunned members of Recon 2 and started herding them out of the swinging doors “We have to get out of here before that big thing out there blocks the door,” he yelled as he pushed them along.

VarnTa happened to be at the front of the small group. “Stop pushing,” yelled VarnTa back over his shoulder, “the tongue is in the way.”

Mof stopped pushing just as he reached the swinging door, but it was too late. The combined mass of Recon 2 had served to push VarnTa into a kneeling position on the huge, pink mound. It looked like he was wrestling a very large, very wet beanbag chair. And the tongue was moving, being drawn back into the fantastic mouth of the Whalepede. As it neared the mouth, the tongue was also being compressed into a very large teardrop-shaped bulge.

Now here are some facts you may not know about Whalepedes; their tongues are like those of earth chameleons, in that they are incredibly long and very sticky, and can be propelled outward from their owner’s mouth to shoot some distance forward. Unlike the chameleon however, the Whalepede does not do this to capture prey. Rather, they use the sticky, bulbous tongue and its long, anchoring muscles to help pull their tremendous bulk forward, much like an owner of a 4-wheel drive vehicle might use its winch, anchored to a tree, to pull his car out of some deep mud.

The Whalepede in the middle of Mainstreet had just finished reeling himself in, and was now sucking its tongue back into its mouth in preparation for shooting it back up the corridor once again.

Jimmy was the closest to VarnTa at the moment, and he reacted to the emergency with commendable haste, considering the state he was in. Also considering the state he was in, which fell somewhere within the range of a nice, mellow buzz, he reacted with startling clarity of purpose. He grabbed hold of VarnTa in the only manner that he could see that would afford him a good, two-handed grip. Unfortunately, since VarnTa, in the manner of his people, was not wearing any clothes, Jimmy’s choice of things to grab on to was severely limited.

With an admirable absence of embarrassment or tenderness, he grabbed hold of Varnta’s penis with both hands and began yanking on it. And I mean he yanked it hard, like he was playing tug-of-war against a team of weight lifters. VarnTa’s head jerked back and he let out a howl.

Ken decided that the ankle region was just as good a place to get his grip, and perhaps just a tad more polite on top of it all. So this is where he grabbed hold, an ankle in each of his hands, and he commenced tugging on them for all he was worth.

And there on Mainstreet began perhaps the strangest contest in the history of all that ever was. I can’t help wishing that a Reporter was there to record this event, but you will have to take my word for it, this would have made the top-ten list of America’s Funniest Home Videos, I can assure you of that.

Jimmy and Ken each gave a last great tug, aided by the fact that the Whalepede was simultaneously pulling in the opposite direction. VarnTa suddenly peeled free of the tacky, pulsing blob and flew backwards, to land on top of his rescuers in a heap.

“Run,” yelled Mof franticly. Those that needed to scrambled to their feet, and they all heeded this excellent advice. Recon 2 ran as if their lives depended on it, and who is to say they didn’t. Mof reached the closest door on the far side of Mainstreet, at a slight diagonal from the saloon, before anyone else. He slammed an orange hand on the panel, and as the door slid open, he pushed each of his team through as they arrived. As soon as the last of them was clear Mof leaped into the corridor behind them.

Before the door closed they all had a chance to turn around and watch the humongous tongue, which filled a surprising portion of the main thoroughfare, as it shot majestically forward into the air once more. They could hear the loud, moist, meaty plop as the heavy tip landed somewhere out of sight. The long root of the tongue was the last thing they could see as the door slid shut, muscles already tightening to commence helping the multitude of stumpy legs in the task of dragging their massive owner forward once again.

Ned had called the Qualm over to his position. “Can you feel what is happening, Qualm?” Ned asked hopefully.

“There is some fear, and some anger, but mostly, there is just confusion,” answered the Qualm somewhat unhelpfully.

“Well, I reckon that just about sums it up,” said Ned regretfully.

“My friends are going to come and get me,” said Recon 1’s prisoner. He sounded reasonably convinced of the truth of his statement.

“And just how many of your friends are here with you?” Rufus asked casually.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of friends,” said the Wasp Whip in a snotty tone.

Ox tightened his grip.

“How many?” Rufus repeated more forcefully.

“We got 40 or 50 guys, ok?” said the prisoner. “And they are gonna mess you up bad.”

“He lies, Rufus,” hissed the Qualm.

The not-so-bad guy looked shocked. Evidently he had taken the mind-reading claim as yet another attempted bluff.

“How many?” Rufus shouted.

The semi-retired pirate tried once more. “Okay, it’s just me and a couple…” He didn’t have time to finish.

“He lies!” hissed the Qualm once again.

“Ahhhh, get out of my head, you freak,” screamed the skinny kid with the fancy, striped exterior. “There are nine guys with me, that’s all. I swear on my ancestors.”

The Qualm nodded, saying, “I sense truth.”

“It’s the whole graduating class from my school, at least all of the boys, anyway,” admitted the felonious youth.

“So you and your school chums visited Earth and somewhere along the line you decided that piracy was your best career choice, is that it?” Rufus asked scathingly.

“It was the ride, you know, at Disneyland? Then we rented all these movies and watched them at our hotel. It just seemed so…exciting, that’s all,” blurted the morose teenager.

“I’m sure that’s exactly what Walt Disney intended when he designed that little bit of entertainment,” said Rufus. Rufus tended towards sarcasm, even on a good day. “Look, Kid,” he went on, “let’s cut to the chase. What is it you hope to gain by this little escapade of yours?”

“We just thought, you know, like, we would grab some cash, steal a ship, and, like, go somewhere and party or something,” said the demoralized youngster.

Do all teenagers of every race end up talking like that, wondered Rufus? “How old are you, Kid?” he asked gently.

“35,” was the answer he received.

Rufus glanced at the Professor, who closed his eyes for a brief time and then said, “With their longer lifespan, that would make him about fifteen in human years, Rufus.” The Professor went back to examining the gun they had acquired.

Candybar cast Rufus another speculative look.

“How long is your gang of cutthroats planning on staying on the Hub?” Rufus inquired.

The fight had gone out of the teenager. “Just a few hours. We wanted to be gone before anybody figured out what we were up to.” The captive considered for a moment, then with a last bit of stubborn defiance he said, “But they won’t leave without me.”

“Oh, I hope you’re right, Kid,” said Rufus nastily, “because I intend to trade you for the hostages your friends are holding.” With a last smug smile Rufus turned away.

“Tell me about the gun, Professor,” Rufus said as he approached the older man.

“Quite an effective weapon, my boy,” said the historian matter-of-factly. “It works by using some sort of an electromagnetic pulse to send the projectiles down the barrel. The really clever part is the projectiles themselves. This bulge on the top of the main body of the gun contains a spool of wire. A small, rotating clipper snips off tiny bits of the wire, angled to a point at each end. As these bits pass down the barrel, at incredibly high velocities I might add, they hit a small groove that imparts a spin. Not a rotational spiral as a rifle bullet would have, but instead they flip end over end. All in all it is a devastatingly destructive piece of engineering.”

Rufus had no way to tell if the Professor had learned all of this from studying the gun, or whether he had used the stone when no one was watching, but it made no difference. “Well, we have it now,” he said, picking up the gun and turning back to the Wasp Whip. The Wasp Whip looked nervous.

“What’s your name, Kid?” Rufus asked softly.

“Winnse,” said the kid. He pronounced it like the English word, ‘wince’.

“And who exactly is in charge of your ferocious little crew of buccaneers? Let me guess, he likes it when you call him Captain, right?”

“Well, yeah, he does,” the other admitted.

“What’s his name?” prompted Rufus.

“Beeltee,” came the response.

And so, in Rufus’s mind, these two particular new age space pirates came to be forever thought of as Wince and BLT. BLT like the sandwich, only much less likely to leave a pleasant taste in Rufus’s mouth.