On The Planet Of The Hippies From Hell

by Harry Harrison

  "Sounds good to me, Bill," said Elliot. "I'll take one too. Give this arm a chance to heal."

  "Yeah. Sorry about that, Elliot. You know, you saved my life back there. I guess I owe you. Will a drink do?"

  "Gee, Bill — I guess maybe you'll be able to save my life too before all this is over."

  Bill nodded absently, too absorbed in this massive overkill of bars all around him. Some of the boozers had neon signs, while some of them had old-fashioned coats of arms or hanging wooden signs displaying their names and some painted picture. There were bars in all shapes and sizes, bars of all varieties. Unique bars and boutique bars. Small bars, big bars and candy bars. And all of them exuded a sense of community, conviviality, the noise of amiable song or fisticuffs — and the friendly sound of puking. Plus, the multitextured smell of absolutely the best drink that Bill had ever, ever encountered.

  From orbit, Barworld itself had been quite a sight. The eighth planet from a sun called Billiard III, it appropriately looked like an Eight Ball. Or at least, Bill thought so when he had crawled by mistake onto the observation deck thinking it was the men's room and saw it, nighttime on the planet, against the backdrop of stars as though on Yawah's own pool table. To think! Every sin known to mankind here, with maybe also millions of alien sins to boot — and countries and islands and archipelagos and isthmuses and floating ships and underwater cities filled with bars, bars, bars! The planet of ten thousand bars! This was no accident. The other planets of the Billiard III system, uninhabitable by normal human beings, were vast seas of various kinds of alcoholic beverages. Apparently when this solar system was emerging from the molten to the solid state, the usual complex carbon molecules were formed. However, evolution took a different turn here. There were only plants, no animal life forms at all. This plant life grew and nurtured, absorbing the light from the brilliant sun, making sugar from the volcanic carbon dioxide. And then — oh lucky mutant, valiant sport of nature, cunning spore — the first strain of yeast appeared. Soon the oceans were bubbling with planetwide fermentation. A lovely brew of alcoholic soup came into being. What an ocean!

  It would be difficult to explain to a layman the process by which the volcanoes and rock strata combined in a natural form of distillation. But combine they did — and Barworld was born!

  Not only that, but parallel evolution on the other planets produced equally exciting results. For example, there was Scotchworld, and Ginworld and Vodkaworld.... This freak accident of Nature was viewed as a godsend to the colonists who discovered the only inhabitable world in the system and promptly built bars to service the thirsty travelers of the universe. The Barworlder bosses "mined" the other planets by using genetically altered alien beings suited to the various atmospheres. They used these siphoned libations in the taverns of Barworld, or shipped them away as export products to other star systems. The label — a planet with a tap — on Barworld products had become famous galaxywide for quality. It was also prohibitively expensive, and Bill had only actually had a taste of Barworld's version of imitation Dingleberry wine ... but it had tasted great!

  And now, he was here!

  Utilizing a map downloaded from his earlobe memory bank, Bill and Elliot traveled along the streets, looking for their destination, avoiding crazed sportsmen and their wildly careening balls. Bill got distracted by an advertising flyer promising scantily clad blondes and vats of champagne, but Elliot suggested he save it for later, when he'd have more time. Finally, they found the place right where the map said it would be — once the mustard stain was removed.

  "This is it!" said Bill excitedly, pointing up at the old-fashioned sign dangling from a post by two chains. "Uncle Nancy's."

  Elliot looked up at it uncertainly, scratching his head. "What's that on the sign?"

  "Looks like a short-haired woman in a long dress," said Bill, not really interested. What Bill was interested in was wrapping both hands around one of the famous Barworld gallon-sized drinking glasses rumored to be used in such taverns. First some beer swilled and savored, then they could think about finding this Time Nexus and the Chingers and whatever the hell they were supposed to be doing. The important stuff, though, was the fabled dark stuff. Bill smacked his lips. The very thought made his salivary glands work overtime. His fangs were glistening and dripping.

  "Gee — no, Bill, I don't think that's what's on the sign. Actually, it looks like a man wearing a dress!"

  "Can't be," Bill said with moronic simplicity. "Men don't wear dresses." He nodded to himself with alcoholic satisfaction at his wit.

  There was an anteroom before the main bar, and a man's head poked out of what seemed to be a cloakroom. The cheerful sounds of masculine drinking and singing and swearing wafted through the old-fashioned oaken doors.

  Beside himself with excitement, Bill grabbed hold of a door handle.

  "Hey, bub," growled a bass voice from the cloak room. "Where da hell do ya thinks youse guys are goin', dressed like that?"

  "Gee," said Elliot brightly. "Why, we're going into the bar and have a nice cold beer!"

  "We got money!" said Bill, already tasting the future. "Don't worry."

  "Dat's okay, bub. I knows ya do. But cha can't go in there with dose duds on. 'Gainst house dress rules. C'mere, and maybe I can help you out."

  As Bill's eyes adjusted to the dim light, he was astounded to see that the guy leaning over the top of the half-door — a beefy bozo with crewcut hair and a cigar sticking out of the side of a scarred and ugly face any Trooper DI would be proud to wear (and usually did) — was wearing a low-cut magenta chiffon ballroom dress, dark thick chest hair spilling indelicately over the bodice.

  "Pretty nice, huh?" said the man proudly, seeing that Bill was ogling his threads. "I got it on sale at Bloomers!"

  "Gee — yeah!" said Elliot. "Real nice! But what's wrong with what we've got on now?"

  "Nothin'. You just ain't wearing it inside Uncle Nancy's. You want to drink at Uncle Nancy's Cross-Dressing Emporium, you gotta wear a nice dress. House rules. Love it or shove it. Youse got a problem with that?"

  Bill was aghast. "No way am I going to put on a woman's dress! Not for nothing or for nobody!" But then, even as he spoke, the seductive smell of brewed hops wafted through the door cracks.

  "Actually, Bill, it's really rather becoming. Quite fetching in fact."

  "Shut up," Bill suggested.

  "No, really and truly. You look good in green. And the material's clearly top quality, and I like the cut. Maybe the Troopers should think about using ballroom frocks for formal occasions."

  "What, like formal latrine cleaning? Formal KP? I'm beginning not to like this."

  Bill was feeling quite uncomfortable. He'd practically lived in his Trooper jumpsuit, sleeping in it, even taking baths in it. Now that he was out of it and into the long green dinner dress, he felt strange. It was strange having turgid bar air moving up his hairy legs, to his Trooper BVDs. He felt positively naked. Thank heavens the joker in the cloakroom had let them keep their weapons. ("No problem with the guns, buster. Man's gotta have his gun. But your pants gotta stay here with me.")

  Elliot wore a cute silver lamé costume with a plunging neckline and no back, with a broad black belt and black pumps to match. Elliot was all smiles, seeming to actually be enjoying himself, though he did seem to have a little trouble navigating in the pumps. Bill was just grateful the guy with the cigar let him keep his Trooper boots ("Just as long as the dress is floor-length, Mack, we don't care what kind of canal boats you got on your feet.")

  Uncle Nancy's Cross-Dressing Bar itself was everything that Bill dreamed it would be. It was all wood and decorated mirrors, with paintings of nude women on the walls. Low lights. A fireplace. Well-padded furniture. Nice red rug. And the bar stretched forever, a gorgeous mahogany wonder with sleek feminine lines, polished to a high gloss. The back shelves were packed with bottles of spirits. And there was a bewildering array of taps, all differently shaped and colored: beer and ale, pulque and cider! All clothe
d in the soft alcoholic glow, the scent of many pleasantly imbibed brews and briefly bolted shots.

  In short, it was Bill's idea of heaven.

  The strange thing, of course, was that it was filled with men wearing dresses. Culottes and miniskirts and long flowing dresses. Different colors and shapes and sizes of dresses from different historical eras. The men in the dresses, despite how odd they looked, behaved much as men in lumberjack outfits or military outfits or civilian outfits might. They were talking and laughing and slapping each other on the back, all in good macho spirit and convivial ranges of drunkenness as they downed their drinks. For Bill, though, it was awfully difficult to ignore the fact that they all wore dresses. It was even more difficult for Bill to ignore the fact that he wore a dress.

  A couple of empty bar stools sang their siren song. Bill gestured toward them. "Glrrk. I really need a drink now."

  "Gee, sure Bill!" said Elliot. "On me!"

  They sat by a guy in a nice gingham getup, who said nothing.

  "Now, run this by me again, Bill," said Elliot. This is supposed to be the place where the Time Distortion Nexus is?"

  "That's right," said Bill. "I'll consult the computer AI again on the details. And we'll figure what we have to do then. But right now, mind if we just have a few drinks, shoot the breeze with the locals and get the lay of the land, so, to speak?"

  "Gee — sure Bill. I do confess that I could use a bit of a libation myself. That shuttle down was a little hard even for a guy who's used to Gs!"

  They settled down onto the comfortable stools and leaned against the bar. Bill savored the glossy texture of the bar. Yes, a guy could get lost here. Especially with the aid of one of these tankards of drink. For sure enough, all of the men were drinking out of Brobdignagian beer steins, their faces and noses pleasantly coated with beer foam.

  Eagerly, Bill held up a finger for service.

  A bartender instantly appeared to take their order. "And how can I be of service to you gentlemen?"

  Bill opened his mouth to order, but nothing came out. He realized that he was so excited about getting a drink of genuine Barworld booze that he was absolutely flummoxed about what brand to order first. There were absolutely so many to choose from.

  "Ahh ... Ahhh ... Ahhhh..."

  The bartender was round-face, red-nosed, round-bellied as well — with a beard and tresses and a beautiful red dress with flounces. His entire aspect gleamed with conviviality. "Ah yes. A first-timer. This happens often." He turned to Elliot. "I assume this is your friend's first time on Barworld."

  "How did you know?" said Elliot.

  "First-Timer's Syndrome. Common problem. Now then, what do you think your friend would like — and by the way, those dresses you're wearing look absolutely smashing." The bartender cast a glance back at the panoply of available potables. "Hmmm. What have we got here? How about some nice wine, straight from the vats of Vinworld, newly stomped by Feet Critters and then fermented in Uncle Nancy's own special casks?"

  "Ergghh," said Bill, shaking his head no adamantly. "Ergghhh!"

  "Ah! Perhaps some of our spirits! We've a very nice price on Bourbon today, so smoothly sweet that it bring tears of pure pleasure!"

  "Gee — no," said Elliot. "I think what my friend and I would really like are two of those mammoth glasses of draught beer.... But you have so many brands!"

  Bill nodded his head up and down, gasping. Almost choking on his own anticipatory saliva.

  "Oh dear, your friend has Drool Syndrome. A common phenomenon for all of us thirsty folk here on Barworld. Beer, then. Not ale, not cider..." The man glanced speculatively along the row of dozens of possibilities. "Bitter would you like? Or perhaps some cold lager."

  "I guess Bill would like something that tastes good. Working for the Emperor, we don't get much of that."

  "Ah! I know! Today's Second Best Bitter! Strange Old Blackheart!" The barkeep grabbed a couple of the huge glasses.

  "Er — Second Best? Why not the Best?"

  "Because, sadly, Old Very Strange and Peculier is all sold out, I'm afraid. But really, they're all excellent. Best Bitter is just a term hereabouts." He'd already started a tap, and dark foamy stuff was pouring out of spigots like nobody's business, quickly filling up the gallon glass. He started topping up the other one. "I'm sure this will hit your friend's spot." He hefted the large glass in front of Bill.

  Bill picked it up and drank. He drank and drank and drank, and when he had to pause for breath, only a small portion of the liquid was gone! He drank some more and then had to put the glass down and give himself a break from so much incredible pleasure.

  Gustatory orgasm!

  Oh sheaves of hops and wheat, pure tasty water, artificially blended and formulaically fermented to tickle the taste buds! Bill experienced waves of wistful visions, a warmth flowing through him like the kiss of an ever faithful lover. Ah, sublime bliss. This was the very breath of tasty poetry!

  Bill wiped his mouth on his sleeve and belched daintily.

  "Yow! That's incredible!" he gasped.

  "And so we observe the Satisfaction Syndrome," said the barkeep, putting Elliot's glass in front of him. Elliot tasted the stuff and agreed that it was truly wonderful.

  Bill's next impulse was to drink more, but something stopped him. After his eruction was satisfactorily completed, he was in such a convivial mood, he felt like communing with his fellow man! "I'm Bill. With two Ls. And this is my partner, Elliot! We're tourists!"

  "Gee — that's right. Tourists!" said Elliot.

  "Well, glad to meet you, Bill and Elliot!" said the barkeep. "I'm Uncle Nancy."

  "Uncle Nancy. Gee — the owner?"

  "That's right," said Uncle Nancy, obviously pleased with himself. "None other."

  "So tell me, Uncle Nancy. Give me the scoop, huh?" Bill looked around, grinning, at the crowd. "How come all the men here have to wear dresses?"

  "You'll understand fully when you're dead drunk and in a dress, Bill!" said Uncle Nancy, grinning. "Now then, maybe I'd better see to some other customers!"

  "Gee — excuse me, Mr. Uncle Nancy," said Elliot. "But aren't those books along those shelves up there?" He was looking up and Bill followed his gaze. Sure enough, in the dark recesses of the overhanging ceiling, a long row of books hung. Alongside this was a placard with a Latin inscription:

  Veni, bibi, transvestivi.

  "They certainly are!" said Uncle Nancy, his grin getting broader.

  "What's the Latin inscription?" asked Elliot.

  "'I came, I drank, I dressed cross-sex!'" replied Uncle Nancy.

  "Gee, Mr. Uncle Nancy," said Elliot. "All these books ... are you a Commupop?"

  Suddenly the roar of conversation died to total silence. All heads swiveled Elliot's way. Jaws tensed. Muscles bulked. Knuckle sandwiches were formed.

  "Hell no!" said Uncle Nancy. "But that doesn't mean that a virile man can't read, does, it?"

  "Gee — it depends —" Elliot started. But Bill clamped his hand over his mouth.

  "What my friend means to say is that he's happy to see that you've got so many terrific-looking books."

  The tension broken, people went back to their conversation.

  Bill breathed an inward sigh of relief. He personally had nothing against books. He just preferred comix, that was all. He had always been a live-and-let-live kind of guy, this attitude forced upon him by the imperative logic that he liked to live as well. So he personally had nothing against works of literature. And, anyway, he never did learn to read very well. No college degrees down on the farm! Forget books — he was on Barworld! Bring on the Chingers!

  "Yeah — glad you like 'em!" said Uncle Nancy. He pointed to another large shelf of leather-bound books above the liquor bottles running the full length of the bar. "That's my personal collection of the classics. Let me show you how nicely put together these rare volumes are. Some of them are said to date back to Earth itself. Which of course can't be possible but is nice to think about."

 
With great reverence and care he selected one of the books and placed it before Bill and Elliot. Soft vellum. Gilt edged. Black and red. A thing of beauty indeed. Even Bill was impressed.

  "DAVID COPPERFIELD, by Charles Dickens," Bill read. "Is that about mining?"

  "No! It's one of the classics, Bill!" said Uncle Nancy. "A wonderful book about a coming of age in the early Victorian era."

  "It stinks!" said a surly, whiny voice behind Bill. "It's a piece of garbage." Bill looked around and was startled to see behind him the hippie from Hellworld who had tried to fry him!

  CHAPTER 6

  No, it wasn't.

  Actually, the guy just looked like the hippie from Hellworld who had taken a shot at Bill and had incinerated Elliot's arm. Although he wore the same long hair, headband, and bell bottoms, he was a good deal taller and huskier, pimplier and grayer.

  And of course, over all this, the repulsive joker was wearing a dress — a very unattractive flower-print muu-muu, actually.

  "It sucks," said the man adamantly. There was a wild gleam of anarchy in his eye.

  "I thought I told you hippies I didn't want to see you around my place," said Uncle Nancy.

  "Gee — I don't know, it sure looks like a real good book," Elliot ameliorated. "What kind of books do you prefer?"

  The guy ground his teeth and snorted. He smelled of Kona gold and psychedelic tea. His breath, other than possessing a case of terminal halitosis, was redolent with macroantibiotic food. "I like..." he said the words with a fierce defiance. "Horny-Porny!"

  "Well, yeah," said Bill, taking an agreeable swig of beer. "I like horn-po too!"

  Without warning, the guy grabbed Bill by the front of his dress. "Don't call it that, man! It's not ho-po or horn-poo or any of those prole acronyms, hear? It's just good old down country horny-porny!"

  "Gee, Mister!" said Elliot. "No need to take offense!"

  Normally, Bill would have just belted the guy and started up a nice, proper barroom brawl. However, Bill felt uncomfortable with the idea of fighting in a dress — it wasn't ladylike. And the dress might get torn. "Sorry, old buddy. Didn't mean nothing. Buy you a drink?"