On the Planet of Tasteless Pleasures

by Harry Harrison

  Bill chased the chalky medicine with a glass of foul-tasting water and went back to bed. He dozed intermittently, but as rosy-fingered dawn fingered the window sill while pain fingered his frontal lobes he was still feeling relatively sleepless. His headache had abated somewhat, but his mood foot felt weird. It was all tingly, like it was just waking out of leg-sleep. Maybe, he thought, he should go to see Dr. Delazny about this immediately. It felt like Tinkerbell had just jammed her wand up his cloven hoof, and all kinds of aerie fairie nonsense was happening inside!

  Bill put on his torn, five-ply paper robe and moaned his way out of the ward, hoping to wake up the four doped-to-the-gills Troopers he shared it with. No such luck. The sick bowbs were sleeping, if not the sleep of the innocent, then at least the sleep of the narcoleptic.

  He went down to the Doc's office, in the basement, conveniently situated by the bar and the morgue (many of Doctor Delazny's patients were victims of the dreaded Pedosphincter Rot, a wildly metastasizing mutant xenocancer killing Troopers by the platoon, whose distant ancestor was athlete's foot, and that struck the nether regions of the human body. Hence his dual specialty. And also hence his proximity to the morgue.) By now Bill's foot felt as though sparklers were pixilating in his heel!

  As the lift banged to an abrupt halt on Level Zero and the doors wheezed open, Bill thought he caught a sight of Doctor Delazny's balding dome disappearing into the laundry room, followed by the flapping tails of his lab coat.

  What was he in such a hurry for?

  And why was he running into the laundry room?

  "Hey Doc!" he cried, limping along, cringing with the odd sensations that kept shooting up his leg. "Wait up! I got to talk to you!"

  He pushed open the swinging doors marked "Laundry." The room was lined with shelves of linens, amongst which scurried ratfinks — native rodent-like creatures who swarmed the Trooper installations and appeared to feed on linoleum wax and toenail parings. In the middle of the room, a laundry chute depended from the ceiling, beneath which a small basket of soiled towels, garments and sheets breathed up stale human body odors.

  "Doc! Doc Delazny?" Bill stepped in, looking around. A pair of filthy trousers zoomed down the chute and landed atop his head. He snarled and threw it at a dump of copulating ratfinks, who proceeded to devour it.

  No sign of the Doctor. But Bill could have sworn —

  Oh well. Bill left and checked Doc Delazny's examination room. Nobody.

  A bright orange and blue neon sign blasted out the letters HOSPITAL BAR just as brightly as ever, but the door was locked. It was closed. It didn't open till 0630 hours. The authorities here were vaguely considering keeping a 24-hour bartender, but hadn't got around to it yet. The morgue was deserted — except of course for the dead people. There was only one other room that Doctor Delazny could have gone down here, though Bill was loath to venture there. It was a gilt door set with fake diamonds and labeled proudly "Heroes' Haven — Only the Best Damn Troopers in the Galaxy Enter Here." He cringed back, the last thing he wanted to do was go in here. But his foot needed attention, so he opened the door.

  The Heroes' Haven was also called The Last Chance Saloon and never referred to by its real name, the speaking of which brought bad luck. The Terminal Ward. The perfume projector inside could not quite conceal the taint of living decomposition, the muted Muzak was penetrated by the gurgled groans of the dying, the soft monotone squeals of telltale machines announcing the deaths of their hook-ups during the evening. Bill looked wildly in all directions but there was no sign of Doctor Delazny!

  "Bowb and damn!" Bill snarled, wheeling around to get the hell out of here. In mid-wheel, however, he spotted something that caught him up short, gave him pause.

  It was a shelf of lozenge-books! And they looked whole! Unstripped! Bill was very bored, and he could use a whole book to read. The doomed at the hospital must get special privileges, he thought. Of course the irony was they'd never finish reading the books anyway.

  He examined the titles. E-I-E-I-O! by Greg Bore. PLANET OF THE ALIEN TRANSVESTITE PANTY RAIDERS Vol. VI. THE WELL OF GENITALS by Jerk el Upchucker. NIGHT OF THE LIVING CHINGERS by Stephen Thing. Boy! Classics!

  Still, he couldn't take more than one, so Bill selected a shining lozenge labeled BLEEDER'S DIGEST. This contained ten condensed books especially prepared for the consumption of people who didn't have very long to live.

  Good enough! This should keep him going for awhile, thought Bill as a death rattle in a nearby throat spurred him on his away.

  Of course, he'd boil the damned thing first this time. His nose twanged in response for his nose knew another nose nosed ahead by a nose.

  But if Bill had been nosier he would have noticed the alien electronic eyeball at the end of its periscope, scrutinizing his activities and transmitting them to tiny reptilian eyeballs, deep below the hospital.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE HAZARDS OF BEACHCOMBING

  What a wonderfully mediocre day to be half-alive, thought Bill.

  Tiny waves surged idly up the dun-colored beach. A greenish-orange sun sat over the horizon like a bloated and festering fruit. A bank of leaden clouds was slowly drawing across the sky, thankfully shuttering out the sickly light with torn, damp gray veils. The smell of rotting fish assaulted Bill's already tortured nose as he walked along the deathly still sea. He sneezed hugely and wiped his nostrils with the back of his hand. His morale slumped to rock bottom and remained heavily there.

  Ah, yes! What a wonderful place for R and R, thought Bill. Permission had been reluctantly granted to him to go out for a morning stroll. Get some fresh air. Ha! What a bowby joke! He half-wished they'd shipped him to Dental School World. At least they had nitrous oxide dispensers on every corner there, guaranteeing a lift and quick high whenever you needed it. Which, of course, was all the time.

  Still, a Trooper took what he could get, cursing and complaining the entire time. The bar was still closed, all of his own booze long drunk and he couldn't find Dr. Delazny. In desperation he figured maybe a little exercise might do him good before he settled down with a newly steamed-and-cooled BLEEDER'S DIGEST.

  Bill had taken off his shoes to walk on the beach. He turned back and contemplated the tracks he'd left in the sand, being sluggishly lapped at by the now snotgreen sea. A regular human foot, along with a good-sized cloven hoof! Wouldn't an exploring xenobiologist get a wrinkled brow and excited jollies over that!

  Perhaps a little wade would cool his tootsies. He took a flat rock and skipped it over the surface of the water. A fish hurtled up out of the sea, roaring angrily, caught it in a great gaping mouth, and flopped back into the water, leaving the flash of sharp gleaming fangs on Bill's retina.

  Bill stopped. Oh well. He didn't really feel like swimming anyway. He was a simple man, with simple needs and even simpler pleasures. All of them involving the opposite sex. Or food. Or drink. Or dope. Or, preferably all of them at the same time. Or best of all out of the Troopers — but that would never be. Unfortunately, walking along the beach barefoot, contemplating this good ole quixotic Motherbowber Nature, did not involve any of these. He sighed mightily, sneezed explosively, then went back to get his shoes, and head back for the hospital, where surely the bar would be open and he could make his simpler pleasures even simpler.

  Walking back, he got a good view of the water — and the dehydrator plant past the hospital, belching forth great black greasy gobs of smoke. What was in this seawater anyway? Bill wondered absently. Some godawful gunge, no doubt. He went up a little closer to inspect the dark stuff.

  It looked a little like treacly black beer, or the infamous Von Guinness Stout from the green sun-bathed shores of Paddy's Planet, thought Bill. There was even a tan foam that flecked the wavelets. This made Bill even thirstier for some good brew. Not that the hospital served anything near as good as Von Guinness. Bill strongly suspected that the stuff on tap was closer to the blendered contents of the cloacus magnus spiked with formaldehyde. But it got him dru
nk enough, and his accepted practice was never to question an alcoholic drink too strongly.

  He was just about to pull back from the edge of the sea, when about five yards out, a foamy eruption of water geysered up. The spray splattered back down, but the subject that had caused it remained, dark and dripping.

  "Hi, big feller!"

  For several moments, elation filled Bill. Standing in the water was a naked woman, her high-nippled breasts rising triumphantly and expansively in the air, her oval and beautiful face animated by an expression of rampant sensuousness.

  By the Sacred Spirit of great Ahura Mazda, thought Bill hopefully. I'm going to be sexually attacked!

  She began to walk toward him, rising up out of the foam — and the few precious moments of elation ended. From the waist down, the woman's flanks were covered by thick, goatish hair, the same dark brown as the mane of long wet stuff dripping down her aquiline features. When she walked up to the beach, Bill saw that the legs narrowed to two cloven hooves very much like his own, but much more petite.

  "Hello," said Bill. "Glad to make your acquaintance, if even so briefly but, well, I gotta be going. I have an appointment to get a shot for a real virulent case of an unspeakable disease that I dare not speak about!" He stumbled backward, but his foot (the moody one, natch) chose a particularly soft batch of sand to step upon, and he lost his balance and fell.

  The goat-lady continued walking toward Bill undeterred, licking her lips in a most lascivious manner. This close she looked like a walking gynecological close-up from GALACTIC HUSTLERHOUSE MAGAZINE.

  "You're kind of ugly," she husked in a husky voice. "But you've got an okay bod — and just one heck of a nice foot!"

  Bill howled with horror and tried to get up and run away. With amazingly strong hands, the strange woman grabbed Bill's belt and hauled him back.

  "Really, ma'am — it's not my foot! I mean, if you really like it, take it!" Bill was only sorry that it was so firmly attached. Perhaps if it hadn't been, though, it would have been long gone by now.

  "Ah, c'mon, Trooper. Don't you want to play footsie with me?"

  Bill didn't. He just wanted to get away. Unfortunately, for all his hard-packed, well-trained muscle, the pretty but frightening goat-lady held him, unmoving in her grip. She seemed to have incredible power stashed somewhere in those slender arms, that well-proportioned back. She hauled Bill back to the sea, leaving behind two deep furrows where his scrabbling hands tried to find purchase in the sand.

  "Noooooooooooo!" said Bill. The "No" turned into wild screaming as the lukewarm, foul water folded over his legs.

  "Take a deep breath, big guy. I can tell you're already in over your head about me!"

  So saying, and cackling hoarsely with insane alien glee, the female satyr dragged the thrashing and splashing and yowling Bill down into the mysterious, murky sea.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE MYTHING LINK

  Glug, thought Bill.

  Glugity, bowby glug.

  He seemed to be drifting now in a deep dark bowl of licorice-flavored gelatin, the kind that Eager Beager used to scarf up so happily at Camp Leon Trotsky. Bill had always given that military nutcase his portion of dessert, as did many of the recruits. Not out of generosity — that wasn't the Troopers' way! — but only because it was completely inedible. Eager Beager didn't actually eat them all, only some. Most he used for boot polish.

  Down, down into the licorice gelatin went Bill.

  Glug, gurgle, and glack.

  His life flashed before his eyes.

  Since it hadn't been much of a life, though, he had to go into repeats, and then syndication.

  Finally, though, when the black stuff got immensely black and thick, and it looked like Bill was about to cash in his credits, he suddenly found himself floundering and squishing on dry land, spouting out water like a beached whale.

  Then, just as oxygen restored his heartily heaving lungs to full capacity, somebody turned out the lights, and he plunged yet again into total darkness.

  "Rosebud!" was Bill's last thought as he began to drown.

  Consciousness focused slowly, like a gently erotic cinematic fade-in.

  Bill awoke to birdsong. Sweet zephyrs danced over his hair, and he heard the tinkle of laughter, the gentle swirl of a gently plonking musical instrument. All these things were very nice, and Bill felt relaxed and calm. He could have just lain there for languid hours, but for the sweet acrid smell that suddenly wafted to his nostrils.

  Boing! went his eyelids as they sprang wide open.

  Wine!

  In Bill's top ten list of favorite libations containing CO2HO2O, wine was maybe number nine, with Sterno as number ten and good old brain-destroying grain alcohol with all its varied applications leading the pack. But then, when did a Trooper get to dally with fancy stuff like el vino? Bill had gotten drunk on dingleberry wine on Squat IV once in a particularly rancid cantina on leave from Latrine Attendant Qualifying Training, and the hangover the next day was a memory that still disturbed him when he was distressed. But this stuff he was smelling smelled real good, and hey! Alcohol was alcohol and the only time that Bill was uninterested in alcohol was when he had to drive a starship. (Footnote: Free Public Service Announcement from Galactic Troopers Against Drunk Driving.) But then, since Bill wasn't a starship pilot, had no intention of being one, and was frightened bowbless at the thought, he very seldom had to worry.

  His eyes rolled about. His stomach clutch engaged, then ground into gear. Saliva gushed into his mouth, drooling down and dripping off one of Deathwish Drang's fangs.

  "Hi there, you-all!" he croaked. "Anybody got something to drink here?"

  The sight that met his eyes, however, stopped all thoughts of gross guzzling.

  He lay sprawled in an olive grove, lightly kissed by gentle lightbeams radiating warmly from a stylized sun in the heavens. This same sky was bluer than a robin's egg in deep depression. In the distance mighty mountains reached skyward, while, just yards away, he discerned the tell-tale flora of a vineyard. He was lying on luxurious soft grass, even more cushiony than the Porta-lawns in the Officer's deck on Imperial battle cruisers. Flowers speckled the green with vibrant colors worthy of an Impressionist painter's most blobbily intense splatters.

  But it was not the overwhelming beauty of the scenery that surprised Bill most, but rather the festivities, the caprices capering about him. Scantily clad women giggled as they darted amongst the bushes. Horned furry satyrs frenetically pursued these young women — or lounged about, being fed grapes from glistening purple bunches. Philosophical types in toga-like folds of white cloth, wearing laurel leaves upon their aged brows, spouted metaphysical theory — while ogling young boys from the corner of their eyes — pausing in their orations only to grab the occasional passing ephebe buttock.

  And all of these merry-makers held huge jeweled goblets aswim with fragrant purple liquid, constantly being topped off by leafy dryads carrying pitchers of wine.

  By the eternal benevolence of Ahura Mazda in all his magnificence, though Bill really hadn't been to church lately, this was something! What an incredible party!

  "What a brave new world, that hast such creatures in it!" came a voice, sweet as Bill's favorite childhood cereal, CORNDOG CRUNCHIES, with an entire dog in every stick.

  "Huh?" he susurrated vibrantly. The words had come from behind him, and Bill swiveled his head.

  "Oh sweet prince!" the voice sounded again, as vibrant as a silver bell. "Never have I looked upon a visage so lovely. May I dare request humble permission to kiss an ivory fang!"

  Bill found himself staring into a set of the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen. These were sticking out of a face that would have launched a thousand starships! As well as a body that would have launched a thousand starship Troopers! All of this fascinating femaleness clothed in the barest minimum of silken gowns, the maximum of blonde hair and honey-soft skin!

  What a package of palpitating pulchritude!

  He
was about to hurl himself upon her, wrap her in the generosity of his embrace, rain kisses on those fulsome lips, and all the other bowb he read about in the romance magazines, when he was brought up short, suddenly remembering the circumstances from which he'd just arrived.

  "Where am I?" he said, with great and boring lack of imagination and/or intelligent response, sitting up. He was still clothed in his hospital jumpsuit, still in his bare feet, and one of those feet was still hairy, and, it must be mentioned, also sported a cloven foot. In his hand he still clutched the BLEEDER'S DIGEST lozenge. Absently, he slipped this into a pocket, and eyed his surroundings with beady and suspicious eyes.

  "Why, don't you know, darling?" said the fair young woman. "You are in the fabled Fields of Ozymandias. Not very far from the even more highly valued Fields of Elysium! Pray tell, good sir, what sort of fabulous mythic creature are you?"

  He looked back at the beautiful woman, and was immediately hypnotized and paralyzed by the radiant complexion, the pearly teeth, the immense breasts scarcely covered by the chintziest wisp of gauze. "I'm an Imperial Trooper Drill Instructor, Unskilled, Horny."

  "Hmm! Never heard of those; but then you must be from the Halls of Hades to possess such a visage of delight! You are, dare I say it, awfully handsome. Can I get you some wine, a large beaker let us say!"

  Does the Emperor sit on the throne?