There Goes the Galaxy

by Jenn Thorson

  (Pa-tinka!)

  Something bounced near Bertram’s feet and struck him hard in the ankle. Bertram bent to see the offending object but it took only a quick glance to see the object did not offend.

  In some respects, the thing even had a lot going for it. Because there, between Bertram Ludlow’s sore, socked feet, lay a well-worn, 16-sided coin. He had no idea what planet it was from, but it sat there waiting like a weary traveler in the Terminal light. He scooped it up.

  Now Bertram scanned the crowd for its owner. The lady with the larvae in the rocket carriage maybe? Those kachunkettball players sauntering by? The floppy-eared dude in the overcoat waiting by the restrooms? The purple kid stuffing a snack cake into his face?

  Bertram studied them all and returned his gaze to the coin now in his sweating palm. Lifeforms across the GCU lost change all the time, the unerring result of butter-appendages and gravity, plus a highly inconsistent monetary structure. But the 16-sized coin that pa-tinka-ed its course straight to him hadn’t quite sounded like a coin dropped and lost. It had sounded like a coin on a mission.

  By now the GME machine had grown impatient. “Would you like to try to convert again? Press 1 for ‘yes.’ Or press 2 to conclude this trans—” Bertram hit “1,” and slapped the tiny coin on the tray. It couldn’t be much. It couldn’t be anything. But it was hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could convert it into something he could be sure Farthest Reaches would accept.

  The machine drew in the tray. The machine hummed. Bertram heard an encouraging clinking noise.

  “Please select a currency to which you would like your money converted.” A numbered list of planets ran down the computer terminal. Bertram chose the code for Hyphiz Delta.

  “Incorrect input,” said the machine. “This unit is unable to dispense currency in negative denominations. Please select the currency of a less thriving economy.”

  Bertram rested his forehead on the machine. It felt warm and a little sticky.

  Over the PA system came, “The Corral to Ottofram will arrive at Gate Stop 149 in ten Universal minutes. The Corral to Marglenia will arrive at Gate Stop 198 in 20 Universal minutes. And for the passenger who has yet to claim the head of their Non-Organic Simulant, your item says it feels deeply betrayed. Please come pick up your Simulant at your soonest convenience. Thank you.”

  Ten minutes, Bertram thought. Ten minutes.

  Meanwhile, the machine asked, “Do you wish to attempt conversion into a different form of currency? Press 1 for ‘yes,’ press 2 for ‘no,’ press 3 for—”

  Bertram pressed “1”.

  “Please select a currency to which you would like your money converted.” The numbered list ran by again. Bertram selected Ottofram.

  “Incorrect input,” the machine told him pleasantly. “This unit is unable to dispense currency in negative denominations.”

  Bertram kicked the machine.

  “Incorrect input method,” said the machine. “This unit is unwilling to dispense currency while under duress. Press 1 to reevaluate your attitude. Press 2 to attempt conversion into another form of—”

  Bertram punched “2” and selected a planet at random. “One moment, please,” said the machine.

  “The Corral to Ottofram will arrive at Gate Stop 149 in five Universal minutes. The Corral to Marglenia will arrive at Gate Stop 198 in ten Universal minutes. And for the passenger missing the head of their Non-Organic Simulant, your item has gone to Lost and Found along with one of our Abandonment Counselors. Please pick it up there. Thank you.”

  Five minutes now. Bertram’s hands quivered uncontrollably. He refused to miss this Corral.

  Plink.

  The sound was over the rumble and groan of the machine. Bertram looked down and saw a coin at his feet, a small silvery coin this time, bearing the two profiles of the Empress of the Dootett star system. She reminded him of Xylith.

  Then plink. Plink. Plink, plink, plink. Coinage rained out of the GME machine like a jackpot on the nickel slots. Frantically, Bertram stripped off the flannel shirt under his holowatch disguise. He tied it into a makeshift bag to catch the coinage spilling from the spout, then scrambled under legs and across the Terminal floor in chase of his rolling, errant currency.

  “The Corral to Ottofram has arrived at Gate Stop 149. Linkage with the Primary Corral will occur in one Universal minute.”

  Heart lurching in his chest, Bertram tossed the last of his gathered money into the bundled shirt and sprinted to the Ticket desk, dodging and weaving around passengers all the way. A family of four slug-looking people were just leaving Natelle’s desk, when Bertram cut to the front of the line amid protest, and tossed the money-filled shirt before Natelle with a solid thwack. “Here,” he huffed. “Here it is. I made it. I got Dootett currency. Now give me my ticket.”

  Natelle brushed back long synthetic hair and eyed the shirt.

  “Don’t tell me,” Bertram gasped, leaning on the counter, “you don’t accept Dootett currency now.”

  “We accept Dootett currency, ma’am,” she said.

  “Great!”

  “I just need to count it.”

  “The Secondary Corral for Ottofram is prepared for linkage … Linkage successful. Prepare the Corrals to Ottofram for boarding.”

  “Oh my God,” Bertram moaned over the bulging shirt of money, sinking against the counter and onto the floor. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

  Bertram managed to get himself into a kneeling position and peered over the counter. And that’s when he saw that counting, for Natelle, was really just the work of a second. The ability to count objects almost instantly is one of the things that made Non-Organic Simulants so effective as money-handlers.

  It’s what also automatically disqualified them from all “Guess How Many Candies There Are in the Jar” games at fundraisers.

  “You’re missing feeg burfkins here,” Natelle said. At Bertram’s blank look, she explained, “About 0.00752 of a yoonie. I’m so sorry.” Smiling, she stretched gracefully to feed Bertram’s unneeded ticket into a passing refuse robot. “Next, please.”

  It was as the refuse robot sensed Natelle’s smooth synthetic hand approach, and it flipped its lid for her, that Grandma Ludlow and Bertram flipped their lids, too.

  Yes, after cancelled yoonie cards and disrespect for the mighty dollar … After snippy MAC machines and a roller coaster of conversion … After raining coinage and running, running, running … Grandma Ludlow and her grandson reached the joint decision that they had come entirely too far to miss the Corral to Ottofram by the breadth of a friggin’ feeg burfkin.

  So with catlike reflexes rarely displayed by the average retirement home resident, Grandma Ludlow snatched the pass from Natelle’s tapered polymer fingers before it ever hit the refuse robot, grabbed the flannel-shirt-sack of coins, and took off like greased lightning, jingling all the way.

  From all eye-witness accounts, that large-boned old lady could really move when she put her mind to it.

  “You there! Stop that! You know it’s prohibited!”

  The robe-clad, pamphlet-pushing Popeelie sung contentedly to himself and was just about to fire up his Official Light of Popeelhonoromous® pipe in Transcendental Mint, when a Farthest Reaches Safety Simulant caught him in the act.

  The Simulant, a stern android, his hair designed to be lightly receding for a more natural look, pointed at one of 40 signs posted just within eyeshot:

  Igniting combustible objects for oral pleasure

  in the Main Terminal is strictly prohibited.

  Please use one of the Designated Smoking Bubbles

  for all personal conflagration and respiratory enjoyment.

  —Farthest Reaches thanks you!

  Rolling his eyes, because these sorts of things just didn’t happen back at the Popeelie compound, the young Popeelie slumped off into a designated Smoking Bubble outside Gate Stop 149 to Ottofram, pipe in hand and his hoverboard tucked under an arm.

  At that moment, Bertram Ludlow dressed
as, well, Bertram Ludlow stepped into the tiny private room right behind the young life-form and closed the door, tight.

  “Hey!” The cult member turned a hooded head to the Earthman, tassels quivering nervously from his sleeves.

  Bertram knew he probably cut a startling image. His normally organized hair now wild, he was flush-faced from running, unshaven, and wearing a very wrinkled flannel shirt. What was left of his white socks was dark gray. In his hand, he held a used and somewhat smelly fast-food bag filled with Dootett coins.

  “This Bubble’s occupied, friend,” the Popeelie managed.

  “I want you to know,” Bertram’s voice was urgent, “I’m not going to let it be the end of Life As We Know It.”

  “Oh.” Concern washed from the Popeelie’s face now and he pulled a book capsule out of his colorful hooded robes. “Well, in His best-seller, How to Build a Blissful Afterlife While Making Big Dosh in This One, the Munificent Popeelhonoromous reveals that—”

  The time for revelations had passed. Bertram set down his bag of coins, grabbed the hoverboard from under the arm of the shocked Popeelie, swung it hard, and discovered he still had a pretty wicked backhand.

  That was all he really needed.

  In a few moments, a newly robed Popeelie emerged from the Designated Smoking Bubble. One a little shorter, carrying a bulging bag from Entropy Burger, the satchel of electronic Popeelie brochures, and a slightly bent hoverboard.

  Sure, some might have said this Popeelie moved furtively, for a person of the devout religious persuasion. But most would have been focusing on his incredibly comfortable-looking Popeelie hand-made sandals. Due to a popular MetamorfaSys Inc. informercial campaign, those sandals were the hottest item in the GCU since Translachew came out in a limited-time-only Smorg flavor.

  Now, this Popeelie marched those soft, functional sandals down the Gate Stop 149 ramp to the Secondary Corral entrance, just as the final call for passengers broadcast over the PA. He stepped past a tangle of Farthest Reaches Safety Simulants sweeping the area for a plus-sized, three-eyed old woman with a plaid bag, who’d just stolen a boarding pass for this very Corral.

  Popeelies—unlike ticket thieves—were a burfkin-a-dozen on Farthest Reaches public transport. Heading from here to there, there to here, spreading the good word about the Munificient Popeelhonoromous … Yes, from A’tau to Zarquahr, you’d find Popeelies journeying, singing, and selling their wares.

  This particular Popeelie had a date on Ottofram. And it looked like he was going to make it after all.

  Excerpt from:

  How To Gain Pals and Sway Life-forms in Cosmic Commerce

  Chapter Thirteen

  With permission from the

  Eddisun Center for Ideas, Interceptive Marketing and Cliché Prevention

  Sects, Plugs and Music: In Tune with Popeelie Marketing

  Overview

  While Musca Mij and the creative team at MetamorfaSys Inc. turned the GCU’s awareness up a few hundred decibels on Popeelie products, the Popeelie people themselves wrote the basic tune. It was a melody that would eventually help them transition from a local three-person quartet with a vision for [REMOVED DUE TO PENDING LAWSUIT: POPEELIES VERSUS EDDISUN CENTER], to a mega-manufacturer with chart-topping existential hits. Theirs is a song of fun in fundraising … Of merchandise with mass appeal beyond Popeelie Mass … Of the kind of persistence that doesn’t just knock at the door, it kicks it in and chases you around the room holding e-brochures. It’s that infotainment jingle you only get out of your head with a table knife through the ear. It’s the haunting song that pours from your sound system with a cleverly-added backbeat that’s just right for date night. It’s the idea that welcomes you with one hand and relieves you of your yoonie cards with the other.

  In this chapter, we will examine Popeelie marketing on the grassroots level, and discuss how individual Popeelies have become the minstrels of the GCU, spreading their unique blend of sects, plugs and music to the cosmos’ darkest corners

  Tuning Up the Three-Person Quartet

  Popeelie history states the sect’s legacy began when, one cold evening, a bored, all-powerful deity called “The Munificent Popeelhonoromous,” imparted wisdom to a young mootaab rancher, Chawtu Champs. The Great Popeelie Book of Knowing Stuff describes the scene as follows:

  And thus, the divine prophet Chawtu Champs did sing to his mootaabs, in a fine clear voice of both high and low, that did resonate hither and yon, taking a bit of a right turn at yon, and then going north in a straight shot with a short rest stop at Calderia, until eventually it made it to the Red Star of Gajitania, where the Munificent Popeelhonoromous did rest, having had a late night.

  And hearing this beautiful music way up in his Gajitanian palace, where his magic lyre did need restringing and his Uninet service did go spotty, the Munificent Popeelhonoromous came down to the field on the planet Shlemmar, and possessed one of Champs’ prized mootaabs in order to share words of appreciation.

  And the mighty god did say, “Hey there! I really dig your sound, rancher man.”

  And Champs, he did an eyebrow raise, for the mootaabs before this had not so vocal been. And said him to the livestock, “Thanks, mootaab. I didn’t know you spoke the lingo.”

  “Ah,” said the mootaab, “I’m actually your god, the Munificient Popeelhonoromous come to hang for a while in the guise of yon tasty, fiber-bearing creature. But rancher man, you look kinda cold. What gives?”

  And lo, Popeelhonoromous’ omniscience was proven, for the mootaab rancher did indeed shiver, having forgotten his cloak back at yonder pub.

  And with pity for the shivering rancher, the Munificent Popeelhonoromous did say, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a cloak so well-packaged and compact, that you could take it with you wherever you go, without burden, and in its convenience, not leave it pub-ward? Yea,” he proclaimed, “Let there be Cloak-in-a-Can®!”

  That is the tale embraced by Popeelies GCU-wide. Interestingly, according to online promotional bills and e-news reviews, before the Popeelies ever became a religious organization, Chawtu Champs, his sister Metonee Champs, and friend Tenurbas Staf were actually [CONTENT REMOVED DUE TO PENDING LAWSUIT: POPEELIES VERSUS EDDISUN CENTER. The Popeelies (heretofore known as the “Stellar Plaintiff”) assert that this document has been created specifically to defame, besmirch, belittle, mock, tweak, take the piss out of and otherwise silence the true word of the Munificent Popeelhonoromous (heretofore known as “M.P.”) by the Eddisun Center for Ideas, Interceptive Marketing and Cliché Prevention (heretofore known as the “Slaggard Defendant”) through lies, muck-raking, unnecessary logic, and poking around in the back of filing cabinets. This content has therefore been removed until POPEELIES VS. EDDISUN CENTER completes trial, or Slaggard Defendant repeals statements and offers acceptable monetary compensation in accordance with the Takebacksies Supplications 1542/b.] [END OF REMOVED CONTENT]

  Robed and Ready

  Suddenly, Champs had an entire repertoire of Popeelhonoromous’ wisdom penned into three-minute songs, each with a strong hook. Combined with Chawtu’s distinctive Soprano-Bass voice, this formed the signature sound for the god’s followers, which soon became known as “Popeelies.” Open jamborees drew crowds, and sold merchandise at the events, along much the same principles that cause people on vacation to purchase statues of animals covered in shells, windchimes made of eating utensils, or large yard statuary that will not fit in their luggage. The eye-catching tie-dye tasseled robes the band wore caught on due to their comfort and skill at hiding a planetary ring or two around the middle. Soon Cloak-in-a-Can was sold at every event. (Heeeeeerrrrre’s Popeelhonoromous! Chawtu Champs. RP: 59)

  Building on the incredible success of Cloak-in-a-Can sales, The Great Popeelie Book of Knowing Stuff relays, Champs soon turned to Popeelhonoromous for other innovative merchandising ideas:

  And the god did ponder on the young man’s question, and chomp dry straw in thought. And after a long moment, he did smile, and the clouds
did part and the sun thus shone. And he did say, “You know what would be cool? You know when a jamboree just breaks out and you don’t have a pulpit with you, but you need to speak to the masses? Go forth and make a compact pulpit you can take with you everywhere. That’d be real neat.”

  And lo, the prophet Champs did go to the great men who understood the forces of nature, and materials science, and nifty product design, and he did say, “Make me a pulpit to fit within a space so tiny and portable, that it does go ‘boing.’”

  And yea, the Pocket Pulpit gave Popeelhonoromous’ word great dignity to all who popped one open in his worship, or who used it for business meetings, in his spiffiness.

  Today, Popeelie concerts and merchandise draw new recruits and new funding to the religion. With their main base on Shlemmar, Popeelies travel via mass transit to every corner of the GCU, telling life-forms about the joys of Popeelhonoromous, and selling an ever-expanding product line. A deal with MetamorfaSys Inc. has led to the group’s greater notoriety through infotainment. And additions to the gift and gadget line now include Jerky Divine®, a sacramental snack food, and AirChamps®, the supple mootaab-skin sandal worn by all Popeelies. Reports indicate that Stella Cygnus has already bought three pairs of AirChamps, and the shoes are becoming so popular, even the prince of Calderia was told his were on backorder.

  While, sadly, Chawtu Champs died several years ago in a freak meteor shower accident, his grand legacy lives on in the songs, and the sales, of Popeelie goods.

  The Popeelies’ Greatest Marketing Hits

  So what can you learn from studying the Popeelie business score? Consider these noteworthy measures: