by David Lubar
Nicholas’s attention was also pulled elsewhere, which wasn’t surprising. Every object in the room was like a tractor beam for attention, except one. Behind the desk, on a low stand, stood what looked to him like an enormous fish tank. It was empty of either occupants or water. A clear tube attached inside the upper right corner jutted above the rim, but stopped midway down. The bottom was lined with tiny switches. All four sides looked like they were past due for a good cleaning. A carpeted ramp ran from the floor to the top of the left side of the tank. Something moved near the base of the ramp.
“Ewww…” Nicholas said as he peeked around the desk and spotted what looked like the world’s largest sneeze, issued by a giant who had recently recovered from a bloody nose.
“Tapree of Aldeberan!” Clave said, continuing his fan-crazed tour of the busts.
Nicholas’s eyes were glued (though fortunately, not literally) to the sneeze, which had started oozing up the ramp. He tapped Clave on the shoulder. “What is that?”
Clave was still transfixed by the displays. Nicholas grabbed Clave’s head and rotated it toward the desk.
“Do you have any idea what that is?” Nicholas asked.
“Morglob Sputum,” Clave whispered, as if he barely believed such an encounter was possible. “He’s a talent agent. He represents all the biggest acts in the universe. I heard he had an estate in space that was so large it created a jump node. I’ve always thought that was just a rumor. But here we are.”
“And I think we’re about to find out why we’re here,” Henrietta said.
GETTING SOLD ON THE IDEA
Hyperjump Unlimited was dethroned from its spot as the largest company in the universe by Thinkerator Corporation, which itself expanded geometrically, thanks to the endless new markets discovered by means of hyperjumps.
Thinkerator Corporation also prospered because it provided a much more important service. Hyperjump Unlimited just helped you get to places you probably didn’t need to go. Thinkerator Corporation helped you get things you probably didn’t need, like cool toys that flew really fast, or Kenporian neckties. While there will always be people who want to go places, there will always be a lot more who want to own things.
Love of things, while not universal, is pretty close. That’s basic human nature, even when the consumer isn’t human, or natural.
And, yes, you can order a j-cube through a Thinkerator, but they’ve been known to explode. At least, that’s the best theory to explain the various craters that appeared on various civilized worlds at various times.
AN OFFER YOU SHOULDN’T REFUSE
One end of Morglob had reached the lip of the tank. He dripped down the side, pulling the rest of himself into the tank with the help of gravity and viscosity, making a sound that resembled a giant boot freeing itself from thick mud, or perhaps a giant, itself, throwing up in slow motion. Nicholas promised himself he’d never eat honey or maple syrup again. Or raspberry jam. He also wondered whether it was possible to go through the rest of his life without sneezing.
“Thank you for coming,” Morglob said, after he’d gotten his entire body into the tank, which was now filled to within an inch of the top. His words burbled through the tube, like the voice of someone speaking through a straw stuck in a milkshake.
Nicholas, who’d just added strawberry milkshakes to his list of foods he’d never want again, expected Clave to hurl an angry reply about tractor beams, but he seemed too starstruck to complain, or even to speak at all.
“We didn’t have much choice,” Nicholas said. “What do you want?”
“You,” Morglob said.
“Me?” Nicholas had a disturbing vision of his body being enveloped and digested by Morglob.
“You. You’ve got talent, kid. And a following. People are going wild about you. Your numbers are off the charts!” Morglob wriggled against some of the switches in the bottom of his tank. A dizzying series of graphs flashed through the air. “See, they love this whole Destroyer of Worlds thing. Especially with that innocent face of yours. That’s a killer combination, if you know what I mean. Don’t squander that. It’s a fickle universe. The enthusiasm could vanish in a second. Look what happened to what’s-his-name. See? I can’t even remember him. You could be the next one everybody can’t remember. But not if I’m in charge of your career. Let me manage you. I’ll make you bigger than you’ve ever dreamed.”
“I’ve never dreamed of being any size,” Nicholas said. In truth, after a disastrous experience in a supporting role as the bottom half of a giraffe in a fifth-grade production of “How the Leopard Got Its Spots,” he swore to stay as far away as possible from any type of public performance. “I just want to go home.”
“Perfect!” Morglob said. “World wrecker by day, homesick young man by night, staring at the stars and dreaming of his birth planet while he crushes entire galaxies. The press will eat it up. You’re a natural-born actor. That’s a great start. Can you sing? I’ve got a stranglehold on insectoid bands, but I don’t currently have an anthropoid singer under management.”
“Pretty much everyone tells me I sound like an accordion that’s been run over by a truck.” Nicholas figured it wouldn’t hurt to try to kill some of Morglob’s enthusiasm, especially since he was telling the truth about his lack of talent. Rumor has it he was at least partially responsible for the early retirement of the middle school’s music teacher.
“No matter. We can tweak that in the sound studio. But let’s get down to business.” Once again, bits of Morglob rippled against the switches on the bottom of the tank. A transparent tablet rose from a slot on the desk, then tilted lazily backward until it settled flat against the surface. The screen turned white and filled with text. A series of pages flickered past too quickly to leave much of an impression, ending with a page that had Nicholas’s name at the bottom, next to an empty shape that looked like a splattered amoeba.
An identical splattered-amoeba shape sat on the line below, next to Morglob’s name.
“Hwack phlepf,” Morglob said. A blob shot out of the tube and landed expertly on (and in) the appropriate shape.
“Your turn. Bite your cheek, spit there, and we’ll get to work,” Morglob said. “Maybe start with some commercial endorsements, just to test the water, before we go big. Speaking of water, how do you feel about bladder-control products? Humans have bladders, right? And a reluctance to urinate unexpectedly? That’s common with bipeds. They hate getting their legs wet. Sign now, and I’ll have you doing advertisements by the end of the day. You’ll make a fortune. All the biggest stars started with commercials.”
“I have to think about this,” Nicholas said. He needed to take his eyes off Morglob before the queasiness in his stomach turned into full-blown nausea. He looked at the busts lining the shelves on the rear wall and spotted a familiar creature. It was a musician from Xroxlotl. Or, at least, someone of the same species, holding the same sticklike instrument.
“I see you’re a fan. Marvelous. That group is one of my greatest creations. They never make a move without me. I’m surprised they can even breathe if I’m not telling them to inhale and exhale. Wait. Actually, they can’t. Hang on a moment. I need to use the direct line.”
A microphone came down from the ceiling and hovered above the tube. “Inhale, idiots!” Morglob said.
Morglob rippled against other switches. The microphone rose. “Fortunately, they have a very slow respiration rate when they aren’t singing. That should hold them for several days. Where was I? Oh, right. They have a huge concert coming up. Biggest one ever. We sold out the whole planet the instant the tickets went live. I can get you front-row seats. Not pseudo-front projection seats. The real thing.”
That seemed to jolt Clave out of his trance. “We’ll take them!” he said. “Hey, do you represent sfumblers? I’ve quite a following. And it’s growing. My last sfumble got bombarded with comments. I’m Crazy Clave. Maybe you’ve heard of me. I’m sure you have. Here. Take a look.” He pulled up a series of his
recent posts, arranging them in a four-by-four array that spouted cacophonous gibberish as the sixteen audio loops overlapped.
Morglob ignored Clave. “Nobody is going to get you better deals, or take better care of your career,” he told Nicholas.
“I can’t sign anything without reading it,” Nicholas said. Though he’d never been asked to sign any sort of contract, he was vaguely aware that people got in trouble if they didn’t understand what they were agreeing to. He had a suspicion that might be why his parents were touring Australia rather than Seattle. He picked up the tablet and scrolled back toward the first page. It took a while to get there, though much to his relief, Morglob’s splattered signature somehow also scrolled out of sight. “That’s a lot of pages.”
“They’re all there to protect you,” Morglob said. “That’s how much I value you. I’m willing to put your interests ahead of mine. I don’t make much. I do this mostly just for the love of nurturing talent. Take your time. Read it. I’ll be here when you’re ready to sign. Spott will show you to your guest quarters.”
The hatch opened. Spott, the beagle-headed four-foot-tall Beradaxian, was standing there. “This way,” he said, unnecessarily, since there was only one way down the corridor. He put a hand on Nicholas’s shoulder to guide him.
“Ouch!” Nicholas shouted as he felt claws raking his back. He spun around.
“Sorry,” Spott said. “I slipped.”
But whatever alien expression his face held, Nicholas was pretty sure it didn’t go with that apology.
Ironically, the phrase that popped into Nicholas’s mind was Watch your back.
At the end of their trip, Nicholas found himself in a luxurious suite with two bedrooms leading off from the enormous main area. The doors, fortunately, were not made of eyes, or other animated material. He walked the length of the cavernous room, trying to absorb his latest misadventure. As he approached any piece of furniture, whether a chair, couch, or table, it shifted to fit his shape and size.
“Now what?” he asked as he flopped down into an amazingly comfortable chair.
“Now what?” Clave asked, as if those were the two most ridiculous words ever uttered. “How can there be any question? Most people would kill for this opportunity.”
“I already have,” Nicholas said. “Exponentially, if you listen to the news.”
“Sorry. Bad word choice. Anyhow, sign the deal. You’ll be huge. And I’ll chronicle every moment. I’ll shamelessly ride the coattails of your fame. I’ve always wanted to do that. I’ve just never been fortunate enough to be in the presence of available coattails. Especially not coattails with so much potential. You don’t want to end up like what’s-his-name, whoever that was.”
“I really just want to get home,” Nicholas said. He flexed his shoulders and frowned.
“What’s wrong?” Clave asked.
“Spott scratched me.” Nicholas pulled off his shirt, twisted his head, and looked over his shoulder. There were definitely scratches, deep enough to stand out in red, but not so deep as to bleed.
“It looks like a word,” Clave said. He came closer. “‘Help.’”
“‘Help’?” Nicholas tried to make out the word. The scratches were at too awkward an angle for him to focus clearly on them, but the blurry image did look like Spott had clawed HELP into his flesh, which seemed like a counterproductive way to ask for aid. It was like using Morse code to punch I need a favor into someone’s stomach.
But the idea that the scratches were a message was confirmed when Spott brought them a meal an hour later. Before Nicholas could speak, Spott whispered, “Not now,” and nodded his head toward the napkins on the left side of the tray he was holding.
Then a bit more loudly, he told them, “Morglob had the famous chef Fleexbeezle prepare special delicacies for both of you. They just arrived.” He set the tray, which held two covered dishes, on a table.
“Fleexbeezle!” Clave said. “I love her sfumbles. And her cooking show. What did she make? I hope it’s her famous mountain pigeon pie.”
“She was asked to prepare the finest, most popular example of your own local food. For you, the Menmarian, she crafted a rare delicacy beloved by your people.” Spott lifted the cover, revealing a simmering dull-brown glop that smelled like a middle-school boys’ locker room on the hottest school day of the year.
Clave’s enthusiasm vanished. “That’s not Menmarian. It’s Zefinoran. And inedible by anyone with a tongue, a stomach, or a sense of decency.”
Nicholas suspected this was the slime-gibbon sweat-gland stew the drooling vice president had mentioned.
Clave and Spott stared at the glop for a moment, their expressions showing a mingling of horror and amazement, though Clave’s eyebrows barely moved. Spott replaced the cover, removing the stew from sight, but leaving a fair portion of the aroma behind. “I’ll get you some bread. I made it myself.”
“Thank you,” Clave said. “But I’m not sure I’ll want to eat anything for the next month or two.”
I hope mine’s a cheeseburger, Nicholas thought, before casting a guilty glance at Jeef and changing his wish to pepperoni pizza. Though he wasn’t sure what sort of meat was in pepperoni, and pretty sure he never wanted to know what was in anything, ever again. He lifted the cover on the second dish.
A not-unpleasant smell of vinegar filled the air, along with a hint of cilantro. That was the only pleasant part of the culinary nightmare he had revealed. What met Nicholas’s eye was a plate filled with the sort of pale flesh one sees on the belly of a waterlogged fish floating in a stagnant pond two or three days after the fish has died from some sort of hideous fungus-related fish disease.
“What…?” Nicholas couldn’t even form a question. He reached out to touch the closest piece, which was shaped like a thick disc that had lost all desire to remain disc shaped. He dropped his hand as his gag reflex overwhelmed all curiosity.
“I believe it is called ceviche,” Spott said. “It’s supposed to be an Earth delicacy. Though I have no idea what the ingredients are.”
Nicholas tried to speak, but he hadn’t fought down his nausea enough to dare open his mouth.
“Bread?” Spott asked him.
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“I’ll be right back.” Spott took the tray and the covered dishes, but left the napkins.
Nicholas found a note tucked into the folds of one of the napkins. Tonight. Be ready. He listens to everything. We can only talk safely after he goes to sleep.
OLD NEWS ABOUT NEWS
It was during the great expansion of Thinkerators that Stella came to be. Naturally, an abundance of products led to an abundance of noise and confusion as everyone tried to grab a share of every market. This led to a great increase in the value of any medium capable of attracting views and carrying advertising. Thus, Stella and other similar stars, who were designed to attract viewers, rose to prominence in the universe, along with the most popular sfumblers, and universally appealing video programs, most of which were about either cooking, or killing, or both. Ironically, not far behind those in popularity were programs about simplifying life and getting rid of unwanted possessions.
It is natural to ask whether Thinkerators could be used for space travel. Unfortunately, the process did not produce good results on living creatures sent over long distances. Despite numerous attempts using a variety of unwilling volunteers, it just wasn’t workable to transmit life-forms by means of thoughts. Several attempts were made to place a series of Thinkerators on space platforms just close enough to allow a living being to travel between planets. But repeated transmissions over a short distance were even worse for living creatures than a single long-range delivery, as Bilworth Foot-for-a-Head could tell you, had he been able to talk, and had you managed to have that conversation with him during those brief, frantic moments before he suffocated.
IS THIS ANY WAY TO TREAT A STAR?
When Spott returned with the bread, he cast a hopeful glance at each of them, then left the room ag
ain.
“Do you think we can trust him?” Nicholas whispered after the door closed.
“He’s a predator,” Henrietta said.
“So am I, sort of,” Nicholas said.
“You should absolutely not trust him,” Clave said. “You need to sign that contract.”
“I need to get a clean shirt.” Nicholas realized his current one, which he’d worn for several days before being abducted, and which seemed to have absorbed some of the pungent aroma of the Zefinoran stew, had reached the point where it needed to be either washed or incinerated.
Clave pointed to three large nozzles that looked like shower heads, affixed to the wall at chest height. A small table sat beneath them. “Order whatever you need from the Thinkerator.”
“Order?” Nicholas asked.
“Oh, dear. I forgot. You’re one of those backwater creatures. Here, I’ll show you. Let’s say you need a clean shirt, which you desperately do. Stand here.” He guided Nicholas to a spot about two feet from the wall, then said, “Shirts.”
A lens opened beneath the central nozzle. A red beam scanned Nicholas from neck to hips. A moment later, three-dimensional images of dozens of different styles of shirts appeared, hovering in the air between him and the wall. There were button-downs, polo, sport, and many other styles, including some Nicholas was sure he’d never seen before, though they seemed designed for a person with his torso. Clave touched a T-shirt. The other images turned into variations of that basic T-shirt that Clave had selected, including crew-neck, V-neck, and high-neck.
“Preference?” Clave asked.
