The Galaxy Grinned/Hawthorne/1

The Galaxy Grinned Chapter One Peter Mill didnt have a well-defined belief system. If anyone asked, hed shrug off UFOs, past lives, tarot cards, holistic anything, and weather forecasts. This wasnt due to any high-browed skepticism on Peters part; it was sheer laziness. Hed believe in any or all of those, if pressed. And pressure, presently lurking in a spacecraft a few thousand miles from Earth, was honing in on Peter. Had he been aware of this, the idea would have sat about as well with him as extra fiery jambalaya. Just because his belief system could be flexible didnt mean he wanted the effort that would come with its expansion. For now, he remained oblivious, though not happily so. Peter was touring, if hed counted correctly, his twelfth English castle. Hed been disappointed not to receive a medal at the end of the tenth tour. Being herded along to ten castles without dying of boredom ought to have counted for something. Now, he hoped a solid dozen would result in some sort of certificate, suitable for framing and selling three years later at a garage sale. Hed abandoned the idea that England would simply run out of castles. Many of you may have already heard about our ghost, the guide said with all the energy of an undertaker. I love old castles, Belinda, Peters girlfriend, squealed. So full of mystery and romance and culture and ghosts. Arent you glad I convinced you to take this trip? OK, Peter replied. Hopefully, this was sufficient to show his enthusiasm for dead people who couldnt figure out what passed on meant. He scowled as he usually did: to himself. The dearth of non-Belinda

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priorities in his life was beginning to take a toll on his good humor. Or perhaps he should say good humour. There were rules here, like adding the letter u where it didnt belong, driving on the left, and keeping a constant lookout for sheep. Dont tell me you dont believe in ghosts, she said. Peter slapped specters onto his list of People Id Have Lunch with if Belinda Insisted. Oh yeah, he said. And I identify with them. Presumably, they cant sit on the sofas either. Different reason, of course. He offered his observation that all castle furniture, though having spent its existence supporting royal asses, had ropes across it. Conclusion? A Queens butt rates far higher than a plebian hand. Touch the sofa, and youve lowered its status to yours. Belinda harrumphed. She didnt appreciate sarcasm, the same way she didnt appreciate that if youve seen one castle, youve seen the last eleven. Id better see a ghost, Peter said. Do you know how much this tour is costing? British currency looked like Monopoly money. Belinda had been throwing it around like she owned all the hotels on Boardwalk (or Boardwaulk, if that word required a random u). Culture is priceless, she snapped. A perfectly valid point of view, if her definition of priceless meant that she hadnt paid for any of it. That honour had been enjoyed by Peters credit caurd. It didnt take deep thinking to reach the conclusion Belinda Must Go, but somehow Peter was unable to make it happen. Every time he tried, he caught an eyeful of her gorgeous blue eyes, auburn hair, and Victorias Secret body. Not only that. Well, mostly that. But she also handled annoying stuff. Calling the super when the toilet acted up. Arguing with the phone company over bills. Emailing his mom. This bolstered his desire to maintain the relationship, even through that dark era when she redefined nachos to mean hummus on pita chips. But lately. He fantasized about walking straight out of this fantastic experience of castles and kings into a vacation that emphasized sand and margaritas.

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Dont you wish you could meet one of the earls who lived here in the past? his girlfriend asked. Yeah. Maybe he would have been able to direct me to the nearest bathroom. Belinda rolled her eyes and turned her attention to a gilded what-not. Peter, not wanting to interrupt the guide, who hadnt yet taken a breath, decided to lead his own expedition bathroomwards. There had been a restroom at the entrance. He separated himself from the herd. Usually in tours like these, ropes and open doors guided you from where youd been to where you were supposed to be. Today was different. His was the last tour moving through the castle. Ropes had been removed, main doors closed, and side doors opened in preparation for the New Gourmands Delicacy Appreciation Evening, due to kick off in an hour. Peter got lost, ending up in the dining room. Hed never seen so much exclusive food in one place before. Tables piled high with lobster, caviar, various cuts of beef, vegetable selections, bread baskets, and chocolate sculptures. Reaching out to sample a crab claw no one would miss, he noticed the buffet included one alien. E.T., if he had to make a guess. The alien looked particularly lifelike, even more so when it waddled up to Peter and grabbed his arm. Belinda stormed into the room. She had formed a search party of one to drag Dr. Livingstone back to the ghost conversation where he belonged. The alien said, Beam me up, Scotty. This stopped Belinda in her tracks. Her mouth opened and closed as though revving up for something special. What the hell? she asked. This remark might not go down in history as an equivalent to Dr. Livingstone, I presume? but it pleased Peter. She had never said so little about so much. Belatedly, he tried to wrench away from the cold, clammy grasp. When no part of his body cooperated, he jumped to the conclusion that without provocation, the galaxy had decided to pick on him. He grimaced at Belinda before evaporating from the vicinity.

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Chapter Two

Eight years earlier, in a far more important part of the galaxy, Members of the Galactic High Council were uneasy. They didnt yet know of Peters existence, and were happier for it. Even so, their minds were troubled. Madam Sarfa raised her eyebrow at Mr. Rista. Mr. Canin frowned at Mr. Farme. These facial exercises all said one thing: Of course this just wont do. President Jantar had assumed his post a few days ago. His arrival disturbed the members in the same way the discovery of cockroaches swimming in their soup would disturb them. They considered themselves broad-minded. If any member had been pressed, he would have asserted that he objected only to the splashing of soup on his person. It would not have bothered him, for instance, were the cockroaches quietly dancing a jig in the corner. Therefore, the difficulty was not that the President was young (unheard of in a President), bright (was fluorescent the new black?), and energetic. It was that he overflowed with all three of these. A great deal of it splashed onto the Council members. He had started his first meeting by demanding introductions. The members had tried to discourage this, but, to be fair, not as adamantly as they could have. They were torn between viewing this get-to-know-you stuff as an evil omen, and feeling the need to explain how important and wonderful they were to someone who might not know it. But now, they were certain. This Jantar menace was shaping up to be one of those letscreate-synergy types who would insist on viewing the Council as one big family. If so, this promised to be a long eight years. Well, that was great, said the President. What synergy! I feel like were one big family. The members exchanged brief told you so glances and checked their watches. Still eight

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years. First item on the agenda, said the President. First? Item? Agenda? The silence that followed, if bottled, could have been used to quiet a nuclear explosion. The members followed this up by launching into their particular species usual protocol of showing displeasure. Several drew in their breaths. Others exhaled. Others burst into water droplets that reformed back into the members. The newest member, Madame Tarquant, wriggled slightly. Her objection wasnt due to the agenda. For three days, shed listened to introductions which, if they were written into book form and tossed onto a planet, would throw that planet out of its orbit. And shed done it without food. Her rumbling stomach churned up resentment and forced her out of her seat. Id like to make a motion, she said. Motions after agenda items, said the President. Then Im going to make an insist. I mean, I insist we get some food in here. Please. With an exasperated sigh, the President waved his hand and dozens of food tables appeared. The new member lost her bad attitude in a Boytian fish souffl. Back to the agenda, said the President. First item is new membership. I understand that the Exalted Member from the Tarquant system is the only addition to the Council in thirty-eight years. And? Mr. Canin, the oldest member, tried to stop this dangerous line of thought simply by making his one word drip with contempt. It hit President Jantar directly in his fluorescent patriotism tie and slid down to the floor. I understand we have no new prospects, continued the President. So lets get some. Mr. Rista, isnt that your department? One of Mr. Ristas tentacles tapped the table nervously. Yes, he believed hed mentioned

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something like that in his introduction, but, well, that was just to pad his speech. He looked at Madam Sarfa for help. She shifted in her seat and nearly slipped to the floor. Her lizard-like species shed its skin regularly. The flaking-off process wasnt a particularly pleasant look, so she had hers removed at the spa and had her new skin buffed and polished. This made getting into and out of chairs a treacherous process. She gripped the table, righted herself, and tried to remember her own speech. Had she mentioned planet reconnaissance? The President stared expectantly at Mr. Rista, who hemmed and hawed and finally produced: Currently, we have no suitable prospects. Unless Madam Sarfa has found something new in her planet reconnaissance? Madam Sarfa shot daggers from her eyes at Mr. Rista. Luckily, his thick skin repelled anything pointy. What about the Veda system? President Jantar asked. Madam Sarfa was relieved. If this was all shed have to address, she could shortly return to her own agenda, which was to get a few hours of sleep before her bachelorette party tonight. The Vedans recently ended their five-year war by blowing up their sun. This killed all inhabitants in their system, she explained with an apologetically triumphant tone. Well, then, what about the Trita moon? the President persisted. We invited them to send a representative to the council, Mr. Canin said. But Tritans pick fights with anyone who crosses their paths. En route, Mr. Trita ran into someone from the Farme system. Mr. Farme grinned, baring hundreds of teethmany altogether too sharp for any purpose that didnt have to do with killing. We despise senseless violence, he said. So we had to destroy him. The second Tritan made it, added Madam Sarfa. You must recall, Mr. President, as it happened only last week, the special election which elevated you to your current position. The blue streaks you see on the table are Mr. Tritas blood. The red streaks belong to the previous president.

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Which reminds me. We either need to get a new cleaning staff or a new table. Ah! Mr. Canin said. Id like a softer table, something that What about Earth? the President continued, undaunted. Ive got a report here. Hmmm.looks like its overrun by gigantic creatures with tiny brains. I hardly think that we have room here for. He scrolled to the front of the report. This was written 150 million Earth years ago! How can I make informed decisions with old data? Surely cataclysmic planet-wide events could have wiped out these big lizards, creating empty niches for the evolution of a more intelligent species. Madam Sarfa? Oh, yes, surely, she agreed. No, Madam Sarfa, I mean do some reconnaissance. I want new data. I want you to be personally responsible. Oh, my! What a coincidence, she interrupted. She paused to watch the pinpoint lights blink furiously up her arm. In her species, instant messaging was built into the epidermal layer. My team of researchers has just now finished their survey. It looks like the Earths inhabitants have evolved and are coming along. Not quite advanced, of course. In fact, something of a lesser species. But their brains are more or less proportional to their bodies, and if you, Mr. President, feel you can work with them.? Having sent the ball as far into the other court as possible, Madam Sarfa relaxed. She hadnt been awarded Bureaucrat of the Year for nothing. She had more ways to deceive than she had exboyfriends, and even the most dogged of the Council statisticians had lost count of them years ago. The fabrication about Earth was an old type, but one of her personal favorites. She called it the Realm of Possibility lie. When combined with the Cover Your Ass (or in her species case, Asses) technique of Guaranteed Delay of Lie Detection, it was nearly infallible. It was certainly possible

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the Earth inhabitants had evolved. By the time anyone found out, the President would be properly concerned with creating mission statements instead of doing things. Work with them? the President asked. Ill do more than that. Ill offer him the opportunity to become an Exalted Member. And not just a member, Members. Someone who will have the chance to rise from primordial sludge up to the Presidency itself. Im not even sure that could be counted as a full step, Madam Sarfa muttered to Madam Pri-Pri. After of course, I have fulfilled all the presidential reigns allowed to me, the President continued. This transformation of lesser species, Members, will be my legacy, and its quite wonderful that Im already starting on one. The President sat back in his chair and grinned around the table. Wonderful, Mr. President, said Mr. Rista, And I believe the responsibility of meeting new acquisitions falls to the newest member, Madam Tarquant. Me? Madame Tarquant asked. But I just got here. Madam Tarquants planet had just acquired a permanent seat on the Council after eighty years of application and untold amounts of money. This overwrought process of paperwork, red tape, and unreturned messages existed to expunge all desire to make a difference or change the galaxy. Toward the end of the application processand right on schedulethe Tarquants lost their last frail bit of hope. They abandoned their noble ideals, and adjusted to the loss by turning to food for comfort. Good thing, too. The Tarquant system now produced the best chefs in the galaxyfar more worthwhile than a bunch of do-gooders. Well have to fill out some paperwork before she goes, Mr. Canin said. Clerk! Yes, your Exaltedness? mumbled a small creature. The clerk had just been hired that week. Until his lungs got used to the lack of air in the Chambers, his voice and face would be muffled by a large oxygen mask.

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Well need forms W-12: Application to Leave a Council Meeting for an Important Mission; W-52A: Permission to Contact a non-Council Species; W-443A, B, and C: Assessment of Budgetary, Time, and Personnel Needs; W-137A and B: Assessment of the Populations who will Oppose this Mission and How to Eradicate Them; and W-1456: Application to Return to a Council Meeting from an Important Mission. And, hurry up. We dont have any time to lose. Yes, your Exaltedness. Madam Tarquant put down her fork in resignation and stood. Mr. Rista extended a tentacle and pulled her back to her seat. Sit down, dear, he said. Finish your lunch. The paperwork will take time to complete. How long? she asked. Oh, about eight years.

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Chapter Three

Peter was logical enough to ascertain that when you start your day in a castle, then get vaporized and condensed by an alien bearing a slight resemblance to E.T., youll end your day in a spaceship. Still, he managed the requisite: Where am I? For several minutes, there was no response. Peters stomach did somersaults while his imagination ran amuck around all the science fiction movies hed seen. Most aliens he could recall counted jabbing humans with sharp instruments among their favorite pastimes. He took in his surroundings. This did nothing to calm his mood. His eyes and his brain staggered around the room. Big, tall steel somethingbigbig enough toChrist!...big enough for a bodyor lots of bodies.oh, God, thats an operating tablea long, gleaming, cold, operating table withsurgical instruments of all typesholy crap, is that something to peel away my skin?....and a hottheres fire coming out of theretheyre going to burn me and then peel away my skin andwhats hanging over the operating table? Peters brain came to a full stop, then worked its way up to admitting one word at a time. Pans? Pots? This was a kitchen. His mind began to calm. This was a kitchen? His mind began to panic. He had been abducted from a buffet. Had E.T. landed to steal some Earth food and concluded Peter was the main course? All things considered, a little friendly probing didnt sound so awful. He went back into accepting one word at a time, and was playing with escape when the alien tottered in, making beep-boop-bip noises. Peter hadnt got a good look at it back in the castle, what with the evaporation and Belindas stunned silence occupying most of his thoughts. His initial

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E.T. impression was wrong. True, the neck was long and the head bald. True, the eyes were big. Up to now, Steven Spielberg would have had cause to sick one of his lawyers on the case. But this alien was a cheerful pink color with large yellow pupils. Its long nose turned up abruptly at the end, displaying three triangular nostrils. Everything else was round. A round body with a round head. A small tail that coiled in three perfectly round circles. Round feet and round hands, each with six pointy claw-like fingers that made Peter step out of range. He was slightly heartened by the fact that the extraterrestrial was shorter than he was, and it wore, in addition to a yellow scarf around its neck and a watermelon-shaped object on its head, a benevolent grin. When it held out a similar watermelon hat. Peter smiled and put it on. If he made himself agreeable, perhaps he could delay the onset of his new career as a lab rat and/or entre. Well, there you go, said the alien. I noticed you werent wearing your translator. Luckily I had an extra. I have to apologize for the rudimentary design. Were not engineers. Were chefs. Our kitchens are the most fantastic in the galaxy. This casual greeting in perfect English had a strange effect on Peters legs. They no longer felt able to support him, and he slumped to the ground. His new friend, apparently seeing nothing odd about that, bent over him and continued to speak. It will be a week until we get to the Council Chambers. So weve got time for a kitchen tour. The alien provided an extensive explanation of how to fabricate advanced cookery. Then Peter was treated to a thesis worth of information on the development of non-stick polymers. At its conclusion, he let out a strangled yelp. That is to say, it wasnt the confident question he had planned. Whaaeeere am I? OK, said the alien, patiently. I can start again. Youre in the pots and pans fabrication center. This is the place where we fabricate pots and pans. See all the pots and pans? It helpfully held up two gleaming non-stick pans and one extra-large pot with a third arm

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Peter hadnt noticed before. I mean, where is this place? Peter asked. Am I on a spaceship? Yes. Kitchen section, though that takes up 95% of the ship. Perhaps we should move on to the temperature unit? I can move any substance from solid to liquid to gas and back by pressing a single button. Why am I here? What do you plan to do with me? The alien looked at him in a lost sort of way. Then it shook itself from head to foot. Oh, right. Sorry. We finally make contact with Earths great leader, and I talk about pots. Let me start over. The alien cleared its throat and extended its neck. Greetings, Mr. Earth. Im Madam Tarquant. On behalf of the Galactic Council, I welcome this opportunity to offer your world the chance to have a representative in the Chambers. Please accept thispan as a token of the relationship between our species. Peter dropped the pan. He bent down to retrieve it at the same time the alien did. Their helmets crashed together, and for a few seconds, embarrassment reigned. Peter adjusted his helmet so he could see again, wiped off the pan with his sleeve, and extended the awkwardness for a few more seconds by forgetting the aliens name. Uh, thanks, Madam E.TeequadI mean E.Tarheelser. You know, lets be informal, the alien said. I mean, were not at the Chambers yet, are we? Call me Tiffany. Tiffany? Im afraid our translators dont do the best work, Tiffany explained. They just take our real names and replace them with typical names on your planet. Ill wager your translators are better than ours. Feel free to wear your own. Wear my own what? Peter asked.

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Your universal language translator. You knowthe thing thats on your head. Didnt you bring one with you? I dont have one. I dont even think they exist. Ive never heard of them, anyway. Tiffany looked at him quizzically. Peter came to the realization that everything hed said so far might have been translated to her language as Duh. He wasnt doing the best job bolstering the human race. Peters memory scampered around the apps store, looking for advanced technology similar to a universal translator. Ill send a message to Madam Sarfa, Tiffany said. She claimed your species had evolved decently sized brains. Perhaps she can explain this. Tiffany shuffled off. Peter gave his decently sized brain a wallop. Oh, you mean the universal speech translator, he should have said. We call it the UST. Didnt I bring that with me? How embarrassing. Things are a little clearer now, Tiffany said, re-entering the room. Madam Sarfa said youre not actually up for membership in the council just yet. Youve got to do some more wallowing in your sludge first. I could have sworn they said membership in the last two thousand, three hundred, forty-four meetings, but, well, I sleep a lot. Either way, were still going to the Chambers. Peter was sure half of what Tiffany said was lost in the translation. All words could be found in a dictionary, but, when strung together, made no logical sense. Similar to the idea that he, who wasnt even on his condominiums board, could have been mistaken for Earths leader. He decided now would be a good time to explain that. You know, Tiffany said before Peter could speak, youre about the same size and composition as a lumlute. Good thing for you the galactic president wants you there pronto, or wed have to grill you up! Ha ha ha, she finished mirthfully, giving Peter a playful jab that felt almost like she was testing him for tenderness.

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Ha ha ha, he echoed. Yep. Wouldnt want to grill up a planetary leader, huh? Thered be a lot of paperwork to fill out, thats for sure, Tiffany said ruefully. Three new Tarquants entered the kitchen, introducing themselves as Gilbert, Raphael, and Judy. Ah, here you all are. Well, Mr. Earth, were about to cook. You might want to step aside. Wed hate to mortally injure you before you got a chance to sample our food. As Tiffany generated of the largest, meanest knives he had ever seen, Peter took her advice to be elsewhere. His self-guided tour of the ship, while not hampered by undertaker guides, ghostinduced cold breezes or roped-off furniture, was also not overly encumbered with interest. One tiny room existed outside of the kitchen. Cooking magazines covered its entire floor. Pushing some of these aside, Peter discovered eight mattresses jammed against each other and a few articles of clothing, mostly scarves. One excavation of scarves uncovered a round window looking out to the starshis first view of outer space. He pressed his nose against the glass. Strange. He hadnt been a great fan of Star Trek or Star Wars or any of those science fiction movies. Given the universal translator incident, he now regretted this. But during late night channel surfing, the SciFi Channel would occasionally grab his attention with attractive aliens. On these shows, as the spaceships flew from planet to planet, stars streamed by as white lines. But that wasnt happening here. The stars werent moving at all. And wasnt that Earths moon just sitting there? Shouldnt it be getting smaller as they left the solar system? What he wouldnt give for a Trekkie, or a Wars-y, or, well, anyone to sit with him and make derisive comments on the stationary stars. Digging deeper under a magazine pile, he found a panel of blinking lights. They seemed to be doing their job. At least, they were turning on, then off, then back on. But could he take the giant leap from active lights to a moving spaceship? This was a question for Tiffany. Peter poked his head into the kitchen just as the Tarquants delivered the final blow to some wayward meat. Apparently a bad

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time to talk. Underneath a mattress, Peter found something that looked like a video game terminal. He tried to turn it on, but it buzzed. He hastily moved away, unwilling to risk breaking the ship. The porthole was just the right size for expelling people who couldnt keep their hands to themselves. Alright, Ill escape, he thought. Nowait. Ill demand they return me to Earth because Ive got leader stuff to do. He walked back into the kitchen. The Tarquants had worked up a flame that would incinerate an army. As Peter backed out quietly, his reconciliation brain cells, well-honed from dealing with his girlfriend, began to work. Perhaps this wasnt the vacation hed chosen for himself, but looking at the bright side, it wasnt an English castle.

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Chapter Four On the third day, Peter reclined on a mattress and stared at the ceiling, plastered with posters of the Tarquants favorite dishes. His stomach gurgled indignantly, as though it was telling his mouth to try staying shut for more than one hour at a time. He had a lot of digesting to do before the next meal, which was only a half hour away. The Tarqants knew how to feed you. In fact, thats all they did. Cook, eat, and discuss food. And they found Peter riveting. From his description of nachos to caviar, they hung on his every word. If only Earths stubborn moon would stop hanging around outside the window. He had mentioned it once, but because it wasnt food, the Tarquants had treated it like an Unmentionable Topic. Discussion stopped, revolted eyes turned away from him. All it would take to complete the scene was Belinda next to him, breathing, Really, Peter. But today, when Tiffany came to fetch him for his pre-mid-second evening meal, he pointed at it. Maybe Im wrong, but that really looks like Earths moon. Tiffany pressed her nostrils to the window. Oh, not again, she sighed. OK, she yelled into the kitchen, whose turn was it to press go? For the first time, Peter wished Belinda were there. She loved trouncing incompetence, which was why his ego had so many bruises. But this was more incompetence than he felt hed ever exhibited, even if Belinda, her BFF Cynthia, and Belindas spiritual advisor all were to take a sabbatical from their regular jobs and put together a list. So weve been sitting here for three days? Peter asked. Are you kidding me? Tiffany pulled a scarf off a flashing blue light. It blinked in the same annoyed way Peters DVD player did, because he lost the manual and forgot how to set the time. Oh dear, Tiffany said. I didnt realize the President has been trying to contact me for the

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past few days. He doesnt seem too happy. The paperwork that took eight years to get approval expires in a month. The Council Member in charge of extensions is Mr. Farme, but no one wants to tell him that. Oh, dear. What do you think we should do? she asked. Peters brain sprang forward to help. This was a bad idea. It hadnt worked out for days; it should have stretched first. He put his fingers to his throbbing temples. I have an idea, Tiffany said. Well grab another human to cover our necks. Ill say that we got halfway when Earths Great Leader turned us around to fetch his assistant. Peter forced his brain to start running, cramped or not. Well, if you get someone else, you dont need me, then, right? Tiffanys gaze shifted to the kitchen. Having lived with this species for three days, he knew what that meant. He was either Earths Great Leader or he was grilled lumlute. There was no in between. He promptly decided to exhibit a few more leadership qualities. I have taken time out of my extremely busy schedule to meet the President, he said. Now you tell me that I will have to wait another week more? Unacceptable. Why, this is just like promising me fresh Prelisi and using fake Kumquai. Tiffany gasped. Her neck retracted until the top of her head was even with her shoulders. She looked like a pink snowman. With a tail. We apologize most sincerely, she said. But perhaps it will be better for you to have someone accompany you to the Council meeting. That way, you can eat while your assistant listens to the President talk. And dont worry. Well find your second-in-command easily. Raphaels device locates the greatest food-to-person ratio on your planet. Its how we found you. Very clever, Peter murmured, thinking hard. Raphaels device would probably produce Bobby Flay or someone else from the Food Channel. This spaceship didnt need another being totally devoted to food. Peters mind searchedand searchedand then found something so brilliant that he nearly jumped for joy, which

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would have counted as the only exercise he had done on this ship. I have on my staff a scientist who will be able to provide me with technical information about our surroundings and the stars andthings like that. Her name is Katy PerryDr. Katy Perry, of course. I believe youll find her in a place called Hollywood. Shes a little eccentric. She might pretend she doesnt know anything about navigation or astronomy. Thats just part of her genius. Of course, Tiffany said. Raphael, find Peters scientist while I qmail the Council about our late arrival. Peter grinned. Hed just ensured himself a whole lot of time with one of the most beautiful woman on Earth. Judy, he said. Look up champagne and strawberries. My scientist likes them. After setting Judy on her mission, Peter spruced himself up as best as he could. The Tarquants had one shower, and it probably wasnt even a shower. It dispensed cold water, fountain style, from the floor of the kitchen. When Peter enquired about soap, he received blank looks. He spent some time explaining the concept and usage model, and received the offer of one of the hors doeuvres, which had tasted a little like soap. He patted his hair into some semblance of order using the windows reflection. The Tarquants had heard of mirrors, but didnt quite get their point. Several minutes later, Raphael announced Katy Perrys arrival. Peter stood casually in the corner of the sleeping quarters. He shifted position as a loud beep told him hed leaned up against something that wanted to be left alone. A woman walked in. Peter studied her carefully, assessing every detail. It would be clear even to a casual observer that, though female, this was not Katy Perry. This woman was part Asian, wore a dark green business suit and carried a set of papers. She wore no makeup. Her very dark hair had no pink, blue, or purple streaks and was pulled into a bun. She peered down at papers in her hand as though they could give her some grasp of the situation. Embarrassment crawled its way around Peters skin. What had gone so well in his mind as

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his debonair consoling and subsequent wooing of Katy Perry the singer did not sound as suave when faced with this Katy Perry. She was obviously a real scientist, and a real scientist would likely see right through his crappy lines. The problem was asking for Katy Perry. The name was too common. Keira Knightley was the right choice, but it was probably too late now. Peter cleared his throat, hoping it would loosen up his brain. Tiffany walked in and ceremoniously pressed the green go button with all three hands. Weve started our journey to the Council Chambers, Mr. Earth, she said. The President eagerly awaits your arrival. She left the room. Katy Perry found her voice before Peter did. What was that? she asked. That was Tiffany. Shes our hostess. Katy Perry tapped her chin meditatively. Our hostess. And who are you? Yes. I mean, not yes, but well, my name isPeter Mill, he said, thinking about how suave that didnt sound. It probably would have gone better without the hesitation. He noted that for the next time he was on a spaceship meeting Katy Perry the scientist. Right, Peter Mill. Good to meet you, she said, still tapping. By hostess, you mean space alien taking us to see a President in a Council Chamber? Astonished by how together her brain seemed to be, Peter nodded. Before she could figure it out on her own, he offered: It will take a week. A week to get there? Katy asked, one eyebrow slightly raised. And a week to get back, I would assume. Well, thats that, then. Were going to have to escape and get back to Earth. Oh, thats probably not a good idea, Peter said. Heres the issue. Katys eyebrows shot up. The issue? Listen to me! Im running an important experiment back in my lab. My Reorg Ratpack is likely to eat its way out of the cages and annihilate half of the population if I dont inject a calming serum into their next weeks food supply.

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Peter backed up and held a couple of magazines in front of him as a shield. Without any rehearsal or pre-game show, this seemingly intelligent, mild-mannered woman had gone all madscientist on him. Reorg Ratpack? What the hell was that? And how badly did he really not want to find out? He gave his penis, obviously to blame in this proceeding, a round scolding. Why hadnt he asked for his girlfriend? He thought of Belinda. Maybe shed launch a rescue mission. Of course, it would probably consist of her spiritual advisor, her mother, and her BFF Cynthia. But if she was irritated enough, shed make things happen. OK, but right now, he had to do something about the crazy lady. He smiled weakly, and offered her a pre-appetizer canap.